to himself, as the workmen from his mines crowded into the hall.
“Woe be upon us all, master!” they cried, “where is thy lady? She is
not to be found in the castle, and but an hour ago, as we were leaving
our work to go homewards, we saw a white figure, that wore her face,
though not her garb, glide past us and reach the mouth of the ‘Silver
Nail’ shaft. And we followed after in fear; but as we approached,
before any one could reach it, the white figure cast itself down the
shaft. Then we were affrighted indeed, and the foremost of us went
down, fearing to find a shattered form at the bottom, but there was
no one--no, not a sign, though we searched with care. But strange
sounds rang through the mountain, master. And we came up again, and
hither in haste, to see if perchance she were dead and we had seen her
wraith--but nowhere in the castle halls or woods can she be found.”
Nor, indeed, was Eruna ever found again; and, what is more, from the
day that the white woman leaped down the shaft, no more ore was found
in the “Silver Nail” mine, and though it still bears that name, no
silver has again been found there to this day. But Joseph wandered
away, distraught with grief, into the mountains; nor could any one
prevail upon him to return again to the castle, but he continued to
wander, seeking for his vein of lost silver, till he met his death by
a fall from one of the mountain precipices, leaving behind him, as the
only tokens of the riches so dearly bought, a ruined castle, and the
forsaken shaft of the “Silver Nail.”
XIV
A DOUBTING LOVER
[Illustration]
Upon a lofty crag, overhanging the river Weistritz, in Eastern Germany,
stand the ruins of the Kynsburg. Once it was a splendid castle, and
many an assemblage of noble knights and ladies, and many a gay revel,
were held within its walls. It had its guardian spirit, too; for the
tale went that an apparition, called by the castle-folk “the white
lady,” often wandered by night through hall and garden, and most of
all when some maiden of the house of Kynsburg needed help. So it had
been, they said, when a daring and cruel knight once waylaid a daughter
of Kynsburg as she passed alone at even along the corridor. For this
knight had cast his eyes upon the maiden, who was beautiful, and had
urged her to give him her love, but she denied it him; and so he would
fain have won by foul means what he could not get by fair ones. But
this maiden had, from her childhood, loved to hear of the “white lady,”
and to fancy she was under her protection, and many a prayer had she
said in the castle chapel for the repose of her soul. And now, in the
hour of need, she called upon her, and at once the mysterious white
figure appeared; and while the reckless knight fell upon his knees in
terror, the closed doors of the corridor silently opened, and the girl
fled through them to a place of safety. But next morning the knight was
found lying dead upon the floor.
This was the story that was handed down from generation to generation
among the folk of Kynsburg, and Adelheid, the beautiful daughter of the
house, had often listened to it with eager ears, and had longed in her
turn to see the “white lady,” and invoke her help.
For Adelheid, too, had her trouble, though it was hard to see how
any, save one person, could mend it. And that person was not the
“white lady,” but the knight, Bernhard von Haugwitz, whom Adelheid had
secretly loved ever since she first saw him ride by to the hunt, in all
the splendour of his youth and noble bearing. But she had no certainty,
nor much hope even, of her love being returned, though sometimes, to
be sure, she caught his eyes fixed upon her as earnestly as though he
would have read her very soul, so that it needed all the pride that
her blood and her upbringing had taught her, to help her to hide
her agitation. And just at the time I tell of, the knight was at the
castle, for the lord of Kynsburg was giving a great feast to celebrate
the beginning of the autumn hunt; and all the nobles of the country,
far and near, were gathered together for it. Many of their wives and
daughters had come with them, too, so that the castle was overflowing
with guests and merriment, and little time left for Adelheid to brood
over her own thoughts. Yet even now she would sometimes draw aside
from her young companions, as they paced the gardens or the terrace
together, for she hoped that the knight would come and seek her out for
a few moments alone, as he had done once or twice before. But he came
seldom, and her heart grew heavier each day.
