Father Heilmann had returned to the castle, as soon as he heard of the
Lord of Ringstetten's death, and he appeared there just after the
monk, who had married the hapless pair, had fled full of alarm and
horror. "It is well," answered Heilmann, when told this: "now is the
time for my office; I want no assistant." He addressed spiritual
exhortations to the widowed bride, but little impression could be made
on so worldly and thoughtless a mind. The old Fisherman, although
grieved to the heart, resigned himself more readily to the awful
dispensation; and when Bertalda kept calling Undine a witch and a
murderer, the old man calmly answered: "The stroke could not be turned
away. For my part, I see only the hand of God therein; and none
grieved more deeply over Huldbrand's sentence, than she who was doomed
to inflict it, the poor forsaken Undine!" And he helped to arrange the
funeral ceremonies in a manner suitable to the high rank of the dead.
He was to be buried in a neighbouring hamlet, whose churchyard
contained the graves of all his ancestors, and which he had himself
enriched with many noble gifts. His helmet and coat of arms lay upon
the coffin, about to be lowered into earth with his mortal remains;
for Lord Huldbrand of Ringstetten was the last of his race.
The mourners began their dismal procession, and the sound of their
solemn dirge rose into the calm blue depths of heaven. Heilmann walked
first, bearing on high a crucifix, and the bereaved Bertalda followed
leaning on her aged father. Suddenly, amid the crowd of mourners who
composed the widow's train, appeared a snow-white figure, deeply
veiled, with hands uplifted in an attitude of intense grief. Those
that stood near her felt a shudder creep over them; they shrank back,
and thus increased the alarm of those whom the stranger next
approached, so that confusion gradually spread itself through the
whole train. Here and there was to be found a soldier bold enough to
address the figure, and attempt to drive her away; but she always
eluded their grasp, and the next moment reappeared among the rest,
moving along with slow and solemn step. At length, when the attendants
had all fallen back, she found herself close behind Bertalda, and now
slackened her pace to the very slowest measure, so that the widow was
not aware of her presence. No one disturbed her again, while she
meekly and reverently glided on behind her.
So they advanced till they reached the churchyard, when the whole
procession formed a circle round the open grave. Bertalda then
discovered the unbidden guest, and half-angry, half-frightened, she
forbade her to come near the Knight's resting-place. But the veiled
form gently shook her head, and extended her hands in humble entreaty;
this gesture reminded Bertalda of poor Undine, when she gave her the
coral necklace on the Danube, and she could not but weep. Father
Heilmann enjoined silence; for they had begun to heap earth over the
grave, and were about to offer up solemn prayers around it. Bertalda
knelt down in silence, and all her followers did the same. When they
rose, lo, the white form had vanished! and on the spot where she had
knelt, a bright silvery brook now gushed out of the turf, and flowed
round the Knight's tomb, till it had almost wholly encircled it; then
it ran further on, and emptied itself into a shady pool which bounded
one side of the churchyard. From that time forth, the villagers are
said to have shown travellers this clear spring, and they still
believe it to be the poor forsaken Undine, who continues thus to twine
her arms round her beloved lord.
V