On one of the border mountains, on the western slopes of the Harz, in
gloomy desolation, rise the grey ruins of the old Schloss
Staufenburg, which still remind us of a most romantic though sad
history.
Home-like, and at the same time sublime, silent, and solitary, must
have been this now destroyed seat of kaisers and princes in the
mysterious Middle Ages. Its position is fascinating, surrounded on
three sides by high wooded mountains, with a wide view open to the
south, which was then probably partially shut out by the primeval
dense forests, now, however, extending over the little mining town of
Gittelde and the picturesque mountain landscape to Osterode and the
high-seated Schloss Herzberg.
The magic of this picture is greatly enhanced by the soft lights of
sunset, and the dim, semi-transparent mists, which like a floating
veil half hide its beauties, and fill the excited fancy with a
mysterious presage of that poetic something we call the Past.
The mountain--on which are decaying bits of walls, where, until a few
years ago, a strong square tower, eighty feet in height, with
openings here and there, looked solemnly down on the vale--is cut off
sharp on the east, west, and south sides from its wooded brethren
that rise high above it, only on the north side sloping gradually to
its base; and it is on this side one climbs to the spot where Kaiser
Henry the Vogler, or Fowler, had a decoy for birds.
The halls trodden by royalty, the boudoirs where Beauty ruled eight
hundred years ago, are fallen into green ruin; the death-owl hoots,
and bats and lizards house among their overgrown stones.
Many of these ruins on the borders of the Harz mountains remind us of
Henry the Fowler, who built them to defend the plains and homes of
this part of Germany from the wild and lawless Huns. As Duke of
Saxony he is said to have lived here with his Duchess, in this
hunting-seat, when he was chosen Kaiser of the holy Roman Empire in
920; several other places, however, claim the honour.
Later the Staufenburg came to the Earls of Katlenburg, who had their
seat near; and after the extinction of this house it fell into the
hands of the mighty Duke Henry the Lion, of Saxony and Brunswick,
before whose sword even the powerful Barbarossa trembled, and
remained in the possession of his descendants, several of whom wore
the imperial crown.
The Harz forests with their rich stores of game attracted not seldom
the hunt-loving princes of Brunswick to their deep shades, and horn
and hound and the wild ho ho! hio hi! of the hunter were heard over
mountain and vale.
Then came a calmer period for the old Staufenburg, as the retired
seat of princely widows, and here lived, in the fourteenth century,
the Duchess Elizabeth, widow of William the Younger.
Oblivion at last sits green a couple of centuries in this solitude,
till it is chosen as the hiding-place of a sinful love, and wild
tales came to be told among the simple mountaineers of a White Lady
who haunted the castle.
On the grey stone balcony stood, one summer day in 1537, two persons
in close conversation.
The lady, arrayed in white, was of remarkable and striking beauty. A
tall form of the most perfect symmetry, brilliant white complexion,
cheeks of a delicate rose, very large clear blue eyes, dark brown
hair falling in luxuriant natural curls, and a dainty hand and foot,
made her the delight of every eye that looked upon her.
The grace of all her movements seemed akin to poetry and music, and
the expression of her radiant countenance betokened a noble and
amiable mind.
Her companion, Duke Henry the Younger, of
Brunswick-Lüneburg-Wolfenbüttel, clasped one of her tiny hands,
glittering with diamonds, in his own, stroked her magnificent hair,
and gazed into her face with silent rapture.
It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, and the coffee table,
according to German custom at this hour, stood in the garden below
draped in white, a silver coffee service glittered on the table,
fragrant mountain strawberries lent a rich bit of colouring, and by
one cup lay a spray of white roses.
The broken fountain suggested a feeling of loneliness, and the high
old grey stone walls enclosing the castle shut it out--or in--from
the world beyond, and all the events now transpiring behind them were
a profound secret. The white-robed figure was literally dead and
buried to the world, which had "assisted" at her funeral.
"Oh, Henry!" exclaimed Eva von Trotta, for the youthful form belongs
to no other than this Fair Rosamond of Germany, "you strive to
comfort me, but in vain. All your words of kindness and passionate
love, cannot crush the worm that is gnawing at the thread of my
life--cannot silence the voice of conscience. I must open my heart
to you to-day, for every visit you make me here I tremble to think
may be the last. And yet it is all wrong--all wrong, Henry; every
visit, every gift from your dear hand is a sin against the good and
noble-minded Duchess, once my motherly friend, a sin against your
lawful children."
"Dear Eva," said Henry, interrupting her, "our children are lawful.
I gave you my left hand at the altar, the wedding-ring and its
diamond keeper glitter on this little hand I hold in mine. The
Church has consecrated our union."
"That is only a hollow pretension. I see it all now. Look at this
beautiful Prayer Book in gold and precious stones, and the Bible[1]
with my name in gold on its cover," she continued, pointing to a
small table where they lay.
[1] Luther's Bible appeared two years before this scene. Eva was
Protestant.
"They were among your gifts on our--our--our marriage day. I come
and sit here when alone, where I can look out on the mountains, and
read them and seek consolation, but find none. They are a silent
reproach to me. You had no right to give them, nor I to take them.
And in my Bible I opened yesterday to St. Paul's words: '_the husband
of one wife_.' They pierced like daggers to my heart. Henry, Henry,
I ought to flee this spot, and never see you more; and yet I cannot.
I should die if I did not see your dear face sometimes, and hear your
voice."
"My darling Eva, put away these harrowing thoughts; they are
shortening your precious life."
"Oh! why did we meet? or meeting, why was it not earlier, when our
love had been no sin? When I recall the affection and confidence of
the Duchess, and reflect on my base, false friendship, my face burns
with pain and shame. The world would curse me; she would too, if she
knew. The watch I wear, that you gave me that last morning in the
antechamber, when I was on duty as lady in waiting, reminds me of the
flight of time, and the unceasing approach of a coming judgment. I
never look upon it without a throb of bitter anguish. 'Nothing that
loveth or maketh a lie' shall enter heaven--_and my life is a lie_.
Oh, Henry! I shall perish eternally, and my noble boy will grow up
to curse my memory;" and leaning her head on Henry's breast, she wept
bitterly.
Probably Henry's own reflections were not of the most agreeable and
consoling character, as he was thus compelled to recall his injustice
and sin in his neglect of the Duchess. He gave, however, no
expression to his misgivings, but only said, pointing to the
coffee-table: "Let us think of this no more; dry up these childish
tears, and let us go down--come, dear."
