* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will
perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old
Swiss by a little French anecdote of a circumstance said to have
taken place at Paris.
"He that supper for is dight,
He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!
Yestreen to chamber I him led,
This night Gray-steel has made his bed!"
--_Sir Eger, Sir Grahame_ and _Sir Gray-steel_
On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and
romantic tract of Upper Germany that lies not far from the confluence
of the Maine and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the
Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay,
and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs; above which,
however, its old watch-tower may still be seen struggling, like the
former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look
down upon a neighboring country.
The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen,*
and inherited the relics of the property and all the pride of his
ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors had
much impaired the family possessions, yet the Baron still endeavored
to keep up some show of former state. The times were peaceable, and
the German nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old
castles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains, and had
built more convenient residences in the valleys; still the Baron
remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing with
hereditary inveteracy all the old family feuds; so that he was on ill
terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that
had happened between their great-great-grandfathers.
* _I.e., Cat's Elbow_--the name of a family of those parts, very
powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in
compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for a fine
arm.
The Baron had but one child, a daughter; but Nature, when she grants
but one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy; and so it
was with the daughter of the Baron. All the nurses, gossips, and
country cousins, assured her father that she had not her equal for
beauty in all Germany; and who should know better than they? She
had, moreover, been brought up with great care, under the
superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years of
their early life at one of the little German courts, and were skilled
in all the branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a fine
lady. Under their instructions, she became a miracle of
accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen she could embroider to
admiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry
with such strength of expression in their countenances that they
looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read without great
difficulty, and had spelled her way through several church legends,
and almost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even
made considerable proficiency in writing, could sign her own name
without missing a letter, and so legibly that her aunts could read it
without spectacles. She excelled in making little good-for-nothing
lady-like knickknacks of all kinds; was versed in the most abstruse
dancing of the day; played a number of airs on the harp and guitar;
and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnie-lieders by heart.
Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their
younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians and
strict censors of the conduct of their niece; for there is no duenna
so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a superannuated
coquette. She was rarely suffered out of their sight; never went
beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, or, rather,
well watched; had continual lectures read to her about strict decorum
and implicit obedience; and, as to the men--pah! she was taught to
hold them at such distance and distrust that, unless properly
authorized, she would not have cast a glance upon the handsomest
cavalier in the world--no, not if he were even dying at her feet.
The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. The young
lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others were
wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to be
plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into
fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of those immaculate
spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her
aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that
though all the other young ladies in the world might go astray, yet,
thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of
Katzenellenbogen.
But however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided with
children, his household was by no means a small one, for Providence
had enriched him with abundance of poor relations. They, one and
all, possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble
relatives; were wonderfully attached to the Baron, and took every
possible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. All
family festivals were commemorated by these good people at the
Baron's expense; and when they were filled with good cheer, they
would declare that there was nothing on earth so delightful as these
family meetings, these jubilees of the heart.
The Baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled with
satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man in the
little world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the
stark old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls
around, and he found no listeners equal to those who fed at his
expense. He was much given to the marvelous, and a firm believer in
all those supernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in
Germany abounds. The faith of his guests even exceeded his own: they
listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never
failed to be astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth time.
Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the
absolute monarch of his little territory, and happy, above all
things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age.
At the time of which my story treats there was a great family
gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance: it
was to receive the destined bridegroom of the Baron's daughter. A
negotiation had been carried on between the father and an old
nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the
marriage of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted
with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed without
seeing each other, and the time was appointed for the marriage
ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the
army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the Baron's to
receive his bride. Missives had even been received from him, from
Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the day and
hour when he might be expected to arrive.
The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable
welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The
two aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarreled the whole
morning about every article of her dress. The young lady had taken
advantage of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste; and
fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful
bridegroom could desire; and the flutter of expectation heightened
the lustre of her charms.
The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving of
the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the
soft tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were
continually hovering around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take
great interest in affairs of this nature: they were giving her a
world of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in
what manner to receive the expected lover.
The Baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth,
nothing exactly to do; but he was naturally a fuming, bustling little
man, and could not remain passive when all the world was in a hurry.
He worried from top to bottom of the castle, with an air of infinite
anxiety; he continually called the servants from their work to exhort
them to be diligent, and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as
idly, restless, and importunate as a bluebottle fly of a warm
summer's day.
In the meantime, the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had
rung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with
good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of _Rhein-wein_
and _Ferne-wein_, and even the great Heidelberg Tun had been laid
under contribution. Everything was ready to receive the
distinguished guest with _Saus and Braus_ in the true spirit of
German hospitality--but the guest delayed to make his appearance.
Hour rolled after hour. The sun that had poured his downward rays
upon the rich forests of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the
summits of the mountains. The Baron mounted the highest tower, and
strained his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of the Count
and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them; the sound of
horns came floating from the valley, prolonged by the mountain
echoes: a number of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing
along the road; but when they had nearly reached the foot of the
mountain they suddenly struck off in a different direction. The last
ray of sunshine departed--the boats began to flit by in the
twilight--the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view; and nothing
appeared stirring in it but now and then a peasant lagging homeward
from his labor.
