words, replied sadly: "Count Hugo of the Rhine was once my name, but now
you behold the wreck of my former self. My pride and headstrong will
have brought me to this plight. Deserted by my friends, defeated by my
enemies, alone and blind, I heard a voice call me by name and say:
'Kneel down and pray.' So now you behold me a member of the holy
brotherhood, ever striving by prayer and repentance to blot out the
remembrance of my evil deeds. You, who by your voice I know to be Prince
Henry of Hoheneck, are one of those who have most cause to hate me.
Curse and revile me if you will; I will bear it patiently."
"We both have erred," sadly answered the Prince, "but the hand of God
has chastened us both. Let us therefore pray for forgiveness together."
Hand in hand the two former enemies humbly knelt in prayer, and Lucifer,
himself the spirit of arrogance and pride, slunk away, powerless to do
evil to those who truly repent of their sins.
Meanwhile, Elsie sat with the Abbess Irmingard in the moonlight, while
the latter told the sad story of her life to her young companion.
"Years ago, when I was a maiden freshly returned from the convent
school, wandering Minnesinger used to come to my father's castle where
they were always made welcome. The noblest and most gallant of all these
bards was Walter of the Vogelweid; his voice was the sweetest and his
songs the most beautiful. We looked on each other and loved, but a
foreign prince sought my hand and my stern father bade me wed him and
forget the wandering minstrel. I refused to be the bride of any other
than Walter. 'Either you obey me,' said my father, 'or you shall become
a nun and die unwed.' That very night I secretly left the castle and
stole away with my lover. We went swiftly on horseback through the
forest, but our flight was soon discovered--we were pursued and
overtaken. I remember nothing more till I awoke in my own room, ill with
a raging fever. When I recovered, I was sent to this nunnery and the
convent gates, clanging behind me, seemed to be those of a prison. But
all this was many years ago and now I am content and have found peace.
"I have told thee this tale," said the Abbess to Elsie, "for I feel
strangely drawn to thee. In thy young life there is too a tale of
mystery and pain, and, as my way has been made clear, so shall be
thine."
The next day Elsie and the Prince bade farewell to their kindly hosts
and traveled, as swiftly as horses could carry them, through Germany
and Switzerland. After leaving Lucerne they hired a trusty guide to lead
them through the mountain passes, which were steep and dangerous. On one
part of the journey they had to cross a single arch bridge, which
spanned a terrible abyss, and their guide told them the story of how it
came to be built.
[Illustration]
"For years and years people had tried in vain to make a bridge at this
point, but all their efforts had been fruitless, for whatever was built
by day the devil swept away at night. At last a holy abbot built this
one with a single arch and made a compact with the evil one that it
should be allowed to stand, on the condition that the first living
thing which crossed it should be surrendered into his clutches. When the
bridge was completed, the abbot, standing at one end, threw a loaf of
bread across, which a hungry dog sprang after, and the rocks re-echoed
with laughter to see the devil thus defeated."
"Defeated," sneered Lucifer, who was standing beneath the bridge. "It
was for journeys and crimes like this that I allowed the bridge to
stand!"
Unconscious that Lucifer was dogging their steps, the princely train
finished its journey through Italy in safety, took ship at Genoa, and
reached the town of Salerno, renowned for its learned doctors and its
schools.
Entering the town, Prince Henry inquired for Friar Angelo, and Lucifer,
appearing before him in fresh disguise, said: "He stands before you."
"You know, then, on what errand I have come," said the Prince. "I am
Prince Henry of Hoheneck and this is the maiden I spoke of in my
letters."
"This is a grave business, and we must not be over-hasty," answered the
crafty Lucifer. "Does the maiden consent to this of her own free will?"
"No prayers or entreaties can dissuade her."
"Strange, indeed. Have you thought well over it?" asked Lucifer, turning
to Elsie.
[Illustration]
"I do not come here to argue, but to die," replied Elsie. "Your
business is not to question but to kill me, and I am ready."
With a last farewell to Prince Henry and her weeping attendants, Elsie
followed Lucifer into a gloomy building. The Prince tried to follow
them, but Lucifer thrust him back and barred the door. Suddenly the
Prince's better angel prevailed and he realized what a vile thing it was
that he should purchase health and strength at such a cost. Sooner would
he himself die a lingering death than that harm should come to Elsie,
who had grown so dear to him during their long journey together.
