THE FLOWER OF ICELAND 142
THE SEA-FAIRY 172
THE FAITHFUL GOBLIN 201
THE FALLEN BELL 223
THE LAST HOME OF THE GIANTS 249
Illustrations.
PAGE
HELGA IN THE FAIRY KING'S PARADISE (p. 155) _Frontispiece._
FREDERICK TAKES LEAVE OF GELA 7
BARBAROSSA IN THE HOLY LAND 21
BARBAROSSA AND GELA IN THE KYFFHAeUSER 27
VRENELI IN KING LAURIN'S ROSE-GARDEN 32
KING LAURIN IN VRENELI'S COTTAGE 43
THE DWARF OF VENICE TAKES HIS DEPARTURE FOR HIS NATIVE LAND 54
HANS SEES KING LAURIN'S KINGDOM IN THE MAGIC MIRROR 63
HANS RECEIVES A HEARTY WELCOME FROM AN OLD FRIEND 92
HACO THROWS THE TREASURE OF THE NIBELUNGEN INTO THE RHINE 100
CHARLEMAGNE MEETS WITH KRIEMHILD 109
THE COUNTESS MATILDA RESTORES THE DWARF-QUEEN TO HEALTH 115
ECKBERT'S WILD RIDE ON KUNO'S HORSE 124
KUNO LISTENS TO THE WISE MAN'S TALK 134
HELGA AT HER MOTHER'S FEET 142
"IN HELGA'S HEART MEMORY CEASED TO THRILL" 155
THE OLD MAN BESIDE THE CORPSE OF ANTONIO 172
ANTONIO IN THE CRYSTAL CASTLE 178
ANTONIO LAYS THE DEAD MAIDEN IN HER LAST RESTING-PLACE 189
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH PUCK 201
"GERO CAUGHT PUCK SUDDENLY AND SET HIM BEFORE HIM ON HIS
SADDLE" 212
THE STORM HURLS THE BELL INTO THE STREAM 223
THE WATER-ELF AND THE LITTLE SOUL ON THE RAFT OF WATER-LILIES 238
ASLOG RETURNS TO HER FATHER 249
GURU AWAKES THE ROCK TO LIFE 269
FAIRY CIRCLES.
Barbarossa's Youthful Dream.
[Illustration: FREDERICK TAKES LEAVE OF GELA.]
More than a thousand years have rolled away since a castle looked down
cheerfully from a height amid the Franconian plains into the
well-watered Kinzig Valley, with its pleasant villages and towns.
It belonged to the powerful Swabian duke Frederick of Hohenstaufen,
whose young and valiant son loved this the best of all his father's
proud castles, and often left his uncle's splendid palace to hunt in
its forests, or to look down from its lofty oriel window on the
blooming plain below.
His father and uncle indeed missed him sadly. His clear blue eye, and
the cheerful expression of his noble countenance, seemed to the two
grave and war-weary men so gladdening to look upon, that they were
always unwilling to let him leave them.
But the young Frederick used to beg them so earnestly to grant him the
freedom of the forest for just this once, that father and uncle
smilingly granted him permission, though "this once" was often
repeated.
So it happened the autumn of that year when Bernard of Clairvaux
passed through Germany, calling prince and people in words of burning
eloquence to aid in the deliverance of the Holy Sepulchre.
"Just this once!" said young Frederick again; and King Conrad and Duke
Frederick granted him permission.
As he bent in courteous farewell to take his uncle's hand, the king
whispered, "Be ready, my Frederick, to return as soon as my messenger
calls thee. Great things are before us, and I can ill spare thy strong
right arm!" And young Frederick smiled his own cheery smile, and
answered, "I come when my king and lord calls!"
Then he galloped away as if he were bound that day to ride round the
world. His Barbary steed bore him as on wings through the dark
forests of the Spessart, and as the latest sunbeams sank in the waters
of the Kinzig, he mounted the steep path towards the castle, and rode
over the lowered drawbridge into the court.
Was it really the stags and boars in the vast forests, or the treasure
of rare old manuscripts of the castle archives, which drew the young
prince again and again to the small and lonely fortress?
So his father and uncle thought, but they knew not of his deep
unconquerable love for the beautiful Gela, the daughter of a humble
retainer. He had seen her while resting from the chase in the forest
of the Kinzig Valley, and so great had his love for her become that he
was willing to renounce all dreams of future power and greatness to
live in blissful retirement with the beloved one whom he could not
raise to his own rank.
But the lovers had to guard their secret carefully; they dared trust
no confidant, lest their paradise should be laid waste before its
gates had been fully opened to admit them. So they breathed their love
to none but each other.
The prince passed Gela with cold indifference if he met her in the
castle court or at her work about the house, and Gela made lowly
reverence, as if she were the meanest of his maids, to him who counted
it his greatest honour to do her service.
But at evening, when Frederick had roamed the forest since early
morning, his bow on his shoulder and his faithful hounds by his side,
the fair Gela might be seen walking along the high-road with a basket
on her arm, or with a stock of newly-spun yarn, as if she were going
to seek purchasers in the nearest town. But in the forest she would
leave the broad path, and make her way through briars and underwood to
a height on which her young prince awaited her beneath the shelter of
a giant oak.
There they would talk happily and innocently till the last sunbeam was
quenched in the Kinzig stream, and the convent bell resounded through
the arches of the forest; then they would fold their hands in prayer
before saying farewell, in hope of a meeting on the morrow.
So had it been for many a year. Their love remained unbetrayed, their
hope unquenched, their faith unshaken. In the splendid halls of the
palace, amid the proud and lovely ladies who surrounded the young
prince with flattering marks of favour, the longing after the lonely
forest in the Kinzig Valley and the fair and gentle loved one never
died from his heart.
They had met thus one evening with the old, yet ever new tenderness.
Frederick drew Gela's fair head to his breast, and spoke to her of the
near and blissful future, which would be theirs in a few weeks, when
he would be of age, and would be able to lead her openly as his wife
to his castle in the fair land of Bavaria, to the inheritance of his
dead mother. And the oak tree overhead rustled gently, scattering
golden leaves on Gela's beautiful hair, for it was far on in autumn.
When the vesper bell of the forest cloister began to sound, it was
already dark; the moonlight gleamed on the path, and Gela walked with
her lover as far as the high-road, supported by his arm. But there
the moon shone so brightly that they had to part, lest some prying eye
should see them. "Meet me to-morrow, dearest!" said the young prince,
once more kissing her blooming cheek; then Gela tripped lightly down
the high-road towards the valley, while Frederick gazed after her till
she vanished from his sight, when he called his dogs, and turned
towards the castle.
But there the usual stillness and loneliness had given place to bustle
and confusion. The young prince's aged tutor, who was the
father-confessor and confidential friend alike of his father and of
his uncle, had arrived a few hours before, accompanied by a troop of
horsemen. Inquiries after the young prince passed impatiently from
mouth to mouth, for the message was one which called for haste. At
last he came riding over the drawbridge, his handsome face glowing as
in a transformation, for his vision of the forest still hovered before
his mind.
The old chaplain of the brothers of Hohenstaufen had been long and
anxiously awaiting his pupil; now he hastened to meet him as quickly
as his infirmities permitted, and greeted his dear one, who had left
him but a few days before, as if he had not seen him for years.
Then they went together to the room with the oriel window, for there
the young prince liked best to sit, as it afforded a view of Gela's
lattice. They sat long in confidential conversation, and the light
that fell on the pavement for hours after all others in the castle
were asleep told Gela, who stood at the window opposite, that
important and serious matters were being discussed by her dear one and
his aged tutor.
