How Sir Folko spoke with a strange man in a churchyard.
This year the snow had begun earlier than usual to cover the mountains,
and made the road through them, if not impassable, at least dangerous;
so that Blanchefleur and Gabrielle found themselves obliged to spend
the winter in Milan, a necessity, however, to which they might indeed
submit without a murmur; for in that happy country the face of nature
is always clothed in smiles; and, besides, there was in a town so rich
and prosperous no want of entertainments worthy to be noticed even by
such high-born damsels.
It came to pass, however, that Gabrielle and Sir Folko had their days
of pleasure and jollity interchanged by others of melancholy and
apprehension. For though in that eventful night at the emir’s castle
Gabrielle had been surprised into a confession of her love, yet, during
her sea-voyage afterwards, her beautiful lips had been sealed up,
partly from shame at having spoken so rashly, partly because she feared
the mockery of Theobaldo and the Count Vinciguerra, who were then
always present. Thereby Sir Folko and Gabrielle had become in outward
demeanour as if estranged from each other; in their hearts, however,
they had all the while grown more and more indissolubly united; so
that the knight would have felt himself truly happy, had it not been,
that one terrible thought still lay upon his mind; he had betrayed the
confidence of his noble friend, Sir Otto von Trautwangen. Therefore,
in the chevalier’s heart, scarce even the buds of inward joy could
sprout forth, far less spread into full luxuriance; and oftentimes, as
they sat together in Milan, his eyes would wander from the beautiful
countenance of Gabrielle to the marble monuments of a neighbouring
churchyard. There he felt better and more tranquil in mind; for he
found that death reconciled all differences, and that even the injured
Sir Otto could not be angry with him, when all that remained was but
a skeleton mouldering in the earth, and above it a marble monument,
with the inscription, “=Cy git Messire le tres haut et tres puissant
Chevalier de Montfaucon=.”
Thus, when he was one day wandering amid the turf mounds of the
churchyard, he found sitting on one of them, which was overgrown with
weeds and rank grass, a man in the extremity of old age, whose very
eye-brows were snow-white, his eyes far sunk and dim, and with a long
hoary beard that reached down to his middle. Besides, the stranger
seemed thoughtful and stern of mood, so that he might even have
inspired fear and suspicion, had it not been for the deep shades of
melancholy and misfortune that also lay on his features.
Sir Folko stood gazing respectfully at the old man, when the latter
suddenly drew from his bosom somewhat that shone and sparkled, though
the knight could not distinguish properly what it was; and, thereupon,
raising his arm, began to describe strange figures in the dusky evening
air. As he continued thus as it were to write upon the fields of empty
space, Sir Folko reflected, shuddering, whether the old man had not
just then become the victim of madness, when, behold! there entered at
the north gate of the churchyard, a tall figure, magnificently attired
as a warlike knight. It seemed to the chevalier that this figure had
been already known to him, and he was about to draw nearer; but the
strange knight had a severe and woebegone countenance; moreover, he
seemed almost as old as the other who sat upon the grave, before whom
he walked up and down two or three times, and then vanished behind
some tall monuments that stood hard by. “’Tis well,” said the old man,
for the first time breaking silence; “now thou hast shewn thyself in
thy proper shape, and I shall not fail to know thee again.”--Then,
turning towards the grave, he added, “But as for thee,--sleep thou in
peace;--the sacrifice that is due to thy just revenge shall not be
wanting, even if I should pledge mine own soul’s weal on the venture.”
Hereupon it seemed almost as if a low sound of weeping and lamentation
was heard from the grave. “Then,” said the grey-haired man, “full well,
dearest mother, do I know what thou would’st have. Thou art indeed
too kind-hearted, and thou art grieved for the punishment that awaits
him;--but my just vengeance must be wreaked. Besides, wherefore else
should I be in possession of the ring?”
Watching all these occurrences, the Knight of Montfaucon felt an
irresistible chilness and horror steal upon his heart; but, as it often
happens to noble minds, instead of being thereby repulsed, he was
the more determined to inquire into this mystery. Therefore he went
up sternly to the old man and said, “What seek’st thou in this holy
ground, thou wicked enchanter, and wherefore would’st thou disturb the
peace of the grave?” “She who sleeps here,” said the old man, lifting
up his melancholy eyes, “has been laid too soon into her dark and
narrow bed. Those who are thus forced, ere they were weary of life,
into the house of rest, seldom find sleep therein; therefore it is not
my presence that can disturb her. But I pray you leave me in peace,
and let me deal with the dead according as I deem it fitting; for,
to say the truth, your visit here is unwelcome.” De Montfaucon stood
irresolute, not knowing whether he should obey that strange warning,
or whether it were not his duty to oppose here some vile schemes of
enchantment, such as those by which he had been tormented by Theobaldo.
“Was then the sleeper in this grave so well known to you?” said he to
the old man. “How should I not know her?” answered the stranger; “she
was to me a kind and affectionate mother.” “And for her sake you would
now wreak vengeance, old man?” said Sir Folko; “or perchance I had not
understood your words; for whoever has committed acts of injustice
against the parent of one so old as you are, must long since have been
numbered with the dead; and to wreak vengeance on children for the sins
of those from whom they derived their birth is an act of stern justice,
which it belongs only to the Almighty to fulfil, whose decrees are to
mankind unsearchable.” “That crime, however, is not so long past as you
suppose,” answered the stranger; “for the guilty man yet lives, and
will indeed continue to live until my arm has reached him. To me that
meeting cannot be less unwelcome than to him, but many a one creates
for himself his own punishment; and did not the noble Roman of old put
to death even his own father in the capitol? For thee, sir knight, thy
presence here to-day is both useless and troublesome, and should’st
thou not think fit to retire from my presence, I then shall retreat
from thine.”
Thereupon, with unexpected rapidity, he rose and strode away to the
gate of the churchyard, and it suddenly occurred to Sir Folko, that
this must be Theobaldo in one of his magical transformations; nay,
he thought that when the stranger waved his hand as he scornfully
retreated, there shone on his finger the wonder-working ring of
Gabrielle.