Shouting to his men to aid him, he burst open the door and rushed in to
save her.
* * * * *
A few weeks later, Dame Ursula was sitting in her cottage spinning and
thinking sadly of her child's untimely death, when a forester stopped at
the farm and inquired for Gottlieb.
"I am his wife," said the dame.
"Then I have news for you. The Prince is strong and well again."
"Then Elsie, my poor child, is dead," she rejoined, mournfully.
"It is true that your daughter is no longer the humble peasant she once
was."
"Nay, do not mock a mother's agony, and tell me truly what has befallen
my child," she implored.
Then the forester told Ursula his wonderful news; how at Salerno the
Prince's nobler self had prevailed, and the maiden's life had been
spared, whereupon a miracle had been worked on the Prince and he had
straightway been healed.
"They call your daughter the Lady Alicia now," continued the messenger,
"for the Prince made a vow in Salerno that he would wed no one but
Elsie. At this very moment the Prince and his bride are sailing homeward
down the Rhine in a splendid barge decked with banners, and all the
people are gathered on the banks, shouting with joy."
Dame Ursula's raptures can be better imagined than described, and she
rushed away to tell her husband the glad tidings, while the forester
calmly sat down and helped himself to Gottlieb's supper.
And so we may leave the Prince and his young bride with the feeling that
their wedded life proved to be a very happy one, for their love had been
tried by pain and suffering, and a love which can conquer these is one
which will endure.
[Illustration]
THE COURTSHIP OF
_MILES STANDISH_
In olden days, a ship called the _Mayflower_ left the shores of England
and set sail for a distant and unknown land, carrying a number of
Puritan pilgrims on board. Among their number were two men who were
close friends, though they were utterly different both in character and
looks. Miles Standish was a short, strongly built man with muscles and
sinews like iron; his reddish beard was already flaked with patches of
white and his face browned from his out-of-door life. Hasty and
passionate, Miles Standish was, nevertheless, a born leader of men, and
was greatly respected by all who knew him. His friend, John Alden, was a
much younger man, with fair hair and blue eyes. He was no soldier, but
skilled in all manual labor, and, moreover, a scholar and a scribe.
The two friends settled in the village of Plymouth, and Miles Standish
soon distinguished himself by his warlike qualities and was made captain
of the town, while John Alden, who lived with him, acted as his
secretary and household companion.
One day they were sitting together, Miles reading about Caesar's great
victories, and John occupied in writing letters to his people at home,
filled mostly with accounts of the beautiful Puritan maiden, Priscilla.
Presently Miles Standish looked up from his reading and said to John:
"When you have finished writing I have something important to tell you."
"I am ready to listen," cheerfully replied the young man.
"Since Rose Standish died years ago," said the Captain, "my life has
been a very dreary one. In my hours of loneliness I have often thought
of the maiden, Priscilla, who is as friendless as I am. She is quite
alone in the world, for her mother, father, and brother all died in the
winter. I have never dared speak my thoughts to her, but I want you to
do so for me. Go to Priscilla and tell her that a blunt old captain,
readier at action than words, loves her dearly. You are a scholar and
can speak to her in tender words such as are best suited to win the
heart of a maiden."
Bewildered and dismayed at his friend's request, John replied: "Indeed I
cannot give such a message as this. If you would have a thing well done
you must do it yourself, not leave it to others--these are your own
words."
The Captain gravely shook his head. "I cannot, indeed," said he. "I can
march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, but I dare not
face a woman with such a proposal. Surely you will not refuse to do what
I ask in the name of our friendship."
John Alden felt he could no longer withstand the Captain's earnest
request, so he reluctantly consented and went forth on his errand. His
way led him through the woods, where he gathered some may-flowers as a
gift for Priscilla. When he drew near Priscilla's home he found her
spinning industriously and singing as she worked. As John entered, she
rose and held out her hand to him, saying: "I knew it was you when I
heard your step in the passage; I was thinking of you as I sat there
spinning and singing."
John was so pleased that she should have been thinking of him that he
could frame no reply, but held out the flowers to her in silent answer.
