The longer Huldbrand wandered in vain pursuit of Undine, the more
bewildered he became. The idea that she might be a mere spirit of the
woods, sometimes returned upon him with double force; nay, amid the
howling waves and storm, the groaning of trees, and the wild commotion
of the once-peaceful spot, he might have fancied the whole promontory,
its hut and its inhabitants, to be a delusion of magic, but that he
still heard in the distance the Fisherman's piteous cries of "Undine!"
and the old housewife's loud prayers and hymns, above the whistling of
the blast.
At last he found himself on the margin of the overflowing stream, and
saw it by the moonlight rushing violently along, close to the edge of
the mysterious forest so as to make an island of the peninsula on
which he stood. "Gracious Heaven!" thought he, "Undine may have
ventured a step or two into that awful forest--perhaps in her pretty
waywardness, just because I would not tell her my story--and the
swollen stream has cut her off, and left her weeping alone among the
spectres!" A cry of terror escaped him, and he clambered down the bank
by means of some stones and fallen trees, hoping to wade or swim
across the flood, and seek the fugitive beyond it. Fearful and
unearthly visions did indeed float before him, like those he had met
with in the morning, beneath these groaning, tossing branches.
Especially he was haunted by the appearance of a tall white man, whom
he remembered but too well, grinning and nodding at him from the
opposite bank; however, the thought of these grim monsters did but
urge him onward as he recollected Undine, now perhaps in deadly fear
among them, and alone.
He had laid hold of a stout pine branch, and leaning on it, was
standing in the eddy, though scarcely able to stem it, but he stepped
boldly forward--when a sweet voice exclaimed close behind him: "Trust
him not--trust not! The old fellow is tricksy--the stream!"
Well he knew those silver tones: the moon was just disappearing behind
a cloud, and he stood amid the deepening shades, made dizzy as the
water shot by him with the speed of an arrow. Yet he would not desist.
"And if thou art not truly there, if thou flittest before me an empty
shadow, I care not to live; I will melt into air like thee, my beloved
Undine!" This he cried aloud, and strode further into the flood.
"Look round then--look round, fair youth!" he heard just behind him,
and looking round, he beheld by the returning moonbeams, on a fair
island left by the flood, under some thickly interlaced branches,
Undine all smiles and loveliness, nestling in the flowery grass. How
much more joyfully than before did the young man use his pine staff to
cross the waters! A few strides brought him through the flood that had
parted them; and he found himself at her side, on the nook of soft
grass, securely sheltered under the shade of the old trees. Undine
half arose, and twined her arms round his neck in the green arbour,
making him sit down by her on the turf. "Here you shall tell me all,
my own friend," said she in a low whisper; "the cross old folks cannot
overhear us. And our pretty bower of leaves is well worth their
wretched hut."
"This is heaven!" cried Huldbrand, as he clasped in his arms the
beautiful flatterer.
Meantime the old man had reached the banks of the stream, and he
called out: "So, Sir Knight, when I had made you welcome, as one
honest man should another, here are you making love to my adopted
child--to say nothing of your leaving me to seek her, alone and
terrified, all night."
"I have but this moment found her, old man!" cried the Knight in
reply.
"Well, I am glad of that," said the Fisherman; "now then bring her
back to me at once."
But Undine would not hear of it. She had rather she said, go quite
away into the wild woods with the handsome stranger, than return to
the hut, where she had never had her own way, and which the Knight
must sooner or later leave. Embracing Huldbrand, she sang with
peculiar charm and grace:
"From misty cave the mountain wave
Leapt out and sought the main!
The Ocean's foam she made her home,
And ne'er returned again."
The old man wept bitterly as she sang, but this did not seem to move
her. She continued to caress her lover, till at length he said:
"Undine, the poor old man's grief goes to my heart if not to yours.
Let us go back to him."
Astonished, she raised her large blue eyes toward him, and after a
pause answered slowly and reluctantly: "To please you, I will:
whatever you like pleases me too. But the old man yonder must first
promise me that he will let you tell me all you saw in the forest, and
the rest we shall see about."
"Only come back--do come!" cried the Fisherman, and not another word
could he say. At the same moment he stretched his arms over the stream
toward her, and nodded his head by way of giving her the desired
promise; and as his white hair fell over his face, it gave him a
strange look, and reminded Huldbrand involuntarily of the nodding
white man in the woods. Determined, however, that nothing should stop
him, the young Knight took the fair damsel in his arms, and carried
her through the short space of foaming flood, which divided the island
from the mainland. The old man fell upon Undine's neck, and rejoiced,
and kissed her in the fulness of his heart; his aged wife also came
up, and welcomed their recovered child most warmly. All reproaches
were forgotten; the more so, as Undine seemed to have left her
sauciness behind, and overwhelmed her foster parents with kind words
and caresses.
When these transports of joy had subsided, and they began to look
about them, the rosy dawn was just shedding its glow over the lake,
the storm had ceased, and the birds were singing merrily on the wet
branches. As Undine insisted upon hearing the story of the Knight's
adventure, both the old folks cheerfully indulged her. Breakfast was
set out under the trees between the cottage and the lake, and they sat
down before it with glad hearts, Undine placing herself resolutely on
the grass at the Knight's feet. Huldbrand began his narrative as
follows.