"My tears are not childish, Henry, only useless. But the world will
discover our dreadful secret, the Duchess and her powerful father
will complain to Kaiser and Pope, your visits will be forbidden--and
what will become of me and my boy?"
"Eva, I will do what I before proposed, before you came here. I will
seek a divorce from the Duchess, and we will be married in the face
of the empire, and your boy, my favourite son, shall be my heir to
the ducal throne."
"God forbid!" cried Eva in feverish, wild excitement, clasping her
hands and looking up to heaven, in which attitude she presented such
an enchanting grace and beauty that Henry caught her in his arms and
covered her face and hair with kisses, calling her by every endearing
name he could think of.
"No, Henry; never, never will I be guilty of such a gigantic wrong.
My son shall never be your heir, shall never supplant your first-born
son and lawful heir. My noble Eitel[2] is noble in character as in
name; he would never consent no more than I. But I live in constant
terror of discovery."
[2] _Eitel_--noble.
"Do not fear that, my darling; every servant here is bound by a
solemn oath; your faithful nurse Magda is the only one who is
permitted to leave the castle, and she does so in the deepest
disguise. The priest at Gandershein who united us at the convent
altar is bound by his priestly vows, and the heavy bribe I gave him,
to silence. The Abbess, too, who managed the details of your
funeral, and the artistic priest who made your wax effigy and the
plague-spots with ink on your white face and hands, are both bound by
the most solemn oaths. None of these will ever betray us, and no one
else knows our secret--we are safe."
Henry was right. Though this relation continued seven years, and
ended only through Eva's death, no one discovered the secret; he
himself revealed it in his partial love for her only son, whom he
sought to make his heir. But the lovers little imagined that one
person knew Eva was not lying in the damp vaults of the convent, and
that they would be at the mercy of this discoverer.
Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the little
Eitel Henry, a princely boy, who inherited his mother's striking
beauty, his long brown curls, falling over his shoulders.
"Come, _Mütterchen_, coffee is ready, and I have put some white roses
for you, and Babette has brought mountain strawberries: come--come,
Papa," and the little fellow put up his mouth for a kiss. The mother
stooped and covered his head and face with passionate kisses, and
Henry, springing forward, enclosed them both in a tender embrace.
Behind came nurse Gretchen in snowy cap and apron, with a lovely babe
in her arms, and both parents sprang forward as if each would be the
first to seize the child.
To a stranger who had not been behind the scenes it was an innocent
and pure family scene, betraying nothing of the wrong and bitterness
these relations had caused. To explain further, we must go back in
our history to Eva's childhood, and her introduction to the court of
Henry the Younger, Duke of Brunswick and his Duchess Maria von
Wurtemberg.
A lovely spring morning dawned joyously over the castle of the
Marshal Adam von Trotta--or Troth--of Brandenburg, but sorrow housed
within it, for the lady of the castle must die. The invalid reclined
on a huge old-fashioned sofa, propped up with silken cushions,
surrounded by her husband, her two sons, and her young and only
daughter Eva. It was a large and richly-furnished chamber, hung with
rare paintings, but the most charming pictures of all were the views
its windows commanded.
The dying mother kissed and dismissed her children, knowing it was
for the last time. The manly youths kissed the mother's emaciated
hand and silently retired, but Eva flung herself sobbing on her
breast, and refused to be comforted.
At last the Marshal led her from the room.
"We are alone for the last time," said the invalid, as the Marshal
returned, putting her hand in his. "Move me nearer the window, that
I may look once more on the park I love so well."
After a pause she exclaimed, "My poor motherless Eva!--as she will be
before this morning's sun goes down. I can leave my sons with more
resignation, for they are noble youths, and able to fight the world's
battles; but Eva has the dangerous gift of an unusual beauty, and the
world is full of snares and traps for such as she promises to be."
"She is your image when I brought you home a young wife.[3] She has
your eyes, your brown curls, now touched with grey, and to me dearer
than ever. In her I shall see your form and face every hour."
[2] In Germany one never says _Braut_--bride--after the marriage; but
_die junge Frau_--young wife. _Braut_ is employed during the
engagement.
"Nurse Magda has promised me never to leave her, and her
foster-sister Alice, who is strongly attached to her, will be of
great assistance in watching over her as they both grow older. Keep
Eva with you as long as you can, but in the event of a campaign send
her to your brother."
The speaker exhausted, sank into a peaceful slumber, and when the
setting sun illuminated the chamber, its golden beams fell upon the
face of death.
They laid the mother in the old family vault; husband and children
brought immortelles and roses for her coffin, and left her to her
cold but safe repose.
The Marshal did as his dying wife had counselled, and kept Eva in the
parental castle till her sixteenth summer. The bud had blossomed
into a wonderful flower, the pride of the desolate father's heart.
But the time has arrived when the soldier must go forth to battle,
and Eva is sent to her aunt and uncle for a visit of indefinite
length. At this period, undecided as to Eva's home, and depressed
with fears and anxieties regarding her future, business calls the
Marshal to the Court of Brunswick,[4] then held in the ancient Castle
of Wolfenbüttel,[5] and this visit is destined to decide the fate of
the youthful Eva.
[4] _Bruno's Wyck_--Bruno's settlement, or town.
[5] _Wolfenbüttel_--wolf's cave.
The piety and amiability of the Duchess Maria made such a deep
impression on the mind of the statesman and soldier, that he
entreated her to become the guardian of his motherless daughter. Her
Transparency consented, and Eva became first lady-in-waiting to the
Duchess.
Little did the father imagine he was thrusting his child into the
wolf's den, for a worse example of a false and neglectful husband
than Henry the Younger of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel it were not easy to
find.
The Duke and Duchess were in no wise congenial spirits. Henry was a
handsome man of fiery temper and hot blood, loved both chase and
feud, possessed more physical strength and beauty than mind or
virtue, troubled himself little with the duties of government or the
interests of his subjects, leaving affairs of State to his minister.
Henry had no sympathy for prayers and church-going, neglected his
pale, youthful wife, seldom visiting the wing of the gloomy old
castle she occupied except when etiquette demanded his presence.
In this deplorable state of things Eva von Trotta appeared at Court.
She stood in the courtyard by her father's war-horse to take leave of
him, promised to be good, which promise she fully intended to keep;
the stern old soldier kissed her, sprang on his horse, brushed away a
tear which defied all his iron firmness, stormed over the drawbridge,
and never saw his fair child again.