Then they sat down and talked of their friends at home and of the
_Mayflower_, which was to return to England the next day. Priscilla
confessed she felt so lonely and wretched that she wished she could
return to England too, and John answered: "I cannot blame you for that
wish. A woman requires someone stronger than herself to lean on, so I
have come to you now with an offer of marriage from a good and true
man, Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth."
Not even the Captain himself could have spoken more bluntly than did
John, and Priscilla looked at him in amazement. At length she exclaimed:
"If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does
he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?"
Poor John tried to smooth matters over. Quite forgetful of himself, he
pleaded the Captain's cause, said how kindly, generous, and brave he
was, what a splendid soldier and leader, and added that any woman might
be proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish. But all his eloquence
was wasted, for the maiden only looked at him and said smilingly: "Why
don't you speak for yourself, John?"
Here was a pretty pass for an honest man to be in! Joyful to think that
Priscilla loved him and yet saddened for his friend's sake, John left
the house and wandered down to the seashore, undecided what he ought to
do in the matter. Suddenly he looked up and saw the shadowy form of the
_Mayflower_ riding at anchor, ready to set sail on the morrow, and he
made up his mind that it was his duty to return to England on the ship.
Strong in his resolution, he returned home and related to the Captain
all that had happened. But when he came to the words Priscilla had
spoken, the Captain stamped on the floor and shouted, angrily: "John
Alden, you have betrayed me! We are no longer friends, and there can be
nothing between us henceforth but war and hatred!"
[Illustration]
In the midst of his angry words a man came in bringing a message of
urgent importance. There were rumors of danger, threats of war from
hostile Indian tribes, and the Captain was summoned to a council
meeting.
Still enraged, the Captain hastened away to the council and found it
already assembled and impatiently waiting his coming. A
ferocious-looking Indian was standing by a table on which lay a
rattlesnake's skin filled with arrows; this was the Indians' signal of
warfare. The council was debating whether it would be better to reply to
the challenge or try peaceful measures, but Miles Standish settled the
matter without more ado. Advancing to the table, he picked up the
rattlesnake's skin, and with a gesture of contempt jerked the Indian
arrows from it. Then he filled the skin to the brim with powder and
bullets and handed it back to the Indian, saying in a tone of thunder:
[Illustration]
"Here, take it! This is your answer!" The savage took the challenge in
silence, glided from the room, and soon disappeared into the recesses of
the forest.
Miles Standish returned late from the council and threw himself, dressed
as he was, on his pallet, so that he might be ready to set out at any
moment. John Alden was lying awake, but he was resentful at the
Captain's angry words to him and pretended to be asleep. At earliest
dawn Standish awoke and, taking his musket, strode from the room. John
Alden yearned to bid his friend farewell, but his pride would not let
him, and he beheld the Captain depart in anger and spoke no word.
Then he arose, made his own preparations, and went down to the shore. A
boat was waiting to convey him to the ship, but, as he was already
standing with one foot on the gunwale, he caught sight of Priscilla
looking at him with a sad and reproachful gaze.
At once his purpose changed. He determined that he would not go away,
but would remain and protect her. The captain of the ship bade farewell
to his friends and pushed off his boat. Not one of all who had set out
in the _Mayflower_ returned with her. The pilgrims wished the captain
and his men Godspeed and went back to their life of toil in the new
world.
As John turned to depart, Priscilla stood beside him and they spoke
together long and earnestly. She gently reproached John for pleading the
cause of another. "I was hurt that you should urge me to marry Captain
Miles Standish, even though he is your friend. I must tell you the
truth; your friendship is more to me than all the love he could offer."
Said John: "Of all your friends, let me be the nearest and dearest, and
I promise that I will be true and faithful to you always."
He would not say more than this, for, although he longed to tell
Priscilla of his love for her, he had vowed not to do so. Loyalty to his
absent friend forbade him and he thought to himself: "I will not speak
to Priscilla of this until there is no longer any anger betwixt Miles
Standish and myself."
Meanwhile, Miles Standish was marching steadily northward with a small
troop of soldiers led by their brave Indian guide, Hobomok. After a
three days' march they reached an Indian encampment and saw the women at
work by the tents and the warriors sitting round the fire in full
war-paint.
