The magic ring_ Vol. 3 (of 3) Freiherr de Friedrich Heinrich Karl La Motte-Fouqué 25981 downloads.pdf

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The magic ring, Vol. 3 (of 3)
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

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

Author: Freiherr de Friedrich Heinrich Karl La Motte-Fouqué

Translator: R. P. Gillies

Release date: October 20, 2025 [eBook #77099]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1825

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77099

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
Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGIC
RING, VOL. 3 (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. III.

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

1825.

THE

MAGIC RING.
VOL. III.

CHAPTER I.
How the Moor Alhafiz came for the Lady Bertha.
It was late in the evening, at the castle of the Lady Gabrielle in Gascony,
when Bertha von Lichtenried sat, studiously, with a large book open on a
reading-desk before her. The book contained the history of pious saints and
canonized martyrs; and she could devote her attention thereto the more
uninterruptedly, as, with the exception of a few servants, she was now left
quite alone in the castle, having through many days looked in vain for the
return of Sir Folko and the two damsels. It seemed as if departing summer
had taken her last farewell; and this farewell was uttered in fearful claps of
thunder, while the ocean mirrored on its vasty depths the frequent bursts of
lightning. A heavy shower also beat upon the garden-terrace, and
meanwhile the warder failed not to ring with great perseverance the
consecrated bell, whose notes were to protect the castle from all injury. He
was answered, too, by the church-bells of all the neighbouring towns and
villages, so that it seemed as if the reverberations from the clouds had been
met and changed on earth into pious and pleasant harmony. Threefold,
therefore, was the piety of the Lady Bertha strengthened and increased;
first, by the thunder’s mighty voice above; then by the musical notes of the
church-bells; lastly, by the pious legends which she then read in her
favourite volumes.
So it happened at this time that there came into her chamber an old Moorish
woman, a servant at the castle, with an uncouth and swarth visage, for she
was a native of Africa, though now converted to the Christian faith, and
accustomed to the manners of life in Europe. By her dress and conduct one
would have thought that she was an ordinary Suabian peasant, had it not
been, that her dark complexion and strange features betrayed her eastern
origin.
“What news bring’st thou, Zulma?” said the lady. To which the old Moor
answered, “Nothing, forsooth, but an earnest entreaty which I must
especially address to the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried. On the plain here,
not far from the castle, there is a strange man, a Moorish soldier, who lies

mortally wounded. I know not if he has been attacked by banditti, or
overthrown in single combat. He wishes to obtain a blessing ere he dies,
according to the forms of the Catholic church; but this he will not receive
from any one but you; for the Lady Bertha of Lichtenried has been
renowned and praised, far and near, ever since that evening, when, by
clinging to the cross, and waving her hand, she was able to repulse and
drive away a bold-hearted and wicked comrade of the Prince Mutza. It is
not far from that old cross that I found the wounded Moor, as I returned
home from the sheepfold.”
“Call the chaplain then, that he may go with me,” said Bertha, hastily
searching for her veil and mantle; “order some squires also to attend on us,
and to render assistance to the poor man.”
“The chaplain,” answered Zulma, “is already gone to bed, and the squires
are snoring in the stables. Before we could rouse them, and they were ready
to go with us, the unfortunate Moor would have breathed his last. What if
he should thus depart without consolation, and without the blessings of our
holy religion, after which he so earnestly longs?—But you, noble lady, must
know the consequences far better than I can describe them.”
“How comes it, Zulma,” said the Lady of Lichtenried, “that you know so
well how to bestow just reproaches on my slowness and over-caution?—
Doubtless what you have said is just and true. When we are called on to
fulfil our duties to God, we must not tarry nor look round for assistance and
protection. Let us then go forth straightway to the wounded man. Good
Heaven!—how much have the monks and nuns achieved, of whose lives I
was just now reading the pleasant history! and should I then doubt whether
I might go forth alone to the cross on the sea-shore?—Let us hasten, good
Zulma; for the poor dying man must long grievously for our coming.”
Having thrown about her a large mantle, as a defence against the rain, she
stepped hastily with the Moorish servant down stairs to a private portal, and
taking a lamp from the wall to guide them on their way, they walked boldly
forth amid the tempest.
Zulma knew the road towards the cross better than the Lady of Lichtenried
had expected from such a new convert. She stepped so hastily through the
darkness, that Bertha was scarcely able to keep pace with her, admiring all
the while the zeal that she displayed for the soul’s weal of the unfortunate

Moor. Over hills covered with brush-wood, and through pathless valleys,
they pursued their way; and when Bertha inquired why they had come
through such lonely places, the answer was,—“Because that was the
straightest road. And this you may trust to a native African; for among our
sandy deserts, where a well-beaten track may in a moment be effaced by a
gust of wind, we learn to find our way by other means.”—So indeed it
happened, that as often as a gleam of lightning revealed a rocky cliff, a
cottage, or a large tree, Zulma seemed to move on with new confidence; but
ere long Bertha perceived that she had more certain means of guiding her
course through the darkness. She began at intervals to utter a hateful
shrilling sound, like the blending of a whistle and a scream, and she was
answered by a voice like her own, that seemed to determine her progress. At
this Bertha many times started; and Zulma, observing her fears, said,
—“Truly such notes are unpleasant; but, nevertheless, they serve to guide
us on our way to the suffering man. It is well that he has learned this
Moorish art of making signals, although he belongs not to our tribe of
black-visaged Africans, but is rather a comely young Arabian.”
As she thus spoke, a sudden flash of lightning broke forth over the cross, to
which they were now drawing very near; and at the same moment they
could perceive a man in a Moorish dress, who was endeavouring to raise
himself from the ground, by leaning on its rocky pedestal. Bertha
immediately hastened up to him.—“Thank Heaven!” cried she, “that we
find you still alive. I am Bertha von Lichtenried, whom you have so
earnestly desired to see, and I come to offer you the consolations of our
holy church.”
But what was her surprise, when the man (who, as she believed, had been
mortally wounded), suddenly leaped up, clasped her wildly in his arms, and,
while the same shrilling signals which she had before heard from a distance
now vibrated in her ears, all the desolate thickets of the forest seemed at
once to start into life, and a troop of Moorish warriors formed themselves
into a circle round the cross. Meanwhile Zulma laughed aloud.—“Have we
caught thee at last,” cried she, “thou rarest and shyest of birds?—Methinks
thou wilt not again escape from us!”—The Lady Bertha, however, with a
vehemence and strength which the Moor little expected, forced herself out
of his embrace, and fled, as she had before done (when Gabrielle and
Blanchefleur were carried away), to the cross, climbing up the high rocky

pedestal on which it was placed, and clinging to the pillar of this holy
emblem. It was indeed moving and wonderful, to behold how that innocent
damsel stood there on high, with the light of the lamp on her graceful form,
and contrasting in her beauty like a visitant from heaven with the crowd of
hateful figures that now moved around her. Zulma, meanwhile, had folded
her veil into the shape of a turban round her swarthy visage, and said,
—“Now I am again like myself. Did you indeed believe, lady, that I was
contented with the life that I have dragged on here among the Christians?—
You must now go with us to Carthagena, and will there learn more of this
world’s happiness, than in your whole simple life till now you could even
have dreamed.”
With contempt and disgust Bertha turned from her, and in a firm voice
addressed herself to the Moorish chief, calling on him to remember his own
honour as a knight and soldier, and not to debase himself by joining with a
mean and lying slave, in order to force from her home a virtuous damsel of
noble birth. The reckless libertine, however, answered her with scornful
laughter, and then said,—“For this time your old stratagems, your saintly
gestures, and severe looks, may not avail; for now, lady, you have no
sighing lover before you (like my countryman, who was so easily repulsed),
but the wise Alhafiz, who is here to fulfil the commands of Nurreddin, the
grand emir, and will without fail bear you to his master’s arms in
Carthagena.”
“Let no one approach me who values his own life!” exclaimed Bertha; “I
know not indeed whence I obtain this knowledge, but feel that I but speak
the truth, as it happened before, when I warned the companion of Prince
Mutza. Whoever dares to tear me from the cross, will for that crime forfeit
his own life; therefore beware!”—Alhafiz laughed, and stepped boldly
towards her; but, at that moment, behold! a broad flash of lightning
illuminated all the southern sky, and a clap of thunder broke, as it seemed,
right over his head. Hereupon the Moor and his rabble route (the vile Zulma
among the rest) were dazzled and confounded, so that they all sank kneeling
on the ground.—“The voice of God has now spoken against you,” said
Bertha; “and this warning is indeed the last favour that you will receive
from Heaven, should you not give up your wicked designs. Be wise then,
and return to your ships.”—At these words it seemed as if the multitude of
swarthy Moors seemed inclined to disperse; even Alhafiz himself had

become silent and irresolute,—turning away from the disdainful glances
which the damsel threw upon him. Suddenly, however, the hateful Zulma
started up, and called aloud,—“Hast thou forgotten, Alhafiz, the promised
third of all Nurreddin’s treasures?—That must not be lost to thee, nor shall I
forfeit the eighth share, which by contract was to have been mine!”—Then,
with tiger-like swiftness and rage, she flew up to the rocky pedestal, forced
the light out of Bertha’s hand, and screamed aloud,—“Thus, you will be
dazzled no longer by the sight of this deceitful enchantress. Take her, then,
and bear her from hence!”—In the same moment, Alhafiz had come up,
and, without farther hesitation, clasped the unfortunate damsel in his arms,
and bore her rapidly towards the bay, where his bark was in waiting, his
attendants all the while shouting and rejoicing as if for a great victory.
Thereafter the skies became wholly dark; no gleams of lightning broke forth
on the horizon; they arrived on the shore, and embarked amid this gloom,
and, under the same mournful influence, sailed out into the wide desolate
sea.

CHAPTER II.
How Blanchefleur and Gabrielle were rescued from their
captivity.
Before the adventure which we have now related had come to pass, many
strange occurrences had happened in Carthagena. On the evening of that
day when Sir Folko de Montfaucon had been carried as a dead man into the
royal cemetery, behold! there came some one late in the night, disguised in
such manner that the sentinels could not distinguish his features; but they
heard him strike three times as with an iron-glove, or somewhat else that
rung and rattled in his hand, against the iron trellis-work by which the vault
was secured. On hearing that sound, they thought of rushing from their
posts, and demanding of the stranger what was his purpose there at such an
hour; but in the same moment weariness and sleep fell heavily upon them,
so that, one by one, they dropped down powerless, and as if fainting and
insensible, on the ground.
Meanwhile the disguised man continued to ring and rattle against the iron-
bars, till at length there was a strange noise of heaving and struggling
within the vault, as if the dead were starting into life. This was indeed Sir
Folko de Montfaucon, who now raised himself from amid the bloody
clothes in which he had been wrapt, and said in a strange hoarse voice,
“Good Heaven, how cold and dark is this bed!” Then, after a pause of
recollection, he began again, “Or if I am really among the dead, how comes
it that I yet feel such burning and feverish pain? And wherefore am I not
relieved from this earthly prison, and floating through the wide realms of
the blue sky?” “Sir knight,” said the disguised man without, “you are
indeed alive, only you are not yet recovered from your fever and your
wounds. Only be of good courage, and beware of falling into dreams. I shall
be with you anon, and will make you sound and well.” Thereafter, as the
strange man continued to beat upon the iron-bars, the Chevalier de
Montfaucon felt his senses more and more bewildered, and saw the
strangest phantoms floating around him. He felt indeed as one who
struggles with sleep and frightful visions, and could have fallen once more

into death-like slumbers, had not the mysterious stranger ever and anon
repeated in a loud voice the same words,—“Beware of dreams, Knight of
Montfaucon! Beware of dreams!”
At last the iron-wickets no longer resisted; slowly and solemnly they rolled
asunder, and the disguised man stept into the house of death. “My wounds
are become cold,” said the chevalier, shivering with fever, “and yet are very
painful” “Ere long you shall be better,” said the stranger, who thereupon
drawing forth a light that he had in a dark-lantern under his cloak, began to
examine the wounds, and poured into them a healing balsam from a vial
that he had brought with him. Moreover, he gently touched and rubbed
them with a glittering gem in the fashion of a ring; and while the Knight of
Montfaucon felt his pains appeased as by the resistless spells of
enchantment, and new strength poured through every limb, he recognised
the ring to be the long-contested property of Gabrielle; and in his kind
physician beheld the merchant, Theobaldo.
“Now, you perceive,” said the latter, “how much more fitting it was that the
ring should be in my hands than in those of the lady. You looked on it as
indifferently as if it were but a part of your apparel as a knight, even like a
brooch for your helmet-plume, or a bright jewel on your sword-hilt; while
Gabrielle only dallied therewith as young damsels are wont to do with
glittering toys. There was need of a wise merchant like Theobaldo, to find
out the hidden virtues of the ring, in order that he might therewith assist
both ladies and knights in the hour of distress. Are you now then
sufficiently awake and refreshed? Then come with me to the palace of the
grand emir. He has taken under his protection the two beautiful damsels;
but, forsooth, he will not long have that trouble on his shoulders, for they
shall go hence with us. Don Hernandez is on the watch with his ships in the
harbour, and a boat is in waiting to take us on board.” Up started the
chevalier, shaking off the last remains of his weakness and weariness, and
seized boldly on his crooked Persian sword. Perceiving how it was stained
with blood, he sighed and said to the merchant, “Is Vinciguerra then still
alive?” “Ay,” said Theobaldo, “he also has been healed through my
assistance. He has fallen into such bad humour, however, at his own evil
fortune in that encounter, that he has already gone down alone to the sea-
shore, and will not, unless by compulsion, permit himself to be looked upon
by you, nor by the ladies.” Thereupon the merchant laughed heartily, and

holding up the lantern to his own face, cut some hideous grimaces, in
mockery of the proud Count de Vinciguerra, thinking therewith to entertain
the chevalier. “Remember, thou strange man,” said Sir Folko, “that we stand
here among the dead. But for Mutza, that perjured and lying robber, has he
too been called to life again by your art?” “Heaven forbid,” said Theobaldo,
“that I should be guilty of such wickedness and folly. Besides, had it been
my wish to have done so, that would have been more than the ring would
have placed within my power. The blow of your battle-axe has struck him
too deeply and effectually. He also has been carried off in his turn, and
doubtless by assailants yet fiercer and blacker than his own Moors.” “Nay,
do not judge him, he is in the hands of God,” said Sir Folko, stepping
solemnly out of the vault; “and lead me quickly from hence, that we may
secure Gabrielle and Blanchefleur.” So Theobaldo walked away with the
chevalier, shaking his head after a strange fashion, as if in disapprobation
and scorn of what had been said, and yet not venturing any more to clothe
his thoughts in audible words.
In a dim and solitary valley, not far from the town, lay the palace of the
powerful emir Nurreddin. As they approached near the gates, they heard
within the court a growling and roaring of some wild beast, whose
thundering voice was such as in all their lives they had never known before.
“The voice,” said Theobaldo, “is that of a monstrous tiger brought hither
from Asia. The emir is pleased to lead about this wild beast with him
wherever he goes, and by night he is always chained as a guard on the
threshold.” Hearing these words, the Knight of Montfaucon straightway
drew his Persian sabre, swung it several times over his head, so that it
whistled in the wind, and then began to feel the edge with his fingers, to
prove whether it were yet sharp enough for the encounter which he now
meditated. “Nay,” said Theobaldo, “methinks you will not use that weapon
against the tiger. Keep it rather for some other assailant, for chances may
fall out against us of which we know not yet; although methinks we need
not doubt of success in the end.” At the same time he drew from his girdle
an arrow with a glittering metal point, and began to beat thereon with the
ring; whereupon there arose gentle and melodious sounds, that gradually
increased both in strength and sweetness, till it seemed as if the whole air
was filled with music that floated far and wide, and then died away in
remote echoes. After Theobaldo had several times repeated the same notes,
the growling of the tiger became interrupted and less fierce, till at length he

was altogether silent. “The monster sleeps,” said Theobaldo; “however I
must continue the same music, both that he may not awake, and that I may
close the eyes of other watchers in the castle. Should it happen, however,
that you also should feel slumber stealing upon you, make but the sign of
the cross on your forehead, and the charm then will lose its strength.” Sir
Folko, who in truth had become drowsy, did as the merchant commanded;
and both went on towards the lofty castle.
The tiger had stretched himself out at its whole length across the threshold
of the outward portal; so that, when the door opened behind him on being
touched with the ring, the two warriors were obliged to pass over him.
Thereupon a gleam of the lamp which Theobaldo carried fell on the wild
grinning visage of the beast; he looked like some frightful giant, whom they
had slain, and who lay beneath their feet in the battle-field. In all haste they
fled from such a horrid sight.
Having passed through the gate, they advanced along a steep and paved
walk which led into the castle. On each side of this walk there were thick
hedges of blooming rose-trees, by which they were hemmed in, and could
not turn to the right or left; but, moreover, they had to pass through several
iron-wickets, which were all guarded by Moorish sentinels. The Moors,
however, immediately fell asleep when they heard the first sounds of the
musical ring; and when the iron-gates were touched by it, they opened
slowly, turning without noise on their hinges. So the knight and the
merchant arrived unobserved into the very keep of the fortress; but though
there were here many gold and silver-lamps burning on the stairs and
windows, Theobaldo shook his head, and was uncertain what he ought to
do, in order, amid such a labyrinth, to discover the room in which
Blanchefleur and Gabrielle were now gone to rest. Ere they came into the
castle, however, the merchant had pointed out the windows of the room
which he believed had been assigned to the Christian damsels; and Sir
Folko now looked about him with sharp eagle-eyes, even as he would have
done in the field of battle, till he was convinced what course he should
pursue. At length he said calmly and resolutely, “Come let us mount up that
marble staircase, Theobaldo; we shall infallibly come by that track to the
pole-stars of this landward voyage.” The merchant followed obediently the
command of De Montfaucon; and the latter passed without hesitation
through the corridor above, till he arrived at a door hung over with a rich

embroidered curtain, which they were of opinion must be that of the ladies’
apartment. He tapped lightly on the silver lock of the door; then, hearing no
noise within, he spoke in a low whispering voice through the keyhole,
—“Blanchefleur, Blanchefleur, open the door; your brother Folko is here in
the gallery, and has come to rescue thee and Gabrielle.” “Speak rather
louder,” said Theobaldo; “for the music of the ring has doubtless sealed up
their eyes in deep sleep.” Sir Folko repeated his words more audibly;
whereupon a faint cry of terror, as from the female voices, was heard within
the room, and thereafter all was again still. “What foolish pranks have we
set on foot here,” said Theobaldo in a tone of vexation; “we never once
remembered that they looked on you as dead; and so must believe the voice
that they have heard to be that of your ghost, come only to terrify them in
the dark night. What is to be done? We can open the door by means of the
ring; but, should they behold you actually in the room, they will doubtless
scream so loudly, that, in spite of all the charms in the world, the whole
emir’s castle will be roused. And suppose we found them senseless, and in a
swoon of fear, how could we carry them to the shore, since we must hold
ourselves prepared every moment against a sudden attack?” While they thus
stood considering, the key was gently turned in the lock, the door was
cautiously opened, and, lo! there stood before them Blanchefleur and
Gabrielle, with lights in their hands, pale with terror, and in long white
dresses, like two beautiful apparitions from the world of spirits. “We know
but too well, dearest brother,” said Blanchefleur, “that you died yesterday of
your fearful wounds. Therefore, you would not have come again, only to
tell us these sad tidings; but your voice, methought, spoke of our being
rescued. Then, if violence and dishonour here await us, we are ready to
follow you, even into the grave.” Thereupon, their tender and lovely frames
trembled with fear, and their voices faltered; but not the less did a spirit of
unchangeable resolution prevail in their looks; and before Sir Folko had
time to answer, the Lady Gabrielle addressed him:—“Since in the other
world, oh, deeply honoured spirit! all may be better known to thee than
heretofore, I need not say now how truly I did love thee, though, whilst thou
wert among us here, no one ever heard that confession from my lips. But
command now your servant, oh, brave and noble hero! for she is willing to
follow thee, even to death.”
So Sir Folko kneeled humbly, and, blushing in his great joy before her, said,
“Still I am alive, divine Gabrielle; my soul inhabits yet its mortal frame;

but, nevertheless, your angelic words have placed me even in this world
among the number of the blessed.”
Blushing deeply, Gabrielle drew back, ashamed and terrified to think of the
confession that she had so rashly made, in the presence too of Theobaldo,
whom she now for the first time observed. Yet her heart heaved high with
delight to think that her favourite knight was thus restored to her, and
meanwhile Blanchefleur lay weeping with joy in her brother’s arms.
“It is now high time,” said Theobaldo, breaking in like an unwelcome
watcher on this scene of happiness and affection; but thereupon Sir Folko
started, as if from a dream, and offered his right arm to Gabrielle, and his
left to Blanchefleur. They obeyed the signal without a word, while
Theobaldo stepped rapidly on before them. Fearing that some unforeseen
accident might awake the guards from their enchanted sleep, the merchant
was in great anxiety to get out of the palace; but all remained quiet and
motionless. Even the tiger at the gate was stretched out, as before, in his
deep slumbers; but the two damsels were terrified, and would not be
persuaded to step over. “Cut him deeply with your sword across the neck,”
said Theobaldo to the knight, “otherwise these ladies will never accept of
that liberty which we have placed within their power.” De Montfaucon
stood irresolute. “I know not how it happens,” said he, “but I cannot take
advantage of him when he is thus asleep.” “Truly,” said Theobaldo with a
scornful smile, “I believe you will at last extend the laws of chivalry and
honour even to tigers and such like irrational brutes.” “Laugh as much as
you will,” answered Sir Folko, “you are at liberty to judge as you think fit
of my conduct; but something always comes in my way when I would lift
my sword against that snoring monster. Besides there is yet another way.”
With these words he took up Gabrielle in his arms, and bore her lightly and
gracefully across; then came back, and did the same for Blanchefleur, while
Theobaldo stepped on, shrugging his shoulders, and shaking his head as he
was wont to do when he would express impatience or disdain. Scarcely,
however, had Sir Folko set down his sister safely on the ground, when the
tiger started up with a hideous growl, and instantly fixed his long teeth in
the garments of the knight. “Ha!” cried he, drawing his Persian sabre,
“since thou art awake at last, and willing for the combat, I shall not fail to
meet thee. To the shore, to the shore, Theobaldo! march on with the two
ladies, for I shall soon have done with this adventure.” Accordingly, the

merchant had only advanced but a few paces on his way, when the chevalier
followed him with his sabre still reeking with blood, and relieved him from
his post between the two damsels. Without being attacked or interrupted
they arrived at the sea-shore, where they found the boat that was to bring
them to the vessel of Don Hernandez, embarked safely, and ere long sailed
out of the harbour. Among the party there assembled, they found the Count
Alessandro de Vinciguerra; but so wrathful and discontented, that he would
scarcely allow himself to be looked on or spoken with; whereupon, said the
Knight of Montfaucon, “Truly I am grieved, my lord count, that you should
thus continue to reflect bitterly on a combat which was fairly fought out
betwixt us, and should now be forgotten. But if in such case you cannot
compose your own temper, this is indeed a duty in which no one else can
render you any assistance.” With the more satisfaction, therefore, he turned
his attention to the Spanish knight, Hernandez, who welcomed the ladies on
board of his vessel with grave politeness and the most obsequious attention.
On the following morning, when the emir learned that the ladies had
escaped, and that his four-footed sentinel had been found lifeless, he said,
“Since the tiger has been thus put to death, I doubt not that the brave
Chevalier de Montfaucon has arisen from the tomb in which we laid him,
and that he himself has carried away these damsels. They will indeed be
well protected under the care of such a hero. Let no one then attempt to
pursue them, though, it is true, had such a gem as Bertha von Lichtenried
been of the party, my resolutions might have been different from what they
now are.”

