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Perched upon a high cliff which overhung the mouth of a mighty river,
stood the castle of the Baron von Hoche, and beneath it, in a little
harbor sheltered by the huge rocks stretching into the water on either
side, lay the boats in which the baron with his crew of ruffians used
to attack and plunder all vessels which tried to pass up or down
the river; so that after a while, no ship thought of attempting the
passage, unless it was armed with sufficient force to beat off the
pirates, who would be sure to assail it.
Other times, the baron and his troop would mount their horses, and,
swooping down the road which led to the plains below, would pounce upon
unwary travellers or rich trains of merchandise, and force them to
give up all they had of value. In short, the Baron von Hoche and his
followers were so wicked and so bold that the whole country trembled
when only his name was mentioned.
A little distance below the castle stood the hut of old Hans the
fisherman, who dwelt there alone with Fritzchen, his little son; and
thither came, one Christmas morning, a servant from the castle, with a
message that the baron would make a great feast that night, and that
Hans must supply twice the amount of fish, which he carried daily to
the castle as Reiter-malle or black-mail, with which to purchase the
baron’s protection and good-will.
So Hans, bidding Fritzchen follow him, went down to the shore, and,
loosing his little boat, spread the tattered sail, and set out for
his favorite fishing-ground. All day Hans and Fritzchen, fearful that
they were wrong in laboring even at the command of their master, upon
the birthday of the Lord Jesus, sung hymns and anthems, and repeated
pious sentences from good books which they had heard read in the
convent chapel, where they sometimes went; and this pious conduct had
its reward, for the fish, crowding to the boat to hear the holy music,
were taken in crowds, and it was hardly more than noon when Hans again
hoisted his ragged sail and turned his boat’s head homeward.
“Now, my Fritzchen,” said he, as they landed, “here are more fish than
the baron bade us bring, or than they can use; so we will take out four
for ourselves, and will make a little Christmas feast of our own.”
“Good, dear father!” said Fritzchen. “And let me take out this great
turbot, the finest of the whole load, and carry it to the convent, that
the good fathers may add it to their feast to-night. The baron will
then have three times as many as we carry him every day.”
“But, my Fritzchen, it is far to the convent, and the ground is covered
deep with snow,” said the father anxiously.
“Oh, that will not hurt me.” said Fritzchen skipping about; “I shall
run so fast that I shall keep myself warm, and the way will seem so
short that I shall hardly start before I reach there.”
“Go, then, good child,” said the old man, fondly patting the boy’s
shoulder. “But first carry this fish to the castle, with our humble
duty and Christmas greeting.”
So Fritzchen, taking the great sack of fish upon his shoulder, trudged
away to the castle, where he went to the kitchen to leave his load.
Here he found old Brigitta, the housekeeper, fuming round and scolding
everybody, because she had so much work to do. Fritzchen, cap in hand,
laid his sack of fish upon the floor and gave his father’s message.
“Yes, yes, a merry Christmas to idlers like you, who have nothing to do
but catch a few miserable fish, it may be,” said the cross old woman.
“But for me, who have the whole castle on my shoulders, and no one to
do a hand’s turn to help me;--but, there now, why can’t you go, my
Fritzchen, to the town and buy the candles?” pursued the old woman,
changing to a wheedling tone as a new thought crossed her mind.
“The candles, ma’am?” asked Fritzchen.
“Yes, child; we have not more than half candles enough to illuminate
the castle, and the baron has ordered that every window shall blaze
to-night; so go you to the town and buy me a dozen pounds, and you
shall have three pennies for yourself to buy a Christmas-box.”
“Yes, indeed, ma’am, I will go; and I can go to the convent on the
way,” said the boy, gayly.
“And what do you go to the convent for?” asked the dame curiously.
“To carry a great fish to the fathers for their Christmas supper,” said
Fritzchen simply.
“And get your pay in Aves and Paters, eh?” said the dame, with a sneer.
“I’ve seen enough of priests, if they’re all like old Father Boniface,
who drank himself to death here last year at Whitsuntide. Well, here’s
your money, and mind you get me the best candles, and be sure to get
home before dark.”
“I will be as quick as I can, ma’am,” said Fritz sorrowfully, for it
grieved him to hear any one slight the good fathers, whom he loved, and
who had been so kind to him.
Running home for the fish, he told his father hurriedly of his errand,
and that he should be later home than he expected; but old Hans
promised to have supper all ready without his help, and bid him haste
away.
So Fritzchen with the fish at his back, and a great piece of black
bread in his hand for dinner, set out, whistling merrily as he ran over
the snowy ground.
Arriving at the convent, he left his great fish with the kitchener,
who, besides thanking him, gave him his blessing and a beautiful
picture of the Virgin Mary all dressed in a blue gown with a red mantle
and a green scarf wound about her head. The picture was in a little
wooden frame, and Fritzchen thought that surely nothing else in the
wide world could be one half so fine or valuable.
His picture under his arm, the little boy ran on to the town, which
was still half a mile off; and there, having bought dame Brigitta’s
candles, he spent his three pennies; one in buying two little rolls
of white bread to add to their Christmas supper, and the rest for two
small candles of yellow wax, with which he said to himself he would
illuminate their cottage in honor of the holy Christmas night. Then
Fritzchen turned his face homeward and hurried along, now running,
now walking, but always singing,--with his mouth when he had breath,
and with his heart when he had not,--until he reached the foot of the
cliff, and began to climb the steep pathway leading to the castle of
the robber-baron.
