The magic ring, Vol. 3 (of 3)

It was late in the evening, at the castle of the Lady Gabrielle in Gascony, when Bertha von Lichtenried sat, studiously, with a large book open on a reading-desk before her. The book contained the history of pious saints and canonized martyrs; and she could devote her attention thereto the more uninterruptedly, as, with the exception of a few servants, she was now left quite alone in the castle, having through many days looked in vain for the return of Sir Folko and the two damsels. It seemed as if departing summer had taken her last farewell; and this farewell was uttered in fearful claps of thunder, while the ocean mirrored on its vasty depths the frequent bursts of lightning. A heavy shower also beat upon the garden-terrace, and meanwhile the warder failed not to ring with great perseverance the consecrated bell, whose notes were to protect the castle from all injury. He was answered, too, by the church-bells of all the neighbouring towns and villages, so that it seemed as if the reverberations from the clouds had been met and changed on earth into pious and pleasant harmony. Threefold, therefore, was the piety of the Lady Bertha strengthened and increased; first, by the thunder’s mighty voice above; then by the musical notes of the church-bells; lastly, by the pious legends which she then read in her favourite volumes.

So it happened at this time that there came into her chamber an old Moorish woman, a servant at the castle, with an uncouth and swarth visage, for she was a native of Africa, though now converted to the Christian faith, and accustomed to the manners of life in Europe. By her dress and conduct one would have thought that she was an ordinary Suabian peasant, had it not been, that her dark complexion and strange features betrayed her eastern origin.

“What news bring’st thou, Zulma?” said the lady. To which the old Moor answered, “Nothing, forsooth, but an earnest entreaty which I must especially address to the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried. On the plain here, not far from the castle, there is a strange man, a Moorish soldier, who lies mortally wounded. I know not if he has been attacked by banditti, or overthrown in single combat. He wishes to obtain a blessing ere he dies, according to the forms of the Catholic church; but this he will not receive from any one but you; for the Lady Bertha of Lichtenried has been renowned and praised, far and near, ever since that evening, when, by clinging to the cross, and waving her hand, she was able to repulse and drive away a bold-hearted and wicked comrade of the Prince Mutza. It is not far from that old cross that I found the wounded Moor, as I returned home from the sheepfold.”

“Call the chaplain then, that he may go with me,” said Bertha, hastily searching for her veil and mantle; “order some squires also to attend on us, and to render assistance to the poor man.”

“The chaplain,” answered Zulma, “is already gone to bed, and the squires are snoring in the stables. Before we could rouse them, and they were ready to go with us, the unfortunate Moor would have breathed his last. What if he should thus depart without consolation, and without the blessings of our holy religion, after which he so earnestly longs?—But you, noble lady, must know the consequences far better than I can describe them.”

“How comes it, Zulma,” said the Lady of Lichtenried, “that you know so well how to bestow just reproaches on my slowness and over-caution?—Doubtless what you have said is just and true. When we are called on to fulfil our duties to God, we must not tarry nor look round for assistance and protection. Let us then go forth straightway to the wounded man. Good Heaven!—how much have the monks and nuns achieved, of whose lives I was just now reading the pleasant history! and should I then doubt whether I might go forth alone to the cross on the sea-shore?—Let us hasten, good Zulma; for the poor dying man must long grievously for our coming.”

Having thrown about her a large mantle, as a defence against the rain, she stepped hastily with the Moorish servant down stairs to a private portal, and taking a lamp from the wall to guide them on their way, they walked boldly forth amid the tempest.

Zulma knew the road towards the cross better than the Lady of Lichtenried had expected from such a new convert. She stepped so hastily through the darkness, that Bertha was scarcely able to keep pace with her, admiring all the while the zeal that she displayed for the soul’s weal of the unfortunate Moor. Over hills covered with brush-wood, and through pathless valleys, they pursued their way; and when Bertha inquired why they had come through such lonely places, the answer was,—“Because that was the straightest road. And this you may trust to a native African; for among our sandy deserts, where a well-beaten track may in a moment be effaced by a gust of wind, we learn to find our way by other means.”—So indeed it happened, that as often as a gleam of lightning revealed a rocky cliff, a cottage, or a large tree, Zulma seemed to move on with new confidence; but ere long Bertha perceived that she had more certain means of guiding her course through the darkness. She began at intervals to utter a hateful shrilling sound, like the blending of a whistle and a scream, and she was answered by a voice like her own, that seemed to determine her progress. At this Bertha many times started; and Zulma, observing her fears, said,—“Truly such notes are unpleasant; but, nevertheless, they serve to guide us on our way to the suffering man. It is well that he has learned this Moorish art of making signals, although he belongs not to our tribe of black-visaged Africans, but is rather a comely young Arabian.”

As she thus spoke, a sudden flash of lightning broke forth over the cross, to which they were now drawing very near; and at the same moment they could perceive a man in a Moorish dress, who was endeavouring to raise himself from the ground, by leaning on its rocky pedestal. Bertha immediately hastened up to him.—“Thank Heaven!” cried she, “that we find you still alive. I am Bertha von Lichtenried, whom you have so earnestly desired to see, and I come to offer you the consolations of our holy church.”

But what was her surprise, when the man (who, as she believed, had been mortally wounded), suddenly leaped up, clasped her wildly in his arms, and, while the same shrilling signals which she had before heard from a distance now vibrated in her ears, all the desolate thickets of the forest seemed at once to start into life, and a troop of Moorish warriors formed themselves into a circle round the cross. Meanwhile Zulma laughed aloud.—“Have we caught thee at last,” cried she, “thou rarest and shyest of birds?—Methinks thou wilt not again escape from us!”—The Lady Bertha, however, with a vehemence and strength which the Moor little expected, forced herself out of his embrace, and fled, as she had before done (when Gabrielle and Blanchefleur were carried away), to the cross, climbing up the high rocky pedestal on which it was placed, and clinging to the pillar of this holy emblem. It was indeed moving and wonderful, to behold how that innocent damsel stood there on high, with the light of the lamp on her graceful form, and contrasting in her beauty like a visitant from heaven with the crowd of hateful figures that now moved around her. Zulma, meanwhile, had folded her veil into the shape of a turban round her swarthy visage, and said,—“Now I am again like myself. Did you indeed believe, lady, that I was contented with the life that I have dragged on here among the Christians?—You must now go with us to Carthagena, and will there learn more of this world’s happiness, than in your whole simple life till now you could even have dreamed.”

With contempt and disgust Bertha turned from her, and in a firm voice addressed herself to the Moorish chief, calling on him to remember his own honour as a knight and soldier, and not to debase himself by joining with a mean and lying slave, in order to force from her home a virtuous damsel of noble birth. The reckless libertine, however, answered her with scornful laughter, and then said,—“For this time your old stratagems, your saintly gestures, and severe looks, may not avail; for now, lady, you have no sighing lover before you (like my countryman, who was so easily repulsed), but the wise Alhafiz, who is here to fulfil the commands of Nurreddin, the grand emir, and will without fail bear you to his master’s arms in Carthagena.”

“Let no one approach me who values his own life!” exclaimed Bertha; “I know not indeed whence I obtain this knowledge, but feel that I but speak the truth, as it happened before, when I warned the companion of Prince Mutza. Whoever dares to tear me from the cross, will for that crime forfeit his own life; therefore beware!”—Alhafiz laughed, and stepped boldly towards her; but, at that moment, behold! a broad flash of lightning illuminated all the southern sky, and a clap of thunder broke, as it seemed, right over his head. Hereupon the Moor and his rabble route (the vile Zulma among the rest) were dazzled and confounded, so that they all sank kneeling on the ground.—“The voice of God has now spoken against you,” said Bertha; “and this warning is indeed the last favour that you will receive from Heaven, should you not give up your wicked designs. Be wise then, and return to your ships.”—At these words it seemed as if the multitude of swarthy Moors seemed inclined to disperse; even Alhafiz himself had become silent and irresolute,—turning away from the disdainful glances which the damsel threw upon him. Suddenly, however, the hateful Zulma started up, and called aloud,—“Hast thou forgotten, Alhafiz, the promised third of all Nurreddin’s treasures?—That must not be lost to thee, nor shall I forfeit the eighth share, which by contract was to have been mine!”—Then, with tiger-like swiftness and rage, she flew up to the rocky pedestal, forced the light out of Bertha’s hand, and screamed aloud,—“Thus, you will be dazzled no longer by the sight of this deceitful enchantress. Take her, then, and bear her from hence!”—In the same moment, Alhafiz had come up, and, without farther hesitation, clasped the unfortunate damsel in his arms, and bore her rapidly towards the bay, where his bark was in waiting, his attendants all the while shouting and rejoicing as if for a great victory. Thereafter the skies became wholly dark; no gleams of lightning broke forth on the horizon; they arrived on the shore, and embarked amid this gloom, and, under the same mournful influence, sailed out into the wide desolate sea.

Before the adventure which we have now related had come to pass, many strange occurrences had happened in Carthagena. On the evening of that day when Sir Folko de Montfaucon had been carried as a dead man into the royal cemetery, behold! there came some one late in the night, disguised in such manner that the sentinels could not distinguish his features; but they heard him strike three times as with an iron-glove, or somewhat else that rung and rattled in his hand, against the iron trellis-work by which the vault was secured. On hearing that sound, they thought of rushing from their posts, and demanding of the stranger what was his purpose there at such an hour; but in the same moment weariness and sleep fell heavily upon them, so that, one by one, they dropped down powerless, and as if fainting and insensible, on the ground.

Meanwhile the disguised man continued to ring and rattle against the iron-bars, till at length there was a strange noise of heaving and struggling within the vault, as if the dead were starting into life. This was indeed Sir Folko de Montfaucon, who now raised himself from amid the bloody clothes in which he had been wrapt, and said in a strange hoarse voice, “Good Heaven, how cold and dark is this bed!” Then, after a pause of recollection, he began again, “Or if I am really among the dead, how comes it that I yet feel such burning and feverish pain? And wherefore am I not relieved from this earthly prison, and floating through the wide realms of the blue sky?” “Sir knight,” said the disguised man without, “you are indeed alive, only you are not yet recovered from your fever and your wounds. Only be of good courage, and beware of falling into dreams. I shall be with you anon, and will make you sound and well.” Thereafter, as the strange man continued to beat upon the iron-bars, the Chevalier de Montfaucon felt his senses more and more bewildered, and saw the strangest phantoms floating around him. He felt indeed as one who struggles with sleep and frightful visions, and could have fallen once more into death-like slumbers, had not the mysterious stranger ever and anon repeated in a loud voice the same words,—“Beware of dreams, Knight of Montfaucon! Beware of dreams!”

At last the iron-wickets no longer resisted; slowly and solemnly they rolled asunder, and the disguised man stept into the house of death. “My wounds are become cold,” said the chevalier, shivering with fever, “and yet are very painful” “Ere long you shall be better,” said the stranger, who thereupon drawing forth a light that he had in a dark-lantern under his cloak, began to examine the wounds, and poured into them a healing balsam from a vial that he had brought with him. Moreover, he gently touched and rubbed them with a glittering gem in the fashion of a ring; and while the Knight of Montfaucon felt his pains appeased as by the resistless spells of enchantment, and new strength poured through every limb, he recognised the ring to be the long-contested property of Gabrielle; and in his kind physician beheld the merchant, Theobaldo.

“Now, you perceive,” said the latter, “how much more fitting it was that the ring should be in my hands than in those of the lady. You looked on it as indifferently as if it were but a part of your apparel as a knight, even like a brooch for your helmet-plume, or a bright jewel on your sword-hilt; while Gabrielle only dallied therewith as young damsels are wont to do with glittering toys. There was need of a wise merchant like Theobaldo, to find out the hidden virtues of the ring, in order that he might therewith assist both ladies and knights in the hour of distress. Are you now then sufficiently awake and refreshed? Then come with me to the palace of the grand emir. He has taken under his protection the two beautiful damsels; but, forsooth, he will not long have that trouble on his shoulders, for they shall go hence with us. Don Hernandez is on the watch with his ships in the harbour, and a boat is in waiting to take us on board.” Up started the chevalier, shaking off the last remains of his weakness and weariness, and seized boldly on his crooked Persian sword. Perceiving how it was stained with blood, he sighed and said to the merchant, “Is Vinciguerra then still alive?” “Ay,” said Theobaldo, “he also has been healed through my assistance. He has fallen into such bad humour, however, at his own evil fortune in that encounter, that he has already gone down alone to the sea-shore, and will not, unless by compulsion, permit himself to be looked upon by you, nor by the ladies.” Thereupon the merchant laughed heartily, and holding up the lantern to his own face, cut some hideous grimaces, in mockery of the proud Count de Vinciguerra, thinking therewith to entertain the chevalier. “Remember, thou strange man,” said Sir Folko, “that we stand here among the dead. But for Mutza, that perjured and lying robber, has he too been called to life again by your art?” “Heaven forbid,” said Theobaldo, “that I should be guilty of such wickedness and folly. Besides, had it been my wish to have done so, that would have been more than the ring would have placed within my power. The blow of your battle-axe has struck him too deeply and effectually. He also has been carried off in his turn, and doubtless by assailants yet fiercer and blacker than his own Moors.” “Nay, do not judge him, he is in the hands of God,” said Sir Folko, stepping solemnly out of the vault; “and lead me quickly from hence, that we may secure Gabrielle and Blanchefleur.” So Theobaldo walked away with the chevalier, shaking his head after a strange fashion, as if in disapprobation and scorn of what had been said, and yet not venturing any more to clothe his thoughts in audible words.

In a dim and solitary valley, not far from the town, lay the palace of the powerful emir Nurreddin. As they approached near the gates, they heard within the court a growling and roaring of some wild beast, whose thundering voice was such as in all their lives they had never known before. “The voice,” said Theobaldo, “is that of a monstrous tiger brought hither from Asia. The emir is pleased to lead about this wild beast with him wherever he goes, and by night he is always chained as a guard on the threshold.” Hearing these words, the Knight of Montfaucon straightway drew his Persian sabre, swung it several times over his head, so that it whistled in the wind, and then began to feel the edge with his fingers, to prove whether it were yet sharp enough for the encounter which he now meditated. “Nay,” said Theobaldo, “methinks you will not use that weapon against the tiger. Keep it rather for some other assailant, for chances may fall out against us of which we know not yet; although methinks we need not doubt of success in the end.” At the same time he drew from his girdle an arrow with a glittering metal point, and began to beat thereon with the ring; whereupon there arose gentle and melodious sounds, that gradually increased both in strength and sweetness, till it seemed as if the whole air was filled with music that floated far and wide, and then died away in remote echoes. After Theobaldo had several times repeated the same notes, the growling of the tiger became interrupted and less fierce, till at length he was altogether silent. “The monster sleeps,” said Theobaldo; “however I must continue the same music, both that he may not awake, and that I may close the eyes of other watchers in the castle. Should it happen, however, that you also should feel slumber stealing upon you, make but the sign of the cross on your forehead, and the charm then will lose its strength.” Sir Folko, who in truth had become drowsy, did as the merchant commanded; and both went on towards the lofty castle.

The tiger had stretched himself out at its whole length across the threshold of the outward portal; so that, when the door opened behind him on being touched with the ring, the two warriors were obliged to pass over him. Thereupon a gleam of the lamp which Theobaldo carried fell on the wild grinning visage of the beast; he looked like some frightful giant, whom they had slain, and who lay beneath their feet in the battle-field. In all haste they fled from such a horrid sight.

Having passed through the gate, they advanced along a steep and paved walk which led into the castle. On each side of this walk there were thick hedges of blooming rose-trees, by which they were hemmed in, and could not turn to the right or left; but, moreover, they had to pass through several iron-wickets, which were all guarded by Moorish sentinels. The Moors, however, immediately fell asleep when they heard the first sounds of the musical ring; and when the iron-gates were touched by it, they opened slowly, turning without noise on their hinges. So the knight and the merchant arrived unobserved into the very keep of the fortress; but though there were here many gold and silver-lamps burning on the stairs and windows, Theobaldo shook his head, and was uncertain what he ought to do, in order, amid such a labyrinth, to discover the room in which Blanchefleur and Gabrielle were now gone to rest. Ere they came into the castle, however, the merchant had pointed out the windows of the room which he believed had been assigned to the Christian damsels; and Sir Folko now looked about him with sharp eagle-eyes, even as he would have done in the field of battle, till he was convinced what course he should pursue. At length he said calmly and resolutely, “Come let us mount up that marble staircase, Theobaldo; we shall infallibly come by that track to the pole-stars of this landward voyage.” The merchant followed obediently the command of De Montfaucon; and the latter passed without hesitation through the corridor above, till he arrived at a door hung over with a rich embroidered curtain, which they were of opinion must be that of the ladies’ apartment. He tapped lightly on the silver lock of the door; then, hearing no noise within, he spoke in a low whispering voice through the keyhole,—“Blanchefleur, Blanchefleur, open the door; your brother Folko is here in the gallery, and has come to rescue thee and Gabrielle.” “Speak rather louder,” said Theobaldo; “for the music of the ring has doubtless sealed up their eyes in deep sleep.” Sir Folko repeated his words more audibly; whereupon a faint cry of terror, as from the female voices, was heard within the room, and thereafter all was again still. “What foolish pranks have we set on foot here,” said Theobaldo in a tone of vexation; “we never once remembered that they looked on you as dead; and so must believe the voice that they have heard to be that of your ghost, come only to terrify them in the dark night. What is to be done? We can open the door by means of the ring; but, should they behold you actually in the room, they will doubtless scream so loudly, that, in spite of all the charms in the world, the whole emir’s castle will be roused. And suppose we found them senseless, and in a swoon of fear, how could we carry them to the shore, since we must hold ourselves prepared every moment against a sudden attack?” While they thus stood considering, the key was gently turned in the lock, the door was cautiously opened, and, lo! there stood before them Blanchefleur and Gabrielle, with lights in their hands, pale with terror, and in long white dresses, like two beautiful apparitions from the world of spirits. “We know but too well, dearest brother,” said Blanchefleur, “that you died yesterday of your fearful wounds. Therefore, you would not have come again, only to tell us these sad tidings; but your voice, methought, spoke of our being rescued. Then, if violence and dishonour here await us, we are ready to follow you, even into the grave.” Thereupon, their tender and lovely frames trembled with fear, and their voices faltered; but not the less did a spirit of unchangeable resolution prevail in their looks; and before Sir Folko had time to answer, the Lady Gabrielle addressed him:—“Since in the other world, oh, deeply honoured spirit! all may be better known to thee than heretofore, I need not say now how truly I did love thee, though, whilst thou wert among us here, no one ever heard that confession from my lips. But command now your servant, oh, brave and noble hero! for she is willing to follow thee, even to death.”

So Sir Folko kneeled humbly, and, blushing in his great joy before her, said, “Still I am alive, divine Gabrielle; my soul inhabits yet its mortal frame; but, nevertheless, your angelic words have placed me even in this world among the number of the blessed.”

Blushing deeply, Gabrielle drew back, ashamed and terrified to think of the confession that she had so rashly made, in the presence too of Theobaldo, whom she now for the first time observed. Yet her heart heaved high with delight to think that her favourite knight was thus restored to her, and meanwhile Blanchefleur lay weeping with joy in her brother’s arms.

“It is now high time,” said Theobaldo, breaking in like an unwelcome watcher on this scene of happiness and affection; but thereupon Sir Folko started, as if from a dream, and offered his right arm to Gabrielle, and his left to Blanchefleur. They obeyed the signal without a word, while Theobaldo stepped rapidly on before them. Fearing that some unforeseen accident might awake the guards from their enchanted sleep, the merchant was in great anxiety to get out of the palace; but all remained quiet and motionless. Even the tiger at the gate was stretched out, as before, in his deep slumbers; but the two damsels were terrified, and would not be persuaded to step over. “Cut him deeply with your sword across the neck,” said Theobaldo to the knight, “otherwise these ladies will never accept of that liberty which we have placed within their power.” De Montfaucon stood irresolute. “I know not how it happens,” said he, “but I cannot take advantage of him when he is thus asleep.” “Truly,” said Theobaldo with a scornful smile, “I believe you will at last extend the laws of chivalry and honour even to tigers and such like irrational brutes.” “Laugh as much as you will,” answered Sir Folko, “you are at liberty to judge as you think fit of my conduct; but something always comes in my way when I would lift my sword against that snoring monster. Besides there is yet another way.” With these words he took up Gabrielle in his arms, and bore her lightly and gracefully across; then came back, and did the same for Blanchefleur, while Theobaldo stepped on, shrugging his shoulders, and shaking his head as he was wont to do when he would express impatience or disdain. Scarcely, however, had Sir Folko set down his sister safely on the ground, when the tiger started up with a hideous growl, and instantly fixed his long teeth in the garments of the knight. “Ha!” cried he, drawing his Persian sabre, “since thou art awake at last, and willing for the combat, I shall not fail to meet thee. To the shore, to the shore, Theobaldo! march on with the two ladies, for I shall soon have done with this adventure.” Accordingly, the merchant had only advanced but a few paces on his way, when the chevalier followed him with his sabre still reeking with blood, and relieved him from his post between the two damsels. Without being attacked or interrupted they arrived at the sea-shore, where they found the boat that was to bring them to the vessel of Don Hernandez, embarked safely, and ere long sailed out of the harbour. Among the party there assembled, they found the Count Alessandro de Vinciguerra; but so wrathful and discontented, that he would scarcely allow himself to be looked on or spoken with; whereupon, said the Knight of Montfaucon, “Truly I am grieved, my lord count, that you should thus continue to reflect bitterly on a combat which was fairly fought out betwixt us, and should now be forgotten. But if in such case you cannot compose your own temper, this is indeed a duty in which no one else can render you any assistance.” With the more satisfaction, therefore, he turned his attention to the Spanish knight, Hernandez, who welcomed the ladies on board of his vessel with grave politeness and the most obsequious attention.

On the following morning, when the emir learned that the ladies had escaped, and that his four-footed sentinel had been found lifeless, he said, “Since the tiger has been thus put to death, I doubt not that the brave Chevalier de Montfaucon has arisen from the tomb in which we laid him, and that he himself has carried away these damsels. They will indeed be well protected under the care of such a hero. Let no one then attempt to pursue them, though, it is true, had such a gem as Bertha von Lichtenried been of the party, my resolutions might have been different from what they now are.”

Thereafter it seemed as if the spirit of warfare and enterprise possessed more than ever the mind of the grand emir Nurreddin. A fleet of ships was got in readiness, troops were inlisted, arms and provisions collected; though no one could even guess for what purpose he made all these preparations. That some grand object was in view the lookers-on could have no doubt; for it never had been known of the emir, that a slight or unworthy cause had brought him into the battle-field.

Late one evening, after a day spent in toil and tumult, Nurreddin was seated on a richly-embroidered couch in his great hall, with a lute on his arm, on which he awoke strange and fitful music, now touching the strings with a light hand like some fond lover, anon almost tearing them asunder, as if in wrathful vehemence. His slaves thought that he was now reposing and diverting himself after the fatigues of the day; but, whoever had marked his fiercely rolling eyes, quivering lips, and the wild alternations of his music, must have perceived, that with this seeming repose had begun indeed the sternest of his conflicts, for he was now at war, not with others, but with himself; and it was at such times only that Nurreddin had ever been known to tremble.

While he was thus engaged, lo! there came into the room a tall stately warrior, with a long grizzly beard and gleaming eyes, who was named Abdallah. While he solemnly and slowly delivered the message with which he came, the emir kept his eyes fixed on him; but all the while continued to tear at the strings, till at last some of them snapped asunder, with a long mournful intonation. In a rage, Nurreddin dashed the instrument against a marble pillar. “It is thine own fault,” cried he, “thou senseless harp, because thou hast not understood me.” Then, making a sign, that the attending slaves should withdraw, and that the soldier should sit near him, he began to speak as follows:—

“Abdallah, my heart feels as if torn asunder, because I cannot find occasion to express, after my own manner, what now labours therein, and before a listener who can understand my words, reflecting in his own heart that which directly came from mine. I do not forget that such emotions make themselves best known by outward deeds; but these require time ere they can come to light; and if one could now and then interchange words, it might be possible to arrive at more glorious achievements than any which, by mere silent thoughts, we should be able to conceive.”

“The words of an eloquent man,” said Abdallah, “have been compared to winged arrows penetrating the heart of the listener; and, methinks, true eloquence is like a tree, which not only sends forth its fruits or blossoms on high, but also throws them back again to the maternal soil; that is, to the bosom which gave them birth.”

“Rightly spoken, Abdallah,” said the emir; “I believe that we shall understand each other. In earlier years I have indeed earnestly sought, amid the seductive pleasure-gardens and forests of this world, for a noble tree that would offer to me such long-wished-for fruits, but in vain!—Truly, if I but threw a random-spark on their branches, they would crackle and hiss in the wind; but the true graft of a fruit-bearing tree,—or, to speak more plainly, the true spirit that makes a man that which he ought to be, and able to interchange thoughts with a brave champion, was either not to be found, or yet unripe!—They were all delighted for the most part to be noticed by the grand emir Nurreddin, and to have it to say,—‘To-day I spoke with him for a whole hour. Did’st thou mark how we were walking together?’—But for the rest they troubled themselves little enough about the matter.”

“With submission,” answered Abdallah, “when your highness admitted such men to your presence, it was your part then to teach them what they should say and do, even as an old eagle instructs his young brood.”

“No, no!” cried the emir impatiently; “I would insist that the men with whom I speak should feel with me that which cannot be taught; should know themselves for what they are; that is to say, as consecrated firebrands in the hands of their prince. Abdallah, should it not be so?”

The soldier spoke not, but looked at the emir silently, and shaking his head, while with still greater vehemence and impatience Nurreddin resumed,—

“Abdallah, thou hast lived, no doubt, twenty years longer in the world than I have done. What I now learn, being a man past middle age, and beginning to turn old, must have been to thee long since clear and well understood. Dost thou not perceive, in the wars which every year increase,—in the countless battles among Mussulmans, Heathens, and Christians, that God and our holy prophet have decreed, that the whole vault of heaven is to be converted into a fiery furnace, wherein the nations of the earth are to be melted like ore in the hands of the refiner?—Truly almost every nation has in itself life and spirit; but should not we, who are the noblest among them, feel that we are chosen to feed the flames; for, should the work advance so slowly as it now seems to do, all will perish in smoke; nor will the great Alchemist find at last aught but a mass of lifeless dross instead of pure metal remaining.”

“Prince!” said Abdallah confounded, “methinks you would banish peace from this whole earth, and with it all national laws and rights. What then would be left to us?”

“Rights of man!—rights of chivalry!—rights of women!” cried the emir with vehemence. “Each one should be held by his neighbour in due respect, and the masses should be mixed and shaken together, till they are fully melted, and thereafter assume of themselves finer forms than before.”

“But, may it please your highness,” said Abdallah, “who has revealed to you this mystery? or by whom have you been chosen for such a duty as that which you would now take upon your shoulders?”

“Are not the flames that burn here,” said the emir, beating on his breast, “enough to inform me, that I am chosen to assist like a firebrand in this mighty work?”—Suddenly pausing, however, he fixed a long, steadfast look on Abdallah, then added,—“Thou truly art no firebrand; neither heat nor light will come from thy heart; so let us talk no more of such matters, but get thee gone.”

Abdallah rose proudly from the sofa, and bowed in order to take leave. Then Nurreddin held out his hand kindly to the old man, and said,—“Well, though thou art not a flaming firebrand, yet art thou not the less a brave soldier. I shall not deal with thee as I have done with the broken lute that lies yonder; nor indeed had it been so treated, had it been fit for any other service,—even, for example, as a shield. But a mere lute must answer to our thoughts or be destroyed. For the rest, old man, it is better that thou should’st forget what I have said; or think, if thou wilt, that I have for once broken the laws of our prophet, and confused my senses with wine. Good night.”—Thereupon the soldier retreated, and the emir threw himself back on the couch, grinning with wrath and vexation.

He had not long been left thus alone, when there arose a great noise of music, clarionets, and cymbals, as if for some grand rejoicing, which rang and echoed through the castle. The emir started up in a rage, and called for his slaves.

“Who dares to begin that music,” cried he, “when your prince is alone and thoughtful? Is this a time to fill the palace with your senseless tumult and rejoicing?”—The slaves fell with their faces on the ground, and said, “Let not the anger of our sovereign lord and prince fall upon us; for, if a fault has been committed, the blame rests wholly on Alhafiz. He has just now arrived with his galley in the harbour, and has brought a veiled lady into the palace, telling every one that she was the long-wished-for damsel, whom the grand emir valued more than all the diamonds and pearls of the East. Hereupon we shouted for joy, and the music played to welcome her arrival.”

“If this indeed be true,” said Nurreddin, “then for the future Alhafiz shall be clad in cloth of gold and purple; nor shall he only possess the third of my treasures which was promised him, but shall sit at my left hand at the banquet-table, and ride next me in the battle-field. Should he not, however, have brought that inestimable gem, but come hither to disturb my repose by lying boasts, there shall be no want of wild beasts to tear him limb from limb, and scatter his bones to the four winds of heaven!”

Ere the prince ended his speech, lo! the cedar-wood door turned slowly on its silver hinges, and there came into the hall a tall female figure simply attired, with a long veil; on her left hand a frightful Moorish woman, and on her right the grinning Alhafiz. “Here, great prince,” said Alhafiz, “I have come to fulfil my promise; the damsel is yours, and the black slave was my best assistant. I recommend her to your favour, and hope also that you will now as faithfully remember your engagements to me.” The emir made him a signal to be silent. “Thou hast an untuneable voice, Alhafiz,” said he, “and thy unmannerly demands on me prove the meanness of thine own spirit. Disturb me not then in these moments, which are to me sacred and solemn: thou hast indeed fulfilled more than I had believed to be possible, and more than I can yet well understand. Know then that thou shalt not be the first man, to whom, through his whole life, Nurreddin has remained a debtor.” Hereupon Alhafiz and the black slave nodded triumphantly to each other, while the prince rose from his couch, came respectfully towards the damsel, and said, “I feel in mine inmost heart, noble lady, that Alhafiz has not deceived me, and that you are that unequalled gem and paragon of beauty after whom I have so long and ardently longed. Now then I appeal to your benign goodness. Do not let me be withheld longer from the sight of a countenance which doubtless is the most beautiful that in this world has ever been beheld.” “Your flatteries,” answered the damsel, “would never have lifted up the veil which I now wear; but since Heaven has permitted that I should thus fall into your power, and because it is not forbidden to a Christian maiden that she should walk forth without a mask or veil before all the world, so I shall act according to the prince’s commands.”