Next morning the people flocked out of the castle chapel, where the
old priest who had arrived the evening before had spoken to them in
eloquent words, and claimed the arm and heart of young and old for the
approaching crusade to the Holy Land. And not in vain. Men and youths
were ready to venture wealth and life, and the aged were with
difficulty persuaded to remain at home to till the ground and protect
the women and the little ones.
All returned home to arrange their business hastily, and make needful
preparations. One alone remained in the sacred place. It was Gela,
who, when all had left the chapel, rose from her seat and threw
herself prostrate before the altar, there to pour forth all the
anguish of broken hopes, of parting, and of lonely sorrow that
oppressed her heart.
She lay thus, her hands clasped, and her face uplifted in an agony of
grief. There were light footsteps behind her, but Gela, lost in sorrow
and prayer, heeded them not. A hand was laid on her shoulder; she
looked up and saw the face of him on whose account she suffered.
"Gela," said the young prince tenderly and low, as if in reverence to
the holy place--"Gela, we must part! We must wait a while for the
fulfilment of yesterday's beautiful dream! I can scarcely bear it, and
yet I cannot refuse, either as prince and knight, or as son and
subject."
"No," said Gela calmly; "thou must obey, my Frederick, even though our
hearts will bleed."
"And thou wilt be true to me, Gela, and wait patiently till I come
back, and not give thy heart to another?" asked the prince, and his
voice was full of pain.
"Frederick," said Gela, laying her hand on his shoulder, "bid me give
my life; if it were necessary to thy happiness, I would give it
gladly. Thine will I be through all the sorrow of separation; and if I
die, my soul will leave heaven at thy call."
Frederick drew her to his heart. "I go content, my Gela; danger and
death cannot harm me, for I am sheltered by thy love! Farewell till we
meet again in joy!"
He hastened away to hide the tears that started to his eyes, and Gela
sank again on the altar steps and bent her head in silent prayer.
She did not perceive the footsteps that once more broke the stillness
of the place, and she only looked up when a second time a hand was
laid on her shoulder. It was not into Frederick's youthful face that
she looked this time, but into the grave countenance of the aged
priest who had come to call her darling and the people of the
surrounding country to the Holy War.
She shuddered as she thought that he had perhaps been a listener to
their conversation, and had thus discovered the carefully guarded
secret.
"Be not afraid, my daughter," said the old man gently; "I have been an
unwilling witness of your meeting, but your words have fallen into the
ear and heart of a man whose calling makes him the guardian of many a
secret."
Gela breathed more freely.
"Thou art of pure heart, my daughter," continued the old man mildly;
"who could chide thee for giving thy love to a youth to whom God has
given a power to charm that wins the affection of almost every heart?
But, my daughter, if thou love him thou must renounce him."
Gela looked up in terror at the priest.
"Yes, renounce him!" he repeated gravely, nodding his white head as he
spoke.
"I cannot, reverend father!" faltered the maiden with trembling lips.
"Canst thou not?" asked the old man still more earnestly; "canst thou
not give up thine own happiness for his sake, and yet thou art ready
to give thy life if his happiness should demand it?"
"Oh, reverend father," Gela faltered, raising her hands to him
entreatingly, "look not so stern! You know not what it is to renounce
him, and with him all that I call happiness. But if his welfare
demands it, my heart shall break without a murmur."
A gentle radiance beamed from the old priest's eyes.
"Thou hast well spoken, my daughter," he said gently. "Frederick loves
thee now with the force of his unestranged affection, and is ready to
sacrifice rank and worldly prospects for thy sake; but he is a man and
a prince, and, above all, of the house of Hohenstaufen, in whose soul
lies a longing after great and praiseworthy deeds, though these
aspirations are lulled to slumber by his love for thee. But when he
comes to years of manhood, he will be unhappy that thou hast kept him
from the tasks incumbent on one of his noble race. And then, my
daughter, not he alone, but all Germany will blame thee, for every
far-seeing eye recognises already in this heroic youth the future
leader who is destined to bring this divided realm to unity and
greatness. Canst thou think of the future of thy lover, and of us all,
and yet act but for thine own happiness?"
Gela raised herself as out of a dream.
"No, my father," she said in a firm voice, though the light of her
eyes seemed quenched as she gazed at the priest; "no, I renounce him.
But if he should ever think with bitterness of Gela, I ask of you that
you will tell him of this hour, and why I have renounced him; because
I loved his happiness more than myself. May this sacrifice not be in
vain!"
The priest laid his hand, trembling with emotion, on her beautiful
head. "Peace be with thee, my daughter!"
* * * * *
On a dewy May morning, two years after that farewell scene in the
castle chapel, young Frederick rode over the drawbridge of the
fortress on the height beside the Kinzig Valley.
The sun of Syria had dyed his white skin with a deeper hue, the toils
of war and grief at dispelled illusions had drawn a slight furrow in
the smooth brow, but on his flowing beard and hair lay the same golden
splendour, and his blue eyes beamed brightly as of yore.
The castle servants flocked to greet their beloved young master, who
had meantime, through his father's death, become Duke of Swabia and
their feudal lord. His princely mouth spoke many a gracious word, and
his winning smile hovered among them like a sunbeam. His eye passed
quickly from line to line, till it rested inquiringly on the features
of an old bent man. It was Gela's father. Then he sprang from his
horse, and ascended the stair to his favourite room.
The butler placed a goblet of the richest wine on the table, a drink
of honour which he kept carefully in the driest corner of the cellar
for the greatest occasions; and Dame Barbara, the housekeeper, brought
in proudly the delicious pastry which she had prepared for this
festive day; but the young duke gave no heed to these attentions. He
stood in the oriel window, and looked down at a little lattice in the
buildings that surrounded the castle court. There, in a green
window-box, gillyflower and rosemary used to bloom, and behind them he
often had watched a face bent over the spinning-wheel--a face that he
had not found surpassed by any even among the Flowers of the East.
But now all was changed. No blossom sent forth fragrance; the green
box hung empty and half-broken; the clear lattice panes were blinded,
and no dear face looked through to him in love.
A pang of dread presentiment pierced his heart.
"Who dwells in that room with the blinded window?" he asked as calmly
as he could of Dame Barbara, who was rattling her keys to call her
young lord's attention to herself and her masterpiece of culinary
skill.
The old woman drew near, and looked at the desolate window to which
the duke's finger pointed.
"Alas! my lord duke," said the loquacious old woman, "Gela used to
live there, the good child; but she became a nun two years ago last
autumn, and entered the convent of St. Clarissa, in the heart of the
forest."
Frederick stood for a moment motionless, then he beckoned silently to
the door, for his first sound must have been a cry of pain.
Barbara went, but her master sank into the window-seat, his gaze fixed
on the deserted lattice.
There was a gentle knocking at the door, but the duke heard it not for
the painful beating of his heart. Then the door opened, and on the
threshold stood the old man on whom the prince's inquiring glance had
rested on his arrival. He approached the window with a low reverence,
and waited patiently till his young master raised his head. When at
last he looked up, the old man started to see the beloved face that
used to beam like the sunlight now covered as with the shadow of
death.
"My lord duke," said the old man, when Frederick signed to him to
speak, "I had an only child. I know not if your grace has ever noticed
her. When the men went from the country round to the Holy War, she
entered the forest cloister, because she thought she could there pray
undisturbed for the safety and victory of our soldiers. Before she
went she made me promise to give this letter into your hands as soon
as you returned."