But here, half way up the ascent, he paused, shuddering with fright and
astonishment. The servants were just beginning to light up the windows,
and while the great square keep, which formed the centre of the castle,
frowned in black and sullen shadow, the two wings--one of which was
the great banqueting-hall, and the other the neglected and ruined
chapel--were in a blaze of light.
But this was not what had so startled Fritzchen. The banqueting-hall,
where already the guests were assembled, was illuminated not only by
the lights within, but by a lurid, deep-red cloud, or mist, which,
falling lower and lower, seemed about to swallow it altogether; beneath
the cloud, brooding indeed on the very roof-tree of the hall, hovered
a huge, bat-like figure, black as midnight, who, slowly flapping his
great wings, seemed to draw with them the lurid cloud ever nearer and
nearer.
The chapel, too, was illuminated in otherwise than by Dame Brigitta’s
candles, for over it and around it shone a soft, clear light, white
and pure, by which Fritzchen could see a beautiful silver-white dove,
clinging to the roof, and seeming, with the gentle motion of its wings,
to create and retain the heavenly radiance which surrounded it. In the
east, toward which the chapel wing pointed, rose the calm, pure moon
from out the sea; but in the west, opposite the banqueting-hall, great
angry thunderclouds were gathering sullenly and slow,--but rising,
always rising.
Fritzchen stood long looking at these strange appearances, not
daring to approach any nearer to the castle, and once he turned to
run homeward; but just then he remembered that he had promised Dame
Brigitta to buy her candles, and had taken the money which she had
given him for doing so. He remembered, too, the words which his father
had often repeated to him,--
“God and duty first--self last.”
So, keeping his eyes upon the ground, he rapidly approached the castle,
and went round the chapel-end (though the path lay the other side) to
the kitchen door, gave his parcel to one of the maids without speaking,
and then, never looking behind, ran toward home as fast as his legs
would carry him.
Old Hans was ready with the supper, and so merry and full of jokes and
laughter, that Fritzchen would not tell him what he had seen, lest it
should sadden him, and spoil his little holiday.
So, while Hans, proud of his cookery dished the smoking fish and placed
them on the table, Fritzchen lighted his candles, and placed one before
the picture of the Holy Virgin, and the other in the one window of the
hut, that its light might ascend gratefully toward heaven.
At the castle, meantime, all was noisy mirth and rude merriment. The
baron, sitting at the head of his long table, with his retainers and
their wives, with a few guests of their own stamp ranged down either
side, ate and drank, laughed, sung, and swore by turns; and each man
present, thinking to flatter his humor, ate, drank, laughed, sung, and
swore likewise, till the sound of their rioting and their blasphemies
shook the very roof above them, close to which now clung the lurid
cloud, hiding the bat-like demon, who, brooding closer and closer to
the roof-tree, leaned over now and again to glare with great red eyes
through the unshuttered windows at the mad revellers within.
“More wine--more!” shouted the baron every moment; and the old butler
was forced to make so many journeys from the hall to the cellar and the
cellar to the hall, that he had not time to drink more than six bottles
to his own share, and grumbled loudly at the hardships of such a life.
But at last the baron, in the very midst of a horrible oath, dropped
his head upon the table, and sunk into a heavy, drunken sleep. Many of
the others followed his example, and for the rest old Peter did not
care; so, muttering to himself “‘Every dog shall have his day,’ and mine
comes now,” he took a candle from the table and descended once more to
the cellar, locking the door behind him, lest he should be interrupted.
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“The best, the oldest and the best,” muttered he, staggering around
among the casks and bottles. “I won’t live such a dog’s life for
nought,--I will have my pleasure too, when I get a chance.” Talking
in this way to himself, the butler suddenly came upon a dim old cask
standing under an arch in the western wing of the castle, and so
concealed that he had not noticed it before.
“Aha! what have we here?” muttered he, stooping, and putting his auger
into the wood near the bottom of the cask. “Some rare old vintage,
I’ll be bound, that’s been hid away here ever since the castle was
a convent,--we’re not much like a convent now, I think. Saint Jude!
what stuff have we here?--droll wine this,” added he, as a stream of
something black and shining followed the auger when he drew it out.
Full of curiosity, he stooped to examine it. Just then a terrific peal
of thunder rocked the cliff to its foundation; at the same instant a
blinding bolt shot from roof-tree to cellar,--and, in another moment,
butler, castle, and revellers were blown altogether hundreds of feet
into the air.
The terrible noise of the explosion wakened both Hans and Fritzchen;
but, too much terrified to rise or look out, they only clung the closer
to each other, and said over and over all the prayers that they knew.
At last, an hour after every thing was still, they timidly rose,
and, holding fast by each other’s hand, crept to the door and looked
out. All about the little hut lay great stones, beams, and fragments;
but not the smallest pebble had touched the humble roof, on which now
perched, surrounded by its pure, soft light, the silver-white dove.
“The castle, father! the dove has left the castle!” cried Fritzchen.
“Come and see what has befallen it.”
Still hand in hand they hastened up the cliff. On its summit stood
nothing but cold, gray walls, roofless and desolate, through whose
empty window places the setting moon cast long, mournful beams, while
overhead the gloomy thunderclouds were breaking and rolling away in
great masses.
Hans and Fritzchen stood long looking at the ruin, but neither spoke;
and presently they silently turned, and, reëntering the little
hut, over which still clung the bright cloud--although the dove had
flown--they trimmed the little candles which yet burned with a clear,
steady light, and, having once more murmured a prayer, lay down and
again slept sweetly and calmly.
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