THE LAWYER WHO COST HIS CLIENT NOTHING.

A TALE.

BY SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, BART.

From the “Thresor d’Histoires Admirables et Mémorables de nostre Temps. Par Simon Goulartt Senlisien mdcxx.” A rare hook, from which Sterne borrowed with his usual hardihood and felicity.

IN the year 1541, and on the second day of September, towards sunset, the little children playing in the meadows at the outskirts of a certain small town in the Marquisate of Brandebourg, were startled by the apparition of a tall man clad in half-armour, who had descended from the hill to the west so noiselessly, that he was in the midst of the young group before they perceived him. They suspended their sports to stare at the stranger, and were struck by the ghastly paleness of the features, which were seen through the open bars of the morion. The man’s step was unsteady and reeling, and he uttered some inarticulate sounds of pain and distress, as he sought to unbuckle his heavy head gear. In truth, the poor man was overcome by a sharp attack of aguish fever. He was a soldier on his return from Hungary; the heat of the day and the weight of his arms had overtried a frame in which the wounds of a sharp campaign were scarcely scarred over, and, while gasping out his prayer to the urchins to direct him to the nearest inn, he fell to the ground exhausted, and almost insensible. The children ran to call the guards who were loitering round the gates of the town, and the soldier was conveyed to the principal hostelry of the place.

Mine host received the guest with more politeness than was common to him; but, in truth, that was just the period when the little ready money in circulation was chiefly to be found in the pouch of a man-at-arms returning from the wars with his pay and his plunder; and the landlord had no doubt that the soldier had wherewithal to pay for his lodging if he recovered, or his burial if he died. The hostess herself, a comely-looking woman enough, undertook to watch and nurse the poor man. And the neighbours were much edified with the charitable dispositions of their fellow-townspeople.

The soldier had evinced small signs of life when they stripped him of his mail, but when they came to take off his heavy boots, he opened his eyes, and made vehement but ineffectual attempts to speak. At length, as he saw the host carrying the boots from the chamber in which he was placed, probably with the friendly intention to clean and grease them, the soldier contrived to utter sounds of so much uneasiness and anger, that the host stood arrested at the doorway; the soldier then, with a convulsive effort, staggered to the host, clutched from him the right boot, and, motioning to him that he might do what he pleased with the left, reeled to the bed provided for him, and making a pillow of the boot thus selected, fell into the sleep or stupor of exhaustion.

This boot excited the most profound interest in the breasts both of host and hostess. They retired a little while from the chamber to talk of the boot; — they pondered over the boot — they discussed the boot — they agreed in their surmises, that in that boot there was more than met the eye.

They returned to the bedside of the soldier, he seemed still asleep: the hostess tickled his ear, the soldier moved his head, and the host gave a gentle tug at the boot; the soldier started, his brows met, and, though without opening his eyes or waking, he seemed to feel aware that the boot was in danger — he threw his right arm tightly round it, and dropped his head again upon the boot, with all that weight and solidity which are the characteristics of a head obstinately in earnest “Thousand devils!” quoth the host. “But, after all, the man can’t live; he seems at death’s door, and then we shall know what there is in the boot!”

A clamour of voices below summoned the landlord to a bevy of guests just arrived. The hostess remained to watch the stranger.

A few hours afterwards the soldier woke up. He had recovered his senses, but he was extremely feeble and exhausted. The kind hostess bent over him with a cordial, in which she had put a full pint of the newest and headiest wine which the Marquisate of Brandebourg afforded to its inhabitants. The soldier was much moved by her attention, and somewhat revived by the draught What with his gratitude, and what with the wine, the poor man became pathetic; he forgot the caution proverbially habitual in a military veteran, and illness unpreceded by gun-wounds being a thing extremely new to his experience, he really had a strong presentiment that he should never again rise to any trump but the last. With these thoughts he faltered out —

“Ah, dear and charitable frau, it is a comfort to have a woman near one’s bedside at the hour of death; a woman, you see, feels for a little one about to be an orphan. You have children, dear frau?”

“I had one — a boy,” said the hostess, lifting up her eyes, as much as to say, “he is in heaven!” and indeed his last act had been in a heavenward direction, seeing that he had been hanged on a tree as a spy, by a murderous old Bohemian general.