Then he drew from his doublet a strip of parchment carefully sewed in
purple silk, and handed it to the duke.
And again Frederick spoke not, but silently took the missive, for his
heart was full to overflowing.
The old man withdrew in silence. When Frederick found himself alone,
he cut the silken covering with his hunting-knife, and drew out a
piece of parchment; and when it was unfolded, he saw the childish
handwriting which he himself had taught Gela in their happy hours in
the forest, and with which she now bade him the last farewell, for she
could not break her promise to the aged monk.
While Frederick, two years before, hastened to his uncle's palace, the
holy man had gone on to other parts of the country to call on the
people to join the Holy War, and from this errand death had called
him.
The sun was already far past the meridian, but yet no sound had broken
the stillness of the room where Frederick sat. The butler's drink of
honour was untasted; Dame Barbara's masterpiece remained untouched.
At last the young duke rose, left the room, and descended the winding
stair into the court; but when his steed was brought, the attendant
esquire thought that this could scarcely be the same young and joyous
prince who, a few hours before, had ridden across the bridge. He
sprang into the saddle, cast a last glance on the desolate window, and
then turned without a word of farewell to take the road which, but a
short time before, he had galloped over with hopeful heart. It was the
same road which Gela had so often followed with him to the little hill
in the forest, and when he came to the narrow path, he led his
obedient horse to one side, fastened the bridle round the trunk of a
tree, and then walked slowly along the mossy path.
Now he stood beneath the oak. Its leafy roof and the moss at its foot
were green and fresh as ever. Once he was like it in his love and
hope, but all was changed! He sat down at the foot of the tree, and
its rustling brought back to his soul the dream of his now vanished
youth.
Suddenly bells sounded from the forest depths. But he could not, as in
days gone by, fold his hands in pious awe, and pour forth every grief
in a believing prayer. No; at the sound of these bells which now
called Gela, his Gela, to devotion, it seemed to him as if he must
rush to the cloister gate, knock with his sword hilt, and cry, "Come
back, Gela, come back; for thy sacrifice will be in vain!"
He hastened down the hill to his horse, and sprang into the saddle.
"Away, my faithful steed!" he cried aloud. "Show me the way, for love
and grief have bewildered my clear brain. Bear me where knightly duty
and princely honour claim my presence--for I know not where."
And the good beast, as if it understood his master's words, rushed
with him away farther and still farther south through the dim
twilight, and beneath the bright beams of the full moon. Without
weariness, though without rest, it bore him on, and when the morrow's
sun stood in noonday splendour they had reached the goal, and the
young duke stood before the gate of his own Staufenburg.
Gela's sacrifice was not offered in vain. The words the old monk
uttered that morning in the castle chapel were fulfilled. After his
uncle's death, young Frederick of Swabia was raised to the throne of
Germany, and all that the realm and people of Germany had hoped from
him was more than fulfilled.
His strong hand gave unity, strength, and majesty to the divided land,
such as no ruler after him was ever able to bestow; and when the
imperial crown of Rome was also placed upon his head, the proud people
of Italy bowed before Frederick Barbarossa, did him homage, and
acknowledged his power.
The laurels of many a victory rested on the Emperor's brow; his house
was happy, his race flourished, his name lay like a word of blessing
on every lip; and when Gela, still in the bloom of youth, closed her
eyes in death, she knew that she had not in vain renounced Frederick
and happiness.
Beneath the shelter of his favourite castle the Emperor founded a
town, and named it after the unforgotten loved one of his youth,
"Gelashausen;" and when on his travels he came to the forest of the
Kinzig Valley, he led his horse silently aside, fastened the bridle to
a tree stem, and ascended the hill to the majestic oak. There leaning
his head, amid whose gold full many a thread of silver gleamed,
against the trunk, he closed his eyes, and dreamed once more the old
delightful dream.
And the people called that tree ever after "the Emperor's oak."
The sun of Asia Minor once more sent its glowing rays on the head of
the heroic Emperor, though they gleamed back now with a silvery
radiance.
[Illustration: BARBAROSSA IN THE HOLY LAND.]
The cry of distress had risen once again from the Land of Promise, and
drawn the aged monarch from his German home; he placed himself at the
head of his army, and led it with prudence, courage, and military
skill safely through the heat of the Eastern sun, in spite of the
treachery and malice of the foe, in spite of the pangs of hunger and
consuming thirst.
On a warm summer evening the army reached the steep bank of a foaming
mountain torrent. There on the farthest side lay the road that they
must take.
Barbarossa's son Frederick, that "Flower of Chivalry," sprang with a
chosen band from the high rocky bank into the stream and reached the
other side in safety.
The Emperor now prepared to follow. Without heeding the advice of his
attendants, the aged hero, who had never known what fear meant, put
spurs to his steed and plunged with him into the waters of the Seleph.
For a few seconds the golden armour gleamed amid the waves, once or
twice the reverend, hoary head rose above the stream, then the deadly
waters carried horse and rider into their raging depths, and the
beloved hero vanished from the eyes of his sorrowing army. His most
valiant knights indeed and chosen friends plunged after him into the
flood to save their honoured prince or die with him, but the wild
mountain torrent bore them all to death. With bitter lamentations the
army wandered up and down the stream, if perchance they might at least
win the precious corpse from the waters. But night came and threw its
dark veil over the sorrow and mourning of the day.
* * * * *
All around were wrapped in slumber, even deeper than was their wont.
The moon stood high in heaven, and beneath its beams the waters of the
Seleph flowed more gently like molten silver. Once more they roused
their angry strength, and from their midst a white head rose, golden
armour gleamed above the waves, and Barbarossa and his faithful steed
slowly emerged from the waters. With noiseless hoof they wandered up
and down the stream, and out from the depths mounted the troops of
faithful ones who had followed their Emperor to danger and death. The
drops gleamed like diamonds as they fell from head and armour with a
gentle splash into the shining stream.
Silently the band of warriors rode along the waves; not a sound, not a
footstep broke the stillness; thus they turned to the shore, and the
horses clambered up the rocky bank.
There Barbarossa and his silent warriors halted on the height. For a
moment the Emperor's glance rested on the slumbering army, he held out
his hand as if blessing them in a last farewell, then he shook the
reins, and horse and rider, freed from the laws of earthly gravity,
swept onwards to the beloved Fatherland.
They passed over the Bosphorus. Far below them gleamed the towers of
Constantinople with the golden cross on their summits, but Barbarossa
heeded them not. His head was bent forward, so that his white locks
fluttered in the night wind, and his eyes were directed solely to the
land towards which the horses moved with the swiftness of the
storm-wind on their cloudy path.
Soon German forests rustled beneath them, and round the Emperor's lips
played something like the reflection of the old sunny smile.
To the south lay the Italian plains which had claimed the best years
of his life and his youthful energy, but the Emperor turned his head
from these. Perhaps he saw already the destiny of his proud race,
which must some day be fulfilled in those fragrant fields.
Now their native air surrounds them. The fir trees of the Black Forest
scent the air, the waves of the Neckar gleam below them, and, bathed
in the full moon's silvery splendour, there lies at their feet the
Staufenburg, the cradle of the lofty imperial race.
Barbarossa raised his hand to bless its battlements and pinnacles, but
still he held on his way northwards.
