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Title: The magic ring, Vol. 2 (of 3)

Author: Freiherr de Friedrich Heinrich Karl La Motte-Fouqué

Translator: R. P. Gillies

Release date: October 20, 2025 [eBook #77098]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1825

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77098

Credits: Tom Trussel, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from images made available by the HathiTrust
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGIC
RING, VOL. 2 (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. II.

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

1825.

THE

MAGIC RING.
VOL. II.

CHAPTER I.
How Sir Otto was possessed by the devil.
The door at last opened, and bending his head, on account of his gigantic
stature, a champion made his appearance, dressed in a golden suit of
armour, with a helmet surmounted by two projecting vulture’s wings, also
of gold. Sir Otto started involuntarily when he beheld them; he could not
help reflecting on his combat with the skeleton in his father’s chapel.
Behind the sea-monarch came also many strange figures; but so completely
were the company engrossed by the king himself, that they bestowed on the
others little or no attention. Arinbiorn stepped on towards the Knight of
Montfaucon, (not forgetting to greet every lady courteously as he passed
by,) took him kindly by the hand, and said, “How is this, cousin Folko?
What means the intelligence that I have received? And is it possible to find
such a favourite child of fortune thus wounded? That must indeed have
been a powerful adversary with whom you have fared so hardly; but he no
doubt is already dead; for, as to what has been told me of your being
vanquished in the conflict, and of your having lost the ring to which you
had so often maintained your sister’s rights, that in truth I must look upon
as impossible!” “Nay, nay,” said Sir Folko, blushing and confused, “I have
at last been over-matched in the lists, and the beautiful damsel whom you
behold yonder now possesses the ring, this castle, and all its territories; so
that I am here like yourself, as one of her guests.”
The sea-monarch bowed respectfully to Gabrielle; then begged that some
one would point out to him the wonderful champion, who had not only
resisted but overpowered the hitherto invincible Sir Folko. Thereupon,
when the youthful blooming Otto von Trautwangen was introduced to him,
he looked at the conqueror with such astonishment, that the latter began to
feel offended, and was about to speak; but the brave Arinbiorn at length
greeted him respectfully, and said,—“If there has been here neither
stratagem, nor witchcraft,—and of your honour I cannot doubt,—then, good
Heaven! what may not be looked for from one who, in earliest youth, has
contended as you have done!” Again he bowed with courteous gravity; and

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

that, behind the sea-monarch’s chair, there stood a tall female figure, with
luxuriant golden locks, and a long sword girded round her waist, beautiful
indeed, but with a stern changeless aspect; and when the young knight
started up, and offered her his place, she turned away as if in wrath, and in
slow measured steps left the hall. “Nay, nay, think not of her;” said the sea-
monarch, perceiving the astonishment of the guests; “be it known to you,
however, it had been once intended in the north, that this warlike damsel
should be my betrothed bride. Her name is Gerda, and she is far and wide
renowned for her supernatural arts and resistless spells. Moreover, she is
our relation. But from that marriage a visionary form withheld me,—a form
so graceful, so peerless in beauty, that I had scarcely dared to hope I should
ever behold it, after that first time in the magic mirror, and yet now it comes
living and smiling before me!”
The sea-monarch faltered and paused, lost, as it seemed, in strange and
mysterious recollections. It was a pleasure to mark how a deep blush, like
that of a young damsel, came over his stern warlike features. After a space,
however, he recovered his composure, and proceeded as follows:—
“Suffice it, noble damsels and knights, we were never betrothed; and Gerda
said,—‘If I cannot be thy wedded wife, I shall yet be thy guardian Valkyria;
I shall twine for thee the garland of victory, and hold to thy lips the cheering
cup of refreshment.’ Since that hour, she follows wheresoever I wend my
way, oftentimes preparing for me unexpected good fortune; also now and
then she brews for my behoof that wonderful drink well known among the
northern heroes; after partaking of which, we remain for a long time
invincible, only not against enchanted weapons. Many times I have
considered it inconsistent with the honour of a true knight to use such
means of defence; and therefore she has more than once given it to me
against my own will and without my knowledge.”
“The Chevalier de Montfaucon,” said Don Hernandez, “related to us, not
long ago, a story regarding this magical drink.”
“If used in moderation,” said King Arinbiorn, “it may indeed produce
admirable effects. But, on the contrary, if one drinks incautiously, such
direful consequences ensue, that my soldiers are afraid both of it and of the
mysterious damsel by whom it is prepared. Her intentions are good; but that
her character is strange and inscrutable is also true. Sir Heerdegen of

Lichtenried had, in a manner best known to himself, made her acquaintance
on the coast of East Friesland before he engaged with me in single combat.”
Now, while Sir Heerdegen, at the desire of all the party, described how he
had seen Gerda employed in collecting leaves and flowers on the sea-shore,
she had, unobserved, come back into the banquet-hall. Again she had taken
her station behind Sir Arinbiorn, and had placed before him a large golden
cup filled to the brim with liquor, though he himself never remarked that
she had done so. Sir Otto, indeed, perceived that she was in the room, and
again turned round, intending to offer her his place; but, discontentedly, she
made him a sign that he should not move; then retired, as if fearful of being
noticed, and continued to pace up and down, like one lost in thought,
through the wide banquet-hall. Thereafter Otto lost sight of her, so much the
more readily, as Heerdegen, in his story, began to speak of the Lady
Minnatrost; whereupon the whole party were anxious to hear more of the
wonderful Druda. Sir Otto could not join with them in asking questions; but
his whole heart was engrossed by what he heard of the silent lady, with her
mysterious castle, and the tranquil moonlight that ever gleamed around her.
Meanwhile Bertha’s beautiful eyes shone full of tears.
At length, half jesting, half angry, Gabrielle whispered to her bridegroom,
“How is this? Already on your bridal day so thoughtful and absent?” Sir
Otto was about to excuse himself; but she continued, smiling, “Nay, nay,
your thoughts are now far from hence, and are exclusively devoted, though
how we know not. You are a German; yet for a long time the wine-cup has
stood untouched before you. Have you once, during the banquet, drank to
the health of Gabrielle?”
“My life, my happiness, my crown of victory!” cried Sir Otto, scarce
knowing what he said; and, in the inspiration of the moment, he drank out
the contents of the goblet which stood nearest him, not till afterwards
perceiving that it was the golden cup of King Arinbiorn. Then some one
touched him on the shoulder, and turning round, he perceived that it was
Gerda, who, with threatening gestures, addressed to him some monitory
words, of which he then understood not the import. Like a stream of liquid
fire, the drink which he had swallowed now burned within him; at the same
time he remarked, how Gerda had taken her place opposite to him in a
corner of the hall. There she held the battle-axe of King Arinbiorn in her
hands, while, by the motion of her lips, he could perceive that she was

busily occupied in prayers or incantations. She made strange gestures too,
as if she wrote upon or inscribed magic signs upon its iron head, though all
the while her eyes were steadfastly fixed upon the Knight of Trautwangen.
At last she came nearer, and placed the battle-axe by the sea-monarch’s
chair; then stepped mournfully out of the hall.
Meanwhile the songs of the minstrels and discourse of the guests became
always more lively round the banquet-table. All seemed happy and
contented with one another; while the heroic ballads and legends, thrown in
by the wise harpers and bards, were like flowers and blossoms of that joy
which was implanted in every breast.
Meanwhile, Sir Otto’s feelings alone were discordant; and he, that should
have been the gayest of the gay, was the only one of the party in whom the
music that rose all around him awoke the most fierce and frightful
emotions. Every word uttered by the minstrels excited him to wrath. Every
shape around him was frightfully transformed; the very hall itself seemed
changed; its roof contracted, and descended lower and lower, till he
believed himself confined in a dreary chapel-vault. As he looked on Sir
Arinbiorn, Sir Heerdegen, the Knight of Montfaucon, even on Bertha and
his beloved Gabrielle, the features of all were horribly distorted. At last the
vision of the narrow vault faded away, and he thought that he was gasping
and swimming for life in the midst of a raging sea; that the waves were
peopled by monstrous fishes, with human heads, which opened their vast
jaws to swallow him alive. Especially there was among them one far more
hideous than the rest, which had on his head a pair of great vulture’s wings,
and in his teeth carried a death’s-head, whereon the scars of many sword-
strokes were visible. “He has brought it from my father’s chapel!” thought
Sir Otto; and then he recollected himself, and became convinced that the
only one near him, who wore such vulture’s wings, was the brave King
Arinbiorn, who sat with him in friendship and peace at the banquet. Soon
after, however, he again thought that the sea-monarch might indeed prove
as frightful an enemy as the spectre-fish which threatened him; and he
remembered all the strange stories of ghosts and demons, and shadowy
phantoms, by which Sir Heerdegen had told him the Finland frontiers were
haunted. He could scarcely resist the growing delusions of his brain, nor the
frightful impulse to deeds of violence and wrath, which swelled through
every nerve and fibre.

Suddenly he started up from table; his eyes glared horribly; his voice
resounded through the hall like a thunderclap; right and left, all the guests
started up in affright. He stood alone in the midst of them, wielding his
drawn sword, which played like lightning-gleams round his head. “Holla,
holla!” cried he; “where is the devil that would beset us? Holla, huzza! I
challenge him to single combat. I shall meet him with giant-strength!”
“Heaven have mercy! he is possessed; the devil of whom he speaks has him
under his power!” Such were the words that ran whispering along the walls,
to which the whole party had fled, that they might be out of his reach. “For
the second time,” said the brave Chevalier de Montfaucon, “I would gladly
venture with him in combat!” With these words, he tried to rise from his
couch; but the exertion only made his wounds bleed afresh; so that he fell
back, almost fainting, and, attended by the trembling Blanchefleur, was
borne out of the hall.
Immediately afterwards, the Spaniard Hernandez, and three noble
Frenchmen, stepped forward, in order to seize on the frightful madman.
With one blow, however, from his left arm, he swept them all back against
the wall, then laughed aloud, and stationed himself in such manner at the
portal, that no one could venture out of the apartment. “Throw spears,
knives, and daggers at him!” was now cried from all sides; nor were
Bertha’s gentle entreaties to spare him yet a while heard amid the
confusion. The knives and spears were thrown; they struck him; and though
he wore no coat-of-mail, yet they fell to the floor without inflicting the
slightest wound. “These devilish fish are spouting water against me,” said
the madman, again laughing loudly and horribly. “The devil is indeed
within him, and protects him,” was now whispered about; “he is at once his
friend and his master!” “No, no!” said Bertha, “that may never be!” Her
bright blue eyes gleamed full of love and confidence; and in a voice like
divine music, she said,—“Otto, my dearest Otto, give me, in God’s name,
your hand, and follow me in peace to your chamber!” She went up to him
so cheerfully and lovingly, that every one believed her victory secure; but
the tempest which raged within Sir Otto’s brain became only more furious
and uncontrollable. “What would’st thou here, horrible pale-visaged
witch?” cried he, in his voice of thunder. Therewith he struck the hand so
kindly offered him with his sharp sword, and Bertha fell back fainting to her
place. Sir Heerdegen supported her; and though his eyes glared in wrath at

the madman, yet he dared not for the moment leave his pale wounded sister
to wreak the vengeance which he would so gladly have fulfilled.
Then the sea-monarch, Arinbiorn, came forward. “Either shall this
diabolical madman,” said he, “compensate for the blood that he has drawn
from that beauteous damsel, or the last of mine shall be shed in her cause.”
With these words, he placed himself before Sir Otto, and lifted his battle-
axe. “Ha! thou art come again?” cried the madman: “Vulture’s wings!
Death’s head! wilt thou have another blow from the Knight of
Trautwangen? There, Satan, be then on thy guard!” “Thou art thyself the
devil of whom thou speak’st,” cried the sea-monarch; and though Sir Otto’s
sword moved incessantly over his head, yet the powerful battle-axe
descended with resistless force, and the miserable knight fell without a
word, and lay motionless on the ground.

CHAPTER II.
How Sir Otto went all alone, and despairing, into the
forest.
It might be about noon on the following day, when Sir Otto again shewed
some signs of reason and recollection; but he could not yet open his eyes,
nor move his limbs. At first it seemed to him that he lay there dead, only
that his soul was not yet disengaged from its earthly prison; and, as he
thought of what had passed on the preceding day, he believed that the sea-
monarch, Arinbiorn, had killed him with his enormous halbert. Yet ere long
he knew that he must be still alive; that he was laid on a soft couch, and
carefully tended; also that his wound would not prove deadly; for
oftentimes he felt the touch of a soft hand on his head; and at such times a
delightful coldness came over his brow, and he was almost free from pain.
Yet he remained motionless, nor could lift up his eyes to know who were
beside him.
At length he heard a voice, which he recognised to be that of Gabrielle.
“Will he then yet live?” said she; and thereafter she was answered by one of
the wise minstrels who had been at the banquet of the former day. “I can
pledge my life, noble lady,” said he, “that all needful duties have here been
fulfilled, so that he no longer requires our care. It is not by his wound that
he is now held insensible; for the blow was broken partly by his own sword,
and partly by the thick barret-cap on his head. It is but the fatigue after that
frightful conflict, when he was possessed by the devil, and wholly given up
to his infernal power, which thus weighs upon him.” With each of these last
words it seemed as if a sharp dagger had been thrust into Sir Otto’s heart.
The horrors of the preceding day were all renewed in his mind; and, from
the weakness of his body, became the more insupportable. Yet sometimes a
low suppressed voice of lamentation was heard near him, and he could
distinguish the words, “Alas! poor Otto, poor lost deluded youth!” These
accents were like balm to his wounded heart; but it seemed to him that they
were but an echo from the far-distant and happy years of his childhood; that
it was his mother who thus lamented; while, in the living world, there was

no one that knew or loved him. Again he heard the voice of Gabrielle: “I
have given back the ring,” said she, “to the Lady Blanchefleur de
Montfaucon, who will keep it until another combat restores it to my
possession. By means of this frightful slave of Satan, who now lies here, it
were impossible to believe that I could be reinstated in my rights; and I
must thank Heaven that the mask fell from his visage before I was united at
the holy altar to such a wicked sorcerer.” “Ay, ay,” said a male voice; “we
perceived that his victory was unfairly won; for otherwise, how would it
have been possible for such a youth to have overcome the stern and hitherto
invincible Sir Folko de Montfaucon?” “Alas! it is yet to be heavily
deplored,” answered Gabrielle; “for he was so beautiful!—when one looked
into his bright blue eyes, what damsel would not have intrusted herself and
all the world to his disposal?” “Beware then lest you should still be in his
power,” said a female voice; and at the same moment the door opened, and
several squires came into the room, announcing that the horses were ready
for departure. With a heavy sigh, the lady Gabrielle forced herself away,
and withdrew, followed by all the rest. Otto still could not open his eyes,
nor move a limb; but he heard plainly how all his happiness in love, and
reputation as a knight, were thus taken from him. So he was left alone,
melancholy and neglected.
Yet, no! He was not quite alone; for ever and anon he heard the same voice
of lamentation, and he felt the same soft hand and cooling leaves applied to
his burning wound. Many times, too, it seemed as if the same light hand
coursed timidly over his cheeks.
Then suddenly the stern angry voice of Sir Heerdegen broke upon his ears;
“Sister,” cried the knight, “wherefore should’st thou stay longer beside that
servant of Satan? What if he should awake, and once more attack thee?
Come then; the horses are waiting; all the other guests are long since
departed, even Sir Folko de Montfaucon and the Lady Blanchefleur; so that
the old fortress is now lonely and desolate.” Then, as Bertha began softly to
utter complaints and entreaties for delay, he added, “Drive me not mad, I
pray you! How many noble knights would gladly encounter death, if thy
heart and hand were at stake! But this wretch, who lies here, could wound
thy heart and hand too without remorse. I beg that you will not provoke me,
or I might act in a manner unbecoming a true knight, and even wreak my
vengeance on him who is now insensible.” Thereafter Sir Otto felt that his

burning brows were again touched and cooled for the last time, and was
aware that his cousin, Bertha, sobbing with irresistible grief, left the room
with her brother. In a short time he heard the trampling of their horses at the
gate as they left the castle.
Now, indeed, he was alone; and once more, as if in mercy, his senses were
taken from him; so that he knew not where he was; and during many hours
remained thus lost in delirium and forgetfulness.
Late in the evening he awoke for the second time. His limbs had now
recovered their power; and, not without groaning heavily, he raised himself
in bed, and beheld the last gleams of the setting sun falling through the
painted window, and revealing his armour, which, in many pieces, lay
strewed about the room. Painfully, and depressed in spirits, he turned from
these remembrances of his short-lived good fortune, rose from his bed, and
tottered towards the window. Thence he gazed over the rampart into the
deep valley, and when, to enjoy the cool evening air, he opened the lattice,
voices rose from the forest beneath; for a troop of warriors were just then
passing on horseback, and they were singing the self-same ballads which he
had before heard from Master Blondell, the royal minstrel. The same
stanzas were chaunted in praise of the crusaders, and the knight could not
refrain from exclaiming, “Good Heaven! if these men were but the soldiers
of King Richard, and I could ride with them into the Holy Land!” Scarcely
had he pronounced these words, when the warlike minstrels came into view
from the forest. They were mounted on fine tall horses, and their armour
was exactly like that worn formerly by the train of the royal favourite,
Blondell. Otto wished to call to them, that they should wait, and he would
ride with them on their pilgrimage; but they halted of their own accord, and
began to speak with some squires and cavalrymen, who, as Sir Otto now
perceived, were stationed along the ramparts of the castle. The travellers
related how they belonged to the army of King Richard Cœur de Lion, and
were of his train, though he himself had now ridden on far before them.
Then they inquired, wherefore all was so silent and desolate around that
fine and stately castle. “Yesterday morning,” said an old sentinel, “you
would have found no cause to ask such a question; but now, indeed, there is
no one above but a possessed knight, who has sold himself to the devil.
Would to Heaven that we were free from such company!” Then he gave a
frightful account of all that had past on the preceding day, which the rest

who were present confirmed, speaking always louder than usual at the times
which they bestowed most blame on the unfortunate Knight of
Trautwangen. When at last they came to describe how the beautiful damsel,
Bertha, was wounded, the English soldiers crossed themselves devoutly,
saying, “God defend us from the sight of such a monster!” And in a little
while they turned their horses’ heads, and, as if in terror, rode at a sharp trot
away. “My doom is sealed, and my judgment spoken!” said Sir Otto, with
the calm voice of settled despair; “I must only hasten to withdraw myself
from the sight of all mortals. There may perchance be some cavern of the
mountains to which I may retreat, where I may bury my armour, and for
ever more remain in oblivion.”
Thereafter he began to collect his accoutrements, which lay scattered about
the room, and among them found his good sword, which, by the stroke of
the sea-monarch, Arinbiorn’s battle-axe, had been broken in twain. “My
father little thought,” said he, “that his old companion would come to such
an end!” Carefully, however, he took up the glittering pieces, and tied them
into a bundle with his armour; loaded with which, he set out on his way. In
the antechamber, he happened to pass by the same mirror, in which he had
beheld his own image at the departure of Theobaldo on the preceding
morning. “Now, indeed, there is a change,” said he, as he saw the spectral
figure, pale and blood-stained, which the glass presented to him, arrayed
too in the mockery of festal attire, all torn and disordered. In the stable,
however, his light-brown steed was cheerful as before, and neighed aloud at
the approach of his master. Sir Otto shook his head mournfully, and bade
him be silent; for it was no longer a fitting time for mirthful greetings. Then
he bound his armour fast to the saddle, and led his horse by the reins to the
gate. No one offered to assist him; for every squire and sentinel looked on
him with terror. He mounted, and in a short space was lost in the deep
recesses of the wood.
In the hour of gladness and rejoicing, when all our wishes are fulfilled, and
the sunbeams are brightest around us, then Heaven grant that we may not,
like Sir Otto von Trautwangen, prove over confident or over merry!

CHAPTER III.
Of a meeting between Sir Otto and the Sea-monarch in the
forest.
Now, after a bitter cold winter, the spring had begun to look out again upon
the Ardennes mountains, though the scenes were yet oftentimes darkened
by rain-clouds, the north wind contended with the zephyr, and the streams
were swollen with melting snows. There it befell once on a day, towards
evening, that a knight mounted on a stately horse, and arrayed in bright
golden armour, came from the heights of the wood-covered hills into a
narrow valley, so lonely and silent, that it seemed hidden and closed up
from all the world. The horseman had a great battle-axe hung by gold
chains from his saddle, two golden vulture’s wings adorned his helmet; it
was the sea-monarch, Arinbiorn.
He had not rode far into this sequestered vale, when, lo! there came out of
the thickets a wild brown horse, which advanced at full speed, and making a
furious attack on the sea-monarch’s tall charger, threw him down with
violence ere the rider could quit his seat, so that both fell together; and the
wild horse continued without mercy his warlike assault. Sir Arinbiorn’s
golden armour was already shattered, and his charger bled from many
severe wounds, when a powerful voice called aloud from a rocky cliff,
“Ruhig, du Bursch!” whereupon the raging animal, bowing his head
humbly towards the ground, stood motionless as a statue. The brave Sir
Arinbiorn then disengaged himself from the stirrup, and raised up his
wounded steed, in which work he was assisted by the stranger, whose voice
had sounded from the cliffs. Looking on his companion, the knight
perceived that he was a man clothed in rough bear-skins, frightful to behold,
while his long hair and beard nearly concealed his features. His voice,
however, sounded so mild and friendly, and his whole demeanour was so
courteous, that the sea-monarch did not hesitate to accept his invitation, and
accompany him to his dwelling, which was not far distant.
They came accordingly to a cave in the rocks, of which the entrance was
sheltered and adorned by the projecting fantastic roots of old oak-trees.

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

“From the first moment, however, I had clearly recognised you,” said the
man in the bear-skin. “Was it possible, indeed, that I should have forgotten
the vulture’s wings, or your heavy battle-axe, of which you may yet
perceive the wound by your arm inflicted?” With these words he parted his
long disordered locks, so that the sea-monarch might behold a deep scar on
his head. Then he resumed, “I had not thought it needful to tell you who I
was; but from him who comes in quest of me I shall never conceal myself.
What then is your pleasure, Sir King of the Sea? I am ready to meet you
either here in peace, or on the battle-field in wrath.”
“You look at me, indeed, as if you were ready for another combat, young
hero,” answered the sea-monarch; “but this is not my purpose; for Gerda
has already confessed to me, that the drink which she had secretly prepared,
was the cause of all the evils which befell you. Therefore I have enjoined
her never more to come into my presence, nor to follow me as heretofore,
by land or sea.”
“Thou should’st at least have doomed her to death,” cried Sir Otto
vehemently, “lest, by her accursed witchcraft, some other unsuspecting
mortal should be deluded and led astray as I have been! Could she not even
then have afforded me some warning, after I had drank from that
abominable cup, so that I might not trust to its illusions?”
“Nay, Sir Otto,” said the sea-king, “that was not within her power. Knowing
the evils that were to come, she had been anxious for my safety. She had
pronounced many powerful spells over the battle-axe which I yet wield, in
order that, by their influence, I might be enabled to resist you in combat;
and whosoever has in one day so often invoked the supernatural and
invisible powers, falls for a space under their dominion, and must act
according to their will. Moreover, after she had uttered those incantations,
the spirits, who were then beside her, forced her away with them into the
wild autumnal woods, where they howled like wolves and screamed like
owls around her. Not till two days thereafter, when I was on the sea-shore,
far from the castle of the Knight of Montfaucon, she came after me, and
revealed the direful mysteries which I have now unfolded to you.”
“Ay, she revealed these mysteries,” said Sir Otto angrily; “but what avails
this to me? My fair fame and my well-earned happiness are lost, and her
confessions will not again restore them.”

“In what light then do you behold me?” answered the sea-monarch; “you
might methinks have guessed without being told, that I dispersed
immediately all my followers, in all directions, wherever any one was to be
found who had been present at that banquet; and that I pledged my honour
and sword thereon, that you were a noble Christian knight, pious and
honourable, no less than brave; therefore, free from all the guilt of which
you had been accused. Then, too, I rode myself back to the castle, in order
to console you; and because I hoped still to find there the best of that
illustrious party. You, however, had vanished utterly; also Gabrielle,
Blanchefleur, and Folko. My former captives, Heerdegen and Bertha, were
also far distant. All that I could do, therefore, was to make known the truth
among the squires and sentinels, then to remount my horse, and follow the
road which was pointed out to me, as that chosen by the last of the guests
who had departed from the castle. On the way, I blew, at frequent intervals,
my great hunting-horn, trusting that, if it were heard by Sir Heerdegen, he
would attend to the signal; for in France such powerful notes are not usually
heard. It befell, as I expected, that once on a time the blast came to his ears,
and he said immediately, ‘There sounded the trumpet of the sea-monarch,
Arinbiorn! Either he would warn us against some approaching evil, or
would himself obtain assistance.’ So he and his sister halted. I overtook
them, and related to him the whole truth.”
“And did they believe that I was innocent?” said Sir Otto.
“How could it prove otherwise,” answered the sea-monarch, “since they
never had cause to doubt my word? Besides, Sir Folko de Montfaucon and
the Lady Blanchefleur had never believed that you were a wicked
enchanter; and had it not been, that he was severely wounded, and the
damsel half killed with terror, they never would have left the castle.
Gabrielle (for she also was present) and Sir Heerdegen were bitterly
ashamed of the part they had taken against you; and, as he is an honourable
and brave knight, he resolved to leave his sister with Gabrielle, and bound
himself by a solemn vow, that from henceforth he would never rest until he
had found you, and seen you reinstated in all your former happiness. Sir
Folko would have sworn the same oath, for his friendship is unabated; but
he and Don Hernandez, as soon as they are cured of their wounds, must ride
into Spain, and fight against the Moors; for to that purpose they were
already bound. The three fair damsels all joined, to beg that I would swear

as Sir Heerdegen had done; but as I had already resolved that my life should
be devoted to your service, until I had found you, I told them that vows
were needless. So through the long winter I have travelled unceasingly,
from land to land, and at length, with the blessing of God, have been
successful. To-morrow, methinks, you would do well to throw aside your
present wild attire; and as soon as you are once more like other men, to ride
straight from hence to your beautiful bride, who is now along with
Blanchefleur and Bertha, at a castle in a blooming valley of Gascony.
Meanwhile I shall go to my old kingdom of the sea, for which, to say the
truth, I have heartily longed; and so is ended the story which I came to tell
you.”
“But what then has become of the ring?” inquired Sir Otto; “for Gabrielle,
as I know, had resolved to give it back to Sir Folko de Montfaucon.”
“That difficulty has also vanished,” said the sea-monarch; “I believe that
Gabrielle has it again in her possession; at least there are no disputes among
them, and they live all happily together. During the absence of the
Chevalier de Montfaucon in Spain, the Lady Blanchefleur, as I have already
said, lives at her friend’s pleasant castle in Gascony, where she can receive
frequent intelligence of her brother’s exploits and victories; the rest you will
ere long hear from themselves, especially from your bride.”
“No,” said Sir Otto, after a long pause, during which he seemed lost in
mournful reflection; “I shall not so soon receive that intelligence from
Gabrielle. You must know, Sir Arinbiorn, there is nothing in the wide world
which is to me so intolerable as to be pitied; and should I go to them now,
they would doubtless pity me for all that I have suffered. Therefore I shall
never again come into their presence, until I can appear with a wreath of
victory so bright and dazzling, that they shall not only pay to me the tribute
of justice, but of admiration and wonder.”
“You are proud,” answered the sea-monarch; “but I should speak falsely if I
said that I could blame you for this. Let me then make to you one proposal,
Sir Knight of Trautwangen. The people of the Finland frontiers, and also
many inhabitants of North Sweden, are still blind and obstinate Pagans and
idolaters. I have promised my assistance to conquer and convert them; and
in this undertaking you would meet with adventures as full of danger and
renown as you can desire. Sir Heerdegen also, had he not been bound by his

vows to search after you, was to have joined me there in summer. In that
land we shall doubtless perform many glorious achievements for the honour
of our holy faith, and many a trophy will be won. Thither then let us go
together.”
Sir Otto sat for a space in silence; but, as he perceived that the sea-monarch
looked at him doubtfully and with surprise, he blushed deeply, and said,
—“You perhaps believe, Sir Knight of the Sea, that when I speak of
campaigns here or there, or gaining victories, that I am not in earnest, and
that I am to be numbered among those poltrons who speak readily enough
of the most terrific exploits, and would yet faint with terror, if one informed
them, that the dangers which they pretend to wish for were likely to draw
near. Is this now your judgement of me?”
“Sir Otto von Trautwangen,” said the sea-monarch, “I have travelled in
quest of you through the whole past winter. Such duty, it is certain, that I
would not have performed for the sake of a caitiff such as you have even
now described; for, in truth, the task would have been to me as painful as it
would be for a sea-lion to remain five long months without the sight of the
salt water. Yet that I am surprised at your hesitation to engage in a campaign
so honourable, is a truth which I cannot deny, and I would gladly learn the
reasons thereof.”
“I shall answer you without hesitation,” said Sir Otto, “though at the risk,
perhaps, of appearing very childish in your opinion. In truth, then, the
golden vulture’s wings on your helmet are alone the cause of my doubts
whether I should go with you to Finland. Even now, when their gigantic
shadow fell betwixt me and the fire-light, I could not help shuddering at the
recollection, how many frightful stories my father has related of a man tall
as you are in stature, and who wore the same strange head-piece. Mark you,
Sir Arinbiorn, my father is a courageous old hero, of a buoyant spirit; and
there are indeed few thoughts by which his countenance can be changed;
yet when he speaks of the man with the vulture’s wings his large dark eyes
are full of horror, and he stares at some dark corner of his ancestral hall, as
if he expected that his spectral opponent were ready to start out against
him.”
“What then has your father related of this man?” inquired the sea-monarch,
with a melancholy smile.

