The magic ring, Vol. 2 (of 3)

The door at last opened, and bending his head, on account of his gigantic stature, a champion made his appearance, dressed in a golden suit of armour, with a helmet surmounted by two projecting vulture’s wings, also of gold. Sir Otto started involuntarily when he beheld them; he could not help reflecting on his combat with the skeleton in his father’s chapel. Behind the sea-monarch came also many strange figures; but so completely were the company engrossed by the king himself, that they bestowed on the others little or no attention. Arinbiorn stepped on towards the Knight of Montfaucon, (not forgetting to greet every lady courteously as he passed by,) took him kindly by the hand, and said, “How is this, cousin Folko? What means the intelligence that I have received? And is it possible to find such a favourite child of fortune thus wounded? That must indeed have been a powerful adversary with whom you have fared so hardly; but he no doubt is already dead; for, as to what has been told me of your being vanquished in the conflict, and of your having lost the ring to which you had so often maintained your sister’s rights, that in truth I must look upon as impossible!” “Nay, nay,” said Sir Folko, blushing and confused, “I have at last been over-matched in the lists, and the beautiful damsel whom you behold yonder now possesses the ring, this castle, and all its territories; so that I am here like yourself, as one of her guests.”

The sea-monarch bowed respectfully to Gabrielle; then begged that some one would point out to him the wonderful champion, who had not only resisted but overpowered the hitherto invincible Sir Folko. Thereupon, when the youthful blooming Otto von Trautwangen was introduced to him, he looked at the conqueror with such astonishment, that the latter began to feel offended, and was about to speak; but the brave Arinbiorn at length greeted him respectfully, and said,—“If there has been here neither stratagem, nor witchcraft,—and of your honour I cannot doubt,—then, good Heaven! what may not be looked for from one who, in earliest youth, has contended as you have done!” Again he bowed with courteous gravity; and Gabrielle, blushing with joy and triumph, laid her snow-white hand in that of Sir Otto, bent down her head, with its rich braided tresses, before him, and pronounced the solemn words, “I am the betrothed bride of the noble warrior, Sir Otto von Trautwangen!” Then the music sounded aloud; all the guests shouted and rejoiced; there was a jovial ringing of golden cups, and Otto, saluting his beautiful bride, saw, as it were, heaven itself, in the deep azure of her gleaming eyes.

“Take also my blessing, dearest Otto,” said a voice which arose mild and gentle as the notes of a flute behind him. “Heaven knows I am heartily glad to have found you so happy!” Looking round he beheld the well-known lovely features of his cousin Bertha, kind and cheerful in their expression, though pale indeed as the moonlight that wont to shine in the stilly chambers of the Lady Minnatrost. At some distance, however, like a dark thunder-cloud, appeared the frowning visage, furrowed by many a scar, of Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried. “So then all has been but a dream,” said Sir Otto, passing his hand across his eyes, as if to banish the painful visions that confused him, while Sir Heerdegen came forward and seemed about to speak. Bertha, however, placed herself between her cousin and his bride, joined their hands firmly together, and uttered her congratulations and wishes for their long life and happiness so eloquently, and in tones so musical, that she seemed almost like an angel sent from Heaven to bless their union. The dark clouds even vanished from the brow of Sir Heerdegen as he listened to her words; and king Arinbiorn said, “Truly I had taken this damsel and her brother prisoners, having honourably won them as the prize of a single combat on the coast of East Friesland, and I had designed that they should be brought home as trophies to my native land of Norway. There too I would have been to them as an elder brother, for so we have hitherto lived together. But now, methinks, in honour of this festival, I shall set them at liberty; for I know well that the young champion whom we are met to congratulate will rejoice therein.” The hall now resounded with new and yet louder acclamations. Gabrielle, who well remembered that eventful meeting with Bertha on the banks of the Danube, embraced her kindly, and kissed her pale cheeks, while Sir Heerdegen gave his hand to the Knight of Trautwangen in token of friendly reconciliation.

Now were the party again seated at the banquet, Bertha next to Gabrielle, Heerdegen to Sir Folko, Arinbiorn to Sir Otto, when the latter perceived, that, behind the sea-monarch’s chair, there stood a tall female figure, with luxuriant golden locks, and a long sword girded round her waist, beautiful indeed, but with a stern changeless aspect; and when the young knight started up, and offered her his place, she turned away as if in wrath, and in slow measured steps left the hall. “Nay, nay, think not of her;” said the sea-monarch, perceiving the astonishment of the guests; “be it known to you, however, it had been once intended in the north, that this warlike damsel should be my betrothed bride. Her name is Gerda, and she is far and wide renowned for her supernatural arts and resistless spells. Moreover, she is our relation. But from that marriage a visionary form withheld me,—a form so graceful, so peerless in beauty, that I had scarcely dared to hope I should ever behold it, after that first time in the magic mirror, and yet now it comes living and smiling before me!”

The sea-monarch faltered and paused, lost, as it seemed, in strange and mysterious recollections. It was a pleasure to mark how a deep blush, like that of a young damsel, came over his stern warlike features. After a space, however, he recovered his composure, and proceeded as follows:—

“Suffice it, noble damsels and knights, we were never betrothed; and Gerda said,—‘If I cannot be thy wedded wife, I shall yet be thy guardian Valkyria; I shall twine for thee the garland of victory, and hold to thy lips the cheering cup of refreshment.’ Since that hour, she follows wheresoever I wend my way, oftentimes preparing for me unexpected good fortune; also now and then she brews for my behoof that wonderful drink well known among the northern heroes; after partaking of which, we remain for a long time invincible, only not against enchanted weapons. Many times I have considered it inconsistent with the honour of a true knight to use such means of defence; and therefore she has more than once given it to me against my own will and without my knowledge.”

“The Chevalier de Montfaucon,” said Don Hernandez, “related to us, not long ago, a story regarding this magical drink.”

“If used in moderation,” said King Arinbiorn, “it may indeed produce admirable effects. But, on the contrary, if one drinks incautiously, such direful consequences ensue, that my soldiers are afraid both of it and of the mysterious damsel by whom it is prepared. Her intentions are good; but that her character is strange and inscrutable is also true. Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried had, in a manner best known to himself, made her acquaintance on the coast of East Friesland before he engaged with me in single combat.”

Now, while Sir Heerdegen, at the desire of all the party, described how he had seen Gerda employed in collecting leaves and flowers on the sea-shore, she had, unobserved, come back into the banquet-hall. Again she had taken her station behind Sir Arinbiorn, and had placed before him a large golden cup filled to the brim with liquor, though he himself never remarked that she had done so. Sir Otto, indeed, perceived that she was in the room, and again turned round, intending to offer her his place; but, discontentedly, she made him a sign that he should not move; then retired, as if fearful of being noticed, and continued to pace up and down, like one lost in thought, through the wide banquet-hall. Thereafter Otto lost sight of her, so much the more readily, as Heerdegen, in his story, began to speak of the Lady Minnatrost; whereupon the whole party were anxious to hear more of the wonderful Druda. Sir Otto could not join with them in asking questions; but his whole heart was engrossed by what he heard of the silent lady, with her mysterious castle, and the tranquil moonlight that ever gleamed around her. Meanwhile Bertha’s beautiful eyes shone full of tears.

At length, half jesting, half angry, Gabrielle whispered to her bridegroom, “How is this? Already on your bridal day so thoughtful and absent?” Sir Otto was about to excuse himself; but she continued, smiling, “Nay, nay, your thoughts are now far from hence, and are exclusively devoted, though how we know not. You are a German; yet for a long time the wine-cup has stood untouched before you. Have you once, during the banquet, drank to the health of Gabrielle?”

“My life, my happiness, my crown of victory!” cried Sir Otto, scarce knowing what he said; and, in the inspiration of the moment, he drank out the contents of the goblet which stood nearest him, not till afterwards perceiving that it was the golden cup of King Arinbiorn. Then some one touched him on the shoulder, and turning round, he perceived that it was Gerda, who, with threatening gestures, addressed to him some monitory words, of which he then understood not the import. Like a stream of liquid fire, the drink which he had swallowed now burned within him; at the same time he remarked, how Gerda had taken her place opposite to him in a corner of the hall. There she held the battle-axe of King Arinbiorn in her hands, while, by the motion of her lips, he could perceive that she was busily occupied in prayers or incantations. She made strange gestures too, as if she wrote upon or inscribed magic signs upon its iron head, though all the while her eyes were steadfastly fixed upon the Knight of Trautwangen. At last she came nearer, and placed the battle-axe by the sea-monarch’s chair; then stepped mournfully out of the hall.

Meanwhile the songs of the minstrels and discourse of the guests became always more lively round the banquet-table. All seemed happy and contented with one another; while the heroic ballads and legends, thrown in by the wise harpers and bards, were like flowers and blossoms of that joy which was implanted in every breast.

Meanwhile, Sir Otto’s feelings alone were discordant; and he, that should have been the gayest of the gay, was the only one of the party in whom the music that rose all around him awoke the most fierce and frightful emotions. Every word uttered by the minstrels excited him to wrath. Every shape around him was frightfully transformed; the very hall itself seemed changed; its roof contracted, and descended lower and lower, till he believed himself confined in a dreary chapel-vault. As he looked on Sir Arinbiorn, Sir Heerdegen, the Knight of Montfaucon, even on Bertha and his beloved Gabrielle, the features of all were horribly distorted. At last the vision of the narrow vault faded away, and he thought that he was gasping and swimming for life in the midst of a raging sea; that the waves were peopled by monstrous fishes, with human heads, which opened their vast jaws to swallow him alive. Especially there was among them one far more hideous than the rest, which had on his head a pair of great vulture’s wings, and in his teeth carried a death’s-head, whereon the scars of many sword-strokes were visible. “He has brought it from my father’s chapel!” thought Sir Otto; and then he recollected himself, and became convinced that the only one near him, who wore such vulture’s wings, was the brave King Arinbiorn, who sat with him in friendship and peace at the banquet. Soon after, however, he again thought that the sea-monarch might indeed prove as frightful an enemy as the spectre-fish which threatened him; and he remembered all the strange stories of ghosts and demons, and shadowy phantoms, by which Sir Heerdegen had told him the Finland frontiers were haunted. He could scarcely resist the growing delusions of his brain, nor the frightful impulse to deeds of violence and wrath, which swelled through every nerve and fibre.

Suddenly he started up from table; his eyes glared horribly; his voice resounded through the hall like a thunderclap; right and left, all the guests started up in affright. He stood alone in the midst of them, wielding his drawn sword, which played like lightning-gleams round his head. “Holla, holla!” cried he; “where is the devil that would beset us? Holla, huzza! I challenge him to single combat. I shall meet him with giant-strength!”

“Heaven have mercy! he is possessed; the devil of whom he speaks has him under his power!” Such were the words that ran whispering along the walls, to which the whole party had fled, that they might be out of his reach. “For the second time,” said the brave Chevalier de Montfaucon, “I would gladly venture with him in combat!” With these words, he tried to rise from his couch; but the exertion only made his wounds bleed afresh; so that he fell back, almost fainting, and, attended by the trembling Blanchefleur, was borne out of the hall.

Immediately afterwards, the Spaniard Hernandez, and three noble Frenchmen, stepped forward, in order to seize on the frightful madman. With one blow, however, from his left arm, he swept them all back against the wall, then laughed aloud, and stationed himself in such manner at the portal, that no one could venture out of the apartment. “Throw spears, knives, and daggers at him!” was now cried from all sides; nor were Bertha’s gentle entreaties to spare him yet a while heard amid the confusion. The knives and spears were thrown; they struck him; and though he wore no coat-of-mail, yet they fell to the floor without inflicting the slightest wound. “These devilish fish are spouting water against me,” said the madman, again laughing loudly and horribly. “The devil is indeed within him, and protects him,” was now whispered about; “he is at once his friend and his master!” “No, no!” said Bertha, “that may never be!” Her bright blue eyes gleamed full of love and confidence; and in a voice like divine music, she said,—“Otto, my dearest Otto, give me, in God’s name, your hand, and follow me in peace to your chamber!” She went up to him so cheerfully and lovingly, that every one believed her victory secure; but the tempest which raged within Sir Otto’s brain became only more furious and uncontrollable. “What would’st thou here, horrible pale-visaged witch?” cried he, in his voice of thunder. Therewith he struck the hand so kindly offered him with his sharp sword, and Bertha fell back fainting to her place. Sir Heerdegen supported her; and though his eyes glared in wrath at the madman, yet he dared not for the moment leave his pale wounded sister to wreak the vengeance which he would so gladly have fulfilled.

Then the sea-monarch, Arinbiorn, came forward. “Either shall this diabolical madman,” said he, “compensate for the blood that he has drawn from that beauteous damsel, or the last of mine shall be shed in her cause.” With these words, he placed himself before Sir Otto, and lifted his battle-axe. “Ha! thou art come again?” cried the madman: “Vulture’s wings! Death’s head! wilt thou have another blow from the Knight of Trautwangen? There, Satan, be then on thy guard!” “Thou art thyself the devil of whom thou speak’st,” cried the sea-monarch; and though Sir Otto’s sword moved incessantly over his head, yet the powerful battle-axe descended with resistless force, and the miserable knight fell without a word, and lay motionless on the ground.

It might be about noon on the following day, when Sir Otto again shewed some signs of reason and recollection; but he could not yet open his eyes, nor move his limbs. At first it seemed to him that he lay there dead, only that his soul was not yet disengaged from its earthly prison; and, as he thought of what had passed on the preceding day, he believed that the sea-monarch, Arinbiorn, had killed him with his enormous halbert. Yet ere long he knew that he must be still alive; that he was laid on a soft couch, and carefully tended; also that his wound would not prove deadly; for oftentimes he felt the touch of a soft hand on his head; and at such times a delightful coldness came over his brow, and he was almost free from pain. Yet he remained motionless, nor could lift up his eyes to know who were beside him.

At length he heard a voice, which he recognised to be that of Gabrielle. “Will he then yet live?” said she; and thereafter she was answered by one of the wise minstrels who had been at the banquet of the former day. “I can pledge my life, noble lady,” said he, “that all needful duties have here been fulfilled, so that he no longer requires our care. It is not by his wound that he is now held insensible; for the blow was broken partly by his own sword, and partly by the thick barret-cap on his head. It is but the fatigue after that frightful conflict, when he was possessed by the devil, and wholly given up to his infernal power, which thus weighs upon him.” With each of these last words it seemed as if a sharp dagger had been thrust into Sir Otto’s heart. The horrors of the preceding day were all renewed in his mind; and, from the weakness of his body, became the more insupportable. Yet sometimes a low suppressed voice of lamentation was heard near him, and he could distinguish the words, “Alas! poor Otto, poor lost deluded youth!” These accents were like balm to his wounded heart; but it seemed to him that they were but an echo from the far-distant and happy years of his childhood; that it was his mother who thus lamented; while, in the living world, there was no one that knew or loved him. Again he heard the voice of Gabrielle: “I have given back the ring,” said she, “to the Lady Blanchefleur de Montfaucon, who will keep it until another combat restores it to my possession. By means of this frightful slave of Satan, who now lies here, it were impossible to believe that I could be reinstated in my rights; and I must thank Heaven that the mask fell from his visage before I was united at the holy altar to such a wicked sorcerer.” “Ay, ay,” said a male voice; “we perceived that his victory was unfairly won; for otherwise, how would it have been possible for such a youth to have overcome the stern and hitherto invincible Sir Folko de Montfaucon?” “Alas! it is yet to be heavily deplored,” answered Gabrielle; “for he was so beautiful!—when one looked into his bright blue eyes, what damsel would not have intrusted herself and all the world to his disposal?” “Beware then lest you should still be in his power,” said a female voice; and at the same moment the door opened, and several squires came into the room, announcing that the horses were ready for departure. With a heavy sigh, the lady Gabrielle forced herself away, and withdrew, followed by all the rest. Otto still could not open his eyes, nor move a limb; but he heard plainly how all his happiness in love, and reputation as a knight, were thus taken from him. So he was left alone, melancholy and neglected.

Yet, no! He was not quite alone; for ever and anon he heard the same voice of lamentation, and he felt the same soft hand and cooling leaves applied to his burning wound. Many times, too, it seemed as if the same light hand coursed timidly over his cheeks.

Then suddenly the stern angry voice of Sir Heerdegen broke upon his ears; “Sister,” cried the knight, “wherefore should’st thou stay longer beside that servant of Satan? What if he should awake, and once more attack thee? Come then; the horses are waiting; all the other guests are long since departed, even Sir Folko de Montfaucon and the Lady Blanchefleur; so that the old fortress is now lonely and desolate.” Then, as Bertha began softly to utter complaints and entreaties for delay, he added, “Drive me not mad, I pray you! How many noble knights would gladly encounter death, if thy heart and hand were at stake! But this wretch, who lies here, could wound thy heart and hand too without remorse. I beg that you will not provoke me, or I might act in a manner unbecoming a true knight, and even wreak my vengeance on him who is now insensible.” Thereafter Sir Otto felt that his burning brows were again touched and cooled for the last time, and was aware that his cousin, Bertha, sobbing with irresistible grief, left the room with her brother. In a short time he heard the trampling of their horses at the gate as they left the castle.

Now, indeed, he was alone; and once more, as if in mercy, his senses were taken from him; so that he knew not where he was; and during many hours remained thus lost in delirium and forgetfulness.

Late in the evening he awoke for the second time. His limbs had now recovered their power; and, not without groaning heavily, he raised himself in bed, and beheld the last gleams of the setting sun falling through the painted window, and revealing his armour, which, in many pieces, lay strewed about the room. Painfully, and depressed in spirits, he turned from these remembrances of his short-lived good fortune, rose from his bed, and tottered towards the window. Thence he gazed over the rampart into the deep valley, and when, to enjoy the cool evening air, he opened the lattice, voices rose from the forest beneath; for a troop of warriors were just then passing on horseback, and they were singing the self-same ballads which he had before heard from Master Blondell, the royal minstrel. The same stanzas were chaunted in praise of the crusaders, and the knight could not refrain from exclaiming, “Good Heaven! if these men were but the soldiers of King Richard, and I could ride with them into the Holy Land!” Scarcely had he pronounced these words, when the warlike minstrels came into view from the forest. They were mounted on fine tall horses, and their armour was exactly like that worn formerly by the train of the royal favourite, Blondell. Otto wished to call to them, that they should wait, and he would ride with them on their pilgrimage; but they halted of their own accord, and began to speak with some squires and cavalrymen, who, as Sir Otto now perceived, were stationed along the ramparts of the castle. The travellers related how they belonged to the army of King Richard Cœur de Lion, and were of his train, though he himself had now ridden on far before them. Then they inquired, wherefore all was so silent and desolate around that fine and stately castle. “Yesterday morning,” said an old sentinel, “you would have found no cause to ask such a question; but now, indeed, there is no one above but a possessed knight, who has sold himself to the devil. Would to Heaven that we were free from such company!” Then he gave a frightful account of all that had past on the preceding day, which the rest who were present confirmed, speaking always louder than usual at the times which they bestowed most blame on the unfortunate Knight of Trautwangen. When at last they came to describe how the beautiful damsel, Bertha, was wounded, the English soldiers crossed themselves devoutly, saying, “God defend us from the sight of such a monster!” And in a little while they turned their horses’ heads, and, as if in terror, rode at a sharp trot away. “My doom is sealed, and my judgment spoken!” said Sir Otto, with the calm voice of settled despair; “I must only hasten to withdraw myself from the sight of all mortals. There may perchance be some cavern of the mountains to which I may retreat, where I may bury my armour, and for ever more remain in oblivion.”

Thereafter he began to collect his accoutrements, which lay scattered about the room, and among them found his good sword, which, by the stroke of the sea-monarch, Arinbiorn’s battle-axe, had been broken in twain. “My father little thought,” said he, “that his old companion would come to such an end!” Carefully, however, he took up the glittering pieces, and tied them into a bundle with his armour; loaded with which, he set out on his way. In the antechamber, he happened to pass by the same mirror, in which he had beheld his own image at the departure of Theobaldo on the preceding morning. “Now, indeed, there is a change,” said he, as he saw the spectral figure, pale and blood-stained, which the glass presented to him, arrayed too in the mockery of festal attire, all torn and disordered. In the stable, however, his light-brown steed was cheerful as before, and neighed aloud at the approach of his master. Sir Otto shook his head mournfully, and bade him be silent; for it was no longer a fitting time for mirthful greetings. Then he bound his armour fast to the saddle, and led his horse by the reins to the gate. No one offered to assist him; for every squire and sentinel looked on him with terror. He mounted, and in a short space was lost in the deep recesses of the wood.

In the hour of gladness and rejoicing, when all our wishes are fulfilled, and the sunbeams are brightest around us, then Heaven grant that we may not, like Sir Otto von Trautwangen, prove over confident or over merry!

Now, after a bitter cold winter, the spring had begun to look out again upon the Ardennes mountains, though the scenes were yet oftentimes darkened by rain-clouds, the north wind contended with the zephyr, and the streams were swollen with melting snows. There it befell once on a day, towards evening, that a knight mounted on a stately horse, and arrayed in bright golden armour, came from the heights of the wood-covered hills into a narrow valley, so lonely and silent, that it seemed hidden and closed up from all the world. The horseman had a great battle-axe hung by gold chains from his saddle, two golden vulture’s wings adorned his helmet; it was the sea-monarch, Arinbiorn.

He had not rode far into this sequestered vale, when, lo! there came out of the thickets a wild brown horse, which advanced at full speed, and making a furious attack on the sea-monarch’s tall charger, threw him down with violence ere the rider could quit his seat, so that both fell together; and the wild horse continued without mercy his warlike assault. Sir Arinbiorn’s golden armour was already shattered, and his charger bled from many severe wounds, when a powerful voice called aloud from a rocky cliff, “Ruhig, du Bursch!” whereupon the raging animal, bowing his head humbly towards the ground, stood motionless as a statue. The brave Sir Arinbiorn then disengaged himself from the stirrup, and raised up his wounded steed, in which work he was assisted by the stranger, whose voice had sounded from the cliffs. Looking on his companion, the knight perceived that he was a man clothed in rough bear-skins, frightful to behold, while his long hair and beard nearly concealed his features. His voice, however, sounded so mild and friendly, and his whole demeanour was so courteous, that the sea-monarch did not hesitate to accept his invitation, and accompany him to his dwelling, which was not far distant.

They came accordingly to a cave in the rocks, of which the entrance was sheltered and adorned by the projecting fantastic roots of old oak-trees. Deep in the abyss within, a warm fire was blazing, and as they approached nearer, the light fell on a complete suit of armour, which hung upright on a pole, so that the strange fashion of its ornaments was clearly revealed. They were of burnished silver, contrasting with black steel, and the helmet had a visor representing the hooked bill of an eagle. There was also a glittering sword, but in two pieces, tied together with rushes; and the whole stood there like a monumental trophy, such as one finds in old chapels over the grave of some renowned champion. Sir Arinbiorn thought at first, that there was indeed a warrior thus attired leaning against the wall; but soon after perceived that the head-piece was void; and yet he could not repress certain thoughts of ambuscade and stratagem, in consequence of which perhaps his own armour might ere long be hung up in the cave as this was now! So he grappled at the battle-axe, which he had disengaged from his saddle and brought with him into the cavern. Then said the wild man in the bear’s-skin, “Sir Knight, I pray you, take no care for your safety here. These are but my own weapons and coat-of-mail, or rather what were once mine; for now I shall never wear them more. I am in truth no assassin, nor would do wrong to any one over the wide world.” “Nay, I believe you thoroughly,” said the sea-monarch; “and my fears were indeed very foolish. For, if you had meditated any evil designs against me, wherefore would you have called off your wild angry horse; or wherefore would you have shewn such kindness to mine, laying medicinal herbs to his wounds, and leading him to a fold where the ground was covered with soft moss? For, surely, whoever takes such care for the horse, must also have kind intentions towards his rider. Will my courteous entertainer yet forgive me?” “Enough said,” answered the man in the bear-skin; “I forgive you willingly, as indeed I might, like a good Christian, say to all the world, though to me nothing has been forgiven.” At these words, his voice faultered, and he turned away more perchance that his guest might not then see that he wept, than to search out some store of food which was concealed under a covering of moss.

“So may Heaven protect me,” said the sea-monarch, “as I now firmly believe that you of all men are the knight of whom I am now riding in quest. I have been told of a black and silver coat-of-mail, and a visor like an eagle’s head, all such as I now see before me in that corner. Truly I have never yet beheld you in your coat-of-mail, but only in your festival-attire, with your green velvet barret and your embroidered doublet.”

“From the first moment, however, I had clearly recognised you,” said the man in the bear-skin. “Was it possible, indeed, that I should have forgotten the vulture’s wings, or your heavy battle-axe, of which you may yet perceive the wound by your arm inflicted?” With these words he parted his long disordered locks, so that the sea-monarch might behold a deep scar on his head. Then he resumed, “I had not thought it needful to tell you who I was; but from him who comes in quest of me I shall never conceal myself. What then is your pleasure, Sir King of the Sea? I am ready to meet you either here in peace, or on the battle-field in wrath.”

“You look at me, indeed, as if you were ready for another combat, young hero,” answered the sea-monarch; “but this is not my purpose; for Gerda has already confessed to me, that the drink which she had secretly prepared, was the cause of all the evils which befell you. Therefore I have enjoined her never more to come into my presence, nor to follow me as heretofore, by land or sea.”

“Thou should’st at least have doomed her to death,” cried Sir Otto vehemently, “lest, by her accursed witchcraft, some other unsuspecting mortal should be deluded and led astray as I have been! Could she not even then have afforded me some warning, after I had drank from that abominable cup, so that I might not trust to its illusions?”

“Nay, Sir Otto,” said the sea-king, “that was not within her power. Knowing the evils that were to come, she had been anxious for my safety. She had pronounced many powerful spells over the battle-axe which I yet wield, in order that, by their influence, I might be enabled to resist you in combat; and whosoever has in one day so often invoked the supernatural and invisible powers, falls for a space under their dominion, and must act according to their will. Moreover, after she had uttered those incantations, the spirits, who were then beside her, forced her away with them into the wild autumnal woods, where they howled like wolves and screamed like owls around her. Not till two days thereafter, when I was on the sea-shore, far from the castle of the Knight of Montfaucon, she came after me, and revealed the direful mysteries which I have now unfolded to you.”

“Ay, she revealed these mysteries,” said Sir Otto angrily; “but what avails this to me? My fair fame and my well-earned happiness are lost, and her confessions will not again restore them.”

“In what light then do you behold me?” answered the sea-monarch; “you might methinks have guessed without being told, that I dispersed immediately all my followers, in all directions, wherever any one was to be found who had been present at that banquet; and that I pledged my honour and sword thereon, that you were a noble Christian knight, pious and honourable, no less than brave; therefore, free from all the guilt of which you had been accused. Then, too, I rode myself back to the castle, in order to console you; and because I hoped still to find there the best of that illustrious party. You, however, had vanished utterly; also Gabrielle, Blanchefleur, and Folko. My former captives, Heerdegen and Bertha, were also far distant. All that I could do, therefore, was to make known the truth among the squires and sentinels, then to remount my horse, and follow the road which was pointed out to me, as that chosen by the last of the guests who had departed from the castle. On the way, I blew, at frequent intervals, my great hunting-horn, trusting that, if it were heard by Sir Heerdegen, he would attend to the signal; for in France such powerful notes are not usually heard. It befell, as I expected, that once on a time the blast came to his ears, and he said immediately, ‘There sounded the trumpet of the sea-monarch, Arinbiorn! Either he would warn us against some approaching evil, or would himself obtain assistance.’ So he and his sister halted. I overtook them, and related to him the whole truth.”

“How could it prove otherwise,” answered the sea-monarch, “since they never had cause to doubt my word? Besides, Sir Folko de Montfaucon and the Lady Blanchefleur had never believed that you were a wicked enchanter; and had it not been, that he was severely wounded, and the damsel half killed with terror, they never would have left the castle. Gabrielle (for she also was present) and Sir Heerdegen were bitterly ashamed of the part they had taken against you; and, as he is an honourable and brave knight, he resolved to leave his sister with Gabrielle, and bound himself by a solemn vow, that from henceforth he would never rest until he had found you, and seen you reinstated in all your former happiness. Sir Folko would have sworn the same oath, for his friendship is unabated; but he and Don Hernandez, as soon as they are cured of their wounds, must ride into Spain, and fight against the Moors; for to that purpose they were already bound. The three fair damsels all joined, to beg that I would swear as Sir Heerdegen had done; but as I had already resolved that my life should be devoted to your service, until I had found you, I told them that vows were needless. So through the long winter I have travelled unceasingly, from land to land, and at length, with the blessing of God, have been successful. To-morrow, methinks, you would do well to throw aside your present wild attire; and as soon as you are once more like other men, to ride straight from hence to your beautiful bride, who is now along with Blanchefleur and Bertha, at a castle in a blooming valley of Gascony. Meanwhile I shall go to my old kingdom of the sea, for which, to say the truth, I have heartily longed; and so is ended the story which I came to tell you.”

“But what then has become of the ring?” inquired Sir Otto; “for Gabrielle, as I know, had resolved to give it back to Sir Folko de Montfaucon.”

“That difficulty has also vanished,” said the sea-monarch; “I believe that Gabrielle has it again in her possession; at least there are no disputes among them, and they live all happily together. During the absence of the Chevalier de Montfaucon in Spain, the Lady Blanchefleur, as I have already said, lives at her friend’s pleasant castle in Gascony, where she can receive frequent intelligence of her brother’s exploits and victories; the rest you will ere long hear from themselves, especially from your bride.”

“No,” said Sir Otto, after a long pause, during which he seemed lost in mournful reflection; “I shall not so soon receive that intelligence from Gabrielle. You must know, Sir Arinbiorn, there is nothing in the wide world which is to me so intolerable as to be pitied; and should I go to them now, they would doubtless pity me for all that I have suffered. Therefore I shall never again come into their presence, until I can appear with a wreath of victory so bright and dazzling, that they shall not only pay to me the tribute of justice, but of admiration and wonder.”

“You are proud,” answered the sea-monarch; “but I should speak falsely if I said that I could blame you for this. Let me then make to you one proposal, Sir Knight of Trautwangen. The people of the Finland frontiers, and also many inhabitants of North Sweden, are still blind and obstinate Pagans and idolaters. I have promised my assistance to conquer and convert them; and in this undertaking you would meet with adventures as full of danger and renown as you can desire. Sir Heerdegen also, had he not been bound by his vows to search after you, was to have joined me there in summer. In that land we shall doubtless perform many glorious achievements for the honour of our holy faith, and many a trophy will be won. Thither then let us go together.”

Sir Otto sat for a space in silence; but, as he perceived that the sea-monarch looked at him doubtfully and with surprise, he blushed deeply, and said,—“You perhaps believe, Sir Knight of the Sea, that when I speak of campaigns here or there, or gaining victories, that I am not in earnest, and that I am to be numbered among those poltrons who speak readily enough of the most terrific exploits, and would yet faint with terror, if one informed them, that the dangers which they pretend to wish for were likely to draw near. Is this now your judgement of me?”

“Sir Otto von Trautwangen,” said the sea-monarch, “I have travelled in quest of you through the whole past winter. Such duty, it is certain, that I would not have performed for the sake of a caitiff such as you have even now described; for, in truth, the task would have been to me as painful as it would be for a sea-lion to remain five long months without the sight of the salt water. Yet that I am surprised at your hesitation to engage in a campaign so honourable, is a truth which I cannot deny, and I would gladly learn the reasons thereof.”