The Spessart forests rustled beneath him in the darkness of the night,
not a moonbeam pierced their thickly-leaved summits. But there gleamed
the waters of the Kinzig, the walls of Gelashausen in its gently
flowing stream, and over on the mountain's brow shone the aged
Emperor's favourite castle, with the high oriel window, and Gela's
deserted lattice.
Barbarossa bent over his horse's neck, and cast a look of recognition
on the scene of his early happiness.
Soon they hovered above the high-road, and then over the familiar
forest with its spreading "Emperor's oak." The old man's head was
still bent forward, as if his eye would pierce the whispering
tree-tops. A sound of clear bells greeted his ear. Below in the
convent they called to midnight prayer, and these tones, which had
once well-nigh broken his heart, acted now as a spell to bring back
the old loved images. His breast heaved as of yore in mingled joy and
grief, and "Gela, my Gela!" was the cry that started from his lips
and reached the convent in whose vaults the loved one slumbered.
But still the steeds held on their unhalting course over Thuringia's
golden plain to the Kyffhaeuser Mountain, within which Frederick
Barbarossa must hold council to-night with his faithful ones about the
people of Germany and their future.
The castle, which in bygone days had so often opened its hospitable
gates to him and his court, within whose halls many a gladsome feast
had been held, of whose magnificence and splendour old chronicles tell
us--this castle still kept watch over the land with unbroken
pinnacles, but Barbarossa knocked not at its gate.
Gently the horses sank to the earth, and halted at a hidden door in
the mountain side.
The Emperor struck the stone with his sword, so that a loud echo
answered from the hollow interior. Then the rocky door opened, and
Barbarossa and his faithful warriors entered the spacious hall of the
Kyffhaeuser Mountain. The rock had not long closed behind them when a
gentle tapping was heard, the magic gate swung open, and the lovely
Gela entered, arrayed in bridal attire as she had been laid in the
tomb.
The hand of death had touched her heart, but had not quenched her
love. When Frederick's cry reached her ear, she had opened her eyes as
out of a deep sleep, and had left the vault to seek her beloved with
the swiftness of a spirit's tread. Now she stands before him in
unchanged grace and beauty.
Barbarossa's youthful dream was fulfilled. Gela, his first love, was
now at his side to tend him and bless him for ever as she could never
have done on earth. It was she, the faithful one, who ruled henceforth
in the magic kingdom of the Kyffhaeuser, and cared for the beloved hero
and his trusty band. It was she who knew when Barbarossa's heart
yearned over the memories of his glorious past. Then she would lead
the knights--his faithful comrades in the Holy War--into his room.
They would range themselves round the marble table at which Barbarossa
sat, with his long white beard flowing round him like imperial ermine,
and over the golden goblets, filled from the exhaustless stores of the
mountain cellars, they talked with the hero about the glorious days
that they had spent together, about "the golden age" of the Holy
German Empire. And the minstrels, who had been wont to go with him to
the Holy Land, and had entered with him the enchanted mountain of the
"Golden Meadow," would strike their harps, and the song of the future,
which still slumbered in their souls, rose to their lips and echoed
loudly through the enchanted arches of the Kyffhaeuser Mountain.
When Barbarossa's heart longed for news of the fatherland, Gela would
pass at midnight out through the door in the rock, down through the
"Golden Meadow," and listen at many a door, and look through many a
window. Then all that she heard there of sad lamentation or joyous
hope she would faithfully pour into the Emperor's ear on her return.
And what Gela failed to find out was seen by other eyes and heard by
other ears. Just as once Odin's ravens flew down from the dwelling
of the gods to the home of men to tell the heavenly Ruler of all
that happened on the earth, so did the ravens that built their nests
in the clefts of Kyffhaeuser hover through the plains to hear of joy
and sorrow, and bear the tidings back in silence to their rocky home.
[Illustration: BARBAROSSA AND GELA IN THE KYFFHAeUSER. F. C., p. 26.]
But at the still hour of midnight, when the mountain opened, and the
little dwarfs who dwelt secretly among Barbarossa's vaulted halls
slipped out into the moonlight, then the wise birds opened their
mouths, and the little friends--like Solomon, learned in the languages
of birds--heard all that the ravens told. The dwarfs in their turn
brought the news to the old Emperor, before whom they appeared from
time to time to fill his treasury with newly-coined gold.
With liberal hand Barbarossa gave of these hoards to pious and honest
mortals, whom Gela led into the magic kingdom of the Kyffhaeuser, that
the beloved prince might be gladdened by the sight of the new
generation, which, different though it was from that of his day, still
held in loving remembrance the noble Barbarossa, and cherished a firm
hope of his return to earth.
The fortress on the mountain mouldered to decay. Herds grazed where
once the tread of armed men was heard, but once every century the
walls stood at midnight in their ancient splendour; the drawbridge
rattled, the watchman's horn sounded shrill and clear, and over the
castle court, through the gates with their carved coat of arms, on to
the brightly illumined halls of revelry, passed a brilliant
procession. It was Barbarossa leading by the hand the lovely Gela, and
followed by his knights and vassals, all eager to breathe the air of
the upper world.
But while the knights were spending the few short hours with music and
feasting amid the pleasures of the past, the Emperor and Gela mounted
to the highest battlement of the castle, and looked down longingly on
the plains of their beloved Germany.
All around lay wrapped in slumber. Night and peace had conquered all
the cares that gnaw in daylight at the heart of man, but they had also
stilled its hopes.
"They are all asleep and dreaming," said the old Emperor, "but the
morrow will come, and my people will awake and find the strife that
now divides their hearts laid at rest for ever. Brave men will draw
the sword and wield it victoriously. Then the minstrels will seize
their harps, and the fame of our great and united Germany shall sound
from the North Sea to the fair gardens of Italy. Then will our watch
be over, and we shall go to our eternal rest."
So spake the aged monarch, as he leant across the battlement to
stretch his hands in blessing over his former kingdom. But when the
first streak of dawn showed faintly in the east, Barbarossa and his
Gela descended, the revelry ceased, the knights grasped their swords,
and the glittering throng passed over court and bridge back to the
heart of the mountain, while behind them the magic castle melted into
mist.
* * * * *
The great morning has dawned; the nation has awaked; their strife is
stilled. The imperial jewels, "Unity and Strength," lie no longer
buried in the waves of the Seleph, the German people henceforth have
them in their midst.
Barbarossa may now cease his watch and enter on his rest, for from the
North Sea to the plains of Italy is sounded the fame of the great
united Fatherland.
Thus has the aged Emperor's prophecy been fulfilled, though it was but
the nation's youthful dream.
KING LAURIN.
[Illustration: VRENELI IN KING LAURIN'S ROSE-GARDEN]
In the Tyrol, that true home of the good little dwarf-folk, is a
lovely valley where in olden days a substantial farm-house stood,
whose owner had come from the other side of the mountain enticed by
the beauty and fertility of this favoured spot.
In those days it was still possible to find good servants capable of
forming a faithful attachment to their master and his household. But
the farmer thought they were still better in his old home, and for
this reason he generally brought his servants from the other side of
the high mountain ridge.
Spring had returned; the mountain pastures were green once more, and
it was time for the herds to leave the valley; but the old herdswoman
who for years had had the charge of the mountain farm, and in whose
capability and conscientiousness the farmer had the fullest
confidence, now took ill and died.
This was a matter of some anxiety to the farmer and his household, for
everything was ready for the removal of the cattle.
"Go over, Tony, to our native valley," said the old farmer to his only
son and heir. "An aged cousin of mine lives there; they say her
daughter is a fine girl; it might be a good thing if you could
persuade her to come to us as herdswoman."
