action, and despised useless regrets and groans.
“Frederick of Telramund, why dost thou mistrust me?” she asked quietly.
“Why?” he cried wrathfully. “Was it not on thy false word that I accused
the guiltless, and condemned an innocent maid? Thou who didst swear that
thine own eyes beheld her murder the youthful Godfrey!”
“Dost thou know who is this mysterious hero, drawn hither across the sea
by a wild swan?” she asked.
“Nay, I know not,” he answered.
“Hearken now to me,” said Ortruda. “It is forbidden him to reveal either
his name or country. That, his own words allowed. The reason I will tell
thee. Should he do so, all his magic power instantly vanishes. There is
but one person who can tear his secret from him—she whom he so strictly
forbade to ask him.”
“Ha! Elsa! She must be made to do this!” cried Telramund eagerly. Ortruda
looked at him and smiled. Her smile was very terrible. “If thou wilt
be but silent and watchful, thou shalt taste the sweets of revenge.
But—hist!”
The window opposite opened softly. Ortruda and Telramund drew back
farther into the shadow. A white-robed figure came out on the balcony.
Ortruda whispered in Telramund’s ear: “Go thou, and leave her alone with
me,” and Frederick withdrew.
“Elsa!” cried a wailing, miserable voice.
Elsa started. “Who calls me?”
“Is my voice so strange to thee?” answered Ortruda piteously. “Wilt thou
repulse one in sore distress?”
“Ortruda! Thou! What doest thou here, and at this hour, unhappy woman?”
asked Elsa, in surprise.
“Ah, woe is me!” moaned Ortruda. “What have I done, that such dark
trouble should fall on me? How different thy fate! After a brief time
of trouble, every cloud has vanished, and life smiles gloriously before
thee.”
“Most unworthy should I be of my great happiness, could I spurn one in
misery such as thine, Ortruda. Come! I myself will open the door to you.”
“Ortruda, where art thou?” called the gentle voice of Elsa, opening the
door.
“Here at thy feet!” replied Ortruda, throwing herself down before the
white-robed figure.
“Kneel not to me, I beseech thee, Ortruda,” cried Elsa, much distressed.
“Thou, whom I have always beheld in pride and magnificence! Freely I
forgive thee. And if in aught thou hast suffered through my fault, I pray
thee pardon me in like manner.”
“How can I thank thee for such gracious favor?” returned Ortruda, in
tones of great humility. “And for thy husband Telramund,” continued Elsa,
“I will beseech my noble bridegroom on the morrow, that he show him grace
and pardon. So let me see thee once more restored to happiness. Arrayed
in thy robe of state, come thou with me to the minister, where our
marriage will to-morrow be celebrated before God and all men.”
“Thou loadest me with chains of gratitude,” said Ortruda. “Only one way
is there in which I may perhaps repay thee—by my knowledge of the hidden
arts I may be able to protect thy life, and warn thee should grave danger
arise.”
“What meanest thou?” asked Elsa, in astonishment.
“Trust not thy happiness too blindly,” replied Ortruda darkly, “lest some
evil entrap thee unawares.” Ortruda drew closer, and lowered her voice:
“Dost know by what magic art _he_ came to thee?”
THE DEPARTURE OF LOHENGRIN
By Constance Maud
It was Princess Elsa’s wedding-day.
The sober old city of Antwerp had blossomed out in colors gay as a spring
garden, with banners, ribbons, garlands of flowers, and triumphal arches.
Not a burgher or a prentice but kept holiday.
Royal weddings were not an everyday sight, more especially when the bride
was a princess of such beauty and virtue, and the bridegroom a knight who
had risked his life for her sake.
Every maid in Antwerp would gladly have gone through fire and water just
for a sight of the knight in silver armor. Greatly were those envied who
had seen him arrive, drawn by the snow-white swan.
The bells of the old cathedral rang out a joyful chime. From every
quarter came a stream of people, all hurrying to secure the best places
from which to see the bridal procession. Guarding the entrance of the
cathedral, on either side, were stationed knights and nobles in full
court dress, ablaze with medals and decorations, helmets and waving
plumes.
“She comes! She comes! Make way for the bride,” sang a chorus of voices.
And Elsa appeared, more beautiful than a spring morning. Little children,
clad in white, strewed her path with flowers. Maidens of high degree
followed, bearing her bridal train. Never had a fairer, happier maid
passed through the ancient doorway to become a bride.
