"_Auf! auf! Gib Deinem Schmerze
Und Sorgen gute Nacht.
Lass fahren, was das Herze
Betrübt und traurig macht!_"--
he quickened his pace with a firmer tread and lighter heart.
Perhaps he would have sung on to the end of the hymn, had not a
voice, clear as a silver bell, greeted him with "Guten Morgen!"
The singer looked in the direction of the voice, and stood like one
transfixed at the sight of the vision before him.
On the banks of the brook which flowed past his path sat a lovely
maiden clad in white, and bathed her marble-white feet in the crystal
water.
Before he could recover from his astonishment, the figure rose and
approached him, saying in a voice of the most delicious melody--
"Thou sangst just now a beautiful song, that was made for the
troubled. May help be as near every one who sings it as to thee; for
know, thou art come at a most happy hour. It is only permitted me
once a year to be at this spot; and whoever meets me here and
deserves it as thou, him I make happy--if wealth can make him happy.
Listen, then: when the bells ring midnight, leave thy cottage, and
climb the mountain in silence to the ruins of Burg Osterode. Between
the sunken walls thou wilt find a flower; pluck it, and instantly all
the treasures of the heart of the mountain will be revealed to thine
eye, from which thou mayst take as much as thou wilt. Go now thy
way, and carry comfort and hope to thy wife. My time is expired."
The slender form, the pale, loving face, transparent as moonlight,
the long golden hair, were in a twinkling vanished.
Wonderfully cheered, the weaver hastened home and related his vision
to his suffering wife and little children, and they waited with
impatience for the appointed hour. At last the leaden-footed hours
had passed--it was midnight.
The weaver kissed his wife and hastened forth. It was a glorious
night. The full moon shone, the quail sang her nightly song. The
picturesque ruin contrasted wonderfully in its dark grey masses with
the cloudless blue of the heavens and the silver moonlight.
A peculiar light shone out of an arched chamber; he followed it, and
there sat the pale maiden, adorned with a wreath of white roses in
her hair. She raised her jasper-blue eyes, looked kindly on him, and
beckoned him to approach and gather the shining flower.
The weaver obeyed and tremblingly plucked the lily.
Hardly had he the flower in his hand when a fearful, rumbling sound
arose in the heart of the mountain, the ground close to his feet sank
crashing into the depths, and a huge cauldron rose in flame, filled
to the brim with glittering gold pieces. The maiden bade him take
what he would, for he was so overcome with astonishment and terror
that he could not move.
At her friendly voice he recovered from his fear, filled pockets and
hat with the coins, bowed low and reverently, left the magic chamber,
and hurried back to his cottage--and the sun rose on two happy
people. Every anniversary of the day they went to the ruins to thank
the fairy, who, however, ever afterward remained invisible.