The Woman of the Wood.
Audifax and Hadumoth had returned to the castle on the Hohentwiel,
without anybody having noticed their having made this nightly
expedition. They did not speak of their adventures, even to each other;
but Audifax brooded over them night and day. He became rather negligent
in his duties, so that one of his flock got lost in the hilly ground
near where the Rhine flows out of the Bodensee. So Audifax went to look
for the goat; and after spending a whole day in the pursuit, he
triumphantly returned with the truant, in the evening.
Hadumoth welcomed him joyfully; delighted at his success, which saved
him from a whipping. By and by, the winter came, and the animals
remained in their respective stalls. One day the two children were
sitting alone before the fire-place in the servant's hall.
"Dost thou still think of the treasure and the spell?" said Hadumoth.
Then Audifax drew closer to her and whispered mysteriously. "The holy
man has after all got the right God."
"Why so?" asked Hadumoth. He ran away to his chamber where, hidden in
the straw of his mattress, were a number of different stones. He took
out one of these and brought it to her.
"Look here," he said. It was a piece of grey mica-slate, containing the
remains of a fish; the delicate outlines of which, were clearly
visible. "That's what I have found at the foot of the Schiener
mountain, when I went to look for the goat. That must come from the
great flood, which Father Vincentius, once preached about; and this
flood, the Lord of Heaven and Earth sent over the world, when he told
Noah to build the big ship. Of all this, the woman of the wood knows
nothing."
Hadumoth became thoughtful. "Then it must be her fault, that the stars
did not fall into our lap. Let us go and complain of her, to the holy
man."
So they went to Ekkehard, and told him all that they had beheld that
night on the Hohenkraehen. He listened kindly to their tale, which he
repeated to the Duchess in the evening. Dame Hadwig smiled.
"They have a peculiar taste, my faithful subjects," said she.
"Everywhere handsome churches have been erected, in which the Gospel is
preached to them. Fine church-music, great festivals and processions
through the waving corn-fields, with cross and flag at their head,--all
this does not content them. So they must needs sit on their
mountaintops in cold, chilly nights, not understanding what they're
about, except that they drink beer. 'Tis really wonderful. What do you
think of the matter, pious Master Ekkehard?"
"It is superstition," replied he, "which, the Evil One sows in weak and
rebellions hearts. I have read in our books about the doings of the
heathens, how they perform their idolatrous rites in dark woods; by
lonely wells and even at the graves of their dead."
"But they are no longer heathens," said Dame Hadwig. "They are all
baptized and belong to some parish-church. But nevertheless some of the
old traditions still live among them; and though these have lost their
meaning, they yet run through their thoughts and actions, as the Rhine
does in winter, flowing noiselessly on, under the icy cover of the
Bodensee. What would you do with them?"
"Annihilate them," said Ekkehard. "He who forsakes his christian faith
and breaks the vows of his baptism, shall be eternally damned."
"Not so fast, my young zealot!" continued Dame Hadwig. "My good Hegau
people are not to lose their heads, because they prefer sitting on the
cold top of the Hohenkraehen, on the first night of November, to lying
on their straw-mattresses. For all that, they do their duties well
enough, and fought under Charlemagne against the heathenish Saxons, as
if everyone of them had been a chosen combatant of the Church itself."
"With the Devil there can be no peace," cried Ekkehard hotly. "Are you
going to be lukewarm in your faith, noble Mistress?"
"In reigning over a country," returned she with a slight sarcasm in her
voice--"one learns a good deal that is not written down in books. Don't
you know that a weak man is often more easily defeated by his own
weakness, than by the sharpness of the sword? When the holy Gallus one
day visited the ruins of Bregenz, he found the altar of St. Amelia
destroyed, and in its place three metal idols erected; and around the
great beer-kettle the men sat drinking; for this is a ceremony which is
never omitted when our Suabians wish to show their piety in the old
fashion. The holy Gallus did not hurt a single man amongst them; but he
cut their idols to pieces, threw them into the green waves of the lake,
and made a large hole into their beer-kettle. On this very spot he
preached the Gospel to them, and when they saw that no fire fell down
from the Heavens to destroy him, they were convinced that their Gods
were powerless, and so became converted. So you see that to be sensible
is not to be lukewarm." ...