[Illustration: “THROUGH HEAVEN’S VICTORY, THY LIFE IS MINE!”—page 158
_From the painting by Ferdinand Leeke_]
Smiling and bowing graciously, Elsa ascended the cathedral steps, when
suddenly her way was barred by a tall commanding figure, who pushed
through the astonished crowd and stood before her. It was Ortruda.
“Back, I say!” she cried wrathfully. “Thinkest thou that I am going to
follow thee, like a serving-maid! No longer will I suffer it! The time
has come when thou shalt bow before me!”
The attendants and courtiers stood aghast. “The woman must be mad!” they
exclaimed to one another.
Elsa could scarce believe that this was the same Ortruda who, a few hours
before, had knelt in the dust at her feet.
Pale and trembling she cried:
“Ortruda! Is it possible? What has happened to change thee thus terribly?”
Ortruda gave a mocking laugh.
“Thinkest thou,” she answered, “that because I foolishly forgot my high
position and my worth for one short hour, I must forever after approach
thee crawling? My lord was first in all the land! Not a foe but feared
his sword, not a tongue but spake his praise. But thy hero! No man ever
heard of him! Thou thyself canst not even give him a name.”
The people murmured indignantly:
“Will no man silence this slanderous woman?”
But all trembled, remembering her reputation as a witch, and not daring
to brave her wrath.
Fortunately at this moment appeared the king’s outriders, followed by the
royal bodyguard, and King Henry himself, riding side by side with the
bridegroom.
“What! Ho!” cried the king, looking at the threatening figure standing
across the bride’s path. “Who dares to make strife on a wedding morn?”
Lohengrin hastened to Elsa’s side. “What do I see? Why is this terrible
woman near thee?” he asked.
“Oh, my deliverer, protect me from her! Pardon me, that I forgot thy
warning. Seeing her in misery at my door last night, I took her in.
Behold now how she turns on me, and mocks me for my trust in thee!”
Lohengrin stood between Ortruda and the trembling Elsa. “Begone, thou
fearful woman!” he cried. “Carry elsewhere thy poison. Here is no soil in
which it can take root.”
“Hold there!” cried a loud harsh voice. “O king, hearken, I pray. Greatly
hast thou been deceived. The combat was no Heaven’s ordeal, for, by the
evil power of magic, justice was turned aside. Here, before all men,
I challenge him, the impostor, to declare his name and race, and from
where he came, drawn hither by that unholy bird. If he dare not say,
methinks it looks bad for his knightly truth and honor! I appeal to thee,
illustrious prince! Demand thou a reply from this unknown hero. He will
scarcely dare to call thee unworthy of his answer.”
Lohengrin confronted the wrathful Telramund: “All honor would I ever show
to his most illustrious majesty; but there is one only to whom I am
bound to reveal my secret—that one is Elsa, my bride.”
Lohengrin feared for one dread moment that the wicked Ortruda’s poison
had, after all, begun to work. One moment only; then, to his joy, Elsa
raised her head, and shaking off all doubt, she cried: “What he keeps
secret, that he does in wisdom. She whom he has saved, shall she not
trust him?”
And the king added heartily: “My hero, pay no regard to evil-speakers.
Thou art too far above them for such to tarnish thy spotless fame.”
The nobles then pressed round Lohengrin, assuring him of their trust and
devotion, even though he should never see fit to reveal his name; and the
wedding procession entered the cathedral in solemn state.
When the wedding-feast was over and the wedding-guests had gone, Elsa and
Lohengrin sat at the window, looking out on the starlit night.
Elsa sighed. A tiny cloud crept over her heart at the thought that she
knew no name by which to call her love.
Lohengrin noticed it and strove to turn her thoughts from the dangerous
subject. But Elsa continued, as though forced to return to it: “Ah show
thou thinkest me worthy of thy trust! Now that we are alone, tell me thy
secret and let it be buried in my heart, safe, where never the world can
reach it.”
“Have I not shown thee highest trust?” answered Lohengrin. “I have
trusted in thy promise. Now my greatest joy is in thy love. It is the
only reward I ask for all I have left behind. For not out of night and
sorrow did I come to thee, but out of light and glory.”
“Alas!” cried Elsa. “Then art thou farther removed, and I yet more
unworthy, than e’er I dreamt! Any day may rob me of thee! Ere long thou
wilt surely regret thy humble choice, and long after thy departed glory.”