Hereupon her veil was rolled back. In the quiet majesty of her loveliness, Bertha von Lichtenried looked on the astonished emir, fixing on him her large blue eyes, shadowed by their dark frowning brows. Her smooth brown hair was parted on the forehead; quiet and collected she stood there, not indeed overpowering by her charms at first sight, but every moment entwining round the heart, bonds of chaste and respectful admiration.

For a long space they were both silent, the damsel, in the consciousness of her own virtuous dignity, and the emir in self-humiliation, because he now found that his usual pride and dictatorial spirit were overcome. “Noblest of damsels,” said he at length, “wherefore have you spoken of a prince or his commands, as if violence and constraint would here be laid upon you? I trust indeed, that no one has ever been so insolent as to force you to aught that was contrary to your own wishes, at least not in my name. That Moor, who now stands by the door, happened to overhear what I once said; namely, that I would give the third part of my worldly fortune to any one who would bring you hither, beautiful and innocent as you had been left by the Prince Mutza. But, by Heaven, your honour and dignity are dear to me, even more than my own; and I trust you have been induced to cross the seas, not by violence, but by eloquent and ingenious persuasions, or by the sweet spells that animate our Moorish love-songs.”

“I know not,” said Bertha, “what thou meanest by persuasions or love-songs; but your ambassador there, with his blackamoor band, forced me away from the blessed image of the cross on the shore of Gascony, to which I had clung for protection. The black slave who is here present was my servant, and betrayed me into his power.”

“So then!”—answered the emir, while his brows contracted, and every limb seemed quivering with rage, walking straightway towards a corner of the hall, where all sorts of weapons were hung in readiness. “Prince,” cried Alhafiz, his voice trembling with fear, “have I not brought to you the damsel, safe and sound in her beauty and innocence, as she was left by the Prince Mutza?”

“How darest thou say that she has been brought hither safe and sound?” said the emir in a voice of thunder; “and could’st thou look upon a form so angelic as this, and yet think of using violence? But be silent, wretches, in her honoured presence, and ere long you shall be silenced for ever.”

With these words he had drawn out two sharp javelins from among the trophies on the wall, and in a moment he had hurled them severally at Alhafiz and the black woman with such frightful certainty of aim, that, ere the eye could trace the weapons in their flight, his two victims were struck to the heart, and fell to the ground almost without even one shriek of anguish.

“Away with them!” cried the emir; “a doctor learned in the law shall come hither, and shall divide all my wealth fairly and equally into three parts. When the written deeds are completed, then the next heir of Alhafiz shall appear before me, that he may receive that portion which belongs to him. Henceforward no one shall again dare to speak of my promise, nor of the manner in which it has been fulfilled.” Thereafter the slaves covered up the dead bodies, and bore them away. Bertha meanwhile looked at them mournfully, and said, “Unfortunate victims! I well knew that your crime would be fearfully punished on your own heads; I warned you of this, and wherefore would you not desist? May Heaven have mercy on your souls!” Turning then to Nurreddin, she added, “What I should think of thee, I know not yet! Wert thou indeed chosen here for a supreme and righteous judge?” “Truly, methinks, I have been so chosen, noble lady,” answered the emir; “but enough of this. For the present, may it please you to repose yourself after your voyage? I would beg of you to lay aside all fear so long as you are under my roof; for to you these apprehensions, by which other young damsels might be assailed, are indeed unknown. It seems rather as if angels always hovered around you with their protecting wings, as if within the hallowed circle of your innocence such thoughts dared not enter as those by which other minds are in this world possessed. Do not think, however, that my character is like that of Alhafiz, who called himself my ambassador; for, in truth, I did not long to obtain you as a lover seeks after a young and beautiful mistress, but rather as a guardian angel,—a heaven-inspired sister, by whom I might for the future be chastised and counselled.” “Heaven’s will be done!” answered Bertha; “if it has been ordained, that one so humble as I am should point out the true path of religion and virtue to a restless warrior such as thou art, then doubtless I shall succeed in affording the counsels which thou desirest of me.” Meanwhile, on a signal from the emir, female slaves had come into the hall, to whom he gave in charge his beautiful guest, commanding that they should treat her with the utmost respect and attention. Then, with a grave and humble salutation, he took his leave.

On the following day a Moorish knight made his appearance in the antechamber of the Lady of Lichtenried, and requested to know whether it might be allowed to the emir to come into her presence. Bertha granted the permission that was required of her; moreover, she was even glad that she was to speak with Nurreddin again; partly because, from his conduct of the preceding night, he had in some measure won her regard, and partly because his features bore a certain resemblance to some one whom she had before seen and now remembered with satisfaction, though she could not fix on the precise time or place when this had occurred.

On his entrance the emir again bowed with solemn respect; and when he had taken his place, after the eastern manner, on a low couch opposite to Bertha, she herself began to speak:—“Last night, methinks, you proved yourself a stern and severe administrator of justice, not only as the avenger of innocence, but also inasmuch as you maintained your own word inviolate, and decreed to the next heir of Alhafiz that which, by the other’s crime, became his due. How comes it then, that you do not extend the same justice towards me?—If Alhafiz were a pirate and violent robber, who deserved death, you also commit crimes like to his, if you force me to remain here against my own will, knowing that I have the right of freedom even as much as any bird that flies through the forest.”—“You have indeed spoken but the truth, noble lady,” answered the emir, “and it depends on your own choice towards what country you will direct your flight, or what forest you will enliven with your songs. Yet I cannot now go with you as your protector, for a duty which God and our prophet have laid upon my shoulders holds me fast bound to my station, even as iron is attracted by the north pole. Wait only for a few days. Trust yourself with me on a short sea-voyage, and you shall then turn your steps, with Nurreddin for your guard, wheresoever your own heart inclines you. Perchance, however, your heart may be now changed, and may desire only to remain evermore under his protection.”—“Truly, Bertha of Lichtenried is of a very different opinion,” answered the damsel; “and that you may be convinced of this, I demand that you will immediately order a proper escort to attend me, and that I may be carried back to Gascony from whence I came.”—“If you insist on this,” answered the emir, “deeply as it grieves my heart, doubtless your wishes shall be fulfilled; and yet——” He paused, and fixed on her a long, ardent gaze; “should I forsake thee?” cried he;—“should I permit such an angel as thou art to depart from my palace, under the protection of strangers, on thy voyage into a distant land?—What if they did not pay that respect which thou deservest,—if they offended thee in word or deed, or even with the rough sound of their churlish voices?—The very thought is enough to render me mad with rage. Trust thyself then to me, and to me alone; for thou could’st not rest more safely even in a father’s arms!”—The prince’s ardour now indeed seemed more like that of an affectionate parent or brother, than that of a selfish lover; so that Bertha could no longer be afraid; and, except her brother, Sir Heerdegen, she could not recollect any one over the wide world under whose protection she would more gladly have placed herself. Therefore she no longer urged her immediate departure, but relied on the emir’s promise, that she should be sent whither she wished to go as soon as circumstances rendered it possible for him to travel with her. The prince expressed with great respect his thankfulness for the confidence that she reposed in him; and the few days that must intervene, before she could leave Carthagena, were to be spent in viewing the numberless beautiful apartments,—the works of art,—and the magnificent gardens of his palace.

The realms of Asia are indeed rich, and blest, above all quarters of the earth, as if Nature evermore bestowed her especial care and affections on that country wherein man first derived his birth; and where, in after-years, far more than the gift of mortal life was bestowed on him. Whatever treasures and luxuries this land affords, whether of nature or art, all were in the possession of the rich and powerful emir. He himself walked about in his dignity, like a proud enchanter, through his palace and gardens, able to explain all the mysteries and beauties by which he was surrounded, and willing to become eloquent, if but a listener worthy of his notice could be found; and to whom could he have addressed himself more gladly than to Bertha of Lichtenried?—By whom could his glowing words have been so well understood?—Therefore oftentimes they walked together through the long vaulted galleries of the castle,—through the towering groves of the shadowy garden,—or reposed, during the noonday heat, by its glassy lakes or foaming waterfalls. With especial pleasure Bertha listened to the wonderful legends and fairytales, which Nurreddin half-read from beautiful manuscripts on palm-leaves, and half-sung to her from his own recollection. To all these she listened with so much pleasure, that at length she longed to become acquainted with the Arabian character and language, in which they were originally written; and when she now tried to imitate the foreign sounds, the emir thought he had never before heard his own language spoken in its true beauty; for in softness and melody of voice, Bertha indeed excelled all the damsels of the world.

One day it came to pass that she was walking with Nurreddin up and down in a beautiful grove of laurel-trees, when he narrated to her the following history.

“Far remote, in the wide sea, named Archipelago, there lies an island well known through all the world, blooming and golden with rich harvests of corn, fruits, and wine. There, in old days of paganism, was born the enchanter, whom the heathens afterwards looked upon as a god. The island is called Crete, and the mighty enchanter’s name is Zeus.

“By his powerful spells it came to pass, that this island, whence he derived his birth, was ever adorned with the choicest flowers; and it is not very long since there was planted thereon a red rose of such unequalled beauty, that it was praised and renowned far and near as the richest and rarest of all nature’s blossoms. This flower came from the town of Damascus, and it was watched and tended by a fair and lovely damsel, who had been forced away from that city by wicked men, and brought to the enchanter’s island. At Damascus she had been in her flower-garden, and had the rose in her hand, when the wicked pirate came to disturb her innocent pleasures. She hid the plant under her mantle, and carried it with her into Crete. Here it had thriven well beneath her tender care,—the Damascene rose blooming the fairest of flowers, and she the fairest of damsels on the island.

“Oftentimes she had whispered in secret to the flower,—‘Here we are, both strangers in the land; therefore we must be friends to each other, and the bonds of affection may never be broken between us. If one return home, the other too must go thither; and if the rose be cropped from the stalk, the maiden will wither in her sadness.’—Then it seemed almost as if the flower had understood her words, and nodded thereto in silent sympathy.

“Not long thereafter the damsel was looking from her window on the waves of the stormy sea, and, lo! she beheld, amid the raging waters, a boat drawing near to the shore, and therein sat a graceful figure of a knight, beating the dark billows with his oars, as an angry master would chastise the slaves that rebelled against him. With eagle-eyes he beheld from afar the beautiful maiden, as she stood on her lofty veranda; he brought his bark to land, and made it fast by the golden chain to a tree, then looked up to the window, and called aloud,—‘Who art thou, most beautiful of ladies?’—The damsel answered,—‘I am a king’s daughter, and by violent men have been brought hither from Damascus.’—‘Then,’ said he, ‘thy life here is perchance sad and lonely?’—‘Nay,’ answered the damsel, ‘I have with me the beautiful rose that thou seest blooming in yonder garden; it has been my friend and solace since we both left our native land.’—Then said the knight,—‘Already have I won in battle a Damascene blade that is better, I ween, than any sword that was ever wielded by mortal arm. A maiden—a rose—and a sword from Damascus;—these are treasures above all price; and the sword will soon free the maiden and the flower from their bondage. Trust then to me; and if thou wilt but venture, thou shalt soon be free as the nightingale in the forest.’—‘Who art thou, mariner, that darest to speak thus boldly?’—‘Nay,’ said the knight, ‘I am a warrior, far and wide renowned, and wend my way where’er it is my pleasure, by land or sea; and here in Crete I am named the brave Hygies.’—‘Art thou indeed Hygies?’ said the damsel, ‘that wondrous hero whose deeds are sung through all the world, and who has won such victories among the Greeks, and in Persia, by land and by sea?—If this be so, then truly I shall soon be brought back to my wished-for home!’—‘Ay, fairest of damsels; and this night shall not pass till I have come to take you from your prison.’—‘But hast thou a ship that will bear us across the sea?’—‘Doubtless,’ answered the knight, ‘I have even a fleet of ships, but they will not come hither till another year has past away.’—‘For Heaven’s sake,’ cried the damsel, ‘tell me how I may be concealed in Crete till they arrive?’—‘Fear not,’ answered the knight; ‘for all that Hygies has planned, he knows also how to find the means of fulfilment.’—Thereupon she nodded kindly her parting salutation, and the warrior retired; but when the evening shades had settled on the island, he failed not to come again with a long ladder of ropes, which he fixed to her window. She ventured to descend, and was once more free.

“Deep in the recesses of the Cretan mountains there lies a cavern, covered at the entrance with heath and copsewood, but large and lofty, wherein no mortal dares enter, for terror of the supernatural powers that might assail him; for in ancient times this was the birth-place of Zeus, the far-famed enchanter. Here, in the secret depths of the cave, Hygies concealed the blooming and beautiful damsel,—coming oftentimes to caress her at the dead of night, and bringing with him food and wine, with costly carpets, to defend her from the cold and hard rocks. Meanwhile she often said to him with anxious sighs,—‘Thou wert my deliverer, and art now become my dear husband; but beware, I pray thee, beware lest my dearly-beloved rose should wither!—From Damascus thou hast obtained a maiden and a sword, but do not forget that there is, moreover, a Damascene rose under thy protection.’

“Far and wide, even for a whole year, the Cretans sought through the land, but in vain; they knew not whither the beautiful captive had retired; but the knight Hygies, he alone well knew where to find the object of his affections; and because the cave, though wide, was no fit habitation for his beloved, he used to cut and hew the rocks with his invincible Damascene blade, till he had made a habitation under ground such as any queen might have envied.

“But joy leads to sorrow, and pleasure to pain;—ere the year’s end the princess bore a son,—a bold, handsome boy, thus cradled among the rocks like the old enchanter Zeus, and the brave warrior Hygies took him in his arms with all a father’s love. So the mother’s pain was again changed to joy; and not long thereafter there was seen on the horizon a heart-enlivening shew of white sails all swelling in the breeze; and this was the fleet of the renowned Sir Hygies. That evening the ships cast anchor in a bay of the Cretan shore, and messengers came straightway to the noble owner, who rejoiced heartily at their arrival, and went, in the silence of the night, for his Damascene beauty,—brought her forth under the light of the moon and stars, with the child sleeping on his mother’s breast. Then, as they were proceeding on their way, the lady sighed deeply, and said,—‘Oh, Heaven!—how that thought comes irresistibly in the midst of all my joys!—Must I leave the dear rose-tree here on a foreign strand?—Have we not known each other so long in our affliction, and promised both, that if one of us should be set at liberty, the other should not be left in bondage?—See, yonder blooms the rose! dear husband, go and bring it to me!’—But the knight would not listen to her prayer, and urged her forward in rapid flight. The damsel sighed again, and would not go with him, but ran to the garden wherein she had planted her beloved flower. There a sudden noise from the castle alarmed her, and she would have fled, but the rose held her garments fast with its thorny fingers, and in her terror she shrieked and fell to the ground. The knight ran up to her, and took the child from her arms, while she yet lay motionless, and fainting in her grief and affright. But now every window and door was suddenly burst open;—the Cretan guards and soldiers came forth armed, and with torches in their hands. At the first glance they recognised the beautiful maid of Damascus, as she lay there beside her blooming rose-tree, and determined not only to make a captive of her, but also of the brave Sir Hygies. The knight, however, proved game not so easily to be caught. With his Damascene blade he dealt about him blows so rapid and so powerful, that whoever dared to approach him was felled to the ground; so that they all stood still, and their courage was broken. Thereafter they tried their javelins and arrows, and Hygies protected himself and the beautiful damsel as long as he could, till an arrow came whistling under his golden shield, and struck her to the heart. She fell lifeless, and the red rose-leaves mingled with the blood that streamed from her death-wound. The knight then must leave the lady and the rose behind him on the island; but the sword was still his own, and by its aid he rescued the child, and bore it with him to his fleet, and sailed for Arabia. Thereafter the child proved a valiant warrior,—an avenging sword, that was worth an hundred thousand blades of the best Damascene steel.”

Now this fairy legend, that we have told in plain prose, was sung by Nurreddin in pleasant, well-sounding verses; and Bertha listened thereto with so much pleasure, that the emir repeated it to her many times thereafter, and it seemed as if his own heart was always strangely moved by the recital. Then it came to pass, that she begged him to explain who was in reality the far-famed Hygies, and if he did not know more of this warrior than the song had unfolded?—“Somewhat,” answered the emir, “but not much;—all that I know is,—that he came from foreign countries to Greece; that he was a youth everywhere beheld with fear and wonder; but I could never prove whether his name were properly Hygies, or if this were not a title bestowed on him in Crete, for in the Hellenic tongue it imports, that he was lively, active, and jocose.”—After such answers, it happened for the most part that he would speak no more, and that a deep shade of discontent came over his dark frowning brows.

One evening Bertha sat with the emir on a lofty balcony, whence she commanded a beautiful prospect across the orange-groves towards the sea, her mind filled with pleasant remembrances of home. A cooling east wind played over the water, and rustled through the orange-trees, bearing sometimes leaves from their branches, and wafting them up to the damsel. “How,” said she, “if this wind, with its rustling leaves, came from the enchanter’s island, or from Damascus, and could bring me news what has become of the brave knight Hygies, and his infant son?” “Nay,” answered the emir, “How comes it, that you have never inquired of me what was the fate of the poor child?”

“I know not wherefore I was silent,” said Bertha, “my heart always longed to hear more of him, and yet, when I was about to speak, methought as if by invisible hands a seal was imprinted on my lips, and I could not utter a word.”

“That is indeed strange,” said the emir, “for I have felt always impelled to tell you more of that child and his fortunes, but the fear withheld me, that you would look on him, who was thus born in the enchanter’s cave and in the wild island, with aversion and terror. Know, then, that I myself am the son of the brave Hygies.”

Bertha gazed at him with wonder, and at length said, “Why then should I be afraid of you, because you are the son of that renowned hero and the beautiful lady of Damascus? Rather should I expect to find in you a star of honour and courtesy, in whom I could confidently trust.” “A comet, rather you should have said,” answered Nurreddin, “or a destructive thunderbolt, terrifying the nations, and destroying many in its course; yet to future generations announcing happiness and prosperity.”

“The nations must be very base,” said Bertha gravely, “if they look for aid to a single champion, and not from their own strength.”

“Even to prevent them from becoming thus depraved,” said Nurreddin, “have I been sent into the world. I must kindle the fire and fan the flames; the fire of trial and purification, whereby many a peaceful roof will be overthrown, and many a blooming land laid waste, in order that, thereafter, all may be established better than heretofore. Believe me, noble lady, the nations of the earth may well be compared to the phœnix, and from time to time must be consumed by fire, that, arising from their ashes, they may prove their immortality and everlasting strength.”

“I believe you are now led astray by a fearful delusion,” said Bertha; “but Heaven will, according to his divine wisdom, set you free from this temptation; and as for the destructive fires with which you now threaten the people, Providence will no doubt interfere for their protection.”

“Ere long it shall be proved how that may be,” answered the emir; “to-morrow we are to set out with my fleet of galleys towards Ostia. There we shall cast anchor; and this is the voyage of which I have before spoken, and on which you must go with me before I am at liberty to attend you on your journey homewards. Rome is but feebly defended; and if I should succeed in burying the triple-crowned priest under the ruins of his own churches, the whole mouldering fabric of the system, called Christianity, would at once be tumbled down, along with its key-stone, to the ground. Especially, I have the better chance to succeed in this undertaking, because the light and mirror of your Christian knighthood, the brave King Richard, is now held in prison by his own friends and comrades in the field, who should have protected him, if need were, from all such insult.”

Thereafter a pleasant smile stole over Bertha’s features; nay, she looked so contented and child-like in her happiness, that one might have rather said that she laughed; whereupon the emir rose from his place on the veranda, walked up and down, and said, “Fair and beautiful as thou art, how can’st thou jest over what I have now said? My hopes and courage, nay my very life, had been renewed in thy presence; for I believed that every thought and feeling of my soul was by thee sympathized with and understood; and, though according to the manner of timid damsels, thou perchance might be afraid of my over vehemence and zeal, yet thou could’st still admire the greatness of my undertakings, and feel thereby inspired and enraptured. Now, however, when I have uttered before thee those things of which I had never till now spoken but in my secret prayers to God and our holy prophet, all the return I meet with is but in childish laughter! not even hast thou trembled at thoughts of the fearful and irresistible dangers which my voyage will bring on thy cherished faith and all its adherents.”

“Could my faith then be sincere,” answered Bertha, with the same unconcerned smile, “if I thought that our religion could be overcome by thy endeavours? The true faith may never die; Heaven will soon supply means for the defence of Rome; and I am heartily glad that you will take me with you to Ostia, and that I may be a wondering spectator by what agent Providence shall repulse your proud and warlike attacks. It may be an avenging spirit with a flaming sword, or a seraph smiling on you in peace and forgiveness; and, Heaven knows, it is my earnest hope that the peace-angel may come to meet you.”

At these words, Nurreddin bowed lowly and respectfully, saying, “Forgive me, if I misunderstood your smiles; for it is not my fault if you are far better fitted to excite or display heroic energies than to look for and admire them in others.”

Bertha stretched out her hand kindly to the emir, and answered, “Good night, brave and adventurous son of the renowned Hygies. We must meet early to-morrow, and be prepared for our journey.” “Ay, truly,” answered Nurreddin; “but I pray you, do not call me as you now did, the son of Hygies; for though I respect his memory who was ennobled by such brave exploits, yet the reflection, that he neither brought me to my mother’s parents, the king and queen at Damascus, nor to his own home, which remains still unknown, but that I was left amid the wild wandering Arabs to be educated as chance might direct;—these thoughts, noble lady, are indeed bitter and painful to my heart; and I am tempted to think, that though he might well merit his prize of the Damascus sword, yet he was not deserving of the tender rose-tree, nor the rose-like maiden.” With these words he bowed respectfully, and left the veranda.

On the following morning the ships of Nurreddin, with their brazen beaks and silken streamers, were gleaming in the sun, while the light breezes gently played amid their snow-white sails. Through a shadowy walk of the garden, Bertha now came with her extraordinary protector from the palace towards the sea-shore. As they drew near the gate, there was heard from the thickets the gentle sound of a harp; and ere long, words too blended with its notes, and Bertha could not but listen; for the words were French, and reminded her of past and happy days. The voice and music were tremulous and mournful; and the minstrel deplored that he could no longer praise the beauties of the ocean-waves dancing in the sunshine, the blooming woods and fragrant breezes of the morning; for now the fairest of flowers, the damsel that had adorned these woods, was borne far away; and he could only weep, or faintly sing to his harp, the lamentations of a lonely and despairing lover. Then it seemed, after this beginning, as if his voice died away in his grief and sadness, and only low broken notes of his harp were still heard from amid the shadowy coverts.

Bertha had involuntarily stood still to listen; and the emir, anxious to fulfil every wish of hers, stopped also, and made a signal that the slaves who followed them should not move. When the song had thus died away, and Bertha looked anxiously round for the minstrel, Nurreddin stepped hastily on through the portal, and, with his eagle-eyes, soon found out the disconsolate youth with his harp, made a sign that he should come nearer; and thereafter brought him before the lady, who, to her great joy, recognised at once the minstrel, Aleard.

Kindly and anxiously then she inquired what had led him to that foreign land, and whether it might possibly be in her power to lessen that grief by which he now seemed oppressed. The youth wished to answer; but, with a mistrustful side-look at Nurreddin, he remained silent. “Speak freely,” said Bertha; “whatever a noble-minded minstrel can have to say may surely be uttered in the presence of this valiant hero.” Thereafter Aleard related, without hesitation, how he had come hither to rescue Blanchefleur; but that, after seeing the fate of her brother, Sir Folko, his wrath against the Count Vinciguerra and the merchant, Theobaldo, was so great, that he resolved no longer to hold any intercourse with them, and past the night, after the seeming death of the chevalier, in contriving how he might alone and by stratagem effect her deliverance. Not till next morning did he hear of the knight’s miraculous restoration, and the escape of both the ladies; “and now,” said he, “I am here disconsolate and alone, wandering amid people who move round me like apparitions in a mirror, or listening to sounds that find no echo in my heart. My harp indeed is left to me, and is my only companion. By that means, if I visit the houses of rich Moorish knights, I am able to live, without submitting to ignoble or wearisome toil, and by night, or early in the morning, can call back in sunny dreams the pleasures of the past. I had indeed resolved to wear away my life on this foreign shore; but when your beauty, which I had often beheld in the presence of Blanchefleur, again dawned on my sight, the ardent longing for home once more awoke painfully and anxiously in my heart. Therefore it is true, that I now wished to draw your attention to my sorrows; for I find that you are prepared for your voyage hence. If it were possible that I might go with you again into a Christian land, so the light of a new morning would gleam forth on the darkness of my fate; if this may not be, yet the sight of you now departing is at least like the last rays of the setting sun, and the night will all the sooner come to shed her veil over my sorrows.” “Nay, if it be the will of Heaven,” said Bertha, “I shall prove to you, like the early morning red, the harbinger of light and joy. This valiant champion will not, methinks, disapprove what I have proposed.” Hereupon the emir kindly took the minstrel’s hand, and said, “Whatsoever the Lady Bertha only wishes may be looked on as fulfilled, if it be in the power of Nurreddin to render her assistance. Moreover your art is dear to me for its own sake; for we Arabians are lovers of music and of song, and the fairy legends of olden time.” So discoursing pleasantly with each other, they all three came down upon the shore, now sweetly illuminated by the red morning gleams. There they embarked, and directly the mariners set sail, and the vessels moved proudly out of the harbour.

The shouts of admiration and parting greetings, which rent the air when the emir left Carthagena, had long since died away; now even the Spanish shore had vanished from their sight, and they were driven rapidly onward by gentle and steady west winds along the wide blue waters, under a serene cloudless sky.

On the deck of the flag-ship were seated Nurreddin and Bertha, under a canopy of olive-green silk, and zealously conversing with each other, sometimes in the Arabic, and sometimes in one or other of the European languages. Meanwhile the timidity inspired by Nurreddin’s solemn grandeur of demeanour kept all the listeners at a respectful distance; even Master Aleard, the noble troubadour, was not invited to a share in this high conference. Truly their dialogue might have begun playfully, with music and song, for Bertha’s lute still rested on her left arm; but the discourse of noble and elevated souls, who are ever striving after the highest knowledge and virtue, may well be compared to the eagle’s flight, which, though he may now and then descend as if in sport to attack the wild deer or other game of the forest, still, as by nature directed, renews his upright course, soaring always nearer and nearer to the sun.

So these twain, the Moorish knight and the damsel, sat there, and conversed in their pomp and dignity; but as to what they said, it may not here be repeated word for word. Though Bertha’s thoughts were indeed solemn and anxious, yet she did not venture to speak on the truths of our holy faith too plainly, but discoursed rather in shadowy images and mystic allegories. These lofty and sublime truths were the subject of their dialogue, Nurreddin enforcing his arguments by all the flowery eloquence of the East, while Bertha spoke with careless and almost child-like simplicity; and meanwhile, from a vessel that sailed near them, the tones of the troubadour’s harp sounded at intervals in mournful melody. At length the shades of evening fell upon the waters; and thereafter night came with her countless gleaming stars, when Nurreddin gave the damsel in charge to his female slaves, while he retired to his cabin. Bertha meanwhile continued to speak as cheerfully as ever with her attendants; and when at last she fell asleep, a pleasant smile settled on her beautiful features, betokening the quiet and innocence that reigned in her heart.

Next day the combat between these two noble spirits was renewed, and carried on with equal ardour. As for the emir, he had recourse to several rolls of manuscript palm-leaves, which he brought from his cabin, and out of them read aloud now and then well-sounding verses and deeply-pondered sentences. Bertha meanwhile had no book to assist her; though it is true she should have had in her possession one volume, more estimable than all others, bound in black velvet, adorned with silver-clasps and beautiful pictures; but this was left at the fortress of Trautwangen, while the history of saints, that she had been wont to read with so much pleasure, still remained at Gabrielle’s castle in Gascony. Yet these books, more especially the lives of saints, had been studied by the good pious Bertha with such care, that she now never failed by memory to command their assistance. Many times indeed she reflected long and silently; so that one might have thought she was embarrassed and overpowered by the splendid and poetic language of Nurreddin; yet, in answer to what he read from the Koran and other Moorish records, she failed not at last to answer in the spirit of faith, hope, and charity, moreover with a dove-like simplicity, whereby the serpent’s cunning shewn in Mahomet’s doctrine was wholly overcome.

So their meetings continued for several weeks, and the sea-voyage passed over after a fashion which the mariners and soldiers little expected. Instead of banquets, music, and mirth, there prevailed over them all a solemn meditative silence, whose influence seemed indeed extended to the ocean and the sky. Only so much wind breathed on the sails as was required to bring the voyagers onward in their course towards Ostia; the wide sea lay around them almost like a mirror, only varied by light rippling waves as the vessels ploughed their adventurous way, furrowing the deep fathomless waters.

