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Title: The magic ring, Vol. 1 (of 3)

Author: Freiherr de Friedrich Heinrich Karl La Motte-Fouqué

Translator: R. P. Gillies

Release date: October 20, 2025 [eBook #77097]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1825

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77097

Credits: Tom Trussel, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGIC
RING, VOL. 1 (OF 3) ***

THE MAGIC RING.

OLIVER & BOYD, PRINTERS.
THE

MAGIC RING;
A ROMANCE,

FROM THE GERMAN OF

FREDERICK, BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

EDINBURGH;
PUBLISHED BY
OLIVER & BOYD, TWEEDDALE-COURT;
AND GEO. B. WHITTAKER, LONDON.

1825.
TO

CONRAD CHARLES,
FREYHERR VON ÄMSELNBURG, IN BERLIN,
TRANSLATOR OF
“The Lady of the Lake,” “The Bridal of Triermain,”
and “The Antiquary.”

I know not, my dear friend, whether you recollect a conversation that we
had some time since respecting the Baron de la Motte Fouqué and his
writings. If you do not, I take the liberty of calling it to your remembrance,
—as what you then said has not only induced me to execute the following
translation, but may likewise serve as an introductory notice to the readers
of the work.
I remember well that, when speaking of the Baron, (in whose company we
had dined that day at Charlottenburg,) you bestowed great praise on his
various publications;—but, being then an incompetent judge of their merits,
I could only reply, that I doubted not they deserved the eulogiums you
passed upon them, since the Baron was certainly a jovial and pleasant
companion,—a “chevalier, sans peur et sans reproche,” if one might judge
from the serenity of his aspect, and the complacency with which he quaffed
his old Hochheimer and Johannisberg.

I had indeed, as a tyro in the German language, tried to read over his
“Magic Ring,” the only work of his which had fallen in my way; but I had
not been long at Berlin ere I was informed of the high reputation he had
acquired by his writings on various subjects. I heard of his early devotion to
literature; of his friendship with the Schlegels; of his being “in utrumque
paratus,” with the pen and the sword; of his campaigns as an officer, when
the tumults and devastations of the French invasion were at their height;
and especially of his conduct in the battles of Kulm in Bohemia, of Lutzen,
of Leipsig, and afterwards on the banks of the “castellated Rhine.” I had
opportunities of meeting with the Baron, and was invited to pass some days
at his country residence of Nennhausen; though circumstances rendered it
impossible for me to profit sufficiently by his hospitality.
I also remember that, on the evening to which I have alluded, you were so
eloquent in praise of the Baron, that we were detained till it was too late to
go to the opera,—and therefore walked up and down in the long allée,
under the lime-trees, for nearly two hours, during which time you went on
analyzing and commending every one of his numerous productions. Among
these, you expressed your special admiration of his “Hero of the North,”
and “Eginhard and Emma;” both of which, you insisted, were animated by
the true spirit of chivalry and romance, and that in an English dress they
would be excellent, either in their dramatic form, or remodelled into prose
novels. But, as I expressed my dislike to dramatic poems which were unfit
for the stage, you proceeded to mention the Baron’s other narrative works,
such as “Waldemar the Pilgrim,” “Thiodulf’s Wanderings,” “Bertrand de
Guesclin,” and many more, which, though favourites of yours, are
altogether unknown in this country.
At last we came to speak of the “Magic Ring,”—the only one of our
author’s works which I had then seen, and which I had only glanced at very
hastily;—and you naturally asked me how it happened, that although
“Undina,” “Sintram,” and even the “Minstrel Love,” were translated into
English, this romance had been hitherto neglected? To this I replied, that the
“Sintram” and “Undina” were, even in the translation, interesting tales of
wonder;—but that, on the contrary, the beauties of the “Magic Ring,” which
are so much admired by a German reader, depended on certain
characteristic features, which a translator could never impart, unless by
means of a remaniement or rifacimento. These peculiarities were, first, the

Baron’s accurate imitation of the quaint, rude style of the old romancers;
secondly, the melody of his verses, in which the thoughts are far too
shadowy to be embodied in our language; thirdly, his allegorical
representations and historical allusions, which no English reader could well
comprehend, especially as the author has not furnished a proper key to
unfold their meaning.
These objections, especially the last, you treated with indifference; and
although my own opinion (that a remaniement would have been far better
than a translation) remains unaltered,—yet, having resolved to translate the
“Magic Ring” by way of experiment, I have adopted, as nearly as possible,
the method you suggested for its execution.
For I recollect distinctly, that, on my requesting to hear your opinion how
an English version ought to be attempted, your answer was, that the “Magic
Ring” would, if literally translated, make a very amusing novel in the style
adopted among us sixty years ago in “Popular Tales of the Germans,” and
which, by the way, has been recently exemplified in Mr Roscoe’s Italian
Romances. With regard to the old-Frankish tournure of language, the
stiffness with which a translator too often moves through his task, and
which has been aptly compared to the performance of our Macheath
“dancing a hornpipe in real fetters,” might perhaps serve as a tolerable
imitation of that characteristic. As to the songs and other poetry, these, you
said, were merely portions of the story thrown into rhyme, and would
succeed just as well in prose as in verse.
Lastly, You observed, that, for understanding the author’s allegorical
allusions, nothing more was requisite than to bear in mind the history of the
Norwegians, Swedes, Danes, &c.; otherwise known by the name of the
Normans (Nordmänner) or “Men of the North.” These people (represented
in this work by an ancient warrior, bearing in his latter days the name of Sir
Hugh von Trautwangen,) being poor, and dissatisfied with their own cold
regions, emigrated in great numbers to the more southern countries of
France, England, the Netherlands, Germany, Italy; nay, it is said, even into
Greece, Palestine, and other oriental climes. Of these historical facts, no
school-boy in Britain is ignorant, as every one has read of Normandy and
the Norman invasion.

The Nordmänner, or Normans, at the first period of their emigrations, were
Pagans,—the votaries of Odin and the other fabulous gods of Valhalla; they
were also skilled in necromancy and all the varied arts of the magician,—
whether for purposes of good or evil,—wherein (as learned divines have
sometimes maintained of the ancient oracles) the devil might be supposed
to have assisted them.
Such are the materials whence Fouqué has drawn the machinery of his
romances. The white magic of the now converted Druda contends against
the black machinations of the infidel Gerda; and as for the “Mysterious
Ring,” it seems to have been only one among other necromantic spells,
though some readers have supposed that the author hereby intended to
allegorize the delusive spirit of the World, and of the worldly-minded, in
opposition to that of pure religion and heavenly affections. Hence the Baron
has represented the people of the North as led astray to wage war against all
nations and against each other; till at last, by the influence of Bertha, (a
personification of the true Christian faith,) they become harmonized and
happily united into one community.
“Nothing,” you added, “can be clearer and more intelligible than this
outline; and, if the work were even literally rendered into English, it would
present an excellent ‘knightly tale of the olden time,’ with a religio-
historical moral. Let this be done, and there need be no doubt entertained of
its success.”
To these remarks I ventured to reply, that, to the best of my judgment, there
was not one character in the romance, nor any part of the machinery, under
which the author had not involved some abstruse and figurative meaning
which ought to be explained. Gerda, for example, I alleged, was not a mere
enchantress, introduced for the purpose of bringing about some strange
adventures: on the contrary, she seemed to represent Superstition, whose
horrid rites are contrasted with the mild and rational piety of the Druda. The
Ring, too, I thought, might not only be intended to allegorize the delusions
of the world, but also those of natural-magic, (die natur-kenntnisse,) and
other profane sciences.—“Trouble yourself no farther with such inquiries
and speculations,” you replied: “emblems and allegories are nuts hard
enough to crack; let the readers break their teeth on them if they will.”

With this homely metaphor our discourse ended; and your plan has
accordingly been carried into effect. Instead of indulging my own feelings
in a remaniement,—which would have been a new work founded on old
materials,—I have merely translated the Baron’s words, (which need not
preclude other German scholars from bringing forward the same story on a
different plan); and, under the auspices of your name, which is at least as
well known here as that of the Baron, it is not without some degree of
confidence that I introduce these volumes to the public.
I am, my dear sir, with great respect, &c. &c.
The Translator.

PREFACE
BY THE BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ.
Courteous Reader!
It is with a mixed feeling of apprehension and delight, that the author now
betakes himself to his task of writing the following story. There are people
in the world who laugh scornfully, if they meet with one of their fellow-
mortals who calls on Heaven to aid him in any worldly enterprise; but,
notwithstanding this, the writer of these lines is not afraid to confess, that he
has just now prayed with his whole heart to the Giver of all good, for
assistance in the pleasant labour which awaits him. By this means, he has
been supported ere now through similar undertakings; and he confidently
trusts, that at this time also his prayers will not be unanswered. For, in truth,
the history, which he now proposes to write, hovers yet, like a strange
vision, before his “mind’s eye;” it seems to him as if he were about to set
sail on a wide weltering sea, with shores varied and romantic, with
gleaming rainbow-tints on its waters, and not without whirlpools and rocks;
while the sky is overspread with clouds of the wildest shapes and the richest
colouring!
Full well do I know the arduous course which I have to steer; but as to the
separate events that are to be encountered, I know them not; for these are
yet uncertain as a dream. However this may be, not the less boldly,
courteous reader, do I invite thee to join me in this voyage; for, should’st
thou be unwilling to engage in the enterprise, it would seem as if the name
of God, on whom I have now called, sounded strange and unwelcome in
thine ears; otherwise thou would’st be satisfied with what I shall obtain by
my prayers, and which I promise faithfully to communicate to thee. But
consider, I beseech thee, that if thou shalt find any thing worthy of
commendation, and pleasing in my work, it is not mine, but a gift from the
Supreme Power, which is conveyed to me insensibly as I write; for I am
then only capable of expressing myself with effect, when my mind is more
elevated than is usual in the present state of our depraved and mortal nature.

In the following pages, then, I lay before thee the best fruits of those hours
when my fancy is most free and exalted; while, in this preface, I have
spoken the plain, unadorned truth. On this, as a true knight, I pledge my
word of honour. And now I bid thee heartily welcome to the groves and
meadows, the battles and festivals, the joyous weddings, or mournful
obsequies, which our story may unfold.

THE

MAGIC RING.
VOL. I.

CHAPTER I.
How the young Squire Otto and his pretty Cousin discoursed
together, on the banks of the Danube, during a
fine evening in May.
In the happy land of Suabia, close to the river Danube, there lies a fine level
meadow, where once on a time (it was in the month of May, just as the
declining sunbeams were taking leave of the flowers) a young squire, by
name Otto von Trautwangen, was enjoying his evening recreation. At this
beautiful season, it was Otto’s custom frequently to leave his father’s castle
in the neighbouring mountains, and repair to the pleasant banks of the river.
Here he amused himself alternately with angling in the streams, or in
shooting with a cross-bow at marks, which he had contrived in many
strange shapes, such as dragons, hobgoblins, witches, &c. and painted in
glaring colours. On the wide level meadow he ran no risk of wounding any
one with his arrows. This evening, however, his bow and quiver lay beside
him on the grass, and he held his fishing-rod, watching as it seemed the
play of his line in the water; but he was lost in reverie, and forgot that he
had not even baited his hook.
Then Bertha von Lichtenried came walking towards him, his father’s niece,
along with whom he had from his childhood been educated at the castle.
She took her place beside him on the grass, and half mocking, half
anxiously questioned him on what he was meditating so deeply? He himself
knew not well what to say, and now so much the less, when he saw his
cousin’s pretty face smiling on him reflected in the water. She looked even
too beautiful in his estimation, and perhaps she thought the same of him, as
she smiled on her companion so kindly. It was delightful to see how the two
young people thus carried on a silent conversation together in the living
mirror of the Danube! When Otto had considered for a while, it occurred to
him that he had remarked a pilgrim, in a red-cross mantle, passing on the
opposite side of the river, after which he had fallen into a mood of deep
thought. He told Bertha of this, and described to her how solemn was the
impression left on his mind; how the pilgrim had always looked steadfastly

on the road before him, without turning in the least to the right or left, so
that one could not precisely say whether it was old age, humility, or an
ardent longing after the sacred object of his journey, that bent his head
forwards, and harmonized every gesture. To this the young man added his
own reflections, how admirable it must be to travel across kingdoms, seas,
and rivers, to distant unknown lands! Nothing in his opinion could be
pleasanter than such a pilgrimage, and it would never be the fatigue of
travelling, but only the tedium of repose afterwards, that would prove
oppressive.
“You do not mean to turn a pilgrim then?” said Bertha with a confident
smile. “The Saints forbid!” said the young man; “these woods and meadows
here hold me like a magic spell within their circle. Take care then that you
never desert them, my pretty cousin!” At these words, Bertha blushed so
deeply and suddenly, that it seemed as if twin rosebuds had sprung up in the
water, and said, “As you are so certainly to remain here, then we may jest a
little on the supposed possibility of your going. Let us try for once that
farewell ditty, in two parts, which Master Walter has so finely indited. As in
winter, one likes to hear the snow-storm, when sitting warm by the fireside,
so we may now venture to sing these verses, which, in their proper place,
we should have no heart to repeat.” Otto then began,

“Sweet home, so long beloved,
That I no more shall view,” &c.

But after the first two stanzas they gave over their music, for on the other
side of the river there came a great procession of pilgrims, among whom
appeared such variety of characters, that the young people found their
attention irresistibly attracted. In the midst of the assemblage were graceful
figures of young women, mounted on mules, richly caparisoned, and
attended for their protection by warriors on foot, with long halberts in their
hands. Then there were certain pilgrims, of whom, notwithstanding their
grey mantles and oddly-shaped caps, it was easy to determine that they
must be courtiers, and persons of high dignity, especially as their
demeanour contrasted so powerfully with that of a great number of country
people, who moved about irregularly enough in the procession. One could
distinguish too, many respectable citizens of middle rank, painters also, and

musicians, who bore with them the instruments of their respective arts,
which they hoped to exercise in distant lands for the honour and glory of
our holy religion. At last there came a troop of warlike knights, mounted on
fine chargers, in bright-gleaming armour, who could be known as pilgrims
only by the red cross on their shoulders. Just as the procession came
opposite to Bertha and Otto, the ladies, mounted on their stately mules, and
attended by their halberdiers, began to sing a grand choral hymn in praise of
the eastern lands, whither they were thus pursuing their way.
The effect of their voices during the stillness of the evening was magical.
Accidentally the sun, just then verging on the hills, broke through a cloud
with new and unexpected refulgence, as if, instead of setting, he had been
about to rise again, in order to reward and inspire those pious votaries.
When the last notes had died solemnly and slowly away, the mail-coated
knights struck in with a bold and martial chorus, in which they were joined
by the halberdiers, while a powerful flourish of trumpets filled up the pause
betwixt every stanza. Their song expressed contempt of the Saracens, and
admiration of the English King Richard the Lion Heart, whose forces had
just then gone forth like a thunder-storm, destructive and yet beneficial, into
the Holy Land:

“Who falls there, he is glorious,
And he who lives, victorious.”

Such were the concluding words of their chaunt; and when the long train
had passed by, both the young people remained for some time thoughtful
and silent. At length, “It is very true,” said Otto, “King Richard of England,
who, for his bravery and magnanimity, is called Cœur de Lion, has vowed
to make a crusade against the Saracens. My father and Master Walter spoke
of this all last night at the castle. Good Heaven, what grand exploits will be
performed there!” On saying this, the youth’s cheeks glowed and his eyes
sparkled. Bertha sighed as she answered, “If you talk with such pleasure of
wars and foreign travels, whenever any one in the guise of a pilgrim
happens to come hither, then I shall no longer have courage to sing that
farewell-ballad which we had begun.” “Nay, nay, be not afraid,” said Otto
smiling, “we shall not speak more of any such adventures. Only attend now

to your voice, and keep up the octave. You know we are to sing the next
stanza together.”
It seemed destined, however, that they were not to finish their ballad to-day;
for just as they had commenced again, they were disturbed by a noise as of
many horses from the meadow behind them, and on turning their eyes
thitherward, they perceived—what we shall describe in the next chapter.

CHAPTER II.
How two Strangers (a Lady and a Knight) suddenly arrived,
and how the Lady told a marvellous Story of a Ring.
There were indeed many horses, from which had alighted a number of well-
dressed squires, (or serving-men at arms,) who were already busily
employed in pitching on the meadow handsome ornamental tents, coloured
red, blue, green, and yellow. Then there came a most beautiful lady, with a
train of female attendants, all on horseback, and a knight in full armour was
waiting to receive her, by whom she was lifted from her white palfrey with
great respect and attention. Thereafter it was a pleasure to see how the lady
and knight walked backwards and forwards for pastime on the green level
plain; the former dressed in sky-blue velvet, with a border of rich gold
embroidery; the latter in a black coat of mail, yet finely burnished and
inlaid with many emblematic devices in bright silver. His appearance
altogether was not a little strange and mysterious, the fashion of his
accoutrements being such as Bertha and Otto had till now never beheld. His
demeanour, though courteous, was grave and solemn; yet, as he wore no
helmet, they perceived that he was a young man of very agreeable and
sprightly features.
The two strangers, in the course of their walk, came very near the spot
where Otto and Bertha were stationed, who of course greeted them with a
respectful salutation. The lady returned this compliment, and her looks
seemed irresistibly attracted by the tall graceful figures of the young people.
She made a signal that they should approach nearer, and began a
conversation, from which she learned at once the whole history of their
peaceful, regular, and happy life. Their narrative, indeed, was so short and
simple, and had so few adventures, that more words would have been
superfluous. With a melancholy smile then the lady turned to her
companion; “Count Archimbald,” said she, “if we were called on to narrate
our history, could the task have been so easily accomplished? And yet,” said
she, turning to the young couple, “it seems to me as if I had incurred a debt
which I must compensate, by telling you the strange events of my

pilgrimage. You will no doubt find some entertainment therein; and
methinks it is only your modesty and polite behaviour that prevent you
from asking who we are, and what has brought us hither? But since you
have spoken so kindly and confidently to me, I should be very ungrateful if
I wrapt myself any longer under the veil of mystery. Come then with us.”
With these words, Otto and Bertha were led by the stranger into one of the
tents, which were by this time already spread. The lady seated herself on a
sofa, and made them take their places beside her. Count Archimbald went
out to make divers arrangements as to his little camp, and, in a few minutes,
the lady began the following narration:—
“My name is Gabrielle, and I am descended from the ancient race of
Portamour.—Being from my earliest infancy an orphan, I yet frequently
heard from the people to whom I was given in charge, that I ought to be one
of the noblest and richest ladies in all France, were it not for the absence of
a certain ring, which a countess of the Norman family Montfaucon had
contrived to get into her possession; and which had been inherited by her
daughter, who was about the same age with myself. So the ring was
constantly held out to me as the most desirable and important of all worldly
possessions;—whether waking or asleep, I thought and dreamed but of this
alone, knowing that this wonderful gem would not only convey to me some
extensive territories, but, what was far more important in my estimation,
would bring along with it the knowledge of several magical spells, and even
a commanding influence over the world of spirits. Judge what were my
feelings, when one evening at the King’s court, where I had just then made
my first appearance, a young lady was introduced, by name Blanchefleur de
Montfaucon, on whose beautiful hand (for she was indeed very beautiful) I
directly recognized the ring, which, from the frequent descriptions that I
had heard of it, was perfectly known to me! To get this treasure into my
own possession was, for the first time, an easy task; for, during the festival,
we were to pass the night in the same chamber, and Blanchefleur having
carelessly taken it from her finger, I seized on my own family-property as
soon as she fell asleep. Next morning she scarcely seemed to regret her
loss; but, after searching for a few moments in vain, she went away gayly to
attend the tournament, which had just then begun. Thither I followed her,
and soon after we had taken our places, a graceful and warlike knight rode
up towards her, who, as I understand, was her brother, Sir Folko de

Montfaucon. His bright falconlike eyes had, in a moment, observed the
absence of the ring on her finger, and its appearance on mine. After having
interchanged a few words with his sister, he came to me with looks
respectful indeed, but grave and determined; then, pointing his lance to the
ground, ‘Lady,’ said he, ‘may it please you to select a champion, with
whom I may try my fortune in the lists, and from whom I may win back that
ring which now shines on your beautiful hand, but which belongs to my
sister, Blanchefleur?’ Of course I did according as he desired; but, in
consequence of this agreement, one of the most renowned and skilful
knights in France, whom I had chosen for my defender, was thrown
prostrate on the sand, so quickly and decisively, that, according to the rules
of the combat, I had no alternative left, but must immediately restore to him
the family-jewel, which I had possessed for so short a while,—to be given
back to his admired sister, Blanchefleur.
“I wept bitterly, and retired to my chamber, where I would not listen to the
messages of my friends and youthful companions, who wished me to join
with them in the amusements appointed for that afternoon and evening. I
spoke harshly too with my attendant, when she brought into the room a
finely-made fishing-rod, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, with a golden line and
silver hook, which I was to have used on the following day at a gay party on
the water. But of what consequence were to me such diversions now that I
had lost my ring! The girl, discontentedly, set the fishing-rod in the
window-corner, and, as I would not notice her, left me alone to weep.
Towards evening I became more tranquil, and the loud laughing of my
young companions, who were playing at ball in the garden, induced me at
last to look through the window. Then I observed that Blanchefleur, feeling
that her ring was inconvenient, took it from her finger, laid it on a moss-
covered seat under my window, and thoughtlessly ran back to her game.
With a beating heart and anxious wishes, I drew open the lattice, upon
which motion the fishing-rod, as if offering its services, fell into my arms. I
immediately made a trial,—found that the golden line reached down to the
ring, which, on the first touch, as if I had been assisted by magic, attached
itself to the hook, and was drawn up and received by me with a thousand
kisses.
“My triumph, however, was again but short-lived. No sooner had the
childish Blanchefleur complained to her brother, and the ring been observed

on my finger, (for I was too proud to conceal what I supposed to be my own
property,) than he again requested that I would appoint a champion to
defend my cause. And how could any one resist the giant strength of Sir
Folko? My new warrior was overthrown like his predecessor; and this time
Blanchefleur gave the ring into her brother’s care, so that I had less hope
than ever of regaining it. However, I did not fail to keep constantly in view
an object which was so dear to me; and one day, when, after a hunting-
party, we were resting beneath a tree almost without branches, some one
said, that it would be quite impossible to climb to the top of it. Then, in a
tone of mockery, I challenged Sir Folko de Montfaucon to make a trial of
his hitherto invincible powers in this adventure. Just as I had hoped, his
ambition and excessive delight in all knightly exercises made him quite lose
sight of every other consideration. Consequently he laid the ring, which he
generally wore always on his finger, on the grass, because it hindered him
in climbing, then began his endeavours. I understood afterwards, that, after
many vain attempts, he succeeded in reaching the top of the tree; but
meanwhile, I had, unobserved, availed myself of the opportunity to seize on
my treasure, and was on my way to England, in order that, in the court of
King Richard Cœur de Lion, I might find out a knight able to maintain my
rights against the frightfully victorious Folko de Montfaucon.
“The great King Richard received me with all the courtesy which was to be
expected from that mirror of knighthood; and when I besought him to grant
me a protector, he made his most chosen favourite, and brother in the battle-
field, be introduced, commanding him to kneel down, and beg for the
honour of devoting his life to my service. How proud then was I, and with
what indifferent and cold looks did I soon afterwards see Folko de
Montfaucon enter the English court in order to renew the combat for the
ring! Alas! my hopes were then vain. I should have known that the English
champions, however brave and steadfast, are yet inferior to the French in
the sports of the tournament. Indeed, my valiant defender, conscious of this,
had insisted, as a condition of the fight, that it was not to be decided by the
lance only, but that the vanquished party might maintain his rights
afterwards with the sword. In consequence of that precaution, Folko’s
victory was more laborious and more honourable, but by no means less
certain or less decisive. My champion was carried insensible, with three
sword wounds, out of the lists, and Folko at the same moment kneeled
before me, requesting that I would give him back the ring. The generous

King Richard addressed him, saying, that he should be satisfied with having
thus maintained and supported his pretensions in the combat, but as for the
ring, he should leave it in the hands of the fair lady to whom the possession
of it was evidently so very dear. ‘Most noble king and pattern of all
Christian knights,’ said Folko, ‘if it depended on myself alone, this beautiful
lady should most certainly remain in undisturbed possession of the ring;
nay, my life should be sacrificed if it would offer any compensation for the
tears with which her bright eyes are now clouded; but the jewel is the
property of my sister, Blanchefleur de Montfaucon, as whose champion I
have now the honour of appearing here; and, as your majesty best knows, a
knight dare not give away the rights of her for whom he has fought in the
lists.’
“To this King Richard could not make any reply; and I was obliged to leave
the court once more deprived of my ring, and in deep melancholy. Yet I
lingered for some time in that country, hoping that, as Sir Folko had been
always so fortunate in arms, I might yet get the better of him by stratagem
and artifice. Accordingly I learned that he intended making a journey into
Wales, in order to behold with his own eyes the fortresses and ruined castles
where, in old times, King Arthur, and his knights of the round table, had
fought and banquetted. Determined to brave all dangers, I ventured before
him among the Welsh mountains, and, disguising myself in an old rusty
coat of mail and helmet, with the visor down, I waited for him in a retired
valley, through which I knew that he must of necessity pass. He came up in
due time, and in a deep rough voice, which my closed visor helped me to
disguise, I challenged him to an immediate and mortal combat. He
demanded to know my name, and the cause of my challenge, but I declined
giving that information, and affected to think that he only sought a pretext
to evade our engagement. Furiously incensed, he then leaped from his
horse, (as I was on foot), with his armour and weapons rattling and
glancing, so that I had almost fainted from terror. I recovered myself,
however, and said to him, that I would not fight with him till he had taken
his enchanted ring from his finger, as it was well known that this alone
made him invincible, and that without such aid he was weak and cowardly
as a child. With an exclamation of anger and contempt, he then pulled off
his iron glove, threw the ring down on the grass, which I directly seized
upon, at the same moment throwing off my visor’d helmet, and saying,
—‘Now, perhaps, Sir Folko de Montfaucon will recognize Gabrielle de

Portamour, and he will doubtless have too much generosity to take the ring
from a young damsel who has here no protector, or even to delay her
intended journey.’ He bowed, and was silent. After a pause, however, he
said, ‘I shall have the honour, lady, to meet you again in inhabited places,
where you will doubtless find a choice of defenders.’ Thereupon I directly
made my escape, and having my attendants in waiting with my horses, I
rode away as fast as possible to the sea-shore, where I was lucky enough to
find a ship that brought me over in safety, and with favourable winds, to
Germany, which country I now preferred to France, because I had heard that
it was the very temple and chief resort of brave and generous knights.
“Accordingly, since I came thither, the noble Count Archimbald of Waldeck
has sworn that he will be my champion and defender of my rights; so that I
have scarcely any farther anxiety, as he is so renowned a warrior, and has
yet never been subdued in any rencontre. Consequently, also, I wear the
blue and gold colours of the Montfaucon family, in order to indicate the
claims which the ring gives me over their property. Houses and lands,
however, I shall willingly leave in their power, provided I can still retain my
beloved and wonderful ring. Perhaps the frightful Folko has by this time
given up thoughts of it; for since our parting in Wales I have not seen him;
so that I may applaud my own artifice and resolution, thus affording me an
opportunity of becoming gradually acquainted with the wonderful
properties of the jewel, which hitherto I had known only by dark and
mysterious rumours.”
Otto and Bertha expressed in courteous and well-chosen words their
gratitude to the noble lady for her interesting story. Bertha then said, in a
low timid voice,—“This ring must surely be very beautiful.”—“I shall shew
it to you most willingly,” said the smiling Gabrielle, thereupon drawing it,
suspended on a gold chain, from her snow-white bosom. It was fashioned as
follows: Two serpents of the purest gold were intertwined with each other,
on whose heads were crowns of rubies; on the circle were engraved
characters such as Otto could not read; but he remembered having seen
such before on very old weapons in his father’s armoury. He knew also, that
they were called Runic letters, and had their origin in distant countries of
the north. Over and between the serpents’ crowns was a bright green stone,
which in colour might be compared to the waters of the Danube, but
Gabrielle said that its hues were exactly like those of the sea.

While the young people were thus admiring the jewel, and wondering at the
strange characters, (the tent being now brightly illuminated,) the curtain at
the entrance was drawn aside, and Sir Archimbald entered, followed by
another knight.