“Much—very much!” answered Sir Otto, “especially how this man was
always attracted by misfortune, and for many a long mile over lakes and
rivers, hills and dales, was forced to travel when some horrible adventure
was at hand. Then, in the hour of danger, he always came to the assistance
of the distressed; but, as he was always the forerunner of evil, every one
looked on the giant’s appearance with fear and trembling. Above all, if any
one had a weight of guilt on his own heart, he was horrified at the tall man’s
approach; for vengeance seemed the special duty of the knight with the
winged helmet; and never did he fail in its fulfilment, except on one
occasion only, and of that event my father never would relate to me the
story; for it was, as he said, too fearful a legend for one so young and
inexperienced.”
“Your father has told but the truth,” answered the sea-monarch with a sigh;
“there was indeed a man such as you have described in our family, but he is
long since dead.”
“I believe, that I have myself fought with his skeleton in the chapel of
Trautwangen,” said Sir Otto, shuddering at the recollection, though Sir
Arinbiorn understood him not. Then he resumed—“It is from terror of that
ghostly combat that I now feel reluctant to go with you. Who knows what
frightful spectres may start forth against us from that melancholy gloom
which time and distance have thrown over your house and mine!”
“Such spectres belong to darkness everywhere and in all hours,” answered
Sir Arinbiorn; “and, methinks, it should be so. A new light is now to be shed
on the gloom by which our northern climes are over-shadowed. The darker
that the night is, the pleasanter that morning will be.”
“Ay,” replied Sir Otto cheerfully; “there you are indeed in the right, and our
minstrel, Walter, has also truly sung—

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

“Now, then, are you satisfied?” said Sir Arinbiorn. “Truly, if there have
been darkness and fearful mysteries lowering over us in former ages, the

time has doubtless come when our efforts are to change these into light and
happiness. Courage, then, my noble friend!—Let us now join hands in
token of your consent to travel with me through East Friesland, then across
the seas to Norway, and from thence to the Finland frontier.”
“Be it so, in God’s name!” said Sir Otto; and the two brave knights,
rejoicing over the friendly bargain they had made, resolved to set out on the
following day. Meanwhile they laid themselves to sleep on the soft fragrant
moss with which the cave was covered.

CHAPTER IV.
How the Knights mounted their horses, and set out upon
their way.
When the first gleams of ruddy light from the eastern hills began to stream
into the cavern, Sir Arinbiorn started up from confused visions which had
haunted him in sleep. Now, too, when he saw beside him a handsome youth,
cheerful and smiling like the flowers in May, who stood beside him as if to
watch his slumbers, he believed that this too was but a dream, and again
closed his eyes. Not long afterwards, however, the same youth came to
rouse him, and he heard the words—“Is it not better, my noble comrade,
that we should set out early on our journey?”
So, then, the sea-monarch arose, and recognised the young Knight of
Trautwangen, who had now trimmed his beard and hair, and had dressed
himself partly in the garments which he had worn at that fatal banquet, and
which, though now in disorder, yet still shewed to advantage on the graceful
contour of his person. “Good Heaven!” said Sir Arinbiorn, “how changed is
now your figure from what it was but yesterday!—You have indeed acted
rightly in throwing away that rough bear’s-skin, which wholly concealed
the natural form which God has given unto you, and in thus arranging your
hair, so that it no longer looks like the wild weeds of the forest, but may be
compared to a trim, well-trained parterre.”—“If one is again to appear in
the world,” said Sir Otto, “it is fitting, no doubt, that his appearance should
be like that of other men. Is it your pleasure that I should now buckle on
your armour? Afterwards, perchance, you will condescend to render me the
same service.”
Sir Otto’s words were respectfully obeyed by the sea-monarch, and in a
little while both knights were fully accoutred, one in his golden, and the
other in his black and silver armour, prepared for battle. Then the horses
were bridled and saddled;—that of Sir Arinbiorn had rested so well on his
bed of moss, that by this means, and by the healing plants which had been
applied to his wounds, he was now fully recovered, though he started
vehemently when the light-brown steed came trotting up at his master’s

call. The latter stood still as a statue, when Sir Otto commanded him to be
quiet, and allowed himself to be caparisoned without a struggle; though it
was easy to perceive that he had been long unaccustomed to this duty, and
that he now wondered much at what was going forward.
“What a beautiful charger would that be,” said the sea-monarch, “if he were
once more in the hands of a trusty squire! Even now, with his rough
uncurried coat and disordered mane, he is so dignified and graceful!
Methinks he is indeed well fitted to appear among a breed of horses which
are natives of my northern clime, but to which I never till this day have
found any one equal; they, too are, like him, of a light-brown colour; they
have the same fiery temper, and will not allow themselves to be rode by any
one who is not a true and valiant hero.”
“The light-brown colour of my steed,” replied Sir Otto, “is my especial
favourite. You will think it a strange fantasy, Sir Arinbiorn, but, because one
whom I dearly loved had light-brown eyes, that tint ever appears to me a
presentiment of happiness and good fortune.”
When all was ready, Sir Otto buckled on his glittering sword-scabbard, took
the broken fragment of his blade, and let it drop into the sheath, adding
thereto the other half, to which the golden hilt was yet affixed.
“Nay,” said the sea-monarch, “you must not travel thus unarmed. Rather
take my battle-axe, and bind it fast to your saddle-bow.”
“Unarmed!” repeated Sir Otto, “I pray you let not this be said. My sword,
though broken, will do better in the hour of need, than many a one might
prove which is yet uninjured.”
“Yet, I pray you, take the halbert,” said the sea-monarch. “As for your
sword, it is true, though you were to strike with it against the rocks until it
was wholly notched and blunted, yet there is an armourer in Norway, by
whose arts and magic spells, it may yet be rendered far better than ever.”
“That alters the case,” said Sir Otto, “and I shall therefore accept the loan of
your battle-axe till, by means of this wise armourer, I can regain the use of
my own falchion.”
So the two young heroes both mounted their horses, and began to wind their
way from the mountains of Ardennes, across the blooming plains, towards
the north-east.

CHAPTER V.
How the old Knight of Trautwangen heard news of Sir Otto.
Courteous reader, hast thou never longed to cast one look on the lonely and
neglected old knight, Sir Hugh von Trautwangen? The grey-headed warrior
now sits joyless in his castle! All the gay colours that once brightened his
life have faded away, so that he is more like one of the dead than a living
man; for of his only son he has heard no tidings, or of Bertha, nor of
Heerdegen. Were it not that the old minstrel, Walter, sometimes visits him,
the once active warrior would become a mere hermit, and his ancient
fortress a silent cell for penance and mortification. Sometimes, when he is
sitting all alone in his great hall, he seems to forget the changes around him,
and calls aloud for Otto and for Bertha. Then he is answered only by the
melancholy echo of his own voice, through the long vaulted rooms and
corridors, so that the old knight recollects himself again, shakes his head,
and smiles mournfully at his own forgetfulness.
One evening, however, he was sitting with Walter, the minstrel, at the great
round table, on which the silver-embossed goblets full of old Johannisberg
stood betwixt them, while out of doors there was an April shower, pouring
and rattling with such vehemence, as if it would never have an end. “Pour
on, pour on!” cried Sir Hugh, looking kindly towards the window. “By this
means I am assured that my friend Walter will for this night not desert me.
So then, long may the wind blow and the rain beat around us!” The minstrel
took up his goblet of Rhenish, and joined in this toast with his noble
entertainer, glad to find that he for a moment seemed cheerful, as a traveller,
who has lost his way on the cloud-covered mountains, rejoices when the
sunbeams once more break out around him. “In truth,” resumed the old
knight, “I know not how I could bear with the weary load of time, were it
not for your songs and your pleasant discourse. Both of us are old, but the
white locks on my head are methinks like the withered moss that waves in
winter on some old tottering monument; while to you they are like a snow-
white wreath, with which the hands of courteous ladies have adorned your
head, as a reward for the many pleasant songs that you have sung to them.

Come oftener then, I pray you, and stay longer, that the sternness of my
grief may be soothed, and that my thoughts may not vainly dwell on those
past joys which will never return.”
Hereupon the two old men shook hands across their wine-cups, and the
minstrel was about to speak, when, lo! a squire came hastily into the hall,
and announced that there was a pilgrim without, who, on account of the
violent rain and approaching darkness, might not proceed farther on his
way, but had begged for shelter and refreshment. “He comes at an unfitting
time!” muttered Sir Hugh, “I wish not now for stranger guests. However, let
him be brought into the castle. As to this, you needed not to ask my
permission in such weather. Place another chair also at the table; bring more
wine, with some food, and a silver goblet, for our visitor. Has he announced
from what country he has come hither?” “He is a native of France,”
answered the squire, and withdrew. “Now, mark you,” said the old minstrel,
“since we were to be disturbed, it is at least fortunate that the stranger
should prove a Frenchman; for he may perhaps bring us good tidings of the
young Sir Otto von Trautwangen.” “I pray you, speak not thus,” said the old
knight. “He who longs anxiously for tidings of friends at a distance, is
either disappointed altogether, or hears that by which his heart will only be
rendered more unquiet. Therefore, grant me your promise, that you will not
act the foolish part of asking questions, but wait patiently for whatever
intelligence this guest of his own accord may impart to us.” “Right
willingly,” said the minstrel, “do I promise what you demand of me; for a
stranger, especially one who comes during a tempest like this, must ever be
looked on as a friend; and among friends, methinks it is but a foolish and
discourteous habit, evermore to ask after the first greeting what news are
abroad; for——.” The minstrel paused as the pilgrim now entered the hall.
He was a man of middle age, neither very grave nor very merry, though,
according to the custom of all Frenchmen, he spoke much and rapidly,
giving them to understand that he was by birth an independent nobleman;
and that a solemn vow, which his father had imposed on him, rendered it his
duty to make a pilgrimage into the Holy Land. This duty he thought to
perform with most convenience and safety under the protecting banners of
King Richard, otherwise he would scarcely ever have turned a pilgrim, and
so forth. From this shallow stream of words the old Sir Hugh von
Trautwangen had immediately turned away. He sat looking fixedly on the

ground, and drinking his wine, while the gleam, which was now and then
visible in his eyes, proved that his thoughts were busied with the past; it
seemed, indeed, as if, along with his wine, he drank up cherished
recollections; and so he had been accustomed to sit through many a long
evening, with the minstrel, Walter, beside him, who struck now and then a
few deep chords on his harp. But meanwhile the stranger continued to talk,
also to eat and drink, without the slightest discomposure, praising, however,
the viands and Johannisberg which were before him, with the hospitality
and courtesy of his entertainer.
But at length it so happened, that the pilgrim mentioned a name, by which
the knight and the minstrel were both roused, as if they had been struck by a
flash of lightning. He spoke of the renowned Chevalier de Montfaucon; and
his hearers did not fail to remember how nearly this was connected with the
fortunes of Sir Otto von Trautwangen.
“Last autumn, (so the stranger narrated,) the brave Knight of Montfaucon
had, on account of a far-famed magic ring, entered the lists with a young
German knight, and in that combat was, in a manner quite inexplicable,
overcome and defeated. The fame of this battle had run like wild-fire over
all France, and all the world now spoke of the victorious youth, who was
named Otto; but as for his surname, he (the narrator) being a Frenchman,
knew not well how to pronounce it.” Then he described minutely all
circumstances of the battle between Sir Otto and the Knight of Montfaucon,
while the minstrel struck thereto his harp chords in a vehement and
cheering war-melody; but the old Sir Hugh looked thoughtful and
melancholy, as if he heard but the mournful echo of Walter’s notes, but took
no pleasure in their music. At length the stranger happened to say, “People
have insisted that the young German has won his victory by incantations
and witchcraft.” Thereupon the minstrel’s harp was silent; Sir Hugh’s dark
eyebrows were more and more contracted, and he nodded to his friend with
a mysterious expression, as if he would have said, “Ay, ay, I thought as
much!”
“But,” resumed the pilgrim, “no one any longer believes that calumny. On
the word of Sir Folko himself, and of another renowned hero, the most
distinguished knights in all France now throw the gauntlet of defiance at
every one who ventures to maintain that ever the German knight had to do
with witchcraft or necromancy!”

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

CHAPTER VI.
How Sir Otto embarked with the Sea-monarch.
Meanwhile, wholly unconscious of the dark apprehensions which the
venerable knight entertained on his account, Sir Otto was riding on his way
beneath the pleasant sunlight of spring, in company with the brave Sir
Arinbiorn. It was indeed no longer as it had been on his first setting out in
quest of adventures, when, at the same season of the year, he thought that he
had found the terrestrial paradise on the blooming banks of the Mayne, and
looked on every one whom he then met either as a friend, who would
sympathize in his pleasure, or a foe, whom he must honourably conquer.
Wonderful might it be to consider how very old a knight-errant, or any other
mortal, might become in the space of one year! Truly we may say, that Sir
Otto was now far older than three hundred and sixty five days could
naturally have made him. Yet he was still young enough to think, that, amid
the withered leaves of his former good fortune, the blossoms of pleasure
might again spring forth; and for these blossoms he looked not only to that
morning light, which can only be beheld after the night of death, but he
believed that they might yet appear in those oppressed sultry hours of
noonday, which we here name life.
The two young heroes had now arrived on the frontiers of East Friesland;
and one morning, when they had rode to the top of a beautiful green hill,
suddenly the wide sea appeared before them, with its boundless domain of
blue waves, with their bright coronets of foam all gleaming in the now
dazzling sunlight. Otto spread out his arms, as if he could have embraced
both the earth and seas in his rapture, and then broke out in a loud cry of
admiration: at last he dismounted thoughtfully from his horse, and kneeled
upon the grass in silent prayer. Whoever has beheld the sea, and remembers
his own feelings when he saw it for the first time, will not wonder that Sir
Otto von Trautwangen should be thus moved.
Arinbiorn rejoiced also, while his dun-coloured charger seemed also glad,
and neighed aloud, as he snuffed up the well-known sea-air. But Arinbiorn’s
joy was unmixed with wonder; it was the delight of a shepherd, who, after

long wandering, comes once more to feed his flocks on well-known native
plains. So, when they had thus come to the hill-top, he dismounted from his
horse, and began to collect dry branches and withered leaves from the
neighbouring thickets, to which he set fire; and scarcely had the blue clouds
of smoke ascended on high, when behold! a stately ship, which had been
lurking behind the coverts of a wooded island, came slowly into view, and
made towards the main shore. “See there!” cried Arinbiorn; “my comrades
have indeed watched well, and are already at the appointed place!”
Meanwhile Sir Otto had risen up from his prayers, and the sea-monarch
continued,—“That island, with its thick copsewood, is the same on which I
had the combat with Sir Heerdegen; and here, on one of the nearest hills,
must be the wonderful castle of the Lady Minnatrost, of which both
Heerdegen and Bertha related such strange stories.”
With deep emotion, Sir Otto looked round for the Druda’s castle; of which,
during the fatal banquet, ere he had drank of the cup intended for the sea-
monarch, Bertha had found time to give him a description. Every word that
she had uttered was indelibly imprinted on his heart; so, in his dreams too,
he had often beheld that mysterious fortress, with its white flowers waving
on the ramparts, and the tall saint-like form of the Lady Minnatrost. He
thought, moreover, that it might now be permitted him humbly to knock at
the enchanted gates, that he might hear, though from a distance, the divine
music of the golden spheres; and that, if perchance the wise lady of the
mansion should look over the battlements, she might bestow upon him one
friendly greeting, which might serve to guide him in his future pilgrimage
through the world, as she must of necessity be aware how her image lived
and was cherished in his heart. Soon after he indeed perceived a hill in the
neighbourhood, which was crowned with some dark gloomy towers; but
how different were these from the descriptions he had heard of the Lady
Minnatrost’s castle! There was here nothing to be seen, but ruinous walls
covered with moss, and tottering as if they would fall into the deep trenches
beneath. On the ramparts, instead of white roses and lilies, nettles and long
grass were waving in the wind; while, among these weeds, owls and other
ominous birds shewed their vile crooked beaks, or rose screaming on the
wing, when a wily fox, as if he were the castellan of the fortress, marched
along the battlements. “Good Heavens! what a desolate, mournful sight!”
said Sir Otto, with a deep sigh. “Surely it is impossible that this can be the
Druda’s castle?”

“Truly,” answered the sea-monarch, “I can hardly think that she ever dwelt
here; and yet, from the situation of this ruined fortress, it must be so!”
While the two knights thus stood together, wondering and perplexed, a
countryman had, unperceived, taken his station close to them. He now came
forward, and respectfully took off his cap. “Ay, ay, noble sirs,” said he, “you
are travellers no doubt from a distant land, and you have perchance stood,
in better times, on the self-same ground on which you now are placed. I can
understand all this. That is, in truth, the castle of the Lady Minnatrost; but
she herself is far from hence, and no one can tell whither she is gone. The
beautiful white flowers have turned into vile weeds, and the bright
gleaming lake within the ramparts into a stagnant swamp; foul birds and
beasts of prey inhabit the apartments; it is even said that it is by night also
haunted by evil spirits. So it ever happens with whatever is the work of
mortal hands. If neglected, it will not stand of itself, but must fall to ruin. It
seems also, as if not only this castle, but the peace and welfare of the land,
must be ruined since the departure of the Lady Minnatrost; for, during her
absence, the princes and vassals have been perpetually at war, so that their
swords on both sides have been ever dripping with blood. Nay, people even
insist that the mad sea-monarch, Arinbiorn, will again appear on our shores
——”
“In that respect they are not so far in the wrong,” said Arinbiorn smiling;
“but for the present, methinks, he will not do you any harm.”
“Well, should it be so,” said the countryman, “we have doubtless to thank
the good Lady Minnatrost; for you must know, that, though her castle is
thus desolate, she has not yet so wholly forsaken us. More than once the
boatmen have seen her by night on the sea-shore, dressed in waving white
garments, and with a green veil over her head, as she had been wont to
appear, and with her eyes yet gleaming like pale moonshine; but she seemed
to weep often, and wring her hands. It is said, that she comes hither in quest
of a certain damsel who once dwelt with her in the castle; for she used to
make signals, and wave her long veil towards the wide sea; but as no one
answered her, she wrapt up her face and went away. It was easy to be
perceived that she avoided the castle. Good Heavens!” cried he, interrupting
his narrative, “there is another battle already begun in valley! I must not
lose a moment, but run to drive my sheep out of their way, otherwise they
will ride over, and trample them into the earth.”

So the countryman went in all haste down the hill, and the knights
remounted their horses. They heard indeed, as the shepherd had said, a great
noise of shouting and clashing of arms in the valley, and soon afterwards
some troops of horsemen came riding past them at full speed.
“It seemed to me, noble comrade,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “as if but a little
while since you wished to visit the Druda’s castle. These clowns that are
fighting there must not prevent you therefrom. In half an hour we shall
teach them such a lesson, that they will thank Heaven if they escape even
with life; for, see, yonder is another of my ships already near the shore, and
the rest are surely at no great distance.” “Nay, let us not think of going
thither,” answered Sir Otto. “What should I seek forsooth in those desolate
halls, where perchance only a wolf, with her young ones, would come
howling to meet me, and appear as if forsooth she were the sole owner of
the mansion? Or why should I disturb the bats and owls in their secret
solitary chambers, only to remember that there has been a time when the
same rooms were brightened by the mild moon-like lustre of the Druda’s
eyes, and cheered by the soft tones of Bertha’s voice? It must, methinks, be
a frightful place; and were I to go thither, I might become mad, and speak to
those wild creatures as if they were men and women. We shall, therefore,
think no more of the matter, but hasten on shipboard.”
“You are in truth quite right,” said the sea-monarch; and thereupon they
rode away as fast as possible to the sea-shore, where Sir Arinbiorn’s
gigantic soldiers were arranged as if in battle-array, with their strange
armour and weapons. The most distinguished among them, who had
formerly accompanied the sea-monarch in Normandy, recognised
immediately the Knight of Trautwangen. A whispering ran at first through
the ranks, which soon changed into a shout of congratulation, and thereafter
into a choral ballad, in which they welcomed the young knight as their
companion at sea; invited him, as he had before won the Magic Ring from
Sir Folko de Montfaucon, to join with them in search of new trophies,
which also his valour would doubtless obtain. They concluded with a
stanza, praising fervently the delights of their life upon the sea, urging him
to dismount from his horse, and embark with them on the foaming waves.
Therewith they struck vehemently on their great brass-covered shields, and
Sir Arinbiorn, smiling cheerfully, said to his companion, “Such is the
custom among these Norwegians. Whenever they are much delighted by

any new adventure, they turn it thus into rhymes and ballad-music, which
are handed down afterwards from father to son with the story on which they
were founded, insignificant as it must often seem when repeated in other
countries.”
Sir Otto, however, dismounted immediately; and, with his cheeks glowing
at the praise which had been bestowed on him, he went through the ranks,
and shook all his future comrades by the hand. At the same time, they were
so delighted with his courteous and friendly demeanour, that several of
them could not help coming forward, and embracing him heartily.
Then preparations were made, as soon as possible, for the embarkation of
the horses. The dun-coloured charger of the sea-monarch willingly entered
upon that element to which he was so well accustomed; but Sir Otto’s light-
brown steed reared and kicked as if he were mad; so that had not his master
come up, and called out, “Gib dich ruhig du Bursch,” some of the gigantic
Normans must have lost their lives before they could have brought him on
board.

CHAPTER VII.
How the Knights discoursed on their sea-voyage.
It was now a very beautiful evening; the breezes were mild and favourable,
as the fleet of Sir Arinbiorn sailed along through the North Sea. The land
had quite vanished away, and Sir Otto sat on the deck with a harp in his
hand, watching the last golden rays of the setting sun. At last, while the sea-
monarch, seemingly lost in thought, stood near him, leaning on the mast,
the Knight of Trautwangen began to sing a romantic ballad, addressed to the
beloved Blanchefleur, whose image rose on his imagination, sitting in her
bower in the blooming vale of Gascony, twining wreaths of “forget-me-not”
in honour of him who was now far remote. During his song, the sea-
monarch had sat down beside him, leaning his head on his hand. As the last
notes had softly died away he stretched himself on the deck, with his eyes
dim with tears and fixed on the calm azure sky. “I shall now relate to you
some events,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “which your song has just awoke in my
remembrance. But let me begin and end my story, as I am now resting here;
for, with one’s eyes fixed on the deep, changeless vault of heaven, the mind
is calmed, and full of hope and trust.”—“Truly I have felt thus too,” replied
Sir Otto, “when I have gazed on the blue depths above us.”—“So much the
better,” said Sir Arinbiorn; “and you will allow also, that when we are thus
sailing on the wide waters, that contemplation is more especially delightful;
for here indeed it seems as if we had the same azure depths both below and
above. Listen then attentively with thine heart as well as with thine ears,
that my words may find a friendly echo in thy bosom.
“It was during my last campaign, when I happened to be in pursuit of a
Finland mountaineer, who had several times shot at me in vain with his
cross-bow, and, as he now perceived how determined I was in chase of him,
he might well suppose to pray for mercy at my hands would be wholly
unavailing. He was in the wrong, however, to think so; for I was not so
angry as he believed, and only wished to take him prisoner, that I might
bring home a trophy. But he rushed down, as if despairingly, into a deep
valley, with high rocky banks. I know not indeed whether he broke his neck

in the fall, or still lives, as I could not find him either dead or alive, though I
searched so long that the night settled around me before I was aware, and I
no longer knew what path I should follow in order to rejoin my
companions. There was snow lying on the hills, so that I was glad to look
round for some place of shelter for the night. Accordingly, I found among
the rocks the remnant of an old half-ruined watch-tower. On calling aloud at
the gate, I did not receive any answer from within; but being so wearied that
I was ready to fall to the ground, I could not wait for permission, but
mounted up a winding staircase,—groped about till I came to a door, which
I opened,—and having tried with my sword whether the floor within was
firm and secure, I laid myself down quietly to sleep. Towards midnight I
awoke; the moon had broken through the clouds, and shone through a
window, illuminating some object on the opposite side, which I believed
also to be a window. Through the opening, however, I saw what appeared to
me at first a handsome ornamented chamber, and within it there sat the most
beautiful damsel that I had ever beheld. I shall not attempt to describe to
you the exquisite grace of her form, or the loveliness of her light-brown
hair, her brilliant eyes, and her angelic smiles; for you will soon learn, that
you have ere now beheld the same beauty; and, were it not so, words could
ill suffice to draw her portrait. Now, when I wished to greet her courteously,
and to apologize for my intrusion, it seemed as if she did not even notice
my presence, but took up a lute and began to play on it; while, although I
was not above six paces distant, I did not hear the slightest sound, but only
saw her snow-white fingers gliding up and down the golden strings. With
astonishment I drew nearer, and perceived that the space, which I had
before supposed to be another chamber, was in truth a garden, where she
was sitting in a blooming arbour, with a tall white rose-tree, like an emblem
of herself, growing beside her. Then out of the thickets there came a youth,
who carried a book of music-notes, and, kneeling on the ground, held it
before her. One could perceive, by the motion of her lips, that she sung
from the book, at the same time regarding the youth so kindly!—Good
Heaven! if I could ever obtain from her such looks, I should be the happiest
of all mortals, and were I never more to behold her, I should grieve myself
to death! Then, wishing also to kneel before her, I advanced; but, in so
doing, struck against a mirror, and found that the form which I beheld only
lived on its enchanted surface! Moreover, I had no sooner touched the glass,
than all the fair scene changed into the most frightful confusion; and

methought even a tumult arose, like the roaring of a stormy sea! Overcome,
too, with a strange and unaccountable terror, I immediately tottered down
stairs, and rushed forth over hill and dale through the darkness of the night,
not again recovering my usual composure, until I found myself, at the dawn
of day, among my faithful warriors. A hundred times since then I have gone
through those mountains, both alone and attended, but never have been able
to find the slightest trace of that enchanted watch-tower.”
“Perchance it was all but a dream!” said Sir Otto.
“You might have spoken, methinks, more wisely, comrade,” answered the
sea-monarch, somewhat discontentedly. “Am I then so inexperienced, that I
should no longer know even whether I am asleep or awake? But you will
think otherwise when you know in what mood of mind I have been since
that hour. I could never cease to reflect on the form that I had beheld in the
magic mirror. On this account I broke off my intended marriage with Gerda,
and looked indeed at every female form that came in my way only to try
whether I could discover the beautiful mistress of my affections; but, alas!
she was nowhere to be found; and all others, in my estimation, were
unworthy of notice. Yet as one would willingly have some name or another,
by which he may distinguish that which is nearest and dearest to his heart,
so, thinking of the white rose that grew beside her, I named her Roselinde,
and thereafter Roselinde was my victorious battle-cry in many a hard-
fought and glorious encounter. Now, when I thought of the white rose-tree,
in my choice of a name, was I not in the right? For know, Sir Otto, that
when, at that fatal banquet, I beheld, for the first time, the sister of Sir Folko
de Montfaucon, I found in her the lady of the mirror. Her name is
Blanchefleur, which is, as one should say, a white rose, or, otherwise,
Roselinde.”
“You are now, then, perchance, a happy bridegroom?” said Sir Otto.
“No,” said the sea-monarch, with a sigh; “for the youth who appeared in the
mirror was also at the banquet-table, and they named him Master Aleard. It
seemed to me, moreover, as if Blanchefleur often cast on him, though by
stealth and fearfully, those looks which to me were dearer than all the
treasures of the world. So, in doubt and apprehension, I was forced to keep
silence. This Master Aleard was also a minstrel; and methinks, if sweet
songs instead of victorious wreaths are the gifts by which Blanchefleur is to

be won, I would gladly travel through the whole earth in quest of ballads
and music, and, instead of a warlike knight, would be a soft-hearted
minstrel——
“But what noise is that in the third vessel?” cried he, starting up; and a
captain drew near, announcing that there was a ship in view full of armed
men, which they had already hailed, demanding whether her crew were
friends or foes; but of this no notice had been taken, and she had set all her
sails as if determined on flight. Already she was at a considerable distance.
“Have you still the Greek fire-balls that we brought from Constantinople?”
said Sir Arinbiorn; and receiving an answer in the affirmative; “Take then
some of your arrows, wrap them round with flax or tow, filled with that fire,
and shoot them at these mysterious strangers. If they will not hear we shall
make them feel.”
Accordingly, in a few moments, those fiery arrows flew like meteors
through the dusk of the evening against the strange vessel. By their own
light it was easy to perceive the devastation which they produced. Some fell
on the deck, others on the rigging. The very mariners themselves had their
heads covered with the fire. The lights fluttered and whirled through the
ship, and at intervals one saw how two winged darts met together, and their
fires united; at last the whole vessel from the deck up to the mast-head was
enveloped in flames. “Quickly let the boats be prepared,” cried Sir
Arinbiorn, “and let us go to their assistance. They have all thrown
themselves into the water, and from thence let every one be saved. On your
souls and lives, I charge you let them all be brought safely hither!”
His commands were faithfully and rapidly obeyed; so that after a short
interval the boats returned, bringing with them the whole crew of that
unfortunate vessel; and Sir Arinbiorn was the more rejoiced at their safety,
as he perceived, by their dress and language, that they were Normans. A
young and very handsome man was brought before him as their leader. “Is
it possible!” said the sea-monarch; “do mine eyes deceive me, or is it to my
good cousin Kolbein that we have done this wrong?” “Ay truly, you have
done wrong to burn my fine ship,” said the captive; “and little did I think
that I should have you to thank for her destruction.” “Who then gave you
permission,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “to venture out on the sea, before you were
acquainted with the laws of our watery realm? If a small ship is hailed by a
large fleet, it must slacken sail, and return a friendly answer, otherwise

friends are turned into foes. You have learned to-day how little right you
had to persist in silence.” “Thereupon methinks you might have instructed
me without the use of your fiery arrows,” answered Kolbein; “but since you
have said so, and I do not forget how renowned and experienced you are
upon the seas, I feel convinced that I must be in the wrong, and beseech
your forgiveness, if I have behaved in a manner unbecoming and
inconsistent with your laws.” “There is no need of apology,” said Sir
Arinbiorn; “you have now learned these laws after such manner, that you
are not likely ever to forget them.” So they shook hands, and the whole
party went happily to the banquet-table together.

