With these words. Falcon seized a torch, a tinder-box, and a rope, and hastened away. Kaspar ran after him as fast as he could, and found his friend standing on the ledge of the rock upon which he had once sought safety from the storm, and ready to let himself down into the raging abyss. When Kaspar found that his entreaties had no effect on the crazed man, he prepared to descend after him; but Falcon ordered him to remain where he was and hold on to the rope. With an amount of exertion that could only have been supplied by the blindest of passions, greed, Falcon clambered down into the cave, and at last came to a projecting piece of rock, just below which the black waves, crested with foam, rushed along with a dreadful roar. He looked about him eagerly, and finally saw something glistening in the water directly beneath where he stood. He laid down his torch, plunged in, and seized a heavy object which he managed to bring back with him. It was an iron box filled with gold pieces. He shouted up to his companion what he had found; but he would not pay the least attention to Kaspar's entreaties to content himself with what he had. Falcon believed that this was only the first fruit of his long endeavors. He plunged into the waves once more--a peal of laughter arose from the sea, and William Falcon was never seen again. Kaspar went back to the hut, but as a changed man. The strange shocks which his weak head and sensitive heart had experienced, wrecked his mind. He wandered about, day and night, staring before him in an imbecile way, pitied and yet avoided by all his former acquaintances. One stormy night a fisherman claimed to have recognized William Falcon on the shore among the crew of the _Carmilhan_, and on that same night Kaspar Strumpf disappeared. He was sought for every-where, but no trace of him was ever found; but the legend runs that he has often been seen, together with Falcon, among the crew of the spectre ship, which since his loss appears at stated times at the cave of Steenfoll. "It is long past midnight," said the student, when the young goldsmith had concluded his story; "there cannot well be any further danger, and I, for my part, am so sleepy that I would advise that we all lay down and go to sleep with a sense of perfect security." "I should not feel safe before two o'clock in the morning," said the huntsman; "the proverb says, from eleven till two is the thief's hour." "I am of the same opinion," observed the compass-maker; "for if they mean us any harm, there is certainly no time so well adapted to their purpose as the small hours. Therefore, I think it would be well if the student were to continue his story, which he did not finish." "I will not refuse your request," responded the student, "although our neighbor, the huntsman, did not hear the beginning of it." "I will try to imagine it, only go on," replied the huntsman.