CHAPTER III.
How this Knight was challenged by Sir Folko de Montfaucon,
and of a fearful combat fought by torch-light in the
lists.
On the stranger’s approach, Otto and Bertha exclaimed at the same
moment,—“Good Heaven, there is the frightful knight, Sir Folko de
Montfaucon!” During Gabrielle’s narrative, they had formed to themselves
a lively picture of this victorious hero, to which the looks of the stranger
guest now wonderfully corresponded. They had not been deceived; for
Gabrielle suddenly became deadly pale, and the knight came up with great
respect and formality, inquiring whether she had chosen the warrior, by
whom he had just before been invited into the tent, for her champion, and if
it would now be allowed him to try his fortune in combat in order to win
back the ring? To this address Gabrielle made a sign in the affirmative, and
Sir Archimbald interposed. “Sir Knight, although you are yet a stranger to
me, yet it is my duty to inform you, that I am the Graf von Waldeck. My
character is, perhaps, already known to you; and you have now free choice
whether you will venture with me in the lists, or give up the ring in
friendship and peace.” At these words a deep flush came over the cheeks of
Sir Folko de Montfaucon, and his dark eyes gleamed like a distant
thundercloud. However, he made a courteous bow, and said, in a mild voice,
—“I know not, my Lord Count, if you will not think it beneath your dignity
to conquer such a humble opponent as the Chevalier Folko de Montfaucon;
but this much I can truly say, that the honour of contending with so
renowned a knight as Count Archimbald von Waldeck would alone induce
me to request the combat, even if there were not any other motive for our
encounter.” “Shall we then enter the lists to-night?” said Sir Archimbald.
“That must be decided by this noble damsel,” said Sir Folko; “perhaps from
the fatigue of her journey it might not be convenient to her to look on our
conflict this evening.” “Rather let it be to-day than to-morrow,” said
Gabrielle, in an accent of haste and anxiety. Accordingly the Count went
out to prepare the ground, having previously agreed with his opponent, that
whoever should first be driven out of the ring, (by whatever cause this

might happen,) should be looked upon as vanquished, and should be
allowed no farther chance on this occasion; otherwise, however, they were
to be allowed the right of contending with swords, after their fortune had
been duly tried with the lance, according to the example given in the court
of King Richard the Lion Heart.
Meanwhile, Sir Archimbald being employed without in making
preparations for this tragical pastime, Folko had taken Gabrielle’s lute,
seated himself with it at her feet, and begun gracefully to play with the
strings. It was a pleasure to look on him in his dark-blue armour, finely
inlaid and gleaming with gold, his dark-brown hair, upturned whiskers,
smiling lips, and pearly teeth. As to Gabrielle, she fixed her eyes steadfastly
on the ground, in silent impatience, and suffering all the agonies of
suspense. Whoever had chanced to see these two, the knight and the lady,
both clad in the same colours, and thus sitting together, would never have
thought that there were any evil intentions betwixt them; but rather that the
lady had made him a present of the fine blue and gold scarf which flowed
over his broad shoulders, and that he was now thanking her for her courtesy
by a love-melody on her lute. Such peace and tranquillity, however, were
not of long continuance. Archimbald soon made his appearance, in a
frightful guise, at the entrance of the tent; for he had now put on his helmet,
with the visor closed, which represented the head of an eagle, with a great
silver beak; to which strange headdress the rest of his armour so well
corresponded, that he might have been looked on as a visitant front some
fabulous land of hobgoblins and monsters. “All is ready,” said he;
whereupon Folko started up, light as a feather, from his position at
Gabrielle’s feet, laid away the lute with great care, where he had found it on
the carpet, and with an elegant bow quitted the tent. Then Sir Archimbald
offered the lady his arm, and led her out. Otto and Bertha followed, lost in
astonishment, and scarce daring to believe in this realization of scenes such
as had been known to them before only in their ballads and romances.
When they came out of the tent, a bright-beaming light guided them to the
ground that had been prepared by Sir Archimbald. A circle, wide enough for
the attack and career of two horses, was enclosed by a double row of
torches, whose red flames burned powerfully amid the calm darkness of the
night, casting all distant objects into the blackest shade, while even the
minutest flower or plant was visible in the circle. Archimbald led Gabrielle

to a turf-seat, covered with a rich carpet, so placed, that she was directly
opposite the middle of the enclosed ground, on which spot the two knights
would meet in their fearful encounter. Near the lady were stationed Otto and
Bertha, one on each side; and behind her were a numerous train of her own
and Archimbald’s attendants. On the opposite side of the ring were visible,
through the red torch-light, many strange figures in rich dresses, who were
probably squires of Sir Folko de Montfaucon.
Count Archimbald now formally requested leave of absence from the lady,
and went away, on her right hand, to mount his charger. Meanwhile, Sir
Folko was already visible on her left, at the extremity of the ring, seated on
a graceful light-footed grey horse, with a close-visored golden helmet on
his head. His opponent not being yet ready, he pranced about in a playful
manner along the turf, guiding his horse, as it seemed, more by words than
by management of the reins. On coming near Gabrielle, the animal, on a
secret signal from his rider, bent his knees for a moment in respectful
homage, then started up with a fine capriole, continuing to bound and
curvet so lightly and so elegantly, that he seemed almost to move on wings;
the golden bells of the saddle and head-gear making pleasant music, till at
length the rider regained his former position in the distance. There the horse
stood obedient and tranquil like a statue, turning back his elegantly-formed
head towards the knight, as if in friendly confidence, and asking whether he
had performed his part correctly? whereupon Sir Folko took off his iron
glove, and kindly clapped him on the neck.
During all this while, it afforded a strange contrast, to observe how Count
Archimbald’s charger, his dark coat spotted with foam, plunged, reared, and
struggled, so that two squires, with their utmost exertions, were scarcely
able to hold him. In the midst of his fury, the Count sprung upon his back,
and with violent strokes of the spur, made him plunge more wildly than
ever, galloped him several times up and down with great strength of limbs
and skill of bridle; till at last the horse knew his master, and stood, as if
rooted to the ground, waiting his commands. Still, however, his eyes flamed
so wildly, that they might be compared to the red glare of the torches; and
with his right fore-hoof he began to paw and tear up the turf, as if he would
prepare a grave for his rider’s opponent.
Then both champions, in token that they were ready for the combat, bowed
to Gabrielle so respectfully, that their long waving plumes almost touched

the earth;—thereafter they both sat upright, firmly laying their lances in the
rest. At length Gabrielle gave the signal for onset, by throwing up a white
handkerchief;—the trumpets sounded, and the two knights rushed against
each other with such velocity, that, contrary to what usually happens, one
heard the crashing of their broken lances and loud ringing of their armour in
the shock, even before his eyes could distinguish their meeting. The
combatants passed one another without losing their seats, and now rode
their horses up and down, on exchanged sides of the ring, each one, as it
seemed, wondering to perceive that his opponent was still in the saddle.
“More lances!” cried Archimbald, and the squires immediately offered on
both sides a selection among many ponderous weapons. When they had
weighed them, and made their choice respectively, “Knight of
Montfaucon,” said Archimbald, “two more encounters with the lance, this
and another, will that suffice? And if the cause be not then decided, we shall
have recourse to the sword.” “I am here as a guest,” said Folko, “and must
follow whatever example is set by my noble entertainer.” The trumpets
sounded, and the knights again flew together; this time, however, with such
violence, that both horses were thrown back, with their hind-legs doubled
under them, but being violently spurred, rose again directly, and passed
across into their places. Sir Folko’s lance was broken into shivers against
his adversary’s coat of mail, while the Count’s spear was merely snapped,
and he held one half still in his hand. On both sides, therefore, there was a
great shouting and exultation, for the followers of Waldeck looked on the
half weapon still wielded as a favourable omen, while those of Montfaucon
insisted that their master must have played his part in a far more knightly
and effectual manner in this encounter.
However this might be, the knights were once more supplied with lances,
the trumpets sounded for the third time; anger and impatience rather than
their former courtesy were now visible in every attitude and gesture. The
spectators knew not well how or where their lances struck on this meeting.
Folko’s silver-grey steed recoiled and reared, then seemed to tremble and
totter from the violence of the shock; but the knight, bending over his neck,
still spurred him on, in a light gallop. On the other hand, Archimbald’s
black charger fell down on his knees, but instantly rose again with a violent
plunge; then, no longer tamed by the efforts of his now almost powerless
master, careered about through the ring, in all the madness of ungovernable
rage, so that he and his strangely-attired rider seemed like demons rather

than mortal beings. At length with a tremendous bound he leapt through the
torches and disappeared! Thereafter, from some distance, amid the deep
rayless gloom, one heard by the crash of his armour that Count Archimbald
had been thrown to the ground.
Folko remained for some time motionless in his place; then he dismounted,
gently stroked the mane of his silver-grey steed, threw away the fragment of
his broken lance, and, drawing his sword, that gleamed like a flame in the
torch-light, stepped into the middle of the circle. No one came to oppose
him; and from without in the darkness were heard the anxious murmuring
of voices, and the running to and fro of servants, now busied about their
fallen master. At last Folko called out in a loud tone, “My Lord Count von
Waldeck, your unruly horse bore you, against your will, out of the circle.
This must not be reckoned against you; but you shall have a fair opportunity
to make good with your sword that which you have lost in our contest with
the lance. I shall therefore wait for you here.” For a long time, however, all
was silent. At last a squire called out,—“My Lord has fainted.” “He cannot
fight again!” cried another voice. “We must bring him to the nearest
convent to be cured by the monks,” said a third; and immediately thereafter
was heard the slow and mournful trampling of the horses as they bore away
the now helpless champion across the meadow.
Then Sir Folko put up his gleaming sword into the scabbard, threw back his
visor, went towards Gabrielle, and, kneeling, begged that she would bestow
on him the prize of the combat. Weeping bitterly, the beautiful damsel once
more drew the golden chain from her bosom, with feelings how different
from those with which she had shewn it just before to the young people! Yet
before her trembling fingers had unclasped the chain, Otto stepped up to Sir
Folko de Montfaucon, and said,—“Sir Knight, if it please you to allow that
a coat of armour be given me, also a horse, lance, and sword, I shall yet
contend with you for the ring, in the name of this noble lady, provided she
deems me not unworthy of such high honour.” At these words, a glance of
hope and joy flew over Gabrielle’s countenance. In a moment, she thought
of the many old stories in which she had read of the most renowned knights,
and even giants, having been vanquished by young men, scarcely beyond
the age of boyhood, who fought in defence of oppressed damsels. Folko had
raised himself from the ground, and measured with his looks his unexpected
adversary. Suddenly, however, he turned away with a smile, and said

ironically, “Young squire! young squire! where are your golden spurs? Do
you think yourself already qualified to break a lance with knights in the
field? Three sword-strokes on the shoulders, and a midnight watch of your
armour, then come to me again, and I shall willingly meet you.” Whereupon
he kneeled again before Gabrielle, and begged her for the ring; which he
had no sooner received into his hands, than (after making a deep obeisance)
he remounted his silver-grey steed, and, followed by all his train, galloped
away.
Gabrielle, still weeping bitterly, turned to her attendants, who, directly after
the unhappy issue of the tournament, had begun to take down the tents, and
pack them up, with all their appurtenances, on led horses; which work they
had now completed. Not a quarter of an hour longer, said the unhappy lady,
would she remain on the place where she had encountered such misfortune.
And without taking heed of Otto’s attempts to console her, or offers of his
services, she turned away from him as from a prattling foolish child; and,
having mounted her palfrey, rode away through the darkness. Otto,
moreover, called out after her; “So, may Heaven aid me, noble lady, as I
shall certainly not rest till I have become a knight, nor till I have laid the
ring at your feet.” Even this vow, however, seemed to make no impression
on her ears; and in a short time the trampling of her horse, and noise of her
attendants, died away in the distance.
Lonely and forsaken, Otto and Bertha remained standing on the fatal place.
It was as if they had dreamed; only the half-burned torches and the broken
turf of the battle-field bore witness silently that all had been real. Neither of
them knew what to say; so that in silence they pursued their route through
the darkness of the night homewards, wonderfully changed in mood from
what they had been, when, but a few hours before, they had come from the
castle to that pleasant meadow. All that passed betwixt them on the way was
only now and then a question from Otto. “Weep’st thou, dearest Bertha;” to
which she always answered, “No,” in as firm a voice as she could assume;
so that he was obliged to think himself mistaken, and that, because he could
not help sighing deeply, he had supposed that Bertha answered him with her
tears.

CHAPTER IV.
How the young Squire Otto received the honours of
Knighthood.
While all these events had been passing on the banks of the river, Sir Hugh
von Trautwangen was sitting in his proud ancestral hall, with its vaulted
roof, where were deposited his own coats of mail and weapons, along with
those of his warlike predecessors. In this apartment he spent most of his
time, since he had now become too old and infirm for the sports of the
chase or tournament; and was still less able to pursue the warlike career to
which he had been accustomed in youth. During this night he was sitting at
a great round table, whereon, in massy silver candlesticks, there were two
wax-lights now almost burned down, while his son and his niece, contrary
to all custom, kept him waiting, and vainly expecting their arrival. As often
as he heard steps on the long-winding staircase, the old man thought that
must surely be the two young people, and looked kindly and anxiously
towards the door; but when it was opened, no one had appeared but a
serving squire, who wished to know whether the knight still had light
enough, or if the wine in his richly-embossed and carved silver goblet were
drank out. So then Sir Hugh’s countenance changed; he pretended to be
quite unconcerned, and if the squire expressed some anxiety, answered
briefly and peevishly, “Well! well! young people must have their pastime.
What business is that of ours? They will be here soon enough.”
But the castle clock struck nine; then at length ten o’clock; the night was
fearfully dark, and Sir Hugh had no tidings of his son nor of his niece. So
the old man took his green velvet cap from his head, held it in his clasped
hands, and prayed fervently to Heaven that the manifold sins of his youth
might not be reckoned against these poor children, but that Providence, in
his infinite mercy, would bring them back safe to their home in the castle.
He was still engaged in prayer, when a heavy oak-pannelled door, right
opposite to him, was opened, and the fresh blooming faces of the longed-for
absentees made their appearance in the hall. This time he had not heard the
slightest sound on the staircase; and the fulfilment of his most anxious

wishes came on him unexpectedly, as usually happens, when one’s wishes
have been pure and good, and especially when one has prayed, in a right
spirit, to the Fountain of all Mercy. The young people, however, were much
distressed; they were moved to compassion and repentance, when they saw
the tall venerable form of their guardian sitting in his arm-chair opposite to
them, with clasped hands and a pale anxious countenance, blanched already
by the cares of many past years, and now rendered paler than ever by the
dim ghastly light of the declining candles. They felt immediately for whom
he had prayed, and lifted up their clasped hands in the same manner, in
order to express their gratitude, and beg his forgiveness. Sir Hugh, however,
regained his usual composure, replaced his velvet cap on his head, and with
a grave, though kindly manner, made signs that they should come nearer,
and desired to know what had detained them so long? Then replied Otto
von Trautwangen,—“Sir Knight, and my honoured father, if we had
remained absent but a little longer, it would, according to my humble
thoughts, have been better for us all, and especially for the beautiful lady
with the ring; for the prize would have again been contended for, and the
victory, as I hope, would have been ours. Now, Heaven knows how long I
shall have to travel through the world, in order to fulfil my vows to the
lady; and all this comes, because it has not been my fortune ere now to
obtain the rank of knighthood.” On hearing these words, Sir Hugh looked at
his son with astonishment, not so much on account of the expressions which
he had used, but for the tone and manner, the complete change that within a
few hours seemed to have taken place in the youth’s disposition and
character. Bertha, meanwhile, began to weep bitterly, and without any
attempt to conceal her tears; her affliction was indeed much greater than
that of the beautiful Gabrielle for the loss of her ring. Hereupon Otto looked
round with surprise, and, observing from his fair cousin’s eyes, that this was
not the commencement of her distress, (for they were now swollen and
clouded,) he said, in a faltering voice, “Dearest Bertha, then you have
indeed wept all the way home. Wherefore did you answer ‘no,’ when I
questioned you? And, above all, what is the cause of your affliction?”
Bertha did not utter a word, but answered him only by a constrained and
melancholy smile: then she begged of the old knight that she might be
allowed to retire for this evening, and, hiding her face, directly left the
chamber. Otto wished to detain her; but Sir Hugo, with a severe look, held
him fast bound to his place at the table. Then, when Bertha had departed,

“Boy,” said the old man, “thou hast either dreamed and talked wildly, in
which case thy delusions will not last till to-morrow; or thou art in earnest
about vows in a lady’s service, and the desire of being a knight. If thou art
serious, then thy cousin Bertha’s childish tears are not of such consequence
as they might have been heretofore. Bring your chair then directly opposite,
and relate accurately, and with reflection, what happened to you this
evening, so that we may better understand one another.”
Otto then began his story, and as he advanced, and described his own
feelings on every incident, Sir Hugh became also more and more serious
and interested; till at length, when the narrative drew towards a close, he
could not turn away his eyes from a great sword, which hung at no great
distance from them on the wall, and which was half drawn out of the
scabbard.
When Otto had concluded his adventure of the tournament, Sir Hugh kept
his eyes still fixed on the sword. “Many a time,” said he, “have I
endeavoured to bring that old companion, who has been tried in many a
fray, into the sheath, but nothing will induce him to move into concealment.
It seems as if he had special objections to rest in obscurity; and now
methinks he has reason on his side. Come out then once more, old
Truepenny! Otto, fetch him down hither directly.”
It was not without a certain feeling of awe and perplexity, that the youth
turned towards the object of which his father spoke so strangely. It seemed
almost as if, on his moving thither, some visitant from another world would
start up against him. Nothing, however, was visible to his eyes, but the
well-known old weapon;—only that, in the glimmering light, it appeared to
shine with mysterious and unusual brightness. So he laid hold of it by the
golden basket-hilt, and taking no heed of the scabbard, which fell rattling
on the stone floor of the hall, brought the drawn sword to his father. “What
a noble blade!” cried he. “The sword worn by the Knight of Montfaucon
did not glitter more delightfully in the torch-light than this gleams now!”
“Much, no doubt, might be said about the Knight of Montfaucon and his
sword,” said the old man, weighing the heavy weapon in his right hand,
“much too about rash vows and other matters; but of these at a future time,
or perhaps better not at all; for vows once sworn must be fulfilled, and thy
duty to Gabrielle must not be neglected. Only, if one day, in the course of
thy travels, thou shouldst meet with a jeweller who had one precious gem,

which was the delight of his heart, by which his eyes would have been
refreshed and strengthened till his dying day, and from whom this jewel was
taken against his will by some tyrannical empress, though he had fondly
hoped never to part with it; or, moreover, if thou findest a gardener, who
had, in the most sheltered and beautiful parterre, some one favourite flower
which he rejoiced to tend and to cherish, till at length he beheld a wicked
bird come sweeping down from the clouds, tear it up, root and branch, and
fly away with it over the seas; if one day such things should come to pass in
thy presence, then couldst thou guess nearly what the old knight Hugh von
Trautwangen felt at this moment.”—Thereupon the tears rushed into his
eyes, that from age were now deep and hollow, and Otto was about to
express the painful emotion with which his father’s words had inspired him.
The knight, however, stepped firmly and proudly into the midst of the hall.
“Young man,” said he, “this hour is far too important and solemn to admit
of indulging faint-hearted regret over events which cannot be recalled.
Kneel down then, Herr von Trautwangen, that thou mayst receive the
dignity of knighthood.”
Otto sank on his knees, and devoutly folded his hands; thus resembling one
of those youthful figures, which we find on ancient marble monuments, of
warriors untimely slain, with looks of pious simplicity and faith, waiting the
hour of their resurrection. Sir Hugh, meanwhile, touched his son’s shoulders
three times with the heavy blade, saying, “Suffer these blows now from my
hand, but never from that of another man!” Then, drawing himself up to his
full height, he said with solemn dignity, “Herr von Trautwangen; I have
now, in right of my station as knight and banneret, conferred on you the full
rank of the sacred order to which I belong. Fulfil your duties henceforth
with honour and integrity, for the protection of distressed damsels, widows,
and orphans; above all, for the service of our Redeemer and the glory of our
holy religion. For the present, rise up, and let us embrace, like friendly
comrades and brethren in arms.”
Between Sir Hugh and his noble-minded son there had indeed always
subsisted the utmost friendship and confidence; yet never had Otto’s heart
heaved with so much filial affection as now, when he had acquired this
proud rank of equality. Thereafter the old knight stepped, with sword in
hand, towards a great massive shield, that shone like burnished gold, and
hung right over his arm-chair. He struck on it three times, and at measured

intervals, so that the high-vaulted hall reverberated, in deep tones like
thunder, to the blows; immediately after which the apartment was filled
with armed squires and domestics.
Then, holding his son by the hand, he addressed them. “This,” said he, “is
the brave young knight, Sir Otto von Trautwangen, and to-night he is to
keep watch over his armour in the chapel. Bring to him, therefore, the
bright coat of mail inlaid with silver, for that shall henceforth be his apparel.
Carry it down to the chapel, and whoever wishes well to the old oak-tree of
Trautwangen, and this our youngest scion, let him keep awake and joyous
to-night; but forget not his fervent prayers to Heaven, that these solemn
hours of preparation may bring forth prosperous and noble fruits, both for
time and eternity. Amen.”
Hereupon they all bent their way down the long-winding stairs, and
afterwards to the chapel, which, as if for the protection of the castle, stood
at one corner of the outer wall near the eastern gateway. There the squires
laid down the bright-gleaming armour before the altar. Sir Hugh placed the
great sword in his son’s hand, and gave him his blessing, then quitted the
chapel with all his attendants.
The young man was thus left alone, and, with his drawn sword and graceful
demeanour, seemed almost like a supernatural guardian of the sanctuary.

CHAPTER V.
How Sir Otto watched his Armour through the night.
Aloft in the chapel-roof there shone, from afar, a single lamp, illuminating
in such manner the fine Gothic arches, with their richly-carved branches
and foliage, that one might have deemed himself under the shade of a long
leafy avenue in a wood, and have looked up through the trees for the clear
blue light of heaven. Meanwhile the ground of the chapel (like the earth
itself to the weak eyes of mortals) remained, with all its forms and imagery,
dim and doubtful. At first the young knight’s thoughts were wholly devout
and religious. He knelt down with his hands folded over his sword-hilt, and
holding up the cross, with which it was surmounted, like a crucifix before
him, lifted up his eyes to the richly-fretted and illumined church-roof,
reflecting by some natural associations on an event which had left deep
impressions on his youthful mind. He remembered that his now sainted
mother had died on a journey, without any other shelter than that of the
forest trees. She was no longer able to speak with him, but, with sweet
smiles and eyes still intelligent, had pointed to the brightblue vernal sky that
was then visible above them. With his mother’s death other associations
were soon united, till by degrees his attention came back again to his
situation at the present moment. It occurred to him, with a feeling of self-
reproach, how little he had hitherto thought of the chapel in which he was
thus left alone at midnight, and, with a mixed emotion of curiosity and awe,
he started up from his place at the altar.
Of the various forms that were visible along the walls, some projected so
far, that, in the play of light and shadow, they almost moved and started into
life. Others were only painted on the stone,—shadows themselves among
the grotesque shades, which, by the lamp-light, were cast from other figures
upon them. It seemed as if all this imagery must in some way or another be
connected with his father’s past life; of which his knowledge was only like
that which he had just now acquired of the chapel walls. There were certain
scenes and events clear and intelligible, others only faintly guessed at or
imagined, and the plan or connexion of the whole lost in dim twilight. So

much was here plainly visible,—that there were divers sepulchral
monuments, with their sombre adornments,—divers trophies formed of
ponderous weapons and gigantic armour; for Sir Hugh had been a great
conqueror,—had travelled not only in the holy oriental lands, and in the
blooming west of Europe, but into the wild regions of the north, where there
is far more winter than summer, and where the sun remains for many weeks
under the horizon. It might be supposed, that from all these distant climes
certain spoils or tokens had been brought hither, in order to collect, within
the narrow space, proofs how wide and venturous had been the
achievements of that ancient knight, whose career was now fast verging to
its final close, when he would be confined within far narrower limits than
even those of the chapel.
Great banners and Mohommetan horse-tails waved here and there in the
night wind; crooked sabres, with their richly-adorned hilts, shone beside
them, mingled with old rusty swords and halberts. There were whole coats
of mail ranged as if in battle-array; and between them appeared sometimes
the hard features of old men carved in stone on the walls, and sometimes
mild female visages, on which the lamp-light shone like pale moonshine.
Among these there was one by which the knight was earnestly and
irresistibly attracted. He could scarcely view it properly, on account of the
grim statues and armorial trophies by which it was environed, and yet he
was convinced that it could only be the monument of his revered mother. It
seemed as if the figure, with its right hand outstretched, made signs to him
that he should approach nearer. He would have gone thither immediately,
but knew not whether it was permitted him by the laws of knighthood to
move so far from his armour, for the monument was at the further end of
the chapel. A strange conflict then arose in his mind, which he could by no
means tranquillize. His mother seemed constantly repeating her signals, till
at last he even thought that he heard her voice, the same sweet tones
recollected from his childhood, which had often soothed him in his dreams.
“Dearest Otto,” said she, “come hither, though it were but for one moment!
I have been so long among the dead, and so far removed from thee! Come
then, and heed not thine armour, for it is under the protection of Heaven!”
The youth was indeed aware that these sounds could not all come to him
from without, but were mostly the work of his own imagination; however,
his heart was in such degree moved by them, that at last he kneeled down
before the altar, devoutly begging forgiveness, if he now infringed the rules

of the sacred order to which he belonged, and thereafter went courageously
towards the monument.
It was indeed the image of his mother, who was represented in the midst of
a forest, with both hands uplifted to heaven, of which one only being visible
to him from a distance, it had, therefore, seemed that she had made him
signals. Now lie perceived that she directed them only towards the Giver of
all Good, for her eyes were fixed on a golden triangle, which was
represented among the deep-blue clouds. Whatever the figure and its
adornments wanted in freshness and fidelity of resemblance, the youth’s
imagination (though his eyes were now dim with tears) failed not to supply.
It appeared as if he once more beheld actually the same azure and vernal
sky, to which she had pointed at the hour of her death, and the green living
forest, which then waved so pleasantly around him. Even this alone,—that
the colours with which the countenance had once been painted were now
faded away,—moved him unspeakably; for he remembered that his father,
and others who were present, would not allow him to look on his mother’s
pale and lifeless remains. “And yet,” said he, “I behold her now as she then
was!” He considered seriously, whether this were not only the monument,
but also the grave of the departed; but he could not recollect that any coffin
had been deposited in the chapel, or that he had witnessed any funeral-
procession.
Just then a great gust of wind swept through the aisle. The gates of the
church and castle all groaned and rattled; an old banner right over his head
began to wave and rustle; so that he started suddenly from his meditations,
and looked anxiously round to his armour. Thereupon a gigantic figure
came forward betwixt him and the altar, stretching out a long black arm
towards the treasure over which he should have stood sentinel! Incensed, he
directly rushed up to the dark apparition, and seized on it so violently, that
the helmet which it wore fell rattling, along with various weapons, to the
ground, while, through the cloud of dust that rose from the old rusty
fragments, a fleshless skeleton’s head grinned out, as if scornfully, upon
him. With horror he struck at it with his sword; whereupon the death’s-
head, with the coat of mail and all its appurtenances, fell to the ground with
a tremendous crash. Then, for the first time, he perceived plainly that no
ghost nor supernatural visitant had come against him, but that it was only
with one of the lifeless monuments projecting from the wall with which he

had contended. A new duty thus devolved on him; he had to collect the
whole together again; to make the old rusty coat of mail stand erect;
especially to place the skull on the shoulders, and surmount it once more
with the ponderous helmet. In the course of this labour, when he took up the
death’s-head, it appeared that he had inflicted on it a deep scar with his
sword, and could almost believe that it now grinned on him, not in scorn,
but with pain and torment. This notion confused him strangely; and when
he had set all to rights, he took off the helmet once more, in order to be
convinced whether his imagination had misled him. Hereupon he perceived,
that without doubt there were several wounds on the head, and that one of
them (for he had struck but once) must have been inflicted by his sword; so
that he hastened to cover up the frightful object. Returning then to the altar,
he knelt down, and prayed to Heaven for forgiveness of the error which he
had committed, in leaving the armour, which it was his duty to guard; in
consequence of which the confusion of that spectral combat had been
inflicted upon him. It seemed here as if the sacred image of our Redeemer
over the sanctuary looked down kindly and encouragingly on him; and he
was again tranquillized and cheerful. Sometimes, if the thought came with a
chill shuddering over him, that his first combat, since he had been made a
knight, had been with a ghastly defenceless skeleton; then his mother’s mild
voice once more rose on his ears, softly chaunting four verses which he had
often heard in a ballad composed by Walter the minstrel:—

“Dark night precedes the morn,
So grief may joyaunce bring;
And death leads through the wintry grave
To life’s eternal spring.”

Thus, boldly and rejoicingly, he continued to walk up and down before the
altar; and when the distant pale image once more seemed to repeat her
signals, he only bowed his head, made a graceful salutation with his sword,
and pointed to his armour, indicating that he durst not leave his duty. At
length the light and fragrance of the morning came to him through the lofty
windows; he heard the key turn in the massive door-lock, and Sir Hugh
stepped into the chapel.

CHAPTER VI.
How Sir Otto departed from his father’s castle.
The old and the young knight greeted each other with a grave and
melancholy demeanour. Sir Hugh then went to the high altar, lifted up the
armour, and began to assist his son in bracing it on. The youth could hardly
bring himself to receive service from hands so deeply honoured; but he
knew the rules of knighthood, and therefore said not a word, whilst his
father adjusted the cuirass, the corslet, the cuisses, finally set the helmet on
his head, and even knelt down in order to buckle on his golden spurs. Both
of them expressed wonder on finding that the sword-scabbard, which the
old man had brought with him, now fitted exactly, so that the weapon could
be drawn out and replaced without trouble, though heretofore this had been
impossible. “It seems almost,” said Sir Hugh, “as if this old friend had seen
service during the night. There must be a notch more or less on the blade!”
At these words Otto thought with horror on his encounter with the skeleton;
and as they passed by the gigantic coat of mail by which it was covered, he
could not help turning a shy and involuntary glance on the figure. Sir Hugh
observed this, and said,—“Has he then disturbed you in the night? At this I
should not wonder. Such at least would have been his conduct when living.”
Otto made no answer, but gazed wistfully on the strange fashion of the
armour, which in the morning light appeared more than ever remarkable.
His attention was especially attracted by two vulture’s wings rising and
protruding from the helmet, which, during the night, he had mistaken for
great horns. At present the figure was indeed more frightful than it had been
even in the night; and he called to mind certain marvellous stories, which
his father had long ago told him, of a horrible man who wore vulture’s
wings on his helmet.
But thereafter they came opposite to the pale, saintly, and benevolent
features of his mother, and how soon were all impressions of the death’s-
head, the black armour, and vulture’s wings forgotten! “Is then my mother’s
grave in this chapel?” said Otto, in a tone of anxious inquiry. Sir Hugh
looked mournfully, and shook his head in silence. “I beg then,” said the

youth, “that some one may direct me to the spot, wherever it lies, that I may
say my prayers there, as is fitting, before I go forth into the world. Only
through ignorance has that duty been so long neglected.” “This is no proper
hour to speak of graves, nor of the dead,” answered Sir Hugh, taking his
son’s arm, and leading him rapidly from the chapel. Thereafter they came
out upon the ramparts of the castle, amid the fresh fragrant breezes, while
beneath them the landscape unfolded all its varied splendours; the noble
Danube, with its meadows, forests, and distant mountains, brightened by
the long slanting radiance and dazzling dewdrops of the morning. “Thou
should’st not allow the rein to such womanish fantasies, young Knight of
Trautwangen,” said the old man, giving his son a hearty shake; “it will be
time enough for tears, and longings after graves, monuments, and such like,
when thou art as old as I am now. But even then, such thoughts must be
concealed within thine own breast. Wait here for the present, and enjoy the
freshness of this May morning. When all is ready for thy departure thou
shalt be sent for.”
The old hero then strode away from the rampart down to the castle, leaving
the youth cheered and revived in spirit by the reprimand which he had just
received, while his sanguine hopes of the future always gained more
strength as the landscape grew brighter around him, and the air was filled
with the music of skylarks, and joyous carolling of shepherds driving out
their flocks on the meadows. While he was thus boldly stepping up and
down, rejoicing in the martial clang of his weapons and silver armour,
which to his ears harmonized so well with the gladness that reigned around
him, he happened during his walk to strike on something concealed among
the tall grass, which also sounded, but with a sad and mournful tone, as if
complaining of unprovoked injury. Looking down, he perceived that it was
Bertha’s lute, whose mistress must indeed have been lost in deep reverie,
else she never would have left her beloved companion so carelessly among
the damp moss and unfriendly dews. So he took up the poor neglected
instrument, pulled off his iron glove, and seating himself in the grass,
prepared, as well as he could, to console his forsaken cousin with a farewell
melody. He began with praises of the spring and the beautiful scenes that
were around him; but, alas! he sang no words that were fitted for Bertha’s
ears. His fancy was soon kindled by dreams of the knightly career that
awaited him, and the favour that he would gain by his exploits from the
beautiful Gabrielle. Thus his melody was indeed jocund, and sounded so

powerfully, that Bertha was attracted by the notes, and came unobserved to
his side, with looks how changed from those which she had worn the
preceding day! Her eyes were indeed still bright, but it was her tears only
that glittered in the sun. “And this is then in truth your farewell song?” said
she. Otto remained for a space silent and meditative, then answered,
—“Dearest Bertha, that song has indeed expressed more than I intended;
more indeed than I was well conscious of ere it was begun. Like the
flowers, and the brightness of the new year, my own newly-awakened hopes
and prospects dawned on my mind, and carried me quite away. For listen,
dearest Bertha! We cannot longer disguise it from each other, that whatever
this music has accidentally betrayed is but the truth. The strange lady, with
her beauty and distress, has got complete possession of my heart, which is
for the first time inspired with a chivalrous and knightly passion. Take
courage then and be merry! Ere long there will doubtless appear some
wandering knight-errant, who will arrive here as unexpectedly as Gabrielle
has done, and for whose sake you will soon forget the fond foolish Otto.”
“Such a knight will never come hither,” said Bertha, mournfully; “and as
for the distress of that lady, perhaps I too—” Here she blushed deeply, and
was silent. “Nay,” said Otto vehemently, and starting up, “if you indeed
should ever be in distress, then would I think of no other. My life and all my
endeavours should be devoted to you alone.” “I shall not, however, choose
you for my champion, Knight of Trautwangen,” said Bertha, proudly and
coldly. “Believe me, if our pagan foes, as we read in the old histories, had
bound me to the stake, with the devouring flames kindling around me, and
you came up on horseback, arrayed in your bright armour as you are now,
to offer your assistance, I would only say,—‘Thanks! I have no need of
such a defender!’ and would cry out, ‘Pile on more flaming brands;’ and
then I would extinguish them even with my tears; and yet methinks no! that
might not be, for they are already too scorching!” With these words,
weeping bitterly, she sank down upon the grass, and Otto, in the conflict of
his feelings, accidentally drew his hand across the harp, so that one of the
strings broke, with a long mournful intonation. Bertha raised herself up at
the sound. “Mark,” said she, “how you treat all that belongs to me! Why
have you first pulled off your iron gloves? With them you might have
sooner broke my unfortunate harp into pieces. Give it to me, Sir Knight!
This poor remembrance at least remains mine.” So she took the instrument
vehemently out of his hands, and ran away. He called after her, but she only