CHAPTER VIII.
How Sir Otto arrived in Norway.
It happened on a warm evening in the month of May, that Otto had fallen
asleep on deck, and it might be already towards morning, when the cool
sea-breeze came over his face and awoke him. He raised himself up, and the
light of the full moon, which still shone in the south, revealed a range of
high rocky cliffs between him and the blue northern skies. Great forests of
pine and beech-trees waved on the lofty summits, and among them were
seen at intervals the outlines of massive fortresses and watch-towers; while
eagles, and other birds that nestled among the rocks, came forth, hovering
and screaming around the vessel. Perceiving all this, the young knight was
at once awed and delighted; taking up his harp, which lay beside him, he
sung an address to the woods, the foaming waves, the precipitous rocks, and
clear moonlight of Norway, being well aware that he had now arrived at the
place of his destination. Accordingly, Sir Arinbiorn struck up a few stanzas,
bidding him welcome to his native land, where the bold champions, the
heaven-inspired bards, with their brimming goblets filled with mead, and
their bright gleaming hearths, were waiting to receive him.
The sea-monarch now stood at the helm, with his own hand guiding his
vessel towards the beloved shore. Already they had drawn near to a level
ground at the foot of the rocks, and prepared to cast anchor, when Sir
Arinbiorn, cased as he was in armour, sprang overboard and swam to land,
while, as the rest came after him in boats, he blew loud and joyful notes on
his hunting-horn, to welcome them, and to announce his arrival. Aloft, amid
the darkness of the beech forests, many lights like stars now began to break
forth; and these, Sir Otto soon perceived, came from the numerous windows
of a large fortress. At the same time he heard a joyous answer returned to
Sir Arinbiorn’s salutation, by a great blowing of horns from the high cliffs.
There was the trampling too of horses, with the clank of their riders’
armour, as they made their way down the steep rocky path from the castle.
Hereupon the sea-monarch, with a look of triumph and delight, said to Sir
Otto, “You behold now the venerable mansion of my ancestors; and there

you shall find, that we have not yet forgotten the martial and brave
exercises of olden times.”
Meanwhile their two war-steeds had been disembarked, and the squires led
them backwards and forwards on the shore, that they might recover from
the fatigue of their confinement on shipboard. I was long ere Sir Otto’s wild
light-brown horse could regain his usual spirits; he stumbled and tottered
about; while the sea-monarch’s dun charger, well accustomed to such
voyages, exhibited all his usual agility, and neighed aloud, as if exulting in
his triumph over his former adversary.
The castellan, attended by many warriors, had come down to the shore,
respectfully greeting their master and his guest, with the young Sir Kolbein;
while, at the same time, they welcomed back, with less ceremony, their own
equals and brethren in arms. For the latter, they had brought led horses
along with them; and in a short time a large party were mounted, and
galloped gayly up the steep ascent towards the castle. In half an hour, they
had arrived at the long echoing archway, through which they trotted into a
large court, now brightly illumined with torches. Here, on one side, was
visible the wide entrance of a spacious vault, in which a great fire of turf
was now blazing; and from hence a tall man, black as a Moor, made his
appearance; and, notwithstanding his strange looks, stepped up with
knightly dignity and assurance, offering his hand to Sir Arinbiorn. The latter
took it without hesitation, saying, at the same time, “Good morrow,
Asmandur, noblest of armourers! say how many weapons and cuirasses hast
thou completed while we have been absent?” “Methinks I have prepared
death for many of thy foes,” replied Asmandur, nodding his head with an air
of confidence. “I have brought here a friend of mine who requires thine
aid,” said the sea-monarch, pointing to Sir Otto. “The sword which now
hangs at his side has been broken by a blow of my battle-axe, and methinks
it could by means of thy art be joined together again, and made better than
ever.” “Ay, ay, if it be worth that labour,” said the armourer; “for doubtless I
could as easily make a new one. Let me look once at the sword.” Otto drew
out one-half, and shaking his head mournfully, let the other fall from the
scabbard. The armourer looked at both with attention, and then said, “If the
wearer be like to his sword, then both together will scarcely find their
equals in this world. Truly I might have known that he who is Sir
Arinbiorn’s guest, and to whom, as I perceive, a battle-axe of my

workmanship has been intrusted, was doubtless a brave and noble
champion. Yet because it is not for every one that I am willing to exercise
my art, nor do I work at all but for the best and most victorious knights; so,
methinks, I would wish to see some trial of his skill in the first place.” “On
that head, Asmandur,” answered Sir Arinbiorn, “I can pledge my word that
he shall afford thee ample satisfaction. Yet surely thou wilt allow, that he
should first have time to recover from the fatigues of his voyage on our
wild north seas.” The armourer nodded his head in token of assent, and was
about to retire into his vaulted hall; but Sir Otto called aloud, “Wherefore
should I first have time to rest?—he were indeed a pitiful combatant, who,
by means of a short sea-voyage, should lose all his strength! Come on then.
The morning is already so light, that the torches are needless. Whosoever is
inclined for warlike pastime, let him know that I am ready to give him
satisfaction.”
“Yet, methinks, as a stranger, you cannot will be acquainted with our mode
of combat,” said Arinbiorn.
“Wherefore should not I be so?” answered Sir Otto; “was it then in vain that
my father travelled through these foreign lands? On the contrary, he well
knew all their warlike arts and manners, and carefully instructed me therein.
But what exercise is there among you with which you suppose that I am
unacquainted? Do you mean, perchance, the throwing of these long
javelins, of which there is a heap lying in that corner?”—So with the speed
of light he darted from his horse, seized one of the spears, and hurled it
from him with such force, that it went singing through the air across the
castle-court, and struck deep into an old elm-tree at the opposite side. Not
attending to the astonishment of the Normans, Sir Otto then said,—“You
must not judge me too severely by this first trial. I am, it is true, somewhat
out of practice, and I have only done this in order to convince you that the
northern mode of conflict is to me not unknown.”—So then all the young
champions who were there present looked on Sir Otto as a chosen hero, and
vied with each other who should have the honour of meeting him in the
lists. Mid-day at last drew on, and the Knight of Trautwangen was never
wearied of the northern pastimes of throwing the javelin,—of wrestling, or
of fighting with the blunted broad-sword. As little did Asmandur seem tired
of admiring the prowess of the victorious young hero. At length the black-
visaged armourer himself came forward to try his fortune.—“I know very

well,” said he to Sir Otto, “that thou wilt be the conqueror; yet, methinks, it
must be a pleasure to try the effect of such noble and chivalrous blows as
those which thou hast dealt about this day; and though I would willingly
prove to you in good time that, above all things in the world, I am a skilful
swordsmith, yet I should meanwhile gladly shew, that I can also wield arms
when it is needful to do so.”—It happened as Asmandur had said. From Sir
Otto’s arm he was forced to receive many powerful blows, any one of
which, had the sword been sharp, might have cost him his life. At last,
however, notwithstanding the bravery of his defence, his weapon was struck
out of his hand, and sent away nine yards distant across the court.
Afterwards, in a wrestling-match, though he failed not to do his utmost, yet
at last he was overthrown in the sand, and Sir Otto held him by the legs and
arms motionless.—“Let me go,” said Asmandur, breathless; and as Sir Otto
lifted him up, he added,—“Yet, on the evening of this very day I shall
prepare thy battle-sword, thou hero! and at the mid-day banquet, over the
wine-cups, we shall sit together; for, methinks, thy strength will as little
yield to the fiery juice of the grape, or to the foaming mead which we
northern heroes are wont to quaff, as it has done to the powerful champions
with whom thou hast this day contended.”

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

So then the armourer, as he resumed his labour, began again to sing; and the
vault rung not only with the strokes of the hammer, but with the glorious
deeds of Siegmund and Sigurd. At every interval, however, when he placed
the iron in the fire, he changed his music, and sang other words, setting
forth how the fierce Hugur had slain his own wife, who was so beautiful
and affectionate; and praying that the champion, who was to wield the
sword on which he thus laboured, might never behave after such manner.
Then he returned to the deeds of Sigurd, and again to those of Hugur, while
his arm never rested; and the fierce fire never ceased to glow till the solemn
work was ended. At length he took the sword, still red hot, with a long pair
of pincers, laid it aside to cool, and, for the first time, spoke with Sir Otto.
“If you have aught to communicate or to ask,” said he, “now you may speak
freely, without fear of consequences for yourself or for your sword.” “I did
not come hither for the sake of talking,” answered Sir Otto, “but only to
listen; for old ballads and stories are the very delight of my life. With the
deeds of Siegmund you seem to be at an end; and to say the truth, I know
them for the most part already. If, however, you would instruct me more
particularly as to that story of the great Hugur, I should be sincerely
thankful.” “That shall be done right willingly,” said Asmandur; “but first I
shall bring a horn of mead; for, in truth, I lack some refreshment; and for
you I shall provide a goblet of wine.” So, after he had in due time placed
both upon the anvil, he drew in two great cuirasses instead of chairs, and
the two champions took their places at their iron table, right cordially and
well contented with each other. Thereafter Asmandur begun his narration as
follows:—
“About forty years ago there lived in this land a knight who was named
Hugur. He was the handsomest and stoutest of all men in the world; and, as
he had come hither as a stranger, there were not wanting people who
maintained that he was one of the ancient race of Odin, who, by some
strange miracle or enchantment, had been sent hither from that magnificent
land, wherein is situated the divine palace of Valhalla, which so many
mortals have in vain tried to discover. As to what truth there might be in
these rumours I know not. I have been baptized, and have become a good
Christian; yet still, when I hear of Odin and Valhalla, my whole heart is
warmed and heaves within me. These old stories, my brave young friend, of
our gods and their wondrous miracles, cannot have been all void of
foundation! Well, it came to pass, that Hugur proved himself to be the most

victorious champion in all Norway, one only excepted. Much, however, as
our people admired and loved Hugur, they detested his rival; for the latter
never appeared any where without proving a forerunner of misfortune.
Although he rendered them all the assistance in his power, and especially
never failed to inflict vengeance on any one against whom he had
harboured resentment, yet such deeds could by no means compensate for
that chilling terror and apprehension, which his coming never failed to
excite in the hearts of mankind.”
“Was this not the frightful man with vulture’s wings on his helmet?” said
Sir Otto.
“Lo there! you know your way among us already,” said Asmandur. “Well,
Arinbiorn has no doubt given you information, for he is himself a
descendant of this mysterious hero.” Otto meanwhile fixed his eyes wildly
on a dark corner of the vault, as if he thought that the spectral man with the
vulture’s wings would come forth against him. “Now,” continued
Asmandur, “there was at that time a certain Jarl in Norway, who had almost
the power and the riches of a great king, and this Jarl had two beautiful
daughters, very like to one another, of whom the oldest was named Astrid,
and the youngest Hildiridur. Astrid was like most other young maidens,
cheerful, well-behaved, good-hearted, and rejoiced in the society of her
playmates. Hildiridur, on the other hand, was equally good and virtuous; but
her stars had so destined, that she had an irresistible longing after the occult
sciences of magic and necromancy; on which account, she was in early
youth taken under the care of her aunt, who was a powerful sorceress, and
who carried her away into the wild regions of Iceland, amid their flaming
mountains and everlasting snows.
“Now it came to pass, that almost all the heroes in Norway paid their
addresses to the beautiful Astrid, and among the rest was the mysterious
knight with the golden vulture’s wings; but, as the damsel was exceedingly
affrighted by this ornament, which he wore on his head, as well as by his
character and demeanour, the brave Sir Hugur succeeded in winning her
affections, and a day was fixed for their wedding. The stern Avenger, with
his fearful head-piece, parted from her without anger; for, in truth, whatever
might be believed to the contrary, he was good-tempered, and was
determined in resenting the wrongs of others rather than his own. However,
at the festival of their betrothment, his vulture’s wings were to their great

surprise visible in the banquet-hall. He would perchance have gladly staid
away; but could not resist that influence by which he was forced to appear,
in order to warn them of approaching misfortune. He apologized
accordingly, and the bride grew deadly pale, while Sir Hugur received him,
according to his rank, with grave politeness. It came to pass, that in the
middle of that night the castle was struck, and set on fire, by a thunderbolt;
but, at the risk of his own life, the mysterious knight rescued the bride and
bridegroom. Every one else in the castle had fallen asleep, and was
rendered by the fire and thick smoke insensible, instead of being roused.
Strange to tell, the stern Sir Hugur, though fully conscious of the danger
which he had escaped, conceived a hatred against his deliverer, and
requested that he would never more appear in his presence. ‘Rest assured,’
answered the knight of the vulture’s wings, ‘I shall never more come before
you, unless by your own misfortunes I am brought to you for your
protection.’ It happened, accordingly, that Hugur was exposed to many
distresses, and whether his own life were threatened, or that of his beautiful
wife, or of a son who was born to them in the first year after their marriage,
or were it but a noble war-steed that was in danger, or the fruit of the
harvest-field, the frightful knight never failed to make his appearance
before-hand in the castle. So, notwithstanding the assistance which he
afforded, both Astrid and Hugur believed that he had caused all these
misfortunes, only that he might take merit to himself for striving against
their consequences. At length matters came to such a pass, that Sir Hugur
swore, in the presence of the knight with the golden helmet, that if he ever
dared to come again under the roof of his castle, he would, unawares, fall
upon him, and strike him dead with his battle-axe. The Avenger then
shrugged his shoulders, and went away discontented and mournful.
“It happened not long afterwards, that the beautiful Astrid, as she was often
wont to do, had gone forth alone into the neighbouring woods. She had a
light glittering javelin in her hand, though she carried it more as a toy, and
in sport, than with the intent of aiming it at any living creature, for she was
no huntress. There it so befel, that, in a spot where the trees were twined
into dense thickets, she found the mysterious knight asleep, and his frightful
helmet lying beside him on the grass. She was much terrified, and yet could
not help standing still and gazing upon him. So almost every one has felt, at
one time or another, when he has met with some hideous object. At last she
bethought herself, whether there might not be some wicked spell locked up

in that head-piece, which would be from henceforth broken and dissolved,
if it were no longer in the possession of its present owner. The thought was
no sooner formed, than it was put into execution; for the fair Astrid had no
good opinion of the stranger, and, by depriving him of his armour, was glad
to think that she would render him more exposed to the blows of his
enemies. As she walked homewards through the thickets, the helmet
appeared to her so horrible, that, in order to hold it at as great a distance as
possible from her eyes, she placed it on her javelin, and carried it over her
shoulder.
“Then the stern Sir Hugur came riding through the forest; and, as he saw at
a distance the golden vulture’s wings through the foliage, he could not but
believe that his old enemy was there lurking for him in ambuscade. So he
took a javelin, and hurled it with all his force at his supposed adversary. He
was too good a marksman to fail in hitting his object, and the spear went
right into the heart of his beloved and beautiful Astrid. Before she died, she
wept bitterly; for she was unwilling to leave this world, wherein she had yet
so many pleasures; and Hugur, when he discovered his mistake, almost died
of grief and repentance. The last words that they interchanged together are
yet preserved in an old ballad; for it is said, that, according to our northern
use and wont, they sang to each other their last farewell. At length the
beautiful damsel closed her bright eyes in death; and just at that moment
appeared the mysterious knight, who was now in search of his golden
helmet. Sir Hugur directly attacked him with great violence; and it seemed
as if the Avenger’s wonted powers had now quite forsaken him. After a
short conflict, his head was almost cleft asunder, and he lay dead at the feet
of his adversary. Sir Hugur then took the pale remains of his beautiful wife
in his arms, and the corpse of the knight on his shoulders, and in this
manner presented himself at the castle of his father-in-law, where he
became his own accuser; and insisted that his life should be taken as an
atonement for the death of Astrid. The old Jarl, however, having discovered
how this misfortune had come to pass, pronounced him free from all guilt;
only he required of Sir Hugur, that he should enter into a solemn
engagement to afford his assistance on the battle-field whenever his father-
in-law should demand this of him. The young hero now took a javelin, and
dipped it in the blood of his beautiful victim, then gave it to the old Jarl,
saying,—‘Send to me a messenger with this token; and wherever I may be,
were it at the very farthest corner of the earth, I shall hasten to your

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

CHAPTER X.
How Sir Otto rode down the steep rocky cliffs.
Sir Otto kept his eyes for a long time fixed on the ground, for he was lost in
deep thought. The song which Astrid and Hugur had sung at her death (for
this too the armourer had repeated) had agitated his inmost heart. As he
began to raise himself from this melancholy trance, and was about to ask
how Sir Arinbiorn came to be related to the mysterious knight with the
vulture’s wings, he heard in the castle-court the stamping of many horses,
and his own name called out loudly and impatiently. “They have not found
you in your own chamber,” said the armourer; “and know not whither you
have gone. There, take your sword, and let us go forth.” The weapon shone
bright and spotless in the hands of Sir Otto; and his own eyes too gleamed
with joy as he came forth with the black-visaged armourer into the court,
which was already bright with the ruddy gleams of the morning. The sea-
monarch came cheerfully to meet him, and wished him joy, that he had now
a weapon from the hand of the skilful and far-famed Asmandur. Otto
thankfully gave him back his battle-axe; whereupon Sir Arinbiorn
commanded the black and silver mail to be brought, and busied himself in
buckling on his young friend’s armour. “Mark you that troop of horsemen?”
said he, pointing to the opposite side of the court, where a band of Norman
soldiers were mounted on light-brown chargers, which stamped and foamed
with impatience to go forth. “If my will is here to be followed, you shall
lead these men into Sweden, to make war against the Pagans in Finland,
while I shall again betake myself with my ships to the sea, and keep watch
on our enemies’ coast, till I have found means of landing advantageously,
and attacking them by surprise. Are you content with this proposal?”
“Wherefore should I not be so?” answered Sir Otto; “Shall we not set out
this very morning?” “Immediately,” answered the sea-monarch; “but there
is yet one question to be answered. The soldiers whom you are to command
would willingly see one proof more of that valour and activity for which
you are so esteemed; for, to say the truth, they have doubts whether your
war-steed may be worthy of his master. Therefore may it please you to try a
race with that soldier there, whose light-brown horse seems to be about a

match for yours in height, colour, and symmetry.” “Most willingly,” replied
Sir Otto; “I could not wish for any better amusement!” So being now fully
armed, he started away to the neighbouring stables, saddled and bridled his
own favourite steed, who was now quite recovered from the effects of the
sea-voyage, and made his appearance at the lofty portal leading into the
court. The light-brown neighed and snorted, as if in joyful salutation of his
friends and brethren, who were thus drawn up in battle-array; while at this
approach of their leader all the band of horsemen joined in a loud cry of
exultation. With a lowly and courteous bow, one of them came forward, and
begged to know whether it was the knight’s pleasure that they should then
commence their race. “Lead me to the proper ground,” answered Sir Otto;
and the Norman, guiding his horse a few steps to one side, said,—“The
course is now right before us, noble sir.” At that moment he had stationed
himself opposite to a steep declivity of the mountain, broken indeed by
insulated fragments of rock, which partly rose up in frightful rugged
masses, and partly spread out in yet more dangerous smoothness, mingling
with the green turf. “That is to be our race-course,” said the Norman, in a
tranquil and friendly tone. “Among us northern soldiers, less is thought of
the trial, whether one horse can ride more swiftly than another, than of the
question, whether he can find his way prudently and safely on such unequal
rocky ground?” “Very well, I am ready to join you,” answered Sir Otto;
though it must be owned, when he looked down the precipice, his brain
became confused, and his eyes clouded. Yet he took courage, more
especially as he perceived that his light-brown steed seemed just as willing
to encounter the descent as that of his adversary; and with like impatience
foamed at the mouth, and gnawed the bridle which restrained him. “Let the
trumpets blow the signal, for I am prepared,” said Sir Otto to the sea-
monarch, who stood behind him; while the whole troop of cavalry had
formed a half-circle, watching what would be the result of this adventure.
Accordingly, the war-horns were sounded, the combatants gave the reins to
their steeds, and struck the spurs deep into their sides; at the same time
leaning backwards, both for their own safety, and that they might render the
descent more easy to their horses. Sir Otto found his eyes dazzled,—there
was a rushing sound in his ears,—the wind whistled through the long
waving plumes of his head-piece. It seemed to him as if, instead of running
a race, he would soon fall headlong through the air; and more than once he
was on the point of drawing the reins; but, reflecting that if he did so, his

adversary probably might gain the victory, he used the spurs instead of the
bridle, and the light-brown steed flew like a supernatural being over the
rocky cliffs and slippery declivities. At length they both arrived safely, and
stationed themselves quietly in the valley beneath, while Sir Otto’s rival
was still heard clashing and rattling through the thickets above them. As
soon as he had arrived also on the plain, his horse, notwithstanding all the
endeavours that the rider made to prevent him, rushed against that of Sir
Otto, and both steeds directly engaged in a furious combat. In a few
minutes, however, that of the Norwegian knight was thrown down, the rider
along with him, both severely wounded. The soldier recovered himself in a
short time; but Sir Otto, perceiving that he was much hurt, said to him,—“If
it so please you, mount my horse, and ride him up to the castle.” “Sir
Knight,” said the Norman, shrinking back, “what would you have me do?—
I am now well convinced that your charger is of the right blood, and is one
of the noblest, as well as most formidable, steeds that ever sprung from the
Norwegian race. But without doubt he would rend me in pieces if I
ventured to come near him; for after a battle such an animal could not be
tamed even by his own master.”—“That depends,” said the Knight of
Trautwangen, “on the question, whether his master be right valiant and
powerful. Trust to my promise, and mount him without apprehension!—
Ruhig du Bursch!” added he, at the same time dismounting; and on hearing
these words, his horse, as usual, stood motionless. Sir Otto assisted the
wounded knight into the saddle, and then led the way on foot; while his
light-brown favourite followed him like a sumpter-horse, slowly and
carefully climbing over the rocks. On their return to the castle the whole
troop of horsemen saluted them with the greatest respect, and the oldest
among them affirmed that Sir Otto was indeed a leader to whom they had
yet never beheld any equal.
Thereafter, without dismounting, they all drank his health in a cup of mead,
which was replenished by the squires, and passed round from man to man.
Then, in a short space, Sir Otto was seen at the head of his troop, departing
rapidly through the plains beneath the castle, and the white sails of Sir
Arinbiorn were unfurled, and gleaming on the blue waters.

