If you walk on the high road between Bonn and Godesberg which is not
far distant, you perceive on the left side, shimmering white amid the
green woodland, a high pillar crowned with a cross known as the "High
Cross."
It is a pleasing sight to him who passes by on a bright day; but in
the twilight its glaring white contrasting so sharply with the dark
back ground, makes a dismal impression on him, which is still more
enhanced by the legend told about it.
The story leads us back to the time when instead of the grey ruins, a
proud stronghold near Godesberg looked down into the wonderful valley
of the Rhine. An old knight lived there, who was well known far and
near for his bravery and generosity. His beloved wife had died,
leaving him two sons.
The elder was the very image of his mother in body and mind; he had
gentle childlike manners, and it was therefore natural that the
father's eye rested with more pleasure on him than on the younger son
who was very daring, and in spite of his youth had already gone after
strange, and not always honourable adventures. Yet the old father did
not grieve much on his account, hoping that the sooner the reckless
youth emptied his cup of pleasure, the sooner he would come to the
bitter dregs. Then like others he would surely become more serious,
and would yet fulfil the longing desire of his late mother. She had
fervently wished to see him when a man adorned with St. Mathern's
ring, which the bishops of Cologne wore, while Erich, the elder,
should become lord of Godesberg Castle.
The father's thoughts lingered with pleasure on the pleasant prospects
of his sons' future. He sent up many a fervent prayer to heaven for
the fulfilment of his desires, well knowing that the spirit of his
beloved wife supported him at the throne of the Almighty with her own
supplications.
The old knight often spoke to his younger son about his vocation in
life, but always observed with disappointment that his son avoided any
allusion to the subject.
When the father felt his death approaching, he imparted once more his
wish to his two sons, that the elder should become master of the
castle, and the younger, bishop of Cologne. With a blessing for them
on his lips, he closed his eyes for ever.
His death was sincerely deplored by all the poor people of the
neighbourhood.
* * * * *
Some time after the two brothers sat as usual in the high
banqueting-hall of Godesberg. It was a very dismal meal, for they sat
opposite to each other, the elder with reproachful looks, the younger
with knitted brows.
"I only took what the ancient law of my fathers bestowed upon me,"
said the elder mildly but firmly, in answer to some harsh words of his
companion. "I am not master, but only manager of the family
possessions. All our ancestors whose pictures look down on us in this
hall would curse me, if I did not take good care of their legacy. But
you, my dear brother, will receive a higher gift than a castle. You,
the offspring of a noble race, shall become a worthy servant of our
Saviour."
"Never!" burst forth the younger one in passionate eloquence "never
will I bow my neck to an unjust law that compels one to take up arms,
and another meekly to accept a monk's cassock. If they offered me now
a bishop's ring or a cardinal's hat, I would not become a priest, I
shall remain a knight."
The elder brother listened sorrowfully to this headstrong speech. "May
God, whom you thus blaspheme, enlighten your dark heart. I would
willingly share with you whatever I possess, but our father's will
forbids it. Therefore bend your proud neck humbly, and beware of the
judgment that will fall on him who despises the will of his dying
father."
* * * * *
Hunting horns and trumpets sounded through the green forest which
extended at that time from the town of Godesberg to the gates of Bonn.
This huge wood abounded in noble game.
The two brothers were indulging together in the pleasures of the
chase, as they had done so often in their father's life-time. Count
Erich had gladly accepted his brother's invitation to accompany him.
He was only too glad to see how his dark mood had changed in the last
few days and given way to greater cheerfulness. It appeared to Lord
Erich as if his brother had come to reason, and after all had made up
his mind to fulfil their parents' wish. He believed all the more in
the happy change when he heard that his brother intended presenting
himself to the Archbishop of Cologne, in order to deliver a letter of
great importance from his late father to him.
Count Erich's heart was glad. He roamed joyfully through the forest,
and his gladness seemed to increase his good luck in the sport.
Several gigantic boars were pierced through by a spear sent from his
hand. A deer also met with a similar doom.
The younger brother's success was on the contrary very meagre. His
hand was unsteady and his whole bearing betrayed restlessness. A
strange subdued fire gleamed in his eyes.
While he was following the trail of a mighty boar, Count Erich met him
and offered to pursue the animal in his company.