rocked the lute in her arms, as if it had been a child that had received some
injury, drawing from it all the while mild and heart-moving tones, till,
without once looking round, she vanished from his sight behind the chapel.
The stern deep voice of the old knight was now heard from the court,
calling out repeatedly, “All is ready, all is ready! Sir Otto, come hither and
mount your horse!” The youth then hastened down from the rampart, and
found a number of cavalry squires in attendance; three of whom were
holding by golden reins a light-brown charger, which he had often seen
before, but had never dared to mount. On his appearance among them,
“Young knight,” said Sir Hugh, with a forced smile, “parting and delay are
both painful,—is it not so? Well, think then no more of the matter, but
mount directly, and try how this noble steed will bear his new rider.” The
young Sir Otto immediately sprang into the saddle, and rode his horse up
and down with such extraordinary strength and agility, that all the by-
standers expressed their admiration, insisting that this animal, whose
disposition had been before wild and untameable, had at last found out and
acknowledged his proper master. The venerable old knight was delighted,
and stretched out his arms towards Sir Otto. “Dismount once more, dearest
son,” cried he, “that ere you finally depart I may embrace and bless you.”
Whereupon the youth threw himself from his horse with a great clang and
rattle of his armour, and rushed into his father’s arms. The horse meanwhile
snorted and plunged, till he had pulled the bridle from the hands of the
squires, then trotted after his young master, stood quietly beside him, and
even laid his head caressingly on his shoulder.
“Now, my son, depart in God’s name,” said Sir Hugh; “your attendants are
already mounted and in waiting.” “There is yet one request which I had to
prefer,” answered the youth, “and this perhaps my honoured father will not
refuse to grant. It may be the last which I shall ever make here; for I must
travel into far-distant lands, and have many a hard battle to encounter.” “My
son,” said Sir Hugh, “one must avoid all words that sound like a foreboding
of evil. Misfortune is ready enough to seize hold of every mortal, and the
obstacles which often stand insurmountable betwixt us and our desires,
form an easy and convenient ladder for our adversary to mount into our
chambers. Therefore do not speak to me of last requests and so forth; but
tell me at once what are your wishes, and they shall be fulfilled.” “Sir
Knight,” answered Otto, “so far as I have yet heard or read of heroes and

their exploits, they have always on their first adventures rode out alone.
Such was the conduct of the great Seyfried, and of every one else that is
most renowned. You have spoken, however, of a train to attend me; and I
see a great number of armed horsemen in waiting; but I entreat that you will
not thus send me forth like a spoiled child, who needs guidance and
protection, but as a stout and wise champion, who, by his own independent
strength, can both defend himself and afford assistance to others.”
Hereupon Sir Hugh immediately ordered all the horsemen to dismount;
“for,” said he, “my son has in such manner justified his request, that
whatever my own wishes might be, it were a sin if I refused it to him. And
now, young knight,” added he, “do not any longer delay your departure, for
otherwise your old father’s heart will at last be too much moved. One
injunction, however, I must yet offer you. Behave as courteously towards
the Knight of Montfaucon as the circumstances of your vow will permit;
for, in his detention of the ring, he is not guilty of such injustice as you
believe.”
Upon these words, Sir Otto flew, swift almost as a bird, into the saddle, and
rode directly out of the court, while his old father returned, weeping bitterly,
to his now lonely chambers. In his affliction, however, he appeared so
dignified and worthy of respect, that no one of the household had courage
then to meet his looks, or even go into his presence.
Just as Otto von Trautwangen came along at a hard trot across the meadow
below the castle, Bertha and the old minstrel Walter were seated on the
rampart, and looked mournfully down on his progress; for Bertha had
confided all her sufferings and sorrow to the old man, who happened at this
time to have made one of his accustomed visits to the castle. She was about
to break out afresh into an agony of tears, when Master Walter said,—“Nay,
nay, let us sing a farewell address to the young knight on his departure.” He
then took his harp, and sung one stanza, to which Bertha responded; but as
the minstrel began again, she made him a signal to be silent, for she could
bear it no longer. Her voice faltered, and she wrapt herself closely in her
veil. Meanwhile the soft notes of their music were borne down by the
morning breezes to Sir Otto, who spurred his horse, and drew down his
visor as if resolved to hear no more. It was the first time that he had ever
worn a close helmet; and as he looked through its bars on the vernal
landscape, his heart heaved within him, and was filled with new and strange

sensations. The whole world appeared new and mysterious; but the bright
roseate hues of the eastern sky prevailed in his mind, and over the scenery.
He shouted aloud, encouraged his noble horse, and, like a new-fledged bird
or butterfly of spring, pursued his way over fields, woods, and meadows,
forgetting all sorrow in his bright prospects of the future.

CHAPTER VII.
How Sir Otto vanquished Sir Heerdegen von Lichtenried.
In that smiling land, where the silver-blue Mayne rolls its waters past the
old free town of Frankfort, where, on both sides, are situated the most
attractive villages and garden-houses, vineyards and pleasure-grounds, life
is indeed joyous and delightful! Whoever has the good fortune to be there in
the vernal season of flowers and blossoms, especially if he be a young
warrior, with his heart full and buoyant with grand and lofty anticipations,
may quaff for once a cup of pleasure such as the whole course of his after-
life may not offer to his lips. The truth of what has just now been said is
known to the writer of this history from his own experience; and he heartily
wishes that his readers may have proved it also, both for their own sakes,
and in order that they may better sympathize with the feelings, which, as it
were, spread a golden web of enchantment over all the objects by which the
youthful Otto was now surrounded. He knew not what to look upon as most
interesting, the thoughts of his journey and warlike exploits,—the blooming
fairy-land, with its orchard-trees, winding-walks and avenues, varied hills
and dales, in which he was placed; or, finally, the mirthful and courteous
people by whom this land was inhabited.
In such mood of mind he rode up to a house for the entertainment of
travellers, which was situated not far from the banks of the river, and whose
inviting portico of vines and jasmines determined him to alight and rest
here at least till after mid-day. His noble charger was duly led into the
stable, and supplied with provender, though the knight must himself attend
to this duty, as the faithful and attached animal would not allow any one
else to come near him. At last Sir Otto was seated in the portico, with a
flask of old Rudisheimer before him, which, as he poured out a full glass,
shone like liquid gold amid the light that came flickering through the dark-
green foliage of the arbour.
Soon afterwards a man happened to come out from the house into the
portico, not much older than Otto in years, but of a sombre, sunburnt
visage, accoutred as a knight, and with his whole armour dusty and rusted,

as if from a long journey. His weapons too were without ornament, and
buckled on in such a manner, that it was obvious the stranger cared not for
external appearances; and he must have afforded a remarkable contrast to
the youth, in his bright silver coat of mail, whom he now found sitting over
his wine in the arbour. The stranger’s salutation was courteous, though in a
tone which betrayed somewhat of moroseness and discontent. He took his
place opposite to the Knight of Trautwangen, and also demanded wine. The
latter was at first by no means well satisfied with his companion, believing
that such an intruder would put to flight all the fairy-visions which the
pleasant scene around him had inspired, without offering by his discourse
any desirable compensation. He soon discovered, however, that the stranger
belonged to that class of people who are justly compared to rough
diamonds, to hard ordinary-looking pebbles, that when struck, yield bright
sparks, or to the dingy masses of ore from which the alchemist at last brings
forth pure gold. He had travelled through many distant countries, yet had
never lost his original character,—that of an honest unaffected German; or
such attributes had been strengthened rather than weakened, as the more he
had observed of other countries the more deeply he had been aware of his
exclusive attachment to his native land. The conversation, when once
begun, proved interesting to both parties, and they soon found themselves in
such good humour, that they were not displeased when a third party made
his appearance from the house and joined their table. This was a young
merchant, named Theobaldo, of Italian birth, who had been sent by his
relations in the south to study the commerce of this flourishing town.
Among much other discourse, the strange knight in the rusty armour related
the following history, to which they listened with great attention.
“In the distant northern kingdom of Sweden, there are not only people yet
living under the clouds of ignorance and pagan superstition, but, especially
on the borders of Finland, are many unfortunate victims of witchcraft and
necromancy, which arts are still practised there by magicians and sorcerers,
who can bring against their enemies all sorts of evil in body, goods, and
estate. Just on the Finland frontier there is situated a high mountain, which,
on the Swedish side, is covered with beautiful copsewood, and on the other
with dark pine-trees, so closely ranked together, and so luxuriant in shade,
that one might almost say, the smallest bird could not find his way through
the thickets. Below the copsewood there stands a chapel with the image of
St George, as guardian of the land, and a defence against the dragons, (if

there be such,) and other monsters of paganism; while on the other side, on
the borders of the dark fir-wood, are certain cottages inhabited by wicked
sorcerers, who have, moreover, a cave cut so deep into the mountain, that it
joins with the bottomless abyss, whence come all the devils that assist them.
The Swedish Christians, who dwelt in the neighbourhood of this mountain,
thought it would be necessary, besides the chapel and statue of St George,
to choose some living protector, and therefore selected an ancient warrior,
highly renowned for his prowess in the battle-field, and who had in his old
age become a monk. When this man went to take up his abode on the
mountains, his only son (for he had formerly lived as a married man in the
world) would on no account leave him; but lived there also, assisting his
father in his duties as watcher, and in the exercises of prayer and penitence,
fully equalling the example that was now afforded him, as he had formerly
done by his bravery as a soldier. The life here led by those two valiant
champions is said to have been most edifying and pious.
“Once on a time it happened, that the young hero went out to cut wood in
the forest. He bore a sharp axe on his shoulders, and was besides girded
with a great sword; for, as the woods were not only full of wild beasts, but
also haunted by wicked men, the pious hermits took the precaution of
always going armed. While the good youth was forcing his way through the
thickest of the copsewood, and already beheld over it the pointed tops of the
fir-trees, (for he was close on the Finland frontier,) there rushed out against
him a great white wolf, so that he had just time enough to leap to one side,
and not being able immediately to draw his sword, he flung the axe at his
assailant. The blow was so well aimed, that it struck one of the wolf’s fore-
legs, who being cruelly wounded, limped back, with a yell of anguish, into
the wood. The young hermit-warrior, however, thought to himself, “It is not
enough that I am rescued, but I must take such measures that no one else
may in future be injured, or even terrified by this wild beast.” So he rushed
in as fast as possible among the fir-trees, and inflicted such a vehement
blow with his sword on the wolf’s head, that the animal, moaning piteously,
fell to the ground. Hereupon there came over him all at once a strange mood
of regret and compassion for his poor victim. Instead of putting it
immediately to death, he bound up the wounds, as well as he could, with
moss and twigs of trees, placed it on a sort of canvass sling, on which he
was in the habit of carrying great faggots, and with much labour brought it

home, in hopes that he might be able at last to cure and tame his fallen
adversary.
“He did not find his father in the cottage, and it was not without some fear
and anxiety that he laid the wolf on his own bed, which was made of moss
and rushes, and over which he had painted a figure of St George and the
dragon. He then turned to the fire-place of the small hut, in order to prepare
a healing salve for the wounds; but, when thus occupied, how was he
surprised to hear the moanings and lamentations of an articulate voice from
the bed on which he had just before deposited the wolf! On returning
thither, his astonishment was inexpressible on perceiving, instead of the
frightful wild beast, a most beautiful damsel, on whose head the wound
which he had inflicted was bleeding through her fine golden hair, and
whose right arm, in all its grace and snow-white luxuriance, was stretched
out motionless, for it had been broken by the blow from his axe! “Pray,”
said she, “have pity, and do not kill me outright. The little life that I have
still left is indeed painful enough, and may not last long,—yet sad as my
condition is, it is yet tenfold better than to die!”—The young man then knelt
down weeping beside her, and she explained to him how she was the
daughter of a magician on the other side of the mountain, who had sent her
out in the shape of a wolf to collect plants from places which, in her own
proper form, she could not have reached. It was but in terror that she had
made that violent spring, which the youth had mistaken for an attack on
him, when her only wish had been to pass him by. “But you directly broke
my right arm,” said she, “though I had no evil design against you!” How
she had now regained her proper shape she could not imagine; but to the
youth it was quite clear, that the picture of St George and the dragon had
broken the spell by which the poor girl had been transformed.
“While the son was thus occupied, the old man returned home, and soon
learned all that had occurred, perceiving, at the same time, that if the young
pagan wanderer had been released from the spells by which she had been
bound, the youth was in his turn enchanted, and spell-bound by her beauty
and amiable behaviour.
“From that moment he exerted himself to the utmost, for the welfare of her
soul, endeavouring to convert her to Christianity, while his son attended to
the cure of her wounds; and, as their endeavours were on both sides
successful, it was resolved among them, that the lovers should be united in

holy bonds of matrimony, for the youth had not yet restricted himself by
any monastic vows.
“The magician’s daughter was now restored to perfect health; a day had
been appointed for her baptism and marriage, before which it happened that
the bride and bridegroom went to take a pleasure-walk one evening through
the woods. The sun was yet high in the west, and shone so fervently through
the beech-trees on the green turf, that they could never resolve on returning
home, but always came deeper and deeper into the forest. Then the bride
told him stories of her early life; and sang old songs, which she had learned
when a child, and which sounded beautifully amid the woodland-solitude.
Though the words were such that they could not be agreeable to the youth’s
ears, (for she had learned them among her pagan and wicked relations,) yet
he could not interrupt her; first, because he loved her so dearly; and,
secondly, because she sung in a voice so clear and sweet, that the whole
forest seemed to rejoice in her music. At last, however, the pointed heads of
the pine-trees again became visible, and the youth wished to turn back, in
order that he might not come again too near the accursed Finland frontier.
His bride, however, said to him,—“Dearest Conrad,” (for that was his
name,) “why should we not walk on a little farther? I would gladly see the
very place where you wounded me so cruelly on the head and arm, and
made me a prisoner; all which has in the end only contributed to my
happiness. Methinks we are now very near the spot.” Accordingly they
sought about here and there, till at last the twilight fell dim and heavily on
the dense woods. The sun had long since set; the moon had risen, however,
and as her light broke forth the lovers stood on the Finland frontier,—or
rather they must have gone already some distance beyond it, for the
bridegroom was exceedingly terrified when he found his cap lifted from his
head, as if by a human hand, though this was only the branch of a fir-tree.
Immediately thereafter the whole air around them was filled with strange
and supernatural beings,—witches, devils, dwarfs, horned owls, fire-eyed
cats, and a thousand other wretches that could not be named or described,
whirled around them as if dancing to rapid music; at which, when the bride
had looked on for a while, she broke out into loud laughter, and at last
began to dance furiously along with them. The poor bridegroom might
shout and pray, as much and as earnestly as he would, for she never
attended to him, but at last transformed herself in a manner so
extraordinary, that he could not distinguish her from the other dancers in

that abominable waltz. He thought, however, that he had kept his eyes upon
her, and seized on one of the dancers; but, alas! it was only a horrible
spectre who held him fast, and threw her wide-waving shroud around him,
so that he could not make his escape; while, at the same time, some of the
subterraneous black demons pulled at his legs, and wanted to tear him down
along with them into their bottomless caves.
“Fortunately he happened at that moment to cross himself, and call on the
name of our Saviour; upon which the whole of this vile assembly fell into
confusion. They howled aloud, and ran off in all directions; while, in the
mean time, he saved himself by recrossing the frontiers, and getting under
the protection of the Swedish copsewood. His beautiful bride, however, was
completely lost, and by no endeavours could he ever obtain her again,
though he often came to the Finland border, called out her name aloud, wept
and prayed; but all in vain! Many times, it is true, he saw her floating about
through the pine-trees, as if in the chase, but she was always accompanied
by a train of frightful creatures, and she herself also looked wild and
disfigured. For the most part she never noticed Conrad; but, if she could not
help fixing her eyes on him, she laughed so immoderately, and in a mood of
merriment so strange and unnatural, that he was terrified, and made the sign
of the cross; whereupon she always fled away howling into the thickets. He
fell more and more into melancholy abstraction, hardly ever spoke, and
though he had given over his vain walks into the forest, yet, if one asked
him any question, the only answer he returned was, “Ay, she is gone away
beyond the mountains!”—so little did he know or remember of any other
object in the world but the lost beauty! At last he died of grief;—and,
according to a request which he had once made, his father prepared a grave
for him on the place where the bride was found and lost; though, during the
fulfilment of this duty, he had enough to do, one while in contending with
the crucifix against evil spirits, and at another with his sword against wild
beasts, which were no doubt sent thither by the magicians to attack and
annoy him. At length, however, he brought his task to an end, and thereafter
it seemed as if the bride mourned for the youth’s untimely death; for there
was heard often a sound of howling and lamentation at the grave. For the
most part indeed this noise is like the voices of wolves, yet, at the same
time, human accents are to be distinguished, and I myself have often
listened thereto on dark winter nights.”

The knight in rusty armour having concluded his story, all three sat for
some time silent and meditative,—till at length Theobaldo began to speak.
“The cureless wounds of unfortunate love; the loss, or, much more, the
changed heart of one whom we held most dear, and to whom, though
changed, we yet feel an unconquerable attachment, are indeed among the
most fearful causes of distress to which we are in this life subjected. I
remember a story somewhat alike in this respect to that which we have now
heard; and if my worthy companions are inclined to listen, am ready to
narrate it.” Both knights assured him that they would be deeply attentive,
and he proceeded as follows:—“It may be about twenty-five or thirty years
since there lived, in my native town of Milan, a young maiden, who was not
only amiable in temper, but such a paragon of beauty, as only some great
master in painting, or sculpture, could imagine in a summer night’s dream.
At the same time she was modest, quiet, retired, and humble; though,
notwithstanding this disposition, as a diamond will shine even amid the
deepest shade, she became known and admired through the whole town,
under the name of the beautiful Lisberta. This flower of the Milanese
damsels was one day invited to make her appearance, adorned with
garlands and in festal attire, at a religious procession, in order that her
extraordinary charms might heighten its effect on beholders; and, as she
considered this but as the fulfilment of a pious duty, she agreed to the
request which had been urged upon her. She, therefore, adorned herself in
the best manner with the richest dress, flowers, jewels, rings, and gold
chains,—finishing her toilette, however, long before the procession was
ready to commence; so that, having some time at her own disposal, and
invited by the pleasant fragrant air of spring, she resolved to take a walk in
the garden, which had been tastefully laid out round her father’s house, who
was one of the richest men in Milan.
“On her way through the long avenues and shady walks, wherein were the
rarest fruit-trees and flowering plants, she came to the borders of a lake
clear as crystal, which lay there like a sleeping beauty in the arms of the
green thickets by which it was environed. As if bound by magic spells to the
spot, she stood on the water’s brink, looking at her reflected image, in all
her pomp of dress and glittering jewels; so that, like the fabulous Narcissus
of old, she could not help wondering at her own attractions. At last, she
forced herself, by a kind of vehement effort, to fix her eyes on the real
objects by which she was surrounded, in order that she might escape from

the delusions of the watery mirror, and thus became aware of something
among the grass, which glittered like burnished gold and silver. Glad of
aught that could divert her attention, and desirous to know what
extraordinary meadow-flower this could be that shone so brightly, she
hastened to the spot, and found, to her great surprise, that it was a highly-
polished sword, with a golden hilt, a scabbard bound with silver, and
altogether of a most elegant fashion. She took it up, as if it had been a mere
toy, notwithstanding the terror which she usually entertained of such
warlike instruments; nay, she even drew it half out of the sheath, and
wondered to find that her features were now reflected in greater beauty
from the polished steel than they had been before from the water, while at
the same time she felt less apprehension and perplexity. Alas! poor Lisberta,
thou hadst then unwittingly the means of thine own destruction in thy
hands, which, like a merciless sickle, was to cut down thy life and
happiness like a May flower in bloom! Though the sword alone would not
cause such misfortune, yet thou wert destined to fall the victim of him by
whom it was usually worn and wielded.
“From amid the verdant thickets stepped forward a knight in full armour,—
no longer a youth, but yet not old, and with such indescribable heroic
dignity in his person and demeanour, that, on his appearance, the beautiful
Lisberta, from an involuntary emotion of respect, had almost fallen on her
knees before him. “Fairest of damsels,” said the knight, “beware of
wounding yourself with that sharp-edged weapon. Far rather would I see
my heart’s blood streaming from my veins, than even the slightest drop
from these snow-white hands!” Thereupon, with the greatest respect, he
took from her the sword, placing it again in the belt by his side, and before
he had time to say more, the servants came into the garden, calling aloud
for Lisberta, as the procession had already begun. The shy timid girl hastily
made a sign to the knight that he should withdraw, and, after a respectful
obeisance, he disappeared immediately through the green hedges by which
the garden was enclosed.
“How confusedly the procession, the singing of the choir, and the applause
of the multitude, were blended and lost to the senses of Lisberta, I need not
further describe; besides, my heart bleeds to think of the fate which awaited
the poor victim; and thus I have dwelt too long on the circumstances of her
early life, well knowing how melancholy were the events that attended her

afterwards. From this point then allow me to proceed more quickly towards
the end.
“In the evening after the festival, when she was sitting lost in thought at her
window, the declining sun shone so brightly and beautifully, that she could
not help observing one of her favourite flowers,—a tall and slender plant,
which had broke loose from the rushes with which it had been tied up, and
now hung down from the veranda towards the terrace-walk below. On her
endeavouring to restore the plant to its former station, she observed a figure
passing through the garden, in which she recognised but too plainly, the
knight with whom she had spoken in the morning,—the owner of that
brightly gleaming sword. In all haste she tied up the flower, and would have
retreated; but what was her surprise to find a letter attached thereto, which
no doubt had been the work of that mysterious wanderer. On unfolding and
reading it, she indeed found that it was a love-letter from him, and that he
was a renowned knight from a distant country, who, in the town of Milan,
was known by the name of Signor Uguccione, and of whose warlike
exploits and amiable conduct she had already heard many wonderful
stories. Her heart, therefore, which was already moved in his favour, soon
yielded, when she thought of the high praises that had been bestowed on
him. The blooming plant was ere long loosed again from its support, and
sent down with her love-embassy, in reply to that which she had received;
—and soon after returned with another letter from Uguccione. In this way
salutations went and came, till at last Lisberta herself went down by
moonlight by the private staircase which led into the garden; for in the night
hours she was sure that no one would come to disturb their conversation.
“It happened, after some time, however, that though Lisberta’s letters were
sent down as usual, yet no one came thither to take them from their verdant
envelope. When she drew up the plant, she found them, alas! unopened. At
last she began to make inquiries after Uguccione, and learned that many
days ago he had vanished, in a manner the most unaccountable, from Milan.
Yet every night the unfortunate damsel used to bend the plant down as usual
to the terrace, and if she drew it up and found no letter, she always wept
bitterly. This was continued so long, that at last, by such continual grief, her
heart was broken. After her death and funeral, a lady who had won her
confidence made the fatal flower be planted on her grave; and I have often

beheld it there, spreading its green shade and fragrance over that lonely and
mournful place.”

CHAPTER VIII.
The Combat with Sir Heerdegen von Lichtenried.
During the relation of this story, a deep gloom had gathered always more
and more over the countenance of Theobaldo, so that by the time he had got
to the end he seemed quite changed; and now, instead of being a careless
merry companion, looked like one whose whole hopes are buried in the
grave with some beloved object.
After a pause he said, “You must forgive me, noble warriors, if I have, by
such a narrative, thrown a cloud on this happy meeting, and as it were
dimmed the lustre of your bright old Rudisheimer. For the most part, I
myself am cheerful enough, and can enjoy a goblet of wine, and the
sportive conversation of my companions; only, that the mournful events
which I have just related come now and then betwixt me and all pleasure;
and, until I have relieved my mind by repeating them, I cannot obtain any
rest. This happens, because my relations have so often led me to Lisberta’s
grave, and told me so much of her beauty, and her sufferings from the
treachery of the stranger knight, that the story has been deeply impressed,
even from childhood, on my mind. If this Signor Uguccione should ever fall
in my way, he may look to his own safety as he best can; for I could
scarcely imagine a greater pleasure, than to stab him to the heart with his
own bright sword, and at the same moment to call aloud in his ears,
‘Lisberta, Lisberta!’”
At these words, his eyes gleamed like two fiery beacons, from the
vehemence of his emotion; but Otto scarcely perceived this, and had
attended but little to what now passed. His whole heart was still fixed on the
story and distresses of the forsaken Lisberta, till at last his melancholy
found relief in words, and he began to relate to his companions the fortunes
of his own life, but in the third person, as if the events had happened to
another. Thus, he told them how happily he had lived on the banks of the
Danube with his beloved cousin Bertha; but now a more powerful
attachment had led him away from his home, and induced him to break
these early ties; adding, how the two stories of unfortunate lovers had

brought his attention painfully back to his forsaken cousin. To conclude, he
could not help, in the simplicity of his heart, asking his companions
whether they believed that Bertha too would die of grief, like the hermit of
the forest, and the betrayed beauty of Milan.
Hereupon the strange knight in rusty armour looked him sternly in the face,
and, with a tone and demeanour so changed, that it seemed as if all the
friendly feelings that he had before expressed had been frozen to ice within
him; he said,—“As thou hast spoken so much of the Danube’s pleasant
banks, and of a damsel named Bertha, perchance thou art called Otto von
Trautwangen, and thy fair cousin is the Lady von Lichtenried?” Scarcely
had Sir Otto answered in the affirmative, when the stranger rose up, placed
the massive helmet which he had brought out with him upon his head, and
said,—“It is good that we have thus met one another; for I am the Knight
Heerdegen von Lichtenried, Bertha’s brother, who, after long laborious
pilgrimages through the world, have now returned home, in hopes of
finding my sister grown up in the bloom of health and beauty. I have been
fortunate therefore in the opportunity granted me of avenging her wrongs
on such a conceited and foolish babbler as thou art!” The conclusion of this
discourse quite stifled in Otto’s heart the wish for reconciliation which he
might otherwise have entertained, and in vehement haste he started up, in
order to find his sword and helmet. Meanwhile, as he was thus arranging his
armour, the Italian wished to interpose a few words of mediation; but
Heerdegen answered him sternly, “Give yourself no trouble; if this young
coxcomb, with his silver bright armour, has spoken the truth, then he ought
to fall the victim of my revenge; if, on the other hand, he has uttered
unmeaning and groundless words, he deserves, notwithstanding,
chastisement for that fault.” By this time Otto stood prepared at the entrance
of the portico, and pointed to a thicket of trees which stood below on the
banks of the river. Sir Heerdegen immediately set himself to close his rusty
visor, which was effected with a great crash, then placed himself by the side
of his opponent, and they walked together towards the intended field of
battle. Theobaldo, meanwhile, who seemed now delighted with what was
going forward, moved briskly, sometimes before, and sometimes after them.
“Noble sirs,” said he, when they had come about half-way, “forgive me if I
seem thus cheerful, when you have business so tragical on your hands. But
through my whole life I have never wished so much for any sight that is

recreative and reviving to the beholder, as a real combat for life and death,
between two heavily-armed and valiant champions. Such an encounter I
would often have tried willingly at the risk of my own life; but it has never
been my fortune hitherto to engage in conflict with any assailants better
than light-armed cowardly banditti. And when people make pretended
fights together, nothing, in my opinion, can be more contemptible and
ridiculous. I consider myself fortunate, therefore, as I shall to-day behold a
glorious encounter; for I am thoroughly convinced that you will both
conduct yourselves like well-proved and undaunted heroes.”
Amid the thickets of the copsewood, the two knights soon discovered a free
open glade, with smooth turf, which was well fitted for their combat.
Without making farther conditions, or even interchanging a word, they
directly took their places, drew their swords, and attacked one another with
great wrath and violence, while Theobaldo composedly took his station as a
looker-on, leaning against a high lime-tree. The whole air rung with the
clashing of their swords, though not one blow hit effectively, but was either
driven back by the shield or by their plumed helmets, so that the ground,
instead of being stained with blood, was strewed with partycoloured
feathers. During the conflict, Sir Heerdegen’s voice was always heard from
the hollow of his rusty beaver, calling aloud, “Bertha! Bertha!” and it
seemed often as if Otto recoiled at this exclamation, though he still repelled
every stroke of his enemy’s sword. Perceiving this, Heerdegen redoubled
his blows, and Sir Otto continued merely to ward them off as well as he
could, without, as it appeared, attempting to make any farther attack, till at
last his shield was cut in two, and he had only one half left in his hand.
Then his rage suddenly broke out like that of a wounded lion;—as if a
lightning-flash of inspiration had kindled within his heart, he threw aside
the broken remnant of his shield,—and from his silver helmet were heard
the silvery tones of his youthful voice, pronouncing fervently the name,
“Gabrielle! Gabrielle!” At the same time he held his sword grasped in both
hands, and therewith inflicted such a storm of blows on his opponent’s
head, breast, and shield-arm, that suddenly a stream of blood burst from the
visor of Sir Heerdegen. At the moment when Sir Otto perceived this, he
held back his sword, and the wounded knight, being no longer able by any
effort to support himself, fell powerless, with a great crash of his armour,
upon the grass.

Theobaldo and Otto kneeled beside him to render their assistance. The
helmet, already almost broken in pieces by the vehemence of Otto’s last
attack, was quickly loosed, and Sir Heerdegen’s visage was found covered
with blood. Otto, who was well skilled (as every knight ought to be) in the
healing art, washed it carefully away; whereupon it was discovered, that the
wound began on the right side of the forehead, from whence it stretched
across between the eyebrows, and came down over the right cheek. A
proper bandage was provided, and securely fixed; but the knight continued
to lie there insensible and motionless, as if he were already dead, and in his
pale visage, now divested of its former stem expression, a resemblance to
Bertha was clearly discernible. As he thus bent over his fallen foe, Sir Otto
wept bitterly. An old story came now to his remembrance, which Sir Hugh
had often related of a knight, who, in the confusion of the battle-field, had
slain his beloved mistress, who was dressed in a coat of mail, which he
mistook for that of an enemy; and now he almost accused himself of being
Bertha’s murderer. “Ay,” said he to himself, “I deserve no other name. The
careless mood in which I took my departure inflicted the first deadly blow,
and with her brother’s life I have cut asunder the last ties that bound her to
this world!”
The young merchant reminded him, that it was now time to carry the
wounded man back to their inn, for the evening was drawing on, and rest in
bed was, of all remedies, the most needful. Thereupon they took up their yet
insensible companion, and bore him away on their shoulders in such
manner, that Theobaldo alone had his head to support; “for,” said Otto
mournfully, “if he should awake on the road, he would rather behold your
countenance than mine; while, on the other hand, his features remind me so
painfully of the forsaken Bertha, that I dare not look on him.” After his
arrival at the inn, where he was attended by two of his own squires, Sir
Heerdegen again recovered his senses; and on learning that Otto intended to
remain there, probably as long as his antagonist’s life was in danger, he
said,—“Knight of Trautwangen, if you entertain in reality any friendly
intentions towards me, then I beseech you to take your departure this
evening, or, if it be possible, within this very hour. Even to look upon you,
or hear your voice, has become so intolerable, that, without doubt, I must
die if I am any longer subjected to such torment.” In a mood of deep
melancholy, Otto then left the wounded Sir Heerdegen, and rode away
under the light of the moon and stars, (which were then just risen,) along a

road fragrant with blooming woods and flowers, which led towards the
town, Theobaldo bearing him company, and riding by his side.