"That was in those times," began Ekkehard, but Dame Hadwig continued:
"And now the Church has been established from the source of the Rhine
to the North Sea, and far stronger than the ancient castles of the
Romans, a chain of monasteries, fortresses of the christian faith, runs
through the land. Even into the recesses of the Black-forest the Gospel
has penetrated; so why should we wage war so fiercely against the
miserable stragglers of the olden times?"
"Then you had better reward them," said Ekkehard bitterly.
"Reward them?" quoth the Duchess. "Between the one and the other, there
is still many an expedient left. Perhaps it were better if we put a
stop to these nightly trespasses. No realm can be powerful in which two
different creeds exist, for that leads to internal warfare, which is
rather dangerous, as long as there are plenty of outward enemies.
Besides, the laws of the land have forbidden them these follies, and
they must find out, that our ordinances and prohibitions are not to be
tampered with in that way."
Ekkehard did not seem to be satisfied yet; a shadow of displeasure
being still visible on his countenance.
"Tell me," continued the Duchess, "what is your opinion of witchcraft
in general?"
"Witchcraft," said Ekkehard seriously, taking a deep breath, which
seemed to denote the intention of indulging in a longer speech than
usual--"witchcraft is a damnable art, by which human beings make
treaties with the demons inhabiting the elements, whose workings in
nature are everywhere traceable; rendering them subservient by these
compacts. Even in lifeless things there are latent living powers, which
we neither hear nor see, but which often tempt careless and unguarded
minds, to wish to know more and to attain greater power, than is
granted to a faithful servant of the Lord. That is the old sorcery of
the serpent; and he, who holds communion with the powers of darkness,
may obtain part of their power, but he reigns over the Devils by
Beelzebub himself, and becomes his property, when his time is at an
end. Therefore witchcraft is as old as sin itself, and instead of
the one true faith, the belief in the Trinity reigning paramount,
fortune-tellers and interpreters of dreams, wandering actors and
expounders of riddles, still infest the world; and their partisans are
to be found above all among the daughters of Eve."
"You are really getting polite!" exclaimed Dame Hadwig.
"For the minds of women," continued Ekkehard, "have in all times been
curious and eager to attain forbidden knowledge. As we shall proceed
with our reading of Virgil, you will see the excess of witchcraft
embodied in a woman, called Circe, who passed her days, singing, on a
rocky headland. Burning chips, of sweet-scented cedar-wood, lighten up
her dark chambers, where she is industriously throwing the shuttle, and
weaving beautiful tapestry; but outside in the yard, is heard the
melancholy roaring of lions and tigers, as well as the grunting of
swine, which were formerly men, whom by administering to them her
potent magic philters, she has changed into brutes."
"I declare, you are talking like a book," said the Duchess pointedly.
"You really ought to extend your study of witchcraft. To-morrow you
shall ride over to the Hohenkraehen and examine, whether the woman of
the wood is a Circe also. We give you full authority to act in our
name, and are truly curious to ascertain what your wisdom will decree."
"It is not for me to reign over a people and to settle the affairs of
this world," replied he evasively.
"That will be seen," said Duchess Hadwig. "I do not think that the
power of commanding has ever embarrassed anyone, least of all a son of
the Church."
So Ekkehard submitted; the more readily, as the commission was a proof
of confidence on her part. Early on the next morning he rode over to
the Hohenkraehen on horseback, taking Audifax with him, to show him the
way.
"A happy journey, Sir Chancellor!" called out a laughing voice behind
him. It was the voice of Praxedis.
They soon reached the old hag's dwelling, which was a stone hut, built
on a projecting part of the high rock, about half way up. Mighty oaks
and beech-trees spread their boughs over it, hiding the summit of the
Hohenkraehen. Three high stone steps led into the inside, which was a
dark, but airy chamber. On the floor, there lay heaps of dried herbs,
giving out a strong fragrance. Three bleached horses' skulls grinned
down fantastically from the walls; whilst beneath them hung the huge
antlers of a stag. In the door-post was cut a double, intricate
triangle; and on the floor, a tame wood-pecker, and a raven with
cropped wings, were hopping about.
The inhabitant of this abode, was seated beside the flickering fire on
the hearth; sewing some garment. By her side stood a high, roughly hewn
weather-beaten stone. From time to time, she bent down to the hearth,
and held out her meagre hand over the coals; for the cold of November
was beginning to be felt, especially on the mountains. The boughs of an
old beech-tree came almost into the room through the window. A faint
breeze was stirring them; and the leaves being withered and sere,
trembled and fell off; a few of them falling right into the chamber.
