Time rolled on. Spring had vanished and the sheaves were ripening in
the fields. Where the river reaches the end of the Rhine valley
crowned by the Seven Giants, a knight with his horse stopped to rest.
Far away in the south, where the valley of Ronceval lies bathed in
sunshine, he had lain in the hut of a poor herd. There the faithful
squire had dragged his master pierced by a Moorish lance. The bold
hero and leader had remained for weeks and months on his sick-bed
struggling with death, till the force of his iron nature had at last
conquered. Roland was recovering under loving care, while they were
mourning him as dead in the land of the Franks. Then having recovered,
he hurried back to the Rhine urged by an irresistible longing.
A wooded island lay in the deep-blue waters. The setting sun threw a
golden light over the hills; numberless vineyards flanked the
mountains, hedges of beeches were on one side, the murmur of waters
on the other, and above the pinnacles of a knight's castle among the
legendary rocks where once a terrible beast lived, over all the
heavens clothed with a garment of silver stars.
Silently the knight paused, his glance resting admiringly on the
beautiful picture. Now as in months before an inexplicable feeling of
sweet sadness came over the dreamer.
"Hildegunde!" murmured Roland, glancing up at the starry heavens.
Again as formerly a boatman rowed across the stream, and Roland soon
was striding through the forest towards the Drachenburg, accompanied
by his faithful squire.
The old watchman at the castle stared at the late guest, and crossing
himself, he rushed up to the chambers of his master. A man's figure,
bent with age and sorrow, tottered forward. "Roland!" he gasped forth.
The knight supported the broken-down old man in his arms. When Roland
had departed long ago, his grief had found no tears; now they flowed
abundantly down his cheeks.
The knight tore himself from the other's arms. "Where is she?" he
asked in a hoarse voice, "dead?" Count Heribert looked at him with
unspeakable sorrow. "Hildegunde, bride of Roland whom they supposed
dead, is now a bride of Heaven."
The hero groaned aloud, covering his face with his hands.
In spring he left the Drachenburg and went to the castle on the rocky
corner, and there he laid down his arms for ever; his thirst for
action was quenched. Day by day he sat over there, looking silently
down on the green island in the Rhine, where the nun, Hildegunde,
wandered about among the flowers in the convent garden every morning.
Sometimes indeed it seemed that she bowed kindly to him, then the
knight's face would be lighted up with a gleam of his old happiness.
But even this joy was taken from him. One day his beloved did not
appear; and soon the death-bell tolled sorrowfully over the island. He
saw a coffin which they were carrying to its last resting-place, and
he heard the nuns chanting the service for the dead, he saw them all,
only one was wanting ... then he covered his face. He knew whom they
were carrying to the grave.
Autumn came, withering the fresh green on Hildegunde's tomb. But
Roland still kept his watch, gazing motionlessly at the little
churchyard, and one day his squire found him there, cold and dead, his
half-closed eyes turned towards the place where his loved one was
sleeping.
For many a century the proud castle which they called Rolandseck,
crowned the mountain. Then it fell into ruins, like the mighty
Drachenburg, the tower of which is still standing. Fifty years ago the
last arches of Roland's castle were blown down one stormy night, but
later on they were built up again in memory of this tale of true and
faithful love in the olden times.