In a word,
precisely at half-past eleven, the student Anselmus, in his pike-gray
frock, and black satin lower habiliments, with a roll of calligraphics
and pen-drawings in his pocket, was standing in the Schlossgasse, in
Conradi's shop, and drinking one--two glasses of the best stomachic
liqueur; for here, thought he, slapping on the still empty pocket, for
here speziesthalers will be clinking soon.
Notwithstanding the distance of the solitary street where the
Archivarius Lindhorst's very ancient residence lay, the student
Anselmus was at the front door before the stroke of twelve. He stood
here, and was looking at the large fine bronze knocker; but now when,
as the last stroke tingled through the air with loud clang from the
steeple-clock of the Kreuzkirche, he lifted his hand to grasp this
same knocker, the metal visage twisted itself, with horrid rolling
of its blue-gleaming eyes, into a grinning smile. Alas, it was the
Apple-woman of the Black Gate! The pointed teeth gnashed together in
the loose jaws, and in their chattering through the skinny lips
there was a growl of: "Thou fool, fool, fool!--Wait, wait!--Why
didst run!--Fool!" Horror-struck, the student Anselmus flew back;
he clutched at the door-post, but his hand caught the bell-rope and
pulled it, and in piercing discords it rung stronger and stronger, and
through the whole empty house the echo repeated, as in mockery: "To
the crystal fall!" An unearthly terror seized the student Anselmus,
and quivered through all his limbs.
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