If only she could have known! If only she could have read that proud
and secret heart, and seen how it was filled with love for her, which
gloomy fears and doubts alone kept silent! For Bernhard von Haugwitz
was not the cheery, hopeful being that his years and his fortune should
have made him. Bitter experience and sorrow had already overshadowed
him, and shaken his trust in his fellow-creatures, and his belief in
the happiness of life. He would not, so he told himself, again stake
everything upon the love of a woman; he hesitated to pluck the fruit,
for fear it should leave a bitter taste behind. And this though his
heart was wrung for longing after Adelheid’s love, and pity, too, for
her; for he knew that she loved him, and that her life was consuming
away for his sake; nor had he any good reason to fancy that her love
was not pure and faithful.
He thought upon it as he sat with his companions round the great oaken
table in the castle hall; the gold and silver flagons passed from hand
to hand, but he let them go by untasted; songs and jesting sounded
merrily on every side, but he did not heed them; the present scene
faded from his sight, and he saw only the tall figure in the white,
gold-embroidered garments, and the wistful eyes gazing into his, as he
had seen them that evening, when he stood for a moment beside Adelheid
in the dusky hall. As he mused he felt his resolution weakening, and
swore that he would flee from the temptation to which he would not give
way. Why not now, at once, without seeing her again? for a meeting
might give rise to words and looks that could only increase his pain
and remorse in the future. What had he to do with these carousing
knights, whose thoughts were far from his own? He would slip out and
look for his page; then the horses should be saddled forthwith, and
they would be up and away. He rose and went out through the ante-rooms
to the terrace of the castle, glad to let the night-wind lift his hair
and cool his throbbing brow.
The stars shone bright above the opposite hills and sparkled in the
river below. A little breeze whispered in the branches of the poplars;
it was as though the trees talked together. A strange feeling of
expectation was in the air; could it be only that he was looking
upon this spot for the last time? Something moved beside him in the
shadow--he turned, and saw that a tall white figure stood beneath the
poplar-trees. He strained his eyes through the dark--surely he could
not be mistaken, it was the maiden he loved and was leaving for ever.
“Adelheid,” he called almost in spite of himself, “is it thou? Then bid
me farewell.”
[Illustration: Yet even now she would sometimes draw apart from her
young companions, as they paced the gardens or terrace together.]
The figure moved, as though making a sign of assent, and beckoning with
her hand, glided on under the trees. He followed, scarcely knowing what
he did. Onward along the winding paths the figure hurried, and now came
out upon the open space before the castle, where stood the old well,
overshadowed by a spreading lime-tree. Here the light from the windows
fell in patches upon the flags; and before Bernhard had time to reach
the fleeting white form, he saw it cross the streaks of light, and
with a quick movement, spring upon the worn stone margin of the well.
He dashed forward, but too late. With a despairing wave of the white
hands, the figure had plunged into the deeps below.
Bernhard stood for an instant motionless with horror; then he roused
himself and rushed toward the castle, raising an alarm. “Help, help!”
he cried; “the Lady Adelheid ... the well!” His tongue refused to utter
anything more; he stood gasping, and clinging to the pillars of the
gateway, while a horrible sense of remorse and hopeless desolation
began to stir in his heart. In the castle all was dismay and confusion;
in an instant the knights and serving-men flocked out with torches,
ropes, and ladders. The cries of Adelheid’s mother rose above the
shouts of the men, and from the woods beyond the terrace came trooping
the band of white-robed maidens.
“What is it?” asked one and another as they hurried along.
“Adelheid,” was the answer, “Adelheid has fallen down the well.”
“Adelheid!” repeated the maidens in astonishment. “Nay, she has been
with us, yonder; she does but linger behind.”
And as the group parted, Bernhard beheld Adelheid, a flush of surprise
upon her cheek, coming towards him down the line of eager, questioning
maidens. The tide of sorrow which had gone nigh to drown his soul,
turned to a flood of great joy, which swept every fear and doubt away.
He sprang forward and cried, as he fell at her feet--
“Oh love, my love! that I thought by my folly to have lost! But thanks
be to Heaven, who in the fear of the loss hath made certain to me the
joy of the gain! Here, before all men, I own my love, too long hidden,
and offer thee my heart and my life.”
So, in all the company, the brief moment of sorrow was turned to sweet
rejoicing, and most of all in the hearts of Bernhard and Adelheid, who
never to their lives’ end had any need to regret the events of that
mysterious night.