Suddenly it began to be reported at Court that Henry had bridged over
the cleft between himself and his high-born wife. He was seen every
evening at her side in the stone balcony, whence they could look down
into the courtyard and witness the sports of the courtiers and the
drilling of steeds, and his conjugal attentions were most edifying to
witness; while the new maid of honour Eva stood behind the seat of
her ducal mistress, a picture of bewildering loveliness.
But the Court did not permit itself long to be deceived by the royal
hypocrite. It was not the pale, pious Duchess who had so suddenly
fascinated Henry, but the maid of honour, radiant in black Genoa
velvet and silver spangles, into whose clear blue eyes Henry's brown
ones looked so willingly.
It soon became perfectly well known to Henry when Eva was on duty in
the antechamber of the Duchess, and half-hidden by the heavy hangings
of the deep windows, he chatted with her by the hour, and no
favourite maid dared tell her royal mistress who entertained the
lady-in-waiting while she sat alone.
At last, one day, the Mistress of the Robes, who had more than once
reproved Eva for frivolity, and whose curiosity had got the better of
her dignity, listens and hears Henry ask Eva to meet him in the
evening at ten o'clock in the linden allée for a walk to the arbour
at the end of it, and the thoughtless girl consents. At the same
time she sees Henry present her with a watch and his portrait.
Horrified, she at once informs the Duchess of this proposed
rendezvous, and persuades her to accompany her in disguise to the
arbour at the appointed hour, where, concealed behind the thick
foliage, she might learn what was best to be done.
Later on this same day Eva sat alone in her boudoir gazing at the
portrait, an exquisite enamel set in diamonds. It was a beautiful
chamber, adorned with frescoes and paintings, mirror panellings,
books, and flowers.
Opposite where Eva was sitting hung a life-size portrait of Duke
Henry the Lion in tapestry. The old nurse Magda had just left her
beloved young mistress, and Eva held the portrait in her hand, while
a tumult of emotions shook her heart.
She was interrupted by a knock, and slipped the portrait hastily out
of sight. It was her foster-sister Alice, who was her favourite maid.
"Why do you disturb me at this hour, Alice?" inquired her mistress,
who struggled to conceal her emotion. "You know I am in the habit of
spending this hour alone."
"Pardon, gracious lady, but I have something to tell you which admits
of no delay," replied Alice, who had caught a glimpse of the
portrait, and noticed the agitation of her mistress. "I wish to
leave the Court. It is my wish to enter the convent of Gandersheim.
I intend to become a nun."
"Become a nun! When did that insane idea enter your head?"
"I am weary of the Court. I am unhappy here. Let me go."
Alice did not tell her of the Court gossip she had overheard, and
that grief and pain drove her to the convent.
"Magda will not leave me, Alice; why will you? Stay with me. You
knew my dear mamma; you are nearly of my own age; I should miss you
sadly."
"No, I have determined to take the veil; it is my calling. Let me
go:"
Eva sighed, and replied, rising and laying her hand on Alice's
shoulder, at the same time glancing nervously at the portrait of
Henry the Lion, "I am not happy either, dear Alice. Oh! I wish I
had never left my uncle's castle, and the protection of my brothers.
Why was I doomed to lose my mother? You seem to me more like a
friend than a servant, Alice; how can I do without you, my
foster-sister?"
Again Eva paused and listened. Suddenly the portrait of Henry the
Lion advanced into the room, and Duke Henry stood in the opening it
had left in the wall. Eva flushed, turned pale, and stood in
confusion, while Alice looked on in bewildered amazement. But Henry
said carelessly, "The Duchess is coming, Fräulein von Trotta; I am
only a minute in advance."
Alice saluted and retired, muttering to herself, "It is true, then,
and worse than I thought. A secret door. And what does that
portrait mean? I wonder if mother knows all this?"
The following day Alice departed for the convent.
The castle clock was ringing ten when two muffled figures stole
through a postern gate of the garden wall behind it into the park,
and, concealed by the darkness, hastened through by-paths to the
lime-tree arbour. Here they waited some time, when at last steps and
voices were heard approaching through the lime-tree avenue.
Eva was saying, "Do not ask me to stay at Court, Henry. I cannot, I
must go at once. The courtiers are talking; Alice insists on leaving
me; I know it is out of sorrow she condemns me who am so far
innocent. Think of my youth--I am only sixteen. My mother is dead,
my father absent. Oh, I cannot deceive the Duchess. She has been so
kind to me, and she is so good. I shall return your presents, which
I should never have accepted, and go back to my uncle's little
castle."
"And forsake me, and leave me to loneliness and wretchedness? Oh
Eva! pity me and remain."
"And bring disgrace and misery and ruin upon you and myself, and
anguish to the Duchess? Maria's royal father is all-powerful with
the Kaiser, who would betray you to the Pope, and you would be
excommunicated. I do love you, Henry--but--it is too late. If we
had met earlier, we might have belonged to each other. I would live
shut out from the world for ever for you, and you alone, and, safe
from disturbance and discovery, would be happy."
"How very noble and self-sacrificing we would be!" exclaimed the
Duchess, coming forward from her concealment. "And such is my reward
for my affection bestowed upon a motherless maiden! To such a
shameful conversation must I listen between her and my husband. But
I have the power to punish you both, and I will use it;" and the
Duchess and her attendant speedily disappeared in the darkness.
The storm had broken upon them. The two figures stood in the arbour,
motionless as marble, while Maria hastened to send messengers
immediately to her father and other princes, acquainting them of
Henry's perfidy.
But Eva at bay seems suddenly to have changed her character. She
forgets her former scruples, and with a single move checkmates her
rival, but at what a cost! She proposes perhaps the most
extraordinary plan that ever entered a human brain, and all the more
astounding as coming from a girl of sixteen.
"What is to become of me?" at last exclaimed Eva, starting from the
stupor of terror the sudden appearance of the Duchess had caused.
"There is not a place where I can go where disgrace and shame will
not follow me."
"I will seek a divorce, declare the children of the Duchess
illegitimate, and we will be married."
"Under the ban of Kaiser and Pope!" cried Eva, wringing her hands in
despair.