They hunted through thorns and thicket, accompanied by the yelping
hounds. Suddenly the foliage rustled, and the boar was seen to break
wildly through the bushes. A spear from the younger brother whirred
towards the beast, but missed its aim and remained sticking in the
bark of an oak.
"Your hand is more fit to bless pious Christians," said Count Erich
with a smile.
"But still fit enough to rid me of an inconvenient brother!" muttered
the younger brother between his teeth, and tearing his hunting knife
rapidly from his belt, he plunged the two-edged steel into his
brother's breast. A terrible cry at the same time rang through the
forest, and the murderer fled in haste.
Two attendants of the Count who were hunting close by, hearing the cry
came running to see what was the matter, and found Lord Erich lying in
his blood, dying. They bent down over him to see if they could help
him, but alas! it was too late. The man, mortally wounded, was beyond
the reach of human aid. With a last effort he opened his lips,
muttered lowly but audibly the words, "My brother!" then sank back and
closed his eyes for ever.
The terrible news that the Lord of Godesberg had been foully murdered
by his own brother, spread swiftly through the country. Mourning again
filled the castle on the mountain, when they carried the body of the
poor slain man to his untimely grave. They buried him in the family
vault next to the recent grave of his father.
From that time the castle stood desolate. The next relative of the
noble family, who lived in a lovely part of the Rhine valley near the
Palatinate, avoided a place where such an unheard of crime had been
committed. Only an old man kept watch in the empty castle. But even he
was soon compelled to leave it. One night the high tower was struck by
lightning and the whole building burnt down. Nothing remained but
blackened ruins, looking mournfully on the gay landscape beneath.
* * * * *
Years went by after this crime. Nobody heard or saw anything of the
murderer. He seemed to have totally disappeared. Some people however
whispered that on the day of the black deed, a man was seen fleeing
from the forest of Godesberg. He was pale and ghastly looking, and
darted off, not caring which way he went. It was he who on the
previous day had fostered in his burning brain the longing desire to
take possession of his brother's heritage, and now he was a murderer,
and bore Cain's mark on his forehead.
The unfortunate youth had rashly contrived this hellish plan to rid
himself of his brother and to become lord of Godesberg. His plan was
to kill him while hunting, and then make the people believe that he
had aimed at a boar and hit his brother accidentally instead. But when
his victim sank down in agony, the knife dropped from his murderous
hand, his courage failed him, and he felt himself driven from the wood
as if chased by a demon.
After many years had come and gone, a tired wanderer once knocked at
the door of the cloister of Heisterbach, which had been erected by St.
Benedict's pious disciples in a remote valley of the Seven Mountains.
The man who desired admission looked more like a beggar than a
pilgrim. His garments hung torn and ragged round his thin body, and
his face was deeply furrowed by marks of long and cruel suffering.
"Have pity on me," said he in a trembling voice, "I come from the Holy
Sepulchre, my feet will bear me no further." The door-keeper was
moved, and retired to inform the Abbot of the poor man's request. He
received permission to bring him in. When the beggar appeared before
the Abbot, he fell on his knees and renewed his demand for food and
rest. For some moments the monk looked penetratingly at the man before
him, then a sign of recognition passed over his face, and he cried
out. "Good heavens! is it you Sir Knight?" The pilgrim trembled,
prostrated himself before the Abbot, and embraced his knees in
overwhelming grief. "Have mercy on me," exclaimed he, "it was I who
twenty years ago slew my brother in the forest of Godesberg. During
twenty long years I tried to atone for my cursed deed and obtain
forgiveness and peace. As a pilgrim I cried for mercy at the grave of
him whom I murdered; as a slave of the Infidels, under the weight of
heavy chains I prayed incessantly for God's mercy, but I cannot find
peace. Three months ago the fetters were struck from my hands, and I
have again come home, weary unto death. You, oh worthy Abbot, have
known me from a child. Let me rest within the walls of this cloister,
that I may daily see the castle where I was an innocent child. I will
pray and do penance until death releases me from my wretched life."
The Abbot felt intense pity for the unhappy man. He bent down, laid
his hands on him, and blessed him.
* * * * *
For many years the poor penitent remained in the cloister trying to
atone for his crime with fervent prayers and hard penance. At last God
in His grace called him away, and the repenting sinner died hopeful of
Heaven's forgiveness. The monks buried him in a shady place in their
cloister garden.