Katrina watched the little party as they went in at the great door
leading to the entrance hall. And her friend, just before she
disappeared from view, having turned, had seen Katrina standing out
there in the sunshine of the court and had waved a farewell to the
child. Then the door closed with a heavy sound and the little one
realized she was all alone. A strange lump rose in her throat and her
blue eyes filled with tears; but she knew that to have kept her promise
was the right thing to have done, so, throwing back her head, she
laughed away the desire to cry.
Some impulse seemed to turn her steps down toward the castle gates.
She walked across the court, past the bench where she and Fritz had
sat together, on beyond the Knight’s House with its memories of Martin
Luther, until she reached the rosebush--the same bush from which she
had gathered the crimson blossoms for the lady.
In her disappointment--for it was indeed a disappointment not to
see, after all, the castle of her dreams--Katrina felt a longing for
friendly sympathy, and something seemed to tell her that she would find
it here. So, after choosing a shady spot, the child sat down in the
soft grass, the breath of roses all about her, and some of the velvet
petals touching her cheek like a gentle caress.
“I’ll love you more than I ever did before,” Katrina whispered, as
she bent even closer to the blossoms. “The lady called you ‘the roses
of Saint Elizabeth,’ and she told me that in the castle I would see a
picture of Saint Elizabeth carrying roses just like you to the poor,
sick people. My dear _mütterchen_ told me about her, too; she said she
was so beautiful and good, and that she lived in this same castle where
we are living now. Oh,” Katrina added with a sigh, “if I only knew more
about her I’d be so glad!”
[Illustration: “_The breath of roses all about her_”]
“Little friend,” whispered a low, sweet voice close to Katrina’s ear,
“I can tell you a great deal about Elizabeth, and I am glad that you
wish to know her story.”
Katrina, startled and surprised, looked all about her; but not a person
could she see.
“Oh,” she said as the thought came to her, “it must be the same voice
that spoke to Fritz and me last evening.”
Yet, even as she said it, Katrina could not but feel that they were not
the same. That voice had been deep and full and rich; this was as soft
and as sweet as the tenderest notes of a harp.
“You do not know, my little friend, that it is the Breath, or Spirit
of the Rose that is speaking to you. Now hearken, and I will tell you
something about Saint Elizabeth, and her life of loving service.
“Once upon a time,” the Rose began, “there lived here at the Wartburg
a Landgrave by the name of Herman. Now Herman, who was a good man,
ruled his people well, and they loved him very dearly. Known far and
wide as a patron of learning and the arts, especially of music, wise
men, poets, and musicians were frequent visitors at his court. It was
from some of these he had learned that to King Andrew of Hungary and
his wife, Queen Gertrude, had been given a little daughter, and her
birth had brought great blessings in its train. For, as was told of
her, in the year she was born, wars in her country had ceased, the
harvests were never so bountiful, and all evil seemed in great measure
to disappear from the land. Not only was she good, but so unusual was
her beauty that all rejoiced at sight of her.
“On hearing these things about the little girl it is said that Herman
exclaimed: ‘Would to God that this fair child might become the wife of
my son Ludwig!’
“In a short time,” the Rose continued, “Herman sent ambassadors to the
King of Hungary to ask for the little princess for his son, and it is
said that King Andrew received them royally. All were laden with gifts,
and when they returned, bringing the little princess, it required over
a dozen wagons to convey the priceless treasures which King Andrew
sent to the Landgrave and his wife Sophia. There were beautiful jewels
and richly embroidered stuffs from the Orient, besides many other
things of value. On the tiny Elizabeth her father had bestowed a cradle
and a bath of pure silver, most strangely and beautifully wrought; also
robes of finest texture exquisitely embroidered in gold, and several
noble women of the court to serve as her attendants.
“On her arrival at the Wartburg, the little princess met with great
rejoicing, and on the following day was betrothed to Prince Ludwig
with solemn ceremony. From the first moment the two children seemed to
love each other, and every one predicted for them a happy and blessed
marriage. Even as a tiny child Elizabeth gave strong evidence of her
goodness, charity, and compassion for the suffering. To the little
children round about, she gave away food and clothes and toys--the poor
of Eisenach soon became her special care.