“Well,” said the soldier, whining, “I have a poor little girl at home in Heilbronn, where I was going to spend the rest of my days. I had been saving and scraping for my old age, but God is pleased to cut me off — the money will go to her, and find her a husband. Wherefore, I pray you, as you value your soul, to take care of this boot, and as soon as the breath is out of my body, rip open the inner leather, and you will find it well lined with gold coin. Pay yourself, charitable frau — pay for my burial, and seven masses for my soul, and convey the rest to my little girl, Bettine Kamerach, at the forge, opposite the convent at Heilbronn.”

“God be with you, friend,” answered the hostess, wiping her eyes, “and I hope you will live this many a year. But if it be otherwise, make your mind easy, not a stiver will I touch of your hoard; and the boot shall go, without need of a cobbler, to your little girl, Bettine Kamerach, at the forge, opposite the convent at Heilbronn.”

The soldier wrung the hostess’s hand with his dry hot palm, and the good woman continued —

“But in case of the worst, seeing how the priests and the leeches get round a man when he is supposed to be dying — seeing, too, that in a public inn all sorts of characters, good and bad, must abound, and that I cannot always be at your bedside — considering all this, soldier-friend, think you not it might be the wisest to give me the boot at once to take charge of? I should never get over it, if the tinker, who lodges next room to you, and who has not the best of reputation for honesty, should slip the boot from under your head while you are asleep. And indeed such a pillow tells its own tale of the stuffing!”

“Right,” quoth the soldier, dejectedly. “Poor companion, who hast trudged with me so long, farewell! perhaps for ever. Take it, dear frau — I have not the heart to give it thee.”

The hostess seized the boot with one hand — with the other she tucked the coverlid round the sick man; and the wine beginning to work, he fell into a heavy dose, as she stole from the room to her husband.

As soon as this wicked couple had thus got hold of the boot, unripped the leather, and locked up the coins, deuce a bit more cared they for the soldier! They had not the courage to murder him, for fear of detection; but by letting him alone, without doctor or nurse, drink or food, they took it for granted that he would of himself soon depart from this life. The room in which he was placed was in a remote corner of the house, neither tinker nor other living soul slept at hand, to hear his moans or come to his call — so they left him to die as soon as he pleased. All the next day, the poor soldier, abandoned and deserted, wrestled hard with his malady. He could not make his piteous voice heard much beyond the threshold; the hostess now and then crept to the door to listen if he still breathed, and though his sighs and broken exclamations might have melted a heart of stone, that accursed boot stopped up her ears to all humanity and nature.

Confident, at least, that he would not get over the night, the miserable pair retold their treasure, and composed themselves merrily to sleep.

At the dead of the night, the thirst of the sufferer became so irresistible that it gave him the strength of desperation, to rise and crawl forth in search of water. Perhaps, indeed, the total abstinence from food for twenty-four hours somewhat served to assist, rather than diminish, the exhausted powers of nature. He contrived, though with great difficulty, to crawl down the stairs, open the kitchen-door, and find his way to the trough in the yard, at which the horses were watered. Of this unpalatable beverage he drank heartily, and found himself refreshed — when, in tottering back, he fell unawares into a huge cistern. Now, whether the shock of the immersion, or the previous draughts of cold water, wrought a critical change in his complaint, or that the disease of itself had taken a favourable turn, the historian saith not, but on regaining his bed, he broke out into a salutary perspiration, slept soundly, and woke the next morning, still somewhat weak, it is true, but prodigiously hungry, and with sufficient strength to resume his clothes and armour (which were by his bedside), gird on his sword, and, dressed in all save his boots, descend into the kitchen. The hostess was already astir, and a ghost from the grave would not have startled her so much as the sight of her living guest Nay, one may venture to assert, that if she could have exchanged the guest for a ghost, she would have deemed herself a lucky woman.

