In the castle of Sir Biorn of the Fiery Eyes, Christmas-eve had not
passed so brightly and happily; but yet, there too all had gone visibly
according to God’s will.
Folko, at the entreaty of the lord of the castle, had allowed Gabrielle
to support him into the hall; and the three now sat at the round stone
table, whereon a sumptuous meal was laid. On either side there were
long tables, at which sat the retainers of both knights in full armour,
according to the custom of the North. Torches and lamps lighted the
lofty hall with an almost dazzling brightness.
Midnight had now begun its solemn reign, and Gabrielle softly reminded
her wounded knight to withdraw. Biorn heard her, and said: “You are
right, fair lady; our knight needs rest. Only let us first keep up one
more old honourable custom.”
And at his sign four attendants brought in with pomp a great boar’s
head, which looked as if cut out of solid gold, and placed it in the
middle of the stone table. Biorn’s retainers rose with reverence, and
took off their helmets; Biorn himself did the same.
“What means this?” asked Folko very gravely.
“What thy forefathers and mine have done on every Yule feast,” answered
Biorn. “We are going to make vows on the boar’s head, and then pass the
goblet round to their fulfilment.”
“We no longer keep what our ancestors called the Yule feast,” said
Folko; “we are good Christians, and we keep holy Christmas-tide.”
“To do the one, and not to leave the other undone,” answered Biorn. “I
hold my ancestors too dear to forget their knightly customs. Those who
think otherwise may act according to their wisdom, but that shall not
hinder me. I swear by the golden boar’s head--” And he stretched out his
hand, to lay it solemnly upon it.
But Folko called out, “In the name of our holy Saviour, forbear. Where I
am, and still have breath and will, none shall celebrate undisturbed the
rites of the wild heathens.”
Biorn of the Fiery Eyes glared angrily at him. The men of the two barons
separated from each other, with a hollow sound of rattling armour, and
ranged themselves in two bodies on either side of the hall, each behind
its leader. Already here and there helmets were fastened and visors
closed.
“Bethink thee yet what thou art doing,” said Biorn. “I was about to vow
an eternal union with the house of Montfaucon, nay, even to bind myself
to do it grateful homage; but if thou disturb me in the customs which
have come to me from my forefathers, look to thy safety and the safety
of all that is dear to thee. My wrath no longer knows any bounds.”
Folko made a sign to the pale Gabrielle to retire behind his followers,
saying to her, “Be of good cheer, my noble wife, weaker Christians have
braved, for the sake of God and of His holy Church, greater dangers than
now seem to threaten us. Believe me, the Lord of Montfaucon is not so
easily ensnared.”
Gabrielle obeyed, something comforted by Folko’s fearless smile, but
this smile inflamed yet more the fury of Biorn. He again stretched out
his hand towards the boar’s head, as if about to make some dreadful vow,
when Folko snatched a gauntlet of Biorn’s off the table, with which he,
with his unwounded left arm, struck so powerful a blow on the gilt idol,
that it fell crashing to the ground, shivered to pieces. Biorn and his
followers stood as if turned to stone. But soon swords were grasped
by armed hands, shields were taken down from the walls, and an angry,
threatening murmur sounded through the hall.
At a sign from Folko, a battle-axe was brought him by one of his
faithful retainers; he swung it high in air with his powerful left hand,
and stood looking like an avenging angel as he spoke these words through
the tumult with awful calmness: “What seek ye, O deluded Northman? What
wouldst thou, sinful lord? Ye are indeed become heathens; and I hope
to show you, by my readiness for battle, that it is not in my right arm
alone that God has put strength for victory. But if ye can yet hear,
listen to my words. Biorn, on this same accursed, and now, by God’s
help, shivered boar’s head, thou didst lay thy hand when thou didst
swear to sacrifice any inhabitants of the German towns that should fall
into thy power. And Gotthard Lenz came, and Rudlieb came, driven on
these shores by the storm. What didst thou then do, O savage Biorn? What
did ye do at his bidding, ye who were keeping the Yule feast with him?
Try your fortune on me. The Lord will be with me, as He was with
those holy men. To arms, and--” (he turned to his warriors) “let our
battle-cry be Gotthard and Rudlieb!”
