THE GUESTS.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
SHAKSPEARE—_Tempest_.
DAY after day thus glided on without much variation, though not so
heavily as formerly. One evening Brandomann said to her, “Your mornings
must still be wearisome to you; perhaps it might give you pleasure to
travel around this little island; when such shall be your wish, summon
aloud your carriage, with the snow-white deer, (that which brought you
hither,) and it will instantly attend your command.” The princess was
impatient, till the next morning gave her an opportunity of indulging
this new pleasure;—for when our pleasures are few, every little variation
is hailed as a new one;—she sprung lightly from her couch, and, with
beaming eyes and a throbbing heart, ascended her chariot, which, at her
wish, waited at the gates of the marble palace. For some hours she was
delighted to be borne swiftly by the coursers of light through flowery
vales and blooming gardens; but at length grew weary of the silence and
monotony which every where surrounded her, and the inability to utter or
reply to an observation. The deer looked at her with their intelligent
eyes, and seemed to understand her feelings. “Yes, turn then, my lovely
deer,” she replied in answer to their silent interrogatory; “bear me
again to my home.” She entered the marble hall. It was many days since
she no longer startled at the clap of thunder which announced the
approach of Brandomann, and now she heard it with pleasure. “You have
been amused to-day,” said he to her as he entered. “Not much,” she
replied; “although I blush to say so; I would be happy if I could, yet I
cannot help feeling that solitude is melancholy.” “Alas! yes,” replied
the lord of the Maelstrom; “but there are companions to whom it is
preferable. If I did not fear offending by my presumption.”—He was
eagerly interrupted by Ildegarda, who accepted the embryo offer with
delight; and her manner had such an effect upon the monster, that again
the princess repented her condescension. He made ample amends for his
hideous joy, however, on the following day, when attending Ildegarda on
her journey, by his timid and gentle modesty. Mounted on his coal-black
steed, he respectfully followed her brilliant chariot, and never, except
in answer to her summons, ventured to approach her side. The princess
was naturally generous, and this conduct secured her confidence. She now
encouraged him to converse, called him frequently to her side, and took
pleasure in calling forth and listening to his observations. On their
return to the palace, a huge raven flew down from a tree upon the
shoulder of Brandomann, and whispered something in his ear; the latter
immediately turned to Ildegarda: “Princess,” he said, “the only friends
who ever enliven this solitude by visiting me, are now on the island;
will you permit them to attend you at supper?” Ildegarda consented
joyfully: the thought of once more seeing human beings filled her spirit
with rapture; and, hastening to her apartment, she spent the intervening
time in dressing her lovely person to the utmost advantage, not only for
her own sake, but also to do honour to the taste and generosity of
Brandomann, who had been most lavish in his preparations for her toilet.
At length she descended, and, with a palpitating heart, entered the hall.