Though greatly indignant at the inhumanity with which he had been deserted, the soldier had no suspicion that the active crime of robbery would be added to the passive infamy of abandonment; and being naturally of a proud temper, he disdained to enter into long and idle reproaches. Therefore, scarcely looking at the hostess, but seating himself at the table, he said briefly —

“Give me a manchet and a flask; bring me my boots, and tell me what there is to pay. God’s mercy, one comfort after starving is to think the reckoning will be all the lighter!”

The hostess said not a word, but she ran to her husband, who was still in his room, ruminating certain plans which the contents of the soldier’s boot would enable him to adopt. Mine host swore sundry great oaths when he heard that his guest was waiting for breakfast in the kitchen. What was to be done? The boots, at all events, must be returned. Between the two they cobbled up the rent they had made in the inner leather of the right boot, sponged off the dust from both, and sent them down to the soldier by the maid, with orders to accompany them by the comestibles requested. By this time the kitchen had become pretty full of labourers and idlers in the habit of taking their morning draught at the inn; and all turned with curiosity as the manchet, the flask, and an immense pair of boots were placed on the table before the grim, pale soldier. Kaspar Kamerach (for such was his name) was too much gnawed by his hunger to examine the boots until he had finished the flask and the manchet; but then, lifting the right boot, its astonishing lightness struck him with terror and suspicion. He passed his hand into the interior, and the unsatisfactory touch left no doubt that his strange valise had been rifled. Kaspar Kamerach was not a patient man. But even the most patient seldom submit to be robbed without a murmur,— “Ah, sow that would devour thine own farrow — ah, miserable woman, thief and traitress, what hast thou done with the charge I consigned to thee? My gold crowns — my gold crowns! Where art thou, traitress?”

While bursting forth into such like, and much worse, vollies of vituperation, the soldier strode to and fro like one distracted; and finding that no hostess came to his call, he disappeared from the sight of the startled customers in search of the untrustworthy bankeress he had so lucklessly selected.

In a few minutes more, loud cries, yells, and oaths, were heard on the stairs above, and presently Kaspar reappeared, foaming with rage, belabouring the host, whom he pushed before him, with the violated boot, while with the left hand he dragged the hostess by the arm, careless of the kicks and pinches with which she returned his attentions.

The customers rose, and gathered, somewhat menacingly, round the soldier, the host all the time roaring for help. But Kaspar, whose blood was up, dashing the host on the ground, set his foot on his chest, and then, releasing the hostess, drew his sword, and one circle in the air cleared the space before him. He then, not without violent interruptions from the hostess, told his tale, and re-demanded his treasure. But the audience he appealed to was not favourable. The host was a man of note in the town, his brother was chief magistrate, he himself a burgomaster; most of those present were in his debt. The soldier was a stranger, and unsupported; his tale seemed improbable — a boot was an odd place wherein to deposit money. Besides, he had been very ill — he was probably still out of his mind; in short, whether or not, his tale was disbelieved, the audience saw sufficient excuse to disbelieve it. Meanwhile, at a whisper from the hostess, one of the guests had disappeared at the commencement of his harangue. Before he had finished his tale there was a general clamour of incredulity and indignation, in the midst of which, by a violent effort, the host wrenched himself from his unpleasing position, gained his legs, ran to the fire-place, seized on the spit; and encouraged by the sympathy he met with, and the numbers on his side, he ran a tilt at his accuser, calling him all the liars and vagabonds he could lay his tongue to. The soldier parried the spit, and with a back-handed stroke cut off the host’s ear.

Amidst the hubbub that ensued in marched the host’s brother, the magistrate, with a score of halberdiers in his suite. They found poor Kaspar flourishing his sword, the host bleeding and bellowing, the guests screaming and yelling and shaking their fists. Kaspar was soon disarmed and handcuffed, yet not before he had wounded one of the halberdiers, and flattened the chief magistrate’s hat over his eyes by a stroke with the flat of his sword. It was evening ere peace and quiet were restored to the inn and the town. The soldier was cast into prison, and his trial appointed for the next day.

Prisons at that day were not the comfortable asylums for persecuted merit which they are in this. Formerly innocent persons were the prisoners, and nothing could be worse than the accommodation; — at present a prisoner is generally guilty, and he is treated with every possible consideration.