CHAPTER XI.
How Sir Otto defeated the Pagans in Finland.
Through many a forest, and over many a mountain and desolate heath, had
Sir Otto now travelled, till at length he arrived at the Swedish frontiers, and
found that the army which was to attack the Finland idolaters had already
crossed the heights which formed the boundary, and that on the very next
day there was to be a decisive battle. Sir Otto’s troop, who were always
urging their way forward with impatience, had many times been warned to
be on their guard, lest a party of the enemy might form an ambuscade, and
attack them when they least expected any danger. The knight and his
Norman heroes, however, only laughed at such advice, and answered,
—“Nay, nay; let them be on their guard against us. If they are wise, they
will not throw themselves so readily in our way.”
It happened one day, that a few men, who had been sent forward in order to
explore the country, returned in great haste, and informed Sir Otto, that a
powerful troop of horse, much more numerous than that which he
commanded, was in advance to meet him. According to their armour and
accoutrements, they were not Finlanders, but noble Swedes; so that it
seemed possible the battle might have been unfortunate, and this might be a
part of the Christian army now retreating. At these words the brow of every
brave Norman was furrowed with disappointment and apprehension; but Sir
Otto, having quickly resolved what it was best for him to do, left the
command of the troop to the same youth who had rode the race with him at
Sir Arinbiorn’s castle, and went forwards alone. He directed that his troop
should for the present halt, nor advance farther until he gave the signal by a
powerful blast from a war-horn, which he always carried with him, and
which had been the gift of the sea-monarch. Some of his knights entreated
that he, as their commander, would not thus expose himself on the first
approach of danger; to which he answered kindly, but resolutely, “The great
Sigurd, of whom you have so many favourite ballads, always rode out alone
when he wished to learn the position of the enemy. Let me for once imitate
him.” With these words he set spurs to his horse, and trotted along through

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

wildly affrighted, broke away, and ran through the thickets into the valley.
The conqueror went up mournfully to his fallen foe, and looked with deep
sorrow on his countenance, already pale and fixed in death, for the spear
had struck deep into his forehead.
Suddenly, however, there was heard a great rustling and rattling from the
thickets on all sides, and five or six comrades of the fallen Swede now
broke forth with drawn swords, and shouts of wrath, to revenge his death;
so that the young knight had indeed sufficient opportunity to try the temper
of the blade which Asmandur had made for him. Nor did it fail to render
him good service; right and left his assailants were thrown prostrate on the
ground, till at length time was allowed him to blow a powerful summons on
Sir Arinbiorn’s battle-horn, and in a few minutes his Norman squadron
came galloping up the hill to his assistance. Then the enemy always
increased in number; but only one narrow path was left for their approach;
and when those who now gained the top of the hill perceived that their
leader as well as many of their noblest comrades had already fallen, they
were panic-struck, and fled, forcing back resistlessly in their retreat those
who were coming to their assistance. Ere the skirmish ended the ground
was indeed covered with the dead and wounded, though Sir Otto on his side
had not lost even a single man. He took possession of their horses and
weapons, and with these trophies came up on the same evening with the
Christian forces.
The shouts of joy with which he was received, when the Christians
perceived among other booty the well-known accoutrements of the pagan,
who had first been slain by Sir Otto, made him fully aware of the important
service which he had then rendered. His victim in that single combat had
indeed been the terror of every Christian soldier; and now, when his blood-
stained cuirass and broken helmet were borne in triumph through the camp,
every heart was encouraged by the sight, and all looked with hope and
confidence to the next engagement. The commander of the army, who was a
prince of the Swedish royal blood, a man already in years, grave and
experienced, came out to welcome the young Norman leader, thanked him
with dignified kindness, and led him into his tent. There he inquired into all
the events of his long march, and whether he could give him any news of
Sir Arinbiorn. After Sir Otto had answered all his questions, and especially
had explained the sea-monarch’s design in sailing round the Finland coast,

the prince took him kindly by the hand, and said,—“Heaven has indeed
opportunely sent one of the best and bravest of Christian knights to our
assistance. Your strength and courage are already proved by your victory
over the pagan leader; and from your wise discourse, I am no less
convinced of your skill and decision in counsel. I shall therefore not conceal
from you, noble sir, that I intend to-morrow morning to make a decisive
attack on these pagan hordes. In that engagement, your squadron, if it so
please you, shall ride on the left wing of my army; but, as for yourself, you
shall remain with me in the centre, until I shall have pointed out to you the
exact time and place when you can gallop off, and lead your troop round
against the right wing of the enemy, so as to attack them in the flank and
rear. Such a champion as you are I have often wished to secure for exploits
like these. God be with you, and may you sleep soundly this night, that you
may come to me in the morning with a clear head and vigorous limbs; for
our contest will be long and bloody.”
Thereafter Sir Otto, with his heart heaving high within him, from
anticipation of the honours which might next morning be won, retired
through the passes of the camp towards his own soldiers. On the way he
heard an old Swedish horseman say to his comrade,—“To-morrow we shall
doubtless have a decisive battle.” “Wherefore do you think so?” said the
other. “Why,” answered the veteran, “do you not observe the vultures and
ravens, which fly in great numbers over the plain before us? Such gentry
well know what they are about; and, moreover, there are eagles among
them, which doubtless come in expectation of a royal banquet on the blood-
stained heath.” Otto passed on, deeply meditating on these words; and
would, indeed, have watched through the whole night, which now began to
settle around him, but he recollected the admonitions of the prince, wrapt
himself in his war-mantle, and, despite of the visions which confused his
senses and perturbed his rest, he at last fell asleep.
After a few hours the bright ruddy gleams of morning came slanting along
the grass, and a blast was heard from the war-horns, reminding the soldiers
that it was time for the riders to saddle their horses, and for the foot squires
to make ready their bows and arrows. Otto, after a short space, had leapt
into the saddle, paraded his squadron, and rode on with them to the place
appointed on the left wing. There he once more selected the same youth
with whom he had rode the race for their commander, and said,—“My

brave Norman warriors, be contented here till I come to you again, and lead
you on the glorious path to victory or death. Till my return you will ride
here on the left wing of the army. On this give me your words of
honour.”—“We pledge our lives, honour, and faith, to obey your
commands,” answered the Normans; and thereafter Sir Otto galloped on to
the centre of the forces, where the prince was already on horseback,
surrounded by his most distinguished captains, and with many soldiers
around him who knew how to blow the war-horn, with whose notes the
woods and distant mountains now rung and echoed.—“You will remain by
my side,” said the prince, with a friendly salutation, to Sir Otto, “though ere
long I shall have occasion to send you farther. Do you now perceive the
multitude opposite to us, whose numbers are every moment increasing, and
pouring down like torrents from the mountain-cliffs on the plain? Do you
hear how they roar and howl, like wild beasts? Whoever trusts merely to a
direct attack on such an enemy, will fare but hardly, and indeed achieve
little; for they disperse themselves like dust or vapour on all sides, and, as if
in mockery, assail us from quarters least expected, and where we are least
on our guard. Yet, whoever once breaks the arrangements they have made,
and cuts off the re-enforcement of new soldiers, who are always pouring
down from the mountains, will utterly damp their courage, and render them
powerless. For this purpose I have chosen you. When we have advanced a
little farther, I shall render my plans more intelligible. Now, in the name of
God, let us proceed!”—With these words he threw his javelin high in the
air, and caught it as it fell; the notes of the battle-horns sounded with
deafening noise like thunder around him;—the sounds were answered, as if
re-echoed from every squadron through the army;—and the whole forces,
both horse and foot, advanced, as if inspired by one impulse, along the
plain. On the other hand, the Finlanders also approached, continuing all the
while their wild shouting and howling. Ere long they sent forth a shower of
arrows and javelins against the Christian troops, which distance, and the
protection of good shields, rendered yet ineffective; so that the more
experienced warriors laughed at this mockery of a battle.
Both parties advanced always nearer and nearer to each other, and the
martial music of the Swedes continued to sound aloud, though oftentimes
the tones were rather like a solemn farewell, than a cheering anticipation of
victory. Sir Otto’s bosom swelled with inspiration, such as he had before
never known. What were now all the heart-rousing enjoyments of the

tournament, compared with the feelings excited by this noble union of
heroic champions, in defence of their holy religion, among whom
numberless voices, as if animated with the same spirit, were heard to
exclaim, “Onwards! onwards! We shall live and die together! Wives,
children, and betrothed brides, we bid you farewell! Here there awaits us
victory or death!” In the van of either army many brave soldiers were now
seen to drop; and already many bands both of horse and foot were closely
engaged, without any determined advantage having been won. The
Finlanders, according to the description given of them by the prince, began
to spread themselves out like a dense cloud that dissolves into mist, and to
attack the Christian army unexpectedly on the wings. Suddenly the prince,
with his eyes eagerly flashing, turned to Sir Otto. “Do you mark,” said he,
“that long and deep trench on the left? They have stationed their right wing
along there, because they trust that none of our troops can leap over it. But
you, with your light-brown Norman horses, can doubtless undertake that
service?”
“Truly we have encountered bolder leaps among the mountains,” said Otto
with a smile. “Nay,” said the prince, “do not suppose that the undertaking is
altogether so easy. Mark you, that, according to the station which we now
hold, you have twice to leap over the fosse; first, here on our left, in order to
get round the enemy, then back again towards the right, before you will find
yourself in the situation to make an effectual attack.” “So much the better,”
answered Sir Otto; “that will afford us good exercise both for man and
horse, and tame the too violent spirit of our Norman steeds. A tight gallop
and a few hard leaps are, methinks, the best possible means to bring a
cavalry squadron into good order.”
“You speak like a wise and experienced warrior,” answered the prince. “So
then take your course behind that wooded hill, that the enemy may not
observe you when you first leap over the trench. Then, when you afterwards
prepare for attack, and find enough of employment for your own eyes, be
watchful and prudent, so as neither to be too rash nor too tardy in your
onset.” “Have you any other commands?” said Sir Otto, with the confidence
of victory expressed on his clear open forehead. The prince waved his hand,
in token that he might depart, and the young knight galloped swift as the
wind over the rugged heath, to join his brave Norman squadron.

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

tempest, wherever the enemy’s force still remained dense and collected
together. “Down with them! down with them, brave Normans! now is your
time!” cried Sir Otto, and his words were echoed in shouts of exultation by
the whole squadron, who, in a short time, performed such services, that the
Swedish army were enabled to advance even to the very spot on which the
Normans were contending; thereafter the pagans all took to flight, and were
scattered widely through the field in every direction; very many were slain,
and many taken prisoners.
At last the old prince came riding across the plain; he threw himself from
his horse, and heartily embraced Sir Otto, who had also dismounted. “Brave
Swedes!” then he cried aloud, “behold in this youth the scion of a noble
oak-tree, under whose protecting shade the whole of our land may yet one
day rejoice in peace and security!”

CHAPTER XII.
How Sir Folko de Montfaucon returned from Spain, and
brought with him the Moorish prince Mutza.
While these events were passing in Sweden, it chanced one day, in a
blooming forest of Gascony, that three young damsels were riding, followed
by a train of squires and other attendants. One could well perceive, by the
whole appearance of the party, that they did not intend any long journey, but
were intent only on a pleasure-excursion through the shady woods, to enjoy
the cool breezes of the sea, whose shores were not far distant. Now and then
one could hear their voices joining in a pleasant choral song, while the birds
of the forest answered them, and vied with their music.
Then said the damsel who rode in the middle to her neighbour on the right
hand,—“Ah, Blanchefleur, how much happier are we now, and how
changed is all for the better, since we have given over those wearisome
contentions for the ring!”—“I could have beheld it always,” said the other,
“as I do at this moment, suspended by the gold chain on your bosom,
Gabrielle, nor ever felt disquiet or envy at the sight. Had it depended on me
alone, you might have always retained it; nor would my brother’s silver-
grey charger, on which you now ride, ever have become lame in
consequence of such a combat.”—“Are you sorry then for the gallant
grey?” answered Gabrielle; “methinks this were indeed without reason; for
is it not better for him to be left thus under our kind and tender care, than to
encounter all the hardships and accidents of your brother’s campaign
against the Moors?”—“Nay,” said the damsel who rode upon the left, “who
knows whether the tenderest care and indulgence can compensate to him for
his absence from that path of danger and glory which is thus closed against
him?” “How strangely you speak!” answered Gabrielle; “were it not that
your words and looks are at other times so mild and gentle, I could almost
think that you were a knight in disguise, and feel afraid to live with
you.”—“Nay, say not so,” answered Bertha; “am I not thankful then for
your kind hospitality and protection?—Are you not the betrothed bride of
my cousin Otto, and for whom, in all the world, ought I to cherish more

respect and love?”—Gabrielle sighed deeply at these words, and in
thoughtful silence pressed the hand that Bertha had offered her.
Then, lo! there came out of the thickets a squire, well mounted and
handsomely attired. His velvet doublet shone with golden embroidery; his
saddle and horse’s head-gear were hung with golden bells. Perceiving the
ladies, he pulled up the reins, dismounted, and, kneeling before Gabrielle,
said respectfully,—“Lady, my master, the Chevalier Folko de Montfaucon,
begs permission to present himself before you, also to introduce here a
noble captive, whom he has brought with him from Spain.”—A beautiful
blush came over the damsel’s cheeks as she answered, waving her hand,
—“Good squire, bid your master and his guest, in my name, heartily
welcome. Tell them, moreover, that I am thankful for this bright weather,
inasmuch as it has invited me abroad; and I am thus far on my way to meet
them.”—Then the squire, after a courteous salutation, remounted his horse,
and disappeared among the thickets of the forest.
“Who can this guest be whom your brother is thus bringing to visit us?”
said Gabrielle, turning to Blanchefleur.—“If, perchance, it were a
minstrel,”—said the latter,—“but, no,” added she, “that were impossible;”
and, with deep blushes, and eyes dim with tears, she looked down on the
blue flowers,—emblems of hope and constancy, with which the turf was
thickly interwoven.
In a few moments the blue and gold armour of Sir Folko was seen gleaming
through the woods, and, mounted on a light-chesnut horse with a black
mane, which he had rode since his grey steed was wounded, he galloped
forward. On his approach he made a respectful salutation,—then sprang
from the saddle,—threw his lance to the attendant squire, from whom in
exchange he received his favourite falcon, which perched on his hand, and
thereafter gayly and courteously he came to meet the three noble ladies. As
for the stranger who accompanied Sir Folko, he was in truth no minstrel,
but a tall and graceful warrior, dressed magnificently in rich embroidered
garments of the Moorish fashion, with a silk gauze turban on his head,
which was held together by a rich diamond brooch, and surmounted by a
large plume of grey feathers.
“Noble lady,” said Sir Folko to Gabrielle, “allow me thus to present to you
Prince Mutza, the best and bravest of all the Moorish knights with whom

we encountered on the plains of Grenada.”
The prince bowed to Gabrielle and the other ladies with knightly grace and
courtesy; but then said, somewhat discontentedly, “If I were such a
distinguished champion as the chevalier is pleased to describe me, methinks
he could not have spoken as he has now done. In the presence of three
ladies, who are indeed the most beautiful that my eyes ever beheld, he has
wholly forgotten to announce, that I am brought hither as his prisoner; but,
in truth, there is no reason why he should boast of such a victory. Know
then, fairest of damsels, that were not the Prince Mutza one of the least
worthy and least powerful of Moorish knights, he never would have
experienced the mingled pain and pleasure of this meeting. As a prisoner, he
now begs that you will with your fair hands take from him those arms
which the generosity of his conqueror has too long left in his possession.”
With these words, he had loosened from the silver chains, by which it hung
at his waist-belt, his crooked sabre, ornamented with a golden hilt, and
studded with diamonds. Kneeling respectfully, he now offered it to
Gabrielle, who took it from his hands; but, at the same time, made a
movement, as if she wished to dismount from her silver-grey charger;
whereupon he started up, and lifted her gracefully from her saddle to the
ground. Then the damsel said to him, “Prince, you have condescended for
once to become the servant of Gabrielle de Portamour. But, methinks, it
were unfitting that a damsel of noble birth should have a squire who wears
not a sword for her protection.” With these words, she again hung the sabre
at his side, allowed him to lift her on horseback; and under his escort and
that of Sir Folko, who, meanwhile, had spoken kindly with his sister and the
Lady Bertha, she set out on her way home to the castle.
On a high balcony, illumined by the last rays of the setting sun reflected
from the wide ocean, behold, the three ladies were now seated, along with
the knights and the Moorish prince, enjoying the sweet fragrance of the
flowers, that were steeped in the dews of evening, and passing the time with
songs and harp-music, or in telling pleasant stories. Sir Folko and his
Moorish captive, even as they had before contended on the bloody field,
now vied no less with each other, in these courteous arts by which noble
ladies are best to be entertained, and if the wreath of victory had before
hung for a long space doubtfully betwixt them, so it was yet more difficult
to say which of the two was the more accomplished and polite. Gabrielle,

on whom the prince continued to bestow all his attention, contrived by
many ingenious devices to withdraw herself from the fixed gaze which he
so often directed towards her, and seemed more disposed to speak kindly
and confidentially with the Knight of Montfaucon. Blanchefleur, who had
so long been wont to hang down her head in sadness and deep thought, now
became, in the presence of her dearly-beloved and honoured brother, so
cheerful, and in beauty so resplendent, that to the white rose, her former
emblem, she could scarcely afford any fitting comparison. Only the Lady
Bertha von Lichtenried sat lost in deep, silent, and, it might have been said,
stern reflection; nor could the flattery of Sir Folko or the prince, nor the
kind raillery of Gabrielle, induce her on this evening to tell one romantic
story, or to play one note upon the harp. At last she became almost forgotten
among them, or looked on merely, without being spoken to; so that she
seemed in the society of these four mirthful companions more like a
beautiful statue than a living being.
After a while, and when the stars were already bright in heaven, the
Moorish prince took up a guitar, and awakening its notes with a skilful
hand, he sang thereto some stanzas, describing how he had been taken
prisoner; and how, in his captivity, his anger at his own defeat had rendered
it painful and intolerable to look on the happiness of others. Now, however,
all was changed; and since he had beheld the matchless beauty of Gabrielle,
his only grief was to reflect that he was here but as a transitory guest, and
must soon take his departure; so that he would perhaps never behold that
enchantress again. Hereupon, Sir Folko took another guitarre from the
hands of the Lady Blanchefleur, and sang an answer to the Moorish
champion, wishing, forsooth, that the morning might never dawn on them;
but that the present hour,—the placid calm evening, with its bright stars and
fragrant air, might be prolonged, and they might sit for ever as they were at
that moment; but, alas! as this might not be, as their beautiful hostess,
whose charms attracted them to stay, would of course command them to
depart; so, like Darius and Alexander, the far-famed heroes of ancient times,
they would go hence quietly, and in friendship with each other.
“Nay,” said Gabrielle smiling, “if you desire that the words of your song
should be taken in earnest, then you must know that I would willingly keep
Darius here till his friend returns, trusting that Alexander, otherwise the

Knight of Montfaucon, will also remain for at least one week in the society
of his amiable sister.”
“Good Heaven!” said Sir Folko, bowing gracefully to Gabrielle, “what a
week of happiness have you now offered to me! And what a month to the
Moorish prince! For in less time than a month it is impossible that I can
return out of Normandy, whither I am now called by my duties as a baron
and bannerett of the kingdom. Prince,” added he, turning to the Moor, “you
are now the prisoner of this lady; but remember, that I depend no less on
your adherence to the conditions which were made betwixt us when you
came hither, not merely as a prisoner but a hostage.”
The prince now seated himself at Gabrielle’s feet, saying, “This is the right
place for a humble captive. But one word I must yet speak with you, Knight
of Montfaucon:—you have laid on my shoulders the chains of an
enchantress; and this is against the conditions of our contract. Know you
not, that by this means you place it in my power to retract my word of
honour, and to make my escape as soon as I am able?”
“Let the enchantress look to that,” answered Sir Folko; “but if the place you
have now chosen be that of a prisoner, then let others boast of their
freedom. I for one would rather be the captive.” Hereupon he also took his
place on the ground beside Gabrielle; and Blanchefleur sang to her guitarre
a sportive ballad, in which she likened her beautiful hostess to a fairy
queen; and the two warriors beside her to a lion and an eagle, between
whom she was to decide who should wear the palm of victory. Blanchefleur
was but in jest, and thought of her music only, not of the words that she had
sung; yet what she had said failed not to make a deep impression on her
hearers. The lion and the eagle looked up anxiously, and with watchful eyes
for the judgment to be pronounced on them; while the fairy queen (as she
had been named by Blanchefleur) sat between them, blushing and confused,
till at last a green branch, which she happened to hold in her right hand,
inclined itself, as if drawn by magnetic attraction, towards the head of the
Chevalier de Montfaucon. At that moment the Lady Bertha had taken up a
guitarre, and for the first time began to join in the music of that evening; but
in tones so mournful and unexpected, that she soon put to flight the pleasant
dreams with which her companions had entertained themselves. Every one
looked on her with as much astonishment as if a statue or a portrait had
begun to speak. In her melancholy chaunt, she sang only of her cousin Sir

Otto of Trautwangen. “Where,” said she, “is now the young knight, with his
black and silver mail, and his light-brown charger? He is, alas! vanished
from our sight; his light-brown steed has galloped away, and his good
battle-sword is broken.” Thereafter she sang two stanzas, addressed to
Gabrielle as the betrothed bride of her cousin Sir Otto, which peradventure
the damsel would rather not have heard; but, at length, Sir Folko started up
suddenly, so that his armour rang and rattled. In all haste he fastened on his
sword and sash, and bade his beautiful hostess farewell. “On my return,”
said he, “I shall blow my hunting-horn for a signal, and the Moorish prince
will then join me in the neighbouring forest.” Gabrielle did not venture to
make any objection, though perchance, had it not been for the dusk of the
evening, tears might have been seen both in her eyes and those of Sir Folko.
The knight embraced his sister Blanchefleur with melancholy emotion, and
whispered softly to Bertha as he passed her bye, “Thanks, noble Lady, for
your kind and virtuous counsel!” He would not listen when the Moorish
prince, now confounded by his behaviour, inquired why he departed so
suddenly, and added thereto, half as it seemed in earnest, half in jest, that he
now looked on the conditions of his captivity as being wholly broken. The
noble Chevalier de Montfaucon did not stay to answer him, but ran hastily
down stairs from the balcony into the court; whence, in a few minutes more,
they saw him come forth followed by his train, and ride rapidly away
towards the forest. Blanchefleur marked the gleam of the starlight reflected
on his golden helmet as he waved it for a last adieu.

CHAPTER XIII.
How the Lady Gabrielle, and the Lady Blanchefleur, were
carried away by the Moorish Prince.
Some weeks had now past since the departure of Sir Folko, when one
evening the three ladies were walking along the sea-shore, discoursing
together, and enjoying the cool breezes from the water. “Methinks,
Blanchefleur,” said Bertha, “your brother has not done well to leave the
Moorish prince here alone with us in the castle, especially as the stranger
continues to maintain that he is no longer bound by the conditions on which
he came. You know he speaks in jest; but I own, that I distrust him mightily,
and feel a certain horror, which I cannot well describe, at his presence.”
“There we listen again to the grave German damsel,” said Gabrielle, “so
precise, and so demurely timid! There are few knights, this you must at
least confess, who surpass, or even equal, this noble Mutza in courtesy of
manners, princely demeanour, or ingenious and witty discourse. Besides, I
have seldom seen any man so handsome, and, methinks, he is now by far
the most brilliant ornament of our lonely castle.”
“Handsome!” replied Bertha, slowly and reflectingly; “are you both of that
mind? When I calmly reflect on the matter, I cannot indeed say that you are
in the wrong; though I, for my own part, should never have thought so.
Mark you, he is tall indeed, slender, has fine eyes, a high forehead, and
majestic gait. Moreover, when he dances the toca, with his turban loose and
fluttering about him, it is doubtless a pleasure to look upon him, and he is
like what we read of in old fables, starting into real life before us; but,
strange as you may think my fancies, when smiling, as if in scorn and
triumph, he opens his lips, and shews his long white teeth, I feel almost as if
I had beside me a half-tamed tiger! The tiger too is said to be a beautiful
creature,—only for my part I wish not for any such companion!”
“And what says Blanchefleur to all this?” said Gabrielle. Whereupon that
beautiful damsel started as if awoke from a dream, and said,—“I know not
certainly who is approaching us; but, even now, I heard again the same
pleasant sounds from the rocks on the sea-shore!” Both her companions

laughed at perceiving how her thoughts wandered from the subjects on
which they had spoken; but, ere long, they were themselves hindered from
continuing their discourse; for they heard in truth a soft sound of music,
which came from the direction to which Blanchefleur had pointed across
the water. They thought they could even distinguish words expressing the
deep ardent longing of a lover separated from his mistress, wishing for
wings that he might be borne across the seas towards her, and then ending
with notes of melancholy and despair, because this was impossible! The
tones melted away, and Blanchefleur said, with tears in her eyes, “Thus I
often hear him sing. Even by moonlight, at dead of night, I have heard his
voice coming to me through the flowers and vine-leaves at my window. Am
I right, dearest sister? Can it be the voice of Aleard?”
There was no time to answer; for, lo! among the trees before them, were
now visible, tall figures of men, strangely attired, and with long beards,
who stood still, and spoke vehemently, pointing all the while to the three
ladies, as if these were the subjects of their conversation. The damsels were
terrified, and wished to return home; but, on looking round, they perceived,
on the top of a hill, more of the same figures, precisely in the direction of
their homeward path. Some of these frightful men on the hill immediately
rushed down with supernatural rapidity, and, as if to aid the plans of those
who were still among the trees, took their stations on the other side; so that
all attempt at escape would now have been utterly vain. Then they
approached with an air of the greatest respect, with their hands crossed over
their breasts, and their heads declined almost to the ground; though, as their
disordered locks hung over their features, their appearance was thus
rendered more hideous than ever. At last, behold! Prince Mutza stepped
forward from among them, now dressed in more than usual magnificence,
gleaming with gold and jewels, and followed by two youths, also in the
Arabian garb, and nearly as splendid in appearance as the prince. “Do not
blame me,” said he, bowing to Gabrielle, “if I now say that I must go from
hence; nor tremble when I add, that you must bear me company! With us
you will enjoy a life of magnificence and pleasure; and, for my support in
this adventure, I have sent for these two handsome knights, assuring them,
that they would here find ladies even more beautiful than the Houris of
Mahomet. Have I kept my word?” added he, looking to his companions,
one of whom now kneeled down before Blanchefleur, who, pale with terror,
clung to the arm of Gabrielle; while the other, in like manner, paid his court

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

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

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

forest. By thy javelin he was struck, and thrown lifeless from his horse; but
now, by the power of Odin and the sword of Swerker, thou shalt pay blood
for blood.” The sword of Swerker did indeed inflict heavy blows, but that of
Sir Otto proved yet more powerful; and at length the Swede having
received, like his brother, a frightful wound on the forehead, began to totter
in such manner, that the Knight of Trautwangen seized him by the horse-
hair of his helmet, dragged him over the dead bodies, then hurled him away
backwards to his own soldiers, saying, “Take this man; let him be carried to
the tents in safety, and his wounds dressed. In due time I shall demand him
of you.”
Thereupon the Pagans recoiled some paces, and murmured among
themselves, not being able to understand the directions that Sir Otto had
then given. Only some inarticulate words fell on the knight’s ear, who now,
as if in mockery, seized the javelin which had been thrown at him by the
Swede, and hurled it at random among the Finlanders who thus spoke
together. Two of them fell to the ground bleeding, and severely wounded,
while, with a wild howl, the rest flew asunder; after which they dispersed
themselves into concealed thickets of the mountain, and shot numberless
arrows from a distance. But, trusting to his well-proved and almost
impregnable armour, he stood unmoved, holding up his shield in the narrow
pass, so as to defend, as well as he could, the few soldiers of his own troop
who were behind him, and whose coats-of-mail were not so heavy. The
arrows continued to fall thicker and thicker, but did him no injury; so that,
as if for pastime, he began to take up these weapons and throw them about.
“Pitiful fighting!” said he; “it serves to keep us idle, and helps our assailants
not a jot!”
Then he heard a rustling close beside him in the thickets; and, lo! from a
narrow passage, like a cave in the rocks, which hitherto he had not
observed, he saw the features of a pagan Finlander, grinning with rage, and
preparing to assault him. Now then he proved the worth of the sword which
had been made for him by Asmandur; for he struck with it so irresistibly,
that the pagan’s head was cleft into two; but, as if some demon of the
mountains had assisted the adverse party, by opening to them the
subterraneous passages among the cliffs, this man was followed by
numberless others, who came howling and outrageous at his defeat.

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

himself, with his great shield, gleaming like a full moon, and the whole
band of gigantic Normans, clad in their heavy brazen cuirasses. Anon a
shower of javelins was hurled forth against the pagan hordes, who broke
asunder, and fled howling in all directions. “Now is the time!” cried the
troops from the plain beneath; “cut them down, Swedes!” And “cut them
down, grant no quarter!” was repeated by Sir Otto’s band, who forgot all
their weariness and wounds, and ran furiously with their drawn swords, up
hill and down hill, after their flying enemies.