CHAPTER IX.
How Sir Otto was entertained by the Merchant.
The two horsemen, who thus proceeded on their way, were indeed of
tempers the most opposite that could be imagined. As for Otto, one might
have said, that his whole feelings were drawn from the darkest shades of
night that lay in the forest around them; while Theobaldo’s, on the contrary,
were inspired and modified by the fragrance of the blossoms, and the
brightness of the stars. The latter tried, by every means in his power, to
impart his own high spirits to his companion; and when he found that such
endeavours were vain, began, in the melodious language of his country, to
sing one love-song after another, which sounded beautifully amid the placid
stillness of the night. Theobaldo was a good musician, so that Otto’s
meditations were by no means disturbed by these songs; for, as he could not
understand the words, it seemed to him almost as if one of the numberless
nightingales from the neighbouring groves had determined to follow him,
and sing for him alone. He might indeed interpret the language (or notes
rather) in any way that best suited the current of his own emotions.
They came at last over a grassy eminence, from which they beheld the large
town of Frankfort, with all its lights, on both sides of the Mayne, outspread
before them. Otto halted there for a space, quite lost in wonder; for,
educated, as he had been, at a lonely castle in the country, he had never
before seen such a town; and the great number of lighted windows and
lamps, though nothing more than is visible every night, seemed to him like
some grand festal illumination. Theobaldo amused himself for some time
with the surprise expressed by his companion, then said, “Yes, Sir Otto, this
is the far-famed free town of Frankfort, and if you will enter within its
walls, and condescend to honour my humble dwelling with your presence, I
shall perhaps be able to shew you scenes that are yet more worthy of your
approval and admiration.”
Immediately thereafter, they rode past several elegant villas and garden-
houses on the outside of the gates. For the most part these dwellings made a
brilliant appearance; one heard the sounds of the harp, female singers, and

ringing of glasses; moreover, the light came through handsome verandas,
bow-windows, and balconies, intertwined with vines and jasmine, the sight
of which added effect to the sounds of convivial mirth within. Sir Otto
believed that he had already entered the town, till at last, at Theobaldo’s
command, the massy wings of the gate were opened, and they rode under
the echoing portico, as if into a great castle, to which indeed Frankfort
might be compared; and if the citizens were proud (as Sir Hugh had
sometimes described them) the young knight thought, when he came into
the long lightedup streets, that they had indeed good reason to be so.
Just as Otto’s horse took fright at the gleaming bow-windows of a large and
handsome building, Theobaldo said,—“Noble sir, we are now arrived.
Welcome to my humble abode.” Immediately there hastened from the
palace many servants in elegant dresses, who, on a signal from their master,
went to assist the knight; but he threw himself lightly and carelessly from
the saddle, and as they were about to take his horse by the reins, “Nay, good
friends,” said he, “that would prove no such easy undertaking; for he will
not suffer any attendance but mine. I must myself lead him into the stable,
take off the saddle and bridle, and give him his provender.” The glaring
eyes of the charger, and his unquiet pawing with his fore-hoof, bore witness
to the truth of what his rider had said. So the servants lighted him to a
stable, where there were already many horses, which were all vehemently
startled by the entrance of the stranger guest, stamping and neighing under
the portico, which Otto now brought among them. He was indeed only
withheld by his rider’s serious commands from directly trying his strength
against some of his neighbours; and when the servants busied themselves in
getting a halter to bind him fast, Otto said to them,—“That alone would be
of little service, for he could easily break every band; but if I bid him be
quiet, he will obey me.” Accordingly, he cried in a stern voice,—“Ruhig
Bursch!” whereupon the noble animal stood like a lamb, and began to eat
the corn which his master shook out before him.
Thereafter Otto accompanied Theobaldo, who had waited for him in the
outer hall, into the state-chambers above. Here, in a lofty vaulted apartment,
they found a numerous and brilliant assemblage, while at the farther end of
the room arrangements were made for a kind of temporary theatre. The
floor was raised, and there appeared thereon, in the back-ground, many
figures in costly dresses, who seemed about to play their parts in some

comedy. It was easy to perceive that Theobaldo was the king of this festival;
for, of those who were least distinguished in the company, all made room
for him with deep obeisance; while others, who were evidently of high
rank, ladies and gentlemen, (the latter often with gold chains like senators,)
received as marks of special favour his apologies, that he who was the
master of the feast should have arrived so late. The performers in the back-
ground of the hall stood still, and were silent, waiting, as it seemed, for their
master’s signal, whether they should proceed or give over, till Theobaldo,
having taken his place with his new guest on a seat near the stage, kindly
nodded to them that the play should be continued.
Their performance was a sort of allegorical mystery, and the scene with
which they were then occupied exhibited a gorgeous figure seated on a
throne, representing the god of wealth, with the name “Plutus” in gold
letters on his breast. Then there came all sorts of characters, priests,
courtiers, judges, poets, minstrels, &c., who paid their homage to the god,
entreating his protection. Thereupon Plutus, from a great store of bags,
supposed to contain gold, gave more or less to each applicant, and the gift
was delivered and received with some awkward rhymes, intending to
satirize all ranks. At length there stepped forward a knight in complete
armour, who paid his court even more humbly than the rest, and in a string
of verses, indicated that gold and silver were the best balsam for wounds
and bruises, concluding with these rude lines:

“Gold for blood, sir,—give enow;
Your battles shall be fought I trow!”

Plutus was ready to deliver his answer, when, on hearing these last words,
Otto started up in great wrath, laid his hand vehemently on his sword, and
called out aloud, “That base recreant disgraces the armour which he wears,
and I shall revenge on his own head the falsehood which he has uttered, if
he has but courage to meet me on the field!”
Half laughing and half terrified, the whole company fixed their attention on
the young angry champion. Theobaldo, however, who was also incensed,
put an end to the performance, threatening the unfortunate representative of
knighthood, that he should never again be suffered to enter within his doors.
He then turned courteously to Otto, and begged that his guest would not

impute the blame to him, if those stupid players, because they were in a
merchant’s house, had absurdly tried to gain favour by satirizing all other
professions. By this explanation the knight was quite calmed, and on his
part offered many excuses for his rash conduct in thus disturbing the
company. Soon after, the whole party adjourned to a magnificent banquet,
which was prepared for them in another apartment.
But, notwithstanding the brilliance of the lights, the excellence of the
viands, and profusion of wine, Otto could not help reflecting again on the
hateful rhymes by which he had been roused to that fit of anger. This did
not proceed, however, from any resentment which he had conceived against
his courteous entertainer, nor against the company, but he could not help
feeling that it was in consequence of his tragical encounter with Sir
Heerdegen that he had been invited hither; and that he had as it were
received gold for blood; for whether his reward were paid in the liquid gold
of old Johannisberg, or in solid metal, made, in his estimation, no
difference. Added to this, the conversation did not please him. He heard
only endless debates about gain and loss, principal and interest; and when
Theobaldo, sympathizing, as it seemed, with his guest’s feelings, tried to
turn the discourse to the crusades of King Richard, this only led to a
calculation, whether the Genoese or the Venetians would gain most on that
occasion. Then, in the confusion of Otto’s brain, it almost appeared as if the
wine that mantled in their cups were blood drawn from the veins of
Christian knights; that the party knew this, and therefore drank it with
greater pleasure. Nay, it came over him like a frightful dream, that Sir
Heerdegen of Lichtenried, with a hollow voice, from his broken visor,
addressed him:—“From my heart’s blood thou now fill’st thy luxurious cup,
and while thou preparest for thyself a rich bed of down, I am stretched on
the hard couch of pain, from whence, perchance, I may never more arise!”
Otto could no longer bear this; all the realities around him were lost in the
creations of his madness. So he quitted his seat, and begged of Theobaldo
that he might be allowed to depart, as he must pass that night at an auberge;
for which resolution he would tell him his reason on the following day. “I
do not require explanation,” answered Theobaldo, “for I already know the
cause of your dissatisfaction. But, for Heaven’s sake, come again to-
morrow, otherwise I must think that I too have become an object of your
contempt!” “On the honour and word of a knight,” said Sir Otto, “I cherish

for you only respect and friendship, nor shall I fail to come to-morrow, as
you desire.” Thereupon they embraced, and Otto, accompanied by one of
Theobaldo’s squires, led forth his horse, and went to spend the night at a
house of public entertainment, to which he made his way through the now
dark streets, according to directions that had been given to him.

CHAPTER X.
How Sir Otto changed his armour, and the Merchant
resolved to accompany him into the world.
When Otto awoke, the morning light was already beaming on his windows,
and the confused bustle of carriages and people in the streets mingled
strangely with his nightly dreams. When he had shaken them off, he dressed
as quickly as possible, and ran to the lattice; for he believed, from the noise,
that something extraordinary must have occurred. In a short time, however,
he became aware that the disturbance, which appeared to him so
remarkable, was nothing more than what must be caused by the daily
goings-on of life in a large town, of which no one took any notice; or rather,
it would have been a cause of wonder and apprehension if the tumult had
ceased. He bethought him also, that so many large houses, most of which
were equal in extent to his father’s castle, must depend for their support on
a great number of inhabitants, among whom there must exist many different
feelings and dispositions, pain and pleasure, falsehood and sincerity, hatred
and love, whence arose the varied and discordant voices around him. In the
lonely fortress of Trautwangen, since the date of its building, how much had
been suffered and enjoyed! But here in the town many hundreds of forsaken
Berthas might weep, many wandering minstrels like Walter tune their
neglected harps, and many old men like Sir Hugh mourn for the departure
of their beloved sons.
During these thoughts he was interrupted by a servant of Theobaldo’s, who
came, bearing his armour and accoutrements, all brightly polished, offering
at the same time to assist the knight in bracing them on. “You must forgive
me, noble sir,” said he, while Sir Otto looked with satisfaction on his
glittering mail, “if you should remark on the middle of the cuirass, right
over the heart, one spot; it seems to be from blood which has lately settled
there; but, as it was neglected for some hours, it has now turned into rust,
which, as long as the armour lasts, cannot be effaced. But certainly, noble
sir, this is not my fault.” “No, good friend,” answered Sir Otto; “it is, as
thou sayst, no fault of thine.” He thus repeated the squire’s words in a slow

mournful tone, fixing his eyes on the cuirass; whereon he indeed perceived
plainly the blood of Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried, which must have
dropped on him as he was dressing his wounds. Henceforth he could not
bear the thoughts of wearing that hauberk, and, instead of accepting the
squire’s services, sent him away with a complimentary message to his
master Theobaldo. “He had already a servant who would assist in putting on
his armour, and who, though now absent, would soon arrive.” But, when
left alone, he only walked up and down the room, and when he came near
the cuirass, started from it as if it had been a spectre; or, when at last he
forced himself to touch it, he only tried every art, which he had learned
from his father and other warriors, in order to efface the rust. But the longer
he laboured the more convinced he became, that such efforts were wholly in
vain. “No!” said he, with a deep sigh, “the stain will indeed remain there for
ever.” Then he strode up and down the room, more vexed and melancholy
than ever.
At length he overheard, in the next apartment, loud expressions of
discontent, and even great wrath; then, fearful stamping on the floor, and
execrations. As the voice spoke only of armour, greaves, corslet, and
cuirass, he soon learned that all this anger arose because some one had got a
coat of mail which by no means fitted. Wishing to escape from the conflict
of his own feelings, Otto hastily rose, and threw open the door, which led
into his neighbour’s room; whereupon a knight, half cased in armour,
stepped up to him, and with equal impetuosity demanded what he wanted.
Both, however, stood silent for a space, and gazing on each other; for Otto
directly recognised the former opponent of Folko de Montfaucon, namely,
the Count Archimbald von Waldeck; while the latter also seemed to
remember the youthful witness of that combat, and his overthrow. In a short
time they came to mutual explanations, and Count Archimbald said, “I am
not vain enough to wish that you should keep me in countenance, and also
fall before the powerful or fortunate arm of the French chevalier; on the
contrary, I should be heartily glad if you could again recover, for the
beautiful Gabrielle, her favourite ring; and if, to say the truth, there seems
not much probability of this, yet no one can tell what is in store for him
either of prosperous or evil fortune. You have my sincere good wishes for
your undertaking, which may yet realize all your hopes. For the present,
observe, I pray you, how the fates are tormenting me! In great wrath, at the
events of that fatal evening, I had rashly sworn that I would never again

wear my black and silver mail, with the eagle’s head-piece; and, moreover,
that I would ride without armour, until I had even, thus defenceless, won a
complete suit as the prize of a successful combat. In this undertaking I have
at last succeeded; but mark only how pitiful must have been the limbs of
my opponent! I cannot force myself into the greaves nor the armlets; the
pigmy gloves are already thrown out at the window, and as for the corslet
and cuirass, I have indeed drawn them on, but, as you perceive, they will by
no means clasp together.” During these words, the knight heaved and
writhed as if he would force the hauberk to expand, and in so doing, tore
asunder some of the plates with a loud crash. Two squires who attended him
drew near to repair this misfortune, but he repulsed them angrily. “It is all in
vain,” said he, “therefore give yourselves no farther trouble. I have only to
throw off these vile pigmy accoutrements, and for that purpose require no
assistance.” Thereupon he tore open the half-closed buckles and straps, and
took off the corslet and cuirass, throwing them on the ground with such
violence, that the nails and hooks started out upon the floor. He then cast
melancholy looks on his black and silver armour, which lay in a corner, and
which Otto easily recognized by the eagle’s beak on the visor. “When I
wore these,” said he, “I was yet a champion; now I am powerless, and shall
never again find a coat of mail that will fit these limbs.” Otto had not
forgotten the horror with which he had just before contemplated his own
armour, and said,—“My Lord Count, methinks we could now easily help
one another out of our distresses. If you have sworn never to wear your
harness, I have in the next room a suit which I would not willingly use
again; and this for reasons of which it is not fitting that I should now speak
farther than to assure you, that they are not connected with shame or
disgrace to the wearer.” “I should not expect any less from you, young sir,”
answered Sir Archimbald, with a pleasant smile. “Well then, let us make an
exchange,” said Otto. “Done, it is a bargain,” replied Sir Archimbald; “I
doubt not we shall be fitted; for we are both framed like right old German
heroes.” The silver mail was immediately brought into the room; and each
being assisted by a squire, they were soon equipt, standing, as if
transformed by magic, wondering at each other. The now stern and wrathful
visage of Sir Archimbald contrasted strangely with the mild light reflected
on it by Otto’s bright silver harness; while the youth’s blooming, almost
womanish features were surmounted by the frightful helmet and visor in the
shape of an eagle’s head. At length they began to stride, with thundering

steps and threatening gestures, through the room, to try how their new
accoutrements fitted; and both being well satisfied, they shook hands,
Archimbald rejoicing in his heart that his black and silver mail, with the
eagle’s head, would yet once more come in the way of Sir Folko de
Montfaucon. “For,” said he, “you will at least make him fight a hard battle,
young knight of Trautwangen! Of this I require no other proof, than the
hardness of your grasp even now, and the noble warlike spirit which
appears in your whole demeanour.” They now took leave of each other, like
old and tried friends. Archimbald, in order to mount his horse, and Otto in
order to fulfil his promise to the young merchant.
The wealthy Theobaldo was now standing in his great vaulted warehouse,
with many clerks, servants, and customers, around him, ruling like a petty
prince, even by signs and single words, over all the business of the day, and
yet not disdaining to put his own hand to the work in cases of necessity.
Thus, on Otto’s arrival, he was employed in measuring out some pieces of
very rich gold embroidered cloth; on completing which, he perceived the
knight, without recognising him in his black armour, for Otto had pulled
down his visor. Notwithstanding this, Theobaldo felt attracted by him, like
iron by the magnet; for there was indeed a share of iron (if one may so
speak) in the courageous heart of the merchant. “Have you any commands,
noble sir?” said he to the youth; “if so, please to inform me, and you shall
be served before all other customers.” Hereupon Otto threw open his visor,
and the merchant started back with astonishment and admiration. “Good
Heaven!” cried he, “how much nobler and more dignified are your looks
now than even yesterday! and must I thus appear before you with the pitiful
measuring rod in my hand?” Therewith he threw away the despised
implement with such force, that it struck against a pillar, and broke into a
hundred pieces, though as it was made of ivory and gold; the attendants
thought it could never have been their master’s design to destroy it in such
manner. They therefore ran and picked up the fragments, anxiously
informing him, that it would be very possible to have it again repaired, and
made as good as ever. The merchant, however, took no notice of these
words, but hastily led the knight up stairs into his house.
On their entrance into a retired and richly furnished chamber, Theobaldo
took his guest by both hands, bent over them with a deep blush of anxiety
and ardour on his countenance, and said,—“For Heaven’s sake, Sir Otto

von Trautwangen, refuse not the earnest entreaty which I am now about to
make to you. Allow me also to wear armour, and as your friend, your
servant and squire, or in any way that you are pleased to appoint, to go with
you into the world, and share in all your dangers.” Otto looked at him with
wonder, then reminded him of his rich merchandize, his brilliant and
luxurious house, insisting that his stars had destined him to play a very
different part in the world from that of a knight-errant. “Say not so,”
answered the merchant vehemently. “I am by birth a Milanese, and it has
been proved already on the shields of German warriors, even against the
attacks of emperors, that our citizens are not ignorant of warfare. There
survives yet somewhat of the old Roman spirit among us. Besides, you
must not judge the party at our last night’s banquet by their conversation
alone. You perceived too, that I was dissatisfied and wearied therewith,
though more for your sake than my own, because I perceived that you
misunderstood them, and was offended.” “Nay,” answered Sir Otto, “I took
no offence; but, as so much was said of gain and loss, of goods and prices,
it appeared to my disordered fantasy as if the festivous entertainment which
I then enjoyed, and the night’s lodging which had been promised me, were
also like goods which I had purchased with the blood of the unfortunate Sir
Heerdegen. Thus I was obliged to retire. I give you this explanation the
more freely, because I have now recovered from the wild dreams by which I
was then haunted, and against you and your friends have not one word of
just complaint.” “You are in the right,” answered Theobaldo; “the various
characters of mankind in this world may indeed be compared to the varied
flowers, plants, and trees of the forest, which all differ from each other, and
yet all contribute to one purpose. Their conversation no doubt differs from
yours, even as their dresses contrast with your glittering armour; yet, in
time of need, they are not found destitute of honour, generosity, and
courage. You are in the right, therefore, not to despise these merchant
citizens, although I for my part have resolved to desert them and try my
fortune with you.” “Nay, dear Theobaldo,” replied Sir Otto, “allow me to
dissuade you from this design. You are older, and have far more experience
and judgment than I am possessed of. How then can I become your leader
and instructor, or by what means could I compensate to you the loss of all
those advantages which you enjoy here?” “Well,” answered Theobaldo, “if,
as you say, I have more experience and judgment, you may with the less
hesitation allow to me my own free choice in this matter.” “Besides,”

resumed Sir Otto, “from the friendship I bear to you, I should be deeply
grieved if you meet with any injury. But how can that be avoided, since you
have probably never yet been accustomed to the use of the sword or lance?”
Theobaldo looked at him with a good-humoured half-ironical smile, then
turned round, and opened the door into a neighbouring cabinet, wherein was
visible a great collection of shirts of mail, helmets, crossbows, targets, and
battle-axes. “These are but the accoutrements of simple horsemen, not of
knights,” said Theobaldo; “but such weapons I am well able to wield and
use to good purpose.” Thereupon he took from the wall a handsome cross-
bow, bent it with great skill and strength, and laid an arrow in the rest; then,
opening the window, “Mark,” said he, “the knotted branch in yonder oak-
tree!” Scarcely allowing himself a moment to take aim, he sent his arrow
with such force and unerring accuracy, that it not only struck the branch, but
penetrated so far into the tree, that only the trembling feathers were now
visible. Thereafter Theobaldo took up a heavy battle-axe, and exercised
himself with it against a strong shirt of mail, exhibiting such power and
rapidity of arm, that Otto could not help expressing his admiration. “Are
you now willing that I should go with you?” said the merchant, with a
confident smile. “Ay, truly,” answered the knight; “and from my heart I can
affirm, that you are well able to maintain, by your deeds as a soldier, all that
you have before alleged in words. Where in all the world could I find a
better companion? But, alas! Theobaldo, since you are not of knightly birth,
how can we venture to speak of your wearing golden spurs? and if you are
never to become a knight, why should you needlessly subject yourself to the
humiliation of being a squire to such a humble unpractised warrior as I
am?” At these words, a dark shade passed for a moment over Theobaldo’s
countenance; but he answered firmly,—“Let us speak no farther of the
difference of ranks. I wear arms, ride a good horse, and am content to
follow you. Young men of knightly birth strive for golden spurs. Young
citizens aim but at the wreath of victory. When in your society I have
obtained skill and experience in warfare, I may yet lead on the banners of
my native city, Milan, to the battle-field, and then golden spurs will be
forgotten!” “I had no thought of offending you,” said Otto, somewhat
surprised; but immediately thereafter the dark shade passed away from
Theobaldo’s features, and his looks were again gay and smiling as the
vernal sky that shone above them. He now accompanied the knight to a
luxurious breakfast, which was prepared in the banquet-hall. Indeed the

whole day was spent in feasting and music; though as the merchant was
often called away on matters of importance, on which he seemed to bestow
great attention, Otto began almost to believe, that, as to his riding out like a
knight-errant, he had only been in jest. Yet at night, when Theobaldo led
him to his apartment (for he had been obliged to promise that he would pass
the night there) he found that this apprehension was groundless. “To-
morrow before sunrise,” said the merchant, “Sir Knight of Trautwangen,
forget not that I shall be ready to attend you. I have already appointed a
trust-worthy curator over my possessions in this town, and made every
needful arrangement.”
In the morning, before daylight, Sir Otto was in the stable, engaged in
saddling and bridling his charger; in which task he was assisted by an active
youth in a complete horseman’s armour. As they did not speak, it was not
until the latter came out into the morning twilight, and sprung lightly on the
back of a chesnut-coloured Polish horse, that the knight recognised
Theobaldo. Smiling on each other, they shook hands like old and tried
friends, then trotted on merrily to the town-gates, while the sun, bright and
jocund, as if to welcome the two happy youths, began to shed his long
slanting radiance over the landscape.

CHAPTER XI.
How Sir Heerdegen returned to the Castle of Trautwangen,
and of the wonderful Lady Minnatrost.
Thus Otto and his companion continued to pursue their way, crossing ere
long the frontiers of the knight’s father-land, and meeting with various
adventures in the kingdom of France, among people to whose language they
were yet little accustomed. Meanwhile, how different was the life now led
by the inhabitants left in the old castle of Trautwangen! A third party had
indeed broken on the lonely hours of Sir Hugh and the forsaken Bertha, but
his presence only made the scene more gloomy than ever. This was Sir
Heerdegen of Lichtenried, who, notwithstanding his wounds, had hastened
onwards to visit his sister, and by this untimely exertion, had brought on
himself a fearful illness. In a chamber not far from the great hall was placed
the couch of the unfortunate Sir Heerdegen, in order that Bertha might
attend him, and yet be near to the old knight. It was indeed needful that he
and Bertha should console each other; for in the delirium of his fever, the
youth had unfortunately betrayed all which he would in health have so
gladly concealed; they had learned from whose hands, and on what
grounds, he had received his dangerous wounds. Thereafter, Bertha often
wept so bitterly, and blushed so deeply, that her tears might be compared to
the morning dew, brightened by the red gleams of the east. On the other
hand, Sir Hugh fixed his eyes on the ground in gloomy meditation, drawing,
from this first unhappy combat of his son, the darkest anticipations of the
future. Now and then, however, his confidence in the goodness and mercy
of Providence would return, and a smile would steal over his features,
though he spoke no words by which the by-standers could have guessed at
this change in his feelings; only he repeated sometimes that rhyme of the
old minstrel, which Otto had remembered during the mysterious night,
when he watched his armour in the chapel:

“Dark night precedes the morn,
So grief may joyance bring,
And death leads through the wintry grave

To life’s eternal spring.”

Sir Hugh dared not enter the apartment of his nephew; for the latter, in the
wildness of his delirium, always addressed the old man as if he had been
Otto von Trautwangen, commanding him in a stern angry voice to leave the
room, otherwise he would throw at his head all the scorching firebrands that
were now heaped upon his own. At such times he indeed grappled violently
at the bandage which was tied over his wounds; and his uncle, with
mournful aspect, and sighing deeply, came back to the hall, passing by that
heavy oak-pannelled door, at which, alas! the blooming happy countenances
of Bertha and Otto never more presented themselves. However, when the
wounded youth had only his beloved sister beside him, especially in the
night hours, when the room was illuminated by a single lamp placed in a
corner, he was tranquil and happy, so that, now and then, he could even tell
her long stories; among which she once heard from him the narrative which
here follows:—
“On the shores of the North Sea there lies a country named East Friesland,
where, even at this day, there are endless dissensions between the princes
and their vassals; the former insisting that every one should blindly submit
to their sovereign will and pleasure, while the latter no less vehemently
maintain, that their opinions should be consulted on all subjects. Thus,
through the whole land, there are constant insurrections and tumults, even
like those, dear Bertha, which now torment the brain of your wounded
brother. Yet in East Friesland there is a wondrous castle stationed on a rock,
whence there beams, far and wide, a pale tranquil light, the reflection as it
were of the moon and stars, whose radiance falls ever brightly and
unbroken on these lofty towers. In the castle dwells a female descendant of
that ancient race named the Druden. They were powerful wizards and
magicians; and such too is this female descendant with whom we claim
relationship; for she is our aunt. Her name is the Lady Minnatrost,[1]
importing, that by love she affords consolation to unfortunate lovers; and all
day long she boils wonder-working flowers and roots in a kettle, which is
made of pure gold. I had one evening lost my way, and drew up my horse’s
reins when opposite to her lofty castle, which proudly diffuses its light over
all that country, which is elsewhere flat and level. Tired as I then was, and
in need of refreshment, I felt as if some mysterious obstacle always lay in

my road when I wished to spur my horse up the steep acclivity. The castle
too was so silent, and so wholly unknown to me, that I felt an unwonted
dread of approaching it. Thus, while I stood still, and doubted what course I
ought to take, lo! there came riding at a rapid pace, along the plain, a well-
accoutred knight, bearing in his arms a slender female form, who clung to
him at once, lovingly and timidly. As they passed by I heard her sing,—

“Spur, spur thy steed, Sir Frederick dear,
The silent Druda’s towers are near;”

to which the knight answered,—

“What need of Druda, dearest life?
Already we are man and wife.”

“Just as these rhymes were uttered, there sprung out from among the
thickets a number of armed men, who, as I perceived by their dresses, were
of low rank. A tall powerful youth rushed up, and, seizing the knight’s horse
by the reins, called aloud, ‘Villain, villain, whither art thou bearing my
sister,’—the rest, meanwhile wielding great halberts, and other weapons,
made a circle round the lovers. The knight, however, on the first attack, had
drawn his sword, and now said, ‘Not so fast, base churl! She loves me, and
I love her. What business is it of thine, if thy chief is pleased to demand thy
sister? Knows’t thou not that I am Sir Frederick von Edekon?’ ‘In a few
seconds more thou shalt be but his ghost,’ answered the youth, ‘if thou dost
not instantly give back this maiden to her family.’ Thereupon the knight
struck him a blow with his sword, and a furious battle commenced. As I
perceived very well that the maiden wished to remain with her lover, I
assisted him, and attacked the countrymen in a manner which they had little
expected. Notwithstanding their courageous resistance, the victory would
soon have been ours; but, in the midst of our conflict, Heaven knows how it
could happen, but we all heard the sound of a lattice opened in the castle
that stood above us, and, for reasons inscrutable, found ourselves
irresistibly impelled to pause in our encounter, and look upwards for
whatever should present itself at the window. Then, behold, the full moon
shone calm and bright on the lattice, and we all saw the figure of the Lady

Minnatrost, tall in stature, clad in a white garment, and with her right hand
held up threateningly towards the stars. At this apparition a cold shuddering
vibrated through our frames. We remained for a long while silent and
motionless, till at length she spoke, ‘Lift not again your swords in vain and
impious contention! I know that there is one among you who is my nephew,
and is named Heerdegen von Lichtenried. He is here a stranger, but,
nevertheless, he shall place that maiden before him on his horse, and shall
bring her to me in my castle. The rest shall go peaceably home for this
night; but in three days let her bridegroom and brother come also to me.’ All
was done as she had commanded. Though the maiden wept bitterly, though
the knight and her brother gnashed their teeth with rage, yet no one felt
inclined to pass a night under the roof of that ghastly white-robed Druda!
But it seemed as if her will were now irresistible, and every one must
submit in silence. Without saying a word, therefore, the combatants laid
down their swords, and, in the same mood of humble obedience, I brought
the maiden to the castle.
“What I found there, dearest Bertha, I am not able to describe in many
words, and truly, where all is strange and supernatural, words fail to afford
any adequate impression. But look on those pale rays of your nightly lamp
that now flicker around us; look at your own pale and saint-like face in the
mirror, and even here you may behold a gleam,—the tenderest and
loveliest,—of that light which was shed all about the castle of the Lady
Minnatrost. I durst not enter her habitation; she commanded me to wait
under the portico. ‘It will not be unpleasant to you,’ said she, ‘to pass the
night here, half sheltered, half in the open air. There are no tempests to
annoy you, and if rain falls, it is but a mild dew from heaven, which
refreshes without injuring the limberest flowers. Such too will be your
tears,’ added she, turning to the maiden, ‘and, after transient showers, the
sunrise of joy will be brighter and lovelier.’ In truth, I perceived that the
damsel immediately ceased to weep, after she had looked on the calm,
thoughtful features of the Druda, illumined as they now were by the
moonshine. Both then retired into the castle, and soon thereafter I heard a
delightful harmony of harps and flutes sounding from its chambers. The
music was slow, soft, and of exquisite modulation, fitted, as I could well
imagine, to lull the unhappy maiden to forgetfulness and sleep. Thereafter
the Lady Minnatrost came to me in the portico, bringing with her a golden
goblet filled with wine, also a massive salver with exquisite viands. She

took her place near me, and related how she was our mother’s sister, and
how for many years there had belonged to her family a store of deep and
miraculous knowledge, whose mysteries were yet all sanctioned by our holy
religion; finally, how she believed herself to have been chosen to reside
here for the guidance and instruction of a wild disorderly people. These
stories were long and marvellous, lasting, indeed, through the whole of that
moonlight night. Sometimes I listened with a kind of mysterious dread, but
for the most part my feelings were calm and tranquil, so that I could almost
think that I was once more a child, that my mother rocked me in her arms,
and told me fairy tales as she had done of yore. Towards the dawn of day
the Druda left me, saying, ‘Thou wilt probably remain here, in order to
learn how these adventures will end, and may stay without fear of any
danger.’ Thereafter I fell asleep calmly, as if I had been under the protection
of a mother’s roof.
“On the following day, I perceived now and then the Lady Minnatrost
walking with that lovelorn damsel on the castle ramparts, among tall white
flowers that grew there, and from whose blossoms, as they waved in the
morning air, there exhaled the sweetest odours. Often, however, the maiden
wept bitterly, and called aloud for Sir Frederick von Edekon. At such time
the Druda spoke not; she offered neither consolations nor promises, but
only fixed on the weeping girl her thoughtful eyes, whose light was always
mild and soothing as the moonbeams, or broke off a blooming sprig from
the white flowers that grew there, and with it fanned her burning cheeks. At
last too she sung old simple ballads, till the listener was calmed, and even
smiled with wondrous cheerfulness. Such too was the conduct of the white-
robed lady every time when the damsel’s brother and the knight appeared,
and with threatening looks and angry words demanded her release. The
Druda only smiled, and looked on them in silence; whereupon their angry
words died away on their lips like a mournful sigh, or changed into humble
and patient entreaties. After they had thus come three times, they were on
the ninth day all become mild, submissive, and pious. Then the Lady
Minnatrost gave them back the now smiling damsel, who soon afterwards
was led to the altar, in peace and unanimity, betwixt her brother and the
knight. Thereafter they all lived happily together; nor were there ever
dissensions any more betwixt that chief and his vassals.