It was literally a dungeon into which Kaspar Karnerach was thrown, under ground, in the old keep of the town. The stone walls steamed with damp, a litter of foul straw formed the bed, and a broken pitcher of ditch-water, with a parallelogram of black bread, formed the fare. Ill lodging and worse table for a man not recovered from an ague-fever! As day passed, and night advanced, poor Kaspar became extremely dejected; the excitement of anger, too violent for his physical strength, yielded to the reaction of utter despondency. He saw that he had no chance of justice — that his gold crowns were gone from him for ever. Where was the dot for his little Bettine? — where the sustenance for his old age? Nay, was it even clear that either the blue eyes of Bettine, or old age itself — always desired, though always feared — were visions to be realized? A stranger in this accursed town, his despoiler a burgomaster, his despoiler’s brother his judge, might it not go hard with his neck? He had maimed his host, he had wounded an officer of justice, he had flattened down the hat over the sacred head of the chief magistrate himself — offences less than which might justify the hanging of him. Deeper and deeper, darker and darker, grew the melancholy shade of his reflections.

Poor Kaspar Karnerach! That vision of thy little Bettine, which had so often cheered thee in thy hardships, consoled thee in thy privations, roused thee in the dread of the battle, warmed thee amidst the snows of the bivouac — that vision now became to thee thy bitterest torture! Thou didst see her before thee, no longer blithe-eyed and laughing, running to meet thee at the threshhold, twining her small hands round thy neck, and renewing the light heart of thy youth with sweet kisses; not thus, but pale and sorrowing, an orphan, — dependent on the stranger for bread, doomed henceforth to harsh words and hard drudgery. And thou didst hear rude voices cry to her, “Up, lazy one, and work; for thy father, on whom we counted, is dead, and thy hands must earn thy bread.” Lower and lower on his broad breast dropped the soldier’s head — heavily, heavily. Tears gushed from his eyes. “And not a friend,” he murmured, “not a friend to save me — no justice upon earth; and as to heaven, what right has a man of violence and strife to count on its aid — no help, no help!”

“Look up, Kaspar Karnerach,” said a voice in his ear, “look up. Thou callest not in vain — I can deliver thee.” Startled, and scarce believing his ears, Kaspar looked up; and though, just before, the cell had been in profound darkness, he now perceived that a pale but steady light circled through the desolate space, a light like that of morning, while before him stood a small figure, veiled from head to foot; but through the veil glowed, like balls of fire, two eyes fixed on his own.

The soldier sought to falter an ave, but his memory failed him, and the stranger continued —

“Kaspar Karnerach, without me, by this time to-morrow thou wilt be a corpse, and thy Bettine an orphan. While I speak, thy host is with his brother the judge. He has every reason, both of interest and vengeance, to urge thy death; he has stolen thy crowns, and thou hast cut off his ear. The judge is against thee, for thou hast assaulted him; the public are against thee, for thou art a stranger. There will be rare hooting round thy gallows-tree!”

“And who art thou?” asked Kaspar, trying to pluck up his courage; “and what share of my crowns dost thou ask for saving my life, and regaining the rest?”

“Not one,” said the stranger.

“Wilt thou do it, then, from pure love of me?”

“From pure love of thee, certainly.”

“Then all I can say,” quoth the soldier, “is, that I thank thee heartily; and if ever thou hast need of me, in return, thou hast only to say, ‘Up, Kaspar, I want thee.’”

“That quite satisfies me, if the contract is a little more formal. On my part, I undertake to obtain thy acquittal, to get thee back thy treasure, to send thee safe home to Bettine. On thine, thou hast but to declare that thou leavest to my disposal, now and for ever, what remains of thee after thy death.”

“No,” said the soldier, “that goes to Bettine, “I cannot make thee my heir.”

“Fool,” replied the stranger, “I do not seek to despoil thy daughter. I ask only that which thou canst not leave to her nor to earth; in a word, that invisible and abstract essence of which in life thou hast made precious little use; and which the scholars will tell thee to look for in a part of thy cranium which thou hast never heard of; in a word, what remains of thee after life — thy soul!”

“Ha!” said the soldier, recoiling with a shudder. “Then thou art the tempter against whom the priests warn us. Avaunt, Satan! get thee behind me — I spurn and spit upon thee.”