After a pause, in which Eva remained buried in thought, she resumed,
"I have a plan, Henry, but the world shall know nothing of our
secret. You shall give me your left hand, but I _must die_--I mean
_seem_ to. I shall resign my office at Court and retire, ostensibly
to return to my uncle's. On the journey I will be attacked with the
plague in the convent of Gandersheim, and die in a few hours; and
then there must be a public funeral; the world and the Court shall
see me buried. I leave the carrying out of the details to you.
Leave Wolfenbüttel on some plausible plea, and in your absence I will
retire. Dead to the world, I will live only for you."
Henry, enraptured, caught her in his arms. "My darling Eva! will you
indeed do that? Oh! then I am happy, and could defy the world. Here
is the seal of our bond," and he placed a diamond ring on her finger.
They walked arm-in-arm under the silent lindens back to the castle.
The moon had risen, and bathed the night in her mystic light; the
stars looked mournfully down on the betrayed maiden. Was there no
hand to save her from this ruinous step--no voice to warn the
betrayer of his sin?
The following day, after a stormy scene between the Duke and Duchess,
Henry left the castle to attend to business, as he said, and on his
return found that the new maid of honour had resigned her office and
left the Court.
The Capuchin convent of Gandersheim, situated in the Duchy of
Brunswick, on the river Gande, enjoyed an equal rank with the abbeys
of Drübeck and Quedlinburg. The Abbesses of these three mitred
convents[6] had a seat and vote in the Reichstag, and during the
earliest period of their existence the abbesses were of the
blood-royal, and only princesses and daughters of the nobility were
admitted into their sacred retirement.
[6] _Mitred convents_--those which had a right to a seat and vote in
the Reichstag.
This imperial convent Gandersheim, once endowed with such wealth and
power, was founded by Duke Ludolf of Saxony in the last half of the
ninth century. It obtained its greatest power under the Ottos, and
the imperial princesses were often sent here for their education, or
for security in times of danger. To this ancient convent I must beg
my readers to accompany me.
It is midnight. A fearful tempest sweeps over the mountains. The
_Wilde Jäger_[7] is out with his ghostly train, and _Tut-Ursel's_[8]
howlings ring through the darkness.
[7] _Wild Hunter_.
[8] _Tut Ursel_--Tooting Ursula--the nun who broke her vow.
The rain beats against the windows of the convent as if it would
force an entrance, flashes of lightning illuminate the night, and the
thunder shakes the old building in its fury, as if it would uproot
its very foundations.
Before a convent altar stands a bridal pair. The bridegroom places
the nuptial ring on the bride's hand; kneeling they receive the
priest's blessing, the young wife rises Frau von Kirchberg, and after
remaining some days in concealment in the convent, she escapes in the
disguise of a monk to Schloss Staufenburg.
Meanwhile tidings reach the Court at Wolfenbüttel that the retired
Court lady has been attacked with a virulent plague on her homeward
journey, and has expired after a painful illness of only a few hours.
The Court is aghast at the news; Henry retires to his private
apartments. Duchess Maria, softened to hear of the lady Eva's death,
sends members of her Court to attend the funeral.
And now we have the second act of the drama in old Gandersheim.
The convent church is brilliant with a thousand tapers. High on a
rich catafalque before the great altar stands Eva's coffin in a blaze
of light. The face of the dead is of a wondrous beauty, the long
brown curls fall over the breast, the small white hands, marked with
plague-spots, are crossed above the still, cold heart.
The nuns, the Abbess at their head, chant the mournful dirge, and the
organ weeps and wails as if it were the very soul of sorrow. The
courtiers wear the deepest black, and are completely overwhelmed with
the awful solemnity of the scene.
Through all the ceremony the novice Alice seems like one in a dream.
The suddenness of the thing is to her incomprehensible. Only a few
days ago she took leave of her foster-sister, and now she gazes on
the dead! Finally the coffin is lowered; they are about to close it
for ever, when Alice, before the Abbess or the two priests, who alone
knew the truth, can prevent her, rushes forward with a cry of agony
and kisses the cold hands in her sorrow. Suddenly she discovers they
are only wax! Conscious of the danger to herself if she betrays her
discovery, she weeps and sobs louder than ever, and must be almost
forcibly removed. They bear the coffin to the convent vaults, the
courtiers return to the Court to picture the marvellous beauty of the
departed Eva to the Duke and Duchess.
In the meantime novice Alice is no novice. She ponders over the
matter in secret.
"Eva is not dead," she reflects. "Where can she be? What can it all
mean? I will find her if I walk every inch of the Harz mountains. I
will disguise myself as an old woman, a seller of lace; thus I can
gain admittance everywhere. But I must get away from here without
exciting suspicion."
As the result of these soliloquies, Alice informs the Abbess she must
relinquish her plan of becoming a nun, at least for the present, and
go to her mother, who must be in great distress at the sudden loss of
her nursling.
But on her arrival at the castle of Wolfenbüttel, Magda has
disappeared, and no one knows what has become of her.
For a period of four years, Alice, disguised in a grey wig, with an
artificial hump on her back, sought Eva, wandering from castle to
castle, from town to town through the mountains; but without
discovering the faintest trace of either Eva or nurse Magda.
The princes of the House of Brunswick were, as I said before,
passionate lovers of the chase, and Henry the Younger was no
exception to his race. But suddenly this penchant increased to such
an extent that his time was almost entirely absorbed with this
pastime.
He began to be absent weeks and even months in his favourite Harz.
At length these long absences excited the suspicions of the Court and
the Duchess. Tales came to their ears of a lady in white, who had
been seen at the deserted old Staufenburg. Spies were sent out
several times to watch the castle, but no discovery was made. Eva
remained dead for the world.
Alice, who heard these reports, knowing what others did not, that Eva
was not in the vaults of the convent at Gandersheim, resolved to make
a visit to the Staufenburg, thinking very likely the reports of the
lady in white were not simply wild mountain tales, but having some
truth in them. This she felt to be all the more probable, since in
all her ramblings from town to castle no trace of the lost girl was
to be found.
Accordingly Alice made her way to the Staufenburg, and after watching
from the thick woods three whole days she saw her mother, Magda,
issue from a small postern door in the outer walls, so hidden by
trees and underbrush as to be unseen when shut.
Alice hastened to meet her, secure of her disguise, and told her she
had a special message from the Master to the Lady Eva, and must speak
with her alone.
Magda, terrified, exclaimed, "Who are you? Whom do you mean by the
Lady Eva?"