CHAPTER III.
How the grand emir rewarded the cunning Alhafiz.
Thereafter it seemed as if the spirit of warfare and enterprise possessed
more than ever the mind of the grand emir Nurreddin. A fleet of ships was
got in readiness, troops were inlisted, arms and provisions collected; though
no one could even guess for what purpose he made all these preparations.
That some grand object was in view the lookers-on could have no doubt; for
it never had been known of the emir, that a slight or unworthy cause had
brought him into the battle-field.
Late one evening, after a day spent in toil and tumult, Nurreddin was seated
on a richly-embroidered couch in his great hall, with a lute on his arm, on
which he awoke strange and fitful music, now touching the strings with a
light hand like some fond lover, anon almost tearing them asunder, as if in
wrathful vehemence. His slaves thought that he was now reposing and
diverting himself after the fatigues of the day; but, whoever had marked his
fiercely rolling eyes, quivering lips, and the wild alternations of his music,
must have perceived, that with this seeming repose had begun indeed the
sternest of his conflicts, for he was now at war, not with others, but with
himself; and it was at such times only that Nurreddin had ever been known
to tremble.
While he was thus engaged, lo! there came into the room a tall stately
warrior, with a long grizzly beard and gleaming eyes, who was named
Abdallah. While he solemnly and slowly delivered the message with which
he came, the emir kept his eyes fixed on him; but all the while continued to
tear at the strings, till at last some of them snapped asunder, with a long
mournful intonation. In a rage, Nurreddin dashed the instrument against a
marble pillar. “It is thine own fault,” cried he, “thou senseless harp, because
thou hast not understood me.” Then, making a sign, that the attending
slaves should withdraw, and that the soldier should sit near him, he began to
speak as follows:—
“Abdallah, my heart feels as if torn asunder, because I cannot find occasion
to express, after my own manner, what now labours therein, and before a

listener who can understand my words, reflecting in his own heart that
which directly came from mine. I do not forget that such emotions make
themselves best known by outward deeds; but these require time ere they
can come to light; and if one could now and then interchange words, it
might be possible to arrive at more glorious achievements than any which,
by mere silent thoughts, we should be able to conceive.”
“The words of an eloquent man,” said Abdallah, “have been compared to
winged arrows penetrating the heart of the listener; and, methinks, true
eloquence is like a tree, which not only sends forth its fruits or blossoms on
high, but also throws them back again to the maternal soil; that is, to the
bosom which gave them birth.”
“Rightly spoken, Abdallah,” said the emir; “I believe that we shall
understand each other. In earlier years I have indeed earnestly sought, amid
the seductive pleasure-gardens and forests of this world, for a noble tree
that would offer to me such long-wished-for fruits, but in vain!—Truly, if I
but threw a random-spark on their branches, they would crackle and hiss in
the wind; but the true graft of a fruit-bearing tree,—or, to speak more
plainly, the true spirit that makes a man that which he ought to be, and able
to interchange thoughts with a brave champion, was either not to be found,
or yet unripe!—They were all delighted for the most part to be noticed by
the grand emir Nurreddin, and to have it to say,—‘To-day I spoke with him
for a whole hour. Did’st thou mark how we were walking together?’—But
for the rest they troubled themselves little enough about the matter.”
“With submission,” answered Abdallah, “when your highness admitted such
men to your presence, it was your part then to teach them what they should
say and do, even as an old eagle instructs his young brood.”
“No, no!” cried the emir impatiently; “I would insist that the men with
whom I speak should feel with me that which cannot be taught; should
know themselves for what they are; that is to say, as consecrated firebrands
in the hands of their prince. Abdallah, should it not be so?”
The soldier spoke not, but looked at the emir silently, and shaking his head,
while with still greater vehemence and impatience Nurreddin resumed,—
“Abdallah, thou hast lived, no doubt, twenty years longer in the world than
I have done. What I now learn, being a man past middle age, and beginning

to turn old, must have been to thee long since clear and well understood.
Dost thou not perceive, in the wars which every year increase,—in the
countless battles among Mussulmans, Heathens, and Christians, that God
and our holy prophet have decreed, that the whole vault of heaven is to be
converted into a fiery furnace, wherein the nations of the earth are to be
melted like ore in the hands of the refiner?—Truly almost every nation has
in itself life and spirit; but should not we, who are the noblest among them,
feel that we are chosen to feed the flames; for, should the work advance so
slowly as it now seems to do, all will perish in smoke; nor will the great
Alchemist find at last aught but a mass of lifeless dross instead of pure
metal remaining.”
“Prince!” said Abdallah confounded, “methinks you would banish peace
from this whole earth, and with it all national laws and rights. What then
would be left to us?”
“Rights of man!—rights of chivalry!—rights of women!” cried the emir
with vehemence. “Each one should be held by his neighbour in due respect,
and the masses should be mixed and shaken together, till they are fully
melted, and thereafter assume of themselves finer forms than before.”
“But, may it please your highness,” said Abdallah, “who has revealed to
you this mystery? or by whom have you been chosen for such a duty as that
which you would now take upon your shoulders?”
“Are not the flames that burn here,” said the emir, beating on his breast,
“enough to inform me, that I am chosen to assist like a firebrand in this
mighty work?”—Suddenly pausing, however, he fixed a long, steadfast
look on Abdallah, then added,—“Thou truly art no firebrand; neither heat
nor light will come from thy heart; so let us talk no more of such matters,
but get thee gone.”
Abdallah rose proudly from the sofa, and bowed in order to take leave.
Then Nurreddin held out his hand kindly to the old man, and said,—“Well,
though thou art not a flaming firebrand, yet art thou not the less a brave
soldier. I shall not deal with thee as I have done with the broken lute that
lies yonder; nor indeed had it been so treated, had it been fit for any other
service,—even, for example, as a shield. But a mere lute must answer to our
thoughts or be destroyed. For the rest, old man, it is better that thou
should’st forget what I have said; or think, if thou wilt, that I have for once

broken the laws of our prophet, and confused my senses with wine. Good
night.”—Thereupon the soldier retreated, and the emir threw himself back
on the couch, grinning with wrath and vexation.
He had not long been left thus alone, when there arose a great noise of
music, clarionets, and cymbals, as if for some grand rejoicing, which rang
and echoed through the castle. The emir started up in a rage, and called for
his slaves.
“Who dares to begin that music,” cried he, “when your prince is alone and
thoughtful? Is this a time to fill the palace with your senseless tumult and
rejoicing?”—The slaves fell with their faces on the ground, and said, “Let
not the anger of our sovereign lord and prince fall upon us; for, if a fault has
been committed, the blame rests wholly on Alhafiz. He has just now arrived
with his galley in the harbour, and has brought a veiled lady into the palace,
telling every one that she was the long-wished-for damsel, whom the grand
emir valued more than all the diamonds and pearls of the East. Hereupon
we shouted for joy, and the music played to welcome her arrival.”
“If this indeed be true,” said Nurreddin, “then for the future Alhafiz shall be
clad in cloth of gold and purple; nor shall he only possess the third of my
treasures which was promised him, but shall sit at my left hand at the
banquet-table, and ride next me in the battle-field. Should he not, however,
have brought that inestimable gem, but come hither to disturb my repose by
lying boasts, there shall be no want of wild beasts to tear him limb from
limb, and scatter his bones to the four winds of heaven!”
Ere the prince ended his speech, lo! the cedar-wood door turned slowly on
its silver hinges, and there came into the hall a tall female figure simply
attired, with a long veil; on her left hand a frightful Moorish woman, and on
her right the grinning Alhafiz. “Here, great prince,” said Alhafiz, “I have
come to fulfil my promise; the damsel is yours, and the black slave was my
best assistant. I recommend her to your favour, and hope also that you will
now as faithfully remember your engagements to me.” The emir made him
a signal to be silent. “Thou hast an untuneable voice, Alhafiz,” said he, “and
thy unmannerly demands on me prove the meanness of thine own spirit.
Disturb me not then in these moments, which are to me sacred and solemn:
thou hast indeed fulfilled more than I had believed to be possible, and more
than I can yet well understand. Know then that thou shalt not be the first

man, to whom, through his whole life, Nurreddin has remained a debtor.”
Hereupon Alhafiz and the black slave nodded triumphantly to each other,
while the prince rose from his couch, came respectfully towards the damsel,
and said, “I feel in mine inmost heart, noble lady, that Alhafiz has not
deceived me, and that you are that unequalled gem and paragon of beauty
after whom I have so long and ardently longed. Now then I appeal to your
benign goodness. Do not let me be withheld longer from the sight of a
countenance which doubtless is the most beautiful that in this world has
ever been beheld.” “Your flatteries,” answered the damsel, “would never
have lifted up the veil which I now wear; but since Heaven has permitted
that I should thus fall into your power, and because it is not forbidden to a
Christian maiden that she should walk forth without a mask or veil before
all the world, so I shall act according to the prince’s commands.”
Hereupon her veil was rolled back. In the quiet majesty of her loveliness,
Bertha von Lichtenried looked on the astonished emir, fixing on him her
large blue eyes, shadowed by their dark frowning brows. Her smooth brown
hair was parted on the forehead; quiet and collected she stood there, not
indeed overpowering by her charms at first sight, but every moment
entwining round the heart, bonds of chaste and respectful admiration.
For a long space they were both silent, the damsel, in the consciousness of
her own virtuous dignity, and the emir in self-humiliation, because he now
found that his usual pride and dictatorial spirit were overcome. “Noblest of
damsels,” said he at length, “wherefore have you spoken of a prince or his
commands, as if violence and constraint would here be laid upon you? I
trust indeed, that no one has ever been so insolent as to force you to aught
that was contrary to your own wishes, at least not in my name. That Moor,
who now stands by the door, happened to overhear what I once said;
namely, that I would give the third part of my worldly fortune to any one
who would bring you hither, beautiful and innocent as you had been left by
the Prince Mutza. But, by Heaven, your honour and dignity are dear to me,
even more than my own; and I trust you have been induced to cross the
seas, not by violence, but by eloquent and ingenious persuasions, or by the
sweet spells that animate our Moorish love-songs.”
“I know not,” said Bertha, “what thou meanest by persuasions or love-
songs; but your ambassador there, with his blackamoor band, forced me
away from the blessed image of the cross on the shore of Gascony, to which

I had clung for protection. The black slave who is here present was my
servant, and betrayed me into his power.”
“So then!”—answered the emir, while his brows contracted, and every limb
seemed quivering with rage, walking straightway towards a corner of the
hall, where all sorts of weapons were hung in readiness. “Prince,” cried
Alhafiz, his voice trembling with fear, “have I not brought to you the
damsel, safe and sound in her beauty and innocence, as she was left by the
Prince Mutza?”
“How darest thou say that she has been brought hither safe and sound?”
said the emir in a voice of thunder; “and could’st thou look upon a form so
angelic as this, and yet think of using violence? But be silent, wretches, in
her honoured presence, and ere long you shall be silenced for ever.”
With these words he had drawn out two sharp javelins from among the
trophies on the wall, and in a moment he had hurled them severally at
Alhafiz and the black woman with such frightful certainty of aim, that, ere
the eye could trace the weapons in their flight, his two victims were struck
to the heart, and fell to the ground almost without even one shriek of
anguish.
“Away with them!” cried the emir; “a doctor learned in the law shall come
hither, and shall divide all my wealth fairly and equally into three parts.
When the written deeds are completed, then the next heir of Alhafiz shall
appear before me, that he may receive that portion which belongs to him.
Henceforward no one shall again dare to speak of my promise, nor of the
manner in which it has been fulfilled.” Thereafter the slaves covered up the
dead bodies, and bore them away. Bertha meanwhile looked at them
mournfully, and said, “Unfortunate victims! I well knew that your crime
would be fearfully punished on your own heads; I warned you of this, and
wherefore would you not desist? May Heaven have mercy on your souls!”
Turning then to Nurreddin, she added, “What I should think of thee, I know
not yet! Wert thou indeed chosen here for a supreme and righteous judge?”
“Truly, methinks, I have been so chosen, noble lady,” answered the emir;
“but enough of this. For the present, may it please you to repose yourself
after your voyage? I would beg of you to lay aside all fear so long as you
are under my roof; for to you these apprehensions, by which other young
damsels might be assailed, are indeed unknown. It seems rather as if angels

always hovered around you with their protecting wings, as if within the
hallowed circle of your innocence such thoughts dared not enter as those by
which other minds are in this world possessed. Do not think, however, that
my character is like that of Alhafiz, who called himself my ambassador; for,
in truth, I did not long to obtain you as a lover seeks after a young and
beautiful mistress, but rather as a guardian angel,—a heaven-inspired sister,
by whom I might for the future be chastised and counselled.” “Heaven’s
will be done!” answered Bertha; “if it has been ordained, that one so
humble as I am should point out the true path of religion and virtue to a
restless warrior such as thou art, then doubtless I shall succeed in affording
the counsels which thou desirest of me.” Meanwhile, on a signal from the
emir, female slaves had come into the hall, to whom he gave in charge his
beautiful guest, commanding that they should treat her with the utmost
respect and attention. Then, with a grave and humble salutation, he took his
leave.

CHAPTER IV.
How the Lady Bertha was entertained by Nurreddin.
On the following day a Moorish knight made his appearance in the
antechamber of the Lady of Lichtenried, and requested to know whether it
might be allowed to the emir to come into her presence. Bertha granted the
permission that was required of her; moreover, she was even glad that she
was to speak with Nurreddin again; partly because, from his conduct of the
preceding night, he had in some measure won her regard, and partly
because his features bore a certain resemblance to some one whom she had
before seen and now remembered with satisfaction, though she could not
fix on the precise time or place when this had occurred.
On his entrance the emir again bowed with solemn respect; and when he
had taken his place, after the eastern manner, on a low couch opposite to
Bertha, she herself began to speak:—“Last night, methinks, you proved
yourself a stern and severe administrator of justice, not only as the avenger
of innocence, but also inasmuch as you maintained your own word
inviolate, and decreed to the next heir of Alhafiz that which, by the other’s
crime, became his due. How comes it then, that you do not extend the same
justice towards me?—If Alhafiz were a pirate and violent robber, who
deserved death, you also commit crimes like to his, if you force me to
remain here against my own will, knowing that I have the right of freedom
even as much as any bird that flies through the forest.”—“You have indeed
spoken but the truth, noble lady,” answered the emir, “and it depends on
your own choice towards what country you will direct your flight, or what
forest you will enliven with your songs. Yet I cannot now go with you as
your protector, for a duty which God and our prophet have laid upon my
shoulders holds me fast bound to my station, even as iron is attracted by the
north pole. Wait only for a few days. Trust yourself with me on a short sea-
voyage, and you shall then turn your steps, with Nurreddin for your guard,
wheresoever your own heart inclines you. Perchance, however, your heart
may be now changed, and may desire only to remain evermore under his
protection.”—“Truly, Bertha of Lichtenried is of a very different opinion,”

answered the damsel; “and that you may be convinced of this, I demand
that you will immediately order a proper escort to attend me, and that I may
be carried back to Gascony from whence I came.”—“If you insist on this,”
answered the emir, “deeply as it grieves my heart, doubtless your wishes
shall be fulfilled; and yet——” He paused, and fixed on her a long, ardent
gaze; “should I forsake thee?” cried he;—“should I permit such an angel as
thou art to depart from my palace, under the protection of strangers, on thy
voyage into a distant land?—What if they did not pay that respect which
thou deservest,—if they offended thee in word or deed, or even with the
rough sound of their churlish voices?—The very thought is enough to
render me mad with rage. Trust thyself then to me, and to me alone; for
thou could’st not rest more safely even in a father’s arms!”—The prince’s
ardour now indeed seemed more like that of an affectionate parent or
brother, than that of a selfish lover; so that Bertha could no longer be afraid;
and, except her brother, Sir Heerdegen, she could not recollect any one over
the wide world under whose protection she would more gladly have placed
herself. Therefore she no longer urged her immediate departure, but relied
on the emir’s promise, that she should be sent whither she wished to go as
soon as circumstances rendered it possible for him to travel with her. The
prince expressed with great respect his thankfulness for the confidence that
she reposed in him; and the few days that must intervene, before she could
leave Carthagena, were to be spent in viewing the numberless beautiful
apartments,—the works of art,—and the magnificent gardens of his palace.
The realms of Asia are indeed rich, and blest, above all quarters of the earth,
as if Nature evermore bestowed her especial care and affections on that
country wherein man first derived his birth; and where, in after-years, far
more than the gift of mortal life was bestowed on him. Whatever treasures
and luxuries this land affords, whether of nature or art, all were in the
possession of the rich and powerful emir. He himself walked about in his
dignity, like a proud enchanter, through his palace and gardens, able to
explain all the mysteries and beauties by which he was surrounded, and
willing to become eloquent, if but a listener worthy of his notice could be
found; and to whom could he have addressed himself more gladly than to
Bertha of Lichtenried?—By whom could his glowing words have been so
well understood?—Therefore oftentimes they walked together through the
long vaulted galleries of the castle,—through the towering groves of the
shadowy garden,—or reposed, during the noonday heat, by its glassy lakes

or foaming waterfalls. With especial pleasure Bertha listened to the
wonderful legends and fairytales, which Nurreddin half-read from beautiful
manuscripts on palm-leaves, and half-sung to her from his own recollection.
To all these she listened with so much pleasure, that at length she longed to
become acquainted with the Arabian character and language, in which they
were originally written; and when she now tried to imitate the foreign
sounds, the emir thought he had never before heard his own language
spoken in its true beauty; for in softness and melody of voice, Bertha indeed
excelled all the damsels of the world.
One day it came to pass that she was walking with Nurreddin up and down
in a beautiful grove of laurel-trees, when he narrated to her the following
history.

CHAPTER V.
A strange story of a Lady and a Rose.
“Far remote, in the wide sea, named Archipelago, there lies an island well
known through all the world, blooming and golden with rich harvests of
corn, fruits, and wine. There, in old days of paganism, was born the
enchanter, whom the heathens afterwards looked upon as a god. The island
is called Crete, and the mighty enchanter’s name is Zeus.
“By his powerful spells it came to pass, that this island, whence he derived
his birth, was ever adorned with the choicest flowers; and it is not very long
since there was planted thereon a red rose of such unequalled beauty, that it
was praised and renowned far and near as the richest and rarest of all
nature’s blossoms. This flower came from the town of Damascus, and it was
watched and tended by a fair and lovely damsel, who had been forced away
from that city by wicked men, and brought to the enchanter’s island. At
Damascus she had been in her flower-garden, and had the rose in her hand,
when the wicked pirate came to disturb her innocent pleasures. She hid the
plant under her mantle, and carried it with her into Crete. Here it had
thriven well beneath her tender care,—the Damascene rose blooming the
fairest of flowers, and she the fairest of damsels on the island.
“Oftentimes she had whispered in secret to the flower,—‘Here we are, both
strangers in the land; therefore we must be friends to each other, and the
bonds of affection may never be broken between us. If one return home, the
other too must go thither; and if the rose be cropped from the stalk, the
maiden will wither in her sadness.’—Then it seemed almost as if the flower
had understood her words, and nodded thereto in silent sympathy.
“Not long thereafter the damsel was looking from her window on the waves
of the stormy sea, and, lo! she beheld, amid the raging waters, a boat
drawing near to the shore, and therein sat a graceful figure of a knight,
beating the dark billows with his oars, as an angry master would chastise
the slaves that rebelled against him. With eagle-eyes he beheld from afar the
beautiful maiden, as she stood on her lofty veranda; he brought his bark to
land, and made it fast by the golden chain to a tree, then looked up to the

window, and called aloud,—‘Who art thou, most beautiful of ladies?’—The
damsel answered,—‘I am a king’s daughter, and by violent men have been
brought hither from Damascus.’—‘Then,’ said he, ‘thy life here is
perchance sad and lonely?’—‘Nay,’ answered the damsel, ‘I have with me
the beautiful rose that thou seest blooming in yonder garden; it has been my
friend and solace since we both left our native land.’—Then said the knight,
—‘Already have I won in battle a Damascene blade that is better, I ween,
than any sword that was ever wielded by mortal arm. A maiden—a rose—
and a sword from Damascus;—these are treasures above all price; and the
sword will soon free the maiden and the flower from their bondage. Trust
then to me; and if thou wilt but venture, thou shalt soon be free as the
nightingale in the forest.’—‘Who art thou, mariner, that darest to speak thus
boldly?’—‘Nay,’ said the knight, ‘I am a warrior, far and wide renowned,
and wend my way where’er it is my pleasure, by land or sea; and here in
Crete I am named the brave Hygies.’—‘Art thou indeed Hygies?’ said the
damsel, ‘that wondrous hero whose deeds are sung through all the world,
and who has won such victories among the Greeks, and in Persia, by land
and by sea?—If this be so, then truly I shall soon be brought back to my
wished-for home!’—‘Ay, fairest of damsels; and this night shall not pass till
I have come to take you from your prison.’—‘But hast thou a ship that will
bear us across the sea?’—‘Doubtless,’ answered the knight, ‘I have even a
fleet of ships, but they will not come hither till another year has past
away.’—‘For Heaven’s sake,’ cried the damsel, ‘tell me how I may be
concealed in Crete till they arrive?’—‘Fear not,’ answered the knight; ‘for
all that Hygies has planned, he knows also how to find the means of
fulfilment.’—Thereupon she nodded kindly her parting salutation, and the
warrior retired; but when the evening shades had settled on the island, he
failed not to come again with a long ladder of ropes, which he fixed to her
window. She ventured to descend, and was once more free.
“Deep in the recesses of the Cretan mountains there lies a cavern, covered
at the entrance with heath and copsewood, but large and lofty, wherein no
mortal dares enter, for terror of the supernatural powers that might assail
him; for in ancient times this was the birth-place of Zeus, the far-famed
enchanter. Here, in the secret depths of the cave, Hygies concealed the
blooming and beautiful damsel,—coming oftentimes to caress her at the
dead of night, and bringing with him food and wine, with costly carpets, to
defend her from the cold and hard rocks. Meanwhile she often said to him

with anxious sighs,—‘Thou wert my deliverer, and art now become my dear
husband; but beware, I pray thee, beware lest my dearly-beloved rose
should wither!—From Damascus thou hast obtained a maiden and a sword,
but do not forget that there is, moreover, a Damascene rose under thy
protection.’
“Far and wide, even for a whole year, the Cretans sought through the land,
but in vain; they knew not whither the beautiful captive had retired; but the
knight Hygies, he alone well knew where to find the object of his
affections; and because the cave, though wide, was no fit habitation for his
beloved, he used to cut and hew the rocks with his invincible Damascene
blade, till he had made a habitation under ground such as any queen might
have envied.
“But joy leads to sorrow, and pleasure to pain;—ere the year’s end the
princess bore a son,—a bold, handsome boy, thus cradled among the rocks
like the old enchanter Zeus, and the brave warrior Hygies took him in his
arms with all a father’s love. So the mother’s pain was again changed to
joy; and not long thereafter there was seen on the horizon a heart-enlivening
shew of white sails all swelling in the breeze; and this was the fleet of the
renowned Sir Hygies. That evening the ships cast anchor in a bay of the
Cretan shore, and messengers came straightway to the noble owner, who
rejoiced heartily at their arrival, and went, in the silence of the night, for his
Damascene beauty,—brought her forth under the light of the moon and
stars, with the child sleeping on his mother’s breast. Then, as they were
proceeding on their way, the lady sighed deeply, and said,—‘Oh, Heaven!—
how that thought comes irresistibly in the midst of all my joys!—Must I
leave the dear rose-tree here on a foreign strand?—Have we not known
each other so long in our affliction, and promised both, that if one of us
should be set at liberty, the other should not be left in bondage?—See,
yonder blooms the rose! dear husband, go and bring it to me!’—But the
knight would not listen to her prayer, and urged her forward in rapid flight.
The damsel sighed again, and would not go with him, but ran to the garden
wherein she had planted her beloved flower. There a sudden noise from the
castle alarmed her, and she would have fled, but the rose held her garments
fast with its thorny fingers, and in her terror she shrieked and fell to the
ground. The knight ran up to her, and took the child from her arms, while
she yet lay motionless, and fainting in her grief and affright. But now every

window and door was suddenly burst open;—the Cretan guards and soldiers
came forth armed, and with torches in their hands. At the first glance they
recognised the beautiful maid of Damascus, as she lay there beside her
blooming rose-tree, and determined not only to make a captive of her, but
also of the brave Sir Hygies. The knight, however, proved game not so
easily to be caught. With his Damascene blade he dealt about him blows so
rapid and so powerful, that whoever dared to approach him was felled to the
ground; so that they all stood still, and their courage was broken. Thereafter
they tried their javelins and arrows, and Hygies protected himself and the
beautiful damsel as long as he could, till an arrow came whistling under his
golden shield, and struck her to the heart. She fell lifeless, and the red rose-
leaves mingled with the blood that streamed from her death-wound. The
knight then must leave the lady and the rose behind him on the island; but
the sword was still his own, and by its aid he rescued the child, and bore it
with him to his fleet, and sailed for Arabia. Thereafter the child proved a
valiant warrior,—an avenging sword, that was worth an hundred thousand
blades of the best Damascene steel.”

CHAPTER VI.
How the Lady Bertha sailed from Carthagena.
Now this fairy legend, that we have told in plain prose, was sung by
Nurreddin in pleasant, well-sounding verses; and Bertha listened thereto
with so much pleasure, that the emir repeated it to her many times
thereafter, and it seemed as if his own heart was always strangely moved by
the recital. Then it came to pass, that she begged him to explain who was in
reality the far-famed Hygies, and if he did not know more of this warrior
than the song had unfolded?—“Somewhat,” answered the emir, “but not
much;—all that I know is,—that he came from foreign countries to Greece;
that he was a youth everywhere beheld with fear and wonder; but I could
never prove whether his name were properly Hygies, or if this were not a
title bestowed on him in Crete, for in the Hellenic tongue it imports, that he
was lively, active, and jocose.”—After such answers, it happened for the
most part that he would speak no more, and that a deep shade of discontent
came over his dark frowning brows.
One evening Bertha sat with the emir on a lofty balcony, whence she
commanded a beautiful prospect across the orange-groves towards the sea,
her mind filled with pleasant remembrances of home. A cooling east wind
played over the water, and rustled through the orange-trees, bearing
sometimes leaves from their branches, and wafting them up to the damsel.
“How,” said she, “if this wind, with its rustling leaves, came from the
enchanter’s island, or from Damascus, and could bring me news what has
become of the brave knight Hygies, and his infant son?” “Nay,” answered
the emir, “How comes it, that you have never inquired of me what was the
fate of the poor child?”
“I know not wherefore I was silent,” said Bertha, “my heart always longed
to hear more of him, and yet, when I was about to speak, methought as if by
invisible hands a seal was imprinted on my lips, and I could not utter a
word.”
“That is indeed strange,” said the emir, “for I have felt always impelled to
tell you more of that child and his fortunes, but the fear withheld me, that

you would look on him, who was thus born in the enchanter’s cave and in
the wild island, with aversion and terror. Know, then, that I myself am the
son of the brave Hygies.”
Bertha gazed at him with wonder, and at length said, “Why then should I be
afraid of you, because you are the son of that renowned hero and the
beautiful lady of Damascus? Rather should I expect to find in you a star of
honour and courtesy, in whom I could confidently trust.” “A comet, rather
you should have said,” answered Nurreddin, “or a destructive thunderbolt,
terrifying the nations, and destroying many in its course; yet to future
generations announcing happiness and prosperity.”
“The nations must be very base,” said Bertha gravely, “if they look for aid
to a single champion, and not from their own strength.”
“Even to prevent them from becoming thus depraved,” said Nurreddin,
“have I been sent into the world. I must kindle the fire and fan the flames;
the fire of trial and purification, whereby many a peaceful roof will be
overthrown, and many a blooming land laid waste, in order that, thereafter,
all may be established better than heretofore. Believe me, noble lady, the
nations of the earth may well be compared to the phœnix, and from time to
time must be consumed by fire, that, arising from their ashes, they may
prove their immortality and everlasting strength.”
“I believe you are now led astray by a fearful delusion,” said Bertha; “but
Heaven will, according to his divine wisdom, set you free from this
temptation; and as for the destructive fires with which you now threaten the
people, Providence will no doubt interfere for their protection.”
“Ere long it shall be proved how that may be,” answered the emir; “to-
morrow we are to set out with my fleet of galleys towards Ostia. There we
shall cast anchor; and this is the voyage of which I have before spoken, and
on which you must go with me before I am at liberty to attend you on your
journey homewards. Rome is but feebly defended; and if I should succeed
in burying the triple-crowned priest under the ruins of his own churches, the
whole mouldering fabric of the system, called Christianity, would at once
be tumbled down, along with its key-stone, to the ground. Especially, I have
the better chance to succeed in this undertaking, because the light and
mirror of your Christian knighthood, the brave King Richard, is now held in

prison by his own friends and comrades in the field, who should have
protected him, if need were, from all such insult.”
Thereafter a pleasant smile stole over Bertha’s features; nay, she looked so
contented and child-like in her happiness, that one might have rather said
that she laughed; whereupon the emir rose from his place on the veranda,
walked up and down, and said, “Fair and beautiful as thou art, how can’st
thou jest over what I have now said? My hopes and courage, nay my very
life, had been renewed in thy presence; for I believed that every thought and
feeling of my soul was by thee sympathized with and understood; and,
though according to the manner of timid damsels, thou perchance might be
afraid of my over vehemence and zeal, yet thou could’st still admire the
greatness of my undertakings, and feel thereby inspired and enraptured.
Now, however, when I have uttered before thee those things of which I had
never till now spoken but in my secret prayers to God and our holy prophet,
all the return I meet with is but in childish laughter! not even hast thou
trembled at thoughts of the fearful and irresistible dangers which my
voyage will bring on thy cherished faith and all its adherents.”
“Could my faith then be sincere,” answered Bertha, with the same
unconcerned smile, “if I thought that our religion could be overcome by thy
endeavours? The true faith may never die; Heaven will soon supply means
for the defence of Rome; and I am heartily glad that you will take me with
you to Ostia, and that I may be a wondering spectator by what agent
Providence shall repulse your proud and warlike attacks. It may be an
avenging spirit with a flaming sword, or a seraph smiling on you in peace
and forgiveness; and, Heaven knows, it is my earnest hope that the peace-
angel may come to meet you.”
At these words, Nurreddin bowed lowly and respectfully, saying, “Forgive
me, if I misunderstood your smiles; for it is not my fault if you are far better
fitted to excite or display heroic energies than to look for and admire them
in others.”
Bertha stretched out her hand kindly to the emir, and answered, “Good
night, brave and adventurous son of the renowned Hygies. We must meet
early to-morrow, and be prepared for our journey.” “Ay, truly,” answered
Nurreddin; “but I pray you, do not call me as you now did, the son of
Hygies; for though I respect his memory who was ennobled by such brave

exploits, yet the reflection, that he neither brought me to my mother’s
parents, the king and queen at Damascus, nor to his own home, which
remains still unknown, but that I was left amid the wild wandering Arabs to
be educated as chance might direct;—these thoughts, noble lady, are indeed
bitter and painful to my heart; and I am tempted to think, that though he
might well merit his prize of the Damascus sword, yet he was not deserving
of the tender rose-tree, nor the rose-like maiden.” With these words he
bowed respectfully, and left the veranda.
On the following morning the ships of Nurreddin, with their brazen beaks
and silken streamers, were gleaming in the sun, while the light breezes
gently played amid their snow-white sails. Through a shadowy walk of the
garden, Bertha now came with her extraordinary protector from the palace
towards the sea-shore. As they drew near the gate, there was heard from the
thickets the gentle sound of a harp; and ere long, words too blended with its
notes, and Bertha could not but listen; for the words were French, and
reminded her of past and happy days. The voice and music were tremulous
and mournful; and the minstrel deplored that he could no longer praise the
beauties of the ocean-waves dancing in the sunshine, the blooming woods
and fragrant breezes of the morning; for now the fairest of flowers, the
damsel that had adorned these woods, was borne far away; and he could
only weep, or faintly sing to his harp, the lamentations of a lonely and
despairing lover. Then it seemed, after this beginning, as if his voice died
away in his grief and sadness, and only low broken notes of his harp were
still heard from amid the shadowy coverts.
Bertha had involuntarily stood still to listen; and the emir, anxious to fulfil
every wish of hers, stopped also, and made a signal that the slaves who
followed them should not move. When the song had thus died away, and
Bertha looked anxiously round for the minstrel, Nurreddin stepped hastily
on through the portal, and, with his eagle-eyes, soon found out the
disconsolate youth with his harp, made a sign that he should come nearer;
and thereafter brought him before the lady, who, to her great joy, recognised
at once the minstrel, Aleard.
Kindly and anxiously then she inquired what had led him to that foreign
land, and whether it might possibly be in her power to lessen that grief by
which he now seemed oppressed. The youth wished to answer; but, with a
mistrustful side-look at Nurreddin, he remained silent. “Speak freely,” said

