he mountain again, and were about to roll it down,
when one of them said, "But how shall we know where it runs to? Who will
be able to tell us aught about it?" "Why," said the bailiff, who had
advised the stone being carried up again, "this is very easily managed.
One of us must stick in the hole [for the millstone, of course, had a
hole in the middle], and run down with it." This was agreed to, and one
of them, having been chosen for the purpose, thrust his head through the
hole, and ran down the hill with the millstone. Now at the bottom of the
mountain was a deep fish-pond, into which the stone rolled, and the
simpleton with it, so that the Schildburgers lost both stone and man,
and not one among them knew what had become of them. And they felt
sorely angered against their old companion who had run down the hill
with the stone, for they considered that he had carried it off for the
purpose of disposing of it. So they published a notice in all the
neighbouring boroughs, towns, and villages, calling on them, that "if
any one come there with a millstone round his neck, they should treat
him as one who had stolen the common goods, and give him to justice."
But the poor fellow lay in the pond, dead. Had he been able to speak, he
would have been willing to tell them not to worry themselves on his
account, for he would give them their own again. But his load pressed so
heavily upon him, and he was so deep in the water, that he, after
drinking water enough--more, indeed, than was good for him--died; and he
is dead at the present day, and dead he will, shall, and must remain!

The forty-seventh chapter recounts "How the Schildburgers purchased a
mouser, and with it their own ruin":

Now it happened that there were no cats in Schilda, and so many mice
that nothing was safe, even in the bread-basket, for whatsoever they put
there was sure to be gnawed or eaten; and this grieved them sorely. And
upon a time there came a traveller into the village, carrying a cat in
his arms, and he entered the hostel. The host asked him, "What sort of a
beast is that?" Said he, "It is a mouser." Now the mice at Schilda were
so quiet and so tame that they never fled before the people, but ran
about all day long, without the slightest fear. So the traveller let the
cat run, who, in the sight of the host, soon caught numbers of mice. Now
when the people were told this by the host, they asked the man whether
the mouser was to be sold, for they would