He that supper for is dight,
He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!
Yestreen to chamber I him led,
This night Gray-steel has made his bed!
SIR EGER, SIR GRAHAME, and SIR GRAY-STEEL.
ON the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and romantic
tract of Upper Germany that lies not far from the confluence of the
Main and the Rhine, there stood many, many years since the castle of the
Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost
buried among beech trees and dark firs; above which, however, its old
watch-tower may still be seen struggling, like the former possessor I
have mentioned, to carry a high head and look down upon the neighboring
country.
The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen,+
and inherited the relics of the property and all the pride, of his
ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors had much
impaired the family possessions, yet the baron still endeavored to keep
up some show of former state. The times were peaceable, and the German
nobles in general had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched
like eagles’ nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient
residences in the valleys; still, the baron remained proudly drawn up in
his little fortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy all the
old family feuds, so that he was on ill terms with some of his nearest
neighbors, on account of disputes that had happened between their
great-great-grandfathers.
* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore,
will perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested
to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance
said to have taken place in Paris.
+ I.e., CAT’S ELBOW--the name of a family of those parts,
and very powerful in former times. The appellation, we are
told, was given in compliment to a peerless dame of the
family, celebrated for a fine arm.
The baron had but one child, a daughter, but Nature, when she grants but
one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy; and so it was with
the daughter of the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins
assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany;
and who should know better than they? She had, moreover, been brought up
with great care under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had
spent some years of their early life at one of the little German courts,
and were skilled in all branches of knowledge necessary to the education
of a fine lady. Under their instructions she became a miracle of
accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen she could embroider to
admiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry
with such strength of expression in their countenances that they
looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read without great
difficulty, and had spelled her way through several Church legends and
almost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made
considerable proficiency in writing; could sign her own name without
missing a letter, and so legibly that her aunts could read it without
spectacles. She excelled in making little elegant good-for-nothing,
lady-like knicknacks of all kinds, was versed in the most abstruse
dancing of the day, played a number of airs on the harp and guitar, and
knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders by heart.
Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their younger
days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians and strict
censors of the conduct of their niece; for there is no duenna so rigidly
prudent and inexorably decorous as a superannuated coquette. She was
rarely suffered out of their sight; never went beyond the domains of
the castle unless well attended, or rather well watched; had continual
lectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience; and,
as to the men--pah!--she was taught to hold them at such a distance and
in such absolute distrust that, unless properly authorized, she would
not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world--no,
not if he were even dying at her feet.
The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. The young
lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others were
wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to be
plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into
fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of those immaculate
spinsters, like a rosebud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her
aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that,
though all the other young ladies in the world might go astray, yet
thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of
Katzenellenbogen.
But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided with
children, his household was by no means a small one; for Providence
had enriched him with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all,
possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble relatives--were
wonderfully attached to the baron, and took every possible occasion
to come in swarms and enliven the castle. All family festivals were
commemorated by these good people at the baron’s expense; and when they
were filled with good cheer they would declare that there was nothing
on earth so delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of the
heart.
The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled with
satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man in the
little world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the stark
old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls around,
and he found no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. He
was much given to the marvellous and a firm believer in all those
supernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in Germany
abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded even his own: they listened
to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be
astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived the
Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of
his little territory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasion
that he was the wisest man of the age.
At the time of which my story treats there was a great family gathering
at the castle on an affair of the utmost importance: it was to receive
the destined bridegroom of the baron’s daughter. A negotiation had been
carried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria to unite
the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The
preliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The young people
were betrothed without seeing each other, and the time was appointed for
the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled
from the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the
baron’s to receive his bride. Missives had even been received from him
from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the day
and hour when he might be expected to arrive.
The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable
welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The two
aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning
about every article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage of
their contest to follow the bent of her own taste; and fortunately
it was a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could
desire, and the flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of her
charms.
The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving of
the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft
tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were continually
hovering around her, for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in
affairs of this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel
how to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive the
expected lover.
The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth, nothing
exactly to do; but he was naturally a fuming, bustling little man, and
could not remain passive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried
from top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; he
continually called the servants from their work to exhort them to be
diligent; and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and
importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer’s day.
In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had rung
with the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with good
cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and
Ferre-wein; and even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under
contribution. Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guest
with Saus und Braus in the true spirit of German hospitality; but the
guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun,
that had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald,
now just gleamed along the summits of the mountains. The baron mounted
the highest tower and strained his eyes in hopes of catching a distant
sight of the count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them;
the sound of horns came floating from the valley, prolonged by the
mountain-echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below slowly
advancing along the road; but when they had nearly reached the foot of
the mountain they suddenly struck off in a different direction. The last
ray of sunshine departed, the bats began to flit by in the twilight, the
road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view, and nothing appeared stirring
in it but now and then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor.
While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity a very
interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the Odenwald.