The woman of the wood was old and lonely; and suffering probably from
the cold.
"There you are lying now, despised and faded and dead," she said to the
leaves--"and I am like you." A peculiar expression now came to her old
wrinkled face. She was thinking of former times, when she also had been
young and blooming, and had had a sweetheart of her own. But his fate
had driven him far away from his native fir-woods. Plundering Normans,
coming up the Rhine, robbing and burning wherever they came, had
carried him off as a prisoner, like so many others; and he had staid
with them more than a year, and had become a seaman, and in the rough
sea-air he had got to be rough and hard also. When at last they gave
him his liberty, and he returned to his Suabian woods, he still carried
with him the longing for the North-Sea, and pined for his wild sailor
life. The home-faces were no longer pleasant to his eyes; those of the
monks and priests least of all; and as misfortune would have it, in the
heat of passion he slew a monk who had upbraided him, so that he could
no longer remain in his home.
The thoughts of the old woman were constantly recurring that day, to
the hour when he had parted from her for ever. Then, the servants of
the judge led him to his cottage in the wood of Weiterdingen, and
exacted six hundred shillings from him, as a fine for the man he had
slain. Then he had to swear a great oath, that beside his cottage and
acre, he had nothing left, either above or underground.
After that he went into his house, took a handful of earth, and threw
it with his left hand over his shoulder, at his father's brother, in
sign that his debt was thus to pass on to this his only remaining
relation by blood. This done, he seized his staff, and dressed in his
linen shirt, without shoes or girdle, he jumped over the fence of his
acre, for such was the custom of the "_Chrene Chruda_,"[9] and thus he
became a homeless wanderer, free to go out into the wilderness. So he
went back to Denmark to his own Northmen and never returned any more.
All that had ever reached her, was a dark rumour that he had gone over
with them to Seeland, where the brave sea-kings, refusing to adopt the
christian faith with its new laws, had founded a new home for
themselves.
All this had happened long, long ago; but the old woman remembered it
all, as if it were but yesterday, that she had seen her Friduhelm going
away from her for ever. Then she had hung up a garland of vervain at
the little chapel of Weiterdingen, shedding many tears over it; and
never had another lover been able to efface his image from her heart.
The cold dreary November weather, reminded her of an old Norman song,
which he had once taught her and which she now hummed to herself:
"The evening comes, and winter is near,
The hoar-frost on fir-trees is lying;
Oh book, and cross and prayers of monk--
How soon shall we all be a dying.
Our homes are getting so dusky and old
And the holy wells desecrated,
Thou god-inhabited, beautiful wood,
Wilt thou, even thou be prostrated?
And silent we go, a defeated tribe,
Whose stars are all dying and sinking,
Oh Iceland, thou icy rock in the sea,
With thee, our fates we'll be linking.
Arise and receive our wandering race,
Which is coming to thee, and bringing
The ancient Gods, and the ancient rights,
To which our hearts are still clinging.
Where the fiery hill is shedding its light,
And the breakers are shorewards sweeping,
On thee thou defiant end of the world!
Our last long watch, we'll be keeping."
Ekkehard meanwhile had got down from the saddle, and tied his horse to
a neighbouring fir-tree. He now stepped over the threshold, shyly
followed by Audifax.
The woman of the wood threw the garment she had been working at, over
the stone, folded her hands on her lap, and looked fixedly at the
intruder in his monk's habit, but did not get up.
"Praised be Jesus Christ," said Ekkehard, by way of greeting, and also
to avert any possible spell. Instinctively he drew in the thumb of his
right hand, doubling his fingers over it, being afraid of the evil eye
and its powers. Audifax had told him how people said, that with one
look she could wither up a whole meadow. She did not return his
greeting.
"What are you doing there," began Ekkehard.
"I am mending an old garment that is getting worn," was the answer.
"You have been also gathering herbs?"
"So I have. Are you an herb-gatherer? Here are many of them, if you
wish for any. Hawk-weed and snail-clover, goats-beard and mouse-ear, as
well as dried wood-ruff."
"I am no herb-gatherer," said Ekkehard. "What use do you make of those
herbs?"
"Need you be asking what is the use of herbs?" said the old woman.
"Such as you, know that well enough. It would fare ill with sick people
and sick hearts, and with our protection against nightly sprites, as
well as the stilling of lover's longings, if there were no herbs to be
had!"