“Tut,” said the stranger,” calmly, “If I were not fond of doing things in a legal and business-like manner, I should leave thee to hang; sure that I shall have thee all the same, with bond or without Hast thou not committed sins enough to mortgage a score of souls more precious than thine? Reflect, since the age of seventeen to forty-eight hast thou not been engaged in bloodshed and rapine? Recollect all the throats thou hast cut, the towns thou hast fired, the houses thou hast sacked.”

“In the fair way of my trade as a soldier,” said Kaspar; “my captain must pay for me if I am wrong — go to him.”

“And is it thy captain who is to blame for that little affair in Moldavia, when thou didst rifle three monks and their abbot, and didst get drunk upon the risdales of the church? Is thy captain to blame for that stab in the dark thou gavest, twenty years ago, to thy rival, for an innocent kiss to the mother of Bettine? or for the share thou hadst but last winter in stopping the fat beeves that belonged to the holy convent of Igguldstadt? Murder and sacrilege, pretty trifles, I trow! Add to these, all the prayers thou hast forgotten; the promises thou hast never fulfilled; the rosaries thou hast not counted; the sackcloth thou hast not worn; the stripes thou hast not inflicted upon a hide tough enough, by my hoofs, to have borne them unflinching. Recall thy drinkings and thy gamblings, thy quarrels and thy leasings, thine oaths and thy cheats. Let them pass before thee one by one, while I speak — Ho, soldier; ho, sinner; dost thou think that if thou diest to-morrow, thy soul can escape me?”

While the tempter thus said, a gloom of intense horror and despair settled upon the mind of poor Kaspar Kamerach. Verily and indeed, one by one, all his sins rose before him like visible things; the dread phantasmagoria of the past succeeded each other like shapes in the magic lantern.

The demon continued, “Well, Kaspar, is the bargain so hard? — am I as bad as they paint me? Do I not offer thee terms too advantageous for a rascal like thee to reject? Instead of dying to-morrow, thou shalt live out thy natural term, peaceful and merry. I will not claim thee these forty years. Thou shalt be fourscore and eight before I tap at thy door. Perhaps thou doubtest still that thy sentence will pass. Look, and listen.”

And straight the walls of the dungeon receded, and Kaspar saw the judge and the inn-keeper closeted together, and heard the judge say distinctly, “Set thy mind at ease, brother mine, it shall be more than ear for an ear. The cursed soldier shall hang on the linden before thy door, and the crows shall pick out his eyes.”

To the orbs thus unfeelingly menaced Kaspar clapped his hands in dismay, and the vision was gone. His despair was too great for his courage, much as that had been proved.

“Well,” said he, at last, “before I can decide, I ask one condition at least You can conjure the absent before me, it seems. Let me see Bettine once more — just as she is now — let me fancy I kiss her in sleep.”

The demon interrupted the father with a laugh full of irony and scorn. He represented the absurdity of such a sentiment in a rogue so abandoned. He argued and sneered; he pooh-poohed, and tut-tutted. But the soldier was naturally obstinate, and he grew the more dogged to insist, the more the fiend was reluctant to concede. At last, evidently seeing that unless he complied he should lose all the advantage he had gained, the tempter, with considerable repugnance, yielded the point. “But mark,” said he, “it can be but the hundredth part of a moment! See this nail that I draw from thy morion. Only for the space of time that elapses while the nail drops from my hand to the floor, canst thou see thy Bettine. Look thy best.”

The soldier looked; Bettine was before him; the little room at the forge; the small bed at the corner; the crucifix hung at the bed-head. Bettine’s sweet face was pale and disturbed; some dream scared or distressed her; and her lips plainly syllabled the words— “Father, God save thee!” Then the soldier’s soul seemed to make itself palpable and felt within him; it seemed to flutter and writhe in agony — to appeal to heaven against the base fears of the body, by which its divine essence was so mercilessly endangered. Its voice became audible; as a frightened child on the breast of its mother, it wailed for succour and deliverance. All those phantoms of past sins, so lately terrific, lost their power of despair. Beside the doom of an eternity, how small seemed the misdeeds of hours! Suddenly — as the form of a giant angel, its feet on the earth, its brow encircled by the glory of the loftiest stars — rose HOPE. “Son,” said the angel, “whom I have reared from the cradle, wilt thou desert me at the gates of the tomb? Not till the tomb is closed, canst thou know me as I am! All my beauty — all my power — are never shown but in the land beyond the grave. Do thy sins dismay thee? I was created to rescue men from sin. Nor guilt nor demon has lasting authority on the soul while it clings to the garments of Hope.”