At the door she was met by Brandomann himself, who courteously led her
forward to present her to his guests—they rose to receive her—but imagine
the astonishment of Ildegarda!—No words can do justice to her surprise,
as she surveyed the assembled party: neither knight nor lady, spirit nor
fiend, greeted her entrance,—but on one side stood an enormous wild
boar—on the other a beautiful white she-goat—in front stood the
eight-legged steed of Odin—and the two ravens, whom she had seen on her
landing on the island, had perched themselves with infinite gravity upon
Brandomann’s club. The princess turned to her friend, and was about to
demand an explanation, when she was prevented by the beautiful goat, who,
with an air at once kind and dignified, welcomed her to the island, which
she said was happy under the government of the good Brandomann, the
favourite of Odin, and whom all good spirits loved: the boar made her his
best bow—Sleipner assured her of his devotion—the ravens were happy in
the honour of her acquaintance—and Ildegarda, after replying to each of
these extraordinary visitors, recovered something of her composure, and
smilingly sat down to supper with her company. She was about to
apologise for the want of proper fare, when she beheld them supplied with
their own particular dishes by the same unseen attendants who so
assiduously waited upon her. Oats and hay, in a silver manger, were
placed before Sleipner—a huge tray of nuts and acorns sallied in, and
stood stationary at the tusks of the boar—a salad was the supper of the
white goat—and a raw beef-steak was provided for the accommodation of the
ravens. The princess began to be amused with her situation and company,
and listened to their conversation with considerable interest: Mumin and
Hugo, the raven messengers of Odin, were talking over some of the
divinities of Asgard; and Sleipner mentioned a journey which Thor the
Thunderer intended shortly to take upon his back, to correct the impious
inhabitants of Jutland, who, since the ascension of the murderer Feggo to
his brother’s throne, had totally neglected his worship. “Is the
murdered prince in Asgard?” demanded Brandomann. “He has a magnificent
palace in Valasciolf,” replied the huge boar, “where he resides among the
other heroes and the divine family and ministers of Odin, and with them
usually spends his nights at the banquet in Valhalla; but he is not a
favourite warrior there: if he was no more amiable on earth than he is in
heaven, I am not surprised at his wife’s wishing to get rid of him.
Hamlet is also there, and almost as unpopular as his father. Can you
imagine it possible, he spends all his time with Forsete at Glitner, and
has grown so wise and disputacious, that he is continually instructing
Odin himself; nay, the other morning, just before the sounding for the
combat, he spoke so learnedly to that blind Horror, whom we dare not name
out of heaven, and who is already sufficiently inclined to mischief, that
Thor, provoked, lifted up his mallet to knock out the shadow of his
brains,—but Balder interfered, and his eloquence and Lofna’s smile
restored peace to heaven.”
“And how go on the happy Scaldres;” demanded Brandomann; “what is become
of the unlucky Hiarn, whose skill in singing gained him a crown?” “He is
singer-in-chief in Valhalla,” replied Sleipner; “and indeed his strains
well deserve this distinction. But see,” he continued; “the princess
looks to you for an explanation: take your harp, Brandomann, and let it
tell the story of Hiarn.” “I obey you,” replied the lord of the
Maelstrom; and caught up his harp and sung—
THE LEGEND OF HIARN.
The heart of the monarch was savage and wild,
And his red hand with life-blood was gory;
He spared not the matron, he spared not the child,
Proud youth, nor the head that was hoary.
Then Hiarn arose—and his melody’s voice,
As over the wild harp it swept,
Brought relief to the land, bade its nobles rejoice,
For the dark monarch listened—and wept!
And his sorrow was holy, for into his heart
Those tones tender pity had flung—
And Fate whisper’d, “Thy soul shall with music depart”—
So he died, while the sweet harper sung.
Then Hiarn was king—for the fierce nobles came
Subdued by his powers alone,
They crowned his bright brow, proclaimed his great name,
And lowlily knelt at his throne.