“Many other stories are told in that neighbourhood of the consolation which
the wonderful lady of the castle has afforded to those in distress, especially
to victims of unfortunate love; so that she well deserves the name that is
bestowed on her, since her aid has always been afforded in the spirit of love
and charity, not in that of violence or constraint.”

FOOTNOTE:
[1] Minne (pronounced minna) is an obsolete word for love, and trost means
consolation.

CHAPTER XII.
How the Lady Bertha went with her brother in quest of the
Lady Minnatrost.
By degrees, as the knight spoke thus with his sister, and told her more and
more stories of that wonderful lady, his own feelings, both of mind and
body, became soothed and tranquil. He no longer raved in feverish delirium,
but asked calmly for his uncle; and when Sir Hugh came into his apartment,
spoke respectfully and kindly, entreating forgiveness, if his words before
had been wild and unbecoming. The old knight, therefore, often sat by his
couch, but this was not long needful; for scarcely had the wounded youth
begun to obtain a victory over his illness, ere he went gaily forth into the
fields and forests to enjoy the sports of the chase, and sat with Sir Hugh at
the mid-day and evening banquet, over full mantling goblets of old
Hungarian or Johannisberg.
On the other hand, Bertha, whilst her brother thus recovered his strength
and spirits, became every day more and more pale and melancholy. It was
easy to perceive, that only her anxiety for Sir Heerdegen’s life, and her wish
to comfort the old knight, had before prevented her from falling into this
mood of sadness. Now, however, the two warriors sat together over their
full brimming wine-cups, enlivened often by the old minstrel Walter, who
came to entertain them with his heroic ballads. Bertha meanwhile was left
amid the woods and meadows, like a poor lonely flower, wearing out her
life with melancholy dreams, mournful songs, and deep-drawn sighs, amid
the solitude of nature. Truly she would soon have faded quite away, even
like the fair Lisberta, or like the hermit of the Finland frontiers, only that
her brother also knew these stories, and told them to Bertha; so that she
knew there had been others in the world who had sufferings like her own.
Yet she clung to him always with most confidence when he spoke to her of
the Lady Minnatrost, and was in heart rejoiced to think that this pious
Druda had not been merely a phantom raised by the feverish dreams of her
brother, but that in East Friesland there really lived a heroine of that name,
who was also her near relation.

But, notwithstanding all this, she became always paler and more absorbed
in her own meditations, so that she scarcely ever spoke; and when Sir
Heerdegen questioned her, she used to answer, “Alas! dear brother, it will
never be my lot to see in this life the wonderful lady, of whose love and
charity you have said so much. But beyond the grave are the realms and
habitations of love, and it is time methinks, that death, like a gentle sleep,
should close up this world from my senses, that I might awake in that
sanctuary.”
These and other words of the same tenour were faithfully repeated to Sir
Hugh by the Knight of Lichtenried, who added hereto, that if Bertha were
not soon conducted to the castle of the Lady Minnatrost, she would in a few
months be departed to join her loving ancestors in heaven. Sir Hugh then
summoned up all his resolution, directed that his niece should be brought
before him, and in a solemn voice ordered that in a few days she should be
prepared to go with her brother to the distant land of East Friesland, where
was situated the castle of her aunt, named the Lady Minnatrost. Bertha
looked doubtfully and mournfully at the old man, whose heart had already
been so grieved by the departure of his son. Thereupon Sir Hugh laughed
aloud; “The foolish little bird thinks, perhaps, that such an old ruined tower
must fall to pieces if she no longer flutters around it!” He laughed again,
went into another chamber, and shut the door; but when alone the old knight
wept bitterly.
Afterwards, however, he ordered speedy preparations to be made for their
departure; so that, on the morning of the second day, a palfrey, with a
packhorse, the war-steed of Sir Heerdegen, and four squires, were ready in
the castle-court. Sir Hugh came down the wide staircase with the brother
and sister, humming all the way an old song, remembered from the days of
his youth. He embraced them ere they mounted, then forced them to ride
away; and thereafter went with the minstrel Walter to the rampart, seated
himself silently on the grass, and gazed at the travellers as they proceeded
always farther and farther along the plains, now bright with the dews and
ruddy sun-gleams of the morning. Thereupon the minstrel called to mind
how he had before sat there with Bertha in the same place, when the young
Sir Otto was spurring his light-brown charger across the meadow; and,
without reflection, led on by natural associations, he began once more the

first verses of the song which he had chaunted on that occasion. The words
were as follows:—

“A weak old man am I,
No longer dare I roam!”

Then the venerable knight, in great wrath, seized hold of him by the arm,
and shook him heartily. In a thundering voice too, like the roaring of a lion,
he called out,—“Would’st thou mock me, then? I shall hurl thee down from
the rampart into the valley beneath, unless thou confessest that the old grey-
haired warrior hath yet strength in his limbs and courage in his heart!” The
minstrel was with these words dragged to the very edge of the rampart; but,
without changing colour or countenance, he looked the knight firmly in the
face, saying,—“If it be your pleasure to attack an old man, who is no
warrior, but a minstrel, and at the same time your guest, do so in God’s
name. That is your affair, not mine, and the whole adventure may soon be
ended!” Thereupon Sir Hugh trembled vehemently, and let him go. “For
Heaven’s sake forgive me!” said he; “you know that evil spirits have
formerly exercised their power over me in this life; and now, when my
solitary penance was begun, methought that a strange man had come hither
to sing ballads, mocking me in the impotence of mine old age. It was the
strange man that I wished to fling over the rampart.” “That was forsooth a
proper mode of proving your penitence,” said the minstrel. Sir Hugh was
for some moments silent and ashamed;—at length he said,—“I know not,
Master Walter, if I can invite you any more to join me over a goblet of wine
in the castle.” “Wherefore should you not?” answered the old poet; “we
minstrels were indeed unworthy of protection and patronage, if we knew
not how to bear with the varying humours of irritable and yet noble minds.”
Thereupon he followed his venerable host into the fortress.

CHAPTER XIII.
How the Lady Bertha was received in the Druda’s castle.
Heerdegen and Bertha had now travelled for many days, and the nearer they
approached towards the shores of the North Sea, the damsel was the more
cheerful, and the youth more discontented. When Bertha questioned him
why he was thus vexed, he answered,—“It seems to me almost as if I were
now leading you into the cloister; for if that wonderful lady has you once
within her walls, Heaven knows whether she will ever allow you to come
again among mankind; nor indeed, so far as I can judge by your own
disposition, will you ever wish again to leave that silent castle, with its
flowers on the rampart, and its moonlight radiance!” “Well, dear brother,”
answered the damsel, “that would only be the fulfilment of my own desires,
which, doubtless, you would not prevent.” “It were a loss to the world,”
answered Heerdegen; “and I had gladly seen you led to the altar.” “Nay,”
said Bertha, “we shall doubtless find at the pious lady’s castle all that is
fitting for religious duties, a chapel, a cross, and an altar.” “It was not thus,”
said Heerdegen, “that I wished to be understood;” then looked
discontentedly at his horse’s feet, while Bertha turned away, blushing, and
gazing at the long grass and flowers that grew around them.
After such discourse, she thought to render her brother more tranquil, by
praising the beauty of the land through which they now past, the green
grassy hills, winding streams, and verdant woods. To which he answered,
—“In the bright days of midsummer all this is indeed pleasant and
delightful; but let the winter once come on, with its howling winds and deep
snows, while the lonely habitations of the poor inhabitants send up their
smoke amid the pathless wilderness, more like funeral piles than pleasant
dwellings, then you would cease to praise the country which you now so
much admire.” “But at the castle of the Lady Minnatrost there are neither
snow-storms nor howling winds,” said Bertha. Whereupon Heerdegen
peevishly answered,—“Ay, ay, so it has been said. I myself have never been
there in the winter!” Then he rode on in silence; and the more gloomy he

appeared, the more earnestly did Bertha long to be with her wonderful aunt,
who might, by her magic spells, restore the knight to serenity.
One day Sir Heerdegen seemed more than ever lost in deep reflection, from
which Bertha concluded that they were now near the end of their journey.
Her heart heaved and beat with her own visionary expectations, while
towards evening her brother, almost with terror in his aspect, looked round
for some house of entertainment for travellers; but nothing was visible but
some lonely moss-covered cottages. He sent out both their attendants to
explore in different directions; and as, after having stood still for some time,
he found that they did not return, he ordered those who had charge of the
packhorse to wait there while he rode about with Bertha. But in the winding
paths of the wooded country they soon lost their way altogether, found no
fitting house to rest in for the night, nor could they even make their way
back to the spot where he had desired the servants to wait for him. The stars
were now shining bright in heaven, and Sir Heerdegen suddenly halted as
they came to the foot of a steep ascent. “Good Heavens!” cried he, “if I
mistake not, we are come earlier to our journey’s end than I had expected or
wished. How gladly, dearest Bertha, would I have still had you with me till
the morning! Look up towards the summit of the hill, and try whether by
star-light you can distinguish a fortress.” At that moment the full moon, that
was now rising, broke forth in refulgence from the east, and immediately
the windows of the castle were illuminated in glittering radiance; crosses
too were seen gleaming on the towers and ramparts; soft music came
floating from afar, through the woods, gently waved by the night wind.
Bertha stretched out her arms towards the light, with looks of triumph and
rejoicing, while her brother struck his cuirass with his iron-gloved right
hand, heaving a sigh of doubt and apprehension.
Then, among the stems of some tall birch-trees, they saw approaching them
a female form, tall and white, even like the trees, and with a green veil over
her head and shoulders. Bertha thought this must be the Lady Minnatrost;
and when the veil was thrown back, and she beheld the mild gleam of her
tranquil eyes, in which shone the spirit of innocence and peace, the damsel
alighted from her palfrey, and sunk down, kneeling on the grass before the
Druda. Sir Heerdegen too forgot all his doubts and discontent. He
dismounted, bowed respectfully, and wished to speak of Bertha’s visit, but
the lady said,—“It is enough, all is already known to me; therefore I came

to meet the guests that were to me so heartily welcome. This time you also,
Sir Heerdegen, shall go with us to the castle.” Thereupon she gave a hand to
each, placing herself between them to lead them up the mountain, chaunting
all the way a song of which the silvery tones alone, even without words,
were enough to inspire peace and happiness in the heart of every listener.
They arrived in no long time at the fortress, where Sir Heerdegen kindly,
and without expressing any low spirits or displeasure, took leave of his
sister. It seemed as if he had never, during his whole life, known difficulties,
or been roused to anger. They conversed all three kindly and confidentially
with each other, appointing certain days on which he was to come to the
castle, in order to visit Bertha. Then he walked (courteously kissing his iron
glove and waving his helmet) down the mountain, while Bertha went with
the smiling Lady Minnatrost into the mansion.
The gate opened, and then closed immediately behind them; whereupon
Bertha perceived with surprise, that they had to cross a small lake of the
purest water, wherein the moon and stars were reflected in all their
loveliness. A bark came, self-impelled, floating towards them, in which they
took their places, and were gently ferried across. Bertha perceived
immediately, on the ramparts and towers, the waving and fragrance of the
tall white flowers of which her brother had spoken with her when he lay on
his sick-bed. Now she understood for the first time the full force of his
descriptions, when she was sailing on the tranquil waters of that lake, with
the odours of those white flowers bathing her temples and floating around
her. From the building within came the sound of harps and cymbals, as if in
friendly salutation; and when the two voyagers had disembarked, and begun
to walk through the long vaulted halls, those pleasant sounds became
always louder and more articulate. Every room was illuminated, but with a
mild pensive light; for it was from the reflection of the full moon, by
mirrors so contrived, that her rays were multiplied and cast without shadow
on every object. At last, entering into a great hall with Gothic arches, Bertha
perceived whence had arisen that music with which her senses had before
been refreshed and delighted. This apartment was filled with wonderful
mechanism, such as no artisan could imitate. Golden rings, self-moved,
turned round their endless circles, and as they touched each other, produced
the most exquisite melody. These rings also set in motion the cymbals, and
awoke the harp-strings, which were stretched, like a magical net-work,
between the pillars. Bertha was now able to imagine how that damsel must

have been soothed into refreshing sleep, as her brother had described; she
too, having seated herself on a soft couch, soon lost herself in pleasant
dreams; from which, if at times she half awoke, she beheld and heard those
magic rings circling around her, and the tranquil eyes, with their moonlike
radiance, of the watchful Druda.

CHAPTER XIV.
How the Lady Bertha was left alone in the Druda’s castle.
Henceforward Bertha’s life in the castle was spent as if in the threshold
between two worlds, one while occupied with childish plays, and at another
with gleams of higher wisdom, derived from sources mysterious and far
remote. As her brother rode up now and then to the gates, she spoke with
him from the ramparts, told him of all the wonders that she had beheld, and
how happily she now lived. He, on the other hand, rejoiced, that her cheeks
wore the rose of health, contrasting with the white flowers by which she
was there surrounded; and so they always parted from each other in hope
and confidence.
Among other amusements, Bertha was especially delighted with a certain
mirror, which, surrounded by strange talismanic characters, was placed
against the wall of a retired chamber. When the Druda, for the first time,
withdrew the dark red curtain by which it was covered, she said to the
damsel,—“There, child, divert yourself for a space with the varied imagery
which you will behold in that glass. For the present I have serious duties to
perform.” Bertha then stood alone before the mirror, trembling and doubtful
what she was to expect to see there; but in a few minutes a new world
seemed starting into life within its sphere; landscapes, men and women,
towns and castles. At one time the scene presented a wide sea, on which
ships were sailing for purposes of merchandise or warfare, now under a
bright smiling sky, now amid storms and dark thunder-clouds. Then she
beheld long church aisles full of people assembled in prayer, or great
squares of a city, with enclosed lists, and knights engaged in desperate
encounters. These last Bertha was unwilling to look upon; for they forced
her to reflect on the combat between the Chevalier de Montfaucon and
Count Archimbald von Waldeck, whence arose all her sufferings. Again,
however, the mirror changed the scene to the interior of a magnificent
castle, where a great king was seated on a throne, and around him were
many knights and ladies. Then there were visible Moorish towns, with their
strangely-attired inhabitants, in long dresses, on the streets. Of all the

pictures, however, that by which Bertha was most interested was a wild
rocky country, answering to the descriptions which she had oftentimes
heard of Norway and Sweden. On one of the highest cliffs, there was an old
moss-grown watch-tower, from which, through a single window, there
gleamed a steady light, pale indeed, like departing moonshine; and on this
object the damsel could have gazed for hours together, believing, that in
that lonely abode she might yet find consolation for all her misfortunes.
These thoughts she often described to the Lady Minnatrost, who answered
her,—“That solitary watch-tower, by which your attention has been thus
attracted, lies far remote in the cold climate of the north. I must very soon
make a journey thither; but, alas! you cannot go with me!” Such discourse
only made those northern realms to the damsel more and more interesting;
and never was she so calm and contented in spirit, as when the rocky
landscape with the pale beacon-light came before her in the mirror.
Late one evening the friendly Druda came out with Bertha on one of the
lofty watch-towers of the castle, where over their heads was only the clear
azure of heaven, and the night air was filled with fragrance from the snow-
white flowers. The Druda then fixed her eyes on the starry sky; and, by her
looks and gestures, it seemed to the damsel as if her mysterious companion
not only saw the stars, but listened to exquisite melody. At last Bertha broke
the long pause, and said,—“Dearest lady, you listen watchfully, as if you
heard the circling gold rings in your great hall, and yet all is silent!” “Do I
not hear them?” said the Druda, with a smile of rapture. “To you, indeed,
my dear child, all is silent. But even as the golden circles sometimes
revolve in the hall beneath, so in the beaming boundless chambers of
heaven are ever moving those blessed spheres which we call the stars, and
sound so beauteously, that all other music compared with them is discord,
even were it the loveliest that has ever been heard on earth. Only the chosen
votary whose heart and feelings are in unison with those sounds may hear
them; others must be content to believe and wonder; or sometimes, for a
transient space, they are visited by such melody in their dreams.”
The damsel now looked at her aunt with a fixed and anxious gaze; for she
had of late felt more desire to learn the mysterious arts of which she had
heard so much, than of that awe with which they had before inspired her.
She was therefore now ready to beg that the Lady Minnatrost would initiate
her in the true science of those wonders by which she was surrounded.

Perceiving her design, however, the lady cast on her a look, at which she
recoiled and trembled. “Foolish child,” said she, in a severe tone; “of what
art thou now dreaming? Think’st thou that, because these mysteries have
contributed to thy entertainment, they are in truth no more than a game
which the young and unexperienced may play at? The chosen votary, on
whom such gifts are conferred by Providence, must bear with her lot as she
best can, for such knowledge is often a cause of fearful sufferings. Think’st
thou, that I have always lived in this castle? that I have always been thus
lonely, and never borne my share in the pleasures of the world? Alas! it is
far otherwise. I once led a happy life among my fellow-mortals; but the
science conferred on me disturbed my peace, though that was indeed no
fault of mine. Now I am called Minnatrost, and truly, as the name imports, I
have consolation for the grief of others; but, alas! none for my own
sorrows.” Thereupon the lady began to weep, and, as if wearied, leaned her
head on the damsel’s bosom, whose heart was deeply moved; for she had
before only seen her wonderful aunt in the mood of cheerfulness and
serenity. Now she discovered that the Druda had experienced, like others,
her share of joy and suffering in this world; she embraced her fervently, and
weeping also, said,—“Dearest aunt, how unspeakably I love you!” The
Lady Minnatrost, however, soon resumed her composure. “If thou indeed
lovest me so dearly,” said she, in a kind though solemn tone, “this must be
proved by thy care, that for the future we may live together. I must now
make a long journey, even as far as to that old watch-tower in Sweden,
which has afforded you so much pleasure when it appeared in the mirror. It
is true, that I travel more quickly than other mortals, yet the journey is long,
the business important, and long must be our separation. In the meanwhile,
then, live retired and peaceably, look not often through the windows, and, if
thou wilt be guided by my counsels, walk seldom or never on the ramparts.
During this time thy brother will not appear at the castle, for I have already
informed him by a messenger that he must not come hither; yet thou shalt
not want for pastime: the mirror will unfold its rarest and most varied
scenery; the golden rings, the harps and cymbals, will delight you with their
music; the lake reflect the pleasant moonshine, and the flowers give out
their fragrance, even as if I were here present. But, dearest child, remember
that thou should’st not with thine own hand withdraw the curtain from the
mirror, attempt not to move the golden rings when they are still, and never
touch the flowers. When thou hast need of aught, or hast formed any wish,

then sing a ballad to thy lute, or play on it a few notes, and thy desires will
be fulfilled. Have patience, dear child, be obedient and humble in spirit;
then we shall live together, and all will turn out well.”
With these words she kissed the astonished damsel, and in silence returned
to her chamber. On the following morning Bertha sought all through the
castle for the Lady Minnatrost, but in vain, for she was no where to be
found.

CHAPTER XV.
How the Lady Bertha fled from the Druda’s castle.
Bertha had spent several days of solitude in calmness and peace. From the
great hall she was serenaded by delightful music; the mirror had displayed
all her favourite landscapes; and, though she was without any companion,
and had the sole charge of the castle, yet her duties were by invisible hands
rendered so light, that they seemed like a mere game contrived for her
entertainment. Thus, one afternoon she stepped into the bark, in order to
enjoy for some time the cool fragrant air on the water. The day was so
lovely, that even the light fleecy clouds in heaven appeared to dance for joy
as they were driven along by the zephyrs; there were also numberless
singing birds that came flying round the castle towers, playing and chasing
each other among the white flowers that grew thereon. They seemed to her
like ambassadors, bearing joyful tidings from the world which she had been
forbid to look upon, and yet insensibly the wish grew upon her, that she
might indulge in one fleeting glance from out these lonely walls. “What
harm,” said she to herself, “could possibly come of this? It is doubtful even
whether I have rightly understood the lady’s admonition. Merely to look for
a moment on that world, of which I was born to be an inhabitant, cannot
surely have evil consequences.” Almost as soon as the thought was formed
had Bertha turned the bark again towards the shore, and re-entered the
castle. Then, as her aunt’s instructions not to look out from the windows
had been less strict than against walking on the ramparts, she thought that
she proved her self-command and obedience, by passing quickly through
the inviting garden of snow-white flowers, and entering a chamber, at the
window of which she had often seen her aunt when she was speaking with
her brother from the battlements. In this room there was nothing
mysterious, and immediately Bertha drew open the lattice, with its painted
glass, and began to gaze out over the wide landscape.
From hence she indeed beheld a beautiful prospect across rich-blooming
meadows and valleys towards the sea, on which the sun now shone with full
refulgence and glory. There too she saw a beautiful island, which lay with

its verdant woods like a green emerald amid the blue waters. A strange
mood of mind now came over the lonely damsel. She felt attracted towards
that island with an irresistible longing, and could not help believing that Sir
Otto von Trautwangen dwelt thereon, that he had built for himself a
hermitage under the green shade of the trees, where he had completely
forgot the attractions of the noble Gabrielle, and waited anxiously for the
reappearance of his beloved Bertha. At first this was like a dream, but every
moment its influence became more powerful, and had more of reality. She
thought that she could distinguish blooming gardens, parterres, and
winding-walks, which Sir Otto had cultivated around his hermitage; and
soon afterwards she marked a boat approaching the shore, floating about on
the sun-illumined waters, in which she could clearly distinguish her
brother’s figure. These were his very gestures,—his form,—the colour and
fashion of his garments! “Good Heaven!” said she, “if indeed he should
have found Otto in that island, if he should have been reconciled to his
former adversary, and wish to bring me across?” Thereafter it seemed as if
Sir Heerdegen waved a white handkerchief, making her signs; but, when
she had drawn off her veil to return the signal, she was withheld by an
inward terror, and hastily closed the window. With deep melancholy she
now thought on the good kind Lady Minnatrost; how sad and affectionate
had been her behaviour on the night of her departure, and she wept bitterly,
because she had been even once disobedient to her injunctions; yet, so weak
are we, poor mortals, in resisting temptation, that she could not, even now,
divert her thoughts from the island and the boat, and, by way of defence
against herself, she said many times aloud, “Thank Heaven, I have not even
the keys of the castle-gate!” Suddenly the recollection occurred to her, that
she knew very well where they lay, and her anxiety increased every
moment, for she knew not where to seek for help and consolation.
Anxious to find any object that might divert her attention, she ran to the
chamber wherein was stationed the wonderful mirror. On the way she
brushed, with her garments, a chair on which she had laid her lute, and
immediately it sounded, as if her once favourite companion addressed to
her words of admonition and reproach; for the Lady Minnatrost had
commanded her to play on the lute, if she wished for aid, or had any desire
to gratify. Bertha, however, was too much agitated to attend to sounds so
light and gentle; she ran breathless into the chamber, and though the glass

was covered with a red curtain, which hung over it in deep mysterious
folds, yet, in a mood of wild forgetfulness, she drew it suddenly away.
Over the whole surface of the mirror there was then a dark waving and
heaving, like that of a stormy sea, as if its creations, rashly looked upon, ere
they were perfect, shunned the light, and, therefore, were contorted in
frightful indeterminate shapes. Thereupon Bertha wished to draw the
curtain over it; but as she was about to touch it with her trembling hand, the
forms which it presented began to whirl in circles with such vehemence,
that she was terrified, and remained motionless. At last there came forward
the figure of a man, pale and agitated, and with the expression of wild anger
on his features. Unwillingly Bertha recognised in this figure her brother
Heerdegen. On his head was placed somewhat like golden vulture’s wings,
and she knew not whether he wore a helmet in this fashion, or if it were
indeed a vulture, whose attacks had thus made him pale and enraged. While
she reflected on this, a female figure, wounded and bleeding, made its
appearance, and looking on it but for a moment, Bertha screamed aloud,
“Have mercy, Heaven!” for she recognised that the features were her own.
Terrified by this phantom, and even by the sound of her own voice, she
rushed out of the chamber into the hall, in which hung the golden rings.
They were now silent and motionless, as if held by invisible bands, and at
this time, above all others, Bertha would have rejoiced in the slightest
sounds of their former music; for it seemed to her disordered fantasy, as if
the fearful shapes in the mirror had started out into real life; that they were
moving through the apartment which she had left with rustling garments
and sounding steps. How glad would she have been, therefore, if the magic
rings, the harps, and cymbals, had overpowered those fearful sounds, and
the terror by which her heart was now oppressed! Then she, indeed,
remembered the lady’s instructions, that by a few notes on her lute she was
to obtain whatever she wished for in this enchanted castle. But, alas! her
voice was rendered powerless by fear, and in order to obtain her lute, she
must have passed again through the frightful apartment with the mirror.
Horror deprived her of all self-possession; so that, as if supernaturally
compelled, she touched one of the golden rings;—immediately they all
began to move and to sound aloud; but, alas! not in harmonious music.
Their tones were like an awful mixture of thunder and tempestuous winds,
or hoarse roaring as of wild beasts,—then there was the clashing of swords
as in battle, and at intervals arose lamentable moanings, as of the wounded

and dying. At length the rings began to turn in furious haste; the noises were
more and more hideous, accompanied too by yells of unearthly fiendish
laughter; so that Bertha was attacked by fearful giddiness, and could
scarcely support herself. There was then a loud knocking at the door, which
communicated with the chamber of the mirror. Bertha thought she could not
refrain from calling out, “Who is there?” And that she would then be
answered by her own voice,—that she would behold her own form enter,
pale, dishevelled, and bleeding,—that the horrid spectre would stretch out
its arms to seize upon her! Half delirious, she rushed out of the hall, ran
along the corridor down stairs, and through the court, till she found herself
on the banks of the lake, which, instead of being serene and still as before,
now heaved and raged with waves like those of a stormy sea! All was
indeed changed around her; most of the white flowers had grown blood-red,
and waved downwards like flames from the ramparts, as if threatening and
angrily against her. How was her terror augmented, however, when, on
gaining the opposite bank of the lake, she remembered that she had not
brought the keys of the gate! Should she now return to that scene of
horrors? Such attempt would have been vain, as she felt that utter madness
would ensue. So she ran onward, calling aloud on her brother, though she
might have well known, that within these walls he could not render her
assistance. But the gates stood wide open, while their ponderous wings
moved as if agitated by a hurricane, threatening to close and crush to death
any one who would venture beyond the portal. However, the damsel took
courage, and rushed forwards. Scarcely was she on the other side, when the
gates closed with a horrible crash; so that, perceiving how narrowly she had
escaped with life, she fled, swift as an arrow, down the hill, and when
arrived in the plain beneath, sunk down on the ground, exhausted and
motionless. She heard on all sides the murmuring of voices, and confused
clashing of armour and weapons, and on half recovering her self-
possession, perceived that she was carried in her brother’s arms, and that he
said, as if communing with himself, “We must bring her into the boat, and
cross over to the island, for the people here are mad with terror at the horrid
sights on the castle ramparts.” Then Bertha, remembering the prospect
which she had seen from the window, faintly whispered, “Oh yes! let us go
to that beloved island!” But thereafter she again closed her eyes, wearied
and insensible.

CHAPTER XVI.
Of a fearful combat betwixt Sir Heerdegen and the Knight
of the Sea.
Having once more awoke, she found herself reclining on the turf,—her
brother kneeling beside her, and anxiously employed for her recovery. Still
she heard the same wild murmuring of voices and clang of weapons from
the main land, and then looking at the boat which had brought them across,
“Thank Heaven,” said she, “that we are now in the island!” “Ay, truly,” said
her brother, “we are safer here; for, on account of the thundering noises and
frightful sights at the Druda’s castle, the people have all risen up in arms,
partly to assist the lady, whom they supposed in danger, and partly to attack
each other, since the disturbance in her hitherto silent and peaceful abode
seems like a signal for the renewal of their contentions. That is indeed no
longer a fitting habitation for a timid damsel; and we must endeavour to
remove from it as far as possible.” “Wherefore then should we leave this
island?” said Bertha; “here surely we might remain in peace and joy. Follow
me, for I already know whither we should go.” With these words, she stept
boldly onwards into the green thickets, convinced that she should find there
the hermitage of her lover, Sir Otto von Trautwangen, according to the
visionary prospect which she had beheld from the window of the lady’s
castle. Her brother thought, that what she had now said might be the result
of secret information received from the Lady Minnatrost, and went silently
after her into the woodland coverts.
There, however, they found no flowery parterres, nor gravel walks, nor
aught which she had expected at her lover’s habitation. Bertha, however,
was not discouraged, but persisted in her search. She was even tempted to
call aloud on Sir Otto by name, only that she was afraid of rousing her
brother to anger. Meanwhile, the branches of the trees became always more
and more densely interwoven; their roots always made the damp ground
more uneven; serpents, too, and other reptiles, disturbed by the
unaccustomed tread of human visitors, were visible, writhing or crawling
among the tall grass. At length the clear light of the ocean waves appeared

once more on the other side of the island; and on reaching the shore, Bertha
only found a wild country, where the evening sun was now shedding his
rays upon old Runick tombs and monuments, and the wind rustled
mournfully among the luxuriant moss and tall grass by which they were
covered. Weeping bitterly, the disappointed damsel sat down on one of
these old tomb-stones, and, with a painful feeling of resignation, exclaimed,
—“So then, all that I was destined to find on this island was but a grave!”
The more that her brother questioned and tried to console her, the more her
affliction increased. She felt all the bitterness of disappointment and shame
at the self-confidence which she had just before shewn.
Sir Heerdegen, perplexed and mortified, began to pour forth reproaches on
the mysterious lady of the castle, by whose magic arts he supposed that she
had been thus led astray. On the first mention of the Druda’s name, a new
source of regret and sorrow was opened for the unfortunate Bertha. She
called to mind once more the solemn admonitions, the affectionate
embraces, the heart-drawn tears of her aunt at their last interview, and the
hopes then expressed of the future happiness that was in store for them. She
became quite overpowered by these melancholy reflections, and her
brother’s impatience increased every moment. At length they heard near
them the sound of a clear and melodious female voice, which sung a few
words, of which the import was as follows:—

“Blood-red berries, leaves so green,
Brew drink for heroes meet, I ween.”