“I shall answer you without hesitation,” said Sir Otto, “though at the risk, perhaps, of appearing very childish in your opinion. In truth, then, the golden vulture’s wings on your helmet are alone the cause of my doubts whether I should go with you to Finland. Even now, when their gigantic shadow fell betwixt me and the fire-light, I could not help shuddering at the recollection, how many frightful stories my father has related of a man tall as you are in stature, and who wore the same strange head-piece. Mark you, Sir Arinbiorn, my father is a courageous old hero, of a buoyant spirit; and there are indeed few thoughts by which his countenance can be changed; yet when he speaks of the man with the vulture’s wings his large dark eyes are full of horror, and he stares at some dark corner of his ancestral hall, as if he expected that his spectral opponent were ready to start out against him.”

“What then has your father related of this man?” inquired the sea-monarch, with a melancholy smile.

“Much—very much!” answered Sir Otto, “especially how this man was always attracted by misfortune, and for many a long mile over lakes and rivers, hills and dales, was forced to travel when some horrible adventure was at hand. Then, in the hour of danger, he always came to the assistance of the distressed; but, as he was always the forerunner of evil, every one looked on the giant’s appearance with fear and trembling. Above all, if any one had a weight of guilt on his own heart, he was horrified at the tall man’s approach; for vengeance seemed the special duty of the knight with the winged helmet; and never did he fail in its fulfilment, except on one occasion only, and of that event my father never would relate to me the story; for it was, as he said, too fearful a legend for one so young and inexperienced.”

“Your father has told but the truth,” answered the sea-monarch with a sigh; “there was indeed a man such as you have described in our family, but he is long since dead.”

“I believe, that I have myself fought with his skeleton in the chapel of Trautwangen,” said Sir Otto, shuddering at the recollection, though Sir Arinbiorn understood him not. Then he resumed—“It is from terror of that ghostly combat that I now feel reluctant to go with you. Who knows what frightful spectres may start forth against us from that melancholy gloom which time and distance have thrown over your house and mine!”

“Such spectres belong to darkness everywhere and in all hours,” answered Sir Arinbiorn; “and, methinks, it should be so. A new light is now to be shed on the gloom by which our northern climes are over-shadowed. The darker that the night is, the pleasanter that morning will be.”

“Ay,” replied Sir Otto cheerfully; “there you are indeed in the right, and our minstrel, Walter, has also truly sung—

“Now, then, are you satisfied?” said Sir Arinbiorn. “Truly, if there have been darkness and fearful mysteries lowering over us in former ages, the time has doubtless come when our efforts are to change these into light and happiness. Courage, then, my noble friend!—Let us now join hands in token of your consent to travel with me through East Friesland, then across the seas to Norway, and from thence to the Finland frontier.”

“Be it so, in God’s name!” said Sir Otto; and the two brave knights, rejoicing over the friendly bargain they had made, resolved to set out on the following day. Meanwhile they laid themselves to sleep on the soft fragrant moss with which the cave was covered.

When the first gleams of ruddy light from the eastern hills began to stream into the cavern, Sir Arinbiorn started up from confused visions which had haunted him in sleep. Now, too, when he saw beside him a handsome youth, cheerful and smiling like the flowers in May, who stood beside him as if to watch his slumbers, he believed that this too was but a dream, and again closed his eyes. Not long afterwards, however, the same youth came to rouse him, and he heard the words—“Is it not better, my noble comrade, that we should set out early on our journey?”

So, then, the sea-monarch arose, and recognised the young Knight of Trautwangen, who had now trimmed his beard and hair, and had dressed himself partly in the garments which he had worn at that fatal banquet, and which, though now in disorder, yet still shewed to advantage on the graceful contour of his person. “Good Heaven!” said Sir Arinbiorn, “how changed is now your figure from what it was but yesterday!—You have indeed acted rightly in throwing away that rough bear’s-skin, which wholly concealed the natural form which God has given unto you, and in thus arranging your hair, so that it no longer looks like the wild weeds of the forest, but may be compared to a trim, well-trained parterre.”—“If one is again to appear in the world,” said Sir Otto, “it is fitting, no doubt, that his appearance should be like that of other men. Is it your pleasure that I should now buckle on your armour? Afterwards, perchance, you will condescend to render me the same service.”

Sir Otto’s words were respectfully obeyed by the sea-monarch, and in a little while both knights were fully accoutred, one in his golden, and the other in his black and silver armour, prepared for battle. Then the horses were bridled and saddled;—that of Sir Arinbiorn had rested so well on his bed of moss, that by this means, and by the healing plants which had been applied to his wounds, he was now fully recovered, though he started vehemently when the light-brown steed came trotting up at his master’s call. The latter stood still as a statue, when Sir Otto commanded him to be quiet, and allowed himself to be caparisoned without a struggle; though it was easy to perceive that he had been long unaccustomed to this duty, and that he now wondered much at what was going forward.

“What a beautiful charger would that be,” said the sea-monarch, “if he were once more in the hands of a trusty squire! Even now, with his rough uncurried coat and disordered mane, he is so dignified and graceful! Methinks he is indeed well fitted to appear among a breed of horses which are natives of my northern clime, but to which I never till this day have found any one equal; they, too are, like him, of a light-brown colour; they have the same fiery temper, and will not allow themselves to be rode by any one who is not a true and valiant hero.”

“The light-brown colour of my steed,” replied Sir Otto, “is my especial favourite. You will think it a strange fantasy, Sir Arinbiorn, but, because one whom I dearly loved had light-brown eyes, that tint ever appears to me a presentiment of happiness and good fortune.”

When all was ready, Sir Otto buckled on his glittering sword-scabbard, took the broken fragment of his blade, and let it drop into the sheath, adding thereto the other half, to which the golden hilt was yet affixed.

“Nay,” said the sea-monarch, “you must not travel thus unarmed. Rather take my battle-axe, and bind it fast to your saddle-bow.”

“Unarmed!” repeated Sir Otto, “I pray you let not this be said. My sword, though broken, will do better in the hour of need, than many a one might prove which is yet uninjured.”

“Yet, I pray you, take the halbert,” said the sea-monarch. “As for your sword, it is true, though you were to strike with it against the rocks until it was wholly notched and blunted, yet there is an armourer in Norway, by whose arts and magic spells, it may yet be rendered far better than ever.”

“That alters the case,” said Sir Otto, “and I shall therefore accept the loan of your battle-axe till, by means of this wise armourer, I can regain the use of my own falchion.”

So the two young heroes both mounted their horses, and began to wind their way from the mountains of Ardennes, across the blooming plains, towards the north-east.

Courteous reader, hast thou never longed to cast one look on the lonely and neglected old knight, Sir Hugh von Trautwangen? The grey-headed warrior now sits joyless in his castle! All the gay colours that once brightened his life have faded away, so that he is more like one of the dead than a living man; for of his only son he has heard no tidings, or of Bertha, nor of Heerdegen. Were it not that the old minstrel, Walter, sometimes visits him, the once active warrior would become a mere hermit, and his ancient fortress a silent cell for penance and mortification. Sometimes, when he is sitting all alone in his great hall, he seems to forget the changes around him, and calls aloud for Otto and for Bertha. Then he is answered only by the melancholy echo of his own voice, through the long vaulted rooms and corridors, so that the old knight recollects himself again, shakes his head, and smiles mournfully at his own forgetfulness.

One evening, however, he was sitting with Walter, the minstrel, at the great round table, on which the silver-embossed goblets full of old Johannisberg stood betwixt them, while out of doors there was an April shower, pouring and rattling with such vehemence, as if it would never have an end. “Pour on, pour on!” cried Sir Hugh, looking kindly towards the window. “By this means I am assured that my friend Walter will for this night not desert me. So then, long may the wind blow and the rain beat around us!” The minstrel took up his goblet of Rhenish, and joined in this toast with his noble entertainer, glad to find that he for a moment seemed cheerful, as a traveller, who has lost his way on the cloud-covered mountains, rejoices when the sunbeams once more break out around him. “In truth,” resumed the old knight, “I know not how I could bear with the weary load of time, were it not for your songs and your pleasant discourse. Both of us are old, but the white locks on my head are methinks like the withered moss that waves in winter on some old tottering monument; while to you they are like a snow-white wreath, with which the hands of courteous ladies have adorned your head, as a reward for the many pleasant songs that you have sung to them. Come oftener then, I pray you, and stay longer, that the sternness of my grief may be soothed, and that my thoughts may not vainly dwell on those past joys which will never return.”

Hereupon the two old men shook hands across their wine-cups, and the minstrel was about to speak, when, lo! a squire came hastily into the hall, and announced that there was a pilgrim without, who, on account of the violent rain and approaching darkness, might not proceed farther on his way, but had begged for shelter and refreshment. “He comes at an unfitting time!” muttered Sir Hugh, “I wish not now for stranger guests. However, let him be brought into the castle. As to this, you needed not to ask my permission in such weather. Place another chair also at the table; bring more wine, with some food, and a silver goblet, for our visitor. Has he announced from what country he has come hither?” “He is a native of France,” answered the squire, and withdrew. “Now, mark you,” said the old minstrel, “since we were to be disturbed, it is at least fortunate that the stranger should prove a Frenchman; for he may perhaps bring us good tidings of the young Sir Otto von Trautwangen.” “I pray you, speak not thus,” said the old knight. “He who longs anxiously for tidings of friends at a distance, is either disappointed altogether, or hears that by which his heart will only be rendered more unquiet. Therefore, grant me your promise, that you will not act the foolish part of asking questions, but wait patiently for whatever intelligence this guest of his own accord may impart to us.” “Right willingly,” said the minstrel, “do I promise what you demand of me; for a stranger, especially one who comes during a tempest like this, must ever be looked on as a friend; and among friends, methinks it is but a foolish and discourteous habit, evermore to ask after the first greeting what news are abroad; for——.” The minstrel paused as the pilgrim now entered the hall.

He was a man of middle age, neither very grave nor very merry, though, according to the custom of all Frenchmen, he spoke much and rapidly, giving them to understand that he was by birth an independent nobleman; and that a solemn vow, which his father had imposed on him, rendered it his duty to make a pilgrimage into the Holy Land. This duty he thought to perform with most convenience and safety under the protecting banners of King Richard, otherwise he would scarcely ever have turned a pilgrim, and so forth. From this shallow stream of words the old Sir Hugh von Trautwangen had immediately turned away. He sat looking fixedly on the ground, and drinking his wine, while the gleam, which was now and then visible in his eyes, proved that his thoughts were busied with the past; it seemed, indeed, as if, along with his wine, he drank up cherished recollections; and so he had been accustomed to sit through many a long evening, with the minstrel, Walter, beside him, who struck now and then a few deep chords on his harp. But meanwhile the stranger continued to talk, also to eat and drink, without the slightest discomposure, praising, however, the viands and Johannisberg which were before him, with the hospitality and courtesy of his entertainer.

But at length it so happened, that the pilgrim mentioned a name, by which the knight and the minstrel were both roused, as if they had been struck by a flash of lightning. He spoke of the renowned Chevalier de Montfaucon; and his hearers did not fail to remember how nearly this was connected with the fortunes of Sir Otto von Trautwangen.

“Last autumn, (so the stranger narrated,) the brave Knight of Montfaucon had, on account of a far-famed magic ring, entered the lists with a young German knight, and in that combat was, in a manner quite inexplicable, overcome and defeated. The fame of this battle had run like wild-fire over all France, and all the world now spoke of the victorious youth, who was named Otto; but as for his surname, he (the narrator) being a Frenchman, knew not well how to pronounce it.” Then he described minutely all circumstances of the battle between Sir Otto and the Knight of Montfaucon, while the minstrel struck thereto his harp chords in a vehement and cheering war-melody; but the old Sir Hugh looked thoughtful and melancholy, as if he heard but the mournful echo of Walter’s notes, but took no pleasure in their music. At length the stranger happened to say, “People have insisted that the young German has won his victory by incantations and witchcraft.” Thereupon the minstrel’s harp was silent; Sir Hugh’s dark eyebrows were more and more contracted, and he nodded to his friend with a mysterious expression, as if he would have said, “Ay, ay, I thought as much!”

“But,” resumed the pilgrim, “no one any longer believes that calumny. On the word of Sir Folko himself, and of another renowned hero, the most distinguished knights in all France now throw the gauntlet of defiance at every one who ventures to maintain that ever the German knight had to do with witchcraft or necromancy!”

With these welcome words the stranger concluded his intelligence; and not long after, offering many apologies on the score of fatigue from his long journey, he retired, accompanied by one of Sir Hugh’s confidential squires, to his chamber.

No sooner had he departed, than the minstrel began a ballad in praise of Sir Otto, and in contempt of the base slanderers who had accused him of dealings with the devil; but Sir Hugh made him a sign that he should be silent. “It is not yet time for your triumphant songs,” said he; “no one knows better than I do, that Otto is a champion more powerful in the lists than Sir Folko de Montfaucon; for in their early youth I watched over both, and even then could tell what strength or weakness they would shew in after years. But a long dark shadow stretches along the path which Otto has to pursue; though that evil omen, perhaps, is but the work of my foreboding fantasy. Yet, alas! I cannot but remember his first combat, and first victory that took place at that mournful meeting, with Sir Heerdegen. Ask me no questions, good Walter, for in truth I am very sad, but let us now retire to bed, and, if possible, to sleep.”

Meanwhile, wholly unconscious of the dark apprehensions which the venerable knight entertained on his account, Sir Otto was riding on his way beneath the pleasant sunlight of spring, in company with the brave Sir Arinbiorn. It was indeed no longer as it had been on his first setting out in quest of adventures, when, at the same season of the year, he thought that he had found the terrestrial paradise on the blooming banks of the Mayne, and looked on every one whom he then met either as a friend, who would sympathize in his pleasure, or a foe, whom he must honourably conquer. Wonderful might it be to consider how very old a knight-errant, or any other mortal, might become in the space of one year! Truly we may say, that Sir Otto was now far older than three hundred and sixty five days could naturally have made him. Yet he was still young enough to think, that, amid the withered leaves of his former good fortune, the blossoms of pleasure might again spring forth; and for these blossoms he looked not only to that morning light, which can only be beheld after the night of death, but he believed that they might yet appear in those oppressed sultry hours of noonday, which we here name life.

The two young heroes had now arrived on the frontiers of East Friesland; and one morning, when they had rode to the top of a beautiful green hill, suddenly the wide sea appeared before them, with its boundless domain of blue waves, with their bright coronets of foam all gleaming in the now dazzling sunlight. Otto spread out his arms, as if he could have embraced both the earth and seas in his rapture, and then broke out in a loud cry of admiration: at last he dismounted thoughtfully from his horse, and kneeled upon the grass in silent prayer. Whoever has beheld the sea, and remembers his own feelings when he saw it for the first time, will not wonder that Sir Otto von Trautwangen should be thus moved.

Arinbiorn rejoiced also, while his dun-coloured charger seemed also glad, and neighed aloud, as he snuffed up the well-known sea-air. But Arinbiorn’s joy was unmixed with wonder; it was the delight of a shepherd, who, after long wandering, comes once more to feed his flocks on well-known native plains. So, when they had thus come to the hill-top, he dismounted from his horse, and began to collect dry branches and withered leaves from the neighbouring thickets, to which he set fire; and scarcely had the blue clouds of smoke ascended on high, when behold! a stately ship, which had been lurking behind the coverts of a wooded island, came slowly into view, and made towards the main shore. “See there!” cried Arinbiorn; “my comrades have indeed watched well, and are already at the appointed place!” Meanwhile Sir Otto had risen up from his prayers, and the sea-monarch continued,—“That island, with its thick copsewood, is the same on which I had the combat with Sir Heerdegen; and here, on one of the nearest hills, must be the wonderful castle of the Lady Minnatrost, of which both Heerdegen and Bertha related such strange stories.”

With deep emotion, Sir Otto looked round for the Druda’s castle; of which, during the fatal banquet, ere he had drank of the cup intended for the sea-monarch, Bertha had found time to give him a description. Every word that she had uttered was indelibly imprinted on his heart; so, in his dreams too, he had often beheld that mysterious fortress, with its white flowers waving on the ramparts, and the tall saint-like form of the Lady Minnatrost. He thought, moreover, that it might now be permitted him humbly to knock at the enchanted gates, that he might hear, though from a distance, the divine music of the golden spheres; and that, if perchance the wise lady of the mansion should look over the battlements, she might bestow upon him one friendly greeting, which might serve to guide him in his future pilgrimage through the world, as she must of necessity be aware how her image lived and was cherished in his heart. Soon after he indeed perceived a hill in the neighbourhood, which was crowned with some dark gloomy towers; but how different were these from the descriptions he had heard of the Lady Minnatrost’s castle! There was here nothing to be seen, but ruinous walls covered with moss, and tottering as if they would fall into the deep trenches beneath. On the ramparts, instead of white roses and lilies, nettles and long grass were waving in the wind; while, among these weeds, owls and other ominous birds shewed their vile crooked beaks, or rose screaming on the wing, when a wily fox, as if he were the castellan of the fortress, marched along the battlements. “Good Heavens! what a desolate, mournful sight!” said Sir Otto, with a deep sigh. “Surely it is impossible that this can be the Druda’s castle?”

“Truly,” answered the sea-monarch, “I can hardly think that she ever dwelt here; and yet, from the situation of this ruined fortress, it must be so!”

While the two knights thus stood together, wondering and perplexed, a countryman had, unperceived, taken his station close to them. He now came forward, and respectfully took off his cap. “Ay, ay, noble sirs,” said he, “you are travellers no doubt from a distant land, and you have perchance stood, in better times, on the self-same ground on which you now are placed. I can understand all this. That is, in truth, the castle of the Lady Minnatrost; but she herself is far from hence, and no one can tell whither she is gone. The beautiful white flowers have turned into vile weeds, and the bright gleaming lake within the ramparts into a stagnant swamp; foul birds and beasts of prey inhabit the apartments; it is even said that it is by night also haunted by evil spirits. So it ever happens with whatever is the work of mortal hands. If neglected, it will not stand of itself, but must fall to ruin. It seems also, as if not only this castle, but the peace and welfare of the land, must be ruined since the departure of the Lady Minnatrost; for, during her absence, the princes and vassals have been perpetually at war, so that their swords on both sides have been ever dripping with blood. Nay, people even insist that the mad sea-monarch, Arinbiorn, will again appear on our shores——”

“In that respect they are not so far in the wrong,” said Arinbiorn smiling; “but for the present, methinks, he will not do you any harm.”

“Well, should it be so,” said the countryman, “we have doubtless to thank the good Lady Minnatrost; for you must know, that, though her castle is thus desolate, she has not yet so wholly forsaken us. More than once the boatmen have seen her by night on the sea-shore, dressed in waving white garments, and with a green veil over her head, as she had been wont to appear, and with her eyes yet gleaming like pale moonshine; but she seemed to weep often, and wring her hands. It is said, that she comes hither in quest of a certain damsel who once dwelt with her in the castle; for she used to make signals, and wave her long veil towards the wide sea; but as no one answered her, she wrapt up her face and went away. It was easy to be perceived that she avoided the castle. Good Heavens!” cried he, interrupting his narrative, “there is another battle already begun in valley! I must not lose a moment, but run to drive my sheep out of their way, otherwise they will ride over, and trample them into the earth.”

So the countryman went in all haste down the hill, and the knights remounted their horses. They heard indeed, as the shepherd had said, a great noise of shouting and clashing of arms in the valley, and soon afterwards some troops of horsemen came riding past them at full speed.

“It seemed to me, noble comrade,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “as if but a little while since you wished to visit the Druda’s castle. These clowns that are fighting there must not prevent you therefrom. In half an hour we shall teach them such a lesson, that they will thank Heaven if they escape even with life; for, see, yonder is another of my ships already near the shore, and the rest are surely at no great distance.” “Nay, let us not think of going thither,” answered Sir Otto. “What should I seek forsooth in those desolate halls, where perchance only a wolf, with her young ones, would come howling to meet me, and appear as if forsooth she were the sole owner of the mansion? Or why should I disturb the bats and owls in their secret solitary chambers, only to remember that there has been a time when the same rooms were brightened by the mild moon-like lustre of the Druda’s eyes, and cheered by the soft tones of Bertha’s voice? It must, methinks, be a frightful place; and were I to go thither, I might become mad, and speak to those wild creatures as if they were men and women. We shall, therefore, think no more of the matter, but hasten on shipboard.”

“You are in truth quite right,” said the sea-monarch; and thereupon they rode away as fast as possible to the sea-shore, where Sir Arinbiorn’s gigantic soldiers were arranged as if in battle-array, with their strange armour and weapons. The most distinguished among them, who had formerly accompanied the sea-monarch in Normandy, recognised immediately the Knight of Trautwangen. A whispering ran at first through the ranks, which soon changed into a shout of congratulation, and thereafter into a choral ballad, in which they welcomed the young knight as their companion at sea; invited him, as he had before won the Magic Ring from Sir Folko de Montfaucon, to join with them in search of new trophies, which also his valour would doubtless obtain. They concluded with a stanza, praising fervently the delights of their life upon the sea, urging him to dismount from his horse, and embark with them on the foaming waves. Therewith they struck vehemently on their great brass-covered shields, and Sir Arinbiorn, smiling cheerfully, said to his companion, “Such is the custom among these Norwegians. Whenever they are much delighted by any new adventure, they turn it thus into rhymes and ballad-music, which are handed down afterwards from father to son with the story on which they were founded, insignificant as it must often seem when repeated in other countries.”

Sir Otto, however, dismounted immediately; and, with his cheeks glowing at the praise which had been bestowed on him, he went through the ranks, and shook all his future comrades by the hand. At the same time, they were so delighted with his courteous and friendly demeanour, that several of them could not help coming forward, and embracing him heartily.

Then preparations were made, as soon as possible, for the embarkation of the horses. The dun-coloured charger of the sea-monarch willingly entered upon that element to which he was so well accustomed; but Sir Otto’s light-brown steed reared and kicked as if he were mad; so that had not his master come up, and called out, “Gib dich ruhig du Bursch,” some of the gigantic Normans must have lost their lives before they could have brought him on board.

It was now a very beautiful evening; the breezes were mild and favourable, as the fleet of Sir Arinbiorn sailed along through the North Sea. The land had quite vanished away, and Sir Otto sat on the deck with a harp in his hand, watching the last golden rays of the setting sun. At last, while the sea-monarch, seemingly lost in thought, stood near him, leaning on the mast, the Knight of Trautwangen began to sing a romantic ballad, addressed to the beloved Blanchefleur, whose image rose on his imagination, sitting in her bower in the blooming vale of Gascony, twining wreaths of “forget-me-not” in honour of him who was now far remote. During his song, the sea-monarch had sat down beside him, leaning his head on his hand. As the last notes had softly died away he stretched himself on the deck, with his eyes dim with tears and fixed on the calm azure sky. “I shall now relate to you some events,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “which your song has just awoke in my remembrance. But let me begin and end my story, as I am now resting here; for, with one’s eyes fixed on the deep, changeless vault of heaven, the mind is calmed, and full of hope and trust.”—“Truly I have felt thus too,” replied Sir Otto, “when I have gazed on the blue depths above us.”—“So much the better,” said Sir Arinbiorn; “and you will allow also, that when we are thus sailing on the wide waters, that contemplation is more especially delightful; for here indeed it seems as if we had the same azure depths both below and above. Listen then attentively with thine heart as well as with thine ears, that my words may find a friendly echo in thy bosom.

“It was during my last campaign, when I happened to be in pursuit of a Finland mountaineer, who had several times shot at me in vain with his cross-bow, and, as he now perceived how determined I was in chase of him, he might well suppose to pray for mercy at my hands would be wholly unavailing. He was in the wrong, however, to think so; for I was not so angry as he believed, and only wished to take him prisoner, that I might bring home a trophy. But he rushed down, as if despairingly, into a deep valley, with high rocky banks. I know not indeed whether he broke his neck in the fall, or still lives, as I could not find him either dead or alive, though I searched so long that the night settled around me before I was aware, and I no longer knew what path I should follow in order to rejoin my companions. There was snow lying on the hills, so that I was glad to look round for some place of shelter for the night. Accordingly, I found among the rocks the remnant of an old half-ruined watch-tower. On calling aloud at the gate, I did not receive any answer from within; but being so wearied that I was ready to fall to the ground, I could not wait for permission, but mounted up a winding staircase,—groped about till I came to a door, which I opened,—and having tried with my sword whether the floor within was firm and secure, I laid myself down quietly to sleep. Towards midnight I awoke; the moon had broken through the clouds, and shone through a window, illuminating some object on the opposite side, which I believed also to be a window. Through the opening, however, I saw what appeared to me at first a handsome ornamented chamber, and within it there sat the most beautiful damsel that I had ever beheld. I shall not attempt to describe to you the exquisite grace of her form, or the loveliness of her light-brown hair, her brilliant eyes, and her angelic smiles; for you will soon learn, that you have ere now beheld the same beauty; and, were it not so, words could ill suffice to draw her portrait. Now, when I wished to greet her courteously, and to apologize for my intrusion, it seemed as if she did not even notice my presence, but took up a lute and began to play on it; while, although I was not above six paces distant, I did not hear the slightest sound, but only saw her snow-white fingers gliding up and down the golden strings. With astonishment I drew nearer, and perceived that the space, which I had before supposed to be another chamber, was in truth a garden, where she was sitting in a blooming arbour, with a tall white rose-tree, like an emblem of herself, growing beside her. Then out of the thickets there came a youth, who carried a book of music-notes, and, kneeling on the ground, held it before her. One could perceive, by the motion of her lips, that she sung from the book, at the same time regarding the youth so kindly!—Good Heaven! if I could ever obtain from her such looks, I should be the happiest of all mortals, and were I never more to behold her, I should grieve myself to death! Then, wishing also to kneel before her, I advanced; but, in so doing, struck against a mirror, and found that the form which I beheld only lived on its enchanted surface! Moreover, I had no sooner touched the glass, than all the fair scene changed into the most frightful confusion; and methought even a tumult arose, like the roaring of a stormy sea! Overcome, too, with a strange and unaccountable terror, I immediately tottered down stairs, and rushed forth over hill and dale through the darkness of the night, not again recovering my usual composure, until I found myself, at the dawn of day, among my faithful warriors. A hundred times since then I have gone through those mountains, both alone and attended, but never have been able to find the slightest trace of that enchanted watch-tower.”

“You might have spoken, methinks, more wisely, comrade,” answered the sea-monarch, somewhat discontentedly. “Am I then so inexperienced, that I should no longer know even whether I am asleep or awake? But you will think otherwise when you know in what mood of mind I have been since that hour. I could never cease to reflect on the form that I had beheld in the magic mirror. On this account I broke off my intended marriage with Gerda, and looked indeed at every female form that came in my way only to try whether I could discover the beautiful mistress of my affections; but, alas! she was nowhere to be found; and all others, in my estimation, were unworthy of notice. Yet as one would willingly have some name or another, by which he may distinguish that which is nearest and dearest to his heart, so, thinking of the white rose that grew beside her, I named her Roselinde, and thereafter Roselinde was my victorious battle-cry in many a hard-fought and glorious encounter. Now, when I thought of the white rose-tree, in my choice of a name, was I not in the right? For know, Sir Otto, that when, at that fatal banquet, I beheld, for the first time, the sister of Sir Folko de Montfaucon, I found in her the lady of the mirror. Her name is Blanchefleur, which is, as one should say, a white rose, or, otherwise, Roselinde.”

“No,” said the sea-monarch, with a sigh; “for the youth who appeared in the mirror was also at the banquet-table, and they named him Master Aleard. It seemed to me, moreover, as if Blanchefleur often cast on him, though by stealth and fearfully, those looks which to me were dearer than all the treasures of the world. So, in doubt and apprehension, I was forced to keep silence. This Master Aleard was also a minstrel; and methinks, if sweet songs instead of victorious wreaths are the gifts by which Blanchefleur is to be won, I would gladly travel through the whole earth in quest of ballads and music, and, instead of a warlike knight, would be a soft-hearted minstrel——

“But what noise is that in the third vessel?” cried he, starting up; and a captain drew near, announcing that there was a ship in view full of armed men, which they had already hailed, demanding whether her crew were friends or foes; but of this no notice had been taken, and she had set all her sails as if determined on flight. Already she was at a considerable distance. “Have you still the Greek fire-balls that we brought from Constantinople?” said Sir Arinbiorn; and receiving an answer in the affirmative; “Take then some of your arrows, wrap them round with flax or tow, filled with that fire, and shoot them at these mysterious strangers. If they will not hear we shall make them feel.”

Accordingly, in a few moments, those fiery arrows flew like meteors through the dusk of the evening against the strange vessel. By their own light it was easy to perceive the devastation which they produced. Some fell on the deck, others on the rigging. The very mariners themselves had their heads covered with the fire. The lights fluttered and whirled through the ship, and at intervals one saw how two winged darts met together, and their fires united; at last the whole vessel from the deck up to the mast-head was enveloped in flames. “Quickly let the boats be prepared,” cried Sir Arinbiorn, “and let us go to their assistance. They have all thrown themselves into the water, and from thence let every one be saved. On your souls and lives, I charge you let them all be brought safely hither!”

His commands were faithfully and rapidly obeyed; so that after a short interval the boats returned, bringing with them the whole crew of that unfortunate vessel; and Sir Arinbiorn was the more rejoiced at their safety, as he perceived, by their dress and language, that they were Normans. A young and very handsome man was brought before him as their leader. “Is it possible!” said the sea-monarch; “do mine eyes deceive me, or is it to my good cousin Kolbein that we have done this wrong?” “Ay truly, you have done wrong to burn my fine ship,” said the captive; “and little did I think that I should have you to thank for her destruction.” “Who then gave you permission,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “to venture out on the sea, before you were acquainted with the laws of our watery realm? If a small ship is hailed by a large fleet, it must slacken sail, and return a friendly answer, otherwise friends are turned into foes. You have learned to-day how little right you had to persist in silence.” “Thereupon methinks you might have instructed me without the use of your fiery arrows,” answered Kolbein; “but since you have said so, and I do not forget how renowned and experienced you are upon the seas, I feel convinced that I must be in the wrong, and beseech your forgiveness, if I have behaved in a manner unbecoming and inconsistent with your laws.” “There is no need of apology,” said Sir Arinbiorn; “you have now learned these laws after such manner, that you are not likely ever to forget them.” So they shook hands, and the whole party went happily to the banquet-table together.

It happened on a warm evening in the month of May, that Otto had fallen asleep on deck, and it might be already towards morning, when the cool sea-breeze came over his face and awoke him. He raised himself up, and the light of the full moon, which still shone in the south, revealed a range of high rocky cliffs between him and the blue northern skies. Great forests of pine and beech-trees waved on the lofty summits, and among them were seen at intervals the outlines of massive fortresses and watch-towers; while eagles, and other birds that nestled among the rocks, came forth, hovering and screaming around the vessel. Perceiving all this, the young knight was at once awed and delighted; taking up his harp, which lay beside him, he sung an address to the woods, the foaming waves, the precipitous rocks, and clear moonlight of Norway, being well aware that he had now arrived at the place of his destination. Accordingly, Sir Arinbiorn struck up a few stanzas, bidding him welcome to his native land, where the bold champions, the heaven-inspired bards, with their brimming goblets filled with mead, and their bright gleaming hearths, were waiting to receive him.

