How the Falcon came to Sir Otto von Trautwangen.
It was now a beautiful summer evening, when Sir Otto von Trautwangen,
still among the Finland mountains, had seated himself on a rocky cliff,
and, as it often times happened, played for pastime on his harp, and
sang thereto a love ditty addressed to his beautiful Gabrielle. His
station was still not far from the watch-tower of the Lady Minnatrost;
for, on account of various negotiations that had been begun with the
pagans, the Christians had delayed till this beautiful season any
farther attack, and the sea-monarch still kept watch with Sir Otto on
the frontiers. Just now the latter was about to lay aside his harp,
and proceed on one of his accustomed visits to the Lady Minnatrost,
when suddenly his attention was arrested by the waving and fluttering
of wings round his head. Thinking only that this must be a bat, or
night-hawk, whose visit was by no means agreeable to him, he clapped
his hands and shouted, in order to drive away the intruder. This
seemed, however, to have rather encouraged the yet invisible guest, and
in a few moments a beautiful falcon came before him, and clung, as if
with kind and humble entreaties, to his breast. The experienced hunter
could not fail to recognise the cherished favourite of the Knight of
Montfaucon, which he had so often seen in the woods, more especially
as he perceived the golden chain, with the colours and arms of the
chevalier, round his neck.
“Good Heaven!” sighed Sir Otto, “is then the heroic Sir Folko so
untimely fallen?” For he well knew, from the stories told him by De
Montfaucon, that such a noble bird would never forsake his master but
in death; and then that he would fly about over lands and seas, until
he had found some one equal in valour and greatness to him whom he had
thus lost.
“Would to Heaven!” said Sir Otto, looking at the wise expressive eyes
of the poor bird, “that thou could’st speak to me but four or five
words, in answer to the whole multitude of questions which now rise
up within my breast!” And as it oftentimes comes to pass, that the
foolish wishes we have formed are granted when we least expect their
fulfilment, and that they are the cause of pain instead of pleasure,
so it happened to the young Knight of Trautwangen. He marked the
rose-coloured parchment in the falcon’s collar, drew it out, and read
thereon the love-sonnet of Sir Folko, addressed to Gabrielle, and her
kind and loving answer thereto, which had never reached the hands of
that knight, whose heart would therewith have been so refreshed and
delighted, while it now struck like a deadly arrow the inmost soul
of Sir Otto, who, of all men, was the last in the world into whose
possession the parchment should ever have arrived.
Courteous reader, should’st thou ever have been so unfortunate, that
the being who, of all the habitants of earth, was by thee the most
beloved, and by whom thy sweetest hopes were encouraged with approving
smiles, has at once turned away with cold indifference, leaving thee
like a benighted wanderer on a desert waste, from whom the moon has
suddenly withdrawn her light, then wilt thou sympathize with and
understand the deep anguish of Sir Otto von Trautwangen. If this book
indeed fell into the hands of one who was more accustomed to inflict
such wounds, than to feel them in her own breast, then perhaps a
scornful smile would prove the only notice with which he would be
honoured. But from such readers kind Heaven will protect me; and I may
venture to hope, that every one will compassionate the knight, who
was thus in soul so deeply wounded; that every one will rejoice too,
when it is farther told, that Sir Otto indulged not in complaints and
lamentations; but, with his harp slung over one arm, and his falcon
perched on his left hand, he went composedly and quietly on his way to
the watch-tower of the Lady Minnatrost.