Tears blinded her eyes. Lohengrin saw, too late, that what he had told
her but increased her doubt and unhappiness. She longed now more than
ever to be trusted with his secret.
“The fear lest thou depart will haunt me day and night! Who is this
unknown one? Whence comes he?” No peace now for Elsa, day or night, until
she can answer.
“Alas!” she cried, “it was by a miracle thou camest here! Thy path is
hidden, like thyself, in mystery. Thy life is divided from mine by a
cloud.”
“Ah, look!” she cried, clutching wildly Lohengrin’s arm. “See the swan?
He comes! There—down the river! He brings the boat! Thou hast called him!”
“Oh, Elsa, cease this madness!” cried Lohengrin, in despair.
“Nothing can give me peace again, till I know—even though it cost me my
life—who thou art, and whence thou comest.”
“Alas!” groaned Lohengrin, covering his face with his hands.
So absorbed were they both, that they did not hear the stealthy tread
upon the stair, nor the low, muffled voices outside the door.
Suddenly there was a crash. The door was broken open, and a group of dark
figures, cloaked and masked, barred the passage, while one of the number
rushed towards Lohengrin, drawing his naked sword.
It was the work of an instant. Lohengrin had but time to seize his sword,
when the stalwart figure closed with him.
In the flickering torchlight, he parried the foe’s first deadly thrust,
and before he had time for a second, the trusty sword of Lohengrin had
pierced to his traitorous heart. With a deep groan he fell back, and Elsa
beheld, as she suspected, the face of Frederick of Telramund.
Hearing the noise, Elsa’s attendants and guards now crowded into the
room. The dark masked figures had fled on seeing their master fall.
Lohengrin turned to the guards, and bade them bear the body of Telramund
before the king’s judgment-seat.
Then to Elsa’s attendants, who supported their fainting mistress, he said
sadly: “Make her ready to appear before the king. There I will meet her,
and answer her question—Who I am, and from whence I come?”
At noon next day, King Henry held a review of his troops.
Before leaving Antwerp, the king desired to collect forces for a war
against the savage Drohns, who were threatening the peace of Germany. The
king counted greatly on Lohengrin’s help, for never had he seen one more
fitted to command and lead his troops.
But now the appointed hour had come, and still the king waited for the
arrival of the knight.
Presently all were startled by the appearance of a solemn procession,
bearing in their midst the body of a dead man. “Make way!” whispered the
crowd, awestruck. “These are the followers of Telramund.”
Close on them followed Elsa and her ladies. Alas, how changed from the
happy bride of yesterday!
“Ah, here he comes! Our hero!” cried the people, as Lohengrin at length
appeared. “Welcome, sir knight,” said the king. “We look to thee to lead
these brave troops on to victory.”
“Alas, my lord the king!” answered Lohengrin, “it is not possible for me
now to lead thy soldiers, as I hoped.”
“Heaven help us! What means this?” cried the king, dismayed, not only at
Lohengrin’s words, but by his sad, solemn bearing.
“First, I ask thy righteous judgment, before all the people, concerning
this man.” He pointed to the body of Telramund. “In the middle of the
night, he fell on me unawares. Was I right in that I slew him?”
“Thy hand was but the instrument of a just Heaven in so slaying him!”
replied the king, sternly regarding the dead traitor.
“Ye heard all how she, my bride, gave me her promise, that never would
she ask who I am or from whence I came. Now, alas! she has broken that
promise—she has listened to traitorous counsel! Now hear, all ye people,
whether my secret is one to be ashamed of before king, nobles, and the
world!” Lohengrin raised his voice till it rang on all sides like a
clarion.
“In the distant land, far from hence, is a mountain named Mount Salvat.
In the midst stands a temple; none on earth can compare with its
magnificence. Therein is guarded a sacred treasure, brought thither
years ago by an angel-host. It is the Holy Grail. The knight who serves
the Grail derives divine strength from the power of its might. Before
him evil flies, and death itself is vanquished. Even when far away in
distant lands, so long as the knight remains unknown, the Grail still
renews his strength. But the working of the Holy Grail must ever remain
veiled. Once the source of mystery is revealed, the blessings granted
must be withdrawn—such is the Grail’s command. I was hither sent to you
by order of the Grail. My father is Parsifal, the king—I am his warrior,
Lohengrin!”
Elsa listened like one hearing her death-sentence. Had not her ladies
supported her, she must have fallen.
“Oh, Elsa,” he cried mournfully, “why didst thou tear my secret from me?
