"I believe your name is Brown, sir?" said Glossin.
"And what of that, sir?" replied Bertram.
"Why in that case," said Glossin, "you are my prisoner in the king's name."
After a slight resistance the prisoner was secured, and shortly after was brought before Sir Robert Hazlewood, one of the county magistrates, and accused of maliciously wounding Charles Hazlewood, his son.
In reply to the questions put to him, the prisoner said that he was a captain in a regiment of horse in his Majesty's service, and in a frank, manly way described how the wounding of Charles Hazlewood was merely an accident, for which he expressed a sincere sorrow. When required to give some proof of his rank in the army, he stated that his luggage had been stolen. When asked to say where he had spent the night on which it was taken, his promise to Meg Merrilies came to his mind, and he replied that he must refuse to answer the question. He was then pressed to account for his having worn a smuggler's cutlass; but he also declined to explain that matter. And his answers were equally unsatisfactory when questioned on the subject of the purse which the gipsy had given him.
Having failed to give any explanation of so many suspicious circumstances, the warrant for his committal to gaol was made out, although he stated that Colonel Mannering, whom he had known in India, could, if sent for, give evidence of his character and rank.
The colonel was, however, away from home at the time, and the friendless and unfortunate Bertram was removed to prison, pending Mannering's return.
"And now," said Glossin to himself, "to find Dirck Hatteraick and his people—to get the guard sent off—and then for the grand cast of the dice." And so saying he hastened away to complete with the smuggler captain the villainous plan on which they had previously agreed.
The prison in which Bertram now found himself was a building which adjoined the custom-house, and both were close beside the sea. Mac-Guffog, who has been already mentioned, was at the time the keeper; and a gruff and surly custodian he was, too. Bertram, however, succeeded in procuring from him the luxury of a separate room by promising the keeper a large sum of money. He was accordingly ushered into a small ill-furnished apartment, through the barred windows of which he could get a glimpse of the sea which was dashing sullenly against the outer walls.
As he was reflecting on his miserable situation, his attention was attracted by a loud knocking at the gate of the gaol; and shortly after his little dog Wasp, which he had left in the care of Dandie Dinmont, and Dinmont himself were shown into his room.
Bertram was delighted to have his old friend with him, and in answer to his eager inquiries as to how he came to be in prison, told him about the accident to young Hazlewood, and that he had been mistaken for a smuggler.
Dinmont, on his part, then related how he had come to know of Bertram's being locked up. Gabriel, the huntsman on the moors, he said, had informed him in a mysterious way that Bertram was in gaol, and that he was badly in need of a good friend to stay with him night and day for a day or two. Dinmont added that he had ridden sixty miles that day to come to his assistance.
They were interrupted in their conversation by Mac-Guffog, who told them that it was time for the visitor to leave; but by means of further promises he was induced to allow Dinmont to spend the night in the same room with his friend; and in no longtime after the two occupants of the wretched apartment were fast asleep.
Colonel Mannering, who had been from home for some days, returned to Woodbourne the night of the day on which Bertram had been sent to prison. The morning after his arrival, the dominie, who even after so many years continued to blame himself for the loss of little Harry, made his way, in a spirit of curiosity, to Warroch Point, a place he had never approached since the child had disappeared. As he wandered home again, filled with gloomy recollections of the day of Kennedy's murder, his steps bore him to the neighbourhood of Derncleugh, with its ruined remains of the old gipsy village. The place had for many years had the reputation of being haunted; more especially the tower, or Kaim, of Derncleugh. As he was passing by it, the door suddenly opened, and Meg Merrilies stepped out and stood before him. The dominie, believing she was some sorceress, addressed her in Latin, but the gipsy queen angrily interrupted him.
"Listen, ye fool, to what I tell ye," she said, "or ye'll rue it while there's a limb o' ye hangs together. Tell Colonel Mannering that I know he's seeking me. He knows, and I know, that the blood will be wiped out, and the lost will be found—
And Bertram's right, and Bertram's might,
Shall meet on Ellangowan height.
Give him this letter, don't fail, and tell him the time's coming now. Bid him to look at the stars as he looked at them before, and to do what I desire him in the letter."
She then led the frightened dominie by a short cut through the woods for about a quarter of a mile, and on reaching the common told him to stand still.