The voice died — the dream faded. Before the soldier stood the tempter, and the nail had not yet reached to the floor.

“Fiend!” said the man delivered, “if in the hundredth part of a moment the soul escaped from the body can feel as mine has felt, what must be eternity? Avaunt, and let me die! I will take God’s judgment on my sins; and to God’s mercy I will trust my child.” So speaking, the soldier made the sign of the cross, and the tempter vanished.

It was with a composed and cheerful mind that Kaspar Karnerach saw the day gleam through his bars. Long before noon, the whole burgh was astir; and, accompanied by a file of halberdiers, Kamerach was led into court to take his trial.

The judge was in the awful seat; the host, with his head bandaged, the halberdier whom Kaspar had wounded, and a goodly crowd of witnesses were assembled, intent upon supplying the mob with that most popular of all sights — a man hanged.

Just as Kaspar was being led to the bar, he felt his arm pinched, and an unfamiliar voice whispered in his ear—” Say that you leave your defence in the hands of your counsel.” Kaspar looked round, and saw before him a little man with a sharp hungry face, and eyes that seemed keen enough to pierce through a wall.

“Alas!” said the soldier, “I have not now wherewithal in my pouch for a fee for counsel.”

“Never let that vex you,” said the little man, smiling. “I will run the chance to take my costs out of the plaintiff. If I miss here, I hit there; that’s my maxim.”

Before Kaspar could answer, the man had vanished amongst the crowd. The soldier rubbed his eyes, and fancied himself dreaming. He was now placed at the bar; all eyes glared malevolently on him; silence was proclaimed; and the case was opened. The host showed the place where an ear had once been; told a moving tale of the kindness himself and wife had shown to the soldier; enlarged on the villainy of Kaspar’s trumped-up tale of the money in the boot and his shameless trick at extortion; foiled of swindling his benefactor, he had then attempted to murder him. The hostess confirmed the tale; the witnesses proved the violence of the blood-thirsty soldier; the halberdiers deposed as to his armed resistance of justice; and the magistrate, shaking his head, and groaning ominously, asked Kaspar Karnerach what he had to say why sentence of death should not be passed against him.

Poor Kaspar gasped, and looked round; and, involuntarily, and as if the speech were not his own, mumbled out that he would leave his defence in the hands of his counsel “And here I am!” cried a shrill voice; and a personage not hitherto perceived, but robed in the official gown of a counsellor of the High Court of the Marquisate of Brandebourg, bustled up to the table.

At the sight of this unexpected assistance, the host’s face fell, and the judge looked confused; for the counsellors of the High Court were very formidable gentry in that little town; and a man who could command the services of one of that learned and important fraternity was not to be put to death quite so easily as our host had reckoned upon. Meanwhile the lawyer began with exceeding volubility. He sketched a short outline of Kaspar’s birth, services, and career; and, to Karnerach’s great astonishment, this was done with the most accurate fidelity, except that only all the good was told, and all the bad was omitted. Those peccadilloes, the review of which had so dismayed the soldier in his dungeon, were carefully suppressed, and in their stead appeared actions of valour and devotion — charity and goodness. The poor soldier could have wept to hear himself so touchingly described. The lawyer’s eloquence began wonderfully to move and interest the audience, against their will.

