In the lofty cathedral of Spires stood a great assemblage of knights,
and on the throne near the altar sat Conrad der Staufe with his hands
resting on the hilt of his sword. All were listening intently to the
burning words of Bernard of Clairvaux who was describing the ruthless
manner in which the holy places of Palestine had been laid waste. As
the saintly preacher ended with a thrilling appeal to the religious
feelings of his audience, a great shout, "On, to Jerusalem!" rang
through the sacred edifice. Most of the knights offered to bring as
many followers as possible to aid their pious Emperor. Among those
present was Hans Brömser, the lord of the Niederburg at Rüdesheim.
This noble knight, the last of his race, was not detained at home by
family cares. His wife had early been taken from him by death, and
Mechtildis, the only offspring of their marriage, was left under the
protection of the neighbouring Falkenstein family.
So the pious warriors marched by devious and dangerous routes to that
land where Our Lord lived and suffered. In fierce battle with the
Saracens many a noble knight closed his eyes forever. Many met a
harder fate--a living death in the noisome prisons of the unbelievers.
After a lost battle Sir Brömser fell into the hands of the Turks, and
in a dungeon had to suffer shameful imprisonment. Sometimes they would
force their knightly foe to turn a millstone, while the crowd jeered.
Then, in the hour of deepest misery the knight made a vow to God.
"Give me my freedom again, and I vow that my child Mechtildis shall
devote her life to the Church." And he repeated the solemn words
again, and yet a third time.
Then happened what none of his companions-in-arms had ever hoped for.
The brave crusaders stormed this Turkish stronghold in the Syrian
desert, and liberated their fellow-crusaders from captivity. Full of
gratitude to God, Hans Brömser again fought valiantly in the holy
cause.
Meanwhile at home in the hospitable keep above the Rhine a maiden
awaited with anxiety the return of her father. Often in the silent
hours, with sweetness and sunshine around her, without and within, she
stood on the castle-wall and she saw in reverie that blue Eastern
land, whilst she listened to the wild throbbing of her young heart in
which the blossoms of first love were bursting.
Then one night her father returned to the Rhineland.
In the moss-covered courtyard of the castle Mechtildis embraced her
father long and silently. Beside the maiden, now in her seventeenth
year, stood the young lord of Falkenstein. The youth bowed deeply to
the lord of the Brömserburg, and greeted him kindly with the words,
"Welcome home, father!" Then the vow made in the Syrian prison rose
like a spectre to pall the joy of the crusader's return.
In the banqueting-hall of the castle a large company had assembled to
celebrate the happy return of Hans Brömser and his faithful
companions. The praise of the crusaders resounded and many stories
were told of the dangers the heroes had encountered. With stirring
words the knight related to his listening guests how he himself had
fought in the sacred cause, and how he had suffered imprisonment among
the heathen. Then in a lower tone, and with solemn words, he told his
friends of the vow he had made in his hour of deep despair in the
Syrian dungeon.
The painful silence which followed was broken by a stifled cry, and
the knight's daughter, pale as the covering on the festive board, sank
unconscious to the floor. With burning cheek and flashing eye the
young lord of Falkenstein rose, and with a firm voice exclaimed,
"Mechtildis belongs to me; she has solemnly given herself to me
forever." The murmur soon subsided before the stern countenance of the
lord of the castle. "Mechtildis has been dedicated to heaven, not to
you, boy. The last of the Brömser race has sworn it, and abides by
it." The knight said this with suppressed fury, and soon his guests
departed in silence.
Mechtildis lay in her chamber in wild grief. The flickering lamp
beside the crucifix threw an unsteady light on the extended form of
the maiden who was measuring the tedious night hours in the
love-anguish of her young heart. To the distracted maid her chamber
seemed to be transformed to an oppressive dungeon. Seizing the lamp
with a trembling hand she hurried up the narrow winding stair on to
the roof of the castle, and there committed her great grief to the
listening ear of night. Leaning on the wall, she looked away towards
the castle where lived the noble young lord to whom she had dedicated
her life. "I am thine, my beloved," she sobbed. No star was visible in
the sky. A wild autumn wind shrieked and swirled round the keep in
accompaniment to the storm in the maiden's breast. A short piercing
cry echoed in the darkness. Was it the bride of the winds or a human
cry? The night swallowed it. From the parapet of the Brömserburg a
female form had been hurled down into the dark floods of the Rhine
below.
A bright harvest morning followed a stormy night. In the Brömserburg
they were searching everywhere in vain for their lord's daughter. Soon
however a mournful procession approached bearing the mortal remains of
Mechtildis. In the early dawn a young woman had rescued the body from
the waters of the river. Now the walls of the Brömserburg echoed with
sounds of woe over the early death of this last fair young flower of
the Brömser race. Hans Brömser threw himself on the body and buried
his stern features in the snowy linen. Not a tear bedewed his eyelids.
As a propitiatory offering for the rest of the soul of the maiden who
had thus avoided the monastic life, the knight in his deep sorrow
vowed to build a chapel on the hill opposite his castle. Then Hans
Brömser shut himself up in his chamber, and passed the following days
in silent grief, while the grave closed over his wretched child.
Many months passed, but still not a stone of the promised chapel had
been set up. In the bitterness of his sorrow the grief-stricken father
had separated himself more and more from the world, and now brooded in
gloomy isolation. One day a servant came before him with a likeness of
the Mother of God which an ox had scraped up while ploughing a field
on the hill opposite the castle, and three times the servant declared
he had heard the "Not Gottes" (Suffering of God) called out. Then Hans
Brömser remembered his vow, and the chapel for the peace of the soul
of Mechtildis was erected. "Not Gottes" it is called to this day.