The sea-monarch now stood at the helm, with his own hand guiding his vessel towards the beloved shore. Already they had drawn near to a level ground at the foot of the rocks, and prepared to cast anchor, when Sir Arinbiorn, cased as he was in armour, sprang overboard and swam to land, while, as the rest came after him in boats, he blew loud and joyful notes on his hunting-horn, to welcome them, and to announce his arrival. Aloft, amid the darkness of the beech forests, many lights like stars now began to break forth; and these, Sir Otto soon perceived, came from the numerous windows of a large fortress. At the same time he heard a joyous answer returned to Sir Arinbiorn’s salutation, by a great blowing of horns from the high cliffs. There was the trampling too of horses, with the clank of their riders’ armour, as they made their way down the steep rocky path from the castle. Hereupon the sea-monarch, with a look of triumph and delight, said to Sir Otto, “You behold now the venerable mansion of my ancestors; and there you shall find, that we have not yet forgotten the martial and brave exercises of olden times.”

Meanwhile their two war-steeds had been disembarked, and the squires led them backwards and forwards on the shore, that they might recover from the fatigue of their confinement on shipboard. I was long ere Sir Otto’s wild light-brown horse could regain his usual spirits; he stumbled and tottered about; while the sea-monarch’s dun charger, well accustomed to such voyages, exhibited all his usual agility, and neighed aloud, as if exulting in his triumph over his former adversary.

The castellan, attended by many warriors, had come down to the shore, respectfully greeting their master and his guest, with the young Sir Kolbein; while, at the same time, they welcomed back, with less ceremony, their own equals and brethren in arms. For the latter, they had brought led horses along with them; and in a short time a large party were mounted, and galloped gayly up the steep ascent towards the castle. In half an hour, they had arrived at the long echoing archway, through which they trotted into a large court, now brightly illumined with torches. Here, on one side, was visible the wide entrance of a spacious vault, in which a great fire of turf was now blazing; and from hence a tall man, black as a Moor, made his appearance; and, notwithstanding his strange looks, stepped up with knightly dignity and assurance, offering his hand to Sir Arinbiorn. The latter took it without hesitation, saying, at the same time, “Good morrow, Asmandur, noblest of armourers! say how many weapons and cuirasses hast thou completed while we have been absent?” “Methinks I have prepared death for many of thy foes,” replied Asmandur, nodding his head with an air of confidence. “I have brought here a friend of mine who requires thine aid,” said the sea-monarch, pointing to Sir Otto. “The sword which now hangs at his side has been broken by a blow of my battle-axe, and methinks it could by means of thy art be joined together again, and made better than ever.” “Ay, ay, if it be worth that labour,” said the armourer; “for doubtless I could as easily make a new one. Let me look once at the sword.” Otto drew out one-half, and shaking his head mournfully, let the other fall from the scabbard. The armourer looked at both with attention, and then said, “If the wearer be like to his sword, then both together will scarcely find their equals in this world. Truly I might have known that he who is Sir Arinbiorn’s guest, and to whom, as I perceive, a battle-axe of my workmanship has been intrusted, was doubtless a brave and noble champion. Yet because it is not for every one that I am willing to exercise my art, nor do I work at all but for the best and most victorious knights; so, methinks, I would wish to see some trial of his skill in the first place.” “On that head, Asmandur,” answered Sir Arinbiorn, “I can pledge my word that he shall afford thee ample satisfaction. Yet surely thou wilt allow, that he should first have time to recover from the fatigues of his voyage on our wild north seas.” The armourer nodded his head in token of assent, and was about to retire into his vaulted hall; but Sir Otto called aloud, “Wherefore should I first have time to rest?—he were indeed a pitiful combatant, who, by means of a short sea-voyage, should lose all his strength! Come on then. The morning is already so light, that the torches are needless. Whosoever is inclined for warlike pastime, let him know that I am ready to give him satisfaction.”

“Yet, methinks, as a stranger, you cannot will be acquainted with our mode of combat,” said Arinbiorn.

“Wherefore should not I be so?” answered Sir Otto; “was it then in vain that my father travelled through these foreign lands? On the contrary, he well knew all their warlike arts and manners, and carefully instructed me therein. But what exercise is there among you with which you suppose that I am unacquainted? Do you mean, perchance, the throwing of these long javelins, of which there is a heap lying in that corner?”—So with the speed of light he darted from his horse, seized one of the spears, and hurled it from him with such force, that it went singing through the air across the castle-court, and struck deep into an old elm-tree at the opposite side. Not attending to the astonishment of the Normans, Sir Otto then said,—“You must not judge me too severely by this first trial. I am, it is true, somewhat out of practice, and I have only done this in order to convince you that the northern mode of conflict is to me not unknown.”—So then all the young champions who were there present looked on Sir Otto as a chosen hero, and vied with each other who should have the honour of meeting him in the lists. Mid-day at last drew on, and the Knight of Trautwangen was never wearied of the northern pastimes of throwing the javelin,—of wrestling, or of fighting with the blunted broad-sword. As little did Asmandur seem tired of admiring the prowess of the victorious young hero. At length the black-visaged armourer himself came forward to try his fortune.—“I know very well,” said he to Sir Otto, “that thou wilt be the conqueror; yet, methinks, it must be a pleasure to try the effect of such noble and chivalrous blows as those which thou hast dealt about this day; and though I would willingly prove to you in good time that, above all things in the world, I am a skilful swordsmith, yet I should meanwhile gladly shew, that I can also wield arms when it is needful to do so.”—It happened as Asmandur had said. From Sir Otto’s arm he was forced to receive many powerful blows, any one of which, had the sword been sharp, might have cost him his life. At last, however, notwithstanding the bravery of his defence, his weapon was struck out of his hand, and sent away nine yards distant across the court. Afterwards, in a wrestling-match, though he failed not to do his utmost, yet at last he was overthrown in the sand, and Sir Otto held him by the legs and arms motionless.—“Let me go,” said Asmandur, breathless; and as Sir Otto lifted him up, he added,—“Yet, on the evening of this very day I shall prepare thy battle-sword, thou hero! and at the mid-day banquet, over the wine-cups, we shall sit together; for, methinks, thy strength will as little yield to the fiery juice of the grape, or to the foaming mead which we northern heroes are wont to quaff, as it has done to the powerful champions with whom thou hast this day contended.”

The banquet was now ended, and the wine-cups drained. It was night, and Sir Otto had laid himself on a couch to repose after the fatigues of the day and of his unwonted sea-voyage. About midnight, however, he was disturbed by a strange noise of knocking and singing, which sounded with hollow reverberations through the vaults of the castle. At first all this only blended with his dreams, and he continued to sleep, though unquietly; but, at last, as the noises were kept up without intermission, he was thoroughly roused. Looking around him, and recollecting himself with a mixed feeling of alarm and pleasure, he discovered that his bedchamber was right over the vault, inhabited by the black-visaged armourer, Asmandur, who, at this dead hour of the night, was busily employed on the young champion’s sword, all the while chaunting an ancient ballad, setting forth how the falchion of the great Siegmund Wolsung was broken on the battle-field by the spear of King Odin, and how thereafter a wise magician joined the pieces together, so that it might be wielded by Sigurd, the serpent-slayer, Wolsung’s only son. Of this ballad, Sir Otto had learned many heart-stirring stanzas from his father, the old Knight of Trautwangen; and now he could not resist his desire to hear them again from the lips of a Norman. Moreover, it was not this ballad only that was to be heard from Asmandur; for he mingled with it now and then another chaunt, setting forth the story of a great giant, named Hugur, who was yet unknown to Sir Otto, and by whom his heart was vehemently attracted. So he rose softly from his couch, took his mantle and battle-axe, groped his way down stairs, and following the sounds of Asmandur’s voice, he at last made his appearance unexpectedly in the vault of the armourer, who now broke off angrily from his labour, and, wielding his hammer, came forward to meet the intruder. As soon, however, as he recognised Sir Otto, he seemed quite satisfied, only laid his finger on his lips, in token that silence was absolutely required. Then he proceeded, as before, with his employment; and Sir Otto, obedient to his directions, took his place opposite on an old anvil, without saying a word.

So then the armourer, as he resumed his labour, began again to sing; and the vault rung not only with the strokes of the hammer, but with the glorious deeds of Siegmund and Sigurd. At every interval, however, when he placed the iron in the fire, he changed his music, and sang other words, setting forth how the fierce Hugur had slain his own wife, who was so beautiful and affectionate; and praying that the champion, who was to wield the sword on which he thus laboured, might never behave after such manner. Then he returned to the deeds of Sigurd, and again to those of Hugur, while his arm never rested; and the fierce fire never ceased to glow till the solemn work was ended. At length he took the sword, still red hot, with a long pair of pincers, laid it aside to cool, and, for the first time, spoke with Sir Otto. “If you have aught to communicate or to ask,” said he, “now you may speak freely, without fear of consequences for yourself or for your sword.” “I did not come hither for the sake of talking,” answered Sir Otto, “but only to listen; for old ballads and stories are the very delight of my life. With the deeds of Siegmund you seem to be at an end; and to say the truth, I know them for the most part already. If, however, you would instruct me more particularly as to that story of the great Hugur, I should be sincerely thankful.” “That shall be done right willingly,” said Asmandur; “but first I shall bring a horn of mead; for, in truth, I lack some refreshment; and for you I shall provide a goblet of wine.” So, after he had in due time placed both upon the anvil, he drew in two great cuirasses instead of chairs, and the two champions took their places at their iron table, right cordially and well contented with each other. Thereafter Asmandur begun his narration as follows:—

“About forty years ago there lived in this land a knight who was named Hugur. He was the handsomest and stoutest of all men in the world; and, as he had come hither as a stranger, there were not wanting people who maintained that he was one of the ancient race of Odin, who, by some strange miracle or enchantment, had been sent hither from that magnificent land, wherein is situated the divine palace of Valhalla, which so many mortals have in vain tried to discover. As to what truth there might be in these rumours I know not. I have been baptized, and have become a good Christian; yet still, when I hear of Odin and Valhalla, my whole heart is warmed and heaves within me. These old stories, my brave young friend, of our gods and their wondrous miracles, cannot have been all void of foundation! Well, it came to pass, that Hugur proved himself to be the most victorious champion in all Norway, one only excepted. Much, however, as our people admired and loved Hugur, they detested his rival; for the latter never appeared any where without proving a forerunner of misfortune. Although he rendered them all the assistance in his power, and especially never failed to inflict vengeance on any one against whom he had harboured resentment, yet such deeds could by no means compensate for that chilling terror and apprehension, which his coming never failed to excite in the hearts of mankind.”

“Was this not the frightful man with vulture’s wings on his helmet?” said Sir Otto.

“Lo there! you know your way among us already,” said Asmandur. “Well, Arinbiorn has no doubt given you information, for he is himself a descendant of this mysterious hero.” Otto meanwhile fixed his eyes wildly on a dark corner of the vault, as if he thought that the spectral man with the vulture’s wings would come forth against him. “Now,” continued Asmandur, “there was at that time a certain Jarl in Norway, who had almost the power and the riches of a great king, and this Jarl had two beautiful daughters, very like to one another, of whom the oldest was named Astrid, and the youngest Hildiridur. Astrid was like most other young maidens, cheerful, well-behaved, good-hearted, and rejoiced in the society of her playmates. Hildiridur, on the other hand, was equally good and virtuous; but her stars had so destined, that she had an irresistible longing after the occult sciences of magic and necromancy; on which account, she was in early youth taken under the care of her aunt, who was a powerful sorceress, and who carried her away into the wild regions of Iceland, amid their flaming mountains and everlasting snows.

“Now it came to pass, that almost all the heroes in Norway paid their addresses to the beautiful Astrid, and among the rest was the mysterious knight with the golden vulture’s wings; but, as the damsel was exceedingly affrighted by this ornament, which he wore on his head, as well as by his character and demeanour, the brave Sir Hugur succeeded in winning her affections, and a day was fixed for their wedding. The stern Avenger, with his fearful head-piece, parted from her without anger; for, in truth, whatever might be believed to the contrary, he was good-tempered, and was determined in resenting the wrongs of others rather than his own. However, at the festival of their betrothment, his vulture’s wings were to their great surprise visible in the banquet-hall. He would perchance have gladly staid away; but could not resist that influence by which he was forced to appear, in order to warn them of approaching misfortune. He apologized accordingly, and the bride grew deadly pale, while Sir Hugur received him, according to his rank, with grave politeness. It came to pass, that in the middle of that night the castle was struck, and set on fire, by a thunderbolt; but, at the risk of his own life, the mysterious knight rescued the bride and bridegroom. Every one else in the castle had fallen asleep, and was rendered by the fire and thick smoke insensible, instead of being roused. Strange to tell, the stern Sir Hugur, though fully conscious of the danger which he had escaped, conceived a hatred against his deliverer, and requested that he would never more appear in his presence. ‘Rest assured,’ answered the knight of the vulture’s wings, ‘I shall never more come before you, unless by your own misfortunes I am brought to you for your protection.’ It happened, accordingly, that Hugur was exposed to many distresses, and whether his own life were threatened, or that of his beautiful wife, or of a son who was born to them in the first year after their marriage, or were it but a noble war-steed that was in danger, or the fruit of the harvest-field, the frightful knight never failed to make his appearance before-hand in the castle. So, notwithstanding the assistance which he afforded, both Astrid and Hugur believed that he had caused all these misfortunes, only that he might take merit to himself for striving against their consequences. At length matters came to such a pass, that Sir Hugur swore, in the presence of the knight with the golden helmet, that if he ever dared to come again under the roof of his castle, he would, unawares, fall upon him, and strike him dead with his battle-axe. The Avenger then shrugged his shoulders, and went away discontented and mournful.

“It happened not long afterwards, that the beautiful Astrid, as she was often wont to do, had gone forth alone into the neighbouring woods. She had a light glittering javelin in her hand, though she carried it more as a toy, and in sport, than with the intent of aiming it at any living creature, for she was no huntress. There it so befel, that, in a spot where the trees were twined into dense thickets, she found the mysterious knight asleep, and his frightful helmet lying beside him on the grass. She was much terrified, and yet could not help standing still and gazing upon him. So almost every one has felt, at one time or another, when he has met with some hideous object. At last she bethought herself, whether there might not be some wicked spell locked up in that head-piece, which would be from henceforth broken and dissolved, if it were no longer in the possession of its present owner. The thought was no sooner formed, than it was put into execution; for the fair Astrid had no good opinion of the stranger, and, by depriving him of his armour, was glad to think that she would render him more exposed to the blows of his enemies. As she walked homewards through the thickets, the helmet appeared to her so horrible, that, in order to hold it at as great a distance as possible from her eyes, she placed it on her javelin, and carried it over her shoulder.

“Then the stern Sir Hugur came riding through the forest; and, as he saw at a distance the golden vulture’s wings through the foliage, he could not but believe that his old enemy was there lurking for him in ambuscade. So he took a javelin, and hurled it with all his force at his supposed adversary. He was too good a marksman to fail in hitting his object, and the spear went right into the heart of his beloved and beautiful Astrid. Before she died, she wept bitterly; for she was unwilling to leave this world, wherein she had yet so many pleasures; and Hugur, when he discovered his mistake, almost died of grief and repentance. The last words that they interchanged together are yet preserved in an old ballad; for it is said, that, according to our northern use and wont, they sang to each other their last farewell. At length the beautiful damsel closed her bright eyes in death; and just at that moment appeared the mysterious knight, who was now in search of his golden helmet. Sir Hugur directly attacked him with great violence; and it seemed as if the Avenger’s wonted powers had now quite forsaken him. After a short conflict, his head was almost cleft asunder, and he lay dead at the feet of his adversary. Sir Hugur then took the pale remains of his beautiful wife in his arms, and the corpse of the knight on his shoulders, and in this manner presented himself at the castle of his father-in-law, where he became his own accuser; and insisted that his life should be taken as an atonement for the death of Astrid. The old Jarl, however, having discovered how this misfortune had come to pass, pronounced him free from all guilt; only he required of Sir Hugur, that he should enter into a solemn engagement to afford his assistance on the battle-field whenever his father-in-law should demand this of him. The young hero now took a javelin, and dipped it in the blood of his beautiful victim, then gave it to the old Jarl, saying,—‘Send to me a messenger with this token; and wherever I may be, were it at the very farthest corner of the earth, I shall hasten to your assistance in Norway.’ This then was the atonement which he made for the melancholy fate of Astrid. Moreover, Hugur’s only son was there present, and was so terrified when he saw the spear dipt in his mother’s blood, that the knight could never prevail on the boy to come near him again; so that the child was left under the care of his grandfather.

“Thereafter (it is said that Sir Hugur was by this time in Italy,) the old Jarl sent him the javelin, commanding that he should immediately repair to France, to the assistance of some Norman friends and connexions. On this occasion Sir Hugur had faithfully fulfilled his duty. From Normandy also his father-in-law sent him forth upon a sea-voyage; and after he had also performed the task which was there enjoined him, he met on his voyage home with a ship, manned by Icelanders, which had on board his wife’s sister, the beautiful Hildiridur, who was now preparing to return to her father’s castle in Norway. They met together in a bay not far from the land; and as he perceived not only that she bore a resemblance to his beloved Astrid, but that she was yet far more beautiful than the wife whom he had lost, he determined to keep her in his power by force or by stratagem, well knowing that his father-in-law would never consent to their union. As for Hildiridur, she knew not aught of what had come to pass during her absence from Norway, and the Icelanders were equally ignorant; so that half in terror at his superior strength, (as it would have been easy for his crew to have taken all the Icelanders captive,) and half won by his knightly grace and dignity, she gave herself up to him; and a Christian priest, who happened to be present, pronounced over them the church’s blessing. At the same time he exacted from her a vow, that as long as they lived together, she should never more practise her magic spells and incantations. It might be that he entertained a natural horror of these arts, or that he was afraid, lest, by means of them, she might discover the fate of her younger sister. The Icelanders to whom he gave presents, and who were left at liberty to go whither they pleased, related in Norway all that had occurred; but this was of little consequence, for they found that the old Jarl was now dead; and since that time no tidings have ever been heard of the stern Sir Hugur and the beautiful Hildiridur.”

Sir Otto kept his eyes for a long time fixed on the ground, for he was lost in deep thought. The song which Astrid and Hugur had sung at her death (for this too the armourer had repeated) had agitated his inmost heart. As he began to raise himself from this melancholy trance, and was about to ask how Sir Arinbiorn came to be related to the mysterious knight with the vulture’s wings, he heard in the castle-court the stamping of many horses, and his own name called out loudly and impatiently. “They have not found you in your own chamber,” said the armourer; “and know not whither you have gone. There, take your sword, and let us go forth.” The weapon shone bright and spotless in the hands of Sir Otto; and his own eyes too gleamed with joy as he came forth with the black-visaged armourer into the court, which was already bright with the ruddy gleams of the morning. The sea-monarch came cheerfully to meet him, and wished him joy, that he had now a weapon from the hand of the skilful and far-famed Asmandur. Otto thankfully gave him back his battle-axe; whereupon Sir Arinbiorn commanded the black and silver mail to be brought, and busied himself in buckling on his young friend’s armour. “Mark you that troop of horsemen?” said he, pointing to the opposite side of the court, where a band of Norman soldiers were mounted on light-brown chargers, which stamped and foamed with impatience to go forth. “If my will is here to be followed, you shall lead these men into Sweden, to make war against the Pagans in Finland, while I shall again betake myself with my ships to the sea, and keep watch on our enemies’ coast, till I have found means of landing advantageously, and attacking them by surprise. Are you content with this proposal?” “Wherefore should I not be so?” answered Sir Otto; “Shall we not set out this very morning?” “Immediately,” answered the sea-monarch; “but there is yet one question to be answered. The soldiers whom you are to command would willingly see one proof more of that valour and activity for which you are so esteemed; for, to say the truth, they have doubts whether your war-steed may be worthy of his master. Therefore may it please you to try a race with that soldier there, whose light-brown horse seems to be about a match for yours in height, colour, and symmetry.” “Most willingly,” replied Sir Otto; “I could not wish for any better amusement!” So being now fully armed, he started away to the neighbouring stables, saddled and bridled his own favourite steed, who was now quite recovered from the effects of the sea-voyage, and made his appearance at the lofty portal leading into the court. The light-brown neighed and snorted, as if in joyful salutation of his friends and brethren, who were thus drawn up in battle-array; while at this approach of their leader all the band of horsemen joined in a loud cry of exultation. With a lowly and courteous bow, one of them came forward, and begged to know whether it was the knight’s pleasure that they should then commence their race. “Lead me to the proper ground,” answered Sir Otto; and the Norman, guiding his horse a few steps to one side, said,—“The course is now right before us, noble sir.” At that moment he had stationed himself opposite to a steep declivity of the mountain, broken indeed by insulated fragments of rock, which partly rose up in frightful rugged masses, and partly spread out in yet more dangerous smoothness, mingling with the green turf. “That is to be our race-course,” said the Norman, in a tranquil and friendly tone. “Among us northern soldiers, less is thought of the trial, whether one horse can ride more swiftly than another, than of the question, whether he can find his way prudently and safely on such unequal rocky ground?” “Very well, I am ready to join you,” answered Sir Otto; though it must be owned, when he looked down the precipice, his brain became confused, and his eyes clouded. Yet he took courage, more especially as he perceived that his light-brown steed seemed just as willing to encounter the descent as that of his adversary; and with like impatience foamed at the mouth, and gnawed the bridle which restrained him. “Let the trumpets blow the signal, for I am prepared,” said Sir Otto to the sea-monarch, who stood behind him; while the whole troop of cavalry had formed a half-circle, watching what would be the result of this adventure.

Accordingly, the war-horns were sounded, the combatants gave the reins to their steeds, and struck the spurs deep into their sides; at the same time leaning backwards, both for their own safety, and that they might render the descent more easy to their horses. Sir Otto found his eyes dazzled,—there was a rushing sound in his ears,—the wind whistled through the long waving plumes of his head-piece. It seemed to him as if, instead of running a race, he would soon fall headlong through the air; and more than once he was on the point of drawing the reins; but, reflecting that if he did so, his adversary probably might gain the victory, he used the spurs instead of the bridle, and the light-brown steed flew like a supernatural being over the rocky cliffs and slippery declivities. At length they both arrived safely, and stationed themselves quietly in the valley beneath, while Sir Otto’s rival was still heard clashing and rattling through the thickets above them. As soon as he had arrived also on the plain, his horse, notwithstanding all the endeavours that the rider made to prevent him, rushed against that of Sir Otto, and both steeds directly engaged in a furious combat. In a few minutes, however, that of the Norwegian knight was thrown down, the rider along with him, both severely wounded. The soldier recovered himself in a short time; but Sir Otto, perceiving that he was much hurt, said to him,—“If it so please you, mount my horse, and ride him up to the castle.” “Sir Knight,” said the Norman, shrinking back, “what would you have me do?—I am now well convinced that your charger is of the right blood, and is one of the noblest, as well as most formidable, steeds that ever sprung from the Norwegian race. But without doubt he would rend me in pieces if I ventured to come near him; for after a battle such an animal could not be tamed even by his own master.”—“That depends,” said the Knight of Trautwangen, “on the question, whether his master be right valiant and powerful. Trust to my promise, and mount him without apprehension!—Ruhig du Bursch!” added he, at the same time dismounting; and on hearing these words, his horse, as usual, stood motionless. Sir Otto assisted the wounded knight into the saddle, and then led the way on foot; while his light-brown favourite followed him like a sumpter-horse, slowly and carefully climbing over the rocks. On their return to the castle the whole troop of horsemen saluted them with the greatest respect, and the oldest among them affirmed that Sir Otto was indeed a leader to whom they had yet never beheld any equal.

Thereafter, without dismounting, they all drank his health in a cup of mead, which was replenished by the squires, and passed round from man to man. Then, in a short space, Sir Otto was seen at the head of his troop, departing rapidly through the plains beneath the castle, and the white sails of Sir Arinbiorn were unfurled, and gleaming on the blue waters.

Through many a forest, and over many a mountain and desolate heath, had Sir Otto now travelled, till at length he arrived at the Swedish frontiers, and found that the army which was to attack the Finland idolaters had already crossed the heights which formed the boundary, and that on the very next day there was to be a decisive battle. Sir Otto’s troop, who were always urging their way forward with impatience, had many times been warned to be on their guard, lest a party of the enemy might form an ambuscade, and attack them when they least expected any danger. The knight and his Norman heroes, however, only laughed at such advice, and answered,—“Nay, nay; let them be on their guard against us. If they are wise, they will not throw themselves so readily in our way.”

It happened one day, that a few men, who had been sent forward in order to explore the country, returned in great haste, and informed Sir Otto, that a powerful troop of horse, much more numerous than that which he commanded, was in advance to meet him. According to their armour and accoutrements, they were not Finlanders, but noble Swedes; so that it seemed possible the battle might have been unfortunate, and this might be a part of the Christian army now retreating. At these words the brow of every brave Norman was furrowed with disappointment and apprehension; but Sir Otto, having quickly resolved what it was best for him to do, left the command of the troop to the same youth who had rode the race with him at Sir Arinbiorn’s castle, and went forwards alone. He directed that his troop should for the present halt, nor advance farther until he gave the signal by a powerful blast from a war-horn, which he always carried with him, and which had been the gift of the sea-monarch. Some of his knights entreated that he, as their commander, would not thus expose himself on the first approach of danger; to which he answered kindly, but resolutely, “The great Sigurd, of whom you have so many favourite ballads, always rode out alone when he wished to learn the position of the enemy. Let me for once imitate him.” With these words he set spurs to his horse, and trotted along through some low-lying thickets, after which he made his way to the top of an eminence, from whence he could have a good view of the surrounding country.

Halting at this place, he perceived not only one troop of horse, as it had been described to him, but three powerful bands, who were now drawing together, though whether they approached him as friends or foes he was yet ignorant. That they were bold and experienced warriors he could have no doubt; for their movements were precise, and their accoutrements splendid; and for the same reason he was convinced that they were not Finlanders, but Christian Swedes. While he was reflecting on this he perceived coming up the hill towards him a powerful roan horse, bearing a knight of tall slender figure with a heavy rattling harness, and a great plume of black horse-hair on his helmet, which waved wildly in the wind. “Who is there?” cried the stranger, at the same time throwing back his visor, and revealing a fair youthful countenance and handsome features. “A Norman,” answered Sir Otto, “and a friend to the Swedish cause.” “One more question,” said the stranger. “Art thou for Odin, or for Christ?” “Fy on the sinful question!” answered Sir Otto. “Is not Norway converted, and do you believe that we are apostates from the true faith?” Hereupon the Swedish knight raised his javelin, and poised it in his hand. “Beware then,” cried he; “for know that we are the firm adherents of the great Odin, and supporters of the ancient faith and customs of our forefathers; and, therefore, there is not a man in your squadron who shall find his way to the Christian army.” “Now then it is my turn to bid thee beware, thou pagan!” answered Sir Otto, lifting his spear, and both young knights having closed their visors, rode their horses round and round, each watching his opportunity for an attack. Accordingly it was not long ere Sir Otto perceived his adversary’s arm upraised, and in the same moment the heavy javelin came thundering on his head, so that he tottered and shook from the violence of the blow, and could scarcely bear the lively motion of his light-brown steed. But the eagle’s visor had been proof against the javelin; and the horse’s rapid movements rendered it impossible for the Swede to reach Sir Otto with his sword, until such time as the knight had been able to regain his place firmly in the saddle, and to poise his spear, which he hurled with such fury at his adversary, that it went resistlessly through his helmet; and when Sir Otto rode up, intending to attack him, also sword in hand, he found that this was needless; for the Swedish knight fell in a moment powerless on the earth, and his roan horse, wildly affrighted, broke away, and ran through the thickets into the valley. The conqueror went up mournfully to his fallen foe, and looked with deep sorrow on his countenance, already pale and fixed in death, for the spear had struck deep into his forehead.

Suddenly, however, there was heard a great rustling and rattling from the thickets on all sides, and five or six comrades of the fallen Swede now broke forth with drawn swords, and shouts of wrath, to revenge his death; so that the young knight had indeed sufficient opportunity to try the temper of the blade which Asmandur had made for him. Nor did it fail to render him good service; right and left his assailants were thrown prostrate on the ground, till at length time was allowed him to blow a powerful summons on Sir Arinbiorn’s battle-horn, and in a few minutes his Norman squadron came galloping up the hill to his assistance. Then the enemy always increased in number; but only one narrow path was left for their approach; and when those who now gained the top of the hill perceived that their leader as well as many of their noblest comrades had already fallen, they were panic-struck, and fled, forcing back resistlessly in their retreat those who were coming to their assistance. Ere the skirmish ended the ground was indeed covered with the dead and wounded, though Sir Otto on his side had not lost even a single man. He took possession of their horses and weapons, and with these trophies came up on the same evening with the Christian forces.

The shouts of joy with which he was received, when the Christians perceived among other booty the well-known accoutrements of the pagan, who had first been slain by Sir Otto, made him fully aware of the important service which he had then rendered. His victim in that single combat had indeed been the terror of every Christian soldier; and now, when his blood-stained cuirass and broken helmet were borne in triumph through the camp, every heart was encouraged by the sight, and all looked with hope and confidence to the next engagement. The commander of the army, who was a prince of the Swedish royal blood, a man already in years, grave and experienced, came out to welcome the young Norman leader, thanked him with dignified kindness, and led him into his tent. There he inquired into all the events of his long march, and whether he could give him any news of Sir Arinbiorn. After Sir Otto had answered all his questions, and especially had explained the sea-monarch’s design in sailing round the Finland coast, the prince took him kindly by the hand, and said,—“Heaven has indeed opportunely sent one of the best and bravest of Christian knights to our assistance. Your strength and courage are already proved by your victory over the pagan leader; and from your wise discourse, I am no less convinced of your skill and decision in counsel. I shall therefore not conceal from you, noble sir, that I intend to-morrow morning to make a decisive attack on these pagan hordes. In that engagement, your squadron, if it so please you, shall ride on the left wing of my army; but, as for yourself, you shall remain with me in the centre, until I shall have pointed out to you the exact time and place when you can gallop off, and lead your troop round against the right wing of the enemy, so as to attack them in the flank and rear. Such a champion as you are I have often wished to secure for exploits like these. God be with you, and may you sleep soundly this night, that you may come to me in the morning with a clear head and vigorous limbs; for our contest will be long and bloody.”

Thereafter Sir Otto, with his heart heaving high within him, from anticipation of the honours which might next morning be won, retired through the passes of the camp towards his own soldiers. On the way he heard an old Swedish horseman say to his comrade,—“To-morrow we shall doubtless have a decisive battle.” “Wherefore do you think so?” said the other. “Why,” answered the veteran, “do you not observe the vultures and ravens, which fly in great numbers over the plain before us? Such gentry well know what they are about; and, moreover, there are eagles among them, which doubtless come in expectation of a royal banquet on the blood-stained heath.” Otto passed on, deeply meditating on these words; and would, indeed, have watched through the whole night, which now began to settle around him, but he recollected the admonitions of the prince, wrapt himself in his war-mantle, and, despite of the visions which confused his senses and perturbed his rest, he at last fell asleep.

