How the old Knight of Trautwangen heard news of Sir Otto.
Courteous reader, hast thou never longed to cast one look on the lonely
and neglected old knight, Sir Hugh von Trautwangen? The grey-headed
warrior now sits joyless in his castle! All the gay colours that once
brightened his life have faded away, so that he is more like one of the
dead than a living man; for of his only son he has heard no tidings,
or of Bertha, nor of Heerdegen. Were it not that the old minstrel,
Walter, sometimes visits him, the once active warrior would become a
mere hermit, and his ancient fortress a silent cell for penance and
mortification. Sometimes, when he is sitting all alone in his great
hall, he seems to forget the changes around him, and calls aloud for
Otto and for Bertha. Then he is answered only by the melancholy echo of
his own voice, through the long vaulted rooms and corridors, so that
the old knight recollects himself again, shakes his head, and smiles
mournfully at his own forgetfulness.
One evening, however, he was sitting with Walter, the minstrel, at the
great round table, on which the silver-embossed goblets full of old
Johannisberg stood betwixt them, while out of doors there was an April
shower, pouring and rattling with such vehemence, as if it would never
have an end. “Pour on, pour on!” cried Sir Hugh, looking kindly towards
the window. “By this means I am assured that my friend Walter will for
this night not desert me. So then, long may the wind blow and the rain
beat around us!” The minstrel took up his goblet of Rhenish, and joined
in this toast with his noble entertainer, glad to find that he for a
moment seemed cheerful, as a traveller, who has lost his way on the
cloud-covered mountains, rejoices when the sunbeams once more break
out around him. “In truth,” resumed the old knight, “I know not how I
could bear with the weary load of time, were it not for your songs and
your pleasant discourse. Both of us are old, but the white locks on my
head are methinks like the withered moss that waves in winter on some
old tottering monument; while to you they are like a snow-white wreath,
with which the hands of courteous ladies have adorned your head, as a
reward for the many pleasant songs that you have sung to them. Come
oftener then, I pray you, and stay longer, that the sternness of my
grief may be soothed, and that my thoughts may not vainly dwell on
those past joys which will never return.”
Hereupon the two old men shook hands across their wine-cups, and the
minstrel was about to speak, when, lo! a squire came hastily into the
hall, and announced that there was a pilgrim without, who, on account
of the violent rain and approaching darkness, might not proceed
farther on his way, but had begged for shelter and refreshment. “He
comes at an unfitting time!” muttered Sir Hugh, “I wish not now for
stranger guests. However, let him be brought into the castle. As to
this, you needed not to ask my permission in such weather. Place
another chair also at the table; bring more wine, with some food, and
a silver goblet, for our visitor. Has he announced from what country
he has come hither?” “He is a native of France,” answered the squire,
and withdrew. “Now, mark you,” said the old minstrel, “since we were to
be disturbed, it is at least fortunate that the stranger should prove
a Frenchman; for he may perhaps bring us good tidings of the young
Sir Otto von Trautwangen.” “I pray you, speak not thus,” said the old
knight. “He who longs anxiously for tidings of friends at a distance,
is either disappointed altogether, or hears that by which his heart
will only be rendered more unquiet. Therefore, grant me your promise,
that you will not act the foolish part of asking questions, but wait
patiently for whatever intelligence this guest of his own accord may
impart to us.” “Right willingly,” said the minstrel, “do I promise
what you demand of me; for a stranger, especially one who comes during
a tempest like this, must ever be looked on as a friend; and among
friends, methinks it is but a foolish and discourteous habit, evermore
to ask after the first greeting what news are abroad; for----.” The
minstrel paused as the pilgrim now entered the hall.
He was a man of middle age, neither very grave nor very merry, though,
according to the custom of all Frenchmen, he spoke much and rapidly,
giving them to understand that he was by birth an independent nobleman;
and that a solemn vow, which his father had imposed on him, rendered it
his duty to make a pilgrimage into the Holy Land. This duty he thought
to perform with most convenience and safety under the protecting
banners of King Richard, otherwise he would scarcely ever have turned
a pilgrim, and so forth. From this shallow stream of words the old
Sir Hugh von Trautwangen had immediately turned away. He sat looking
fixedly on the ground, and drinking his wine, while the gleam, which
was now and then visible in his eyes, proved that his thoughts were
busied with the past; it seemed, indeed, as if, along with his wine,
he drank up cherished recollections; and so he had been accustomed to
sit through many a long evening, with the minstrel, Walter, beside him,
who struck now and then a few deep chords on his harp. But meanwhile
the stranger continued to talk, also to eat and drink, without the
slightest discomposure, praising, however, the viands and Johannisberg
which were before him, with the hospitality and courtesy of his
entertainer.
But at length it so happened, that the pilgrim mentioned a name, by
which the knight and the minstrel were both roused, as if they had
been struck by a flash of lightning. He spoke of the renowned Chevalier
de Montfaucon; and his hearers did not fail to remember how nearly this
was connected with the fortunes of Sir Otto von Trautwangen.
“Last autumn, (so the stranger narrated,) the brave Knight of
Montfaucon had, on account of a far-famed magic ring, entered the lists
with a young German knight, and in that combat was, in a manner quite
inexplicable, overcome and defeated. The fame of this battle had run
like wild-fire over all France, and all the world now spoke of the
victorious youth, who was named Otto; but as for his surname, he (the
narrator) being a Frenchman, knew not well how to pronounce it.” Then
he described minutely all circumstances of the battle between Sir Otto
and the Knight of Montfaucon, while the minstrel struck thereto his
harp chords in a vehement and cheering war-melody; but the old Sir
Hugh looked thoughtful and melancholy, as if he heard but the mournful
echo of Walter’s notes, but took no pleasure in their music. At length
the stranger happened to say, “People have insisted that the young
German has won his victory by incantations and witchcraft.” Thereupon
the minstrel’s harp was silent; Sir Hugh’s dark eyebrows were more
and more contracted, and he nodded to his friend with a mysterious
expression, as if he would have said, “Ay, ay, I thought as much!”
“But,” resumed the pilgrim, “no one any longer believes that calumny.
On the word of Sir Folko himself, and of another renowned hero, the
most distinguished knights in all France now throw the gauntlet of
defiance at every one who ventures to maintain that ever the German
knight had to do with witchcraft or necromancy!”
With these welcome words the stranger concluded his intelligence;
and not long after, offering many apologies on the score of fatigue
from his long journey, he retired, accompanied by one of Sir Hugh’s
confidential squires, to his chamber.
No sooner had he departed, than the minstrel began a ballad in praise
of Sir Otto, and in contempt of the base slanderers who had accused him
of dealings with the devil; but Sir Hugh made him a sign that he should
be silent. “It is not yet time for your triumphant songs,” said he;
“no one knows better than I do, that Otto is a champion more powerful
in the lists than Sir Folko de Montfaucon; for in their early youth I
watched over both, and even then could tell what strength or weakness
they would shew in after years. But a long dark shadow stretches along
the path which Otto has to pursue; though that evil omen, perhaps, is
but the work of my foreboding fantasy. Yet, alas! I cannot but remember
his first combat, and first victory that took place at that mournful
meeting, with Sir Heerdegen. Ask me no questions, good Walter, for in
truth I am very sad, but let us now retire to bed, and, if possible, to
sleep.”