“Yes,” she added; “the one for whom the tomb sings and the dead dance.” “Then you do not know, sir,” said the fisherman, dropping his voice and approaching Ordener,--“you do not know that Walderhog cave is the favorite abode of--” The woman stopped him. “Husband, do not speak that name; it brings ill luck.” “Whose abode?” asked Ordener. “That of Beelzebub incarnate,” said Kennybol. “Really, my kind hosts, I know not what you mean. I was surely told that Walderhog was the haunt of Hans of Iceland.” A triple cry of terror arose. “Well!--Then you do know!--He is the demon we mean!” The woman drew her woollen kerchief over her face, and called on all the saints to witness that it was not she who uttered that name. When the fisherman had somewhat recovered from his surprise, he looked steadily at Ordener, as if there were something about that young man which he could not comprehend. “I did not expect, stranger, that even if I lived still longer than my father, who died at the age of one hundred and twenty, I should ever have to show the road to Walderhog to any human being possessed of his senses and believing in God.” “Surely not,” cried Maase; “your worship will not go to that accursed cave; for if one only step foot inside, he must make a compact with the Devil!” “I must go, my kind hosts, and the greatest service that you can do me is to show me the shortest road there.” “The shortest way to reach the place where you wish to go,” said the fisherman, “is to throw yourself from the top of the nearest rock into the next torrent.” “Should I reach the same end,” quietly asked Ordener, “by preferring a useless death to a profitable danger?” Braal shook his head, while his brother looked scrutinizingly at the young adventurer. “I understand,” suddenly exclaimed the fisherman; “you want to earn the thousand crowns reward which the lord mayor offers for the head of this Iceland demon.” Ordener smiled. “Young sir,” added the fisherman, with deep emotion, “take my advice; give up your scheme. I am old and poor, and I would not sell the remnant of my life for a thousand crowns if I had but one day left.” The woman, with a beseeching, compassionate look, watched the effect of her husband’s entreaties. Ordener made haste to reply: “It is a much higher motive which leads me to seek this robber whom you call a demon; it is for the sake of others, not my own--” The mountaineer, who had not taken his eyes from Ordener, interrupted him. “I understand you now. I know why you seek the demon of Iceland.” “I wish to force him to fight,” said the young man. “That’s it,” said Kennybol; “you are intrusted with important interests, are you not?” “So I just said.” The mountaineer approached the young man with an air of great intelligence, and to his utter amazement whispered in his ear: “You come from Count Schumacker, from Griffenfeld, do you not?” “Good man,” he exclaimed, “how did you know that?”