other state officials, sat upon a raised platform in the centre,
surrounded by a guard of honour. Edlerkopf, at the head of a brilliant
staff of officers, kept the immense assembly from encroaching on the
crimson dais where accused and accuser were placed near at hand. Bruno,
pale and heart-stricken, stood there. At some little distance Hyas and
his sister sat together, their striking resemblance and singular beauty
attracting every eye. It was observed that Hyas bore on his uncovered
head a jewel almost surpassing in radiance that which sparkled on his
sister's brow. Alcyone never raised her head, but bent over her child,
whom she carried in her arms.
A profound silence reigned over the excited throng as Hyas bending low
to the Duke, declared that his sister's honour had been tarnished by
the foul aspersions cast upon it, and that he had traced many of these
reports to the Countess von Dunkelherz; he therefore demanded that she
should frankly say of what she accused the Baroness Bruno.
Olga, who by this time had entirely recovered from her previous
confusion, now advanced. Craning her long neck, and glancing spitefully
at the drooping form of the suffering Alcyone, she thus answered Hyas'
summons:
"I charge the Lady Alcyone with being a witch. She cannot part, even
for one moment, with the gem she bears on her forehead; she keeps
mysterious assignations with beings from another world; and she has so
bewitched her husband, the acute and learned Baron Bruno, that he is
hardly accountable for his actions."
At these cruel words an ominous murmur ran through the crowd, and half
stifled cries arose.--"Burn the witch!" "Deliver our Baron from her
spells!" "Cut off root and branch--mother and child!" Such were some of
the menaces hoarsely muttered by the surging and fickle multitude. It
was with no small difficulty that Edlerkopf, at the head of his guards,
restrained the populace from laying violent hands on the Baroness and
her brother. Hyas, cool and collected, waited until the gathering
tumult was in some measure quieted; his clear voice then penetrated far
and wide. "Ye have heard, O people," he exclaimed, "the voice of the
traducer; ye shall now give ear to unwilling testimony in favour of the
accused."
So saying he divested himself of his long-flowing outer garment, and
warning all around to preserve strict silence, he drew a large circle
round himself and his sister, and also compelled the Countess von
Dunkelherz, much against her will, to remain within the mystic
boundary. Taking then a small packet from his breast, he scattered some
powder on the ground and muttered strange words in an unknown tongue.
Then arose amid the calm sunshine of that lovely summer day the sound
of rushing whirlwinds and stormy gusts; a dark cloud intervened between
the earth and the sun, enveloping all around in sulphureous darkness.
When it cleared away, lo! high within the magic circle towered a
gigantic pillar of smoke. From the centre of this terrible apparition
gleamed forth two fiery eyes. A cold chill of horror ran through the
spectators, though the air was hot and sultry.
Hyas now motioned to Bruno that his lips must ask the fateful question.
The Baron, compelled to speak, reluctantly addressed himself thus to
the hideous shape:--"Dread Spirit, whether of good or of evil, I adjure
thee to tell me whether the Lady Alcyone has been true and faithful to
me, and guiltless of the foul deeds ascribed to her."
"Blind mortal!" replied the cloudy phantom, "pure and transparent as
the dewdrop hath the heart of Alcyone been unto thee; there breathes
not on your dull earth a spirit more free from guile."
As these words fell from above, a low muttered growl of thunder was
heard, while Hyas, turning to the silent, awe-struck beholders, cried
aloud, "The innocence of my sister is proved by the reluctant words of
Varishka, the dark genie, who could have claimed her for his own had
her deeds been evil. But, alas! I fear the dread witness has exhausted
one innocent life in the fierce struggle."
As he spoke thick darkness fell upon them, and when it cleared away the
mysterious shape had disappeared. The bright sun poured its
health-giving rays again over the panic-stricken multitude, and a cool
wind blew away the last traces of the awful Varishka. All eyes were
bent on Hyas, whose beauty seemed absolutely marvellous, as, tenderly
embracing his sister, he turned swiftly aside into the crowd, and ere
they were aware had totally disappeared from view. Loud acclamations in
favour of Alcyone rang forth from the changeful thousands on either
side, as they swayed to and fro preparatory to breaking up altogether.
Bruno alone stood irresolute; a thousand conflicting emotions paled his
usually ruddy cheek; but his wife's sweet voice called to him. He
approached her; her face was full of anxiety. "Let us return home at
once," she whispered; "I fear for our babe."