"And have you been baptized?" continued Ekkehard.
"Aye, they will have baptized me, likely enough." ...
"And if you have been baptized," he said raising his voice, "and have
renounced the devil with all his works and allurements, what is the
meaning of all this?" He pointed with his stick towards the horses'
skulls on the wall, and giving a violent push to one, caused it to fall
down on the floor, where it broke to pieces, so that the white teeth
rolled about on the ground.
"The skull of a horse," quietly replied the old woman, "which you have
shivered to pieces. It was a young animal, as you may see by the
teeth."
"And you like to eat horse-flesh?"
"It is no impure animal, nor is it forbidden to eat it."
"Woman!" cried Ekkehard approaching her closer, "thou exercisest
witchcraft and sorcery!"
Then she arose and with a frowning brow and strangely glittering eyes,
she said: "You wear a priest's garment, so you may say this to me; for
an old woman has no protection against such as you. Otherwise it were a
grave insult which you have cast on me, and the laws of the land punish
those that use such words." ...
During this conversation, Audifax had remained timidly standing at the
door, but when the raven now made its way towards him, he was afraid
and ran up to Ekkehard; from thence he saw the stone by the hearth, and
walked up to it; for the fear even of twenty ravens would not have
prevented him from examining a curious stone. Lifting the garment which
was spread over it, he beheld some strange, weather-beaten figures
carved on it.
At that moment Ekkehard's eye fell also on the stone. It was a Roman
altar, and had doubtless been erected on those heights by cohorts, who
at the command of their Emperor had left their camp in luxurious Asia,
for the inhospitable shores of the Bodensee. A youth, in a flowing
mantle and with Phrygian cap, was kneeling on a prostrate bull,--the
Persian God of light, Mithras; who gave new hope and strength to the
fast sinking faith of the Romans.
An inscription was nowhere visible. For a considerable time Ekkehard
stood examining it; for with the exception of a golden coin bearing the
head of Vespasian, which had been found in the moor at Rapperswyl, by
some dependants of the monastery, and some carved stones among the
church treasures, his eye had never before beheld any carving of the
olden times; but from the shape and look of the thing, he guessed at
its being some silent witness of a bygone world.
"Whence comes the stone?" asked he.
"I have been questioned more than enough now," defiantly said the old
woman. "Find an answer for yourself."
The stone might have said a good deal for itself, if stones were gifted
with speech, for a goodly piece of history often clings to such old and
weather-beaten ruins. What do they teach us? That the races of men,
come and go like the leaves; that spring produces and autumn destroys,
and that all their thinkings and doings, last but a short span of time.
After them, there come others, talking in other tongues and creating
other forms. That which was holy before, is then pulled down and
despised, and that which was condemned, becomes holy in its place. New
Gods mount the throne,--and it is well if their altars are not erected
on the bodies of too many victims....
Ekkehard saw another meaning in the stone's being in the hut of the
woman of the wood.
"You worship that man on the bull!" he cried vehemently. The old woman
took up a stick standing by the fire-place, and with a knife made two
notches in it. "Tis the second insult you have offered me," she said
hoarsely. "What have we to do with yonder stone image?"
"Then speak out. How is it that the stone comes to be here?"
"Because we took pity on it," replied she. "You, who wear the tonsure
and monk's habit, probably will not understand that. The stone stood
outside, on yonder projecting rock, which must have been a consecrated
spot, on which many have knelt probably, in the olden times. But in the
present days nobody heeded it. The people here about, dried their
crab-apples, or split their wood on it; just as it suited them; and the
cruel rain has been washing away the figures. 'The sight of the stone
grieves me,' said my mother one day. It was once something holy, but
the bones of those, who have known and worshipped the man on it, have
long been bleached white,--and the man in the flowing mantle looks as
if he were freezing with the cold. So we took it up, and placed it
beside the hearth, and it has never harmed us as yet. We know how the
old Gods feel, when their altars are shattered; for ours also have been
dethroned. You need not begrudge its rest to the old stone."
"Your Gods?" said Ekkehard, "who are your Gods?"
"That you ought to know best, for you have driven them away, and
banished them into the depths of the lake. In the floods below,
everything has been buried. The ancient rights and the ancient Gods! We
can see them no more, and know but the places where our fathers have
worshipped them, before the Franks and the cowl-bearing men had come.
