ascends to a considerable height. The
image is placed over the oldest fountain in
the town. Nor does the honour paid to
the Moor stop here. His bandaged head
and three towers appear on the city
escutcheon. The statue and the arms are
monuments of an event said to have occurred
in the time of the Crusades. An ancient
Count of Eisenberg, it seems, returned
from Palestine to his ancestral castle,
bringing home with him a Moorish servant.
The Moors generally bore, in those days,
an excellent character for fidelity, and an
advertisement for a servant, declaring that
no Moor need apply, would have ill
represented the feeling of the age. For some
time the count's Moor was considered quite
up to the mark, till one unlucky day, when
the count's lady missed a valuable gold
chain. All search proving fruitless, people
began to put this and that together, and
it was ascertained that on the day in
question the Moor was the only servant
who had entered the countess's room. The
law that prevailed in Eisenberg was
exceedingly summary, and quite as regardless
of life as the English criminal code at the
beginning of this century. Consequently,
in spite of entreaties and protestations of
innocence, the Moor, one fine morning,
was tried and convicted, and sentenced to
lose his head on the afternoon of the same
day.

Doubtless, capital punishment was
frequently inflicted in Eisenberg. Still, one
could not very often see a black man
beheaded, so the worthy citizens, promising
themselves a pleasant and exciting
half-holiday, assembled in great force at the
place of execution. The countess, on the
other hand, felt very unhappy, and shut
herself up in her own room to indulge in
melancholy meditation. The evidence that
had convinced others of the Moor's guilt
was by no means satisfactory to her, and
dismal images passed before her mind.
The figure of the wretched creature
imploring mercy was deeply impressed on
her memory, and imagination presented to
her all the details of the approaching
execution. Needing spiritual consolation, she
rushed with eagerness to her heavy prayer-book
which lay on a stool by the window,
flung herself on her knees, opened the
clasps with which the book was fastened,
and turned over the leaves to find the
prayer best suited to her mental condition.
While thus piously occupied she heard a
chinking sound, and presently the lost
chain fell from between the leaves to the
ground. There could be no doubt that
when she had last performed her devotions
the chain, unperceived, had slipped from her
neck into the book, and had been unwittingly
shut in by her own hand. No time
was now to be lost. The remorse
consequent upon the shedding of innocent
blood was to be avoided at any cost. In
the greatest agony, the countess summoned
to her presence the few servants who
remained in the castle, and offered a large
sum to him who reached the place of
execution before it was too late.

In about twenty minutes—and very long
minutes they seemed to the countess—one
of the servants was in sight, joyously
waving a white handkerchief. It had been
what vulgar mortals call a "close shave."
The servant had found the Moor on his
knees just ready to receive the fatal blow,
but his voice had stopped the arm of the
executioner. In due time the count, who
took things more easily, also made his
appearance, bringing back the Moor in a
triumphant procession.

For the annoyance he had undergone
the Moor was richly repaid. Not only did
he receive his liberty and a handsome
pecuniary compensation, but the count
placed the effigy of his bandaged head on
his coat-of-arms, whence it passed into the
escutcheon of the city. The honour paid
him by the body of the citizens did not
come until centuries afterwards. The
statue on the frontier was the result of the
happy thought of comparatively modern
patriots, and does not date further back
than 1727.

The name of Duke Christian of Eisenberg,
who flourished in the latter half of
the seventeenth century, is still held in
affectionate remembrance as that of an
excellent man and an egregious dupe. He
was the fifth son of Duke Ernest the Pious,
who ruled the whole duchy of Altenburg,
and afterwards divided it among his male
offspring, seven in number. The bit
containing Eisenberg was consigned to Christian.
He was an accomplished gentleman,
travelled through several countries with his
consort, and, when he was at home, resided
in a castle which still bears the name,
Christianburg. Moreover, he was very
magnificent in his tastes, and as his magnificence
caused his expenditure to exceed his
revenue, he plunged into alchemy—a
science in which he had dabbled a little
while a student at the university.

Now, we have no objection to an innocent
belief in ghosts—nay, we are disposed to