Early next morning the young man set out on his errand.
The shades of night still lurked among the rocks like giants in
disguise, but the peaks of the glacier were already aglow with the
light of morning. The youth, accustomed to the beauties of his native
mountains, gave scarcely a glance to the splendour of the Alps, but
hastened onwards with head and heart full of anxiety about his cattle.
Soon he reached the narrow mountain ridge between the two lofty
glaciers, from which the way led downwards to his native valley.
At this spot stood a tall cross, with dark arms outstretched over both
the glaciers, as if it would tell of the dangers which had threatened
the traveller who, out of gratitude for his deliverance, had caused a
cross to be erected on this lonely height.
Tony knelt to pray, as was the custom in those times and in that
country. His head was bent low, so that he did not see the grave face
which looked down on him from one of the glaciers.
Surely it must have been carried thither on eagles' wings, for there,
to that glassy height which seemed almost nearer the sky than the
earth, no human foot could ever climb. Yet that figure stood there
calm, strong, and erect. Long silvery hair flowed over the shoulders;
round the head flashed something like sunbeams, or like a mysterious
diadem of carbuncles; and the dark eyes pierced the distance, and
rested on the kneeling one with an earnestness that went deep down
into his heart.
The young man rose and descended the winding path to the valley. The
apparition on the lofty glacier stood long looking after his receding
figure, and then, with the sunbeams playing among his silvery locks,
walked with sure footsteps that never slipped down over the gleaming
field of ice.
* * * * *
Late in the afternoon Tony sat once more at the foot of the cross,
with a lovely maiden by his side. She had placed her little bundle on
the ground at her feet, her hands lay folded on her lap, and with an
expression of mingled grief and newly-awakened hope she looked into
the face of her companion.
Her mother had died a few days before, and poverty was even in those
good old days a bitter thing, as the poor orphan learned to her cost.
For the warden of the village told her bluntly that the cottage in
which she had lived with her mother, being public property, was
claimed now by another widow, and that Vreneli must make her own way
in the world.
Many a farmer's wife would have been glad to hire the good Vreneli as
servant, but the rough words of the warden had so frightened her that
she determined not to stay in this inhospitable valley; and just as
she had tied up her little bundle, Tony came to offer her a home in
his rich father's house.
Joyfully she agreed, for the farmer was a relation, though a distant
one, and she had a dread of going among strangers. So Tony and she set
out together on the mountain path, and now they were resting under the
old cross and chatting pleasantly.
Vreneli's beauty and innocence had taken Tony's heart by storm, and
now he told her that he loved her, and that she, none but she, should
be his wife. Vreneli clasped her hands and listened with her whole
soul to these words so new to her. Ah! how sweet they sounded after
the harsh tones that had made her so unhappy a few hours ago! Her
heart went out in gratitude and love to the manly youth who had so
generously offered his heart and his home to the poor desolate orphan.
"But I am poor, Tony, and I have learned to-day how evil a thing
poverty is," said she at last.
"What does that matter, Vreneli?" answered Tony, cheerfully; "I have
enough for both. And I do not like the rich bride that my father has
chosen for me, she is ugly and empty-headed. When they see you at
home, Vreneli, they must love you, you are so good and beautiful! And
when you have tended the herds on the mountain with faithful diligence
for the summer months, and when you bring back the well cared-for
cattle at the end of the season, you shall be my wife--I will soon
bring my parents round to my mind."
"Ah, how delightful that will be!" said Vreneli, smiling. "How I will
love you, and what good care I will take of your old parents! Are you
sure you are not making fun of me, Tony?"
The young man put his arm around her graceful form. "How can you talk
so, Vreneli? Do I not love you better than any one in the whole world?
and if it makes your mind easier, I will swear love and faithfulness
to you under this cross--I will swear that none but you shall be my
wife."
He put his right hand in hers and took the oath. Perfect stillness
reigned around them; the spirits of the mountain listened in silence;
noiselessly the beams of the evening sun hovered above the cross, and
then sank, as if in blessing, on Vreneli's braided hair; while far
overhead at the summit of the glacier stood the dark figure that had
watched Tony on his journey that morning. The poor orphan and her
lover did not see the grave countenance that looked down on them from
the lofty peak, but Tony's words of solemn promise floated upwards on
the evening breeze to the lonely old man's ear.
Again he cast a searching glance on the kneeling youth, but when his
eyes rested on the sweet maiden that listened to those earnest words,
the stern expression of his countenance melted, and the wrinkled
features bore traces of some sad memories that seemed to be awakened
by the sight of her beauty and grace. He leant gently forward, so that
his shining locks flowed down like a silver stream, and his eyes
followed the two young people with an expression almost of longing, as
they walked cheerfully on. But soon the twilight laid its dim veil
over hill and valley, and the receding figures faded altogether from
his view.
The rich farmer owned the pasture of a whole mountain, and Vreneli was
to have the sole charge of the herds that grazed on it, while on
another mountain the herds of the other villagers wandered, watched
over by several herdsmen.
"Now, Vreneli," said the old farmer next morning, when the cows had
been let out of the stalls, and were already climbing the well-known
mountain path to the music of their jingling bells--"now, Vreneli, do
your duty faithfully, and take good care of my herds, and if the
produce of the mountain farm be richer than that yielded in the days
of my former herdswomen, I will not be stingy about a reward."
Vreneli blushed, and cast a stolen glance at Tony, who stood behind
his father; she could not but think of the reward which he had
promised her. She assured the farmer that she would do her duty,
shook hands with the whole household, and then turned to follow the
herds.
Tony went with her; he wanted to show her everything in the senner's
cottage, and to point out the richest pastures on which the herds were
to graze, taking a different place each day, till at last they
returned to the first, which by that time would be covered with a
fresh growth of grass.
It was a lovely spring morning. The distant glacier was radiant with
sunlight, the bells tinkled softly on the necks of the cattle, and
wild flowers bloomed at the edge of the torrent which rushed foaming
over the moss-grown rocks. But what was all this external beauty in
comparison with the blooming world in their own hearts?
They exchanged looks, and words, and happy smiles. Not till the herds
had been milked and led to rest on the night pasture did Tony say
good-bye. Vreneli stood at the door of the cottage, her hands clasped,
and her eyes brimming with happy tears, and watched him till a turn of
the road hid him from her view.
Inside, in the cosy cottage, it seemed to her, all the time that she
was filling the milk vessels and putting everything in order, as if
she still heard his caressing words, and as if his brown eyes looked
out on her from every corner. Love and hope quickened her hands, so
that her work seemed mere child's play. Then when everything was done,
and the fire had died out on the hearth, she stepped out again to the
door.
Like a faithful senner she looked first at the night pasture where
the herds were resting peacefully. Now and then one of the beautiful
animals would lift its head, and the bell at its throat would tinkle
softly; the night-wind moved gently among the lofty trees, making the
long moss of their stems wave to and fro like dark soft veils. Then
Vreneli's eyes sought the valley, and to the moonbeams which hastened,
in their glittering robes, down the rocky path to the village she
entrusted tender messages of love. And when she turned back into the
cottage she knelt at her mossy couch beside the hearth, and mingled
with her evening prayer words of joyful thanksgiving. Her last thought
before she fell asleep was this, that she was the happiest herdswoman
and her Tony the handsomest and truest fellow in the whole land of the
Tyrol.
