they came to Hagen, saying: “The time for our departure draweth nigh,
and we must sail to other lands. But before we go, we pray you bring the
queen and your fair daughter, that they may see the treasures which we
have within the ship.” So on the next day, after mass, King Hagen came
down to the beach, with his queen, and the fair Hilda and her maids;
with them went a thousand good knights of Ireland. The ship was swung
to a single cable, the anchor aboard, the sail tackle free. Upon the
sands were spread the Danish treasure chests, filled with costly raiment
embroidered with gold and jewels. There was a crowding round the chests
to see; Yarl Wate was there, and Frute, and Horant; and in the crowding
Hilda was parted from her mother. Hagen and his knights saw nothing for
the crowd, and the queen forgot her daughter at beholding the glories of
the raiment. But suddenly they heard a shout, and looking up beheld Yarl
Wate leap on the bulwarks with fair Hilda in his arms; the next moment
Horant and Frute sprang on board with two other maidens. Yrolt smote at
the cable with his axe; it parted. The sail was hauled aloft, and twenty
oars shot out from either side to lift the ship along. Hagen and his
knights ran quickly down into the sea; but the rowers rowed hard, and
armed men in the ship arose, seven hundred strong, and laid about them.
Short was the fight, and soon the vessel reached deep water. Loud laughed
the Danes to see on the fading shore the angry crowd, the weeping queen,
and Hagen raging like a madman, up to his waist in the sea.
Fast sped the ship and the wind was fair. The Danes made Hegelingen in
ten days, and Hettel was wed to Hilda with great joy.
But while they yet sat at the marriage feast Hagen’s war-ship bore down
upon their coast. Quickly the Danes rose from the tables, put their armor
on, and ran down to the shore. Hagen drave his ship upon the sand, and
leaped into the water with his men. A shower of arrows thick as hail was
his greeting. Hettel rushed foremost to withstand him. There was fierce
fighting between the two for a little space; then Hettel fell, sore
wounded; and over his body Hagen and his knights pressed on and hewed
their way to land. Fast fell the men, both Danes and Irelanders. Then
Yarl Wate encountered Hagen; and the battle anger fell on both the men;
they fought like wild beasts of the wood, till, Wate being wounded on the
head, Hagen’s war-pike brake at the next blow he struck. Meantime the
battle raged furiously. The Irelanders kept their footing, but could not
drive back the Danish men; the numbers slain on either hand were equal,
man for man. Then Hettel’s wounds being bound up, the Danish king cried
out to Hagen: “Of what avail shall it be to you or me to fight this
battle out? For every man of mine that falls a man of thine goes down.
When it is done there will be an end to Danes and Irelanders alike. But
if thou must needs prolong the fight, I will now meet thee, and if Hilda
weeps for a dead husband she shall mourn a dead father too.” Then Hagen
cast down his sword, and called off his men. And he said to Hettel: “Give
me thy hand; for in sooth my child has married a brave man; and had I
half a score more daughters they should all come to Hegelingen.” So the
kings made peace together. And the marriage feast was all begun again,
and kept for twelve days in King Hettel’s palace. Moreover a wise woman
brought forth herbs and roots, and healed the warriors of their wounds.
And after the feasting, Hagen and his men were loaded with gifts, and
they entered into their ship and departed to Ireland.
THE LADY OF KYNAST
By Xavier B. Saintine
The Lady of Kynast owned a large domain, and on this domain a ruined old
tower which stood on the summit of a steep, high rock, surrounded on all
sides by a deep abyss.
Rich, young and beautiful, eagerly sought for by a number of admirers,
The Lady of Kynast did not think, in her desire to keep them from
becoming too pressing, of undertaking an endless piece of embroidery,
like Penelope. She did not embroider; in fact she looked with contempt,
and almost with disgust, upon every kind of work that was done by women.
She told her admirers that she was betrothed to Kynast—this was the name
of the old tower—and that anyone who thought of winning her good graces
would first have to compete with her betrothed. To do this nothing was
required but to climb up the rock and the tower, and having reached the
battlements, to make a complete round, not on foot, however, or assisted
by the hands and knees, but on horseback, without other assistance than
the bridle.
The flock of lovers took flight instantly; only two remained, two
brothers who had completely lost their heads.
After having cast lots, the first one attempted the task and seemed
on the point of being successful. But that was all. He had no sooner
reached the crenelated top of the old tower than he was seized with
vertigo and instantly fell into the abyss.