After a few hours the bright ruddy gleams of morning came slanting along the grass, and a blast was heard from the war-horns, reminding the soldiers that it was time for the riders to saddle their horses, and for the foot squires to make ready their bows and arrows. Otto, after a short space, had leapt into the saddle, paraded his squadron, and rode on with them to the place appointed on the left wing. There he once more selected the same youth with whom he had rode the race for their commander, and said,—“My brave Norman warriors, be contented here till I come to you again, and lead you on the glorious path to victory or death. Till my return you will ride here on the left wing of the army. On this give me your words of honour.”—“We pledge our lives, honour, and faith, to obey your commands,” answered the Normans; and thereafter Sir Otto galloped on to the centre of the forces, where the prince was already on horseback, surrounded by his most distinguished captains, and with many soldiers around him who knew how to blow the war-horn, with whose notes the woods and distant mountains now rung and echoed.—“You will remain by my side,” said the prince, with a friendly salutation, to Sir Otto, “though ere long I shall have occasion to send you farther. Do you now perceive the multitude opposite to us, whose numbers are every moment increasing, and pouring down like torrents from the mountain-cliffs on the plain? Do you hear how they roar and howl, like wild beasts? Whoever trusts merely to a direct attack on such an enemy, will fare but hardly, and indeed achieve little; for they disperse themselves like dust or vapour on all sides, and, as if in mockery, assail us from quarters least expected, and where we are least on our guard. Yet, whoever once breaks the arrangements they have made, and cuts off the re-enforcement of new soldiers, who are always pouring down from the mountains, will utterly damp their courage, and render them powerless. For this purpose I have chosen you. When we have advanced a little farther, I shall render my plans more intelligible. Now, in the name of God, let us proceed!”—With these words he threw his javelin high in the air, and caught it as it fell; the notes of the battle-horns sounded with deafening noise like thunder around him;—the sounds were answered, as if re-echoed from every squadron through the army;—and the whole forces, both horse and foot, advanced, as if inspired by one impulse, along the plain. On the other hand, the Finlanders also approached, continuing all the while their wild shouting and howling. Ere long they sent forth a shower of arrows and javelins against the Christian troops, which distance, and the protection of good shields, rendered yet ineffective; so that the more experienced warriors laughed at this mockery of a battle.

Both parties advanced always nearer and nearer to each other, and the martial music of the Swedes continued to sound aloud, though oftentimes the tones were rather like a solemn farewell, than a cheering anticipation of victory. Sir Otto’s bosom swelled with inspiration, such as he had before never known. What were now all the heart-rousing enjoyments of the tournament, compared with the feelings excited by this noble union of heroic champions, in defence of their holy religion, among whom numberless voices, as if animated with the same spirit, were heard to exclaim, “Onwards! onwards! We shall live and die together! Wives, children, and betrothed brides, we bid you farewell! Here there awaits us victory or death!” In the van of either army many brave soldiers were now seen to drop; and already many bands both of horse and foot were closely engaged, without any determined advantage having been won. The Finlanders, according to the description given of them by the prince, began to spread themselves out like a dense cloud that dissolves into mist, and to attack the Christian army unexpectedly on the wings. Suddenly the prince, with his eyes eagerly flashing, turned to Sir Otto. “Do you mark,” said he, “that long and deep trench on the left? They have stationed their right wing along there, because they trust that none of our troops can leap over it. But you, with your light-brown Norman horses, can doubtless undertake that service?”

“Truly we have encountered bolder leaps among the mountains,” said Otto with a smile. “Nay,” said the prince, “do not suppose that the undertaking is altogether so easy. Mark you, that, according to the station which we now hold, you have twice to leap over the fosse; first, here on our left, in order to get round the enemy, then back again towards the right, before you will find yourself in the situation to make an effectual attack.” “So much the better,” answered Sir Otto; “that will afford us good exercise both for man and horse, and tame the too violent spirit of our Norman steeds. A tight gallop and a few hard leaps are, methinks, the best possible means to bring a cavalry squadron into good order.”

“You speak like a wise and experienced warrior,” answered the prince. “So then take your course behind that wooded hill, that the enemy may not observe you when you first leap over the trench. Then, when you afterwards prepare for attack, and find enough of employment for your own eyes, be watchful and prudent, so as neither to be too rash nor too tardy in your onset.” “Have you any other commands?” said Sir Otto, with the confidence of victory expressed on his clear open forehead. The prince waved his hand, in token that he might depart, and the young knight galloped swift as the wind over the rugged heath, to join his brave Norman squadron.

They welcomed him with loud shouts of gratulation; for now, as they thought, a direct attack was to be made on the foe. When their leader, however, ordered them away to the left, and they came behind the wooded cliffs, there were gloomy looks visible through the ranks, and some young men even began to murmur, and question Sir Otto, whither they were thus led, as if retreating from the field. The older knights, however, reproved them sternly. “Have you then neither good manners nor discipline?” said they. “Has not our leader issued his commands, and do you know aught better than to obey him? If so, be leaders yourselves as soon as you may, and take yourselves hence in God’s name.” Then all were again silent and obedient. Over the deep trench they all passed without hesitation; for not one horse fell, or even stumbled; and they rode along behind the wooded eminence, which now lay betwixt them and the fosse; while Sir Otto was enabled at intervals to reconnoitre the enemy through breaks among the trees, though they on their part could not observe him. The battle-cries became always louder and more furious; the air was filled with dust, and the Finland forces rushed forward as if they were gaining the upper-hand. Then Sir Otto perceived, that the time for leaping back over the trench and attacking the enemy’s wing was near at hand. This was his first attempt as a captain on the field of battle; and his heart beat quick, not with impatience only, but with doubts what course it was now best for him to pursue. “Be not too slow nor too rash,” said he to himself, repeating the advice which the prince had given him at his departure, and watching with eager eyes every movement of the enemy. At length, “Would it be too rash now?” muttered he to himself; but immediately after he added, in a loud and firm tone, “In God’s name, and to the best of my judgment, this is the right and only moment for attack, and he would be a pitiful coward who would stand considering how to do more than Providence has placed in his power.” At the same moment he drew his sword, and wielded it gleaming over his head. The whole troop at the same instant obeyed the signal, and swift as lightning began to leap again over the trench, whence, with loud and terrific shouts, they commenced their attack on the enemy in the rear-guard and flank. The worthy pupil of the old Knight of Trautwangen had chosen his time with good reflection and discretion. Both horse and foot among the pagans fled with cries of despair from the trench; and the Norman squadron, without troubling themselves with the fugitives, whom they could easily have taken prisoners, always urged their way onwards like a destroying tempest, wherever the enemy’s force still remained dense and collected together. “Down with them! down with them, brave Normans! now is your time!” cried Sir Otto, and his words were echoed in shouts of exultation by the whole squadron, who, in a short time, performed such services, that the Swedish army were enabled to advance even to the very spot on which the Normans were contending; thereafter the pagans all took to flight, and were scattered widely through the field in every direction; very many were slain, and many taken prisoners.

At last the old prince came riding across the plain; he threw himself from his horse, and heartily embraced Sir Otto, who had also dismounted. “Brave Swedes!” then he cried aloud, “behold in this youth the scion of a noble oak-tree, under whose protecting shade the whole of our land may yet one day rejoice in peace and security!”

How Sir Folko de Montfaucon returned from Spain, and
brought with him the Moorish prince Mutza.

While these events were passing in Sweden, it chanced one day, in a blooming forest of Gascony, that three young damsels were riding, followed by a train of squires and other attendants. One could well perceive, by the whole appearance of the party, that they did not intend any long journey, but were intent only on a pleasure-excursion through the shady woods, to enjoy the cool breezes of the sea, whose shores were not far distant. Now and then one could hear their voices joining in a pleasant choral song, while the birds of the forest answered them, and vied with their music.

Then said the damsel who rode in the middle to her neighbour on the right hand,—“Ah, Blanchefleur, how much happier are we now, and how changed is all for the better, since we have given over those wearisome contentions for the ring!”—“I could have beheld it always,” said the other, “as I do at this moment, suspended by the gold chain on your bosom, Gabrielle, nor ever felt disquiet or envy at the sight. Had it depended on me alone, you might have always retained it; nor would my brother’s silver-grey charger, on which you now ride, ever have become lame in consequence of such a combat.”—“Are you sorry then for the gallant grey?” answered Gabrielle; “methinks this were indeed without reason; for is it not better for him to be left thus under our kind and tender care, than to encounter all the hardships and accidents of your brother’s campaign against the Moors?”—“Nay,” said the damsel who rode upon the left, “who knows whether the tenderest care and indulgence can compensate to him for his absence from that path of danger and glory which is thus closed against him?” “How strangely you speak!” answered Gabrielle; “were it not that your words and looks are at other times so mild and gentle, I could almost think that you were a knight in disguise, and feel afraid to live with you.”—“Nay, say not so,” answered Bertha; “am I not thankful then for your kind hospitality and protection?—Are you not the betrothed bride of my cousin Otto, and for whom, in all the world, ought I to cherish more respect and love?”—Gabrielle sighed deeply at these words, and in thoughtful silence pressed the hand that Bertha had offered her.

Then, lo! there came out of the thickets a squire, well mounted and handsomely attired. His velvet doublet shone with golden embroidery; his saddle and horse’s head-gear were hung with golden bells. Perceiving the ladies, he pulled up the reins, dismounted, and, kneeling before Gabrielle, said respectfully,—“Lady, my master, the Chevalier Folko de Montfaucon, begs permission to present himself before you, also to introduce here a noble captive, whom he has brought with him from Spain.”—A beautiful blush came over the damsel’s cheeks as she answered, waving her hand,—“Good squire, bid your master and his guest, in my name, heartily welcome. Tell them, moreover, that I am thankful for this bright weather, inasmuch as it has invited me abroad; and I am thus far on my way to meet them.”—Then the squire, after a courteous salutation, remounted his horse, and disappeared among the thickets of the forest.

“Who can this guest be whom your brother is thus bringing to visit us?” said Gabrielle, turning to Blanchefleur.—“If, perchance, it were a minstrel,”—said the latter,—“but, no,” added she, “that were impossible;” and, with deep blushes, and eyes dim with tears, she looked down on the blue flowers,—emblems of hope and constancy, with which the turf was thickly interwoven.

In a few moments the blue and gold armour of Sir Folko was seen gleaming through the woods, and, mounted on a light-chesnut horse with a black mane, which he had rode since his grey steed was wounded, he galloped forward. On his approach he made a respectful salutation,—then sprang from the saddle,—threw his lance to the attendant squire, from whom in exchange he received his favourite falcon, which perched on his hand, and thereafter gayly and courteously he came to meet the three noble ladies. As for the stranger who accompanied Sir Folko, he was in truth no minstrel, but a tall and graceful warrior, dressed magnificently in rich embroidered garments of the Moorish fashion, with a silk gauze turban on his head, which was held together by a rich diamond brooch, and surmounted by a large plume of grey feathers.

“Noble lady,” said Sir Folko to Gabrielle, “allow me thus to present to you Prince Mutza, the best and bravest of all the Moorish knights with whom we encountered on the plains of Grenada.”

The prince bowed to Gabrielle and the other ladies with knightly grace and courtesy; but then said, somewhat discontentedly, “If I were such a distinguished champion as the chevalier is pleased to describe me, methinks he could not have spoken as he has now done. In the presence of three ladies, who are indeed the most beautiful that my eyes ever beheld, he has wholly forgotten to announce, that I am brought hither as his prisoner; but, in truth, there is no reason why he should boast of such a victory. Know then, fairest of damsels, that were not the Prince Mutza one of the least worthy and least powerful of Moorish knights, he never would have experienced the mingled pain and pleasure of this meeting. As a prisoner, he now begs that you will with your fair hands take from him those arms which the generosity of his conqueror has too long left in his possession.”

With these words, he had loosened from the silver chains, by which it hung at his waist-belt, his crooked sabre, ornamented with a golden hilt, and studded with diamonds. Kneeling respectfully, he now offered it to Gabrielle, who took it from his hands; but, at the same time, made a movement, as if she wished to dismount from her silver-grey charger; whereupon he started up, and lifted her gracefully from her saddle to the ground. Then the damsel said to him, “Prince, you have condescended for once to become the servant of Gabrielle de Portamour. But, methinks, it were unfitting that a damsel of noble birth should have a squire who wears not a sword for her protection.” With these words, she again hung the sabre at his side, allowed him to lift her on horseback; and under his escort and that of Sir Folko, who, meanwhile, had spoken kindly with his sister and the Lady Bertha, she set out on her way home to the castle.

On a high balcony, illumined by the last rays of the setting sun reflected from the wide ocean, behold, the three ladies were now seated, along with the knights and the Moorish prince, enjoying the sweet fragrance of the flowers, that were steeped in the dews of evening, and passing the time with songs and harp-music, or in telling pleasant stories. Sir Folko and his Moorish captive, even as they had before contended on the bloody field, now vied no less with each other, in these courteous arts by which noble ladies are best to be entertained, and if the wreath of victory had before hung for a long space doubtfully betwixt them, so it was yet more difficult to say which of the two was the more accomplished and polite. Gabrielle, on whom the prince continued to bestow all his attention, contrived by many ingenious devices to withdraw herself from the fixed gaze which he so often directed towards her, and seemed more disposed to speak kindly and confidentially with the Knight of Montfaucon. Blanchefleur, who had so long been wont to hang down her head in sadness and deep thought, now became, in the presence of her dearly-beloved and honoured brother, so cheerful, and in beauty so resplendent, that to the white rose, her former emblem, she could scarcely afford any fitting comparison. Only the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried sat lost in deep, silent, and, it might have been said, stern reflection; nor could the flattery of Sir Folko or the prince, nor the kind raillery of Gabrielle, induce her on this evening to tell one romantic story, or to play one note upon the harp. At last she became almost forgotten among them, or looked on merely, without being spoken to; so that she seemed in the society of these four mirthful companions more like a beautiful statue than a living being.

After a while, and when the stars were already bright in heaven, the Moorish prince took up a guitar, and awakening its notes with a skilful hand, he sang thereto some stanzas, describing how he had been taken prisoner; and how, in his captivity, his anger at his own defeat had rendered it painful and intolerable to look on the happiness of others. Now, however, all was changed; and since he had beheld the matchless beauty of Gabrielle, his only grief was to reflect that he was here but as a transitory guest, and must soon take his departure; so that he would perhaps never behold that enchantress again. Hereupon, Sir Folko took another guitarre from the hands of the Lady Blanchefleur, and sang an answer to the Moorish champion, wishing, forsooth, that the morning might never dawn on them; but that the present hour,—the placid calm evening, with its bright stars and fragrant air, might be prolonged, and they might sit for ever as they were at that moment; but, alas! as this might not be, as their beautiful hostess, whose charms attracted them to stay, would of course command them to depart; so, like Darius and Alexander, the far-famed heroes of ancient times, they would go hence quietly, and in friendship with each other.

“Nay,” said Gabrielle smiling, “if you desire that the words of your song should be taken in earnest, then you must know that I would willingly keep Darius here till his friend returns, trusting that Alexander, otherwise the Knight of Montfaucon, will also remain for at least one week in the society of his amiable sister.”

“Good Heaven!” said Sir Folko, bowing gracefully to Gabrielle, “what a week of happiness have you now offered to me! And what a month to the Moorish prince! For in less time than a month it is impossible that I can return out of Normandy, whither I am now called by my duties as a baron and bannerett of the kingdom. Prince,” added he, turning to the Moor, “you are now the prisoner of this lady; but remember, that I depend no less on your adherence to the conditions which were made betwixt us when you came hither, not merely as a prisoner but a hostage.”

The prince now seated himself at Gabrielle’s feet, saying, “This is the right place for a humble captive. But one word I must yet speak with you, Knight of Montfaucon:—you have laid on my shoulders the chains of an enchantress; and this is against the conditions of our contract. Know you not, that by this means you place it in my power to retract my word of honour, and to make my escape as soon as I am able?”

“Let the enchantress look to that,” answered Sir Folko; “but if the place you have now chosen be that of a prisoner, then let others boast of their freedom. I for one would rather be the captive.” Hereupon he also took his place on the ground beside Gabrielle; and Blanchefleur sang to her guitarre a sportive ballad, in which she likened her beautiful hostess to a fairy queen; and the two warriors beside her to a lion and an eagle, between whom she was to decide who should wear the palm of victory. Blanchefleur was but in jest, and thought of her music only, not of the words that she had sung; yet what she had said failed not to make a deep impression on her hearers. The lion and the eagle looked up anxiously, and with watchful eyes for the judgment to be pronounced on them; while the fairy queen (as she had been named by Blanchefleur) sat between them, blushing and confused, till at last a green branch, which she happened to hold in her right hand, inclined itself, as if drawn by magnetic attraction, towards the head of the Chevalier de Montfaucon. At that moment the Lady Bertha had taken up a guitarre, and for the first time began to join in the music of that evening; but in tones so mournful and unexpected, that she soon put to flight the pleasant dreams with which her companions had entertained themselves. Every one looked on her with as much astonishment as if a statue or a portrait had begun to speak. In her melancholy chaunt, she sang only of her cousin Sir Otto of Trautwangen. “Where,” said she, “is now the young knight, with his black and silver mail, and his light-brown charger? He is, alas! vanished from our sight; his light-brown steed has galloped away, and his good battle-sword is broken.” Thereafter she sang two stanzas, addressed to Gabrielle as the betrothed bride of her cousin Sir Otto, which peradventure the damsel would rather not have heard; but, at length, Sir Folko started up suddenly, so that his armour rang and rattled. In all haste he fastened on his sword and sash, and bade his beautiful hostess farewell. “On my return,” said he, “I shall blow my hunting-horn for a signal, and the Moorish prince will then join me in the neighbouring forest.” Gabrielle did not venture to make any objection, though perchance, had it not been for the dusk of the evening, tears might have been seen both in her eyes and those of Sir Folko. The knight embraced his sister Blanchefleur with melancholy emotion, and whispered softly to Bertha as he passed her bye, “Thanks, noble Lady, for your kind and virtuous counsel!” He would not listen when the Moorish prince, now confounded by his behaviour, inquired why he departed so suddenly, and added thereto, half as it seemed in earnest, half in jest, that he now looked on the conditions of his captivity as being wholly broken. The noble Chevalier de Montfaucon did not stay to answer him, but ran hastily down stairs from the balcony into the court; whence, in a few minutes more, they saw him come forth followed by his train, and ride rapidly away towards the forest. Blanchefleur marked the gleam of the starlight reflected on his golden helmet as he waved it for a last adieu.

How the Lady Gabrielle, and the Lady Blanchefleur, were
carried away by the Moorish Prince.

Some weeks had now past since the departure of Sir Folko, when one evening the three ladies were walking along the sea-shore, discoursing together, and enjoying the cool breezes from the water. “Methinks, Blanchefleur,” said Bertha, “your brother has not done well to leave the Moorish prince here alone with us in the castle, especially as the stranger continues to maintain that he is no longer bound by the conditions on which he came. You know he speaks in jest; but I own, that I distrust him mightily, and feel a certain horror, which I cannot well describe, at his presence.” “There we listen again to the grave German damsel,” said Gabrielle, “so precise, and so demurely timid! There are few knights, this you must at least confess, who surpass, or even equal, this noble Mutza in courtesy of manners, princely demeanour, or ingenious and witty discourse. Besides, I have seldom seen any man so handsome, and, methinks, he is now by far the most brilliant ornament of our lonely castle.”

“Handsome!” replied Bertha, slowly and reflectingly; “are you both of that mind? When I calmly reflect on the matter, I cannot indeed say that you are in the wrong; though I, for my own part, should never have thought so. Mark you, he is tall indeed, slender, has fine eyes, a high forehead, and majestic gait. Moreover, when he dances the toca, with his turban loose and fluttering about him, it is doubtless a pleasure to look upon him, and he is like what we read of in old fables, starting into real life before us; but, strange as you may think my fancies, when smiling, as if in scorn and triumph, he opens his lips, and shews his long white teeth, I feel almost as if I had beside me a half-tamed tiger! The tiger too is said to be a beautiful creature,—only for my part I wish not for any such companion!”

“And what says Blanchefleur to all this?” said Gabrielle. Whereupon that beautiful damsel started as if awoke from a dream, and said,—“I know not certainly who is approaching us; but, even now, I heard again the same pleasant sounds from the rocks on the sea-shore!” Both her companions laughed at perceiving how her thoughts wandered from the subjects on which they had spoken; but, ere long, they were themselves hindered from continuing their discourse; for they heard in truth a soft sound of music, which came from the direction to which Blanchefleur had pointed across the water. They thought they could even distinguish words expressing the deep ardent longing of a lover separated from his mistress, wishing for wings that he might be borne across the seas towards her, and then ending with notes of melancholy and despair, because this was impossible! The tones melted away, and Blanchefleur said, with tears in her eyes, “Thus I often hear him sing. Even by moonlight, at dead of night, I have heard his voice coming to me through the flowers and vine-leaves at my window. Am I right, dearest sister? Can it be the voice of Aleard?”

There was no time to answer; for, lo! among the trees before them, were now visible, tall figures of men, strangely attired, and with long beards, who stood still, and spoke vehemently, pointing all the while to the three ladies, as if these were the subjects of their conversation. The damsels were terrified, and wished to return home; but, on looking round, they perceived, on the top of a hill, more of the same figures, precisely in the direction of their homeward path. Some of these frightful men on the hill immediately rushed down with supernatural rapidity, and, as if to aid the plans of those who were still among the trees, took their stations on the other side; so that all attempt at escape would now have been utterly vain. Then they approached with an air of the greatest respect, with their hands crossed over their breasts, and their heads declined almost to the ground; though, as their disordered locks hung over their features, their appearance was thus rendered more hideous than ever. At last, behold! Prince Mutza stepped forward from among them, now dressed in more than usual magnificence, gleaming with gold and jewels, and followed by two youths, also in the Arabian garb, and nearly as splendid in appearance as the prince. “Do not blame me,” said he, bowing to Gabrielle, “if I now say that I must go from hence; nor tremble when I add, that you must bear me company! With us you will enjoy a life of magnificence and pleasure; and, for my support in this adventure, I have sent for these two handsome knights, assuring them, that they would here find ladies even more beautiful than the Houris of Mahomet. Have I kept my word?” added he, looking to his companions, one of whom now kneeled down before Blanchefleur, who, pale with terror, clung to the arm of Gabrielle; while the other, in like manner, paid his court to Bertha, who scornfully turned from him, and hastily ran up to the remains of an aged stone altar, on which there yet stood an old moss-grown crucifix. It was a pleasure to look upon her, and mark how she held the cross firmly with her left arm, while with the right, she made signs to the young Arab to be gone, and gazed thoughtfully up to the deep azure vault of heaven.

Meanwhile, Gabrielle had again recovered her recollection and power of speech, and in vehement tones expressed her indignation at the Prince Mutza; inasmuch as he had insulted the confidence reposed in him by his noble host, and also broken his own word of honour, solemnly pledged, when he came thither as a hostage and a prisoner. “As to my word of honour, pledged to the Chevalier de Montfaucon,” answered the Moor, “I have twice in his own presence declared that I was no longer bound by any such contract; and if your dazzling beauty, noble lady, has since then completely blinded me and led me astray, who shall question me on the consequences? I must act, in the first place, according to my own sense of justice; and in the second, according as your irresistible charms compel me to do.” With these words, he took Gabrielle in his arms; and, notwithstanding her loud cries for help, bore her down to the sea-shore, where a boat was already prepared by his people. Blanchefleur, during this adventure, had sunk into complete forgetfulness of all that had passed; for she had fainted; and the young Arab, who had knelt before her, took her in his arms, and followed his prince and leader. However, when the rest of the Moorish party, now become more than ever bold and determined, stept up to the Lady Bertha, she called out in a loud severe tone, “I take God and man, heaven and earth to witness, that here, on this day, a deed of violence, a deed of shameful wickedness and dishonour, is committed! Whether a miracle shall be wrought to check or hinder its achievement I know not yet. But beware, cowards as you are, thus triumphing over the defenceless; for such a miracle may come to pass, when you think yourselves most secure and independent. I say this to you with confidence, that whoever dares to tear me from the sacred place on which I now stand, to your pirate-ship, will draw down the wrath of Heaven upon his own head.” The Moorish knight looked on her as she stood clinging to the cross, illumined by the ruby light of the setting sun, and recoiled as if terrified from her reproaches. His soldiers, too, without saying a word, retreated to the shore; and when Bertha once more made him a sign, with her uplifted right arm, he exclaimed,—“She is more like a ghost than a mortal woman!” So he left her with precipitation, and fled to the boat, which immediately afterwards began to ply its oars and depart from the coast.

Still the enthusiastic damsel had retained her place on the altar, when a youth, in the dress of a minstrel, with features deadly pale, and his hair dishevelled, came running along the sea-shore towards her. “In God’s name!” cried he, “tell me, I beseech you, have the Moors made a captive of Blanchefleur?” And scarcely had she answered “Yes,” when, in the hurried tone of distraction, he addressed her, “Send then a messenger with a fleet horse to her brother in Normandy! I must find means to follow the Moors! Remember this, that not a moment must be lost!” Thereupon he ran away as quickly as he had come; and not till after he had vanished from her sight did the Lady Bertha remember that it was the minstrel, Aleard, with whom she had then spoken.

Now the summer had quite past away, and the autumnal winds began to howl and rage among the wild mountains of the north, though the weather in Gascony had been yet mild and beautiful. On the very same evening when his bride had been carried away by the Moorish prince, Sir Otto von Trautwangen had dismounted from his light-brown charger, and taken his place in a narrow ravine of the mountains, in order to cut off the approach of the Pagans by that passage; for their numbers had now multiplied: they attacked the Christian army by means of ambuscades from all sides; so that they were scarcely able to maintain the ground which they had before won. Seeing the strange position which the young Knight of Trautwangen had chosen, the Swedish prince, who commanded the army, called out to him, demanding to know what was his intention, and wherefore he had allowed himself to be left almost alone? To which Sir Otto replied, “That the pass was too narrow to admit of his being attacked by more than one at a time; and whosoever of the enemy ventured in that manner to approach him would not fail to meet with his match.” In truth, he stood there like a supernatural and guardian-spirit; the graceful youth, with his light hair, and glowing cheeks, contrasting strangely with the grim-visaged dwarfish Finlanders by whom he was now assailed, and of whom with his single arm he had cut down such numbers, that the dead bodies lay like a bulwark before him, which seemed gradually to repulse and terrify his new adversaries. At length, amid the crowd, was descried the approach of some one with armour, which flashed like lightning in the sun’s rays. It was a Pagan hero of Swedish birth, with a high helmet, adorned with horse-hair instead of feathers, on his head, and who now came with his bright weapons clashing and ringing against the Knight of Trautwangen. First, his javelin flew singing through the air over the youth’s head, and in a moment after his sword-strokes fell thick as hail on the black eagle’s crest; by the sight of which he seemed specially enraged. “Full well do I know thee, with thy black and silver helmet!” cried the Swede, “and on thy head shall I now revenge my brother’s death, who fell by thy sword on the hill-top in the forest. By thy javelin he was struck, and thrown lifeless from his horse; but now, by the power of Odin and the sword of Swerker, thou shalt pay blood for blood.” The sword of Swerker did indeed inflict heavy blows, but that of Sir Otto proved yet more powerful; and at length the Swede having received, like his brother, a frightful wound on the forehead, began to totter in such manner, that the Knight of Trautwangen seized him by the horse-hair of his helmet, dragged him over the dead bodies, then hurled him away backwards to his own soldiers, saying, “Take this man; let him be carried to the tents in safety, and his wounds dressed. In due time I shall demand him of you.”

Thereupon the Pagans recoiled some paces, and murmured among themselves, not being able to understand the directions that Sir Otto had then given. Only some inarticulate words fell on the knight’s ear, who now, as if in mockery, seized the javelin which had been thrown at him by the Swede, and hurled it at random among the Finlanders who thus spoke together. Two of them fell to the ground bleeding, and severely wounded, while, with a wild howl, the rest flew asunder; after which they dispersed themselves into concealed thickets of the mountain, and shot numberless arrows from a distance. But, trusting to his well-proved and almost impregnable armour, he stood unmoved, holding up his shield in the narrow pass, so as to defend, as well as he could, the few soldiers of his own troop who were behind him, and whose coats-of-mail were not so heavy. The arrows continued to fall thicker and thicker, but did him no injury; so that, as if for pastime, he began to take up these weapons and throw them about. “Pitiful fighting!” said he; “it serves to keep us idle, and helps our assailants not a jot!”

Then he heard a rustling close beside him in the thickets; and, lo! from a narrow passage, like a cave in the rocks, which hitherto he had not observed, he saw the features of a pagan Finlander, grinning with rage, and preparing to assault him. Now then he proved the worth of the sword which had been made for him by Asmandur; for he struck with it so irresistibly, that the pagan’s head was cleft into two; but, as if some demon of the mountains had assisted the adverse party, by opening to them the subterraneous passages among the cliffs, this man was followed by numberless others, who came howling and outrageous at his defeat.

The Knight of Trautwangen and his small band of Swedish supporters (for his Normans were fighting on horseback on the plain beneath,) now defended themselves valiantly, both against the attacks that were made from the rocky cave, and those from the narrow foot-path. But their number was already lessened by the departure of those to whom Sir Otto had given in charge the wounded man; and it was easy to perceive, both by the increasing force of the enemy, and the weariness of the hitherto victorious Christians, that the moment drew near when the latter would be over-matched and conquered. It happened at last, that one of their pagan adversaries stretched out a long pole, with a banner, on which there was painted a frightful figure of a dragon, or some such monster, representing one of their idols. “Onwards, onwards!” cried he, “brave Finlanders! Now you behold, indeed, that the gods are with you, and are leading you on to victory!” The mob accordingly came forwards with loud shouts of rejoicing, and anticipated triumph; but Sir Otto, throwing back his shield over his left shoulder, seized his sword with both hands, and with the raging energy of despair, cut his way towards this hateful banner. Where-ever his blows now fell they inflicted deadly wounds. In a few moments he grappled with the hideous standard, and tore it with giant-strength from the bearer’s hands,—then threw it with vehemence down the rocky cliffs, calling aloud, “Lo! your gods are fallen into the abyss to which they properly belong! Try, madmen as you are, what you can do alone, and without their assistance!” For a moment the pagans gazed at him with surprise and terror; but soon afterwards their howls of wrath and revenge became wilder and wilder, and their advance more determined. Sir Otto then summoned up his whole strength, and, according to the custom of the Normans, which he had now fully learned, he began to sing furiously a battle-song, in the chorus of which he was joined by all his adherents; and, as if keeping time to the measure of the ballad, they cut and thrust, right and left, with tenfold vehemence and energy, though most of them were now wounded and covered with blood, while their visages were deadly pale from the fatigue of this long battle.

Suddenly there arose a noise like thunder behind the Finlanders, or rather as of the clashing of many iron shields; and a joyful chorus of voices was heard, answering the last stanza of the ballad, which Sir Otto had just now begun. In a few moments he beheld the golden vulture’s wings of Sir Arinbiorn, rising over the wood. Soon after he beheld the sea-monarch himself, with his great shield, gleaming like a full moon, and the whole band of gigantic Normans, clad in their heavy brazen cuirasses. Anon a shower of javelins was hurled forth against the pagan hordes, who broke asunder, and fled howling in all directions. “Now is the time!” cried the troops from the plain beneath; “cut them down, Swedes!” And “cut them down, grant no quarter!” was repeated by Sir Otto’s band, who forgot all their weariness and wounds, and ran furiously with their drawn swords, up hill and down hill, after their flying enemies.