Sunny days succeeded to nights filled with golden dreams. When the
first sunbeams flashed from the summit of the glacier, the goat-bells
sounded below in the valley, and the goat-herd led his flock to seek
the juicy plants that grew on heights inaccessible to less sure-footed
herds.
Then Vreneli ran joyfully to meet him, for he always brought some
message from Tony, or some other token of his love. With joy-quickened
energy she went then about her daily toil. The cows left their nightly
resting-place, and came to Vreneli to be milked, and then she led them
to some new pasture.
And while the cattle grazed there, she leant against a rock and
carefully watched each step of the animals entrusted to her care, lest
any one of them should go too near a precipice, or, enticed by the
plants that grew most richly beside the torrent, be hurried away in
its mad whirl. And when evening sank on the mountain, and clothed the
ice-columns in a splendour of red and purple, the goat-herd led his
flock back to the valley, and received every evening from Vreneli's
hand a bunch of mountain violets for her beloved Tony.
Then she drove the cows again to the milking-place, and repeated the
task of the morning. But this did not end her day's work. She was busy
for hours in the cottage, and moon and stars had long looked down on
the slumbering mountain before Vreneli had finished arranging her milk
vessels in the dairy, or placed the newly-made cheese to dry, or
rolled out her golden butter-pats.
Then after a simple prayer she lay down on her lowly couch, and when
the distant thunder of avalanches broke the silence of the night, and
the mountain torrent roared close behind her tiny cottage, Vreneli
slept as sweetly as a child, and round her head dreams of love and
home hovered on golden wing.
* * * * *
So the weeks flew by, and the day arrived when the butter and cheese
which the mountain farm had hitherto produced was to be taken home to
the farm-house. The farmer and Tony were to come to bring it, as the
goat-herd had told Vreneli yesterday, and her usually dexterous
fingers trembled with glad excitement just when it was most needful to
show the farmer that he had entrusted his property to capable hands.
At last--how often she had looked impatiently along the path--at last
the old farmer came toiling up, and behind him, not Tony, as she
expected, but two servants with tall baskets on their backs.
Vreneli was bitterly disappointed, but she controlled herself and
walked out calmly to meet her master. In spite of the sunny morning
dark clouds lay upon his brow, and it did not clear even when Vreneli
took him into the faultless dairy and showed him the rows of large
rich cheese and the golden butter. Silently they were laid in the
basket, and the servants returned homewards with heavy burdens.
Then Vreneli led the farmer to the meadow where the herds were
grazing, and his keen eye told him that the beasts were well fed and
cared for. It was a faithful hand to which he had entrusted his
property--_that_ he must acknowledge, however unwillingly. "You have
done well, Vreneli; see that you go on as you have begun!" he said
bluntly. How harsh the words sounded compared with those with which he
had sent her to the mountain! Then when he turned to go home, and she
politely begged him to taste the fritter that she had prepared for him
according to the custom of the country, he refused it, looking all the
time so gloomy that Vreneli did not dare to ask for Tony, though her
heart throbbed in anxiety and longing. So he left her, and Vreneli
stood watching him with a heart full of sadness and disappointment.
It was evening, and the firelight fell as brightly as ever on
Vreneli's lovely face, but it did not show the joyous expression of
other evenings. Her movements were languid, and now and then a tear
stole down her cheek.
Why did not Tony come, as he had said he would? Why was the old farmer
so gloomy? Why did the goat-herd refuse to take the daily bunch of
violets, in return for which she might have hoped for some message
from Tony? These were questions on which her life's happiness
depended, and yet there was no one there to answer them.
She sighed deeply. There had been a gentle knocking at the door, which
Vreneli, lost in her sad thoughts, had not noticed; but at her loud
sigh the door opened, and a figure of mysterious aspect stood on the
threshold. Long silvery hair flowed down over the shoulders, and from
the serious yet kindly eyes spoke a majesty which diadem and purple
robes would not have been enough to give. Vreneli let fall the milk
bowl in her astonishment, and she bowed low as to a mighty prince;
then she wiped the low bench before the fire, the only seat which the
simple cottage offered, and asked her strange guest to be seated.
The old man nodded pleasantly, and sat down at the fire, leant his
head on both hands, so that his silvery locks flowed almost to the
ground, and directed his earnest gaze so searchingly on Vreneli that
it seemed to her as if he could see into her very soul.
"Why art thou so sad to-day, Vreneli?" he said at last very gently.
Vreneli started. How did this stranger, who seemed to come from some
distant land--how could he know her name? She looked at him, half in
reverence and half in fear. "Come, Vreneli, wilt thou not tell me?"
said the old man, and his eye rested almost with love upon her face.
[Illustration: KING LAURIN IN VRENELI'S COTTAGE.]
"I am an orphan," she faltered out at last, "and sometimes a painful
feeling of loneliness comes over me."
"And is that all, Vreneli?" asked the old man; "canst thou not
confide in one who means well towards thee, and who has both the power
and the desire to help thee? Dost thou think thyself unknown to me?
Did I not see thee on the mountain side beneath the cross? Did I not
hear the young man's oath, and see how love and hope had driven sorrow
from thy heart? From that hour I have been thy friend. Dost thou think
that thy care and watchfulness could have kept the dangers of the
mountains far from thy roof and from thy herds? When thou wast asleep
on thy couch of moss, and fair dreams led thy soul to golden meadows,
I kept watch up there upon the rock, and warned the elements to leave
thee and thy charge unhurt; I directed the course of the avalanches,
and the flight of the snow-storm, so that they turned aside, and only
softest breezes and the gentle starlight ever touched thy brow. Dost
thou still mistrust me, Vreneli?"
Vreneli had clasped her hands and drawn nearer to her venerable
friend.
"I thank you for your protection," said she, bowing once more in lowly
reverence; "whoever you may be, to me you have been a benefactor, and
such a one has a right to my confidence. But tell me how you read my
heart and learned my love for Tony? For you know already what its
burden is. I am troubled about what has happened to-day; I cannot
understand it. Above all, I am disappointed at not having seen Tony,
after I had looked forward so joyfully to meeting him."
The old man cast a searching glance on her lovely face, as she stood
there with the firelight falling brightly on her, and her blue eyes
turned towards him in sorrow and touching confidence.
"And wouldst thou like to see him now?" he asked gravely.
Vreneli's eyes shone with delight.
"But, Vreneli, the fulfilment of our wishes often brings something
quite different from our hopes; we go to seek faithfulness, and we
find treachery."
"Ah!" said she, with the smile of unshaken trust, "that will not be
the case with me. Tony is good and truer than gold, and did he not
swear to me beneath the cross?"
"Thou dear child!" answered the old man, while painful memories
troubled his grave features; "if every broken oath could make a step,
we would soon be able to reach the moon."
"Stranger," said Vreneli, confidently, "you may have met with
faithlessness enough in your long life to make you lose your
confidence in human nature, but you do not know my Tony!"
"Come then, Vreneli, since thou wishest it," said the old man, rising,
"though I would fain have spared thee this pain." And they stepped out
together into the night.
Led by the old man's hand, Vreneli climbed up to the point of rock
from which he had kept nightly watch over her and her herds. They went
forward to the edge of the precipice. Far below, veiled by the
darkness, lay Tony's home. High walls of rock and wide pasture-lands
separated them from the farm-house, so that no human eye could pierce
the distance.
But the old man pulled down a branch of the lofty pine above them, and
told Vreneli to look through a tiny knot-hole. She did so; the laws of
space yielded, and her anxious glance flew to the distant farm-house.