So soon as she heard the story, and that no one else was missing from
the castle, Adelheid felt sure she knew who the mysterious lady had
been; it was the “white lady” of her dreams and fancies, the guardian
of the maidens of Kynsburg, who had thus found a way to end her long
uncertainty. But the question was not so easily answered for the rest
of the company, and some doubting spirits insisted that the well should
be explored. Blazing torches were lowered into its dark, silent depths,
and long poles thrust down to sound it; but nothing was discovered, and
the glare of the torches showed only the damp, moss-grown walls and the
calm face of the slumbering water.
So the story was proudly added to the annals of Kynsburg, and since
then many peasant youths and maidens have been quite sure that the
“white lady” watches over their love-affairs, and that they have seen
her wandering by night in the woods of the castle, and beside the old
well.
XV
A LEGEND OF WALPURGIS-NIGHT
[Illustration]
There was once a young fellow who dwelt near the Brocken, and he had
won a lovely maiden for his bride. He thought himself a lucky man, but
then he did not know that both the girl and her mother were witches.
Now one evening he tarried very late at his bride’s house, and could
not guess why she and her mother were so eager to send him away, for
generally the maiden was loth to let him go; and he did not know that
this was Walpurgis-night, the great meeting-time of the witches. Yet
he grew suspicious, and after he had bidden his dear “good-night,” he
hid himself in the hay-loft, for he half expected to see another man
creep up for a stolen meeting with his sweetheart, and was ready to fly
at his throat. But, instead of this, he beheld mother and daughter step
into the hay-loft alone, and the mother held in her hand a strangely
shaped glass. There they stood in the middle of the barn, and spoke
strange words, and drank from the glass, when lo! on a sudden they had
disappeared.
Now this tore the bridegroom’s heart with dread and foreboding, and
he determined to follow them. So he came from his hiding-place, and
took up the glass they had left behind. A few drops of red, fiery
liquid still remained in it. Then the lad went out and plucked a
garland of dragon-wort, which he wound round about him, to preserve
him from witchcraft; and after he had done this, he boldly drank all
that remained in the glass, repeating the same words that he had heard
his sweetheart use. And behold! in the twinkling of an eye, he found
himself on the Brocken, in the midst of the magic circle among the
rocks, where the witches meet.
[Illustration: The company was arriving in great numbers.]
Jagged peaks and giant fir-trees, with boughs bent crooked by the
breath of the storm-wind, rose on every side, and here and there,
on the rocks, huge fires were burning. The company was arriving in
great numbers, and the bridegroom was astonished to see how many
of his neighbours and familiar acquaintance came riding up, some
on pitchforks, some on goats, cats, or geese. His lovely bride was
there, riding pillion behind her mother on the hay-fork that had been
lying beside him in the loft. He himself was sitting, he knew not
how, on a great hay-waggon, that was drawn to one side of the open
dancing-space, and he laid his wreath of dragon-wort so as to form a
kind of circle around him. Presently the oldest and fiercest among the
witches came swooping down upon him, riding a huge tom-cat. “Ah!” she
cried with a disappointed scowl, “curse thy hedge of dragon-wort, thou
interloper! ’Twould have gone ill with thee but for that!” The tom-cat
gave an angry spit, and the baffled witch pulled him round by the
whiskers, and rode away into the dance. For the dance had begun, fast
and furious, so that the lad could hardly see which way the frantic
creatures bounded and pranced; and all the while there was a terrible
being with horns upon his head, who moved about and directed the
festivities. And what was the bridegroom’s dismay when this fearful
being came towards him, and looking up with a jeering expression, said:
“A bridegroom should have a merry heart, and thou art not here only
to stare and be idle, I take it. I know thee well enough for a fine
cornet-player; here, catch hold of this instrument, and help to play
for our dance.”
With that he threw up a splendid new cornet into the waggon, and the
bridegroom was fain to take it, and join in with the other players,
who, hidden among the rocks, where he could not see them, were filling
the air with a burst of music. Now the bridegroom could not help
agreeing with the opinion expressed about his playing, and so for
some time he played on, not a little pleased with himself, upon the
beautiful cornet.
