This correspondence with the central government occupied the month of March, and, before that time, the bloody system had ceased as abruptly as it began.  The new police officer flattered himself that the terror of his name had wrought this effect; but judicious people thought otherwise.  All, however, was quiet until the depth of summer, when, by way of hinting to us, perhaps, that the dreadful power which clothed itself with darkness had not expired, but was only reposing from its labors, all at once the chief jailer of the city was missing.  He had been in the habit of taking long rides in the forest, his present situation being much of a sinecure.  It was on the first of July that he was missed.  In riding through the city gates that morning, he had mentioned the direction which he meant to pursue; and the last time he was seen alive was in one of the forest avenues, about eight miles from the city, leading toward the point he had indicated.  This jailer was not a man to be regretted on his own account; his life had been a tissue of cruelty and brutal abuse of his powers, in which he had been too much supported by the magistrates, partly on the plea that it was their duty to back their own officers against all complainers, partly also from the necessities created by the turbulent times for a more summary exercise of their magisterial authority.  No man, therefore, on his own separate account, could more willingly have been spared than this brutal jailer; and it was a general remark that, had the murderous band within our walls swept away this man only, they would have merited the public gratitude as purifiers from a public nuisance.  But was it certain that the jailer had died by the same hands as had so deeply afflicted the peace of our city during the winter—­or, indeed, that he had been murdered at all?  The forest was too extensive to be searched; and it was possible that he might have met with some fatal accident.  His horse had returned to the city gates in the night, and was found there in the morning.  Nobody, however, for months could give information about his rider; and it seemed probable that he would not be discovered until the autumn and the winter should again carry the sportsman into every thicket and dingle of this sylvan tract.  One person only seemed to have more knowledge on this subject than others, and that was poor Ferdinand von Harrelstein.  He was now a mere ruin of what he had once been, both as to intellect and moral feeling; and I observed him frequently smile when the jailer was mentioned.  “Wait,” he would say, “till the leaves begin to drop; then you will see what fine fruit our forest bears.”  I did not repeat these expressions to anybody except one friend, who agreed with me that the jailer had probably been hanged in some recess of the forest, which summer veiled with its luxuriant umbrage; and that Ferdinand, constantly wandering in the forest, had discovered the body; but we both acquitted him of having been an accomplice in the murder.