She looked through the lighted windows into the well-furnished rooms.
All the costly vessels and ornaments, which were usually carefully
laid past in chests and cupboards, were to-day displayed on the
festive board, round which the most distinguished residents of the
village were chatting and laughing merrily. Next his parents sat Tony,
and at his side a richly dressed maiden. His eyes shone, and his mouth
smiled and whispered, just as on that evening when he had sworn love
and faithfulness to Vreneli beneath the cross on the mountain. His
father's threatening words and the wealth of the bride so long chosen
for him had quickly shaken Tony's purpose, and while the gentle
Vreneli was thinking anxiously about his non-appearance, the fickle
youth broke his solemn oath, and betrothed himself to the unloved but
wealthy bride.
Vreneli looked at the scene in tearless silence, then, when she could
no longer doubt her lover's faithlessness, she let go the branch and
turned her eyes away, so that once more night and distance covered the
scene that had ruined her hopes. Vreneli silently descended the rock,
but she did not seek the shelter of her cottage. She hurried past it,
and wandered on aimlessly over the wilds of the mountain. It seemed
almost as if she wished to reach the icy glacier heights.
"Vreneli," said the voice at her side; "Vreneli, whither wilt thou
go?" She turned her head as in a dream. Stony sorrow had fallen on her
gentle features, and her once bright eyes were cold and fixed.
"Whither?" she said quietly, "whither? I would like to go to the
grave, but, since that may not be, I will go at least away, away as
far as my feet will bear me."
"Wilt thou come with me, Vreneli?" said the old man. "My home shall be
thine, and the love and faithfulness which thou hast lost here thou
shalt find there a thousand-fold."
Vreneli looked into his mild eyes.
"And who art thou, kind old man?" she asked with faltering voice.
"I am King Laurin, the ruler of the powerful nation of the dwarfs, who
for centuries were bound to men in faithful love. The impress of
divinity which we spirits recognised in you, and before which we
humbly bow, attracted us to your race. But in every generation we
traced it less easily, and at last, despised and deceived in return
for our kindness and help, we retired to the recesses of our
mountains. There in the heart of the rock whose brow is crowned by the
shining glacier, there stands my palace, adorned by my people with all
the splendour of the precious stones which, hidden to mortal eyes,
shine deep down in the heart of the earth.
"There I live, but I have led for centuries a lonely life, for my only
daughter, the last flower of a blooming garland, died long, long ago.
Her rose-garden, to tend which was her greatest delight, still blooms
in unfading beauty, but as often as my eyes fall on its wondrous
flowers, I think with grief of my long-lost child. Thou, Vreneli, art
a pure-hearted maiden like her, and since I first saw thee and looked
into thine eyes, it has seemed to me as if I had found my child. I
have watched over thee with a father's care, and I am ready now to
love thee as my daughter."
"Poor lonely king!" said Vreneli, in a tone of gentle pity, while the
tears ran down her cheeks, "I will go with you to your mountain
palace; I will love and honour you as your child once did, and I will
tend the rose-garden that she loved; for I have no home and no heart
to love me. But grant me one thing before I leave the sunlight."
"Thou hast but to ask and it is granted!"
"Ah, King Laurin!" said Vreneli, and her tears flowed faster, "I am
still young, and this is the first disappointment that my heart has
felt, and though it is almost broken, yet I have still a faint hope
left. I cannot quite let go my faith in Tony."
King Laurin looked even more gravely than before on the weeping
maiden.
"No, do not be angry!" she begged, raising her hands entreatingly to
him; "call it not foolish weakness; remember that it needed hundreds
of years before your noble heart would close against our deceitful
race. I know that Tony has been persuaded by his friends to take this
step; but he still loves me, and it would grieve him if I were to go
without farewell. When he brings his bride up the mountain to-morrow,
on their way to the wedding in the next valley, let me go out to meet
him as he is passing my cottage--let me say farewell and part from him
in peace."
"Do as thou wilt, my child," answered King Laurin with gentle sadness,
"though thou wilt find but a new sorrow. And now, Vreneli, it is late.
Go to thy cottage, and lie down on thy couch, there to forget thy
griefs for a few short hours at least."
"Ah no!" said Vreneli, entreatingly; "let me stay here with you
beneath the stars, for I dread the loneliness of the cottage. Wherever
I may be I cannot sleep, and the shadows of past happiness would there
trouble my soul. No; let me stay here and share your watch."
They climbed the rock, and sat down side by side beneath the lofty
pines. Vreneli folded her hands and looked up to the stars, while her
prayer for peace and comfort arose to Him who sits enthroned above the
sky.
Not a word was spoken. King Laurin gazed in silence on the moonlit
glacier, while his mind wandered back to the memories of a thousand
years, and on Vreneli's brow lay the deep shadow of her young grief.
Gradually her eyelids closed, and her head sank gently to the old
king's shoulder. He placed his arm tenderly round the slumbering girl,
and stretched out his right hand towards the lofty glacier.
Then the storm-song in its icy clefts grew suddenly still, but the
moonbeams still played around its jagged peaks; like glistening
serpents they moved across the glassy sea, and then flowed slowly in a
broad shining stream down on the crystal road. The mountain torrent
meanwhile checked its thunder, and moved more gently on its rocky way.
The night that hung above the mountain seemed but a pleasant twilight,
and through the mild, soft air a bell tinkled gently now and then from
the night pasture where the cattle lay at rest. All was peace. Nothing
stirred save the summer breeze and the golden starlight, which
ventured near to kiss the tear-stained cheek of the maiden who lay in
sweet forgetfulness of sorrow on the old king's arm.
* * * * *
And now it was once more morning, and Vreneli's cheek grew pale as she
thought of the sorrowful parting with him whom she had once called her
Tony. But she was determined to do her duty to the very last, so she
led her herds to the pasture, by the side of which the road ran, that
she might be at hand to tend them while waiting by the wayside for
Tony and his bride.
The sun rose higher and higher, and the minutes of painful waiting
seemed hours to the poor girl. Suddenly voices and loud laughter
sounded in her ear, and soon two figures appeared from round the rock.
For the first time since the morning when she brought the herds up the
mountain Tony stood face to face with the poor orphan whose life's
happiness he had ruined, and he started as he looked into the face so
beautiful, but deadly pale. For one moment he remembered his oath.
Then the rich bride at his side cried mockingly--"I suppose this is
the servant girl of whom your father spoke, who had the presumption to
dream of becoming a rich farmer's wife? Fancy the little beggar
entertaining such an idea!"
The scornful words cut deep into Vreneli's crushed heart.
"I should never have thought of it myself," she said, sadly; "it was
Tony who wished it, because he loved me so that my poverty seemed no
obstacle."
"Oh! indeed, Tony," said the bride, haughtily, "that is rather
different from what you told me yesterday evening. Did you not tell me
that you had never troubled your head about her, and that you had
always wished to marry me? Tell this girl that she lies, or if you
cannot do that, then you are free to choose this beggar still. I have
plenty of suitors left!"
Tony grew red with shame and vexation, but he did not vent his anger
on the haughty bride, but on poor innocent Vreneli. "You lie, girl,"
he cried; "I never made you any promise; I never loved you!"
"Tony," answered Vreneli gently, "do not bring needless guilt on your
head. Have you forgotten your oath beneath the lonely cross on the
mountain? But I am not angry with you for forsaking me. Perhaps your
parents persuaded you to do it; but I could not refrain from coming to
say farewell, and to wish you happiness and prosperity."
