The Saint of the Dragon’s Dale by William Stearns Davis

The glimpse of the Wartburg cheered Johann. Man was there—and what was a “robber-knight” beside a redoubtable pixie? Likewise, what likelier place for pixies than those glades just before? Johann had not forgotten the wise tales of old grandame Elsa; and there it was,—the stone cross, where forty years ago the griping burgomaster Gottfried had been found lying stiff and cold, with purse untouched, and never a scar, save a little one behind his ear. “He had gone to meet the Devil, and the Devil had stolen his soul;” so said Father Georg in church. It was heresy to doubt it.