It was about the middle of the fifteenth century.
The shadows of death hovered above the holy City of Cologne. A strange
figure in dark garments hurried with quick steps through the streets
and lanes. It was the plague. Its poisonous breath penetrated into
cottages and palaces, extinguishing the lives of many thousands.
The grave-diggers marked innumerable houses with a black cross, to
warn the passers-by that the destroying angel had entered there. The
roll of the dead rose to such numbers that it was impossible to bury
them all in the customary manner. Therefore the bodies of the
unfortunate people were thrown together into a common grave, covered
only scantily with earth and marked with a plain wooden cross.
Woe and sorrow thus filled the old City of Cologne.
On the New-market, close to the Church of the Apostles, in a splendid
mansion, the rich Magistrate, Mengis of Aducht lived. Wealth could not
save his house from the dreadful epidemic, his youthful and lovely
wife, Richmodis, was seized with the plague and died. The grief of her
lord was boundless. He passed the whole night by the remains of his
beloved spouse, dressed her himself in the white wedding gown she had
worn as a happy bride a few years before, decorated the coffin with
sweet white flowers, and covered her with the precious jewels and
costly rings she had loved so much. Then she was buried.
Night approached, and the clear starry sky looked peacefully down on
the afflicted town.
Perfect stillness prevailed in God's acre.--Suddenly a jarring sound
like the opening of an old rusty lock was heard, and two dark shadows
glided among the graves, on and on till they stopped before the fresh
mound which enclosed the body of Richmodis of Aducht.--Those two knew
the spot, and well they might, for they were the grave-diggers, and
had prepared this grave themselves on the previous day.
They were present when the lid of the coffin was screwed down, and had
with hungry looks coveted the glittering precious stones Richmodis was
to be buried with.
Now they had come to rob the dead body. With spade and shovel the
wreaths and flowers were quickly removed from the mound, the earth dug
up, and the coffin laid bare. In feverish haste, spurred on by their
greed, they burst the lid open, and the dim light of their lantern
fell full on the mild pale face of the dead woman. With haste the
bolder of the two wretches loosened the white waxen hands folded
together as in prayer, and tried to tear off the rings.
Suddenly the body quivered, and the white hands spread out. Aghast
the robbers dropped their tools, scrambled in utmost terror out of the
grave, and fled as if chased by the furies.
A painful long sigh rose from the depth of the grave, and after some
time the white form of Richmodis who had been buried alive, emerged
from the tomb.
With wide open eyes, full of horror, she looked down into the ghastly
bed she had just left.--Could it really be true, or was it only a
frightful dream?
God's acre was silent, but for the rustling of the autumn leaves of
the weeping willows. Stillness of death everywhere!--No answer came to
her faint cry for help.--The horror of her situation however wakened
her declining strength. She took up the lantern which the robbers had
left behind them and with feeble steps reached the entrance of the
churchyard.
The streets were desolate. The stars overhead alone perceived the
slowly moving form, every now and then resting against the walls of
the houses.--At last she reached the New-market and stood before the
door of her home. Dark and quiet it seemed. But from the window in the
magistrate's room a faint light shone forth. A quiver ran through the
frame of the poor wife, and a wild longing desire seized her to be
sheltered by his loving arms and to feel in his embrace that she had
really returned to life again.
With a last effort she seized the knocker, and listened with newly
awakened hope to the tapping sound which rang clear through the night.
A few minutes elapsed. Then an old servant peeping out of the window
in the door, perceived the white ghostly figure of his late mistress.
Horror seized him, his hair stood on end. Richmodis called him by his
name and begged him to open the door. At the sound of her voice the
old man started, ran upstairs, dashed into his master's room uttering
incoherent sounds, and stammering: "O Lord, the dead rise; outside
stands our good Mistress and demands entrance!" But the Magistrate
shook his head in deep grief: "Richmodis, my beloved wife is dead and
will never return, never, never," he repeated in unspeakable sorrow;
"I will rather believe that my two white horses will burst from their
halters in the stable and mount the stairs to the tower."
A terrible sound suddenly filled the quiet house, a noise like thunder
was heard, and Mengis of Aducht and his servant saw the two white
steeds tearing and tramping in haste upstairs.
A moment later two horses looked out of the tower windows into the
night, and shortly afterwards the Magistrate laughing and crying with
joy at the same time, held in his arms his wife who had returned from
the grave.
For many years Richmodis lived happily with her husband, surrounded by
several lovely children. Deep piety remained the motive power of
Richmodis' being, and nobody ever saw her smile again.
If you come to Cologne, reader, you will still see the old house of
the Aduchts at the New-market, with two white wooden horses' heads
looking out of the top window.