But when the winds are shaking the tops of yonder oak-tree, you may
hear their wailing voices in the air; and on consecrated nights, there
is a moaning and roaring in the forest, and a shining of lights; whilst
serpents are winding themselves round the stems of the trees; and over
the mountains you hear a rustling of wings, of despairing spirits, that
have come to look at their ancient home."
Ekkehard crossed himself.
"I tell it thus as I know it," continued the old woman. "I do not wish
to offend the Saviour, but he has come as a stranger into the land. You
serve him in a foreign tongue, which we cannot understand. If he had
sprung up from our own ground, then we might talk to him, and should be
his most faithful worshippers, and maybe things would then fare better
in Allemannia."
"Woman!" cried Ekkehard wrathfully, "we will have thee burned ..."
"If it be written in your books that trees grow up, to burn old woman
with, very well. I have lived long enough. The lightning has lately
paid a visit to the woman of the wood,"--pointing to a dark stripe on
the wall,--"the lightning has spared the old woman."
After this she cowered down before the hearth, and remained there
motionless like a statue. The flickering coals threw a fitful, varying
light on her wrinkled face.
"Tis well," said Ekkehard as he left the chamber. Audifax was very glad
when he could see the blue sky again over his head. "There they sat
together," said he pointing upwards.
"I will go and look at it, whilst thou goest back to the Hohentwiel,
and sendest over two men with hatchets. And tell Otfried the deacon of
Singen to come and bring his stole and mass-book with him."
Audifax bounded away, whilst Ekkehard went up to the top of the
Hohenkraehen.
In the castle on the Hohentwiel, the Duchess had been sitting meanwhile
taking her midday meal. She had often looked about, as if something
were missing. The meal was soon over, and when Dame Hadwig found
herself alone with Praxedis she began:
"How dost thou like our new teacher, Praxedis?"
The Greek maid smiled.
"Speak," said the Duchess in a commanding voice.
"Well I have seen many a schoolmaster before this, at
Constantinopolis," said Praxedis flippantly.
Dame Hadwig threatened her with her finger, "I shall have to banish
thee from my sight, if thou indulgest in such irreverent speeches. What
hast thou to say against schoolmasters?"
"Pardon me," said Praxedis. "I did not mean any offence. But whenever I
see such a bookman, wearing such a very serious expression, and
assuming such an important air, drawing out of his manuscript some
meaning which we have already nearly guessed; and when I see how he is
bound up in his parchments, his eyes seeing nothing but dead letters,
having scarcely a look to spare for the human beings around him,--then
I always feel strongly tempted to laugh. When I am in doubt whether
pity would be the proper feeling, I take to laughing. And he certainly
does not require my pity, as he knows so much more, than I do."
"A teacher must be serious," said the Duchess. "Seriousness belongs to
him, as the snow does to our Alps."
"Serious,--ah well! in this land where the snow covers the
mountain-peaks, everything must be serious," resumed the Greek maid.
"If I were only as learned as Master Ekkehard to be able to express all
that I want to say! I mean that one can learn many things jestingly,
without the sweat-drops of hard labour on one's brow. All that is
beautiful ought to please, and be true, at the same time. I mean that
knowledge is like honey, which can be got at in different ways. The
butterfly hovers over the flowers and finds it; but such a learned
German appears to me like a bear, who clumsily puts his paws into a
bee-hive and then licks them. I for my part don't admire bears."
"Thou art a frivolous minded maiden and not fond of learning. But how
does Ekkehard please thee otherwise,--I think him very handsome."
Praxedis looked up at her mistress. "I have never yet looked at a monk,
to see whether he were handsome."
"Why not?"
"Because I thought it quite unnecessary."
"Thou givest queer answers to-day," said Dame Hadwig, getting up from
her seat. She stepped to the window and looked out northwards; where
from the dark fir-trees rose the heavy mass of the steep, rocky
Hohenkraehen.
"The goat-boy has just been here, and has told some of the men to go
over," said Praxedis.
"The afternoon is mild and sunny," observed the Duchess. "Tell them to
saddle the horses and we will ride over, and see what they are doing.
Ah--I forgot that thou complainedst of the fatigue of riding, when we
returned from St. Gallus. So I will go there alone ..."
Ekkehard meanwhile had inspected the scene of the nightly revel, of
which but few traces remained. The earth around the oak-tree was still
wet and reddish looking, and a few coals and ashes indicated where the
fire had been.
