“In that case, forward, march,” ordered the burgomaster, who grasped him firmly by the nape of the neck; “you are going to sleep in prison.”

The little man writhed like a weasel; he even tried to bite, and the dog was sniffing at the calves of his legs, when, quite exhausted, he said, not without a certain dignity: 

“Let go, sir, I surrender to superior force—­I’m yours!”

The burgomaster, who was not entirely lacking in good breeding, became calmer.

“Do you promise?” said he.

“I promise!”

“Very well—­walk in front.”

And that is how, on the night of the 29th of July, 1835, the burgomaster took captive a little red-haired man, issuing from the cavern of Geierstein.

Upon arriving at Hirschwiller the rural guard ran to find the key of the prison and the vagabond was locked in and double-locked, not to forget the outside bolt and padlock.

Everyone then could repose after his fatigues, and Petrus Mauerer went to bed and dreamed till midnight of this singular adventure.

On the morrow, toward nine o’clock, Hans Goerner, the rural guard, having been ordered to bring the prisoner to the town house for another examination, repaired to the cooler with four husky daredevils.  They opened the door, all of them curious to look upon the Will-o’-the-wisp.  But imagine their astonishment upon seeing him hanging from the bars of the window by his necktie!  Some said that he was still writhing; others that he was already stiff.  However that may be, they ran to Petrus Mauerer’s house to inform him of the fact, and what is certain is that upon the latter’s arrival the little man had breathed his last.

The justice of the peace and the doctor of Hirschwiller drew up a formal statement of the catastrophe; then they buried the unknown in a field of meadow grass and it was all over!

Now about three weeks after these occurrences, I went to see my cousin, Petrus Mauerer, whose nearest relative I was, and consequently his heir.  This circumstance sustained an intimate acquaintance between us.  We were at dinner, talking on indifferent matters, when the burgomaster recounted the foregoing little story, as I have just reported it.

“’Tis strange, cousin,” said I, “truly strange.  And you have no other information concerning the unknown?”

“None.”

“And you have found nothing which could give you a clew as to his purpose?”

“Absolutely nothing, Christian.”

“But, as a matter of fact, what could he have been doing in the cistern?  On what did he live?”

The burgomaster shrugged his shoulders, refilled our glasses, and replied with: 

“To your health, cousin.”

“To yours.”

We remained silent a few minutes.  It was impossible for me to accept the abrupt conclusion of the adventure, and, in spite of myself, I mused with some melancholy on the sad fate of certain men who appear and disappear in this world like the grass of the field, without leaving the least memory or the least regret.