So it came to pass, that one morning on the shores of Ostia, there arose a fearful tumult and confusion. Women, old men, and children, were already flying along the high-road towards Rome, or had embarked in boats to row up the Tiber, while others were anxiously collecting and packing up their property, all the while calling out in their terror, “Away, away, ere it be too late! Yonder are their flags already on the horizon.” The men, however, and youths who were able to bear arms, drew themselves up on the strand, prepared for defence, though among them were to be seen many pale faces, and murmurs were heard through the ranks,—“It is Nurreddin, the frightful Arab himself, who is thus coming against us.” From Rome there came ere long troops, to support the people at Ostia, but few in number, and in their looks no tokens of confidence nor pleasure, more than in the countenances of those whom they were sent to encourage, only here and there some one continued to tranquillize his own mind, by saying, “This cannot be the great emir, who is now coming hither. The fleet is nothing more than African pirate ships.” Such voices, however, were opposed always by twenty to one; for men had been sent out in boats to reconnoitre, and to keep watch in the high-light towers. On their return, they all declared, that it was the fleet of the dreaded emir that was near at hand, and that his own flag-ship, distinguished from all the rest, was in the middle. All this they knew by the glittering ornaments and streamers, by the fashion of the sails, and shape of the vessels. The chiefs of the Italian troops were so terrified at hearing this, that they could scarcely utter an angry command, that these unwelcome messengers should be silent. Then they whispered to one another, “It is all but too certain! Nurreddin is drawing near, and our only hope is to die nobly with sword in hand!”

Meanwhile the ships were advancing in beautiful array, with a favouring breeze, and their white sails gleaming in the red light of the morning. Judging by the number of vessels how powerful the enemy must prove, the Italian chiefs did not venture to oppose them at their first landing, but retired upwards from the shore, forming a kind of ambuscade, whence they could watch the movements of the invaders, and take advantage of a favourable opportunity for attack, hoping perchance to surprise them when engaged in plundering the town; or, finally, if the enemy came in battle-array against them here, at least, they would, if put to flight, stand a better chance than on the shore below, of securing their retreat to Rome. At the moment when the troops, who had just then assembled, heard the command for wheeling round, and marching back towards the capital, this order was obeyed with the greatest alacrity and precision. When the captains, however, found, that the proper station on a rising ground had been gained, and intended that they should again turn round towards the sea, they saw that obedience was no longer to be expected. To the people of Ostia, bearing arms indeed, but wholly unpractised in warfare, the road to Rome, that lay now before them, was a prospect far too attractive to be resisted. The more vehemently that the chiefs thundered out the orders to “halt,” the more rapidly did the troops now march forward; and when the commands were changed into threats, and measures were taken to interrupt their course, their march turned straightway into flight, and, as if the enemy had been in full chace, they pursued their way, while the captains found, that only a few old and practised soldiers were left near them.

The men of this little band looked at each other with melancholy pride. They could not but feel, that they might be well compared to corn, and the dispersed multitude to worthless chaff. Their honour, however, was to be purchased only by unavoidable death; for already Nurreddin’s ships lay at anchor; already his troops had disembarked, and in their glittering dresses had begun to arrange themselves on the shore, while even the number of their waving banners exceeded that of the warriors who were left here to oppose them. Not one of this band, however, thought of following the example that had been set them by the contemptible runaways; for, whoever remains steadfast in resolve till a certain trying point has been passed over, henceforward is troubled neither with doubts nor fears.

But while the warriors stood thus prepared for death, leaning sternly on their swords, lances, and halberts, lo! there came before them, an apparition so unexpected and brilliant, that they believed it could be no other than a messenger from Heaven sent to comfort them, in this the last and bitterest hour of their lives. The reality did in truth somewhat accord with what they had imagined,—for now the consecrated father of the church, the pope himself, in all the pomp and grandeur of his holy office, walked up and down among the ranks. The soldiers all fell on their knees before this venerable ruler of the Christian world, whereupon he spoke as follows:— “My beloved children, if the Saracens should obtain the victory in this place, those who saved their own lives by flight would certainly not find themselves able to defend Rome and the holy sanctuaries of the capital. Therefore I have come forth to share your fate, whether it be victory or death; for God forbid, that the pope should think of his own safety, if the holiest temples of Europe are to be profaned, and perchance levelled with the ground. According to the best reason and judgment of men, such must be the consequence of this invasion, and we have only to shed our last heart’s blood on these green meadows for his glory and our own salvation; but if it should be the will of Heaven, all may turn out far differently from what we now expect. Let us then wait with composure and tranquillity for whatever fortune he may send to us, whether it be joy or sorrow; and now receive, with hearts both courageous and humble, his blessing.”

The pope then stretched out his arms, and implored the blessing of Heaven on that band of warriors, who at his signal immediately rose up, and looked forward confidently and with calm courage to the events which were now before them, while he walked in the van of this little squadron, invested with the symbols of his holy rank.

Meanwhile Nurreddin’s troops advanced in all that splendour which he had long been preparing, with cheering music, trumpets, and tambourines. Suddenly, however, the whole army stood still, the music ceased, and, lo! there appeared two graceful figures,—an armed champion and a beautiful damsel,—who came forward towards the pope and his little band confidently and as friends, without sending any herald or peace-messenger to demand a conference. It was a pleasure to behold the warlike grandeur of the knight, and the humble yet dignified demeanour of that beautiful lady, so that no one could have dared to meet them as foes with javelin or sword;—moreover, the pope made a signal to the Italian chiefs, that they should remain quiet, and moved forwards alone to meet his extraordinary guests. The strangers both kneeled before him, and the lady began to speak:—“Holy father,” said she, “we recognised you from afar, not merely by your magnificent attire, but by your looks and gestures; therefore we thought it needless to send a herald to prepare the way for a request that we have now to make. Lo! we kneel humbly before you. I have been educated in the Christian faith; my home is in Swabia; and I am named Bertha von Lichtenried. I have brought hither the noble and far-famed champion Nurreddin, who begs earnestly to receive from your hands the blessed sacrament of baptism.”

To this unexpected address there followed a long solemn silence; and the pope clasped his hands, and looked up to Heaven in gratitude and astonishment. After that pause Bertha continued,—“The soldiers who are drawn up yonder on the plain are willing to follow the example of their commander; and the few who wish to desert him, and abide by the doctrines of Mahomet, will immediately re-embark in their vessels, and will not venture even to injure one blade of grass on these shores, which hereafter shall be under the warlike protection of the renowned emir Nurreddin.”—“So may the God of the Christians and his Holy Spirit assist or renounce me,” said the emir;—“both have I been taught to know and to reverence by the seraph who has now spoken for me here.”

Then the pope kneeled down, and the Christian soldiers with him;—all prayed silently, and with hearts deeply moved, to the Giver of all good. At length the patriarch commanded them all to rise up, and to follow him on his way back to Rome, where would immediately be held the solemn festival of baptism. Nurreddin, however, still kneeling, thus addressed him:—“Holy father, my soul thirsts after the waters of eternal life; and, if it so pleased you, I would not longer be debarred that blessing which the forerunner of the Christian Saviour used to confer in the wild fields and woods, without circumstance or pomp.”—“Let it be then as thou desirest, dear son,” answered the pope; and, looking round, he perceived near him a rivulet of clear water, to which he advanced, and, choosing Bertha and the Christian soldiers who had remained faithful at their post for witnesses, he straightway fulfilled the baptism of Nurreddin, giving to him the honoured name of Christophorus, which had been borne many centuries before by a powerful and gigantic warrior, whose sword was always wielded in defence of the Christian church. Then he embraced the new-won votary of the true faith, even as a father would embrace a beloved son, and turning to Bertha, almost bent down his head respectfully before her:—“Noble and virtuous lady,” said he, “thou art chosen by Heaven as a blessed agent of his holy will, and before that influence which dwells in thy spirit, even his consecrated servants feel themselves awed and humbled. I beg, therefore, in the name of our far-famed city, that thou wilt honour it with thy presence, and that thou wilt remain within its walls through the winter which is now approaching, in order that we may have time to thank her who, under Heaven, has been our deliverer and protectress. This brave champion will also remain for your protection, like the lion which would not leave the saint by whom he had been tamed.”—Humbly, and blushing deeply, Bertha inclined her head in token of assent; and the noble Arabian professed his determination of obedience to whatever commands she was pleased to lay upon him.

Many people, both men and women, came, attracted by the wonderful news that had arrived at Rome, bringing from the great city food and wine, in order that a banquet might not be wanting at this grand festival. Thereupon the holy patriarch assembled round him all the monks and other priests, who had now made their appearance, and, walking through the Moorish ranks, dealt out among them the blessed sacrament of baptism; for they now followed the example of their chief in his progress towards the gates of everlasting life, as they had before done on the battle-field to victory or death.

Thereafter the banquet was arranged along the beautiful banks of the Tiber, and when Bertha presented to the emir a cup of old Falernian wine, the converted Mahometan, for the first time, drank the noble juice of the grape, and felt through every vein the fire of earthly as well as of divine inspiration.

The voyage of Sir Folko de Montfaucon, and the two rescued damsels, was, alas! far different from that of the emir and Bertha von Lichtenried. No sooner had they lost sight of Carthagena, than the ocean-waves rose wildly against them, so that it was not without vehement struggles that they were able to reach the straits that divide Africa from Spain;—nay, when they tried to tack right over from Gibraltar’s high cliffs, in order that they might steer for Gascony, there arose such a terrible whirlwind, that Hernandez lost all command of his vessel. Fortunately, however, there were no rocks near enough to split against; but they were driven far out into the desolate sea, and there tost about so long, that, from the want of sufficient food and water, they were threatened with starvation, till, for the sake of the poor suffering damsels, they were glad at last to find a harbour, at an island which seemed uninhabited, and for which not one of the whole party knew even a name.

On this lonely strand, while Sir Folko, Don Hernandez, and the Count Vinciguerra, were busily employed in building a cottage to shelter the ladies, collecting rushes for the roof and soft moss for their beds;—in short, all that knightly gallantry would at such a time have achieved, the merchant Theobaldo amused himself all day long with the Magic Ring, enticing, by its strange and varied music, all the beasts of the forest, even the seals, sea-calves, and sea-horses, from the ocean around him, and at times laughing aloud at their strange dances and gambols. Sir Folko and Don Hernandez felt themselves roused to the utmost disdain and anger, because, for the sake of these silly diversions, Theobaldo should have neglected wholly the service of the two ladies that were intrusted to their care; and, as he now frequently brought the howling wild beasts and awkward sea-calves into the presence of Blanchefleur and Gabrielle, who were thereby disturbed and terrified, they resolved, whatever the consequences might be, to put an end to such conduct. After an adventure of this kind, the Knight of Montfaucon stepped forward, placed himself right before Theobaldo, and looked at the merchant steadfastly, with gleaming, wrathful eyes. The chevalier had now resumed his glittering armour, and looked so formidable, that the merchant, though wishing to conceal his agitation, could not help feeling embarrassed, and fixing his eyes on the ground. At length he said,—“What means all this?—You wish, perchance, to play the part of an old statue of Roland in the market-place, as you stand there so stern and motionless?”—“That is not my design,” answered Sir Folko; “but it shall be proved ere long how I shall deal with you, if your behaviour should not be more circumspect and quiet for the future.” “Ay, forsooth!” said Theobaldo, in his usual tone of calm defiance, “it might be as well to inquire first how I shall deal with you and all your party, if the question—‘Who is master?’—comes to be tried among us.”

“Sir,” answered De Montfaucon, in a tone of indifference and resolution, “you have indeed rescued my life, and have assisted much towards the rescue of these noble ladies;—through the ring, too, you are brought into possession of many powerful spells. For such reasons, however, you must not suppose that you can make game at will of a French baron and banneret, far less of the damsels who are now under his protection. In short, if you dare to terrify them once more with your abominable dances of wild beasts and fishes, then remember your own life is at stake, or, peradventure, the question to be determined is, Whether my sword or your witchcraft will obtain the victory?—The trial shall be made, however; on that score you can have no doubt.” “—Nay,” said Theobaldo, “I doubt not that your words would amply be made good; and it is, methinks, far better for us both if we should not bring it to the proof which of us is destined to bear the upper hand in conflict. Be satisfied then, and forgive me; for that of which you complain shall not happen again.”—Thereupon Sir Folko was appeased, and shook hands with Theobaldo; nor were the ladies ever more terrified by the dancing beasts and sea-monsters.

Not long after these events, the skies became once more free from clouds, and Don Hernandez gave orders to heave anchor, that they might pursue their voyage. At first the winds were favourable, and they doubted not that they should happily arrive at the destined port; but scarcely had they again reached the Straits of Gibraltar, when there arose of new, a frightful tempest, forcing the vessel back into the narrow seas, and driving it violently past Carthagena, towards Malaga; nor did the storm abate till they found themselves opposite to the coast of Genoa. The condition of the ship, now almost a wreck, and the distress of the two ladies, left them no choice. They resolved to cast anchor in the harbour of Genoa, and follow out the rest of their journey by land.

Scarcely had the damsels been safely lodged in a pleasant mansion at this town, and the requisite clothes, armour, and other necessaries been brought from the vessel, when the Knight of Montfaucon made a signal that Theobaldo should speak with him in a retired street of that city.—“Now,” said the knight, “confess freely, that we have been forced hither by your agency;—that you have all this while played your pranks for your own diversion and our annoyance;—in short, that, by means of your Magic Ring, you have raised the storm that always opposed us when we drew near Gibraltar!”—“Why then did you not address these questions to me when we were on board ship?” said Theobaldo; “then, perhaps, there had been time to make up for whatever faults I had committed.”—“I know not whether you now speak in mockery or earnest,” answered Sir Folko; “and, in truth, with such people one cannot expect to fare better. However, this is of little consequence; but, for my own part, I answer you in right earnest. Mark you!—whilst we were at sea, your sorcery and witchcraft might have been carried much farther, and the ladies who were under our protection might have perished thereby. Now, however, you have to deal with me alone, and I speak with you even as one Christian knight with another. Have you then, by your incantations, made game of us, and led us thus astray?”—“Not as a knight, but as an honest merchant, I answer you,” said Theobaldo, “that I did conjure up the storms by which our ship was driven on the wild waves; not, however, because I wished to make game of you for my own diversion, but because I had firmly resolved in my own mind, that it was better to land at Genoa than on the shores of France.”—“In Genoa, perchance, you may fare but hardly, sir merchant,” answered De Montfaucon, glancing at his sword; “though the first question may be, whether you have honour and courage enough to defend your own actions?”—“As to what you are pleased to call honour,” said Theobaldo, “I trouble myself little about the matter; but, as to my courage, it has been proved already, and may be proved again on occasions more important than any that are likely to occur at this time.”—“A pitiful excuse!” said Sir Folko; “the veriest coward or deserter has it in his power to speak as thou hast done. Without more circumlocution, however, be condescending enough to come straightway to the mark, and answer, whether thou art now willing to walk with me into one of the gardens by which we are here surrounded, and wherein we may quietly measure swords together, until one or other measures, with his own lifeless body, the ground that is to serve him for a grave?”—“Right willingly,” answered the merchant: “we shall soon find a fitting place for this encounter;—only follow me.”

Hereupon the merchant walked rapidly away, and the knight followed him with impatient strides. Ere long, however, it seemed to De Montfaucon as if he heard the voice of Theobaldo calling to him from behind; and, on looking round, he saw, to his utter confusion, that the merchant was also there. Nay, at the same moment, there started into life an hundred more shadows of the same figure, that grinned at him from windows of the neighbouring houses, and threatened him, sword in hand, from across the railing of the gardens; but though these might be shadows, yet in no one circumstance could they be distinguished from the true Theobaldo; so that, in his amazement, the knight wheeled round and round, not knowing whom he was to attack, till at last some one laughed aloud,—“Now, sir knight,” cried the voice, “you find that there are too many of us even for the Chevalier de Montfaucon to encounter, and your honour and courage may for this time go to sleep!”—Thereupon, in overpowering rage, the knight struck with his heavy sword at the phantom who had thus addressed him.—“Madman—madman! what wouldst thou do?—Alas, for my beautiful jars and pots!” cried a shrill voice beside him, and immediately all the Theobaldos had vanished away. The chevalier found himself opposite to an old woman, having broken, with one blow of his sword, her whole stand of crockery-ware. Indignant more than ever at the insolent mockeries of the merchant, he threw at her some gold coins, whereat the old woman’s lamentations were changed into gratitude and joy; then proceeded on his way to the house which had been provided for the two damsels.

At the door of their house he was met by the Count Alessandro de Vinciguerra, who greeted him respectfully, though with discontent, as usual, in his countenance, saying, that he had just then taken leave of the two ladies, and was about to depart. Sir Folko looked at him for a time in silence, then offered him his hand, and said kindly, “My lord count, we part however in peace and friendship?” “Doubtless,” answered Vinciguerra, taking, with cold politeness, the hand thus offered; “I cherish all due respect for your knightly prowess and courtesy, an assurance, however, which may be needless; for had it not been so, neither I, nor any one of my race, would have been wanting in courage to say at once, whether he had any cause for displeasure.” “Without doubt,” answered Sir Folko; “and it is to be understood also, that no one of your house, or of any other, can or dare to think otherwise than you now do, of De Montfaucon. But I had hoped that our parting would have been on terms more friendly.” “Forgive me,” answered the Italian, with a smile almost of scorn on his features; “doubtless I should be honoured by such friendship; but, to say the truth, it seems to me as if you bore a certain resemblance to the young German knight, who, at your banquet-table, was pleased one day to preach me a moral discourse on my story of Donatello, and the wife of old Dimetri. Methinks you are both somewhat over-given to preaching and converting, of which you failed not to afford some proofs when we were together on board ship. In order that such lessons might not be renewed at this time, I have thought fit to take leave after my own manner.” “Alas, for the unruly heart!” said De Montfaucon, “wherein every rash word is thus nourished, till it takes root, and grows like a spreading weed. Gladly would I have plucked it forth by friendly persuasions.” “Even for this very reason—,” said Vinciguerra, bowing as he retreated. “Heaven knows, my lord count, I am truly sorry,” said De Montfaucon, in a tone of such earnest sympathy and kindness, that the Italian, instead of being able to keep up his dignity and indifference, as he intended, was visibly confused. He blushed deeply, and walked hastily away towards the harbour.

With the ladies Sir Folko now found Don Hernandez, who also, after his grave and solemn manner, took leave; having found a larger ship at Genoa, for which he had exchanged his own galley, and now thought of sailing to Barcelona, in order that he might again join the ranks of his brave countrymen in their war against the Moors. “This then is the day of farewell and separation?” said De Montfaucon, sighing half mournfully and half in anger. “Of separations truly,” said Don Hernandez, “but not, as I hope, for ever. Full well do I know, that if in Castile we should ever need foreign aid, no where could we look for it with such confidence as from the brave and powerful Sir Folko, over whose deeds the Moorish brides are yet lamenting;—but if we should never meet again, at least we must often hear tidings of each other. Both are called in different directions, each by his own duties, and the star that rules his destiny; but the golden bands of love and honour, by which all knighthood is intwined, cannot be broken, and, even though absent, we are not disunited.”

The heroes embraced and parted. Thereafter Sir Folko was not displeased to hear that the damsels were willing to leave Genoa, (where the prospect, amid the commencing storms of autumn, was gloomy both by land and sea,) and to proceed to the beautiful town of Milan. Not merely obeying their wishes as a courteous knight ought to do, but rejoicing in his heart to leave a place, which, by Theobaldo’s strange conduct and the parting with Hernandez and Vinciguerra, had been rendered disagreeable, he made preparations for the journey, and ere long he had set out on horseback with his two beautiful companions, passing through the Bocchetta into the luxuriant plains of Lombardy.

This year the snow had begun earlier than usual to cover the mountains, and made the road through them, if not impassable, at least dangerous; so that Blanchefleur and Gabrielle found themselves obliged to spend the winter in Milan, a necessity, however, to which they might indeed submit without a murmur; for in that happy country the face of nature is always clothed in smiles; and, besides, there was in a town so rich and prosperous no want of entertainments worthy to be noticed even by such high-born damsels.

It came to pass, however, that Gabrielle and Sir Folko had their days of pleasure and jollity interchanged by others of melancholy and apprehension. For though in that eventful night at the emir’s castle Gabrielle had been surprised into a confession of her love, yet, during her sea-voyage afterwards, her beautiful lips had been sealed up, partly from shame at having spoken so rashly, partly because she feared the mockery of Theobaldo and the Count Vinciguerra, who were then always present. Thereby Sir Folko and Gabrielle had become in outward demeanour as if estranged from each other; in their hearts, however, they had all the while grown more and more indissolubly united; so that the knight would have felt himself truly happy, had it not been, that one terrible thought still lay upon his mind; he had betrayed the confidence of his noble friend, Sir Otto von Trautwangen. Therefore, in the chevalier’s heart, scarce even the buds of inward joy could sprout forth, far less spread into full luxuriance; and oftentimes, as they sat together in Milan, his eyes would wander from the beautiful countenance of Gabrielle to the marble monuments of a neighbouring churchyard. There he felt better and more tranquil in mind; for he found that death reconciled all differences, and that even the injured Sir Otto could not be angry with him, when all that remained was but a skeleton mouldering in the earth, and above it a marble monument, with the inscription,
“Cy git Messire le tres haut et tres puissant Chevalier de Montfaucon.”

Thus, when he was one day wandering amid the turf mounds of the churchyard, he found sitting on one of them, which was overgrown with weeds and rank grass, a man in the extremity of old age, whose very eye-brows were snow-white, his eyes far sunk and dim, and with a long hoary beard that reached down to his middle. Besides, the stranger seemed thoughtful and stern of mood, so that he might even have inspired fear and suspicion, had it not been for the deep shades of melancholy and misfortune that also lay on his features.

Sir Folko stood gazing respectfully at the old man, when the latter suddenly drew from his bosom somewhat that shone and sparkled, though the knight could not distinguish properly what it was; and, thereupon, raising his arm, began to describe strange figures in the dusky evening air. As he continued thus as it were to write upon the fields of empty space, Sir Folko reflected, shuddering, whether the old man had not just then become the victim of madness, when, behold! there entered at the north gate of the churchyard, a tall figure, magnificently attired as a warlike knight. It seemed to the chevalier that this figure had been already known to him, and he was about to draw nearer; but the strange knight had a severe and woebegone countenance; moreover, he seemed almost as old as the other who sat upon the grave, before whom he walked up and down two or three times, and then vanished behind some tall monuments that stood hard by. “’Tis well,” said the old man, for the first time breaking silence; “now thou hast shewn thyself in thy proper shape, and I shall not fail to know thee again.”—Then, turning towards the grave, he added, “But as for thee,—sleep thou in peace;—the sacrifice that is due to thy just revenge shall not be wanting, even if I should pledge mine own soul’s weal on the venture.” Hereupon it seemed almost as if a low sound of weeping and lamentation was heard from the grave. “Then,” said the grey-haired man, “full well, dearest mother, do I know what thou would’st have. Thou art indeed too kind-hearted, and thou art grieved for the punishment that awaits him;—but my just vengeance must be wreaked. Besides, wherefore else should I be in possession of the ring?”

Watching all these occurrences, the Knight of Montfaucon felt an irresistible chilness and horror steal upon his heart; but, as it often happens to noble minds, instead of being thereby repulsed, he was the more determined to inquire into this mystery. Therefore he went up sternly to the old man and said, “What seek’st thou in this holy ground, thou wicked enchanter, and wherefore would’st thou disturb the peace of the grave?” “She who sleeps here,” said the old man, lifting up his melancholy eyes, “has been laid too soon into her dark and narrow bed. Those who are thus forced, ere they were weary of life, into the house of rest, seldom find sleep therein; therefore it is not my presence that can disturb her. But I pray you leave me in peace, and let me deal with the dead according as I deem it fitting; for, to say the truth, your visit here is unwelcome.” De Montfaucon stood irresolute, not knowing whether he should obey that strange warning, or whether it were not his duty to oppose here some vile schemes of enchantment, such as those by which he had been tormented by Theobaldo. “Was then the sleeper in this grave so well known to you?” said he to the old man. “How should I not know her?” answered the stranger; “she was to me a kind and affectionate mother.” “And for her sake you would now wreak vengeance, old man?” said Sir Folko; “or perchance I had not understood your words; for whoever has committed acts of injustice against the parent of one so old as you are, must long since have been numbered with the dead; and to wreak vengeance on children for the sins of those from whom they derived their birth is an act of stern justice, which it belongs only to the Almighty to fulfil, whose decrees are to mankind unsearchable.” “That crime, however, is not so long past as you suppose,” answered the stranger; “for the guilty man yet lives, and will indeed continue to live until my arm has reached him. To me that meeting cannot be less unwelcome than to him, but many a one creates for himself his own punishment; and did not the noble Roman of old put to death even his own father in the capitol? For thee, sir knight, thy presence here to-day is both useless and troublesome, and should’st thou not think fit to retire from my presence, I then shall retreat from thine.”

Thereupon, with unexpected rapidity, he rose and strode away to the gate of the churchyard, and it suddenly occurred to Sir Folko, that this must be Theobaldo in one of his magical transformations; nay, he thought that when the stranger waved his hand as he scornfully retreated, there shone on his finger the wonder-working ring of Gabrielle.

About this time, lo! there came riding over the mountains of the Hartz forest, a party of warriors heavily armed, that formed the escort of a noble lady, who was also on horseback. The shades of night had now descended around them; and the increasing gloom of the deep-blue sky contrasted strangely with the white snow-covered hills and the faded autumnal woods. The full moon indeed shone in heaven; but ever and anon there came across her orb dark clouds like raven’s wings, through which her light could scarcely penetrate. The travellers soon perceived that they must have lost their way, and sent out now and then a horseman to discover, if possible, the right track; whereupon, also, he blew his war-horn for a signal, but was answered only by the wild echoes of that solitude; and oftentimes his horse would start suddenly back from some fearful precipice, or from the strange spectral shadows thrown by the naked oak-trees on the snow. Only one of the horses, whose light-brown colour distinguished him, even amid the pale moonlight, from all the rest, was able to carry his rider safely up hill and down hill, through the roughest ground; and by that means it came to pass, that a road was found into a valley, wherein lay the beaten track, which they had wished to discover. Here, too, the same knight in his dark mail, with his light-brown steed, continued to lead the way; and the courteous reader doubtless knows already that this was Sir Otto von Trautwangen, who, with the Lady Hildiridur, Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried, and the sea-monarch, was thus far on his journey homeward from the north.

The beaten track through the valley now led them towards a cottage that lay under a high precipitous cliff, and was overhung by pine-trees bending under their load of snow. At the approach of the troop, light suddenly broke forth from a window of the cottage, and this light being reflected in the frozen waters of the valley frightened the horses, so that the riders could scarcely keep their seats. Sir Otto alone, trusting to his faithful charger, thought not of his own safety, but carefully held by the reins the palfrey that bore the Lady Hildiridur.

“Welcome, thrice welcome, noble guests,” said a swarthy figure of a charcoal-burner, who had now come to the door. “You will do well, for want of better lodgings, to remain with me for this night; for the road becomes ever more steep and more slippery as you advance; besides, there are ghosts and spirits abroad; and, as I now perceive, you have a noble lady under your protection.”

Willingly did the party accept the kind offer of this man. Sir Otto straightway lifted Hildiridur from her palfrey, and carried her into the cottage, while the rest provided as well as they could for their wearied horses; for even the Knight of Trautwangen’s light-brown now suffered himself to be attended by the sea-monarch, having become well acquainted with him on their long journey, so that even with Sir Arinbiorn’s dun charger he now lived in peace and friendship.