With astonishment he beheld here and there, hanging in the branches of
the oak, small wax effigies of human limbs. There were feet and hands,
as well as images of cows and horses,--offerings for the recovery of
sick men and beasts, which the superstitious peasantry, preferred
hanging up on old consecrated trees, to placing them on the altars of
churches.
Two men, with hatchets, now came up.
"We have been ordered to come here," they said.
"From the Hohentwiel?" asked Ekkehard.
"We belong to the Duchess, but we live yonder on the Hohenhoewen; where
you can see the smoke rise from the charcoal-pile."
"Good," said Ekkehard. "You are to cut down this oak for me."
The men looked at him. Embarrassment was visible in their faces.
"Begin at once, and make haste, for before nightfall, the tree must be
felled to the ground."
Then the two men walked up to the oak. With gaping mouths they stood
before the magnificent tree. One of them let his axe fall.
"Don't you know the spot, Chomuli?" quoth he to his companion.
"How should I know it, Woveli?"
The former pointed towards the east, and lifting one of his hands to
his mouth, imitated the act of drinking. "On account of that,
Chomuli."
Then the other looked downhill where Ekkehard was standing, and winking
cunningly with one eye, said: "We know nothing, Woveli."
"But he will know, Chomuli."
"That remains to be seen," was the reply.
"It is really a sin and a shame," continued the other. "That oak is at
least two hundred years old, and has lived to witness many a bright
May- and Autumn-fire. I really can't do it."
"Don't be a fool," said his companion making the first stroke. "The
more readily we hew away at the tree, the less yonder monk will
believe, that we have sat under its branches in nightly worship.
Remember the shilling fine! A man must be cautious, Woveli!"
This last remark did not fail to have its effect. "Yes, a man must be
cautious," he repeated aiming a blow at the tree of his devotion. But
ten days ago, he had hung up a wax effigy himself, in order to cure his
brown cow of fever.
The chips flew about, and keeping regular time, their blows quickly
followed each other.
The deacon of Singen had also arrived with stole and mass-book.
Ekkehard beckoned to him to go with him into the hut of the woman of
the wood. She was still sitting motionless as before, beside her
hearth. A sharp gust of wind, entering as the door opened, extinguished
her fire.
"Woman of the wood," called out Ekkehard imperiously, "put your house
in order and pack up your things, for you must go!"
The old woman seized her staff and cut a third notch. "Who is it, that
is insulting me for the third time," growled she, "and who wishes to
cast me out of my mother's house, like a stray dog?"
"In the name of the Duchess of Suabia," continued Ekkehard solemnly,
"and on account of your practising heathenish superstitions, and
nightly idolatries, I banish you herewith from house and home; and bid
you leave the land. Your chair shall be placed before the door of your
hut, and you shall wander restlessly about, as far as the sky is blue,
and christians visit the church; as far as the falcon flies on a day of
Spring when the wind is carrying him along, faster than his wings. No
hospitable door shall be opened to you; no fire be lighted to give you
warmth; and may the wells deny you water, until you have renounced the
powers of darkness, and made your peace with the almighty God; the
judge of the living and dead."
The woman of the wood had listened to him, without showing great
emotion.
"An anointed man, will insult thee three times under thy own roof,"
muttered she, "and thou shalt make a sign on thy staff, in witness of
this; and with that same staff, thou shalt go out towards the setting
sun, for they will not give thee sufficient ground, to rest thy head
upon. Oh mother! My mother!"
She then scraped her scanty belongings together, making a bundle of
them; and taking her staff, prepared herself to go. The heart of the
deacon of Singen was touched. "Pray God through his servants to have
mercy on you, and perform some christian penance," he said, "so that
you may find forgiveness."
"For that, the woman of the wood is too old," she replied. Then she
called her wood-pecker, which flew about her head; the raven followed,
with a scared frightened look, and she had already opened the door and
cast back one last look on the walls and fire-place, the herbs and
horses' skulls, when she struck her stick violently on the threshold;
so as to make the stone flags resound. "Be cursed ye dogs!" cried she;
then followed by her birds, took the path leading into the woods, and
disappeared.
"And silent we go, a defeated tribe,
Whose stars are all dying and sinking,
Oh Iceland, thou icy rock in the sea,
With thee, our fates we'll be linking!"
was her low chaunt; slowly dying out, among the leafless trees.
