There were only a few hairs left on the back of her head; the rest of her
skull was as bare of covering as an egg. A threadbare ragged linen gown
covered her poor skeleton figure. She was sightless, and the expression
of her face was one of constant reverie.
Christian, noticing my uncle's inquiring look, turned his head and said
quietly--
"It's old Irmengarde, the old teller of legends. She is waiting to die
till the old tower falls into the torrent."
Uncle Bernard, stupefied, looked at the woodman; he did not seem inclined
to joke; on the contrary, he looked serious.
"Come, Christian," said the good man, "you mean to have your joke."
"Joke! no indeed, old and feeble as you see her, that old woman knows
everything; the spirit of the ruins is in her. She was living when the
old lords of the castle lived."
Now my old uncle was very nearly falling backwards at this astounding
disclosure.
"But what do you mean?" he cried; "the castle of Nideck has been down
these thousand years!"
"What if it was two thousand years?" said the woodman, making the sign of
the cross as a new flash lighted up the valley; "what does that prove?
The spirit of the ruins lives in her.
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