While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity, a
very interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the
Odenwald.
The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his route in
that sober jog-trot way in which a man travels toward matrimony when
his friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship
off his hands, and a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a
dinner, at the end of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a
youthful companion in arms, with whom he had seen some service on the
frontiers: Herman Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and
worthiest hearts of German chivalry, who was now returning from the
army. His father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress
of Landshort, although a hereditary feud rendered the families
hostile and strangers to each other.
In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends related
all their past adventures and fortunes, and the Count gave the whole
history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never
seen, but of whose charms he had received the most enrapturing
descriptions.
As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed to
perform the rest of their journey together; and, that they might do
it more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the Count
having given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him.
They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military
scenes and adventures; but the Count was apt to be a little tedious,
now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, and the felicity
that awaited him.
In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, and
were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It
is well known that the forests of Germany have always been as much
infested with robbers as its castles by spectres; and, at this time,
the former were particularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded
soldiers wandering about the country. It will not appear
extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang
of these stragglers in the midst of the forest. They defended
themselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered when the Count's
retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers
fled, but not until the Count had received a mortal wound. He was
slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a
friar summoned from a neighboring convent, who was famous for his
skill in administering to both soul and body. But half of his skill
was superfluous; the moments of the unfortunate Count were numbered.
With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to
the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his not
keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent
of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared
earnestly solicitous that this mission should be speedily and
courteously executed. "Unless this is done," said he, "I shall not
sleep quietly in my grave!" He repeated these last words with
peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, admitted
no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to calmness;
promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in
solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon
lapsed into delirium--raved about his bride--his engagements--his
plighted word; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of
Landshort, and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle.
Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely
fate of his comrade; and then pondered on the awkward mission he had
undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed; for he was
to present himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to
damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there
were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this
far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen so cautiously shut up from the
world; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a
dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him
fond of all singular adventure.
Previous to his departure, he made all due arrangements with the holy
fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his friend,
who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his
illustrious relatives; and the mourning retinue of the Count took
charge of his remains.
It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of
Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more
for their dinner; and to the worthy little Baron, whom we left airing
himself on the watch-tower.
Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron descended
from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from
hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were already
overdone, the cook in an agony, and the whole household had the look
of a garrison that had been reduced by famine. The Baron was obliged
reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presence of the
guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point of
commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the gate gave
notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the
old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the
warder from the walls. The Baron hastened to receive his future
son-in-law.
The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the
gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His
countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air
of stately melancholy. The Baron was a little mortified that he
should have come in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a
moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of
proper respect for the important occasion, and the important family
with which he was to be connected. He pacified himself, however,
with the conclusion that it must have been youthful impatience which
had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants.
"I am sorry," said the stranger, "to break in upon you thus
unseasonably--"
Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of compliments and
greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his
courtesy and his eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or twice,
to stem the torrent of words, but in vain; so he bowed his head and
suffered it to flow on. By the time the Baron had come to a pause
they had reached the inner court of the castle; and the stranger was
again about to speak, when he was once more interrupted by the
appearance of the female part of the family, leading forth the
shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one
entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze,
and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered
something in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her moist blue eye
was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger, and
was cast again to the ground. The words died away; but there was a
sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek,
that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was
impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed
for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier.
The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for parley.
The Baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conversation
until the morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet.
It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls
hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of
Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the field
and in the chase. Hacked corselets, splintered jousting spears, and
tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare: the
jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among
crossbows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched
immediately over the head of the youthful bridegroom.
The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed
in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone, that could
not be overheard--for the language of love is never loud; but where
is the female ear so dull that it can not catch the softest whisper
of the lover? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his
manner that appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young lady.
Her color came and went, as she listened with deep attention. Now
and then she made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned
away she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance,
and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the
young couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply
versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen
in love with each other at first sight.
The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were
all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses
and mountain air. The Baron told his best and longest stories, and
never had he told them so well, or with such great effect. If there
was anything marvelous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; and
if anything facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right
place. The Baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified
to utter any joke but a dull one: it was always enforced, however, by
a bumper of excellent Hoch-heimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own
table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good
things were said by poorer and keener wits that would not bear
repeating, except on similar occasions; many sly speeches whispered
in ladies' ears that almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter;
and a song or two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced
cousin of the Baron, that absolutely made the maiden aunts hold up
their fans.
Amid all this revelry, the stranger-guest maintained a most singular
and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast of
dejection as the evening advanced, and, strange as it may appear,
even the Baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy.
At times he was lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed
and restless wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at
ease. His conversation with the bride became more and more earnest
and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair
serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame.
All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gaiety
was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; their
spirits were infected; whispers and glances were interchanged,
accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the head. The song and
the laugh grew less and less frequent: there were dreary pauses in
the conversation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales, and
supernatural legends. One dismal story produced another still more
dismal, and the Baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into
hysterics with the history of the goblin horseman that carried away
the fair Leonora--a dreadful, but true story, which has since been
put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world.