When the Indians saw the white men approaching, two of the mightiest
warriors sprang up and came to parley with Standish, offering him a
present of furs. Then they spoke through the Indian interpreter, begging
the soldiers for muskets and powder, but when Standish refused and said
he would give them a Bible instead, they changed their tone and began
to boast and bluster.
One of the chiefs cried: "Is this the mighty Captain the white men have
sent to destroy us? He is a little man, let him go and work with the
women!" Standish looked keenly round him and became aware of shadowy
forms of Indians creeping round the bushes in ambush, but he feigned not
to see them and stood his ground undaunted, listening calmly to the
interpreter's words. But when the Indian chief began to taunt him, his
hot blood rose within him, and, snatching the boaster's knife from him,
he stabbed him to the heart. A flight of arrows immediately poured on
the little band from all sides, but they replied with deadly fire from
their guns and after a fierce fight the first victory lay with the white
men.
Month after month passed by and Miles Standish continued to scour the
land with his forces till his name became a terror to all the hostile
Indian tribes. In the little village of Plymouth the time passed
peacefully on. John Alden built himself a new house, dug a well, and
planted an orchard hard by. As he worked he thought ever of Priscilla
and knew that his happiness would not be complete until he might venture
to ask her to share the fruits of his toil.
One day he was sitting with the maiden, awkwardly holding a skein of
yarn for her to wind, when a messenger arrived in frantic haste
bringing terrible news from the village. Miles Standish was dead, shot
down by a poisoned arrow as he was leading his men to battle. Remorseful
and yet glad that nothing now stood between him and the fulfillment of
his hopes, John Alden turned to Priscilla and won her ready consent to
become his bride.
[Illustration]
So one bright summer's day the simple wedding took place according to
Puritan custom. Just as the service was ending, a somber figure clad in
steel armor appeared on the threshold. The bridegroom turned pale at the
sight and the bride hid her face on his shoulder. When the last prayer
had been said, the figure strode into the room, and with amazement the
people beheld the Captain of Plymouth whom they had mourned as dead.
Grasping the bridegroom's hand Miles Standish begged his forgiveness,
which was gladly granted; he then saluted the bride and a new bond of
friendship was entered into by all three. Full of eager questions the
guests then gathered round the Captain, all speaking at once, till the
poor man declared he had far rather break into an Indian encampment than
come to a wedding to which he had not been invited.
When the confusion had at length subsided, John led out his snow-white
steer covered with crimson cloth and with a cushion for a saddle. His
wife, he declared, should ride to her home like a queen, not plod like a
peasant. And so the bridal procession set out, Priscilla riding and John
leading her gentle steed. No sad thoughts marred their homecoming, for
their friend had been saved from a cruel death and his kindly words
added a crowning joy to their happiness.
_Lady
Wentworth_
One bright summer morning, rather more than a hundred years ago, comely
Mistress Stavers stood with folded arms at her tavern door and watched
her husband drive his stage-coach, four-in-hand, down the long lane and
out into the country. Above her head hung the tavern sign--a portrait of
the Earl of Halifax, resplendent in his scarlet coat and flaxen wig.
Looking down, he was struck afresh with the charms of the
tavern-keeper's handsome wife, and, though he was in a somewhat battered
condition owing to his advanced age and the extremes of weather to which
he had been exposed, he almost made up his mind to fall at her feet and
declare his love.
At that moment, however, his train of thought was interrupted by the
vision of a barefooted, ragged little girl hurrying down the street. In
spite of her shabby, mean attire, you could hardly help noticing how
pretty she was, with her rough curly hair falling over her shoulders and
her eyes dancing with laughter; in her hand she carried a brimming pail
of water which dripped on to her little bare feet as she tripped along.
Smiles played over the childish face and rippling sun-beams danced in
her pail. The susceptible Earl of Halifax gazed at this picture with
feelings of delight, but Dame Stavers evidently did not approve of it,
for the Earl heard her say, "Fie for shame, Martha Hilton! How dare you
go about the town half-dressed and looking such a sight!" The little
gypsy maid laughed and replied saucily, "No matter how I look now. One
day you will see me riding in my own chariot, ma'am."