"I am one who knows all the secret, and that the beautiful maid of
honour, Eva von Trotta, does not lie in her coffin. Better if she
did. But my message is pressing and admits of no delay. My orders
are to deliver it to the lady alone. Admit me here, and leave the
door unlocked that I may let myself out again."
Magda stared at the old hump-backed woman and her basket, and
hesitated; but seeing she knew the secret, at last concluded all was
right.
"Follow me," she said; and opening the postern door and pointing out
to her an outer flight of stone steps leading down to a garden,
continued, "mount those steps leading to the stone balcony. You will
find the lady you seek in her boudoir, which you enter from that open
door. She is alone. I will wait for you here, for I dare not leave
the gate open. It might be discovered, for I have seen people
prowling about here lately a good deal."
Alice did as directed. Arrived on the balcony she paused and gazed
at the graceful but passive figure half reclining in a fauteuil in
full view of the mountains.
Eva is now in her twenty-first year, and lovelier than ever. Her
face and hands are so white as to seem almost transparent; her curls
fall in rich masses over her white silken robe; her blue eyes have a
strange far-away look in them that strikes Alice to the heart.
Suddenly Eva becomes aware of the presence of a stranger, starts out
of her pensive reverie and exclaims, "Who are you? How did you get
in the garden?"
"I met a servant at the postern gate in the wall," replied Alice in a
constrained voice. "I told her I had a special message for you."
"From Henry? Then you know all! Quick! quick! What is it?"
Alice hesitated, for she was so moved at sight of her playmate and
foster-sister, she could not command her voice to speak.
"Why are you so long? Speak. I will reward you richly if you bring
me good news from Duke Henry."
"I do not bring you a message from Henry of Brunswick, but from God,"
said Alice, slowly and solemnly. "Leave this castle, forget Henry,
return to the path of duty and virtue, and seek forgiveness."
"Who are you?" cried the terrified Eva, springing from her seat. "If
the Duke did not send you, who did? Oh! I am betrayed! Magda!
Magda! What have you done?"
"Do not fear, White Lady of the Staufenburg, I will not betray you.
I have sought you four long years, because I love you, and would save
you from a life-long wretchedness. I was at your imagined funeral,
and discovered the farce, but no mortal save myself knows of my
discovery.
"Who are you? Why do you come here? to threaten, to torment me? Do
you want money?"
"Why do I come? You are in danger. The Duchess has spies; stories
of a White Lady in the Staufenberg are come even to the Court. The
Duke's long absences excite suspicion. He is watched. Think of the
storm that will burst upon you both if you are discovered. Leave
here before it is too late."
"Why do you interest yourself for a lonely creature like me, dead and
buried?"
"You do not know me--how could you? My own mother did not recognise
me," and Alice threw off hump and wig, and stood before Eva, a tall,
well-formed girl, nearly her own age.
"Alice!" cried Eva, rushing to her, and seizing her in her arms. "I
thought you were a nun in the convent of Gandersheim. You are come
to stay with me. Oh! say you are come to stay."
"No, I will not stay here. I have sought you all this time as an old
lace-seller, to warn and save you. If you will give up Henry and
leave this den of sin, I will follow you wherever you go. Oh! what
words can I use to induce you to leave here? Eva! Eva! it is your
foster-sister, your truest friend, who entreats you. Henry is your
worst enemy. He has trodden your honour and name in the dust, but
you consented, and destroyed what you might have been for ever. But
repentance is left, and there is all eternity to come.
"How can you stand before God? how can you dare pray? You desecrated
the holiest; virtue and innocence you have made the tools of vice;
you have stolen the _monstrance_ from the altar; you swore a false
oath before the altar of the Highest. Talk of a left-handed
marriage. It is an insult to Heaven's laws. Eva! Eva! once my pure
and dear playmate, the darling of your dead mother's heart, come away
with me now--_now_. No one is here to betray our flight. We will go
to some distant land, and I will stay with you so long as we both
live. Follow your true friend. It is the voice of Heaven you hear.
Forget the unworthy murderer of your youth and purity."
Eva trembled and turned pale. "What would become of my children?"
she cried, wringing her hands in anguish.
"Children! have you children?"
"Yes, three. See, that is my noble Eitel with the long brown curls,
playing in the garden."
"God will protect them. You can do nothing for them even if you
remain. They are in the power of their father. Come, come; oh,
listen to the voice of warning before it is too late," and Alice
seized Eva's hand as if she would lead her away.
"I cannot! I cannot! I love Henry. Love his princely magnanimity,
his bravery, his noble pride--even that which others hate in him I
love. For him I have robbed the Duchess of her husband, deceived my
brave father and my brothers, desecrated God's altar, sacrificed
life, youth, honour, happiness; I live only for him. I cannot
deceive him, cannot atone for one sin with another."
"I must save you, then, by telling your brothers where you are. They
will punish the vile Henry before the whole German Empire." She
released Eva's hand and turned to go.
With a scream Eva sprang forward, threw herself down before Alice,
clasped her knees and cried, "Be merciful, Alice; have pity on my
misery. God is merciful. Do not you be cruel. Do not betray me. I
am crushed and bruised, the peace of my mind and heart destroyed. I
could not be more wretched. What good would it do to betray me? and
in betraying Henry, you destroy me, rob me of the only earthly
protection I can ever hope to enjoy. Magda is a mother to my
children as she was to me. She would not betray me."
"My mother was your nurse, hence has a mother's feelings for you. I
will not stay here. If I should see Henry, I should forget all
respect for his person as Duke, and give him a piece of my mind. I
will keep your secret, but I warn you of a coming-danger. Then I can
be of more service to you without than if I stayed here. God help
you. I will not betray you." And hastily assuming her disguise, for
footsteps were heard approaching, she hurried away.
Three years passed away after this interview, and Eva remained
securely hidden; but Henry's absences from Court grew longer and more
frequent, and at last one of the courtiers resolved to penetrate the
mystery.
He followed Henry to the Staufenburg, watched four whole days in the
thick woods, and the evening of the fourth day, to his utter
amazement, recognised Eva von Trotta in the stone balcony by Henry's
side. The secret was out! He hastened to the Duchess and told her
what he had seen. Maria sent authorised messengers to the convent of
Gandersheim, the coffin bearing Eva's name was broken open, and lo! a
wooden figure with wax mask and hands!
The Duchess communicates this discovery to the King of Wurtemburg,
her father, letters of reproof are sent to Henry from him and the
Kaiser, and the Pope threatens him with excommunication.
