should always fear the fiend would, at some time or other, conduct the ball to his own mark instead of to mine.”
Night drew round them with the conclusion of the forester’s story. He went to his quiet bed, but William remained in restless agony. It was in vain that he attempted to compose himself. Sleep fled entirely from his spirit. Strange objects flitted past him, and hovered like dark omens over his pillow. The strange soldier of the forest, Schmid, Catherine, the duke’s commissary, all rushed before his eyes, and his fevered imagination converted them into the most dreadful groups. Now, the miserable Schmid stood warningly before him, and hollowly pointed to his newly bleeding wounds; then the dark distorted face faded to the pallid features of Catherine wrestling with the strength of death; while the wild soldier of the forest stood mocking his agony with a hellish laugh of scorn. The scene then changed to his mind, and he stood in the forest before the commissary, preparing for the master-shot. He aimed—fired—missed. Catherine sunk down on the earth. Bertram drove him away; while the one-legged soldier, now again a friend, brought him fresh balls; but too late—the trial was over, and he was lost.