CHAPTER XV.
How Sir Otto was terrified by his double-goer.
Evening had now settled in deep shades in the valleys, the wind howled
more wildly, and the clouds hung low on the heath, when Sir Otto stood
alone in a dark thicket of the forest. Thus far he had been led on by the
chase of his enemies; but now there was visible neither friend nor foe, and
the wearied victor sank down to rest on the withered leaves with which the
ground was thickly strewn. After a short time he again raised himself and
looked round, though without observing any known object by which he
might guide himself on his way homewards. Hereupon he ascended a rising
ground that lay before him, in hopes that from its summit he might see
farther; but there the woods were even thicker than below; and, instead of
seeing over the beech-woods the light of the evening sky, he began to
perceive the dark pointed tops of a forest of pine-trees, stretching, as if
threatening, and in wrath, their pointed foliage towards him. The fir-trees
were indeed wedged together like an impenetrable wall before him.
“Through such a thicket,” said the knight to himself, “scarce even a bird
could find its way;” and at the same moment it occurred to his
remembrance, that these words were not his own, but that he only repeated
what he had sometime heard from another. He began to reflect thereon, but
was interrupted by the loud howling of a wolf; the voice sounded more like
that of melancholy lamentation than anger; and when he approached nearer,
he perceived, directly on the border where the pine-trees joined to the
beech-wood, a mound of turf like a grave, whereon was stretched a white
she-wolf, who was uttering those horrid cries. Observing him, however, she
started up, prepared to attack him, raised herself on her hinder-legs, and
grinned horribly. Otto lifted his javelin to defend himself, when, lo! there
came down hill, from another direction, an old man dressed in long
garments, with a great cross instead of a staff in his hand; whereupon the
wolf seemed alarmed, and fled hastily into the coverts of the fir-wood. Now
Sir Otto remembered well the history of the hermit and his son, which had
been told to himself and Theobaldo by Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried, when
they met on the blooming banks of the Mayne. He said, as if half-

communing with his own spirit, half-questioning the old man, “We are
indeed on the Finland frontiers; and is this perchance the grave of the brave
young hermit?” “Ay,” said the old man, “it is indeed the grave of my
unfortunate son; and as I now wish to say my usual prayers for his soul’s
weal, it were, to say the truth, better for me, if I were left alone to this
mournful duty. Yet, noble sir, I would not that you should go forward from
hence into the Finland forest. At such an hour, it might not be safe even for
the best and bravest of knights to be there.” Sir Otto silently followed the
hermit’s directions, still meditating on the story told by Sir Heerdegen,
which had then sounded so strange, that he could scarcely believe it; and
yet now he had himself been an eye-witness of its truth. He bent his course
down hill, through the beech-woods, and stept onwards the more willingly,
because he heard from below the sounds of war-horns and trumpets, which,
as he believed, were those of his own friends and comrades.
On his arrival in the valley, however, all there was silent and motionless,
even as he had left it to ascend the mountain; and the shades of night had
now deepened over the desolate landscape. Otto could not help doubting
whether his own senses had not deceived him, when he thought that he
heard the sounds of martial music in this valley, which was now silent as
the grave. But again there arose, from a direction which he guessed to be
that of the north, the same sounds, and, as it seemed, from the same
instruments which he had before heard. Striving more and more to recollect
himself, and always gazing about him, Sir Otto at last perceived that he
must turn back his head and look up into the air, in order to learn the origin
of these sounds; for, behold! the mysterious bands were floating above him
like clouds through the dark-blue evening sky! The story of the wild army
of Rodenstein, which he had brought with him from Germany, now came
forcibly on his remembrance. He considered with himself, whether this also
were not some spectral delusion; yet the sounds were repeated, solemn and
mournful indeed, but neither wild, nor such as could be listened to as the
work of evil spirits, like those of the Odenwald. On the contrary, the tones
were rather sweet and attractive.
Suddenly a warrior, in heavy armour, came rattling forth from the coverts of
the woody cliffs. Sir Otto, being quite uncertain whether the soldier who
came thus before him was friend or foe, placed himself accordingly in an
attitude of defence; while the stranger, without bestowing on him any notice

whatever, hastily passed him by. But the single fleeting glance, which Sir
Otto had of his countenance, utterly deprived him of all strength, and
paralyzed his limbs, making the blood run cold with horror, even to his very
heart. It was, in truth, his own features that he then beheld,—his own
blooming youthful countenance, though beneath an unwonted helmet; and
the lineaments were so clearly revealed to him by the moonlight, which just
then began to break forth, that it seemed almost as if he saw his own figure
reflected in a mirror. “It is not true, this cannot be possible!” said the Knight
of Trautwangen, after a long pause of deep silence. “Here I stand firm,
sound both in body and spirit, and trusting in the protection of Heaven.
How is it possible then that I should be thus horribly divided, and gliding
along like a ghost through those impassable cliffs? Or from the fatigue of
yesterday’s combat have I become insane? Or has some demon of the
Finland mountains determined then, for his special diversion, to mislead
and torment me? I ought indeed to have run up to him, to have thrown back
my visor, and looked him full in the face. It was but my closed helmet that
gave him such courage; for, had our eyes met together, he durst not any
longer have attempted such deception.” He paused; for hereupon it seemed
as if he heard a mild female voice calling to him from the lofty cliffs, “Otto,
Otto! be not so wild of mood! Beware of those leaps from rock to rock!” He
heard his own name; yet the words could not have been addressed to
himself; and his blood felt again as if frozen in every vein. At length he
regained his wonted courage, stood up erect, and addressed himself to a
moss-grown half-ruined watch-tower, which stood on one of the cliffs
above, and whence the female voice had proceeded: “I am indeed Otto von
Trautwangen, and now stand firm in my place, without dreaming of such
mad tricks, as that of leaping from rock to rock. As for the fellow who now
does so, Heaven only knows who or what he is. If the caitiff dares to say,
however, that he is the Knight of Trautwangen, he lies in his throat; for I
alone may bear that name.” The moonlight now shone upon the watch-
tower, and as Sir Otto pronounced these words, he saw a female figure in
white robes retiring from a bow-window; but, at the same moment, his
mysterious double-goer appeared with frightful accuracy of resemblance,
on a sharp rocky cliff, almost close to the tower, and called aloud, while his
form was again fully revealed by the moonlight, “What is it that fellow
would have there in the valley? Let him be called Otto von Trautwangen as
long as he will for aught that I care; but let him beware that I do not fall on

him head and shoulders; for here, methinks, I have not too much ground to
stand upon. My name, however, is Ottur, and the wise-woman in the watch-
tower called to me;—one should hear rightly what has been said before he
takes part in a conversation.—Ottur was the name called aloud, not Otto;
and if the babbler there in the valley dares again to open his mouth without
being summoned, I shall make free to break his head in such manner that he
will never speak again.” “Come down then, if thou hast courage to venture
a combat,” said Sir Otto, at the same time throwing open his visor;
whereupon his double-goer became deadly pale, and fell back as if fainting
with terror, rattling and crashing from the high precipice.
But now, hark! the notes of the sea-monarch’s war-horn were sounding
through the valley; ere long his vulture’s wings began to emerge above the
woods; and his golden shield to gleam through the thickets. Otto returned
the signal by striking with his sword-hilt against his clanging targe, and ere
long Sir Arinbiorn, with a shout of exultation, ran to embrace the youth of
whom he had been long in search. “The Swedish general,” said he, “has
been inquiring for you as anxiously as if you were his only son, and has
sent out above an hundred of the noblest knights to trace out whither you
had gone. How anxiously I have played my part among them, Heaven
knows; and so for my reward it has fallen to my lot to be your discoverer. A
thousand times welcome to my heart, thou noble scion of the northern tree,
who art now loaded with triumphs and honours, even as a branch is loaded
with blossoms in spring-tide. We have hunted them, young hero, even as if
they had been roe, deer, or hares of the forest; for many a long year they
will have cause to remember the Swedish frontier; and even in their own
pine-tree forests we shall attack them as soon as the autumn and winter
have past over. Do you know then already, that idolatrous banner which you
seized, and threw down the precipice, was brought up again by one of your
own troop? Our Finland captives howled aloud when they beheld it, and
cried that their gods had forsaken them. And has any one told you, that the
Swedish youth of whom you made a prisoner was the bold Swerker,—the
very hope and support of the pagan army? In truth, I feel that my words are
confused; for I am so overjoyed and triumphant, to have you again with us.
—But what means all this? Why do you stand silent as if lost in your own
dreams, and rooted to one spot? What has happened to you, young hero?
Perhaps a painful wound——.” “Nay, nay,” answered Sir Otto, “I am well,
and free from all wound and bruises; but, to confess the truth, the horrid and

supernatural adventures of this valley——.” “Ay, truly,” answered Sir
Arinbiorn; “our northern realms are indeed full of such wonders; they are
twined, as if in a mysterious web, with the raging waves of our northern
seas and the gleams of our northern lights; so that it were no wonder if even
the most heroic heart, who comes hither for the first time, should begin to
beat rather faster than usual.” “Hear then, for example,” said Sir Otto,
pointing upwards to the dusky blue vault of heaven; whence again was
audible the same music, and again the same troops, in their dazzling white
garments, seemed to pass vehemently along. “Is this all that has disturbed
you?” answered the sea-monarch: “it is nothing more, in truth, than the
flocks of snow-white swans, (whose voices are indeed like clarionets and
trumpets,) which in the autumn pass out of our northern climes to seek the
warmer regions of the south. From this you may freely draw diversion and
pleasure, without any evil mixture of awe or apprehension. Mark now, how
pleasant are their voices, and how their numbers gleam snow-white in the
moonbeams!” But as Sir Otto’s looks, according to the directions of his
friend, followed their flight through the blue sky, his eyes happened to light
for a moment on the old moss-grown watch-tower, when in a moment his
whole mood of mind was changed, and his looks must have betrayed his
emotion; for Sir Arinbiorn said, “Now indeed, Sir Otto, I believe that you
may have met with somewhat in this valley which might appal the stoutest
heart; for there stands the mysterious tower of which I spoke with you on
our sea-voyage; and there, in its upper chambers, I beheld the form and
features of Blanchefleur in the mirror.”—“Shall we go thither then?” said
Sir Otto; “shall we at once resolve to tear the veil from those mysteries
which terrify and perplex us? Methinks the doubtful shroud itself may be
more frightful than all which it conceals.” Sir Arinbiorn reflected for a
moment, then answered, “Night and darkness, my brave friend, are
powerful auxiliaries of the foes whom you would now combat. At this hour,
therefore, it were better that we should not go to the watch-tower. Yet, after
all, if you are resolved on the undertaking——.” He paused, and they were
both silent. In Otto’s mind there arose all sorts of strange phantasms.
Especially it seemed to him, as if perchance, when they had entered that
mysterious mansion, his horrible double-goer might be found sitting at the
end of a long table, and reading in a book diabolical and cabalistic
characters. The sea-monarch perhaps observed his friend’s apprehensions,
and said, “We have besides a long way to go before we can reach our

camp.” Thereupon both knights began to walk hastily down the steep hill,
and oftentimes Sir Arinbiorn blew loudly warning notes on his great battle-
horn. This he did, according to his own words, in order that the other
knights, who were also in search of Sir Otto, might know that he had
succeeded; or, it might be rather, that by such cheering music he wished to
banish from his own and his friend’s heart the fearful phantasms of that
mysterious valley.
The morning-star was gleaming brightly in the blue sky, when they
perceived the numerous fires of the camp, now situated in a wide plain at
the base of the frontier-mountains. At the sound of the sea-monarch’s
signal-horn, the Norman horsemen, who were stationed at the outskirts,
were immediately roused, and hastened forward to return the well-known
salutation. Leaping, as if with one accord, into the saddle, they clapped
spurs to their horses, and came to meet their brave leader; but, above all, the
light-brown charger was not to be held neither by knight nor groom; he
came into the van, curvetting and caprioling, till he had reached his master,
and laid his head caressingly on his shoulder, neighing aloud as the
horsemen and other soldiers gradually assembled round them.

CHAPTER XVI.
How Sir Otto and Sir Arinbiorn again returned to the
mountains.
It was a clear and fresh autumnal morning, when the whole army were
drawn up on the plain, with their armour and weapons brightly burnished.
The captains rode up and down the ranks, dealing out their applause and
thanks for the deeds of the preceding day; the war-horns also were sounded
in triumph for the victory.
There was one, however, among the chiefs there assembled, whose heart
seemed yet impenetrable to the joy that prevailed; and this was Sir Otto von
Trautwangen. Still, though it was now bright morning, and all were active
and cheerful around him, he could not help recollecting the horrible double-
goer whom he had beheld on the preceding night; and though such
phantasms might have been overcome by the light of day, and the pleasant
society of his comrades, yet he involuntarily persisted in recalling to his
own mind those impressions which he ought to have banished. These were
to him like a basilisk, or some other frightful sight, which one abhors, yet
cannot forbear to look upon. Even with the mind’s eye, courteous reader,
you must now and then have contemplated spectral objects such as that
which we have here described. But in such cases we beseech you to imitate
the example of the Knight of Trautwangen. He could not avoid always
thinking on his abominable double; but at last he encountered him as a
valiant knight ought ever to do. He looked him in the face with the frown of
defiance, till at last it seemed as if the vile spectre had vanished, and Sir
Otto became as cheerful and free-hearted as he had been heretofore.
At length the Swedish prince, who commanded the army, came riding along
the ranks. He saluted his soldiers with great courtesy; and, arriving at the
top of a little eminence before the centre of his army, brandished his spear,
that gleamed like a meteor in the red light of the morning, and struck
therewith three times on his shield so powerfully, that the mountains
repeated the sound in thundering reverberation. Thereupon all the war-horns
throughout the army were sounded in token of rejoicing, and the squadrons,

both horse and foot, advanced towards their commander, till they had
formed a narrow half-circle round the height on which he had taken his
station. When the captains galloped forward, and whilst they were receiving
their orders, the young Sir Kolbein drew up to the Knight of Trautwangen,
and said,—“Noble sir, in the sea-monarch’s squadron I had the honour
yesterday of playing my part. Will you for the future vouchsafe to me some
share of your friendship and good opinion?”—Sir Otto took his hand
accordingly, and pressed it with fervour; but he had not time to return any
other answer, for the old Swedish prince now raised his voice.
His tones were deep, clear, and powerful, so that he was heard plainly by
every one throughout the army. The old hero returned thanks, in the name
of his native land and its holy religion, to all his brave soldiers; then
directed his attention in particular to the circle of officers around him,
where his eyes were in the first place fixed upon Sir Arinbiorn. “Knight of
the sea,” said he, “by your timely coming the battle was decided in our
favour. Your stratagem of sailing round the country, landing quickly and
unobserved, and then joining us at the proper moment,—all this was
managed in such a manner, that only a great and experienced general could
have succeeded therein. But then, as for the brave young eagle, which, with
victorious beak, so long maintained for us the dangerous pass on our left
wing, until your vulture’s wings appeared in our defence, him too we know
full well, and he must not be forgotten. Thanks then, dear son,” added he,
giving his hand to the Knight of Trautwangen. “Even at our first meeting, I
expected from you all that prudence and valour which you have since so
nobly proved.” Then he turned round to a squire who stood near, took from
him the banner which Sir Otto had forced from the pagans, and gave it to
the knight, saying,—“That was indeed already won by your own unassisted
arm; but, in remembrance of the love and affection which all true-hearted
Swedes bear towards you, we have inscribed a few words thereon; and so, if
it be your pleasure, let it be preserved by you, and your children and
grandchildren, in your father’s ancestral halls.” Otto now read on a golden
scroll, which was wound round the stem of the banner, a long inscription,
wherein his own name and valiant deeds were amply commemorated, and
exclaimed, “Thanks, noble prince and valiant commander!” while, at the
same time, he looked humbly on the ground, and could not bring out
another word. But the old hero, smiling kindly on his embarrassment, began
to speak as follows:—“My noble comrades and brave champions, there is

yet one important and serious question which we have to answer. Our
enemies have retreated, it is true, and taken shelter behind their own
frontiers; our husbandmen have sown the seeds of their future harvest, and
wait with confidence to reap the fruits at the fitting time. That their hopes
may not be disappointed, that the winter may pass over their heads in peace,
seems, according to the will of Providence, to depend on us. For this
purpose it is requisite that some of our bands should, through the cold
months of winter, remain here to guard the passes of the mountains. It is
true, that these regions are haunted by spectres and demons; at least so the
people say; and, moreover, the winter cold, as we all know, is very bitter
and hard to withstand. However, methinks a true hero of the north would
for once gladly contend with such evils, and look on them as but a pastime.
Say then, who is there among you that is most inclined to this duty?”
Hereupon not a word was for some time clearly heard. The officers
reflected and communed with each other, and it was easy to perceive that
though many a one was willing to undertake the task, yet questions and
doubts occurred to him which it was not easy to solve. Meanwhile Sir Otto
of Trautwangen and the sea-monarch looked at each other, and, as if
inspired at one moment by the same emotion, both presented themselves
before the royal commander. “We would gladly try our fortune through the
winter in the mountains,” said they; “yet if the result should be different
from that which you desire, at least you may be assured that our good
intentions and best endeavours were not wanting.” Thereupon the old prince
with great joy accepted their offer, and invited them with all the other chiefs
to the banquet. Farther, it was agreed that the two champions, the sea-
monarch and the knight, this very day should proceed towards the
mountains; for this was according to their own earnest request. They failed
not to remember, how much in such undertakings depends on gaining
possession of this or that advantageous position, before the enemy has had
time to rally after a repulse.
While the troops, all shouting and rejoicing, drew again into the camp, the
Knight of Trautwangen said to the sea-monarch, “How thankful am I to
Heaven that I am thus again sent to the land of those mysteries wherewith I
have already so often contended; for otherwise they would evermore have
lingered in my heart, casting their dark shadows over my future life! Now,
perchance, if I boldly look upon them, their gloom will change into light,

and I shall no more be perplexed as heretofore.” “Truly my thoughts are
like unto yours,” answered Sir Arinbiorn. “Now would I discover the true
history of that magic mirror; I shall either break the spells which are locked
up therein, or forfeit mine own life in the attempt; so that I shall then, at
least, know what mysteries lurk behind those delusive charms, which in this
world we call our senses.”
Before his tent Sir Otto now found the brave Swerker, of whom he had
made a prisoner in the battle of the preceding day. The youth fixed his eyes
on the ground with an aspect of deep melancholy; but, hearing the approach
of Sir Otto’s prancing steed, he looked up, and contemplated his victor, not,
as it seemed, without satisfaction and confidence. “Mark you, Swerker,”
said the Knight of Trautwangen, “for we must now make a bargain with
each other.” “That depends on what sort of bargain you have to propose,”
said the Swede. “In the first place,” said Sir Otto, “you must allow yourself
to be taught the Christian faith.” “You may teach as much as you please,”
answered the Swede, “and if your doctrines be worth learning, I am willing
to believe in them; if not, your trouble will be thrown away.”—“’Tis well,”
answered Sir Otto; “although you are a prisoner, and should properly be
detained among us, yet I shall send you, on your parole of honour, into
Germany. There you will go into the blooming land of Swabia, and on the
shores of the Danube you will inquire for an old knight, who is named Sir
Hugh von Trautwangen, and for a castle of the same name, which is situated
on the banks of that river. To Sir Hugh you will offer many courteous
greetings from his loving son; you will deliver to him the banner which I
took from your comrades, and give him a faithful account of all that has
happened here. Then you shall return to me; for meanwhile I am to remain
among your mountains of the north, and you shall afterwards be instructed
in the faith of the Christians. Are you now willing to make this
contract?”—“So may the gods of Valhalla help or renounce me!” answered
the Swede.—“You shall one day learn better oaths to swear by,” said Sir
Otto; “but for this time it shall suffice. Take the banner, and set out in God’s
name.”—So, when the Swede had found a swift horse among those which
had been taken from the Finlanders, and Sir Otto had given him a bag of
silver money, they shook hands, and the messenger departed.
The brimming goblets yet circled round the board of the old Swedish hero,
and the minstrels had not sung half their ballads, when Sir Otto and the sea-

monarch requested leave to depart. The prince would have gladly detained
them, but he well knew the danger of delays in time of war; so he stretched
out his arms over the youths as they bowed before him, and, with a voice
that faltered with emotion, and gleaming eyes, gave them his blessing.
Thereafter their bands of horse and foot were soon collected together, and,
shouting and singing songs of triumph, they proceeded on their way
towards the mountains. The best positions both on the hills and in the
valleys were soon surveyed and manned; watchers were appointed for the
safety of all, and for the ready communication of intelligence between the
parties. While the foot-soldiers were making arrangements for their own
comforts, and the cavalrymen attending, in the first place, to the safety of
their horses,—all being well aware that they were to winter in this desolate
region,—Sir Otto looked at the sea-monarch, and said, “methinks our duties
are already done, being anticipated by others, and yet it is not near sunset;
we might therefore ride out now on our campaign of discovery, since the
places of which we should be in search lead us certainly in a forward rather
than a retrograde direction.”
“I had myself thought so,” said Sir Arinbiorn; “before us, and on the left
hand, must be the old moss-grown watch-tower. A brave knight cannot well
rest, until he has forced out into the clear light of day all the dark mysteries
by which he has been so perplexed;—and so, good friend,” added he,
raising his voice, and turning to Sir Kolbein, who then stood near him,
—“take for a space the command of our troops here, and see that your duty
be performed faithfully. Sir Otto and I must now ride hence to explore the
mountains.”—Thereupon Sir Kolbein bowed gracefully and like a true
knight, and the two friends trotted rapidly away through the shadowy
valleys.
After no long space they came to a narrow path of the mountains, by which
they were led, under the covert of the densely entwined branches, up a steep
height, while ever and anon they espied the old battlements of the watch-
tower. They rode silently and slowly forwards; and when at last they
marked the building more clearly, and at no great distance through the trees,
the red light of the evening sun beamed brightly and cheerfully on its
windows. “It is very strange,” said Sir Otto to his friend, “that now, when
the setting sun thus glitters on the tower, the whole building seems changed.
I no longer look on it as frightful and mysterious; but, on the contrary,

methinks, I am now riding towards my own home; for never have I felt a
more cordial and deep longing to reach the old castle of Trautwangen than
that which attracts me at this moment.”
“Can you then feel here as I do?” said Sir Arinbiorn; “I might indeed say,
that I had no home over the wide world; for what avails my castle in
Norway, wherein I have neither father, mother, wife, nor sister? But now,
methinks, I could almost believe that Blanchefleur dwelt here in this old
tower, and that I was returning hither as her husband from a prosperous and
honourable campaign. Good heavens! what a happy evening this would
then be!—and you, too, Sir Otto, must belong to the same house; you
should, methinks, be the Lady Blanchefleur’s brother; and, if it were so,
would you indeed give me your sister in marriage?”—“Of that there can be
no question,” answered Sir Otto, at the same time shaking hands cordially
with the sea-monarch. “If I had a sister with whom you had fallen in love
she would within this very hour become your betrothed bride. To say the
truth, however, I have not time at the present moment to think of such
matters,—scarcely even of my own bride or wedding-day,—(had these been
the subject of our discourse,) so deeply am I now impressed with the
feeling, as if, like a cheerful free-hearted child, I were arrived, after long
wandering through the world, at my own home, and as if the air were filled
with the pleasant fragrance of the pine-tree logs blazing on my father’s
hearth. Nay, I could almost knock at the door, and ask if my father were
within, were I to give the reins to these strange feelings that have now
possessed me.”
They now perceived a knight, in complete armour, who stood before the
watch-tower, and seemed to speak vehemently with some one above. In
order to learn, in the first place, what was here going forward, they checked
their horses, and remained quiet; so that they were unperceived by the
knight, who never looked towards them. From the tower above they now
heard a mild female voice, that said, “Thou wild and untameable youth! art
thou then angry with me? Wouldst thou blame that maternal care and love
which may indeed be compared to a gleam of beneficence from Heaven,
which takes up its abode in the female heart, fitting it with such divine
goodness and anxiety for the welfare of others, that to an earthly being such
feelings are often changed into pain?”

“Am I not your son?” answered the knight, in a tone of anger and defiance.
“Wherefore then should you complain of me? And wherefore torment me
thus with your endless warnings, your white doves, swans, and nightly
visions, that follow me wherever I go? Either leave me in peace, or assist
me to gain the object of my affections, the beautiful enchantress, who
dwells yonder across the valley.”
“Nay, wild and restless warrior as thou art,” said the female voice, “Heaven
has not decreed that the beautiful young enchantress can be yours. This
would indeed be as if the fierce flame should woo the mountain-torrent,
both, no doubt, rapid and vehement in their nature, but for ever divided and
irreconcileable.”
“What means all this?” answered the youth angrily. “Doubtless I should
know my own wishes best; and I know but too well, that my whole heart is
fixed on this beautiful damsel, and on her alone. Should I not obtain her,
then, indeed, I may for the first time be transformed into a devouring flame,
by which the whole land of your favourite Christians will be laid waste.
This I swear to you by the great Odin, and all the gods of Valhalla!
Therefore, trouble me not with your counsels, but assist me; though truly,
by so doing, you do not assist yourself; for were I once united to her, my
power will be more formidable than ever against those people, with their
crosses and prayer-books, whom it is your pleasure to protect. But mine in
truth she shall be; my glorious deeds on the battle-field, my long and
faithful watching at her gate among the rocks, must not pass unrewarded.”
Thereupon the female voice answered, “Her heart is indeed closed against
thee, like a gate of rock or adamant, which by thy power never may be
shaken. Renounce then, poor youth, such groundless hopes, and desist too
from your foolish threats. Heaven leads his chosen servants here on earth,
as his wisdom sees fitting, to victory and happiness. Hast thou not seen this
proved but yesterday, thou wild and reckless wanderer?”
Hereupon the knight laughed scornfully, and turned away, intending, as it
seemed, to retire down the rocks on the other side of the watch-tower; then
Sir Otto rode forwards from the thicket, saying, “Yield, pagan, if thou art
wise, for we are here two to one against thee; give thyself up in peace,
otherwise deeds instead of words shall prove how wisely the lady has just
now spoken from the watch-tower.”

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

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

head, and added kindly, “Step onwards through the portal, Sir Otto von
Trautwangen, and bring your comrade too, if it is your pleasure to have him
with you. In this castle you shall always be made welcome, together with
every one whom you think fit to bring hither.” Sir Otto accepted the
invitation gladly, but the sea-monarch followed slowly and with hesitation.
So they entered the castle, and proceeded up long-winding staircases,
through echoing passages, and chambers filled with strange furniture, such
as they had never seen before. In one of these rooms, as they were passing
through, Sir Arinbiorn touched with his iron glove the arm of his friend,
and, pointing to a frame-work on the wall that was half concealed by a
curtain, said, “That, if I mistake not, must be the magic mirror!” “Noble
Lady,” said Sir Otto to his conductress, “your kind reception emboldens me
to make one request. Would it be permitted me to lift up that curtain, that I
may discover what highly-honoured portrait is placed within that golden
frame-work?” “If it so please you, Sir Knight of Trautwangen,” answered
the lady, “that may indeed be done. But this much I must tell you before-
hand, there is no portrait behind that curtain, but a mirror in whose glassy
depths I may well say that the whole happiness of my life has been wrecked
and lost; thus, too, I have afterwards lost all hope that my fortunes might
ever be retrieved. Therefore I have hung this curtain over the mirror; and it
is withdrawn only at certain seasons of the year, when its enchantments may
no longer be concealed, and when, for the most part, I myself am absent. If,
however, you wish to behold its wonders, you have but to give me the
signal.” With these words she had stepped up to the dark-red curtain, and
grasped its golden cord, waiting, as it seemed, for Sir Otto’s determination.
At length, “God forbid,” said the knight, “that I should desire aught that is
contrary to your will and pleasure, unless,” added he, turning to Sir
Arinbiorn, “I were well assured that the whole happiness and welfare of my
noble friend and brother in arms depended on the discovery; but, to say the
truth, I do not believe that it is from this mirror that he can derive his good
fortune.” The sea-monarch shook his head mournfully, assenting to what Sir
Otto had said, and then bowed courteously to the lady, who now retired
from the mirror, and led her guests onward into another chamber. Here it
seemed as if Sir Arinbiorn, contrary to his usual manner, had become
humble, submissive, and even afraid to speak. Sir Otto, on the other hand,
was gay and unconcerned, expressing all his thoughts as if with filial

confidence before their solemn conductress, who also spoke with him
kindly and cheerfully.
They had now taken their places at a round table, that stood in a small room
faintly illuminated. “Oh Heaven!” cried Sir Otto, “since we came hither,
how have my long-lost tranquillity and lightness of heart been restored!
only one thought still comes at intervals to perplex me. Is that wanderer
whom you name Ottur a man indeed, or is he not rather a horrid shadow of
myself, an abominable spectre, who has yet such power over me, that he
can steal even my own features, and involve me in such indissoluble snares
of sorcery or witchcraft, that I shall never more be secure against his
delusions?”
“Nay, be not thus alarmed,” answered the lady; “the youth of whom thou
speak’st is indeed a man, as thou art, who now devotes his whole life in
order to gain the affections of a young pagan enchantress, who dwells not
far distant in a cave of the Finland mountains, and who from hence would
send forth legions of evil spirits, who are at her command, against the
Christians of Sweden and Norway, were it not that I am here to interpose
my protection. No one, however, is aware of the noiseless, invisible, and yet
vehement contention that we keep up against each other. Yonder, in the
distance, by the light of the now rising moon, you may behold her dwelling
among the rocks.” The knights went to the window, and contemplated the
wide expanse of woods and mountains, that now looked sad and
melancholy beneath the influence of departing autumn. Through the damp
vapours of the night they beheld, on the other side of the valley, a strange
assemblage of rocks, which rose like pillars, and were joined at the top,
forming a lofty arch, while one could see deep into a long retreating cavern,
whence there gleamed in the background the dull light of a large fire. “That
light comes from the fire on which she boils her golden kettle,” said the
lady; “there the enchantress pronounces her potent spells, and calls up
numberless spirits, even as frightful and hideous to look upon, as she
herself is attractive and beautiful.” “But, look yonder! who is that armed
knight?” said Sir Otto. “He walks beneath this pale moonlight so resolutely
and slowly before the cavern, as if he were a special sentinel! How the
horse-hair crest of his helmet waves in the wind, and his tall halbert gives
him a look of ghostly strength!” “That is indeed the unhappy Ottur of whom
we spoke,” answered the lady: “thus he now thinks to win her heart; but in

that attempt he never may succeed! What struggles he has already endured,
and what painful victories he has won, all for her sake, and in vain! But he
will not listen to my counsels, and rushes on to his own destruction!”—The
lady fixed her eyes for a while, with an expression of deep melancholy, on
the ground, then looked up, smiling, to the Knight of Trautwangen, and
said,—“But Otto is not Ottur; he is indeed no wild Norman who will not
hear good and kind advice, but rushes down the rugged steeps to his own
ruin.”—“From such evils may Heaven protect me!” answered Sir Otto;
“and next to the protection of Heaven, methinks it is your counsels that
would most aid me in this world!”—The lady clasped her hands as Sir Otto
had done when he pronounced these words; she looked out tranquilly on the
pleasant moonlight; and the knights were aware, that, though she did not
speak audibly, she was then engaged in fervent orisons.
After a while she turned from the window, and said,—“Now, brave
warriors, it is time that you should refresh yourselves at the banquet, after
your long journey hither.”—Thereupon, behold! the table in the middle of
the chamber was already supplied with rich viands and flasks of the noblest
wine.—“Be not amazed hereat,” said their hostess; “and, above all, be not
afraid. Mark you!” said she, making the sign of the cross over both food
and wine, “your banquet stands that proof, at which the gifts of an evil spirit
or sorceress would have turned into ashes or vanished away.”—“Who
would have entertained such doubts,” said the Knight of Trautwangen,
“since we know that we are under your roof, kind and pious Lady
Minnatrost?”—“Indeed!” said their mysterious hostess, in a mournful tone;
“how, then, have you learned that name which has been so long unheard
and forgotten?”—“Thank Heaven!” answered Sir Otto, “that I have found
you at last; for I well know that you can be no other than the Lady
Minnatrost. Of your life formerly, and your castle on the shores of East
Friesland, I have already heard from Sir Heerdegen, and Bertha of
Lichtenried.”—Thereupon the Druda slowly raised her arm, as if in solemn
admonishment. “Young knight,” said she, “thy looks should be graver, and
thy tones humbler, when thou speakest of thy cousin Bertha. I am indeed
the Lady Minnatrost of whom thou hast been told; and both you, and the
brave companion who is now thy companion, are welcome guests in my
castle. I know very well that he is the sea-monarch Arinbiorn, and that he
has been once here ere now, though then, indeed, his presence was
unlooked for and uninvited.”—With these words she cast a look on Sir

Arinbiorn; whereat he was forced to turn his eyes to the ground, and could
not for a while recover from his confusion; till at length the lady urged both
knights to partake of the banquet, and by degrees they became tranquil and
cheered in heart, more even than they had ever been in their whole lives
before. When their entertainment was over, and they were taking leave, then
said the Lady Minnatrost,—“You may come twice every week to visit me,
as you have now done; and have no fears for your troops in your absence,
for I shall protect them.”

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

So it happened, that late one evening both the knights were seated at the
round marble table in the Druda’s castle, when all of a sudden she became
silent, laid her finger on her lips, in token that her guests also must not
speak, and, as if listening to some strange and mysterious sound, she raised
her gleaming eyes to the ceiling. Then she rose and went to the window,
looked out attentively on the stars, and cried aloud, “To horse, brave young
knights, to horse! Fly with the speed of light to your troops; for the swords
of the pagans are now drawn! they have had recourse to their wonted
sorcery! be then brave and steadfast, for on this night depends your
destruction or triumph.” In a moment the two brave warriors had clasped
their visors, girded on their swords, seized their long ponderous javelins,
and bowed courteously before the Druda, who, at their departure, made the
sign of the cross over their heads, and repeated her former admonitions. “To
horse, and rush on with the speed of lightning to your camp!” In another
minute, they were both mounted, and their horses bore them, swift as an
arrow from the bow, down the steep path that led from the castle.
As they advanced on their way through the tangled thickets of the forest,
they heard a strange confused noise of voices and rattling arms on all sides;
there were fires kindled also, which shone from the snow-covered cliffs,
especially from amid the pine-tree forests of the Finland frontier. At length
they arrived at their camp, and, amid all this disturbance, found their troops
in good order, the infantry already under arms, and the riders standing by
their horses. When the knights appeared, all were inspired by new courage
and ardent anticipations of approaching victory. “Mount then in God’s
name!” cried the Knight of Trautwangen; “and let the light armed infantry
lead the way,” shouted Sir Arinbiorn. In brief space, these arrangements
were made, and they proceeded on their route through the shadowy valleys;
while the young Sir Kolbein, with a band of scouts, was already engaged in
a vehement skirmish with the barbarous Finlanders, who were howling
aloud like wild beasts, and showering against him numberless javelins and
arrows. Over the van of Sir Otto’s troops, at the same time, there came
strange missiles, that burned and shone like the stars in heaven; whereupon
some cried aloud,—“The foes attack us with flaming spears!”—Others said,
—“This is all witchcraft, and the air is filled with serpents and
dragons!”—“Let them be what they may,” cried Sir Otto and the sea-
monarch; “we have here right and justice on our side. Onward, then! for
God and our native land!”—With these inspiring words, the only battle-cry

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

After no long space they arrived, in their stormy course, at a station where
they found themselves in a kind of amphitheatre, or rather the place might
be compared to a great and deep caldron. The cliffs rose high around them,
and loud reverberating echoes announced the approach of the foe from the
clifts and coverts of the mountain, who came to the assault with fearful
shouts and neighing of horses. Here then the Christians expected that the
battle would soon be decided in their favour; but the same fiery missiles
once more flew over their heads, and, by their glimmering light, the soldiers
beheld hideous spectres, that grinned on them, and stretched out their long
black arms from the thickets: it seemed at last, as if the whole valley had
changed into some horrid pagan temple, where these figures represented the
gods, and where the Christian troops were to be immolated in sacrifice.
Even the horses, accustomed as they were to carry their noble masters into
the heart of every danger, reared and snorted wildly at the unwonted sounds
and shapes by which they were now surrounded; and all of them, Sir Otto’s
light-brown steed not excepted, became unmanageable, wheeled round and
round, and at last forced their brave riders away with them in timid and
disorderly flight. Then the Finland soldiers howled and shouted as if in
scornful triumph, and, with redoubled strength and courage, sent down from
the cliffs showers of arrows and javelins, so that many a horseman among
the Christians fell dead on the ground; and yet more of the foot-soldiers, no
longer protected by the cavalry, were left in the power of their enemies. Not
till late in the night the two commanders contrived to quiet their horses, and
bring a troop of their most faithful adherents into regular order beside them;
and this happened in a narrow rocky valley.
Then, behold! from a snow-covered cliff before them, there broke forth a
far-gleaming light, that revolved like a fiery wheel; and herein was visible
the form of the young golden-locked enchantress, though beautiful, yet
awful to look upon, with her dishevelled hair streaming in the wind, a
drawn sword in her right hand, and in her left, despite of the wintry season,
a verdant branch. “Am I then known at last?” cried she to the knights, who
stood gazing up at her with amazement. “Lo! I am Gerda, the despised, the
rejected damsel, whose friendship you have heretofore possessed and
renounced. But now your lives are in my power; and if you refuse to be
reconciled to me, then shall my fiery serpents be sent forth against you, till,
amid the rocks of this narrow valley, your wild horses will rush onwards to
their own and your destruction. To-morrow’s sunlight will then reveal the

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

had thought,” said the sea-monarch. “Ay truly,” replied Sir Otto, “and I
shall not deny it to you, I should gladly have lived a little longer in this
world, and gained some laurel wreathes ere I died!” “From my inmost
heart,” answered the sea-monarch, “I also should have wished that this had
been possible.” “As these hopes are now over,” said the Knight of
Trautwangen, “and as the enchantress yonder will ere long distract our
senses, so that we shall not know what we do, were it not better, if, like
friends and brethren, we should now take leave of each other, and also
promise our mutual forgiveness before-hand for all crimes that we may
commit against each other after the madness comes upon us?”—Thereupon
they embraced cordially; and after they had briefly admonished their troops
to die nobly, and fail not in their prayers to Heaven, they shouted aloud to
Gerda,—“Come on now if thou wilt;—thou shalt hear our signals for
attack.”
But, with the first notes of the battle-horns, lo! they were surprised by the
gleams of a new light that shone from behind them. Looking back, they
perceived that it was only the full moon that now rose bright and serenely
over the mountains. Ere long, however, her light revealed to them the well-
known figure of the Lady Minnatrost, who stood with her hands clasped,
and looking up thankfully to heaven. She stood on a high cliff, and ere long
her mild sweet voice was heard addressing the knights,—“With God’s help
and blessing you have overcome the temptations by which you were here
assailed. Onwards, then, in his holy name, and your wicked foes will fly
before you!”
The fire that circled round Gerda became now pale and exhausted. The
moon shed her bright solemn light over the mountains, and guided the
Christian warriors against the Finland hordes, who no longer dared to rally,
but fled howling through the snow-covered deserts.

CHAPTER XIX.
How Sir Otto once more encountered his Double-goer.
The morning had now dawned; the Knight of Trautwangen had left his
faithful steed in charge of his comrades, and mounted up to the top of a
steep hill, that he might discern from thence in what direction the pursuit
could best be continued;—whether they should proceed farther through the
valleys, or now retreat by the way they had come. On the hill-top the rock
was cleft into two great masses, as by a giant’s sword. On the brink of the
precipice stood Sir Otto, and rejoiced to perceive that he had advanced far
beyond the Finland frontier, and that his troops could now assume a station
which would be greatly more commanding and advantageous than any that
they had hitherto possessed. When he was lost in these reflections, lo! there
appeared, through the morning fogs, a tall figure of an armed knight on the
opposite half of the cleft rock. With his visor thrown back, he gazed around
him, just as Sir Otto had before done, till suddenly their eyes met together,
and both trembled with affright,—for it was indeed Ottur and Otto who had
thus encountered each other.
At length, “This cannot and shall not longer be endured,” cried Ottur. “At
the sight of thee my senses are again confused, and I am driven to madness.
In this world one champion only must live with that form and those
features. Besides, thou hast, in this last night, beaten us from the battle-
field; but, if I could make an end of thee, the faithful servants of Odin and
Valhalla might hope ere long to redeem their lost honours, and inflict just
vengeance on their foes. Therefore raise thy spear, and defend thyself, for
the cleft of the rocks forbids us to use our swords; but ere the sun has fully
risen in the heavens, our lances must determine who is to have the right of
wearing such features,—thou or I.”—With these words he brandished his
massive javelin high over his head.
“Yet halt a moment,” said Sir Otto; “methinks by the combat which thou
hast now proposed neither of us will arrive at peace of mind. How might
that man live for the future who had put to death his own double?—were
not that to say that he had killed himself?”

“Truly it would be so,” answered Ottur; “but, remember, we shall fight with
closed visors. One cannot mark then how his own features are stained with
blood, or grinning in death’s agony.”—Thereupon he closed his iron beaver
with a great crash, and again poised his javelin.
“Yet, methinks, we might become friends and brethren in arms,” answered
Sir Otto, “and this on terms more intimate than those which bound any two
heroes that the world has yet ever known.”
“Wilt thou then follow the banners of Gerda?—or would I forsake her?”
said Ottur, in a hollow voice from his closed helmet;—“since these are
questions that may never be peaceably answered betwixt us, let us
straightway to our bloody work!—If thou wilt not begin the attack, I shall at
all hazards hurl my spear against thee; and surely, since thou wear’st the
semblance of Ottur, thou canst not prove a runaway and a coward!”
“Heaven forbid!” answered the Knight of Trautwangen, who now drew
down his visor, and prepared himself, like his antagonist, for the combat.
For a little space thereafter, the two tall champions stood with their shields
uplifted, and watching each other, when, lo! the Knight of Trautwangen
beheld a new and strange assailant, who was rushing from the thickets
against his adversary;—a wild bull, which had perchance been disturbed
and enraged by the movements of the troops, came forth foaming,
bellowing, and tossing his horns,—directing all his wrath against Ottur,
whom he would doubtless have hurled from the precipice; for the youth
seemed never to observe his approach. In a moment the Knight of
Trautwangen sent forth his javelin with irresistible strength, and so correct
an aim, that it passed clear over the head of his pagan foe, and struck deep
into the neck of the raging animal, which immediately fell, wrestling with
death, among the deep snow.
“What meanest thou, Otto?” said the pagan youth, at the same time
dropping his spear; “it is impossible that thou couldst have been so bad a
marksman, as to throw the weapon over my head!—or, peradventure, thou
hast done this but in mockery?”—Sir Otto made a signal that he should look
behind him; and, on turning round, Ottur saw the wild beast with the arrow
in his neck, which was now stretching his convulsed limbs in the last
agonies of death. At this sight he paused, and at length, turning to the
Knight of Trautwangen, he threw back his visor, whereupon the latter

followed his example; and the sun, which just then rose, shone brightly on
the features of both the young heroes. They looked at each other with
kindness and confidence, till Ottur said,—“Shall we then exchange swords
in token of good-will, though the fates forbid that we should march in the
battle-field together?”—“Nay,” answered Sir Otto, “I dare not give away
my sword; for it is a sacred pledge received from my father’s hand,
otherwise it should be thine, and that right willingly;—but mark what I have
now to say. If thou indeed lookest on me as a friend, then, for the future, let
thy rapier be named Otto, in remembrance of me, and I, in like manner, will
name mine Ottur.”—“Be it so,” answered the pagan; “I agree thereto with
all my heart; and, methinks, thou art far wiser, and better able to afford
good counsel than I am, although thou seem’st to be several years
younger.”—“Ay, truly,” answered the Knight of Trautwangen, “thou lookest
somewhat older than I am, though, in other respects, we are indeed but too
like to each other.”—“So then,” said the pagan, brandishing his sword, “this
old friend is now to be called Otto?”—“And this well-proved comrade of
mine is named Ottur,” replied the other, striking with his iron glove on his
sword, so that the blade rung and rattled in the scabbard. Thereupon the two
warriors nodded kindly their parting salutations, and both descended into
the valley to join their several squadrons.
From this day onwards, the winter was spent quietly and peaceably amid
the snow-covered mountains. The defeated Finlanders did not venture any
more with their enchantments to provoke the Christian army; and the
commanders on both sides past at intervals many tranquil, happy hours in
the watch-tower of the Lady Minnatrost. The pious Druda continued, as was
her wont, to appear calm, contented, and mild, as the silvery moonlight;—
only once, when Sir Otto repeated, at the banquet-table, the farewell-songs
of the beautiful Astrid and the stern Sir Hugur, which he had learned from
the wise armourer at the sea-monarch’s castle, she began to weep bitterly,
and begged of Sir Otto, that he never would sing those words to her again.
By the knight her slightest wishes were ever looked upon as an irresistible
law; and their life glided on so pleasantly, that the two champions wondered
how the winter in the north had past so soon away; for, ere they had thought
of changing their station, the mild zephyrs of spring were already breathing
through the valleys,—the rivers again flowed in their rocky channels,—and
plots of green grass and flowers began once more to appear amid these wild
northern regions.

CHAPTER XX.
How the Pagan banner was brought to Sir Hugh von
Trautwangen.
While Sir Otto’s time was thus spent amid the Finland mountains, the same
winter had past cheerfully and tranquilly over the head of the good Sir
Hugh von Trautwangen;—for the old minstrel, Walter, often lived many
days together in the castle; and if,—unable to give up his wandering habits,
—he sometimes went away, yet it was never very long ere he returned again
to the hospitable board of the brave knight, to rejoice him with his
marvellous legends and songs. But of all consolations with which
Providence now blessed the old champion, one might say that the greatest
were the delightful dreams which, in these winter months, always came to
him in sleep, not only during the night-hours, but oftentimes, too, when by
day-light he slumbered in his great arm-chair at the banquet-table. Thus it
happened, that, instead of being angry with himself as heretofore, when he
felt weariness and sleep weighing heavily on his eyelids, he was glad at
their approach, in order that he might again be soothed by these visions;—
then, for the most part, the scenery and feelings of his youth returned to him
with a freshness and lustre, that one might well compare to the sight of a
flourishing garden in spring-tide, where the weeds of melancholy and regret
dare not grow, and only roses and other bright flowers spread forth their
treasures in the sunlight. Among the flower-beds, too, was visible the young
and blooming form of Sir Otto, who sportively played among them, and
culled from thence garlands of the richest colouring.
So it came to pass, that one evening the old hero had fallen asleep, having,
yet ere his eyes were closed, rejoiced himself in thoughts of the many
pleasant and heart-enlivening sights which he might ere long behold; but it
fell out very differently from his expectations. Ere long he imagined that he
heard a stranger coming stamping up stairs, with footsteps so heavy, and
with armour rattling in such manner, that the very panes of glass in the
windows rung in answer to the sounds. Thereafter he thought that three
vehement knocks fell at measured intervals on the oak-door of the hall, as if

given by the iron-gloved hand of a knight fully accoutred. The dreaming
man wished to call aloud that the stranger should enter, but could not at first
utter one word. At length he believed that he had spoken, and thereupon he
heard the door open, grating harshly on its hinges; and, lo! there appeared in
the room, with bloody and frightfully-distorted visage, that renowned
forerunner of evil,—the Avenger,—with his tall vulture’s wings on his head,
who stretched out his clenched hand, dropping with gore, in threatening and
spectral dignity!—Shuddering with horror, the old knight started up, and
scarcely had he begun to comfort himself with the reflection, that he had
but dreamed,—when he heard, with all his senses fully awakened, the
heavy steps on the staircase; whereat the windows indeed rattled; and
thereafter came the three knocks at the hall-door, till at length the brave old
man, unable to contend with this supernatural visitation, lost all
recollection, and fell back in a deep swoon.
The squires and horsemen, who were still retained by Sir Hugh at his castle,
happened at this time all to be absent. Some had gone forth to the chase;
others had been sent in quest of the old minstrel, Walter; and the rest into
the nearest town for provisions to entertain the wished-for guest. At such
times, when his messengers reminded him that he ought not to be left thus
alone in the fortress, Sir Hugh was wont to answer,—“The old warrior
indeed sits here alone, but around him is good store of arms and armour;
and, in case of need, it would not be long ere, in his own defence, he had
snatched from the wall some well-proved sword, that his ancestors have
wielded in the bloody field.”—This time, however, the first squire who
entered the hall on his return from the town, perceived that an enemy must
have been at the castle very different from any one that Sir Hugh had
expected; for, as the old man sat so pale and motionless in his arm-chair, it
appeared as if death had been the foe who had now assailed him. Thereupon
the squire began to lament aloud, and assembled round him all his comrades
who had now returned to the castle. Just then a trampling was heard across
the drawbridge, as the minstrel, Walter, came hastily and on horseback into
the fortress; and hearing these lamentations, he said, with a deep sigh,
—“Alas! thou brave old hero, has it then been the will of Providence, that
thou shouldst not live to see thy son return, crowned with laurels, from his
long campaigns?”—When he had entered the hall, however, and looked at
the tall ghastly form that sat there, it seemed to him as if his old friend
could not yet be wholly dead. Nature is, in truth, kind to the poets and

minstrels, and if they cannot arrive at the knowledge of her mysteries by the
laborious paths of learning, like wise physicians, yet oftentimes she casts on
them a gleam of her own light, or throws to them, as if in sport, a wreath of
flowers, wherewith they can work wonders to the astonishment of all who
are not so gifted. So it happened, that the minstrel, Walter, was in
possession of a most precious and fragrant balsam distilled from many rare
plants. Soon after the old knight had breathed its odours, he opened his
eyes, and said,—“I have seen in my dreams a frightful apparition; but now
that I am awake, where is he that came to turn my dreams into reality?—
Where is the soldier who stepped up stairs, while his heavy armour rung
and rattled; and who knocked three times at the door with his iron
glove?”—To all this no one there present could return any answer. At length
the old man said,—“That some one has been here is very sure and
unquestionable; and that not as a mere spirit, but as a corporeal being; for
do you not see that strange trophy that is now right opposite?”—Looking in
the direction to which he pointed, they indeed saw an extraordinary banner,
which was placed leaning in a corner of the hall. The standard was
fashioned into the likeness of a horrible dragon; and around the shaft were
inscribed some verses, which the wise minstrel, Walter, well knew how to
interpret. They set forth, how this dragon had been won from the pagan
Finlanders by the powerful arm of Sir Otto von Trautwangen; therefore the
Swedes would for evermore praise him in their war-songs, and cherish
towards him lasting gratitude. Hearing this, all the squires and attendants
shouted aloud for joy, and congratulated their old master; while Sir Hugh
took off his green velvet cap, and at last said,—“If the devil indeed brings
us such trophies of victory, one must take in good part whatever evil dreams
he is pleased to send along with them.”

CHAPTER XXI.
How Sir Folko de Montfaucon came to rescue the two
damsels from the Moors.
On the root of an oleander-tree, in the middle of one of those delightful
gardens, which stretch out from the Spanish town of Carthagena towards
the sea, sat Gabrielle, with her bright eyes directed to the azure vault of
heaven; while Blanchefleur stood near her, plaiting a garland from the many
beautiful and rare flowers which grow profusely in that warm climate. At
some distance, a black slave began, in a very pleasant voice, to sing a long
ballad, setting forth the campaigns of Sir Folko de Montfaucon against the
Moors;—relating, how fifteen of their bravest knights had bound
themselves by a solemn oath, that they would go forth and take him
prisoner;—and how they indeed set out upon their way, but not one of all
the fifteen returned;—how the Guadalquiva river ran red with blood, and
the news of his exploits rang in Seville and Cordova;—moreover, how the
Moorish brides lamented and wept for the loss of their betrothed husbands.
“Alas!” said Gabrielle, “there are other brides, who have had cause to weep
even more than the Moorish ladies.” With these words, she mournfully hid
her face and turned away.
The slave was alarmed, and said, “The great Allah knows I thought to have
made you cheerful with my songs, since they were in praise of the deeds
that your great countryman performed among us. Why then should you thus
weep?” Without answering her, Gabrielle continued to address
Blanchefleur;—“Oh, how fortunate are you in possessing such a brother!
may we hope ever to see him in this life again?” Then Blanchefleur’s heart
was also moved, and these two beautiful damsels fell into each other’s
arms, and embraced lovingly in their affliction. Thereafter the Prince Mutza
came with dignified demeanour, and gleaming in the splendour of his
Moorish apparel, into the garden. When he saw the ladies still weeping, he
retired respectfully for a few paces, and made a sign that the female slave
should come to him. “Is this then the manner,” said he, “in which you fulfil
the service which I intrusted to you? I heard you playing on the harp; and

with your music you have only made these ladies weep. What your foolish
songs were I know not; but so much is certain, that from the pleasant task of
waiting on the beautiful Gabrielle, you shall from this day onward be
excluded.” Gabrielle de Portamour however observed Mutza’s discontent,
and said, “Be not thus angry with the girl; she is not to blame for our grief,
though it chanced that her music brought tears to my eyes. Believe me, that
even these tears afford more relief to my heart that all the pleasures which
your luxurious palace could offer. Rather should you reward the slave for
her faithful attendance on us.” “Praise be to Allah,” said the prince, with a
gracious bow, “that you have for once honoured me by expressing wishes
which it is in my power to fulfil. Would to Heaven that your commands
were oftener laid upon me, that you might see how gladly they would be
obeyed!” “Then, prince,” answered Gabrielle, “I do command you to
conduct me and my friend, the Lady of Montfaucon, back to the coasts of
Gascony, from whence you so unjustly forced us away.” “Alas! fairest of
damsels,” answered Mutza, with a deep sigh, “spare me but this one
request!” Thereupon Gabrielle turned from him with anger and contempt.
Under the garden-terrace, close to the golden trellis-work by which it was
enclosed, lo! there was now seen, on horseback, a knight in a magnificent
Moorish dress; his countenance grave, and almost solemn; while, though he
was rather advanced in years, he did not fail, according to the mode of that
country, to wear large mustachios and a long flowing beard. One of the
noblest of Arabian horses neighed aloud as he spurred him along, and he
was followed by a train of attendants, who, though they appeared in this
station, might, by their dress and demeanour have been looked upon as
persons of high rank. Gabrielle and Blanchefleur rose up from their seats,
without exactly knowing wherefore; and, with graceful curtsies, welcomed
this brilliant though yet unknown champion. The prince (for such was his
rank) returned thanks with a courteous bow; then drew up the reins, and
made a sign that Mutza should come forward to the grating, in order to
speak with him. That youth, who was at other times so proud and
overbearing, now hastened with an aspect of great humility to obey the
signal; whereupon the stranger threw himself into a new attitude, sitting
sideways like a lady on his horse; and a dialogue commenced betwixt them,
which, by Gabrielle and Blanchefleur, was for the most part understood; for
they were no longer ignorant of the Arabian language. It was as follows:—

“Are these then,” said the magnificent stranger, “the two beautiful damsels
that you brought hither from Gascony?—They are indeed rare and precious
gems of beauty; but, methinks, young prince, these are but pearls and
rubies, and thou hast left a diamond behind, which is far more admirable
and praiseworthy. Or is it, perhaps, but a false rumour which has been
repeated to me, how the grave and severe damsel terrified thy cousin by her
threatening words, and how she stood solemnly clinging to the cross, in the
red light of the evening sun?”
“May it please your highness,” answered Prince Mutza, “all this is indeed
true; and the wonderful maiden, whom we were unable to bring with us, is
named, in her own country, the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried.” “Well, then,
hear what I have to offer,” said the stranger; “whoever shall bring that
damsel safely to Carthagena, beautiful and innocent as you then left her,
shall receive for his reward a third part of all my treasures, to be his own
free property and that of his children for ever.”
Thereupon a dwarfish, swarth-visaged man, but yet in rich attire, came
forward from the prince’s train, and said, “Were these words then spoken in
earnest? If so, may it please your highness, the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried
may surely be found within the limits of Christendom, and, if found, may
doubtless be taken and brought hither.” “It may be so,” answered the proud
Arabian, with a scornful smile, “yet, methinks thou art not the champion by
whom such a scheme will ever be carried into effect.” “I had only ventured
to ask,” said the Moor, “if your highness were in earnest when you spoke of
the third portion of your fortune?” “I have promised,” answered the prince,
“and methinks, Alhafiz, thou should’st have known that my promises are
never lightly reckoned.” “So then we shall consider in due time,” answered
the other, “how the beautiful Bertha may be yours, and the money fall to my
share. ‘But time won, all may be won,’ says the proverb; so then let me be
permitted for the present to take leave of absence from your highness.”
Thereupon, having made a low bow, he rode away, while the strange prince,
in the magnificent dress, looked after him, shaking his head and shrugging
his shoulders, as with compassion for the vain boast of the little man. Then
he turned to Prince Mutza and the ladies, whom he greeted kindly, and
regaining his proper position on his horse, trotted lightly away through the
pleasant fields and woods of that beautiful country.

“What is his name?” said Gabrielle, when the prince returned to the ladies
on the terrace.
“Methinks, I have not for many a day beheld any horseman, who was so
brilliantly attired.” “He is the grand Emir Nurreddin,” answered the prince,
“the most invincible and renowned Moorish knight that the world has ever
known. After his deeds in the fiery eastern climes had become numerous
and brilliant as the stars in heaven, he has come over to us here in the West,
in order that his brows may not only be crowned by the Asiatic palms, but
also by the rich green laurels of Italy and Spain. Our wise men look on him
as one of the most prudent of all counsellors; our generals no less admire
his courage and activity on the battle-field; and that the beams of his favour
and condescension have fallen on me in your presence, noble ladies,
appears to me no less flattering and delightful, than if it had been my lot
before your eyes to have conquered the sternest foe in the lists.” “We
understood very well the conversation which you now held with him,” said
Gabrielle, proudly, and turning away with disdain; “and we trust, that the
one and only true God, who protects the Christians, will defend Bertha von
Lichtenried from the fangs of this tiger; whom, indeed you may well praise
as your master and the mirror of Moorish knighthood, since, in the first
moment after your meeting, he begins to speak of violent deeds against
defenceless women.” With a cold imperious look, she gave the prince to
understand, that he should immediately retire from her presence; which he
did accordingly, silent and embarrassed, while by a second signal, she in
like manner sent away the astonished female attendant.
Again seated on the fragrant grass, at the foot of the oleander-tree,
Blanchefleur looked at her friend with such an expression of mysterious
hope and rejoicing, that the latter was astonished, and could not help asking
what had given rise to this change. “Heaven be praised,” answered the
smiling Blanchefleur, “that we are once more quite alone, and I can speak to
you without fear or hesitation. Take your place near me on the grass,
however; for even though there is no listener near at hand, yet of thoughts
like those which are now in my mind I would rather speak in whispers than
aloud.” Then, when Gabrielle had done as her friend desired, the blushing
damsel hung down her head, with its luxuriant tresses, and said in a low soft
voice, “He is here; the minstrel, Aleard, has come to us within the last two
days. I have many times seen him gliding round the garden and the palace.”