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

CHAPTER VII.
How the Lady and Nurreddin discoursed on their Voyage.
The shouts of admiration and parting greetings, which rent the air when the
emir left Carthagena, had long since died away; now even the Spanish shore
had vanished from their sight, and they were driven rapidly onward by
gentle and steady west winds along the wide blue waters, under a serene
cloudless sky.
On the deck of the flag-ship were seated Nurreddin and Bertha, under a
canopy of olive-green silk, and zealously conversing with each other,
sometimes in the Arabic, and sometimes in one or other of the European
languages. Meanwhile the timidity inspired by Nurreddin’s solemn
grandeur of demeanour kept all the listeners at a respectful distance; even
Master Aleard, the noble troubadour, was not invited to a share in this high
conference. Truly their dialogue might have begun playfully, with music
and song, for Bertha’s lute still rested on her left arm; but the discourse of
noble and elevated souls, who are ever striving after the highest knowledge
and virtue, may well be compared to the eagle’s flight, which, though he
may now and then descend as if in sport to attack the wild deer or other
game of the forest, still, as by nature directed, renews his upright course,
soaring always nearer and nearer to the sun.
So these twain, the Moorish knight and the damsel, sat there, and conversed
in their pomp and dignity; but as to what they said, it may not here be
repeated word for word. Though Bertha’s thoughts were indeed solemn and
anxious, yet she did not venture to speak on the truths of our holy faith too
plainly, but discoursed rather in shadowy images and mystic allegories.
These lofty and sublime truths were the subject of their dialogue, Nurreddin
enforcing his arguments by all the flowery eloquence of the East, while
Bertha spoke with careless and almost child-like simplicity; and meanwhile,
from a vessel that sailed near them, the tones of the troubadour’s harp
sounded at intervals in mournful melody. At length the shades of evening
fell upon the waters; and thereafter night came with her countless gleaming
stars, when Nurreddin gave the damsel in charge to his female slaves, while

he retired to his cabin. Bertha meanwhile continued to speak as cheerfully
as ever with her attendants; and when at last she fell asleep, a pleasant smile
settled on her beautiful features, betokening the quiet and innocence that
reigned in her heart.
Next day the combat between these two noble spirits was renewed, and
carried on with equal ardour. As for the emir, he had recourse to several
rolls of manuscript palm-leaves, which he brought from his cabin, and out
of them read aloud now and then well-sounding verses and deeply-
pondered sentences. Bertha meanwhile had no book to assist her; though it
is true she should have had in her possession one volume, more estimable
than all others, bound in black velvet, adorned with silver-clasps and
beautiful pictures; but this was left at the fortress of Trautwangen, while the
history of saints, that she had been wont to read with so much pleasure, still
remained at Gabrielle’s castle in Gascony. Yet these books, more especially
the lives of saints, had been studied by the good pious Bertha with such
care, that she now never failed by memory to command their assistance.
Many times indeed she reflected long and silently; so that one might have
thought she was embarrassed and overpowered by the splendid and poetic
language of Nurreddin; yet, in answer to what he read from the Koran and
other Moorish records, she failed not at last to answer in the spirit of faith,
hope, and charity, moreover with a dove-like simplicity, whereby the
serpent’s cunning shewn in Mahomet’s doctrine was wholly overcome.
So their meetings continued for several weeks, and the sea-voyage passed
over after a fashion which the mariners and soldiers little expected. Instead
of banquets, music, and mirth, there prevailed over them all a solemn
meditative silence, whose influence seemed indeed extended to the ocean
and the sky. Only so much wind breathed on the sails as was required to
bring the voyagers onward in their course towards Ostia; the wide sea lay
around them almost like a mirror, only varied by light rippling waves as the
vessels ploughed their adventurous way, furrowing the deep fathomless
waters.

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

Italian chiefs did not venture to oppose them at their first landing, but
retired upwards from the shore, forming a kind of ambuscade, whence they
could watch the movements of the invaders, and take advantage of a
favourable opportunity for attack, hoping perchance to surprise them when
engaged in plundering the town; or, finally, if the enemy came in battle-
array against them here, at least, they would, if put to flight, stand a better
chance than on the shore below, of securing their retreat to Rome. At the
moment when the troops, who had just then assembled, heard the command
for wheeling round, and marching back towards the capital, this order was
obeyed with the greatest alacrity and precision. When the captains,
however, found, that the proper station on a rising ground had been gained,
and intended that they should again turn round towards the sea, they saw
that obedience was no longer to be expected. To the people of Ostia,
bearing arms indeed, but wholly unpractised in warfare, the road to Rome,
that lay now before them, was a prospect far too attractive to be resisted.
The more vehemently that the chiefs thundered out the orders to “halt,” the
more rapidly did the troops now march forward; and when the commands
were changed into threats, and measures were taken to interrupt their
course, their march turned straightway into flight, and, as if the enemy had
been in full chace, they pursued their way, while the captains found, that
only a few old and practised soldiers were left near them.
The men of this little band looked at each other with melancholy pride.
They could not but feel, that they might be well compared to corn, and the
dispersed multitude to worthless chaff. Their honour, however, was to be
purchased only by unavoidable death; for already Nurreddin’s ships lay at
anchor; already his troops had disembarked, and in their glittering dresses
had begun to arrange themselves on the shore, while even the number of
their waving banners exceeded that of the warriors who were left here to
oppose them. Not one of this band, however, thought of following the
example that had been set them by the contemptible runaways; for, whoever
remains steadfast in resolve till a certain trying point has been passed over,
henceforward is troubled neither with doubts nor fears.
But while the warriors stood thus prepared for death, leaning sternly on
their swords, lances, and halberts, lo! there came before them, an apparition
so unexpected and brilliant, that they believed it could be no other than a
messenger from Heaven sent to comfort them, in this the last and bitterest

hour of their lives. The reality did in truth somewhat accord with what they
had imagined,—for now the consecrated father of the church, the pope
himself, in all the pomp and grandeur of his holy office, walked up and
down among the ranks. The soldiers all fell on their knees before this
venerable ruler of the Christian world, whereupon he spoke as follows:—
“My beloved children, if the Saracens should obtain the victory in this
place, those who saved their own lives by flight would certainly not find
themselves able to defend Rome and the holy sanctuaries of the capital.
Therefore I have come forth to share your fate, whether it be victory or
death; for God forbid, that the pope should think of his own safety, if the
holiest temples of Europe are to be profaned, and perchance levelled with
the ground. According to the best reason and judgment of men, such must
be the consequence of this invasion, and we have only to shed our last
heart’s blood on these green meadows for his glory and our own salvation;
but if it should be the will of Heaven, all may turn out far differently from
what we now expect. Let us then wait with composure and tranquillity for
whatever fortune he may send to us, whether it be joy or sorrow; and now
receive, with hearts both courageous and humble, his blessing.”
The pope then stretched out his arms, and implored the blessing of Heaven
on that band of warriors, who at his signal immediately rose up, and looked
forward confidently and with calm courage to the events which were now
before them, while he walked in the van of this little squadron, invested
with the symbols of his holy rank.
Meanwhile Nurreddin’s troops advanced in all that splendour which he had
long been preparing, with cheering music, trumpets, and tambourines.
Suddenly, however, the whole army stood still, the music ceased, and, lo!
there appeared two graceful figures,—an armed champion and a beautiful
damsel,—who came forward towards the pope and his little band
confidently and as friends, without sending any herald or peace-messenger
to demand a conference. It was a pleasure to behold the warlike grandeur of
the knight, and the humble yet dignified demeanour of that beautiful lady,
so that no one could have dared to meet them as foes with javelin or sword;
—moreover, the pope made a signal to the Italian chiefs, that they should
remain quiet, and moved forwards alone to meet his extraordinary guests.
The strangers both kneeled before him, and the lady began to speak:
—“Holy father,” said she, “we recognised you from afar, not merely by

your magnificent attire, but by your looks and gestures; therefore we
thought it needless to send a herald to prepare the way for a request that we
have now to make. Lo! we kneel humbly before you. I have been educated
in the Christian faith; my home is in Swabia; and I am named Bertha von
Lichtenried. I have brought hither the noble and far-famed champion
Nurreddin, who begs earnestly to receive from your hands the blessed
sacrament of baptism.”
To this unexpected address there followed a long solemn silence; and the
pope clasped his hands, and looked up to Heaven in gratitude and
astonishment. After that pause Bertha continued,—“The soldiers who are
drawn up yonder on the plain are willing to follow the example of their
commander; and the few who wish to desert him, and abide by the doctrines
of Mahomet, will immediately re-embark in their vessels, and will not
venture even to injure one blade of grass on these shores, which hereafter
shall be under the warlike protection of the renowned emir
Nurreddin.”—“So may the God of the Christians and his Holy Spirit assist
or renounce me,” said the emir;—“both have I been taught to know and to
reverence by the seraph who has now spoken for me here.”
Then the pope kneeled down, and the Christian soldiers with him;—all
prayed silently, and with hearts deeply moved, to the Giver of all good. At
length the patriarch commanded them all to rise up, and to follow him on
his way back to Rome, where would immediately be held the solemn
festival of baptism. Nurreddin, however, still kneeling, thus addressed him:
—“Holy father, my soul thirsts after the waters of eternal life; and, if it so
pleased you, I would not longer be debarred that blessing which the
forerunner of the Christian Saviour used to confer in the wild fields and
woods, without circumstance or pomp.”—“Let it be then as thou desirest,
dear son,” answered the pope; and, looking round, he perceived near him a
rivulet of clear water, to which he advanced, and, choosing Bertha and the
Christian soldiers who had remained faithful at their post for witnesses, he
straightway fulfilled the baptism of Nurreddin, giving to him the honoured
name of Christophorus, which had been borne many centuries before by a
powerful and gigantic warrior, whose sword was always wielded in defence
of the Christian church. Then he embraced the new-won votary of the true
faith, even as a father would embrace a beloved son, and turning to Bertha,
almost bent down his head respectfully before her:—“Noble and virtuous

lady,” said he, “thou art chosen by Heaven as a blessed agent of his holy
will, and before that influence which dwells in thy spirit, even his
consecrated servants feel themselves awed and humbled. I beg, therefore, in
the name of our far-famed city, that thou wilt honour it with thy presence,
and that thou wilt remain within its walls through the winter which is now
approaching, in order that we may have time to thank her who, under
Heaven, has been our deliverer and protectress. This brave champion will
also remain for your protection, like the lion which would not leave the
saint by whom he had been tamed.”—Humbly, and blushing deeply, Bertha
inclined her head in token of assent; and the noble Arabian professed his
determination of obedience to whatever commands she was pleased to lay
upon him.
Many people, both men and women, came, attracted by the wonderful news
that had arrived at Rome, bringing from the great city food and wine, in
order that a banquet might not be wanting at this grand festival. Thereupon
the holy patriarch assembled round him all the monks and other priests,
who had now made their appearance, and, walking through the Moorish
ranks, dealt out among them the blessed sacrament of baptism; for they now
followed the example of their chief in his progress towards the gates of
everlasting life, as they had before done on the battle-field to victory or
death.
Thereafter the banquet was arranged along the beautiful banks of the Tiber,
and when Bertha presented to the emir a cup of old Falernian wine, the
converted Mahometan, for the first time, drank the noble juice of the grape,
and felt through every vein the fire of earthly as well as of divine
inspiration.

CHAPTER IX.
How Sir Folko fought with an old woman, and broke her
stand of crockery-ware.
The voyage of Sir Folko de Montfaucon, and the two rescued damsels, was,
alas! far different from that of the emir and Bertha von Lichtenried. No
sooner had they lost sight of Carthagena, than the ocean-waves rose wildly
against them, so that it was not without vehement struggles that they were
able to reach the straits that divide Africa from Spain;—nay, when they
tried to tack right over from Gibraltar’s high cliffs, in order that they might
steer for Gascony, there arose such a terrible whirlwind, that Hernandez lost
all command of his vessel. Fortunately, however, there were no rocks near
enough to split against; but they were driven far out into the desolate sea,
and there tost about so long, that, from the want of sufficient food and
water, they were threatened with starvation, till, for the sake of the poor
suffering damsels, they were glad at last to find a harbour, at an island
which seemed uninhabited, and for which not one of the whole party knew
even a name.
On this lonely strand, while Sir Folko, Don Hernandez, and the Count
Vinciguerra, were busily employed in building a cottage to shelter the
ladies, collecting rushes for the roof and soft moss for their beds;—in short,
all that knightly gallantry would at such a time have achieved, the merchant
Theobaldo amused himself all day long with the Magic Ring, enticing, by
its strange and varied music, all the beasts of the forest, even the seals, sea-
calves, and sea-horses, from the ocean around him, and at times laughing
aloud at their strange dances and gambols. Sir Folko and Don Hernandez
felt themselves roused to the utmost disdain and anger, because, for the sake
of these silly diversions, Theobaldo should have neglected wholly the
service of the two ladies that were intrusted to their care; and, as he now
frequently brought the howling wild beasts and awkward sea-calves into the
presence of Blanchefleur and Gabrielle, who were thereby disturbed and
terrified, they resolved, whatever the consequences might be, to put an end
to such conduct. After an adventure of this kind, the Knight of Montfaucon

stepped forward, placed himself right before Theobaldo, and looked at the
merchant steadfastly, with gleaming, wrathful eyes. The chevalier had now
resumed his glittering armour, and looked so formidable, that the merchant,
though wishing to conceal his agitation, could not help feeling embarrassed,
and fixing his eyes on the ground. At length he said,—“What means all
this?—You wish, perchance, to play the part of an old statue of Roland in
the market-place, as you stand there so stern and motionless?”—“That is
not my design,” answered Sir Folko; “but it shall be proved ere long how I
shall deal with you, if your behaviour should not be more circumspect and
quiet for the future.” “Ay, forsooth!” said Theobaldo, in his usual tone of
calm defiance, “it might be as well to inquire first how I shall deal with you
and all your party, if the question—‘Who is master?’—comes to be tried
among us.”
“Sir,” answered De Montfaucon, in a tone of indifference and resolution,
“you have indeed rescued my life, and have assisted much towards the
rescue of these noble ladies;—through the ring, too, you are brought into
possession of many powerful spells. For such reasons, however, you must
not suppose that you can make game at will of a French baron and banneret,
far less of the damsels who are now under his protection. In short, if you
dare to terrify them once more with your abominable dances of wild beasts
and fishes, then remember your own life is at stake, or, peradventure, the
question to be determined is, Whether my sword or your witchcraft will
obtain the victory?—The trial shall be made, however; on that score you
can have no doubt.” “—Nay,” said Theobaldo, “I doubt not that your words
would amply be made good; and it is, methinks, far better for us both if we
should not bring it to the proof which of us is destined to bear the upper
hand in conflict. Be satisfied then, and forgive me; for that of which you
complain shall not happen again.”—Thereupon Sir Folko was appeased,
and shook hands with Theobaldo; nor were the ladies ever more terrified by
the dancing beasts and sea-monsters.
Not long after these events, the skies became once more free from clouds,
and Don Hernandez gave orders to heave anchor, that they might pursue
their voyage. At first the winds were favourable, and they doubted not that
they should happily arrive at the destined port; but scarcely had they again
reached the Straits of Gibraltar, when there arose of new, a frightful
tempest, forcing the vessel back into the narrow seas, and driving it

violently past Carthagena, towards Malaga; nor did the storm abate till they
found themselves opposite to the coast of Genoa. The condition of the ship,
now almost a wreck, and the distress of the two ladies, left them no choice.
They resolved to cast anchor in the harbour of Genoa, and follow out the
rest of their journey by land.
Scarcely had the damsels been safely lodged in a pleasant mansion at this
town, and the requisite clothes, armour, and other necessaries been brought
from the vessel, when the Knight of Montfaucon made a signal that
Theobaldo should speak with him in a retired street of that city.—“Now,”
said the knight, “confess freely, that we have been forced hither by your
agency;—that you have all this while played your pranks for your own
diversion and our annoyance;—in short, that, by means of your Magic
Ring, you have raised the storm that always opposed us when we drew near
Gibraltar!”—“Why then did you not address these questions to me when we
were on board ship?” said Theobaldo; “then, perhaps, there had been time
to make up for whatever faults I had committed.”—“I know not whether
you now speak in mockery or earnest,” answered Sir Folko; “and, in truth,
with such people one cannot expect to fare better. However, this is of little
consequence; but, for my own part, I answer you in right earnest. Mark
you!—whilst we were at sea, your sorcery and witchcraft might have been
carried much farther, and the ladies who were under our protection might
have perished thereby. Now, however, you have to deal with me alone, and I
speak with you even as one Christian knight with another. Have you then,
by your incantations, made game of us, and led us thus astray?”—“Not as a
knight, but as an honest merchant, I answer you,” said Theobaldo, “that I
did conjure up the storms by which our ship was driven on the wild waves;
not, however, because I wished to make game of you for my own diversion,
but because I had firmly resolved in my own mind, that it was better to land
at Genoa than on the shores of France.”—“In Genoa, perchance, you may
fare but hardly, sir merchant,” answered De Montfaucon, glancing at his
sword; “though the first question may be, whether you have honour and
courage enough to defend your own actions?”—“As to what you are
pleased to call honour,” said Theobaldo, “I trouble myself little about the
matter; but, as to my courage, it has been proved already, and may be
proved again on occasions more important than any that are likely to occur
at this time.”—“A pitiful excuse!” said Sir Folko; “the veriest coward or
deserter has it in his power to speak as thou hast done. Without more

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

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

With the ladies Sir Folko now found Don Hernandez, who also, after his
grave and solemn manner, took leave; having found a larger ship at Genoa,
for which he had exchanged his own galley, and now thought of sailing to
Barcelona, in order that he might again join the ranks of his brave
countrymen in their war against the Moors. “This then is the day of farewell
and separation?” said De Montfaucon, sighing half mournfully and half in
anger. “Of separations truly,” said Don Hernandez, “but not, as I hope, for
ever. Full well do I know, that if in Castile we should ever need foreign aid,
no where could we look for it with such confidence as from the brave and
powerful Sir Folko, over whose deeds the Moorish brides are yet lamenting;
—but if we should never meet again, at least we must often hear tidings of
each other. Both are called in different directions, each by his own duties,
and the star that rules his destiny; but the golden bands of love and honour,
by which all knighthood is intwined, cannot be broken, and, even though
absent, we are not disunited.”
The heroes embraced and parted. Thereafter Sir Folko was not displeased to
hear that the damsels were willing to leave Genoa, (where the prospect,
amid the commencing storms of autumn, was gloomy both by land and
sea,) and to proceed to the beautiful town of Milan. Not merely obeying
their wishes as a courteous knight ought to do, but rejoicing in his heart to
leave a place, which, by Theobaldo’s strange conduct and the parting with
Hernandez and Vinciguerra, had been rendered disagreeable, he made
preparations for the journey, and ere long he had set out on horseback with
his two beautiful companions, passing through the Bocchetta into the
luxuriant plains of Lombardy.

CHAPTER XI.
How Sir Folko spoke with a strange man in a churchyard.
This year the snow had begun earlier than usual to cover the mountains, and
made the road through them, if not impassable, at least dangerous; so that
Blanchefleur and Gabrielle found themselves obliged to spend the winter in
Milan, a necessity, however, to which they might indeed submit without a
murmur; for in that happy country the face of nature is always clothed in
smiles; and, besides, there was in a town so rich and prosperous no want of
entertainments worthy to be noticed even by such high-born damsels.
It came to pass, however, that Gabrielle and Sir Folko had their days of
pleasure and jollity interchanged by others of melancholy and
apprehension. For though in that eventful night at the emir’s castle
Gabrielle had been surprised into a confession of her love, yet, during her
sea-voyage afterwards, her beautiful lips had been sealed up, partly from
shame at having spoken so rashly, partly because she feared the mockery of
Theobaldo and the Count Vinciguerra, who were then always present.
Thereby Sir Folko and Gabrielle had become in outward demeanour as if
estranged from each other; in their hearts, however, they had all the while
grown more and more indissolubly united; so that the knight would have
felt himself truly happy, had it not been, that one terrible thought still lay
upon his mind; he had betrayed the confidence of his noble friend, Sir Otto
von Trautwangen. Therefore, in the chevalier’s heart, scarce even the buds
of inward joy could sprout forth, far less spread into full luxuriance; and
oftentimes, as they sat together in Milan, his eyes would wander from the
beautiful countenance of Gabrielle to the marble monuments of a
neighbouring churchyard. There he felt better and more tranquil in mind;
for he found that death reconciled all differences, and that even the injured
Sir Otto could not be angry with him, when all that remained was but a
skeleton mouldering in the earth, and above it a marble monument, with the
inscription,
“Cy git Messire le tres haut et tres puissant Chevalier de
Montfaucon.”

Thus, when he was one day wandering amid the turf mounds of the
churchyard, he found sitting on one of them, which was overgrown with
weeds and rank grass, a man in the extremity of old age, whose very eye-
brows were snow-white, his eyes far sunk and dim, and with a long hoary
beard that reached down to his middle. Besides, the stranger seemed
thoughtful and stern of mood, so that he might even have inspired fear and
suspicion, had it not been for the deep shades of melancholy and misfortune
that also lay on his features.
Sir Folko stood gazing respectfully at the old man, when the latter suddenly
drew from his bosom somewhat that shone and sparkled, though the knight
could not distinguish properly what it was; and, thereupon, raising his arm,
began to describe strange figures in the dusky evening air. As he continued
thus as it were to write upon the fields of empty space, Sir Folko reflected,
shuddering, whether the old man had not just then become the victim of
madness, when, behold! there entered at the north gate of the churchyard, a
tall figure, magnificently attired as a warlike knight. It seemed to the
chevalier that this figure had been already known to him, and he was about
to draw nearer; but the strange knight had a severe and woebegone
countenance; moreover, he seemed almost as old as the other who sat upon
the grave, before whom he walked up and down two or three times, and
then vanished behind some tall monuments that stood hard by. “’Tis well,”
said the old man, for the first time breaking silence; “now thou hast shewn
thyself in thy proper shape, and I shall not fail to know thee again.”—Then,
turning towards the grave, he added, “But as for thee,—sleep thou in peace;
—the sacrifice that is due to thy just revenge shall not be wanting, even if I
should pledge mine own soul’s weal on the venture.” Hereupon it seemed
almost as if a low sound of weeping and lamentation was heard from the
grave. “Then,” said the grey-haired man, “full well, dearest mother, do I
know what thou would’st have. Thou art indeed too kind-hearted, and thou
art grieved for the punishment that awaits him;—but my just vengeance
must be wreaked. Besides, wherefore else should I be in possession of the
ring?”
Watching all these occurrences, the Knight of Montfaucon felt an
irresistible chilness and horror steal upon his heart; but, as it often happens
to noble minds, instead of being thereby repulsed, he was the more
determined to inquire into this mystery. Therefore he went up sternly to the

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

CHAPTER XII.
Of the Ghosts and wild Hunters in the Hartz forest.
About this time, lo! there came riding over the mountains of the Hartz
forest, a party of warriors heavily armed, that formed the escort of a noble
lady, who was also on horseback. The shades of night had now descended
around them; and the increasing gloom of the deep-blue sky contrasted
strangely with the white snow-covered hills and the faded autumnal woods.
The full moon indeed shone in heaven; but ever and anon there came across
her orb dark clouds like raven’s wings, through which her light could
scarcely penetrate. The travellers soon perceived that they must have lost
their way, and sent out now and then a horseman to discover, if possible, the
right track; whereupon, also, he blew his war-horn for a signal, but was
answered only by the wild echoes of that solitude; and oftentimes his horse
would start suddenly back from some fearful precipice, or from the strange
spectral shadows thrown by the naked oak-trees on the snow. Only one of
the horses, whose light-brown colour distinguished him, even amid the pale
moonlight, from all the rest, was able to carry his rider safely up hill and
down hill, through the roughest ground; and by that means it came to pass,
that a road was found into a valley, wherein lay the beaten track, which they
had wished to discover. Here, too, the same knight in his dark mail, with his
light-brown steed, continued to lead the way; and the courteous reader
doubtless knows already that this was Sir Otto von Trautwangen, who, with
the Lady Hildiridur, Sir Heerdegen of Lichtenried, and the sea-monarch,
was thus far on his journey homeward from the north.
The beaten track through the valley now led them towards a cottage that lay
under a high precipitous cliff, and was overhung by pine-trees bending
under their load of snow. At the approach of the troop, light suddenly broke
forth from a window of the cottage, and this light being reflected in the
frozen waters of the valley frightened the horses, so that the riders could
scarcely keep their seats. Sir Otto alone, trusting to his faithful charger,
thought not of his own safety, but carefully held by the reins the palfrey that
bore the Lady Hildiridur.