“Two years after Ludwig was created a knight down there in St. George’s
Church, he and Elizabeth were married. Three days of feasting followed
their wedding, then the young couple went to make a visit at the court
of Elizabeth’s father in Hungary. Ludwig was then in his twentieth
year and Elizabeth was just fifteen. He was tall and fair; while she
possessed the richer, darker beauty of her race and country.
“Her life, even then, was one of pure unselfishness, and she seemed to
have no fancy for the glitter of the court. She preferred to live in
the simplest manner possible, and, often exchanging her apparel for
that of the plainest sort, would go on her errands of mercy among the
sick and the poor.
“One day, however, when Ludwig was entertaining some royal guests, he
requested Elizabeth to attire herself ‘as became his wife and the lady
of his love.’ So she, obedient to his wish, called her maids about
her, and let them clothe her in her royal robes--‘her tunic of green
and gold tissue, her tiara confining her dark tresses, and over her
shoulders her embroidered mantle lined with ermine.’
[Illustration: “_She beheld ... a wretched beggar, shivering with
cold_”]
“Arrayed in this rich apparel, Elizabeth was about to cross one of
the open courts when she beheld prostrate on the pavement a wretched
beggar, shivering with cold and weakened by disease and hunger. She
paused, and, obedient to her divine impulse which had ever gone out to
the suffering, she removed from her shoulders her royal mantle and laid
it upon the shivering beggar. Then she retired to her own apartment,
wondering how she could excuse herself to her husband. At that moment
Ludwig himself came in, and throwing herself into his arms, Elizabeth
confessed what she had done.
“While her husband stood irresolute,” the Rose went on to say, “for
he did not know whether to praise or blame her for the deed, her maid
Gunta came into the chamber, the royal mantle on her arm.
“‘Madam,’ she said, ‘in passing the wardrobe I found this hanging in
its place. Why has your Highness disarrayed yourself?’ And once more
she clasped the royal mantle on the shoulders of her mistress.
“Then Ludwig and Elizabeth went forth, their hearts overflowing with
gratitude and wonder. And when Elizabeth appeared before the guests,
they arose and stood amazed at her beauty, which had never been so
dazzling, ‘for a glory that was more than human seemed to play around
her form and the jewels on her mantle sparkled with a celestial light.’
“Again, one day,” the sweet voice continued, “when Elizabeth was
ministering to her poor at Eisenach, she found a little child cast out
by the rest because he was a leper, and for this reason none would
touch him or even come into his presence. She, moved with pity, took
the loathsome little body in her arms, carried him up the steep hill
to the castle, and laid him on her bed. All who were in the apartment
hurried away, and reproaches were heaped upon her. Ludwig was absent
at the time; but soon his horn was heard outside these gates, and
hastening to him, his mother, the Princess Sophia, told him what
Elizabeth had done. The husband, impatient on hearing that his wife
had taken in her bed a little, leprous child, rushed into the room and
snatched away the coverlid. ‘But behold, instead of the leper there lay
a radiant infant with the features of the new-born Babe in Bethlehem;
and while they stood amazed, the vision smiled and vanished from their
sight.’
“This miracle,” the soft, harplike voice went on to say, “is one of
the most beautiful of the many legends of Saint Elizabeth, and recalls
those sacred words: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these
my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”
With the breath of roses all about her, and the velvet petals so near
that she could touch them, the child had listened eagerly to these
stories of Saint Elizabeth. Then when the Rose fell silent there came
to Katrina’s mind those words which the lady had spoken but a little
while before. She recalled how, holding up a blossom, her friend had
said that it was beautiful because deep down in its own inner nature
there was a beauty which the flower but obeyed. And now, as this
thought wove itself like a thread of gold through those stories of
Elizabeth and her life of love, Katrina began to understand what her
friend had meant.