"When I see a knife jump up from the table by itself without anyone near
and deliberately fix itself in the panel of the door before my very
eyes; when I see a bottle of spirit overturned and broken in pieces, and
then a candle after that knocked over as if on purpose to ignite the
spirit, and withal no way of accounting for such a phenomenon; moreover,
when I see plates and dishes hurled from one end of the room to the
other, and apparently aimed at people's heads, and yet the perpetrator
of such pranks has the power of making himself invisible to the naked
eye, then, I say, this is not through human agency, but something
superhuman, and as it is not exactly an angelic mode of proceeding, it
must be the reverse." My ancestor shuddered, and crossed himself. The manifestations, however,
had ceased for the night, and in five minutes our weary traveller was
fast asleep. His dreams that night were not of the pleasantest. He imagined that he
mounted the scaffold with a crowd of eager eyes gazing at him, amongst
whom were his friends and travelling companions. His host, the
Scharfrichter, stood brandishing his terrible two-handed sword, and in
another moment his head would have been off, but at the critical time
the dream changed, and he was being pelted with crockery in the midst of
a cemetery at night by innumerable sheeted "poltergeister." These and such-like visions were flitting before his brain, when a loud
thump at the door brought him back to earth again. There was the
Scharfrichter before him, not in dressing gown and slippers, as on the
previous evening, but attired in doublet and hose of a blood red, a
black _barello_ with scarlet cock's feather. "Now then, mein Herr," said the headsman, taking down his fearful
instrument from the wall, "time's up." My ancestor, only just awake, rubbed his eyes and imagined that he was
really and truly called away to execution, and that his last hour had
come. The executioner, seeing that he hesitated, added: "If you want to
witness the cunning of my hand, now's your time." My relation gave a sigh of relief when he began to recollect that his
own head was quite safe, and that he was only called to witness the
execution of another man. "But I can't go; I have sprained my ankle," pleaded the Englishman. "Oh, I don't intend to walk myself," replied the executioner. "I have my
horse and cart ready, and can give you a lift." "Oh, if that's the case," said the student, "I shall be glad to go, as I
wish to meet my friends in the township." "Come on, then," and the headsman assisted the Englishman into the cart. As they were about starting, a little red-haired ruffian of about ten,
stout and well-built, and bearing a striking likeness to our host,
appeared on the threshold. "Papa, you'll bring me home a football, won't you?" said the youth. "Ay, my boy, that will I, a good sized one," answered his father. "That's your son?" asked the student of his host. "Ah, a fine little
fellow. Here, my little man," said he to the child, and slipping a small
coin into his little fat fist, he patted him on the cheek and stepped
into the cart. "Ah, he's a fine boy," said our host with a paternal pride, as he
whipped on his horse. "There is nothing of the milksop about him. _He's_
not afraid of the devil himself." "You do well to be proud of him. I'll warrant you buy him many a pretty
toy," observed the Englishman. "Buy him toys!" exclaimed the headsman, laughing. "As long as I bring
him home a football now and then, he is quite content." And he laughed
again. "Well, that is a toy, isn't it?" said the student, not as yet
comprehending the headsman's meaning. "Yes, a toy that costs me nothing, and gives him no end of amusement. You should see how he kicks the heads about that I bring him home. It's
quite a pleasure to see the youngster enjoy himself in his innocent
way." "You do not mean to say," said the Englishman, in horror, "that the
football you promised him is to be _a human head_!" "Aye, to be sure," replied the Scharfrichter. "What else should it be? What kicks he'll give it to be sure! Ha! ha! ha! that's the way to bring
up boys; makes them hardy. _He's_ not afraid of a little blood. Talk of
his not taking a liking to my business! Why he's always saying to me,
'Papa, when I am big enough to wield your sword, you'll let me cut off
heads, won't you?' "'Yes, my boy, that you shall,' say I, for I like to give him
encouragement. That's what I call bringing up boys well. I wouldn't
give a fig for one of your milksops that scream or faint at the sight of
blood, not I." "Humph," muttered my ancestor, and he remained silent for some minutes,
absorbed in meditation. The headsman whipped on his horse in silence; at length he said to his
guest: "Here we are at last. Look at yon crowd waiting to receive us." My relative lifted his head, and sure enough there was the mound of
earth erected for the criminal already surrounded by soldiers, close to
which thronged the crowd. All the inhabitants of ----dorf were astir,
and in the crowd our Englishman now recognised his fellow students. A
cry of "_Der Henker! der Henker!_"[3] arose on all sides. Room was at
once made for the headsman and his companion, and Fritz's fellow
students, seeing their friend arrive in a Henker's cart, pushed their
way through the crowd to ask him all sorts of questions. Fritz descended with difficulty after paying his host for his board and
lodging, and joined his companions. In a few minutes more the criminal's
cart arrived with the "_armer Sünder_," or poor sinner, accompanied by
two priests. Loud execrations broke from the mob, amidst which the
wretched being descended from the cart and mounted the scaffold. A dead
silence reigned around. One of the priests whispered something
earnestly in the ear of the condemned, who was as pale as death, and he
took his seat on the chair prepared for him, while an expression of
savage delight appeared on the countenance of the headsman. He felt all eyes were upon him. The terrible two-handed weapon was
raised aloft, and brandished over the Henker's head. One blow and the
head of the unhappy wretch was severed from his body. Loud cheering rent
the air as the Scharfrichter, holding the head of the criminal by the
hair, presented it to the public gaze. But at this moment a most
unexpected and revolting scene ensued. Several persons from among the crowd rushed forward toward the scaffold
with mugs, which they filled at the fresh fountain of blood spurting up
from the severed neck of the criminal and drank off at a draught. My ancestor sickened at so disgusting a spectacle, and demanded the
reason of some bystander. He was informed that those persons believed
human blood fresh from the neck of a beheaded criminal to be an
infallible remedy for epileptic fits. The superstition exists to this
day. Violent exercise after the draught, he was informed, was considered
necessary, in order to effect a cure.