“The second of these legends,” remarked Edgar, “is more complete than the first, in which the blood is turned to no account.”
“I may add,” said Maximilian, “that balls anointed in the manner just described are, in popular language, termed ‘Blutkugeln,’ or ‘Blood-bullets.’ It is believed that if one of these is, without aim, fired into a forest where there is only a single deer, the animal will be hit, though perhaps its body may never be found. If there be no deer whatever in the forest, the bullet will strike the hunter.”
“Is not this something like an adumbration of our poor seventh bullet, that we have treated so disdainfully?” suggested Laurence. “In both cases the ball operates to the detriment of him who uses it.”
“True; but the similarity goes a very little way,” returned Maximilian. “In my Wirtemberg legend there is no notice that any one bullet is distinct from the others.”
“And, after all, if we look closely at the opera,” pursued Laurence, “I don’t think we shall find that distinction there that we have hastily assumed. If I understand Kind’s libretto right, the fatal bullet is the seventh which is fired, not the seventh which has been cast. Before they are used the bullets are all alike, and it is only the order of their use that gives one of them a distinctive character. So, in the case of your Wirtemberg forest, the charmed bullet that hit the hunter is not intrinsically more mischievous than any of the others. Now, it seems to me that, between a bullet which does mischief because it is fired in accordance with a certain prescribed order, and a bullet which works evil, but even without certain prescribed conditions being observed, the analogy is not so very remote.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Edgar.
“I must confess,” observed Maximilian, smiling, “that Laurence has fought well for his client. Now, here is a legend, which I do not precisely understand. At Lerbuch, in the Harz Mountains, there was a noted marksman, who, when a shooting-match was held, always aimed last, and carried off the prize. On one occasion he suspected that some trick would be played upon him, and warned the company that in that case mischief would probably ensue. When he had pointed his gun three targets were before his eyes instead of one; so, not knowing at which he should aim, he fired at random, whereupon the man who had caused the illusion, and who was standing behind him, fell down, shot through the heart.”
“Here, indeed, we go out of the beaten track,” said Edgar. “Was one conjuror opposed to another, and did the owner of a magic bullet get the better of the contriver of a magic target?”
“Perhaps so,” replied Maximilian, “or perhaps we are to believe that honest merit prevailed against the black art. Here, however, is a trial of skill of the kind to which you refer. A nobleman in the neighbourhood of Münster owned extensive forests, and one day the forester who superintended them was found dead, evidently killed by a bullet that had entered the middle of his forehead. Another, who was engaged to fill his place, came to the same untimely end, so did a third, so did a fourth, until no one cared to accept so dangerous a situation, and the forest was left unguarded. At last a fierce-looking fellow presented himself as a candidate for the vacancy, and was gladly accepted by the nobleman, who was, however, honest enough to warn him of the danger to which he would be exposed. The stranger laughed at the very notion of fear, vowing that he knew forest tricks as well as any one in the world, and that those who tried to play them upon him would certainly meet their match. On the following day he entered the forest accompanied by several hunters; but no sooner had he set his foot within its precincts than the report of a gun was heard in the distance. The forester, on the alert, flung his hat into the air, and when this fell down it had been pierced by a bullet, just where it would have touched the middle of the wearer’s forehead. Swearing that he would return the compliment, the forester now fired apparently at random, and then plunged into the wood followed by his companions, who were anxious to see the result of such an extraordinary proceeding. When they had gone completely through the forest, they came to a mill, and there they found the miller dead, shot through the middle of the forehead. He had been himself a ‘free-shooter,’ and had used his art in order to poach at pleasure without interference, but the new forester had been too much for him. Indeed, of all the ‘free-shooters’ on record, this seems to have been the most skilful. It is said that he could charm birds into his bag, and by a strange fascination cause deer to stand still where they could most conveniently be shot.”
“I should have thought that to him all places were alike,” remarked Edgar. “He must have been a valuable servant.”