Then Hiarn was king, and—
“Alackaday!” said the boar, who did not appear to have any very great
taste for music, and who was beginning besides to be weary of
Brandomann’s dismal ditty; “alas! for the poor harper; it is a pity,
after such a glorious opening, the close of his history should have been
so dismal.” “What was it?” demanded Ildegarda; “tell me, I pray you,
what was the fate of Hiarn?” “A prince of the blood,” replied the
courteous boar, “the warrior Fridleff, who did not understand music,
challenged the crown from Hiarn: he was too good a musician to make any
thing but a contemptible soldier, so, as might have been expected, he
sunk under the first blow of Fridleff. But, grieve not for him, charming
princess, he is well rewarded for his short period of suffering; a throne
in Asgard—a palace dome in Valasciolf—are surely higher blessings than
even reigning in Denmark”—“Serimnor!” said the white goat, interrupting
the conversation, and pointing with her horns to the stars, which were
now rapidly gemming the heavens; “see, the lights in the palaces of
Asgard are lit—the deities and heroes are on their way to Valhalla—let us
not keep them waiting, but hasten to supper, lest we should offend the
Highest by our presumption.” Thus saying, she departed, after a friendly
good-night to the princess, and a promise to spend many evenings with her
in the island. Serimnor, deeply engaged at that moment in a dispute with
Brandomann about the politics of Jutland, did not remark her departure,
but was reminded of it, to the no small astonishment of Ildegarda, in a
very extraordinary manner; a gigantic pair of hands, the right
brandishing an enormous carving knife, coolly entered the folding doors,
and, seizing the throat of the luckless Serimnor, without any sort of
notice or preparation, cut it from one side to the other, just as he was
pronouncing the names of Harwendil and Feggo, which, from the suddenness
of this manœuvre, burst through the gaping orifice in his throat, instead
of by the usual channel of communication—the mouth. The terror of
Ildegarda, who had begun to esteem the polite and obliging Serimnor, was
greatly increased by the extraordinary coolness of Brandomann, who stood
looking on as if nothing particular had happened, and only discontinued
his speech when the body of the poor boar was dragged from the apartment
by the murderous pair of hands. It seemed as if the whole party had been
in a conspiracy to frighten the timid Ildegarda; for, on the
disappearance of the boar, Sleipner started up, and, snorting till fire
darted from his nostrils and eyes, sprung up into the air, and pawing,
and dashing, and foaming, ascended up to the clouds through the roof of
the palace, which parted to give him passage,—while the two ravens flew
screaming out of the window. Brandomann had disappeared in the bustle,
and, as he did not attend her on the following morning, she waited with
much uneasy impatience for an explanation in the evening: this was given
by the good-natured boar himself, who had marked her anxiety, and hurried
first to the palace in order to relieve it. He thanked her for the
interest she took in what appeared to be his suffering; “But grieve not,
loveliest of maidens,” said the gallant beast, “at an event which is to
me but the consummation of my glory: every night thus I die without pain,
and my flesh is served up to the banquet of the gods,—while my spirit
enjoys a blissful sleep, from which it awakes in the morning to animate
the same form in which it was clothed the day before. The beautiful goat
whom you saw, is the immortal Heidruna, whose milk is the hydromel served
up to the table of Odin. She alone, last night, was punctual to her
engagement, while the rest of the party, enchanted by your beauty, forgot
the hour, and had some difficulty to reach Valhalla in time to avoid the
reproach of Odin.” Scarcely was this explanation given, ere Heidruna
herself entered, attended by the ravens and Sleipner, who apologised for
their hasty departure the evening before; and a moment after, the clap of
thunder announced the approach of Brandomann. The whole party now sat
contentedly down to supper, infinitely pleased with themselves and each
other; and perhaps it would have been difficult to find one more happy,
or its members bearing more sincere good will towards each other. The
next day was the first of the month, and the princess hastened to avail
herself of the magic gift of Brandomann. With intense anxiety she raised
the curtain, and her heart throbbed with delight to behold her father in
health and spirits, well armed, and travelling, attended by a band of
gallant warriors, who appeared to be anxious for his safety. Ildegarda
looked at him with rapture, and new feelings of gratitude to Brandomann
gave the evening which followed this happy morning, fresh charms in her
eyes, and made her confinement in the desolate island, with none but the
ugliest of orangutangs for a constant companion, no longer either gloomy
or dreadful.
One morning, while surveying together the beauties of the island in a
sentimental walk, Brandomann asked the princess if she had now entirely
resigned herself to the lot of total seclusion in the island of the
Maelstrom. “I may, and do sometimes regret the halls of my fathers,”
replied the tender Ildegarda. “But when I reflect from what miseries my
devotion has preserved my beloved country, and still more beloved father,
I feel that I ought not to complain. Neither am I insensible of what I
owe to you; and I acknowledge that, without any other motive, your
generous protection of me and care of my happiness deserves the sacrifice
even of these regrets: I am willing to make it, and should even rejoice
in an opportunity that would allow me to convince you of my sincerity.”