But after a while the Terrible Being gave a sign, and music and dance
stopped at once. Then all the company stood silent, while he drew water
from the “witches’ well,” and poured it into the “witches’ basin,”
where the witches then had to wash themselves, while he sprinkled some
of the water, too, upon them.
While the bridegroom was watching this dread ceremony, he became aware
that his sweetheart had spied him out, and was gazing at him anxiously.
As soon as she caught his eye, she danced up, and whispered: “Dear
lover, come with me, and I will prepare a couch for thee, for thou must
be weary of this long, wild night.” He would have opened his lips to
scold her, but she touched them, and he was unable to say another word.
Then, taking him by the hand, she drew him, as he thought, into the
neighbouring thicket, where she showed him a downy feather-bed, shut
in by flowered curtains. “Creep in there,” she whispered, “and sleep;
but thy new cornet thou mayst keep as thy reward for playing so finely;
our master hath said so.” With this, she was gone, and he heard the
music and tumult of the dance break forth again, but presently a great
weariness overcame him, and he fell asleep.
When he awoke it was high noon, and he lay in a meadow close to his
home; the downy bed with thick curtains turned out to be the skeleton
of an old horse, which had lain mouldering in the fields, and between
the ribs of which he found himself wedged. The new cornet, too, proved
to be nothing but a dead cat, with a stumpy tail, which he had almost
chewed off during his fine musical efforts.
The bridegroom went home, seething with indignation, and bent upon
revenge. That very same evening he betook himself, armed with his
righteous wrath, to his sweetheart’s house, and began:--
“Wretched girl! what honest man can have any more to do with thee now?”
But in a moment the tables were turned, and he found himself in an
unexpected position. “Wretched!” cried she. “I? whom thou hast spied
upon, stolen a march upon, from whose magic glass thou hast dared
drink, and but for whose care thou wouldst have been crushed to powder
last night, thou foolhardy meddler!”
“’Twas not thou, but my dragon-wort, that saved me,” began the unlucky
fellow.
“Nonsense!” screamed mother and daughter, now both together. “Dost
think that could have availed thee at all had _we_ raised our voices
against thee? Nay, ’twas we who saved thee; and hadst thou not been
kept out of sight and put to sleep, thou couldst never have lived
through the terrible hour of the ‘witches’ sprinkling.’”
“At any rate,” complained the brow-beaten man, trying to keep up his
dignity, “I should have been warned it was a witch I was taking for my
bride. But it is time yet,” he added angrily, “and take such a bride I
will not--I will not, I say!”
“Warned!” shouted mother and daughter at once; “he, a common mortal,
_warned_ of the honour we did him in stooping to mate with his like!
Nay, ’tis plain he is only fit for one lot--a donkey’s! And a donkey he
shall be; let that be his punishment.”
So before the hapless bridegroom could defend himself, or take refuge
in flight, the magic words were pronounced, and he went forth, an ugly,
rough, braying donkey, a terrible example of man’s folly in attempting,
with however much right on his side, to argue with a witch--or a woman.
[Illustration: But in a moment the tables were turned, and he found
himself in an unexpected position.]
Down the road the poor donkey ambled, trying to express his deep sense
of injury by piteous brayings. Presently a neighbour heard him, and
though far from recognising in him an old comrade of the workshop
and the ale-house, he still had pity on him, and noticing, besides,
that he was a fine donkey, he drove him into a stall and put fresh
hay before him. But the donkey could neither eat nor drink, nor bear
to be put to work, so at last the farmer lost patience and drove it
out of his stable. And now the wretched donkey wandered about the
country, munching such dusty grass and thistles as he could find by the
wayside, but driven out of every green paddock as a useless beast,
and receiving more kicks than kind handling. At last, half starved and
hopeless, he determined to swallow his pride, and return to beg the
cruel witches for mercy.
Now, his bride had been thinking things over, on her side, since he had
been turned from her door in the shape of a donkey. She noticed that
the village-folk shunned her more of late, and besides, they had always
held a kind of suspicious attitude towards her and her mother.
