ieving.

They then discussed the various measures that were to be adopted in
order to deceive the officers of the State.

It was arranged that the two pocket-books should be thrown behind a
large rock that stood by the railroad track, directly opposite the
path which led through the woods and along which the old man and
himself were in the habit of traveling. Bucholz seemed over joyed at
this proposition, and with many flattering expressions complimented
his companion upon the wisdom of his suggestions. They would have
continued further, but the time had arrived for closing the jail, and
Sommers was compelled to take his departure.

Upon the occasion of his next visit he found a marked change in
William Bucholz. He appeared to be silent and depressed in spirits.
Horrible dreams had visited his fitful slumbers, and the accusing
voice of the murdered man had rung in his ears during the solemn
watches of the night. The pallid, blood-stained face of Henry Schulte
had appeared to him, and his conscience had been an active producer
of unrest and terror. Try as he would, that awful presence followed
him, and he found sleep to be an impossibility. Hollow-eyed and sad,
he greeted the detective, and as he cordially shook him by the hand,
he noticed that a spasm of pain crossed the face of the prisoner.

"What is the matter, William?" he anxiously inquired. "Have you seen
a ghost?"

"Oh, no," replied the other, with a shiver--"it is nothing, only a
little cold, I guess."

The quick eye of the detective could not be deceived--something had
occurred of more than usual import, and he was determined to
ascertain what it was. Pressing him closely, Bucholz admitted, with a
forced smile, that on the day before, he had been reading Schiller's
play of "The Robbers," and that becoming excited by the heroic action
of "Carl von Moor," he had thoughtlessly plunged his penknife, which
he had in his hand at the time, into his own side. The blade had
touched a rib, however, and that prevented the wound from being very
serious. The blood had flowed copiously from the incision thus made,
and the wound was even now very painful.

Sommers, at a glance, saw through this flimsy pretext, and realized
at once what had happened. The miserable man, nervous and excited,
had, in the excess of fear, attempted to take his own life. The grim
specters of the night were too horrible to endure, and he had sought
to escape their torments by the act which h