Evening had now settled in deep shades in the valleys, the wind howled more wildly, and the clouds hung low on the heath, when Sir Otto stood alone in a dark thicket of the forest. Thus far he had been led on by the chase of his enemies; but now there was visible neither friend nor foe, and the wearied victor sank down to rest on the withered leaves with which the ground was thickly strewn. After a short time he again raised himself and looked round, though without observing any known object by which he might guide himself on his way homewards. Hereupon he ascended a rising ground that lay before him, in hopes that from its summit he might see farther; but there the woods were even thicker than below; and, instead of seeing over the beech-woods the light of the evening sky, he began to perceive the dark pointed tops of a forest of pine-trees, stretching, as if threatening, and in wrath, their pointed foliage towards him. The fir-trees were indeed wedged together like an impenetrable wall before him. “Through such a thicket,” said the knight to himself, “scarce even a bird could find its way;” and at the same moment it occurred to his remembrance, that these words were not his own, but that he only repeated what he had sometime heard from another. He began to reflect thereon, but was interrupted by the loud howling of a wolf; the voice sounded more like that of melancholy lamentation than anger; and when he approached nearer, he perceived, directly on the border where the pine-trees joined to the beech-wood, a mound of turf like a grave, whereon was stretched a white she-wolf, who was uttering those horrid cries. Observing him, however, she started up, prepared to attack him, raised herself on her hinder-legs, and grinned horribly. Otto lifted his javelin to defend himself, when, lo! there came down hill, from another direction, an old man dressed in long garments, with a great cross instead of a staff in his hand; whereupon the wolf seemed alarmed, and fled hastily into the coverts of the fir-wood. Now Sir Otto remembered well the history of the hermit and his son, which had been told to himself and Theobaldo by Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried, when they met on the blooming banks of the Mayne. He said, as if half-communing with his own spirit, half-questioning the old man, “We are indeed on the Finland frontiers; and is this perchance the grave of the brave young hermit?” “Ay,” said the old man, “it is indeed the grave of my unfortunate son; and as I now wish to say my usual prayers for his soul’s weal, it were, to say the truth, better for me, if I were left alone to this mournful duty. Yet, noble sir, I would not that you should go forward from hence into the Finland forest. At such an hour, it might not be safe even for the best and bravest of knights to be there.” Sir Otto silently followed the hermit’s directions, still meditating on the story told by Sir Heerdegen, which had then sounded so strange, that he could scarcely believe it; and yet now he had himself been an eye-witness of its truth. He bent his course down hill, through the beech-woods, and stept onwards the more willingly, because he heard from below the sounds of war-horns and trumpets, which, as he believed, were those of his own friends and comrades.

On his arrival in the valley, however, all there was silent and motionless, even as he had left it to ascend the mountain; and the shades of night had now deepened over the desolate landscape. Otto could not help doubting whether his own senses had not deceived him, when he thought that he heard the sounds of martial music in this valley, which was now silent as the grave. But again there arose, from a direction which he guessed to be that of the north, the same sounds, and, as it seemed, from the same instruments which he had before heard. Striving more and more to recollect himself, and always gazing about him, Sir Otto at last perceived that he must turn back his head and look up into the air, in order to learn the origin of these sounds; for, behold! the mysterious bands were floating above him like clouds through the dark-blue evening sky! The story of the wild army of Rodenstein, which he had brought with him from Germany, now came forcibly on his remembrance. He considered with himself, whether this also were not some spectral delusion; yet the sounds were repeated, solemn and mournful indeed, but neither wild, nor such as could be listened to as the work of evil spirits, like those of the Odenwald. On the contrary, the tones were rather sweet and attractive.

Suddenly a warrior, in heavy armour, came rattling forth from the coverts of the woody cliffs. Sir Otto, being quite uncertain whether the soldier who came thus before him was friend or foe, placed himself accordingly in an attitude of defence; while the stranger, without bestowing on him any notice whatever, hastily passed him by. But the single fleeting glance, which Sir Otto had of his countenance, utterly deprived him of all strength, and paralyzed his limbs, making the blood run cold with horror, even to his very heart. It was, in truth, his own features that he then beheld,—his own blooming youthful countenance, though beneath an unwonted helmet; and the lineaments were so clearly revealed to him by the moonlight, which just then began to break forth, that it seemed almost as if he saw his own figure reflected in a mirror. “It is not true, this cannot be possible!” said the Knight of Trautwangen, after a long pause of deep silence. “Here I stand firm, sound both in body and spirit, and trusting in the protection of Heaven. How is it possible then that I should be thus horribly divided, and gliding along like a ghost through those impassable cliffs? Or from the fatigue of yesterday’s combat have I become insane? Or has some demon of the Finland mountains determined then, for his special diversion, to mislead and torment me? I ought indeed to have run up to him, to have thrown back my visor, and looked him full in the face. It was but my closed helmet that gave him such courage; for, had our eyes met together, he durst not any longer have attempted such deception.” He paused; for hereupon it seemed as if he heard a mild female voice calling to him from the lofty cliffs, “Otto, Otto! be not so wild of mood! Beware of those leaps from rock to rock!” He heard his own name; yet the words could not have been addressed to himself; and his blood felt again as if frozen in every vein. At length he regained his wonted courage, stood up erect, and addressed himself to a moss-grown half-ruined watch-tower, which stood on one of the cliffs above, and whence the female voice had proceeded: “I am indeed Otto von Trautwangen, and now stand firm in my place, without dreaming of such mad tricks, as that of leaping from rock to rock. As for the fellow who now does so, Heaven only knows who or what he is. If the caitiff dares to say, however, that he is the Knight of Trautwangen, he lies in his throat; for I alone may bear that name.” The moonlight now shone upon the watch-tower, and as Sir Otto pronounced these words, he saw a female figure in white robes retiring from a bow-window; but, at the same moment, his mysterious double-goer appeared with frightful accuracy of resemblance, on a sharp rocky cliff, almost close to the tower, and called aloud, while his form was again fully revealed by the moonlight, “What is it that fellow would have there in the valley? Let him be called Otto von Trautwangen as long as he will for aught that I care; but let him beware that I do not fall on him head and shoulders; for here, methinks, I have not too much ground to stand upon. My name, however, is Ottur, and the wise-woman in the watch-tower called to me;—one should hear rightly what has been said before he takes part in a conversation.—Ottur was the name called aloud, not Otto; and if the babbler there in the valley dares again to open his mouth without being summoned, I shall make free to break his head in such manner that he will never speak again.” “Come down then, if thou hast courage to venture a combat,” said Sir Otto, at the same time throwing open his visor; whereupon his double-goer became deadly pale, and fell back as if fainting with terror, rattling and crashing from the high precipice.

But now, hark! the notes of the sea-monarch’s war-horn were sounding through the valley; ere long his vulture’s wings began to emerge above the woods; and his golden shield to gleam through the thickets. Otto returned the signal by striking with his sword-hilt against his clanging targe, and ere long Sir Arinbiorn, with a shout of exultation, ran to embrace the youth of whom he had been long in search. “The Swedish general,” said he, “has been inquiring for you as anxiously as if you were his only son, and has sent out above an hundred of the noblest knights to trace out whither you had gone. How anxiously I have played my part among them, Heaven knows; and so for my reward it has fallen to my lot to be your discoverer. A thousand times welcome to my heart, thou noble scion of the northern tree, who art now loaded with triumphs and honours, even as a branch is loaded with blossoms in spring-tide. We have hunted them, young hero, even as if they had been roe, deer, or hares of the forest; for many a long year they will have cause to remember the Swedish frontier; and even in their own pine-tree forests we shall attack them as soon as the autumn and winter have past over. Do you know then already, that idolatrous banner which you seized, and threw down the precipice, was brought up again by one of your own troop? Our Finland captives howled aloud when they beheld it, and cried that their gods had forsaken them. And has any one told you, that the Swedish youth of whom you made a prisoner was the bold Swerker,—the very hope and support of the pagan army? In truth, I feel that my words are confused; for I am so overjoyed and triumphant, to have you again with us.—But what means all this? Why do you stand silent as if lost in your own dreams, and rooted to one spot? What has happened to you, young hero? Perhaps a painful wound——.” “Nay, nay,” answered Sir Otto, “I am well, and free from all wound and bruises; but, to confess the truth, the horrid and supernatural adventures of this valley——.” “Ay, truly,” answered Sir Arinbiorn; “our northern realms are indeed full of such wonders; they are twined, as if in a mysterious web, with the raging waves of our northern seas and the gleams of our northern lights; so that it were no wonder if even the most heroic heart, who comes hither for the first time, should begin to beat rather faster than usual.” “Hear then, for example,” said Sir Otto, pointing upwards to the dusky blue vault of heaven; whence again was audible the same music, and again the same troops, in their dazzling white garments, seemed to pass vehemently along. “Is this all that has disturbed you?” answered the sea-monarch: “it is nothing more, in truth, than the flocks of snow-white swans, (whose voices are indeed like clarionets and trumpets,) which in the autumn pass out of our northern climes to seek the warmer regions of the south. From this you may freely draw diversion and pleasure, without any evil mixture of awe or apprehension. Mark now, how pleasant are their voices, and how their numbers gleam snow-white in the moonbeams!” But as Sir Otto’s looks, according to the directions of his friend, followed their flight through the blue sky, his eyes happened to light for a moment on the old moss-grown watch-tower, when in a moment his whole mood of mind was changed, and his looks must have betrayed his emotion; for Sir Arinbiorn said, “Now indeed, Sir Otto, I believe that you may have met with somewhat in this valley which might appal the stoutest heart; for there stands the mysterious tower of which I spoke with you on our sea-voyage; and there, in its upper chambers, I beheld the form and features of Blanchefleur in the mirror.”—“Shall we go thither then?” said Sir Otto; “shall we at once resolve to tear the veil from those mysteries which terrify and perplex us? Methinks the doubtful shroud itself may be more frightful than all which it conceals.” Sir Arinbiorn reflected for a moment, then answered, “Night and darkness, my brave friend, are powerful auxiliaries of the foes whom you would now combat. At this hour, therefore, it were better that we should not go to the watch-tower. Yet, after all, if you are resolved on the undertaking——.” He paused, and they were both silent. In Otto’s mind there arose all sorts of strange phantasms. Especially it seemed to him, as if perchance, when they had entered that mysterious mansion, his horrible double-goer might be found sitting at the end of a long table, and reading in a book diabolical and cabalistic characters. The sea-monarch perhaps observed his friend’s apprehensions, and said, “We have besides a long way to go before we can reach our camp.” Thereupon both knights began to walk hastily down the steep hill, and oftentimes Sir Arinbiorn blew loudly warning notes on his great battle-horn. This he did, according to his own words, in order that the other knights, who were also in search of Sir Otto, might know that he had succeeded; or, it might be rather, that by such cheering music he wished to banish from his own and his friend’s heart the fearful phantasms of that mysterious valley.

The morning-star was gleaming brightly in the blue sky, when they perceived the numerous fires of the camp, now situated in a wide plain at the base of the frontier-mountains. At the sound of the sea-monarch’s signal-horn, the Norman horsemen, who were stationed at the outskirts, were immediately roused, and hastened forward to return the well-known salutation. Leaping, as if with one accord, into the saddle, they clapped spurs to their horses, and came to meet their brave leader; but, above all, the light-brown charger was not to be held neither by knight nor groom; he came into the van, curvetting and caprioling, till he had reached his master, and laid his head caressingly on his shoulder, neighing aloud as the horsemen and other soldiers gradually assembled round them.

It was a clear and fresh autumnal morning, when the whole army were drawn up on the plain, with their armour and weapons brightly burnished. The captains rode up and down the ranks, dealing out their applause and thanks for the deeds of the preceding day; the war-horns also were sounded in triumph for the victory.

There was one, however, among the chiefs there assembled, whose heart seemed yet impenetrable to the joy that prevailed; and this was Sir Otto von Trautwangen. Still, though it was now bright morning, and all were active and cheerful around him, he could not help recollecting the horrible double-goer whom he had beheld on the preceding night; and though such phantasms might have been overcome by the light of day, and the pleasant society of his comrades, yet he involuntarily persisted in recalling to his own mind those impressions which he ought to have banished. These were to him like a basilisk, or some other frightful sight, which one abhors, yet cannot forbear to look upon. Even with the mind’s eye, courteous reader, you must now and then have contemplated spectral objects such as that which we have here described. But in such cases we beseech you to imitate the example of the Knight of Trautwangen. He could not avoid always thinking on his abominable double; but at last he encountered him as a valiant knight ought ever to do. He looked him in the face with the frown of defiance, till at last it seemed as if the vile spectre had vanished, and Sir Otto became as cheerful and free-hearted as he had been heretofore.

At length the Swedish prince, who commanded the army, came riding along the ranks. He saluted his soldiers with great courtesy; and, arriving at the top of a little eminence before the centre of his army, brandished his spear, that gleamed like a meteor in the red light of the morning, and struck therewith three times on his shield so powerfully, that the mountains repeated the sound in thundering reverberation. Thereupon all the war-horns throughout the army were sounded in token of rejoicing, and the squadrons, both horse and foot, advanced towards their commander, till they had formed a narrow half-circle round the height on which he had taken his station. When the captains galloped forward, and whilst they were receiving their orders, the young Sir Kolbein drew up to the Knight of Trautwangen, and said,—“Noble sir, in the sea-monarch’s squadron I had the honour yesterday of playing my part. Will you for the future vouchsafe to me some share of your friendship and good opinion?”—Sir Otto took his hand accordingly, and pressed it with fervour; but he had not time to return any other answer, for the old Swedish prince now raised his voice.

His tones were deep, clear, and powerful, so that he was heard plainly by every one throughout the army. The old hero returned thanks, in the name of his native land and its holy religion, to all his brave soldiers; then directed his attention in particular to the circle of officers around him, where his eyes were in the first place fixed upon Sir Arinbiorn. “Knight of the sea,” said he, “by your timely coming the battle was decided in our favour. Your stratagem of sailing round the country, landing quickly and unobserved, and then joining us at the proper moment,—all this was managed in such a manner, that only a great and experienced general could have succeeded therein. But then, as for the brave young eagle, which, with victorious beak, so long maintained for us the dangerous pass on our left wing, until your vulture’s wings appeared in our defence, him too we know full well, and he must not be forgotten. Thanks then, dear son,” added he, giving his hand to the Knight of Trautwangen. “Even at our first meeting, I expected from you all that prudence and valour which you have since so nobly proved.” Then he turned round to a squire who stood near, took from him the banner which Sir Otto had forced from the pagans, and gave it to the knight, saying,—“That was indeed already won by your own unassisted arm; but, in remembrance of the love and affection which all true-hearted Swedes bear towards you, we have inscribed a few words thereon; and so, if it be your pleasure, let it be preserved by you, and your children and grandchildren, in your father’s ancestral halls.” Otto now read on a golden scroll, which was wound round the stem of the banner, a long inscription, wherein his own name and valiant deeds were amply commemorated, and exclaimed, “Thanks, noble prince and valiant commander!” while, at the same time, he looked humbly on the ground, and could not bring out another word. But the old hero, smiling kindly on his embarrassment, began to speak as follows:—“My noble comrades and brave champions, there is yet one important and serious question which we have to answer. Our enemies have retreated, it is true, and taken shelter behind their own frontiers; our husbandmen have sown the seeds of their future harvest, and wait with confidence to reap the fruits at the fitting time. That their hopes may not be disappointed, that the winter may pass over their heads in peace, seems, according to the will of Providence, to depend on us. For this purpose it is requisite that some of our bands should, through the cold months of winter, remain here to guard the passes of the mountains. It is true, that these regions are haunted by spectres and demons; at least so the people say; and, moreover, the winter cold, as we all know, is very bitter and hard to withstand. However, methinks a true hero of the north would for once gladly contend with such evils, and look on them as but a pastime. Say then, who is there among you that is most inclined to this duty?”

Hereupon not a word was for some time clearly heard. The officers reflected and communed with each other, and it was easy to perceive that though many a one was willing to undertake the task, yet questions and doubts occurred to him which it was not easy to solve. Meanwhile Sir Otto of Trautwangen and the sea-monarch looked at each other, and, as if inspired at one moment by the same emotion, both presented themselves before the royal commander. “We would gladly try our fortune through the winter in the mountains,” said they; “yet if the result should be different from that which you desire, at least you may be assured that our good intentions and best endeavours were not wanting.” Thereupon the old prince with great joy accepted their offer, and invited them with all the other chiefs to the banquet. Farther, it was agreed that the two champions, the sea-monarch and the knight, this very day should proceed towards the mountains; for this was according to their own earnest request. They failed not to remember, how much in such undertakings depends on gaining possession of this or that advantageous position, before the enemy has had time to rally after a repulse.

While the troops, all shouting and rejoicing, drew again into the camp, the Knight of Trautwangen said to the sea-monarch, “How thankful am I to Heaven that I am thus again sent to the land of those mysteries wherewith I have already so often contended; for otherwise they would evermore have lingered in my heart, casting their dark shadows over my future life! Now, perchance, if I boldly look upon them, their gloom will change into light, and I shall no more be perplexed as heretofore.” “Truly my thoughts are like unto yours,” answered Sir Arinbiorn. “Now would I discover the true history of that magic mirror; I shall either break the spells which are locked up therein, or forfeit mine own life in the attempt; so that I shall then, at least, know what mysteries lurk behind those delusive charms, which in this world we call our senses.”

Before his tent Sir Otto now found the brave Swerker, of whom he had made a prisoner in the battle of the preceding day. The youth fixed his eyes on the ground with an aspect of deep melancholy; but, hearing the approach of Sir Otto’s prancing steed, he looked up, and contemplated his victor, not, as it seemed, without satisfaction and confidence. “Mark you, Swerker,” said the Knight of Trautwangen, “for we must now make a bargain with each other.” “That depends on what sort of bargain you have to propose,” said the Swede. “In the first place,” said Sir Otto, “you must allow yourself to be taught the Christian faith.” “You may teach as much as you please,” answered the Swede, “and if your doctrines be worth learning, I am willing to believe in them; if not, your trouble will be thrown away.”—“’Tis well,” answered Sir Otto; “although you are a prisoner, and should properly be detained among us, yet I shall send you, on your parole of honour, into Germany. There you will go into the blooming land of Swabia, and on the shores of the Danube you will inquire for an old knight, who is named Sir Hugh von Trautwangen, and for a castle of the same name, which is situated on the banks of that river. To Sir Hugh you will offer many courteous greetings from his loving son; you will deliver to him the banner which I took from your comrades, and give him a faithful account of all that has happened here. Then you shall return to me; for meanwhile I am to remain among your mountains of the north, and you shall afterwards be instructed in the faith of the Christians. Are you now willing to make this contract?”—“So may the gods of Valhalla help or renounce me!” answered the Swede.—“You shall one day learn better oaths to swear by,” said Sir Otto; “but for this time it shall suffice. Take the banner, and set out in God’s name.”—So, when the Swede had found a swift horse among those which had been taken from the Finlanders, and Sir Otto had given him a bag of silver money, they shook hands, and the messenger departed.

The brimming goblets yet circled round the board of the old Swedish hero, and the minstrels had not sung half their ballads, when Sir Otto and the sea-monarch requested leave to depart. The prince would have gladly detained them, but he well knew the danger of delays in time of war; so he stretched out his arms over the youths as they bowed before him, and, with a voice that faltered with emotion, and gleaming eyes, gave them his blessing. Thereafter their bands of horse and foot were soon collected together, and, shouting and singing songs of triumph, they proceeded on their way towards the mountains. The best positions both on the hills and in the valleys were soon surveyed and manned; watchers were appointed for the safety of all, and for the ready communication of intelligence between the parties. While the foot-soldiers were making arrangements for their own comforts, and the cavalrymen attending, in the first place, to the safety of their horses,—all being well aware that they were to winter in this desolate region,—Sir Otto looked at the sea-monarch, and said, “methinks our duties are already done, being anticipated by others, and yet it is not near sunset; we might therefore ride out now on our campaign of discovery, since the places of which we should be in search lead us certainly in a forward rather than a retrograde direction.”

“I had myself thought so,” said Sir Arinbiorn; “before us, and on the left hand, must be the old moss-grown watch-tower. A brave knight cannot well rest, until he has forced out into the clear light of day all the dark mysteries by which he has been so perplexed;—and so, good friend,” added he, raising his voice, and turning to Sir Kolbein, who then stood near him,—“take for a space the command of our troops here, and see that your duty be performed faithfully. Sir Otto and I must now ride hence to explore the mountains.”—Thereupon Sir Kolbein bowed gracefully and like a true knight, and the two friends trotted rapidly away through the shadowy valleys.

After no long space they came to a narrow path of the mountains, by which they were led, under the covert of the densely entwined branches, up a steep height, while ever and anon they espied the old battlements of the watch-tower. They rode silently and slowly forwards; and when at last they marked the building more clearly, and at no great distance through the trees, the red light of the evening sun beamed brightly and cheerfully on its windows. “It is very strange,” said Sir Otto to his friend, “that now, when the setting sun thus glitters on the tower, the whole building seems changed. I no longer look on it as frightful and mysterious; but, on the contrary, methinks, I am now riding towards my own home; for never have I felt a more cordial and deep longing to reach the old castle of Trautwangen than that which attracts me at this moment.”

“Can you then feel here as I do?” said Sir Arinbiorn; “I might indeed say, that I had no home over the wide world; for what avails my castle in Norway, wherein I have neither father, mother, wife, nor sister? But now, methinks, I could almost believe that Blanchefleur dwelt here in this old tower, and that I was returning hither as her husband from a prosperous and honourable campaign. Good heavens! what a happy evening this would then be!—and you, too, Sir Otto, must belong to the same house; you should, methinks, be the Lady Blanchefleur’s brother; and, if it were so, would you indeed give me your sister in marriage?”—“Of that there can be no question,” answered Sir Otto, at the same time shaking hands cordially with the sea-monarch. “If I had a sister with whom you had fallen in love she would within this very hour become your betrothed bride. To say the truth, however, I have not time at the present moment to think of such matters,—scarcely even of my own bride or wedding-day,—(had these been the subject of our discourse,) so deeply am I now impressed with the feeling, as if, like a cheerful free-hearted child, I were arrived, after long wandering through the world, at my own home, and as if the air were filled with the pleasant fragrance of the pine-tree logs blazing on my father’s hearth. Nay, I could almost knock at the door, and ask if my father were within, were I to give the reins to these strange feelings that have now possessed me.”

They now perceived a knight, in complete armour, who stood before the watch-tower, and seemed to speak vehemently with some one above. In order to learn, in the first place, what was here going forward, they checked their horses, and remained quiet; so that they were unperceived by the knight, who never looked towards them. From the tower above they now heard a mild female voice, that said, “Thou wild and untameable youth! art thou then angry with me? Wouldst thou blame that maternal care and love which may indeed be compared to a gleam of beneficence from Heaven, which takes up its abode in the female heart, fitting it with such divine goodness and anxiety for the welfare of others, that to an earthly being such feelings are often changed into pain?”

“Am I not your son?” answered the knight, in a tone of anger and defiance. “Wherefore then should you complain of me? And wherefore torment me thus with your endless warnings, your white doves, swans, and nightly visions, that follow me wherever I go? Either leave me in peace, or assist me to gain the object of my affections, the beautiful enchantress, who dwells yonder across the valley.”

“Nay, wild and restless warrior as thou art,” said the female voice, “Heaven has not decreed that the beautiful young enchantress can be yours. This would indeed be as if the fierce flame should woo the mountain-torrent, both, no doubt, rapid and vehement in their nature, but for ever divided and irreconcileable.”

“What means all this?” answered the youth angrily. “Doubtless I should know my own wishes best; and I know but too well, that my whole heart is fixed on this beautiful damsel, and on her alone. Should I not obtain her, then, indeed, I may for the first time be transformed into a devouring flame, by which the whole land of your favourite Christians will be laid waste. This I swear to you by the great Odin, and all the gods of Valhalla! Therefore, trouble me not with your counsels, but assist me; though truly, by so doing, you do not assist yourself; for were I once united to her, my power will be more formidable than ever against those people, with their crosses and prayer-books, whom it is your pleasure to protect. But mine in truth she shall be; my glorious deeds on the battle-field, my long and faithful watching at her gate among the rocks, must not pass unrewarded.” Thereupon the female voice answered, “Her heart is indeed closed against thee, like a gate of rock or adamant, which by thy power never may be shaken. Renounce then, poor youth, such groundless hopes, and desist too from your foolish threats. Heaven leads his chosen servants here on earth, as his wisdom sees fitting, to victory and happiness. Hast thou not seen this proved but yesterday, thou wild and reckless wanderer?”

Hereupon the knight laughed scornfully, and turned away, intending, as it seemed, to retire down the rocks on the other side of the watch-tower; then Sir Otto rode forwards from the thicket, saying, “Yield, pagan, if thou art wise, for we are here two to one against thee; give thyself up in peace, otherwise deeds instead of words shall prove how wisely the lady has just now spoken from the watch-tower.”

The knight immediately turned towards Sir Otto, and poised his spear in an attitude of wrath and defiance; but in the same instant both of them exclaimed, “Ha! art thou here again, horrible spectre?” and both turning ghastly pale, shrunk as if powerless from each other. “Shall the pagan caitiff escape us then?” cried the sea-monarch, rushing forward; but when he had gained the summit of the cliff, and beheld the features of the youth, who was now descending on the other side, and looked back upon him, he also became pale with affright, and in a trembling voice, cried to Sir Otto, “What hellish sorcery is this? Art thou then doubled? And which is the true knight, he who stands here, or he who now runs down the mountain?” “Arinbiorn,” answered the Knight of Trautwangen, “thou hast heard that cowardly fugitive blaspheme against God and our holy faith; and canst thou ask, if by any power of sorcery we could be made one and the same?” The sea-monarch took his hand, saying, kindly, “You have indeed reminded me of the best proof, and surest consolation. Still then, I have you and hold you as my tried and faithful friend, nor shall the powers of darkness ever again force such delusions upon me.” Meanwhile they heard the mild female voice once more from the tower: “Alas, Ottur!” it exclaimed, “wild, reckless Ottur! rush not so madly down the steep rocky cliffs!”

“When that voice sounds,” said the Knight of Trautwangen, “my heart is irresistibly attracted, and I dare not longer remain here;”—thereupon he took the bridle from his light-brown steed, commanded him to stand motionless, and then went on towards the gate of the watch-tower. The sea-monarch, as he looked at the building, seemed shaken by an inward and irrepressible terror; yet, wherever his beloved and faithful companion led the way he would not remain behind. So he now followed the example of the Knight of Trautwangen; yet could not help asking, “Is this voice already known to you, whereby you are so powerfully attracted?” “No,” answered Sir Otto, “I know it not, nor even can I tell to whom the voice belongs, yet thereby my heart is irresistibly moved, and inspired at once with melancholy and with confidence.” Accordingly, when they had knocked at the gate, there appeared a tall and graceful form, in snow-white garments, with a green veil hung over her head and features; yet through this veil the lustre of two light-brown eyes was visible, like the rays of the evening sun through the tangled foliage of the green woods. She looked with surprise at the two knights, and said, “Wherefore in all the world hast thou returned again so soon? And how, Ottur, hast thou come by that black and silver mail? But thy looks are now far more mild and tranquil. Thou hast reflected perchance on the injustice with which thou hast treated my counsels, and art become good and pious,—is it not so?” “Lady,” answered the knight, with a courteous bow, “my name is not Ottur, but Otto, to which is added the surname of Trautwangen; however this much I can promise, that should’st thou think fit to bestow on me a share of that loving kindness which has been shewn to the wild Ottur, I shall at least behave better and more piously than he has done!”

The lady stood for a while motionless and silent; at length she said in a low tone, “So then it was indeed no dream, when methought I heard your voice sound yesterday from the depths of the valley?” Thereupon she bowed her head, and added kindly, “Step onwards through the portal, Sir Otto von Trautwangen, and bring your comrade too, if it is your pleasure to have him with you. In this castle you shall always be made welcome, together with every one whom you think fit to bring hither.” Sir Otto accepted the invitation gladly, but the sea-monarch followed slowly and with hesitation.

So they entered the castle, and proceeded up long-winding staircases, through echoing passages, and chambers filled with strange furniture, such as they had never seen before. In one of these rooms, as they were passing through, Sir Arinbiorn touched with his iron glove the arm of his friend, and, pointing to a frame-work on the wall that was half concealed by a curtain, said, “That, if I mistake not, must be the magic mirror!” “Noble Lady,” said Sir Otto to his conductress, “your kind reception emboldens me to make one request. Would it be permitted me to lift up that curtain, that I may discover what highly-honoured portrait is placed within that golden frame-work?” “If it so please you, Sir Knight of Trautwangen,” answered the lady, “that may indeed be done. But this much I must tell you before-hand, there is no portrait behind that curtain, but a mirror in whose glassy depths I may well say that the whole happiness of my life has been wrecked and lost; thus, too, I have afterwards lost all hope that my fortunes might ever be retrieved. Therefore I have hung this curtain over the mirror; and it is withdrawn only at certain seasons of the year, when its enchantments may no longer be concealed, and when, for the most part, I myself am absent. If, however, you wish to behold its wonders, you have but to give me the signal.” With these words she had stepped up to the dark-red curtain, and grasped its golden cord, waiting, as it seemed, for Sir Otto’s determination.

At length, “God forbid,” said the knight, “that I should desire aught that is contrary to your will and pleasure, unless,” added he, turning to Sir Arinbiorn, “I were well assured that the whole happiness and welfare of my noble friend and brother in arms depended on the discovery; but, to say the truth, I do not believe that it is from this mirror that he can derive his good fortune.” The sea-monarch shook his head mournfully, assenting to what Sir Otto had said, and then bowed courteously to the lady, who now retired from the mirror, and led her guests onward into another chamber. Here it seemed as if Sir Arinbiorn, contrary to his usual manner, had become humble, submissive, and even afraid to speak. Sir Otto, on the other hand, was gay and unconcerned, expressing all his thoughts as if with filial confidence before their solemn conductress, who also spoke with him kindly and cheerfully.

They had now taken their places at a round table, that stood in a small room faintly illuminated. “Oh Heaven!” cried Sir Otto, “since we came hither, how have my long-lost tranquillity and lightness of heart been restored! only one thought still comes at intervals to perplex me. Is that wanderer whom you name Ottur a man indeed, or is he not rather a horrid shadow of myself, an abominable spectre, who has yet such power over me, that he can steal even my own features, and involve me in such indissoluble snares of sorcery or witchcraft, that I shall never more be secure against his delusions?”

