Way back in the dark ages, when the devil was in the habit of coming in person to transact his business with men--and women--there was no gorge at all. The mountain was shaped not as it is now, but was a respectable mountain, with a properly conducted stream dancing down its side. This stream turned two mills, one owned by a very nice miller, named Balthazar, and the other by a very wicked miller, named Caspar. Balthazar had the respect and esteem of his fellow-men, while Caspar was universally detested. He was a griping, grasping man, who took double toll, and was as avaricious as a grave-yard. Balthazar, on the other hand, was beloved by everybody, because he was good; and, because he was good, he was very poor. Caspar had succeeded in buying up his notes, and he held a claim on his mill, which he desired to get out of the way, as he wanted no competition. But Balthazar kept right along, for he had friends somewhere who advanced money to him, so that he could keep up the interest and defy the enemy. Caspar tried every way to get rid of his competitor, but he could not, and he chafed under it. He dwelt upon it so long that it became a mania with him. How to crush Balthazar and have the sole privilege of plundering the people was the thought with him by day and night. One Spring he bought more of Balthazar's paper, but, to his chagrin, Balthazar came around promptly and paid it, the day it was due, and Caspar found himself foiled again. And so that night when he was pacing his room and fretting and fuming about his disappointment, he remarked to himself mentally--a very dangerous thing in those days--that he would give his soul to be relieved of this popular rival. No sooner thought than done. The archdemon appeared in person, and Caspar did not seem to be surprised. "Are you in earnest, Herr Caspar?" "Indeed I am. That man is poison to me. I must get rid of him and his mill." "Very right. You can do it, but you know the terms?" "Certainly. You remove the mill, you ruin Balthazar, and after a time I become yours, I sign an article of agreement, writing my name in my own blood. That's the regular thing, I believe!" "You are right, old man, right as a trivet. Sign here." And he produced the document which he had with him. It stipulated that Balthazar's mill was to be utterly destroyed, and Caspar's not injured, and that things should be so fixed that Caspar's would be the only respectable water-power possible on the mountain. As a consideration for this friendly service, Caspar was, after twenty years of milling with no competition, to yield himself gracefully to the demon, body and soul. Caspar whipped off his coat, cut his arm for blood, and signed. The devil disappeared in a clap of thunder, leaving a perceptible odor of brimstone in the room, and Caspar went calmly to bed.