“You have, then, (and permit me to say I hope it,) banished from your
heart the remembrance of Haldane?” said the monster. “Alas! no,” replied
Ildegarda, bursting into tears of tenderness at his recollection; “that
can I never do; and it is the certainty of his loss that enables me so
well to support this destiny: but do not let this disturb you—the
recollection of Haldane will never interrupt my gratitude to you.” “And
you could resolve upon fresh sacrifices if they were demanded of you?”
inquired Brandomann. “I could,” replied the princess. Brandomann
paused—he looked sadly and earnestly, at Ildegarda, and then, as with a
violent effort, flung himself at her feet, and tremblingly demanded,
“Princess, will you become my wife?” A shriek of horror, and a look of
unmeasured abhorrence, was the only reply of the hapless Ildegarda; and
too plainly these tokens spoke to the unfortunate Brandomann. He calmed
his agitation—arose from her feet, and spoke kindly and steadily to
tranquillise her. “Do not hate me, beautiful sovereign of my destiny,”
said he, “that thus I am compelled to add to your inquietudes. Yet be
not alarmed needlessly; I adore you, but no force shall be put upon your
inclinations: forgive me, if, impelled by a power I dare not disobey, I
am sometimes obliged to give you pain by this question. But fear not—my
wishes shall be sacrificed to yours—I would not receive that hand, dear
as it would be, unless voluntarily presented by yourself.”
The princess took courage at this declaration of her hideous lover. She
knew he was a monster of his word; and she thought if he would not
receive her hand till she presented it, she should be safe from the
infliction of such a husband. Assuring him, therefore, that she was far
from hating him, and expressing with warmth the sentiments she really
felt for her grim admirer, the poor monster was somewhat comforted, which
Ildegarda was not sorry to remark; for if Brandomann was ugly when he was
gay, he was ten thousand times more so when in sorrow. They returned to
the palace in tolerable spirits, and in the evening Ildegarda took an
opportunity of depositing her perplexities in the bosom of the
respectable white goat, for whom she began to experience something of
filial affection. Heidruna consoled the princess by her unqualified
praises of the honour and sincerity of Brandomann, and her firm
conviction that Ildegarda would never be molested by his fondness;
although Heidruna thought, and could not help telling her young friend,
that in the world she might have matched herself with many a greater
beast than Brandomann: but, as this was entirely a matter of opinion, she
rather soothed the princess than contradicted her. The good Serimnor
interrupted the _tête-à-tête_, and fully seconded the opinion of
Heidruna, both as to the honour and goodness of the lord monster of
Moskoe. “You observe,” said he to Ildegarda, “that he has been admitted
among the Scaldres, an order which generally requires perfection from its
aspirants; and great must his virtues be, when the unbounded ugliness of
his person could not outweigh them, nor conceal the richness and beauty
of his mind. He is also, as we are, the descendant of Odin, and
peculiarly favoured by the mightiest of the gods, and his son Thor, the
thunderbolt: he enjoys extensive power, and many prerogatives not granted
to the more beautiful children of nature, to compensate for the
imprisonment of such a spirit in so hideous and detestable a frame. Were
it possible to overcome your natural repugnance, you would have no reason
to regret the change; but should your aversion be invincible, you will
have nothing to fear, since he will continue to you the tenderest and
humblest of lovers, and we shall always remain your friends.”