“Nay, be not thus alarmed,” answered the lady; “the youth of whom thou speak’st is indeed a man, as thou art, who now devotes his whole life in order to gain the affections of a young pagan enchantress, who dwells not far distant in a cave of the Finland mountains, and who from hence would send forth legions of evil spirits, who are at her command, against the Christians of Sweden and Norway, were it not that I am here to interpose my protection. No one, however, is aware of the noiseless, invisible, and yet vehement contention that we keep up against each other. Yonder, in the distance, by the light of the now rising moon, you may behold her dwelling among the rocks.” The knights went to the window, and contemplated the wide expanse of woods and mountains, that now looked sad and melancholy beneath the influence of departing autumn. Through the damp vapours of the night they beheld, on the other side of the valley, a strange assemblage of rocks, which rose like pillars, and were joined at the top, forming a lofty arch, while one could see deep into a long retreating cavern, whence there gleamed in the background the dull light of a large fire. “That light comes from the fire on which she boils her golden kettle,” said the lady; “there the enchantress pronounces her potent spells, and calls up numberless spirits, even as frightful and hideous to look upon, as she herself is attractive and beautiful.” “But, look yonder! who is that armed knight?” said Sir Otto. “He walks beneath this pale moonlight so resolutely and slowly before the cavern, as if he were a special sentinel! How the horse-hair crest of his helmet waves in the wind, and his tall halbert gives him a look of ghostly strength!” “That is indeed the unhappy Ottur of whom we spoke,” answered the lady: “thus he now thinks to win her heart; but in that attempt he never may succeed! What struggles he has already endured, and what painful victories he has won, all for her sake, and in vain! But he will not listen to my counsels, and rushes on to his own destruction!”—The lady fixed her eyes for a while, with an expression of deep melancholy, on the ground, then looked up, smiling, to the Knight of Trautwangen, and said,—“But Otto is not Ottur; he is indeed no wild Norman who will not hear good and kind advice, but rushes down the rugged steeps to his own ruin.”—“From such evils may Heaven protect me!” answered Sir Otto; “and next to the protection of Heaven, methinks it is your counsels that would most aid me in this world!”—The lady clasped her hands as Sir Otto had done when he pronounced these words; she looked out tranquilly on the pleasant moonlight; and the knights were aware, that, though she did not speak audibly, she was then engaged in fervent orisons.

After a while she turned from the window, and said,—“Now, brave warriors, it is time that you should refresh yourselves at the banquet, after your long journey hither.”—Thereupon, behold! the table in the middle of the chamber was already supplied with rich viands and flasks of the noblest wine.—“Be not amazed hereat,” said their hostess; “and, above all, be not afraid. Mark you!” said she, making the sign of the cross over both food and wine, “your banquet stands that proof, at which the gifts of an evil spirit or sorceress would have turned into ashes or vanished away.”—“Who would have entertained such doubts,” said the Knight of Trautwangen, “since we know that we are under your roof, kind and pious Lady Minnatrost?”—“Indeed!” said their mysterious hostess, in a mournful tone; “how, then, have you learned that name which has been so long unheard and forgotten?”—“Thank Heaven!” answered Sir Otto, “that I have found you at last; for I well know that you can be no other than the Lady Minnatrost. Of your life formerly, and your castle on the shores of East Friesland, I have already heard from Sir Heerdegen, and Bertha of Lichtenried.”—Thereupon the Druda slowly raised her arm, as if in solemn admonishment. “Young knight,” said she, “thy looks should be graver, and thy tones humbler, when thou speakest of thy cousin Bertha. I am indeed the Lady Minnatrost of whom thou hast been told; and both you, and the brave companion who is now thy companion, are welcome guests in my castle. I know very well that he is the sea-monarch Arinbiorn, and that he has been once here ere now, though then, indeed, his presence was unlooked for and uninvited.”—With these words she cast a look on Sir Arinbiorn; whereat he was forced to turn his eyes to the ground, and could not for a while recover from his confusion; till at length the lady urged both knights to partake of the banquet, and by degrees they became tranquil and cheered in heart, more even than they had ever been in their whole lives before. When their entertainment was over, and they were taking leave, then said the Lady Minnatrost,—“You may come twice every week to visit me, as you have now done; and have no fears for your troops in your absence, for I shall protect them.”

Now the cold blasts of the northern mountains had wholly stript the beech-trees of their leaves. Over hill and dale, winter had spread his stiff glittering garment of snow and frost; only on the high rocks the frightful pine-forests of Finland, in their mournful dark-green, were flourishing as before. Our two knights, however, in their winter-camp, continued active and cheerful. Whether they rode out for amusement to the chase, through the now-faded forest, or in quest of more serious adventures, when the pagan hordes began to shew themselves on the frontier,—or when they returned home, weary at night, to their wooden cottage, which now served them for a fortress, and sat by the blazing hearth over their brimming horns of mead, and talking of past encounters,—they were always contented, and felt no lack of pastime. They were indeed conscious, that they were acting as faithful guardians, for the protection both of Norway and Sweden; and after those days, when they had been engaged in arduous conflicts, when the snow around them had often been stained with blood,—and after the long evenings spent at their wild cabin among the rocks, the visits which they duly made at the watch-tower of the mysterious Druda, were to them like sudden gleams of sunlight on a dark wintry landscape. Even Sir Arinbiorn had now regained his confidence, and felt himself as if at home in the Druda’s castle. Many times she entertained them with wondrous stories, ballads, and riddles, such as they had never before heard; and even when she remained silent, their spirits were not on that account depressed; but, on the contrary, they felt a mild submissive patience settle on their hearts. Only at one circumstance the youths were somewhat discontented, namely, because they had never beheld their kind hostess without her long green veil; and though her light-brown eyes indeed shone through that covering, and even every gesture announced the kindness and composure that reigned in her mind, yet her other features were always lost as if in a dense autumnal cloud. Otto ventured once to express his wonder at this, and to beg that she would lay aside her veil; but she only answered calmly and resolutely, “Oh no! that may not be thought of;” and he durst not speak any farther.

So it happened, that late one evening both the knights were seated at the round marble table in the Druda’s castle, when all of a sudden she became silent, laid her finger on her lips, in token that her guests also must not speak, and, as if listening to some strange and mysterious sound, she raised her gleaming eyes to the ceiling. Then she rose and went to the window, looked out attentively on the stars, and cried aloud, “To horse, brave young knights, to horse! Fly with the speed of light to your troops; for the swords of the pagans are now drawn! they have had recourse to their wonted sorcery! be then brave and steadfast, for on this night depends your destruction or triumph.” In a moment the two brave warriors had clasped their visors, girded on their swords, seized their long ponderous javelins, and bowed courteously before the Druda, who, at their departure, made the sign of the cross over their heads, and repeated her former admonitions. “To horse, and rush on with the speed of lightning to your camp!” In another minute, they were both mounted, and their horses bore them, swift as an arrow from the bow, down the steep path that led from the castle.

As they advanced on their way through the tangled thickets of the forest, they heard a strange confused noise of voices and rattling arms on all sides; there were fires kindled also, which shone from the snow-covered cliffs, especially from amid the pine-tree forests of the Finland frontier. At length they arrived at their camp, and, amid all this disturbance, found their troops in good order, the infantry already under arms, and the riders standing by their horses. When the knights appeared, all were inspired by new courage and ardent anticipations of approaching victory. “Mount then in God’s name!” cried the Knight of Trautwangen; “and let the light armed infantry lead the way,” shouted Sir Arinbiorn. In brief space, these arrangements were made, and they proceeded on their route through the shadowy valleys; while the young Sir Kolbein, with a band of scouts, was already engaged in a vehement skirmish with the barbarous Finlanders, who were howling aloud like wild beasts, and showering against him numberless javelins and arrows. Over the van of Sir Otto’s troops, at the same time, there came strange missiles, that burned and shone like the stars in heaven; whereupon some cried aloud,—“The foes attack us with flaming spears!”—Others said,—“This is all witchcraft, and the air is filled with serpents and dragons!”—“Let them be what they may,” cried Sir Otto and the sea-monarch; “we have here right and justice on our side. Onward, then! for God and our native land!”—With these inspiring words, the only battle-cry under which a Christian warrior can advance with due confidence and courage, they now urged their way through the thickets, and soon came up close to their hideous adversaries.

Amid these wild mountains were here and there level glades enclosed with trees, and on one of these the battle soon raged with such vehemence, that, in the confusion, aided by the gloom of approaching night, it was scarcely possible to distinguish friend from foe. But still these flaming javelins flew at intervals over the squadrons, and, by their uncertain gleams, betrayed to the astonished Christians that the front-ranks of the enemy were assisted by strange figures, such as they had never till now beheld; and though they might have despised all attacks of sword and lance against body and limbs, yet they could not deny that such frightful shapes were insupportable and distracting to the spirit. From a distance, too, among the rocky cliffs, forms yet more hideous emerged, and stood towering over the pagan hordes. One knew not whether these were gigantic demons, or only lifeless standards borne by the Finlanders. In spite of all this, however, the Christians repeated their battle-cries, and rushed forward with courage so resistless, that their spectral foes, whatever they might in reality be, were forced back, lost their footing on the level glade, and retired into a deep valley. Thither Sir Otto and the sea-monarch intended to pursue them; but waited in the first place to arrange their troops after this skirmish, and to consult whether they should not station a party both of horse and foot to protect the level ground in their absence; but, in the confusion which now followed, all such thoughts were soon lost. After the flight of the Finlanders, Night threw her dark mantle over them so densely and heavily, that there was no longer visible a single ray of light; nor were they now aided by the meteor-gleams of their enemies’ fiery spears. The golden armour of the sea-monarch, and eagle-visor of Sir Otto von Trautwangen, were alike unobserved and indistinguishable in the multitude; nay more, their commanding voices, and the notes of their battle-horns, were overpowered by the howling cries of the flying foe, by the noise of the wind which had risen along with the dark clouds, and by the shouts which their own soldiers raised in triumph at their victory. The leaders found themselves indeed strangely perplexed. Unless they wished to be rode down by the horsemen of their own squadrons, they were obliged to move onward, to give the reins up to their horses, and proceed blindly through the rayless unfriendly darkness of the night.

After no long space they arrived, in their stormy course, at a station where they found themselves in a kind of amphitheatre, or rather the place might be compared to a great and deep caldron. The cliffs rose high around them, and loud reverberating echoes announced the approach of the foe from the clifts and coverts of the mountain, who came to the assault with fearful shouts and neighing of horses. Here then the Christians expected that the battle would soon be decided in their favour; but the same fiery missiles once more flew over their heads, and, by their glimmering light, the soldiers beheld hideous spectres, that grinned on them, and stretched out their long black arms from the thickets: it seemed at last, as if the whole valley had changed into some horrid pagan temple, where these figures represented the gods, and where the Christian troops were to be immolated in sacrifice. Even the horses, accustomed as they were to carry their noble masters into the heart of every danger, reared and snorted wildly at the unwonted sounds and shapes by which they were now surrounded; and all of them, Sir Otto’s light-brown steed not excepted, became unmanageable, wheeled round and round, and at last forced their brave riders away with them in timid and disorderly flight. Then the Finland soldiers howled and shouted as if in scornful triumph, and, with redoubled strength and courage, sent down from the cliffs showers of arrows and javelins, so that many a horseman among the Christians fell dead on the ground; and yet more of the foot-soldiers, no longer protected by the cavalry, were left in the power of their enemies. Not till late in the night the two commanders contrived to quiet their horses, and bring a troop of their most faithful adherents into regular order beside them; and this happened in a narrow rocky valley.

Then, behold! from a snow-covered cliff before them, there broke forth a far-gleaming light, that revolved like a fiery wheel; and herein was visible the form of the young golden-locked enchantress, though beautiful, yet awful to look upon, with her dishevelled hair streaming in the wind, a drawn sword in her right hand, and in her left, despite of the wintry season, a verdant branch. “Am I then known at last?” cried she to the knights, who stood gazing up at her with amazement. “Lo! I am Gerda, the despised, the rejected damsel, whose friendship you have heretofore possessed and renounced. But now your lives are in my power; and if you refuse to be reconciled to me, then shall my fiery serpents be sent forth against you, till, amid the rocks of this narrow valley, your wild horses will rush onwards to their own and your destruction. To-morrow’s sunlight will then reveal the horrid sight, how your troops, that were to-day so full of life and hope, afford only a mangled heap, frozen to the earth in the blood that flowed from their own hearts, a sight that none dare look upon; or perchance you would save yourselves by flight; and if such be your wish, I shall not prevent you. Here on the left there is an outlet; but you find no other.” Involuntarily they turned their eyes in that direction, and saw by the gleams of the fire, which continued to play in circles around her, a boundless extent of smooth ice, by which one of the mountain-lakes was now covered. “Will you gallop across then?” said she scornfully. “Truly, when you and your horses together have once become thoroughly mad and reckless, you will prance nobly there for our amusement, till you fall dashed to pieces on the ice, or sink through it into some unlooked-for abyss.” As if resolved to put an end to this discourse, the sea-monarch and Sir Otto both raised their war-horns to their lips, intending to blow the signal for onset, and to fight at all events as long as their senses remained, or they were able to sit on their horses. Then Gerda once more addressed them; “Yet halt,” cried she, “and mark one other choice that I can offer to you. Be triumphant still, retain at once your lives and your honour, but join with me! Be not afraid; you shall not be required to abjure the faith of the Christians, but peace may be made between us, and the people for whom you now contend; and henceforth we may march forth honourably together on victorious campaigns through the wide world. What say you to this?” With these words she looked more than ever beautiful, and scarcely had the young Sir Kolbein heard her to an end ere he threw himself from his horse, and began to climb up the snow-covered cliff on which she stood. “As for thy threats of destruction and vengeance,” cried he, “I heed them not; but thy beauty and thy promises have wound their magic spells round my heart. I will be thy companion, thy champion, and go forth with thee, even to the end of the earth!” The sea-monarch and the Knight of Trautwangen shouted after him their vehement reproaches, and then stretched out their arms, like faithful friends, in earnest entreaties that he would return to them. But, meanwhile, Gerda held out her beautiful hand, with the green branch, towards him, and, as if drawn onwards by irresistible attraction, he advanced, till at last he suddenly made his appearance amid the fiery circle beside her, and, with smiles of confidence, made signs to his comrades that they should join him there.

Arinbiorn and Sir Otto looked at one another for a while in silence, and indeed with melancholy. At last, “Our end will indeed come sooner than I had thought,” said the sea-monarch. “Ay truly,” replied Sir Otto, “and I shall not deny it to you, I should gladly have lived a little longer in this world, and gained some laurel wreathes ere I died!” “From my inmost heart,” answered the sea-monarch, “I also should have wished that this had been possible.” “As these hopes are now over,” said the Knight of Trautwangen, “and as the enchantress yonder will ere long distract our senses, so that we shall not know what we do, were it not better, if, like friends and brethren, we should now take leave of each other, and also promise our mutual forgiveness before-hand for all crimes that we may commit against each other after the madness comes upon us?”—Thereupon they embraced cordially; and after they had briefly admonished their troops to die nobly, and fail not in their prayers to Heaven, they shouted aloud to Gerda,—“Come on now if thou wilt;—thou shalt hear our signals for attack.”

But, with the first notes of the battle-horns, lo! they were surprised by the gleams of a new light that shone from behind them. Looking back, they perceived that it was only the full moon that now rose bright and serenely over the mountains. Ere long, however, her light revealed to them the well-known figure of the Lady Minnatrost, who stood with her hands clasped, and looking up thankfully to heaven. She stood on a high cliff, and ere long her mild sweet voice was heard addressing the knights,—“With God’s help and blessing you have overcome the temptations by which you were here assailed. Onwards, then, in his holy name, and your wicked foes will fly before you!”

The fire that circled round Gerda became now pale and exhausted. The moon shed her bright solemn light over the mountains, and guided the Christian warriors against the Finland hordes, who no longer dared to rally, but fled howling through the snow-covered deserts.

The morning had now dawned; the Knight of Trautwangen had left his faithful steed in charge of his comrades, and mounted up to the top of a steep hill, that he might discern from thence in what direction the pursuit could best be continued;—whether they should proceed farther through the valleys, or now retreat by the way they had come. On the hill-top the rock was cleft into two great masses, as by a giant’s sword. On the brink of the precipice stood Sir Otto, and rejoiced to perceive that he had advanced far beyond the Finland frontier, and that his troops could now assume a station which would be greatly more commanding and advantageous than any that they had hitherto possessed. When he was lost in these reflections, lo! there appeared, through the morning fogs, a tall figure of an armed knight on the opposite half of the cleft rock. With his visor thrown back, he gazed around him, just as Sir Otto had before done, till suddenly their eyes met together, and both trembled with affright,—for it was indeed Ottur and Otto who had thus encountered each other.

At length, “This cannot and shall not longer be endured,” cried Ottur. “At the sight of thee my senses are again confused, and I am driven to madness. In this world one champion only must live with that form and those features. Besides, thou hast, in this last night, beaten us from the battle-field; but, if I could make an end of thee, the faithful servants of Odin and Valhalla might hope ere long to redeem their lost honours, and inflict just vengeance on their foes. Therefore raise thy spear, and defend thyself, for the cleft of the rocks forbids us to use our swords; but ere the sun has fully risen in the heavens, our lances must determine who is to have the right of wearing such features,—thou or I.”—With these words he brandished his massive javelin high over his head.

“Yet halt a moment,” said Sir Otto; “methinks by the combat which thou hast now proposed neither of us will arrive at peace of mind. How might that man live for the future who had put to death his own double?—were not that to say that he had killed himself?”

“Truly it would be so,” answered Ottur; “but, remember, we shall fight with closed visors. One cannot mark then how his own features are stained with blood, or grinning in death’s agony.”—Thereupon he closed his iron beaver with a great crash, and again poised his javelin.

“Yet, methinks, we might become friends and brethren in arms,” answered Sir Otto, “and this on terms more intimate than those which bound any two heroes that the world has yet ever known.”

“Wilt thou then follow the banners of Gerda?—or would I forsake her?” said Ottur, in a hollow voice from his closed helmet;—“since these are questions that may never be peaceably answered betwixt us, let us straightway to our bloody work!—If thou wilt not begin the attack, I shall at all hazards hurl my spear against thee; and surely, since thou wear’st the semblance of Ottur, thou canst not prove a runaway and a coward!”

“Heaven forbid!” answered the Knight of Trautwangen, who now drew down his visor, and prepared himself, like his antagonist, for the combat. For a little space thereafter, the two tall champions stood with their shields uplifted, and watching each other, when, lo! the Knight of Trautwangen beheld a new and strange assailant, who was rushing from the thickets against his adversary;—a wild bull, which had perchance been disturbed and enraged by the movements of the troops, came forth foaming, bellowing, and tossing his horns,—directing all his wrath against Ottur, whom he would doubtless have hurled from the precipice; for the youth seemed never to observe his approach. In a moment the Knight of Trautwangen sent forth his javelin with irresistible strength, and so correct an aim, that it passed clear over the head of his pagan foe, and struck deep into the neck of the raging animal, which immediately fell, wrestling with death, among the deep snow.

“What meanest thou, Otto?” said the pagan youth, at the same time dropping his spear; “it is impossible that thou couldst have been so bad a marksman, as to throw the weapon over my head!—or, peradventure, thou hast done this but in mockery?”—Sir Otto made a signal that he should look behind him; and, on turning round, Ottur saw the wild beast with the arrow in his neck, which was now stretching his convulsed limbs in the last agonies of death. At this sight he paused, and at length, turning to the Knight of Trautwangen, he threw back his visor, whereupon the latter followed his example; and the sun, which just then rose, shone brightly on the features of both the young heroes. They looked at each other with kindness and confidence, till Ottur said,—“Shall we then exchange swords in token of good-will, though the fates forbid that we should march in the battle-field together?”—“Nay,” answered Sir Otto, “I dare not give away my sword; for it is a sacred pledge received from my father’s hand, otherwise it should be thine, and that right willingly;—but mark what I have now to say. If thou indeed lookest on me as a friend, then, for the future, let thy rapier be named Otto, in remembrance of me, and I, in like manner, will name mine Ottur.”—“Be it so,” answered the pagan; “I agree thereto with all my heart; and, methinks, thou art far wiser, and better able to afford good counsel than I am, although thou seem’st to be several years younger.”—“Ay, truly,” answered the Knight of Trautwangen, “thou lookest somewhat older than I am, though, in other respects, we are indeed but too like to each other.”—“So then,” said the pagan, brandishing his sword, “this old friend is now to be called Otto?”—“And this well-proved comrade of mine is named Ottur,” replied the other, striking with his iron glove on his sword, so that the blade rung and rattled in the scabbard. Thereupon the two warriors nodded kindly their parting salutations, and both descended into the valley to join their several squadrons.

From this day onwards, the winter was spent quietly and peaceably amid the snow-covered mountains. The defeated Finlanders did not venture any more with their enchantments to provoke the Christian army; and the commanders on both sides past at intervals many tranquil, happy hours in the watch-tower of the Lady Minnatrost. The pious Druda continued, as was her wont, to appear calm, contented, and mild, as the silvery moonlight;—only once, when Sir Otto repeated, at the banquet-table, the farewell-songs of the beautiful Astrid and the stern Sir Hugur, which he had learned from the wise armourer at the sea-monarch’s castle, she began to weep bitterly, and begged of Sir Otto, that he never would sing those words to her again. By the knight her slightest wishes were ever looked upon as an irresistible law; and their life glided on so pleasantly, that the two champions wondered how the winter in the north had past so soon away; for, ere they had thought of changing their station, the mild zephyrs of spring were already breathing through the valleys,—the rivers again flowed in their rocky channels,—and plots of green grass and flowers began once more to appear amid these wild northern regions.

While Sir Otto’s time was thus spent amid the Finland mountains, the same winter had past cheerfully and tranquilly over the head of the good Sir Hugh von Trautwangen;—for the old minstrel, Walter, often lived many days together in the castle; and if,—unable to give up his wandering habits,—he sometimes went away, yet it was never very long ere he returned again to the hospitable board of the brave knight, to rejoice him with his marvellous legends and songs. But of all consolations with which Providence now blessed the old champion, one might say that the greatest were the delightful dreams which, in these winter months, always came to him in sleep, not only during the night-hours, but oftentimes, too, when by day-light he slumbered in his great arm-chair at the banquet-table. Thus it happened, that, instead of being angry with himself as heretofore, when he felt weariness and sleep weighing heavily on his eyelids, he was glad at their approach, in order that he might again be soothed by these visions;—then, for the most part, the scenery and feelings of his youth returned to him with a freshness and lustre, that one might well compare to the sight of a flourishing garden in spring-tide, where the weeds of melancholy and regret dare not grow, and only roses and other bright flowers spread forth their treasures in the sunlight. Among the flower-beds, too, was visible the young and blooming form of Sir Otto, who sportively played among them, and culled from thence garlands of the richest colouring.

So it came to pass, that one evening the old hero had fallen asleep, having, yet ere his eyes were closed, rejoiced himself in thoughts of the many pleasant and heart-enlivening sights which he might ere long behold; but it fell out very differently from his expectations. Ere long he imagined that he heard a stranger coming stamping up stairs, with footsteps so heavy, and with armour rattling in such manner, that the very panes of glass in the windows rung in answer to the sounds. Thereafter he thought that three vehement knocks fell at measured intervals on the oak-door of the hall, as if given by the iron-gloved hand of a knight fully accoutred. The dreaming man wished to call aloud that the stranger should enter, but could not at first utter one word. At length he believed that he had spoken, and thereupon he heard the door open, grating harshly on its hinges; and, lo! there appeared in the room, with bloody and frightfully-distorted visage, that renowned forerunner of evil,—the Avenger,—with his tall vulture’s wings on his head, who stretched out his clenched hand, dropping with gore, in threatening and spectral dignity!—Shuddering with horror, the old knight started up, and scarcely had he begun to comfort himself with the reflection, that he had but dreamed,—when he heard, with all his senses fully awakened, the heavy steps on the staircase; whereat the windows indeed rattled; and thereafter came the three knocks at the hall-door, till at length the brave old man, unable to contend with this supernatural visitation, lost all recollection, and fell back in a deep swoon.

The squires and horsemen, who were still retained by Sir Hugh at his castle, happened at this time all to be absent. Some had gone forth to the chase; others had been sent in quest of the old minstrel, Walter; and the rest into the nearest town for provisions to entertain the wished-for guest. At such times, when his messengers reminded him that he ought not to be left thus alone in the fortress, Sir Hugh was wont to answer,—“The old warrior indeed sits here alone, but around him is good store of arms and armour; and, in case of need, it would not be long ere, in his own defence, he had snatched from the wall some well-proved sword, that his ancestors have wielded in the bloody field.”—This time, however, the first squire who entered the hall on his return from the town, perceived that an enemy must have been at the castle very different from any one that Sir Hugh had expected; for, as the old man sat so pale and motionless in his arm-chair, it appeared as if death had been the foe who had now assailed him. Thereupon the squire began to lament aloud, and assembled round him all his comrades who had now returned to the castle. Just then a trampling was heard across the drawbridge, as the minstrel, Walter, came hastily and on horseback into the fortress; and hearing these lamentations, he said, with a deep sigh,—“Alas! thou brave old hero, has it then been the will of Providence, that thou shouldst not live to see thy son return, crowned with laurels, from his long campaigns?”—When he had entered the hall, however, and looked at the tall ghastly form that sat there, it seemed to him as if his old friend could not yet be wholly dead. Nature is, in truth, kind to the poets and minstrels, and if they cannot arrive at the knowledge of her mysteries by the laborious paths of learning, like wise physicians, yet oftentimes she casts on them a gleam of her own light, or throws to them, as if in sport, a wreath of flowers, wherewith they can work wonders to the astonishment of all who are not so gifted. So it happened, that the minstrel, Walter, was in possession of a most precious and fragrant balsam distilled from many rare plants. Soon after the old knight had breathed its odours, he opened his eyes, and said,—“I have seen in my dreams a frightful apparition; but now that I am awake, where is he that came to turn my dreams into reality?—Where is the soldier who stepped up stairs, while his heavy armour rung and rattled; and who knocked three times at the door with his iron glove?”—To all this no one there present could return any answer. At length the old man said,—“That some one has been here is very sure and unquestionable; and that not as a mere spirit, but as a corporeal being; for do you not see that strange trophy that is now right opposite?”—Looking in the direction to which he pointed, they indeed saw an extraordinary banner, which was placed leaning in a corner of the hall. The standard was fashioned into the likeness of a horrible dragon; and around the shaft were inscribed some verses, which the wise minstrel, Walter, well knew how to interpret. They set forth, how this dragon had been won from the pagan Finlanders by the powerful arm of Sir Otto von Trautwangen; therefore the Swedes would for evermore praise him in their war-songs, and cherish towards him lasting gratitude. Hearing this, all the squires and attendants shouted aloud for joy, and congratulated their old master; while Sir Hugh took off his green velvet cap, and at last said,—“If the devil indeed brings us such trophies of victory, one must take in good part whatever evil dreams he is pleased to send along with them.”

On the root of an oleander-tree, in the middle of one of those delightful gardens, which stretch out from the Spanish town of Carthagena towards the sea, sat Gabrielle, with her bright eyes directed to the azure vault of heaven; while Blanchefleur stood near her, plaiting a garland from the many beautiful and rare flowers which grow profusely in that warm climate. At some distance, a black slave began, in a very pleasant voice, to sing a long ballad, setting forth the campaigns of Sir Folko de Montfaucon against the Moors;—relating, how fifteen of their bravest knights had bound themselves by a solemn oath, that they would go forth and take him prisoner;—and how they indeed set out upon their way, but not one of all the fifteen returned;—how the Guadalquiva river ran red with blood, and the news of his exploits rang in Seville and Cordova;—moreover, how the Moorish brides lamented and wept for the loss of their betrothed husbands.

“Alas!” said Gabrielle, “there are other brides, who have had cause to weep even more than the Moorish ladies.” With these words, she mournfully hid her face and turned away.

The slave was alarmed, and said, “The great Allah knows I thought to have made you cheerful with my songs, since they were in praise of the deeds that your great countryman performed among us. Why then should you thus weep?” Without answering her, Gabrielle continued to address Blanchefleur;—“Oh, how fortunate are you in possessing such a brother! may we hope ever to see him in this life again?” Then Blanchefleur’s heart was also moved, and these two beautiful damsels fell into each other’s arms, and embraced lovingly in their affliction. Thereafter the Prince Mutza came with dignified demeanour, and gleaming in the splendour of his Moorish apparel, into the garden. When he saw the ladies still weeping, he retired respectfully for a few paces, and made a sign that the female slave should come to him. “Is this then the manner,” said he, “in which you fulfil the service which I intrusted to you? I heard you playing on the harp; and with your music you have only made these ladies weep. What your foolish songs were I know not; but so much is certain, that from the pleasant task of waiting on the beautiful Gabrielle, you shall from this day onward be excluded.” Gabrielle de Portamour however observed Mutza’s discontent, and said, “Be not thus angry with the girl; she is not to blame for our grief, though it chanced that her music brought tears to my eyes. Believe me, that even these tears afford more relief to my heart that all the pleasures which your luxurious palace could offer. Rather should you reward the slave for her faithful attendance on us.” “Praise be to Allah,” said the prince, with a gracious bow, “that you have for once honoured me by expressing wishes which it is in my power to fulfil. Would to Heaven that your commands were oftener laid upon me, that you might see how gladly they would be obeyed!” “Then, prince,” answered Gabrielle, “I do command you to conduct me and my friend, the Lady of Montfaucon, back to the coasts of Gascony, from whence you so unjustly forced us away.” “Alas! fairest of damsels,” answered Mutza, with a deep sigh, “spare me but this one request!” Thereupon Gabrielle turned from him with anger and contempt.

Under the garden-terrace, close to the golden trellis-work by which it was enclosed, lo! there was now seen, on horseback, a knight in a magnificent Moorish dress; his countenance grave, and almost solemn; while, though he was rather advanced in years, he did not fail, according to the mode of that country, to wear large mustachios and a long flowing beard. One of the noblest of Arabian horses neighed aloud as he spurred him along, and he was followed by a train of attendants, who, though they appeared in this station, might, by their dress and demeanour have been looked upon as persons of high rank. Gabrielle and Blanchefleur rose up from their seats, without exactly knowing wherefore; and, with graceful curtsies, welcomed this brilliant though yet unknown champion. The prince (for such was his rank) returned thanks with a courteous bow; then drew up the reins, and made a sign that Mutza should come forward to the grating, in order to speak with him. That youth, who was at other times so proud and overbearing, now hastened with an aspect of great humility to obey the signal; whereupon the stranger threw himself into a new attitude, sitting sideways like a lady on his horse; and a dialogue commenced betwixt them, which, by Gabrielle and Blanchefleur, was for the most part understood; for they were no longer ignorant of the Arabian language. It was as follows:—

“Are these then,” said the magnificent stranger, “the two beautiful damsels that you brought hither from Gascony?—They are indeed rare and precious gems of beauty; but, methinks, young prince, these are but pearls and rubies, and thou hast left a diamond behind, which is far more admirable and praiseworthy. Or is it, perhaps, but a false rumour which has been repeated to me, how the grave and severe damsel terrified thy cousin by her threatening words, and how she stood solemnly clinging to the cross, in the red light of the evening sun?”

“May it please your highness,” answered Prince Mutza, “all this is indeed true; and the wonderful maiden, whom we were unable to bring with us, is named, in her own country, the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried.” “Well, then, hear what I have to offer,” said the stranger; “whoever shall bring that damsel safely to Carthagena, beautiful and innocent as you then left her, shall receive for his reward a third part of all my treasures, to be his own free property and that of his children for ever.”

Thereupon a dwarfish, swarth-visaged man, but yet in rich attire, came forward from the prince’s train, and said, “Were these words then spoken in earnest? If so, may it please your highness, the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried may surely be found within the limits of Christendom, and, if found, may doubtless be taken and brought hither.” “It may be so,” answered the proud Arabian, with a scornful smile, “yet, methinks thou art not the champion by whom such a scheme will ever be carried into effect.” “I had only ventured to ask,” said the Moor, “if your highness were in earnest when you spoke of the third portion of your fortune?” “I have promised,” answered the prince, “and methinks, Alhafiz, thou should’st have known that my promises are never lightly reckoned.” “So then we shall consider in due time,” answered the other, “how the beautiful Bertha may be yours, and the money fall to my share. ‘But time won, all may be won,’ says the proverb; so then let me be permitted for the present to take leave of absence from your highness.” Thereupon, having made a low bow, he rode away, while the strange prince, in the magnificent dress, looked after him, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders, as with compassion for the vain boast of the little man. Then he turned to Prince Mutza and the ladies, whom he greeted kindly, and regaining his proper position on his horse, trotted lightly away through the pleasant fields and woods of that beautiful country.