And well she might, for the fragile Violet lay almost lifeless on her
mother's knee, the laboured breath passing slowly through her cold
lips. They drove rapidly home. The Baron, full of remorse, would fain
have thrown himself at his wife's feet, but her thoughts were turned
only to her suffering child, as she at last bore it into the nursery,
where in happier days she had so often lulled it to sleep. For some
time Bruno remained beside her, and aided in trying various
restoratives. At length, summoned by his official duties, he was forced
to depart. Several hours elapsed before he could absent himself from
the Reichstag.
A strange hush pervaded his home as he once more entered its portals.
He gained the nursery door, and, pausing, gently pushed it aside. In
the waning light he beheld his wife half kneeling, half lying upon
their little one's cot. Violet's face, illumined by the last rays of
daylight, was pale and peaceful. It shone with a solemn light--unlike,
oh! how unlike, his own playful pet! Her dark blue eyes were heavily
closed, and her little hands meekly folded on her breast. The mother's
voice stole on his ear--"Fare thee well, my darling! good-bye, my angel
child! but only for a brief space I bid thee adieu. Thou art folded now
in arms that can shelter thee more safely from the passing blast than
those of thy poor mother. I shall go to thee, my Violet--but never,
never more shalt thou return to me." These and many similar words were
poured forth by the weeping mother as Bruno unobserved stood silently
listening. His heart felt ready to burst; it seemed as if some chord
within him gave way at that moment with a throb of pain.
For a long time unknown to himself Alcyone's soft influence had
gradually undermined his harsh scepticism. At that moment a ray of
heavenly light shot as it were from the upward pathway of his dead
child into the dark recesses of his soul, and with tender humility he
knelt by his wife's side and placed his hand on hers. Startled and
amazed, she turned and met her husband's eye: it shone with a new and
softened light; there was no need for him to explain to her what he
felt. Over the death-bed of their fairest hope they for the first time
experienced the ineffable yet chastened joy of sharing the same
faith--of worshipping together the same unseen God.
At length Alcyone slowly rose from her knees, and casting a long, fond
look on the lifeless form of her babe, she led her husband from the
chamber. Together they ascended the narrow stair; together they opened
the small, well-known door, and emerged, hand-in-hand, amid the now
darkened twilight, upon the open roof.
"Bruno," murmured she, "the time for our separation has come; you have
declared your belief in the immortality of the soul; your poor Alcyone,
in the midst of her imperfections, has brought you one step nearer the
gates of Paradise. I now return to my celestial home, but shall there
await you, my beloved, in the sure and certain hope of a long eternity
together unchequered by the sorrows that have assailed our path in this
mortal world."
Thus saying, for the first time, the gentle Alcyone passionately
strained her arms around her husband; the pressure relaxed, he tottered
forward; he was--alone! A long trail of light shone for a moment
athwart the evening sky; the peaceful Pleiades beamed forth in
brightest beauty; he called aloud, but only silence reigned around; in
uncontrollable emotion the strong man fell fainting to the ground.
How long he thus remained he never knew; but he woke at last to find
the midnight moon shining upon him. He raised himself, confused and
aching; he passed his hand across his brow--Was the past a reality? A
tear rolled down his time-worn cheek which his keen eye had never shed,
but it might be the cold dewdrop of the early morn. Beside him lay the
coat and hat he had worn in returning from the Reichstag. It must be
some long, strange dream that, coming on him exhausted and weary, had
harassed his brain through the weird watches of the night.
As these thoughts coursed through his mind his eye fell on his left
hand; upon it there sparkled a stone of extraordinary brilliancy, which
recalled to him the gem on Alcyone's forehead. He strove to remove the
jewel, but, though easily fitting to his finger, the magic circlet
refused to be taken from its place.
The reality of the past then rushed upon the proud Baron's mind with
the resistless force of inward conviction. Humbled and sorrowful, the
great philosopher's wondrous attainments and mighty intellectual
resources seemed for the moment to become as less than the dust beneath
his feet. With the simple faith of a little child, he bent his knee
alone before his Maker, and cried, in tones of repentant sadness,
"Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief."
ESGAIR: THE BRIDE OF LLYN IDWYL.