The princess thanked the friendly boar for his kind assurance, and they
separated for the night in increased good will towards each other. In a
few days after this conversation, Brandomann sought the princess in her
chamber. “A storm is gathering above the whirlpool,” said he; “its
effects will be terrific—our friends are collected to watch its
progress—shall we follow them to the coast? If it will interest you, I
will raise my magic tent upon the top of the highest rock, and, sheltered
even from the slightest drops of rain, you shall see the storm in its
terrors, and the fiends unseen of mortal eyes, who increase its horrors
and sport in its bosom.” Ildegarda accepted the invitation, and the
rein-deer swiftly bore their light and lovely burthen to the rocks,
accompanied by Brandomann, whose eight-legged steed would far have
outstripped the nimble coursers of the princess, but for the frequent
checks of his rider. Arrived at the point of rock, they beheld the
waters raging around them, (for the island was seated in the midst of the
gulf,) but with less violence than Ildegarda had expected: she remarked
this to her attendant. “The waters are now at their height,” replied
Brandomann; “and for one quarter of an hour it will be tolerably calm,
but the power of the storm will be tremendous when that short interval
shall be past: many, deceived by the calm, venture out while it lasts,
and encounter certain destruction at its close.” Ildegarda continued
watching for the termination of the delusive calm, when her meditations
were interrupted by the arrival of Heidruna, Serimnor, and the ravens:
they arranged themselves round the chariot of the princess, and,
protected from the storm by the magic tent of Brandomann, stood watching
its progress in silent anxiety. The deceitful calm, as the lord of the
island had predicted, was of no long duration. In a few minutes the
brightness of Balder was entirely obscured; the wind chorus began, and
swept low and sullenly over the waters, which now rose upwards, gently
murmuring, as if they were the echoes of the distant song. “Listen,
Ildegarda,” said Brandomann; “to you it is given to hear the secrets and
wonders of the earth, in recompense for being thus shut out from its more
social intercourse: listen, and you will hear the unknown song of the
winds: hark! how it rises from an immeasurable distance, and yet you can
distinguish their voices, and the words they utter. Now they come
nearer—hush!”
THE SONG OF THE WINDS.
From the couch of the billows
The hollow bed
Where ocean pillows
His giant head—
From secret caves,
Where ancient Night
Sleeps secure
From staring light—
From the breast
Of the trembling earth,
Scorning rest,
We have our birth.
Up, up, upward, murmuringly,
Up, up, upward, still go we.
From wild Hecla’s burning cells,
Where the giant mother dwells,
Who to Lok, in days of yore,
Sin and death and horror bore—
From the Geyser’s boiling springs,
We soar, upborne on rushing wings,
Singing louder as we go,
Blow, ye wild winds, louder blow!
Up from the Dolstein still rise we,
Where about us rolled the sea,
And beneath, for ever whirled,
The master spirit of the world—
From the raging Dofrefeld,
Where green Niord’s feast is held—
From the land of eternal snow,
Blow, ye wild winds, louder blow!
We come, we come! the forests wave,
As above their tops we rave.
Blow winds, blow! the crashing tree
Of our might shall the witness be;
The staggering ship, and the broken mast,
Heaving, rended, sinking last;
And the crash of falling towers,
Speak our presence, and our powers.
Blow winds, blow! to heaven ascending,
Clashing, crashing, crushing, rending,
Wrath on earth and ocean pouring,
O’er the scared world, raging, roaring.
“The storm is indeed terrific now,” said Ildegarda; “I can almost see it
in the air, as it scatters the clouds before it: look how the waters rise
to meet it, roaring with the fury and force of the cataract!” Amid the
uproar, she thought she distinguished other noises than those of the
tempest—a sound like the howls and shrieks of pain: she noticed the
circumstance to Brandomann. “You are right,” he replied; “look yonder,
where a desperate battle is waging, in despite of this scene of tempest.
A bear has swum from this mountain territory of Hilseggen to prey upon
the flocks of Suarven, one of the few islands in this gulf which is
inhabited; a single gallant shepherd has attacked him, but I fear the
bear has the mastery: see! the shepherd has lost his staff, and the
monster grapples with him closely—he hugs him fiercely!—Is there no way
by which I can save him? What, ho! shepherd!—what, ho!—loosen yourself
from the grasp of your enemy and fly—stand on the very edge of the rock,
and let him spring against you!—So, so—the fellow fears me no less than
the bear, yet he obeys—he is crouching—his enemy runs—plunges—ah! ah!—he
has lost his balance and dashes headlong into the stream—well, run,
shepherd!—He stays not to sing the death-song for his foe.—Good night,
friend bear, you will sup with the fish of the Maelstrom to-night!”