When the travellers had now assembled all together in the charcoal-burner’s hut, the graceful knights, with their magnificent coats-of-mail, contrasted indeed strangely with its narrow and low-roofed chamber. Their weighty helmets threatened to break down a table in one corner on which they had been deposited, while the tall plumes reached almost to the ceiling. Opposite to these was placed, like a trophy, in another corner, a collection of great battle-swords, that glittered wondrously with their golden hilts and brass-bound scabbards in the clear fire-light. Near this collection of weapons, and beside the charcoal-man’s mother, was seated the Lady Hildiridur. The old woman was blind, yet had regular features; and as she sat there in her abstraction and solitude, it was a pleasure to behold how she gradually became aware of the Druda’s presence, as if indeed a gleam of the moon-like radiance of Hildiridur’s eyes had fallen on the dark night in which her existence had hitherto been dreamed away. A smile stole over her before fixed and pale visage; and meanwhile the charcoal-burner moved to and fro, anxious to promote, as much as it was in his power, the comfort of his guests. He had store of good wine, wherewith he entertained the knights, and, on their invitation, drank freely and merrily along with them. “Methinks,” said Sir Heerdegen to his host, “thou should’st now relate to us for pastime some long and frightful story. Charcoal-men and miners in the Hartz forest seldom fail to have an abundant store of such legends.” “Alas!” said the charcoal-man, “in this country there is indeed no reason why we should task our own invention, or feel at a loss for such pastime; in our wild woods we meet enough of such adventures, only this is no fitting hour to speak of such things.” “Wherefore not?” said Sir Heerdegen; “methinks such an hour were of all the most suitable. Hearest thou not how the night-wind whistles at the window, and anon speaks to us almost as with a human voice of lamentation? Then, too, the old pine-trees are beating with their branches on the cottage, like giants with their ponderous arms, and as if they would break through the roof and stare in upon us with ghastly faces. Methinks there could never be found a better time for such legends than the present.” “Ay, ay,” answered the charcoal-man; “if one spoke only in jest, or told stories of what has happened a thousand miles hence, I should be as well content with this hour as with any other. But now the case is indeed very different; the ghosts and demons of whom we should speak are far too near at hand, and if we should provoke them, will attack and torment us even to death.” “What sayest thou, son,” said the old woman; “are there any fearful sights? Hast thou heard any growling without? Children, children, there comes again a cold shuddering, that creeps over my heart!”—“Mark you, sirs,” said the charcoal-man; offering his mother a cup of wine; “even in her old age and blindness she feels the same terror of which I have spoken. In her deafness, too, she hears not a word that has been uttered, nor even the rolling of the loudest thunder; but if the ghosts that haunt us are rustling through the wood, or even if I began to speak of such beings, then immediately she marks that all is not as it should be, and begins to tremble in every limb.” “On this account there should be no difficulty,” answered Sir Heerdegen; “let the old woman retire to rest, and then you may proceed quietly with the stories which you have to tell. It is not merely for the sake of pastime that we would listen to such narratives; but as brave knights, it is our duty to try whether we could not relieve you from the distress that the ghosts and demons here bring upon you.” In this notion he was supported by the two other knights; and the charcoal-man accordingly did as Sir Heerdegen had directed; and after his mother had retired to sleep, he related what here follows:—

“On the summit of a mountain in our forest stands an old pagan altar, a place of sacrifice, marked by many great blocks of granite stone. Our wood-cutters would seldom or never go thither, on account of the frightful stories they had heard of the human victims that were there sacrificed. For my part, however, I have always thought, since the accursed reign of paganism is now for ever past and gone, of what consequence is that circle of old weather-beaten stones; therefore I have climbed up both by day and by night to the very top of the hill, and have there cut down the choicest oaks and beech-trees, for no one came to share in my labour. Truly I knew well enough that the Wild Army, marching through the fields of air, were heard more frequently in this place than any where else; and I was terrified when I found human bones mixed with charcoal on the altar; yet I resolved not to think of these matters, which were no concern of mine, and always came home content and happy. Some weeks ago, however, it so happened, that I had climbed up the steep mountain, and, amid the strange light reflected from the snow, methought there were tall white figures of men and women, that looked out upon me from the rocky cliffs. However, I soon gained courage, and looked steadily on every object that came in my way, till at length I was able even to laugh at my own apprehensions. Now, when I arrived at the hill top, lo! there was stationed on the hearth of the pagan altar, a tall figure, which I believed to be a great wreath of snow. I only thought to myself what strange pranks has the whirlwind played here with the snow-drift; and straightway began with my hatchet to cut down a tall oak-tree, which I had marked some time before to be felled. But hark! there came on my ears a strange voice from the altar, calling aloud, ‘Köhler, Köhler, let alone that oak-tree, for it stands within the sacred circle of Freia. The great goddess has again come amid your woods; beware of Freia’s malison!’ So, when I looked round, the figure that I had taken for a snow-wreath rose up solemnly from the altar, stretching out a threatening arm towards me; and I saw that it was a ghostly woman in a long white veil. Without well knowing what I did, I took off my cap, laid down my hatchet, and bowed respectfully. Meanwhile it seemed to me as if the sides of the altar moved like folding doors asunder; and from an abyss beneath there came forth two knights heavily armed, with their iron-coats rattling and gleaming in the snow-light, and with their visors closed, as if prepared for combat. They were loaded with great store of javelins and arrows, which they laid down before the altar at the feet of the veiled lady; and thereafter they stood silently, like two iron statues, leaning on their tall halberts. ‘Brave hunters,’ said she at length, ‘are you then ready for the chase?’ The knights bowed their high-crested heads, and rattled with their iron-gloved hands among the javelins and arrows. ‘There is a weak mortal here present,’ said she, again stretching out her arm towards me, ‘and he shall now be made witness how I, the great Freia, who am again returned into the world, have power over all this forest, nay over all the ghosts and demons that lurk therein. Thus, when he goes from hence, he will relate what he has seen among his neighbours, and thereafter they will not fail to pay due homage and worship at my altar.’ Hereupon one of the knights stepped forward, seized me with a resistless grasp, so that the icy coldness of his iron-glove vibrated through every limb, forced me onwards towards the altar, and commanded that I should stand there before the veiled woman, nor dare to move, whatever I might behold, either on the earth beneath, or in the skies above. For a while I obeyed his commands, and stood still; but terror at last overpowered me, and I fell trembling on the ground, the knights and the lady still remaining motionless.

“Then there came across the mountains, as if sounding out of the clouds in heaven, the most horrible and soul-distracting noise of the Wild Army in full march. Accustomed to hide myself when this uproar was in the air, I now lay down with my face shrouded among the long grass, but one of the knights seized me again with his gigantic hand. ‘Look up,’ cried he, ‘thou shalt and must behold what now passes in the air, and for this time thou art free from all danger!’ My terror of the knight who thus held me was greater than that of the ghosts in the sky, and I did as he had ordered. Then, lo! I beheld, as if vast thunder-clouds, fringed with red light, and fashioned into a thousand unutterable shapes; but among the rest there were horses, huntsmen, deer, and dogs. ‘Hakelnberg, Hakelnberg!’ cried the knights and the veiled woman, in a tone as if of scorn and mockery from the altar. I well knew that this was the true name of the Wild Hunter, and thought that he would descend in fury with his fiery horses for our destruction. Instead of this, however, the attack began from our side;—with arrows and javelins, which now, to my amazement, flamed like lightning through the air, the knights vied with each other in shooting at the ghostly procession above, so that the dogs howled, the horses reared and plunged, and the riders uttered hideous lamentations. Many lost their seats, and fell from the clouds as if wounded, while the grass around us was wet with a rain of blood. Towards morning the knights allowed me to go, for the wild hunters had all vanished away; and as I proceeded alone to my cottage, the mangled limbs of men and horses, that terrified me on my road, convinced me that what I had beheld had been no dream. On my dress, too, I found many hateful stains of blood; so that I rather chose to burn my clothes than to touch them again. Since that time, however, the ghosts and hobgoblins, through all our mountains, have been far more restless than ever. The new goddess, Freia, rides often, even by day, with her two knights through the forest, and endeavours to turn away the hearts of good people from the Christian faith, and force them to do her homage; so that every one trembles even at hearing her name. Sometimes, either she herself, or one of her companions, appears suddenly in the room of a poor cottager, and when he perchance expects only to meet some well known friend, is so terrified by their hideous grimaces, that from that day onwards he is raving mad. If some change for the better should not take place, one must believe, that in many parts of our wild forest the true faith will give way to the terror that is inspired by those mysterious visitants.” ‘Heaven forbid!’ cried the three knights, as if with one voice; ‘far rather would we venture our lives and fortunes in the contest, even to the last remnant, and even resign that also without shrinking—’

While they spoke thus earnestly, they were interrupted by a loud confused knocking, as if by many hands all at once, on the cottage windows. At the same time, the old blind woman in the next room began to scream aloud, and the charcoal-man went to sooth her; but in his absence the knocking became more vehement, and without, amid the desolate night air, there was heard a fearful muttering, and gibbering of voices, like the sounds that come in dreams on a sick man’s ears when he lies oppressed by fever. Sir Heerdegen, however, was by no means disconcerted; he rose, went to the door, and called out in a stern thundering voice, “Who’s there?” Then after a short space, returned to the party within, and said, “I have seen no one; but you have an abominable swarm of bats in this forest.” In truth, it seemed to his friends, as if one of these night-birds had entangled itself in the dark curling locks of Sir Heerdegen; for a living creature with a hideous visage grinned on them from over his forehead. Sir Otto and the sea-monarch immediately started up, in order to seize this vile intruder; but on their approach, it flew away, breaking a pane of glass in the window, and disappeared, with a hoarse scream, amid the darkness of the night. Some thought it must have been an owl; but as for Sir Heerdegen, he knew nothing of the strange guest that had sat on his head, and looked round him cheerful and unconcerned; while Hildiridur sighed deeply, and seemed lost in melancholy apprehensions.

The charcoal-man now came back into the room, and said,—“The ghosts have again broken out vehemently in the forest,—of this you have yourselves been witnesses; and even the poor old woman, in the dark night of her blindness, is aware of the enemies by whom we are beset.” Suddenly, however, he paused, and, staring at Sir Otto von Trautwangen, called out,—“Heaven protect us!—there stands one of the knights from the altar of Freia!”—The sea-monarch and Sir Heerdegen were so confounded by what they had now heard and seen, that they were almost afraid to look at their own friend and tried comrade, for fear that he had vanished, and some ghost stepped into his place. Hildiridur, however, looked steadfastly and well-pleased on her beloved son; and the knight stepped up kindly towards the charcoal-man, saying,—“How far the terrors by which you are here assailed may have confused your senses I know not; but that I am a true and faithful Christian knight can easily be proved. Mark you! if I make the sign of the cross, or call on the name of our blessed Redeemer, will my tongue falter, or are my looks changed as I here stand before you?”—“No truly, it is not so,” answered the charcoal-man; “and now I wonder at my own folly, in having for a moment mistaken a handsome young knight, such as you are, for a frightful and malicious spectre; but when I thought of the old woman’s words, and heard these vile noises at the windows, my sight too became confused and wandering. Now I have awoke from my dream, and would gladly hope that you and your brave companions have been sent hither for our protection and deliverance from these persecutions.”—“If it please God, you shall not have been deceived,” said Sir Otto; “I put my trust in Heaven; I am well able to wield arms, and feel the impulse of a new and high calling in my heart; therefore I shall go forth, even now, while these evil spirits are all awake; and meanwhile you, my faithful comrades, will take the Lady Hildiridur under your protection.”—“You think then, that we would suffer you to ride out alone on such a campaign?” said Sir Heerdegen and the sea-monarch, both speaking at the same moment, and girding on their swords, and clasping their visors.—“Who then shall remain with my mother?” said Sir Otto.—“Nay,” said Heerdegen, “it were best of all that you staid with her alone.”—“Swerker too,” added Sir Arinbiorn, “and the other squires, when they make their appearance, will follow and support us.”—“Comrades!” said Sir Otto, his eyes gleaming with anger, “what you have now proposed avails me not; and this you might have well known ere you spoke as you have now done. For this adventure I myself have been chosen, and no one, as long as I live, shall fulfil the duties of Sir Otto von Trautwangen. As to Swerker’s coming in such a night as this proves, it is more than uncertain; and on that chance a son will not depend for the protection of a beloved parent. One of you twain must at all events remain with her.”—Hereupon the knights looked at each other in silence, each of them wishing that his friend would speak first, and declare his consent to remain with the lady, till at length Hildiridur spoke:—“Go hence, young heroes,” said she, “all three, and in God’s name. Truly I am no longer a prophetess nor Druda; for the hand of my brave son has deprived me of these fatal gifts; yet the powers over whom I so long mildly ruled, come to me yet, as near as the boundaries that separate our world from theirs will allow, and, by dim apprehensions in my own soul, I am aware that this adventure will be stern and fearful,—perchance that you may not all return hither; but, nevertheless, all three must be present at that encounter. Therefore go, and may the blessing of Heaven be with you. Look not so anxiously, as if you were yet afraid for my safety, dearest Otto; for, mark you, I have even here found a protector, who never deserted those who placed in him their hopes and trust.”—With these words she lifted her arm towards a cross which was formed with charcoal on the wall above the fireplace, rudely indeed, but powerfully drawn; and having made the same holy sign in the air above their heads, she pointed towards the door. The warriors had no power to resist her solemn commands, but went straightway forth amid the gloom of that spectral night.

The three knights had determined to leave their horses at the charcoal-man’s hut, because he had described to them how slippery and dangerous were the paths leading up to the pagan altar. Meanwhile De Montfaucon’s falcon, which since that evening (of which we have already told) never deserted the Knight of Trautwangen, flew gayly before them, as if to marshal their way, now and then resting too on the plume of his master’s helmet. Thereupon they were all of good courage; for the noble bird hovered around them like a guardian spirit, and at his approach all the ominous brood of bats and owls were dispersed, and fled screaming to hide themselves in the forest.

Through luxuriant brush-wood, and rugged cliffs, the warriors pursued their toilsome way, while, as they gained the higher ground, the storm howled around them, and the voice of the moaning blast contended with the loud roar of a cataract that rushed through a deep ravine. At length they saw, through the naked branches of the beech-trees and the snow-laden pines, an open glade, which at once they recognised for the spot of which the charcoal-man had spoken; for, in the midst of this level ground, almost like a pile of rocks, was reared the lofty altar for pagan sacrifice; and the moon, just then breaking through a cloud, threw her pale death-like lustre on black half-burnt brands and bones, which lay mouldering on its broad hearth.

Still the knights stood doubtful and irresolute, whether they should quietly wait for the supernatural apparitions that might come forth, or try to force open those concealed gates of the altar, from which the charcoal-man had before seen the two knights emerge. All at once they perceived, not without some terror, that their number was increased to four. A tall, gigantic, but shadowy figure of a man, was among them, who now spoke with a hollow and murmuring voice,—“You mean well,” said he, “but, as a friend, I would rather advise you to desist from this encounter; for the inhabitants of that altar are strong as any devil. If you are determined to proceed, however, you must go to the north side, at which is the only entrance. You must knock three times for admittance; for, trust me, it is always best, in such adventures, to make the first attack. Through my whole life, when I have had wild beasts to contend with, I always found it better to fall straightway on them, than wait till they had made a spring at me.”—The knights looked at him in silent astonishment; whereupon he added,—“I would gladly play to you a bold hunting-piece on my bugle, in order that your spirits may be the better roused for the conflict that awaits you. However, my voice dare not for this time be raised here. May good luck attend you, brave foresters!”—With these words the shadowy stranger vanished away into the wood, and the knights resolved to follow his counsel; especially because whatever he had said chimed well with their notions of honour and bravery. Accordingly they knocked with their sword-hilts on the north side of the altar, and Sir Heerdegen, in a stern voice, demanded that the door should be opened.

Then the solid walls began to move, and roll asunder as if on hinges, till at last an entrance was visible, and they looked down a steep narrow descent, with broken steps, whereon gleams of uncertain light played fitfully at intervals.—Gazing thereon, “Your mother’s apprehensions,” said the sea-monarch to Sir Otto, “might now readily be fulfilled; for some one among us might perchance here find a grave. In truth, this looks altogether like a mansion of the dead.”—“Nay,” said Sir Heerdegen, “the whole world would seem no better to one whose thoughts were thus inclined; for all must one day come to an end. If we but arrive at the goal by the paths of honour and virtue, what more could we desire? and surely we come hither with intentions virtuous and praiseworthy;—wherefore then such consultation and delay?”—“Who dares affirm that I wish for delay or consultation?” said the sea-monarch proudly, and thereupon marched straightway into the cavern. Sir Otto followed him, casting one look backwards, ere he went into the vault, on the moon’s beautiful broad shield, that then again emerged from a cloud, and reminded him of Hildiridur. Last came Sir Heerdegen, humming over to himself an old ballad telling of the swarthy spirits of the mines and mountains; and meanwhile De Montfaucon’s noble falcon had clung fearfully to Sir Otto’s breast, feeling that, in this narrow vault, he had no longer space for his usual flights. Ere long, however, the road became more spacious, so that three could walk abreast; and the noble determination, not to be last in the path of danger, forced Sir Otto and Sir Heerdegen forward, till they had come up with the sea-monarch;—then they went on ranked together, and holding out their long gleaming swords to guide them through the darkness.

They met not with any obstacles. On the contrary, the farther they descended, the wider and loftier became the roof, and the steps less uneven, till suddenly they found themselves once more on plain ground. Here too the wind blew on them as if they were once more in the open country; and on looking up, they could almost have believed that they had left the cavern; for the roof was now lost in distance, and glimmering lights were visible like stars above them. On this strange appearance they were reflecting in silent wonder, when the falcon started from Sir Otto’s breast, and, rejoicing to find himself once more with the realms of space around him, he flew up, and disappeared amid those twinkling lights. All of a sudden, however, he came back terrified, and tumbling through the air; they saw well that he had begun his flight after prey, and had been scared by hideous shapes, which had now descended along with him, and floated right over their own heads. So strange and shadowy were these shapes, that they knew not whether they were gigantic birds of some unknown race, or vapours bred by the noisome damps of the cavern, that assumed those living forms: for now that their eyes had become more accustomed to the uncertain light, they could no longer doubt that they were still in a vast cavern, of which the roof was indeed so lofty, that it might be compared to the firmament, and lamps were hung therein, that shone downward on them like stars.

Moreover, a great lake now lay at their feet, reflecting gloomily the black vault with its twinkling lights. The knights assayed to prove its depth with their swords; and Sir Arinbiorn groped therein with his long halbert. Even close to the shore, however, they could find no ground; and though shuddering to think of this horrid and bottomless abyss, they determined in all haste to go through with their adventure, walking boldly round the banks of that subterraneous sea, while the falcon now sat quietly on Sir Otto’s helmet.

They had walked thus for more than a mile along the shore, when, lo! there arose before them a steep hill, crowned by a fortress with many towers. When they had determined to proceed thither, they found to their great disappointment, that the lake now changed into a wild roaring stream, which came betwixt them and the mountain. The waters foamed and raged in such manner, that to swim across was impossible; the strongest giant would have been borne away by such a current. They continued their landward course therefore, till they arrived at a bridge built of iron and brass; the metal rung beneath their steps almost like the notes of a frightful battle-march. Having come to the other side, they saw before them a wide level field, and might at first have named it a blooming meadow, for it seemed studded over with bright flowers; but when they came nearer, these were changed into yellow flames, that rose in many strange forms, and almost choked them with sulphureous smoke as they trod upon them. Yet to their greater amazement, there were living creatures, like horses, deer, and bulls, in the field, that had their noses on the ground, and cropped these fiery flowers as if they had from thence derived good refreshment; and when the strangers approached, they lifted their heads and trotted away.

“Had we not better catch two or three of these native horses, and so ride into the castle?” said Sir Otto, in a bold tone, hoping by these words to banish the apprehensions of his comrades. But the jest inspired by such horrid sights only increased the horror of the listeners, and the three brave knights trembled, so that their iron-coats rattled on their limbs. At this moment there came up to them a hateful lame dwarf, hopping on one leg; “Nay,” said he, “it were better that you did not meddle with these horses, for they are the war-steeds of the great goddess, Freia. Therewith she is wont to ride through the forest, and hunt down the wild hunter, Hakelnberg, and the mortals who will not do her homage. Moreover, I am appointed here to be their groom and watcher.” With these words, he began to blow into an enormous horn that was hung by his side, of which the noise was so loud and hideous, that the knights could scarce help recoiling. “Has this alarmed you?” said the dwarf; “I play thus now and then a little music on my shepherd’s pipe to beguile the tedious hours; but if it so pleases you, I shall also treat you with a dance to the same tune: my brother shepherds are not far distant.” Hereupon the knights made him a signal that he should retreat, and went forward towards the fortress-gates. While they proceeded on their way, the dwarf uttered a long and loud sound of scornful laughter, and the demoniacal horses leaped and plunged about on the fiery meadow.

On their route towards the castle, instead of finding a smooth road, they had to clamber over rugged fragments of rock, overgrown with thorns and brambles. Sir Heerdegen and the sea-monarch, who had both travelled in the East, were of opinion that such caverns were to be found there also, and that they had been formed by wonderful boiling springs and volcanoes.

At last the knights had arrived at the portal; they found the drawbridges down, as if awaiting their approach, and passed over them quietly as they would have done in any ordinary fortress above ground. In the court, it seemed to them as if some soldiers in complete armour were keeping watch; and bowing at the approach of the strange guests, these men lowered their arms in respectful salutation; though, for the rest, one could not say whether these were not mere statues of iron or stone, that bowed themselves for the moment, and then recovered their position erect and motionless.

Thereafter their way led onwards through empty and silent corridors and apartments, wherein even the echo of their own steps sounded horribly in this desolate mansion. Here and there glimmering lamps hung upon the walls, whose light only served to remind the knights of a funeral procession. At last they came into a large inhabited chamber, of which the adornments were ghostly spectral forms and death’s heads. In this room there was seated a knight at a large round table, who had a book open before him. On the leaves they could perceive, even with a flitting glance, that there were inscribed many strange characters and figures intermixed with old Runic letters; and Sir Otto recollected that, at one time or another, all this had appeared to him in a dream. While he reflected silently on what now passed before him, the knight closed his book, and rose from his chair. “You would have acted more wisely,” said he, “if you had never come hither; but since you are indeed among us, I shall announce your arrival.” With these words he departed, casting, however, a look of sympathy and compassion on Sir Otto, who at the same moment began to recognise in the strange man his mysterious half-brother, Ottur of Norway. Truly he could not suppose that he had deceived himself, for both his companions were at the same moment eager to remark the resemblance. “If thou wert not here beside us, Knight of Trautwangen,” said they, “we should assuredly have believed that thou had’st even now departed through the door which we see yonder.”

Thus they were speaking with each other, when, lo! there came into the room a beautiful and stately damsel, in whom all three immediately recognised the wonderful enchantress of Norway, the mysterious and far-famed Gerda. Hereupon they all bowed courteously, as it beseemed high-born knights, yet remained silent and doubtful in what manner they should now address her; while Gerda looked on them with a smile of indifference and self-complacency. At last she said,—“How comes it, noble warriors, that you seem thus confused? Perchance you have lost your way in the night, and arrived by accident at my castle; but though this were the cause of your appearance here, wherefore should you now be thus embarrassed?” “Nay,” said Heerdegen, knitting his brows, “there is one reason at least for our being thus confused. We are now, Heaven knows, here many fathoms deep under ground.” “Then,” added Sir Otto, “your meadow-fields, with their burning flowers, your wild horses that devour the flames, and your dwarf hopping on one leg,—are not these enough to distract the mind of any Christian knight?” “In the first place,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “and before all other questions, answer whether thou art the lady who in these mountains demands homage as the goddess Freia?” “Methinks, Sir Knight of the Sea,” answered Gerda, “you have here assumed to yourself the right of command; and you think by your high-sounding words to gain an influence over me. But in this hope you are deceived. I am no longer a follower in your train; and if in former years I loved you more than you deserved, yet that is long past. Since then my head and heart are both changed; and as for your appearance, and that of your comrades here, I can only say, that you are all mad. You will visit me in my pleasant fortress, bright with the morning gleams, and yet speak of caverns under ground, horses eating fire, and such like delirious visions. If possible, let the clear sunlight restore your wandering senses and recollection.” Hereupon she drew aside a dark-red curtain that hung across the farther end of the room, and, behold, there was behind it a large bright window, through which they looked out on a rich blooming country!

Just then the cloudless skies were brightened with the red glow of the rising sun; and by that pleasant light the astonished champions beheld a beautiful valley, with many castles and pleasure-gardens, where the trees had just begun to assume the verdant colouring of spring. Shepherds, too, in their red and blue jackets, with flutes and horns in their hands, were driving out their flocks, and young damsels were twining flower-garlands on the meadows. “Good Heaven!” said Sir Heerdegen, “methinks this appears as if we were now in Italy.” “Who has told you then,” said Gerda smiling, “that you are not really there? If you believe that what you now behold is but illusion, why not think the same of your former wanderings through the snow-covered Hartz forest? Besides, how can you pretend to measure space and time, since you rashly brought yourselves under my power, and have travelled perhaps many hundred miles, when you thought to have walked only one?”

The knights hereupon knew not what to believe, and looked anxiously through the large gleaming window, while the scene became always more lively; and at length they beheld three figures come through the gates of a noble mansion, to whom their attention was especially directed. These were a knight and two ladies, who were now walking together, as if engaged in friendly discourse; whereupon Sir Otto sighed deeply, and said to Sir Heerdegen, “Alas, I behold there Folko de Montfaucon, with Gabrielle and Blanchefleur; but where is your sister Bertha von Lichtenried?” “We shall straightway ask them that question,” said Sir Heerdegen, and he was rushing onwards in order to force open the window, when Gerda, by a threatening gesture, prevented him. “Then,” said the Knight of Trautwangen, “brother, brother! I now remember well how we have been here deceived. That is indeed no window, but a magic mirror, such as my mother once had in her Swedish watch-tower; and who can tell how far distant Sir Folko, with the two damsels, may now be from us? Of such illusions, however, I shall quickly make an end, as I have done before in that mysterious castle of the north.”

The good sword, that he had named Ottur, already gleamed in his hand; but ere his blows had time to fall on the mirror, Gerda had snatched up an enchanter’s rod, made of the medlar-tree, waved it three times round her head, all the while muttering strange words, till at last the three knights fell at the same moment to the ground, powerless and motionless.

According to the wisest old legends we are instructed, that mortals, when bewitched in this manner, lie as if in feverish dreams, with just so much of their senses left as to make them aware of their own fearful bondage. The three knights now remained long on the floor of this mysterious chamber; they moved indeed now and then, as if they would arise and walk; but, with strange grins and inarticulate murmurs, always fell back motionless as before. Only one among them retained his recollection so well, that he was still aware of what passed around him; and this was Sir Otto von Trautwangen; for, as he felt himself sinking on the ground, he had time to mutter a short prayer, which he had in early days learned from his cousin Bertha, when they were both children. Even while he lay in that heavy trance he thought of this prayer; and if he succeeded but in speaking aloud, or in thinking clearly, his eyes were opened, and he saw what was now going forward.

At such intervals, he perceived that his half-brother, Ottur, now stood beside the enchantress, Gerda, and that they spoke earnestly and loudly together, so that he could oftentimes catch the meaning of their dialogue.

“When they lie thus asleep and insensible,” said Ottur, “I dare not attack them. Besides, thou seest, that he in the middle wears mine own features; we have on a former day entered into a bond of friendship with each other:—His sword is called Ottur, and mine Otto. Therefore let me hear no more of your admonitions; for, if your golden apple of victory is to be won only in this manner, know, that while they are thus defenceless, I would not for all the world injure even one hair of their heads.” Thereupon Gerda stamped on the floor, and made a signal that the poor deluded knight should leave the room along with her, while Sir Otto vainly strove to call out aloud, and remind him once more of the friendly contract that had been made betwixt them. His lips and tongue were now sealed up and bound, as if by the fetters of a hideous dream; and when his vain efforts were past, confusion and dulness of senses prevailed over him more powerfully than ever. Many times, notwithstanding, he tried to rouse his companions, but they lay beside him stiff and motionless, as if they were really dead, so that the cold shuddering of horror crept through his frame. Truly, he thought to himself, many times, that all three were dead, and laid in a sepulchral vault; only, that he alone had been cursed with remaining consciousness, and strove in vain with the fate that was decreed for him. Yet, when with his half-opened eyes he gazed on Sir Heerdegen, a feeling, as if of hope, and the warmth of spring-tide, stole over his heart, for he perceived again the same resemblance to his cousin Bertha of Lichtenried, which had perplexed him, on the blooming banks of the Mayne, when he bore the wounded youth home to his hostelrie. On this account only Sir Otto believed that his trance would not last for ever, since he was yet able to watch over the brother of his beloved Bertha. “If I could but fall a sacrifice to save him,” said he to himself, “this would be the same as if I died for her sake, and how noble would be such an end!” For that some one of their party must perish he had no doubt; and, although the presence of all three was necessary for the fulfilment of this adventure, yet, on the death of one depended the rescue of the other two. Whence all these ideas had come to him he knew not; sometimes, it seemed as if the voices of mountain spirits had sounded them into his ears in their confused songs. Then he said to himself, “The men in the fiery furnace, that we read of in the holy book, were all saved; but we are not saints, and therefore one of us must surely perish. Were but Bertha’s brother not the victim!” Thereafter he continued, with all the strength and attention that were left him, to keep watch over Sir Heerdegen, and gaze on his death-like features.

At length the enchantress, Gerda, again came among them; but now it was a different voice from that of Ottur that kept up the dialogue; and, listening with great anxiety, Sir Otto perceived it was that of the young knight Kolbein, who now said, “I pray you do not ask that I should put to death my cousin the sea-monarch, nor could I willingly strike the brave German champion. Yet if it be thy will, most beautiful of damsels, I am ready to obey.” “Strike whom thou wilt among them,” said Gerda; “it is enough for me if their number is broken; for if one be killed, the other two are certainly mine. Thanks be to the great Odin, that thou hast even now returned from thy campaign, for Ottur becomes every day more wild and visionary.” “’Tis well,” said Sir Kolbein; “thus I may hope to efface one day from your heart the image of every other mortal, and to rule there even like a god, all alone.” “Nay, be not thus presumptuous,” answered Gerda; “thou art not the youth, who, in my dreams, and by the secret longings of my heart, has been pointed out to me as the future king of the Hartz forest, by whose arms Gerda shall be embraced, and who will raise himself up with her even to god-like power and grandeur.” “Is it perchance Arinbiorn?” muttered Sir Kolbein. “Then indeed my battle-axe shall not fail to mark him for my victim, were he tenfold more nearly related to me, and though, alas! he was once my beloved and respected leader on the field of victory.”—“Nay, it is not Arinbiorn,” said Gerda, coldly. “The folly with which my heart clung to him has now fully yielded before the magnificent figure with the glittering mail, whom I beheld in the mirror. But strike him if thou wilt. It is enough for me, if the dangerous power of these three knights be overcome.” “Then rather let the stranger be the victim,” said Kolbein; and with these words raised his battle-axe high over the head of the unfortunate Heerdegen of Lichtenried.

In undescribable terror, and having long foreseen that this would be the result, Sir Otto had listened to the dialogue. Now the force of his zeal, and the prayer which he had all the while been repeating in his heart, was so powerful, that he made a visible effort to throw himself on the body of Sir Heerdegen, and thus to receive the blow that was intended for his friend. Ere he could accomplish his purpose, however, Kolbein’s halbert descended with a hideous crash. The unfortunate youth groaned horribly, and a stream of blood poured from his helmet. Still hoping, however, to save his life, Sir Otto threw his shield over his friend’s head, with uncertain motion waved his sword, to ward off the coming blows, and yet pointed to his own breast as the mark at which Kolbein should aim. The base coward failed not to inflict them thick as hail, and laughed to scorn the feeble resistance by which he was met, till at last Sir Otto’s corslet was broken asunder, and his blood flowed in torrents, mingling with that of his beloved friend Heerdegen.

