mediately," said the smith, and turning to go away, he added, "I
think this night we have earned from you the right to be well supplied
with good liquor at your wedding."

It must certainly be a set of hobgoblins dispersed in the forest;
and there was a man in the wood who saw them, as large as life.
Speidel-Roettmann, who had followed his son, had made a false step, and
rolled down the precipice. When he reached the bottom he became sober
all at once. He had received no injury whatever. He went on a long way
on the frozen stream, and the rocks and trees towered above him like
gigantic monsters. Fresh snow fell thickly on him every instant, and at
last he became so confused, that he did not know whether he was going
up or down the stream. He tried to break the ice with a stone, to find
out in what direction the current of the stream was flowing, so that he
might know which way to proceed, but he could not loosen one of the
stones. The whole world seemed iron-bound, and no help near. Well! here
at last is an opening, here is a path in the forest. He climbs up,
often slipping backwards, and almost entirely hidden by masses of snow;
but he does not lose heart. Speidel-Roettmann's strength is now to be
put to the proof. He succeeds in getting to the top of the rising
ground--he is right: here is a path. As he grasps the ground for the
last time, he stumbles over something; it is a pipe--it is Adam's pipe.
So he must have gone this way; now he will come up with him--which way
is he gone? right, or left? The traces of his footsteps have been
already effaced by the falling snow. Speidel-Roettmann takes the path to
the right; then it suddenly seems to him that the left must certainly
be the best way, so he turns back; and then goes forward again, up and
down, as if a will-o'-the-wisp were leading him hither and thither.
Hark! a sound of horns, and whips, and barking of dogs;--what can it
be? Heavenly powers! it is the Wild Huntsman! It is himself, on his
gallant grey, with his spectre followers, shouting, and yelling, and
blowing the horn; and in the midst of the hubbub there are screams as
if from thousands of little children; and if any unlucky being were to
look up at him as he dashes past, he would cut his head as clean off as
if it were a turnip. All the terrors of the infernal regions assail
Speidel-Roettmann. He had, indeed, often boasted that the talk about
witches, and spectres, and hobgoblins, was only lies and nonsens