Among the mountains of Caernarvonshire none are more gloomy and
precipitous than the dark sister Glydirs Fawr and Bach. Towering
sublimely above the solitary waters of Llyn Idwyl, they rear their
proud summits well nigh on a level with that of the loftier but less
rugged Snowdon.
Where is the wayfarer who can forget a calm autumn sunset seen from
those barren heights?
Valleys far and near shrouded in dim purpling mists; shadowy gigantic
forms looming faintly in the deepening twilight; rose-tipped peaks
floating amid a halo of glory in the evening sky; silver streamlets
breaking here and there in white lines the dusky shades below; while
afar, in the distance, the broad slumbering ocean bids a glittering
farewell to the monarch of the day.
Such was the panorama spread before the young Llewelyn many years ago,
when in toilsome search after strayed sheep he came suddenly upon the
highest part of the mountain. To his wearied eyes, however, nature for
the time had no charm. With hurried and anxious footsteps he leapt from
rock to rock, dreading to find some of his wandering flock with broken
limbs. For, as with many other Welsh mountains, the crest of the Glydir
Fawr is entirely composed of huge boulders roughly hurled together;
deep treacherous crevices being often entirely concealed from view by
the luxuriant growth of ferns, heather, and bilberries, which yield
most unsubstantial footing to the unwary.
Llewelyn's father, "Dafydd ap Gwynant," a well-known chieftain, had
been slain in battle, and most of his possessions seized by his foes.
The widowed Gwynneth, in terror for the safety of her only child, fled
with him to the wild region now known as the pass of Nant Francon.
There in solitude she reared her boy to habits of frugal simplicity. As
years rolled on the widow prospered and her flocks increased. Yet still
Llewelyn remained her only herd, and at eventide the steep sides of
Llyn Ogwyn and Llyn Idwyl re-echoed with his loud carols and joyous
shouts, as he summoned the cattle and sheep to their nightly fold.
In these remote times wolves and other wild beasts still lurked among
the Welsh hills. Nor did they limit their ravages to the destruction of
animals alone, but when rendered desperate by hunger visited human
habitations in search of their prey. Witness the touching history of
Gelert the faithful hound, whose tomb is still to be seen in the little
valley over which a dog's fidelity has shed undying renown. Hence the
necessity for carefully collecting the herds at nightfall within some
place of security.
Llewelyn at length discovered his missing lambs on the steep northern
sides of the Glydir, and herding them hurriedly together, crossed the
shoulder of the mountain and descended towards Llyn Idwyl by the rugged
pathway which leads past the narrow gorge now known as "the Devil's
Kitchen." It was rapidly growing dark as he reached the plain, and he
was hastening homewards, when by the waning light he perceived the
surface of that gloomy lake to be strangely agitated. As he gazed, the
head of a lovely maiden rose above the ripples, and seemed to his
excited imagination to regard him with a tender wistful look. He rushed
to the water's brink, and was about to cast off his coat and swim to
the aid of the fair unknown, when, soft and clear as an evening bell,
these words rang through the still air:--
"Three times lost, and three times won,
Canst thou win me, Dafydd's son?
Tender must thou be to me,
Tender should I be to thee.
To my mate in bridal hour
I can bring a princely dower;
But my wooing must be soon,
Ere has waned September's moon."
Enraptured by these silvery notes, Llewelyn strained every nerve to
listen, and as the nymph falteringly uttered the last words he felt a
magic thrill run through his frame. He became possessed with a sudden
desire to behold the entire form of the beautiful being whose head
alone smiled on him across the watery waste; but as he approached
nearer the sweet face disappeared, the surface of the loch became
glassy and still. The pale rays of the rising moon illumined only the
wide level mirror of Llyn Idwyl, and amazed and bewildered the youth
turned to his home.
After folding the sheep he entered the cottage. His mother had prepared
a fragrant supper; but through Llewelyn's veins there ran a secret
fire, and he turned restlessly from the food he was wont to relish in
his calmer hours.
Gwynneth was a mother in ten thousand. Though she had wandered far to
obtain the oakleaves over which she had slowly smoked the pink trout;
though her hands had been stung when she robbed the wild bees of their
honey for her boy; though when faint and tired from her long ramble she
had risen with fresh energy to mix and bake for her son the scones he
loved; yet when she saw his disquietude and lack of appetite, no
murmur, no query crossed her lips. Patiently she herself partook of the
humble fare, and strove to cheer her moody child, while her own heart
ached with vague doubts and fears.