Now, alas, we are parted forever!”
“The swan! The swan!” cried a chorus of voices near the bank of the river.
Elsa turned to look, and there, sailing swiftly towards them, came the
snow-white swan, drawing the small boat in which the shining knight had
arrived.
“Oh, my Elsa,” he said, “the Grail has sent for me—I dare not tarry. One
year only, and I might have had the joy of seeing thee again united to
thy long-lost brother. For he is not dead, and by the might of the Grail
he was then to be restored to thee. Now hearken. Should he return, give
him these—my sword and horn and ring. The sword will bring him victory
in battle, the horn will bring him help in time of need, and the ring
he shall wear in memory of me. Farewell, my beloved bride; farewell
forever!”
THE WOOING OF THE DAUGHTER OF THE KING OF IRELAND
_From the Gudrun Lay_
When Hettel, the young King of Denmark, but newly crowned, was minded
to take him a wife, he sent and gathered together his high vassals and
lieges to his palace in Hegelingen to give him counsel.
And Morung of Nifland said to the king: “There is one maiden that for
comeliness surpasseth all others in the world: that is Hilda, daughter of
wild Hagen, King of Ireland; and she is peerless.”
“That may be so,” answered the king, “but Hagen is waxed so proud
that there is no dealing with him by fair words; and many kings and
yarls which sought to carry her off by strength of arm now sleep the
sword-sleep because of her.”
Then spake the sweet-voiced Horant: “Full well I know the maiden. She
is radiant as the soft new snow beneath the dawn. Stern is her father,
and cruel as the north wind that tears the clouds and breaks the sea,
and shakes the pines in his fists. Wherefore if the king must send a
messenger, let him not choose me.” Frute spake also: “Neither am I fain
to go upon this errand. But let the king send and summon Yarl Wate of
Sturmen; he is more reckless than any man, and heedeth no living thing.”
But when Yarl Wate was come before the king, and understood what was
required of him, he was but ill-pleased, and said: “I ween Horant and
Frute to have counseled thee in this, and to have done in no friendly
wise toward me. Howbeit I am not the man to pick an enterprise that hath
no peril in it. I will go. But since Horant and Frute esteem my life so
lightly, they shall go likewise.”
Then Yrolt of Ortland and Morung said: “It is well spoken; and inasmuch
as it behooveth none to hang back when brave men take their lives in
their hands, we also will go with them.”
So the king made ready a great ship of cypress wood, in fashion like a
dragon. It was all aglow with golden scales; the anchor was of silver,
and the steering paddle overlaid with gold. Within he furnished it
abundantly with victual for the voyage, with armor and raiment, and
presents of great price.
Then Yarl Wate and Morung, Horant and Frute and Yrolt, entered into the
ship with seven hundred of their men. They drew aloft the embroidered
sail; a fair wind arose and bore them out of harbor. For many days they
tilled the barren sea-fields, until weary of sea toil they saw the
welcome land, and steered in for Castle Balian, where Hagen the king kept
court.
Being come to shore, Horant and Yrolt took precious jewels in their hands
worth many thousand marks, and leaving their men hidden in the ship, came
to King Hagen, saying: “Behold we have voyaged from a far country where
we have heard of thy fame, and we pray thee take these presents at our
hands.” Hagen looked at the jewels and marvelled at their great worth.
He said: “What kings are ye, and whence have you come with all this
treasure.”
Horant answered, saying: “Banished folk are we. Hast thou not heard of
Hattel, who is king in Hegelingen, and of his might and majesty, of
the battles he has fought and the riches he has gathered together? He
despiseth such as we, and being well befriended careth nothing for his
men. Wherefore a few of us, weary of his overbearing ways, have left
him seeking service.” Then said Hagen: “Ye shall abide with me”; and he
commanded to make ready lodgings for them in the city.
But Horant and Yrolt gave gold away so lavishly to all within the city
that the people said, “Of a truth these must be the richest kings of the
earth.”
And the fair Hilda hearing of it desired greatly to see these strangers;
wherefore her father bade them to a feast.
The Danish knights came at his bidding, arrayed most sumptuously. And the
feast being over, and the wine outpoured, the queen and Hilda left the
table, desiring that the guests might be brought to them in the inner
chamber. First Yarl Wate went in, a huge and burly man, with a great
rough beard and brawny hands. But when the queen bade him sit between her
and the princess he blushed and stammered, and then blundered shamefaced
to the seat. “Thou art strangely ill at ease in company of ladies,”
said the queen. “Aye, mistress,” said Yarl Wate, “I am not oversmooth of
tongue. I am not skilled to lisp about the weather. What shall I say?