Looking up, Bertha saw a tall female figure walking about on the sea-shore,
sometimes stooping down as if to pluck flowers from the turf, sometimes
pulling leaves from branches over her head, all which she threw into a great
golden cup under her arm. Over the neck and shoulders of this stranger
waved luxuriant blond tresses; and when she bent down her head, they fell
also like a veil over her features. She wore a richly-embroidered garment,
(such as betokened her to be of high rank,) but carelessly girdled, and with
the skirts folded up, as if for a journey. From a belt round her waist hung a
large glittering sword, and from her neck behind were suspended a bow and
quiver. She continued her employment in collecting plants, all the while
singing a wild melody, to which the brother and sister listened, forgetting

for a space their own sorrows; for the figure of the stranger had irresistibly
attracted their attention, and her music too was such as they had never
before heard. Her songs alluded throughout to some extraordinary drink,
which rendered warriors furious in battle, and altogether invincible, as if
they wore enchanted armour. Every stanza, however, closed with soft
melancholy notes, whereby she cautioned the stranger against drinking too
freely from the cup which possessed such power of inspiration. Just as the
mysterious stranger was bending down to the grassy shore, Heerdegen
happened involuntary to exclaim,—“Good Heavens, how beautiful must be
her features!” Whereupon she suddenly reared herself in her full height, like
a tall pine-tree, and the beauty of her countenance, being fully revealed,
gleamed with a sun-like splendour through that desolate wilderness. Her
large blue eyes flashed with anger, and in a stern threatening tone, she said,
—“You have disturbed me! What boots it now this mild auspicious
evening? What avails it that so many bright and precious flowers are
assembled?” With these words she emptied the golden cup, so that her
collected treasures were scattered on the turf. Sir Heerdegen wished to draw
nearer and beg her forgiveness; but immediately she unsheathed her sword,
and made him a sign that he was to keep at a distance. Then she stepped
solemnly on to the water’s brink, took her place in a boat which was there
waiting for her, and with the strength and rapidity of a practised rower,
made her way out among the waves, soon afterwards disappearing behind a
wooded promontory. The brother and sister looked after her with
astonishment; and as, after a pause, they were about to express their
thoughts, Bertha suddenly started up, and cried out, “Look yonder, dearest
brother! What objects are those that wave and rock over the woods?
Methinks they are like the masts of a great fleet.” Looking in the direction
to which she had pointed, Sir Heerdegen perceived not indeed ship-masts,
but the heads of enormous halberts, which rose above the copsewood, and
were moving towards him. In a short time many of the warriors, by whom
these weapons were carried, stepped out of the thickets. These were
gigantic figures cased in iron cuirasses, which rung and rattled at every
step, and bearing great shields covered with brass on their left shoulders. Sir
Heerdegen started up, and laid his hand on his sword; but, lo! from the
other side, there came out of the wood an equal number of armed men! A
handsome youth, in a hauberk that shone like gold, with a high towering
helmet, surmounted strangely by vulture’s wings, stepped forwards from the

troop, pointed with his spear at the brother and sister, and said, “Take them
prisoners, and bear them on shipboard!” “What right hast thou over us, who
are freeborn?” said Sir Heerdegen, drawing his sword, and wielding it with
desperate resolution. “Walk behind me, Bertha,” said he, “and whoever
dares first attack us, shall with his life pay the forfeit of his insolence!”
Then all around there was a quivering of javelins ready to be sent against
the unfortunate young people; but the leader in the golden armour called
out, “Down with your arms! I will have them living!” Whereupon the
javelins were laid aside; but the broad shields were ranked together like a
wall of brass, and an impenetrable circle was always drawn closer and
closer round the helpless victims. “Fy on this abuse of over-strength!” cried
Sir Heerdegen; “if thou in the golden harness hadst courage in thy heart,
and wert a knight as I am, this contest might be decided in another way!”
“Halt!” cried the young leader, and the giants with their brazen shields
stood as if motionless. Thereafter he came alone within the circle, placed
himself opposite to Sir Heerdegen, leaned on the hilt of his long sword, and
said, “Darest thou then maintain that thou art a knight, and yet wearest no
armour?” “Did I then come forth prepared for battle?” inquired Sir
Heerdegen. “I was this evening engaged in peaceable conversation with my
sister, and for what reason could I suppose that we should be thus
attacked?” “That should have been provided for,” said the stranger; “if you
have withheld from me the tributary dues which I have a right to demand,
then I take in lieu of them whatever best pleases me, and bear it on board
my ships. Now it so happens, that my pleasure is to take both of you along
with me, although, in your weatherbeaten doublet and cap, you make an
appearance very different from that which your chiefs are wont to display.”
“In this land I am neither chief nor vassal,” said Sir Heerdegen. “I am a
stranger knight; and as for gorgeous apparel, on that head I give myself no
concern.” “In truth, that may be plainly enough perceived,” said the leader
with a scornful smile; “and as for thy knighthood, who knows whether thy
words on that subject be true or false. Take them prisoners!” Thereupon the
circle of brazen shields began once more to close together; but Sir
Heerdegen cried out, “Halt!” in such a thundering voice, that the iron-cased
giants stood motionless, as if they had heard the commands of their own
leader. “I recognise you now for Normans,” said Sir Heerdegen. “Your
language, figures, and dress, leave me no doubt on that score. Normans
should be valiant champions, who love single combat, whether with the

lance or the sword, and every noble and daring encounter. I, therefore,
challenge thee, thou leader of this band, to try thy skill and strength with me
in arms. Let the conqueror decide what is to become of me and of my
sister.” “Ay, that indeed must be listened to,” said the youth with the golden
armour. “Give room then, soldiers, and make a fitting circle around us; for I
now perceive that we have to do with a true knight. But there is first one
question to be answered, Canst thou wield our weapons, for I have no
others to offer thee?” “Dost thou look on me as an inexperienced boy?” said
Sir Heerdegen. “A warrior who has spent so much of his time in the wild
regions of the north as I have done, should methinks know how to use arms
as ponderous as any that thou art likely to offer me. Give me then a spear
and a massive shield.” Thereupon the leader commanded, that a fine coat of
mail, a helmet, and target, should immediately be brought, also a number of
the best javelins, among which he left his opponent the free choice. “As for
swords,” said the stranger, “I have not ordered them to be provided, as I
perceive that thou hast one by thy side, and that which we have already
worn and proved, is among us warriors like an old friend, in whom, at the
hour of need, we can best confide.”
Sir Heerdegen then began to arm himself for battle, at which the stranger
assisted, saying, “Canst thou now perceive that I am a true knight? At first I
knew not so well what were thy pretensions, nor if I had one who was my
equal in birth and in courage before me. Since thou hast travelled in the
north, it must probably be known to thee, that we knights of the sea, not
only can maintain our rights on the battle-field, but can also shew towards
our opponents forbearance and courtesy.” “I know it well,” answered Sir
Heerdegen, “and, confiding in your honour, I challenged thee to single
combat. But, before all other considerations, tell me now, Sir Knight, hast
thou been sent hither by the beautiful damsel, with the golden cup and the
sword, as her avenger, because I disturbed her when she was collecting
leaves, berries, and flowers?” “I know not even,” said the sea-knight, “of
what damsel thou speakest;—except that beautiful trembling form there,
whom thou callest thy sister, I know not of any fair damsel, far or near.
Thou shouldst, therefore, explain more clearly what adventure thy question
alludes to.” Sir Heerdegen complied; and no sooner had he finished his
description of the wonderful figure that he had seen on the sea-shore, than
the Norman warrior turned round to some of his companions, who were
nearest him, and said, “Think only! Gerda has been here, and this but half

an hour ago. In these woods she has been collecting plants for her magic
spells. What may this portend?” The men thus questioned, shook their
heads discontentedly and in silence. When at length they seemed about to
speak, their answer was delayed; for a young soldier came up to them
hastily, and said, “To what purpose this questioning and consultation? He
who intends to fight during the last rays of sunset let him make haste, and
not confuse his brain with such doubts. If he remains alive, he will have
time enough afterwards for consideration; and should he fall, he will no
more be disquieted by his curiosity.” So then, as Sir Heerdegen was
completely armed, and had also chosen a shield and javelin among many
that were offered to him, the two champions stepped into the ring, which,
according to northern custom, had been measured out for them, and
enclosed with branches of oak and hazel. A hoary-headed warrior led each
of the combatants to his place, grasped his hand at parting, saying, “Now do
your duty!” after which they were left alone looking at each other.
With their spears elevated, and their shields held for protection over their
hearts, the knights began slowly and with measured steps to pace round the
circle, each watching his opportunity to make an attack on the other. Bertha
indeed remarked, with great terror, that her brother was quite unaccustomed
to the use of such weapons,—that he moved tottering and awkwardly under
the weight of the gigantic shield, and tried laboriously to balance the
ponderous javelin; while, on the contrary, the sea-knight played with his as
if it had been a mere toy in his right hand. Courage, however, and a quiet
enjoyment of the battle, gleamed equally in the eyes of both, and if the
looks which they darted at each other could have turned into javelins, they
must have both been pierced to the heart. Sometimes one or other would
brandish his spear in such manner, that the lookers-on felt convinced that he
would now hurl it at his opponent; but this was only intended to force the
latter into a hasty attack, or into some incautious movement of his shield.
Both resumed again their solemn course round the circle, keeping watch
mutually on every gesture. At last, Sir Heerdegen’s spear came suddenly
singing through the air; whereupon the knight of the vulture’s wings turned
round his gleaming shield like a revolving moon, received the blow right in
the middle of his target, and threw back the missile against his adversary.
Almost in the same moment his own weapon took flight, and struck with
such violence through the border of Sir Heerdegen’s shield, that he was
unable to withstand the shock, but fell under his target, and the spear at the

same time entering the ground, he could not immediately disengage
himself. On the other hand, the sea-knight leapt across like a tiger on his
prey, first grasping him by the throat, then confining his arms with one
hand, while with the other he seized the hilt of his sword, pulled it out of
the sheath, and hurled it away far beyond the limits of the circle.
Meanwhile Bertha beheld with horror her brother thus prostrate on the
ground, and saw the vulture’s wings on the sea-knight’s helmet, shadowing
his countenance that was now pale with rage; she thought of the horrid
vision that she had seen in the mirror, and screamed out, “Vulture, vulture!
have mercy on the noble prey that thou hast captured!” Then the sea-knight
smiled kindly on her, and said,—“I shall do him no injury!” He bent again
over Sir Heerdegen, saying,—“Thou art defenceless, wilt thou resign
thyself? If so, be assured thou art in the hands of an honourable conqueror.”
Heerdegen hung down his head with an expression of bitter regret and
shame. The Norman then let him go, and went smiling to Bertha. “I trust,”
said he, “that neither of you will regret the necessity you are now under of
making a voyage with me for some time through the salt seas. I have
honourably taken you prisoners; and, with regard to the damsel, the
difference methinks is no more, than if she had two brothers instead of one.
This newly-acquired brother is the elder of the two, or at least passes for
such; and therefore it is right that you should follow his commands, and
proceed in any path wherein he leads the way.” Thereupon he cried aloud,
—“Let the boat be drawn up on the beach. Set sail in the ships! We must
travel many miles yet by star-light!”
Already, ere the sun had vanished over the mountains, the brother and sister
had embarked in the state-vessel of the sea-knight, and floated away. The
fleet consisted of but three ships, rapid of motion and strangely rigged.
Bertha was forced to stand on the deck, and wept bitterly when the shores
gradually vanished from her view,—when the evening fogs gathered on the
land, and spread themselves out, as if, with longing arms, to embrace her. It
was like a friendly salutation from the good-hearted, kind Lady Minnatrost.
“Gladly would I go back to her,” said Bertha; “oh how gladly! But I shall
never return again!” At that moment, a snow-white wood-pigeon flew
around her, and cooed aloud; but the land vanished quite away in the
obscurity of the night, and, as it were, melted into the waves.

CHAPTER XVII.
How Sir Otto von Trautwangen and the merchant
Theobaldo fared in France.
Some time after these events happened on the shores of the north sea, Sir
Otto von Trautwangen and his friend Theobaldo were one day seated
together on the turf beneath the luxuriant shade of a forest in France; the
sun was high in the cloudless heaven, and his rays, without scorching, made
a fine play of light and shade as they descended through the leafy covert.
Their horses meanwhile grazed tranquilly in a neighbouring glade; for,
notwithstanding the fiery temper of Sir Otto’s charger, they had made
acquaintance during their long journey; so that the chestnut-coloured Pole
led as quiet a life with his companion as he could desire. Sir Otto seemed
lost in thought. He leaned backwards against the trunk of a tree, gazing up
to the cloudless azure of heaven; so, while he was thus abstracted,
Theobaldo took up a mandoline, which he always carried with him on his
journey, and sang to its notes a few stanzas in praise of travelling and
constant change of scene. “Hold, hold!” said Sir Otto, awakening from his
reverie; “I cannot join in that ballad.” “Who desired that you should do so?”
said Theobaldo, smiling. “Sing another. Few people can bear to repeat the
same notes over and over, far less to hear them repeated; on which account
there are so many poets and musicians.”
“Nay, I have no wish to sing,” said Otto. “My heart is oppressed with a
longing which music cannot gratify. Tell me, Theobaldo, is it not wholly
inexplicable, that two such distinguished characters as Sir Folko de
Montfaucon and his sister Gabrielle, with whose names all France rings,
should thus evade all our endeavours to discover them?”
“They are indeed like figures reflected from many mirrors,—like sounds
repeated by manifold echoes,” answered Theobaldo. “The very rumours
that we have heard of them render our senses confused, and defeat all our
attempts. They are, in truth, become like phantoms from the ancient world
of wonders and chivalry, of which every one relates whatever seems most
incredible, and thinks that, under the auspices of such names, he has a right

to demand belief for that which is the work of his own invention. They are
idolized during their lifetime; and for this very reason, are, like other idols,
no more in reality to be discovered.”
“You wish that I should laugh,” said Sir Otto; “but give me the mandoline.
Rather than this I shall sing.”
“Mark you now,” said Theobaldo; “this is indeed what I desired. Sing, I
pray you; for music may, in truth, be impersonized as the purest and kindest
angel, who is permitted by Providence to visit and console unhappy
mortals.”
Otto then touched the lute, and sung to its accompaniment an address to a
little bird that was just then fluttering above him:—

“Sweet bird, that thus on rapid wing
Ascend’st to realms above,
Oh! could’st thou point to me the path
That leads unto my love!
But, ah! thy course is wandering too;
So thou perchance art crost
By fruitless longing, even as I,
And thy true love hast lost!”

“It is strange,” said Theobaldo, “when, in this foreign land, you speak your
native tongue, vehemently indeed, and with passion, it seems as if the very
woods, flowers, and fountains, were amazed at such harsh and unwonted
sounds. But when you begin to sing, all is again tranquil, happy, and
harmonious; for music is indeed a universal language. Mark, I pray you,
what grand adventure is announced as your reward by the stranger who just
now makes his appearance from the thickets!”
Lifting up his eyes, Otto indeed saw that a young man, handsomely attired,
and mounted on a white horse, just then came riding out of the wood. He
wore a plaited green dress, like that of a minstrel, and over it a magnificent
gold chain, by which his harp was suspended from his neck. All the while
he continued to play thereupon; for his horse was so quiet and sensible, that
of his own accord he turned away from the down-hanging branches, so that
his rider might not be interrupted by them in his employment. Coming up

near to Sir Otto and the merchant Theobaldo, he halted, and said,—“Was it
then your voices which I just now heard sound so harmoniously through the
forest?” When Otto courteously answered in the affirmative, the stranger
dismounted, saying,—“Permit me then to have the pleasure of joining for a
while in your amusements.” Thereupon he took the bridle from his horse,
and allowed him to graze at liberty in the glades of the forest. At the same
moment, Otto’s war-steed came up snorting and neighing, prepared for a
combat with his new neighbour; from which the latter shrunk back
affrighted, and, as if seeking protection, trotted away to his master. Then Sir
Otto spoke aloud some words of severe admonition to his charger;
whereupon he betook himself quietly to the society of the chesnut Pole; and
the minstrel’s horse regaining courage, went curvetting and caprioling back
to the pasture.
“We are, perhaps, all three going the same road,” said the minstrel, “and I
trust it may be so. Wherever I now see a knight cased in armour, I cannot
but suppose that he is travelling, or means to travel, into the Holy Land,”
“Alas! it is not so with me,” answered Sir Otto blushing; “earnestly as I
would wish to go thither. A solemn vow which I have made drives me
onwards evermore towards the west, notwithstanding the ardent longings of
my soul towards the warm suns of the oriental climes.” “It grieves me
heartily to hear this,” said the minstrel; “it would have been so pleasant to
travel in your society. But as the matter now stands, you are in the right. A
vow made is a sacred pledge which must be redeemed; and that knight
would indeed be unworthy of his rank, who could forget this duty even for
the sake of journeying into Palestine. For the present, however, will you not
sing again?” “I know not,” answered Sir Otto; “but, in truth, were I to sing,
both words and notes would be mournful; for what you have just now said
of the Holy Land has made too deep an impression on my heart;—much
rather would I hear music from you.” “Nay,” said the stranger, “I know not
aught of which I can chaunt but those eastern climes, of which the very
name has already made you sad. However, if you are willing to listen, I am
prepared.”
Thereupon he commenced a long and beautiful ballad, of which every
stanza was fashioned in praise of the crusaders, and, above all, of King
Richard Cœur de Lion. Otto’s cheeks glowed, and he would have gladly left
every other pursuit in this world, in order to go with the wonderful minstrel

after the banners of King Richard to the east. He was just about to inquire
whether the stranger knew if Sir Folko de Montfaucon were also among the
crusaders; for if every separate contest between the champions of this age
might be deferred, and they could all join together in this enterprise against
the Saracens, it would assuredly prove the most glorious and successful war
that had ever been known in the world. But ere he had time to propose that
question, there came a troop of armed men from the thickets, who spoke
very respectfully with the minstrel; whereupon he ordered them again to put
the bridle on his white horse, and immediately afterwards, with a courteous
salutation, rode away. One of his attendants lingered, however, and Sir Otto
had time to ask him what was the name and rank of his master. “He is,” said
the squire, “the renowned Master Blondel, the best minstrel in all England,
and the bosom-friend of King Richard; on which account he is to
accompany our army to Palestine. We are ordered by the king to attend him,
that he may not be attacked and suffer injury, when, as now, he leaves the
straight road, in order to make excursions hither and thither, as minstrels
and poets are wont to do.” Thereupon he mounted his horse, and rode gaily
on to overtake his comrades, whose voices were heard from afar, joining the
minstrel in a choral song, which resounded merrily through the forest.
“Seems it not,” said Sir Otto, “as if all the best enjoyments and noblest
duties of this life were destined always to come under our notice, only to
mock and torment us, because they are now wholly out of our own reach?
Or, as your looks now seem to indicate your dissent from what I have said,
it will be better that I speak for myself alone. Is not this adventure of to-day
like the contrivance of some wicked magician, who specially wishes that I
should feel, as it were within my grasp, all that appears to me most
estimable and desirable, only to be reminded more painfully of the chains
by which I am bound, and which I dare not strive to break asunder?”
“In truth,” said Theobaldo, “I might have more reason than you to complain
of this matter; for, if you have bound yourself by rash vows, I know not of
any such which I have ever sworn. Yet I remain here, though Heaven knows
how gladly I would have followed this noble minstrel on his way to
Palestine!” “Leave me then for ever, Theobaldo,” said Sir Otto. “I have
already undergone so many painful separations, that I may well feel
accustomed thereto.”

Theobaldo gazed on him kindly, and said in a faltering voice,—“No, God
forbid that I should forsake you. But desist from such lamentations, and
once more lift up your eyes. Mark, I pray you, how the light fleecy clouds,
the verdant branches of the forest, and the soaring larks, play betwixt us and
the bright expanse of heaven. Methinks from a sky so beauteous and
smiling must descend balm and refreshment for all the sorrows of this
world.” Otto looked up and said,—“Thou art in the right; and, in truth,
nothing can better serve to counteract useless grief and repining, than to
look on that glorious vault, with its moving clouds and boundless depths of
azure, which is now so bright above us!”
For some time the two youths lay outstretched on the turf, with their eyes
fixed on the sky, when, lo! there came sailing through the air, right above
them, a most beautiful falcon, at such a height that he seemed to them to be
even above the sun, for the rays of golden light came under his wings and
body. Rejoiced at this sight, Otto started up, and called and whistled like a
true-bred falconer to the bird, which, however, would not come down to
him. It was indeed easy to perceive that the hawk understood his signals,
lowering its flight, for a certain space, and wheeling in circles round the
knight. Thereafter, on a signal audibly made to him from another quarter of
the forest, he clapped his wings, and resolutely made his way thither, swift
as an arrow, over the trees. It was plain that he had now heard the voice of
his proper master. “I am glad that he is gone,” said Theobaldo; “there is
nothing which is to me more intolerable than a bird of this kind, thief and
rogue as he is, with his crooked hook-bill, his glaring eyes, and long
robberlike claws! What pleasure could you find in making him signals?”
“After your manner,” said Sir Otto, “every animal or bird might be
described as a monster; but I love all such creatures, and more especially
the falcon, who is so wise and so faithful.” “Wise!” answered Theobaldo;
“the devil himself has also wisdom; and if you call it fidelity to seize on
every victim that falls within his power with his crooked talons, the devil
too might boast of that virtue.” “You have never then rode out on a hawking
excursion?” said Sir Otto. “It is among the prejudices of knightly rank,”
answered Theobaldo, “to look on such things as a source of enjoyment.”
“Nay, say not so,” replied Sir Otto; “such pastime is, on the contrary, like a
twofold life. Above us are the winged hunters of the air; while beneath we
have fleet horses, whirling us around the plains and meadows, while the
free winds of heaven are whistling through our dishevelled hair, and we are

cheered by the jocund shouts of the sportsmen. At length the falcon, like a
magician, wheels in circles round his devoted prey, hovering and gleaming
over him, till at last he comes down, and—and”——
At this moment Theobaldo’s bow sounded with a loud reverberation; and
Otto, confused and disturbed in his discourse, looked round, till he saw the
noble bird descending rapidly, vainly fluttering to support himself, with an
arrow through one of his wings, over that side of the wood to which he had
directed his flight when he left them. “Who commanded thee to injure the
bird which I loved so dearly?” said the young knight, with his eyes darkly
flashing. “I knew not surely that it was your falcon,” said Theobaldo; “and
if, according to your own words, you love all such creatures, you should
rejoice that the arrow which I have now shot has rescued some poor timid
songster, which had concealed itself in the thickets of the forest.” “Thou art
not appointed to be a judge in the wide realms of the eagle,” said Otto,
discontentedly. “It may be so,” said Theobaldo; “nor, methinks, art thou
more than any other mortal privileged to be a hunter therein.”
In this dispute, however, the young men were soon disturbed by the
presence of a third party.

CHAPTER XVIII.
How Sir Otto met again with the Knight of Montfaucon.
Mounted on a fine silver-grey horse, in a magnificent hunter’s dress, with a
bugle-horn at his side, a young man of handsome features and graceful
demeanour made his appearance before them. At the same moment, when
Otto saw the bleeding falcon supported on the breast of the stranger, the
latter observed the cross-bow in the hands of Theobaldo, and considering
him as but a squire, he turned an angry glance on the knight, saying,—“If it
pleases you, sir, to allow your attendants to hunt in my forests, you indeed
impute to me no more hospitality and civility towards strangers, that I am
willing to shew. But, nevertheless, I must earnestly request, that, for the
future, you will content yourself with humbler game, and spare so noble a
bird as this which your squire has now wounded.” Thereupon he tenderly
stroked the head and back of the poor stricken falcon, with many kind and
caressing words, and without attending to Sir Otto’s apologies, which, in
truth, were but confusedly delivered; for he was himself greatly irritated by
Theobaldo’s strange conduct. The latter, however, had now become more
obstinate than ever. He went up with a look of defiance to the stranger
sportsman, and said,—“It was I alone, without being commanded, or
receiving permission from any one, who took aim at your falcon; and I only,
therefore, am to be spoken with on that matter.” “Stand back, Theobaldo,”
said Sir Otto; “thou seem’st not aware of the guilt thou hast brought on
thine own shoulders, in thus having infringed the laws of hunting and of
knighthood, by taking aim at a prey so noble.” “Nay, I know it all full well,”
answered Theobaldo. “You princes and knights have divided this world into
special portions for your own private advantage; and as to the rights freely
bestowed by Providence on other men, it is said, that they never must
exercise them. Mark you, sirs, it is said so; but it follows not that the rules
you have laid down will always be observed. That independence which
Milan has maintained as a free town, every Milanese will also support in his
own proper person, in despite of king or emperor, count or duke. In proof of
these words, I shall now shoot a few more birds.” And, with these words, he
again stretched his cross-bow. “You have, in truth, chosen a strange-minded

squire for your attendant, Sir Knight,” observed the stranger. But thereupon
Sir Otto, vehemently incensed, and feeling the spirit of knighthood insulted
and outraged within him, suddenly tore the cross-bow out of Theobaldo’s
hands, broke it into pieces in a moment, stampt on it with his feet, and then
scattered the fragments about the meadow. “This conduct translated into
audible words,” said Theobaldo, “means no doubt a last adieu!” And as the
knight turned from him with disdainful glances, he went gloomily to his
Polish steed, and began to adjust the saddle and bridle. Otto’s war-horse
perceiving this, came also trotting up, with kind and joyous looks; but
Theobaldo repulsed him peevishly, saying, “Ay, ay, thou would’st yet bear
me company, but thy master wills it not, and, therefore, thou too may go
thine own way.” Otto, hearing this new insult, called to his charger, drew
the saddle-girths closer, and mounted; after which he readily accepted the
stranger’s invitation, that he should accompany him to a neighbouring
castle, in order that, amid a numerous party of brother knights, he might
forget all vexation at the strange event which had brought about their
meeting. Theobaldo was also mounted, and rode slowly away, while Sir
Otto and the stranger took an opposite direction. The two horses neighed
aloud, and wished to rejoin each other; but their riders still spurred them on,
although they could not help turning round with looks of regret and
melancholy.
Sir Otto had proceeded a considerable distance, following the stranger,
when they heard the sound of a horse in rapid trot behind them, and on
looking back they saw that it was Theobaldo, who pulled up the reins
immediately, as soon as he was observed, and with a degree of humility
which was to him unwonted, said, in the German language, and in a low
tone, “Sir Knight, methinks I have here been in the wrong, and gladly
would I still atone for my error, if it please you that I should again join you
on your journey.” Sir Otto immediately stretched out his arms towards him;
whereupon Theobaldo galloped up, and as the two friends shook hands
together, the Polish steed and the light-brown war-horse neighed merrily to
each other, as if they fully understood what was now going forward.
As they all three rode onwards, the noble falconer expressed great joy at
this reconciliation, insisting that knights should willingly overlook many
faults in squires who were so faithful and attached; for on such fidelity the
safety even of kingdoms and the relationship between monarchs many

times depended. Thereafter he began to tell many marvellous stories of his
wounded falcon, and of other such birds,—how they had been known to
live till they were more than an hundred years old, having been found
bearing golden collars round their necks, with the names thereon of princes
long since dead. Such falcons then flew about over land and sea, till they
had discovered a master equal in generosity, rank, and valour, to him that
was departed. Theobaldo hereupon acknowledged, that all the opinions
which he had before uttered were rashly adopted, and expressed deep regret
for his conduct of that morning.
Ere this time, however, Sir Otto, notwithstanding the change of dress and
demeanour, had clearly perceived that the hunter of the French forests was
no other than the renowned Sir Folko de Montfaucon; while the latter by no
means recognised, in the proud haughty knight, in his black and silver
armour, the young inexperienced and talkative squire whom he had
formerly met on the banks of the Danube. That armour indeed, with the
formidable eagle’s visor, was not unknown to him; but Otto’s young
blooming countenance and light hair contrasted so strangely with those
accoutrements, that Sir Folko could not form any distinct recollection. In
his mind all was like a dream, which, on awaking, we vainly strive to
renew, and which in a short space is wholly forgotten.

CHAPTER XIX.
How the Knights feasted in the Castle of Sir Folko de
Montfaucon.
In Sir Folko’s castle were now seated at the banquet table many brave
champions from different nations, also various other guests,—painters,
minstrels, musicians, and poets, among whom Theobaldo soon discovered
some of his lively countrymen. Especially there was one named the Count
Alessandro Vinciguerra, with whom he began to converse in a manner so
witty and cheerful that their discourse afforded amusement to the whole
company. Sir Otto meanwhile remained thoughtful and silent, so that, after
the first admiration excited by his noble form and graceful demeanour had
subsided, he was scarcely noticed by the party. As the wine-cups, mantling
with the richest juice of Medoc and Burgundy, circled round the festive
board, it occurred to the warriors, that, for better pastime, every one should
relate, from the experiences of his life, some remarkable story. Among so
many valiant knights, and other distinguished characters as were here
assembled, materials could not be wanting for such narratives. All,
however, insisted that their noble host should set an example to his guests,
—to which he replied, “I am aware that the excuses which I would gladly
offer would not relieve me from the duties which I owe to the noble friends
who are now around me. What I have to relate is indeed but of little
importance; but I am like a gardener, from whom a festal wreath is
demanded, and who, if he possesses not roses and jasmine, must be content
with daisies and forget-me-not.
“It must be known,” continued he, “to several who are here present, that our
family of Montfaucon derives its origin from Norwegian ancestors, and that
in the mountains of that wild country we have at this day many noble
relations. From thence my predecessors came, as conquering invaders into
France,—arrived with great forces within that district which is now called
Normandy, and with them brought, among other strange stories, the legend
which I am now to repeat to you. In Norway there dwelt an ancient and far-
famed hero, who had an amiable daughter, well known by the name of the

beautiful Sigrid. She was talked of and praised all over that northern
country, and therefore had many loving suitors. Besides her beauty, she was
also distinguished for her superiority in all female accomplishments, having
a deep knowledge of magic and necromancy, to which pursuits the young
ladies of that land are particularly addicted. Especially she had found means
to prepare a certain drink, which, if used in moderation, inspired the warrior
with unheard-of strength and courage; nay, it was said, that he was thereby
rendered even impenetrable by the weapons of his adversary. Many other
women of Norway have been in possession of the same charm, and one of
our relations at this day is in the habit of exercising that wonderful art.
“So it happened, that once on a time the old hero said to his daughter,
‘Pretty Sigrid, leave your household cares for one day and go forth into the
woods,—pluck there the red berries and green leaves that you wot of, for
to-morrow I shall need your aid. I have a hard battle before me.’ ‘With
whom then, father, do you mean to fight?’ said the fair Sigrid. ‘With the
young Hakon Swendson,’ answered the old warrior, ‘who in his ambition
will wing his flight above me through all the regions of the north, if I do not
take care in time to clip his wings. Besides, you know that he is sprung
from a race, betwixt whom and us there is an old and deadly feud.’ So the
beautiful Sigrid went out towards sunset into the dusky woods, alone and
unprotected, according to the laws of her mysterious science.
“Up and down the rocky cliffs, along the banks of the woodland river,
through many a dim valley, and on the brink of many a fearful precipice,
the fair damsel pursued her way, and by the time she had collected all her
roots, leaves, and berries, she found that the night-shadows had already
gathered around her, and that she was alone in a district of the forest which
she had till now never beheld. Her whole attention had been fixed on her
plants and flowers, and she had never thought of the stars, that had shone
out one by one above her, and now, though they glittered so brightly, yet she
was quite unable by their light to discover her road homewards. While she
thus stood meditative, and doubtful what course to pursue, she heard a great
crashing and rustling through the woods, and, behold! a frightful black bear,
rearing himself on his hind-legs, broke out as if to devour her, or strangle
her in his horrid embraces. Just as she had given herself up for lost, a
javelin came hissing through the air over her head, and in the next moment

she saw the bear struck through the heart, fall writhing on the ground, so
that, in the next moment, he rolled over a neighbouring precipice.
“Thereafter a handsome young warrior made his appearance from the
recesses of the forest, and respectfully offered to attend to her own home
the damsel, whom his interference had thus rescued. The fair Sigrid,
however, wept bitterly; for in her terror she had lost all her roots, berries,
and leaves; so that, according to the laws of magic, she must begin the
labour of collecting them anew,—though the evening was far advanced, and
the country around her wholly new and mysterious. ‘Search then, and pluck
as many more as it pleases you,’ said the young knight. ‘I know, moreover,
that at such times one must be alone and undisturbed. Therefore I shall walk
round thee, fair stranger, making a wide circle, so that no one shall speak
with thee, nor approach too nearly,—and ere the dawn of day I shall lead
you home to your father’s castle. Search then, pretty maid, and fear not
aught that can befall you in these woods.’ With these words the young
knight vanished again amid the forest thickets; the fair Sigrid continued her
employment as he had enjoined, and if, in that lonely unknown place, terror
now and then assailed her, she felt herself immediately refreshed and
encouraged, when she heard the rattling of the knight’s golden armour
through the distant green coppice.
“At length she had collected another store like that which had been lost; and
thereupon it occurred to her how much better it would be to boil them
immediately in a golden vessel which she had with her, so that she might at
once carry home with her the precious drink which the old knight had
desired her to prepare. Directly after her first and slightest signal, her
protector was close at hand, and scarcely had she made her wishes known
to him, ere he began to gather dry branches and brushwood, from which in
a moment arose bright flames, casting their light far amid the darkness of
the night. But the boiling of her magical plants required a long time, and
when it was nearly ended, the damsel began to weep bitterly; for she was
now so wearied that she was quite unable to undertake her long journey
homewards. Hereupon the knight said, ‘Fairest of maidens, you may here
rest securely. I shall watch over you while you sleep, and awake you at the
proper hour.’—Then he spread out his mantle on the ground,—collected
also a great quantity of soft moss, making for her a warm and pleasant

couch, and while she looked at it shyly and timidly, he had already vanished
away into the deepest shades.
“The morning red was already bright in the east, when she was awoke,
terrified by the distant sounds of martial horns and trumpets; but the young
hero again stood near her, and said, ‘You must now make all possible haste
to reach your home, for the horns that sound yonder from a distance are the
signals of Hakon Swendson, that now summon your father to the battle-
field. Take up your golden cup then and follow me.’
“Thereafter, he led the maiden through many winding and secret paths of
the forest, till she arrived at her father’s castle. Before taking leave of him
there she wished to know the champion’s name to whom she had been so
much indebted. ‘I am Hakon Swendson,’ answered he, ‘and I know right
well that you are named the beautiful Sigrida, daughter of the renowned old
hero who resides in this castle. I know too, that the drink which you have
this morning prepared is intended to work my destruction. But I have long
been your ardent lover, beautiful Sigrid, and that ancient and deadly feud
between our houses has killed all my hopes. Therefore I shall now gladly
die by your father’s sword, and wish that the drink which you have brewed
from these magical herbs may render him, as you designed, invincible!’
“Although Hakon Swendson intended after these words instantly to return
to the forest, the fair Sigrid insisted that he should accompany her into the
castle. There she related to her father all that had happened to her in the
foregoing night, and with such eloquence, that the two warriors forgot all
their former wrath against each other. They mutually threw aside their
battle-array, and thereafter Hakon Swendson and the fair Sigrid were
happily united in marriage.”
The company were well pleased with this story. The contrast, afforded by
the noble and generous affections which it exemplified, to the wild and
fierce characters of the northern knights, were compared, by a great master
in the art of painting, (who was among the guests,) to the effect of a
rainbow stretched across a dark threatening thundercloud; while the Italian
Count preferred the similitude of a rose, which, though not valued amid the
blooming gardens of his native country, would yet, amid the chill mountains
of the north, be prized as a great treasure.