What if the bridegroom should have let out the horrid truth, during
those few hours that he had spent in the village, after awaking from
his enchanted sleep? What if she should get no one else to woo her now?
So, when she saw the poor donkey appear beneath her window, with lean
ribs and drooping ears, her heart was quite prepared to be softened,
and she listened graciously to his bray of apology and repentance.
“Well, I will forgive thee this once,” she said, “on one condition, and
that is, that thou dost wed me within twelve hours of the time thou art
rid of thy donkey’s skin. If thou wilt promise this, I will tell thee
how to get back thy proper shape.”
The donkey went feebly down on his knees in the dust, and held up one
hoof, as a solemn sign that his promise was given.
“Listen, then,” said the little witch; “thou must watch for a child
to be christened in the village, and wait at the church door till the
water from the font is thrown out; if some only falls on thy back, thou
wilt be changed directly.”
The donkey threw up his hoofs in glee, and trotted off to the village.
It was a long time before any christening took place; never had there
seemed such a scarcity of births before. But at last the donkey heard
that the son and heir of his old friend the farmer was to be christened
the following Sunday, and he watched eagerly for the party to go to
church, and return again, and then for the beadle to come out upon the
porch and empty away the water from the font. When at last he did so,
the donkey stood right in his way. “Get away, foolish beast,” called
the beadle; but the donkey did not budge. “What care I?” the beadle
thereupon angrily exclaimed, and threw the whole pan of water over the
donkey’s back. He nearly fell to the ground when he saw his old friend
the bridegroom, who had so long been missing, standing in the donkey’s
place; but the young fellow gave him a golden crown to hold his tongue,
and trump up some tale about his having been away on a journey, and he
firmly believed ever after that the beadle had done so.
Then the bridegroom hurried to claim his bride, and keep his promise,
which was not so very hard after all, for she was a pretty bride, and
one only had to forget that little matter of the Brocken, and take
care to sleep sound on every future Walpurgis-night. But she kept him
in order--“For, mind,” said she, “if ever thou dost treat me to any
foolish behaviour, back into the donkey’s skin thou shalt go again, and
this time every one shall know of it.”
XVI
SEEKERS AFTER GOLD
[Illustration]
Among those mountains of Saxony known as the Obererzgebirge, once
famous for their silver-mines, there lived, nearly three hundred years
ago, a man named Ran, who was overseer of the mines of Schneeberg. Now
many among his workmen tried to win the favour of overseer Ran, not
only because he was master of the works, but because of his only child,
his beautiful daughter Gretchen. Her loveliness and her sweetness were
the talk of the country, and every young man in Schneeberg fancied
himself ready to jump down the shaft of the mine for her sake, if it
were required of him. This, however, was not what Master Ran needed.
He was a grasping man, and the constant handling of precious metal
seemed to have increased his thirst for riches. So he was determined
that lovely Gretchen should be a mine of wealth to him, all the more,
perhaps, that the other mine with which he had to do was no longer
as prosperous as it had been. There were general complaints over the
quantity of “blind ore,” as the people called it, that had lately been
found--worthless stuff, that did not repay smelting. This misfortune
was said to be due to the “silver-thief,” or “Kobold,” a wicked little
dwarf that was supposed to haunt the mountain, and draw the silver down
out of the quartz as the workmen approached. At any rate, the failure
of the mine, whoever was to blame for it, was like to bring poverty
among the folk of Schneeberg, and Ran was all the more anxious to
secure riches for himself and his child against that evil day. So he
let it be known that the man who could produce the largest bag of gold
in all the district, should have the beautiful Gretchen to wife.
“Let those who would get her seek,” said he, “for it is well known
there is plenty of gold in these mountains for any who have wit to find
it, and courage to risk something in the winning of it.”
Now here was a gauntlet thrown down. Every one knew that the overseer
must be speaking of the mysterious treasures hidden under trees and in
caverns by the dwarfs, and other mountain-spirits; and at the ale-house
of an evening, when the men were gathered together, every one had
some tale to tell of people who had tried to “lift” these wonderful
treasure-pots, or who had been befriended by the dwarfs.