Hardly, however, had she cleared away the last traces of the
half-consumed meal when Llewelyn extended himself full length on the
deerskins at her feet, laid his hot head on her soothing lap, and by
the flickering light of the fire (fed at intervals with cones from the
pine forest) related to her his strange adventure.
As Gwynneth listened to his words the iron entered into her soul. Every
mother can sympathize with the pang she then experienced. The child she
had borne through labour, sorrow, and pain; the infant she alone
nourished and brought to manly strength; the all upon which every hope,
every thought of the future is centred--the widow's only son--the idol
of her heart--his love is passing from her. She is no longer to him the
first, the dearest. Dreams of a nearer and dearer one are wakening in
his young bosom. The mother is now his confidant; but well does she
know that ere long the newly-beloved will be his only thought; that
into her ear alone will be poured all the aspirations of his life. That
henceforth and for evermore the mother must resign her son's heart to
the keeping of another. Gwynneth in that hour felt the cold hand of
fate clutch her past happiness. Her pulse stood still. But she was a
noble woman. She knew the law of life was resistless. Come from a race
of kings, with proud resolve she nerved her wounded spirit, and casting
all meaner thoughts of self aside, threw herself with ardour into the
interests of her son.
While Llewelyn described the events of the evening, the mists cleared
from the past and his mother dimly remembered an ancient tradition
heard in days gone by. The half-forgotten legend ran thus:--A prince of
royal Welsh blood fell in love with and wedded a water Nixie. No
sooner, however, were his espousals accomplished than he, with his
palace and all his treasures, became enchanted and covered by the
waters of Llyn Idwyl, which then, at Venedotia's dread command, rose to
its present height. The water god, through the marriage-tie of his
beautiful child, had gained a subtle power over her human lover, and
despite her entreaties worked this cruel spell to secure to her the
unchanging faith of a mortal. While Gwynneth told this strange story,
an old prophecy concerning this very prince, which she had often heard
in her youth, suddenly flashed across her mind. Surprised it should so
long have escaped her memory, she thus recited it to her listening son--
"When Rhuddlan's child with man shall mate
A light shall break on Rhuddlan's fate;
When thrice three wedded years pass by
Llyn Idwyl's waters shall run dry;
But if that wedded peace be riven,
By blows at random three times given,
Esgair must seek her father's cave,
Nor quit again the gloomy wave;
No slow revolving years shall wake
The spell-bound slumberers of the lake."
"My son," exclaimed Gwynneth, "all is now clear to me. The fair
daughter of King Rhuddlan has seen and chosen you to be the deliverer
of herself and her family, who once owned the greater part of Wales;
but who fell under Venedotia's spell so long ago that their existence
is forgotten by the oldest inhabitant. I am proud that my child should
aid in restoring our ancient line of kings. But Llewelyn," murmured
she, placing her hand fondly on his brown wavy locks, "you must pray
for strength, and enter on this strange adventure with the aid of
heavenly courage." Long into the night sat that gentle mother holding
counsel with her son, and even when they sought their rude couches but
scant sleep sealed their eyelids.
Next day Llewelyn fulfilled his various duties with feverish
impatience, he yearned for the evening hour, and as the moon's rays
fell over the lone heights of the Glydir he stood once more by Llyn
Idwyl's brink, and in a low clear voice uttered these words:--
"By the Glydir's rugged side,
By thy father's captive pride,
By the strains of mortal love
Stealing o'er thee from above,
By thine own enchanted lake,
Esgair, fairest! hear and wake!"
Scarcely had he finished, when a long train of light shot across the
loch, and, glittering with a thousand watery diamonds, Esgair half
arose and stretched forth towards him her lovely arms. A smile of hope
irradiated her pure countenance, and as Llewelyn knelt awestruck upon
the beach, she slowly chanted these lines:--
"Through Llewelyn's devotion deliverance draws near;
'Twixt sunset and sunrise to-morrow be here,
Though strife be around thee yet suffer no fear
If Rhuddlan's poor daughter to thee seemeth dear;
Forget not that o'er her the sign must be crossed,
Or she and her kindred for ever are lost!"
