In the forest of Kaysersberg, a good hour beyond the little town, there lies an open clearing where, often in the evening, one may see a fiery circle made of nothing but burning treasures.
A white-clad boy walks around it and guards it. If one approaches him, he lets out a shrill, whistling sound that makes one’s hair stand on end, and then everything suddenly vanishes.
But on that spot there then remains a great many horses’ hooves and cows’ feet.