While they looked on, they beheld the savage animal struggling for his
life against the dreadful current, but in vain; borne onward, despite of
his roarings, he was soon over the terrible pool, and then whirled
rapidly round, till he was sucked down into the bosom of the dismal gulf,
which, sages have written, penetrates the globe. Ildegarda pitied the
poor bear, whose love of mutton had occasioned him so miserable a fate;
but a new wonder now claimed her attention and diverted her thoughts from
his sorrows: this was another island, slowly arising from the bottom of
the lake, and covered with sea-weeds, becoming stationary at no great
distance from Moskoe. Before Ildegarda could point it out to her
companions, Serimnor advanced hastily towards Brandomann. “There is
mischief abroad, dear brother,” said he; “this storm is not of Niord’s
raising. Some friend beloved of Odin, and abhorred of Lok, is certainly
in danger; for look who are sporting in the tempest.” He pointed to the
bosom of the gulf and to the rocky shore of Otterholm. In the centre of
the one, Ildegarda beheld the head of a monstrous serpent reared above
the waves, and surveying with fiery eyes the distant sea; and on the
other a hideous wolf, with his attention fixed in the same direction, and
howling in concert with the storm. The princess shuddered, and, for the
first time in her life, drew nearer to Brandomann for protection. “You
have nothing to fear, dearest,” said he, “from these monsters whom you
behold; they are indeed your foes and mine, for they are the children of
Lok, and the enemies of Odin; but they have no power over you, and mine,
by the gift of their conqueror, is greater than their own. He whom you
see in the waters is the giant snake, whose folds of sin encircle the
guilty earth, and who now, from its centre, is bidding defiance to some
noble foe of his evil father. Fenris, the wolf-dog, guard of hell,
appears only when mischief is in the air, to increase, by his cries and
the horror of his form, the fears and the danger of his victim. I deem
some hapless vessel has approached too near this coast during the calm,
and now the storm will drag it to destruction. But let us watch—Hugo and
Mumin, stretch out your pinions—fly over the waters, and tell me what you
descry.” The messengers of Odin obeyed—they flew over the bosom of the
lake—then out towards the boundless and ungirt ocean: suddenly they
returned. “A sail! a sail!” said Hugo. “A gallant ship!” cried Mumin;
“the whirl has surely caught her, she comes on so rapidly.” Soon, very
soon, she neared, and drove onwards, visible to all. Brandomann grasped
his club: “Some bold adventurers,” said he, “doubtless, who seek to land
upon this island in defiance of the will of Odin; if so, they are lost
indeed, for the king of Valhalla has resigned them to the power of the
infernals.” It was frightful to mark the force with which the ship drove
on. “They make for the island which has just risen from the lake,” said
the princess. “Death will too surely greet them there,” replied
Brandomann; “for that is no land, but the snare of fiends to beguile; it
is the dreadful Kraken, that monster of the deep, who, when the vessel
touches him, will sink, and draw it with him.”—And the vessel was near
the monster, when a piercing shriek from Ildegarda arrested the thoughts
of Brandomann. “It is my father!” she cried—“it is my father!—I know his
banner—he seeks me on this island—have mercy, Odin!—Oh, Brandomann, if
thou lovest me”—“If I love thee!—lo! now I disobey the will of Odin for
thee!—judge, then, how dear thou art!” He started from her side, sprung
upon Sleipner, darted from the rock, and the next instant Ildegarda
beheld his giant form stemming the torrent with a power equal to its own.