"Keep your farewell and your wishes to yourself!" cried Tony, white
with anger and shame; "you were a fool, if you took my words in
earnest. I and a beggar like you!"
With a loud mocking laugh he turned away, gave his arm to his bride,
and passed on without a word of farewell.
Vreneli looked after him in speechless amazement. The wise king was
right, then; she had met but a new blow, and this one more crushing
than the first. She turned, and saw behind her King Laurin, who had
been an unseen witness of Tony's shameful treachery. His eyes glowed,
but he uttered not a word. Vreneli stooped again to raise his hands to
her trembling lips. "I am ready to follow you!" she said in a low
voice.
Then the rock opened before them; Vreneli gave a farewell look at the
midday sun, then, led by King Laurin's hand, she entered the magic
kingdom of the dwarfs.
That very moment an avalanche was set free from the snow-clad slopes
of the glacier, rolled down with angry thunder, and at the cross where
once Tony had sworn faithful love to Vreneli it overtook him and his
heartless bride, and buried them so deep that their bodies were never
found. Thus King Laurin avenged his adopted daughter.
* * * * *
Vreneli had found a home, and, instead of the one worthless heart that
she had lost, a thousand hearts beat true to her in unchanging love.
King Laurin loved her as he had once loved his own lost child, and she
returned his affection with all the warmth of her young heart, while
the little dwarfs obeyed her every wish with that cheerful eagerness
with which they had once served their lost princess.
She tended the rose-garden beside the king's crystal palace with such
loving care that it bloomed once more as in the days in which the
magic-mighty hand of the princess had moved among its fairy blossoms,
and the sweet fragrance that the roses breathed into her very soul
healed every wound of disappointed love.
She did not miss the sunlight in this fairy kingdom, for the mild
radiance of unseen stars lit it day and night; she never longed for
earth, for here was unchanging spring; warm breezes kissed her brow,
and the wild chamois, shy dwellers of the mountain solitudes, came up
in friendly confidence, and let her stroke them with her snow-white
hand.
Many a time on starry nights she went by King Laurin's side out to the
glacier peaks, to look around upon the slumbering land. Her eye, made
keen by the light of the fairy world, pierced the distance and the
darkness of night, and she gazed, even unaided by any "magic ring,"
far beyond the boundaries which limit human vision. And what had once
driven her from the region of sunlight she saw always and
everywhere--sorrow, injustice, and untruth.
And when she looked into many a joyless cottage and many a sorrowful
heart, she would turn to the old king by her side, kiss his hand with
loving reverence, and say, smiling--"Come, King Laurin, let us go back
to our home, to our peaceful kingdom, where tears and guilt and
fickleness are all unknown."
The Dwarf of Venice.
[Illustration: The Dwarf of Venice takes his Departure for his Native
Land.]
Evening was falling with the mild beauty of spring on the mountains
and pasture-lands of the Tyrol. The latest sunbeams which streamed
down from the lofty glacier bore the tones of the vesper bell through
the quiet village street, and floated over the brook and in at the
open windows of a substantial farm-house which stood at the end of
the little valley. A neatly carved balcony surrounded the house, the
window-panes gleamed like mirrors, and the orderly arrangements of the
farm-yard showed the owner to be a man of some wealth.
At the table in the oak-panelled sitting-room sat the rich farmer
himself, but in spite of his possessions he seemed discontented and
unhappy, for between his brows was a deep frown, and his eyes were
dark and lowering. Opposite him sat his beautiful young wife, whose
soft eyes looked anxiously into her husband's face. On her lap she
held her only child, a lovely little girl, with eyes as blue as the
flax blossom, and hair that shone like gold: she folded her little
hands, as her mother did, as long as the vesper bell continued to call
to prayer; but her eyes looked longingly, now on the pancakes that lay
piled on the bright pewter plate, now casting a friendly glance on the
boy that sat at the furthest end of the table, with his hands folded
in devout reverence.
It was Hans, the son of a poor relation, to whom the rich farmer, with
unwonted generosity, had granted a place in his house and at his
table, and who in return had to drive the goats every day up to the
highest pastures on the mountain, to places inaccessible to other
herds. He had just returned with his nimble charge, and had brought to
little Anneli on her mother's knee a bunch of alproses, for he dearly
loved the child.
The bell had ceased ringing, the hands were unclasped, and the mother
began to help the delicate pancakes. There was a gentle knocking at
the door, and in walked a little man in a sombre and threadbare
garment. His back was bent, either with the weight of years or by the
wallet which hung from his shoulder; his hair was silver grey; but the
dark shining eyes told that in this decrepit body lived a strong
unconquered spirit.
"Good evening, sir," said the little man humbly; "might I beg you for
a bit of supper, for I am starving, and for a night's rest on your
haystack, for I am tired to death."
"Indeed," said the farmer angrily; "do you take my house for a
beggar's tavern? if so, I am sorry your sight is so bad. You may seek
elsewhere, for you will not find what you want here!"
The dwarf looked in astonishment on the master of the house, who,
regardless of the hospitable customs of the country, could thus turn a
poor man away from his door; but the farmer took no notice of his
surprise, nor of his wife's looks of entreaty.
"No, wife," he said harshly, "this time you shall not have your own
way. I will not keep open house for all the beggars in the land. Did I
not give in to you about that boy over there? You might be content
with that."
Poor Hans blushed crimson at this allusion to his poverty, but when
the little man turned away with a sigh and left the inhospitable
threshold, sympathy with the poor old man overcame his fear of his
employer; he seized the plate with the pancakes, and the great piece
of bread which the farmer's wife had just given him, and ran out of
the room.
"What's the boy after?" asked the farmer angrily.
"He is just doing what we ought to have done," answered the wife, with
gentle reproach in her fair face; "he is sharing his meal with the
poor man."
"Yes, yes," growled the man, "birds of a feather flock together."
Meantime the old man was creeping with weary steps across the yard,
and had just reached the gate when Hans seized him by the arm.
"Here, good little man," said he in mingled pity and fear--"here is my
supper; come, sit down there on the well and eat."
The old man's dark eyes rested with a pleased look on the boy. "And
what hast thou for thyself, child, if thou givest away thine own
share?"
"Oh! that does not matter," said Hans unconcernedly, while he led the
dwarf to the stone wall which surrounded the well. "I am not very
hungry, and the farmer's good wife would give me more if I asked her."
The old man sat down and began to eat, while Hans watched with delight
how his aged friend enjoyed it. Soon the plate was empty, and the
little man rose with thanks to set out on further wanderings, and to
seek a night's shelter under a more hospitable roof.
Hans went with him to the gate, and whispered hastily, "Do not think
ill of the farmer for having refused you; he is not always so
churlish, but to-day something has occurred to vex him--he was not
re-elected as burgomaster of the village, but his bitterest foe was
successful; that has soured him, and so every one who comes in his way
must suffer for it. But listen, little man; to the right there, on
the rock over which the path leads to the mountain, stands the
hay-loft with its roof touching the stone. That's where I sleep, and
if you climb a little way up the rock, and wait there till I go to
bed, I will open the trap-door, and you can creep in to me among the
hay."
"Thou art a good boy," said the old man; "I will do as thou sayest,
and wait for thee there upon the rock."
It was night when Hans was at last allowed to seek his couch. More
nimbly than usual he sprang up the slender ladder to the hay-loft, and
then he quickly unfastened the trap-door which opened on the roof.