Meanwhile several of the party had turned their attention on a man of very
tall stature, with a dark sunburnt visage; he was a Spaniard, by name Don
Hernandez; and they earnestly requested that he would relate to them some
legend from his own romantic and wonderful country, especially somewhat
of the long and fearful conflicts between the Christians and Moors.
Thereupon he took up a lute, and began to sing a wild Spanish ballad,
unfolding the tragical fortunes of the beautiful Donna Clara, and her lover,
Don Gayferos. The first stanzas began in a gay tone, describing how he had
persuaded her to leave her father’s palace, and take a moonlight walk with
him through the lonely forest.
I.

“Don Gayferos,—Don Gayferos, though the stars are bright on high,
And the nightingale exalts her voice in sweetest melody;
Yet longer in the darksome wood, I will not,—may not stay!”
“Then, dearest Lady, but command,—thy servant shall obey.”

II.

“’Tis well! then guide me homeward straight; but mark, in yonder
vale,
The cross that glimmers silently amid the moonlight pale.
That silent form is eloquent;—I must the voice attend,
That warns me by the holy fane my homeward course to wend.

III.

“Nay, wherefore by the chapel, dearest lady, should we go?
The path, methinks, is rough.” “Dares a servant answer so?
Thou should’st my will obey.” “Well, well, it shall be done;”
So down the mountain, arm in arm, the lovers now have gone.

IV.

“Don Gayferos, Don Gayferos, by the crucifix we stood,

And wherefore was thy head not bow’d in meek humilitude?”
“Donna Clara, Donna Clara, on thy beauteous hands I gazed,
Wherein, just then, that wreath of flowers was gracefully upraised.”

V.

“Don Gayferos, Don Gayferos, but when the grey-hair’d priest
So piously from heaven invoked a blessing on his guest,
Say wherefore wert thou silent?”—“Dearest lady, on mine ear,
Thy silvery voice alone did sound; no other could I hear.”

VI.

“Don Gayferos, Don Gayferos, would’st thou leave the chapel now,
Nor with water from the holy font sign the cross upon thy brow?”
“I had not mark’d the holy font; for from thine eyes so bright,
A dazzling radiance fell on mine, that blinded me with light.”

VII.

“Nay, nay, thou art my servant still; then hear what I command!
As I have done, so in the font, dip reverently thy hand;
And therewith sign thy forehead.”—With a shudder and a frown
The silent knight has turned away, and through the forest flown!

Thus began the Spaniard’s story. Then he changed the music and measure to
a strain somewhat sad and solemn, describing how, on the following night,
Don Gayferos once more brought the Lady Clara, by the notes of a well-
known serenade, to the window, and how she conjured him to say who he
was; above all, whether he were a Spaniard or Moor, an Infidel or Christian.
To this at length he answers, that he is no Christian, but a Moorish king,
who loves her ardently; who has great treasures and numberless soldiers;
who would place her with him on his throne, and entertain her in all regal
magnificence, at his palace of Alhambra, and in the flower-gardens of
Grenada. She leaves her room, and comes angrily forward on a terrace-walk

of the castle, intending to reproach him; but he joins her there, and scarcely
has she pronounced a few harsh words ere she falls fainting into his arms.
Thereafter he places her before him on his horse, and rides rapidly away
through the dark shades of the forest.
The Spaniard now changed his music once more into slow melancholy
notes, like those of a church anthem or dirge. He described how, at the
dawn of day, when the ruddy gleams of the east were on the landscape, the
beautiful Donna Clara knelt on the turf beside the lifeless frame of her
Moorish lover, who had been attacked in the forest, and killed by two of her
own brothers. With dishevelled hair, and no longer disguising her
attachment, she weeps over his pale remains. Looking up to the bright sky,
she acknowledges, that even as the stars rise and set, and as the eagle
hovers up and down, all in this world is variable and inconstant, only her
affections are unchangeable. Therefore her brothers built for her, in after
times, a lonely hermitage, with a chapel and an altar, where she spends her
life in weeping and in prayers for the soul of her departed lover.
The sound of the harp died away in slow vibrations, and the listeners gazed
on each other in silent melancholy.
Don Hernandez himself was the first to break the silence. With graceful and
courteous demeanour, “No doubt,” said he, “I should both accuse and
condemn myself, noble champions and gentlemen, for having thus with my
mournful songs disturbed your merriment, had it not been that you desired
to hear a legend from my native land. In my country, it is true, the people
are serious and solemn of mood; for where there are such contentions
between Moors and Christians, one’s thoughts must often turn on
melancholy events,—often, for example, on death.”
“Your story, (song rather I should say,) requires no such apology,” said the
Knight of Montfaucon. “Can you believe that we also do not entwine dark-
coloured flowers in our festal garlands? God be praised, Frenchmen are not
yet depraved into such levity, that we should despise the solemn character
of the Castilian heroes: besides, who is there among the present company,
who would not gladly drink from those deep fountains of warlike energy
and poetic imagination, which have their source in the rich warm peninsula
of the Pyrenean mountains?”

“You are pleased to speak kindly of us,” said Don Hernandez; “nor, in some
respects, are we unworthy of your praise. However, be that as it may, too
many dark flowers must spoil the beauty of the wreath. A bright lily, or
rose, must now and then be intwined therein; and to such a flower, if I
mistake not, may be compared the story which now seems hovering on the
lips of the Count de Vinciguerra.”
“Spaniards and Italians should doubtless assist each other,” replied the
Count; “and, since you desire it, I shall willingly commence my story:—
“In the fine town of Naples, which, both on account of its situation and
magnificent buildings, cannot be too much praised, there lived, some time
since, a brave, far-famed, but already grey-headed warrior, named Signor
Dimetri. After a life spent in toil and tumult, he wished to enjoy his old age
in luxurious tranquillity, and therefore collected from different countries all
possible rarities and treasures, his house being filled with the finest
paintings, statues, and tapestry; nor was a cellar of the most costly wines
neglected; but the rarest of all his possessions was a most beautiful young
wife, descended from one of the most noble and wealthy families in Italy.
With her, no doubt, he brought a good share of disquiet and anxiety into his
palace; for, notwithstanding the modesty, the mild and correct demeanour of
the Signora, yet the old hero was but too conscious of his grey hairs and
want of personal attractions; so that he had but little respite from the jealous
fantasies by which he was tormented.
“If, in consequence of his marriage, he was thus disquieted, another
inhabitant of Naples was yet more so. This was the handsome and
accomplished Signor Donatello, a young nobleman universally admired in
the Neapolitan circles, who had chanced to behold Signora Portia at early
mass, (at which time alone she was allowed to go abroad), and whose whole
thoughts, and even dreams, had, since that meeting, been engrossed by her
graceful and enchanting figure. Thenceforward he endeavoured by every
means in his power to draw her attention to himself, resolving, if he failed
in this object, that he would die for her sake. He did not proceed, however,
like those foolish young men, who send love-embassies by tattling
messengers; who ride or walk up and down daily before their mistress’s
windows, or send her costly presents; thus endangering her domestic peace
by rousing the attention of a jealous husband. Such lovers have themselves
to blame, if they lose all share in those affections which they are so anxious

to gain; but Signor Donatello, on the contrary, behaved with the utmost
prudence and foresight, taking care, no doubt, that Madonna Portia should
notice his passion, which even a single look was sufficient to convey; but in
such manner, that she might be convinced her security and peace were to
him infinitely more dear than the gratification of his own wishes.
“So it happened at last, that she herself contrived the means of expressing
her mutual affection, and the gratitude she felt for his prudence and
consideration. She found a trusty messenger to convey several letters; and
all that Donatello had next to arrange was but to obtain free entrance as a
friend into the house of his beautiful inamorata. For the future, then, he took
advantage of every occasion to shew the utmost attention and politeness to
the old Signor Dimetri; and yet so wisely did he behave, that it was
impossible to suspect him of any particular motives. All seemed but the
effect of accident; yet he had one attribute, which, though it had aided him
more than all the rest with the fair Portia, yet proved the greatest possible
hindrance to his designs on her husband. This was his extraordinary grace
and beauty of person, without which, being so lively and agreeable a
companion, he would doubtless have been invited long since into Dimetri’s
house; but though he had given scores of magnificent banquets, to which
the old gentleman was invited, yet the latter, being determined to avoid all
risks, kept his doors closed, with the utmost obstinacy, against his courteous
entertainer. In such banquets the young lover had already spent a
considerable share of his fortune, yet never arrived a single step nearer the
object of his wishes. At length he fixed his attention on a plan, which he had
before often thought of, though it was then more like a dream than reality.
This was, that he should contrive to rescue Signor Dimetri from some great
apparent danger, by which exploit he might infallibly secure his future
confidence and favour. Accordingly he made an agreement with some hired
bravoes, who were to attack the old hero unawares in a retired place. As
soon, therefore, as Dimetri fell into the snare, Signor Donatello was to rush
out against the assassins, who, after a short pretended resistance, would
give over, and take to flight. The plot was admirably carried through.
Dimetri was fully persuaded that his life had been saved by Donatello, and
expressed his gratitude with an air of the utmost gravity and earnestness.
But then, his doors remained just as firmly locked as ever; nay, since that
adventure, his temper seemed more peevish and capricious than it had been
before.

“In truth, the old warrior was unable to disguise from himself, that in regard
to his own person, years, disposition, and manners, he was by no means
fitted to gain or retain the affections of a young beauty like Madonna Portia.
On the other hand, he strove to encourage himself by reflecting on his own
heroic achievements, and all that poets have written on the love and respect
cherished by ladies for warlike valour and renown. Therefore he did not fail
to relate often the history of his own exploits in the most brilliant colours to
his young wife; and, moreover, to place books in her way, in which the
same adventures were fairly recorded. It seemed to him, however, as if she
read these volumes without any more lively interest than she would have
felt for the wonders told of Hannibal, Scipio, or any other hero, who had
been mouldering for centuries in the dust. Consequently he would,
notwithstanding the weakness of his health, have tried to refresh his
withering laurels by some new campaign, had it not been that his excessive
jealousy would by no means permit him to remain long absent from his own
house. Sometimes, indeed, he made young spirited horses be paraded at his
castle, and mounted them in his wife’s presence, or shot at marks with a
cross-bow, which no one but himself could have bent. Yet he could not help
feeling, that he no longer shone in such exercises as he had done in his
youthful days; while, as to the anxiety which Madonna Portia expressed for
him, it was much more like that of a daughter for the safety of a weak old
father, than of a wife dreading the loss of a beloved and too venturous
husband. How much then must that inglorious combat with the assassins,
and his rescue out of their hands by the interference of a handsome youth
like Donatello, have wounded the old warrior’s pride! From that day he
gradually endeavoured to break off the acquaintance; and as to inviting the
young man to his house, that was now wholly out of the question.
“After so many disappointments, Donatello at length lost all patience. With
Signor Dimetri he still kept up an appearance of civility and friendship; but
towards every one else his temper and behaviour became quite intolerable,
as if, being miserable himself, he was resolved that all the world should be
so in order to bear him company. Thus it came to pass, that he, who had
been universally admired and sought after in Naples, was now shunned and
hated even by his most intimate friends; so that two or three young men,
whom he had provoked by his scornful manners, and also crossed in some
favourite scheme, resolved to waylay him in the night, and if not to commit
murder, yet at least to wound and beat him in such manner, that he would be

forced to conduct himself differently for the future. Accordingly he fell one
evening into the snare that was laid for him; for, as he could not refrain
from walking always after dark near the house of his beloved Madonna
Portia, it was easy for them to find means of putting their plans into
execution. Notwithstanding that he made a brave defence, yet, having been
taken unawares, he was unable to stand against the number of his assailants,
and soon received two severe wounds.
“Meanwhile the old warrior heard the clashing of arms and loud voices on
the street; and being determined not to lose such an opportunity of playing
the part of an Orlando before his beautiful lady, he girded on his belt, and
brandishing his great battle-sword, rushed out of the house. Perhaps, being
thus prepared and resolute, he proved a powerful assailant, or perhaps mere
terror at such a frightful figure got the better of Donatello’s youthful
adversaries. Suffice it to say, they fled immediately, and he was set at
liberty. Thereupon the triumphant victor forgot all at once his former doubts
and fears. He directly brought in his rescued friend as a trophy into the
presence of Signora Portia, insisting, moreover, that a room should be
provided for him, and that she should herself undertake the cure of his
wounds. As Donatello was far too prudent, in Signor Dimetri’s presence, to
speak on any other subject but the wonderful prowess and courage of his
deliverer, describing how he had by his single arm put to flight a whole
troop of banditti, all suspicions were lulled to sleep. Moreover, he continued
to talk with such eloquence of the old hero’s former exploits, and
numberless adventures by sea and land, that, after his recovery, he lived still
as an intimate and chosen friend in Dimetri’s palace. The latter found him
oftentimes alone with his wife; but then he was always speaking or reading
of the same heroic achievements, to which the lady now seemed to listen
with the greatest attention.
“From this story we may learn, that all our best-laid plans to gain the
confidence of another may prove unsuccessful, and that it is not always by
conferring favours that one can excite his good-will. On the other hand, as
soon as his own vanity is inlisted on our side, we have no farther trouble,
but the game of itself will be won.”

CHAPTER XX.
How Sir Otto challenged the Knight of Montfaucon.
Many opinions were immediately offered on this story of the old warrior
and young lover. Some praised the prudence and reserve of Donatello;
others extolled the quick-sightedness of Signora Portia, for having
understood the wishes and motives of such a silent lover; while it was
agreed on all sides that the persons in the drama were to be looked on as
equally fortunate, Signor Dimetri not excepted, since he, like the rest, had
obtained at last the object which he had so long wished for.
During this discourse, the kind and hospitable Sir Folko de Montfaucon was
looking eagerly round the table, watching whether his guests were well
supplied with wine and satisfied with their entertainment. It now seemed to
him as if Sir Otto von Trautwangen sat lost in thoughts, which, from the
expression of his features, could not be either cheerful or agreeable.
Wishing to rouse him from this trance, Sir Folko observed, “My noble guest
from Germany has heard all the remarks which have been made on the
Count’s narrative, but has not himself uttered one word. May it please you,
sir, to say which of these characters seems to you the most praiseworthy and
enviable? Whether do you like best the young lady or the knight?”
With his eyes darkly gleaming, and in a deep severe tone, which contrasted
strangely with the mirthful levity of the party, Sir Otto replied, “I am indeed
unable to perceive how the most ingenious listener could find aught to
approve in the character or conduct of such a knight or lady. If you had
inquired of me which of the two was the more base, abominable, devilish,
and depraved, I might indeed have more readily provided myself with an
answer, although even then the choice would have been difficult. Fy on it!
That renowned warrior had raised up a vain coquette to a situation such as
she never deserved, had shared with her his house and fortune, placed his
honour and happiness in her hands, hoping that the late evening of his life
might still be cheered by gleams of confidence, fidelity, and love! Then, lo!
the wretched creature forfeits all the reward and praise which she might
have obtained for virtue and dignified demeanour, by encouraging a

libertine paramour! Shame, shame! That idle and despicable young fellow,
who, for himself, would never have won any wreath of fame, had succeeded
in gaining the friendly notice and society of a renowned hero, at which any
generous and honest heart would have been proud and rejoiced; and this
friendship he only uses for his own base purposes, in order to lay his snares
with more effect. Then he hires, forsooth, bravoes and assassins; wherefore
should he not as well have tried poison? At last the brave old man performs
that exploit in earnest, of which he had made a base and cowardly pretence;
uses, perhaps for the last time, his already honoured and victorious sword in
the service of that deceitful poltron, who, instead of sinking into the earth
with shame——but forgive me, noble sir, I have not temper nor patience to
speak farther, and have already dwelt too long on a subject so hateful!”
Every one in the banquet-hall was now silent, and on every cheek glowed a
deep blush of self-reproach, from which even the count Alessandro de
Vinciguerra was not exempted. He said, however,—“This noble stranger
has judged the characters of my story rather too severely. In the light in
which he has placed them, they may indeed deserve all the censure which
he has so freely bestowed; but in our glowing climate beyond the Alps, the
inhabitants, both men and women, are, by nature, differently framed and
disposed from the quiet people of his cold native land; and, methinks, the
same moderation and virtue cannot be demanded of us.” “This were to
affirm then,” said Sir Otto, “that right and wrong depended on the nearness
or distance of the sun; but I well know, that the inhabitants beyond the Alps
would as unwillingly incur the risk of eternal malediction as those of any
other country; and that the road which your story instructs us to travel leads
but to the realms of the devil there cannot be any doubt.”
The simple and child-like energy, the tranquil consciousness of right, which
were visible on Sir Otto’s countenance when he spoke these words,
reminded one of the angels’ heads carved in marble by the old devout artists
of Germany or Italy. An involuntary emotion of awe, an influence, breathed
as it were from the regions of eternal life, was felt through all the party
there assembled; so that even the proud and gay Count de Vinciguerra could
not lift his eyes from the ground. Don Hernandez meanwhile had risen from
his chair, and gone round, unperceived, behind Sir Otto. He touched him on
the shoulder, and, looking back, the youth saw the kindly countenance and

dark eyes of the Castilian gleaming on him with an expression of triumph
and approbation.
After a long silence, the Chevalier de Montfaucon also rose, and addressed
himself to the German youth: “Sir Knight,” said he, “you have indeed made
us all heartily ashamed, and therefore merit our gratitude and praise; for the
very tones of your voice sounded on our ears like the silvery music of a
chapel-bell, warning us to self-reproval, to humility, and devotion. Accept,
therefore, my sincerest thanks, and believe me, that I rejoice in possessing,
even for a short space, such a jewel and mirror of knighthood within my
castle.” Thereupon he made to Sir Otto a low and solemn obeisance. All the
knights and other guests rose at the same time, and followed his example.
Sir Otto was confused, and blushed deeply. “Noble sirs,” said he, “I believe
that you pay this homage to Heaven only, to whose mandates I have
chanced to direct your attention. Were it otherwise, a humble and
inexperienced youth, such as I am, would indeed ill deserve such honour.”
“Valiant stranger,” answered the Knight of Montfaucon, “we are unwilling
to allow that you should speak of yourself so unjustly. May we beg to know
your name, and, if it so please you, to hear the story of your past life?”
“Should I ever have a story worth relating,” answered Sir Otto, “and what
the story may be, will depend on your renowned and victorious arm, Sir
Knight of Montfaucon. Can you still remember the young squire on the
banks of the Danube, who was present during that eventful evening, when
you so gloriously overcame the powerful Count Archimbald of Waldeck? I
wear now the golden spurs; nor have the three strokes of a knightly sword
on my shoulders, nor a moonlight watch, been forgotten.”
“’Tis well, Sir Knight,” answered the Chevalier; “and you are now
perchance in quest of Gabrielle’s ring?” With a courteous bow, Sir Otto
replied in the affirmative. “I am then at your command,” answered Sir
Folko; and, turning to the company, he added, “This brave young knight has
indeed not related any adventure for your entertainment; but, to compensate
for his silence, you may be eye-witnesses of one to-morrow, if you will do
me the honour to accompany me to another of my castles in Normandy,
where he will engage with me in the lists, and whither I shall invite also the
beautiful Gabrielle de Portamour to behold our encounter.” Thereafter he
explained to them how he had before now met with Sir Otto near the

fortress of Trautwangen, and contended there with the Count Archimbald
von Waldeck for the ring. Also, how the castle to which he would invite the
Lady Gabrielle was the principal mansion on those territories of which the
ring gave the exclusive right of possession; so that she would doubtless not
fail to honour them with her company. All the guests now present accepted
the invitation; and Sir Otto, with downcast eyes, thanked them for their
great courtesy, in as much as they would condescend to behold how a
youth, hitherto so humble and unpractised in arms, was to be admitted to
the honour of a combat with the renowned Sir Folko de Montfaucon. Every
heart was prepossessed in his favour; and even the Count Alessandro de
Vinciguerra embraced him cordially, saying, “Truly, since the fates were
resolved, that, for the chastisement of my sinful levity, I should be visited
by a severe moralist and stern preacher, there could not have been found
one in all the world to whom I should have listened so willingly as to him
who is now among us.”

CHAPTER XXI.
How Sir Otto heard from the Chevalier de Montfaucon, a
Story of the Ring.
With the first sun-rays of the following morning, all those valiant knights
and other guests had arisen, and departed on their way to Normandy. It was
a pleasure to look on them as they proceeded on their journey, now half lost
amid the shadowy copsewoods, then breaking out again along the bright
green meadows; poets and painters, renowned in their several arts, mingling
in groupes, with warriors and their squires in bright-gleaming armour,
attended too by sumpter-horses in rich coverings fringed with gold and
silver. Among the most brilliant figures was that of the Count Alessandro de
Vinciguerra, wearing a great cloak embroidered with the arms of his family,
which waved and fluttered in the wind. His garments, too, glittered in the
sunlight, and feathers of all colours in a vast plume surmounted his barett.
He had laid aside his coat of mail, wearing only a travelling dress, and
riding on a stately mule, richly caparisoned, with no other weapons but a
sword and a small glancing buckler, both of which hung from his blue
velvet saddle. Not far distant, however, was a squire, who led by the golden
reins his war-steed, prancing and snorting, and there was also a sumpter-
horse, bearing his massive armour, surmounted by the close head-piece,
with nodding plumes of heron’s feathers, all arranged as if it had been to
make up a subject for the painter. The brave Chevalier de Montfaucon and
the young Knight of Trautwangen rode for the most part together, deeply
engrossed in their discourse, and always feeling more and more friendship
for each other. In like manner, also, Sir Otto’s light-brown steed and De
Montfaucon’s silver-grey seemed to acquire mutual good-will and
attachment, notwithstanding the hatred which the former used to entertain
towards all strangers. Of the conversation which passed between the knights
it may be allowed us here to divulge what follows:—
“I had at length almost despaired of finding you in France,” said Sir Otto.
“At the holy sepulchre rather, I thought we should meet one day, or perhaps
on the road thither. For are not all the noblest hearts in Europe now attracted

to that sacred monument, which, environed and profaned by Saracens with
their heathenish abominations, draws, like an irresistible magnet, the
processions of pilgrims and warriors from all quarters to effect its
liberation? Your heart too, my noble adversary, doubtless beats in unison
with these devout feelings. Wherefore then do I not behold the cross on
your shoulders?”
“Because,” answered Sir Folko, “it is not for the holy war only that soldiers
are required. Our king demands the services of his barons for the protection
of our own blooming land. He indeed is himself gone to the crusades, and
for that reason has enjoined me and others of my rank to remain at home, in
order to guard the terrestrial paradise of France until his return from
Palestine. The Moors of Spain are here not so far remote that we can feel in
security, nor are we divided from them by any arm of the sea. If the valiant
champions of Castile do their utmost to keep off those assailants, we too
must lend our aid to that brave nation, or appear even in our own estimation
like abject cowards. I think, in the next place, to ride into Spain, in
company with the valiant Don Hernandez, and perhaps also with you,
provided I should fall, and yet survive our combat; for in that event you are
doubtless aware that you become a vassal of France.” Otto looked at him
inquiringly, and the chevalier continued:—“I thought you must have known
that the beautiful Gabrielle has promised to bestow herself, as well as all
her possessions, on the knight who is so fortunate as to win back her ring.
How your eyes now gleam with hope and anticipated triumph!” In truth, Sir
Otto’s whole mind was lighted up by a joy such as he had never before felt;
and yet, when he had time for reflection, he could not help being more than
ever agitated by doubts, whether he should win the victory,—or (so
overpowering was his emotion) whether he should even live to see the day
when he might try his fortune in a combat so glorious. Sir Folko meanwhile
seemed delighted by the mood of mind into which he had brought his
companion; and then, after a space, he looked on him with a changed and
melancholy aspect, perchance, because he remembered that Sir Otto’s
courage and joy of heart might lead him on to destruction, dealt out by that
arm which had already sent so many adversaries to the grave. Thereafter
both of them endeavoured, by a change of discourse, to forget mutually, that
they were shortly to engage with each other in a mortal combat. Among
various questions, Sir Otto inquired of De Montfaucon, what he had

actually learned of the Magic Ring’s wonderful history and virtues;
whereupon the chevalier answered him as follows:—
“The ring is an inheritance derived from my stepfather, a renowned and
valiant hero, by name Sir Huguenin, and who was held in high honour at
our king’s court. Although he had come as a stranger into the land, some
said from the East, and others from the North, yet he had obtained, as a
reward for his brave exploits, great feudal territories; over which his right of
disposal was so unlimited, that he could leave them to whomsoever he
pleased, whether lady or knight. Appearing with great splendour at all the
court-festivals, he had fallen in love with a beautiful damsel, descended
from one of the first houses in France; they were regularly betrothed, and,
among other gifts, he had promised her a wonderful ring, possessed of
many magical virtues, which it was said that he had brought with him from
distant realms of the North. This ring was also to serve his bride for a
pledge, that the feudal tenures in France were to be hers; and it was
affirmed, that the lady had even appeared with it on her finger at grand
festivals; yet it always returned again into the possession of Sir Huguenin.
“About that time he travelled into Normandy, in order to survey his
beautiful estates, some of which lay close to our family mansion, where my
mother was living in seclusion, zealously occupied in the education of her
son, so that he might become a brave knight, not unworthy of the name of
Montfaucon. In her retirement, however, she was often disturbed, on
account of her extraordinary and all-surpassing beauty, by the visits of
numberless admirers, whose presence was in her estimation always
troublesome and unwelcome. I can yet well recollect, how the brilliant Sir
Huguenin came for the first time on horseback to our castle,—how my
whole heart was won, by his fine figure and courteous demeanour, as he
spoke with my mother; for I was then a boy ten years of age, and could well
distinguish the difference between him and our other neighbours. If since
then I have been fortunate enough to win the smiles of many noble ladies, I
must say that I owe that distinction to the lessons and example which I
received from Sir Huguenin, though I have never equalled that model of all
noble and warlike accomplishments which was then set before me. On my
mother too his appearance and conduct made a deep impression; while he,
on the other hand, was so struck with her unrivalled beauty, that the
thoughts of a marriage with any one else became insupportable. Henceforth

his first care was to make himself free from his former engagements, and
though the relations of the damsel to whom he had been betrothed were
vehemently enraged, yet such was the terror they entertained of the
renowned Sir Huguenin, more especially because he was the king’s chosen
favourite, that the transaction was carried through without a murmur. The
knight retained possession of his ring, and it was not till long after her
marriage that my mother knew of the vows that for her sake had thus been
broken.
“Willingly and confidently, therefore, had the beautiful widow resigned her
person and fortune; and what was yet nearer and dearer to her heart,—the
education of her son,—into the hands of the far-famed Sir Huguenin. In
what degree he might have valued the possessions thus bestowed on him I
know not; for the season of love, with its sunbeams and roses, was for them
of brief duration. For a space of about two years, within which time my
step-sister, Blanchefleur, a living picture of her beautiful mother, came into
the world, Sir Huguenin lived in our castle; then he went out across the
seas, and never more returned. For his fame, and his soul’s sake, we hope
that a sudden and honourable death had somewhere overtaken him. My
mother never heard of him again; and the more that her happiness had been
increased during the short time of their union, the more resolutely she now
devoted herself to penance and seclusion. For a few years grief preyed
unceasingly on her frame; and at length, with a smile of melancholy
resignation, she sank into the now welcome grave.
“As to that other duty, the care of my youthful education, which she had
confided to him, it was, in truth, amply fulfilled. Grave, yet affectionate,—
dignified, yet kind, like a guiding pillar of light, his image, even at this
hour, always moves before me. Through the day he spoke with me indeed
but little, but afforded me the most admirable example in the use of arms, in
hunting, and in horsemanship. In the evenings he became eloquent, and
proudly related to me many wondrous legends of the olden times. Little or
no admonishment accompanied these stories; but they were told in such
manner, that every glorious adventure came before my sight with all the
force of reality, and my heart was filled with irresistible longing to obtain
the brilliant honours of knighthood. This desire became the more
passionate, when I reflected, that he, from whose lips I heard all those
marvellous tales was himself a renowned hero, whose invincible arm had

doubtless performed achievements equal to those which he described of
others. Without boasting, I may truly say, that through those two years I
proved myself no undeserving scholar; on which account he treated me with
great kindness; and on the night before his departure, he led me into his
chamber, shut the door, and said,—‘Folko, I am now going hence on a
campaign;—how long I shall remain absent, Heaven knows,—perhaps it
may be for ever! In your eyes I can already read the request that you would
prefer, for my permission that you should accompany me to the battle-field;
but that may not be; you must continue here to be the protector of your
mother and the little Blanchefleur; for although you are now only in your
thirteenth summer, yet, both from your prudence and skill in the use of
arms, you might be counted full six years older. It shall be your duty,
therefore, to protect your sister in the undisturbed possession of a wonderful
ring, which I shall now leave in her hands; but of which, as I am well
aware, many claimants will henceforth appear, wishing to deprive her of
that valuable gift. But mark you, young lion of Montfaucon, let them not
succeed in such attempts; and be it your care also, that, when at last you are
both grown to man and woman’s estate, the Lady Blanchefleur shall bear
the name of your house; for mine, though it is renowned and honourable, is
yet less known here, and sounds strange to the inhabitants of Normandy.
Wilt thou now promise to remember these injunctions?’ Proudly, and
rejoiced in heart, I agreed to all that he desired; and, with God’s help, have
been true to my word, even to the present day. The damsel, who had been
betrothed formerly to Sir Huguenin, married afterwards the Knight of
Portamour, and became the mother of Gabrielle. Thereafter the beautiful
Gabrielle, who, in early youth, was left an orphan, heard from her guardians
many stories of the Magic Ring, and how it should by right have been in her
possession, in as much as her mother, in her dying moments, had called for
it, as for some dear and precious gift, which, by solemn vows, had become
hers. Thence arose the many conflicts for this mysterious gem. Perhaps, if it
is the will of Heaven, and you are fortunate, these disputes may, to-day or
to-morrow, be brought to an end; for, behold the towers of the Norman
castle, to which I have invited my beautiful adversary, are now visible over
the trees!”