The second brother, in his turn, climbed to the top and actually
succeeded in riding some distance along the battlements; but soon his
horse, feeling the stones slipping from under its hoofs, and the whole
tower rocking under the weight, refused to go on. Determined to carry
through the undertaking he encouraged his horse with his voice and with
his spurs, but the poor animal remained immovable, apparently wedged in
between the large stones of the tower. In the morning both horse and
rider had disappeared.
For quite a while no other claimants appeared to woo the fair lady, when
suddenly one day a third lover presented himself and asked leave to
attempt the trial.
She did not know who it was, and this surprised her; for how could he
have fallen in love with her? He might possibly have seen her on her
balcony, or at some royal feast; perhaps he was only allured by her great
reputation. However, there was nothing to lose by accepting the offer.
For some days a thick, heavy fog had shrouded the castle and the old
tavern from top to bottom, so as to make the ascent impossible. The
simple laws of hospitality required, therefore, that the lady should
offer her castle to the newly arrived knight.
He proved to be a handsome man with a fine commanding figure, and the
large number of his servants bespoke his high rank and large fortune.
During three days he spent almost all his time with the young lady, but
as yet he had not dared say a word of his love. On her side, however, the
young lady felt herself gradually conquered by a feeling which had, until
now, been unknown to her heart.
When the dense veil of mist was at length torn aside and the Kynast shone
forth in its full splendor, she was on the point of telling the knight
that she would not insist on the trial in his case.
When the moment came the Lady of Kynast felt her heart fail her. She
shut herself in, she wept and she cried, and prayed that he might be
successful. Loud clamors were heard below, and as she thought the
spectators were bewailing the death of her last lover, she fainted away.
Cries of joy and of triumph roused her again; the knight had successfully
accomplished the task. Overcome, she rushes to meet him, and in her
excitement she forgets that all eyes are upon her, and breathlessly cries
out: “My hand is yours.” But he draws himself up to his full height, and
haughtily and harshly he replies, with a proud smile:
“Have I ever asked you for your hand? I only came to avenge my two
brothers, whom you have killed, and I have done it, for I do not, could
not, love you, and yet you love me. Farewell!”
That same evening the wretched lady had herself conducted up to the top
of the tower, from whence she wished, she said, to watch the setting sun.
She was never seen alive again.
THE GUARDIAN ANGEL
By Xavier B. Saintine
A white figure appeared before the young girl as she awoke. “I am your
Guardian Angel!”
“Then you will grant me the wishes which I shall mention?”
“I shall carry them to God’s throne. You may count upon my assistance.
What are your wishes?”
“O White Angel, I am tired of continually turning the spindle and my
fingers are getting to be so hard by constant work that yesterday, at the
dance, my partner might have imagined he was holding a wooden hand.”
“Your partner was that fine-looking gentleman from Hesse? Did he not tell
you that he adored blue eyes and fair hair, and that he would make you a
baroness, if you would go home with him, if you would wickedly run away?”
“White Angel, make me a baroness!”
The evening of that day a young peasant came and asked Louisa’s mother
for her daughter’s hand. The mother said, Yes.
“White Angel, deliver me from this poor man. I want to be a baroness!”
The mother, who was a sensible woman, and a widow, had good sense enough
and energy enough for two. The White Angel did not appear again, and
Louisa married the peasant—and she kept on turning the spindle.
One day her husband, who was a hard-working man, had over-exerted
himself and was taken ill. In the meanwhile Louisa had seen her handsome
gentleman again.
“White Angel,” she said, “he loves me still. He has sworn he would marry
me if I were a widow.” She dared not say more. The husband recovered from
his illness. The White Angel still turned a deaf ear to her wishes. She
lost all hope of ever becoming a baroness.
Later her husband became more successful, so that his work alone supplied
all their wants. Two beautiful children had come to gladden their lives,
and now, when Louisa worked at the spindle, it felt quite soft in her
fingers.
One evening, when she was only half asleep, the white figure appeared
once more, and a gentle voice whispered in her ear this story:
“A little fish was merrily swimming about in the water and looking
seriously at a pretty blackcap which first circled around and around in
the air, and then alighted on a branch of a willow which grew close to
the bank of the river.
“‘Oh,’ said the little fish, ‘how happy that bird is! It can rise up to
the heavens and go high up to the sun to warm itself in its rays. Why
cannot I do the same?’