The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He
kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Baron, and, as the story drew to
a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and
taller, until, in the Baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to
tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a
deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. They were all
amazement. The Baron was perfectly thunderstruck.
"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything was
prepared for his reception; a chamber was ready for him if he wished
to retire."
The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously: "I must lay
my head in a different chamber to-night!"
There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it was
uttered, that made the Baron's heart misgive him; but he rallied his
forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. The stranger shook
his head silently, but positively, at every offer; and, waving his
farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden
aunts were absolutely petrified--the bride hung her head, and a tear
stole to her eye.
The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle,
where the black charger stood pawing the earth and snorting with
impatience. When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway was
dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the
Baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered
still more sepulchral. "Now that we are alone," said he, "I will
impart to you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an
indispensable engagement--"
"Why," said the Baron, "can not you send some one in your place?"
"It admits of no substitute--I must attend it in person--I must away
to Wurtzburg cathedral--"
"Ay," said the Baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until
to-morrow--to-morrow you shall take your bride there."
"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, "my
engagement is with no bride--the worms! the worms expect me! I am a
dead man--I have been slain by robbers--my body lies at Wurtzburg--at
midnight I am to be buried--the grave is waiting for me--I must keep
my appointment!"
He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and the
clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of the
night-blast.
The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and
related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright; others
sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the
opinion of some that this might be the wild huntsman famous in German
legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of
other supernatural beings, with which the good people of Germany have
been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor
relations ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive evasion
of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice
seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew
on him the indignation of the whole company, and especially of the
Baron, who looked upon him as little better than an infidel; so that
he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come
into the faith of the true believers.
But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were
completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular
missives confirming the intelligence of the young Count's murder, and
his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral.
The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The Baron shut
himself up in his chamber. The guests who had come to rejoice with
him could not think of abandoning him in his distress. They wandered
about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their
heads and shrugging their shoulders at the troubles of so good a man;
and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly
than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the situation of
the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband
before she had even embraced him--and such a husband! if the very
spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must have been the
living man? She filled the house with lamentations.
On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired to
her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on
sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of
ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her
longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber
was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively
gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on the
leaves of an aspen tree before the lattice. The castle clock had
just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the
garden. She rose hastily from her bed and stepped lightly to the
window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it
raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance.
Heaven and earth! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom! A loud shriek
at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been
awakened by the music, and had followed her silently to the window,
fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre had
disappeared.
Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for she
was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady,
there was something, even in the spectre of her lover, that seemed
endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty; and though
the shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the
affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be
had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep
in that chamber again; the niece, for once, was refractory, and
declared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the castle:
the consequence was that she had to sleep in it alone; but she drew a
promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest
she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on
earth--that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade
of her lover kept its nightly vigils.
How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is
uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvelous, and there
is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; it is,
however, still quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable instance of
female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week; when
she was suddenly absolved from all further restraint by intelligence
brought to the breakfast-table one morning that the young lady was
not to be found. Her room was empty--the bed had not been slept
in--the window was open--and the bird had flown!
The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was received
can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agitation which
the mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor
relations paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the
trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless,
wrung her hands and shrieked out, "The goblin! the goblin! She's
carried away by the goblin!"
In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and
concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. Two of
the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the
clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and
had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger, bearing
her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful
probability; for events of the kind are extremely common in Germany,
as many well-authenticated histories bear witness.
What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron! What a
heartrending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the great
family of Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt
away to the grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a
son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As
usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar.
The men were ordered to take horse and scour every road and path and
glen of the Odenwald. The Baron himself had just drawn on his
jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his steed to
sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by
a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on
a palfrey attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to
the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the Baron's feet,
embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companion--the
Spectre Bridegroom! The Baron was astounded. He looked at his
daughter, then at the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his
senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance,
since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and
set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and
melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth,
and joy rioted in his large dark eye.
The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in truth, as you
must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as
Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with the young
Count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the
unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the Baron had
interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of
the bride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours
near her he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had
been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the
Baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How,
fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his
visits by stealth--had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's
window--had wooed--had won--had borne away in triumph--and, in a
word, had wedded the fair.
Under any other circumstances the Baron would have been inflexible,
for he was tenacious of paternal authority and devoutly obstinate in
all family feuds; but he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as
lost; he rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband
was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin.
There was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly
accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight
had passed upon him of his being a dead man; but several old friends
present, who had served in the wars, assured him that every stratagem
was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial
privilege, having lately served as a trooper.
Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron pardoned the
young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed.
The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with
loving-kindness; he was so gallant, so generous--and so rich. The
aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of
strict seclusion, and passive obedience, should be so badly
exemplified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not having
the windows grated. One of them was particularly mortified at having
her marvelous story marred, and that the only spectre she had ever
seen should turn out a counterfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly
happy at having found him substantial flesh and blood--and so the
story ends.