The door of the chamber now rung and rattled, at length it burst open, and there appeared in the room a knight in bright-gleaming armour. “Strike them well, kill them both!” cried the enchantress. “Heerdegen perchance is already dead; but were it not so, the stranger who has now appeared would make their number again three!” With his battle-axe upraised, Sir Kolbein, however, came forward to attack the stranger, who then entered, and the latter awaited his approach, with his shield raised high in his left hand, and his sword in his right, prepared to inflict a deadly wound, as soon as he found an opportunity to strike with advantage. While they stood thus watching each other, and both preparing for a decisive encounter, Gerda looked trembling on the silver armour of her new guest, and with yet more agitation on his features, which appeared calm and courageous from under his open beaver, till, suddenly stepping between them, she called out “Halt,” and Sir Kolbein, accustomed to implicit obedience, lowered his battle-axe, and the stranger looked steadily on the enchantress. Gerda then knelt down before him, and said,—“It is thou then who art come hither, most powerful of heroes? Moreover thou art chosen to be king of the Hartz forest; for if I am the goddess Freia, thou art no less than the divine Thor, and if our dominion be not yet established, it shall ere long be proclaimed over all the world.” “Lady,” said the stranger, raising her courteously from the ground, “I know not well what thou would’st have of me; but this much I entreat, that thou wilt not bestow on me such heathenish names, inasmuch as I am a faithful votary of the Christian church. Neither can I ever become king of the Hartz mountains; for I acknowledge our good emperor for my king, and am bound by solemn oaths to obey him. This has ever been the practice of my brave ancestors; and so long as I bear the name of Archimbald von Waldeck, I shall far rather hold by their noble example, than suffer myself to be raised by the delusions of witchcraft and necromancy into a king, or a heathenish idol.”

“Alas!” said Gerda, “this comes because thou knowest not yet the true grandeur and pomp that here await thee. Lo! we should build our throne upon the lofty summit of the Brocken, and there erect a castle with such vaulted galleries,—such long echoing chambers, proud watch-towers, and frowning portals, as have never been beheld through the wide world before;—there we should look forth, from our airy battlements, over the wide realms around us, and, far as our eyes could reach, all should be under our control, and pay us tribute, both by treasures and service on the battle-field. Whatever the people possess that is richest and rarest they should bring to our palace of the Hartz; their sons and daughters should be sent to us for soldiers and handmaidens; or, if they refused to obey us, we should come against them like whirlwinds and thunder-storms,—should level their habitations with the ground,—and, mounted on our fiery steeds, gallop over their ruins. Beneath, at the base of the mountain, frightful wild beasts and giants should be our guards;—truly these might be but shapes formed from the clouds, yet not the less deadly, for they should lead into the bottomless abysses of the mountain every one who ventured to approach without our permission. Whosoever, on the contrary, we chose to admit into our palace should feast like the gods and heroes on the lofty heights of Asgard. The delights of love and war would then alternate in our happy realm;—the sun, the stars, and clouds, must obey us, in order to solemnize our festivals; above all, when every year in spring-tide the people should come up to us in long solemn processions, bearing rich offerings,—and when the altar of sacrifice flamed in the court of our palace, it would be at the same time answered by fires on the tops of all the neighbouring mountains.”

“For Heaven’s sake, say no more!” cried Sir Archimbald; “how is it possible for a woman to be so lovely, and yet to utter words which are only worthy of a demon? Alas! I recognise by your own language, that your desire is to overthrow the mild blessed religion of the Christians, in order that you may receive homage as the pagan goddess Freia. I am in heart grieved for your sake; for by this means you will only continue to live as a wicked enchantress, and, according to the laws of God and man, you will deserve to be burned alive for your crimes!”

Hereupon Sir Kolbein, gnashing his teeth with rage, stepped again forwards to attack the count, but Gerda interposed:—“Be quiet,” said she, “I command you. Whatever this knight says, though his words be wrathful and bitter, is yet more welcome to me than your fondest caresses.”—So Kolbein stood mournfully abashed; and Archimbald, taking but little heed of his discourse, or that of the enchantress, continued to speak as follows:—

“I shall not conceal from you, that I came as an enemy into these secret caverns, and that I have arrived here in order to put an end to all your necromancy and enchantments; moreover to save, or, if this may not be, to revenge the three knights who, some time since, disappeared at your altar. In return, methinks, you ought to tell me, as freely as I have now spoken, how you came to look on me as the appointed king of the Hartz forest and the idol of its inhabitants, inasmuch as neither I myself, nor any one among my ancestors, ever had aught to do with witchcraft or pagan superstitions?”

“Who has assured thee of this, bold hero?” said the enchantress, with a winning smile; “truly thine ancestors have also worshipped the great Odin; and though their descendants have deserted their religion, yet his favour has not wholly been withdrawn from thy house, and the golden cup of promise may yet one day be poured on thy head. In that enchanted mirror, which is not far distant, I demanded to see the noblest scion from the heroic oak-tree of German knighthood; and when thou madest thine appearance therein, attired as thou now art, in thy silver armour, and I watched thy prowess in the tournament and battle-field, my heart was wholly won;—and now, therefore, proud hero, thou mayest command Gerda as thy handmaid.”

Hereupon Kolbein struck with his battle-axe vehemently on the ground, crying,—“Great Odin! can any mortal listen to words like these, and remain tranquil?”—but another stern look from the enchantress made him again silent and submissive.—“So then,” answered Sir Archimbald, “all is changed here from that which I had expected; and since you offer me implicit obedience, I shall injure neither you nor your adherents; but beware how you infringe the conditions of the promise now made.”

“Till now,” answered the enchantress, in a melancholy tone, “I have been named the wild Gerda; but in your presence I have become timid as a lamb. Alas! if thou would’st but accept from my hand the crown of the Hartz forest!”

“As to this give yourself no trouble,” answered the count; “were you not a sorceress, and a pagan, truly there might be other crowns of which I would gladly speak with you; but now this also is hopeless; and I have only to insist on the stern and severe laws of right and wrong. Where are the three brave and noble knights who came lately into your caverns?”—At the same moment, looking round the room, he observed for the first time the three victims, that lay outstretched in their coats-of-mail on the floor.—“Hast thou murdered them?” said he, with a look of rage. “Right stern and fearful is the account that must be rendered unto me by those who have committed this crime; above all, for the sake of the knight in the black and silver armour, with the eagle’s visor; for both the knight and his armour are well known to me, and are very dear to my heart.”

“My lord and commander,” said Gerda trembling,—“the warrior of whom thou speak’st yet lives, and might easily be cured of his wounds; but over the knight who lies beneath him, death already has spread his dark chilling wings.”

“Give life quickly to them who may yet live,” said Archimbald; and Gerda obediently took the rod of medlar-tree again into her hand, waved it over the knights as they lay, and muttered her unintelligible words. Thereupon both Arinbiorn and Sir Otto opened their eyes; immediately, too, the falcon began to move, which, till now, sharing in their enchanted swoon, had lain, as if dead, near his master’s helmet. In astonishment the sea-monarch looked around him, then grappled at his halbert and sword, rose, and stamped on the floor, as if to try whether he was now in possession of his wonted strength. Otto meanwhile seemed to have regained his senses, only that he might feel in his inmost heart agonizing grief for the death of Sir Heerdegen. Bending over the pale visage of his friend, he wept bitterly, though in silence, while the blood flowed unceasingly from the deep wound under his broken corslet. When the red current, however, fell on Sir Heerdegen’s features, he wiped the stains away with his sash, and said, in his great sorrow,—“Oh, Bertha, thou spotless angel!—how much these now silent sleeping features resemble thine!”—The sea-monarch and Sir Archimbald, who had meanwhile spoken with each other, now drew near to console their friend; and Sir Otto said to them,—“I know indeed that it is not Bertha who has thus untimely died, and that I have not been so unfortunate as the stern Hugur, who put to death his innocent wife; on the contrary, I defended this youth with all the strength that was left to me. But, behold! he is now gone,—he who was so brave and true-hearted; and as he rests here in his endless sleep, every one who looks on him must think of Bertha. Arinbiorn, is it not so?”—Thereupon the sea-monarch could not refrain from tears: and Sir Otto wept the more; but his grief was rendered milder by the sympathy of his brave friends. Then they unclasped his corslet, and examined his wounds. Gerda too would have drawn near with healing herbs in her hands, but Sir Arinbiorn called out in a thundering voice,—“If thou would’st not that I should here, beside the dead body of my friend, inflict just vengeance on those who caused his untimely fate, keep away,—thou, and all thy hellish brood by whom thou art aided!”—Then Gerda stepped back humbly, and, at her signal, the dastardly Kolbein, who was still present, left the room; while the two noble champions took off their long sashes, and with them bound up Sir Otto’s wounds. When this was done, they lifted up the dead body of Sir Heerdegen; and Sir Otto could not be prevented from assisting in that mournful duty.—“I dare look on thy pale visage now,” said he; “for we understand each other better than at that first meeting on the banks of the Mayne.”

Obeying the stern command of Sir Archimbald, Gerda had kindled a large torch of dried pine-tree, and now walked, with the light in her hand, before the procession. So they left the castle, proceeded again across the flaming meadows and the iron-bridge, then along the dark lake, following the path by which they had come, and which they knew would lead them to the upper world.

Now they came through the gate on the north side of the altar, and the soft gleams of the moonlight fell cool and refreshingly on their pale visages. At the same time, to their great astonishment, the air that they here breathed was like that of spring-tide; and, behold! green boughs, as in the month of May, were waving round the altar.—“What means this?” said the sea-monarch; “when we entered here last night, the ground lay under the cold crackling shroud of snow and ice; now the moonlight plays on luxuriant grass and verdant foliage.”—“Alas! my friends,” answered Sir Archimbald, “many weeks have indeed passed away since you were first bound by the fetters of enchantment in the witch’s cavern. Now the brightness and warmth of spring are again restored to the Hartz forest.” Sir Otto, meanwhile, was gazing on the moon’s beautiful crescent, and started as he thought of Hildiridur.—“Good Heaven!” cried he, “and has she then been left for such a length of time in the charcoal-man’s cottage, and exposed to every attack from the hobgoblins and evil spirits of this forest?”—“Now, mark you,” said the sea-monarch to Sir Archimbald, “he speaks of his mother.”—“I know it well,” answered Sir Archimbald, “and she is safe in my castle. It was my chance to find Hildiridur in the charcoal-man’s hut, a few days after you had left her there, and I prevailed on her to go with me, that she might be properly lodged and attended under my roof. Good Heaven! she is indeed like a living image of the Blessed Virgin, whose portrait every good Christian carries deeply imprinted on his heart. Her silent tears and sighs were at last so moving, that I was determined to set out on the adventure which brought me to join you in the witch’s cavern. Swerker and the squires, who joined us before we left the cottage of the charcoal-burner, have remained, along with my own soldiers, to guard Hildiridur in the castle; for, in truth, such a pearl or diamond of surpassing worth cannot be too anxiously watched over and protected.” Hereupon Sir Otto could not answer in words, but only seized and pressed his hand in token of gratitude; for the feverish weariness that followed his severe wounds now weighed so heavily upon him, that at last he fell fainting to the ground, on the same mossy couch whereon they had laid the body of Sir Heerdegen. Thereafter Archimbald blew his signal-horn, and some squires hastened up, leading his war-steed. At once Sir Otto recognised the same foaming charger, with the silver head-gear, which he had long ago seen on the level meadows under the castle of Trautwangen; and it seemed as if, in a fairy-dream, the apparitions of his early youth were once more assembled around him. Meanwhile Sir Archimbald had given orders to his squires, that they should cut down trees and green branches, of which they were to make two biers,—one for the dead, and another for the wounded knight, Otto von Trautwangen. At the same time he sent out a messenger to the fortress of Waldeck, to make known their speedy arrival, and announce to Hildiridur her son’s rescue.

During all these occurrences, Gerda had stood timidly retired among the thickets, till at length she lifted up her voice, and said, in a mournful tone, “Alas! might I not go with you?” “Wherefore not?” said Sir Archimbald kindly, and as if moved by her grief; “thou shalt indeed travel with us; only there are three conditions that I have in the first place to propose, and these are of no little importance.” “Tell me then what they are,” said Gerda; “for know that I am able to do much for thy sake!” “Well,” said the count, “in the first place, thou shalt make a solemn vow never more in our good realm of Saxony to use enchantment or invocation of evil spirits.” “This promise or vow I shall make right willingly,” said Gerda, at the same time laying her beautiful white hand on the iron-glove of Sir Archimbald. “Alas!” said the knight, “thy promises are indeed courteous and well-sounding; but who can say if we dare trust to thy words?” Thereupon Gerda unbound her long hair, so that her glossy yellow locks fell like a golden garment around her, and Sir Otto had almost inquired of the sea-monarch, whether this were not Sigurd’s daughter, the far-famed Aslauga; for as the enchantress stood thus before him with her dishevelled ringlets, the old legends that he had heard from Asmundur mingled strangely with his feverish dreams. There was no time left for questions, however; for the damsel began to wave her enchanting rod over her head: then she uttered a long musical address to the world of spirits; in her song she admonished them, that from henceforward they were free to wander at will by sea or land, by fire or by flood; for she had abdicated her throne, and renounced her dominion. With these words she broke her sceptre of medlar-tree; the fragments flew asunder, as if borne by all the four winds of heaven; and there was a wondrous rustling and murmuring both on the earth and in the sky, as if great multitudes were dispersing angrily and discontented. When this noise had past away, Gerda said to Sir Archimbald, “Now, indeed, the interval would be long ere I dared to think again of my wonted enchantments; for if I sought to lay new bonds on the slaves whom I have thus dismissed, they would not fail to turn round and rend me in pieces. So thou hast now before thee a damsel even as weak and powerless as any one that could be found in the world.” “In this action thou hast been too rash,” said Sir Archimbald; “for now thou can’st never fulfil the second condition that I had to propose. This was, that the altar of Freia should be destroyed, and all the vaulted caverns, with the subterraneous fortress and its iron-bridge, should be laid in ruins.” “As for that conclusion, thou need’st not fear,” said Gerda; “without my commands their destruction will soon follow; the altar is already tottering on its foundation, and has been upheld so long but by my powerful spells. If Kolbein has succeeded in finding an outlet, (for Ottur is on a distant campaign,) then immediately the whole fabric, both above and below ground, will fall to ruin. Mark you, the work already has begun!”

In truth there was at that moment heard beneath them a crashing sound, like that of falling rocks and pillars, as if the very foundations of the earth were giving way. The knights looked astonished at each other; even Sir Otto was startled, and half raised himself up. “Fear not,” said Gerda, “the ground on which we stand is firm and secure; only my grand vaulted roof and my fortress are destroyed, and the power of Gerda is established against mine: let no one go too near the altar, however, for there he might indeed run some risk.” Not long after, while the subterraneous thunder still continued, lo! the stones of the altar began to move and roll asunder, as if they had now been changed into living beings, and fled terrified from some danger that awaited them. All at once, indeed, the bottomless abyss beneath them opened its yawning jaws; with a hideous crash they fell into the chasm; blue flames rose flickering over them, and after a space they too disappeared. “These,” said Gerda, “were the souls of the unfortunate victims who were of old times offered up in sacrifice at this altar; not indeed of all the victims, but of those only who did not meet their fate with courage and resignation.”

“Truly, however,” added she, with a sigh, “I am not to blame for this; nor have I ever offered to the invisible powers such frightful sacrifices; and many hundred years have passed away since their blood was shed.” “Who could suppose that one so beautiful as thou art would command such horrid deeds?” said Sir Archimbald. “Thou shalt indeed go with us on our route homewards; only the third condition that I had to impose is yet to be fulfilled.” With these words he drew his battle-sword, and struck it into the ground.

“Lo!” said he, “there is the sacred symbol of the cross. Kneel down before it, and pray to the Giver of all Good!”

Hereupon Gerda started back, shuddering with terror, and, without uttering a word, vanished away into the thickets. “From mine inmost heart I am grieved for that damsel,” said Sir Archimbald, as he replaced his sword in the scabbard. Then perceiving that the squires were ready with the biers, he gently placed the wounded Sir Otto on one of them, and covered him carefully with a mantle. Thereafter a horse was provided for the sea-monarch; and their march began slowly and solemnly down towards the plains, where stood the proud castle of De Waldeck.

Now, after they had come down a steep declivity, all of a sudden they found themselves on a level glade, where four well-beaten roads met together. “There, my friends,” said Sir Archimbald, “you perceive that we have now come again into an inhabited country. It is but a short mile from this place to a good house of entertainment, and there we shall remain for one whole day, that the wounded man may have rest; for it will require yet another day’s journey ere we can reach my fortress of Waldeck.” As they drew near, however, to the spot where the four roads crossed, lo! their horses started and reared, and by the uncertain moonshine, (for the white mists had settled densely on the lowland forests,) they perceived a troop of men and horses, that seemed always increased in number by single riders that came forward out of the woods. Moreover, they heard the voices of many dogs, that howled sometimes with impatience, and sometimes in terror. “These must be huntsmen,” observed Sir Archimbald; “we must ask them the usual questions however,—‘Whence and whither?’ There are methinks too many of them collected here to admit of our riding through without some precaution.” So he commanded that the biers should halt in the spot whereon they now stood, and, assembling his squires about him, placed himself with Sir Arinbiorn in the van, then sent out a horseman with a courteous message of inquiry to the strangers.

Hereupon, behold, the squire rode and rode; but it seemed as if the glade always spread out longer and longer before him. Through the mist and the moonlight they always saw him trotting on; but he never appeared to come up with the parties with whom he had been sent to speak. Still they saw the same hunting-squadron before them, and still heard the howling of their dogs; even, moreover, a confused murmuring of voices.

All of a sudden a gigantic figure of a man, mounted on a horse proportionably monstrous with himself, came up, and halted between Sir Archimbald and the sea-monarch. “Your squire cannot ride,” said he in a strange hollow voice, that yet sounded amid the night-wind almost like a scornful laugh:—“he would let the morning dawn on us, before he had moved ten paces. Therefore I have rather come to you, in order that I may thank you heartily for having banished Gerda and her mischievous spirits from this forest. Take then, as a token of my gratitude, the game that I shall send you to-morrow—the first prize that I shall have won since these domains have again become mine. Hakelnberg from thenceforward is your steady friend. Hark, hark! Hilloick, hilloick, forward, forward!” With these words, with which the very vault of heaven seemed to ring and echo, he flew straightway up into the air, and it seemed to the knights as if they beheld above whole herds of game, of which he thus went in pursuit. The band that halted on the plain all rose at the same moment, like a cloud of dust after their chief; the dogs bayed and howled, and the huntsmen screamed and shouted; ere long, however, their voices sounded from the unmeasured fields of space so far remote, that the noise was no longer like articulate voices, but resembled rather the growling of a distant thunder-storm. Meanwhile all the deer and other game in the forest were so terrified, that oftentimes they started from the thickets, and came rushing past, close to Sir Archimbald and his friends, who were all so much astonished at this adventure, that they scarcely dared to speak, but went silently along the narrow road that led again through the woods, with the same fearful noises still thundering over their heads.

The morning had begun to dawn; and just as the last notes of the wild hunters had died away, the travellers entered the village of which the count had spoken, and where they were to find rest and shelter for the wounded knight.

In the auberge, all the inhabitants were already awake, and Sir Archimbald inquired of their host, who was anxiously running to and fro to provide for the comfort of his guests, whether he had been terrified by the wild hunters, since he had thus risen so early. “Sir,” said the innkeeper, setting on the table a morning draught for his guests, “Hakelnberg’s career through the clouds has no doubt called us earlier than usual from our beds; but as to terror, that is indeed a different question. I cannot say that we were afraid; but, on the contrary, we returned thanks to God, both with pious hymns and with prayer, that the old Hakelnberg, who has been so long known both to us and to our ancestors, has now come with his dogs and horses and echoing horns once more into the Hartz forest. Sir Knight, you may have already felt far better than I can describe, that whatever has grown up with us, and been known from infancy, even though it may be somewhat that in itself is unwelcome and frightful, yet by the force of custom becomes so dear to the heart, that it is indispensable, becoming so intwined with our very life, that when it is removed, it is like snapping one of the ties by which we cling to this world. Besides, on what occasion has the good old Hakelnberg ever done injury to any one over the wide earth? All that can be said is, that foolish people now and then have been terrified when he made his appearance among the clouds; but the hateful enchantress, with her two warlike knights,—when they galloped about on their gigantic fiery horses, what evils would they not have inflicted? and what threats did they not hold out over our heads? At such times our old friend Hakelnberg was forced to keep silence, and to dwell lonely and melancholy in his castle of the clouds; but, Heaven be praised, he has again begun to ride through the forest, and the enchantress Freia, with all her squadrons of hobgoblins, is put to flight.” “They are put to flight, doubtless,” answered Sir Archimbald; “on that score I can pledge my honour and word as a Christian knight.” Hereupon the innkeeper in his great joy grasped the hand which the knight kindly proffered him, and cried aloud, “Long live Count Waldeck,” and “Long live old Hakelnberg!”

At that moment there arose a noise in the street, which attracted the notice both of the host and his guests. All ran to the window, and behold there came a noble stag, who had rushed from the neighbouring forest; he ran wildly as if he had been pursued by dogs and horsemen, though no one could perceive by whom he should have been thus alarmed. The shepherds and bauers indeed were now on the alert, and tried to confine him within a circle, but he broke violently through them, and making directly towards the inn, he attempted to leap over a hedge, by which the garden was bounded, but in the attempt struck himself a mortal wound against the lance of Sir Archimbald, which the knight had placed there, and soon after died.

“Who knows,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “but this is the game that Hakelnberg promised to send us?” The count also was of the same opinion, and, according to the use and wont of huntsmen, they immediately divided the noble prey with their knives, and at midday refreshed themselves, together with the host and all his household, making merry over their banquet, and many times drinking to the health of the good Hakelnberg. Sir Otto also partook of their entertainment, and it seemed that he had been thereby strengthened by magic art; by the time that evening had again drawn near, one could perceive by his gait, voice, and demeanour, that his wounds were now of little importance, and it was more needful to think of repairing his broken corslet, than to be concerned any longer for the knight’s welfare.

The last red gleams of the sun were now shining into their apartment, when Sir Otto started up from a couch whereon he had just before thrown himself, and coming with a grave solemn demeanour to his friends, he said,—“There is left for us one sacred duty to be fulfilled, and, methinks, so long as the body of our beloved friend is suffered to remain visible on this unquiet earth, we dare not sleep;—methinks, too, this village, with its lime-trees and clear fountains, looks like a pleasant resting-place for our departed comrade. One question remains to be answered,—whether, in this remote hamlet, we can find consecrated ground?”—Hereupon their host offered to shew them the way to a small chapel, around which many pious Christians had already been interred, and where the earth had been duly blessed by the good monks;—so they directly set out on their way, having covered the bier of Sir Heerdegen with an embroidered mantle, and his arms laid cross-ways thereon. As they began at length to ascend the hill, on which stood the chapel, it was a pleasure to see the never-dying gleams of the lamp over the altar, shining through the green shades of the trees, amid the now settled gloom of evening; and Sir Otto, who could not refrain from joining in their procession, now wept unobserved and silently. At the chapel they found, as they had been informed, an enclosed burial-ground; and one might have said too, that there was here a higher and more solemn chapel than could have been built by mortal hands; inasmuch as a lofty grove of elm and beech rose, as it were into the sky, with their branches intwined together, and forming that natural archway which our noblest cathedrals but imitate. Through the roof of this lofty aisle, as the wind played among the leaves, they caught at intervals the light of the stars, which had now begun to shine forth in heaven. Under this light the three champions joined in digging Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried’s grave;—they wrapt his mantle round him, laid him deep in the earth, and made his outward monument of green turf. Thereafter they remained for a space kneeling in silent prayer,—Sir Otto at the head of his lamented friend, and his comrades one on each side. At length they rose, and, lost in silent melancholy thoughts, went back to the village.

On the following morning they all rose early; and Sir Otto was so far recovered, that he could mount a horse, which was now provided for him, and pursue his journey even as if he had never been wounded. In the evening, when it was already late, and the sky gloomy, Sir Archimbald said that they were not far from his castle of Waldeck, and that ere long they would all be seated at the banquet-table, in his ancestral hall, with the Lady Hildiridur. Suddenly, as he had just spoken these words, there started out from the rustling thickets a strange and unlooked-for figure, that reared itself like a giant before them:—they knew not what this could be; but the figure came straight forward to meet them. As they debated thereon, Sir Otto all at once recognised, by the dim light, that this was no other than his dearly-beloved brown horse, which had advanced, rearing himself on his hinder-legs, so that they had mistaken him for a giant; but, as soon as he drew near to his master, and Sir Otto had saluted him with the well known words,—“Ruhig du Bursch!”—the faithful steed immediately gave over his wild pranks, and came up, neighing aloud for joy, till he stood close to the knight, and there bent his proud head humbly to the ground. Sir Otto immediately alighted from his borrowed horse, kissed his old faithful comrade, and mounted without waiting for saddle or bridle, while the light-brown, with his cheering voice, announced, even as loud as a herald’s trumpet, their approach to castle Waldeck. When Swerker, who stood on the watch-tower, heard the sounds, he rushed down to the stables, threw himself on horseback, and came out at full speed to meet them. Then there were indeed right cordial greetings and congratulations, full of brotherly confidence and affection; but when the first tumult of their joy was over, and they rode on quietly together, Sir Otto inquired wherefore his favourite steed had been suffered thus to wander at large through the forest? “Sir Knight,” answered Swerker, “your horse could by no means be tamed or kept in peace since you left us. He would not come under any roof, nor has taken food from any rack or manger; but while the Lady Hildiridur was yet in the charcoal-man’s hut, and thereafter since her coming to this castle, he failed not to gallop round and round her habitation, as if it had been his duty to guard her from every danger.” More earnestly than ever Sir Otto now caressed his steed, clapping him on the neck as he rode, while the sagacious creature turned back his head, and looked as if to thank him for his kind approval.

At length they rode into the fortress, where Hildiridur stood weeping in the portal. Sir Otto flew to embrace her, and in his great joy at their meeting, for a space forgot the affliction that he had before felt for the untimely fate of Sir Heerdegen.

How the Sea-monarch reminded Sir Otto that Blanchefleur
should be given to him for his bride.

In the fortress of Count Archimbald von Waldeck some weeks were passed away ere the party could resolve to set out on their journey into Swabia. On that pilgrimage it was resolved that they should all proceed together; and they rejoiced to think, that they would there become guests of Sir Otto von Trautwangen, waiting only, for the present, till his wounds were quite healed and his armour repaired. Meanwhile their time was spent in listening to many strange stories, partly such as Hildiridur could remember from the wonderful books that she had read, and partly narratives afforded by the knights from their former campaigns. Doubtless, therefore, there could be no want of a full and clear detail of Gabrielle’s conflicts, or rather those of her brother, for the ring; and the final tournament, fought by Sir Otto, was not forgotten.

Hildiridur had listened attentively to these stories;—at last she inquired of her son,—“What was the fashion of the ring?”—She desired to know in what manner it was wrought, and what kind of jewels were contained therein. Sir Otto gave her an exact description of the mysterious gem. Then the Lady Hildiridur said, with a deep sigh,—“There can no longer be any doubt;—the renowned Sir Huguenin of Normandy was no other than the stern Hugur of the north, and, moreover, thy father, Sir Hugh von Trautwangen. As to the Magic Ring, my sister, the beautiful Astrid, had received it from her aunt, by whom I was instructed in the arts of magic, amid the remote snow-covered mountains of Iceland. In the same hour, when that powerful enchantress made choice of me to be henceforth her partner, and at last to inherit the wonderful treasures of her mysterious knowledge, she cast a compassionate look on the beautiful Astrid, who stood there smiling cheerfully in her child-like innocence —‘Thou art in truth so pretty and engaging,’ said the Druda, ‘that one cannot think of bestowing an inheritance, and leave thee neglected. Here, take what I can offer to thee.’ With these words she put the enchanted ring into the hand of Astrid, adding,—‘I intrust this gem to thy innocence and simplicity of heart; but beware, for it is a talisman involving many wondrous powers; and never shalt thou part with it, unless to the knight whom thou hast resolved to take for thy husband.’—Soon after it came into the hands of Sir Hugur, and Heaven grant that the ring may not now have fallen into the possession of some one far less worthy; for I well know, that by this means it is possible to work such wonders as, till now, have never been known in the world.”

“Be not afraid, dearest mother,” said Sir Otto; “the ring is doubtless in the possession either of Blanchefleur or Gabrielle, and both are far too noble and virtuous to use it amiss; though,” added he, in a lower tone, “Gabrielle indeed is too ready to plight faith and troth, and somewhat too slow to remember what she has thus promised.”

“Nay, thou know’st not who is in possession of the ring,” said Hildiridur; “when once given out of thy hands, it is as little within thy power as the lark, which even now is soaring above the castle ramparts. So it is with man, who in this world is at once so poor and so rich. As long as only an inward voice speaks within him, urging him to act, he may be said to have all within his own power; but no sooner has the deed been fulfilled, than in the next moment all is lost, for it may never be recalled.”

In the evening, when they separated and retired to their several chambers, the sea-monarch came into that of Sir Otto. “Have you felt then, happy youth,” cried he, as soon as they were alone together, “have you felt in your heart your own immeasurable good fortune in becoming thus the brother of Blanchefleur?” Otto nodded kindly in token of assent to his brave comrade. “Well then,” said Arinbiorn, “you will doubtless remember the promise once made to me among the Swedish mountains, when we for the first time rode up to your mother’s watch-tower?” “A true knight may never forget a promise,” answered Sir Otto, taking the sea-monarch’s hand; “and, besides, I know not any champion over the wide world to whom I would so willingly give my sister in marriage as to you. One question, however, is yet to be determined, whether she may not by this time have become the betrothed bride of some one not inferior to us in rank?” “No doubt,” answered Sir Arinbiorn, “I should then give up my claims; but, methinks, Heaven cannot have resolved to inflict on me such cruel disappointment.” Thereupon, with increasing friendship and confidence, the two warriors shook hands, and wished each other good night.