Henry hastens to Eva with the dreadful news; but Alice has been
before her, and Eva is prepared with another plan.
"Tell them to search the Staufenburg, and they will discover their
mistake. Tell them I am dead--it is true. Magda shall conduct the
children to Kirchberg, and with Alice's aid they and every trace of
my having been here will vanish. I have a secure hiding-place."
"Where, Eva?"
"You shall know to-morrow on your return from Gandersheim, Henry."
She took an affectionate and reluctant leave of him, calling him back
two or three times before she could let him go.
Then she sent for her children, wept over them, and gave her
directions to Magda and Alice, and cut off Eitel's long curls that he
might not be recognised, his resemblance to her with his long hair
being so striking.
After she had dismissed them, Eva returned to her boudoir and wrote a
note to Henry. Then she took a small flask from her writing-table,
poured its contents in a glass of water, and reclining in her
fauteuil, drank it.
Henry, on his return the following morning, hastened to Eva's boudoir.
Seeing Eva seated, and not springing up as usual to welcome him, he
supposed she had fallen asleep--and so she had; but a sight of her
face revealed the dreadful truth. She had taken poison. The empty
flask lay on the writing-table beside her; near it a note addressed
to himself. He tore it open. It only contained a few words.
"I told you, my beloved Henry, I had a secure hiding-place. I meant
the grave. Tell them I am dead. They cannot follow where I am
going. I would not bring ruin on you and your dominions. Oh, Henry!
be good to my children, and never attempt to make Eitel your heir.
My sin was loving you. Farewell.
"Yours in death, EVA."
Duke Henry had the broken-hearted girl--only twenty-three--buried in
the garden of the Staufenburg, returned to Court and insisted on a
search of the castle. They did search, of course discovering
nothing, and the mystery was still impenetrable.
The Duchess Maria died a few months after her rival, and nothing was
ever known of the well-guarded secret, until Henry himself betrayed
it in his partiality for his favourite son Eitel Henry--Eva's only
son and eldest child. The Duke besought the Pope to recognise him as
the heir to the ducal throne, offering a heavy bribe. His Holiness
consented, the more readily since the Duke's lawful heir, Henry
Julius, had become a Protestant.
But Eitel proved himself, as his mother had said, noble in character
as in name. He absolutely refused his consent to this injustice, and
lived in retirement on the estate Kirchberg, which the Duke had given
him, the name of which Eva's children bore. The Kirchbergs, however,
soon became extinct.
The learned Duke Henry Julius, founder of a university, never forgot
the refusal of his noble illegitimate brother to deprive him of his
birthright, and ever remained his warm friend.
There were two castles in the Harz mountains, both of which bore the
name of Staufenburg; that near Zorge, an hour and a half from the
beautiful ruins of Convent Walkenried. It is said to have been
occupied during the Thirty Years' War. When built or by whom
destroyed are matters of conjecture. The Staufenburg of our tale is
near Gittelde. Some derive the name from the idol _Stuvo_, or
_Stuffo_, once set up on the mountain. The mountain was so steep
that _Staufen_, or _Stufen_--steps--were used in climbing it, hence
probably the name.
The Weingarten Höhle and the Three Men.
There is perhaps no cave in all Germany concerning which so many
legends and traditions are in the mouth of the people as this
Weingartenloch.
A plank crosses over a black piece of water from the outer portion of
the cave further into the darkness, far from human help and human
voices.
The tradition is, that whoever crosses that beam will be given over
to the Evil One, who governs there, and sits, between heaps of gold
and silver, by a table, with a great book before him, in which he
writes the name of every person who approaches him.
But when three enter together and draw lots with one another, two of
them may depart laden with treasures, and only the third, upon whom
the lot has fallen, must remain behind, and is torn in a thousand
pieces by the demon.
Two men from some distant country had often entered the cave, and had
always succeeded in enticing a third to accompany them, who always
fell into the hands of the _Gott-sei-bei-uns_, since they so arranged
it that the lot fell to him.
Finally, it struck the inhabitants as something very remarkable that
those who had entered the cave with the two strangers never returned,
and henceforth they failed to find a follower.
Then they entered the hut of a poor man in Dorf Osterhagen, who had a
wife and eight children, and challenged him, with brilliant promises,
to follow them into the cave.
The man, whose name was Schlosser, felt little inclination for the
expedition, and absolutely refused, even if they offered him eighty
Thaler.
But the wife called her husband into another room, and said to him:
"Thou knowest that I love thee dearly, and would sink from sorrow and
anguish if thou shouldst be torn from me; but we have eight children,
and no bread in the cupboard, and no money, and with the money the
strangers offer thee we should have enough for our whole lives; so go
with them, and be sure no evil will befall thee."
And she opened a cupboard, took out a plant, sewed it in his shirt in
three different places, made a sign of the cross above each place,
and said, "That which I have sewed in thy shirt is _origanum_, a sure
defence against all enchantment, and even the devil; so go in peace,
in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."
And Schlosser embraced his wife and children, and went with the two
men, who looked, scornfully laughing, at each other, after having
laid eighty glittering new Thaler on the table.
They wandered on until they had reached the beam--the fatal
beam--where they stood still, and the men warned Schlosser solemnly,
if his life was dear to him, to utter no sound till they had passed
the next two caves.
Schlosser promised, and the three crossed cautiously the dangerous
bridge, and entered a cave filled with the most horrible vermin.
Bombinas and salamanders seemed to be giving a ball. Bats fluttered
thick as a hailstorm through the air. Terrible serpents and dragons
coiled hissing around each other. The most hideous brood of nature
was flocked together, and swarmed around the feet of the three men
entering, as if to form a wall to hinder their entrance.
With firmness the three went directly forward toward a second cave,
which was large and lofty, and lighted with a magical splendour.
At the right, against the rocky wall, shimmering with gold and
silver, stood a couch of red velvet embroidered in gold, and on the
silken cushions lay a sleeping maiden of such super-terrestrial
beauty, that Schlosser could not take his eyes from the picture, and
was drawn forward by force by his companions. In the next cave they
stood still, drew a long breath, looked anxiously at each other, and
put down their lamps.
"Now, dear friend," said one of the men to Schlosser, "the moment is
come. In a quarter of an hour we may become rich and happy, or for
ever lost in perdition. Immeasurable wealth is in the cave we are
about to enter, but only two of us can become possessed of the
accumulated treasures, or ever see the light of day again; the third,
on whom the lot falls, must remain as a sacrifice to the dark ruler
of the subterranean world. Be firm and follow us!"