CHAPTER XXII.
How the Knights arrived at the Castle of Sir Folko de
Montfaucon.
Amid a green forest, below the heights of the castle, the party had made a
halt under the verdant canopy of the beech-trees, in order to enjoy in quiet
the cool pleasant air of an autumnal evening, while a courier went before in
order to announce the coming of his master and the numerous party of
noble guests at the fortress. But scarcely had they dismounted, and begun to
pass round the wine-cup, replenished from the sumpter-horses, when the
courier returned hastily, announcing, that the Lady Gabrielle de Portamour
had already arrived; and, at her desire, the Lady Blanchefleur de
Montfaucon had commanded, that an evening banquet should be provided
under the green shades of the forest; also, that a procession, led by the two
noble damsels, was now descending from the castle. In truth, the knights
already saw through the trees the gleam of armour and weapons, the gold
and silver vessels for the banquet, and the bright embroidery of festal
garments. The Knight of Montfaucon now turned to Don Hernandez and the
Count de Vinciguerra, begging, that for a short interval they would take
their places in the van of the party, in order to receive the ladies; “for,”
added he, “it is proper that we two combatants should make our appearance
before the beautiful Gabrielle, in a guise more fitting than that which our
rapid journey and this sudden visit has for the moment left within our
power.” With these words he went along with Sir Otto into a dense thicket
of the valley, whither they were followed by Theobaldo and another squire.
Earnestly, and in great haste, the two young champions prepared for their
martial toilette. Their cuirasses and greaves were carefully rubbed and
burnished, the leather straps drawn tighter, and the ends plaited up; their
helmet-plumes arranged, and their sashes taken off, in order that they might
be cleared from dust, and replaced in a fashion more becoming. At the
moment when both were adjusting their helmets, Sir Folko looked
steadfastly at his young adversary. “Now,” said he, “when you draw down
your eagle’s visor, I can explain to myself clearly the dim recollections,

which were awoke by the black armour inlaid with silver. Is it not in truth
the same coat of mail that was heretofore worn by Count Archimbald von
Waldeck?” Sir Otto having answered in the affirmative, he continued, “I
shall at some time or another beg of you to relate to me how one so young
as you are,—but a mere spring-blossom of knighthood,—could have cased
himself in armour such as this. On the other hand, I shall describe to you the
many strange dreams by which I have been visited, of desperate conflicts
with a black and white eagle, which methought always flew across the
Rhine from Germany hither; that it sat upon my head, and, with its powerful
hooked bill, plucked at a wreath of flowers which was wound around my
temples. When I awoke from this dream, I used to say to myself, ‘Thou
thinkest doubtless of battles that may yet take place with the valiant Sir
Archimbald von Waldeck. But this may not be. He is bound by the
conditions of our former encounter, and may never more claim this ring; yet
the eagle is once more prepared for battle before me!’ Come then, brave
young Knight of Trautwangen. The ladies await us.” Thereupon the two
warriors went together, hand in hand, to join the noble company.
Amid that circle of fair damsels, valiant champions, and skilful artists,
Gabrielle’s beauty shone so pre-eminent, that Sir Otto, conscious as he was
of the decisive combat and glorious prize that awaited him, was dazzled,
and fixed his eyes humbly on the ground. Sir Folko, on the other hand, went
up to the lady, and said, “Never, methinks, should I forgive my own
seeming discourtesy, in thus arriving later than a guest so noble and so
lovely, were it not that it is yet undetermined which will at last be the guest,
and which the stranger in these domains. If it so please you, this brave
young German is now ready to fix on the conditions of our combat.”
Gabrielle threw an inquiring look on Sir Otto. It seemed as if she doubted if
his youth and inexperience admitted of such an encounter; then again, by
the changed expression of her features, one could read the return of
confidence, as if one so young and simple-hearted were sent like a guardian
angel for her defence. “Are you not the youth,” said she, “with whom I once
spoke on the banks of the Danube?” “Truly I am the same,” replied Sir Otto
in a low voice; “and now stand here in order to redeem the pledge which I
then called Heaven to witness.” Gabrielle looked on him kindly, yet it
seemed as if she once more began to doubt and hesitate. The Knight of
Montfaucon again interposed, saying, “Lady, will you then choose this

noble youth for your champion? It is not my custom to propose an
encounter with a young and powerless adversary, but with this knight I
should willingly enter the lists.” Thereafter the Lady Gabrielle gracefully
pulled off her glove from her snow-white hand, and tied it firmly to Sir
Otto’s sash. “Thus,” said she, “on your sword I bind my hopes and the just
rights of my inheritance!” then, in a low, half-audible tone, she added, “and
Gabrielle will be the reward of the victor.” He thought of returning some
answer, when near him he heard the murmuring tones of another voice, low,
and yet ardent, like the melodious cooing of a turtle-dove. Looking up he
beheld a form of the most exquisite grace leaning over the shoulder of Sir
Folko, a form in which, from the descriptions which he had heard, he
immediately recognised the Lady Blanchefleur; so that he could now well
believe all that the knight had narrated to him of his mother’s matchless and
imperishable beauty. In spite of death and the grave the same charms were
thus renewed once more, living and smiling on the world. Blanchefleur now
bent her head humbly towards Gabrielle, and whispered,—“I have but one
dearly-loved brother, and must he thus, even to the very end of his life, be
engaged in strife and contention, all for the sake of that trifling ring? Shall I
never be enabled to call him with certainty my own? Rather, noble lady, let
the present battle be decisive, so that the question may be for ever set at
rest; and, if my brother falls, then the ring is yours. On the contrary, should
your champion be unfortunate, let all pretensions to the ring be given up on
your part; only let this contest be final. Pray you, listen to this request, for
you have too much generosity to wish that this unequal contest should be
kept up any longer!” It was obvious to the by-standers, that Gabrielle now
underwent a conflict with her own emotions. At last she looked up kindly,
and said,—“Let it be so!” Then, turning to Sir Otto of Trautwangen, she
added, with a mixture of fear and dignity of manner, “Sir Knight, my whole
weal and woe are intrusted in your hands; and on your valour and
generosity I have the fullest reliance.” “May we not then directly enter the
lists, even within this very hour?” inquired Sir Otto anxiously, and with the
fervour of inspiration. “Not so,” said Gabrielle gravely; “I have not
forgotten the armour which you now wear; and perhaps it may be destined
to make good on this occasion the disgrace which it sustained in the former
encounter; or, perhaps, by new misfortune, to complete the measure of my
distresses. But as on that fatal night I was anxious and impatient for the
combat, for the present, I am, on the contrary, determined to practise self-

control. To-morrow, therefore, you shall enter the lists at mid-day, in the
great square of the castle. Till that hour, let us speak no more of the disputes
which have led to this meeting; but rather (if it be allowed me to make one
more request) let the time be spent in unrestrained mirth and jollity.”
Sir Folko made a low obeisance, and in a few minutes contrived that his
party were all elegantly and luxuriously placed beneath the green arcades of
the beech-wood. Thereafter sparkling wine and the richest viands were
handed round among the guests. This led to much gay and convivial talk; at
length also to songs and music, to which various individuals contributed,
every one as he was best able. Of a sudden, an earnest request was
suggested, and passed from one to another, that the Lady Blanchefleur
would sing the tragical fortunes of Heloise and Abelard, with some of the
noble masters of minstrelsy, who were there present. For this purpose she
sought out a young man from her brother’s train, who was named Master
Aleard, and thereafter they began together a ballad, in alternate parts, on the
story of these unfortunate lovers, and sang so sweet and mournfully, that
when they had concluded, tears gleamed in many a beautiful eye, and even
the boldest warriors were moved. Otto felt the sounds reverberate even to
his inmost heart; it seemed to him almost as if the whole ballad had been
made upon his own fortunes, little as such a melancholy legend was suited
to his present condition; and he could not help repeating to himself, in a low
voice, some of the concluding stanzas. Meanwhile Sir Folko de Montfaucon
looked gloomily on the ground, with an expression contrasting strangely
with his usual demeanour. At last he cast a stern angry glance at the Lady
Blanchefleur, who was then speaking earnestly with the minstrel Aleard;
whereupon she arose, and came hastily to her brother, taking her place
beside him, which she did not quit again through the evening. As if now
well satisfied with her conduct, Sir Folko devoted almost his whole
attention to her, contriving a thousand agreeable stories for her
entertainment. It seemed, however, now and then, as if tears glittered in the
beautiful mild eyes of the damsel; and the young Master Aleard retired,
thoughtful and disconsolate into the deep thickets of the forest. The cool
evening now settled on the woods. From the ground, densely strewed with
fallen beech-leaves, there arose damp vapours, and the party at length
quitted their places, and proceeded, keeping time to mirthful music, up the
castle hill. During their march, it was a pleasure to see how the light of their

torches and lamps gleamed along the rocky paths through the shades of the
now descending night.

CHAPTER XXIII.
How Sir Otto vanquished the Knight of Montfaucon.
On the morning of the following day, at an early hour, there arose great
tumult and bustle in the spacious court of the castle, which was covered
with green turf, and planted on all sides with rows of tall lime-trees. There
were posts driven into the ground, and rails laid upon them, as a grating,
which should keep the by-standers at a proper distance, and this grating was
also hung with embroidered drapery. Within the lists there were brought
carts full of dry white sand, which the squires spread carefully over the turf,
so that both man and horse might have firmer footing thereon, than the
slippery grass would have afforded. Meanwhile, Don Hernandez and the
Count de Vinciguerra were seen hastening hither and thither, giving orders,
and attending to all the preparations; for, on the preceding evening, it had
been agreed that they were to act as umpires and seconds at the combat.
After mature deliberation, they laid down the exact dimensions for the lists,
and tried how both champions might be placed with equal advantages of
wind and sunlight. For the ladies they had erected a grand stage among the
branches of the lime-trees; so that, sitting therein, they were at once shaded
and protected, yet at the same time had a free view of the battle-field. A
multitude of spectators had already collected, waiting with impatience for
the knights and ladies, who were to play the principal parts at this tragic
festival.
The Chevalier de Montfaucon and the Knight of Trautwangen meanwhile
donned their armour in separate chambers. In the service of the latter, his
friend Theobaldo was this day more zealous than ever, evincing a degree of
anxiety and tenderness which was to him quite unusual. From the eagle-
helmet down to the golden spurs, he examined minutely every plate, belt,
and buckle, now drawing them tight, now loosening them again, and yet
never found his arrangements good enough for his master and friend. Sir
Otto looked at him kindly, and said, “How is this, Theobaldo? You seem as
melancholy and anxious, as if you were arming me for the last time!” “That
may indeed be so,” answered the merchant; “sad feelings and sad words

often turn into true prophecies!” Then, deeply moved, he bent his head over
the knight’s yet unarmed right hand.
The door now opened suddenly, and in his armour of blue and gold,
gleaming like the vault of heaven in a starry night, appeared at it Sir Folko
de Montfaucon. He wore his golden helmet with the visor still open and a
squire followed bearing his great battle-sword. “Dear brother,” said he to
Sir Otto, “we have spent the time like good friends together up to this day,
and interchanged many kind looks. Now, however, it may come to pass, that
after we have drawn down our visors, we shall never behold each other
again. Therefore have I come to you at this time, that I may once more
heartily embrace you; and that, ere our meeting in the lists, we may pray
together in the chapel before the altar.” Therewith he spread his arms, into
which Sir Otto threw himself, and the two champions embraced with such
fervour, as if the warmth of their friendship could have melted the cold iron
with which they were covered. Then a trumpet sounded from the court, and
they broke asunder suddenly. “It is the first signal,” said Sir Folko. “My
noble adversary will now, if it so please him, gird on my sword, and I shall
render him the like service.” This was accordingly done; and, as the
massive glittering weapons were adjusted, they related on both sides by
whom these swords had been presented to them, Sir Folko’s being the gift
of his stepfather, Sir Huguenin, and that of Sir Otto, as we have already
told, being received from his father, Sir Hugh von Trautwangen. Thereafter
they went arm in arm down to the chapel, where they kneeled together, one
on each side of the altar, and remained there in silent prayer, until the
trumpets sounded another signal. Then rising up, they looked once more
with great kindness on each other, drew down their visors, and came forth
into the castle-court, which was now brightly illumined by the sunbeams.
The ladies were already seated in their balcony, amid the foliage of the
lime-trees; and Sir Folko said to his companion, “In those northern realms,
from which our family is sprung, we have an old legend touching the
golden apples of immortality. Brother, do you mark them yonder, among the
branches, above us?” These words he had intended to be playful and light-
hearted; but uttered, as they were, from behind the cold motionless visor,
unaided by a smile or lively glance, hollow too and suppressed in tone, they
sounded rather like a mournful forewarning of death. The knights now
shook hands before the assembled spectators, and went severally to mount

their horses. As Sir Folko, on the left of the balcony, approached his silver-
grey charger, his noble falcon, which had now almost recovered from the
wound inflicted by Theobaldo, flew down from a window of the castle, and
took his place on the knight’s helmet, which he would not leave till he was
taken thence by his master’s hand. The latter then stroked him kindly on the
neck, and, pulling down the hood over the faithful creature’s eyes, gave him
in charge to one of his squires, who carried him away. A deep-sounding
murmur then arose through the multitude; by some it was interpreted as a
sure anticipation of victory for Sir Folko; while others thought that the poor
bird wished to take his last farewell, and that his master would of necessity
die. Then, for the third time, the herald sounded his trumpet; all voices were
hushed; and now, mounted on their war-steeds, the two champions came
from opposite sides into their proper places.
Thereafter, underneath the balcony where the ladies sat, arose Don
Hernandez, in magnificent armour, with his visor open; he called aloud, “Be
it known to all knights and ladies, also to others of whatsoever degree, who
are here present, that my friend, the Count Alessandro de Vinciguerra, who
is now beside me, holds in his hands a gold casket, with the ring, which is
to be the prize of this combat. The champions have the free right of
contending with lances and with swords, on horseback, or on foot.
Whosoever of the twain shall be able courteously to approach the Count of
Vinciguerra, take the casket from his hands, bring it to the Lady Gabrielle in
the balcony, and place the ring on her finger, without interruption from his
adversary, shall be looked upon as the victor, and all contentions for this
cause are from henceforth at an end. Noble champions, are these conditions
understood and approved?”
Both knights thereupon inclined their heads, with their long waving plumes,
in token of consent; and Hernandez, with grave dignity, took his place again
beside the Count. A deep stillness prevailed through the assembly, yet it
lasted but for a moment; for there was heard from all sides a great flourish
of trumpets; the spectators all trembled, and both knights urged forward
their foaming highspirited horses. In the middle of the battle-field, they
struck together with such a frightful clash, that the noise even overpowered
that of the trumpets, and, like two gigantic statues, the silver-grey and the
light-brown charger stood opposite to each other, both on their hind-legs,
and pawing in the air with their fore-hoofs, in order to regain their

equipoise after that terrible shock, by which the lances on both sides had
been shivered in pieces, and strewed over the battle-ground. The riders sat
firmly, both leaning forwards, and spurring their horses; but, after a brief
space of uncertain motion, both of them, being unable to regain their proper
position, fell backwards with a great crash upon the sand.
A cry of horror now sounded from the balcony, and was echoed by all the
spectators. But ere the cry had ceased, and before the horses had risen from
the ground, both knights had disengaged themselves, and ran with swords
drawn towards the place where the Count Alessandro de Vinciguerra was
stationed with the ring. Each perceiving, however, that his opponent was
ready to prevent him from obtaining it, they stood looking for a space at
each other, then grasped their swords firmly, and went, with measured steps,
back to the place where they had fallen, and where their shields yet lay
upon the ground. At the same moment each had seized on his glittering
targe; while their horses, having now raised themselves up, watchfully
followed every movement. It was mournful, however, to behold how Sir
Folko’s silver-grey charger, severely wounded on the shoulder, struggled
vainly with his lameness; snorting and neighing as he had done at the
commencement of the battle, and thus proving, that though his activity were
lost, he retained yet all his courage and attachment. Observing this, Sir
Otto, who would by no means take advantage of his adversary, said, with a
look of compassion for the poor steed,—“Noble Sir, shall we not rather
desire our horses to be led away?” With a courteous and thankful salutation,
Sir Folko replied,—“Be it according to your pleasure. Your conduct here is
indeed such as from the beginning I had expected of you.” So the horses
were led out of the lists.
But scarcely had the knights, with their raised shields and gleaming swords,
come up against each other; scarcely had their first blows sounded on their
armour, when, behold! Sir Otto’s light-brown steed, which, in spite of their
utmost efforts, had broken from the squires, sprung over the rails, and
would have immediately attacked his master’s opponent. Sir Otto, however,
seized him by the bridle, and led him back to the gateway of the lists, giving
him again in charge to the squires, while, with threatening gestures and a
stern voice, he commanded him to stand quiet; so that the noble steed
remained motionless, nor did the by-standers even require the reins to hold
him.

On Sir Otto’s return, the Chevalier de Montfaucon made him a kind and
courteous salutation with his sword; then raised it for a vehement attack,
and the frightful combat began anew. Ere long, the blows on both sides fell
thick as hail, till oftentimes the combatants stood with their shields pressed
together, watching their opportunity to strike, and then again flew suddenly
asunder. At length Sir Folko’s sword descended, with the rapidity of
lightning, on his opponent’s left arm, in such manner, that his shield was
cleft in twain, and one half fell rattling on the ground. “Hold, hold!” cried
the chevalier; and Sir Otto lowered his weapon, which he had just then
upraised, asking, at the same time,—“Are you wounded, brother? otherwise
there is no need of a pause.” “Not so; your shield is wanting,” said Sir
Folko, “while mine is yet uninjured; on which account I shall lay it aside;
for the conditions of an honourable combat require that our means of
defence and attack should, on both sides, be the same.” Thereupon he made
a sign that his squire should draw near, and gave him his blue and gold
shield; but Sir Otto interfered, and would by no means allow that it should
be carried away. Sir Folko then said, in a grave determined tone,—“Sir
Knight, young as you now are in years and experience, methinks you must,
for this once, bear with a lesson from me. I have worn armour some twelve
years longer than you have done, and I know perchance as well as another
what is or is not fitting. Since I have respectfully and thankfully accepted
from you the favour, that when my horse was wounded, yours should be led
out of the lists, methinks it is not too much to expect that you should
receive some like grace at the hands of Sir Folko de Montfaucon.” “You are
in the right, my noble brother,” answered Sir Otto; “I bow to the judgment
of one who is indeed a mirror and pattern of knighthood.” With these
words, he made a humble obeisance, and an attendant squire bore away the
bright-gleaming shield. Thereafter the battle was renewed with fresh spirit
and vigour; but had not continued long, ere one of Sir Otto’s blows came
with such force on the left arm of the chevalier, that the weapon made its
way between the corslet and cuirass; whereupon a stream of blood followed
the wound. Sir Folko began to totter, with difficulty supporting himself on
his sword, and ere the Knight of Trautwangen could catch him in his arms,
fell to the ground. Then Sir Otto kneeled down beside him, after such
manner, that the by-standers at first believed he too was wounded, and
could not support himself; but ere long they perceived that he was busily
employed in loosening the helmet, corslet, and cuirass, of his fallen

adversary. Blanchefleur soon hastened from the balcony to assist in the
same services, knelt on the other side beside her brother, and wept bitterly.
Otto perceiving this, looked at her kindly. “God be praised,” said he, “your
brother yet lives; and the wound, though on the left side, has not reached his
heart!” At this moment Sir Folko opened his eyes, and the Lady
Blanchefleur held her hand across to his opponent, with a smile of thanks
for the kind words that he had spoken. Having respectfully kissed the
beautiful hand thus offered him, Sir Otto at length arose, and went to the
Count de Vinciguerra to receive the casket with the ring. Thereafter, when
he made his appearance under the green leaves of the balcony,—when
Gabrielle, with a sweet smile, came forward to meet him,—when the
trumpets flourished, and all the people called out “Long live Sir Otto von
Trautwangen!” the knight, as if lost in a fairy dream, knelt down, and in this
attitude he placed the ring on the snow-white finger of the Lady Gabrielle;
while, at the same moment, the too happy youth felt a soft kiss breathed on
his forehead.

CHAPTER XXIV.
How Theobaldo departed, and a messenger announced the
coming of the sea-monarch, Arinbiorn.
Sir Otto had retired to his chamber, that he might lay aside his armour, and
array himself in a garb suited to the brilliant festival of his betrothment,
after which the Lady Gabrielle would make her public appearance as his
bride. His apartment was ere long crowded by squires of high and low
degree, who were sent by the damsel to attend him, bearing rich presents of
gold chains, rings, plumes of variegated feathers, and other adornments. In
the confusion of his triumph and happiness, which seemed, as it were,
reflected by the glittering apparel and cheerful looks of all around him, he
did not think of Theobaldo’s absence, till he found himself alone at the
entrance of another chamber, in which the Lady Gabrielle had appointed
him to meet her, in order that they might walk from thence together into the
magnificent banquet-hall. With his heart full of the delights which were so
richly poured out around him, he could willingly have had some
confidential friend with whom he could share his emotions, and was lost in
surprise at Theobaldo’s long absence. At length the merchant made his
appearance; but dressed so strangely, and in such gay and varied colours,
that Sir Otto scarcely knew him at his first entrance. Perceiving this, “You
are in the right,” said Theobaldo; “I am, indeed, changed in my outward
garb; but in this world all is changeable. Look here, for example, whether
you could recognise the knight of the black and silver armour in the figure
which is now before you.” With these words he had placed Sir Otto before a
great mirror; wherein, for the first time, he beheld his own person arrayed in
a style of such glittering magnificence, that he blushed and was
confounded. His blooming youthful countenance was half lost in the folds
of a rich embroidered ruff;—under a green barret cap, clustered his golden
hair, richly perfumed, and shining almost as brightly as the magnificent
agratte which held together the waving plumes of his head-gear. Moreover,
he had a white velvet doublet, of which the slashes were adorned with green
and gold; it was fitted tight to his shape; and round his waist was a golden
sword-belt; while from his shoulders hung, in graceful folds, a short green

mantle, trimmed with ermine and pearls. “Well,” said Theobaldo, with
somewhat of irony in his smile, “that is, methinks, no dress fitted for a
pilgrimage into the Holy Land.” “As little could’st thou say,” answered Sir
Otto, “that the dress which thou now wearest is that of a crusader.” “Pardon
me, noble sir,” said Theobaldo; “mine is still a travelling garb; and though,
indeed, I shall take a circuitous route, I shall yet wear this mantle on my
voyage into the Holy Land. I now bear the colours of the Count de
Vinciguerra, which, as you know, are, according to Italian fashion,
somewhat over gay and motley, and with him I shall in a few minutes set
out on our journey homewards to my native land, where, at Naples, I shall
take shipping for Palestine, in order to fight there under the banners of King
Richard Cœur de Lion.” “What then have I done to offend you?” said Sir
Otto; “and wherefore would you thus wound my heart, that was even now
so happy and buoyant?” “You have by no means offended me,” answered
Theobaldo; “but you already know that I love the sports of the battle-field,
and am discontented with the luxuries of a peaceful home. Therefore you
spoke but the truth, when you said this morning, that I was attending you
perhaps for the last time. Not only the love of warlike adventure, but other
feelings, also draw me from hence. I would wish once more to kneel on that
church-yard mound, with its sheltering flowers, wherein Lisberta sleeps.
Heaven knows wherefore, as a child, I was so often led thither; but it now
seems to me as if my life’s best treasures were buried there, and I must by
times revisit the spot. But, noble Sir, touching what you have just now said,
of wounding your heart in the midst of its rejoicing, you should rather be
thankful to me if I have indeed done so; for if trees are too flourishing and
luxuriant, are not wounds cut into their bark? Or have you forgot the story
of Polycrates, who, in order to reconcile himself with fortune, threw his ring
into the water? Let me then in like manner be your ring; and Heaven grant
that no fish may be on the watch in order to bring me again into your
possession!” “But wherefore,” said Sir Otto, “should you be in such
vehement haste?” “It is the Count de Vinciguerra’s fault,” said Theobaldo;
“I have promised that I shall travel when and whither he is pleased to
appoint.” “And so then the Count——,” said Otto, doubtfully. “Ay,”
resumed Theobaldo, “he is, in truth, not altogether satisfied with you, being
unable to forget the severe lessons which he received from one so young
and inexperienced, when he related the story of Master Donatello. For, in
confidence, he has since unfolded to me, that he himself was the hero of

that adventure; so that he cannot well bear to look upon you now as the
chief in this festival; and was indeed ready to sink into the earth with
vexation, when he was obliged to deliver up to you the casket with the ring.
I could laugh still to think of his looks at that moment; and in this humour,
noble Sir, it is best that I should take my departure. Sad thoughts should not
at such times be uttered.”—Otto replied mournfully, “You have then
forgotten how you were once moved by the thoughts of parting, after you
had wounded the falcon in the forest?” “Ay truly, because we should then
have separated in anger,” said Theobaldo; “now, however, there is perfect
friendship betwixt us, and I leave you with your beautiful bride, and
surrounded by all possible blessings. So fare you well.” With these words
he nodded kindly, and straightway left the room. After a few moments, Sir
Otto, having gone thoughtfully to the window, saw the two Italians, in their
motley glittering dresses, already riding down the steep descent that led
from the castle.
The young German knight continued to gaze after them with surprise and
melancholy, till he felt a light touch on his shoulder, and, turning round,
beheld Gabrielle in all the splendour of dress and dazzling beauty. If the
damsel had already appeared lovely and attractive in her distress on the
battle-field, yet now, as a smiling triumphant bride, she was yet more
angelic, and indeed surpassed herself. The coronet of jewels that adorned
her hair, and the graceful folds of her costly attire, were but foils to the
matchless charms of her features, and her every gesture. And in all this
pomp and magnificence she yet bowed humbly to Sir Otto, and said,
—“Why then is the Knight of Trautwangen so discontented and thoughtful?
Is Gabrielle’s hand no adequate compensation for the departure of two
fantastic comrades like those who have just left us? Come, our guests are
waiting; clear up those clouded looks, and lead me to the banquet-hall.”
When Gabrielle pronounced the words, “our guests,” Sir Otto seemed for
the first time suddenly awake to the full measure of his good fortunes. He
kissed the damsel’s hand, which was courteously offered him; he kissed
also her rosy lips; for a kind look said to him that this was not forbidden;—
then, full of delight and triumph, such as he had never before known, he led
her, leaning on his arm, into the brilliant hall, which was already filled with
company.

All the noble guests who were there assembled made room and bowed
respectfully; the hautboys and flutes played a cheering march; flower-
wreaths were thrown lavishly on the heads of the happy and blushing pair.
Having arrived at the upper end of the table, Gabrielle pointed out to her
betrothed husband the noble Chevalier de Montfaucon, who lay there upon
a sofa, attended and supported by his sister Blanchefleur. “I well knew,”
said she, “that there was no sight which would be to you more welcome
than that of your valiant adversary now so much recovered, and able to join
in the festivities of our circle.” “This, indeed, I had not expected,” said Sir
Otto; “yet I might have been well aware, that for your powers, beautiful
enchantress, nothing could be too difficult.” “Hush, hush, speak not of my
enchantments,” said Gabrielle; “my best influence is derived from the Ring,
of which your valour has again won for me the possession.” Meanwhile Sir
Folko, with the help of Blanchefleur, had raised himself on the couch. Pale
indeed in complexion, but smiling kindly, he proffered his right hand to the
victorious Knight of Trautwangen, which the latter took with as much
emotion as if it had been that of a kind-hearted elder brother, and could
scarcely refrain from pressing it to his lips. The whole party now sat down
to table, and thereafter every one admired the fine figure of De Montfaucon,
as he lay there in his light-blue mantle embroidered with gold; while his
falcon, wounded like himself, sat on his pillow, sipping now and then out of
the knight’s golden cup. “I am treated here like a sick child,” said Sir Folko,
“who, wherever he goes, must have his toys along with him.” There were
minstrels in attendance, who compared the knight to the wounded Adonis,
of whom we read in the ancient fables; and every one allowed, that, from
his graceful figure, as well as heroic courage, he might well have been the
favourite of the goddess Cytherea.
While they were now all happily seated round the table, fragrant with the
richest viands and rarest wines, there was heard at the gate a loud and
terrific blast from a warhorn, or trumpet. In a few moments thereafter, a
gigantic man, completely equipt in a heavy rattling coat of mail, with a
great towering halbert in his hand, made his appearance in the hall, looked
round inquiringly for some time at the astonished party, and then with a
courteous bow drew near to the Chevalier de Montfaucon. “Noble sir,” said
he, “I have been sent hither by the great sea-monarch, Arinbiorn, your
friend and cousin. He is now waiting before your gates, and has travelled
thus far into the land for the sole purpose of visiting you. He now wishes to

learn, whether it may be your will and pleasure to receive him at this time
within your castle, along with some noble damsels and giants by whom he
is accompanied. Be it known to you also, that one of these damsels is in
conduct and character somewhat mysterious.” “If I had still the right of
commanding here,” answered Sir Folko, “the wound by which I now suffer
would scarcely prevent me from coming to the gate, to welcome your royal
master. Yet now,”——Gabrielle here interrupted him, kindly counterfeiting
a tone of anger: “Noble Chevalier,” said she, “if you should not here
conduct yourself as the lord and owner of the mansion, it follows, that we
and our guests must immediately take our departure.”—“That indeed must
be listened to,” said Sir Folko, turning to the stranger: “Go then, and tell the
king that he and all his train are heartily welcome. I too shall come forth to
receive him.”—Hereupon he endeavoured to rise from his couch; but,
reading fear and anxiety in the beautiful eyes of Blanchefleur, the gigantic
messenger interposed. “In the name of King Arinbiorn,” said he, “I forbid
you to leave this apartment. Though indeed a powerful champion might not
die of such exertion, yet it is enough that the beautiful damsel beside you
would feel terror for your sake,—and a valiant knight should never inflict
pain on a female heart. Therefore, so truly as I know and respect my royal
master’s will, so earnestly do I beg that you will remain here. He will come
to you forthwith.” Then he shook the knight’s right hand heartily, like an
old friend, and with a courtly salutation retired. “The sea-monarch,
Arinbiorn,” said Sir Folko, “is a brave Norman, who now represents that
family tree, from which, in old times, the branch to which I myself belong
was divided, and removed from Norway’s frozen hills to plant itself in these
fertile fields under the warm sun of France. The ties of relationship have
ever since then been acknowledged as unbroken betwixt us, and our
friendship has been proved in many stern and warlike encounters against
mutual foes, wherein the sea-monarch has rendered us no little service. This
title has been given to such of the northern heroes as have perchance few or
no possessions on shore, but who in their fleet vessels, accompanied by
brave and faithful soldiers, sail about through all quarters of the world, from
the distant icebergs of the north to the brilliant city of Constantinople, or
even to the shores of Asia and Africa, with their mines of gold. In truth,
there are scarcely any mariners that know their way so well, and where, on
account of their great excellence in the arts of warfare, they can exercise
unlimited power.”

Sir Folko might have narrated still farther, and the party listened to him
willingly; but they already heard the steps of the wonderful stranger on the
staircase, and the eyes of every one were fixed on the portal.
END OF VOL. I.
PRINTED BY OLIVER & BOYD.

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