"Look," she said, "how the setting sun breaks through the cloud that's been darkening the sky all day. See the stream o' light that falls on the old tower of Ellangowan; that's not for nothing. Here I stood," she went on, stretching out her long sinewy arm and clenched hand—"here I stood when I told the last Laird of Ellangowan what was coming on his house, and did that fall to the ground? And here I stand again to bid God prosper the just heir of Ellangowan that will soon be brought to his own. I'll no live to see it, maybe; but there will be many a blithe eye see it though mine be closed. And now, Abel Sampson, as ever ye loved the house of Ellangowan, away with my message to the English colonel as if life and death were upon your haste."
So saying, she turned suddenly from the amazed dominie, who hurried back to Woodbourne, exclaiming as he went, "Prodigious! prodigious! pro-di-gi-ous!"
The kindly interest of Meg Merrilies in the fate of Bertram did not, however, end here.
Shortly after quitting the dominie she met young Hazlewood on the road, and told him, in a mysterious way, that the guard of soldiers had been drawn off from the custom-house, and brought to his father's house, in the expectation of an attack being made upon it that night.
"Nobody means to touch his house," she added; "so send the horsemen back to their post quietly. They will have work to-night; the guns will flash and the swords will glitter in the moonlight."
She then asked him if he bore any malice to the man that wounded him, and on Hazlewood assuring her that he had always thought it was an accident, she said: "Then do what I bid ye, for if he was left to his ill wishers he would be a bloody corpse ere morn." And she then disappeared into the wood.
Charles Hazlewood, who now felt certain some diabolical plot was on foot for the murder of the man who had accidentally wounded him, rode back at once to his father's house.
He found the place occupied with dragoons, and instantly endeavoured to persuade his father to send them back to the custom-house.
Glossin had, however, impressed the old man with a fixed idea of the impending danger to his house, and he refused to allow the soldiers to go. While his son was still arguing with him, the sheriff of the country came in hurriedly, and told him that he had had information that the removal of the troops from the custom- house was only part of a plan, and that they should at once return. Orders were accordingly given without delay, and the dragoons were shortly after on their way again to the place from which they came.
But we must return to Bertram and his companion in their unpleasant abode, in the prison.
Towards midnight Bertram woke after his first sleep. The air of the small apartment had become close and confined, and he got up for the purpose, if possible, of opening the window. His failure to open it reminded him painfully that he was now a prisoner. He was no longer inclined to sleep, so he continued for some time to gaze out on the troubled sea, as it rolled under the indistinct light of a hazy and often overclouded moon. As he looked he fancied he saw in the distance a boat being rowed towards the shore; and before long he found that he had not been mistaken. The boat, which was a large one, drew nearer and nearer, and as it reached the land some twenty men jumped on shore, and disappeared up a dark passage which divided the prison from the custom-house. Almost immediately after, Bertram could hear a tumult in the outer yard of the bridewell, and, being unable to guess what its meaning was, he awoke Dinmont.
The smell of fire now commenced to reach the room, and, on Dinmont looking out of the window, he exclaimed: "Lord's sake, captain! come here; they have broken in the custom-house!"
Looking from the prison window they could see the gang of smugglers hurrying here and there, some with lighted torches, others carrying barrels towards the shore. It was plain, too, from the thick clouds of smoke that rolled past the window that the prison was itself on fire.
Dinmont roared loudly for Mac-Guffog to let them out, but all was silent in the gaol. Outside, the shouts of the smugglers and the mob resounded far and wide, and it seemed as if the keeper had himself escaped, and left his prisoners to perish in the flames.
But now a new and fierce attack was heard at the outer gate. It was soon forced in with sledgehammers and crows, and, before long, some three or four of the principal smugglers hurried to the apartment of Bertram with lighted torches, and armed with cutlasses and pistols. Two of them seized on Bertram, but one of them whispered in his ear, "Make no resistance till you are outside." They dragged him roughly to the gate, but amid the riot and confusion which prevailed, the sound as of a body of horse advancing was heard. A few moments after, the dragoons were engaged with the rioters. Shots were fired, and the glittering broadswords of the soldiers began to flash in the air. "Now," whispered the man at Bertram's left, "shake off that fellow and follow me."
Bertram, with a violent and sudden effort, burst away from the man on his right, and closely following his mysterious friend, attended by the faithful Dinmont, who never left him, ran quickly down a narrow lane which led from the main street.
No pursuit took place, as the smugglers had enough to do to defend themselves against the dragoons. At the end of the lane there was a post-chaise and horses waiting.
"Are you here in God's name?" said the guide to the driver.