The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his route in that
sober jog-trot way in which a man travels toward matrimony when his
friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his
hands and a bride is waiting for him as certainly as a dinner at the
end of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful
companion-in-arms with whom he had seen some service on the
frontiers--Herman Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and
worthiest hearts of German chivalry--who was now returning from the
army. His father’s castle was not far distant from the old fortress of
Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the families hostile and
strangers to each other.
In the warm-hearted moment of recognition the young friends related all
their past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave the whole history
of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but
of whose charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions.
As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed to
perform the rest of their journey together, and that they might do it
the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the count
having given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him.
They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military
scenes and adventures; but the count was apt to be a little tedious now
and then about the reputed charms of his bride and the felicity that
awaited him.
In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, and
were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It is
well known that the forests of Germany have always been as much infested
by robbers as its castles by spectres; and at this time the former were
particularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering
about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the
cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst
of the forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly
overpowered when the count’s retinue arrived to their assistance. At
sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the count had received a
mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city
of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent who was
famous for his skill in administering to both soul and body; but half
of his skill was superfluous; the moments of the unfortunate count were
numbered.
With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to the
castle of Landshort and explain the fatal cause of his not keeping his
appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was
one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous
that his mission should be speedily and courteously executed. “Unless
this is done,” said he, “I shall not sleep quietly in my grave.” He
repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request at a moment
so impressive admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe
him to calmness, promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him
his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment,
but soon lapsed into delirium--raved about his bride, his engagements,
his plighted word--ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle
of Landshort, and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the
saddle.
Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier’s tear on the untimely
fate of his comrade and then pondered on the awkward mission he had
undertaken. His heart was heavy and his head perplexed; for he was to
present himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp
their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still, there were
certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed
beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world; for
he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of
eccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him fond of all
singular adventure.
Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with the holy
fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his friend,
who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg near some of his
illustrious relatives, and the mourning retinue of the count took charge
of his remains.
It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of
Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more
for their dinner, and to the worthy little baron, whom we left airing
himself on the watch-tower.
Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended from
the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour to
hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were already overdone, the
cook in an agony, and the whole household had the look of a garrison,
that had been reduced by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to
give orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were
seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of
a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger.
Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes,
and was answered by the warder from the walls. The baron hastened to
receive his future son-in-law.
The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the
gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His
countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye and an air of
stately melancholy. The baron was a little mortified that he should
have come in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was
ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect
for the important occasion and the important family with which he was to
be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the conclusion that it
must have been youthful impatience which had induced him thus to spur on
sooner than his attendants.
“I am sorry,” said the stranger, “to break in upon you thus
unseasonably----”
Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compliments and
greetings, for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy
and eloquence. The stranger attempted once or twice to stem the torrent
of words, but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on.
By the time the baron had come to a pause they had reached the inner
court of the castle, and the stranger was again about to speak, when he
was once more interrupted by the appearance of the female part of the
family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her
for a moment as one entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed
forth in the gaze and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden
aunts whispered something in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her
moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the
stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The words died away, but
there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of
the cheek that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was
impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed
for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier.
The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for parley.
The baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conversation until
the morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet.
It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls
hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of
Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the field,
and in the chase. Hacked corselets, splintered jousting-spears, and
tattered banners were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare: the
jaws of the wolf and the tusks of the boar grinned horribly among
crossbows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched
immediately over the head of the youthful bridegroom.
The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the entertainment.
He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his
bride. He conversed in a low tone that could not be overheard, for the
language of love is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull that
it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover? There was a mingled
tenderness and gravity in his manner that appeared to have a powerful
effect upon the young lady. Her color came and went as she listened with
deep attention. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his
eye was turned away she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident
that the young couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were
deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had
fallen in love with each other at first sight.
The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were
all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses and
mountain air. The baron told his best and longest stories, and never had
he told them so well or with such great effect. If there was anything
marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; and if anything
facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The
baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to utter any
joke but a dull one; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of
excellent Hockheimer, and even a dull joke at one’s own table, served
up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said by
poorer and keener wits that would not bear repeating, except on similar
occasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies’ ears that almost
convulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a song or two roared out
by a poor but merry and broad-faced cousin of the baron that absolutely
made the maiden aunts hold up their fans.
Amidst all this revelry the stranger guest maintained a most singular
and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast of
dejection as the evening advanced, and, strange as it may appear, even
the baron’s jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At
times he was lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and
restless wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease.
His conversations with the bride became more and more earnest and
mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her
brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame.
All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety was
chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; their spirits were
infected; whispers and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs
and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and
less frequent: there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which were
at length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One
dismal story produced another still more dismal, and the baron nearly
frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the
goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora--a dreadful story
which has since been put into excellent verse, and is read and believed
by all the world.
The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He kept
his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close,
began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until
in the baron’s entranced eye he seemed almost to tower into a giant.
The moment the tale was finished he heaved a deep sigh and took a
solemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. The baron was
perfectly thunderstruck.
“What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything was
prepared for his reception; a chamber was ready for him if he wished to
retire.”