“Welcome, thrice welcome, noble guests,” said a swarthy figure of a
charcoal-burner, who had now come to the door. “You will do well, for
want of better lodgings, to remain with me for this night; for the road
becomes ever more steep and more slippery as you advance; besides, there
are ghosts and spirits abroad; and, as I now perceive, you have a noble lady
under your protection.”
Willingly did the party accept the kind offer of this man. Sir Otto
straightway lifted Hildiridur from her palfrey, and carried her into the
cottage, while the rest provided as well as they could for their wearied
horses; for even the Knight of Trautwangen’s light-brown now suffered
himself to be attended by the sea-monarch, having become well acquainted
with him on their long journey, so that even with Sir Arinbiorn’s dun
charger he now lived in peace and friendship.
When the travellers had now assembled all together in the charcoal-burner’s
hut, the graceful knights, with their magnificent coats-of-mail, contrasted
indeed strangely with its narrow and low-roofed chamber. Their weighty
helmets threatened to break down a table in one corner on which they had
been deposited, while the tall plumes reached almost to the ceiling.
Opposite to these was placed, like a trophy, in another corner, a collection
of great battle-swords, that glittered wondrously with their golden hilts and
brass-bound scabbards in the clear fire-light. Near this collection of
weapons, and beside the charcoal-man’s mother, was seated the Lady
Hildiridur. The old woman was blind, yet had regular features; and as she
sat there in her abstraction and solitude, it was a pleasure to behold how she
gradually became aware of the Druda’s presence, as if indeed a gleam of the
moon-like radiance of Hildiridur’s eyes had fallen on the dark night in
which her existence had hitherto been dreamed away. A smile stole over her
before fixed and pale visage; and meanwhile the charcoal-burner moved to
and fro, anxious to promote, as much as it was in his power, the comfort of
his guests. He had store of good wine, wherewith he entertained the knights,
and, on their invitation, drank freely and merrily along with them.
“Methinks,” said Sir Heerdegen to his host, “thou should’st now relate to us
for pastime some long and frightful story. Charcoal-men and miners in the
Hartz forest seldom fail to have an abundant store of such legends.” “Alas!”
said the charcoal-man, “in this country there is indeed no reason why we
should task our own invention, or feel at a loss for such pastime; in our wild

woods we meet enough of such adventures, only this is no fitting hour to
speak of such things.” “Wherefore not?” said Sir Heerdegen; “methinks
such an hour were of all the most suitable. Hearest thou not how the night-
wind whistles at the window, and anon speaks to us almost as with a human
voice of lamentation? Then, too, the old pine-trees are beating with their
branches on the cottage, like giants with their ponderous arms, and as if
they would break through the roof and stare in upon us with ghastly faces.
Methinks there could never be found a better time for such legends than the
present.” “Ay, ay,” answered the charcoal-man; “if one spoke only in jest, or
told stories of what has happened a thousand miles hence, I should be as
well content with this hour as with any other. But now the case is indeed
very different; the ghosts and demons of whom we should speak are far too
near at hand, and if we should provoke them, will attack and torment us
even to death.” “What sayest thou, son,” said the old woman; “are there any
fearful sights? Hast thou heard any growling without? Children, children,
there comes again a cold shuddering, that creeps over my heart!”—“Mark
you, sirs,” said the charcoal-man; offering his mother a cup of wine; “even
in her old age and blindness she feels the same terror of which I have
spoken. In her deafness, too, she hears not a word that has been uttered, nor
even the rolling of the loudest thunder; but if the ghosts that haunt us are
rustling through the wood, or even if I began to speak of such beings, then
immediately she marks that all is not as it should be, and begins to tremble
in every limb.” “On this account there should be no difficulty,” answered
Sir Heerdegen; “let the old woman retire to rest, and then you may proceed
quietly with the stories which you have to tell. It is not merely for the sake
of pastime that we would listen to such narratives; but as brave knights, it is
our duty to try whether we could not relieve you from the distress that the
ghosts and demons here bring upon you.” In this notion he was supported
by the two other knights; and the charcoal-man accordingly did as Sir
Heerdegen had directed; and after his mother had retired to sleep, he related
what here follows:—
“On the summit of a mountain in our forest stands an old pagan altar, a
place of sacrifice, marked by many great blocks of granite stone. Our wood-
cutters would seldom or never go thither, on account of the frightful stories
they had heard of the human victims that were there sacrificed. For my part,
however, I have always thought, since the accursed reign of paganism is
now for ever past and gone, of what consequence is that circle of old

weather-beaten stones; therefore I have climbed up both by day and by
night to the very top of the hill, and have there cut down the choicest oaks
and beech-trees, for no one came to share in my labour. Truly I knew well
enough that the Wild Army, marching through the fields of air, were heard
more frequently in this place than any where else; and I was terrified when I
found human bones mixed with charcoal on the altar; yet I resolved not to
think of these matters, which were no concern of mine, and always came
home content and happy. Some weeks ago, however, it so happened, that I
had climbed up the steep mountain, and, amid the strange light reflected
from the snow, methought there were tall white figures of men and women,
that looked out upon me from the rocky cliffs. However, I soon gained
courage, and looked steadily on every object that came in my way, till at
length I was able even to laugh at my own apprehensions. Now, when I
arrived at the hill top, lo! there was stationed on the hearth of the pagan
altar, a tall figure, which I believed to be a great wreath of snow. I only
thought to myself what strange pranks has the whirlwind played here with
the snow-drift; and straightway began with my hatchet to cut down a tall
oak-tree, which I had marked some time before to be felled. But hark! there
came on my ears a strange voice from the altar, calling aloud, ‘Köhler,
Köhler, let alone that oak-tree, for it stands within the sacred circle of Freia.
The great goddess has again come amid your woods; beware of Freia’s
malison!’ So, when I looked round, the figure that I had taken for a snow-
wreath rose up solemnly from the altar, stretching out a threatening arm
towards me; and I saw that it was a ghostly woman in a long white veil.
Without well knowing what I did, I took off my cap, laid down my hatchet,
and bowed respectfully. Meanwhile it seemed to me as if the sides of the
altar moved like folding doors asunder; and from an abyss beneath there
came forth two knights heavily armed, with their iron-coats rattling and
gleaming in the snow-light, and with their visors closed, as if prepared for
combat. They were loaded with great store of javelins and arrows, which
they laid down before the altar at the feet of the veiled lady; and thereafter
they stood silently, like two iron statues, leaning on their tall halberts.
‘Brave hunters,’ said she at length, ‘are you then ready for the chase?’ The
knights bowed their high-crested heads, and rattled with their iron-gloved
hands among the javelins and arrows. ‘There is a weak mortal here present,’
said she, again stretching out her arm towards me, ‘and he shall now be
made witness how I, the great Freia, who am again returned into the world,

have power over all this forest, nay over all the ghosts and demons that lurk
therein. Thus, when he goes from hence, he will relate what he has seen
among his neighbours, and thereafter they will not fail to pay due homage
and worship at my altar.’ Hereupon one of the knights stepped forward,
seized me with a resistless grasp, so that the icy coldness of his iron-glove
vibrated through every limb, forced me onwards towards the altar, and
commanded that I should stand there before the veiled woman, nor dare to
move, whatever I might behold, either on the earth beneath, or in the skies
above. For a while I obeyed his commands, and stood still; but terror at last
overpowered me, and I fell trembling on the ground, the knights and the
lady still remaining motionless.
“Then there came across the mountains, as if sounding out of the clouds in
heaven, the most horrible and soul-distracting noise of the Wild Army in
full march. Accustomed to hide myself when this uproar was in the air, I
now lay down with my face shrouded among the long grass, but one of the
knights seized me again with his gigantic hand. ‘Look up,’ cried he, ‘thou
shalt and must behold what now passes in the air, and for this time thou art
free from all danger!’ My terror of the knight who thus held me was greater
than that of the ghosts in the sky, and I did as he had ordered. Then, lo! I
beheld, as if vast thunder-clouds, fringed with red light, and fashioned into
a thousand unutterable shapes; but among the rest there were horses,
huntsmen, deer, and dogs. ‘Hakelnberg, Hakelnberg!’ cried the knights and
the veiled woman, in a tone as if of scorn and mockery from the altar. I well
knew that this was the true name of the Wild Hunter, and thought that he
would descend in fury with his fiery horses for our destruction. Instead of
this, however, the attack began from our side;—with arrows and javelins,
which now, to my amazement, flamed like lightning through the air, the
knights vied with each other in shooting at the ghostly procession above, so
that the dogs howled, the horses reared and plunged, and the riders uttered
hideous lamentations. Many lost their seats, and fell from the clouds as if
wounded, while the grass around us was wet with a rain of blood. Towards
morning the knights allowed me to go, for the wild hunters had all vanished
away; and as I proceeded alone to my cottage, the mangled limbs of men
and horses, that terrified me on my road, convinced me that what I had
beheld had been no dream. On my dress, too, I found many hateful stains of
blood; so that I rather chose to burn my clothes than to touch them again.
Since that time, however, the ghosts and hobgoblins, through all our

mountains, have been far more restless than ever. The new goddess, Freia,
rides often, even by day, with her two knights through the forest, and
endeavours to turn away the hearts of good people from the Christian faith,
and force them to do her homage; so that every one trembles even at
hearing her name. Sometimes, either she herself, or one of her companions,
appears suddenly in the room of a poor cottager, and when he perchance
expects only to meet some well known friend, is so terrified by their
hideous grimaces, that from that day onwards he is raving mad. If some
change for the better should not take place, one must believe, that in many
parts of our wild forest the true faith will give way to the terror that is
inspired by those mysterious visitants.” ‘Heaven forbid!’ cried the three
knights, as if with one voice; ‘far rather would we venture our lives and
fortunes in the contest, even to the last remnant, and even resign that also
without shrinking—’
While they spoke thus earnestly, they were interrupted by a loud confused
knocking, as if by many hands all at once, on the cottage windows. At the
same time, the old blind woman in the next room began to scream aloud,
and the charcoal-man went to sooth her; but in his absence the knocking
became more vehement, and without, amid the desolate night air, there was
heard a fearful muttering, and gibbering of voices, like the sounds that
come in dreams on a sick man’s ears when he lies oppressed by fever. Sir
Heerdegen, however, was by no means disconcerted; he rose, went to the
door, and called out in a stern thundering voice, “Who’s there?” Then after
a short space, returned to the party within, and said, “I have seen no one;
but you have an abominable swarm of bats in this forest.” In truth, it
seemed to his friends, as if one of these night-birds had entangled itself in
the dark curling locks of Sir Heerdegen; for a living creature with a hideous
visage grinned on them from over his forehead. Sir Otto and the sea-
monarch immediately started up, in order to seize this vile intruder; but on
their approach, it flew away, breaking a pane of glass in the window, and
disappeared, with a hoarse scream, amid the darkness of the night. Some
thought it must have been an owl; but as for Sir Heerdegen, he knew
nothing of the strange guest that had sat on his head, and looked round him
cheerful and unconcerned; while Hildiridur sighed deeply, and seemed lost
in melancholy apprehensions.

The charcoal-man now came back into the room, and said,—“The ghosts
have again broken out vehemently in the forest,—of this you have
yourselves been witnesses; and even the poor old woman, in the dark night
of her blindness, is aware of the enemies by whom we are beset.” Suddenly,
however, he paused, and, staring at Sir Otto von Trautwangen, called out,
—“Heaven protect us!—there stands one of the knights from the altar of
Freia!”—The sea-monarch and Sir Heerdegen were so confounded by what
they had now heard and seen, that they were almost afraid to look at their
own friend and tried comrade, for fear that he had vanished, and some ghost
stepped into his place. Hildiridur, however, looked steadfastly and well-
pleased on her beloved son; and the knight stepped up kindly towards the
charcoal-man, saying,—“How far the terrors by which you are here assailed
may have confused your senses I know not; but that I am a true and faithful
Christian knight can easily be proved. Mark you! if I make the sign of the
cross, or call on the name of our blessed Redeemer, will my tongue falter,
or are my looks changed as I here stand before you?”—“No truly, it is not
so,” answered the charcoal-man; “and now I wonder at my own folly, in
having for a moment mistaken a handsome young knight, such as you are,
for a frightful and malicious spectre; but when I thought of the old woman’s
words, and heard these vile noises at the windows, my sight too became
confused and wandering. Now I have awoke from my dream, and would
gladly hope that you and your brave companions have been sent hither for
our protection and deliverance from these persecutions.”—“If it please God,
you shall not have been deceived,” said Sir Otto; “I put my trust in Heaven;
I am well able to wield arms, and feel the impulse of a new and high calling
in my heart; therefore I shall go forth, even now, while these evil spirits are
all awake; and meanwhile you, my faithful comrades, will take the Lady
Hildiridur under your protection.”—“You think then, that we would suffer
you to ride out alone on such a campaign?” said Sir Heerdegen and the sea-
monarch, both speaking at the same moment, and girding on their swords,
and clasping their visors.—“Who then shall remain with my mother?” said
Sir Otto.—“Nay,” said Heerdegen, “it were best of all that you staid with
her alone.”—“Swerker too,” added Sir Arinbiorn, “and the other squires,
when they make their appearance, will follow and support
us.”—“Comrades!” said Sir Otto, his eyes gleaming with anger, “what you
have now proposed avails me not; and this you might have well known ere
you spoke as you have now done. For this adventure I myself have been

chosen, and no one, as long as I live, shall fulfil the duties of Sir Otto von
Trautwangen. As to Swerker’s coming in such a night as this proves, it is
more than uncertain; and on that chance a son will not depend for the
protection of a beloved parent. One of you twain must at all events remain
with her.”—Hereupon the knights looked at each other in silence, each of
them wishing that his friend would speak first, and declare his consent to
remain with the lady, till at length Hildiridur spoke:—“Go hence, young
heroes,” said she, “all three, and in God’s name. Truly I am no longer a
prophetess nor Druda; for the hand of my brave son has deprived me of
these fatal gifts; yet the powers over whom I so long mildly ruled, come to
me yet, as near as the boundaries that separate our world from theirs will
allow, and, by dim apprehensions in my own soul, I am aware that this
adventure will be stern and fearful,—perchance that you may not all return
hither; but, nevertheless, all three must be present at that encounter.
Therefore go, and may the blessing of Heaven be with you. Look not so
anxiously, as if you were yet afraid for my safety, dearest Otto; for, mark
you, I have even here found a protector, who never deserted those who
placed in him their hopes and trust.”—With these words she lifted her arm
towards a cross which was formed with charcoal on the wall above the
fireplace, rudely indeed, but powerfully drawn; and having made the same
holy sign in the air above their heads, she pointed towards the door. The
warriors had no power to resist her solemn commands, but went
straightway forth amid the gloom of that spectral night.

CHAPTER XIII.
How the Knights went down to the subterraneous castle of
Gerda.
The three knights had determined to leave their horses at the charcoal-man’s
hut, because he had described to them how slippery and dangerous were the
paths leading up to the pagan altar. Meanwhile De Montfaucon’s falcon,
which since that evening (of which we have already told) never deserted the
Knight of Trautwangen, flew gayly before them, as if to marshal their way,
now and then resting too on the plume of his master’s helmet. Thereupon
they were all of good courage; for the noble bird hovered around them like
a guardian spirit, and at his approach all the ominous brood of bats and owls
were dispersed, and fled screaming to hide themselves in the forest.
Through luxuriant brush-wood, and rugged cliffs, the warriors pursued their
toilsome way, while, as they gained the higher ground, the storm howled
around them, and the voice of the moaning blast contended with the loud
roar of a cataract that rushed through a deep ravine. At length they saw,
through the naked branches of the beech-trees and the snow-laden pines, an
open glade, which at once they recognised for the spot of which the
charcoal-man had spoken; for, in the midst of this level ground, almost like
a pile of rocks, was reared the lofty altar for pagan sacrifice; and the moon,
just then breaking through a cloud, threw her pale death-like lustre on black
half-burnt brands and bones, which lay mouldering on its broad hearth.
Still the knights stood doubtful and irresolute, whether they should quietly
wait for the supernatural apparitions that might come forth, or try to force
open those concealed gates of the altar, from which the charcoal-man had
before seen the two knights emerge. All at once they perceived, not without
some terror, that their number was increased to four. A tall, gigantic, but
shadowy figure of a man, was among them, who now spoke with a hollow
and murmuring voice,—“You mean well,” said he, “but, as a friend, I would
rather advise you to desist from this encounter; for the inhabitants of that
altar are strong as any devil. If you are determined to proceed, however, you
must go to the north side, at which is the only entrance. You must knock

three times for admittance; for, trust me, it is always best, in such
adventures, to make the first attack. Through my whole life, when I have
had wild beasts to contend with, I always found it better to fall straightway
on them, than wait till they had made a spring at me.”—The knights looked
at him in silent astonishment; whereupon he added,—“I would gladly play
to you a bold hunting-piece on my bugle, in order that your spirits may be
the better roused for the conflict that awaits you. However, my voice dare
not for this time be raised here. May good luck attend you, brave
foresters!”—With these words the shadowy stranger vanished away into the
wood, and the knights resolved to follow his counsel; especially because
whatever he had said chimed well with their notions of honour and bravery.
Accordingly they knocked with their sword-hilts on the north side of the
altar, and Sir Heerdegen, in a stern voice, demanded that the door should be
opened.
Then the solid walls began to move, and roll asunder as if on hinges, till at
last an entrance was visible, and they looked down a steep narrow descent,
with broken steps, whereon gleams of uncertain light played fitfully at
intervals.—Gazing thereon, “Your mother’s apprehensions,” said the sea-
monarch to Sir Otto, “might now readily be fulfilled; for some one among
us might perchance here find a grave. In truth, this looks altogether like a
mansion of the dead.”—“Nay,” said Sir Heerdegen, “the whole world
would seem no better to one whose thoughts were thus inclined; for all must
one day come to an end. If we but arrive at the goal by the paths of honour
and virtue, what more could we desire? and surely we come hither with
intentions virtuous and praiseworthy;—wherefore then such consultation
and delay?”—“Who dares affirm that I wish for delay or consultation?” said
the sea-monarch proudly, and thereupon marched straightway into the
cavern. Sir Otto followed him, casting one look backwards, ere he went into
the vault, on the moon’s beautiful broad shield, that then again emerged
from a cloud, and reminded him of Hildiridur. Last came Sir Heerdegen,
humming over to himself an old ballad telling of the swarthy spirits of the
mines and mountains; and meanwhile De Montfaucon’s noble falcon had
clung fearfully to Sir Otto’s breast, feeling that, in this narrow vault, he had
no longer space for his usual flights. Ere long, however, the road became
more spacious, so that three could walk abreast; and the noble
determination, not to be last in the path of danger, forced Sir Otto and Sir
Heerdegen forward, till they had come up with the sea-monarch;—then they

went on ranked together, and holding out their long gleaming swords to
guide them through the darkness.
They met not with any obstacles. On the contrary, the farther they
descended, the wider and loftier became the roof, and the steps less uneven,
till suddenly they found themselves once more on plain ground. Here too
the wind blew on them as if they were once more in the open country; and
on looking up, they could almost have believed that they had left the
cavern; for the roof was now lost in distance, and glimmering lights were
visible like stars above them. On this strange appearance they were
reflecting in silent wonder, when the falcon started from Sir Otto’s breast,
and, rejoicing to find himself once more with the realms of space around
him, he flew up, and disappeared amid those twinkling lights. All of a
sudden, however, he came back terrified, and tumbling through the air; they
saw well that he had begun his flight after prey, and had been scared by
hideous shapes, which had now descended along with him, and floated right
over their own heads. So strange and shadowy were these shapes, that they
knew not whether they were gigantic birds of some unknown race, or
vapours bred by the noisome damps of the cavern, that assumed those living
forms: for now that their eyes had become more accustomed to the
uncertain light, they could no longer doubt that they were still in a vast
cavern, of which the roof was indeed so lofty, that it might be compared to
the firmament, and lamps were hung therein, that shone downward on them
like stars.
Moreover, a great lake now lay at their feet, reflecting gloomily the black
vault with its twinkling lights. The knights assayed to prove its depth with
their swords; and Sir Arinbiorn groped therein with his long halbert. Even
close to the shore, however, they could find no ground; and though
shuddering to think of this horrid and bottomless abyss, they determined in
all haste to go through with their adventure, walking boldly round the banks
of that subterraneous sea, while the falcon now sat quietly on Sir Otto’s
helmet.
They had walked thus for more than a mile along the shore, when, lo! there
arose before them a steep hill, crowned by a fortress with many towers.
When they had determined to proceed thither, they found to their great
disappointment, that the lake now changed into a wild roaring stream,
which came betwixt them and the mountain. The waters foamed and raged

in such manner, that to swim across was impossible; the strongest giant
would have been borne away by such a current. They continued their
landward course therefore, till they arrived at a bridge built of iron and
brass; the metal rung beneath their steps almost like the notes of a frightful
battle-march. Having come to the other side, they saw before them a wide
level field, and might at first have named it a blooming meadow, for it
seemed studded over with bright flowers; but when they came nearer, these
were changed into yellow flames, that rose in many strange forms, and
almost choked them with sulphureous smoke as they trod upon them. Yet to
their greater amazement, there were living creatures, like horses, deer, and
bulls, in the field, that had their noses on the ground, and cropped these
fiery flowers as if they had from thence derived good refreshment; and
when the strangers approached, they lifted their heads and trotted away.
“Had we not better catch two or three of these native horses, and so ride
into the castle?” said Sir Otto, in a bold tone, hoping by these words to
banish the apprehensions of his comrades. But the jest inspired by such
horrid sights only increased the horror of the listeners, and the three brave
knights trembled, so that their iron-coats rattled on their limbs. At this
moment there came up to them a hateful lame dwarf, hopping on one leg;
“Nay,” said he, “it were better that you did not meddle with these horses,
for they are the war-steeds of the great goddess, Freia. Therewith she is
wont to ride through the forest, and hunt down the wild hunter, Hakelnberg,
and the mortals who will not do her homage. Moreover, I am appointed here
to be their groom and watcher.” With these words, he began to blow into an
enormous horn that was hung by his side, of which the noise was so loud
and hideous, that the knights could scarce help recoiling. “Has this alarmed
you?” said the dwarf; “I play thus now and then a little music on my
shepherd’s pipe to beguile the tedious hours; but if it so pleases you, I shall
also treat you with a dance to the same tune: my brother shepherds are not
far distant.” Hereupon the knights made him a signal that he should retreat,
and went forward towards the fortress-gates. While they proceeded on their
way, the dwarf uttered a long and loud sound of scornful laughter, and the
demoniacal horses leaped and plunged about on the fiery meadow.
On their route towards the castle, instead of finding a smooth road, they had
to clamber over rugged fragments of rock, overgrown with thorns and
brambles. Sir Heerdegen and the sea-monarch, who had both travelled in

the East, were of opinion that such caverns were to be found there also, and
that they had been formed by wonderful boiling springs and volcanoes.
At last the knights had arrived at the portal; they found the drawbridges
down, as if awaiting their approach, and passed over them quietly as they
would have done in any ordinary fortress above ground. In the court, it
seemed to them as if some soldiers in complete armour were keeping
watch; and bowing at the approach of the strange guests, these men lowered
their arms in respectful salutation; though, for the rest, one could not say
whether these were not mere statues of iron or stone, that bowed themselves
for the moment, and then recovered their position erect and motionless.
Thereafter their way led onwards through empty and silent corridors and
apartments, wherein even the echo of their own steps sounded horribly in
this desolate mansion. Here and there glimmering lamps hung upon the
walls, whose light only served to remind the knights of a funeral
procession. At last they came into a large inhabited chamber, of which the
adornments were ghostly spectral forms and death’s heads. In this room
there was seated a knight at a large round table, who had a book open
before him. On the leaves they could perceive, even with a flitting glance,
that there were inscribed many strange characters and figures intermixed
with old Runic letters; and Sir Otto recollected that, at one time or another,
all this had appeared to him in a dream. While he reflected silently on what
now passed before him, the knight closed his book, and rose from his chair.
“You would have acted more wisely,” said he, “if you had never come
hither; but since you are indeed among us, I shall announce your arrival.”
With these words he departed, casting, however, a look of sympathy and
compassion on Sir Otto, who at the same moment began to recognise in the
strange man his mysterious half-brother, Ottur of Norway. Truly he could
not suppose that he had deceived himself, for both his companions were at
the same moment eager to remark the resemblance. “If thou wert not here
beside us, Knight of Trautwangen,” said they, “we should assuredly have
believed that thou had’st even now departed through the door which we see
yonder.”
Thus they were speaking with each other, when, lo! there came into the
room a beautiful and stately damsel, in whom all three immediately
recognised the wonderful enchantress of Norway, the mysterious and far-
famed Gerda. Hereupon they all bowed courteously, as it beseemed high-

born knights, yet remained silent and doubtful in what manner they should
now address her; while Gerda looked on them with a smile of indifference
and self-complacency. At last she said,—“How comes it, noble warriors,
that you seem thus confused? Perchance you have lost your way in the
night, and arrived by accident at my castle; but though this were the cause
of your appearance here, wherefore should you now be thus embarrassed?”
“Nay,” said Heerdegen, knitting his brows, “there is one reason at least for
our being thus confused. We are now, Heaven knows, here many fathoms
deep under ground.” “Then,” added Sir Otto, “your meadow-fields, with
their burning flowers, your wild horses that devour the flames, and your
dwarf hopping on one leg,—are not these enough to distract the mind of
any Christian knight?” “In the first place,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “and before
all other questions, answer whether thou art the lady who in these
mountains demands homage as the goddess Freia?” “Methinks, Sir Knight
of the Sea,” answered Gerda, “you have here assumed to yourself the right
of command; and you think by your high-sounding words to gain an
influence over me. But in this hope you are deceived. I am no longer a
follower in your train; and if in former years I loved you more than you
deserved, yet that is long past. Since then my head and heart are both
changed; and as for your appearance, and that of your comrades here, I can
only say, that you are all mad. You will visit me in my pleasant fortress,
bright with the morning gleams, and yet speak of caverns under ground,
horses eating fire, and such like delirious visions. If possible, let the clear
sunlight restore your wandering senses and recollection.” Hereupon she
drew aside a dark-red curtain that hung across the farther end of the room,
and, behold, there was behind it a large bright window, through which they
looked out on a rich blooming country!
Just then the cloudless skies were brightened with the red glow of the rising
sun; and by that pleasant light the astonished champions beheld a beautiful
valley, with many castles and pleasure-gardens, where the trees had just
begun to assume the verdant colouring of spring. Shepherds, too, in their
red and blue jackets, with flutes and horns in their hands, were driving out
their flocks, and young damsels were twining flower-garlands on the
meadows. “Good Heaven!” said Sir Heerdegen, “methinks this appears as if
we were now in Italy.” “Who has told you then,” said Gerda smiling, “that
you are not really there? If you believe that what you now behold is but
illusion, why not think the same of your former wanderings through the

snow-covered Hartz forest? Besides, how can you pretend to measure space
and time, since you rashly brought yourselves under my power, and have
travelled perhaps many hundred miles, when you thought to have walked
only one?”
The knights hereupon knew not what to believe, and looked anxiously
through the large gleaming window, while the scene became always more
lively; and at length they beheld three figures come through the gates of a
noble mansion, to whom their attention was especially directed. These were
a knight and two ladies, who were now walking together, as if engaged in
friendly discourse; whereupon Sir Otto sighed deeply, and said to Sir
Heerdegen, “Alas, I behold there Folko de Montfaucon, with Gabrielle and
Blanchefleur; but where is your sister Bertha von Lichtenried?” “We shall
straightway ask them that question,” said Sir Heerdegen, and he was
rushing onwards in order to force open the window, when Gerda, by a
threatening gesture, prevented him. “Then,” said the Knight of
Trautwangen, “brother, brother! I now remember well how we have been
here deceived. That is indeed no window, but a magic mirror, such as my
mother once had in her Swedish watch-tower; and who can tell how far
distant Sir Folko, with the two damsels, may now be from us? Of such
illusions, however, I shall quickly make an end, as I have done before in
that mysterious castle of the north.”
The good sword, that he had named Ottur, already gleamed in his hand; but
ere his blows had time to fall on the mirror, Gerda had snatched up an
enchanter’s rod, made of the medlar-tree, waved it three times round her
head, all the while muttering strange words, till at last the three knights fell
at the same moment to the ground, powerless and motionless.