“What is his name?” said Gabrielle, when the prince returned to the ladies on the terrace.

“Methinks, I have not for many a day beheld any horseman, who was so brilliantly attired.” “He is the grand Emir Nurreddin,” answered the prince, “the most invincible and renowned Moorish knight that the world has ever known. After his deeds in the fiery eastern climes had become numerous and brilliant as the stars in heaven, he has come over to us here in the West, in order that his brows may not only be crowned by the Asiatic palms, but also by the rich green laurels of Italy and Spain. Our wise men look on him as one of the most prudent of all counsellors; our generals no less admire his courage and activity on the battle-field; and that the beams of his favour and condescension have fallen on me in your presence, noble ladies, appears to me no less flattering and delightful, than if it had been my lot before your eyes to have conquered the sternest foe in the lists.” “We understood very well the conversation which you now held with him,” said Gabrielle, proudly, and turning away with disdain; “and we trust, that the one and only true God, who protects the Christians, will defend Bertha von Lichtenried from the fangs of this tiger; whom, indeed you may well praise as your master and the mirror of Moorish knighthood, since, in the first moment after your meeting, he begins to speak of violent deeds against defenceless women.” With a cold imperious look, she gave the prince to understand, that he should immediately retire from her presence; which he did accordingly, silent and embarrassed, while by a second signal, she in like manner sent away the astonished female attendant.

Again seated on the fragrant grass, at the foot of the oleander-tree, Blanchefleur looked at her friend with such an expression of mysterious hope and rejoicing, that the latter was astonished, and could not help asking what had given rise to this change. “Heaven be praised,” answered the smiling Blanchefleur, “that we are once more quite alone, and I can speak to you without fear or hesitation. Take your place near me on the grass, however; for even though there is no listener near at hand, yet of thoughts like those which are now in my mind I would rather speak in whispers than aloud.” Then, when Gabrielle had done as her friend desired, the blushing damsel hung down her head, with its luxuriant tresses, and said in a low soft voice, “He is here; the minstrel, Aleard, has come to us within the last two days. I have many times seen him gliding round the garden and the palace.”

Gabrielle was about to express her joy at this intelligence, when suddenly there appeared before the two ladies, who knew not from whence he had come, a strange man in a slave’s dress, seemingly young in years, with dark-gleaming eyes, and a pleasant smile on his countenance. He approached them respectfully, and bowed, not after the Arabian, but the European manner. “Who art thou?” cried Gabrielle; “have some spells of enchantment brought thee to this place, or art thou aware, that, on being discovered in our company, you cannot escape destruction?” “Allow me,” said the stranger, “to answer your third question in the first place. I am not ignorant, most beautiful ladies, of the danger which here awaits me, nor so rash as to throw myself in its way, did I not think myself tolerably sure that I can be defended against it. But you ask if I have used enchantment to make my way hither, and I answer no;—I have only removed some of the golden bars of the trellis-work, which I carefully filed asunder, and then replaced so neatly that no one could perceive what had been done. As to your first demand, who I am, my answer is of little import. My name is Theobaldo,—I am an Italian merchant, and had the happiness to be in the train of the young Knight of Trautwangen, when, on that pleasant evening, at the castle of Montfaucon, the Lady Blanchefleur sang the ballad of Abelard and Heloise with the minstrel, Aleard. Thereafter I went with the Count Alessandro de Vinciguerra, intending along with him to join the army of King Richard Cœur de Lion in the Holy Land; but not far from Naples we were taken prisoners by two Arabian galleys, and at length were brought hither as slaves in Carthagena. But, to conclude, I now consider it far more my duty to serve and assist two beautiful young ladies, than an old graybearded master; and for this purpose, I have made my way hither into the garden.” The two damsels looked at him with astonishment, gradually recalling in their minds his features, which before they had scarcely noticed; while Theobaldo kindly explained to them, how he had entered into an agreement with the minstrel Aleard, to rescue them from their present captivity; and that they would all, including the Count de Vinciguerra, make their escape together. At the close of his discourse, however, he said to their great surprise what here follows:—

“I have confessed to you, noble ladies, that I am a merchant, and such a person will seldom devote his time willingly to the service of those who do not promise him some fitting reward. Now, the Lady Gabrielle bears about her a wonderful ring, to which I am of opinion, since I renewed my visits to a certain tomb in Italy, that I myself have just claims and pretensions. These claims, however, are not yet fully clear, even to myself; but whoever should confer on me this ring, would for evermore secure my services and gratitude; and this much I can affirm, that, whither as a squire or comrade on the field of danger, I am both active and trustworthy. Nay, perchance at this moment, where we are so far from Christian people, my assistance is indispensably required, especially when an adventure has to be carried through so difficult as that which we now propose.”

On his countenance, when he pronounced these words, there appeared such a mixture of resolute energy,—of friendly good intentions, and yet of conscious power,—that Blanchefleur eagerly whispered to her companion,—“Give him, then, I beseech you, that unhappy ring. Has it ever brought to either of us peace of mind or good fortune?”—Gabrielle, however, considered long and deeply what she ought to do. At last she had determined, and with her own hands drew from her snow-white bosom the golden chain, with the ring, of which the history and the virtues remained even to that day a mystery to herself. She disengaged it from the chain, and gave it to the merchant, saying,—“There, you have the gift which you desire from me. But beware of the consequence; for you may find too late, that it is a dangerous toy to play with.”—Theobaldo’s eyes sparkled as he looked at the sparkling jewels;—at length he exclaimed,—“Welcome—welcome to my hands thou sacred, and to me yet mysterious gem!—But, methinks, we shall soon be better acquainted. Ha! even within these first moments, seems it not as if all were already bright and clear as the noonday sun?”—Thereafter, turning to the ladies, he said,—“Your safety is now secured, noble damsels;—you shall be rescued;—and the Lady of Portamour has lost but little, while on me she has conferred so much. Yet, as long as I live in this world, I shall praise your kindness and condescension, nor shall time ever set any bounds to my gratitude and exertions in your service.”—So greeting them respectfully, he retired into the thickets.

“That was in truth a strange man,” said the Lady Blanchefleur after a pause; “and was not his appearance at the end of our discourse quite changed from what it seemed at the beginning?—Methought almost that his figure had grown taller, and his frame become endowed with gigantic strength!”—“Ay, indeed,” answered Gabrielle, “he had changed all at once into a powerful, resistless champion, and the tones of his voice were deep and solemn. Notwithstanding his servile attire, one would have looked on him as a man of high rank; though even then how humble would he have seemed in the presence of your noble brother, over whose exploits the Moorish brides are yet lamenting!”—At these words there came a light waving and fluttering of wings over the damsels’ heads, so that they looked up with surprise into the air, and beheld a beautiful falcon, adorned with a golden band round his neck, which was now wheeling in circles about them, and which, after playfully disporting in this manner, at last descended, and, fluttering his wings as if in joy and triumph, seated himself in the lap of the Lady Blanchefleur.

“Good Heaven!” she exclaimed, growing pale with terror, “what can this portend?—It is my brother’s favourite falcon; and it is said, that these noble creatures never leave their master, till he is laid in the cold grave, and then they fly through the world, till they find either his nearest of kindred, or some other master valiant and generous as he was whom they have lost.”—“Speak not so frightfully, dearest Blanchefleur,” said her friend, less agitated, though on her features, too, lay the paleness of apprehension;—“what if he now came to you but as a messenger, and with pleasant tidings?—Mark you, how joyous and triumphant are his looks!”—Thereupon they unclasped the golden chain from his neck, and found twisted therein a rose-coloured parchment, on which there was inscribed, in pleasant courtly rhymes, an address from Sir Folko de Montfaucon. With eyes gleaming with delight, they read therein, that the noble chevalier was now in the neighbourhood of the Moor’s castle, disguised as a merchant, but with a train of faithful attendants; that he had sworn to effect their deliverance; and begged that, if his visit were not unwelcome to the ladies, they would appoint a time when he could best come to the garden and speak with them. With a hand trembling with joy, Blanchefleur wrote an answer on the same parchment, appointing that her brother should come to the garden-terrace at sunrise.—“All are now here!” cried she. “My brother, the minstrel Aleard, and the faithful falcon!—It seems to me almost as if we were already at home!”—With these words the parchment was again fixed by the golden chain to the bird’s neck, and he winged his way joyfully into the blue fields of air. Joyfully, too, the damsels went along the meadow, pleasantly illumined by slanting sun-gleams, towards the Moorish palace.

The first gleams of the morning-red had scarcely appeared over the hills on the eastern sea-shore, when Gabrielle and Blanchefleur were already awake and dressed, and stood at their veranda (that was entwined with vine-branches and shadowed with myrtle), watching for the appearance of the Chevalier de Montfaucon. They were now the more anxious that he should come, since during the night their minds had been so confused by strange visions, that they began afterwards to doubt whether the adventure of the preceding day, with the falcon and the rose-coloured parchment, had not been all but a dream!

However, not long after they had taken their place at the window, a pleasant concert was heard of cymbals, horns, and flutes, which seemed approaching by a road that wound through a level meadow towards the palace. Looking thitherward, they perceived that a squadron of Moorish horsemen were approaching as the van-guard; then followed many camels and sumpter-horses, loaded with merchandize, covered also with blue velvet cloth, richly fringed. Hereupon, Blanchefleur and Gabrielle joyfully recognised the colours of the Montfaucon arms, and smiled on each other with increasing confidence. Thereafter came the musicians,—a full band, with many instruments, of which the metal parts were composed only of the purest silver and gold: the joints moreover and keys were ornamented with diamonds and emeralds. At last appeared the lord and master of this grand procession. He was mounted on a very beautiful mule, so richly covered with embroidered drapery that the feet only were visible from the ground, and the large dark eyes rolled within a casement of gold adornments. The noble chevalier himself was attired in blue and gold silk so richly and magnificently, that one could not well say whether he was dressed like a Moor or a Christian. Moreover he sat on a sumpter-saddle like a woman, with a guitar in his hand, on which he seemed to play, though but few notes were heard; for the music that was made by his attendants was far too loud to permit such gentle sounds to reach the listener’s ears. By the light which gleamed in his eyes, however, one could perceive that he played somewhat that to his own mind was very delightful; and this happened just as he first caught sight of Gabrielle behind the vine-interwoven veranda.

At the first glance, the ladies had recognised the Chevalier de Montfaucon. Though he now wore an artificial beard on his upper-lip, another of great length descending from his chin, and a turban of sky-blue silk round his richly-curled hair, Gabrielle and Blanchefleur would have distinguished him from among an hundred other champions. At the same time the noble falcon played round his master, oftentimes whirling and fluttering before him, as if he had sought to point out to the damsels the knight whom they already so well knew. Meanwhile the Prince Mutza never once discovered in the merchant the conqueror whom he had so shamefully deceived. On the contrary, he came quite tranquilly and unconcerned out of his palace to meet the strangers, inquired what goods they had to sell, approved what they offered, and at last invited the merchant to dine with him in his banquet-hall. Sir Folko, however, excused himself from accepting this invitation. He feared that the ladies by their emotion might have betrayed who he really was; and besides, if he wished to communicate any message, his falcon would serve him as the most faithful ambassador. Accordingly, through the next week, that swift and trustworthy servant was often employed; and by the frequent interchange of the rose-coloured parchment, it was brought about that the Chevalier de Montfaucon became aware of the plan already formed by Theobaldo, the Count de Vinciguerra, and the minstrel Aleard, with whom, of course, he entered into a bond of friendship. It was only needful to wait for Don Hernandez, (who had agreed with the Chevalier de Montfaucon to attend in the harbour of Carthagena,) ere their great adventure was to be tried and carried through with triumph.

One evening, it was just when the eventful time drew near, the two damsels were again seated on the grass below the oleander-tree. The falcon had brought them a new letter, and had seated himself on the snow-white hand of the Lady Blanchefleur, who, to say the truth, was afraid of the bird; for she thought he might, from impatience, scratch her with his long talons. Meanwhile Gabrielle held the parchment in one hand, and the golden pencil, with which she was wont to write, in the other, but without setting one word on the rose-coloured leaf that she held before her. Blanchefleur begged of her not to delay, for fear that some one from the palace might come to interrupt them; “and,” added she, “write, if possible, in such manner to the brother of your faithful friend, that he may not utterly despair; or, if this cannot be, send him at least some words of consolation in his distress.” Gabrielle shook her head, with all its beautiful tresses, gravely and mournfully. She read once more the lines which Sir Folko had addressed to her, and which were indeed a love-sonnet, of which the sad music fell so deeply and movingly on her heart, that she began to weep bitterly. Blanchefleur wept also, and said anxiously, “And will you not send even one word in answer? Shall this brave knight encounter such dangers, and meet perchance death, for your sake, without even the consolation of knowing that you would even heave one sigh for his untimely fate?” Hereupon they heard the portal of the garden move on its hinges. They heard even the voice of Mutza; and the falcon shook his wings and looked round him impatiently. “Haste, oh haste!” whispered the now trembling Blanchefleur; “my poor brother will die of grief, if you send back his falcon without an answer.” Terrified, and scarcely knowing what she did, Gabrielle wrote upon the leaf two little verses, bidding Sir Folko “live for the sake of her who loved him;” and Blanchefleur, leaving her no time for reflection, fixed it in the falcon’s collar, which joyfully flew away swift as an arrow towards his master. Blanchefleur then fell upon her friend’s neck, and kissed her with affectionate gratitude.

Just at this time, Theobaldo had arrived at the inn, which was now occupied by the Chevalier de Montfaucon, and where the latter had just loaded a sumpter-mule with a great store of richly-ornamented weapons, in order, in his character of a merchant, to appear with them before the grand emir, Nurreddin, who had commanded his attendance. But as Theobaldo, about an hour before, had discovered that the noble Castilian, Don Hernandez, had appeared with his galleys in the harbour, Sir Folko concluded that the emir might wait, and began to lay plans with the Italian for their flight and escape across the seas, even in the night of that same day.

In the midst of their important dialogue, however, the chevalier could not help fixing his eyes steadfastly on a golden chain which was visible over the slave’s frock worn by Theobaldo; and as the merchant spoke with vehement gestures, Gabrielle’s magic ring came at last fully into view.—“Whence hast thou obtained that gem?” inquired Sir Folko, in a severe tone, and with the deep flush of anger on his countenance.—“For such questions,” said the merchant, in a tone of calm defiance, with which it was his wont to answer whatever was addressed to him in an angry or commanding strain, “for such trifling questions, methinks, a fitter time might have been chosen than the present; but, as you consider it of such extreme importance to learn how I came by this ring, know then, that I received it from the fair hands of the lady to whom it lately belonged, and that she bestowed it on me as a bounty when I entered her service, in order that I might be true and faithful.”—“The bargain then is null and void,” said Sir Folko, scarcely repressing his anger: “too much noble blood has already been shed for the sake of this ring, to permit the thought that it should become yours, only because a helpless woman, in the hour of terror and distress, was not able to refuse your insolent request. Give it up to me then before we speak of aught else;—give up the ring directly!”—“You might as well demand my life,” answered Theobaldo; “and you may rest assured, that it is not by a few despotic and chevalier-like words that you will obtain either the one or the other. But moderate your anger;—I renounce all pretensions which the ring might give me to castles and lands. Solely for its own sake have I wished to obtain it as my property, and you must know that I am not without rightful pretensions to this magic gem.”—“It would be fitting and praiseworthy, forsooth,” answered the Knight of Montfaucon, “that I should thus bargain with the cunning merchant for that ring of which the worth is beyond all price or calculation. I shall now prove to you what force the words of a Chevalier de Montfaucon, which you so much despise, can carry along with them.”—Thereupon he seized the ring and chain, along with the collar of the Italian, so powerfully and rapidly, that the latter, in spite of his usual activity, stood for a space as if spell-bound and motionless; so that he would in another minute have been deprived of his ring, had not the Count Alessandro Vinciguerra entered, and, with a noble dignity of manner, which shone even through his present disguise, inquired,—“What have you to say against my squire, Sir Knight of Montfaucon?”—“Signor,” answered Sir Folko, letting Theobaldo go, “order him but to restore to me this ring, which I demand from him in the name of the Lady Gabrielle de Portamour; and if that be done, there is nothing in the world of which I can accuse him.”—“I had perhaps commanded him to do so,” answered the Count de Vinciguerra, “had you made a request to me in the proper manner for that purpose, but now——.”—“You had perhaps commanded him, forsooth?” interrupted Theobaldo, (smiling, and looking down upon the knights with unwonted dignity), “but by so doing you would have succeeded not a jot better than the Knight of Montfaucon!”—Vinciguerra cast an angry look at his squire for this boldness; while Sir Folko, attending only to the count’s last words, resumed,—“I should have made a request sayest thou?—Know that I appear in such manner only before my king, whom I am sworn to serve and honour; but with other men I but demand my own proper rights. Is it your pleasure to admit them at this time or not?”—“Thou would’st, methinks, speak more politely and calmly before me, sir knight,” answered the count, “were it not that I now stand before you as an unarmed and defenceless captive!”

These words fell like corroding poison, or fire, into the pure and generous heart of the Knight of Montfaucon; so that, wholly forgetful of the time and place, with all the dangers by which they were surrounded, he had, in a moment, drawn out two Persian sabres from among the weapons by which the mule was loaded, held them cross-ways, with the handles towards Vinciguerra, and said,—“My lord count, take your choice; they are both of the same length, and both equally sharp. European weapons were indeed better; but, alas! I have none here to offer you.”—While the count, somewhat surprised at this proceeding, but yet resolute, made his choice between the two sabres, Theobaldo endeavoured to remind them how formidable were the enemies by whom they were now both beset, and how little a kingdom, torn by civil dissensions, need ever hope for victory. A contemptuous look from the chevalier was the answer that he first received, and on this followed the decisive words:—“The question here is of my honour; and do you keep to your measuring-rod, good merchant!”—Shrugging his shoulders, and, with a look of proud contempt, Theobaldo then turned away, saying,—“The time will come, however, when you will gladly take that assistance which I alone can offer you!”—So he went away to the sea-shore, and walked up and down for pastime, while the two knights fell furiously on each other. In vain did the falcon, with his golden collar and rose-coloured parchment, hover round his master’s head, watching the moment when he might descend. The knight never observed his approach, his whole heart being now possessed by fiery passions, how different from the sweet emotion wherewith he should have welcomed this messenger of love!

Neither of the combatants had ever used such a weapon as a Persian sabre for a serious combat; but the far-travelled pupil of Sir Huguenin had before exercised himself in this, as well as in every other mode of warfare. In a few moments the crooked falchion fitted his hand as well as his own sword would have done; and while the count in his confusion often struck with the blunt side of the sabre, Sir Folko never failed to use the sharp edge, the blade being fashioned like that of a sickle, and in a short space Vinciguerra had received three deep wounds in the breast and arm, so that he fell powerless to the ground.—“There you have performed a notable and most prudent exploit!” said Theobaldo, who now again stood near them; “take yourself out of the way, however, as quickly as you can, and I shall remove the wounded man.”—Thereupon, with a dexterous movement, he lifted the unfortunate count on his shoulders, and vanished with his burden into one of the neighbouring garden-houses.

While the chevalier still stood irresolute what he should now do, and scarcely attending to the merchant’s last words, the advice which the latter had given him became all at once but too clearly intelligible.—“Do I see rightly?—Was there ever such insolence known?” cried a well-known voice behind him. It was the Prince Mutza, who, with a numerous train of attendants, now stopped his horse, lost in surprise, and gazed steadfastly on Sir Folko’s features. The latter wished to have reassumed his old character of a merchant; but now, when it was too late, he perceived what, in the heat of the combat, had wholly escaped his attention. One of Vinciguerra’s blows with the blunt side of the sabre had struck off the turban from his head; his false beard had fallen along with it; and now, with his luxuriant brown hair curling round his handsome features, the Knight of Montfaucon stood there with the bloody sabre in his hand: for Mutza to have past him by would have been impossible. Much sooner than the prince expected, however, did the chevalier recover from the confusion of that moment. He took an iron glove from the armour with which the mule was loaded, and, throwing it in Mutza’s face, he called out,—“I challenge thee, caitiff as thou art, to single combat, for life and death;—I give thee the choice of whatsoever weapons thou wilt use; and by all this I shew to thee far more condescension than thou deservest; for not only hast thou, like a base slave, broken thy parole of honour, granted to a true knight, but, like a common robber, hast forced away from their home two noble damsels, by whom, instead of being treated as a prisoner, thou wert entertained as a guest.”—At these words a deadly paleness overspread Mutza’s features. Was this the effect of anger, or did some worse feelings now work in his bosom? So much at least is certain, that, even by one step out of the straight-forward path of virtue, even the best among us may bring himself under the dominion of evil spirits, whose very existence he had not before suspected. The Prince Mutza was now so far sunk and depraved, that he pretended no longer to know the Knight of Montfaucon, but called out to his attendants,—“Take him prisoner!—Will this base merchant,—assassin too as he seems,—dare to expect that a prince will meet him in the lists?”

Then all the armed men of the prince’s train threw themselves from their horses, and, trusting to their superiority of numbers, thought that they would easily have overpowered Sir Folko. But, as if suddenly gifted with supernatural energy, he struck with his Persian sabre two or three of those who first approached him too rashly and confidently, in such manner, that they fell disabled to the ground. Then, as the rest stood for a moment astonished at this achievement, he rushed up to the sumpter-mule, drew forth daggers, arrows, javelins, and battle-axes, and with incredible strength and rapidity of arm, hurled them at the mob of his assailants, till they howled and shrieked in their confusion and terror. “Try the base merchant!” cried he in a voice of thunder. “These are his wares,—and the price he demands is but the blood of cowards and robbers!” The prince’s attendants now retired and fled in all directions; nor did any one among them seem inclined to renew the contest. At length Mutza, with the fiery blush of shame and rage on his features, exclaimed, “Pitiful cravens as you are, then must I myself end the career of this madman?” He was preparing to dismount from his horse, when the Knight of Montfaucon exclaimed, “Of all the cowards that have been here present, thou thyself art the most pitiful and dastardly; nor dost thou any longer deserve that a brave knight should honour thee with the chances of a single combat!” Thereupon he hurled a battle-axe at his opponent, taking his aim so securely and resolutely, that the iron struck deep into Mutza’s lofty forehead, and the false-hearted young libertine fell lifeless from his horse. Just ere he lost his place in the saddle, however, either in the convulsions of approaching death, or as a last effort of his vehement rage, he threw his Damascus sabre at his foe, and the sharp weapon struck so fearful a wound in Sir Folko’s breast, that he also fell to the ground, and the cowardly squires, glad to avail themselves of this accident, in order to revenge their master’s death and their own disgrace, rushed up to the now fainting chevalier, and cut him with their sabres, so that his blood flowed in torrents on the grass. Anxiously and mournfully did the faithful falcon hover in the air, looking down on this frightful adventure.

But, now behold! there drew near, two female forms, that came in their beauty like gleams of sunlight amid the raging and tumultuous assemblage. These were Blanchefleur and Gabrielle, who, in the confusion that now prevailed in the palace, had been deserted by the slaves appointed to watch them, and had escaped from their confinement. They threw themselves down by the lifeless remains of Sir Folko,—wept and kissed his pale lips in their despair, and prayed to Heaven, that, since in this world they had no longer either hope or joy, their lives also might in mercy be taken from them. For a while the slaves and armed men stood gazing at them, as if they had beheld some supernatural apparition; but ere long their thirst of revenge and bloodshed was renewed, and first in confused murmurs, then with loud shouts of rage, they began to demand, that, as an atonement for the death of their prince, these Christian enchantresses, who, by their wicked attractions, had brought him into danger, should now be sacrificed. Blinded by their tears, and awake only to their excessive grief, the damsels saw not the threatening gestures of those who were now around them, and would soon have been put to death, had not a champion come to their aid, who was in truth more like a demi-god than a man, at whose appearance the mob became submissive and respectful. This was the grand emir, Nurreddin.

“These damsels,” said he, “are under my protection;” and no sooner had these words, though pronounced quietly, without anger or effort, escaped his lips, than the crowd retired, without daring even to murmur their disapprobation. Thereupon the emir contrived, by gentle persuasions, and, as if with paternal care and affection, to remove them from the dead body of Sir Folko; and they were placed in a magnificent palanquin, with orders that they should immediately be carried to the best apartments of his palace. Then he turned his attention to the fallen champions. As to Prince Mutza, death was visibly imprinted on his distorted features, and his nearest relations bore him away with tears and lamentations. The wisest physicians too, who had been summoned to the fatal spot, declared that the Chevalier de Montfaucon was irrecoverably lost, inasmuch as even one only of the many wounds that he had received would have been enough to destroy the most powerful warrior. Thereupon the grand emir commanded that his body should be placed in a neighbouring tomb, which was appropriated for the cemetery of princes and others of the highest rank. The faithful falcon then followed the procession, and the slow heavy motion of his wings betokened his grief. When the strong iron gate of the vault was closed, he seated himself thereon, clung to the iron bars with his talons, and pecked vehemently at them; thereafter, as if in wild despair, he mounted aloft, and fled across the seas into the boundless realms of distance.

It was now a beautiful summer evening, when Sir Otto von Trautwangen, still among the Finland mountains, had seated himself on a rocky cliff, and, as it often times happened, played for pastime on his harp, and sang thereto a love ditty addressed to his beautiful Gabrielle. His station was still not far from the watch-tower of the Lady Minnatrost; for, on account of various negotiations that had been begun with the pagans, the Christians had delayed till this beautiful season any farther attack, and the sea-monarch still kept watch with Sir Otto on the frontiers. Just now the latter was about to lay aside his harp, and proceed on one of his accustomed visits to the Lady Minnatrost, when suddenly his attention was arrested by the waving and fluttering of wings round his head. Thinking only that this must be a bat, or night-hawk, whose visit was by no means agreeable to him, he clapped his hands and shouted, in order to drive away the intruder. This seemed, however, to have rather encouraged the yet invisible guest, and in a few moments a beautiful falcon came before him, and clung, as if with kind and humble entreaties, to his breast. The experienced hunter could not fail to recognise the cherished favourite of the Knight of Montfaucon, which he had so often seen in the woods, more especially as he perceived the golden chain, with the colours and arms of the chevalier, round his neck.

“Good Heaven!” sighed Sir Otto, “is then the heroic Sir Folko so untimely fallen?” For he well knew, from the stories told him by De Montfaucon, that such a noble bird would never forsake his master but in death; and then that he would fly about over lands and seas, until he had found some one equal in valour and greatness to him whom he had thus lost.

“Would to Heaven!” said Sir Otto, looking at the wise expressive eyes of the poor bird, “that thou could’st speak to me but four or five words, in answer to the whole multitude of questions which now rise up within my breast!” And as it oftentimes comes to pass, that the foolish wishes we have formed are granted when we least expect their fulfilment, and that they are the cause of pain instead of pleasure, so it happened to the young Knight of Trautwangen. He marked the rose-coloured parchment in the falcon’s collar, drew it out, and read thereon the love-sonnet of Sir Folko, addressed to Gabrielle, and her kind and loving answer thereto, which had never reached the hands of that knight, whose heart would therewith have been so refreshed and delighted, while it now struck like a deadly arrow the inmost soul of Sir Otto, who, of all men, was the last in the world into whose possession the parchment should ever have arrived.

Courteous reader, should’st thou ever have been so unfortunate, that the being who, of all the habitants of earth, was by thee the most beloved, and by whom thy sweetest hopes were encouraged with approving smiles, has at once turned away with cold indifference, leaving thee like a benighted wanderer on a desert waste, from whom the moon has suddenly withdrawn her light, then wilt thou sympathize with and understand the deep anguish of Sir Otto von Trautwangen. If this book indeed fell into the hands of one who was more accustomed to inflict such wounds, than to feel them in her own breast, then perhaps a scornful smile would prove the only notice with which he would be honoured. But from such readers kind Heaven will protect me; and I may venture to hope, that every one will compassionate the knight, who was thus in soul so deeply wounded; that every one will rejoice too, when it is farther told, that Sir Otto indulged not in complaints and lamentations; but, with his harp slung over one arm, and his falcon perched on his left hand, he went composedly and quietly on his way to the watch-tower of the Lady Minnatrost.

When he was now mounting the steep road that led to the Druda’s watch-tower, he heard in the valley below the sounding tramp of a war-horse and the ringing of armour. Involuntarily he looked round, and perceived at no great distance a grey war-steed, rode by a knight, whose appearance, as well as that of the grey horse, was certainly known to him. As he reflected on this, the rider looked up, caught Sir Otto’s features through the thickets of the beech-trees, drew up the reins with a low bow, and said, “Welcome, my noble lord and conqueror! I have now to announce that I am returned from the pilgrimage which you were pleased to impose on me, and that I have faithfully delivered up at the castle of Trautwangen the banner which you took from my brave countrymen.” Thereupon Sir Otto recognised his prisoner, Swerker, and, filled with ardent longing to hear tidings from him, for which the disappointment of all his hopes in love rendered him only the more anxious, he seated himself straightway on the edge of the cliff, and begged that the Swede would describe to him minutely all that he had met with on the banks of the Danube.

Swerker looked mournfully and with a pale visage towards him, and at last said,—“Sir knight, I call the great Odin to witness that you have behaved to me even like one of the glorious princes of Asgard; and if I should now, as if thankless and unworthy of your regard, bring you unwelcome tidings from home, blame me not, for the fault is not mine; but, since you command me to speak, I must tell you freely and honestly what has been the result of my embassy.

“The castle of Trautwangen, on the Danube, stands to this day in its old security and grandeur. The lofty towers were visible across the long meadows for many a mile before I had arrived at the fortress. The people bowed respectfully when I inquired for Sir Hugh von Trautwangen, and told me that he lived there all alone, like a meditative hermit. A peasant (from whom, when about two miles distant from the castle, I purchased the last provender for my horse) had formerly been a squire or sentinel at the castle, and afforded me a long description how venerable were the looks of the old champion, and how he used to sit so grave and dignified in his arm-chair in the great hall, with a velvet cap on his head, and with a round table before him, on which always stood an embossed silver goblet filled with old Johannisberg.