“The blackcap, who was looking down at the fish, thought to himself:
“‘Oh! how happy that fish is! The element in which it lives furnishes it
at the same time with food; it has nothing to do but to glide along. How
I should like to sport in the fresh, transparent water!’”
“At that moment a kite pounced upon the poor little fish, while a scamp
of a schoolboy threw a stone at the bird; the blackcap fell into the
water—the fresh, transparent water—and for a moment struggled in it
before it died, while the little fish, carried aloft, could go up on high
to the sun and warm itself in its rays. Their wishes had been granted.”
THE GIANT WHO LAUGHED AT A DWARF
By Xavier B. Saintine
An old duke of Bavaria had at his court a dwarf named Ephesim, and a
giant named Grommelund. The giant laughed at the dwarf, and the dwarf
threatened to box his ears. Grommelund laughed a big hoarse laugh that
seemed to come up from his toes, and dared Ephesim to go ahead. The dwarf
accepted the challenge at once, and the duke, having been a witness of
the scene, ordered that a field for a single combat should be gotten
ready.
Everybody expected to do as the giant had done, and laugh at the pigmy,
as the poor little fellow was hardly two feet high and would have had to
climb a long way before reaching the giant’s ears.
The dwarf began by walking all around the giant, as if to take his
measure. The good-natured giant, standing up immovable, looks down upon
him and quietly laughs till his sides shake; but while he is holding his
hands to his sides, the dwarf unties his shoestrings and then worries
him by kicking and pinching his calves.
Grommelund laughs more loudly than ever, thanks to the tickling; takes
a few strides, steps on his loose shoestrings, nearly stumbles, and at
last, with thoughtful presence of mind, stoops down to tie the strings.
Ephesim was watching for this. He quickly slapped the giant’s cheek so
vigorous and sounding a smack that the duke and all the lords of the
court looked up in astonishment.
The poor giant was so shamed and humiliated that he hurriedly shambled
off the field and sought refuge in the mountains, where, it is said, he
hid himself and refused to come out.
THE LEGEND OF SAINT CHRISTOPHER
By Lillian M. Gask
There was once a man named Offero, so tall and strong that he stood among
his fellows as a sturdy oak in a grove of saplings. His eyes were keen
and clear as some great eagle’s, his lips spoke nothing but gentle words,
and his heart was as pure and tender as a little child’s. His spirit was
brave and fearless, and while he was yet in the prime of his strength he
resolved to devote it to some good purpose.
“My friends,” he said, when he had called together his companions, “I
must leave you now, for something within me whispers that I was born to
serve a king so great that fear is unknown to him; a king to whom all men
bow.”
Then he strode away into the forest, and was seen by them no more.
For many a day he traversed valley and mountain, inquiring of all he met
who was the greatest king. At last he came to a splendid country, where
reigned a monarch of high renown. His armies were vast and powerful, and
his fleet of warships was like a flock of birds bearing death on their
grim brown wings.
When he was told that Offero desired to serve him, he welcomed him
gladly, and liked the young man so well that he soon made him his
trusted counsellor and friend.
It was Offero’s pride to see how all men trembled at his master’s frown,
and he could not believe that there lived a monarch greater than he.
One day, however, when the king was present, a courtier made some remark
about “the Evil One;” his Majesty’s august brow grew pale, and Offero
could have sworn he saw his stem lips quiver. Pained and surprised, he
humbly asked the king why he was troubled.
“I am afraid of the Devil,” said that monarch, “although I fear no mortal
man. He is the King of Hades, and more powerful even than I.”
“Then I must leave you, O king!” cried Offero with haste, “since I have
vowed to serve none other than the most powerful monarch in existence.”
And sorrowfully he turned away.
“Where is the Devil?” he asked the first man he met.
“He is everywhere,” returned the traveller, looking round uneasily; and
this was the usual answer that Offero received to his inquiry. Wherever
he went men looked uneasy at the Devil’s name, but would not say where
Offero was most likely to meet with him.
He found him at last among a group of idle men and maidens on the village
green, and hailed him as his master. The Devil was glad to have so strong
a follower, and amused himself by showing the astonished giant his power
over rich and poor. There seemed to be no limit to his might; he swayed
the nobles in their velvet robes, and the peasants in their tattered
garments.