With a parting wave of her hand Esgair slowly disappeared, and nought
was visible save the reflection of the moon, which, dancing and
sparkling across the dark agitated bosom of Llyn Idwyl, ended in a
pathway of light at Llewelyn's feet. It was an omen of hope for the
morrow, and with joyful steps he returned to his home. Here, however he
was somewhat harassed by fears as to the poor accommodation they could
offer to the bride.
"Dear mother," he urged, "she is a high-born princess; her hair, neck,
and arms sparkle with priceless jewels. She may scorn our lowly hut,
and reproach me for bringing her to so humble a home."
"Nay, my son," replied Gwynneth; "the heart of a true maiden seeketh
ever something more precious than gold or riches; the love of a
faithful partner is doubtless what Esgair yearns to find. It is,
moreover, borne in upon me that the daughter of Rhuddlan will not come
dowerless to the son of Dafydd. Be she poor, however, or be she rich,
we will give her the best we have; and I tell you she will hold it
dearer than life."
Heaven that night shed its own peace over the widow and her son, and
their last evening alone together was long remembered by each as a time
of holy calm. By day-break next morning they were already astir. Many
preparations had still to be made. Llewelyn went across the hills to
petition Saint Tudno to pronounce his bridal benediction. The holy
father was now making his yearly pilgrimage through Wales, visiting and
cheering his feeble scattered flock, who clung fast together and
revered with a passionate tenderness their few and faithful teachers.
It was at an ancient farm upon the slopes of Carnedd Llewelyn that
Llewelyn and his mother had, only a few days agone, knelt and received
the good priest's blessing, and Gwynneth doubted not that he would
consent to partake for one night of their rude hospitality, for the
purpose of uniting her son and the rescued Esgair in the bands of holy
wedlock.
Ere the sun had passed its meridian, Gwynneth's hopes were realized.
The venerable father, guided by Llewelyn, safely reached her door, and
after partaking with them of their frugal noontide meal retired to rest
a while, and to resume the devotions broken in upon by his unforeseen
expedition. It weighed much on his mind that no church was near wherein
the espousals might be celebrated, but he was fully conscious of the
difficulties of Llewelyn's position. He shrewdly suspected that until
holy rites had been performed the wild spirits would do their utmost to
reclaim and recapture the newly-rescued bride. Ere seeking his chamber
therefore, the good father carefully sprinkled holy water around the
dwelling, and fervently besought Heaven's blessing on the approaching
union.
Some time before the hour of sunset Llewelyn and his mother started for
the banks of Llyn Idwyl. They followed the rocky course of that little
stream, which still breaks in foam from the eastern side of the loch,
and babbling and brawling flows past the very stones where Gwynneth's
little cottage once stood. The evening was wild and threatening, and
the sky had strangely changed since Saint Tudno alighted at their
dwelling. Thunder reverberating through the mountains awakened hoarse
echoes on every side. Wild clouds in fantastic shapes scudded across
the lowering heavens, and fitful gleams from the sinking sun threw dark
shadows across their pathway. Ever and anon drenching showers brushed
by in short sharp gusts, half blinding them, and causing inexplicable
terror to the ponies; one of which Gwynneth rode and the other Llewelyn
led for his bride. More than once, as they pursued their way, Gwynneth
imagined that white arms and hooded figures waved defiance before her;
but surprise and doubt held her mute, or perhaps ere she could speak
the rain dashed on her face and she perceived that her fancy had
conjured menacing forms from the eddying spindrift around. Llewelyn
also was haunted by outbursts of mocking laughter, but when, amazed, he
turned to his mother, the wild turbulence of the little streamlet
taught him he had mistaken its noisy vehemence for sounds of demoniacal
mirth.
At last they reached Llyn Idwyl's side. The sky once more grew calm and
clear. The sun had long since disappeared behind the dark mountain, and
the stars faintly twinkling overhead had already lit their feeble
lamps. The lake itself, however, presented a wild scene. Furious gusts
of wind agitated the surface. Sheets of spray bearing the semblance of
hideous figures were dashed hither and thither. A rushing noise as of a
thousand waterfalls drowned every other sound, and Llewelyn in vain
tried to make his voice audible amid the din of the elements. Again and
again he endeavoured to shout Esgair's name, but the mad roaring of the
winds and waves was all that could be heard.