The rich corn-fields were now waving in the balmy air, the orchard-trees were in their full luxuriance of blossoms, or their fruits already formed, the flocks were sporting in the meadows, the deer sprang merrily through the forest-thickets, when our travellers began their journey from castle Waldeck towards Trautwangen, on the banks of the Danube. In every heart prevailed the pleasantest and liveliest anticipations of what he would find there; but, on the way, they conversed of nothing more frequently than of the state of chivalry, and the different orders of knighthood through Europe, of King Richard Cœur de Lion’s captivity, and how this bright star of courtesy and honour had now vanished quite away from the horizon. “Ere long,” the sea-monarch was wont to say, “Heaven will doubtless permit that we should know where he is concealed. So, in our ice-covered mountains of the north, the sun often vanishes away for many months, but fails not to come again, and then our days are brighter and longer than any where else in the world.” “If by the bold strokes of sword and lance we could break the bands of this mystery!” said Sir Otto, “I would, that in such a cause my whole armour might be so hacked and hewed as my corslet looks even now.” For truly, as he had not obtained the aid of a wise armourer, like Asmundur, but, on the contrary, had employed a common blacksmith, the marks of Kolbein’s battle-axe were still evident, and disfigured the fine coat-of-mail that had once been worn by Sir Archimbald. During such discourse, Hildiridur was wont to say,—“Whosoever God has chosen to break through this mystery will in due time be summoned to the work; and shame to the coward who would then lag behind! But he, on the contrary, who would rashly think to resist the torrent of events in these tumultuous times, would foolishly effect his own destruction, without even drawing near to the object which he had in view.”

So, however, each cherishing his own pleasant hopes, and all of good courage, soothed too by the wise counsels and mild tones of Hildiridur, they came once more amid the blooming scenery and warm sunlight of the south. Here it came to pass one day, that Sir Archimbald, cheered by the bright weather and smiling landscape, happened to notice a Benedictine monk sitting gloomily on the roadside, with his head sunk in his wide black garments. “Why lookest thou so mournfully, holy father?” said he in a gay tone; “perchance thy sandals are worn out on thy pilgrimage, and the ways are rough? Mount then, and try for once if thou can’st ride among armed knights. To-night we shall bring thee to a right pleasant auberge.” “On horseback or on foot,” murmured the Benedictine,—“on foot or on horseback,”—repeated he, “with iron shoes or naked feet, we shall all arrive one time or another at our place of rest! Knowest thou what is written over the gate? The sign of our auberge is twofold; on one sign is written ‘endless joy,’ on the other ‘endless grief.’” The knight who was before so jocund, shuddered when he heard these words; his companions all halted involuntarily, and gazed on the dark figure of the monk. He rose at length from the stone on which he sat, with his features still covered, came towards them, and said, “Methinks I should know you. The road which I follow, you also know to be the best and safest; at least you have often enough spoken to this purpose. Wherefore then do you wander about so madly through the mazes and temptations of this world? Away with your iron greaves and golden spurs; and replace them but with the ragged sandals of the poor monks. Or, if you will not, then I understand not to what purpose you travel. What I undertake must be done wholly or not at all.” Thereupon he turned round, and went into a neighbouring dark wood; above whose shades they saw rising the towers of a lonely monastery. A chill shuddering stole over the hearts of all the travellers, more especially, because, although the monk’s voice sounded hollow and obscure under his large dark cowl, yet they could not help believing that the accents were those of some one who had ere now been well known to them.

Early on the following morning, when they came forth from an inn not far from the forest in which they had parted with the monk, lo! there was a squire nobly attired, and of wondrous grace in his figure and demeanour, whom no one among them had seen before, and yet he came to assist zealously in their preparations for departure. They did not ask him any questions, believing that he might be a follower in the train of some other travellers, and that he gave his aid to them through knightly courtesy; they therefore only returned him thanks; but, as Hildiridur and the knights rode away through the dew-besprent field, amid the twilight and mist-wreaths of the morning, on looking back, they still saw the strange squire busily engaged with the sumpter-horses, arranging whatever they had not been able to put into order for their early departure.

As he thus walked about amid the white fogs of the dull morning-air, it seemed to them as if the silent stranger had somewhat ghostly and solemn in his appearance, as if he were not like other men; and so deeply were they impressed by these thoughts, that they remained silent, and did not even interchange words with each other. Some of them indeed went so far as to believe that he was a spirit from the Hartz forest, who had followed them only in scorn and mockery, but would ere long, to their dismay and consternation, regain his true shape;—others thought that he was one of the good people,—a benevolent fairy, who not only would assist them thus at the commencement, but thereafter attend them like a guardian spirit on their way. Such notions were at last spread in whispers, till they reached the ears of Count Archimbald and his companions. Hereupon the count commanded that every one should halt, and that the mysterious youth should immediately appear before him. He came accordingly, and stood within a circle that Hildiridur, the knights, and their assembled attendants, soon formed around him.

Just then the first gleams of the rising sun fell on the squire’s head, with its rich golden tresses, and in the same moment they discovered their error. It was indeed no squire who had thus waited upon them; but the beautiful features of Gerda, lovelier than ever, now that she was thus humbled, shone out upon them.—“Look not on me thus amazed,” said she; “only one of those who are here present has any right to blame what I have done; but for all his bravery in the battle-field, he is yet kind and forgiving as a child. Instead of being angry with Gerda, he will compassionate her distress.—Sir Otto, is it not so?”—The young Knight of Trautwangen bowed courteously, and said,—“Truly I am grieved for your misfortunes. May God forgive you the death of my brave friend, Heerdegen;—as for all that you have done in the north, or in my native land, against me, the remembrance of your deeds shall be dispersed like dust to the four winds of heaven, and never more reckoned when we thus meet together.”—“Now then, Sir Archimbald,” said the damsel, turning towards the count, “thou can’st not complain against me; for if thou art determined never to be King of the Hartz mountains, I shall not compel thee thereunto. I pray you then to let me go with you, for, in truth, I have no evil intentions.”—“Verily, thou art beautiful,” said Sir Archimbald, “and as well might I say that I loved not the sunlight, the blossoms, or the nightingale’s sweet songs, as that your presence is to my heart unwelcome or indifferent. But the cross,—mark you,—the cross!—One condition was left unfulfilled, and while it thus remains, thou can’st not go with us.”—“Archimbald,” answered the damsel, “for the love I bear to thee, I would have tried also to fulfil what thou now desirest; but it might not be;—and before thou pronouncest the angry words which now hover on thy lips, hear, I pray thee, the explanation which I can give of that which has drawn thy wrath on Gerda.

“In the dark wood that lies yonder beneath us, there is a great building, with strong thick walls, narrow windows, and a high tower, in which there is hung a mournfully-sounding bell. People call this a minster; and they have assured me, that within these walls is to be learned the true faith, to which thou would’st have me bow in worship. Therefore, dearest Archimbald, I have not been afraid to enter through the long gloomy aisles and echoing vaults of that building. I went thither all alone, in hopes that I might find the path leading to thy God and the heaven of the Christians;—but the people that dwell there understood me not; they questioned and threatened me at the gates. At length they assembled together, and came towards me, all attired in black garments, with pale, ghastly visages; and, moreover, they bore in their hands vessels for sprinkling water, and many strange symbols and banners; but, as I well knew that by such means mortals may be bewitched and transformed, I fled from them in terror, and, having again arrived outside of the gate, I began to weep bitterly, for I knew not any means now by which I might fulfil the conditions which thou had’st imposed on me. At last one of the men in black garments had compassion, and called to me from the walls, that I should inquire for Brother Zelotes; for this brother had not long since been a pagan,—had forced himself, almost by violence, into their abode, and, through the heroic strength of his resolution, in a short time overpowered all obstacles, so that he had become a monk, and was now sent forth on a journey, of which no one but he himself and the prior knew the purpose. Brother Zelotes perchance could assist me, or, if this might not be, I could have no hope. Immediately I arose, and like one struck by a poisoned arrow, who runs wildly in search of a skilful physician, I inquired eagerly of every one that I met, whether he could afford me tidings of this man?—With much trouble I discovered the road that he had gone,—met him at last;—but, alas! you have now to hear the sad end of all my endeavours.

“It was in a narrow pass of the mountains, just as the full moon had raised her dark-red shield over the rocky cliffs, where I met a tall stern figure of a man, that seemed to me a gigantic warrior, disguised in black monkish robes.—‘Art thou Zelotes?’ said I.—In a hollow voice he answered, ‘Ay.’—‘Help me then to find the God of the Christians.’—‘Right willingly,’ he answered.—‘Follow me!’—‘Whither, then?’ said I doubtfully.—‘Such a question,’ said Zelotes, ‘becomes not one who longs after the true faith. It is enough that we know the object of our pilgrimage,—how we arrive thither,—by what paths, or through what earthly scenes, should be to us indifferent.’—Terror then seized on me;—I shuddered more than I had ever done when, within the magic ring of the enchanter, I had beheld the spectral forms from the grave, and nightly demons rise up around me. Besides, it seemed as if the monk’s voice was already known to me. At length he said,—‘Ay, truly, I am well aware who thou art, and in former years I have been a renowned warrior; but even the horror of thy detested sorceries, and thy vehement desire that I should murder one of the three sleeping and defenceless knights, unveiled to my sight the eternal punishments that are due to such crimes, and drove me to seek refuge in the Christian sanctuary. When I left thy enchanted caverns in the Hartz forest, I pretended that I went forth on a warlike campaign, but my journey led straightway to a renowned monastery; and there, in a few months, I have succeeded in obtaining the divine gifts of the Christian faith, even with the same courage and resolution which enabled me to win crowns of victory on the battle-field.’—With these words he threw back his cowl, and though his features were now pale, and deep-worn by penance and severe thought, I could no longer doubt that I now beheld in the monk Zelotes the well known Norman warrior Ottur, kinsman or brother of Otto von Trautwangen. Then I was obliged to narrate to him all that had happened to myself and the three knights since his departure from the Hartz mountains. He listened to me with melancholy earnestness and attention, and shook his head, which he had again wrapt up in his dark cowl.—‘Only follow me,’ said he at length; ‘thou knowest, that when I lived as one of the careless worldlings, thou wert very dear to my heart, and therefore thou should’st believe that I would also gladly shew to thee the path that leads to heaven, if it were but in my power.’—‘But whither wouldst thou lead me?’ I inquired once more, shuddering as I spoke with inward doubt and apprehension.

“Thereupon Zelotes began a description, at which mine inmost heart recoiled, and my hair almost stood on end. He said that he would bring me into a convent of nuns, where I should undergo severe and neverending penance;—how my flowing golden locks would be cut away;—and how I should never more be allowed to see thee, Archimbald, the dearest object of my affections. Hearing this, I started as if I had just then retreated from the brink of the grave, that yawned to receive its living victim;—he stretched out his arm as if to seize me;—in his long black robes he now looked more than ever like a supernatural spectre; and, as a deer pursued by the hunters, I fled up among the rocky cliffs to escape from him. If, therefore, thou wilt bear with me in thy presence, Archimbald, it must be without cross or rosary; for to become a Christian is to me nothing less than if I were doomed to death.”

Hildiridur was about to speak in her wonted mild tones, in order to sooth the bewildered and agitated Gerda, but Archimbald, with a look half-angry, half in terror, cried aloud,—“Begone from hence, thou seductive and treacherous spirit, begone!—or if thou wilt remain among us, let it be on condition that thou shalt kneel directly, and pray to the God of the Christians before the cross.”—Hereupon Gerda’s wrath flamed forth in all its former vehemence;—she uttered reproaches and threats against Sir Archimbald and all his companions;—and at last, as if borne in the air by her own luxuriant tresses, which were now dishevelled and waving in the wind, she flew away into the neighbouring wood, where she vanished amid a thick covert of pine-trees.

Thereafter they pursued their way, every one reflecting after his own manner on this adventure; but of all the party, the most melancholy and thoughtful was the Count Archimbald von Waldeck.

One day, it happened that they were resting beneath the shade of some lofty elm-trees, at the base of a hill, on whose summit there was situated a richly-endowed and magnificent chapel, which stood retired on that solitary place, though it was the resort of devout pilgrims from many villages. Only the quiet small mansion of a priest stood hard by, in order that some one should always be present to open the gates for pious believers, and to protect the building from neglect and injury.

It was a pleasure to behold how the noble travellers sat under the green elm-trees,—their horses and sumpter-mules feeding on the meadow around them,—and their glittering shields and weapons hanging from the branches. It was now the sultry hour of noon, and the golden cups, filled with the cooling and refreshing wine of Rudisheimer and the Mosel, were handed merrily round, while the squires began for pastime to sing aloud many a pleasant old ballad, so that the notes echoed far and near through the green wood. But Sir Otto, who was wont to be so gay and cheerful of mood, remained at this time silent and lost in deep thought. The severe life of his brother, Ottur of Norway, as a Benedictine monk, perplexed him strangely; and he knew not whether he should mourn, because such a brave youth was lost to the world, or rejoice beyond all measure at his conversion to the Christian faith. All the while that he thus meditated, lo! the church on the hilltop, with its lofty vaulted roof and tall pillars, was before him, and attracted him as if by some mysterious power; so that he could not turn away his eyes from the building. Perceiving this, Hildiridur said to him,—“Go thither in God’s name, and without more hesitation. Methinks there is now a deep impulse in thy heart, and thou should’st gladly wend thy way to yonder holy place, and pray to the Giver of all good. Go then, and we shall wait here in this pleasant grove till thou return’st to us.”—Sir Otto bowed thankfully and in silence, and straightway went up the mountain.

The four gates of the chapel were open; and, as he entered and walked through the solemn aisles, joy and deep veneration ruled in his heart; all that had before perplexed him, and weighed so heavily on his spirit, now seemed vanished away. For a long time he walked to and fro amid the solemn statues and pictures, illuminated by the bright summer-light that fell in varied gleams through the painted windows, and all the while he persisted in earnest child-like prayer. Through his whole life he had never been more happy than in these moments, though this might be to himself mysterious, since he knew not any outward event that had occurred to him over which he should thus rejoice. On whatsoever he reflected, whether it were on the conversion of Ottur, and his transformation into the monk Zelotes,—on the party he had left, and their near approach to his home on the beloved banks of the Danube,—it seemed as if a roseate light of joy prevailed in every feeling.

At length it happened, that, among the pictures and monuments of the church, his eyes rested on a wonderful shrine, such as he had never before seen, made of golden bars and glass-work, as if some precious relic were deposited therein. On coming nearer, he beheld through the glass a female form, of divine and indescribable beauty. The expression of her features indeed might be compared to the influence of a day in early spring-tide. Joyful anticipations and confidence in heaven, blended with child-like humility and deep earnest reflection. She looked steadfastly on a large book that was open before her, and on which her snow-white hands were folded. Her long fringed eyelids, therefore, were half-closed, like the clouds that rest on the summer-sky, without wholly veiling its deep-blue lustre. Bands of pearls were interwoven in her light-brown hair,—a high lace ruff was round her bosom,—her black velvet robe was adorned with gold embroidery, diamonds, and emeralds. Gazing anxiously on this beautiful apparition, and coming right opposite to the shrine, he perceived, for the first time, that there stood behind her a tall figure of a man, in a magnificent foreign dress, with sternly lowering brows and fiery eyes, who was stationed there as her guardian and protector.—“He represents, no doubt, the blessed St Joseph,” said Otto to himself; and, without thinking more of the frowning man, or his strange attire, he fixed all his attention again on the female figure—when, all at once, the impression vibrated like lightning through his heart, that the features he now saw were those of his dearly-beloved cousin, Bertha von Lichtenried, though truly her countenance was hallowed and glorified by a celestial light, such as till now he had never beheld but in dreams. Hereupon he closed his dazzled eyes, and remained for a space half unconscious of what passed around him. Again looking up, he found the shrine void and deserted; neither the beautiful saint nor her protector were to be seen; so that, mournful and discontented, he left the now desolate church in a mood of mind the most opposite that could be imagined to that under whose influence he had trod the same aisles but a short space before. He could not help believing that Bertha had died even at this hour, and had revealed herself to him for a moment in that angelic attitude and form but to shadow forth her last farewell.

When he came back to his friends in the elm-grove beneath, he found them all eagerly expecting his arrival, and lost in conjectures what could have detained him so long. Hildiridur too looked anxiously towards a carriage-road, from which, on the other side of the hill, there arose a pleasant sound of music, that always drew nearer and nearer. Soon afterwards there appeared a numerous band of horsemen in strange eastern attire, with red turbans, adorned with plumes of heron’s feathers, on their heads, and playing, as they rode, on all sorts of instruments,—flutes, schallmeys, trumpets, and oboes. Some beat time with golden cymbals; others with kettledrums of silver, hung with red embroidered drapery;—their music was timed like that of a march, and yet the sounds were soft and joyous rather than threatening and martial. Besides the musicians, there appeared many warriors, who, in their golden shirts of mail, that gleamed in the sun, with their light javelins made of cane-tree, and their broad crooked sabres, were almost like people of another world. But the eyes of the lookers-on could not long wander through this multitude; for, lo! there appeared, on a magnificent black charger, a knight rather advanced in years, of such heroic dignity of aspect and demeanour, that, both in this respect and by the splendour of his eastern attire, he cast all the other warriors into shade. From them too he was distinguished by a large golden cross, ornamented with diamonds and other precious gems, which hung on his breast. By his side, on a snow-white palfrey, contrasting strangely with the knight’s black charger, rode a beautiful damsel attired in black velvet embroidered with pearls, on whom the three knights gazed with astonishment and delight; but we need only say, that Sir Otto now recognised in this damsel the saint that he had beheld in the church; and, in the warrior who rode with her, the same stern and frowning protector whom he had there looked upon as St Joseph.

The lady cast a significant glance on the silver armour of Sir Archimbald; then her eyes turned suddenly with a gaze of wonder on Sir Otto, in his dark mail with the eagle’s visor; and as she caught his features, a fleeting blush, beautiful as the first red of the morning, stole over her countenance. Suddenly she turned to her companion, with whom she spoke earnestly for a few moments; then the whole party proceeded on their route, and were soon lost to view in the deep recesses of a wooded valley.

“We must follow them!” cried Sir Otto, as if just then awakening from a prophetic dream; whereupon Sir Archimbald and the sea-monarch shewed themselves willing, as usual, to join in every wish of their beloved comrade. Besides, the strangers by whom their curiosity had been thus attracted, seemed to have chosen the same road which they had themselves intended to pursue towards the fortress of Trautwangen. In order to be certain whether this were really so, Sir Archimbald mounted on a great fragment of rock, which lay as if it had fallen from the clouds, near the grove of elm-trees. Meanwhile Sir Otto, the sea-monarch, and Swerker, began in great haste to urge forward the saddling and bridling of their horses, and loading of the sumpter-mules. In vain did Hildiridur warn them, that a beginning made in such overhaste seldom leads to a good end; for they were all too impatient to listen to her mild and gentle admonitions.

While they were thus occupied, all of a sudden their attention was attracted by a loud ringing of armour and clashing of arms from the rocky cliff which Sir Archimbald had chosen for a watch-tower. Looking up, they all beheld how the count had engaged in single combat with a tall powerful warrior; nay, their eyes lighted on him just at the moment when he was almost quite overcome;—when the stranger’s enormous brazen shield was forced against his breast and forehead, till at last he fell prostrate on the cliff, and his adversary wielded a ponderous battle-axe ready to inflict a mortal blow. Scarcely could they feel assured that all this was not a mere delusion of enchantment; nor did Sir Otto or the sea-monarch perceive how it would be possible to reach the summit of that steep rock with sufficient rapidity to save the count. Swerker, however, had not allowed himself time to reflect;—with the activity of a true Norman, he had in a moment flown to the fatal spot, and now interposed his sword betwixt the fallen knight and his adversary’s battle-axe, so that both weapons started asunder, and were broken into fragments. Thereafter Swerker grappled with his enemy, and seized him round the body with such vehemence, that ere the count had time to raise himself up, they had both rolled down from the slippery rock, and, still holding one another firmly embraced, came together with a great crash on the ground. There, whether it were by superior art, or by the mere chance of the fall, the stranger had the upper hand, and, grinning like a wild beast over his prey, he held the Swede with one hand, while with the other he drew a dagger from his bosom. Swerker, however, failed not at the same moment to draw forth his sharp hunting-knife; and now, each having but one arm at liberty, they glared at one another, both watching an opportunity to inflict the mortal wound. Suddenly the stranger uttered a deep groan; his arms fell powerless; Swerker arose, and his opponent, after leaning on his hands, and vainly trying to raise himself up, at length yielded to his fate, and stretched himself motionless on the now blood-stained grass.

The knights all drew near to him, and unclasped his visor and corslet; while Hildiridur, kneeling beside him, declared, with a sigh of compassion, that his wounds were mortal, and neither healing herbs nor enchanters’ spells could save him from approaching death.

“That indeed I can well believe,” said the wounded man, in a voice scarcely audible, while a kind of despairing smile passed over his convulsed features, that already wore the paleness of death; whereupon Sir Otto and the sea-monarch recognised in this unfortunate victim the once-blooming and prosperous Sir Kolbein.

Melancholy and regret now prevailed through the circle that had formed round the fallen youth; and Sir Archimbald, with glistening eyes, said,—“Truly my heart is grieved for thy fate, young warrior, who, for my sake, hast come to this untimely end. But what injury had I offered against thee that thou should’st thus attack me at unawares, even like a blood-thirsty assassin?”—“Thou had’st taken from me what was to me far dearer than life,” said the dying youth; “and in my revenge I have aimed at thy life alone. Without Gerda I could not live.”—He paused, and then turned to the sea-monarch:—“Can’st thou remember, cousin, how, with your fiery arrows, you once destroyed my little vessel in the wide sea?—Even so has Gerda’s beauty, like consuming fire, brought ruin on my fortunes!”—Hereupon Sir Arinbiorn wept bitterly, when he thought how this blooming branch from his ancient oak-tree of the north, which might have deserved a better fate, had been untimely withered away; and Hildiridur, still kneeling over him, said, in a voice whose tones were like the sweetest music,—“Think on God, my son;—think on the merciful Giver of all good, who will not refuse to hear the prayer even of him who has been deluded and misled from his way, although he arrives late before the throne of grace and forgiveness!”—“This indeed I feel in my inmost heart,” answered Sir Kolbein, with a smile of hope and contentment on his pale features. “To him who has loved much, much will be forgiven; and God is the gleaming sun of love, whose light will at length prevail even through the darkest clouds of superstition and idolatry.”—“Alas! cousin,” said Arinbiorn, “how could’st thou remain so blind in thy days of strength and health, when the divine light now shines so brightly on thy departing spirit?—Could’st thou not yet wrestle against death, and remain for a space, with thy heart thus changed, amid thy loving friends?”—“Nay, nay,” said the youth, “thou can’st remember;—did not my little bark gleam more brightly than ever, just ere it sank into the dark sea?”—With these words a fleeting radiance shone in his eyes, but in the next moment they closed for ever, and he lay outstretched in his last peaceful slumbers on the blooming turf.

As, for a while, they stood there in their grief, gazing on each other, behold! there came among them a man in long white garments,—and this was the chaplain of the church on the neighbouring mountain. They now begged that he would vouchsafe to their departed friend the rites of Christian burial, and described to him how tranquil, and even pious, had been the knight’s last moments.—“I believe you right willingly,” said the monk; “the expression of divine peace, and trust in the mercy of God, that yet rest on these features, were enough to convince one who has been oft-times beside the dying and the dead. Pursue then your journey, in God’s name, and leave the rest to me. When you are again amid the tumults of this world, your friend now departed will not be so far distant as it may seem to you. Remember this; and now, farewell!”

Thereafter, making the sign of the cross over their heads, he gave them his blessing, and they went silently towards their horses. Sir Otto, however, could not refrain from turning back to speak once more with the monk, and thus addressed him:—“Venerable father, I pray that you will not judge harshly of me, if, in this solemn hour, I venture to propose to you one question which might indeed seem the result of idle curiosity, though my real motives are indeed very different; for, in truth, my whole hopes of earthly happiness, and even my soul’s weal, depend thereon;—say then, were the party, who but a little while ago seemed to wind round the mountain into the valley, mere phantoms? or were they indeed habitants belonging to this world?—Moreover, I would ask, whether the beautiful damsel, who rode in that procession, had before appeared in the church at prayer, with a book open before her, in the shrine with glass-work and golden bars?”—Hereupon the good old chaplain slowly shook his head, with its snow-white locks, and answered,—“In truth it sounds strange and unwonted to one of us, to hear such questions from an anxious-hearted worldling; and yet I shall willingly answer you:—If the young birds, which come forth in spring-tide, fly eagerly from tree to tree, as if wondering, and in quest of knowledge, wherefore should not man, when he is yet youthful and unweaned from this life, have the same desires?—Know then, sir knight, that the devout lady, after whom you inquire, did indeed come to prayers in our church; moreover, she appeared within the most adorned and magnificent shrine which it affords; for this place was chosen by the warrior who came with her. On yonder side of the hill, under magnificent tents, they passed some time for rest and refreshment after their long journey. Thou should’st not dream that they were but a procession of ghosts; for it was a real prince of this world, with his train, who passed here on the road before you.”—“But who then is the devout lady?” said Sir Otto; “and who is her warlike protector?”—“To these questions,” said the priest, “I cannot give you an answer. We know, indeed, that they are profuse in their gifts to all convents and shrines of the saints; moreover, to all those who are in poverty and distress; so that the greatest emperors and princes have not equalled, far less excelled them. Moreover, the hearts of all who come into their presence are refreshed, and strengthened, by their mild words and devout exhortations. Wheresoever they come the voice of dissension is hushed, and peace smiles around them; but as to their names and true rank I know nothing, nor could any one in this country give you better intelligence. Many believe that they and their train have come hither from India; that the leader is the grand priest John, of whose wealth, power, and conversion to the Christian faith, travellers have already told us. As to the beautiful damsel, they believe that she is his daughter or niece; adding, that she is already betrothed to one of the wealthiest and most powerful of our European princes.”

The priest carried in his hand a small box, in which he collected alms for the poor; and Sir Otto, in token of gratitude, placed a gold coin therein. With shame and embarrassment, however, he perceived, when the monk lifted up the lid, that the casket was already almost filled with gold, pearls, and diamonds,—the gifts, no doubt, of the mysterious lady and eastern warrior.

Now, when he had mounted his horse, Swerker came riding up, and said, in a low faultering voice,—“Farewell,—perhaps for ever,—my noble conqueror and teacher!—The Swedish eagle must straightway wing his flight back to his own mountains of the north.”—Sir Otto looked on him with astonishment, and the Swede continued,—“Mark you, Sir Arinbiorn cannot bear to look on me since I have put to death his young cousin, Sir Kolbein. Revenge, I well know, is a passion that should never be cherished by a Christian against his fellow-mortal. In the hearts of our northern heroes, however, this passion is deeply planted, so that it becomes a destructive poison, destroying even our own lives when we are denied the fulfilment of justice on him by whom we have been injured. The sea-monarch, believe me, would die of vexation if I were to be longer in his presence. Moreover, to what purpose should we, Christian warriors, assemble in your castle?—Wherefore should we meet there only to revel at your banquet-table, when perhaps there is need that we should again unite together on the battle-field, and that, by our endeavours, a gleam of the true light should be made to shine forth on the dark regions of Finland. Farewell!—When I have once more arrived in the north, I shall not fail to make known to the noble race of Swerker how deeply I love and honour thee; moreover, how truly I confide in the religion of the Christians.”

So it came to pass, that, after cordial embraces, and many kind words, Swerker mounted his horse, and disappeared swiftly as an arrow among the mountains. Ere Sir Otto had time to explain to Hildiridur and his comrades wherefore the Swede had resolved to leave them, he was already far remote, and separated from them for ever.

“Now,” said Hildiridur, as the knights spurred their horses, “can you not remember my warning admonition?—Death and separation are barriers already thrown in your way, yet you ride onwards with the same wild resolution and impatience as before.”—Hereupon the knights checked their horses, and for a space were lost in silent reflection, till Sir Otto, blushing deeply, began,—“Mother, dearest mother,—if this lady that we have all seen to-day were indeed Bertha!—Surely I cannot have been deceived in that likeness,—only the strange damsel was in dress and demeanour so grand and so solemn!”—“Can’st thou believe then,” answered Hildiridur, “that my heart is not yet filled with ardent love for my dear adopted daughter?—Who can tell, however, if she, who has appeared here as a princess among us, be really Bertha?—Or, if it were so, whether, when raised thus to pomp and grandeur, she is yet willing to acknowledge thee as her cousin?”—“Her companion then is a sorcerer or a base seducer,” said Otto, with melancholy and repressed rage. “I shall in due time speak with him after such manner, that he shall find as little reason even as I have, to rejoice over what he has done.”—Hildiridur looked mournfully at her son, and said,—“Who has conferred on thee the right of judging thus the conduct of Bertha?—and wherefore should’st thou threaten so sternly that noble warrior whom the poor forsaken damsel has, in her distress, chosen for a protector?—Besides, young knight of Trautwangen, thou art now on thy journey homewards, to take under thy care and console thy father’s vassals, who are yet mourning the death of their beloved master. Till this purpose be fulfilled, thou can’st not undertake any new adventure.”

A blush of shame and self-reproach followed that of anger on Sir Otto’s features;—he bowed respectfully, and said,—“Let all be decided by your better judgment, dearest mother;—I resign myself obediently to your will. In truth it has become only too clear and certain, that if it were Bertha herself who was here present among us, and if she were willing to acknowledge our old friendship and affection, never would the band of horsemen have passed us by without greeting or salutation. Let it be so!—I bear the guilt and blame of my own folly, and perchance am no longer worthy to lift up mine eyes to her, who seems indeed like a messenger from Heaven!”

Hereupon Hildiridur tapped him kindly on the shoulder, and said,—“Alas! how truly may the heart of a young hero be compared to the stormy sea, with its waves now mounting up to the starry heaven, and again sinking into the dark and deep abyss of sadness and grief!—Dearest son, thou should’st not thus lay aside all that pride which belongs to thy rank and achievements; moreover, thou should’st remember, that on a form like thine, the noblest of high-born damsels might indeed look with pleasure.”