Schlosser felt as if paralysed by lightning at the terrible
disclosure, and without knowing what he did, he followed the two, who
went on before, and knocked three times on a small iron door.
Cracking, it sprang open, and a blood-red splendour shone forth in
the great space which they now entered. Gold, silver, and precious
stones lay in colossal heaps on every side, and the place sparkled
and shone so, that even the anxious Schlosser's heart was filled with
joy.
But now from a corner a man of lofty stature came forward, with
sparkling, burning eyes, black, bristly hair, dark, bushy eyebrows,
and a crooked, arched hawk-nose.
In a frightful, peculiar manner he twitched his yellow face, and his
garments were strange and odd. A fiery-red, gold-bordered mantle
hung in bunchy folds from his shoulders; a broad, drooping Spanish
hat, with a long, waving red plume, sat sideways on his head, and a
long rapier hung at his side.
With a slight bow he passed the three men, and vanished through the
iron door by which they had entered.
The two men now challenged Schlosser to help them fill their sacks,
and as soon as that was done they returned through the iron door,
which shut with a loud crash behind them.
"I cannot tell how it is with me to-day," said one stranger to his
friend. "I am filled with fear, and my teeth chatter, and it creeps
like fire in my veins. If only some misfortune does not meet us!"
"Thou art very foolish," replied the other. "Is it not the
eighteenth time that we have been here, and we have always known how
to turn and shuffle that the lot fell on the accompanying third
person? And where could we have found a better companion than that
fellow there, out of whose eyes the most charming simplicity and
stupidity look, so that a child might deceive him?"
He would have added more, but Schlosser, who went on before, uttered
a cry of horror, and the hearts of the two friends sank within them,
although what they saw they had seen already eighteen times.
On the fatal beam over the foaming water stood the devil himself,
with all the terrors peculiar to his dark majesty. Great burning
eyes rolled like wheels of flaming fire in his awful face, a
shaggy-haired hide clothed the spirit of the bottomless pit, and the
fearful claws were extended to seize his prey.
With trembling hand the eldest of the two strangers produced the
cards; but however falsely he shuffled them the death-card fell to
him, and he began to quake, and grew as pale as the chalk of the wall.
Under the pretext that something had been omitted, the stranger
shuffled again; but, to his terror, the death-lot fell, not upon
Schlosser, but his own friend.
"The third time it will surely fall on the fellow," thought the
stranger to himself, and began under all sorts of excuses to shuffle
again.
The foul fiend raised himself to his greatest height, breathing
flames of fire from mouth and nostrils, and cried in a hollow,
smothered voice, like the sound of distant thunder: "Only once more
can ye draw lots, no more. Over that person there," pointing to
Schlosser, "I have no power; he is defended, by a plant which he
carries on his person, from every danger!"
The two old sinners turned paler than ever, and looked despairingly
at each other; but the devil waved his hand, and they drew lots for
the third time. The lot fell on him on whom it had fallen the first
time.
Like a tempest Satan threw himself on the despairing man, seized him
with his claws, rose with him in the air, and tore him in pieces.
With swelling breast, breathless, Schlosser till now had looked on
all that had passed; but at this fearful sight the last spark of
firmness failed him, he closed his eyes and sank lifeless on the
ground.
When he awoke he was lying before the entrance to the cave; near him
a sack filled with beaten gold and silver.
He looked in vain for his companion, who must have already gone away,
if the terror caused by the awful fate of his friend had not killed
him.
Schlosser was as if paralysed, and could scarcely drag himself to the
village near by.
He, however, soon recovered, moved from Osterhagen to Andreasburg,
where he built a handsome house, and never forgot that it was through
his wife's forethought that wealth and happiness had been won.
The Bell-Founder of Stolberg.
The traditions of the apprentices' pillar in Roslin Chapel, and of
the bell-founder in Breslau, bear a strong resemblance to this of
Stolberg.
There was once a bell-founder in Stolberg who was a master worthy of
honour, skilled in counsel and deed.
He had already cast many bells, yellow and white, the poem tells us,
for churches and chapels, to the praise and glory of God.
And his bells rang so full, so clear and pure in tone; he cast love
and faith in with the metal.
And Stolberg desired also a work from his hand, and the master
employed every means to produce a perfect bell for his place of
residence.
But it was as if the Evil One had a hand too in the work, for the
cast was a perfect failure.
Vexed, he threw the bell aside, commanded his sixteen-years-old
apprentice to prepare everything for a new cast on a certain day, so
soon as he returned, and then departed to visit his father, who was
also a bell-founder, to relate his failure and ask his advice.
The thoughtful apprentice reflected unceasingly on the cause of the
failure of his so skilful master in the last bell.
After long speculation he discovered the cause, sprang up joyfully,
worked day and night, and soon the bell stood without a flaw before
the youth's delighted eyes.
His heart beating high with joy, he went to meet his master, and
found him sitting on a stone resting from the fatigue of his long
walk. This stone tradition still points out in the Steigerthal,
moss-grown, with a bell and a club hewn in it.
The apprentice could not keep his secret, and with a countenance
shining with joy told his master that he had already cast another
bell, which was perfect, and of the sweetest tone.
Then the veins on the master's forehead swelled with shame; rage and
fury to find himself excelled by his pupil filled his usually mild
heart.
He sprang from the stone, seized his cane, and gave the youth such a
powerful blow on his head that he sank bleeding, with glassy eyes, in
the grass.
The master fled as if chased by the furies.
His anger cooled at the sight of the blood; fearful pangs of
conscience seized the strong man, he repented his rash deed, turned
hurriedly back, hoping he might yet quench the stream of blood, and
save the unhappy boy.
He had soon reached him, but no help was possible. Despairing he
fled.
Unsettled and a fugitive like Cain, he wandered the whole night in
the forest, and when the morning dawned he had made his decision.
He returned to Stolburg, presented himself before the tribunal,
accused himself of his crime, and demanded punishment.
Deep was the regret, but blood demands blood, and he heard his
sentence of death with unmoved composure.
The Colt's Cave.
During the Seven Years' War the soldiers stole all the horses.
A farmer concealed a handsome colt in a cave in the Steigethal, or
valley of the Steige, and fed it with great care. After the
departure of the enemy he hastened to the cave to take home the
animal, but it had grown so much it could no longer go through the
entrance, and he was compelled to kill it. And the cave is called
the Colt's Cave unto this day.