“It was not therefore without a feeling of mingled awe and admiration, that I drew near to the castle. As if trusting to its own strength and ancestral dignity, the fortress received me with its gates wide open, the drawbridge was down, and had long thus lain, as in token of peace, reposing on the turf by which it was partly overgrown. No one, neither squire nor sentinel, came to meet me; so that, without more ado, I tied my horse to a post in the middle of the large court, and proceeded up the wide staircase, by which I presumed that I should arrive at the great hall. I walked slowly, and rattled as much as I could with my spurs, greaves, and other accoutrements, in hopes that I might attract the attention of some one who would announce my approach to the castle’s owner. But in vain; no one was visible; nor was there a sound even of a footstep heard, except my own, through the wide desolate fortress. At last I found myself before great folding doors of carved oak; and, believing that this must be the entrance to the hall, I knocked three times loudly, and at measured intervals, with my iron-gloved hand. No sound was heard from within. I repeated my knocks, and rattled at the lock, but still all was silent. So I took counsel with myself and said, ‘Methinks I have now done enough to announce my coming here as a stranger, and if the people are all deaf, or sleep so very soundly, they cannot feel offended if I should enter without more ceremony. Besides, I am here a messenger, and as such have important duties to perform.’ I opened the door as respectfully as I could, and stepped in with the banner. I now found myself in the armoury; but, with all its weapons and trophies, it reminded me of the empty coat-of-mail of a knight long since dead. Truly, in the background I beheld, sitting in his arm-chair, tall, erect, and awful to look upon, the old Sir Hugh, with his green velvet cap on his head, and the round table with the silver goblet were before him. But, alas! the knight’s eyes were firmly closed, his cheeks were deadly pale, his brows cold, and his hands clasped together, as they had been left by the last fearful convulsion. I saw very well that the old hero had just then died. I placed your victorious trophy beside him, and now thought that I would keep watch there till some of his usual attendants came. But the great Odin only knows how it came to pass!—A resistless horror stole over me as I looked through the long desolate apartment. It seemed to me as if the dead man would suddenly start again into life,—that he would open his eyes, and be as much terrified at my presence as I would be at the sight of him. Then, if he shrieked aloud, his voice, amid the silence of that wide lonely fortress, would have shaken my inmost heart, and thenceforth I should have wandered through the wide world as an incurable madman.

“Sir knight, I trust you have already proved that I am no coward; yet in that place I could not withstand the apprehensions that assailed me. Besides, I said to myself, ‘Thou hast fulfilled the purpose of thine embassy, inasmuch as thou hast brought the banner to the old hero, and his people may, if they think fit, lay it with him in the grave. Also, thou canst announce to his son, that Sir Hugh of Trautwangen now sits quaffing mead with the glorified champions of Valhalla.’ Thereupon I hastened down stairs and remounted my horse; but, ere I had proceeded far from the gates, I heard the frightful lamentations of the squires, who had by this time returned, and found that their master was no longer living. Here then I am once more at home, and, as you desired, have described to you all that came to pass at your father’s castle.”

The darkness of the night, which had now settled around them, concealed from Swerker’s eyes that expression of grief and despair which had changed the countenance of Sir Otto. In a few kind words he instructed the Swede to ride onward to the camp, and await there his coming. Meanwhile he proceeded on his way to the castle of the Lady Minnatrost, and though he struggled against his grief, yet, as he walked along through the darkness of the night, he could not help weeping bitterly.

When he had arrived at the Druda’s castle, and had entered that pleasant chamber so mildly illuminated, as if by soft moonlight, and in which stood the round banquet-table, the lady could not have failed to observe his pale countenance, his dishevelled hair, and wildly-rolling eyes. But at this time she was not alone;—besides the sea-monarch, there was another guest,—a warlike champion, to whom they seemed to listen with great attention, and who, as soon as the door was opened, rose from his seat, and threw himself into Sir Otto’s arms.

“Good heaven! is it possible?—Art thou Heerdegen of Lichtenried?” cried the Knight of Trautwangen, as if uncertain and perplexed, although the deep scars which his own sword had left over the brows of Sir Heerdegen might have removed all doubt. Forgetting their old quarrels, the two young knights met even like loving friends, and locked each other in a cordial embrace. On both sides they felt that they had been in the wrong; and there is, perchance, no other feeling which, in the hearts of brave and virtuous warriors, is so likely to produce mutual good-will and attachment. To have used many words of apology would have been needless, and would even have disturbed their present happiness at meeting;—besides, the Lady Minnatrost and the sea-monarch looked so anxiously towards Sir Heerdegen, that the Knight of Trautwangen perceived how important must have been the discourse which his coming had interrupted, and could not help eagerly wishing for its renewal.

“The times are indeed wild and unruly,” said Sir Heerdegen, as they all took their places round the table; “what I have told you before, and what Sir Otto has not heard, I shall now repeat as rapidly as may be. At the siege of Ptolemais, King Richard Cœur de Lion quarrelled with the Duke John of Austria. Thereafter, when the king too rashly came as a pilgrim through the Austrian dominions, the duke planned an ambuscade, and took him prisoner.”

“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Sir Otto, “if King Richard Cœur de Lion be taken prisoner, then the whole spirit of knighthood over the world must at once be crushed and destroyed.”

“For this very reason all true knights must now exert themselves,” answered Sir Heerdegen. “The question is, in what prison, and whether by sea or land, King Richard is now held captive? The Duke John says, on one day, that the king is by no means in his custody; on the next, he affirms, that he has been given up to the emperor; and on the third, that he has already made his escape. What then can an honest Christian knight resolve to do in the midst of such contradictions?—To say the truth, one’s brain grows confused when he thinks of such treachery,—our hearts are almost broken,—and, even with the most undaunted courage, we cannot perform any one exploit of which the world could say, that it had brought us even halfway to our grand object.”

“Truly,” said Sir Otto, “this world begins ill my estimation to become wearisome. At a distance, perchance, it may seem, both to angels and demons, pleasant and full of pastime; but to him who is in the midst of its occupations and sorrows, life is indeed but a sorry jest.”

At these words, which were spoken with a bitter coldness, that strangely contrasted with the knight’s usual manner, all eyes were turned upon him; and, as if one had suddenly come to a district of country which before used to present only rich gardens and pleasant villas, but where one now finds only ruin and devastation, without knowing whence that fearful change has proceeded, all of them now remained in silent astonishment, till at length the Lady Minnatrost addressed him,—“In God’s name! young hero, what new misfortune hast thou encountered?”

“Nothing—nothing,” answered Sir Otto, with the same frightful coldness; “only my bride has proved unfaithful, and my father is now dead; so that for the future I am alone in the world. More I have not to tell.”

Thereupon, when Sir Heerdegen and the sea-monarch started up, and in their sympathy ran with open arms to embrace him, suddenly, with a changed and faltering voice, he said,—“Do not afflict yourselves, noble comrades, for these events are past, and cannot be retrieved. Truly you have proved yourselves faithful and loving friends, yet not the less I feel, that I am from henceforth alone; for unless with the inmost heart of man be entwined some bond of affection towards father, mother, brothers, and sisters, or, more than all, to wife and child, then is this world but a desolate wilderness, and life is but like a shadow that at evening glides over the lonely meadow.—Good night!”

With these words he gently, but resolutely, disengaged himself from the arms of his friends, and walked in his affliction sternly and proudly towards the door. Then the Lady Minnatrost rose from the table, and came forward. With noiseless steps, and as if floating along like a spirit, she placed herself beside the Knight of Trautwangen. Like a mist-wreath dispersed by the pale gentle moonbeams, her veil was now uplifted. The mild light of her pensive eyes shone upon him; she embraced the youth with many tears, and said,—“No; thou art not a shadow that floats and perishes on the meadow,—nor art thou left alone in the world;—for thou art my son, and I am Hildiridur, the loving and faithful wife of the stern Sir Hugur!”

Ask yourselves, courteous readers,—all ye whose beloved parents are numbered with the dead,—what would be your feelings if a mother were thus restored to you, even in that hour when you had most need of consolation, and if thus all the pleasant dreams of childhood were brought again smiling around you? For you, however, who yet enjoy that unspeakable blessing, to walk in the light of a mother’s protecting and loving eyes, I would not awaken the frightful thought, that such happiness should ever be taken from you. Without this, you may know well how to sympathize with and to measure that balmy joy which was thus so unexpectedly poured into the bleeding heart of Sir Otto!—In the moon-like radiance of the Druda’s eyes, it seemed as if a whole garden of azure flowers, emblems of hope and confidence, once more sprung up around him. His mother’s well-known features now shone upon him as kindly and mildly as ever; not mournful and disfigured, as when he thought that she lay dying in the forest, nor pale and motionless as he had beheld her during his nightly watch in the chapel.

It was long before either of them could again speak calmly. Otto knelt before her, and could only say, “Oh! dearest—dearest mother!—how could’st thou remain so long concealed from one who so dearly loved thee! Heaven knows how many an hour I have spent in weeping thy loss and praying for thee!” Then, in their great joy and affection, they both continued silent, while Sir Heerdegen and the sea-monarch stood, one on each side, with clasped hands,—even as one oftentimes sees in ancient pictures and monuments the figures of devout champions, who stand in respectful meditation beside the divinely-inspired saints of the olden times.

At last Hildiridur dismissed the three knights, commanding that her son should come to her alone on the next day, that he might hear from his mother’s lips the eventful history of his parents. Rejoicing, and yet weeping in his gladness, Sir Otto rode homewards through the clear moonlight, while his faithful friends followed him, and in their hearts partook of all his emotion.

When they had arrived at the camp, there Swerker came riding towards them, threw himself from his horse, and would have held the stirrup while Sir Otto dismounted; but the latter said,—“Not so; for thou art not my squire, but my equal in rank, and shalt be my chosen comrade in the battle-field.”—“Nay,” answered Swerker, “this cannot be, for I am yet no Christian; and who knows whether in my whole life I shall ever become one?”—“On that score there need be no doubt,” said Sir Otto; “had we but a learned priest here among our troops, he would reveal to you our faith in all its divine beauty; and certainly you could not hesitate to believe in what he said.”—“Methinks,” answered the Swede, “the best of all methods, if I may venture so to speak, were, that you should yourself undertake the trouble of my conversion. It is better that one knight should always speak with another, and so, by expressing only the real feelings of our hearts, we shall at last agree well together. Should you prove to be in the right, then I am willing to become a Christian; if, on the other hand, my doctrines are better maintained, then you will join with us in our devotions to the great Odin, and the ancient gods of Valhalla.”

“Agreed!” said Sir Otto; “I shall take my chance as your instructor, and to-morrow at sunrise we shall hold our first meeting for this purpose. Even now, when Heaven, in his infinite wisdom, has in one and the same day so wounded and rejoiced my heart, methinks I shall in this attempt be successful.”

On the following day the two young heroes met and disputed vehemently together, whereupon Sir Otto felt strengthened in listening to the sound of his own voice, and by the self-consciousness of right which dwelt in his own heart. He felt assured, that he would ere long gain the victory; but, when evening approached, he failed not to remember his appointment, and set out alone towards the castle of Hildiridur.

The Druda met him on his arrival at the gate, and led him kindly and caressingly up stairs to the chamber with the round banquet-table, which on this evening was more cheerfully and pleasantly illuminated than ever. On the table, moreover, he saw many brilliant objects; there was a magnificent plume of feathers fastened together by a brooch of emerald; a large gold cross with a rich chain; a green velvet belt beautifully embroidered, and other accoutrements fit for a valiant knight of the highest rank.—“These shall all be thine, dearest son,” said she, while the tears glittered in her eyes. “Through so many years it has never been in my power to make thee a present, by way of kind remembrance, on thy birth-day, nor at Christmas-tide; and for this neglect I must now compensate as well as I can.”—With these words she began to attire her beloved son in the gold chain and belt, the plume of feathers, and other adornments, till at last he stood glittering like a fairy king before her. Once more she looked at him with that full expressive gaze, with which only a mother regards a dear child of whom she is justly proud; then invited the youth to take his place opposite to her at the table, and began to speak as follows:—

“Thy father, my beloved son, was brave and valiant indeed as thou art, but in temper not so mild and submissive. He was indeed a threatening and stern hero, of whom all, even those who most loved him, were afraid; for his character might well be compared to that of a burning summer’s day, now bright and beautiful, though we know not how soon it may change into a frightful thunder-storm. Thus it happened, that he overtook me in a bay of the North Sea, and, half by promises, half by threats, compelled me to become his wife. Even to this hour I tremble to think of the terror that I felt soon after. It was in Holland, where a grand festival had been given in honour of Sir Hugur. When he returned home from the banquet, he found in my chamber a long staff of oak-wood, with Runic characters carved thereon; and, suddenly changing his tone from that of loving confidence to bitter reproach and fierce anger, he said,—-‘I have already heard, that thou art a powerful enchantress. Beware, however, how thou betrayest any tokens or symbols of such an art in my presence, for, should this ever happen again, I swear solemnly, that moment shall be the last of thy life!’

“Hastily, and without thought, I took up, in my terror, the Runic enchanting-rod, and threw it into the fire; whereupon such a terrific blaze arose, that the very walls of the chimney were rent asunder, and the fire spread so rapidly, that Hugur had scarcely time to snatch me, fainting with affright, in his arms, and bear me from the room. Would to Heaven that all my implements of enchantment had at the time been destroyed; and, above all, the fatal mirror which is now placed in the adjoining room, and which I was wont to carry with me, carefully packed, wherever I came! But the mystic spells that ruled therein made it impossible for the fire to injure the mirror, and much as I was afraid of Sir Hugur’s anger, I yet had not resolution to renounce all the secrets that I had learned during my abode in the distant snow-covered Iceland. Alas! my son, where an impulse and longing like that which I had felt towards these dark sciences are born with us, too often are we carried onward, notwithstanding all our struggles, even though we know well that it is to our own destruction. Yet I determined that the mirror, though it remained in my possession, should never be looked at or unveiled; for I could not but expect that Hugur, always incensed by the sight of such objects, would be more than ever enraged, if by any means he were reminded of what had happened with the Runic divining-rod. He paid a large sum of money to the proprietor of the house, according to his usual princely generosity, and thereafter we removed to the pleasant town of Coblentz, where the Mosel flows into the Rhine,—where the blooming fields and vine-covered mountains may vie in beauty with any which this world affords, those even of Asia not excepted.

“There, in a baronial fortress, not far from the town, which mansion was situated on a hill covered with fruit-trees, and commanding the loveliest prospects along both rivers, wert thou, my beloved son, brought into the world. In the sweet unconsciousness of infancy, thou wert wont to smile in thy cradle, from the high balcony of the castle, on the beautiful world full of light, blossoms and fragrance which then lay around thee; but young, and seemingly unconscious as thou wert, I doubt not that sweet influences, derived from these early dreams, yet steal upon the both in thine hours of waking and of sleep.”

“Truly, dearest mother,” replied Sir Otto, “thy words have recalled to me forms and feelings that lay deep—deeply implanted, though but dimly understood, within my heart. But after I had learned better to perceive what passed around me, did we not travel farther?—Did not our way lead over lofty cliffs covered with vines, full of rich clusters?—and did we not once stand looking down fearfully at a great foaming cataract?—Methinks I yet hear its mighty voice!—or was this, perchance, a thunder-storm among the mountains, with its blue and white clouds, which my wild fantasy had confused with the notion of falling water?”

“Nay, dear son,” answered Hildiridur, “that was indeed the magnificent Rhein-fall at Schaffhausen. I remember well, how joyfully thou didst clasp thy hands, and tried, after thine own manner, to shout aloud; and though thy voice was unheard amid the roaring of the falling torrents, the pleasure with which thou wert animated sparkled in thine eyes; yet all this while the boards on which we stood shook beneath us; and at length the stern Sir Hugur was so delighted with thy courage, that he kissed both his wife and child, and exclaimed,—‘That is my brave son,—a true scion of the old northern tree!—Thanks to thee, far-famed and majestic Rhine, for the trial which thou hast now afforded me of his spirit!’—Truly thou art but little changed since that time, if I might say so of one who has been transformed from a blooming boy into a warlike knight; but at the first glance I could not but recognise thy features.”

“And yet thou could’st remain so long concealed from me,” said Sir Otto mournfully, “and I have been so long denied that confidence in which I now so much rejoice!”

“My son,” answered Hildiridur, “to one who is ever led, as I have been, to look over deeply into the mysteries of nature and the world of spirits, the knowledge so acquired often proves a heavy and almost insupportable burden. Already have I spoken to this effect with thy cousin Bertha, when she came to my castle in East Friesland. Thus, while free-hearted champions, such as thou art, are pursuing their own path to glory and conquest, and are guided by their own impulses, there are deep mysterious signs and admonitions by which we, who are endowed with supernatural gifts, are made aware, that we must submit to the conditions of that destiny which Providence has decreed for us. The fitting hour was not yet come.”

“But is it possible,” inquired Sir Otto, “that you have heretofore looked upon Ottur, my strange double-goer, whose name I have now bestowed on my sword, as your son?”

“Truly there have been moments when I have thus acknowledged him,” said Hildiridur; “but at length I perceived only too well who he really is. Thou also wilt soon become acquainted with this mystery; for my story draws near to the fatal hour, when it was to me clearly revealed, how frightfully his fate was intwined with thine and with my own.”

“For three years we had now wandered about through the blooming mountains and valleys of Germany, when in your father’s heart there arose at length the ardent longing after his native land. In the German districts he no longer bore his Norwegian name of the stern Sir Hugur, but was called Sir Hugh von Trautwangen, and I also was accustomed to address him by this title, forming at the same time in my own mind delightful pictures of Trautwangen in Swabia, where I had never yet been. It was enough for me that its name was ever joined with that of my husband, who was dearer to me than all the world. I longed, therefore, in joyful anticipation, to reach the Swabian fortress, and yet have to this hour never beheld it, except long afterwards in the frightful mirror. And that fatal treasure was the cause of my never having been there in reality.

“For, as we drew nearer and nearer to the castle, I was every night haunted by strange and irresistible visions, by which I was constantly warned and impelled to look into the magic mirror, and behold there the adventures past and to come of my husband, Sir Hugur. On awakening, all was confusion in my mind, and I could not clearly recall the phantoms of my sleep, but felt always a vehement desire to act according to those warnings. Yet my love towards Sir Hugur, mingled also with my terror of offending him, always made me able to resist that inclination, until one night, which we past encamped under the shelter of a great forest, my dreams became more vivid and more frightful than ever, so that I could also recall them when awake.

“In my nightly vision, it seemed to me as if the form of the beautiful Astrid, my sister, of whose death I had never heard, was always before me, and that she was zealously employed in culling flowers under the trees. Methought also, that it was still night, and that a gleam of moonlight shone upon her features, and I said to myself, ‘How strangely pale she looks in that light! Does she not appear, even now, more like one of the dead than of the living?’ Thereupon a deep melancholy, and even horror, settled on my heart. The beautiful Astrid continued her search for flowers; but, when she had made a rich and variegated wreath, and was adding to it the last flower, in order to tie it together, lo! the whole garland changed at once into dust and ashes, which flew into her eyes, and disfigured her countenance. Then she indeed looked like one of the dead, and, moreover, began to wring her hands and weep bitterly. Thereafter she renewed her task, and soon made another wreath, which was dissolved like the former. I wished to rise up and assist her, but the leaden bonds of sleep held me fast; I could not move; and when Astrid saw my vain endeavours, she said, ‘Nay, nay, think not of aiding me. These are but earthly flowers which no one can fix in my hands, and wherefore should I wish for them, since I have been long since dead?’ After these words, she came and placed herself beside me, adding, ‘Wherefore hast thou the mirror in thy possession? I shall never grant thee peace, neither by night nor day, till thou hast looked into it, and inquired after the past life of the stern Sir Hugur. If thou wilt not obey my commands, then truly may’st thou pursue thy way to the castle of Trautwangen; but, remember, till the warning be fulfilled, thou shalt never enjoy rest; till then I shall ever be with thee!’ All this was uttered in a voice that sounded at once so eager, and so feebly shrill, that I was struck with horror, and awoke, screaming, from my sleep. This time, as I have already said, the impression of my dream remained clear on my mind. Meanwhile I heard the owls shrieking without in the wild forest; my female attendants were fast asleep, and the sentinels snored at the entrance of the tent. At these fearful moments I wished to lose my sense of the terror by which I was surrounded in the protecting arms of sleep; but, scarcely had I closed my eyes and begun to slumber, when the deadly pale visage of Astrid was again close to mine; her voice again shrilled in mine ears, and these fearful changes from sleep to waking, and from waking to sleep, were repeated, till, unable to bear such torment any longer, I started from my couch, and ran straightway towards the coffer in which I knew that the mirror was deposited. All yet slept around me; the fires were extinguished, the moon sunk, the night was dark and silent as the grave.

“At the well-known touch of my hands all the locks and bolts were at once opened; the mirror was revealed, and shone brightly, with its own supernatural light. I leaned it against the stem of an oak-tree, and, according to the warning voice of my dream, demanded what had been the crimes of Sir Hugur?

“What I then beheld I need not repeat to thee; thou know’st it already from the lips of the wise armourer, Asmandur, who has described to thee the fate of the beautiful Astrid, and even repeated the songs in which she took her last farewell of the stern champion of the North.”

Hereupon, Sir Otto and Hildiridur both wept bitterly, and for a long while they remained silent, and gazing on each other. At length the lady began to speak as follows:—

“In the mirror I beheld also a beautiful boy, who is now changed into the wild reckless Ottur, for he was the son of Sir Hugur and the beautiful Astrid. That thy half-brother should resemble thee so nearly is not to be thought mysterious; for scarcely could his mother and thine be distinguished from each other. I was still weeping before the mirror, because I beheld therein how the boy turned away in mingled wrath and terror from his father, who, in the presence of the old knight, had dipped a spear in my sister’s blood, when, lo! the stern Sir Hugur himself stood suddenly behind me. The red light of the morning, which had just then begun to break, shone on his visage, distorted by wrath, and in a thundering voice he exclaimed, ‘Thou hast then given thyself up again to thy witchcraft and incantations; but although thou hast forgotten thine obedience, I shall not forget the vows that I have sworn. Prepare then for death!’ With these words, he drew his sword, that gleamed like a flame in the morning light; and that sword, dearest son, was the same which thou wearest at this moment, and to which, as thou said’st, thou hast given the name of Ottur.”

Hereupon Sir Otto looked with aversion and terror on the weapon which he had before held so dear; it seemed as if he would tear it from his side, and cast it away; but then said Hildiridur, “Fear not, dear son; by that good sword I have never been injured; although by my disobedience I had deserved that my life should thereby have been taken away. For as I kneeled on the ground, and even bared my bosom as a self-condemned criminal to receive the blow, suddenly the heart of the stern Hugur was melted; and he said, ‘Nay, Heaven forbid that thou should’st ever be wounded by my hand. But I must separate myself from thee, for now thou hast discovered the fearful crimes which I committed against thy sister, Astrid; nor have I humility or fortitude enough (whichsoever it should be called) to beg thy forgiveness. Nor, to say the truth, could I confide longer in one who is thus given up to sorcery; therefore hasten thou from my sight, and never let us meet again. But as for the boy, I must detain him with me, and will tell him that thou art dead.’ To these commands I was forced to submit; but I desisted not from entreaties, till I had been permitted to take leave of thee, dearest Otto. The by-standers told thee that I was then dying; and, truly, I must have seemed at last more like one of the dead than of the living; for, quite overcome by my affliction at parting with thee, and my regret at the disobedience of which I had so rashly been guilty, I sank back, fainting and insensible, on the grassy turf.”

Once more the lady heartily embraced her beloved son; and they felt that their long sufferings were more than compensated by the happiness which they now enjoyed.

After this time all the three knights came almost every evening to the watch-tower of Hildiridur; and meanwhile the pagans never ventured any new attack. Sir Otto had not met again with his half-brother, Ottur, whom he would now have gladly seen; nor could the sea-monarch obtain any intelligence of his cousin, Sir Kolbein. They could almost have wished that Gerda’s enchantments had incited the people to some new conflict, in order that they might have beheld again these two deluded and unfortunate youths; but it seemed as if the fires both of love and hatred were now quite extinguished among the inhabitants beyond the Finland frontiers. Meanwhile the brave Swerker listened with deep attention to all the lessons of Sir Otto; and after maintaining as well as he could the doctrines of Odin and Valhalla, he became at last a sincere convert to the Christian faith, confessing that this afforded the only path to happiness both for this world and the next. Hereupon the knights consoled themselves for the loss of Ottur and Sir Kolbein, and rejoiced that they had won at last one brave and heroic heart for the true and only religion.

But, during this life of repose and peace, the recollection of his lost Gabrielle had again awoke in Sir Otto’s heart; and as he concealed this grief from his companions, and even from Hildiridur, it increased by degrees every day, till with this also was joined bitter discontent and repining at the misfortunes of his parents, by which his early life had been darkened, and by which he believed that he had himself incurred distress, from which the guidance of a loving mother might have protected him. Oftentimes he now rode alone into the wide forest, far beyond the Finland boundaries, partly because he was willing to brave every danger for the sake of meeting his half-brother, Ottur, and partly driven on by his own restless thoughts; so that he oftentimes arrived very late at the moonlighted castle of Hildiridur, long after Sir Arinbiorn and Sir Heerdegen had taken their places at the round marble table.

One evening, it happened that he had thus returned late from the forest, and having rode very rapidly, his discontent, instead of being wearied out as heretofore, preyed more fiercely than ever on his heart. Then, as he ascended the staircase alone, and came along and angrily through the vaulted passages into the apartment where the mirror hung, beneath its dark-red curtain, the thought came on his mind with resistless force, that he must this night destroy utterly and for ever, by one powerful blow, that enchanted glass which had been the cause of so much misfortune. “Come forth then, old comrade!” said he to his sword; “thou hast yet to compensate for the fears which thou inspired’st in my mother’s heart, when thou wert raised threateningly against her life in the forest. Now, then, fulfil my just vengeance on this delusive and fatal mirror!” In the same moment the sword gleamed in the youth’s hand; he struck with it vehemently against the purple curtain, and after a few blows, the floor glittered all around him with the wreck of the broken glass.

Now a fearful clap of thunder rolled over the castle, whereat its walls were shaken as by an earthquake. From the vaulted dungeons beneath were heard deep hollow groans, and over the roof wailing voices of terror and lamentation. Pale and anxious, Hildiridur, Arinbiorn, and Heerdegen, rushed into the apartment, where they found Sir Otto standing with his hair dishevelled, and staring wildly at the fragments that lay around him. “That I have broken the enchanted mirror,” said Sir Otto, pointing to the torn curtain that now fluttered in the wind,—“of this I repent not; but rather triumph over what I have done. Yet still the thought, that, perhaps at the moment when by my hand it was thus shivered into pieces, the beautiful image of Bertha floated thereon; and the sight that here distracts me, since from every one of these glittering fragments her features are now mournfully smiling upon me,—this indeed is cause for regret and repentance! For God’s sake, dearest mother, tell me whether my fate even now has not been like that of the stern Sir Hugur? Have I not indeed rashly slain her who was dearer to me than all the world? And was it not with this very sword (instead of a javelin, as I had been told) that he put to death the beautiful Astrid?”

Sir Otto scarcely knew what he uttered, as the voices over the roof of the castle became wilder and wilder. There was a noise, too, as if from the fluttering of invisible wings through the chamber, and Hildiridur hid her face in her long green veil. “Lose not a moment,” said she to Sir Heerdegen and the sea-monarch, “but lead your brave comrade out of these now ruinous chambers. If he be not immediately removed from hence, madness will incurably settle on his brain.” The two knights immediately obeyed her commands. They led, or rather forced by violence, the unfortunate Sir Otto through the gallery and the winding staircase, the lady still bearing them company. On arriving at the portal, they heard the thunder still rolling over the castle, and the continued voices of lamentation. The faithful war-steeds came up snorting and prancing in their terror; they mounted them immediately, and rode away from the mysterious watch-tower.

Ere long they had arrived at a narrow, but pleasant valley, encircled by thickets of alder and hazel, which now lay bathed in dew and sleeping in the moonlight. Here they pulled up the reins, and tried to recover from their distraction of spirit. Their horses too began to feed peaceably on the tall grass and clover, though from a distance they still heard, borne on the night-wind, the thunder and shrilling cries from the castle.

In the full clear light of the moon, Hildiridur now came up with them, threw back the green veil from her features, and said, “We have fortunately escaped from great and threatening danger, and for this you should humbly give thanks to the Giver of all Good.” At these words they all kneeled down upon the dewy grass, Sir Otto not excepted (for he had now become quite calm), and prayed earnestly, though without audible words, till at length Hildiridur rose, and turned solemnly towards the Knight of Trautwangen. “Shall I reproach you,” said she; “or shall I not rather be thankful that you have thus broken and destroyed my potent spells, and set me at variance for ever with those spirits who have hitherto proved but deceitful and treacherous servants? In truth, I do sincerely thank you, dearest Otto,” added she, embracing him; “you have acted but from impulses the most pure and virtuous; and if your mother is thereby rendered less powerful, yet she becomes only more surely and devotedly your loving parent. As to my powers, as an enchantress, they are now for ever at an end;—in order to regain them, I would have to climb up with indescribable toil and labour to a height whereon, but half an hour since, I stood quietly, wielding unresisted sway.”

Hereupon Sir Otto and Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried both expressed their contentment and joy; but the sea-monarch stood gloomy and lost in deep thought. At last, “Who then,” said he, “may in times to come hope to wield enchanted weapons against the golden-haired Gerda, with her fiery serpents? As for the javelins of her fierce Finlanders, we value them not, for we ourselves have swords and spears that are as powerful; but who will now protect us from her horrid ghosts and apparitions, at which the stoutest warrior feels his heart chilled within him?” “Be unconcerned,” answered Hildiridur; “so much of supernatural knowledge still remains to me, that I well know what has passed in Finland. The pagan rebels have submitted peaceably to remain, defeated as they were, in their present state, while Gerda, together with Ottur and Sir Kolbein, have, in their wild wrath, gone forth across the seas, in order to war against the Christians in foreign lands. You will find an embassy already despatched with this intelligence to your camp; and a free choice is before you, whether you will go with me to the ancient fortress of Trautwangen, whither I am attracted by an irresistible longing, or pursue your way on farther campaigns through the world. But, for the present, let us hasten on our flight farther from the watch-tower. Methinks I already see the enraged spirits stretching out their fiery tongues from every window and loop-hole.” Hereupon Sir Otto assisted Hildiridur to take her place behind him on his faithful steed, which neighed as if in joy and triumph, and henceforth moved along more softly and carefully than was his wont through the rocky valleys. After they had gone about a mile from the castle, a frightful thunderclap, with a burst of sulphureous flames, announced to them its utter destruction.

When they drew near to the camp, Swerker came forward to meet them, bearing a peace-embassy from the Finlanders. After a few short hours of repose, the whole troop set out on their way, amid the long slanting gleams of the morning sun, singing their choral anthems, that reverberated far and wide amid the rocky mountains. Sir Otto had provided for Hildiridur a handsome palfrey, and now rode with her in the van, carefully guiding her horse with a leading rein; Montfaucon’s noble falcon perched on his left hand, and attended by Sir Arinbiorn and Sir Heerdegen, one on each side. “For some time at least we shall all remain together,” said the sea-monarch; and a discourse was begun touching their future prospects, when Heerdegen added thereto,—“Ay, surely;—for my own part at least, I think to go through Germany into France, in order to bring home from thence my sister Bertha.” At these words a deep blush came over Sir Otto’s cheeks; “I would beg you to salute her for me,” said he; “but, alas! I am unworthy of her remembrance.” Thereupon Sir Heerdegen, silently indeed, but kindly, gave him his hand, and at that moment a gleam of the morning sunlight broke from a cloud so beautifully over the fresh and fragrant landscape, that it seemed to every heart like a promise of the happiness and blessings that were yet in store for them.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

Punctuation errors and printing mistakes such as obviously missing letters have been silently fixed. Spelling and hyphenation in common use at the time of publication have been kept as is. Instances of the same word differing in hyphenation have in most cases been changed to match the majority variant, or using information from other sources.
Volume number added under “The Magic Ring”, before the first chapter.

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p.41: Blanehefleur to Blanchefleur
p.201: mne to mine
p.274: dsiguised to disguised
p.339: Christain to Christian

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The magic ring, Vol. 2 (of 3)

THE MAGIC RING.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE