spent in subjecting the ghastly heap to a thorough but fruitless
search: not a trace of any kind rewarded their trouble. Only one
conclusion stared Schwabe and Coudray in the face--their quest was
in vain: the remains of Schiller must be left to oblivion. Again
the Gewolbe was closed, and those who had disturbed its quiet
returned disappointed to their homes. Yet, that very afternoon,
Schwabe went back once more in company with the joiner who twenty
years before had made the coffin: there was a chance that he might
recognise one of those which they had not ventured to raise. But
this glimmer of hope faded like all the rest. The man remembered
very well what sort of coffin he had made for the Hofrath von
Schiller, and he certainly saw nothing like it here. It had been of
the plainest sort, he believed without even a plate; and in such
damp as this it could have lasted but a few years.

"The fame of this second expedition got abroad like that of the
first, and the comments of the public were louder than before.
Invectives of no measured sort fell on the mayor in torrents. Not
only did society in general take offence, but a variety of persons
in authority, particularly ecclesiastical dignitaries, began to talk
of interfering. Schwabe was haunted by the idea of the 'clearing
out,' which was now close at hand. That dismal hole in the corner
of the churchyard once closed and the turf laid down, the dust of
Schiller would be lost for ever. He determined to proceed. His
position of Burgermeister put the means in his power, and this time
he was resolved to keep his secret. To find the skull was now his
utmost hope, but for that he would make a final struggle. The keys
were still in the hands of Bielke the sexton, who, of course, was
under his control. He sent for him, bound him over to silence, and
ordered him to be at the churchyard at midnight on the 19th of