“He is indeed master of the world,” sighed Offero, and though he liked
not the Devil’s ways, he stifled his distaste that he might keep his word.
One day his master led him through the outskirts of the town into the
open country.
“We are going to visit a hermit,” he said with a burst of laughter. “He
has left the town to be quit of me, but he will find me in his cave!”
Before Offero could ask him what he meant to do with the good hermit,
they came to a turn where four roads met. A rough wind swayed the
branches of the trees, and a peal of thunder echoed among the lofty
hills. It was neither wind nor thunder, however, that made the Devil
tremble, but the sight of a wooden cross which some pious folk had
erected here. With gaunt arms pointing east and west it stood immovable;
the rain beat down on it mercilessly, as if to cleanse it from the
roadside dust; and turning his head away that he might not see it, the
Devil hastened past. Not until it was far behind them had Offero an
opportunity of asking why he had trembled.
“I was afraid,” answered his grim companion, with another shudder.
“Afraid?” repeated Offero in puzzled tones. “Why, what was there to be
afraid of?”
“Did you not see the crucifix?” cried the Devil impatiently. “The figure
on it is that of the Christ, and this is why I trembled.”
The giant had never heard that Holy Name before, and felt more perplexed
than ever as he demanded: “Who is this Christ whom you so fear?”
“He is the King of Heaven,” was the reluctant reply.
“Is he more powerful, then, than you?” persisted Offero, planting himself
in the center of the pathway so that his master could not pass on.
“He is more powerful even than I!” admitted the Devil, his eyes becoming
points of fire.
“Then I shall serve Him, and Him only,” the giant cried, and, turning on
his heel, he left the Devil to go on his way alone.
When Offero reached the cross once more, a man was kneeling before it in
prayer. As he rose from his knees, Offero asked him the way to Heaven.
“I cannot tell you,” said the man. “The way is long, and hard to find.
’Tis well that Christ is merciful.”
Offero met with like answers from many wayfarers whom he questioned, but
at last came one who advised him to consult the hermit.
“He is a holy man,” he assured him earnestly, “and has retired from the
world that he may give his time to prayer and fasting. He thinks he can
serve Christ this way better than any other.”
So Offero sought the hermit, and learnt from him many things. He heard of
the grandeur and goodness of Christ, and of the greatness of His Kingdom.
All that he said made Offero more eager to serve Him than ever, and
when the hermit explained that no one could enter the Heavenly Kingdom
until he was summoned there by Christ Himself, he bowed his head in
disappointment.
“How then can I serve this new Master,” he said, “unless I can see Him
and hear His commands?”
“Do as I do,” replied the hermit. “Give up the world, and fast and pray.”
“If I were to fast,” said Offero shrewdly, “I should lose my strength,
and then, when He called me to work for Him, I should be useless.” And
although the hermit tried to persuade him, he would not stay, but set off
again on his journey, determined to find the way to Heaven.
Presently he met a company of pilgrims. They were dusty and
travel-stained, and very footsore, but their faces shone with joy. There
were men and women and little children; some came from distant lands, and
some from near, but one and all they were filled with a deep content.
“Who are you, and whence do you travel?” Offero asked them wonderingly.
“We are the servants of Christ,” they answered, “and we are marching
towards Heaven. The path is rough, and the way is long, but His many
mansions await us.”
“I will come with you, and be His servant too!” said Offero, and they
welcomed him gladly.
The way was long, as they had said, but to the giant the days passed
quickly. He was learning so much that he could scarcely sleep for the
wonder of it, and his face also shone with happiness. He grew very grave
when he heard of the swift-flowing river that all must cross before they
could hope to reach the Kingdom of Heaven.
“There is no bridge to span it,” said an aged pilgrim, whose tottering
limbs were now so feeble that but for Offero’s support they would hardly
have borne him along. “The trembling woman, the little child, must cross
it alone in the gloom and darkness, for though they call, no friendly
boatman appears in sight. When Christ has need of us, His messenger will
appear; he is clothed in raiment white as snow, and although his voice is
always gentle, it is as clearly heard in the rush and roar of the tempest
as on a summer’s day.”
At length the pilgrims came to the river-bank, and as the giant gazed
at the foaming current, and saw the waves dashing against the shore, he
marvelled greatly at what he had been told. Surely, he thought, no feeble
woman or little child could breast its waters and reach the other side.
Even as he mused on this the white-robed messenger called to an ailing
girl who was almost too weak to move. Her Master had need of her, he
said, and in the fair courts of Heaven she would be strong again.
What joy was hers when she heard His voice! But alas! when she crept to
the edge of the bank, and saw the river that swept beneath it, her heart
grew sick with fear. She quivered and shook from head to foot, and moaned
that she dare not venture. An exceeding pity moved Offero to go to her
help.
“Do not weep,” he said, “but trust to me.” And taking her tenderly in his
arms, he lifted her on to his shoulder, and bore her tenderly across.
In spite of all his strength, the pitiless current nearly swept him off
his feet, and he fought with the icy waters as he had fought no mortal
foe. The girl tried in vain to thank him as he placed her on the bank in
safety; he would not let her speak.
“Tell Christ,” he said, “that I am His servant, and that until He shall
summon me to His side I will help His pilgrims to cross the River of
Death.”
From henceforth this was his work. He had no time to wonder when his own
call would come, for day and night there arrived at the banks of the
river pilgrims from every clime, and, since few had courage to face the
dark waters alone, he crossed and recrossed it continually. In order
that he might be always at hand, he built himself a rough log-hut by the
waterside, and here he made his home.
One night when the waves rolled fiercely and the wind blew high, Offero
laid him down to sleep. Surely, he thought, no one would dare to cross
in such a storm. His eyes had scarcely closed, however, when he heard a
knocking at the door.
“Who are you?” he cried as he threw it open. There was no answer, and by
the light of his lantern he saw a wistful child on the river-bank. He was
staring down at the rushing waters with piteous dread, but the tone of
his voice was clear and firm as he turned and spoke to Offero.
“I must cross to-night,” he said. Offero looked at him with deep
compassion.
“Poor child!” he murmured, “I am glad I heard you. With a tide like this
it will be difficult even for me, giant as I am, but you would be swept
away.”
With gentle hands he placed the boy on his shoulder, and bidding him not
to fear, set out for the opposite shore.
He had not overestimated the difficulties he had to face. Time after time
he was beaten backward, and the icy waters nearly engulfed them both.
It took all his strength to bear up against them, and the weight of the
child seemed greater than that of the heaviest man he had ever borne.
When at last he climbed the steep, high bank, he was bruised as well as
breathless, for the hidden rocks had worked him grievous harm.
“Tell Christ——” he panted. And then he saw that the figure beside him was
not that of a little child, but of a radiant Being of kingly mien, with
a crown of glory on His brow. The giant knelt before Him, and the Vision
smiled.
“I am the Christ,” He said, “whom thou hast served so long. This night
thou hast borne Me across the River of Death.… Thou didst find Me a heavy
burden, for I bore the sins of the world.”
Then He named Giant Offero “Christopher,” meaning “He who has carried
Christ,” and took him to dwell with Him in His Heavenly Kingdom.
PRINCE IVAN AND THE GRAY WOLF
By Lillian M. Gask
In a far-off land surrounded by snow-capped mountains, and watered by
rivers that flowed swiftly down to the sea, dwelt a mighty tsar. His
people loved as well as feared him, for the glance of his eagle eye was
very kind, and he was ever ready to listen to their pleas for help or
justice. When he rode abroad on the great white horse that was shod with
gold, they flocked to bless him, and throughout the whole of his wide
dominion there was not one discontented man, woman, or child. He had
no foes to trouble him, since rival monarchs knew full well that their
troops would be dispersed like mist in sunlight before the charge of his
victorious army, and his three sons, Dimitri, Vasili, and Ivan, were all
that a father could desire. Yet the good tsar’s brow was clouded as he
walked in his garden, and from time to time he uttered a deep sigh.
This garden was his greatest pride. In days gone by the forests had been
rifled of their most splendid trees that they might spread their shade
over the rare and lovely flowers that travellers brought him from every
part of the globe. The perfume of his million rose trees was carried on
the wind for fifty miles beyond the palace, and so wonderful were their
colors that the eyes of those who beheld them were dazzled by so much
brilliance. There were the gorgeous orchids which, in order that the
garden of their beloved tsar might be the most beautiful in the world,
men had risked their lives to obtain, and every imaginable kind of fruit
hung in tempting clusters from the drooping boughs of the trees. To look
at them was to make one’s mouth water, and the sick folk in his kingdom
shared with the tsar the pleasures of taste and touch.