The joyful calm which came over Sintram on this day appeared to be more
than a passing gleam. If too, at times, a thought of the knight Paris
and Helen would inflame his heart with bolder and wilder wishes, it
needed but one look at his scarf and sword, and the stream of his inner
life glided again clear as a mirror, and serene within. “What can any
man wish for more than has been already bestowed on me?” would he say to
himself at such times in still delight. And thus it went on for a long
while.
The beautiful northern autumn had already begun to redden the leaves of
the oaks and elms round the castle, when one day it chanced that Sintram
was sitting in company with Folko and Gabrielle in almost the very same
spot in the garden where he had before met that mysterious being whom,
without knowing why, he had named the little Master. But on this day
how different did everything appear! The sun was sinking slowly over
the sea, the mist of an autumnal evening was rising from the fields
and meadows around, towards the hill on which stood the huge castle.
Gabrielle, placing her lute in Sintram’s hands, said to him, “Dear
friend, so mild and gentle as you now are, I may well dare to entrust to
you my tender little darling. Let me again hear you sing that lay of the
land of flowers; for I am sure that it will now sound much sweeter than
when you accompanied it with the vibrations of your fearful harp.”
The young knight bowed as he prepared to obey the lady’s commands. With
a grace and softness hitherto unwonted, the tones resounded from his
lips, and the wild song appeared to transform itself, and to bloom into
a garden of the blessed. Tears stood in Gabrielle’s eyes; and Sintram,
as he gazed on the pearly brightness, poured forth tones of yet richer
sweetness. When the last notes were sounded, Gabrielle’s angelic voice
was heard to echo them; and as she repeated,
“Sing heigh, sing ho, for that land of flowers,”
Sintram put down the lute, and sighed with a thankful glance towards the
stars, now rising in the heavens. Then Gabrielle, turning towards her
lord, murmured these words: “Oh, how long have we been far away from
our own shining castles and bright gardens! Oh, for that land of the
sweetest flowers!”
Sintram could scarce believe that he heard aright, so suddenly did he
feel himself as if shut out from paradise. But his last hope vanished
before the courteous assurances of Folko that he would endeavour to
fulfil his lady’s wishes the very next week, and that their ship was
lying off the shore ready to put to sea. She thanked him with a kiss
imprinted softly on his forehead; and leaning on his arm, she bent her
steps, singing and smiling, towards the castle.
Sintram, troubled in mind, as though turned into stone, remained behind
forgotten. At length, when night was now in the sky, he started up
wildly, ran up and down the garden, as if all his former madness had
again taken possession of him; and then rushed out and wandered upon
the wild moonlit hills. There he dashed his sword against the trees and
bushes, so that on all sides was heard a sound of crashing and falling.
The birds of night flew about him screeching in wild alarm; and the
deer, startled by the noise, sprang away and took refuge in the thickest
coverts.
On a sudden old Rolf appeared, returning home from a visit to the
chaplain of Drontheim, to whom he had been relating, with tears of joy,
how Sintram was softened by the presence of the angel Gabrielle,
yea, almost healed, and how he dared to hope that the evil dreams had
yielded. And now the sword, as it whizzed round the furious youth, had
well-nigh wounded the good old man. He stopped short, and clasping
his hand, he said, with a deep sigh, “Alas, Sintram! my foster-child,
darling of my heart, what has come over thee, thus fearfully stirring
thee to rage?”
The youth stood awhile as if spell-bound; he looked in his old friend’s
face with a fixed and melancholy gaze, and his eyes became dim, like
expiring watch-fires seen through a thick cloud of mist. At length
he sighed forth these words, almost inaudibly: “Good Rolf, good Rolf,
depart from me! thy garden of heaven is no home for me; and if sometimes
a light breeze blow open its golden gates, so that I can look in and see
the flowery meadow-land where the dear angels dwell, then straightway
between them and me come the cold north wind and the icy storm, and the
sounding doors fly together, and I remain without, lonely, in endless
winter.”
“Beloved young knight, oh, listen to me--listen to the good angel within
you! Do you not bear in your hand that very sword with which the pure
lady girded you? does not her scarf wave over your raging breast? Do you
not recollect how you used to say, that no man could wish for more than
had fallen to you?”
“Yes, Rolf, I have said that,” replied Sintram, sinking on the mossy
turf, bitterly weeping. Tears also ran over the old man’s white beard.
Before long the youth stood again erect, his tears ceased to flow, his
looks were fearful, cold, and grim; and he said, “You see, Rolf, I have
passed blessed peaceful days, and I thought that the powers of evil
would never again have dominion over me. So, perchance, it might have
been, as day would ever be did the Sun ever stand in the sky. But ask
the poor benighted Earth, wherefore she looks so dark! Bid her again
smile as she was wont to do! Old man, she cannot smile; and now that
the gentle compassionate Moon has disappeared behind the clouds with her
only funeral veil, she cannot even weep. And in this hour of darkness
all that is wild and mad wakes up. So, stop me not, I tell thee, stop me
not! Hurra, behind, behind the pale Moon!” His voice changed to a hoarse
murmur at these last words, storm-like. He tore away from the trembling
old man, and rushed through the forest. Rolf knelt down and prayed, and
wept silently.