Legend of St. Christopher.
In the Goslar Cathedral, of which now but a small remnant remains,
once existed a colossal wooden statue of this renowned Saint with the
Christ-Child on his back.
St. Christopher once walked from Goslar to Halberstadt and Harzburg,
and on the way shook on the ground a pea which had got into his shoe.
The pea grew, and became the sandstone rock called the Clus.
The interior of the rock was hewn into a chapel to the Virgin, which
was a shrine of great celebrity.
A Schloss once stood on the Clus, traces of which are still to be
seen.
The Maiden's Cave in the Spatenberg, near
where once stook the Spatenburg.
A young citizen of Sondershausen had, although honest, industrious,
and skilful, fallen into great embarrassment.
Merciless creditors threatened with seizure; entire ruin stared him
in the face; he saw himself already in fancy with wife and children
abandoned to bitter want.
He took a walk into the country in order to seek relief for his
oppressed heart for a few short hours.
Soon he was alone with his sorrow in the wood solitude.
He climbed the Göldner, till he had reached the summit of the
Spatenberg, where the green-grass carpet and the shade of the old
beeches invited him to a short repose.
He might have perhaps given expression to his trouble in loud
lamentations.
However that may be, he at last prepared to go further, when suddenly
he observed a lovely maiden, who, clad in mourning garments and
weeping, sat on a moss-grown stone at the entrance to the
Jungfernloch, or Maiden's Cave.
His sympathy at this sight was awakened in proportion to his own
melancholy. He could not restrain himself from approaching the
graceful figure, and inquiring the cause of her grief.
She, however, was of opinion that her sorrow was much too great to
permit of her troubling any one else with it, and declared she could
only find a mitigation of her woe in drying up the tears of others.
She told him she had, unseen, perceived what troubled him, and it
afforded her soul sweet comfort to know that she could help him.
After she had made this statement to the astonished man, she bade him
follow her into the cave.
When they had gone through several dark, gloomy passages, they
entered a wonderfully lighted chamber, in the centre of which stood a
chest filled with gold and treasures, from which the maiden's
companion, at her command, must take as many pieces of money as were
sufficient for relief from his embarrassment.
At the same time he must solemnly promise that at the expiration of a
year, at a certain hour, he will return the same sum to the same
place, because, as a result of his failing to do so, she herself
would suffer great injury.
He promised, and the maiden dismissed him.
Of course he was now freed from his anxiety and distress, and from
this day everything he undertook prospered.
Not only was he able to satisfy all the demands of his creditors, but
also at the stated time, agreeably with his promise, to return the
received loan.
But he could not go in his every-day dress to his benefactress, and
the untruthful tailor neglected to deliver the red Sunday coat as
promised.
At last he determined, though he had failed to reach the spot at the
fixed hour, not to fail in the day.
As he climbed the Burgweg--castle road--it seemed to him that the
tops of the beeches sighed mournfully. He drew near to the cave with
painful apprehensions.
No maiden was to be seen. He entered the cave, and found himself at
last in the lighted chamber.
But what must he see? The benevolent maiden lay on the ground dying,
her countenance distorted with sorrow and pain.
Dreadful gloom enveloped the frightened man. Only the treasure in
the chest glittered dismally.
A long-drawn sigh trembled through the chamber. He threw the
too-late-brought money, at the same time crossing himself, into the
trunk, which immediately closed, and with the dead maiden disappeared.
An awful roaring arose. Benumbed with terror, he fled from the
chamber, that fell in behind him, and through the passages, that
seemed to him suddenly falling into ruins.
A tumbling stone struck him so violently on the heel that he was
always obliged to wear slippers after, and from that day he never
recovered his spirits.
The Three Brothers of Zellerfeld.
There once lived three brothers in Zellerfeld who were hunters. They
went together one day hunting to the Schalk, when the youngest saw
three partridges, and shot at one of them.
He thought he had struck the bird, but it flew away, and he followed
it to the top of the mountain where it disappeared.
The young hunter searched the spot carefully where the bird had
vanished, and found an opening, which he marked, and then went back
and called his two brothers.
All three entered the opening, and came soon to a large room
containing a well-served meal on the table, and chairs placed ready.
The three seated themselves, ate, drank, and found all excellent.
After they had partaken of the repast, three beautiful ladies in rich
attire entered, and told the brothers they were accursed and doomed
to remain for ever under the earth. But if they would remain there
three years without seeing the light of day, they would be released.
The ladies promised them the best table during the time, and
conducted them to see their treasures, and pointing out three casks
filled with gold, promised each one.
They also told them they must now become black, and would only visit
them once a year, exhorted the brothers to firmness, and left them.
At the end of the first year they returned; they were become somewhat
whiter.
At the next visit, at the end of the second year, they were grown
still whiter. They exhorted the brothers earnestly to perseverance
and again left them.
The first half of the third year passed happily, but in the last half
the eldest brother grew impatient, and asked: "Why should we remain
here any longer?"
But the younger reminded them of their promise. At last the second
brother became undecided and restless, and finally the two resolved
to remain no longer.
They threatened to murder the youngest if he would not accompany
them, and to save his life he yielded to their entreaties.
At the proposal of the eldest, they took as much of the gold as they
could carry with them.
They reached Zellerfield with their wealth, agreed to keep all a
secret, and began to live in luxury, each taking to himself a wife.
The two elder brothers soon squandered all, but the youngest avoided
their extravagance.
The two elder, having lost all, determined to return to the treasure
in the mountains, and compelled the youngest to go with them.
They entered the familiar chamber with the table and chairs, but all
was changed.
Every object was draped in black, and on the table stood three
mourning lamps.
The three ladies entered, now coal-black, and silent, and sad; they
were followed by three men, who cried, pointing to the eldest
brother, "Thou perjured rascal!" seized him, quartered him, and
packed him in a barrel, likewise the second.
The youngest looked on in terror; but the ladies exclaimed, "Thou art
a true friend, and innocent. Take what thou wilt and go home. But
we must remain here until we find three rescuers."
The Raven of Clausthal.
A gentleman in Clausthal had a raven and a maid-servant.
The raven carried off all the silver spoons, and suspicion fell on
the poor girl. She was tried, and under torture confessed she had
stolen them.
She was executed, but before her death declared her innocence.
Soon after new eave-troughs were put on the gentleman's house, and
the spoons were all found where the raven had hidden them.