Gotthold half started from his seat, groaning aloud, and then sank back again, reproaching himself for conjuring up such horrible apparitions. That was certainly the most improbable of all. Whatever means he had used the night before to break down the pride of one of the proudest of women, he had conquered, he was master of the situation; he might be satisfied! And was he not? He now knew the secret of coining gold, cunning alchemist that he was; and how soon he might be again in a situation where he would be obliged to make use of his art, that very evening had proved. What becomes of the water you take in your hand? What becomes of the money you give a gambler? Cousin Boslaf had been right. But the more Gotthold endeavored to push aside the terrible thought as improbable, nay impossible, the more distinctly the scene appeared before his eyes. He saw him creep towards her chamber, cautiously open the door, glide into the room, up to the bed. Merciful Heaven! what was that? He had distinctly heard his name called in a piercing cry of mortal agony. It was only a trick of his excited fancy, a horned owl perhaps, which, hurled along by the storm on noiseless wings, had swept close over his head, and in its surprise uttered the cry. This, or something of the sort. Undoubtedly; but fancy continued the cruel sport none the less zealously, and converted the long-drawn howling and hollow roaring of the tempest over the moor, the rustling of the clumps of broom by the wayside, the creaking of the carriage, and the panting of the weary horses, into ghostly voices which muttered terrible words, voices and words such as might be uttered by the shapes which glided through the grayish black twilight over the masses of rock on the moor on the right of the carriage, or flitted on the left through the impenetrable darkness that brooded coldly over the morass. The road had been gradually ascending for some time, and according to Gotthold's belief, they had almost reached the crest of the hill, when the horses suddenly stopped, snorting violently. "What's the matter?" asked Gotthold. Hinrich Scheel's only reply was several violent lashes, which urged the horses onward again, but only a few paces, then they stopped once more, snorting still louder, and pressing backward so that the carriage moved a little down the hill. "The damned jades!" cried Hinrich Scheel, who was no longer on his seat on the box, but standing on the right of the carriage. "What is the matter, I say?" cried Gotthold, starting up. "Nothing at all," shouted Hinrich. "Sit still. The damned jades! This little pull! I'll teach them to shirk. Sit still, we shall be up directly! Damn the whip!"