And when the lawyer diverged to narrate how he, Kaspar Karnerach, had once saved the life of the Marquis of Brandebourg himself, the loyalty of the court could scarcely be restrained from acclamations of applause. The lawyer proceeded to explain exactly how the soldier had acquired his crown pieces; how he had carefully saved them; how he had refrained from wassail and gaming, and turned miser, for the sake of his child; how he had counted on the portion to his little Bettine — a portion won by bold deeds and honourable wounds; how he had retired from service with a eulogy from his captain at the head of his troops; how all his old comrades thronged round him to bid “farewell and God speed him;” how he had sewn up his gains in his boot; how he had been taken ill on the road; how he had reached the inn; and how he had entrusted his treasure to the care of his hostess. “And as for you, poor woman,” exclaimed the advocate, abruptly, turning to the landlady—” as for you — why should I blame you? — women are but the tools of their husbands, and you are punished enough. Ah! little thought you that one of those gold crowns was this very morning given to Gretchen, your maid, for a kiss behind the door, while you were lacing your boddice.”

“Thou villain!” exclaimed the hostess, shaking her fist at her husband, who stood open-mouthed and aghast.

“Ay!” continued the lawyer, “nor did you dream that that precious spouse of your own promised Gretchen to run away from you, and live with her as his wife; — supporting the hussy on those very gold crowns for which you perilled your life and lost your honesty! Come, now, would you do it again, my good frau?”

“No, and in troth!” cried the hostess, rushing to her husband. “And is this my return, you good-for-nothing perjured deceiver!”

“Such a fine woman as you, too!” sighed the lawyer; “and such a minx for your rival! Well, at least you see that stolen goods do not prosper!”

“But I will have my revenge!” cried the hostess, reading her husband’s guilt in his face. “And if I did take the poor soldier’s money, you know it was because you commanded me, vile slave that I was!”

“Hush! hush!” groaned the host.

“You hear her?” said the lawyer, triumphantly. “But one is as good as the other — courage, mine host! If you meant to run away with your Gretchen, your wife had promised little Herman, the barber, to rob you, next Thursday, and set off with him to open a shop at Cologne!”

“Ah, wretch,” cried the host, enraged in his turn, “ I suspected as much; and that’s the reason” — he stopped short.

“That’s the reason you sewed the rix-dollars and gold crowns up in your doublet! see” — and before the host was aware, the lawyer had stepped up to him, and with a touch of a knife he drew forth, unripped the doublet, and the coins came clattering down on the ground!

No words can describe the excitement that ensued at this exposure. But the judge, alone retaining his presence of mind, and anxious yet to bring off his brother, cried “Silence!” and as soon as the hubbub subsided—” Worthy counsellor,” said he, “it is not on mere appearances that we can judge a worthy man like the plaintiff, whom you have contrived so strangely to turn into defendant If it be true, as you state, that this bad woman wanted to elope from her husband, and from motives of jealousy or revenge to ruin him, how do we know but what all this has been a trick between you both — how else could you have arrived at the knowledge of things done between the closed doors of men’s homes? Doubtless the woman took the money herself, and sewed it up in the doublet unknown to her husband. Is it not so, my brother?”

“Ah, ah, — ho, ho,” stud the lawyer, “let your brother speak for himself;” and as he said this, the lawyer threw back his gown, — his form seemed to dilate — taller and taller, larger and larger he grew, as he stood close by the landlord.

“Well then,” cried the host, plucking up courage, and hoping still by the judge’s connivance to be brought out from the perilous dilemma into which he had fallen, “well then, devil fly away with me, if I know how the crowns got into the doublet!”

“That is all that I wanted and waited for!” cried the lawyer, “miss here — hit there;” and he pounced on the host like a hawk on a sparrow. Up flew the roof of the court — sky and cloud peered within — and high into air, out of sight, flew the fiend and his victim.

Such is the true history of Kaspar Kamerach, his host, and his boot, as it is told in the 4th book De Prœstigiis Dœmonum, c. 20, and corroborated by the illustrious and unimpeachable testimony of Paul Ritzen, 6th sect de ses morales, conveying the notable and comfortable truth, “that the devil himself can be a friend at a pinch, provided your soul is your own and your case is a good one.”

As for little Bettine, her descendants still live at Heilbronn, and you may see in their possession the identical boot so celebrated in the ancient records of the Marquisate of Brandebourg. The crowns, to be sure, are all gone. Their loss is easily accounted for, since the good success of Kaspar’s trial had given the family a taste for litigation; and somehow or other they never found a lawyer who let them off as cheap as the devil!