"Ay, troth I am," said he.
"Open the carriage, then. You, gentlemen, get into it; in a short time you'll be in a place of safety, and remember your promise to the gipsy wife."
Bertram and Dinmont got in at once, followed by little Wasp, and in a moment found themselves travelling at a breakneck pace, neither of them knowing where on earth they were going to.
They were, in fact, on the way to Woodbourne, for the carriage had been sent by Colonel Mannering, after he had read the letter which the dominie brought him from Meg Merrilies. The note had given him no intimation, however, of the persons who were to be conveyed in the chaise to Woodbourne, merely telling him that it should bring the folk that should ask if it were there in God's name.
As the colonel's clock was striking one that night the sound of carriage wheels was heard in the distance, and in no long space after, Bertram and Dinmont found themselves at Woodbourne. Bewilderment and astonishment were depicted on the faces of all as Bertram stepped into the parlour. The colonel saw before him the man whom he supposed he had killed in India; Julia beheld her lover; and Lucy Bertram at once recognised the person who had fired upon young Hazlewood. Each one remained silent, not knowing what to say, when the absent-minded dominie, looking up from a book he had been studying in a corner, exclaimed:
"If the grave can give up the dead, that is my dear and honoured master!"
A lawyer friend of the colonel's, a Mr. Pleydall, was staying at Woodbourne that night, and he at once set about endeavouring to solve the mystery. He questioned Bertram as to his recollections of childhood, and elicited from him some of the incidents of his early life, with which the reader is already acquainted. Amongst the persons whom Bertram recalled, "there was," he said, "a tall, thin, kind-tempered man, who used to teach me my letters and walk with me."
On hearing this, the poor dominie could contain his feelings no longer, and rising hastily from his chair, with clasped hands, trembling limbs and streaming eyes, he called out aloud:
"Harry Bertram, look at me! Was I not the man?"
"Yes," said Bertram, starting from his seat as if a sudden light had burst in upon his mind. "Yes, that was my very name, and that is the voice and the figure of my kind old master!"
The following day Colonel Mannering and Mr. Pleydall succeeded in getting Sir Robert Hazlewood to accept bail for Bertram. While they were so engaged, Bertram, with his newly-found sister and Miss Mannering, went walking to the castle of Ellangowan.
Close by the ruin they were suddenly confronted by Meg Merrilies, who addressed Bertram, saying:
"Remember your promise, and follow me."
It was in vain that his sister and her companion urged him not to go with the gipsy. He told them he must obey. Then, bidding them good-bye, he started to follow Meg Merrilies, accompanied by Dinmont, who had come up a few minutes before.
With quick, long strides the gipsy proceeded straight across the wintry heath. She turned neither to the left nor the right, and moved more like a ghost than a human being. On reaching the wood, she plunged into it, moving still rapidly in the direction of Derncleugh. After travelling thus for some time, she came at length to the ruined tower where Bertram had previously spent the night in concealment from the smugglers. Producing a key from her pocket, the gipsy opened the door and led the way in. She offered Bertram and Dinmont food and drink, and fearing to offend her, they took a little.
"And now," she said, "ye must have arms; but use them not rashly; take captive, but save life; let the law have its own—he must speak ere he die."
She then supplied the two with loaded pistols, and started afresh through the wood in the direction of Warroch Point. She led them by a long and winding passage almost overgrown with brushwood, until they suddenly found themselves by the seashore. They were soon outside the secret cave.
"Follow me as I creep in," she said. "I have placed the firewood so as to screen you. Bide behind it for a space, till I say— The hour and the man are both come. Then run in on him, take his arms and bind him tight."
And having said so, she crept in upon her hands and knees, followed by Bertram and his friend.
As they were creeping in, Dinmont, who was last of the party, felt his leg caught by someone from behind. He with difficulty suppressed a shout, and was much relieved when he heard a voice behind him say: "Be still, I am a friend—Charles Hazlewood."
He had been sent after the others by Lucy Bertram and Miss Mannering, and had only overtaken them as they were making their way into the cavern.
Meg Merrilies, on reaching the interior, was greeted by Dirck Hatteraick with a curse in his old fashion—the smuggler had been expecting her, and was waiting with anxiety for news of his band. The only light within the cave was from a charcoal fire, the dark- red glow from which gave a dismal and unearthly appearance to the smuggler's hiding place.