CHAPTER XIV.
How Sir Heerdegen received his death-wound.
According to the wisest old legends we are instructed, that mortals, when
bewitched in this manner, lie as if in feverish dreams, with just so much of
their senses left as to make them aware of their own fearful bondage. The
three knights now remained long on the floor of this mysterious chamber;
they moved indeed now and then, as if they would arise and walk; but, with
strange grins and inarticulate murmurs, always fell back motionless as
before. Only one among them retained his recollection so well, that he was
still aware of what passed around him; and this was Sir Otto von
Trautwangen; for, as he felt himself sinking on the ground, he had time to
mutter a short prayer, which he had in early days learned from his cousin
Bertha, when they were both children. Even while he lay in that heavy
trance he thought of this prayer; and if he succeeded but in speaking aloud,
or in thinking clearly, his eyes were opened, and he saw what was now
going forward.
At such intervals, he perceived that his half-brother, Ottur, now stood beside
the enchantress, Gerda, and that they spoke earnestly and loudly together,
so that he could oftentimes catch the meaning of their dialogue.
“When they lie thus asleep and insensible,” said Ottur, “I dare not attack
them. Besides, thou seest, that he in the middle wears mine own features;
we have on a former day entered into a bond of friendship with each other:
—His sword is called Ottur, and mine Otto. Therefore let me hear no more
of your admonitions; for, if your golden apple of victory is to be won only
in this manner, know, that while they are thus defenceless, I would not for
all the world injure even one hair of their heads.” Thereupon Gerda stamped
on the floor, and made a signal that the poor deluded knight should leave
the room along with her, while Sir Otto vainly strove to call out aloud, and
remind him once more of the friendly contract that had been made betwixt
them. His lips and tongue were now sealed up and bound, as if by the fetters
of a hideous dream; and when his vain efforts were past, confusion and
dulness of senses prevailed over him more powerfully than ever. Many

times, notwithstanding, he tried to rouse his companions, but they lay
beside him stiff and motionless, as if they were really dead, so that the cold
shuddering of horror crept through his frame. Truly, he thought to himself,
many times, that all three were dead, and laid in a sepulchral vault; only,
that he alone had been cursed with remaining consciousness, and strove in
vain with the fate that was decreed for him. Yet, when with his half-opened
eyes he gazed on Sir Heerdegen, a feeling, as if of hope, and the warmth of
spring-tide, stole over his heart, for he perceived again the same
resemblance to his cousin Bertha of Lichtenried, which had perplexed him,
on the blooming banks of the Mayne, when he bore the wounded youth
home to his hostelrie. On this account only Sir Otto believed that his trance
would not last for ever, since he was yet able to watch over the brother of
his beloved Bertha. “If I could but fall a sacrifice to save him,” said he to
himself, “this would be the same as if I died for her sake, and how noble
would be such an end!” For that some one of their party must perish he had
no doubt; and, although the presence of all three was necessary for the
fulfilment of this adventure, yet, on the death of one depended the rescue of
the other two. Whence all these ideas had come to him he knew not;
sometimes, it seemed as if the voices of mountain spirits had sounded them
into his ears in their confused songs. Then he said to himself, “The men in
the fiery furnace, that we read of in the holy book, were all saved; but we
are not saints, and therefore one of us must surely perish. Were but Bertha’s
brother not the victim!” Thereafter he continued, with all the strength and
attention that were left him, to keep watch over Sir Heerdegen, and gaze on
his death-like features.
At length the enchantress, Gerda, again came among them; but now it was a
different voice from that of Ottur that kept up the dialogue; and, listening
with great anxiety, Sir Otto perceived it was that of the young knight
Kolbein, who now said, “I pray you do not ask that I should put to death my
cousin the sea-monarch, nor could I willingly strike the brave German
champion. Yet if it be thy will, most beautiful of damsels, I am ready to
obey.” “Strike whom thou wilt among them,” said Gerda; “it is enough for
me if their number is broken; for if one be killed, the other two are certainly
mine. Thanks be to the great Odin, that thou hast even now returned from
thy campaign, for Ottur becomes every day more wild and visionary.” “’Tis
well,” said Sir Kolbein; “thus I may hope to efface one day from your heart
the image of every other mortal, and to rule there even like a god, all

alone.” “Nay, be not thus presumptuous,” answered Gerda; “thou art not the
youth, who, in my dreams, and by the secret longings of my heart, has been
pointed out to me as the future king of the Hartz forest, by whose arms
Gerda shall be embraced, and who will raise himself up with her even to
god-like power and grandeur.” “Is it perchance Arinbiorn?” muttered Sir
Kolbein. “Then indeed my battle-axe shall not fail to mark him for my
victim, were he tenfold more nearly related to me, and though, alas! he was
once my beloved and respected leader on the field of victory.”—“Nay, it is
not Arinbiorn,” said Gerda, coldly. “The folly with which my heart clung to
him has now fully yielded before the magnificent figure with the glittering
mail, whom I beheld in the mirror. But strike him if thou wilt. It is enough
for me, if the dangerous power of these three knights be overcome.” “Then
rather let the stranger be the victim,” said Kolbein; and with these words
raised his battle-axe high over the head of the unfortunate Heerdegen of
Lichtenried.
In undescribable terror, and having long foreseen that this would be the
result, Sir Otto had listened to the dialogue. Now the force of his zeal, and
the prayer which he had all the while been repeating in his heart, was so
powerful, that he made a visible effort to throw himself on the body of Sir
Heerdegen, and thus to receive the blow that was intended for his friend.
Ere he could accomplish his purpose, however, Kolbein’s halbert descended
with a hideous crash. The unfortunate youth groaned horribly, and a stream
of blood poured from his helmet. Still hoping, however, to save his life, Sir
Otto threw his shield over his friend’s head, with uncertain motion waved
his sword, to ward off the coming blows, and yet pointed to his own breast
as the mark at which Kolbein should aim. The base coward failed not to
inflict them thick as hail, and laughed to scorn the feeble resistance by
which he was met, till at last Sir Otto’s corslet was broken asunder, and his
blood flowed in torrents, mingling with that of his beloved friend
Heerdegen.

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

“Alas!” said Gerda, “this comes because thou knowest not yet the true
grandeur and pomp that here await thee. Lo! we should build our throne
upon the lofty summit of the Brocken, and there erect a castle with such
vaulted galleries,—such long echoing chambers, proud watch-towers, and
frowning portals, as have never been beheld through the wide world before;
—there we should look forth, from our airy battlements, over the wide
realms around us, and, far as our eyes could reach, all should be under our
control, and pay us tribute, both by treasures and service on the battle-field.
Whatever the people possess that is richest and rarest they should bring to
our palace of the Hartz; their sons and daughters should be sent to us for
soldiers and handmaidens; or, if they refused to obey us, we should come
against them like whirlwinds and thunder-storms,—should level their
habitations with the ground,—and, mounted on our fiery steeds, gallop over
their ruins. Beneath, at the base of the mountain, frightful wild beasts and
giants should be our guards;—truly these might be but shapes formed from
the clouds, yet not the less deadly, for they should lead into the bottomless
abysses of the mountain every one who ventured to approach without our
permission. Whosoever, on the contrary, we chose to admit into our palace
should feast like the gods and heroes on the lofty heights of Asgard. The
delights of love and war would then alternate in our happy realm;—the sun,
the stars, and clouds, must obey us, in order to solemnize our festivals;
above all, when every year in spring-tide the people should come up to us in
long solemn processions, bearing rich offerings,—and when the altar of
sacrifice flamed in the court of our palace, it would be at the same time
answered by fires on the tops of all the neighbouring mountains.”
“For Heaven’s sake, say no more!” cried Sir Archimbald; “how is it
possible for a woman to be so lovely, and yet to utter words which are only
worthy of a demon? Alas! I recognise by your own language, that your
desire is to overthrow the mild blessed religion of the Christians, in order
that you may receive homage as the pagan goddess Freia. I am in heart
grieved for your sake; for by this means you will only continue to live as a
wicked enchantress, and, according to the laws of God and man, you will
deserve to be burned alive for your crimes!”
Hereupon Sir Kolbein, gnashing his teeth with rage, stepped again forwards
to attack the count, but Gerda interposed:—“Be quiet,” said she, “I
command you. Whatever this knight says, though his words be wrathful and

bitter, is yet more welcome to me than your fondest caresses.”—So Kolbein
stood mournfully abashed; and Archimbald, taking but little heed of his
discourse, or that of the enchantress, continued to speak as follows:—
“I shall not conceal from you, that I came as an enemy into these secret
caverns, and that I have arrived here in order to put an end to all your
necromancy and enchantments; moreover to save, or, if this may not be, to
revenge the three knights who, some time since, disappeared at your altar.
In return, methinks, you ought to tell me, as freely as I have now spoken,
how you came to look on me as the appointed king of the Hartz forest and
the idol of its inhabitants, inasmuch as neither I myself, nor any one among
my ancestors, ever had aught to do with witchcraft or pagan superstitions?”
“Who has assured thee of this, bold hero?” said the enchantress, with a
winning smile; “truly thine ancestors have also worshipped the great Odin;
and though their descendants have deserted their religion, yet his favour has
not wholly been withdrawn from thy house, and the golden cup of promise
may yet one day be poured on thy head. In that enchanted mirror, which is
not far distant, I demanded to see the noblest scion from the heroic oak-tree
of German knighthood; and when thou madest thine appearance therein,
attired as thou now art, in thy silver armour, and I watched thy prowess in
the tournament and battle-field, my heart was wholly won;—and now,
therefore, proud hero, thou mayest command Gerda as thy handmaid.”
Hereupon Kolbein struck with his battle-axe vehemently on the ground,
crying,—“Great Odin! can any mortal listen to words like these, and remain
tranquil?”—but another stern look from the enchantress made him again
silent and submissive.—“So then,” answered Sir Archimbald, “all is
changed here from that which I had expected; and since you offer me
implicit obedience, I shall injure neither you nor your adherents; but beware
how you infringe the conditions of the promise now made.”
“Till now,” answered the enchantress, in a melancholy tone, “I have been
named the wild Gerda; but in your presence I have become timid as a lamb.
Alas! if thou would’st but accept from my hand the crown of the Hartz
forest!”
“As to this give yourself no trouble,” answered the count; “were you not a
sorceress, and a pagan, truly there might be other crowns of which I would
gladly speak with you; but now this also is hopeless; and I have only to

insist on the stern and severe laws of right and wrong. Where are the three
brave and noble knights who came lately into your caverns?”—At the same
moment, looking round the room, he observed for the first time the three
victims, that lay outstretched in their coats-of-mail on the floor.—“Hast
thou murdered them?” said he, with a look of rage. “Right stern and fearful
is the account that must be rendered unto me by those who have committed
this crime; above all, for the sake of the knight in the black and silver
armour, with the eagle’s visor; for both the knight and his armour are well
known to me, and are very dear to my heart.”
“My lord and commander,” said Gerda trembling,—“the warrior of whom
thou speak’st yet lives, and might easily be cured of his wounds; but over
the knight who lies beneath him, death already has spread his dark chilling
wings.”
“Give life quickly to them who may yet live,” said Archimbald; and Gerda
obediently took the rod of medlar-tree again into her hand, waved it over
the knights as they lay, and muttered her unintelligible words. Thereupon
both Arinbiorn and Sir Otto opened their eyes; immediately, too, the falcon
began to move, which, till now, sharing in their enchanted swoon, had lain,
as if dead, near his master’s helmet. In astonishment the sea-monarch
looked around him, then grappled at his halbert and sword, rose, and
stamped on the floor, as if to try whether he was now in possession of his
wonted strength. Otto meanwhile seemed to have regained his senses, only
that he might feel in his inmost heart agonizing grief for the death of Sir
Heerdegen. Bending over the pale visage of his friend, he wept bitterly,
though in silence, while the blood flowed unceasingly from the deep wound
under his broken corslet. When the red current, however, fell on Sir
Heerdegen’s features, he wiped the stains away with his sash, and said, in
his great sorrow,—“Oh, Bertha, thou spotless angel!—how much these now
silent sleeping features resemble thine!”—The sea-monarch and Sir
Archimbald, who had meanwhile spoken with each other, now drew near to
console their friend; and Sir Otto said to them,—“I know indeed that it is
not Bertha who has thus untimely died, and that I have not been so
unfortunate as the stern Hugur, who put to death his innocent wife; on the
contrary, I defended this youth with all the strength that was left to me. But,
behold! he is now gone,—he who was so brave and true-hearted; and as he
rests here in his endless sleep, every one who looks on him must think of

Bertha. Arinbiorn, is it not so?”—Thereupon the sea-monarch could not
refrain from tears: and Sir Otto wept the more; but his grief was rendered
milder by the sympathy of his brave friends. Then they unclasped his
corslet, and examined his wounds. Gerda too would have drawn near with
healing herbs in her hands, but Sir Arinbiorn called out in a thundering
voice,—“If thou would’st not that I should here, beside the dead body of my
friend, inflict just vengeance on those who caused his untimely fate, keep
away,—thou, and all thy hellish brood by whom thou art aided!”—Then
Gerda stepped back humbly, and, at her signal, the dastardly Kolbein, who
was still present, left the room; while the two noble champions took off
their long sashes, and with them bound up Sir Otto’s wounds. When this
was done, they lifted up the dead body of Sir Heerdegen; and Sir Otto could
not be prevented from assisting in that mournful duty.—“I dare look on thy
pale visage now,” said he; “for we understand each other better than at that
first meeting on the banks of the Mayne.”
Obeying the stern command of Sir Archimbald, Gerda had kindled a large
torch of dried pine-tree, and now walked, with the light in her hand, before
the procession. So they left the castle, proceeded again across the flaming
meadows and the iron-bridge, then along the dark lake, following the path
by which they had come, and which they knew would lead them to the
upper world.

CHAPTER XVI.
How the dominion of Gerda was overthrown.
Now they came through the gate on the north side of the altar, and the soft
gleams of the moonlight fell cool and refreshingly on their pale visages. At
the same time, to their great astonishment, the air that they here breathed
was like that of spring-tide; and, behold! green boughs, as in the month of
May, were waving round the altar.—“What means this?” said the sea-
monarch; “when we entered here last night, the ground lay under the cold
crackling shroud of snow and ice; now the moonlight plays on luxuriant
grass and verdant foliage.”—“Alas! my friends,” answered Sir Archimbald,
“many weeks have indeed passed away since you were first bound by the
fetters of enchantment in the witch’s cavern. Now the brightness and
warmth of spring are again restored to the Hartz forest.” Sir Otto,
meanwhile, was gazing on the moon’s beautiful crescent, and started as he
thought of Hildiridur.—“Good Heaven!” cried he, “and has she then been
left for such a length of time in the charcoal-man’s cottage, and exposed to
every attack from the hobgoblins and evil spirits of this forest?”—“Now,
mark you,” said the sea-monarch to Sir Archimbald, “he speaks of his
mother.”—“I know it well,” answered Sir Archimbald, “and she is safe in
my castle. It was my chance to find Hildiridur in the charcoal-man’s hut, a
few days after you had left her there, and I prevailed on her to go with me,
that she might be properly lodged and attended under my roof. Good
Heaven! she is indeed like a living image of the Blessed Virgin, whose
portrait every good Christian carries deeply imprinted on his heart. Her
silent tears and sighs were at last so moving, that I was determined to set
out on the adventure which brought me to join you in the witch’s cavern.
Swerker and the squires, who joined us before we left the cottage of the
charcoal-burner, have remained, along with my own soldiers, to guard
Hildiridur in the castle; for, in truth, such a pearl or diamond of surpassing
worth cannot be too anxiously watched over and protected.” Hereupon Sir
Otto could not answer in words, but only seized and pressed his hand in
token of gratitude; for the feverish weariness that followed his severe
wounds now weighed so heavily upon him, that at last he fell fainting to the

ground, on the same mossy couch whereon they had laid the body of Sir
Heerdegen. Thereafter Archimbald blew his signal-horn, and some squires
hastened up, leading his war-steed. At once Sir Otto recognised the same
foaming charger, with the silver head-gear, which he had long ago seen on
the level meadows under the castle of Trautwangen; and it seemed as if, in a
fairy-dream, the apparitions of his early youth were once more assembled
around him. Meanwhile Sir Archimbald had given orders to his squires, that
they should cut down trees and green branches, of which they were to make
two biers,—one for the dead, and another for the wounded knight, Otto von
Trautwangen. At the same time he sent out a messenger to the fortress of
Waldeck, to make known their speedy arrival, and announce to Hildiridur
her son’s rescue.
During all these occurrences, Gerda had stood timidly retired among the
thickets, till at length she lifted up her voice, and said, in a mournful tone,
“Alas! might I not go with you?” “Wherefore not?” said Sir Archimbald
kindly, and as if moved by her grief; “thou shalt indeed travel with us; only
there are three conditions that I have in the first place to propose, and these
are of no little importance.” “Tell me then what they are,” said Gerda; “for
know that I am able to do much for thy sake!” “Well,” said the count, “in
the first place, thou shalt make a solemn vow never more in our good realm
of Saxony to use enchantment or invocation of evil spirits.” “This promise
or vow I shall make right willingly,” said Gerda, at the same time laying her
beautiful white hand on the iron-glove of Sir Archimbald. “Alas!” said the
knight, “thy promises are indeed courteous and well-sounding; but who can
say if we dare trust to thy words?” Thereupon Gerda unbound her long hair,
so that her glossy yellow locks fell like a golden garment around her, and
Sir Otto had almost inquired of the sea-monarch, whether this were not
Sigurd’s daughter, the far-famed Aslauga; for as the enchantress stood thus
before him with her dishevelled ringlets, the old legends that he had heard
from Asmundur mingled strangely with his feverish dreams. There was no
time left for questions, however; for the damsel began to wave her
enchanting rod over her head: then she uttered a long musical address to the
world of spirits; in her song she admonished them, that from henceforward
they were free to wander at will by sea or land, by fire or by flood; for she
had abdicated her throne, and renounced her dominion. With these words
she broke her sceptre of medlar-tree; the fragments flew asunder, as if borne
by all the four winds of heaven; and there was a wondrous rustling and

murmuring both on the earth and in the sky, as if great multitudes were
dispersing angrily and discontented. When this noise had past away, Gerda
said to Sir Archimbald, “Now, indeed, the interval would be long ere I
dared to think again of my wonted enchantments; for if I sought to lay new
bonds on the slaves whom I have thus dismissed, they would not fail to turn
round and rend me in pieces. So thou hast now before thee a damsel even as
weak and powerless as any one that could be found in the world.” “In this
action thou hast been too rash,” said Sir Archimbald; “for now thou can’st
never fulfil the second condition that I had to propose. This was, that the
altar of Freia should be destroyed, and all the vaulted caverns, with the
subterraneous fortress and its iron-bridge, should be laid in ruins.” “As for
that conclusion, thou need’st not fear,” said Gerda; “without my commands
their destruction will soon follow; the altar is already tottering on its
foundation, and has been upheld so long but by my powerful spells. If
Kolbein has succeeded in finding an outlet, (for Ottur is on a distant
campaign,) then immediately the whole fabric, both above and below
ground, will fall to ruin. Mark you, the work already has begun!”
In truth there was at that moment heard beneath them a crashing sound, like
that of falling rocks and pillars, as if the very foundations of the earth were
giving way. The knights looked astonished at each other; even Sir Otto was
startled, and half raised himself up. “Fear not,” said Gerda, “the ground on
which we stand is firm and secure; only my grand vaulted roof and my
fortress are destroyed, and the power of Gerda is established against mine:
let no one go too near the altar, however, for there he might indeed run
some risk.” Not long after, while the subterraneous thunder still continued,
lo! the stones of the altar began to move and roll asunder, as if they had now
been changed into living beings, and fled terrified from some danger that
awaited them. All at once, indeed, the bottomless abyss beneath them
opened its yawning jaws; with a hideous crash they fell into the chasm; blue
flames rose flickering over them, and after a space they too disappeared.
“These,” said Gerda, “were the souls of the unfortunate victims who were
of old times offered up in sacrifice at this altar; not indeed of all the victims,
but of those only who did not meet their fate with courage and resignation.”
“Truly, however,” added she, with a sigh, “I am not to blame for this; nor
have I ever offered to the invisible powers such frightful sacrifices; and
many hundred years have passed away since their blood was shed.” “Who

could suppose that one so beautiful as thou art would command such horrid
deeds?” said Sir Archimbald. “Thou shalt indeed go with us on our route
homewards; only the third condition that I had to impose is yet to be
fulfilled.” With these words he drew his battle-sword, and struck it into the
ground.
“Lo!” said he, “there is the sacred symbol of the cross. Kneel down before
it, and pray to the Giver of all Good!”
Hereupon Gerda started back, shuddering with terror, and, without uttering
a word, vanished away into the thickets. “From mine inmost heart I am
grieved for that damsel,” said Sir Archimbald, as he replaced his sword in
the scabbard. Then perceiving that the squires were ready with the biers, he
gently placed the wounded Sir Otto on one of them, and covered him
carefully with a mantle. Thereafter a horse was provided for the sea-
monarch; and their march began slowly and solemnly down towards the
plains, where stood the proud castle of De Waldeck.

CHAPTER XVII.
Of the Wild Hunter Hakelnberg and his courtesy.
Now, after they had come down a steep declivity, all of a sudden they found
themselves on a level glade, where four well-beaten roads met together.
“There, my friends,” said Sir Archimbald, “you perceive that we have now
come again into an inhabited country. It is but a short mile from this place
to a good house of entertainment, and there we shall remain for one whole
day, that the wounded man may have rest; for it will require yet another
day’s journey ere we can reach my fortress of Waldeck.” As they drew near,
however, to the spot where the four roads crossed, lo! their horses started
and reared, and by the uncertain moonshine, (for the white mists had settled
densely on the lowland forests,) they perceived a troop of men and horses,
that seemed always increased in number by single riders that came forward
out of the woods. Moreover, they heard the voices of many dogs, that
howled sometimes with impatience, and sometimes in terror. “These must
be huntsmen,” observed Sir Archimbald; “we must ask them the usual
questions however,—‘Whence and whither?’ There are methinks too many
of them collected here to admit of our riding through without some
precaution.” So he commanded that the biers should halt in the spot
whereon they now stood, and, assembling his squires about him, placed
himself with Sir Arinbiorn in the van, then sent out a horseman with a
courteous message of inquiry to the strangers.
Hereupon, behold, the squire rode and rode; but it seemed as if the glade
always spread out longer and longer before him. Through the mist and the
moonlight they always saw him trotting on; but he never appeared to come
up with the parties with whom he had been sent to speak. Still they saw the
same hunting-squadron before them, and still heard the howling of their
dogs; even, moreover, a confused murmuring of voices.
All of a sudden a gigantic figure of a man, mounted on a horse
proportionably monstrous with himself, came up, and halted between Sir
Archimbald and the sea-monarch. “Your squire cannot ride,” said he in a
strange hollow voice, that yet sounded amid the night-wind almost like a

scornful laugh:—“he would let the morning dawn on us, before he had
moved ten paces. Therefore I have rather come to you, in order that I may
thank you heartily for having banished Gerda and her mischievous spirits
from this forest. Take then, as a token of my gratitude, the game that I shall
send you to-morrow—the first prize that I shall have won since these
domains have again become mine. Hakelnberg from thenceforward is your
steady friend. Hark, hark! Hilloick, hilloick, forward, forward!” With these
words, with which the very vault of heaven seemed to ring and echo, he
flew straightway up into the air, and it seemed to the knights as if they
beheld above whole herds of game, of which he thus went in pursuit. The
band that halted on the plain all rose at the same moment, like a cloud of
dust after their chief; the dogs bayed and howled, and the huntsmen
screamed and shouted; ere long, however, their voices sounded from the
unmeasured fields of space so far remote, that the noise was no longer like
articulate voices, but resembled rather the growling of a distant thunder-
storm. Meanwhile all the deer and other game in the forest were so terrified,
that oftentimes they started from the thickets, and came rushing past, close
to Sir Archimbald and his friends, who were all so much astonished at this
adventure, that they scarcely dared to speak, but went silently along the
narrow road that led again through the woods, with the same fearful noises
still thundering over their heads.
The morning had begun to dawn; and just as the last notes of the wild
hunters had died away, the travellers entered the village of which the count
had spoken, and where they were to find rest and shelter for the wounded
knight.
In the auberge, all the inhabitants were already awake, and Sir Archimbald
inquired of their host, who was anxiously running to and fro to provide for
the comfort of his guests, whether he had been terrified by the wild hunters,
since he had thus risen so early. “Sir,” said the innkeeper, setting on the
table a morning draught for his guests, “Hakelnberg’s career through the
clouds has no doubt called us earlier than usual from our beds; but as to
terror, that is indeed a different question. I cannot say that we were afraid;
but, on the contrary, we returned thanks to God, both with pious hymns and
with prayer, that the old Hakelnberg, who has been so long known both to
us and to our ancestors, has now come with his dogs and horses and
echoing horns once more into the Hartz forest. Sir Knight, you may have

already felt far better than I can describe, that whatever has grown up with
us, and been known from infancy, even though it may be somewhat that in
itself is unwelcome and frightful, yet by the force of custom becomes so
dear to the heart, that it is indispensable, becoming so intwined with our
very life, that when it is removed, it is like snapping one of the ties by
which we cling to this world. Besides, on what occasion has the good old
Hakelnberg ever done injury to any one over the wide earth? All that can be
said is, that foolish people now and then have been terrified when he made
his appearance among the clouds; but the hateful enchantress, with her two
warlike knights,—when they galloped about on their gigantic fiery horses,
what evils would they not have inflicted? and what threats did they not hold
out over our heads? At such times our old friend Hakelnberg was forced to
keep silence, and to dwell lonely and melancholy in his castle of the clouds;
but, Heaven be praised, he has again begun to ride through the forest, and
the enchantress Freia, with all her squadrons of hobgoblins, is put to flight.”
“They are put to flight, doubtless,” answered Sir Archimbald; “on that score
I can pledge my honour and word as a Christian knight.” Hereupon the
innkeeper in his great joy grasped the hand which the knight kindly
proffered him, and cried aloud, “Long live Count Waldeck,” and “Long live
old Hakelnberg!”
At that moment there arose a noise in the street, which attracted the notice
both of the host and his guests. All ran to the window, and behold there
came a noble stag, who had rushed from the neighbouring forest; he ran
wildly as if he had been pursued by dogs and horsemen, though no one
could perceive by whom he should have been thus alarmed. The shepherds
and bauers indeed were now on the alert, and tried to confine him within a
circle, but he broke violently through them, and making directly towards the
inn, he attempted to leap over a hedge, by which the garden was bounded,
but in the attempt struck himself a mortal wound against the lance of Sir
Archimbald, which the knight had placed there, and soon after died.
“Who knows,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “but this is the game that Hakelnberg
promised to send us?” The count also was of the same opinion, and,
according to the use and wont of huntsmen, they immediately divided the
noble prey with their knives, and at midday refreshed themselves, together
with the host and all his household, making merry over their banquet, and
many times drinking to the health of the good Hakelnberg. Sir Otto also

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII.
How the Sea-monarch reminded Sir Otto that Blanchefleur
should be given to him for his bride.
In the fortress of Count Archimbald von Waldeck some weeks were passed
away ere the party could resolve to set out on their journey into Swabia. On
that pilgrimage it was resolved that they should all proceed together; and
they rejoiced to think, that they would there become guests of Sir Otto von
Trautwangen, waiting only, for the present, till his wounds were quite
healed and his armour repaired. Meanwhile their time was spent in listening
to many strange stories, partly such as Hildiridur could remember from the
wonderful books that she had read, and partly narratives afforded by the
knights from their former campaigns. Doubtless, therefore, there could be
no want of a full and clear detail of Gabrielle’s conflicts, or rather those of
her brother, for the ring; and the final tournament, fought by Sir Otto, was
not forgotten.
Hildiridur had listened attentively to these stories;—at last she inquired of
her son,—“What was the fashion of the ring?”—She desired to know in
what manner it was wrought, and what kind of jewels were contained
therein. Sir Otto gave her an exact description of the mysterious gem. Then
the Lady Hildiridur said, with a deep sigh,—“There can no longer be any
doubt;—the renowned Sir Huguenin of Normandy was no other than the
stern Hugur of the north, and, moreover, thy father, Sir Hugh von
Trautwangen. As to the Magic Ring, my sister, the beautiful Astrid, had
received it from her aunt, by whom I was instructed in the arts of magic,
amid the remote snow-covered mountains of Iceland. In the same hour,
when that powerful enchantress made choice of me to be henceforth her
partner, and at last to inherit the wonderful treasures of her mysterious
knowledge, she cast a compassionate look on the beautiful Astrid, who
stood there smiling cheerfully in her child-like innocence —‘Thou art in
truth so pretty and engaging,’ said the Druda, ‘that one cannot think of
bestowing an inheritance, and leave thee neglected. Here, take what I can
offer to thee.’ With these words she put the enchanted ring into the hand of

Astrid, adding,—‘I intrust this gem to thy innocence and simplicity of heart;
but beware, for it is a talisman involving many wondrous powers; and never
shalt thou part with it, unless to the knight whom thou hast resolved to take
for thy husband.’—Soon after it came into the hands of Sir Hugur, and
Heaven grant that the ring may not now have fallen into the possession of
some one far less worthy; for I well know, that by this means it is possible
to work such wonders as, till now, have never been known in the world.”
“Be not afraid, dearest mother,” said Sir Otto; “the ring is doubtless in the
possession either of Blanchefleur or Gabrielle, and both are far too noble
and virtuous to use it amiss; though,” added he, in a lower tone, “Gabrielle
indeed is too ready to plight faith and troth, and somewhat too slow to
remember what she has thus promised.”
“Nay, thou know’st not who is in possession of the ring,” said Hildiridur;
“when once given out of thy hands, it is as little within thy power as the
lark, which even now is soaring above the castle ramparts. So it is with
man, who in this world is at once so poor and so rich. As long as only an
inward voice speaks within him, urging him to act, he may be said to have
all within his own power; but no sooner has the deed been fulfilled, than in
the next moment all is lost, for it may never be recalled.”
In the evening, when they separated and retired to their several chambers,
the sea-monarch came into that of Sir Otto. “Have you felt then, happy
youth,” cried he, as soon as they were alone together, “have you felt in your
heart your own immeasurable good fortune in becoming thus the brother of
Blanchefleur?” Otto nodded kindly in token of assent to his brave comrade.
“Well then,” said Arinbiorn, “you will doubtless remember the promise
once made to me among the Swedish mountains, when we for the first time
rode up to your mother’s watch-tower?” “A true knight may never forget a
promise,” answered Sir Otto, taking the sea-monarch’s hand; “and, besides,
I know not any champion over the wide world to whom I would so
willingly give my sister in marriage as to you. One question, however, is yet
to be determined, whether she may not by this time have become the
betrothed bride of some one not inferior to us in rank?” “No doubt,”
answered Sir Arinbiorn, “I should then give up my claims; but, methinks,
Heaven cannot have resolved to inflict on me such cruel disappointment.”
Thereupon, with increasing friendship and confidence, the two warriors
shook hands, and wished each other good night.

