Before Fritz left the courtyard, he stopped beside the bench where
he and Katrina had been sitting. The hope was strong in him that he
might hear the voice again; for there was one question he wished to
ask. And while he stood there, hoping to realize his wish, he watched
the shadows as they crept over the mountains, then into the valley far
below. Only faintly now could he discern the white pathway that wound
over the nearest hill, then down into the Marienthal.
Suddenly, Fritz gave a start of pleasure; the voice was speaking in
those same rich accents.
“So you are looking down there at the Singers’ Way. That is the name of
the white path you see, glistening against the dark green background in
the valley yonder.”
“Yes, I know it well,” said Fritz. “My father has taken Katrina and me
to walk there very often. When we felt tired we’d rest on the Singers’
bench far away at the end, and father would tell us of the minstrels
who used to sing at the castle long ago,--how, when weary with the
journey, they, too, would stop and rest on that same seat.”
“But have you never seen the splendid Minstrels’ Hall, where the bards
who visited the Wartburg in the olden days would sing and play their
harps?”
“No, I have never been inside the castle. Katrina hasn’t been allowed
to go, and I am waiting until we can visit it together.”
“Ah, then you have yet to see the great hall where they held the famous
minstrel contest, which has passed into song and story.”
“I’d like truly to have you tell me about this contest,” was Fritz’s
answer. “Then when we visit the Minstrels’ Hall I can repeat the story
to Katrina.”
“Very well,” the voice responded. “When you and your little friend
enter the great room, you will see a slightly raised platform. This is
called the ‘bower,’ and it was here that the singers performed their
parts when they came before the landgraves and their distinguished
company. Now the famous contest of which I am about to tell you took
place in the time of the good Landgrave Herman.
“At Herman’s court were a company of poets of good birth, the chief of
whom were Wolfram of Eschenbach and Henry of Ofterdingen. This Henry
of Ofterdingen has figured in many a romantic story, and some have
confused him with Tannhäuser, another bard, who lived at a later date.
“Once upon a time,” the voice went on, “when the good Herman and his
wife Sophia, with all their court, were gathered in the Minstrels’
Hall, the singers, one by one, recited the deeds of the Landgrave
Herman. But when it came to the turn of Henry of Ofterdingen he sang
praises to the Duke of Austria, and compared him with the shining
sun. Thus begun, the contest waxed so fierce that it was agreed the
conquered should be put to death. Only by foul play could the other
minstrels worst Henry of Ofterdingen. He, seeing their intentions,
appealed to the Landgravine Sophia for protection. Out of pity the
noble princess shielded him, but gave him his freedom on one condition
only. He must go to Austria, and, in a year’s time, return, bringing
with him as arbitrator the world-renowned master of song, Klingsor of
Hungary.
“Ofterdingen, glad to escape, hastened away to Austria, and sought
the duke whom he had lauded in his songs. The latter received him
graciously, and, besides enriching him with costly gifts, gave him a
letter to Klingsor, who dwelt in his splendid, but solitary, castle in
the Seven Hills.
“To the surprise of every one, Henry of Ofterdingen, accompanied by
Klingsor, appeared before the Wartburg at the appointed time. Now
this Klingsor was an astrologer, who professed to foretell events by
reading them in the stars. And on the first night of his coming to the
Wartburg, he was found seated outside the castle, gazing attentively
at the starry sky. On being asked why he sat looking at the heavens,
Klingsor replied:
“‘Ye must know that this night a daughter is born to my master, King
Andrew of Hungary. She will be called Elizabeth, and lead a saintly
life; furthermore, she is to be wedded to the young prince Ludwig, son
of the Landgrave Herman; and the whole world, but especially Thuringia,
will be blessed with her goodness.’
“The Landgrave Herman, to whom the news was carried, was filled with
joy, and ordered that a great banquet be held in Klingsor’s honour.
Then the contest, the trial of skill, with Klingsor in the lead,
began in earnest. It was not long until he succeeded in overcoming
all the opponents of Ofterdingen with the exception of Wolfram of
Eschenbach,--him he could not conquer.”
At this point the voice ceased speaking, and Fritz waited for several
moments, hoping it would resume the theme, but was disappointed.
“Why,” he asked at last, “could not the mighty Klingsor conquer Wolfram
of Eschenbach?”
Still there was no answer. But after a time the voice went on to say:
“As I told you and your companion, I have watched many generations come
and go. In fact, little has taken place here without my knowledge. I
possess, as I have said before, the greatest of all treasures.”
[Illustration: “_It was the Ivy which had spoken_”]
Then, all of a sudden, something seemed to rivet Fritz’s gaze upon
the rustling leaves of an old vine, which for centuries had hung upon
the castle like a rich, green mantle, and, to his bewilderment, Fritz
realized that it was the Ivy which had spoken.
But what it meant by saying that it possessed the greatest treasure
Fritz did not learn; for when he asked the question, the only sound he
heard was one that came up to him from out of the Marienthal--an echo
of his own words, “the greatest treasure.”