Ekkehard now put on the stole; and the deacon of Singen carrying the
mass-book before him, they proceeded through chamber and closet. The
walls were sanctified by the sign of the cross, so as to banish the
evil spirits for ever; and finally, with prayers, he pronounced the
mighty exorcism over the place.
The pious work had lasted long; and when the deacon took off Ekkehard's
stole, the cold sweat-drops stood on his brow; as he had never before
heard such impressive words. Just when all was over, the tramping of
horses' feet was heard.
It was the Duchess, accompanied by one servant only. Ekkehard went out
to meet her; and the deacon directed his steps homewards.
"You were so long away, that I had to come hither myself, to see how
you had settled everything," graciously called out the Duchess.
The two wood-cutters had in the meanwhile finished their job, and made
their retreat by the back of the hill. They stood in awe of the
Duchess. Ekkehard then told her about the life and doings of the woman
of the wood, and how he had driven her away.
"You are very severe," said Dame Hadwig.
"I thought I was very mild," replied Ekkehard.
"Well, we approve of that which you have done. What do you intend to do
with the deserted hut," casting a hasty look at the stone walls.
"The power of the evil spirits has been banished and exorcised," said
Ekkehard. "I mean to consecrate it as a chapel to St. Hadwig."
The Duchess looked at him with a well pleased expression.
"How did you hit upon that idea?"
"The thought struck me just now, ... the oak I have had cut down."
"We will examine that spot; and I think that we shall approve also, of
the felling of the oak."
She climbed the steep path, leading up to the top of the Hohenkraehen,
accompanied by Ekkehard.
There lay the oak on the ground; its mighty branches almost preventing
their further ascent. A flat stone, but a few paces in circumference,
crowned the top of the strangely shaped hill. They were standing on the
rocks, which formed a declivitous wall beneath their feet. It was a
giddy height, on which was neither stone nor tree for support, and the
two figures stood out picturesquely, against the blue sky; the monk in
his dark garment and the Duchess, wrapped up in her bright coloured
mantle. Silently they stood thus; looking at the splendid view before
them. In the depth below, the plain lay stretched out before them,
through the green meadows of which, the river Aach ran in serpentine
lines. The roofs and gables of the houses in the valley, looked like
tiny dots on a map. Opposite rose darkly, the proud, well-known peak of
the Hohentwiel; blue, flat mountain-ridges rising like walls, behind
the mighty one; hiding the Rhine after its escape from the Bodensee.
The Untersee with the island of Reichenau lay bathed in light; and in
the far off distance, the faint outlines of gigantic mountains were
visible, through transparent clouds. They became clearer and clearer as
the sun sank down, a golden glow surrounding them like a halo of glory
... the landscape becoming softer, shadows and glittering lights
melting into each other ...
Dame Hadwig was touched, for her noble heart could feel and appreciate
nature's beauty and grandeur. But the feelings lie very close to each
other, and at that moment, a certain tenderness, pervaded her whole
being. Her looks from the snowy Alpine peaks fell on Ekkehard. "He is
going to consecrate a chapel to St. Hadwig," something whispered within
her, over and over again.
She advanced a step, as if she were afraid of becoming giddy, and
putting her right arm on Ekkehard's shoulder, leaned heavily on him;
her sparkling eyes looking intently into his. "What is my friend
thinking about?" said she in soft accents.
Ekkehard who had been lost in thought started.
"I have never before stood on such a height," said he, "and I was
reminded of the passage in Scripture: 'Afterwards the devil, taking him
up into a high mountain, shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world
in a moment of time. And the devil said unto him: All this will I give
Thee, and the glory of them, if thou wilt worship me. But Jesus
answered and said unto him: Get thee behind me Satan, for it is
written, thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou
serve.'"
With a strange look the Duchess stepped backwards; the light in her
eyes changing, as if she would have liked to push the monk down into
the abyss.
"Ekkehard!" cried she, "you are either a child--or a fool!"
Then she turned round, and hastily and displeased descended the path.
Mounting her horse, she rode back to the Hohentwiel, at a gallop, so
furious, that her servant could scarcely follow her.
Ekkehard full of consternation, remained where he was. He passed his
hand over his eyes, as if to remove a mist from before them.
When late at night he sat in his tower on the Hohentwiel, thinking of
all that had happened that day, he beheld a distant gleam of fire. He
looked out and saw that the fiery blaze, arose from the fir-trees on
the Hohenkraehen. The woman of the wood, had been paying her last visit
to the future chapel of St. Hadwig.