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

south. Here it came to pass one day, that Sir Archimbald, cheered by the
bright weather and smiling landscape, happened to notice a Benedictine
monk sitting gloomily on the roadside, with his head sunk in his wide black
garments. “Why lookest thou so mournfully, holy father?” said he in a gay
tone; “perchance thy sandals are worn out on thy pilgrimage, and the ways
are rough? Mount then, and try for once if thou can’st ride among armed
knights. To-night we shall bring thee to a right pleasant auberge.” “On
horseback or on foot,” murmured the Benedictine,—“on foot or on
horseback,”—repeated he, “with iron shoes or naked feet, we shall all arrive
one time or another at our place of rest! Knowest thou what is written over
the gate? The sign of our auberge is twofold; on one sign is written ‘endless
joy,’ on the other ‘endless grief.’” The knight who was before so jocund,
shuddered when he heard these words; his companions all halted
involuntarily, and gazed on the dark figure of the monk. He rose at length
from the stone on which he sat, with his features still covered, came
towards them, and said, “Methinks I should know you. The road which I
follow, you also know to be the best and safest; at least you have often
enough spoken to this purpose. Wherefore then do you wander about so
madly through the mazes and temptations of this world? Away with your
iron greaves and golden spurs; and replace them but with the ragged sandals
of the poor monks. Or, if you will not, then I understand not to what
purpose you travel. What I undertake must be done wholly or not at all.”
Thereupon he turned round, and went into a neighbouring dark wood;
above whose shades they saw rising the towers of a lonely monastery. A
chill shuddering stole over the hearts of all the travellers, more especially,
because, although the monk’s voice sounded hollow and obscure under his
large dark cowl, yet they could not help believing that the accents were
those of some one who had ere now been well known to them.
Early on the following morning, when they came forth from an inn not far
from the forest in which they had parted with the monk, lo! there was a
squire nobly attired, and of wondrous grace in his figure and demeanour,
whom no one among them had seen before, and yet he came to assist
zealously in their preparations for departure. They did not ask him any
questions, believing that he might be a follower in the train of some other
travellers, and that he gave his aid to them through knightly courtesy; they
therefore only returned him thanks; but, as Hildiridur and the knights rode
away through the dew-besprent field, amid the twilight and mist-wreaths of

the morning, on looking back, they still saw the strange squire busily
engaged with the sumpter-horses, arranging whatever they had not been
able to put into order for their early departure.
As he thus walked about amid the white fogs of the dull morning-air, it
seemed to them as if the silent stranger had somewhat ghostly and solemn
in his appearance, as if he were not like other men; and so deeply were they
impressed by these thoughts, that they remained silent, and did not even
interchange words with each other. Some of them indeed went so far as to
believe that he was a spirit from the Hartz forest, who had followed them
only in scorn and mockery, but would ere long, to their dismay and
consternation, regain his true shape;—others thought that he was one of the
good people,—a benevolent fairy, who not only would assist them thus at
the commencement, but thereafter attend them like a guardian spirit on their
way. Such notions were at last spread in whispers, till they reached the ears
of Count Archimbald and his companions. Hereupon the count commanded
that every one should halt, and that the mysterious youth should
immediately appear before him. He came accordingly, and stood within a
circle that Hildiridur, the knights, and their assembled attendants, soon
formed around him.
Just then the first gleams of the rising sun fell on the squire’s head, with its
rich golden tresses, and in the same moment they discovered their error. It
was indeed no squire who had thus waited upon them; but the beautiful
features of Gerda, lovelier than ever, now that she was thus humbled, shone
out upon them.—“Look not on me thus amazed,” said she; “only one of
those who are here present has any right to blame what I have done; but for
all his bravery in the battle-field, he is yet kind and forgiving as a child.
Instead of being angry with Gerda, he will compassionate her distress.—Sir
Otto, is it not so?”—The young Knight of Trautwangen bowed courteously,
and said,—“Truly I am grieved for your misfortunes. May God forgive you
the death of my brave friend, Heerdegen;—as for all that you have done in
the north, or in my native land, against me, the remembrance of your deeds
shall be dispersed like dust to the four winds of heaven, and never more
reckoned when we thus meet together.”—“Now then, Sir Archimbald,” said
the damsel, turning towards the count, “thou can’st not complain against
me; for if thou art determined never to be King of the Hartz mountains, I
shall not compel thee thereunto. I pray you then to let me go with you, for,

in truth, I have no evil intentions.”—“Verily, thou art beautiful,” said Sir
Archimbald, “and as well might I say that I loved not the sunlight, the
blossoms, or the nightingale’s sweet songs, as that your presence is to my
heart unwelcome or indifferent. But the cross,—mark you,—the cross!—
One condition was left unfulfilled, and while it thus remains, thou can’st not
go with us.”—“Archimbald,” answered the damsel, “for the love I bear to
thee, I would have tried also to fulfil what thou now desirest; but it might
not be;—and before thou pronouncest the angry words which now hover on
thy lips, hear, I pray thee, the explanation which I can give of that which
has drawn thy wrath on Gerda.
“In the dark wood that lies yonder beneath us, there is a great building, with
strong thick walls, narrow windows, and a high tower, in which there is
hung a mournfully-sounding bell. People call this a minster; and they have
assured me, that within these walls is to be learned the true faith, to which
thou would’st have me bow in worship. Therefore, dearest Archimbald, I
have not been afraid to enter through the long gloomy aisles and echoing
vaults of that building. I went thither all alone, in hopes that I might find the
path leading to thy God and the heaven of the Christians;—but the people
that dwell there understood me not; they questioned and threatened me at
the gates. At length they assembled together, and came towards me, all
attired in black garments, with pale, ghastly visages; and, moreover, they
bore in their hands vessels for sprinkling water, and many strange symbols
and banners; but, as I well knew that by such means mortals may be
bewitched and transformed, I fled from them in terror, and, having again
arrived outside of the gate, I began to weep bitterly, for I knew not any
means now by which I might fulfil the conditions which thou had’st
imposed on me. At last one of the men in black garments had compassion,
and called to me from the walls, that I should inquire for Brother Zelotes;
for this brother had not long since been a pagan,—had forced himself,
almost by violence, into their abode, and, through the heroic strength of his
resolution, in a short time overpowered all obstacles, so that he had become
a monk, and was now sent forth on a journey, of which no one but he
himself and the prior knew the purpose. Brother Zelotes perchance could
assist me, or, if this might not be, I could have no hope. Immediately I
arose, and like one struck by a poisoned arrow, who runs wildly in search of
a skilful physician, I inquired eagerly of every one that I met, whether he
could afford me tidings of this man?—With much trouble I discovered the

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

power.’—‘But whither wouldst thou lead me?’ I inquired once more,
shuddering as I spoke with inward doubt and apprehension.
“Thereupon Zelotes began a description, at which mine inmost heart
recoiled, and my hair almost stood on end. He said that he would bring me
into a convent of nuns, where I should undergo severe and neverending
penance;—how my flowing golden locks would be cut away;—and how I
should never more be allowed to see thee, Archimbald, the dearest object of
my affections. Hearing this, I started as if I had just then retreated from the
brink of the grave, that yawned to receive its living victim;—he stretched
out his arm as if to seize me;—in his long black robes he now looked more
than ever like a supernatural spectre; and, as a deer pursued by the hunters,
I fled up among the rocky cliffs to escape from him. If, therefore, thou wilt
bear with me in thy presence, Archimbald, it must be without cross or
rosary; for to become a Christian is to me nothing less than if I were
doomed to death.”
Hildiridur was about to speak in her wonted mild tones, in order to sooth
the bewildered and agitated Gerda, but Archimbald, with a look half-angry,
half in terror, cried aloud,—“Begone from hence, thou seductive and
treacherous spirit, begone!—or if thou wilt remain among us, let it be on
condition that thou shalt kneel directly, and pray to the God of the
Christians before the cross.”—Hereupon Gerda’s wrath flamed forth in all
its former vehemence;—she uttered reproaches and threats against Sir
Archimbald and all his companions;—and at last, as if borne in the air by
her own luxuriant tresses, which were now dishevelled and waving in the
wind, she flew away into the neighbouring wood, where she vanished amid
a thick covert of pine-trees.
Thereafter they pursued their way, every one reflecting after his own
manner on this adventure; but of all the party, the most melancholy and
thoughtful was the Count Archimbald von Waldeck.

CHAPTER XX.
How Sir Otto thought that he had once more seen Bertha
von Lichtenried.
One day, it happened that they were resting beneath the shade of some lofty
elm-trees, at the base of a hill, on whose summit there was situated a richly-
endowed and magnificent chapel, which stood retired on that solitary place,
though it was the resort of devout pilgrims from many villages. Only the
quiet small mansion of a priest stood hard by, in order that some one should
always be present to open the gates for pious believers, and to protect the
building from neglect and injury.
It was a pleasure to behold how the noble travellers sat under the green elm-
trees,—their horses and sumpter-mules feeding on the meadow around
them,—and their glittering shields and weapons hanging from the branches.
It was now the sultry hour of noon, and the golden cups, filled with the
cooling and refreshing wine of Rudisheimer and the Mosel, were handed
merrily round, while the squires began for pastime to sing aloud many a
pleasant old ballad, so that the notes echoed far and near through the green
wood. But Sir Otto, who was wont to be so gay and cheerful of mood,
remained at this time silent and lost in deep thought. The severe life of his
brother, Ottur of Norway, as a Benedictine monk, perplexed him strangely;
and he knew not whether he should mourn, because such a brave youth was
lost to the world, or rejoice beyond all measure at his conversion to the
Christian faith. All the while that he thus meditated, lo! the church on the
hilltop, with its lofty vaulted roof and tall pillars, was before him, and
attracted him as if by some mysterious power; so that he could not turn
away his eyes from the building. Perceiving this, Hildiridur said to him,
—“Go thither in God’s name, and without more hesitation. Methinks there
is now a deep impulse in thy heart, and thou should’st gladly wend thy way
to yonder holy place, and pray to the Giver of all good. Go then, and we
shall wait here in this pleasant grove till thou return’st to us.”—Sir Otto
bowed thankfully and in silence, and straightway went up the mountain.

The four gates of the chapel were open; and, as he entered and walked
through the solemn aisles, joy and deep veneration ruled in his heart; all
that had before perplexed him, and weighed so heavily on his spirit, now
seemed vanished away. For a long time he walked to and fro amid the
solemn statues and pictures, illuminated by the bright summer-light that fell
in varied gleams through the painted windows, and all the while he
persisted in earnest child-like prayer. Through his whole life he had never
been more happy than in these moments, though this might be to himself
mysterious, since he knew not any outward event that had occurred to him
over which he should thus rejoice. On whatsoever he reflected, whether it
were on the conversion of Ottur, and his transformation into the monk
Zelotes,—on the party he had left, and their near approach to his home on
the beloved banks of the Danube,—it seemed as if a roseate light of joy
prevailed in every feeling.
At length it happened, that, among the pictures and monuments of the
church, his eyes rested on a wonderful shrine, such as he had never before
seen, made of golden bars and glass-work, as if some precious relic were
deposited therein. On coming nearer, he beheld through the glass a female
form, of divine and indescribable beauty. The expression of her features
indeed might be compared to the influence of a day in early spring-tide.
Joyful anticipations and confidence in heaven, blended with child-like
humility and deep earnest reflection. She looked steadfastly on a large book
that was open before her, and on which her snow-white hands were folded.
Her long fringed eyelids, therefore, were half-closed, like the clouds that
rest on the summer-sky, without wholly veiling its deep-blue lustre. Bands
of pearls were interwoven in her light-brown hair,—a high lace ruff was
round her bosom,—her black velvet robe was adorned with gold
embroidery, diamonds, and emeralds. Gazing anxiously on this beautiful
apparition, and coming right opposite to the shrine, he perceived, for the
first time, that there stood behind her a tall figure of a man, in a magnificent
foreign dress, with sternly lowering brows and fiery eyes, who was
stationed there as her guardian and protector.—“He represents, no doubt,
the blessed St Joseph,” said Otto to himself; and, without thinking more of
the frowning man, or his strange attire, he fixed all his attention again on
the female figure—when, all at once, the impression vibrated like lightning
through his heart, that the features he now saw were those of his dearly-
beloved cousin, Bertha von Lichtenried, though truly her countenance was

hallowed and glorified by a celestial light, such as till now he had never
beheld but in dreams. Hereupon he closed his dazzled eyes, and remained
for a space half unconscious of what passed around him. Again looking up,
he found the shrine void and deserted; neither the beautiful saint nor her
protector were to be seen; so that, mournful and discontented, he left the
now desolate church in a mood of mind the most opposite that could be
imagined to that under whose influence he had trod the same aisles but a
short space before. He could not help believing that Bertha had died even at
this hour, and had revealed herself to him for a moment in that angelic
attitude and form but to shadow forth her last farewell.
When he came back to his friends in the elm-grove beneath, he found them
all eagerly expecting his arrival, and lost in conjectures what could have
detained him so long. Hildiridur too looked anxiously towards a carriage-
road, from which, on the other side of the hill, there arose a pleasant sound
of music, that always drew nearer and nearer. Soon afterwards there
appeared a numerous band of horsemen in strange eastern attire, with red
turbans, adorned with plumes of heron’s feathers, on their heads, and
playing, as they rode, on all sorts of instruments,—flutes, schallmeys,
trumpets, and oboes. Some beat time with golden cymbals; others with
kettledrums of silver, hung with red embroidered drapery;—their music was
timed like that of a march, and yet the sounds were soft and joyous rather
than threatening and martial. Besides the musicians, there appeared many
warriors, who, in their golden shirts of mail, that gleamed in the sun, with
their light javelins made of cane-tree, and their broad crooked sabres, were
almost like people of another world. But the eyes of the lookers-on could
not long wander through this multitude; for, lo! there appeared, on a
magnificent black charger, a knight rather advanced in years, of such heroic
dignity of aspect and demeanour, that, both in this respect and by the
splendour of his eastern attire, he cast all the other warriors into shade.
From them too he was distinguished by a large golden cross, ornamented
with diamonds and other precious gems, which hung on his breast. By his
side, on a snow-white palfrey, contrasting strangely with the knight’s black
charger, rode a beautiful damsel attired in black velvet embroidered with
pearls, on whom the three knights gazed with astonishment and delight; but
we need only say, that Sir Otto now recognised in this damsel the saint that
he had beheld in the church; and, in the warrior who rode with her, the same
stern and frowning protector whom he had there looked upon as St Joseph.

The lady cast a significant glance on the silver armour of Sir Archimbald;
then her eyes turned suddenly with a gaze of wonder on Sir Otto, in his dark
mail with the eagle’s visor; and as she caught his features, a fleeting blush,
beautiful as the first red of the morning, stole over her countenance.
Suddenly she turned to her companion, with whom she spoke earnestly for
a few moments; then the whole party proceeded on their route, and were
soon lost to view in the deep recesses of a wooded valley.
“We must follow them!” cried Sir Otto, as if just then awakening from a
prophetic dream; whereupon Sir Archimbald and the sea-monarch shewed
themselves willing, as usual, to join in every wish of their beloved comrade.
Besides, the strangers by whom their curiosity had been thus attracted,
seemed to have chosen the same road which they had themselves intended
to pursue towards the fortress of Trautwangen. In order to be certain
whether this were really so, Sir Archimbald mounted on a great fragment of
rock, which lay as if it had fallen from the clouds, near the grove of elm-
trees. Meanwhile Sir Otto, the sea-monarch, and Swerker, began in great
haste to urge forward the saddling and bridling of their horses, and loading
of the sumpter-mules. In vain did Hildiridur warn them, that a beginning
made in such overhaste seldom leads to a good end; for they were all too
impatient to listen to her mild and gentle admonitions.

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

The knights all drew near to him, and unclasped his visor and corslet; while
Hildiridur, kneeling beside him, declared, with a sigh of compassion, that
his wounds were mortal, and neither healing herbs nor enchanters’ spells
could save him from approaching death.
“That indeed I can well believe,” said the wounded man, in a voice scarcely
audible, while a kind of despairing smile passed over his convulsed
features, that already wore the paleness of death; whereupon Sir Otto and
the sea-monarch recognised in this unfortunate victim the once-blooming
and prosperous Sir Kolbein.
Melancholy and regret now prevailed through the circle that had formed
round the fallen youth; and Sir Archimbald, with glistening eyes, said,
—“Truly my heart is grieved for thy fate, young warrior, who, for my sake,
hast come to this untimely end. But what injury had I offered against thee
that thou should’st thus attack me at unawares, even like a blood-thirsty
assassin?”—“Thou had’st taken from me what was to me far dearer than
life,” said the dying youth; “and in my revenge I have aimed at thy life
alone. Without Gerda I could not live.”—He paused, and then turned to the
sea-monarch:—“Can’st thou remember, cousin, how, with your fiery
arrows, you once destroyed my little vessel in the wide sea?—Even so has
Gerda’s beauty, like consuming fire, brought ruin on my fortunes!”—
Hereupon Sir Arinbiorn wept bitterly, when he thought how this blooming
branch from his ancient oak-tree of the north, which might have deserved a
better fate, had been untimely withered away; and Hildiridur, still kneeling
over him, said, in a voice whose tones were like the sweetest music,
—“Think on God, my son;—think on the merciful Giver of all good, who
will not refuse to hear the prayer even of him who has been deluded and
misled from his way, although he arrives late before the throne of grace and
forgiveness!”—“This indeed I feel in my inmost heart,” answered Sir
Kolbein, with a smile of hope and contentment on his pale features. “To
him who has loved much, much will be forgiven; and God is the gleaming
sun of love, whose light will at length prevail even through the darkest
clouds of superstition and idolatry.”—“Alas! cousin,” said Arinbiorn, “how
could’st thou remain so blind in thy days of strength and health, when the
divine light now shines so brightly on thy departing spirit?—Could’st thou
not yet wrestle against death, and remain for a space, with thy heart thus
changed, amid thy loving friends?”—“Nay, nay,” said the youth, “thou

can’st remember;—did not my little bark gleam more brightly than ever,
just ere it sank into the dark sea?”—With these words a fleeting radiance
shone in his eyes, but in the next moment they closed for ever, and he lay
outstretched in his last peaceful slumbers on the blooming turf.
As, for a while, they stood there in their grief, gazing on each other, behold!
there came among them a man in long white garments,—and this was the
chaplain of the church on the neighbouring mountain. They now begged
that he would vouchsafe to their departed friend the rites of Christian burial,
and described to him how tranquil, and even pious, had been the knight’s
last moments.—“I believe you right willingly,” said the monk; “the
expression of divine peace, and trust in the mercy of God, that yet rest on
these features, were enough to convince one who has been oft-times beside
the dying and the dead. Pursue then your journey, in God’s name, and leave
the rest to me. When you are again amid the tumults of this world, your
friend now departed will not be so far distant as it may seem to you.
Remember this; and now, farewell!”
Thereafter, making the sign of the cross over their heads, he gave them his
blessing, and they went silently towards their horses. Sir Otto, however,
could not refrain from turning back to speak once more with the monk, and
thus addressed him:—“Venerable father, I pray that you will not judge
harshly of me, if, in this solemn hour, I venture to propose to you one
question which might indeed seem the result of idle curiosity, though my
real motives are indeed very different; for, in truth, my whole hopes of
earthly happiness, and even my soul’s weal, depend thereon;—say then,
were the party, who but a little while ago seemed to wind round the
mountain into the valley, mere phantoms? or were they indeed habitants
belonging to this world?—Moreover, I would ask, whether the beautiful
damsel, who rode in that procession, had before appeared in the church at
prayer, with a book open before her, in the shrine with glass-work and
golden bars?”—Hereupon the good old chaplain slowly shook his head,
with its snow-white locks, and answered,—“In truth it sounds strange and
unwonted to one of us, to hear such questions from an anxious-hearted
worldling; and yet I shall willingly answer you:—If the young birds, which
come forth in spring-tide, fly eagerly from tree to tree, as if wondering, and
in quest of knowledge, wherefore should not man, when he is yet youthful
and unweaned from this life, have the same desires?—Know then, sir

knight, that the devout lady, after whom you inquire, did indeed come to
prayers in our church; moreover, she appeared within the most adorned and
magnificent shrine which it affords; for this place was chosen by the warrior
who came with her. On yonder side of the hill, under magnificent tents, they
passed some time for rest and refreshment after their long journey. Thou
should’st not dream that they were but a procession of ghosts; for it was a
real prince of this world, with his train, who passed here on the road before
you.”—“But who then is the devout lady?” said Sir Otto; “and who is her
warlike protector?”—“To these questions,” said the priest, “I cannot give
you an answer. We know, indeed, that they are profuse in their gifts to all
convents and shrines of the saints; moreover, to all those who are in poverty
and distress; so that the greatest emperors and princes have not equalled, far
less excelled them. Moreover, the hearts of all who come into their presence
are refreshed, and strengthened, by their mild words and devout
exhortations. Wheresoever they come the voice of dissension is hushed, and
peace smiles around them; but as to their names and true rank I know
nothing, nor could any one in this country give you better intelligence.
Many believe that they and their train have come hither from India; that the
leader is the grand priest John, of whose wealth, power, and conversion to
the Christian faith, travellers have already told us. As to the beautiful
damsel, they believe that she is his daughter or niece; adding, that she is
already betrothed to one of the wealthiest and most powerful of our
European princes.”
The priest carried in his hand a small box, in which he collected alms for
the poor; and Sir Otto, in token of gratitude, placed a gold coin therein.
With shame and embarrassment, however, he perceived, when the monk
lifted up the lid, that the casket was already almost filled with gold, pearls,
and diamonds,—the gifts, no doubt, of the mysterious lady and eastern
warrior.
Now, when he had mounted his horse, Swerker came riding up, and said, in
a low faultering voice,—“Farewell,—perhaps for ever,—my noble
conqueror and teacher!—The Swedish eagle must straightway wing his
flight back to his own mountains of the north.”—Sir Otto looked on him
with astonishment, and the Swede continued,—“Mark you, Sir Arinbiorn
cannot bear to look on me since I have put to death his young cousin, Sir
Kolbein. Revenge, I well know, is a passion that should never be cherished

by a Christian against his fellow-mortal. In the hearts of our northern
heroes, however, this passion is deeply planted, so that it becomes a
destructive poison, destroying even our own lives when we are denied the
fulfilment of justice on him by whom we have been injured. The sea-
monarch, believe me, would die of vexation if I were to be longer in his
presence. Moreover, to what purpose should we, Christian warriors,
assemble in your castle?—Wherefore should we meet there only to revel at
your banquet-table, when perhaps there is need that we should again unite
together on the battle-field, and that, by our endeavours, a gleam of the true
light should be made to shine forth on the dark regions of Finland.
Farewell!—When I have once more arrived in the north, I shall not fail to
make known to the noble race of Swerker how deeply I love and honour
thee; moreover, how truly I confide in the religion of the Christians.”
So it came to pass, that, after cordial embraces, and many kind words,
Swerker mounted his horse, and disappeared swiftly as an arrow among the
mountains. Ere Sir Otto had time to explain to Hildiridur and his comrades
wherefore the Swede had resolved to leave them, he was already far remote,
and separated from them for ever.

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

acknowledge our old friendship and affection, never would the band of
horsemen have passed us by without greeting or salutation. Let it be so!—I
bear the guilt and blame of my own folly, and perchance am no longer
worthy to lift up mine eyes to her, who seems indeed like a messenger from
Heaven!”
Hereupon Hildiridur tapped him kindly on the shoulder, and said,—“Alas!
how truly may the heart of a young hero be compared to the stormy sea,
with its waves now mounting up to the starry heaven, and again sinking into
the dark and deep abyss of sadness and grief!—Dearest son, thou should’st
not thus lay aside all that pride which belongs to thy rank and
achievements; moreover, thou should’st remember, that on a form like
thine, the noblest of high-born damsels might indeed look with pleasure.”
During these discourses, as they rode through a dense thicket of elder-trees,
lo! they could not help watching a strange light that shone amid the green
branches, and which they had at first thought to be an effect of the evening
sky; but the light kept pace with them wherever they went, and at last an
opening in the woods revealed the form of the enchantress Gerda, who,
with long dishevelled hair, now appeared in her wonted beauty, and in
female attire. She now walked hastily along a foot-path of the forest, which
ere long joined with the high-road; and Sir Archimbald rode forward to
meet her, calling aloud,—“Away! away with thee, thou temptress, or if thou
wilt remain with our party, kneel now forthwith, and pray before the holy
cross. This admonition I now give to thee in kindness of heart, and for the
last time!”—Gerda stood motionless, and, parting the long locks that, in her
swift march, had fallen over her forehead, she fixed her large dark eyes on
Sir Archimbald, and answered, in the tone of a child that is half-angry, half
inclined to weep,—“Surely I may be allowed to walk onwards, wherever I
can find a retired foot-path? By what right can’st thou interrupt my journey,
since even the high-roads are as free to Gerda as they are to thee and thy
chosen friends? If, however, thy hatred against me is so great, that thou
can’st not suffer me even to live, then, in God’s name, inflict at once the
blow that consigns me to death. For, this I tell thee without disguise, so long
as I continue to live, I shall not fail to appear thus, now and then, in thy
presence.”—With these words she drew her long glossy ringlets again over
her features, and began to weep bitterly.

