Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and Wolfert’s nerves had arrived at so sensitive a state that the flitting of a bird, the rustling of a leaf, or the falling of a nut was enough to startle him.  As they entered the confines of the garden, they caught sight of a figure at a distance advancing slowly up one of the walks and bending under the weight of a burthen.  They paused and regarded him attentively.  He wore what appeared to be a woollen cap, and still more alarming, of a most sanguinary red.  The figure moved slowly on, ascended the bank, and stopped at the very door of the sepulchral vault.  Just before entering he looked around.  What was the horror of Wolfert when he recognized the grizzly visage of the drowned buccaneer.  He uttered an ejaculation of horror.  The figure slowly raised his iron fist and shook it with a terrible menace.  Wolfert did not pause to see more, but hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him, nor was Sam slow in following at his heels, having all his ancient terrors revived.  Away, then, did they scramble, through bush and brake, horribly frightened at every bramble that tagged at their skirts, nor did they pause to breathe, until they had blundered their way through this perilous wood and had fairly reached the high-road to the city.

Several days elapsed before Wolfert could summon courage enough to prosecute the enterprise, so much had he been dismayed by the apparition, whether living dead, of the grizzly buccaneer.  In the meantime, what a conflict of mind did he suffer!  He neglected all his concerns, was moody and restless all day, lost his appetite; wandered in his thoughts and words, and committed a thousand blunders.  His rest was broken; and when he fell asleep, the nightmare, in shape of a huge money-bag, sat squatted upon his breast.  He babbled about incalculable sums; fancied himself engaged in money digging; threw the bed-clothes right and left, in the idea that he was shovelling among the dirt, groped under the bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged forth, as he supposed, an inestimable pot of gold.

Dame Webber and her daughter were in despair at what they conceived a returning touch of insanity.  There are two family oracles, one or other of which Dutch housewives consult in all cases of great doubt and perplexity:  the dominie and the doctor.  In the present instance they repaired to the doctor.  There was at that time a little, dark, mouldy man of medicine famous among the old wives of the Manhattoes for his skill not only in the healing art, but in all matters of strange and mysterious nature.  His name was Dr. Knipperhausen, but he was more commonly known by the appellation of the High German doctor.[4] To him did the poor women repair for counsel and assistance touching the mental vagaries of Wolfert Webber.

[Footnote 4:  The same, no doubt, of whom mention is made in the history of Dolph Heyliger.]