Then Biorn let drop his drawn sword, then his followers paused, and none
among the Norwegians dared lift his eyes from the ground. By degrees,
they one by one began to disappear from the hall; and at last Biorn
stood quite alone opposite to the baron and his followers. He seemed
hardly aware that he had been deserted, but he fell on his knees,
stretched out his shining sword, pointed to the broken boar’s head, and
said, “Do with me as you have done with that; I deserve no better. I ask
but one favour, only one; do not disgrace me, noble baron, by seeking
shelter in another castle of Norway.”
“I fear you not,” answered Folko, after some thought; “and, as far as
may be, I freely forgive you.” Then he drew the sign of the cross over
the wild form of Biorn, and left the hall with Gabrielle. The retainers
of the house of Montfaucon followed him proudly and silently.
The hard spirit of the fierce lord of the castle was now quite
broken, and he watched with increased humility every look of Folko and
Gabrielle. But they withdrew more and more into the happy solitude of
their own apartments, where they enjoyed, in the midst of the sharp
winter, a bright spring-tide of happiness. The wounded condition
of Folko did not hinder the evening delights of songs and music and
poetry--but rather a new charm was added to them when the tall, handsome
knight leant on the arm of his delicate lady, and they thus, changing as
it were their deportment and duties, walked slowly through the torch-lit
halls, scattering their kindly greetings like flowers among the crowds
of men and women.
All this time little or nothing was heard of poor Sintram. The last wild
outbreak of his father had increased the terror with which Gabrielle
remembered the self-accusations of the youth; and the more resolutely
Folko kept silence, the more did she bode some dreadful mystery. Indeed,
a secret shudder came over the knight when he thought on the pale,
dark-haired youth. Sintram’s repentance had bordered on settled despair;
no one knew even what he was doing in the fortress of evil report on the
Rocks of the Moon. Strange rumours were brought by the retainers who
had fled from it, that the evil spirit had obtained complete power over
Sintram, that no man could stay with him, and that the fidelity of the
dark mysterious castellan had cost him his life.
Folko could hardly drive away the fearful suspicion that the lonely
young knight was become a wicked magician.
And perhaps, indeed, evil spirits did flit about the banished Sintram,
but it was without his calling them up. In his dreams he often saw the
wicked enchantress Venus, in her golden chariot drawn by winged cats,
pass over the battlements of the stone fortress, and heard her say,
mocking him, “Foolish Sintram, foolish Sintram! hadst thou but obeyed
the little Master! Thou wouldst now be in Helen’s arms, and the Rocks of
the Moon would be called the Rocks of Love, and the stone fortress would
be the garden of roses. Thou wouldst have lost thy pale face and dark
hair,--for thou art only enchanted, dear youth,--and thine eyes would
have beamed more softly, and thy cheeks bloomed more freshly, and thy
hair would have been more golden than was that of Prince Paris when men
wondered at his beauty. Oh, how Helen would have loved thee!” Then she
showed him in a mirror, how, as a marvellously beautiful knight, he
knelt before Gabrielle, who sank into his arms blushing as the morning.
When he awoke from such dreams, he would seize eagerly the sword and
scarf given him by his lady,--as a shipwrecked man seizes the plank
which is to save him; and while the hot tears fell on them, he would
murmur to himself, “There was, indeed, one hour in my sad life when I
was worthy and happy.”
Once he sprang up at midnight after one of these dreams, but this time
with more thrilling horror; for it had seemed to him that the features
of the enchantress Venus had changed towards the end of her speech, as
she looked down upon him with marvellous scorn, and she appeared to him
as the hideous little Master. The youth had no better means of calming
his distracted mind than to throw the sword and scarf of Gabrielle over
his shoulders, and to hasten forth under the solemn starry canopy of the
wintry sky. He walked in deep thought backwards and forwards under the
leafless oaks and the snow-laden firs which grew on the high ramparts.
Then he heard a sorrowful cry of distress sound from the moat; it was
as if some one were attempting to sing, but was stopped by inward grief.