Bertram and his friends had advanced far enough to enable them to stand upright, and concealed from the view of Hatteraick, they listened to his conversation with the gipsy.
"Have you seen Glossin?" he said to her.
"No," replied Meg Merrilies; "you've missed your blow, ye blood- spiller! and ye have nothing to expect from the tempter."
"What am I to do, then?" said the smuggler, with a Dutch oath.
"Do?" answered the gipsy. "Die like a man, or be hanged like a dog. Didn't I tell ye, when ye took away the boy Harry Bertram, in spite of my prayers, that he would come back again in his twenty- first year? You'll never need to leave this."
"What makes you say that?" asked Hatteraick.
And Meg, who now threw some flax upon the fire, which rose in a bright flame, answered: "Because the hour and the man are both come."
At the appointed signal, Bertram and his companions rushed upon Hatteraick. The ruffian, who instantly saw he was betrayed, turned his first vengeance on Meg Merrilies, at whom he discharged a pistol.
She fell, with a piercing shriek, muttering, "I knew it would be this way."
A terrific struggle ensued between the smuggler and his assailants, in which Hatteraick contrived to discharge a second bullet at Bertram, which only missed its mark by a lucky accident. Strong, however, as the ruffian was, he was not equal to the joint efforts of the three men, and at length he was fairly mastered, disarmed, and tightly bound.
Hazlewood, whose horse was outside the cave, then rode off for assistance, and after some time returned with several others. The prisoner was carried out, still firmly bound, and also Meg Merrilies, who was still living, though desperately wounded in the chest.
They wished to take her to the nearest cottage, but she refused to be moved anywhere but to the Kaim of Derncleugh. Accordingly they bore her to the vault in the ruined tower.
The alarm had now spread through the countryside that Kennedy's murderer had been taken on the very spot where the murder had been committed years before; and a crowd of people, with a clergyman and a surgeon, had flocked to the place where the dying gipsy lay. She, however, refused all offers of assistance, and called for Harry Bertram.
When Bertram approached the wretched bed on which she lay, she took his hand.
"Look at him," she said to those about her, "the image of his dead father. And hear me now—let that man," pointing to Hatteraick, "deny what I say if he can." And then she told the story of how the young boy had been carried off from Warroch Wood; how she saved his life from smugglers who would have murdered him; and how she swore an oath to keep the secret till he was one-and-twenty, and vowed that if she lived to see the day of his return she would set him again in his father's seat, though every step was on a dead man. "Dirck Hatteraick," she said, "you and I will never meet again until we are before the Judgment-seat—will ye dare deny it?"
And as Hatteraick refused to open his lips, she added: "Farewell! and God forgive you! your hand has sealed my evidence."
And shortly after, as she heard the crowd about her greet Bertram with enthusiastic cheers as the true Laird of Ellangowan, her troubled spirit passed peacefully away.
The following day, Hatteraick was brought before the magistrates at Kippletringan. The dying declaration of Meg Merrilies was proved by the surgeon and the clergyman who had heard it. Bertram again told his recollections of early childhood. Gabriel, the gipsy, the same man who had avoided meeting Bertram's eye when out hunting with Dandie Dinmont, told the whole story of Kennedy's murder, as he was at Warroch Point on the day of its occurrence. He stated that Glossin was present and accepted a bribe to keep the matter a secret. This witness also stated that it was he that had told his aunt, Meg Merrilies, that Bertram had returned to the country; and that it was by her orders that three or four of the gipsies had mingled in the crowd when the custom-house was attacked, for the purpose of helping Bertram to escape. He also added that Meg Merrilies had often said that Harry Bertram carried the proof of his birth hung round his neck.
Bertram here produced the velvet bag which had been worked by his mother, and which he said he had always continued to wear. On its being opened, Colonel Mannering instantly recognised his own writing on the paper it enclosed, proving to everyone's satisfaction that the wearer was the real heir of Ellangowan.
The investigation was concluded by both Hatteraick and Glossin being sent to gaol.
The smuggler, whose violence and strength were well known, was secured in what was called the condemned ward. In this apartment, which was near the top of the prison, his feet were chained to an iron bar firmly fixed at the height of about six inches from the floor. The chain enabled him to move a distance of about four feet from the bar, and when thus secured his handcuffs were removed.
Glossin was confined in another room, his mind still teeming with schemes of future deceit to cover his former villainies. As he reflected on his position, he came to a determination to see Hatteraick, if possible, and to induce him by a tempting bribe to give evidence in his favour when his trial came on.
