Wanderer had witnessed the destruction of his
family with his own eyes, this last assertion
considerably weakened his confidence in the old
man's veracity, so he joined his wife and
comrades, who had again halted, as before, and with
a like result, for the same man killed him for a
third time, with the same spear.

The old gentleman, whose patience was nearly
exhausted, again revived the corpse with the
iron staff, but took occasion to observe that he
did not intend to repeat the operation. The
Wanderer had now become a little—very little—
wiser by experience. As the murderer had
always artfully persuaded him to look another
way while the mortal wound was inflicted, he
had never been properly aware of his own death,
but had regarded his one-eyed benefactor as
one of the images in a strange dream.
However, a man is not to be killed three times for
nothing, so when he again joined the camp,
strong in the suspicion that he would meet with
foul play, he resolved to strike the first blow.
Instead of entering his tent as before, he took
all the bows and arrows out of the sledges while
his comrades were sleeping, and then hewed
down the tents with his wife's iron shovel. The
sleepers, thus violently awakened, rushed from
the tents, and, being deprived of their weapons,
were easily despatched. Our hero had
intentionally spared none but his wife's nearest
relations, but when he surveyed the corpses, he was
grievously disappointed at the discovery that
the miscreant, who had slain him three times
over, was not among them. The persevering
villain had escaped. Still there were traces of
his feet upon the snow, and these the vengeful
shovel-bearer followed, till at length he overtook
the treble assassin. Frightful and long
was the single combat that ensued. It lasted
through the whole winter, and just as summer
set in, both combatants dropped down dead,
affording a savoury repast to the wolves and
foxes, who soon reduced them to a heap of
fleshless bones.

The one-eyed old gentleman, resolved that the
story should not end here, paid a visit to the
bones about the beginning of the autumn, and
collected those of the Wanderer into a bag,
grumbling very much that his good advice had
not been followed, and informing his piecemeal
protégé that this was the last last time he meant
to serve him. He would give the Wanderer one
more trial, and now, he trusted, the wilful youth
would go home, schooled as he had been by such
very bitter experience.

With the bag on his back, the one-eyed old
gentleman crept into a hollow, after rolling aside
a stone that stopped the entrance, and found
himself in a dark, dismal place, in which there
was all manner of disorderly whistling and singing,
while sundry hands sought to make a capture
of the bag. When the old man's eye grew
a little more accustomed to the situation, he
could perceive by the light that issued from the
other end of the room that the snatchers and
whistlers were all fleshless skeletons; but as this
was a matter of trifling moment, he walked up
towards the light, and found a tent, within
which a fire was burning, while an old crone,
whose large eyes were placed vertically in her
head, sat on the hearth with two unwieldy
monsters for companions.

"Here's some firewood for ye," growled the
one-eyed old man, pitching his bag at the old
woman.

"Thank ye! We were sadly out of it," replied
the crone, and threw the bones on the fire,
which speedily converted them to ashes. On
these the old woman slept for three whole days,
at the end of which they produced a human
form—namely, that of our friend the Wanderer,
who could not make out where he was, and felt
particularly awed by the aspect of the two
monsters. These, the old lady informed him,
had been very estimable persons in their time,
but were now converted to stone; and she gave
him to understand that if he did not take her for
a wife he would be petrified likewise. Honestly
avowing that he was married already, the Wanderer
complied with her request, and the old dame,
not to be behindhand in generosity, promised to
drive him home. So, after a short honeymoon
of three days, the reindeer were put to the
lady's sledge, and bride and bridegroom rode
merrily towards the mouth of the hollow,
pursued all the way by the mob of skeletons, who
tried to wound the stranger with their spears,
but were rendered powerless by the counter
charm of the reindeer. The stone at the mouth
of the hollow was so weighty that the Wanderer
could not restore it to its place, but this operation
was gracefully performed by the old woman
with a kick; and a little more journeying brought
the loving couple to a tent, where they found
the first wife and both her parents. These
jumped into the sledge, which now proceeded
with all speed to the Wanderer's first home—
the old place with the seven hundred tents, in
which everybody had been murdered when he
was a little sleepy boy.

There were the dear old tents all erect again,
not one of the seven hundred missing; there
were the people, and their deer, and their dogs,
just as if nothing had happened, and the Wanderer
had a right to expect a little repose after his
toilsome vicissitudes. There, too, was that good
creature, the little old man with one eye, and,
sad to say, behind the old man was the hateful
villain who had so many times caused our
hero's death. Of course, two such inveterate
foes could not meet without fighting, and though
the Wanderer soon despatched his adversary,
his victory was immediately followed by insanity,
and he killed his one-eyed benefactor into the
bargain. Off like a whiff of smoke went the
beautiful vision of domestic felicity. The
existence of the people in the tents was manifestly
contingent on the life of the old man, for
when the Wanderer approached his boyhood's
home, he found all dead, and his two wives
instantly died likewise, leaving him in a state of
hopeless solitude. Thus the story leaves off, as
it began, with a heap of corpses, and, what is
the strangest part ot the matter, most of the