During these discourses, as they rode through a dense thicket of elder-trees, lo! they could not help watching a strange light that shone amid the green branches, and which they had at first thought to be an effect of the evening sky; but the light kept pace with them wherever they went, and at last an opening in the woods revealed the form of the enchantress Gerda, who, with long dishevelled hair, now appeared in her wonted beauty, and in female attire. She now walked hastily along a foot-path of the forest, which ere long joined with the high-road; and Sir Archimbald rode forward to meet her, calling aloud,—“Away! away with thee, thou temptress, or if thou wilt remain with our party, kneel now forthwith, and pray before the holy cross. This admonition I now give to thee in kindness of heart, and for the last time!”—Gerda stood motionless, and, parting the long locks that, in her swift march, had fallen over her forehead, she fixed her large dark eyes on Sir Archimbald, and answered, in the tone of a child that is half-angry, half inclined to weep,—“Surely I may be allowed to walk onwards, wherever I can find a retired foot-path? By what right can’st thou interrupt my journey, since even the high-roads are as free to Gerda as they are to thee and thy chosen friends? If, however, thy hatred against me is so great, that thou can’st not suffer me even to live, then, in God’s name, inflict at once the blow that consigns me to death. For, this I tell thee without disguise, so long as I continue to live, I shall not fail to appear thus, now and then, in thy presence.”—With these words she drew her long glossy ringlets again over her features, and began to weep bitterly.

“Heaven knows,” said the Count von Waldeck, with a deep sigh, “what will prove the end of all this!” He turned his horse round with a gesture of vehement impatience, and drew down his vizor with a sounding crash.

Meanwhile Hildiridur gently rode up on her palfrey towards the weeping damsel, and stretching out her hand, once more parted the golden locks from her forehead. At her gentle touch, the looks of the beautiful enchantress cleared up, even like a bed of flowers when the sun surprises them bathed in morning dew. “Weep not,” said the Druda, “weep not thus vehemently, dearest daughter; for there are other paths by which thou may’st arrive at the knowledge of the true God, besides that which was pointed out to thee by the stern Zelotes. It is not indeed required, that thou should’st pass through the sepulchral aisles by that gloomy monastery, over the wreck of all thy worldly joys. Behold, I am she who, on the Swedish frontiers, opposed thy power so suddenly in the name of our blessed Redeemer, and rendered vain all thy spells and enchantments. Rememberest thou, how, in thy concealed cavern of the mountains, thou so long contended’st against the veiled lady of the watch-tower?” The weeping damsel looked up confusedly, and yet with a gleam of hope stealing over her beautiful features. “Know then,” continued Hildiridur, “that though my faith as a Christian be sincere and deeply implanted in my heart, yet methinks a path to salvation and peace might be found for thee, far different from that of which the stern warrior, Zelotes, has spoken. Wilt thou ride with us, then, and submit to the instructions of Hildiridur?” “Oh Heaven!” cried the enchantress, “how gladly would I obey thee; but the knight there in the bright silver armour will not suffer me to be in his presence.” On the contrary, however, the Count von Waldeck had hastened to find out among the horses led by the squires a handsome palfrey, which he brought to the now glad and smiling damsel; and begged for permission to lift her into the saddle. This being done, he threw back his vizor, then turned to the Lady Hildiridur; and respectfully kissing her hand, “Thus indeed,” said he, “thou hast once more appeared like a peace-angel sent from heaven to console and reconcile poor mortals.” “Alas,” sighed Hildiridur, “without the help of another angel, who is indeed pure and exalted, our happiness will have but an uncertain foundation.”

At these words Otto thought once more of Bertha; for he believed that it was of her that his mother had spoken. Whenever they came to a town or village, therefore, he inquired whether any one had seen the procession of the grand priest, John, with his Moorish warriors. For some time he indeed obtained always the answers that he most wished to hear; but at length he discovered that the lady, with her warlike protector, had turned off from the road leading towards the fortress of Trautwangen, and had gone on a pilgrimage to the shrine of a famed saint, which lay at a far distance. After this news, he rode on his way more thoughtful and melancholy than ever.

How Sir Folko de Montfaucon beheld, for the first time, the
fortress of Trautwangen.

Like the happy birds that return to their wonted nests in spring-tide, Sir Folko, with Gabrielle and Blanchefleur, were now passing over the Alps on their way back to Germany. After many wanderings through the world, over lakes and seas, mountains and valleys, they had found themselves irresistibly attracted by our native land; for we may truly say, that whatever strangers have once come thither, look on our vineyards and smiling landscapes as a garden of joy, and the chosen abode of true and faithful hearts. Moreover, almost all European nations must look on Germany as their father-land. Sir Folko and Gabrielle might indeed look with regret on this end of their journey, for a melancholy separation then awaited them, inasmuch as Sir Folko had never forgotten the rights of his friend, Otto von Trautwangen; and dared not attempt, by indissoluble bonds, to make Gabrielle his own. The stream of their lives had indeed flowed together on their long journey, that now seemed so short when they looked back on the time past that could never return; and the mild silent Blanchefleur, too well accustomed to resign all the dearest wishes of her own heart, could in her sadness wish for no better pastime, than to have travelled on, without ceasing, attended thus by her beloved brother and dearest confidante.

At length it came to pass one day, that their eyes were met by the bright gleaming of a river, winding through fertile fields and rich meadows; when, on inquiring its name, they found that they had arrived on the banks of the Danube. Glad that they were now in the far-famed and prosperous land of Swabia, they encamped at midday under the shade of some large elm-trees, not far from the river, unloaded their sumpter-mules, and seated themselves on the fragrant turf, while the squires handed round the brimming wine-cups.

All of a sudden, as they were thus occupied, a strange man, in a gypsey’s dress, with a dark-brown complexion, came before them. Hereupon Sir Folko threw at him some silver coins, and ordered him to retire, fearing that by his strange looks the ladies might be alarmed. Meanwhile, however, the Egyptian had taken from his shoulders a box, which he now opened, and lo! there was therein such store of sparkling gems, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, all set in the purest gold, that the beautiful eyes of the two ladies were irresistibly attracted.

Thereupon Sir Folko began to speak with the stranger after a different manner. On whatever gem the ladies seemed to cast a favouring glance, he ordered that it should immediately be laid aside for them; and then, when a large collection was formed, he inquired what was to be the price of the jewels which he had thus chosen. The Egyptian demanded a price, which was beyond measure extortionate; but the chevalier, unused to the artifice of the merchant, and with his heart full of knightly generosity, immediately commanded one of his squires to bring the whole sum. Thereupon a broad grin came over the brown and yellow visage of the strange man; he pretended that he had made a mistake in his reckoning, looked over the jewels as if in deep reflection, and then demanded double the price for which he had before stipulated. This also the chevalier ordered to be paid to him; but, with unblushing impudence, the gipsy then said, “Sir knight, to say the truth, these goods are such as I cannot sell for any price; and no sum that you could offer would induce me to part with such treasures.” “Whatever their value may be, I am resolved to have them,” answered Sir Folko, who was now roused to anger. “As for thee, base miscreant, who would’st thus dare to insult two noble ladies, by withdrawing from sale the wares which thou hast already offered, thy punishment would be less than what is justly due, were I to take thy merchandize by violence out of thy hands, and bestow the price which thou first demanded’st on some neighbouring convent or hospital.” “Ay, ay,” said the merchant with a significant grin, “there have ere now been many such knights who lived by plunder; and who, if one might believe their own words, bestowed the treasures which they had acquired on the poor. The only question now is, whether thou art disposed to add one more to the number of this worshipful fraternity?” With the deep blush of scorn and anger on his visage, Sir Folko replied,—“Fellow, thou had’st best, in all haste, retire from our presence, and take thy goods along with thee. Moreover, if thou art a Christian, thou should’st thank God that, insolent and dishonest as thou art, thou art fallen into the hands of a brave and courteous knight, who is too kind-hearted to deal with thee as thou hast deserved.” The gypsey man packed up his jewels, threw the box over his shoulders, and retreated; after having gone a few paces, however, he turned round, and said, pointing to a fortress on a high cliff in the distance, “After a few hours, sir knight, you will perchance have arrived at yonder castle; and I shall deal with you honestly for whatever goods you are inclined to purchase; moreover, I shall treat you with many wonderful sights and comedies, such as you have never in your whole life beheld. It were well, however, if the two ladies were also present; for as to my tricks of art, they concern all of you, and I can fit them for every person, each after his own manner.” With these words, he vanished suddenly into a neighbouring thicket.

In silence the three travellers looked towards the fortress on the distant cliff, to which the stranger had pointed. Amid the green foliage of oak-trees, that were perchance a thousand years old, the venerable ramparts were visible, in their stern grandeur and strength; the moss-grown pinnacles of the watch-towers rose proudly into the blue firmament; and, on the highest summit of the keep, there was planted a great golden cross, that now gleamed from afar in the sun.

“Thither we must now bend our way,” said Gabrielle in a low but determined tone. “Whosoever that mysterious man may be, from whom we have received this warning, a secret voice speaks within my heart, and tells me, that our fate must there be decided.”

Thereupon Blanchefleur bowed her head in token of assent, and De Montfaucon, with his mind filled with mysterious expectations, commanded the squires immediately to break up the camp, and prepare for setting forward on their journey.

Meanwhile a labourer happened to pass by, and the chevalier inquired of him the name of yonder fortress.

At these words Sir Folko and Gabrielle trembled as they looked at each other; but, as if with one voice, both of them firmly repeated,—“We must hasten thither, for there must the fate of all of us be decided.”

In the solemn ancestral hall, the venerable Sir Hugh was once more seated all alone, with the great silver wine-cup before him on the round table. He looked anxiously for the arrival of his honoured friend Walter the minstrel; and thought to himself,—“Truly, I can scarcely dwell here without that old man and his wonderful songs; for my own life, that has formerly been divided between Norway, France, Italy, and Greece,—moreover, that wont to be so varied by warlike adventures and achievements,—has now declined into melancholy old age. I have withered, lonely and neglected, like the fallen leaves in autumn. No grand adventures are now in store for me; no change either of joy or sorrow. It were indeed better, then, if the heroic deeds of our ancestors were evermore sounded in mine ears, that I might dream of them still as the last sleep slowly steals upon me. Walter, Walter! where tarriest thou so long!”

With a pale agitated visage, a squire now stept into the hall, and said,—“Sir knight, your honoured son, Otto von Trautwangen, is even now arrived at the castle.”

“And should’st thou then wear the hues of death on thine aspect,” said the knight, “when thou pronouncest these words, that are to me like renewed life? Bring hither to my presence that noble youth, that I may welcome him as a new-risen star, shedding once more light and happiness on mine old age.”—Hereupon the squire muttered some inarticulate words, and opened the great folding doors; while Sir Hugh, in order to meet his coming guest, had, with joy gleaming in his eyes, raised himself up from his old armchair.

Then, hark! there was a rustling, as of long garments, on the staircase. The doors were thrown open, and a man, wrapt in hideous black robes, came with sounding steps across the threshold, holding up his right arm as if threatening all who came in his way. The folding doors again closed, and one could hear how the terrified squire ran headlong, as if demons pursued him, down stairs.—“Where is my son?” cried the old man, turning pale, and falling back into his chair.—“Thy son now stands before thee,” said the spectral stranger; and, alas! Sir Hugh saw but too well that it was Otto’s features that now glared upon him.—“Hast thou become a monk?” said the old warrior,—“a black-robed Benedictine monk?”—After these words it seemed as if his youthful vigour had revived, and he added, in a deep and thundering voice,—“Who then has given thee permission for what thou hast done? Right sternly shall I yet call that convent to account, whose prior has dared to transform the young Knight of Trautwangen into a cowled priest.”—“I am not the young Knight of Trautwangen,” said the Benedictine in a sharp tone; “in the world I was named Ottur. I am the son of the beautiful Astrid and the brave Hugur; but now I am named brother Zelotes.”

The old man sat motionless in his chair. That energy to which he had been roused was indeed not lost; but, as if petrified by his surprise, he gazed fixedly on the son who had so unexpectedly started up before him.

“Thou art a dear and highly-honoured branch of a noble tree,” continued the monk, “and if time is yet allowed us, thou shalt be saved from the consuming fires of hell; and therefore our abbot has given me permission to come hither for thy conversion, ere the last shadows of old age and death have settled around thee!”

Thereafter he took his place right opposite to the knight, and began a discourse on the mysteries of our holy faith, and on penitence, whereat the listener shuddered, and the blood ran cold in every vein; while, as the preacher’s zeal increased, and his voice thundered through the vaulted hall, it seemed as if flames of consuming fire flashed around him.

The monk continued his discourse, and his deep tones overpowered the sounds of mirth and gladness which had now begun in the castle-court and outer-halls. Sir Otto, who had already been informed of the old Sir Hugh’s revival from his supposed death, having rode on before his party, had now arrived at the castle, and ere the squires had time to tell him of the ghastly apparition of the monkish double-goer, he rushed up the staircase and entered the hall.

“Ottur, Ottur! what would’st thou here?” cried he. “Thou art indeed my half-brother, and this brave old hero should be equally dear to us both.”—Then he threw his arms round his father’s neck, in whose heart new life and courage seemed revived, when he heard the clang of Sir Otto’s armour, and felt the weight of his iron armlets; while, as he caressed his beloved son, he cast a stern resentful look on the monk.—“I have long since known what thou hast now told me,” said the Benedictine, answering his brother; “I learned it in the convent, and on the road hither, where also we met together. In dreams, too, I have had warnings of the truth; but now I am no longer named Ottur. He is as if dead and buried, and the mortal who stands here is known only as the monk Zelotes.” Again he would have renewed, in the same thundering voice, his penitential exhortations; but Sir Otto stretched out his arm, and cried aloud,—“How darest thou, reckless man, address such words of reproach to that noble and far-famed hero, now when thou knowest that he is thy father?”—“Even for that very reason have I thus spoken,” answered Zelotes. “So long as I have breath to speak, he shall not become a prey to the demons, who are ever on the watch, and would gladly drag him down to the regions of eternal torment.”—“Nay, mark you,” said Sir Otto, “he will be enabled to protect himself from these frightful foes even without thy violent admonitions. Be silent, then, and disturb him not in the sanctity of his old age, nor break the peace of this happy meeting. Moreover, I can this day bring him such joyful news, as will doubtless lead him with more certainty to heaven, than the threatening of all the monks that could be found in the world.”—“Thou hast the right doubtless of judging according to thine own conscience,” said Zelotes, still persisting in his discourse; while Sir Otto, not heeding him any more, announced, in a loud voice to the old man, the happy tidings, that his mother was yet alive, and that, in the spirit of love and peace, she was now drawing near to the castle of Trautwangen, which she had long desired to visit. So the old man sat there like a grey ruin between two roaring streams, while the young men, one on each side, both vehemently addressed him.

But, hark! a noise suddenly arose from the castle-court, which drowned their contention. A voice called out aloud,—“Uguccione! Uguccione! thou murderer! come down from thy fortress, for Lisberta’s champion is come to inflict just vengeance on thy head!” Sir Hugh looked round him with astonishment, and the two young men were silent. At length he said, as if awakening from a dream,—“The world yet stands firm and steadfast,—the day of judgment is not come for all,—but mine is doubtless arrived. Follow me, children, and aid me by your prayers!” With these words he rose up slowly, and, resting on Otto’s shoulder, moved towards the door. The youths did not venture to ask the venerable old man what had now caused his disquietude; but he remarked their inquiring looks, and said,—“I know not indeed by what frightful power I am now called into the castle-court; but I am forced thither by irresistible attraction. I hear names, at whose very sound alone I feel that I am bound to shed my heart’s blood as an atonement for my past crimes; yet, long as Sir Hugh von Trautwangen lives, it shall never be said that he was deemed a coward. Forward then, children, that I may encounter boldly the doom that now awaits me!” So, leaning still on Sir Otto, he stepped down stairs, the monk following, and singing to himself, all the way, a melancholy hymn, that sounded like a dirge. While listening to his murmurs, one might have thought that the old champion was now dead, and that the young men went to attend his obsequies.

In the court below, they found assembled a multitude of people. Not only all the squires and other retainers of the castle, but many countrymen from the neighbouring villages, were here collected, gazing at a man in the eastern dress, who had stationed himself in the middle of the square, and continued unceasingly to call aloud in the same frightful tones which had been heard so plainly in the hall above. At the same time he constantly twisted round and round on a finger of his right hand a glittering ring; and Sir Hugh, recognising the gem, seated himself quietly on a stone, beneath a tall lime-tree that grew in the court, and said, “The strange man, who stands yonder, hath on his finger the powerful Magic Ring of the beautiful Astrid, and therewith Heaven hath also bestowed on him the power to dispose of my life. Moreover, he hath doubtless come hither in order to doom me to death.” “Thine own conscience then condemns thee, hoary-headed sinner,” cried the stranger; and at the same moment Otto recognised in him his old squire and friend Theobaldo. “Diephold!” cried he, for by this German name, instead of Theobaldo, he had been wont in former days to address him; “Diephold, it is my father to whom thou now speakest.” “Indeed?” said Theobaldo, turning pale and confused; “then we are brothers, for I am the son of Uguccione and the unfortunate Lisberta. Moreover, Uguccione and this grey-headed warrior are one and the same, and, therefore, my father must fall by my hand; for I have sworn on my mother’s grave, that I would avenge her wrongs by the death of her seducer!” “Never, never!” cried Sir Otto, drawing his sword, and taking his station before the old hero. “Here I shall maintain the combat to the last, for victory or death.” His words were echoed in the next moment by Zelotes, who embraced his father with his wide black robes, and cried aloud, “Never shall he be injured, unless by one who shall first cut through these consecrated garments. Sir Hugur shall yet live to do penance for his crimes.” “Truly thou can’st wrap him in a monk’s cowl if thou wilt,” said Theobaldo, with a scornful smile; “but there is no veil so dense that my invisible agents may not find their way, and force him to bitter repentance.” With these words he seated himself on the ground, and with the ring began to describe strange figures on the grass.

There were deep vaults beneath the castle-court; and, not long after Theobaldo had begun his enchantments, hark! there was a strange rustling under ground. A cold shuddering crept over the bystanders, as if they had been seized and shaken by supernatural arms; nay, it seemed to many a one, as if the spectral forms of those who had long lain mouldering in the grave came forth and grinned ghastlily upon them. Then the same rustling sound rose upwards, and spread through the branches of the venerable elm and lime-trees. There was a sound too of many voices, though no one knew what they uttered, and a beating of invisible wings. All were terrified and silent; only the old Sir Hugh von Trautwangen lifted up his voice, that sounded more fearfully, shrouded as he still was by the black garments of the monk. He cried aloud, that the beautiful Astrid stood before him with her deadly wound, from which the last life-blood now ebbed away; that the poor forsaken Lisberta came, and had with one look made his heart cold as the grave wherein she was now laid. He spoke too of many other damsels and ladies to whom he had plighted faith and troth, but whom he had thereafter neglected:—all came around him now, as if to inflict fearful judgment on their betrayer. Yet Sir Hugh von Trautwangen addressed them in a deep heroic tone, like one who indeed suffers more than words could pourtray, and is conscious of his own guilt, yet whose courage nevertheless is unchanged and unconquerable.

At length Theobaldo sprang up from the ground, and cried to the spectators, “Be it your duty then to inflict just punishment on the guilty! You hear how, by the invincible pride of his tones, that he is indeed calling down the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. I would not willingly become a parricide, though his conduct towards Lisberta and me has been so horrible; but if you value the safety of your towns and villages, if you wish even that the very ground on which you stand should be saved from destruction, then make an end of him at once, for he is not fit to live in this world. Neither the skies nor the earth can longer endure to look upon him. Listen then, and behold!” With these last words, he threw the Magic Ring high in the air, and though the skies were before clear, yet immediately a dark sulphureous cloud appeared, and a sudden clap of thunder broke over their heads. At the same moment the ground shook beneath them; blue flames arose, as if demons and fiery serpents were stretching out their tongues from the earth; and, in the delirium of terror, all the peasants and people who were there present ran to inflict vengeance on the devoted victim. Meanwhile, Sir Otto courageously kept his station to protect his father; and Zelotes, as if once more changed into a bold warrior of the north, called unceasingly, “Strike then well, brother, spare them not, the pitiful cowards! If I had but my sword here, that bears thy name, I would not fail to assist thee. But thy sword is named Ottur, and must bear my part,—strike them well, and spare not!”

Many of the dastardly assailants already bled under Sir Otto’s powerful blows; others were terrified by the thundering and unearthly accents of Zelotes; and the whole mob would soon have been dispersed, had it not been that Theobaldo’s enchantments confused their senses; so that when they wished to retreat they found still greater terrors await them in the rear than in the van. The thunder continued to roll louder and louder over their heads; the blue flames rose more fiercely from the ground, and almost assumed the shapes of spectres and demons: around the castle there was heard the rushing of a vehement rain and hail-storm; but not a drop fell in the castle-court; it seemed as if the mild dew of heaven could not fall on that accursed scene of flames and contention. Even amid all the uproar of thunder, noise, and rushing and confused voices, was heard ever and anon the thrilling laughter of Theobaldo as he continued his incantations.

Meanwhile, Hildiridur, with all her attendants, had arrived at the castle. Anxious, amid that fearful storm, for the safety of its inhabitants, she came hastily into the court, and, protected by Sir Archimbald and the sea-monarch, went up to the lime-tree, under which the old hero was still seated, and where Sir Otto still fought, though his strength was now almost exhausted. Hildiridur addressed herself to Sir Hugh in mild accents, entreating his forgiveness; and Gerda, now humble and obedient to her instruction, stood near her, anxious, if possible, to afford her assistance; while in the meanwhile Arinbiorn and Sir Archimbald, having at once perceived what was going forward, had drawn their swords, and summoned their squires around them, in order that they might at once beat the mob to the ground, and free the castle from insurrection.

Then, too, Sir Folko (with the two ladies and their train) suddenly made his appearance. He chanced to enter the court by a gate which brought him directly to the lime-tree, where, roused at once by his duty as protector of the two damsels, and his desire to assist the knights, he also rushed forward, sword in hand, and commanded his squires to do the same.

Then Sir Hugh, still haunted and overpowered by the frightful apparitions that crowded on his mind’s eye, shouted aloud,—“Wo, wo! now I behold also the lady-mother of the brave Sir Folko de Montfaucon! She comes to reproach me because I deserted her and our child Blanchefleur, and, truly, she also has justice on her side; for I was the renowned Sir Huguenin of Normandy, and, by the honour and word of a knight, I did not earn that name without valiant deeds!”

As soon as Blanchefleur heard these words, she came and kneeled down before him. Her mild voice fell on his ears through the black robes by which Zelotes still held him concealed.—“Lo!” said she, “I am thy daughter, thou venerable old hero, though even now, as heretofore, thou art concealed from my sight.” Then, turning to Sir Folko, she added,—“Brother, dearest brother, wield thy sword, and spare not. This day thou shalt win another wreath of victory; and remember, that thou art fighting for the rescue of my father, the renowned Sir Huguenin of Normandy.”

Her mandates were obeyed,—the noble Chevalier de Montfaucon fought with undaunted perseverance and resolution, while Sir Arinbiorn and the Count Archimbald von Waldeck also did their utmost. But the dark sulphureous clouds descended lower, and gathered always denser and denser around them; the thunder roared—the rain and hail beat around the castle, while Theobaldo’s voice was yet heard laughing aloud, and renewing his incantations; so that their senses were quite overpowered and confused. As to the squires, they no longer knew each other; but, in their madness, cut and thrust at their own masters, whom they wished to defend. Even the knights themselves were not free from these fearful delusions; for now and then, when the sea-monarch thought that he had dealt forth a powerful blow against some hated assailant, he found, all of a sudden, that he had struck the golden helmet of his noble cousin, De Montfaucon; or Sir Folko, perchance, with a rapid movement of his shield, forced the sea-monarch and the count far asunder, at the moment when they were standing firmly wedged together in order to resist the advances of the wild multitude. Thereupon Sir Archimbald would, in great wrath, turn round and attack both Folko and the sea-knight, and when they fell back under his heavy blows, for the first time all three would discover their error. Then they would shake hands, and, closely ranked together, once more advance on their foes,—perhaps with no better result than that of attacking their friend Otto von Trautwangen. It was indeed Sir Otto alone, amid the whole assemblage, whose senses appeared yet clear and triumphant over Theobaldo’s sorcery; inasmuch as he always repeated to himself, in a low tone, the short prayer which he had learned from Bertha in early youth. This prayer had already helped him in the cavern of the Hartz forest, and he now stood, sword in hand, like a guardian angel, before the helpless old hero. Yet such was the tumult around him, that he never could have maintained his station, had it not been that his light-brown steed, which had broken loose from the squires who held him at the castle-gates, came neighing aloud in furious career through the mob, and placed himself by his master’s side. There, as if all the powers of magic and necromancy could not overcome the noble animal’s fidelity and affection, he reared himself on his hinder-legs, inflicting the most horrid wounds on the heads of his assailants, seized them with his teeth by the breast and shoulders, lifted them up, and hurled them again to the ground, so that they lay motionless and insensible.

Amid the confusion of this extraordinary conflict, lo! the grey-haired minstrel, Walter, arrived, and courageously made his way through the combatants to his old friend and hospitable patron. Even amid the frightful phantoms that perturbed his brain, Sir Hugh von Trautwangen was aware of the minstrel’s presence, and said,—“There are strange encounters passing without; and yet, methinks, I have heard voices of women and children, that might have soothed and gladdened mine ears, if but the long troops of ghosts would keep away, that I am doomed to behold even in darkness. Yet let me hope ever for the best; for what says thy favourite rhyme, good old Walter?”—Hereupon the minstrel touched his harp-strings, and lifted up his voice,—

“I cannot rightly hear thy song,” cried Sir Hugh, “the noises are so loud and stunning through the court; and then the monk’s black garments are so closely folded around me. Sing louder, old minstrel, sing louder!” Thereupon Walter repeated the same stanza on a key far deeper and more sonorous; but Sir Hugh still exclaimed,—“Louder, old man, far louder!” till at last the minstrel, in obedience to his best and dearest friend, struck the harp with such violence, that not only did the strings break, but even the instrument itself burst asunder with a long melancholy intonation.

Thereupon Sir Hugh cried aloud,—“Wo, wo! even the minstrel’s harp has broken, in terror at the load of guilt that weighs on my head; now indeed all is lost!”—With these words he fell half fainting and insensible to the ground, and Zelotes prayed fervently over him. Yet all of a sudden it seemed as if the old hero’s fervour and wonted energy had been restored; for he started up, and, in tones that were at once deep like thunder, and shrill as a trumpet, he exclaimed,—“Who dares to read prayers over me as if I were no longer a knight? Am I then cast out and renounced by the Order to which I once belonged?”—With these words he fell back, motionless, into the arms of Zelotes.—“Alas! dearest lady,” said Gerda anxiously to Hildiridur, “wherefore have we renounced the powers of enchantment? Now we might have granted protection, and rescued this old man from the fate that awaits him. Shall we not make one effort?”—“Away with all such vain thoughts!” answered Hildiridur; “dost thou not feel, even in thine inmost heart, the fearful influence of the magician who is now among us? Is it not far greater than we could have exerted even in the days of our greatest power? From us there is no hope of rescue.”

Sir Otto meanwhile had heard his father’s outcry as he fell into the arms of Zelotes; and at that fearful sound he felt his strength wholly overcome. His comrades had fallen into greater disorder than ever; Theobaldo screamed in triumphant laughter; the mob gained ground; the horrid spells of the enchanter were victorious; and no one could doubt that the castle-court would ere long be changed into a place of judgment and execution.

How the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried came to break the
Spells of Theobaldo, and afterwards took from him the
Magic Ring.

But ere that stern judgment could be fulfilled, there was a new voice that called aloud,—“Halt, halt!” and the tones even of that simple mandate were supernaturally sweet, as if the voice had descended from the blessed heights of Paradise. Suddenly, therefore, the tumult ceased as if by some new and more resistless incantation; for the sounds, at once sweet and powerful, had penetrated deeply into every heart, so that all stood motionless, not only amazed, but almost reconciled. It seemed as if the rage and wrath which formerly prevailed were at once cooled and overcome; and, though some among the countrymen nearest to Theobaldo began again to lift their clubs and swords, their advance was checked by armed warriors mounted on beautiful white horses, who, with their foreign dresses, gleaming sabres, and light javelins, struck all the beholders with astonishment. Theobaldo now was silent, and held his hand over his eyes, as if he had been dazzled by the glare of the noonday sun.

The form that now appeared entering the court might well have been compared to sun; but the beams of light that this beautiful apparition spread abroad were dazzling only to the guilty beholders. To all others they were refreshing and delightful. It was a damsel mounted on a snow-white palfrey, with a heavenly smile on her features, reflecting the inward peace and serenity of her mind. Of her aspect, indeed, one could not say whether dignity or child-like innocence prevailed most therein. It was her voice which had commanded the combatants to halt, and her beauty that had confounded Theobaldo. The horsemen now ranged themselves around her; and, moreover, she was accompanied by a grave stately man, attired in flowing purple robes, and with a large golden cross on his breast. The thunder-storm rolled away in dying murmurs towards the west; the rushing too of the rain and hail-showers was heard no more.