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

a certain tomb in Italy, that I myself have just claims and pretensions. These
claims, however, are not yet fully clear, even to myself; but whoever should
confer on me this ring, would for evermore secure my services and
gratitude; and this much I can affirm, that, whither as a squire or comrade
on the field of danger, I am both active and trustworthy. Nay, perchance at
this moment, where we are so far from Christian people, my assistance is
indispensably required, especially when an adventure has to be carried
through so difficult as that which we now propose.”
On his countenance, when he pronounced these words, there appeared such
a mixture of resolute energy,—of friendly good intentions, and yet of
conscious power,—that Blanchefleur eagerly whispered to her companion,
—“Give him, then, I beseech you, that unhappy ring. Has it ever brought to
either of us peace of mind or good fortune?”—Gabrielle, however,
considered long and deeply what she ought to do. At last she had
determined, and with her own hands drew from her snow-white bosom the
golden chain, with the ring, of which the history and the virtues remained
even to that day a mystery to herself. She disengaged it from the chain, and
gave it to the merchant, saying,—“There, you have the gift which you
desire from me. But beware of the consequence; for you may find too late,
that it is a dangerous toy to play with.”—Theobaldo’s eyes sparkled as he
looked at the sparkling jewels;—at length he exclaimed,—“Welcome—
welcome to my hands thou sacred, and to me yet mysterious gem!—But,
methinks, we shall soon be better acquainted. Ha! even within these first
moments, seems it not as if all were already bright and clear as the noonday
sun?”—Thereafter, turning to the ladies, he said,—“Your safety is now
secured, noble damsels;—you shall be rescued;—and the Lady of
Portamour has lost but little, while on me she has conferred so much. Yet,
as long as I live in this world, I shall praise your kindness and
condescension, nor shall time ever set any bounds to my gratitude and
exertions in your service.”—So greeting them respectfully, he retired into
the thickets.
“That was in truth a strange man,” said the Lady Blanchefleur after a pause;
“and was not his appearance at the end of our discourse quite changed from
what it seemed at the beginning?—Methought almost that his figure had
grown taller, and his frame become endowed with gigantic strength!”—“Ay,
indeed,” answered Gabrielle, “he had changed all at once into a powerful,

resistless champion, and the tones of his voice were deep and solemn.
Notwithstanding his servile attire, one would have looked on him as a man
of high rank; though even then how humble would he have seemed in the
presence of your noble brother, over whose exploits the Moorish brides are
yet lamenting!”—At these words there came a light waving and fluttering
of wings over the damsels’ heads, so that they looked up with surprise into
the air, and beheld a beautiful falcon, adorned with a golden band round his
neck, which was now wheeling in circles about them, and which, after
playfully disporting in this manner, at last descended, and, fluttering his
wings as if in joy and triumph, seated himself in the lap of the Lady
Blanchefleur.
“Good Heaven!” she exclaimed, growing pale with terror, “what can this
portend?—It is my brother’s favourite falcon; and it is said, that these noble
creatures never leave their master, till he is laid in the cold grave, and then
they fly through the world, till they find either his nearest of kindred, or
some other master valiant and generous as he was whom they have
lost.”—“Speak not so frightfully, dearest Blanchefleur,” said her friend, less
agitated, though on her features, too, lay the paleness of apprehension;
—“what if he now came to you but as a messenger, and with pleasant
tidings?—Mark you, how joyous and triumphant are his looks!”—
Thereupon they unclasped the golden chain from his neck, and found
twisted therein a rose-coloured parchment, on which there was inscribed, in
pleasant courtly rhymes, an address from Sir Folko de Montfaucon. With
eyes gleaming with delight, they read therein, that the noble chevalier was
now in the neighbourhood of the Moor’s castle, disguised as a merchant,
but with a train of faithful attendants; that he had sworn to effect their
deliverance; and begged that, if his visit were not unwelcome to the ladies,
they would appoint a time when he could best come to the garden and speak
with them. With a hand trembling with joy, Blanchefleur wrote an answer
on the same parchment, appointing that her brother should come to the
garden-terrace at sunrise.—“All are now here!” cried she. “My brother, the
minstrel Aleard, and the faithful falcon!—It seems to me almost as if we
were already at home!”—With these words the parchment was again fixed
by the golden chain to the bird’s neck, and he winged his way joyfully into
the blue fields of air. Joyfully, too, the damsels went along the meadow,
pleasantly illumined by slanting sun-gleams, towards the Moorish palace.

CHAPTER XXII.
Of another embassy from Sir Folko de Montfaucon.
The first gleams of the morning-red had scarcely appeared over the hills on
the eastern sea-shore, when Gabrielle and Blanchefleur were already awake
and dressed, and stood at their veranda (that was entwined with vine-
branches and shadowed with myrtle), watching for the appearance of the
Chevalier de Montfaucon. They were now the more anxious that he should
come, since during the night their minds had been so confused by strange
visions, that they began afterwards to doubt whether the adventure of the
preceding day, with the falcon and the rose-coloured parchment, had not
been all but a dream!
However, not long after they had taken their place at the window, a pleasant
concert was heard of cymbals, horns, and flutes, which seemed approaching
by a road that wound through a level meadow towards the palace. Looking
thitherward, they perceived that a squadron of Moorish horsemen were
approaching as the van-guard; then followed many camels and sumpter-
horses, loaded with merchandize, covered also with blue velvet cloth, richly
fringed. Hereupon, Blanchefleur and Gabrielle joyfully recognised the
colours of the Montfaucon arms, and smiled on each other with increasing
confidence. Thereafter came the musicians,—a full band, with many
instruments, of which the metal parts were composed only of the purest
silver and gold: the joints moreover and keys were ornamented with
diamonds and emeralds. At last appeared the lord and master of this grand
procession. He was mounted on a very beautiful mule, so richly covered
with embroidered drapery that the feet only were visible from the ground,
and the large dark eyes rolled within a casement of gold adornments. The
noble chevalier himself was attired in blue and gold silk so richly and
magnificently, that one could not well say whether he was dressed like a
Moor or a Christian. Moreover he sat on a sumpter-saddle like a woman,
with a guitar in his hand, on which he seemed to play, though but few notes
were heard; for the music that was made by his attendants was far too loud
to permit such gentle sounds to reach the listener’s ears. By the light which

gleamed in his eyes, however, one could perceive that he played somewhat
that to his own mind was very delightful; and this happened just as he first
caught sight of Gabrielle behind the vine-interwoven veranda.
At the first glance, the ladies had recognised the Chevalier de Montfaucon.
Though he now wore an artificial beard on his upper-lip, another of great
length descending from his chin, and a turban of sky-blue silk round his
richly-curled hair, Gabrielle and Blanchefleur would have distinguished him
from among an hundred other champions. At the same time the noble falcon
played round his master, oftentimes whirling and fluttering before him, as if
he had sought to point out to the damsels the knight whom they already so
well knew. Meanwhile the Prince Mutza never once discovered in the
merchant the conqueror whom he had so shamefully deceived. On the
contrary, he came quite tranquilly and unconcerned out of his palace to
meet the strangers, inquired what goods they had to sell, approved what
they offered, and at last invited the merchant to dine with him in his
banquet-hall. Sir Folko, however, excused himself from accepting this
invitation. He feared that the ladies by their emotion might have betrayed
who he really was; and besides, if he wished to communicate any message,
his falcon would serve him as the most faithful ambassador. Accordingly,
through the next week, that swift and trustworthy servant was often
employed; and by the frequent interchange of the rose-coloured parchment,
it was brought about that the Chevalier de Montfaucon became aware of the
plan already formed by Theobaldo, the Count de Vinciguerra, and the
minstrel Aleard, with whom, of course, he entered into a bond of friendship.
It was only needful to wait for Don Hernandez, (who had agreed with the
Chevalier de Montfaucon to attend in the harbour of Carthagena,) ere their
great adventure was to be tried and carried through with triumph.
One evening, it was just when the eventful time drew near, the two damsels
were again seated on the grass below the oleander-tree. The falcon had
brought them a new letter, and had seated himself on the snow-white hand
of the Lady Blanchefleur, who, to say the truth, was afraid of the bird; for
she thought he might, from impatience, scratch her with his long talons.
Meanwhile Gabrielle held the parchment in one hand, and the golden
pencil, with which she was wont to write, in the other, but without setting
one word on the rose-coloured leaf that she held before her. Blanchefleur
begged of her not to delay, for fear that some one from the palace might

come to interrupt them; “and,” added she, “write, if possible, in such
manner to the brother of your faithful friend, that he may not utterly
despair; or, if this cannot be, send him at least some words of consolation in
his distress.” Gabrielle shook her head, with all its beautiful tresses, gravely
and mournfully. She read once more the lines which Sir Folko had
addressed to her, and which were indeed a love-sonnet, of which the sad
music fell so deeply and movingly on her heart, that she began to weep
bitterly. Blanchefleur wept also, and said anxiously, “And will you not send
even one word in answer? Shall this brave knight encounter such dangers,
and meet perchance death, for your sake, without even the consolation of
knowing that you would even heave one sigh for his untimely fate?”
Hereupon they heard the portal of the garden move on its hinges. They
heard even the voice of Mutza; and the falcon shook his wings and looked
round him impatiently. “Haste, oh haste!” whispered the now trembling
Blanchefleur; “my poor brother will die of grief, if you send back his falcon
without an answer.” Terrified, and scarcely knowing what she did, Gabrielle
wrote upon the leaf two little verses, bidding Sir Folko “live for the sake of
her who loved him;” and Blanchefleur, leaving her no time for reflection,
fixed it in the falcon’s collar, which joyfully flew away swift as an arrow
towards his master. Blanchefleur then fell upon her friend’s neck, and
kissed her with affectionate gratitude.

CHAPTER XXIII.
Of two fearful combats, and the death of the Knight of
Montfaucon.
Just at this time, Theobaldo had arrived at the inn, which was now occupied
by the Chevalier de Montfaucon, and where the latter had just loaded a
sumpter-mule with a great store of richly-ornamented weapons, in order, in
his character of a merchant, to appear with them before the grand emir,
Nurreddin, who had commanded his attendance. But as Theobaldo, about
an hour before, had discovered that the noble Castilian, Don Hernandez,
had appeared with his galleys in the harbour, Sir Folko concluded that the
emir might wait, and began to lay plans with the Italian for their flight and
escape across the seas, even in the night of that same day.
In the midst of their important dialogue, however, the chevalier could not
help fixing his eyes steadfastly on a golden chain which was visible over
the slave’s frock worn by Theobaldo; and as the merchant spoke with
vehement gestures, Gabrielle’s magic ring came at last fully into view.
—“Whence hast thou obtained that gem?” inquired Sir Folko, in a severe
tone, and with the deep flush of anger on his countenance.—“For such
questions,” said the merchant, in a tone of calm defiance, with which it was
his wont to answer whatever was addressed to him in an angry or
commanding strain, “for such trifling questions, methinks, a fitter time
might have been chosen than the present; but, as you consider it of such
extreme importance to learn how I came by this ring, know then, that I
received it from the fair hands of the lady to whom it lately belonged, and
that she bestowed it on me as a bounty when I entered her service, in order
that I might be true and faithful.”—“The bargain then is null and void,” said
Sir Folko, scarcely repressing his anger: “too much noble blood has already
been shed for the sake of this ring, to permit the thought that it should
become yours, only because a helpless woman, in the hour of terror and
distress, was not able to refuse your insolent request. Give it up to me then
before we speak of aught else;—give up the ring directly!”—“You might as
well demand my life,” answered Theobaldo; “and you may rest assured,

that it is not by a few despotic and chevalier-like words that you will obtain
either the one or the other. But moderate your anger;—I renounce all
pretensions which the ring might give me to castles and lands. Solely for its
own sake have I wished to obtain it as my property, and you must know that
I am not without rightful pretensions to this magic gem.”—“It would be
fitting and praiseworthy, forsooth,” answered the Knight of Montfaucon,
“that I should thus bargain with the cunning merchant for that ring of which
the worth is beyond all price or calculation. I shall now prove to you what
force the words of a Chevalier de Montfaucon, which you so much despise,
can carry along with them.”—Thereupon he seized the ring and chain,
along with the collar of the Italian, so powerfully and rapidly, that the latter,
in spite of his usual activity, stood for a space as if spell-bound and
motionless; so that he would in another minute have been deprived of his
ring, had not the Count Alessandro Vinciguerra entered, and, with a noble
dignity of manner, which shone even through his present disguise, inquired,
—“What have you to say against my squire, Sir Knight of
Montfaucon?”—“Signor,” answered Sir Folko, letting Theobaldo go, “order
him but to restore to me this ring, which I demand from him in the name of
the Lady Gabrielle de Portamour; and if that be done, there is nothing in the
world of which I can accuse him.”—“I had perhaps commanded him to do
so,” answered the Count de Vinciguerra, “had you made a request to me in
the proper manner for that purpose, but now——.”—“You had perhaps
commanded him, forsooth?” interrupted Theobaldo, (smiling, and looking
down upon the knights with unwonted dignity), “but by so doing you would
have succeeded not a jot better than the Knight of Montfaucon!”—
Vinciguerra cast an angry look at his squire for this boldness; while Sir
Folko, attending only to the count’s last words, resumed,—“I should have
made a request sayest thou?—Know that I appear in such manner only
before my king, whom I am sworn to serve and honour; but with other men
I but demand my own proper rights. Is it your pleasure to admit them at this
time or not?”—“Thou would’st, methinks, speak more politely and calmly
before me, sir knight,” answered the count, “were it not that I now stand
before you as an unarmed and defenceless captive!”
These words fell like corroding poison, or fire, into the pure and generous
heart of the Knight of Montfaucon; so that, wholly forgetful of the time and
place, with all the dangers by which they were surrounded, he had, in a
moment, drawn out two Persian sabres from among the weapons by which

the mule was loaded, held them cross-ways, with the handles towards
Vinciguerra, and said,—“My lord count, take your choice; they are both of
the same length, and both equally sharp. European weapons were indeed
better; but, alas! I have none here to offer you.”—While the count,
somewhat surprised at this proceeding, but yet resolute, made his choice
between the two sabres, Theobaldo endeavoured to remind them how
formidable were the enemies by whom they were now both beset, and how
little a kingdom, torn by civil dissensions, need ever hope for victory. A
contemptuous look from the chevalier was the answer that he first received,
and on this followed the decisive words:—“The question here is of my
honour; and do you keep to your measuring-rod, good merchant!”—
Shrugging his shoulders, and, with a look of proud contempt, Theobaldo
then turned away, saying,—“The time will come, however, when you will
gladly take that assistance which I alone can offer you!”—So he went away
to the sea-shore, and walked up and down for pastime, while the two
knights fell furiously on each other. In vain did the falcon, with his golden
collar and rose-coloured parchment, hover round his master’s head,
watching the moment when he might descend. The knight never observed
his approach, his whole heart being now possessed by fiery passions, how
different from the sweet emotion wherewith he should have welcomed this
messenger of love!
Neither of the combatants had ever used such a weapon as a Persian sabre
for a serious combat; but the far-travelled pupil of Sir Huguenin had before
exercised himself in this, as well as in every other mode of warfare. In a
few moments the crooked falchion fitted his hand as well as his own sword
would have done; and while the count in his confusion often struck with the
blunt side of the sabre, Sir Folko never failed to use the sharp edge, the
blade being fashioned like that of a sickle, and in a short space Vinciguerra
had received three deep wounds in the breast and arm, so that he fell
powerless to the ground.—“There you have performed a notable and most
prudent exploit!” said Theobaldo, who now again stood near them; “take
yourself out of the way, however, as quickly as you can, and I shall remove
the wounded man.”—Thereupon, with a dexterous movement, he lifted the
unfortunate count on his shoulders, and vanished with his burden into one
of the neighbouring garden-houses.

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

they fell disabled to the ground. Then, as the rest stood for a moment
astonished at this achievement, he rushed up to the sumpter-mule, drew
forth daggers, arrows, javelins, and battle-axes, and with incredible strength
and rapidity of arm, hurled them at the mob of his assailants, till they
howled and shrieked in their confusion and terror. “Try the base merchant!”
cried he in a voice of thunder. “These are his wares,—and the price he
demands is but the blood of cowards and robbers!” The prince’s attendants
now retired and fled in all directions; nor did any one among them seem
inclined to renew the contest. At length Mutza, with the fiery blush of
shame and rage on his features, exclaimed, “Pitiful cravens as you are, then
must I myself end the career of this madman?” He was preparing to
dismount from his horse, when the Knight of Montfaucon exclaimed, “Of
all the cowards that have been here present, thou thyself art the most pitiful
and dastardly; nor dost thou any longer deserve that a brave knight should
honour thee with the chances of a single combat!” Thereupon he hurled a
battle-axe at his opponent, taking his aim so securely and resolutely, that the
iron struck deep into Mutza’s lofty forehead, and the false-hearted young
libertine fell lifeless from his horse. Just ere he lost his place in the saddle,
however, either in the convulsions of approaching death, or as a last effort
of his vehement rage, he threw his Damascus sabre at his foe, and the sharp
weapon struck so fearful a wound in Sir Folko’s breast, that he also fell to
the ground, and the cowardly squires, glad to avail themselves of this
accident, in order to revenge their master’s death and their own disgrace,
rushed up to the now fainting chevalier, and cut him with their sabres, so
that his blood flowed in torrents on the grass. Anxiously and mournfully did
the faithful falcon hover in the air, looking down on this frightful adventure.
But, now behold! there drew near, two female forms, that came in their
beauty like gleams of sunlight amid the raging and tumultuous assemblage.
These were Blanchefleur and Gabrielle, who, in the confusion that now
prevailed in the palace, had been deserted by the slaves appointed to watch
them, and had escaped from their confinement. They threw themselves
down by the lifeless remains of Sir Folko,—wept and kissed his pale lips in
their despair, and prayed to Heaven, that, since in this world they had no
longer either hope or joy, their lives also might in mercy be taken from
them. For a while the slaves and armed men stood gazing at them, as if they
had beheld some supernatural apparition; but ere long their thirst of revenge
and bloodshed was renewed, and first in confused murmurs, then with loud

shouts of rage, they began to demand, that, as an atonement for the death of
their prince, these Christian enchantresses, who, by their wicked attractions,
had brought him into danger, should now be sacrificed. Blinded by their
tears, and awake only to their excessive grief, the damsels saw not the
threatening gestures of those who were now around them, and would soon
have been put to death, had not a champion come to their aid, who was in
truth more like a demi-god than a man, at whose appearance the mob
became submissive and respectful. This was the grand emir, Nurreddin.
“These damsels,” said he, “are under my protection;” and no sooner had
these words, though pronounced quietly, without anger or effort, escaped
his lips, than the crowd retired, without daring even to murmur their
disapprobation. Thereupon the emir contrived, by gentle persuasions, and,
as if with paternal care and affection, to remove them from the dead body of
Sir Folko; and they were placed in a magnificent palanquin, with orders that
they should immediately be carried to the best apartments of his palace.
Then he turned his attention to the fallen champions. As to Prince Mutza,
death was visibly imprinted on his distorted features, and his nearest
relations bore him away with tears and lamentations. The wisest physicians
too, who had been summoned to the fatal spot, declared that the Chevalier
de Montfaucon was irrecoverably lost, inasmuch as even one only of the
many wounds that he had received would have been enough to destroy the
most powerful warrior. Thereupon the grand emir commanded that his body
should be placed in a neighbouring tomb, which was appropriated for the
cemetery of princes and others of the highest rank. The faithful falcon then
followed the procession, and the slow heavy motion of his wings betokened
his grief. When the strong iron gate of the vault was closed, he seated
himself thereon, clung to the iron bars with his talons, and pecked
vehemently at them; thereafter, as if in wild despair, he mounted aloft, and
fled across the seas into the boundless realms of distance.

CHAPTER XXIV.
How the Falcon came to Sir Otto von Trautwangen.
It was now a beautiful summer evening, when Sir Otto von Trautwangen,
still among the Finland mountains, had seated himself on a rocky cliff, and,
as it often times happened, played for pastime on his harp, and sang thereto
a love ditty addressed to his beautiful Gabrielle. His station was still not far
from the watch-tower of the Lady Minnatrost; for, on account of various
negotiations that had been begun with the pagans, the Christians had
delayed till this beautiful season any farther attack, and the sea-monarch
still kept watch with Sir Otto on the frontiers. Just now the latter was about
to lay aside his harp, and proceed on one of his accustomed visits to the
Lady Minnatrost, when suddenly his attention was arrested by the waving
and fluttering of wings round his head. Thinking only that this must be a
bat, or night-hawk, whose visit was by no means agreeable to him, he
clapped his hands and shouted, in order to drive away the intruder. This
seemed, however, to have rather encouraged the yet invisible guest, and in a
few moments a beautiful falcon came before him, and clung, as if with kind
and humble entreaties, to his breast. The experienced hunter could not fail
to recognise the cherished favourite of the Knight of Montfaucon, which he
had so often seen in the woods, more especially as he perceived the golden
chain, with the colours and arms of the chevalier, round his neck.
“Good Heaven!” sighed Sir Otto, “is then the heroic Sir Folko so untimely
fallen?” For he well knew, from the stories told him by De Montfaucon, that
such a noble bird would never forsake his master but in death; and then that
he would fly about over lands and seas, until he had found some one equal
in valour and greatness to him whom he had thus lost.
“Would to Heaven!” said Sir Otto, looking at the wise expressive eyes of
the poor bird, “that thou could’st speak to me but four or five words, in
answer to the whole multitude of questions which now rise up within my
breast!” And as it oftentimes comes to pass, that the foolish wishes we have
formed are granted when we least expect their fulfilment, and that they are
the cause of pain instead of pleasure, so it happened to the young Knight of

Trautwangen. He marked the rose-coloured parchment in the falcon’s collar,
drew it out, and read thereon the love-sonnet of Sir Folko, addressed to
Gabrielle, and her kind and loving answer thereto, which had never reached
the hands of that knight, whose heart would therewith have been so
refreshed and delighted, while it now struck like a deadly arrow the inmost
soul of Sir Otto, who, of all men, was the last in the world into whose
possession the parchment should ever have arrived.
Courteous reader, should’st thou ever have been so unfortunate, that the
being who, of all the habitants of earth, was by thee the most beloved, and
by whom thy sweetest hopes were encouraged with approving smiles, has at
once turned away with cold indifference, leaving thee like a benighted
wanderer on a desert waste, from whom the moon has suddenly withdrawn
her light, then wilt thou sympathize with and understand the deep anguish
of Sir Otto von Trautwangen. If this book indeed fell into the hands of one
who was more accustomed to inflict such wounds, than to feel them in her
own breast, then perhaps a scornful smile would prove the only notice with
which he would be honoured. But from such readers kind Heaven will
protect me; and I may venture to hope, that every one will compassionate
the knight, who was thus in soul so deeply wounded; that every one will
rejoice too, when it is farther told, that Sir Otto indulged not in complaints
and lamentations; but, with his harp slung over one arm, and his falcon
perched on his left hand, he went composedly and quietly on his way to the
watch-tower of the Lady Minnatrost.

CHAPTER XXV.
How the Lady Minnatrost laid aside her veil.
When he was now mounting the steep road that led to the Druda’s watch-
tower, he heard in the valley below the sounding tramp of a war-horse and
the ringing of armour. Involuntarily he looked round, and perceived at no
great distance a grey war-steed, rode by a knight, whose appearance, as well
as that of the grey horse, was certainly known to him. As he reflected on
this, the rider looked up, caught Sir Otto’s features through the thickets of
the beech-trees, drew up the reins with a low bow, and said, “Welcome, my
noble lord and conqueror! I have now to announce that I am returned from
the pilgrimage which you were pleased to impose on me, and that I have
faithfully delivered up at the castle of Trautwangen the banner which you
took from my brave countrymen.” Thereupon Sir Otto recognised his
prisoner, Swerker, and, filled with ardent longing to hear tidings from him,
for which the disappointment of all his hopes in love rendered him only the
more anxious, he seated himself straightway on the edge of the cliff, and
begged that the Swede would describe to him minutely all that he had met
with on the banks of the Danube.
Swerker looked mournfully and with a pale visage towards him, and at last
said,—“Sir knight, I call the great Odin to witness that you have behaved to
me even like one of the glorious princes of Asgard; and if I should now, as
if thankless and unworthy of your regard, bring you unwelcome tidings
from home, blame me not, for the fault is not mine; but, since you
command me to speak, I must tell you freely and honestly what has been
the result of my embassy.
“The castle of Trautwangen, on the Danube, stands to this day in its old
security and grandeur. The lofty towers were visible across the long
meadows for many a mile before I had arrived at the fortress. The people
bowed respectfully when I inquired for Sir Hugh von Trautwangen, and told
me that he lived there all alone, like a meditative hermit. A peasant (from
whom, when about two miles distant from the castle, I purchased the last
provender for my horse) had formerly been a squire or sentinel at the castle,

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

resistless horror stole over me as I looked through the long desolate
apartment. It seemed to me as if the dead man would suddenly start again
into life,—that he would open his eyes, and be as much terrified at my
presence as I would be at the sight of him. Then, if he shrieked aloud, his
voice, amid the silence of that wide lonely fortress, would have shaken my
inmost heart, and thenceforth I should have wandered through the wide
world as an incurable madman.
“Sir knight, I trust you have already proved that I am no coward; yet in that
place I could not withstand the apprehensions that assailed me. Besides, I
said to myself, ‘Thou hast fulfilled the purpose of thine embassy, inasmuch
as thou hast brought the banner to the old hero, and his people may, if they
think fit, lay it with him in the grave. Also, thou canst announce to his son,
that Sir Hugh of Trautwangen now sits quaffing mead with the glorified
champions of Valhalla.’ Thereupon I hastened down stairs and remounted
my horse; but, ere I had proceeded far from the gates, I heard the frightful
lamentations of the squires, who had by this time returned, and found that
their master was no longer living. Here then I am once more at home, and,
as you desired, have described to you all that came to pass at your father’s
castle.”
The darkness of the night, which had now settled around them, concealed
from Swerker’s eyes that expression of grief and despair which had
changed the countenance of Sir Otto. In a few kind words he instructed the
Swede to ride onward to the camp, and await there his coming. Meanwhile
he proceeded on his way to the castle of the Lady Minnatrost, and though
he struggled against his grief, yet, as he walked along through the darkness
of the night, he could not help weeping bitterly.
When he had arrived at the Druda’s castle, and had entered that pleasant
chamber so mildly illuminated, as if by soft moonlight, and in which stood
the round banquet-table, the lady could not have failed to observe his pale
countenance, his dishevelled hair, and wildly-rolling eyes. But at this time
she was not alone;—besides the sea-monarch, there was another guest,—a
warlike champion, to whom they seemed to listen with great attention, and
who, as soon as the door was opened, rose from his seat, and threw himself
into Sir Otto’s arms.

“Good heaven! is it possible?—Art thou Heerdegen of Lichtenried?” cried
the Knight of Trautwangen, as if uncertain and perplexed, although the deep
scars which his own sword had left over the brows of Sir Heerdegen might
have removed all doubt. Forgetting their old quarrels, the two young
knights met even like loving friends, and locked each other in a cordial
embrace. On both sides they felt that they had been in the wrong; and there
is, perchance, no other feeling which, in the hearts of brave and virtuous
warriors, is so likely to produce mutual good-will and attachment. To have
used many words of apology would have been needless, and would even
have disturbed their present happiness at meeting;—besides, the Lady
Minnatrost and the sea-monarch looked so anxiously towards Sir
Heerdegen, that the Knight of Trautwangen perceived how important must
have been the discourse which his coming had interrupted, and could not
help eagerly wishing for its renewal.
“The times are indeed wild and unruly,” said Sir Heerdegen, as they all took
their places round the table; “what I have told you before, and what Sir Otto
has not heard, I shall now repeat as rapidly as may be. At the siege of
Ptolemais, King Richard Cœur de Lion quarrelled with the Duke John of
Austria. Thereafter, when the king too rashly came as a pilgrim through the
Austrian dominions, the duke planned an ambuscade, and took him
prisoner.”
“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Sir Otto, “if King Richard Cœur de Lion be
taken prisoner, then the whole spirit of knighthood over the world must at
once be crushed and destroyed.”
“For this very reason all true knights must now exert themselves,” answered
Sir Heerdegen. “The question is, in what prison, and whether by sea or land,
King Richard is now held captive? The Duke John says, on one day, that the
king is by no means in his custody; on the next, he affirms, that he has been
given up to the emperor; and on the third, that he has already made his
escape. What then can an honest Christian knight resolve to do in the midst
of such contradictions?—To say the truth, one’s brain grows confused when
he thinks of such treachery,—our hearts are almost broken,—and, even with
the most undaunted courage, we cannot perform any one exploit of which
the world could say, that it had brought us even halfway to our grand
object.”