The wolf beheld him and ran howling away, while a single blow from his
mighty club drove the grim serpent beneath the waves, to howl his
disappointment in Niftheim. Ildegarda heard none of the consoling
speeches addressed to her by her friends; her ear—her eye—her heart, were
all with Brandomann: she shrieked aloud. “He will not reach it ere it
touches the Kraken,” she cried, “and then all help will be in vain.”
“Not so, dear princess,” replied Serimnor; “he acts with the power of
Odin, and will save your father; and then what will not his generosity
deserve?” “My life—my love!” distractedly replied the wretched
Ildegarda, totally incapable of accepting any consolation, and only alive
to the danger of her father. “Oh, Odin! save him!” she cried; “and thou,
thou the nameless!—the mighty in strength—the blind invincible—preserve
the faithful Brandomann!” At this instant the Kraken sunk—the hoof of
Sleipner had touched him—and Brandomann sternly approached the vessel: a
band of warriors, headed by her father, prepared to oppose him, and
Ildegarda beheld their bright weapons gleaming above his head. At this
sight, “Harm him not,” she exclaimed; “ye know not whom ye strike!” But
the next instant shewed her the folly of her fear and the mighty power of
her lover. Heedless of the flashing swords, Sleipner sprung among the
warriors, whose arms were now useless in their deadened hands, and
Brandomann stood upon the deck, sternly reproving their presumption, and
commanding the gallant ship to return home to Denmark. The vessel
obeyed—the warriors knew the eight-legged steed of Odin, and were silent;
but Haquin accused aloud the murderer of his daughter, for he judged he
beheld the lord of the Maelstrom. “Thy daughter lives,” replied the
terrible Brandomann; “but she is mine: at her entreaty I have saved thy
forfeited life—but approach no more the island forbidden by Odin to
mortal foot, else will I resign thee to the fate thy presumption will
incur, and which, but for thy daughter’s tears, thou wouldest ere now
have tasted. Hence, Haquin, and learn submission!”
Sleipner plunged into the waters, and the vessel, now removed beyond the
power of the whirlpool, sailed back to Denmark, while Brandomann returned
to Ildegarda, by whom he was received with a welcome far surpassing his
hopes or expectations. He said nothing, however, of the important
service he had just rendered her; and his delicate conduct, which did not
pass unobserved by the princess, created for him an advocate in her bosom
stronger than his own entreaties, or those of all his friends united,
could have done. She saw how tenderly Brandomann loved her, but she saw
also that he was resolved not to give her pain; and, to say the truth,
she could not help being pleased by this circumstance; for gratitude,
great as it certainly was, was yet not sufficiently powerful to make so
cruel a sacrifice to his happiness. By the time he had landed, the storm
had passed from the face of heaven, and all was calm upon the bosom of
the waters as if the fiends of Niftheim had not been raging within it a
few moments before; the party returned to sup in the palace, and all
things went on pleasingly as usual. Days, weeks, passed away, but
Ildegarda, no longer wretched in submitting to the sentence she had once
thought so cruel, took little heed of time, except to notice the first
day of the month, which presented to her anxious eyes the person and
occupations of her father. Twice, successively, she had seen him in his
tent, surrounded by heroes, amid preparations for war; he was cheerful,
and appeared to be encouraging the spirits of a young man, whom Ildegarda
knew to be prince Harold, and who, with a gentle, downcast look, was
listening to his observations: this was confirmed to her by the accounts
of Brandomann, whose cares to lighten her anxieties and anticipate her
wishes sensibly affected the generous daughter of Haquin. She took
increased delight in his conversation; and he, from whose presence she
was at first so anxious to fly, was now frequently summoned to relieve
solitude by his cheering conversation. She was herself surprised at the
change; and could she have shut from her bosom the thought of her early
and beautiful love. Brandomann, even in person, would not have been
disgusting. As it was, he daily grew less odious, and daily grew the
princess more contented with her lot; the happy society of the marble
palace met nightly, and mirth, and song, and tale, gave wings to the
cheerful hours.