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

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

CHAPTER XXIII.
How Sir Folko de Montfaucon beheld, for the first time, the
fortress of Trautwangen.
Like the happy birds that return to their wonted nests in spring-tide, Sir
Folko, with Gabrielle and Blanchefleur, were now passing over the Alps on
their way back to Germany. After many wanderings through the world, over
lakes and seas, mountains and valleys, they had found themselves
irresistibly attracted by our native land; for we may truly say, that whatever
strangers have once come thither, look on our vineyards and smiling
landscapes as a garden of joy, and the chosen abode of true and faithful
hearts. Moreover, almost all European nations must look on Germany as
their father-land. Sir Folko and Gabrielle might indeed look with regret on
this end of their journey, for a melancholy separation then awaited them,
inasmuch as Sir Folko had never forgotten the rights of his friend, Otto von
Trautwangen; and dared not attempt, by indissoluble bonds, to make
Gabrielle his own. The stream of their lives had indeed flowed together on
their long journey, that now seemed so short when they looked back on the
time past that could never return; and the mild silent Blanchefleur, too well
accustomed to resign all the dearest wishes of her own heart, could in her
sadness wish for no better pastime, than to have travelled on, without
ceasing, attended thus by her beloved brother and dearest confidante.
At length it came to pass one day, that their eyes were met by the bright
gleaming of a river, winding through fertile fields and rich meadows; when,
on inquiring its name, they found that they had arrived on the banks of the
Danube. Glad that they were now in the far-famed and prosperous land of
Swabia, they encamped at midday under the shade of some large elm-trees,
not far from the river, unloaded their sumpter-mules, and seated themselves
on the fragrant turf, while the squires handed round the brimming wine-
cups.
All of a sudden, as they were thus occupied, a strange man, in a gypsey’s
dress, with a dark-brown complexion, came before them. Hereupon Sir
Folko threw at him some silver coins, and ordered him to retire, fearing that

by his strange looks the ladies might be alarmed. Meanwhile, however, the
Egyptian had taken from his shoulders a box, which he now opened, and lo!
there was therein such store of sparkling gems, diamonds, rubies, and
emeralds, all set in the purest gold, that the beautiful eyes of the two ladies
were irresistibly attracted.
Thereupon Sir Folko began to speak with the stranger after a different
manner. On whatever gem the ladies seemed to cast a favouring glance, he
ordered that it should immediately be laid aside for them; and then, when a
large collection was formed, he inquired what was to be the price of the
jewels which he had thus chosen. The Egyptian demanded a price, which
was beyond measure extortionate; but the chevalier, unused to the artifice of
the merchant, and with his heart full of knightly generosity, immediately
commanded one of his squires to bring the whole sum. Thereupon a broad
grin came over the brown and yellow visage of the strange man; he
pretended that he had made a mistake in his reckoning, looked over the
jewels as if in deep reflection, and then demanded double the price for
which he had before stipulated. This also the chevalier ordered to be paid to
him; but, with unblushing impudence, the gipsy then said, “Sir knight, to
say the truth, these goods are such as I cannot sell for any price; and no sum
that you could offer would induce me to part with such treasures.”
“Whatever their value may be, I am resolved to have them,” answered Sir
Folko, who was now roused to anger. “As for thee, base miscreant, who
would’st thus dare to insult two noble ladies, by withdrawing from sale the
wares which thou hast already offered, thy punishment would be less than
what is justly due, were I to take thy merchandize by violence out of thy
hands, and bestow the price which thou first demanded’st on some
neighbouring convent or hospital.” “Ay, ay,” said the merchant with a
significant grin, “there have ere now been many such knights who lived by
plunder; and who, if one might believe their own words, bestowed the
treasures which they had acquired on the poor. The only question now is,
whether thou art disposed to add one more to the number of this worshipful
fraternity?” With the deep blush of scorn and anger on his visage, Sir Folko
replied,—“Fellow, thou had’st best, in all haste, retire from our presence,
and take thy goods along with thee. Moreover, if thou art a Christian, thou
should’st thank God that, insolent and dishonest as thou art, thou art fallen
into the hands of a brave and courteous knight, who is too kind-hearted to
deal with thee as thou hast deserved.” The gypsey man packed up his

jewels, threw the box over his shoulders, and retreated; after having gone a
few paces, however, he turned round, and said, pointing to a fortress on a
high cliff in the distance, “After a few hours, sir knight, you will perchance
have arrived at yonder castle; and I shall deal with you honestly for
whatever goods you are inclined to purchase; moreover, I shall treat you
with many wonderful sights and comedies, such as you have never in your
whole life beheld. It were well, however, if the two ladies were also present;
for as to my tricks of art, they concern all of you, and I can fit them for
every person, each after his own manner.” With these words, he vanished
suddenly into a neighbouring thicket.
In silence the three travellers looked towards the fortress on the distant cliff,
to which the stranger had pointed. Amid the green foliage of oak-trees, that
were perchance a thousand years old, the venerable ramparts were visible,
in their stern grandeur and strength; the moss-grown pinnacles of the watch-
towers rose proudly into the blue firmament; and, on the highest summit of
the keep, there was planted a great golden cross, that now gleamed from
afar in the sun.
“Thither we must now bend our way,” said Gabrielle in a low but
determined tone. “Whosoever that mysterious man may be, from whom we
have received this warning, a secret voice speaks within my heart, and tells
me, that our fate must there be decided.”
Thereupon Blanchefleur bowed her head in token of assent, and De
Montfaucon, with his mind filled with mysterious expectations,
commanded the squires immediately to break up the camp, and prepare for
setting forward on their journey.
Meanwhile a labourer happened to pass by, and the chevalier inquired of
him the name of yonder fortress.
“It is the renowned castle of Trautwangen,” said the bauer.
At these words Sir Folko and Gabrielle trembled as they looked at each
other; but, as if with one voice, both of them firmly repeated,—“We must
hasten thither, for there must the fate of all of us be decided.”

CHAPTER XXIV.
How Theobaldo came with the Magic Ring, and of his
fearful incantations.
In the solemn ancestral hall, the venerable Sir Hugh was once more seated
all alone, with the great silver wine-cup before him on the round table. He
looked anxiously for the arrival of his honoured friend Walter the minstrel;
and thought to himself,—“Truly, I can scarcely dwell here without that old
man and his wonderful songs; for my own life, that has formerly been
divided between Norway, France, Italy, and Greece,—moreover, that wont
to be so varied by warlike adventures and achievements,—has now declined
into melancholy old age. I have withered, lonely and neglected, like the
fallen leaves in autumn. No grand adventures are now in store for me; no
change either of joy or sorrow. It were indeed better, then, if the heroic
deeds of our ancestors were evermore sounded in mine ears, that I might
dream of them still as the last sleep slowly steals upon me. Walter, Walter!
where tarriest thou so long!”
With a pale agitated visage, a squire now stept into the hall, and said,—“Sir
knight, your honoured son, Otto von Trautwangen, is even now arrived at
the castle.”
“And should’st thou then wear the hues of death on thine aspect,” said the
knight, “when thou pronouncest these words, that are to me like renewed
life? Bring hither to my presence that noble youth, that I may welcome him
as a new-risen star, shedding once more light and happiness on mine old
age.”—Hereupon the squire muttered some inarticulate words, and opened
the great folding doors; while Sir Hugh, in order to meet his coming guest,
had, with joy gleaming in his eyes, raised himself up from his old armchair.
Then, hark! there was a rustling, as of long garments, on the staircase. The
doors were thrown open, and a man, wrapt in hideous black robes, came
with sounding steps across the threshold, holding up his right arm as if
threatening all who came in his way. The folding doors again closed, and
one could hear how the terrified squire ran headlong, as if demons pursued
him, down stairs.—“Where is my son?” cried the old man, turning pale, and

falling back into his chair.—“Thy son now stands before thee,” said the
spectral stranger; and, alas! Sir Hugh saw but too well that it was Otto’s
features that now glared upon him.—“Hast thou become a monk?” said the
old warrior,—“a black-robed Benedictine monk?”—After these words it
seemed as if his youthful vigour had revived, and he added, in a deep and
thundering voice,—“Who then has given thee permission for what thou hast
done? Right sternly shall I yet call that convent to account, whose prior has
dared to transform the young Knight of Trautwangen into a cowled
priest.”—“I am not the young Knight of Trautwangen,” said the
Benedictine in a sharp tone; “in the world I was named Ottur. I am the son
of the beautiful Astrid and the brave Hugur; but now I am named brother
Zelotes.”
The old man sat motionless in his chair. That energy to which he had been
roused was indeed not lost; but, as if petrified by his surprise, he gazed
fixedly on the son who had so unexpectedly started up before him.
“Thou art a dear and highly-honoured branch of a noble tree,” continued the
monk, “and if time is yet allowed us, thou shalt be saved from the
consuming fires of hell; and therefore our abbot has given me permission to
come hither for thy conversion, ere the last shadows of old age and death
have settled around thee!”
Thereafter he took his place right opposite to the knight, and began a
discourse on the mysteries of our holy faith, and on penitence, whereat the
listener shuddered, and the blood ran cold in every vein; while, as the
preacher’s zeal increased, and his voice thundered through the vaulted hall,
it seemed as if flames of consuming fire flashed around him.
The monk continued his discourse, and his deep tones overpowered the
sounds of mirth and gladness which had now begun in the castle-court and
outer-halls. Sir Otto, who had already been informed of the old Sir Hugh’s
revival from his supposed death, having rode on before his party, had now
arrived at the castle, and ere the squires had time to tell him of the ghastly
apparition of the monkish double-goer, he rushed up the staircase and
entered the hall.
“Ottur, Ottur! what would’st thou here?” cried he. “Thou art indeed my
half-brother, and this brave old hero should be equally dear to us both.”—
Then he threw his arms round his father’s neck, in whose heart new life and

courage seemed revived, when he heard the clang of Sir Otto’s armour, and
felt the weight of his iron armlets; while, as he caressed his beloved son, he
cast a stern resentful look on the monk.—“I have long since known what
thou hast now told me,” said the Benedictine, answering his brother; “I
learned it in the convent, and on the road hither, where also we met
together. In dreams, too, I have had warnings of the truth; but now I am no
longer named Ottur. He is as if dead and buried, and the mortal who stands
here is known only as the monk Zelotes.” Again he would have renewed, in
the same thundering voice, his penitential exhortations; but Sir Otto
stretched out his arm, and cried aloud,—“How darest thou, reckless man,
address such words of reproach to that noble and far-famed hero, now when
thou knowest that he is thy father?”—“Even for that very reason have I thus
spoken,” answered Zelotes. “So long as I have breath to speak, he shall not
become a prey to the demons, who are ever on the watch, and would gladly
drag him down to the regions of eternal torment.”—“Nay, mark you,” said
Sir Otto, “he will be enabled to protect himself from these frightful foes
even without thy violent admonitions. Be silent, then, and disturb him not in
the sanctity of his old age, nor break the peace of this happy meeting.
Moreover, I can this day bring him such joyful news, as will doubtless lead
him with more certainty to heaven, than the threatening of all the monks
that could be found in the world.”—“Thou hast the right doubtless of
judging according to thine own conscience,” said Zelotes, still persisting in
his discourse; while Sir Otto, not heeding him any more, announced, in a
loud voice to the old man, the happy tidings, that his mother was yet alive,
and that, in the spirit of love and peace, she was now drawing near to the
castle of Trautwangen, which she had long desired to visit. So the old man
sat there like a grey ruin between two roaring streams, while the young
men, one on each side, both vehemently addressed him.
But, hark! a noise suddenly arose from the castle-court, which drowned
their contention. A voice called out aloud,—“Uguccione! Uguccione! thou
murderer! come down from thy fortress, for Lisberta’s champion is come to
inflict just vengeance on thy head!” Sir Hugh looked round him with
astonishment, and the two young men were silent. At length he said, as if
awakening from a dream,—“The world yet stands firm and steadfast,—the
day of judgment is not come for all,—but mine is doubtless arrived. Follow
me, children, and aid me by your prayers!” With these words he rose up
slowly, and, resting on Otto’s shoulder, moved towards the door. The youths

did not venture to ask the venerable old man what had now caused his
disquietude; but he remarked their inquiring looks, and said,—“I know not
indeed by what frightful power I am now called into the castle-court; but I
am forced thither by irresistible attraction. I hear names, at whose very
sound alone I feel that I am bound to shed my heart’s blood as an atonement
for my past crimes; yet, long as Sir Hugh von Trautwangen lives, it shall
never be said that he was deemed a coward. Forward then, children, that I
may encounter boldly the doom that now awaits me!” So, leaning still on
Sir Otto, he stepped down stairs, the monk following, and singing to
himself, all the way, a melancholy hymn, that sounded like a dirge. While
listening to his murmurs, one might have thought that the old champion was
now dead, and that the young men went to attend his obsequies.
In the court below, they found assembled a multitude of people. Not only all
the squires and other retainers of the castle, but many countrymen from the
neighbouring villages, were here collected, gazing at a man in the eastern
dress, who had stationed himself in the middle of the square, and continued
unceasingly to call aloud in the same frightful tones which had been heard
so plainly in the hall above. At the same time he constantly twisted round
and round on a finger of his right hand a glittering ring; and Sir Hugh,
recognising the gem, seated himself quietly on a stone, beneath a tall lime-
tree that grew in the court, and said, “The strange man, who stands yonder,
hath on his finger the powerful Magic Ring of the beautiful Astrid, and
therewith Heaven hath also bestowed on him the power to dispose of my
life. Moreover, he hath doubtless come hither in order to doom me to
death.” “Thine own conscience then condemns thee, hoary-headed sinner,”
cried the stranger; and at the same moment Otto recognised in him his old
squire and friend Theobaldo. “Diephold!” cried he, for by this German
name, instead of Theobaldo, he had been wont in former days to address
him; “Diephold, it is my father to whom thou now speakest.” “Indeed?”
said Theobaldo, turning pale and confused; “then we are brothers, for I am
the son of Uguccione and the unfortunate Lisberta. Moreover, Uguccione
and this grey-headed warrior are one and the same, and, therefore, my
father must fall by my hand; for I have sworn on my mother’s grave, that I
would avenge her wrongs by the death of her seducer!” “Never, never!”
cried Sir Otto, drawing his sword, and taking his station before the old hero.
“Here I shall maintain the combat to the last, for victory or death.” His
words were echoed in the next moment by Zelotes, who embraced his father

with his wide black robes, and cried aloud, “Never shall he be injured,
unless by one who shall first cut through these consecrated garments. Sir
Hugur shall yet live to do penance for his crimes.” “Truly thou can’st wrap
him in a monk’s cowl if thou wilt,” said Theobaldo, with a scornful smile;
“but there is no veil so dense that my invisible agents may not find their
way, and force him to bitter repentance.” With these words he seated
himself on the ground, and with the ring began to describe strange figures
on the grass.
There were deep vaults beneath the castle-court; and, not long after
Theobaldo had begun his enchantments, hark! there was a strange rustling
under ground. A cold shuddering crept over the bystanders, as if they had
been seized and shaken by supernatural arms; nay, it seemed to many a one,
as if the spectral forms of those who had long lain mouldering in the grave
came forth and grinned ghastlily upon them. Then the same rustling sound
rose upwards, and spread through the branches of the venerable elm and
lime-trees. There was a sound too of many voices, though no one knew
what they uttered, and a beating of invisible wings. All were terrified and
silent; only the old Sir Hugh von Trautwangen lifted up his voice, that
sounded more fearfully, shrouded as he still was by the black garments of
the monk. He cried aloud, that the beautiful Astrid stood before him with
her deadly wound, from which the last life-blood now ebbed away; that the
poor forsaken Lisberta came, and had with one look made his heart cold as
the grave wherein she was now laid. He spoke too of many other damsels
and ladies to whom he had plighted faith and troth, but whom he had
thereafter neglected:—all came around him now, as if to inflict fearful
judgment on their betrayer. Yet Sir Hugh von Trautwangen addressed them
in a deep heroic tone, like one who indeed suffers more than words could
pourtray, and is conscious of his own guilt, yet whose courage nevertheless
is unchanged and unconquerable.
At length Theobaldo sprang up from the ground, and cried to the spectators,
“Be it your duty then to inflict just punishment on the guilty! You hear how,
by the invincible pride of his tones, that he is indeed calling down the
vengeance of Heaven on his own head. I would not willingly become a
parricide, though his conduct towards Lisberta and me has been so horrible;
but if you value the safety of your towns and villages, if you wish even that
the very ground on which you stand should be saved from destruction, then

make an end of him at once, for he is not fit to live in this world. Neither
the skies nor the earth can longer endure to look upon him. Listen then, and
behold!” With these last words, he threw the Magic Ring high in the air, and
though the skies were before clear, yet immediately a dark sulphureous
cloud appeared, and a sudden clap of thunder broke over their heads. At the
same moment the ground shook beneath them; blue flames arose, as if
demons and fiery serpents were stretching out their tongues from the earth;
and, in the delirium of terror, all the peasants and people who were there
present ran to inflict vengeance on the devoted victim. Meanwhile, Sir Otto
courageously kept his station to protect his father; and Zelotes, as if once
more changed into a bold warrior of the north, called unceasingly, “Strike
then well, brother, spare them not, the pitiful cowards! If I had but my
sword here, that bears thy name, I would not fail to assist thee. But thy
sword is named Ottur, and must bear my part,—strike them well, and spare
not!”

CHAPTER XXV.
How the tumult in the Castle-Court waxed wilder and
wilder.
Many of the dastardly assailants already bled under Sir Otto’s powerful
blows; others were terrified by the thundering and unearthly accents of
Zelotes; and the whole mob would soon have been dispersed, had it not
been that Theobaldo’s enchantments confused their senses; so that when
they wished to retreat they found still greater terrors await them in the rear
than in the van. The thunder continued to roll louder and louder over their
heads; the blue flames rose more fiercely from the ground, and almost
assumed the shapes of spectres and demons: around the castle there was
heard the rushing of a vehement rain and hail-storm; but not a drop fell in
the castle-court; it seemed as if the mild dew of heaven could not fall on
that accursed scene of flames and contention. Even amid all the uproar of
thunder, noise, and rushing and confused voices, was heard ever and anon
the thrilling laughter of Theobaldo as he continued his incantations.
Meanwhile, Hildiridur, with all her attendants, had arrived at the castle.
Anxious, amid that fearful storm, for the safety of its inhabitants, she came
hastily into the court, and, protected by Sir Archimbald and the sea-
monarch, went up to the lime-tree, under which the old hero was still
seated, and where Sir Otto still fought, though his strength was now almost
exhausted. Hildiridur addressed herself to Sir Hugh in mild accents,
entreating his forgiveness; and Gerda, now humble and obedient to her
instruction, stood near her, anxious, if possible, to afford her assistance;
while in the meanwhile Arinbiorn and Sir Archimbald, having at once
perceived what was going forward, had drawn their swords, and summoned
their squires around them, in order that they might at once beat the mob to
the ground, and free the castle from insurrection.
Then, too, Sir Folko (with the two ladies and their train) suddenly made his
appearance. He chanced to enter the court by a gate which brought him
directly to the lime-tree, where, roused at once by his duty as protector of

the two damsels, and his desire to assist the knights, he also rushed forward,
sword in hand, and commanded his squires to do the same.
Then Sir Hugh, still haunted and overpowered by the frightful apparitions
that crowded on his mind’s eye, shouted aloud,—“Wo, wo! now I behold
also the lady-mother of the brave Sir Folko de Montfaucon! She comes to
reproach me because I deserted her and our child Blanchefleur, and, truly,
she also has justice on her side; for I was the renowned Sir Huguenin of
Normandy, and, by the honour and word of a knight, I did not earn that
name without valiant deeds!”
As soon as Blanchefleur heard these words, she came and kneeled down
before him. Her mild voice fell on his ears through the black robes by
which Zelotes still held him concealed.—“Lo!” said she, “I am thy
daughter, thou venerable old hero, though even now, as heretofore, thou art
concealed from my sight.” Then, turning to Sir Folko, she added,
—“Brother, dearest brother, wield thy sword, and spare not. This day thou
shalt win another wreath of victory; and remember, that thou art fighting for
the rescue of my father, the renowned Sir Huguenin of Normandy.”
Her mandates were obeyed,—the noble Chevalier de Montfaucon fought
with undaunted perseverance and resolution, while Sir Arinbiorn and the
Count Archimbald von Waldeck also did their utmost. But the dark
sulphureous clouds descended lower, and gathered always denser and
denser around them; the thunder roared—the rain and hail beat around the
castle, while Theobaldo’s voice was yet heard laughing aloud, and renewing
his incantations; so that their senses were quite overpowered and confused.
As to the squires, they no longer knew each other; but, in their madness, cut
and thrust at their own masters, whom they wished to defend. Even the
knights themselves were not free from these fearful delusions; for now and
then, when the sea-monarch thought that he had dealt forth a powerful blow
against some hated assailant, he found, all of a sudden, that he had struck
the golden helmet of his noble cousin, De Montfaucon; or Sir Folko,
perchance, with a rapid movement of his shield, forced the sea-monarch and
the count far asunder, at the moment when they were standing firmly
wedged together in order to resist the advances of the wild multitude.
Thereupon Sir Archimbald would, in great wrath, turn round and attack
both Folko and the sea-knight, and when they fell back under his heavy
blows, for the first time all three would discover their error. Then they

would shake hands, and, closely ranked together, once more advance on
their foes,—perhaps with no better result than that of attacking their friend
Otto von Trautwangen. It was indeed Sir Otto alone, amid the whole
assemblage, whose senses appeared yet clear and triumphant over
Theobaldo’s sorcery; inasmuch as he always repeated to himself, in a low
tone, the short prayer which he had learned from Bertha in early youth. This
prayer had already helped him in the cavern of the Hartz forest, and he now
stood, sword in hand, like a guardian angel, before the helpless old hero.
Yet such was the tumult around him, that he never could have maintained
his station, had it not been that his light-brown steed, which had broken
loose from the squires who held him at the castle-gates, came neighing
aloud in furious career through the mob, and placed himself by his master’s
side. There, as if all the powers of magic and necromancy could not
overcome the noble animal’s fidelity and affection, he reared himself on his
hinder-legs, inflicting the most horrid wounds on the heads of his assailants,
seized them with his teeth by the breast and shoulders, lifted them up, and
hurled them again to the ground, so that they lay motionless and insensible.
Amid the confusion of this extraordinary conflict, lo! the grey-haired
minstrel, Walter, arrived, and courageously made his way through the
combatants to his old friend and hospitable patron. Even amid the frightful
phantoms that perturbed his brain, Sir Hugh von Trautwangen was aware of
the minstrel’s presence, and said,—“There are strange encounters passing
without; and yet, methinks, I have heard voices of women and children, that
might have soothed and gladdened mine ears, if but the long troops of
ghosts would keep away, that I am doomed to behold even in darkness. Yet
let me hope ever for the best; for what says thy favourite rhyme, good old
Walter?”—Hereupon the minstrel touched his harp-strings, and lifted up his
voice,—

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

“I cannot rightly hear thy song,” cried Sir Hugh, “the noises are so loud and
stunning through the court; and then the monk’s black garments are so

closely folded around me. Sing louder, old minstrel, sing louder!”
Thereupon Walter repeated the same stanza on a key far deeper and more
sonorous; but Sir Hugh still exclaimed,—“Louder, old man, far louder!” till
at last the minstrel, in obedience to his best and dearest friend, struck the
harp with such violence, that not only did the strings break, but even the
instrument itself burst asunder with a long melancholy intonation.
Thereupon Sir Hugh cried aloud,—“Wo, wo! even the minstrel’s harp has
broken, in terror at the load of guilt that weighs on my head; now indeed all
is lost!”—With these words he fell half fainting and insensible to the
ground, and Zelotes prayed fervently over him. Yet all of a sudden it
seemed as if the old hero’s fervour and wonted energy had been restored;
for he started up, and, in tones that were at once deep like thunder, and
shrill as a trumpet, he exclaimed,—“Who dares to read prayers over me as
if I were no longer a knight? Am I then cast out and renounced by the Order
to which I once belonged?”—With these words he fell back, motionless,
into the arms of Zelotes.—“Alas! dearest lady,” said Gerda anxiously to
Hildiridur, “wherefore have we renounced the powers of enchantment?
Now we might have granted protection, and rescued this old man from the
fate that awaits him. Shall we not make one effort?”—“Away with all such
vain thoughts!” answered Hildiridur; “dost thou not feel, even in thine
inmost heart, the fearful influence of the magician who is now among us? Is
it not far greater than we could have exerted even in the days of our greatest
power? From us there is no hope of rescue.”
Sir Otto meanwhile had heard his father’s outcry as he fell into the arms of
Zelotes; and at that fearful sound he felt his strength wholly overcome. His
comrades had fallen into greater disorder than ever; Theobaldo screamed in
triumphant laughter; the mob gained ground; the horrid spells of the
enchanter were victorious; and no one could doubt that the castle-court
would ere long be changed into a place of judgment and execution.

CHAPTER XXVI.
How the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried came to break the
Spells of Theobaldo, and afterwards took from him the
Magic Ring.
But ere that stern judgment could be fulfilled, there was a new voice that
called aloud,—“Halt, halt!” and the tones even of that simple mandate were
supernaturally sweet, as if the voice had descended from the blessed heights
of Paradise. Suddenly, therefore, the tumult ceased as if by some new and
more resistless incantation; for the sounds, at once sweet and powerful, had
penetrated deeply into every heart, so that all stood motionless, not only
amazed, but almost reconciled. It seemed as if the rage and wrath which
formerly prevailed were at once cooled and overcome; and, though some
among the countrymen nearest to Theobaldo began again to lift their clubs
and swords, their advance was checked by armed warriors mounted on
beautiful white horses, who, with their foreign dresses, gleaming sabres,
and light javelins, struck all the beholders with astonishment. Theobaldo
now was silent, and held his hand over his eyes, as if he had been dazzled
by the glare of the noonday sun.
The form that now appeared entering the court might well have been
compared to sun; but the beams of light that this beautiful apparition spread
abroad were dazzling only to the guilty beholders. To all others they were
refreshing and delightful. It was a damsel mounted on a snow-white palfrey,
with a heavenly smile on her features, reflecting the inward peace and
serenity of her mind. Of her aspect, indeed, one could not say whether
dignity or child-like innocence prevailed most therein. It was her voice
which had commanded the combatants to halt, and her beauty that had
confounded Theobaldo. The horsemen now ranged themselves around her;
and, moreover, she was accompanied by a grave stately man, attired in
flowing purple robes, and with a large golden cross on his breast. The
thunder-storm rolled away in dying murmurs towards the west; the rushing
too of the rain and hail-showers was heard no more.