“Truly,” said Sir Otto, “this world begins ill my estimation to become
wearisome. At a distance, perchance, it may seem, both to angels and
demons, pleasant and full of pastime; but to him who is in the midst of its
occupations and sorrows, life is indeed but a sorry jest.”
At these words, which were spoken with a bitter coldness, that strangely
contrasted with the knight’s usual manner, all eyes were turned upon him;
and, as if one had suddenly come to a district of country which before used
to present only rich gardens and pleasant villas, but where one now finds
only ruin and devastation, without knowing whence that fearful change has
proceeded, all of them now remained in silent astonishment, till at length
the Lady Minnatrost addressed him,—“In God’s name! young hero, what
new misfortune hast thou encountered?”
“Nothing—nothing,” answered Sir Otto, with the same frightful coldness;
“only my bride has proved unfaithful, and my father is now dead; so that for
the future I am alone in the world. More I have not to tell.”
Thereupon, when Sir Heerdegen and the sea-monarch started up, and in
their sympathy ran with open arms to embrace him, suddenly, with a
changed and faltering voice, he said,—“Do not afflict yourselves, noble
comrades, for these events are past, and cannot be retrieved. Truly you have
proved yourselves faithful and loving friends, yet not the less I feel, that I
am from henceforth alone; for unless with the inmost heart of man be
entwined some bond of affection towards father, mother, brothers, and
sisters, or, more than all, to wife and child, then is this world but a desolate
wilderness, and life is but like a shadow that at evening glides over the
lonely meadow.—Good night!”
With these words he gently, but resolutely, disengaged himself from the
arms of his friends, and walked in his affliction sternly and proudly towards
the door. Then the Lady Minnatrost rose from the table, and came forward.
With noiseless steps, and as if floating along like a spirit, she placed herself
beside the Knight of Trautwangen. Like a mist-wreath dispersed by the pale
gentle moonbeams, her veil was now uplifted. The mild light of her pensive
eyes shone upon him; she embraced the youth with many tears, and said,
—“No; thou art not a shadow that floats and perishes on the meadow,—nor
art thou left alone in the world;—for thou art my son, and I am Hildiridur,
the loving and faithful wife of the stern Sir Hugur!”

CHAPTER XXVI.
The Story of Hildiridur.
Ask yourselves, courteous readers,—all ye whose beloved parents are
numbered with the dead,—what would be your feelings if a mother were
thus restored to you, even in that hour when you had most need of
consolation, and if thus all the pleasant dreams of childhood were brought
again smiling around you? For you, however, who yet enjoy that
unspeakable blessing, to walk in the light of a mother’s protecting and
loving eyes, I would not awaken the frightful thought, that such happiness
should ever be taken from you. Without this, you may know well how to
sympathize with and to measure that balmy joy which was thus so
unexpectedly poured into the bleeding heart of Sir Otto!—In the moon-like
radiance of the Druda’s eyes, it seemed as if a whole garden of azure
flowers, emblems of hope and confidence, once more sprung up around
him. His mother’s well-known features now shone upon him as kindly and
mildly as ever; not mournful and disfigured, as when he thought that she lay
dying in the forest, nor pale and motionless as he had beheld her during his
nightly watch in the chapel.
It was long before either of them could again speak calmly. Otto knelt
before her, and could only say, “Oh! dearest—dearest mother!—how
could’st thou remain so long concealed from one who so dearly loved thee!
Heaven knows how many an hour I have spent in weeping thy loss and
praying for thee!” Then, in their great joy and affection, they both continued
silent, while Sir Heerdegen and the sea-monarch stood, one on each side,
with clasped hands,—even as one oftentimes sees in ancient pictures and
monuments the figures of devout champions, who stand in respectful
meditation beside the divinely-inspired saints of the olden times.
At last Hildiridur dismissed the three knights, commanding that her son
should come to her alone on the next day, that he might hear from his
mother’s lips the eventful history of his parents. Rejoicing, and yet weeping
in his gladness, Sir Otto rode homewards through the clear moonlight,

while his faithful friends followed him, and in their hearts partook of all his
emotion.
When they had arrived at the camp, there Swerker came riding towards
them, threw himself from his horse, and would have held the stirrup while
Sir Otto dismounted; but the latter said,—“Not so; for thou art not my
squire, but my equal in rank, and shalt be my chosen comrade in the battle-
field.”—“Nay,” answered Swerker, “this cannot be, for I am yet no
Christian; and who knows whether in my whole life I shall ever become
one?”—“On that score there need be no doubt,” said Sir Otto; “had we but a
learned priest here among our troops, he would reveal to you our faith in all
its divine beauty; and certainly you could not hesitate to believe in what he
said.”—“Methinks,” answered the Swede, “the best of all methods, if I may
venture so to speak, were, that you should yourself undertake the trouble of
my conversion. It is better that one knight should always speak with
another, and so, by expressing only the real feelings of our hearts, we shall
at last agree well together. Should you prove to be in the right, then I am
willing to become a Christian; if, on the other hand, my doctrines are better
maintained, then you will join with us in our devotions to the great Odin,
and the ancient gods of Valhalla.”
“Agreed!” said Sir Otto; “I shall take my chance as your instructor, and to-
morrow at sunrise we shall hold our first meeting for this purpose. Even
now, when Heaven, in his infinite wisdom, has in one and the same day so
wounded and rejoiced my heart, methinks I shall in this attempt be
successful.”
On the following day the two young heroes met and disputed vehemently
together, whereupon Sir Otto felt strengthened in listening to the sound of
his own voice, and by the self-consciousness of right which dwelt in his
own heart. He felt assured, that he would ere long gain the victory; but,
when evening approached, he failed not to remember his appointment, and
set out alone towards the castle of Hildiridur.
The Druda met him on his arrival at the gate, and led him kindly and
caressingly up stairs to the chamber with the round banquet-table, which on
this evening was more cheerfully and pleasantly illuminated than ever. On
the table, moreover, he saw many brilliant objects; there was a magnificent
plume of feathers fastened together by a brooch of emerald; a large gold

cross with a rich chain; a green velvet belt beautifully embroidered, and
other accoutrements fit for a valiant knight of the highest rank.—“These
shall all be thine, dearest son,” said she, while the tears glittered in her eyes.
“Through so many years it has never been in my power to make thee a
present, by way of kind remembrance, on thy birth-day, nor at Christmas-
tide; and for this neglect I must now compensate as well as I can.”—With
these words she began to attire her beloved son in the gold chain and belt,
the plume of feathers, and other adornments, till at last he stood glittering
like a fairy king before her. Once more she looked at him with that full
expressive gaze, with which only a mother regards a dear child of whom
she is justly proud; then invited the youth to take his place opposite to her at
the table, and began to speak as follows:—
“Thy father, my beloved son, was brave and valiant indeed as thou art, but
in temper not so mild and submissive. He was indeed a threatening and
stern hero, of whom all, even those who most loved him, were afraid; for
his character might well be compared to that of a burning summer’s day,
now bright and beautiful, though we know not how soon it may change into
a frightful thunder-storm. Thus it happened, that he overtook me in a bay of
the North Sea, and, half by promises, half by threats, compelled me to
become his wife. Even to this hour I tremble to think of the terror that I felt
soon after. It was in Holland, where a grand festival had been given in
honour of Sir Hugur. When he returned home from the banquet, he found in
my chamber a long staff of oak-wood, with Runic characters carved
thereon; and, suddenly changing his tone from that of loving confidence to
bitter reproach and fierce anger, he said,—-‘I have already heard, that thou
art a powerful enchantress. Beware, however, how thou betrayest any
tokens or symbols of such an art in my presence, for, should this ever
happen again, I swear solemnly, that moment shall be the last of thy life!’
“Hastily, and without thought, I took up, in my terror, the Runic enchanting-
rod, and threw it into the fire; whereupon such a terrific blaze arose, that the
very walls of the chimney were rent asunder, and the fire spread so rapidly,
that Hugur had scarcely time to snatch me, fainting with affright, in his
arms, and bear me from the room. Would to Heaven that all my implements
of enchantment had at the time been destroyed; and, above all, the fatal
mirror which is now placed in the adjoining room, and which I was wont to
carry with me, carefully packed, wherever I came! But the mystic spells

that ruled therein made it impossible for the fire to injure the mirror, and
much as I was afraid of Sir Hugur’s anger, I yet had not resolution to
renounce all the secrets that I had learned during my abode in the distant
snow-covered Iceland. Alas! my son, where an impulse and longing like
that which I had felt towards these dark sciences are born with us, too often
are we carried onward, notwithstanding all our struggles, even though we
know well that it is to our own destruction. Yet I determined that the mirror,
though it remained in my possession, should never be looked at or unveiled;
for I could not but expect that Hugur, always incensed by the sight of such
objects, would be more than ever enraged, if by any means he were
reminded of what had happened with the Runic divining-rod. He paid a
large sum of money to the proprietor of the house, according to his usual
princely generosity, and thereafter we removed to the pleasant town of
Coblentz, where the Mosel flows into the Rhine,—where the blooming
fields and vine-covered mountains may vie in beauty with any which this
world affords, those even of Asia not excepted.
“There, in a baronial fortress, not far from the town, which mansion was
situated on a hill covered with fruit-trees, and commanding the loveliest
prospects along both rivers, wert thou, my beloved son, brought into the
world. In the sweet unconsciousness of infancy, thou wert wont to smile in
thy cradle, from the high balcony of the castle, on the beautiful world full of
light, blossoms and fragrance which then lay around thee; but young, and
seemingly unconscious as thou wert, I doubt not that sweet influences,
derived from these early dreams, yet steal upon the both in thine hours of
waking and of sleep.”
“Truly, dearest mother,” replied Sir Otto, “thy words have recalled to me
forms and feelings that lay deep—deeply implanted, though but dimly
understood, within my heart. But after I had learned better to perceive what
passed around me, did we not travel farther?—Did not our way lead over
lofty cliffs covered with vines, full of rich clusters?—and did we not once
stand looking down fearfully at a great foaming cataract?—Methinks I yet
hear its mighty voice!—or was this, perchance, a thunder-storm among the
mountains, with its blue and white clouds, which my wild fantasy had
confused with the notion of falling water?”
“Nay, dear son,” answered Hildiridur, “that was indeed the magnificent
Rhein-fall at Schaffhausen. I remember well, how joyfully thou didst clasp

thy hands, and tried, after thine own manner, to shout aloud; and though thy
voice was unheard amid the roaring of the falling torrents, the pleasure with
which thou wert animated sparkled in thine eyes; yet all this while the
boards on which we stood shook beneath us; and at length the stern Sir
Hugur was so delighted with thy courage, that he kissed both his wife and
child, and exclaimed,—‘That is my brave son,—a true scion of the old
northern tree!—Thanks to thee, far-famed and majestic Rhine, for the trial
which thou hast now afforded me of his spirit!’—Truly thou art but little
changed since that time, if I might say so of one who has been transformed
from a blooming boy into a warlike knight; but at the first glance I could
not but recognise thy features.”
“And yet thou could’st remain so long concealed from me,” said Sir Otto
mournfully, “and I have been so long denied that confidence in which I now
so much rejoice!”
“My son,” answered Hildiridur, “to one who is ever led, as I have been, to
look over deeply into the mysteries of nature and the world of spirits, the
knowledge so acquired often proves a heavy and almost insupportable
burden. Already have I spoken to this effect with thy cousin Bertha, when
she came to my castle in East Friesland. Thus, while free-hearted
champions, such as thou art, are pursuing their own path to glory and
conquest, and are guided by their own impulses, there are deep mysterious
signs and admonitions by which we, who are endowed with supernatural
gifts, are made aware, that we must submit to the conditions of that destiny
which Providence has decreed for us. The fitting hour was not yet come.”
“But is it possible,” inquired Sir Otto, “that you have heretofore looked
upon Ottur, my strange double-goer, whose name I have now bestowed on
my sword, as your son?”
“Truly there have been moments when I have thus acknowledged him,” said
Hildiridur; “but at length I perceived only too well who he really is. Thou
also wilt soon become acquainted with this mystery; for my story draws
near to the fatal hour, when it was to me clearly revealed, how frightfully
his fate was intwined with thine and with my own.”
“For three years we had now wandered about through the blooming
mountains and valleys of Germany, when in your father’s heart there arose
at length the ardent longing after his native land. In the German districts he

no longer bore his Norwegian name of the stern Sir Hugur, but was called
Sir Hugh von Trautwangen, and I also was accustomed to address him by
this title, forming at the same time in my own mind delightful pictures of
Trautwangen in Swabia, where I had never yet been. It was enough for me
that its name was ever joined with that of my husband, who was dearer to
me than all the world. I longed, therefore, in joyful anticipation, to reach the
Swabian fortress, and yet have to this hour never beheld it, except long
afterwards in the frightful mirror. And that fatal treasure was the cause of
my never having been there in reality.
“For, as we drew nearer and nearer to the castle, I was every night haunted
by strange and irresistible visions, by which I was constantly warned and
impelled to look into the magic mirror, and behold there the adventures past
and to come of my husband, Sir Hugur. On awakening, all was confusion in
my mind, and I could not clearly recall the phantoms of my sleep, but felt
always a vehement desire to act according to those warnings. Yet my love
towards Sir Hugur, mingled also with my terror of offending him, always
made me able to resist that inclination, until one night, which we past
encamped under the shelter of a great forest, my dreams became more vivid
and more frightful than ever, so that I could also recall them when awake.
“In my nightly vision, it seemed to me as if the form of the beautiful Astrid,
my sister, of whose death I had never heard, was always before me, and that
she was zealously employed in culling flowers under the trees. Methought
also, that it was still night, and that a gleam of moonlight shone upon her
features, and I said to myself, ‘How strangely pale she looks in that light!
Does she not appear, even now, more like one of the dead than of the
living?’ Thereupon a deep melancholy, and even horror, settled on my heart.
The beautiful Astrid continued her search for flowers; but, when she had
made a rich and variegated wreath, and was adding to it the last flower, in
order to tie it together, lo! the whole garland changed at once into dust and
ashes, which flew into her eyes, and disfigured her countenance. Then she
indeed looked like one of the dead, and, moreover, began to wring her
hands and weep bitterly. Thereafter she renewed her task, and soon made
another wreath, which was dissolved like the former. I wished to rise up and
assist her, but the leaden bonds of sleep held me fast; I could not move; and
when Astrid saw my vain endeavours, she said, ‘Nay, nay, think not of
aiding me. These are but earthly flowers which no one can fix in my hands,

and wherefore should I wish for them, since I have been long since dead?’
After these words, she came and placed herself beside me, adding,
‘Wherefore hast thou the mirror in thy possession? I shall never grant thee
peace, neither by night nor day, till thou hast looked into it, and inquired
after the past life of the stern Sir Hugur. If thou wilt not obey my
commands, then truly may’st thou pursue thy way to the castle of
Trautwangen; but, remember, till the warning be fulfilled, thou shalt never
enjoy rest; till then I shall ever be with thee!’ All this was uttered in a voice
that sounded at once so eager, and so feebly shrill, that I was struck with
horror, and awoke, screaming, from my sleep. This time, as I have already
said, the impression of my dream remained clear on my mind. Meanwhile I
heard the owls shrieking without in the wild forest; my female attendants
were fast asleep, and the sentinels snored at the entrance of the tent. At
these fearful moments I wished to lose my sense of the terror by which I
was surrounded in the protecting arms of sleep; but, scarcely had I closed
my eyes and begun to slumber, when the deadly pale visage of Astrid was
again close to mine; her voice again shrilled in mine ears, and these fearful
changes from sleep to waking, and from waking to sleep, were repeated,
till, unable to bear such torment any longer, I started from my couch, and
ran straightway towards the coffer in which I knew that the mirror was
deposited. All yet slept around me; the fires were extinguished, the moon
sunk, the night was dark and silent as the grave.
“At the well-known touch of my hands all the locks and bolts were at once
opened; the mirror was revealed, and shone brightly, with its own
supernatural light. I leaned it against the stem of an oak-tree, and, according
to the warning voice of my dream, demanded what had been the crimes of
Sir Hugur?
“What I then beheld I need not repeat to thee; thou know’st it already from
the lips of the wise armourer, Asmandur, who has described to thee the fate
of the beautiful Astrid, and even repeated the songs in which she took her
last farewell of the stern champion of the North.”
Hereupon, Sir Otto and Hildiridur both wept bitterly, and for a long while
they remained silent, and gazing on each other. At length the lady began to
speak as follows:—

“In the mirror I beheld also a beautiful boy, who is now changed into the
wild reckless Ottur, for he was the son of Sir Hugur and the beautiful
Astrid. That thy half-brother should resemble thee so nearly is not to be
thought mysterious; for scarcely could his mother and thine be
distinguished from each other. I was still weeping before the mirror,
because I beheld therein how the boy turned away in mingled wrath and
terror from his father, who, in the presence of the old knight, had dipped a
spear in my sister’s blood, when, lo! the stern Sir Hugur himself stood
suddenly behind me. The red light of the morning, which had just then
begun to break, shone on his visage, distorted by wrath, and in a thundering
voice he exclaimed, ‘Thou hast then given thyself up again to thy witchcraft
and incantations; but although thou hast forgotten thine obedience, I shall
not forget the vows that I have sworn. Prepare then for death!’ With these
words, he drew his sword, that gleamed like a flame in the morning light;
and that sword, dearest son, was the same which thou wearest at this
moment, and to which, as thou said’st, thou hast given the name of Ottur.”
Hereupon Sir Otto looked with aversion and terror on the weapon which he
had before held so dear; it seemed as if he would tear it from his side, and
cast it away; but then said Hildiridur, “Fear not, dear son; by that good
sword I have never been injured; although by my disobedience I had
deserved that my life should thereby have been taken away. For as I kneeled
on the ground, and even bared my bosom as a self-condemned criminal to
receive the blow, suddenly the heart of the stern Hugur was melted; and he
said, ‘Nay, Heaven forbid that thou should’st ever be wounded by my hand.
But I must separate myself from thee, for now thou hast discovered the
fearful crimes which I committed against thy sister, Astrid; nor have I
humility or fortitude enough (whichsoever it should be called) to beg thy
forgiveness. Nor, to say the truth, could I confide longer in one who is thus
given up to sorcery; therefore hasten thou from my sight, and never let us
meet again. But as for the boy, I must detain him with me, and will tell him
that thou art dead.’ To these commands I was forced to submit; but I
desisted not from entreaties, till I had been permitted to take leave of thee,
dearest Otto. The by-standers told thee that I was then dying; and, truly, I
must have seemed at last more like one of the dead than of the living; for,
quite overcome by my affliction at parting with thee, and my regret at the
disobedience of which I had so rashly been guilty, I sank back, fainting and
insensible, on the grassy turf.”

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

CHAPTER XXVII.
How Sir Otto broke the Mirror, and the Castle was consumed
by Fire.
After this time all the three knights came almost every evening to the
watch-tower of Hildiridur; and meanwhile the pagans never ventured any
new attack. Sir Otto had not met again with his half-brother, Ottur, whom
he would now have gladly seen; nor could the sea-monarch obtain any
intelligence of his cousin, Sir Kolbein. They could almost have wished that
Gerda’s enchantments had incited the people to some new conflict, in order
that they might have beheld again these two deluded and unfortunate
youths; but it seemed as if the fires both of love and hatred were now quite
extinguished among the inhabitants beyond the Finland frontiers.
Meanwhile the brave Swerker listened with deep attention to all the lessons
of Sir Otto; and after maintaining as well as he could the doctrines of Odin
and Valhalla, he became at last a sincere convert to the Christian faith,
confessing that this afforded the only path to happiness both for this world
and the next. Hereupon the knights consoled themselves for the loss of
Ottur and Sir Kolbein, and rejoiced that they had won at last one brave and
heroic heart for the true and only religion.
But, during this life of repose and peace, the recollection of his lost
Gabrielle had again awoke in Sir Otto’s heart; and as he concealed this grief
from his companions, and even from Hildiridur, it increased by degrees
every day, till with this also was joined bitter discontent and repining at the
misfortunes of his parents, by which his early life had been darkened, and
by which he believed that he had himself incurred distress, from which the
guidance of a loving mother might have protected him. Oftentimes he now
rode alone into the wide forest, far beyond the Finland boundaries, partly
because he was willing to brave every danger for the sake of meeting his
half-brother, Ottur, and partly driven on by his own restless thoughts; so
that he oftentimes arrived very late at the moonlighted castle of Hildiridur,
long after Sir Arinbiorn and Sir Heerdegen had taken their places at the
round marble table.

One evening, it happened that he had thus returned late from the forest, and
having rode very rapidly, his discontent, instead of being wearied out as
heretofore, preyed more fiercely than ever on his heart. Then, as he
ascended the staircase alone, and came along and angrily through the
vaulted passages into the apartment where the mirror hung, beneath its
dark-red curtain, the thought came on his mind with resistless force, that he
must this night destroy utterly and for ever, by one powerful blow, that
enchanted glass which had been the cause of so much misfortune. “Come
forth then, old comrade!” said he to his sword; “thou hast yet to compensate
for the fears which thou inspired’st in my mother’s heart, when thou wert
raised threateningly against her life in the forest. Now, then, fulfil my just
vengeance on this delusive and fatal mirror!” In the same moment the
sword gleamed in the youth’s hand; he struck with it vehemently against the
purple curtain, and after a few blows, the floor glittered all around him with
the wreck of the broken glass.
Now a fearful clap of thunder rolled over the castle, whereat its walls were
shaken as by an earthquake. From the vaulted dungeons beneath were heard
deep hollow groans, and over the roof wailing voices of terror and
lamentation. Pale and anxious, Hildiridur, Arinbiorn, and Heerdegen,
rushed into the apartment, where they found Sir Otto standing with his hair
dishevelled, and staring wildly at the fragments that lay around him. “That I
have broken the enchanted mirror,” said Sir Otto, pointing to the torn
curtain that now fluttered in the wind,—“of this I repent not; but rather
triumph over what I have done. Yet still the thought, that, perhaps at the
moment when by my hand it was thus shivered into pieces, the beautiful
image of Bertha floated thereon; and the sight that here distracts me, since
from every one of these glittering fragments her features are now
mournfully smiling upon me,—this indeed is cause for regret and
repentance! For God’s sake, dearest mother, tell me whether my fate even
now has not been like that of the stern Sir Hugur? Have I not indeed rashly
slain her who was dearer to me than all the world? And was it not with this
very sword (instead of a javelin, as I had been told) that he put to death the
beautiful Astrid?”
Sir Otto scarcely knew what he uttered, as the voices over the roof of the
castle became wilder and wilder. There was a noise, too, as if from the
fluttering of invisible wings through the chamber, and Hildiridur hid her

face in her long green veil. “Lose not a moment,” said she to Sir Heerdegen
and the sea-monarch, “but lead your brave comrade out of these now
ruinous chambers. If he be not immediately removed from hence, madness
will incurably settle on his brain.” The two knights immediately obeyed her
commands. They led, or rather forced by violence, the unfortunate Sir Otto
through the gallery and the winding staircase, the lady still bearing them
company. On arriving at the portal, they heard the thunder still rolling over
the castle, and the continued voices of lamentation. The faithful war-steeds
came up snorting and prancing in their terror; they mounted them
immediately, and rode away from the mysterious watch-tower.
Ere long they had arrived at a narrow, but pleasant valley, encircled by
thickets of alder and hazel, which now lay bathed in dew and sleeping in the
moonlight. Here they pulled up the reins, and tried to recover from their
distraction of spirit. Their horses too began to feed peaceably on the tall
grass and clover, though from a distance they still heard, borne on the night-
wind, the thunder and shrilling cries from the castle.
In the full clear light of the moon, Hildiridur now came up with them, threw
back the green veil from her features, and said, “We have fortunately
escaped from great and threatening danger, and for this you should humbly
give thanks to the Giver of all Good.” At these words they all kneeled down
upon the dewy grass, Sir Otto not excepted (for he had now become quite
calm), and prayed earnestly, though without audible words, till at length
Hildiridur rose, and turned solemnly towards the Knight of Trautwangen.
“Shall I reproach you,” said she; “or shall I not rather be thankful that you
have thus broken and destroyed my potent spells, and set me at variance for
ever with those spirits who have hitherto proved but deceitful and
treacherous servants? In truth, I do sincerely thank you, dearest Otto,”
added she, embracing him; “you have acted but from impulses the most
pure and virtuous; and if your mother is thereby rendered less powerful, yet
she becomes only more surely and devotedly your loving parent. As to my
powers, as an enchantress, they are now for ever at an end;—in order to
regain them, I would have to climb up with indescribable toil and labour to
a height whereon, but half an hour since, I stood quietly, wielding
unresisted sway.”
Hereupon Sir Otto and Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried both expressed their
contentment and joy; but the sea-monarch stood gloomy and lost in deep

thought. At last, “Who then,” said he, “may in times to come hope to wield
enchanted weapons against the golden-haired Gerda, with her fiery
serpents? As for the javelins of her fierce Finlanders, we value them not, for
we ourselves have swords and spears that are as powerful; but who will
now protect us from her horrid ghosts and apparitions, at which the stoutest
warrior feels his heart chilled within him?” “Be unconcerned,” answered
Hildiridur; “so much of supernatural knowledge still remains to me, that I
well know what has passed in Finland. The pagan rebels have submitted
peaceably to remain, defeated as they were, in their present state, while
Gerda, together with Ottur and Sir Kolbein, have, in their wild wrath, gone
forth across the seas, in order to war against the Christians in foreign lands.
You will find an embassy already despatched with this intelligence to your
camp; and a free choice is before you, whether you will go with me to the
ancient fortress of Trautwangen, whither I am attracted by an irresistible
longing, or pursue your way on farther campaigns through the world. But,
for the present, let us hasten on our flight farther from the watch-tower.
Methinks I already see the enraged spirits stretching out their fiery tongues
from every window and loop-hole.” Hereupon Sir Otto assisted Hildiridur
to take her place behind him on his faithful steed, which neighed as if in joy
and triumph, and henceforth moved along more softly and carefully than
was his wont through the rocky valleys. After they had gone about a mile
from the castle, a frightful thunderclap, with a burst of sulphureous flames,
announced to them its utter destruction.
When they drew near to the camp, Swerker came forward to meet them,
bearing a peace-embassy from the Finlanders. After a few short hours of
repose, the whole troop set out on their way, amid the long slanting gleams
of the morning sun, singing their choral anthems, that reverberated far and
wide amid the rocky mountains. Sir Otto had provided for Hildiridur a
handsome palfrey, and now rode with her in the van, carefully guiding her
horse with a leading rein; Montfaucon’s noble falcon perched on his left
hand, and attended by Sir Arinbiorn and Sir Heerdegen, one on each side.
“For some time at least we shall all remain together,” said the sea-monarch;
and a discourse was begun touching their future prospects, when Heerdegen
added thereto,—“Ay, surely;—for my own part at least, I think to go
through Germany into France, in order to bring home from thence my sister
Bertha.” At these words a deep blush came over Sir Otto’s cheeks; “I would
beg you to salute her for me,” said he; “but, alas! I am unworthy of her

remembrance.” Thereupon Sir Heerdegen, silently indeed, but kindly, gave
him his hand, and at that moment a gleam of the morning sunlight broke
from a cloud so beautifully over the fresh and fragrant landscape, that it
seemed to every heart like a promise of the happiness and blessings that
were yet in store for them.
END OF VOL. II.
PRINTED BY OLIVER & BOYD.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
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