Accordingly, when Mac-Guffog, the keeper, appeared at night time, he gave him some gold pieces, and so obtained his consent to an interview with his fellow prisoner.
The keeper, however, told him that as the prison rules were now much stricter than before, his seeing Hatteraick would be only on condition that he should spend the whole night with him.
As the prison clock tolled ten, Glossin slipped off his shoes, and silently followed Mac-Guffog to the smuggler's room. As he entered, the door was locked on the outside; and he found himself alone with the former partner of his guilt. The cell was so dark that it was some time before he could detect the form of the smuggler, who was lying on a pallet-bed beside the bar.
"Dirck Hatteraick," he whispered. And the smuggler, recognising his voice, told him with a curse to begone.
"Speak to me no more. I'm dangerous."
"Then," said Glossin, losing his temper, "at least get up, for an obstinate Dutch brute!" But he had barely uttered the words when Hatteraick sprang from where he lay and grappled with him. So sudden and irresistible was the attack, that Glossin fell, the back part of his neck coming full upon the iron bar with stunning violence. Nor did the ruffian release the deadly grip upon his throat until the last remnant of life had left his victim's miserable corpse.
On the day following the death of Glossin, Dirck Hatteraick was himself found dead in the cell, having hanged himself by means of a cord taken from his bed, which he had cunningly contrived to attach to the prison wall.
Little more remains to be told. Bertram was before long restored to the possession of his father's house and property, and Julia Mannering became his wife.
His sister Lucy found a husband in her old lover Charles Hazlewood, and the dominie was raised once again to a condition of ecstatic happiness, seeing "his little Harry"—as he still continued to call him—now Laird of Ellangowan, and himself librarian in the house to which he had been so long a stranger.
_Although the short book from which these stories are taken was written in 1785 by Rudolf Erich Raspe, a German of many talents who took up his residence in England, there really was a Baron Munchausen who served the author as a model. His whole name was Hieronymus Karl Friedrich von Munchausen, a German, of course, but serving in the Russian army. After several campaigns against the Turks, he retired from the army and amused himself by telling awful whoppers about his bravery as a soldier and huntsman.
A German editor who visited the baron two years before he died was told by the baron's neighbors that he really did tell wonderful stories in his younger days._
By R. E. Raspe
Some years before my beard announced approaching manhood, or, in other words, when I was neither man nor boy, but between both, I expressed in repeated conversations a strong desire of seeing the world, from which I was discouraged by my parents, though my father had been no inconsiderable traveller himself. A cousin by my mother's side took a liking to me, often said I was a fine forward youth, and was much inclined to gratify my curiosity. His eloquence had more effect than mine, for my father consented to my accompanying him in a voyage to the island of Ceylon, where his uncle had resided as governor many years.
We sailed from Amsterdam with despatches from their High Mightinesses the States of Holland, and in about six weeks we arrived at Ceylon, where we were received with great marks of friendship and true politeness.
After we had resided at Ceylon about a fortnight I accompanied one of the governor's brothers upon a shooting party.
Near the banks of a large piece of water, which had engaged my attention, I thought I heard a rustling noise behind; on turning about I was almost petrified (as who would not be?) at the sight of a lion, which was evidently approaching with the intention of satisfying his appetite with my poor carcass, and that without asking my consent.
What was to be done in this horrible dilemma? I had not even a moment for reflection; my piece was only charged with swan-shot, and I had no other about me. However, though I could have no idea of killing such an animal with that weak kind of ammunition, yet I had some hopes of frightening him by the report, and perhaps of wounding him also. I immediately let fly, without waiting till he was within reach; and the report did but enrage him, for he now quickened his pace and seemed to approach me full speed. I attempted to escape, but that only added (if an addition could be made) to my distress; for the moment I turned about I found a large crocodile, with his mouth extended almost ready to receive me. On my right hand was the piece of water before mentioned, and on my left a deep precipice, said to have, as I have since learned, a receptacle at the bottom for venomous creatures; in short, I gave myself up as lost, for the lion was now upon his hind legs, just in the act of seizing me. I fell involuntarily to the ground with fear, and, as it afterward appeared, he sprang over me. I lay some time in a situation which no language can describe, expecting to feel his teeth or talons in some part of me every moment. After waiting in this prostrate situation a few seconds, I heard a violent but unusual noise, differing from any sound that had ever before assailed my ears; nor is it at all to be wondered at, when I inform you from whence it proceeded. After listening for some time, I ventured to raise my head and look round, when, to my unspeakable joy, I perceived the lion had, by the eagerness with which he sprang at me, jumped forward, as I fell, into the crocodile's mouth! which, as before observed, was wide open; the head of the one stuck in the throat of the other, and they were struggling to extricate themselves. I fortunately recollected my hunting knife which was by my side; with this instrument I severed the lion's head at one blow, and the body fell at my feet! I then, with the butt-end of my fowling-piece, rammed the head farther into the throat of the crocodile, and destroyed him, by suffocation, for he could neither gorge nor eject it.