Sintram exclaimed, “Who’s there?” and all was still. When he was silent,
and again began his walk, the frightful groanings and moanings were
heard afresh, as if they came from a dying person. Sintram overcame the
horror which seemed to hold him back, and began in silence to climb down
into the deep dry moat which was cut in the rock. He was soon so low
down that he could no longer see the stars shining; beneath him moved
a shrouded form; and sliding with involuntary haste down the steep
descent, he stood near the groaning figure; it ceased its lamentations,
and began to laugh like a maniac from beneath its long, folded, female
garments.
“Oh ho, my comrade! oh ho, my comrade! wert thou going a little too
fast? Well, well, it is all right; and see now, thou standest no higher
than I, my pious, valiant youth! Take it patiently,--take it patiently!”
“What dost thou want with me? Why dost thou laugh? why dost thou weep?”
asked Sintram impatiently.
“I might ask thee the same questions,” answered the dark figure, “and
thou wouldst be less able to answer me than I to answer thee. Why dost
thou laugh? why dost thou weep?--Poor creature! But I will show thee a
remarkable thing in thy fortress, of which thou knowest nothing. Give
heed!”
And the shrouded figure began to scratch and scrape at the stones till
a little iron door opened, and showed a long passage which led into the
deep darkness.
“Wilt thou come with me?” whispered the strange being; “it is the
shortest way to thy father’s castle. In half-an-hour we shall come out
of this passage, and we shall be in thy beauteous lady’s apartment. Duke
Menelaus shall lie in a magic sleep,--leave that to me,--and then thou
wilt take the slight, delicate form in thine arms, and bring her to the
Rocks of the Moon; so thou wilt win back all that seemed lost by thy
former wavering.”
Sintram trembled visibly, fearfully shaken to and fro by the fever of
passion and the stings of conscience. But at last, pressing the sword
and scarf to his heart, he cried out, “Oh! that fairest, most glorious
hour of my life! If I lose all other joys, I will hold fast that
brightest hour!”
“A bright, glorious hour!” said the figure from under its veil, like
an evil echo. “Dost thou know whom thou then conqueredst? A good old
friend, who only showed himself so sturdy to give thee the glory of
overcoming him. Wilt thou convince thyself? Wilt thou look?”
The dark garments of the little figure flew open, and the dwarf warrior
in strange armour, the gold horns on his helmet, and the curved spear in
his hand, the very same whom Sintram thought he had slain on Niflung’s
Heath, now stood before him and laughed: “Thou seest, my youth,
everything in the wide world is but dreams and froth; wherefore hold
fast the dream which delights thee, and sip up the froth which refreshes
thee! Hasten to that underground passage, it leads up to thy angel
Helen. Or wouldst thou first know thy friend yet better?”
His visor opened, and the hateful face of the little Master glared upon
the knight. Sintram asked, as if in a dream, “Art thou also that wicked
enchantress Venus?”
“Something like her,” answered the little Master, laughing, “or rather
she is something like me. And if thou wilt only get disenchanted, and
recover the beauty of Prince of Paris,--then, O Prince Paris,” and his
voice changed to an alluring song, “then, O Prince Paris, I shall be
fair like thee!”
At this moment the good Rolf appeared above on the rampart; a
consecrated taper in his lantern shone down into the moat, as he sought
for the missing young knight. “In God’s name, Sir Sintram,” he called
out, “what has the spectre of whom you slew on Niflung’s Heath, and whom
I never could bury, to do with you?”
“Seest thou well? hearest thou well?” whispered the little Master, and
drew back into the darkness of the underground passage. “The wise man
up there knows me well. There was nothing in thy heroic feat. Come, take
the joys of life while thou mayst.”
But Sintram sprang back, with a strong effort, into the circle of light
made by the shining of the taper from above, and cried out, “Depart from
me, unquiet spirit! I know well that I bear a name on me in which thou
canst have no part.”
Little Master rushed in fear and rage into the passage, and, yelling,
shut the iron door behind him. It seemed as if he could still be heard
groaning and roaring.
Sintram climbed up the wall of the moat, and made a sign to his
foster-father not to speak to him: he only said, “One of my best joys,
yes, the very best, has been taken from me; but, by God’s help, I am not
yet lost.”
In the earliest light of the following morning, he and Rolf stopped up
the entrance to the perilous passage with huge blocks of stone.