This seat is soft enough. I never mind me to have sat so soft before,
nor to have wrought so hard in doing it. By my life, good ladies!” he
cried upstarting, “a good day’s battle with a brisk enemy never wearied
me so much, or made me deem myself so great a fool.” Hilda and her mother
laughed pleasantly at his bluff behavior, and sought to put him at his
ease; but Wate would have no more; he strode off to the hall among the
king and his men, and in an hour or so became himself again. For the
king won on him. Hagen’s big voice, his battle knowledge, and his love
of fight, opened Yarl Wate’s heart, and the two were soon made friends.
But for the women, there was none in their esteem like the sweet-voiced
Horant. He was fair to look upon as a woman, yet had no lack of courage
in the battle time. His wit was quick; and when he talked his face was in
a glow at sight of the strange pictures in his mind, whereby he likened
things to one another in curious sort, so that all which heard him
wondered and were glad.
Now Hagen spake much with Wate concerning sword play, and the mystery
thereof. So presently Yarl Wate besought the king to appoint him a master
of fence to teach him a little of it, because fencing after their manner
was a thing in which he was little learned. Then King Hagen sent for the
best fence master that he had, and set him to teach Yarl Wate the rules
of sword play. But quickly losing patience at the long list of early
rules which the fence master laid down, Hagen caught the foil from out
his hands crying: “Away with you! Why all this stuff? In four strokes I
will teach this man to use a sword.”
So the king fell to with Wate, whom, however, he very soon found an
exceeding skilful master of fence. Thereat being somewhat angry, he
struck in fiercely; and they both carried on the sport till the buttons
flew off the foils; yet neither gat the better of the other. Then Hagen
throwing down his foil cried: “In sooth, never saw I youth learn so
quickly.” And Yrolt said: “There is very little wherein the serving men
of our lord’s country are not already learned.”
So as Yarl Wate and his fellows abode continually at the king’s court
and feasted with him every day, it befell once on a time, when night
was past and the day had begun to dawn, that Horant arose and tuned his
voice to a song. The birds, waking in the hedges, had begun to sing, but
hearing music sweeter than theirs, they held their peace. Ever higher and
sweeter Horant lifted his song till it rang about the palace; and all the
sleepers dreamed of Baldur and his home in Ganzblick in the sky.
Soon they woke; nor were they sorry to lose their dreams at hearing
Horant’s song. Hagen heard it and rose up from his bed. Hilda and her
maidens heard it, and arose. Men and women came thronging to thank the
singer; but when they came the song was done. Yet none the more would the
birds begin their lays; they had lost their notes from wonder.
Then Hilda besought her father that by any means he should constrain
Horant to sing again. And Hagen being no less crazed with the song,
recked not for aught else, and he promised the singer a thousand pounds
of gold by weight if he would sing again at eve.
At evening Horant sang. The people filled the hall and flocked about the
castle for a great space. The sick came thither and remembered their
pains no more.
The beasts in the forest and the cattle in the fields left their food;
the worms forgat to go in the grass, and the fishes left swimming in
the sea. And when the song was done and the folk went their ways, they
heard the minster choirs and the chiming of the bells, but took no more
pleasure in them.
Hilda sent twelve purses of gold to Horant, entreating him to come and
sing to her in her chamber. The singer came and sang the song of Amile,
the like whereof no man had ever heard save on the wild flute. No gold
was ever so good. The maiden laid her hand within the singer’s and bade
him choose whatever he listed for a song-gift. He said: “I pray thee give
me but the girdle from thy waist, that I may take it to my master.” She
asked: “Who is thy master?” He answered: “No banished men are we, but
servants of Hettel, King of Denmark, come to woo thee for his bride.”
Then Hilda said: “So thou couldst always sing to me at morn and eve,
I would not care whose bride I were.” Horant said: “Lady, within my
master’s courts abide twelve minstrels, better far than I; and yet with
all the sweetness of their singing my lord sings best of all.” And Hilda
said: “If that be so, I fain would follow thee and be King Hettel’s
bride. But I know not how. My father will give me to no suitor with his
good will. I would go but I durst not.” Horant answered her: “Since thou
wouldst, be it ours to dare. We ask no more.”