Soon after I had thus gained a complete victory over my two powerful adversaries, my companion arrived in search of me; for finding I did not follow him into the wood, he returned, apprehending I had lost my way or met with some accident.
After mutual congratulations we measured the crocodile, which was just forty feet in length.
By R. E. Raspe
My first visit to England was about the beginning of George the Third's reign. I had occasion to go down to Wapping to see some goods shipped, which I was sending to some friends at Hamburgh: after that business was over, I took the Tower Wharf in my way back. Here I found the sun very powerful, and I was so much fatigued that I stepped into one of the cannon to compose me, where I fell fast asleep.
This was about noon; it was the fourth of June, the king's birthday. Exactly at one o'clock these cannon were all discharged in memory of the day they had been all charged that morning, and having no suspicion of my situation, I was shot over the houses on the opposite side of the river, into a farmer's yard, between Bermondsey and Deptford, where I fell upon a large haystack without waking, and continued there in a sound sleep till hay became so extravagantly dear (which was about three months after), that the farmer found it to his interest to send his whole stock to market. The stack I was reposing on was the largest in the yard, containing about five hundred load; they began to cut that first. I waked (with the voices of the people who had ascended the ladders to begin at the top) and got up, totally ignorant of my situation. In attempting to run away, I fell upon the farmer to whom the hay belonged, and broke his neck, yet received no injury myself! I afterwards found, to my great consolation, that this fellow was a most detestable character, always keeping the produce of his grounds for extravagant markets.
By R. E. Raspe
I set off from Rome on a journey to Russia, in the midst of winter, from a just notion that frost and snow must, of course, mend the roads, which every traveller had described as uncommonly bad through the northern parts of Germany, Poland, Courland, and Livonia. I went on horseback as the most convenient manner of travelling; I was but lightly clothed, and of this I felt the inconvenience the more I advanced northeast. What must not a poor old man have suffered in that severe weather and climate, whom I saw on a bleak common in Poland, lying on the road, helpless, shivering and hardly having wherewithal to cover his nakedness? I pitied the poor soul; though I felt the severity of the air myself, I threw my mantle over him, and immediately I heard a voice from the heavens, blessing me for that piece of charity, saying: "You will be rewarded, my son, in time."
I went on: night and darkness overtook me. No village was to be seen. The country was covered with snow and I was unacquainted with the road.
Tired, I alighted and fastened my horse to something, like a pointed stump of a tree, which appeared above the snow. For the sake of safety, I placed my pistols under my arm and lay down on the snow, where I slept so soundly that I did not open my eyes till full daylight. It is not easy to conceive my astonishment to find myself in the midst of a village, lying in a church-yard, nor was my horse to be seen, but I heard him soon after neigh somewhere above me. On looking upwards, I beheld him hanging by his bridle to the weathercock of the steeple. Matters were now very plain to me: the village had been covered with snow overnight; a sudden change of weather had taken place; I had sunk down to the church-yard whilst asleep, gently, and in the same proportion as the snow had melted away; and what in the dark I had taken to be a stump of a little tree appearing above the snow, to which I had tied my horse, proved to have been the cross or weathercock of the steeple!
Without long consideration I took one of my pistols, shot the bridle in two, brought down the horse, and proceeded on my journey. He carried me well. Advancing into the interior parts of Russia, I found travelling on horseback rather unfashionable in winter, so I submitted, as I always do, to the custom of the country, took a single horse sledge, and drove towards St. Petersburg.