Then it seemed as if Theobaldo sought once more to rouse himself for a
new attack. Grinning in wrath, he waved the Magic Ring high over his
head; but the damsel again called out in the same silvery tones, “Halt!
against such an adversary as thou, the holy father of the church has afforded
me this means of protection!” With these words, she took out a golden phial
from her bosom, and, advancing towards Theobaldo, threw part of its
contents, which shone like rain in the sunlight, towards him; whereupon the
once so potent enchanter fell trembling on his knees. “That is not enough,”
said the maiden; and with these words, a strange severity came over her
beautiful features. “Deliver up the ring!” and perceiving that Theobaldo still
lingered, and grinned in his disappointment and terror, she held out the
phial, and continued, “Or shall I once more prove the strength of this,
which, as thou well knowest, is more powerful than all the spells of which
the ring has made thee the possessor? In such case, however, I cannot
answer for the consequences which thou drawest on thine own head.”
Hereupon Theobaldo came up to her trembling, and placed the Magic Ring
in her beautiful snow-white hand, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on
the ground.
Then she desired of her companion in the purple robes, that he would lift
her from the saddle; and as soon as she had dismounted, she went
straightway towards the lime-tree, where Sir Hugh still sat; but, as if
inspired with new life by the presence of her who thus approached him, he
threw aside the dark garments of Zelotes, and once more looked up
cheerfully on the clear sunlight and cloudless heaven. For a moment,
indeed, when he fixed a serious gaze on Sir Arinbiorn’s helmet, a shudder
of apprehension passed through his frame, and he exclaimed, “Good
Heaven! there is also the Avenger with his vulture’s wings. But he must
have come hither for reconciliation; for I see near him an angelic form,
whose divine features are well known to me.” “Ay, indeed,” said the
damsel, “he comes but for reconciliation; and all must this day be
reconciled.” Her words sounded like a strain of celestial music. She then led
up to the old knight her strangely-attired companion, (who looked half Arab
half Christian,) and added, “As truly as thou wert once known on the distant
island of Crete as the brave Sir Hygies, so truly is this Moorish champion
your son; and his mother was the rose-like maiden of Damascus, who dwelt
for a time in the cavern of Zeus the sorcerer. Erewhile he hath acquired

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

together the hands of De Montfaucon and Gabrielle, who, in their gratitude,
had almost dropped on their knees before their friend; but, as he instantly
withdrew, and was lost amid the crowd, they fell into each other’s arms. Sir
Archimbald then drew near to the goldenhaired Gerda, and cast at the same
time an inquiring glance on Hildiridur, which the Druda well understood,
and answered, “She has already proved herself a willing votary of the
Christian faith, and I can bear witness to her ardour and sincerity.” Then the
count inclined his head over the damsel’s hand, and pronounced the solemn
words whereby he became her betrothed husband, while Gerda’s cheeks
glowed with the deep blush of joy and affection.
Meanwhile the wondrous damsel, who was now in possession of the ring,
though her accents were as mild and gentle as ever, yet, the sense of her
expressions conveyed bitter reproaches to Zelotes, inasmuch as he had
sought to terrify the old hero, and to force him into severe penance. “Had he
not been instructed,” she inquired, “that the Saviour of mankind attracted
his disciples in the spirit of kindness and love; and if, for the full conversion
of sinners, fiery trials and suffering must be employed, our heavenly Father
himself provides means for this purpose, and often by assistants unwonted
and unlooked-for?” Zelotes now stood humbly, with his eyes fixed on the
ground, before the damsel, and acknowledged her supremacy by his silent
respect. Meanwhile the unfortunate Sir Otto fixed his eyes with melancholy
anxiety on the lady. He knew not indeed if she were Bertha or a stranger;
but, in either case, felt that it could only be the most manifest tokens of
kindness and condescension on her part, that could give him any right to
express to her, even in the humblest manner, his admiration and love.
At length a kind glance from her beautiful blue eyes was suffered to fall on
him.—“Knight of Trautwangen,” said she, “wherefore art thou so disguised
in that black armour? Methinks thou would’st do better to d’on again thy
silver harness, which is now worn by the Count Archimbald von Waldeck. I
know indeed that you are both bound by a vow; but your vow, my lord
count, is already redeemed; for in the Hartz forest it was your fortune,
without the use of arms, to bring both armour and living knights out of that
cavern, which, but for your aid, would have been their grave. As for thee,
Sir Otto, thou should’st no longer look with terror on the stain of
Heerdegen’s blood on the silver cuirass; for that is already effaced by the
deep wound which thou did’st receive in his defence, when thou would’st

willingly have resigned thy life to save him. Zelotes, whom I chanced to
meet on the road hither, has informed me of all. Alas! for the faithful and
brave Heerdegen!”—At these words tears shone under the fringe of her
long shady eyelashes. Suddenly, however, she went towards Otto, bent
down her head, and kissed the scars that were left by Sir Kolbein’s battle-
axe on his corslet, and said,—“Thus a devout maiden releases both of you
from your vows. Go, and exchange once more your coats-of-mail.”—The
two knights bowed in silent obedience, and, accompanied by their squires,
retired into the castle.
Meanwhile the mysterious damsel commanded that a large fire should be
kindled on the hearth of the great hall; and ere long the blaze was seen
through the open door and windows, gleaming under the shade of the green
luxuriant lime-trees.
By this time the two warriors had returned with their armour changed; Sir
Archimbald again in his dark cuirass, with his terrific eagle’s visor, and Sir
Otto, with the reflection on his youthful blooming features of that silver
mail with which he had been adorned when he first parted from his beloved
cousin Bertha.
The majestic damsel now came towards the great chimney in the ancestral
hall, sprinkling the hearth with consecrated water from her golden phial,
then, clasping her beautiful hands, turned for a moment to the lookers-on,
and said,—“In this solemn hour beware of evil thoughts!”
But who indeed could, at such a time, have required this admonition, when
they beheld that beautiful form like a visitant from heaven, while the bright
fire-light revealed the divine expression of resolution, blended with saint-
like humility, that reigned on every feature? She prayed for some time in
silence, then threw the Ring into the centre of the fire,—made the sign of
the cross over the flames,—and, while she renewed her prayers, the
bystanders beheld how the melted gold ran over the hearth, and heard how
the diamonds and emeralds burst asunder in the vehement consuming blaze.
The solemn rite was finished, and, with light step, the beautiful lady came
forward from the hearth; while, at this moment, Sir Otto could not help
feeling in his heart the conviction, that this was indeed his dear cousin,
Bertha von Lichtenried. Yet round the beautiful smiling girl it seemed as if
the dignified sanctity that she had assumed had spread a mysterious though

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

one knee on the ground, the knight addressed himself to the Druda, and
said, “Dearest mother, speak for me! I am indeed unworthy of her
forgiveness.” Hildiridur then placed the unresisting hand of Bertha in that of
her first lover; and Bertha, kneeling beside him, said, “If thy father, dearest
Otto, will bestow on us his blessing!”—Hearing these words, the old hero
laid his hands on their heads in token of consent; but he could not speak;
for, as he looked on them in their youth and gladness, his heart swelled in
his bosom, and words could not then have expressed his emotion.

CHAPTER XXVII.
How Theobaldo departed on a Pilgrimage into the
Holy Land.
Now it came to pass, that amid the banquet-hall, where all were cheerful
and joyous, there entered an unbidden guest, with looks dark and
discontented; and this was Theobaldo. Humbly he drew near to the pious
and beautiful Lady Bertha, and said, “For me, in sooth, all the pleasures and
hopes of this world are now at an end. My powers of enchantment, to which
I had devoted my whole life, are by thee destroyed; and, as to that
happiness which others may possess in the arms of parents, brothers, and
sisters, it is to me for ever lost, and I have indeed wrought my own
destruction. What then should I now seek here? Truly I know not; but, at
least, I would take leave, and then, as is fitting, seek out some cavern in the
earth wherein I may hide myself from the eyes of all mankind. Should this
not be found, some friendly abyss of the mountains will doubtless lie in my
way, where I can at once make an end of all my regrets and sorrows.”
“Methinks this were not needful,” answered Bertha, with friendly
earnestness of tone; “and I can moreover assure thee, it is not the will of
Heaven that thou should’st thus despair. Penance, no doubt, is required of
thee; and if this duty be fulfilled, thou shalt yet be saved and comforted. It
would be well, methinks, wert thou to undertake a pilgrimage to Jerusalem,
and on thy solitary way contend stoutly with the evil thoughts that beset
thee,—confess thy sins at the holy sepulchre, and return home consoled and
absolved into our friendly circle. Courage then, sir pilgrim; the great
Shepherd yet calls with kind consoling voice for his lost sheep.” At the
same moment, all who were there present stretched out their loving arms
towards him, as if he were already returned absolved and pure into his
paternal castle. “Verily damsel,” said Theobaldo, “thou hast not ceased to be
the beneficent ambassadress of Heaven, although thou art even now become
a happy smiling bride. To Jerusalem then! to Jerusalem! Long indeed have I
felt within my heart the impulse to journey thither, as if I had known by
anticipation the guilt that would one day cleave to my conscience. Yet, ere I
go, could’st thou but request for me the forgiveness of the venerable old

man, whom I am no longer worthy to name father? Obtain for me too the
mild grace of Hildiridur; and it were well if Otto, Christophorus, and
Blanchefleur, even the stern Zelotes himself, could look on me as a brother,
instead of only granting me forgiveness after the manner that one in pity
bestows golden fruit on a wretched convict as he is led to the place of
execution.” Smiling in her calm confidence and serenity, Bertha replied,
“There will be no need of assistance such as mine; for Heaven has here
already prepared your reconciliation.” With these words, she gently drew
the repentant youth towards his father, who clasped him in his arms, while
Hildiridur, and all the rest, drew near to embrace and console him; and Otto,
with melancholy regret in his heart, exclaimed, “Alas! Theobaldo, no
wonder then that, even at our first meeting, thy presence was so
unspeakably dear to my heart!”
Theobaldo at length, with gentle resolution, disengaged himself from their
embraces: “You have now,” said he, “afforded me refreshment and strength;
not only for the journey that lies before me, but for my whole life to come.
Farewell! I shall now depart in tranquillity, gladness, and hope. Your love,
like a guiding star, will still gleam before me; and when, after an absence of
a year or more, the pilgrim comes hither with his scallop-shell hat and
longstaff, you will not refuse him admission, but rather there will be a feast
of welcome and rejoicing in the hall of his ancestors.” Thereafter he made
his parting salutations, and slowly retired. All remained for a space in deep
silence, and with their eyes glistening in tears; such are the bitter drops
which Joy almost ever mingles in the cup, in order to remind us how short
is her date, and how frail the tenure of our life in this world.
At last the old Sir Hugh said, “My son will come again, and Heaven will
grant to me the blessing that I may once more embrace him ere I die. It
seemed as if a winged messenger now brought me from Heaven these
tidings; and if Lisberta has become a glorified angel, it may indeed be she
herself who thus hovers near me.” Hereupon the brothers and sisters,
husbands and brides, held each other’s hands, and embraced with more
cordial joy and affection when they heard these words from their dignified
ancestor; and in a deep full tone, as if his heart had then for the first time
been lightened from his perplexing emotions, he added, “Bertha, thou art in
the right; the spirit of peace and mutual affection is among us. Come then,
dear friends and children, let us go together down to the blooming level

banks of the Danube; for in your presence, with Hildiridur by my side,
methinks I can once more, as in the happy days of youth, enjoy the sunlight
and beauty of nature which the beneficent Creator has here spread around
us.”
So it came to pass, that, as if the Magic Ring had been converted into a
living circlet of blooming swains and damsels, the venerable Sir Hugh, who
had before been so lonely and desolate, now came forth with wife, children,
and friends, all smiling and joyous. Amid the sweet evening-landscape,
behold! there was stretched over the woods a magnificent rainbow; and all
that happy assemblage, clasping their hands, greeted in silent prayer that
far-gleaming token of Heaven’s grace and forgiveness.

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

At length some one tapped lightly on Sir Otto’s shoulder, and, looking
round, he saw that it was the sea-monarch, who thus whispered in his ear:
“Rememberest thou yet our words as we wound up to Hildiridur’s castle?
Blanchefleur has acknowledged thee for her brother, and mark how the
flickering light now gleams yonder on her beauty. When I thus behold the
damsel, I at least may not forget thy promise.” Sir Otto, in friendly
confidence, pressed the hand of Sir Arinbiorn, and rose in order to gain a
place next to his sister, who, lost in deep thought, sat apart like some lonely
and neglected flower of the meadow. Arinbiorn dared not go with him, but,
with his heart heaving with doubt and fear, stood watching them from some
distance.
Now Sir Otto had come near enough to his newly-won sister, to ask her, in a
low voice, whether she had yet become the betrothed bride of a knight, who
in rank and station was worthy of her regard? “I shall take it on me to speak
for her,” answered Sir Folko, who sat on the other side. “The damsel is not
thus betrothed, and will answer ‘No.’” He spoke as if half in anger; and, in
humble obedience, a tremulous ‘No’ came like an echo from the beautiful
lips of Blanchefleur. At that moment were heard some sad and mournful
sounds; the chords of a harp were struck not far from where they sat.
Blanchefleur looked round as if in terror; but, as if this had been a warning
for her to speak, repeated in a louder and more agitated tone, “Heaven
knows I am not the betrothed bride of any one in this world!” Therefore Sir
Otto, making a sign to the sea-monarch that he should come nearer, began
to intercede for him with his sister. Sir Folko too begged her consent, in
order that their two houses might thus be more than ever united; while
Arinbiorn stood in silence, at once dignified and humble, waiting to hear his
doom pronounced by her who was dearer to him than life. Like a pale
slender flower, shaken by the evening wind, Blanchefleur continued for a
space agitated, and uncertain how to decide. At length, in wordless
resignation, she inclined her beautiful head in token of assent to their
proposal. Sir Otto then, leading her by one hand and the sea-monarch by the
other, brought them to Sir Hugh to receive his blessing; and, as they
kneeled before him, the old hero said,—“Thou young and blooming image
of the fearful old Avenger with vulture’s wings, take then, in God’s name,
this tender white flower, that so long was the joy and ornament of mine
ancient halls. All thoughts of revenge are now past and forgotten.”—“All

such thoughts are indeed forgotten,” repeated the sea-monarch, bowing his
head to the ground, while Blanchefleur wept in silence.
But, alas! scarcely had they raised themselves from the grass, when there
were heard again the same mournful notes by which Blanchefleur had been
alarmed; and in the midst of the bright circle now appeared the minstrel
Aleard, in a light-blue mantle, with his harp in his arms; and thereafter he
began to sing a wild and melancholy lay.—He sang at first of the flowery
pride of summer,—of the sun, moon, and stars, with all that is most
cheering and lightsome;—then he changed the scene, and fancied himself
sailing in a solitary bark, through the wild sea, round the Island of Love. On
that island the poor youth described himself as a shipwrecked mariner
dashed against its rocks, who is yet willing and ardent, with his last breath,
to sing in praise of the joys which he may never partake. Even as he is just
sinking under the waters, he beholds a happy bride and bridegroom
standing hand in hand, and salutes them with gratulations and prayers for
their long life and happiness.
Listening to these words, Blanchefleur held her hands over her eyes, and it
was only Arinbiorn who remarked how fast her tears flowed beneath that
alabaster covering. Sir Otto directly recognised in Aleard the same minstrel
who had sung with Blanchefleur the Ballad of Abelard and Heloise at
Gabrielle’s castle in Normandy, and learning from Bertha that he now
belonged to the train that had come with her and Christophorus, hastened to
salute him, and to return thanks that he had come to honour their festival
with his music. But Aleard had already vanished among the crowd; and, on
searching and inquiring for him, Sir Otto was suddenly disturbed by an
occurrence so extraordinary, that the attention of all the party was
immediately roused.
Beyond the circle of torches was heard the trampling of horses, with a
ringing of armour, as if they, as well as their riders, were clothed in iron for
the battle-field. Anon, when the eyes of every one were turned in the
direction from whence this noise proceeded, there appeared, on a snow-
white charger, a tall graceful warrior, in a purple mantle bordered with
ermine fur, with an enormous golden shield, on which the torch-light
gleamed like lightning, on his left arm, and in his right hand a long lance,
which, when they first looked upon him, he poised upright as it rested on
his saddle-bow. As he drew near to the ladies, however, with a light and

graceful movement, he inclined the ponderous weapon to the ground; and,
at the same time, bowed his head, with his high gleaming helmet and
waving plumes, in respectful salutation. Moreover, as he came within the
circle of the torches, some of the spectators insisted, that around his martial
casque there was visible a crown of gold and diamonds; for it could only be
gems of the highest price that shone so brightly.
Ere they had time to debate this question, however, the warrior had turned
his horse, and, followed by a numerous train, passed away from the
wondering spectators. They could hear how he spurred his horse into a full
gallop, and how the rocky cliffs of Trautwangen echoed to the neighing of
war-steeds, and ringing of their armour as they trampled along the meadow,
till at length the sounds died away in distance. “Was it not he?” said
Gabrielle, gazing at Sir Folko, as if she had read his thoughts, and needed
not to say more. “Truly,” answered the brave De Montfaucon, “I believe
there is not any champion over the world who could be compared with him;
therefore we cannot be mistaken. It was indeed the Lion, the peerless
monarch of the knightly forest.”—All eyes were now watchfully turned on
Sir Folko; but, hark! from the same quarter wherein the magnificent
stranger had appeared, there now arose a strain of minstrelsy,—the notes of
harp and song so sweet and ravishing, that all the ladies and knights sat as if
spell-bound, and scarcely daring to breathe in their admiration of the
melody. As, with the thirst of a weary traveller, they drank eagerly the
refreshing sounds, which always floated nearer, through the still air of that
summer-night, till at last they could distinguish articulate words; and these
words have since echoed through the wide world; for the lay now sung, was
that wherein the minstrel Blondel de Nesl described, how he had found out
his royal master Richard the Lion, and rescued him from his before
hopeless captivity.
Moreover the minstrel himself soon appeared, mounted on a small white
horse, which seemed like a younger brother of the battle-charger rode by
the monarch. A green velvet mantle was thrown around the graceful form of
the handsome youth, on whose countenance there lay an indescribable
charm, almost as one might have said, of woman’s beauty, had it not been,
that, notwithstanding the high lace ruff, like that of a lady, that rose round
his blooming features, small elegantly turned mustachios adorned his upper
lip. He had now reined in his well-managed palfrey, and, as he looked

smiling on the banquet-party, still continued to touch the harp, which was
suspended from his neck by a golden chain.
Sir Otto immediately recognised the far-famed Master Blondel, with whom
he had before spoken in the blooming forests of France; and the last words
of his song had made known to all the party what a mirror and model of
songsters and squires was now before them.
“Oh, Master Blondel, most renowned and worthiest of minstrels,” cried
they, “so then the great King Richard is indeed rescued! And was it he
himself, that magnificent knight, who, but a little while ago, passed through
these meadows?”
Blondel kindly answered them, that in their conjectures they had been in the
right; and, after the manner of free-hearted minstrels, he did not refuse their
earnest request, that he would take his place among them, and join in their
festival, and relate to them more particularly how he had, with his harp and
song, tried the echoes in every fortress and castle at which he chanced to
arrive, till at last he had by this means discovered his friend,—the noblest of
Christian heroes,—an adventure of which I need say no more, since to you,
courteous reader, it must already be well known through numberless
legendary tales and ballads.
The knights, who now sat around the festal board, all joined together to
exalt the praise of that noblest of minstrels, who had, by his gentle art alone,
achieved what so many brave heroes, with sword in hand, had in vain
attempted to carry through. Meanwhile the ladies had been busily employed
in twining meadow-flowers into garlands, which they threw in showers on
the head of the highly-honoured troubadour.
Now it came to pass, that Sir Arinbiorn, the sea-monarch, came before Otto
von Trautwangen, leading by one hand Blanchefleur, and by the other the
minstrel Aleard, whom, with his sharp eagle-eyes, he had at length
discovered among the multitude of squires and others who were now in
attendance.—“Dearest brother,” said Sir Arinbiorn, “this youth, whom I
now bring before you, is no other than he who, as I before told you,
appeared to me in the Magic Mirror, where he sat at Blanchefleur’s feet,
when I, for the first time, beheld that bright-gleaming star of my future life
and hopes, and named her Roselinde.”

At these words Sir Otto changed colour, casting fiery glances towards the
minstrel,—and Sir Folko, who now came up, was yet more incensed.
Meanwhile Sir Arinbiorn continued,—“Wherefore all this anger, ye brave
and noble knights? Have you not proved even now, that the minstrel in his
airy flights, though we, forsooth, in our heavy armour, cannot meet him in
his own proper lists, yet can sometimes far exceed whatever the best of us,
with our iron cuirasses, swords, and lances, are able to accomplish. Master
Aleard is descended from a noble house,—the Franks, the Spaniards,
English, and Germans, praise and admire his songs. Otto, why should’st
thou doubt? or should we now crush the minstrel’s harp with our iron-shod
heels, even in the same hour when Blondel’s victory has given us proof of
its powerful influence and worth?”
Hereupon deep blushes came over the features of Sir Otto and De
Montfaucon. The former took the minstrel, and the latter the Lady
Blanchefleur on his arm, and thus they drew near to the old Sir Hugh, while
Sir Arinbiorn walked before them, like a herald, to announce their purpose.
The grey-headed hero willingly agreed to what the sea-monarch now
suggested; it seemed as if, by a gleam of inspiration from another world, he
had been made aware how far more fitly the tender white lily, that had in
early years been cherished in his castle-garden, would be supported by the
rose-tree of song, than by the bloody spear of warfare. Or was it, perchance,
that the divinely tranquil eyes of Hildiridur at that moment rested on him
with their moonlight radiance, and admonished him what he was to do?
However this might be, he willingly bestowed his blessing on the lovers,
who now knelt before him, and on whose cheeks, at their first embrace
thereafter, a deeper blush was enkindled, as if the morning-light of joy now
advanced towards the bright lustre of day. “But for thee, Arinbiorn, what
shall now be said?” inquired Sir Otto, mournfully taking his old comrade by
the hand. “Nay, fear not for my fate,” answered the sea-monarch; “Heaven
has dealt kindly and graciously with me; for if Blanchefleur, according to
her own will and pleasure, had promised her hand to another knight, I could
scarcely have borne with the grief and anger that would then have reigned
in my heart. Now, however, I have but given away those rights which I had
lately won, and freely to bestow valued gifts is a delight to every noble and
princely heart. Well, then! the wild ocean, with its verdant realm of rolling
waters, is yet left to me; amid the roaring waves methinks I yet hear the

voice of hope, that promises me renown at least, if I may not be allowed the
enjoyments of love; and Roselinde shall yet evermore be my battle-cry by
land or sea; with that name on my lips I shall conquer or die!”—“All then is
well at last,” said Bertha, with the smile of contentment and serenity on her
features; “if there were yet agitation or regret in any heart that here beats
among us, ere long the spotless virgin’s calm looks and words would sooth
those tumults till the minds of all were tranquil as the seas by moonlight in
the still summer eve.”
Hereupon the old champion gazed on Christophorus and Zelotes, saying,
“Yet two descendants of this ancient house are left without bridal-wreaths
and lonely in this world!” “Be it mine rather to weave them for others,”
answered Zelotes. “All those which are now worn among us I have given
away with joy and contentment of heart; proud also of mine office as a
priest, inasmuch as I have borne my part in my father’s house, which now
possesses, as is fitting, a monk within its own walls, thus maintaining its
wonted independence.”
“For my share,” answered Christophorus, “the hopes are yet fresh and
vigorous in my heart, that by new wreaths of victory on the battle-field, the
conquest too of new sciences and arts, I shall yet spread the grandeur of our
house more and more through the world. Perchance no damsel that lives,
however beautiful and attractive, is able to satisfy the longings of my heart.
Rather let the wide earth be my bride, with all her wealth of blooming fields
and rolling seas, her stern icebergs of the north, and blooming vineyards of
the south!” Then Sir Hugh took the hands of both his sons, and pressed
them with a firm heroic grasp, as he would have done in his early years of
youth and knightly prowess, at the same time casting delighted looks across
the festive circle, where on the opposite side Sir Otto stood in his happiness,
with his left arm proudly thrown round the tall angelic form of Bertha von
Lichtenried.
Thereafter, behold, Master Blondel (who had by this time learned from
Aleard all the wonders that had come to pass in the house of Sir Hugh von
Trautwangen) came humbly to Bertha, and drawing from under his mantle a
golden crown of beautiful workmanship, adorned with rubies and emeralds,
he said, “How would my heart be rejoiced if, for this once, Beauty would
not refuse to wear the poetic crown when offered by the hand of a
wandering minstrel! Such favour has been granted ere now,—may I hope

that it will not be denied to me!” Thereupon the damsel blushed deeply, and
bent down her head, while the crown was directly placed amid her luxuriant
glossy ringlets, marking her, even for the eyes of the distant lookers-on, as
the queen of this assemblage, who had inspired the young knights to their
noblest deeds; and by whose influence at last the magic spells had been
broken, and every heart restored to tranquillity and joy.
While they were all gazing on her, Blondel had already mounted his white
horse; and thereafter, as he rode slowly away through the moonlight, he
saluted them once more in song. His lays were for the most part addressed
to the virgin queen, who stood there in her serene beauty and innocence; but
ere long they could distinguish only the concluding words of every stanza,
‘Farewell!’ At length, as he entered the dew-besprent forest, and was
shrouded from their sight by the wreaths of white vapour that now hung on
the landscape, that sound also declined away, even as this eventful story,
courteous listener, now dies on your ears. Good night, and farewell!
END OF THE MAGIC RING.
OLIVER & BOYD, PRINTERS.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
Punctuation errors and printing mistakes such as obviously missing letters have been
silently fixed. Spelling and hyphenation in common use at the time of publication have
been kept as is. Instances of the same word differing in hyphenation have in most cases
been changed to match the majority variant, or using information from other sources.
Volume number added under “The Magic Ring”, before the first chapter.
In addition, the following changes have been made:
p.107: Allessandro to Alessandro
p.113: unruy to unruly
p.119: wobegone to woebegone
p.150: Hackelnberg to Hakelnberg
p.187: Herda to Gerda
p.203: an dsilently to and silently
p.211: Asmunder to Asmundur
p.232: inearnest to in earnest
p.314: longs taff to longstaff

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

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGIC
RING, VOL. 3 (OF 3) ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright royalties.
Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license,
apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic
works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and
trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not
be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of
the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project
Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this
eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may
use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative
works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks
may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically
ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S.
copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license,
especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or
any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing
Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic
work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept
all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If
you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg
electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this
agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom
you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people
who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the

collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the
individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the
United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in
the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free
access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works
in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project
Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with
the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format
with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it
without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which
the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase
“Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed,
viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with

this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located
in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived
from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a
notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright
holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United
States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or
providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”
associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with
the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain
permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted
with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of
this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide
access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official

version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of
obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided
that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the
use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the
owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate
royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days
following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to
prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly
marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about
donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does
not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You
must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works
possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all
access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution
of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth
in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the
Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in
Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend
considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and
proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the
Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be
stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete,
inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES -
Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in
paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation,
the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party
distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this
agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and
expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO
REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH
OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE
FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY
DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT,
CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES

EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you
discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it,
you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by
sending a written explanation to the person you received the work
from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return
the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that
provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a
replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work
electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to
give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu
of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a
refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in
paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF
MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If
any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law
of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the
Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the
Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any
volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability,
costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly
from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a)

distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration,
modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work,
and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project
Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals
and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely
available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and
permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To
learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and
the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state
of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue
Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is
64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S.
federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza
#516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact

links and up to date contact information can be found at the
Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without
widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small
donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax
exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States.
Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable
effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these
requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have
not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg
electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility:
www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including
how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.