Dame Stavers was too amazed at the audacity of these words to make any
reply, but the Earl of Halifax smiled kindly at the little maid as she
walked on with her heavy burden. When she reached the corner of the
street, she looked back for a moment, then turned and passed out of
sight.
[Illustration]
The Earl of Halifax swung for a while on his sign and pondered. His
attention was next arrested by a magnificent carriage rolling rapidly
by. Outriders in scarlet liveries bestrode the spirited horses, whose
silver harness glittered brightly in the sun. Within the chariot a
dignified gentleman sat in solitary state. He was a stately personage
with powdered hair, wearing a three-cornered hat and a crimson velvet
coat; diamond buckles sparkled at his knees, and in his hand he carried
a gold-headed cane. As the carriage passed the inn, Mistress Stavers
dropped several low curtseys, for this was General Wentworth driving out
to his great house, which stood just outside the town overlooking the
sea.
A stately pile standing near the high road but hidden from it by trees,
the Governor's house was indeed a pleasant abode. Within, it was
magnificent to behold with its oak floors and carved chimney-pieces. All
through the winter immense fires of logs blazed cheerily on the open
hearths, while portraits of dead and gone Wentworths in heavy gilt
frames looked placidly down from the tapestry-covered walls. Beneath the
tapestry were doors which opened unawares and led into mysterious
passages and up queer little flights of stairs.
Here dwelt the great man, Governor Wentworth, but no one shared its
comfort with him, for he was a widower and childless, and though no one
ever heard him complain, sometimes he felt his loneliness very keenly.
At this time Martha Hilton, the pretty little gypsy maid was thirteen
years old, and soon after the day when we met her tripping down the main
street of Portsmouth, she went to be a servant at the house of Governor
Wentworth. For seven long years she worked hard and faithfully.
"A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine,
A servant who made service seem divine."
Under her care the mirrors glistened and the brasses shone; the very
knocker on the great front entrance looked brighter whenever she passed
by. And all this time, as Martha grew from childhood into woman-hood,
there was someone who watched, unknown to her, all her doings.
Time passed on, bringing with it the Governor's sixtieth birthday, and
at the great house it was determined to give a banquet in honor of the
occasion. Invitations were sent out to all Governor Wentworth's friends
in the neighborhood, and when the day arrived, a very noble assemblage
sat down to the feast. At the commencement of the banquet the Reverend
Arthur Brown, the rector, who was seated at the host's right hand, said
grace, and then the feast went on merrily. After the guests had finished
eating and the King's health had been drunk, the Governor gave a
whispered message to a man-servant, who disappeared and presently
returned with a beautiful girl, simply and neatly dressed. The guests
scarcely noticed her presence, but the Governor stood up in his place
and, looking down at the rector, said: "This is my birthday; it shall
also be my wedding-day, and you shall marry me."
The guests were greatly mystified, and the reverend gentleman not less
so, but he answered politely: "It would indeed be a pleasant task, your
Excellency, but may I ask to whom I am to marry you?" "To this lady,"
replied the Governor, and beckoned to Martha Hilton to stand by his
side. Blushing and confused the maiden timidly obeyed, but the rector
hesitated and said nothing. Then the Governor cried impatiently: "If you
hesitate to do as I ask you, then, as chief magistrate, I command you."
Seeing that all objections would be useless the rector obeyed, and read
the marriage-service in loud, clear tones. The Governor placed a ring on
the fourth finger of the bride's fair left hand, and Martha Hilton
became Lady Wentworth of the Hall.
Thus the saucy boast, which the little gypsy had uttered in jest seven
years before, came true, and when Lady Wentworth drove in her chariot
through the main street of Portsmouth none dropped a lower curtsey than
the tavern-keeper's wife. The Earl of Halifax smiled serenely but said
nothing.
ELIZABETH
Elizabeth Haddon, the gentle Quaker maiden, sat one winter evening in
her farm-house kitchen, which served both for kitchen and parlor, and
talked to Hannah the housemaid. "How short the days are," she said, "and
how quickly night overtakes us. In the old country there is a long
twilight, but here in the forest is hardly a moment between daylight and
lamplight. Yet how grand winter is with its spotless mantle of snow."