The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously: “I must lay my
head in a different chamber to-night.”
There was something in this reply and the tone in which it was uttered
that made the baron’s heart misgive him; but he rallied his forces and
repeated his hospitable entreaties.
The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every offer,
and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall.
The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified; the bride hung her head and
a tear stole to her eye.
The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where
the black charger stood pawing the earth and snorting with impatience.
When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted
by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow
tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral.
“Now that we are a lone,” said he, “I will impart to you the reason of
my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable engagement----”
“Why,” said the baron, “cannot you send some one in your place?”
“It admits of no substitute--I must attend it in person; I must away to
Wurtzburg cathedral----”
“Ay,” said the baron, plucking up spirit, “but not until
to-morrow--to-morrow you shall take your bride there.”
“No! no!” replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, “my engagement
is with no bride--the worms! the worms expect me! I am a dead man--I
have been slain by robbers--my body lies at Wurtzburg--at midnight I am
to be buried--the grave is waiting for me--I must keep my appointment!”
He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and the
clattering of his horse’s hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night
blast.
The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and related
what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others sickened at the
idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of some that
this might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Some talked of
mountain-sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings with
which the good people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since
time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it
might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the
very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a
personage. This, however, drew on him, the indignation of the whole
company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon him as little
better than an infidel; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as
speedily as possible and come into the faith of the true believers.
But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were completely
put to an end by the arrival next day of regular missives confirming the
intelligence of the young count’s murder and his interment in Wurtzburg
cathedral.
The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron shut himself up
in his chamber. The guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could not
think of abandoning him in his distress. They wandered about the courts
or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging
their shoulders at the troubles of so good a man, and sat longer than
ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of
keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was
the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even embraced
him--and such a husband! If the very spectre could be so gracious and
noble, what must have been the living man? She filled the house with
lamentations.
On the night of the second day of her widowhood she had retired to her
chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with
her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost-stories in all
Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen
asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote and overlooked a
small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising
moon as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree before the lattice.
The castle clock had just tolled midnight when a soft strain of music
stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed and stepped
lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of
the trees. As it raised its head a beam of moonlight fell upon the
countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom! A loud
shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been
awakened by the music and had followed her silently to the window, fell
into her arms. When she looked again the spectre had disappeared.
Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for she was
perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady, there was
something even in the spectre of her lover that seemed endearing. There
was still the semblance of manly beauty, and, though the shadow of a man
is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a lovesick girl,
yet where the substance is not to be had even that is consoling. The
aunt declared she would never sleep in that chamber again; the niece,
for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that she would sleep
in no other in the castle: the consequence was, that she had to sleep in
it alone; but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story
of the spectre, lest she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure
left her on earth--that of inhabiting the chamber over which the
guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils.
How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is
uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, and there is
a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; it is, however,
still quoted in the neighborhood as a memorable instance of female
secrecy that she kept it to herself for a whole week, when she was
suddenly absolved from all further restraint by intelligence brought to
the breakfast-table one morning that the young lady was not to be found.
Her room was empty--the bed had not been slept in--the window was open
and the bird had flown!
The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was received
can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agitation which the
mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations
paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher, when
the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands
and shrieked out, “The goblin! the goblin! she’s carried away by the
goblin!”
In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and
concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. Two of the
domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of
a horse’s hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that
it was the spectre on his black charger bearing her away to the tomb.
All present were struck with the direful probability for events of
the kind are extremely common in Germany, as many well-authenticated
histories bear witness.
What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron! What a
heartrending dilemma for a fond father and a member of the great family
of Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt away to the
grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and perchance
a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered,
and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse and
scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself
had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about
to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was
brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the
castle mounted on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She
galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and, falling at the
baron’s feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her
companion--the Spectre Bridegroom! The baron was astounded. He looked
at his daughter, then at the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of
his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance
since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and
set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and
melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and
joy rioted in his large dark eye.
The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in truth, as you
must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as
Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with the young
count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the
unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted
him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had
completely captivated him and that to pass a few hours near her he
had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been sorely
perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron’s
goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal
hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth--had
haunted the garden beneath the young lady’s window--had wooed--had
won--had borne away in triumph--and, in a word, had wedded the fair.
Under any other circumstances the baron would have been inflexible, for
he was tenacious of paternal authority and devoutly obstinate in all
family feuds; but he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as lost;
he rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband was of
a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven! he was not a goblin. There was
something, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his
notions of strict veracity in the joke the knight had passed upon him of
his being a dead man; but several old friends present, who had served
in the wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable in love,
and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, having lately
served as a trooper.
Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned the young
couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The
poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with
loving-kindness; he was so gallant, so generous--and so rich. The
aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict
seclusion and passive obedience should be so badly exemplified, but
attributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows grated.
One of them was particularly mortified at having her marvellous story
marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a
counterfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him
substantial flesh and blood. And so the story ends.