I do not exactly recollect whether it was Eastland or Jugemanland, but I remember that in the midst of a dreary forest I spied a terrible wolf making after me with all the speed of ravenous winter hunger. He soon overtook me; there was no possibility of escape. Mechanically I laid myself down flat in the sledge, and let my horse run for our safety. What I wished, but hardly hoped or expected, happened immediately after. The wolf did not mind me in the least, but took a leap over me, and falling furiously on the horse, began instantly to tear and devour the hind part of the poor animal, which ran the faster for his pain and terror. Thus unnoticed and safe myself, I lifted my head slyly up, and with horror I beheld that the wolf had ate his way into the horse's body. It was not long before he had fairly forced himself into it, when I took my advantage and fell upon him with the butt-end of my whip. This unexpected attack in his rear frightened him so much that he leapt forward with all his might, the horse's carcass dropped on the ground, but in his place the wolf was in the harness, and I on my part whipping him continually, we both arrived in full career safe at St. Petersburg, contrary to our respective expectations, and very much to the astonishment of the spectators.
By R. E. Raspe
You have heard, I dare say, of the hunter and sportsman's saint and protector, St. Hubert, and of the noble stag which appeared to him in the forest with the holy cross between his antlers. I have paid my homage to that saint every year in good fellowship, and seen this stag a thousand times, either painted in churches or embroidered in the stars of his knights; so that, upon the honor and conscience of a good sportsman, I hardly know whether there may not have been formerly, or whether there are not such crossed stags even at this present day. But let me now relate that which happened to myself some little time ago.
I had been out shooting all day, and had quite expended my powder and shot, when I found myself unexpectedly in presence of a stately stag, looking at me as unconcernedly as if he had known of my empty pouches. I charged immediately with powder, and upon it a good handful of cherrystones, for I had sucked the fruit as far as the hurry would permit. Thus I let fly at him, and hit him just on the middle of the forehead, between his antlers; it stunned him— he staggered—yet he made off, and I lost sight of him, to my chagrin.
This happened to me in France. Afterwards I visited Russia, and remained there for about a year.
At length, there being no immediate prospect of war with Turkey, I returned to France on leave for a few months, and was staying in the same chateau as I had been when I had fired off this remarkable charge.
We hunted again in the fine forest I had then traversed, with a gay party of French nobles and sportsmen. I had separated myself somewhat from my companions, when, in the opening of a beautiful glade, I beheld a noble stag, with a fine full-grown cherry-tree above ten feet high between his antlers.
I immediately recollected my former adventure, looked upon him as my property, and brought him to the ground by one shot, which at once gave me the haunch and cherry sauce, for the tree was covered with the richest fruit, the like of which I had never tasted before.
By R. E. Raspe
I had married a lady of great beauty, who, having heard of my sporting exploits, desired, a short time after our marriage, to go out with me on a shooting expedition. I went on in front to start something, and I soon saw my dog stop before several hundred coveys of partridges. I waited for my wife, who was following me with my lieutenant and a servant. I waited a long time; nobody came.
At length, very uneasy, I went back, and, when I was half-way to the place where I had left my wife, I heard lamentable groans. They seemed quite near, and yet I could see no trace of a human being. I jumped off my horse; I put my ear to the ground, and not only heard the groans distinctly rising from beneath, but my wife's voice and those of my lieutenant and servant.
I remarked at the same time, not far from the spot, the shaft of a coal-pit, and I had no doubt that my wife and her unfortunate companions had been swallowed up in it. I rode full speed to the nearest village to fetch the miners, who after great efforts succeeded in drawing the unfortunate individuals buried in the pit—which measured ninety feet—to the surface.
They first drew up the man-servant; then his horse; next the lieutenant; next his horse; and at length my wife on her little palfrey. The most curious part of this affair was that, in spite of the awful depth to which they had fallen, no one was hurt, not even the horses, if we except a few slight contusions. But they had had a terrible fright, and were quite unable to pursue our intended sport.
In all this confusion I quite forgot my setter, as no doubt you also have.
The next day I was obliged to go away on duty, and did not return home for a fortnight. On my return I asked for Diana, my setter. No one knew anything about her. My servants thought she had followed me. She was certainly lost, and I never hoped to see her again! At length a bright idea occurred to me:
"She is perhaps still watching the partridges."
I hastened, full of hope and joy, to the spot, and actually there she was!—my noble Diana—on the very place where I had left her a fortnight before.
"Hi, Diana!" I cried. "Seize them!"
She instantly sprang the partridges; they rose, and I killed twenty-five at one shot. But the poor beast had scarcely strength enough to follow me, she was so thin and famished. I was obliged to carry her back to the house on my horse, where rest, feeding, and great care soon restored her to health.
I was thoroughly glad to get her back again.