Then it seemed as if Theobaldo sought once more to rouse himself for a new attack. Grinning in wrath, he waved the Magic Ring high over his head; but the damsel again called out in the same silvery tones, “Halt! against such an adversary as thou, the holy father of the church has afforded me this means of protection!” With these words, she took out a golden phial from her bosom, and, advancing towards Theobaldo, threw part of its contents, which shone like rain in the sunlight, towards him; whereupon the once so potent enchanter fell trembling on his knees. “That is not enough,” said the maiden; and with these words, a strange severity came over her beautiful features. “Deliver up the ring!” and perceiving that Theobaldo still lingered, and grinned in his disappointment and terror, she held out the phial, and continued, “Or shall I once more prove the strength of this, which, as thou well knowest, is more powerful than all the spells of which the ring has made thee the possessor? In such case, however, I cannot answer for the consequences which thou drawest on thine own head.” Hereupon Theobaldo came up to her trembling, and placed the Magic Ring in her beautiful snow-white hand, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

Then she desired of her companion in the purple robes, that he would lift her from the saddle; and as soon as she had dismounted, she went straightway towards the lime-tree, where Sir Hugh still sat; but, as if inspired with new life by the presence of her who thus approached him, he threw aside the dark garments of Zelotes, and once more looked up cheerfully on the clear sunlight and cloudless heaven. For a moment, indeed, when he fixed a serious gaze on Sir Arinbiorn’s helmet, a shudder of apprehension passed through his frame, and he exclaimed, “Good Heaven! there is also the Avenger with his vulture’s wings. But he must have come hither for reconciliation; for I see near him an angelic form, whose divine features are well known to me.” “Ay, indeed,” said the damsel, “he comes but for reconciliation; and all must this day be reconciled.” Her words sounded like a strain of celestial music. She then led up to the old knight her strangely-attired companion, (who looked half Arab half Christian,) and added, “As truly as thou wert once known on the distant island of Crete as the brave Sir Hygies, so truly is this Moorish champion your son; and his mother was the rose-like maiden of Damascus, who dwelt for a time in the cavern of Zeus the sorcerer. Erewhile he hath acquired renown far and wide as the grand emir Nurreddin; but now he bears the Christian, and far more honoured name, Christophorus.”

The father and son looked long at each other, their eyes gleaming in silent emotion. During their long lives it could scarcely have been said that they had ever beheld each other; now the father sat with his snow-white locks under the shade of that old ancestral lime-tree, and before him stood Christophorus, already advanced in years. Suddenly the latter felt oppressed by deep awe and veneration, and, forgetting his former resentment, he was about to kneel in the humility of his filial love; but Sir Hugh took him in his arms, and cried aloud, “Welcome, welcome, thou noble Damascene blade, worthy and valiant offspring from the beauteous Rose of Damascus!” So they stood locked in each other’s embrace, and weeping in their great joy; while Blanchefleur, smiling sweetly, looked up, and said, “Kind Heaven, how I thank thee for having bestowed on me such an affectionate and venerable father!” Hearing these words, the old man laid his hand on her beautiful head, with its luxuriant glossy curls, and blessed her; at the same time De Montfaucon came up, announcing to his former guardian and instructor, how he had constantly watched over his beautiful half-sister, and that it was not through his neglect, but only through the changeful fortunes of the battle-field, that she had been deprived of the Magic Ring, which ought now to have been on her finger. “However,” added he, “it would not have so readily come to pass, that I should have been forced to give up her rights in the lists, had not thy own noble son stepped forward into the ring; then the strength and skill of the scholar yielded to him, who carried by inheritance the powers of an invincible father in his frame.”—Thereupon Sir Otto stretched his hand over Sir Hugh’s hoary head, in friendly salutation, to the Knight of Montfaucon; while the faithful falcon, leaving Sir Otto, perched on his master’s helmet, and clapped his wings for joy to find that Folko was thus restored to life. “Mark you,” said Otto, “the falcon erewhile brought to me this love-embassy, although I know full well that it was but in error.” Saying these words, he held in his hand the rose-coloured parchment, on which, when at Carthagena, Gabrielle had written to the Chevalier de Montfaucon the confession of her love. A deep blush overspread the countenance of Sir Folko, and Gabrielle drew her veil over her beautiful features. “By the result of that former tournament,” said Sir Otto, gently taking her hand, “I have some right over the treasure which I now hold. May I then exert my power?” With these words he joined together the hands of De Montfaucon and Gabrielle, who, in their gratitude, had almost dropped on their knees before their friend; but, as he instantly withdrew, and was lost amid the crowd, they fell into each other’s arms. Sir Archimbald then drew near to the goldenhaired Gerda, and cast at the same time an inquiring glance on Hildiridur, which the Druda well understood, and answered, “She has already proved herself a willing votary of the Christian faith, and I can bear witness to her ardour and sincerity.” Then the count inclined his head over the damsel’s hand, and pronounced the solemn words whereby he became her betrothed husband, while Gerda’s cheeks glowed with the deep blush of joy and affection.

Meanwhile the wondrous damsel, who was now in possession of the ring, though her accents were as mild and gentle as ever, yet, the sense of her expressions conveyed bitter reproaches to Zelotes, inasmuch as he had sought to terrify the old hero, and to force him into severe penance. “Had he not been instructed,” she inquired, “that the Saviour of mankind attracted his disciples in the spirit of kindness and love; and if, for the full conversion of sinners, fiery trials and suffering must be employed, our heavenly Father himself provides means for this purpose, and often by assistants unwonted and unlooked-for?” Zelotes now stood humbly, with his eyes fixed on the ground, before the damsel, and acknowledged her supremacy by his silent respect. Meanwhile the unfortunate Sir Otto fixed his eyes with melancholy anxiety on the lady. He knew not indeed if she were Bertha or a stranger; but, in either case, felt that it could only be the most manifest tokens of kindness and condescension on her part, that could give him any right to express to her, even in the humblest manner, his admiration and love.

At length a kind glance from her beautiful blue eyes was suffered to fall on him.—“Knight of Trautwangen,” said she, “wherefore art thou so disguised in that black armour? Methinks thou would’st do better to d’on again thy silver harness, which is now worn by the Count Archimbald von Waldeck. I know indeed that you are both bound by a vow; but your vow, my lord count, is already redeemed; for in the Hartz forest it was your fortune, without the use of arms, to bring both armour and living knights out of that cavern, which, but for your aid, would have been their grave. As for thee, Sir Otto, thou should’st no longer look with terror on the stain of Heerdegen’s blood on the silver cuirass; for that is already effaced by the deep wound which thou did’st receive in his defence, when thou would’st willingly have resigned thy life to save him. Zelotes, whom I chanced to meet on the road hither, has informed me of all. Alas! for the faithful and brave Heerdegen!”—At these words tears shone under the fringe of her long shady eyelashes. Suddenly, however, she went towards Otto, bent down her head, and kissed the scars that were left by Sir Kolbein’s battle-axe on his corslet, and said,—“Thus a devout maiden releases both of you from your vows. Go, and exchange once more your coats-of-mail.”—The two knights bowed in silent obedience, and, accompanied by their squires, retired into the castle.

Meanwhile the mysterious damsel commanded that a large fire should be kindled on the hearth of the great hall; and ere long the blaze was seen through the open door and windows, gleaming under the shade of the green luxuriant lime-trees.

By this time the two warriors had returned with their armour changed; Sir Archimbald again in his dark cuirass, with his terrific eagle’s visor, and Sir Otto, with the reflection on his youthful blooming features of that silver mail with which he had been adorned when he first parted from his beloved cousin Bertha.

The majestic damsel now came towards the great chimney in the ancestral hall, sprinkling the hearth with consecrated water from her golden phial, then, clasping her beautiful hands, turned for a moment to the lookers-on, and said,—“In this solemn hour beware of evil thoughts!”

But who indeed could, at such a time, have required this admonition, when they beheld that beautiful form like a visitant from heaven, while the bright fire-light revealed the divine expression of resolution, blended with saint-like humility, that reigned on every feature? She prayed for some time in silence, then threw the Ring into the centre of the fire,—made the sign of the cross over the flames,—and, while she renewed her prayers, the bystanders beheld how the melted gold ran over the hearth, and heard how the diamonds and emeralds burst asunder in the vehement consuming blaze.

The solemn rite was finished, and, with light step, the beautiful lady came forward from the hearth; while, at this moment, Sir Otto could not help feeling in his heart the conviction, that this was indeed his dear cousin, Bertha von Lichtenried. Yet round the beautiful smiling girl it seemed as if the dignified sanctity that she had assumed had spread a mysterious though dazzling veil, as if woven of the glorious morning-clouds; for when she came towards Sir Hugh to offer, as in former times, her kindly salutations, the old man involuntarily bent before her, in respectful homage, that hoary head which ere now had been so often crowned with the laurel-wreaths of victory.

At length,—“Oh, may I be forgiven!” said she, “dearest uncle, that I have not approached you with my wonted respectful obeisance, but have appeared here as a strange lady of high degree, instead of your own humble niece, Bertha von Lichtenried. But, indeed, until this moment I was not Bertha, but the ambassadress of our holy patriarch, the Pope in Rome. To him there appeared, in a nightly vision, all the strange phantoms and wondrous adventures which hung over your house on account of the Magic Ring. So I have hastened hither straightway with Christophorus; only, having heard on the way of my dear brother Sir Heerdegen’s death, I turned out of the road, in order that I might, at the shrine of a renowned saint, pray with more energy for the repose of his soul. Not, however, till the Magic Ring was destroyed (such were the commands of the holy father) durst I make myself known, either by word or token, to those whom I most loved in the world, in order that earthly affections might not disturb my thoughts from the divine mission on which I had been sent. For this reason it was that I passed so silently from the chapel near which you had encamped,—I speak now to you, dearest Lady Hildiridur.” Thereupon, falling into the arms of her former kind friend and instructress, the benevolent Druda, she hid her blushing cheeks under the long green veil; for with these last words she had involuntarily turned her eyes towards her old playmate Sir Otto. At that moment Christophorus came up, and proffered his hand to the young Knight of Trautwangen, saying,—“Welcome, brother! by that name it rejoiceth my heart that I can address a noble youth, whose valiant deeds are already known from the north pole to the south, over all the wide world. But, as through those years when I bore the name of the grand emir Nurreddin, it was said of me, that I knew better how to dispense my largesses and gifts than any other prince of Asia or Europe, so shalt thou too, my brave German brother, learn, even at our first meeting, that I have not forgotten what belongs to the character that I had thus won. Know then, that the heart of this beautiful damsel beats for thee alone, and thou art free to woo her for thy bride.” With these words he led Sir Otto towards Bertha, who remained still with her face hidden in Hildiridur’s long veil; and, with one knee on the ground, the knight addressed himself to the Druda, and said, “Dearest mother, speak for me! I am indeed unworthy of her forgiveness.” Hildiridur then placed the unresisting hand of Bertha in that of her first lover; and Bertha, kneeling beside him, said, “If thy father, dearest Otto, will bestow on us his blessing!”—Hearing these words, the old hero laid his hands on their heads in token of consent; but he could not speak; for, as he looked on them in their youth and gladness, his heart swelled in his bosom, and words could not then have expressed his emotion.

Now it came to pass, that amid the banquet-hall, where all were cheerful and joyous, there entered an unbidden guest, with looks dark and discontented; and this was Theobaldo. Humbly he drew near to the pious and beautiful Lady Bertha, and said, “For me, in sooth, all the pleasures and hopes of this world are now at an end. My powers of enchantment, to which I had devoted my whole life, are by thee destroyed; and, as to that happiness which others may possess in the arms of parents, brothers, and sisters, it is to me for ever lost, and I have indeed wrought my own destruction. What then should I now seek here? Truly I know not; but, at least, I would take leave, and then, as is fitting, seek out some cavern in the earth wherein I may hide myself from the eyes of all mankind. Should this not be found, some friendly abyss of the mountains will doubtless lie in my way, where I can at once make an end of all my regrets and sorrows.” “Methinks this were not needful,” answered Bertha, with friendly earnestness of tone; “and I can moreover assure thee, it is not the will of Heaven that thou should’st thus despair. Penance, no doubt, is required of thee; and if this duty be fulfilled, thou shalt yet be saved and comforted. It would be well, methinks, wert thou to undertake a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and on thy solitary way contend stoutly with the evil thoughts that beset thee,—confess thy sins at the holy sepulchre, and return home consoled and absolved into our friendly circle. Courage then, sir pilgrim; the great Shepherd yet calls with kind consoling voice for his lost sheep.” At the same moment, all who were there present stretched out their loving arms towards him, as if he were already returned absolved and pure into his paternal castle. “Verily damsel,” said Theobaldo, “thou hast not ceased to be the beneficent ambassadress of Heaven, although thou art even now become a happy smiling bride. To Jerusalem then! to Jerusalem! Long indeed have I felt within my heart the impulse to journey thither, as if I had known by anticipation the guilt that would one day cleave to my conscience. Yet, ere I go, could’st thou but request for me the forgiveness of the venerable old man, whom I am no longer worthy to name father? Obtain for me too the mild grace of Hildiridur; and it were well if Otto, Christophorus, and Blanchefleur, even the stern Zelotes himself, could look on me as a brother, instead of only granting me forgiveness after the manner that one in pity bestows golden fruit on a wretched convict as he is led to the place of execution.” Smiling in her calm confidence and serenity, Bertha replied, “There will be no need of assistance such as mine; for Heaven has here already prepared your reconciliation.” With these words, she gently drew the repentant youth towards his father, who clasped him in his arms, while Hildiridur, and all the rest, drew near to embrace and console him; and Otto, with melancholy regret in his heart, exclaimed, “Alas! Theobaldo, no wonder then that, even at our first meeting, thy presence was so unspeakably dear to my heart!”

Theobaldo at length, with gentle resolution, disengaged himself from their embraces: “You have now,” said he, “afforded me refreshment and strength; not only for the journey that lies before me, but for my whole life to come. Farewell! I shall now depart in tranquillity, gladness, and hope. Your love, like a guiding star, will still gleam before me; and when, after an absence of a year or more, the pilgrim comes hither with his scallop-shell hat and longstaff, you will not refuse him admission, but rather there will be a feast of welcome and rejoicing in the hall of his ancestors.” Thereafter he made his parting salutations, and slowly retired. All remained for a space in deep silence, and with their eyes glistening in tears; such are the bitter drops which Joy almost ever mingles in the cup, in order to remind us how short is her date, and how frail the tenure of our life in this world.

At last the old Sir Hugh said, “My son will come again, and Heaven will grant to me the blessing that I may once more embrace him ere I die. It seemed as if a winged messenger now brought me from Heaven these tidings; and if Lisberta has become a glorified angel, it may indeed be she herself who thus hovers near me.” Hereupon the brothers and sisters, husbands and brides, held each other’s hands, and embraced with more cordial joy and affection when they heard these words from their dignified ancestor; and in a deep full tone, as if his heart had then for the first time been lightened from his perplexing emotions, he added, “Bertha, thou art in the right; the spirit of peace and mutual affection is among us. Come then, dear friends and children, let us go together down to the blooming level banks of the Danube; for in your presence, with Hildiridur by my side, methinks I can once more, as in the happy days of youth, enjoy the sunlight and beauty of nature which the beneficent Creator has here spread around us.”

So it came to pass, that, as if the Magic Ring had been converted into a living circlet of blooming swains and damsels, the venerable Sir Hugh, who had before been so lonely and desolate, now came forth with wife, children, and friends, all smiling and joyous. Amid the sweet evening-landscape, behold! there was stretched over the woods a magnificent rainbow; and all that happy assemblage, clasping their hands, greeted in silent prayer that far-gleaming token of Heaven’s grace and forgiveness.

It was with slow dignified steps, the stately old man moving like a banner in the midst of their procession, that they had descended the steep road that led from the castle; the last bright rays of the sun were slanting on the broad waters of the Danube, and it was not long ere the full moon appeared in all the glory of her cold dewy light in the cloudless southern sky. The old minstrel, Walter, had been busily engaged in arranging a gay banquet-table on the meadow, at which they now took their places; while the outermost circle was traced by tall torches fixed in the turf, whose light shone reflected from the golden beakers and wine-flasks, as they passed merrily round. When they were thus seated, joy gleamed anew in the eyes of the venerable knight, and he exclaimed, “Thanks, good Walter, for thy care and contrivance! How much more pleasant and cheering is our banquet, seated as we are on the fragrant moss, with the blue sky over our heads, than it would have been yonder at the marble table of mine ancient hall, where, alas! I have spent so many sad and lonely hours!” Hereupon Hildiridur presented to him his magnificent silver goblet, now brimming with the richest Johannisberg; tears filled his eyes, and dropt into the wine as he drained the cup, but they were tears of heartfelt delight and gratitude to Heaven. Bertha, meanwhile, and Otto, also Gabrielle and Sir Folko, thought of the time, when, on this very meadow, they had long ago been enclosed, as they now were, by a circle of torches, by whose light a stern conflict for life and death was to be revealed; and that remembrance added new sweetness to their present enjoyment. Yet on the mind of the Count Archimbald of Waldeck there arose a slight shade of discontent, as the torch-glare again shone on his strange black and silver mail, which had been then so dishonoured; but Gerda, when she marked the clouds gathering on his brow, stroked his cheeks playfully with her snow-white hand, and, as he looked on her beauty and sparkling eyes, he soon forgot all his moody reflections.

At length some one tapped lightly on Sir Otto’s shoulder, and, looking round, he saw that it was the sea-monarch, who thus whispered in his ear: “Rememberest thou yet our words as we wound up to Hildiridur’s castle? Blanchefleur has acknowledged thee for her brother, and mark how the flickering light now gleams yonder on her beauty. When I thus behold the damsel, I at least may not forget thy promise.” Sir Otto, in friendly confidence, pressed the hand of Sir Arinbiorn, and rose in order to gain a place next to his sister, who, lost in deep thought, sat apart like some lonely and neglected flower of the meadow. Arinbiorn dared not go with him, but, with his heart heaving with doubt and fear, stood watching them from some distance.

Now Sir Otto had come near enough to his newly-won sister, to ask her, in a low voice, whether she had yet become the betrothed bride of a knight, who in rank and station was worthy of her regard? “I shall take it on me to speak for her,” answered Sir Folko, who sat on the other side. “The damsel is not thus betrothed, and will answer ‘No.’” He spoke as if half in anger; and, in humble obedience, a tremulous ‘No’ came like an echo from the beautiful lips of Blanchefleur. At that moment were heard some sad and mournful sounds; the chords of a harp were struck not far from where they sat. Blanchefleur looked round as if in terror; but, as if this had been a warning for her to speak, repeated in a louder and more agitated tone, “Heaven knows I am not the betrothed bride of any one in this world!” Therefore Sir Otto, making a sign to the sea-monarch that he should come nearer, began to intercede for him with his sister. Sir Folko too begged her consent, in order that their two houses might thus be more than ever united; while Arinbiorn stood in silence, at once dignified and humble, waiting to hear his doom pronounced by her who was dearer to him than life. Like a pale slender flower, shaken by the evening wind, Blanchefleur continued for a space agitated, and uncertain how to decide. At length, in wordless resignation, she inclined her beautiful head in token of assent to their proposal. Sir Otto then, leading her by one hand and the sea-monarch by the other, brought them to Sir Hugh to receive his blessing; and, as they kneeled before him, the old hero said,—“Thou young and blooming image of the fearful old Avenger with vulture’s wings, take then, in God’s name, this tender white flower, that so long was the joy and ornament of mine ancient halls. All thoughts of revenge are now past and forgotten.”—“All such thoughts are indeed forgotten,” repeated the sea-monarch, bowing his head to the ground, while Blanchefleur wept in silence.

But, alas! scarcely had they raised themselves from the grass, when there were heard again the same mournful notes by which Blanchefleur had been alarmed; and in the midst of the bright circle now appeared the minstrel Aleard, in a light-blue mantle, with his harp in his arms; and thereafter he began to sing a wild and melancholy lay.—He sang at first of the flowery pride of summer,—of the sun, moon, and stars, with all that is most cheering and lightsome;—then he changed the scene, and fancied himself sailing in a solitary bark, through the wild sea, round the Island of Love. On that island the poor youth described himself as a shipwrecked mariner dashed against its rocks, who is yet willing and ardent, with his last breath, to sing in praise of the joys which he may never partake. Even as he is just sinking under the waters, he beholds a happy bride and bridegroom standing hand in hand, and salutes them with gratulations and prayers for their long life and happiness.

Listening to these words, Blanchefleur held her hands over her eyes, and it was only Arinbiorn who remarked how fast her tears flowed beneath that alabaster covering. Sir Otto directly recognised in Aleard the same minstrel who had sung with Blanchefleur the Ballad of Abelard and Heloise at Gabrielle’s castle in Normandy, and learning from Bertha that he now belonged to the train that had come with her and Christophorus, hastened to salute him, and to return thanks that he had come to honour their festival with his music. But Aleard had already vanished among the crowd; and, on searching and inquiring for him, Sir Otto was suddenly disturbed by an occurrence so extraordinary, that the attention of all the party was immediately roused.

Beyond the circle of torches was heard the trampling of horses, with a ringing of armour, as if they, as well as their riders, were clothed in iron for the battle-field. Anon, when the eyes of every one were turned in the direction from whence this noise proceeded, there appeared, on a snow-white charger, a tall graceful warrior, in a purple mantle bordered with ermine fur, with an enormous golden shield, on which the torch-light gleamed like lightning, on his left arm, and in his right hand a long lance, which, when they first looked upon him, he poised upright as it rested on his saddle-bow. As he drew near to the ladies, however, with a light and graceful movement, he inclined the ponderous weapon to the ground; and, at the same time, bowed his head, with his high gleaming helmet and waving plumes, in respectful salutation. Moreover, as he came within the circle of the torches, some of the spectators insisted, that around his martial casque there was visible a crown of gold and diamonds; for it could only be gems of the highest price that shone so brightly.

Ere they had time to debate this question, however, the warrior had turned his horse, and, followed by a numerous train, passed away from the wondering spectators. They could hear how he spurred his horse into a full gallop, and how the rocky cliffs of Trautwangen echoed to the neighing of war-steeds, and ringing of their armour as they trampled along the meadow, till at length the sounds died away in distance. “Was it not he?” said Gabrielle, gazing at Sir Folko, as if she had read his thoughts, and needed not to say more. “Truly,” answered the brave De Montfaucon, “I believe there is not any champion over the world who could be compared with him; therefore we cannot be mistaken. It was indeed the Lion, the peerless monarch of the knightly forest.”—All eyes were now watchfully turned on Sir Folko; but, hark! from the same quarter wherein the magnificent stranger had appeared, there now arose a strain of minstrelsy,—the notes of harp and song so sweet and ravishing, that all the ladies and knights sat as if spell-bound, and scarcely daring to breathe in their admiration of the melody. As, with the thirst of a weary traveller, they drank eagerly the refreshing sounds, which always floated nearer, through the still air of that summer-night, till at last they could distinguish articulate words; and these words have since echoed through the wide world; for the lay now sung, was that wherein the minstrel Blondel de Nesl described, how he had found out his royal master Richard the Lion, and rescued him from his before hopeless captivity.

Moreover the minstrel himself soon appeared, mounted on a small white horse, which seemed like a younger brother of the battle-charger rode by the monarch. A green velvet mantle was thrown around the graceful form of the handsome youth, on whose countenance there lay an indescribable charm, almost as one might have said, of woman’s beauty, had it not been, that, notwithstanding the high lace ruff, like that of a lady, that rose round his blooming features, small elegantly turned mustachios adorned his upper lip. He had now reined in his well-managed palfrey, and, as he looked smiling on the banquet-party, still continued to touch the harp, which was suspended from his neck by a golden chain.

Sir Otto immediately recognised the far-famed Master Blondel, with whom he had before spoken in the blooming forests of France; and the last words of his song had made known to all the party what a mirror and model of songsters and squires was now before them.

“Oh, Master Blondel, most renowned and worthiest of minstrels,” cried they, “so then the great King Richard is indeed rescued! And was it he himself, that magnificent knight, who, but a little while ago, passed through these meadows?”

Blondel kindly answered them, that in their conjectures they had been in the right; and, after the manner of free-hearted minstrels, he did not refuse their earnest request, that he would take his place among them, and join in their festival, and relate to them more particularly how he had, with his harp and song, tried the echoes in every fortress and castle at which he chanced to arrive, till at last he had by this means discovered his friend,—the noblest of Christian heroes,—an adventure of which I need say no more, since to you, courteous reader, it must already be well known through numberless legendary tales and ballads.

The knights, who now sat around the festal board, all joined together to exalt the praise of that noblest of minstrels, who had, by his gentle art alone, achieved what so many brave heroes, with sword in hand, had in vain attempted to carry through. Meanwhile the ladies had been busily employed in twining meadow-flowers into garlands, which they threw in showers on the head of the highly-honoured troubadour.

Now it came to pass, that Sir Arinbiorn, the sea-monarch, came before Otto von Trautwangen, leading by one hand Blanchefleur, and by the other the minstrel Aleard, whom, with his sharp eagle-eyes, he had at length discovered among the multitude of squires and others who were now in attendance.—“Dearest brother,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “this youth, whom I now bring before you, is no other than he who, as I before told you, appeared to me in the Magic Mirror, where he sat at Blanchefleur’s feet, when I, for the first time, beheld that bright-gleaming star of my future life and hopes, and named her Roselinde.”

At these words Sir Otto changed colour, casting fiery glances towards the minstrel,—and Sir Folko, who now came up, was yet more incensed. Meanwhile Sir Arinbiorn continued,—“Wherefore all this anger, ye brave and noble knights? Have you not proved even now, that the minstrel in his airy flights, though we, forsooth, in our heavy armour, cannot meet him in his own proper lists, yet can sometimes far exceed whatever the best of us, with our iron cuirasses, swords, and lances, are able to accomplish. Master Aleard is descended from a noble house,—the Franks, the Spaniards, English, and Germans, praise and admire his songs. Otto, why should’st thou doubt? or should we now crush the minstrel’s harp with our iron-shod heels, even in the same hour when Blondel’s victory has given us proof of its powerful influence and worth?”

Hereupon deep blushes came over the features of Sir Otto and De Montfaucon. The former took the minstrel, and the latter the Lady Blanchefleur on his arm, and thus they drew near to the old Sir Hugh, while Sir Arinbiorn walked before them, like a herald, to announce their purpose. The grey-headed hero willingly agreed to what the sea-monarch now suggested; it seemed as if, by a gleam of inspiration from another world, he had been made aware how far more fitly the tender white lily, that had in early years been cherished in his castle-garden, would be supported by the rose-tree of song, than by the bloody spear of warfare. Or was it, perchance, that the divinely tranquil eyes of Hildiridur at that moment rested on him with their moonlight radiance, and admonished him what he was to do?

However this might be, he willingly bestowed his blessing on the lovers, who now knelt before him, and on whose cheeks, at their first embrace thereafter, a deeper blush was enkindled, as if the morning-light of joy now advanced towards the bright lustre of day. “But for thee, Arinbiorn, what shall now be said?” inquired Sir Otto, mournfully taking his old comrade by the hand. “Nay, fear not for my fate,” answered the sea-monarch; “Heaven has dealt kindly and graciously with me; for if Blanchefleur, according to her own will and pleasure, had promised her hand to another knight, I could scarcely have borne with the grief and anger that would then have reigned in my heart. Now, however, I have but given away those rights which I had lately won, and freely to bestow valued gifts is a delight to every noble and princely heart. Well, then! the wild ocean, with its verdant realm of rolling waters, is yet left to me; amid the roaring waves methinks I yet hear the voice of hope, that promises me renown at least, if I may not be allowed the enjoyments of love; and Roselinde shall yet evermore be my battle-cry by land or sea; with that name on my lips I shall conquer or die!”—“All then is well at last,” said Bertha, with the smile of contentment and serenity on her features; “if there were yet agitation or regret in any heart that here beats among us, ere long the spotless virgin’s calm looks and words would sooth those tumults till the minds of all were tranquil as the seas by moonlight in the still summer eve.”

Hereupon the old champion gazed on Christophorus and Zelotes, saying, “Yet two descendants of this ancient house are left without bridal-wreaths and lonely in this world!” “Be it mine rather to weave them for others,” answered Zelotes. “All those which are now worn among us I have given away with joy and contentment of heart; proud also of mine office as a priest, inasmuch as I have borne my part in my father’s house, which now possesses, as is fitting, a monk within its own walls, thus maintaining its wonted independence.”

“For my share,” answered Christophorus, “the hopes are yet fresh and vigorous in my heart, that by new wreaths of victory on the battle-field, the conquest too of new sciences and arts, I shall yet spread the grandeur of our house more and more through the world. Perchance no damsel that lives, however beautiful and attractive, is able to satisfy the longings of my heart. Rather let the wide earth be my bride, with all her wealth of blooming fields and rolling seas, her stern icebergs of the north, and blooming vineyards of the south!” Then Sir Hugh took the hands of both his sons, and pressed them with a firm heroic grasp, as he would have done in his early years of youth and knightly prowess, at the same time casting delighted looks across the festive circle, where on the opposite side Sir Otto stood in his happiness, with his left arm proudly thrown round the tall angelic form of Bertha von Lichtenried.

Thereafter, behold, Master Blondel (who had by this time learned from Aleard all the wonders that had come to pass in the house of Sir Hugh von Trautwangen) came humbly to Bertha, and drawing from under his mantle a golden crown of beautiful workmanship, adorned with rubies and emeralds, he said, “How would my heart be rejoiced if, for this once, Beauty would not refuse to wear the poetic crown when offered by the hand of a wandering minstrel! Such favour has been granted ere now,—may I hope that it will not be denied to me!” Thereupon the damsel blushed deeply, and bent down her head, while the crown was directly placed amid her luxuriant glossy ringlets, marking her, even for the eyes of the distant lookers-on, as the queen of this assemblage, who had inspired the young knights to their noblest deeds; and by whose influence at last the magic spells had been broken, and every heart restored to tranquillity and joy.

While they were all gazing on her, Blondel had already mounted his white horse; and thereafter, as he rode slowly away through the moonlight, he saluted them once more in song. His lays were for the most part addressed to the virgin queen, who stood there in her serene beauty and innocence; but ere long they could distinguish only the concluding words of every stanza, ‘Farewell!’ At length, as he entered the dew-besprent forest, and was shrouded from their sight by the wreaths of white vapour that now hung on the landscape, that sound also declined away, even as this eventful story, courteous listener, now dies on your ears. Good night, and farewell!

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.

In addition, the following changes have been made:

p.107: Allessandro to Alessandro
p.113: unruy to unruly
p.119: wobegone to woebegone
p.150: Hackelnberg to Hakelnberg
p.187: Herda to Gerda
p.203: an dsilently to and silently
p.211: Asmunder to Asmundur
p.232: inearnest to in earnest
p.314: longs taff to longstaff

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

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

CHAPTER XXVIII.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE