CHAPTER III—CLEVES TO THE LÖWENBURG

Lohengrin

The tale or myth of the Knight of the Swan who came to the succour

of the youthful Duchess of Brabant is based upon motives more or less

common in folklore—the enchantment of human beings into swans, and the

taboo whereby, as in the case of Cupid and Psyche, the husband forbids

the wife to question him as to his identity or to look upon him. The

myth has been treated by both French and German romancers, but the

latter attached it loosely to the Grail legend, thus turning it to

mystical use.

As a purely German story it is found at the conclusion of Wolfram von

Eschenbach’s Parzival,1 from which the following version is drawn. The

name of the hero as written by Wolfram (Loherangrîn) may possibly be

traced to Garin le Loherin or Garin of Lorraine. Wagner’s version is

taken from the same source, but the mighty master of melody altered many

of the details for dramatic and other reasons.

[Note 1: See my Dictionary of Medieval Romance, articles ‘Grail,’

‘Parzival,’ ‘Perceval,’ and ‘Garin.’]

The principal French versions of the romance are Le Chevalier au Cygne

and Helyas, and there are medieval English forms of these.2

[Note 2: Op. cit.]

The Knight of the Swan

In a dungeon in the castle of Cleves lay Elsa of Brabant, languishing

in captivity. Her father, the Duke of Brabant, had ere he died appointed

his most powerful vassal, one Frederick of Telramund, to be her

guardian; but he, seeking only the advancement of his own ends,

shamefully abused the confidence of his lord. Using his authority as

Elsa’s guardian, he sought to compel her to become his wife, and threw

her into prison to await the wedding-day, knowing well that none would

dare to dispute his action.

An appeal was made on Elsa’s behalf to the Emperor, Henry I, who decreed

that she should choose a champion, so that the matter might be settled

by combat. But, alas! there was not a knight who would venture to match

his skill against that of Frederick, who was a giant in stature and an

expert in sword-play. In accordance with the Emperor’s decree Telramund

sent out a herald at stated times to proclaim his readiness to do battle

with any who would champion the cause of Elsa.

Time passed, yet the challenge was not accepted, and at length the

day was fixed for the bridal. Behind her prison bars the lady wept

ceaselessly, and called upon the Virgin to save her from the threatened

fate. In her despair she beat her breast with her chaplet, whereon was

hung a tiny silver bell. Now this little bell was possessed of magic

properties, for when it was rung the sound, small at first as the

tinkling of a fairy lure, grew in volume the further it travelled till

it resembled the swelling of a mighty chorus. Rarely was its tone heard,

and never save when its owner was in dire straits, as on the present

occasion. When Elsa beat her breast with it, therefore, its magical

qualities responded to her distress, and its faint, sweet tinkle fell on

her ear.

Far away over hill and dale went the sound of the bell, growing ever

richer and louder, till at length it reached the temple where Parsifal

and his knights guarded the Holy Grail. To them it seemed that the

swelling notes contained an appeal for help directed to the Holy Vessel

over which they kept vigil. While they debated thereon a loud and

mysterious voice was heard bidding Parsifal send his son Lohengrin

to the rescue of Elsa of Brabant, whom he must take for his wife, yet

without revealing to her his identity.

The awed knights recognized the voice as that of the Holy Grail, and

Lohengrin at once set out, bound he knew not whither. When he reached

the shores of the Rhine he found awaiting him a boat drawn by a stately

swan. Taking it as a sign from Heaven, he stepped into the little boat

and was carried up the Rhine, to the sound of the most exquisite music.

It was the day on which Elsa was to be wedded to her tyrant. She had

spent the night in tears and bitter lamentations, and now, weary and

distraught, too hopeless even for tears, she looked out from the bars of

her prison with dull, despairing eyes. Suddenly she heard the melodious

strains and a moment later saw the approach of a swan-drawn boat,

wherein lay a sleeping knight. Hope leapt within her, for she remembered

the prophecy of an old nun, long since dead, that a sleeping knight

would rescue her from grave peril. Directly he stepped ashore the youth

made his way to the place of her confinement and, espying her face at

the heavily barred window, knelt before her and begged that she would

take him for her champion.

At that moment the blast of a trumpet was heard, followed by the voice

of the herald as, for the last time, he challenged any knight to take

up arms on behalf of Elsa of Brabant. Lohengrin boldly accepted the

challenge, and Telramund, when the news reached him of the unexpected

opposition, on the very day he had appointed for his wedding, was

surprised and enraged beyond measure, yet he dared not refuse to do

battle with the stranger knight, because of the Emperor’s decree. So it

was arranged that the combat should take place immediately. News of it

reached the people of Cleves, and a great concourse gathered to witness

the spectacle, all of them secretly in sympathy with the persecuted

maiden, though these feelings were carefully concealed from the ruthless

Telramund.

Fierce indeed was the combat, for Lohengrin, though less powerfully

built than his gigantic opponent, was nevertheless tall and strong, and

well versed in the arts of war. At length he laid his enemy in the dust

with a well-aimed sword-stroke, and the crowd broke into cheers. The

combat was over, and Elsa was free!

Heeding not the acclamations of the people, Lohengrin strode toward

Elsa and again knelt at her feet. The blushing maiden bade him name his

reward, whereupon the knight begged her hand in marriage, confessing,

however, that he might only remain with her so long as she did not

question him with regard to his identity. It seemed a small condition

to Elsa, who willingly promised to restrain any curiosity she might feel

concerning his name and place of abode. The cheers of the populace were

redoubled when they learned that Elsa was to bestow her hand on the Swan

Knight.

In a few weeks the couple were married, and henceforth for a good many

years they lived together very happily. Three sons were born to them,

who grew in time to be handsome and chivalrous lads, of noble bearing

and knightly disposition. Then it was that Elsa, who had hitherto

faithfully kept her promise to her husband, began to fancy that she and

her sons had a grievance in that the latter were not permitted to bear

their father’s name.

For a time she brooded in silence over her grievance, but at length it

was fanned into open rebellion by a breath of outside suspicion. Some of

the people looked askance at the knight whose name no one knew. So Elsa

openly reproached her husband with his secrecy, and begged that for the

benefit of their sons he would reveal his name and station. Even the

children of humble parents, the children of the peasants, of their own

retainers, had a right to their father’s name, and why not her sons

also?

Lohengrin paled at her foolish words, for to him they were the sign that

he must leave his wife and family and betake himself once more to the

temple of the Holy Grail.

“Oh, Elsa,” he said sorrowfully, “thou knowest not what thou hast done.

Thy promise is broken, and to-day I must leave thee for ever.” And with

that he blew a blast on his silver horn.

Elsa had already repented her rash words, and right earnestly she

besought him to remain by her side. But, alas! her tears and pleadings

were in vain, for, even as her entreaties were uttered, she heard

the exquisite strains of music which had first heralded her lover’s

approach, while from the window of the castle she espied the swan-boat

rapidly drawing toward the shore.

With grave tenderness Lohengrin bade farewell to his wife and family,

first, however, revealing to them his identity, and commending them to

the care of some of his trusty followers.

Tradition tells that Elsa did not long survive the loss of her beloved

husband, but her sons became brave knights, well worthy of the proud

name they bore.

A Legend of Liége

A legend of Liége! and is not Liége itself now almost legendary? Its

venerable church, its world-famous library replete with the priceless

treasures of the past, “with records stored of deeds long since forgot,”

where are they?—but crumbling clusters of ruins fired by the barbarian

torch whose glow, we were told, was to enlighten an ignorant and

uncultured Europe! But one gem remains: the wonderful Hôtel de Ville,

type of the Renaissance spirit in Flanders. Liége may be laid in ruins,

but the memory of what it was can never die:

Athens in death is nobler far

Than breathing cities of the West;

and the same may be said of those splendours in stone, those wonders

of medieval architecture, even the blackened walls of which possess a

dignity and beauty which will ever assist the imagination to re-create

the picture of what has been.

Liége is a city of the Middle Ages. Time was when the place boasted but

a single forge; and though bucklers were heaped beside the anvil, and

swords and spears lay waiting for repair, the blacksmith leant against

his door-post, gazing idly up the hill-side. Gradually he was aware of

a figure, which seemed to have grown into shape from a furze-bush, or

to have risen from behind a stone; and as it descended the slope he eyed

curiously the grimy face, long beard, and squat form of what he was

half unwilling to recognize as a human being. Hobbling awkwardly, and

shrugging his shoulders as though cold, the man came in time to the

smithy door.

“What! Jacques Perron—idle when work is to be done? Idle smith! idle

smith! The horse lacks the bit, and the rider the spur.

‘Ill fares the hide when the buckler wants mending;

Ill fares the plough when the coulter wants tending.’

Idle smith! idle smith!”

“Idle enough,” quoth Jacques. “I’m as idle as you are ugly; but I can’t

get charcoal any more than you can get beauty, so I must stand still,

and you be content with your face, though I’d fain earn a loaf and a cup

full enough for both of us this winter morning.”

Though the strange man must have known he was horribly ugly—that is, if

he ever bent to drink of the clear bright waters of the lovely Meuse,

which reflected in those days every lily-bell and every grass-blade

which grew upon its banks, and gave a faithful portraiture in its cool

waters of every creature that leant over them—though he was certainly

the most frightful creature that had ever met the blacksmith’s sight, it

was evident enough that he did not like being called Ugly-face. But when

the honest, good-natured smith spoke of earning a draught for his new

acquaintance as well as himself, he smacked his ugly lips and twisted

out a sort of smile which made him still more hideous.

“Ah, ah!” said he, “wine’s good in winter weather, wine’s good in winter

weather. Listen, listen! Jacques Perron! listen, listen! Go you up the

hill-side—yonder, yonder!” and he pointed with a yellow finger, which

seemed to stretch out longer and longer as the smith strained his

eyes up the slope, until the digit looked quite as long as the tallest

chimney that smoked over Liége. “Listen, listen!” and he sang in a voice

like the breath of a huge bellows:

“‘Wine’s good in winter weather;

Up the hill-side near the heather

Go and gather the black earth,

It shall give your fire birth.

Ill fares the hide when the buckler wants mending;

Ill fares the plough when the coulter wants tending:

Go! Go!’

“Mind my cup of wine—mind my cup of wine!” As he ended this rude chant

Jacques saw the long finger run back into the shrivelled hand, as a

telescope slips back into its case, and then the hand was wrapped up in

the dingy garment, and with a dreadful shiver, and a chattering of teeth

as loud as the noise of the anvils now heard on the same spot, the ugly

man was wafted away round the corner of the building like a thick gust

of smoke from a newly fed furnace.

“Mind my cup of wine—mind my cup of wine!” rang again in the ears of

the startled Jacques, and after running several times round his house in

vain pursuit of the voice, he sat down on the cold anvil to scratch his

head and think. It was quite certain he had work to do, and it was as

certain as half a score searches could make it that he had not a single

coin in his pouch to buy charcoal to do it with. He was reflecting that

the old man was a very strange creature—he was more than half afraid to

think who he might be—when in the midst of his cogitation he heard

his three children calling out for their morning meal. Not a loaf

had Jacques in store, and twisting his hide apron round his loins, he

muttered, “Demon or no demon, I’ll go,” and strode out of the smithy and

up the hill-side as fast as though he feared that if he went slowly his

courage would not carry him as far up as the heather-bush which the long

yellow finger had pointed out.

When the young wife of Jacques came to look for her husband, she saw

him returning with his apron full of black morsels of shining stone. She

smiled at him; but when he threw them on the furnace and went to get a

brand to set them alight, she looked solemn enough, for she thought he

had left his wits on the hill-top. Great was her surprise when she saw

the stones burn! But her joy was greater than her surprise when she

heard her husband’s hammer ring merrily, and found the wage of the

smith all spared for home use, instead of being set aside for the

charcoal-burner. That night Jacques had two full wine-cups and, setting

them on the anvil, had scarcely said to himself, “I wonder whether

He’ll come!” when in walked the Old Man and, nodding familiarly, seated

himself on the head of the big hammer. Jacques was a bold and grateful

as well as a good-natured fellow, and in a few minutes he and his

visitor were on excellent terms. No more shivering or chattering of

teeth was seen or heard in the smithy that night. The black stones

burned away merrily on the hearth, and the bright flames shone on the

honest face of the smith as he hobnobbed with his companion, and looked

as though he really thought the stranger as handsome as he certainly had

been useful. He sang his best songs and told his best stories, and when

the wine had melted his soul he told his new friend how dearly he loved

his wife and what charming, dear creatures his children were. “Demon

or no demon,” he swore the stranger was a good fellow, and though the

visitor spoke but little, he seemed to enjoy his company very much.

He laughed at the jokes, smiled at the songs, and once rather startled

Jacques by letting out again his long telescope arm to pat him on his

shoulder when, with a mouth full of praises of his wife, a tear sparkled

in his eye as he told over again how dearly he loved his little ones.

Day broke before the wine was exhausted or their hearts flagged, and

when the voice of the early cock woke the swan that tended her callow

brood amongst the sedges of the Meuse the Old Man departed. Jacques

never saw him again, although he often looked in all directions when he

went to the hill for a supply of fuel; but from that day Liége grew up

in industry, riches, and power. Jacques had found coal, and thus became

the benefactor of his native country, and the hero of this favourite

Legend of the Liégeois.

The Sword-slipper of Solingen

In Solingen, where the forges rang to the making of sword-blades, many

smiths had essayed to imitate the falchions of Damascus, their trenchant

keenness and their wondrous golden inlaying. But numerous as were the

attempts made to recapture the ancient secret of the East, they all

signally failed, and brought about the ruin of many masters of the

sword-slipper’s art.

Among these was old Ruthard, a smith grown grey in the practice of his

trade. He had laid aside sufficient savings to permit himself a year’s

experiment in the manufacture of Damascus blades, but to no purpose. As

the months wore on he saw his hard-earned gold melting steadily away.

The wrinkles deepened on his brow, and his only daughter, Martha,

watched the change coming over him in sorrowful silence.

One evening—the evening of all evenings, the holy Christmas eve—Martha

entered the forge and saw the old man still hard at work. She gently

remonstrated with him, asking him why he toiled on such an occasion.

“You work, my father, as if you feared that to-morrow we might not

have bread,” she said. “Why toil on this holy evening? Have you not

sufficient for the future? You must have laid by enough for your old

age. Then why fatigue yourself when others are spending the time by

their own hearths in cheerful converse?”

The old smith’s only reply was to shake his head in a melancholy manner,

take some pieces of broken food in his hands, and leave the house. At

that moment Wilhelm, the smith’s head apprentice, entered the room.

He seemed pale and disturbed, and related to Martha, to whom he was

betrothed, that he had asked Ruthard for her hand. The old man had

firmly told him that he could not consent to their union until he

had discovered the secret of making Damascus blades. This he felt was

hopeless to expect, and he had come to say “good-bye” ere he set out on

a quest from which he might never return. At the news Martha was greatly

perturbed. She rose and clung to the young man, her wild grief venting

itself in heartrending sobs. She begged him not to depart. But his mind

was fully made up, and, notwithstanding her tears and caresses, he tore

himself away and quitted the house and the town.

For nearly a fortnight the youth tramped over hill and valley with

little in his pouch and without much hope that the slender means of

which he was possessed would bring him to the land of the Saracens,

where alone he could hope to learn the great art of tempering the blades

of Damascus. One evening he entered the solitary mountain country of

Spessart and, unacquainted with the labyrinths of the road, lost himself

in an adjoining forest. By this time night had fallen, and he cast about

for a place in which to lay his head. But the inhospitable forest showed

no sign of human habitation. After wandering on, however, stumbling and

falling in the darkness, he at length saw a light burning brightly at a

distance. Quickly he made for it and found that it came from the window

of a cottage, at the door of which he knocked loudly. He had not long to

wait for an answer, for an old woman speedily opened and inquired what

he wanted at so late an hour. He told her that he desired food and

lodging, for which he could pay, and he was at once admitted. She told

him, however, that she expected another visitor. Whilst she cooked his

supper Wilhelm detailed to her the circumstances of his journey. After

he had eaten he retired to rest, but, tired as he was, he could not

sleep. Later a dreadful storm arose, through the din of which he heard

a loud noise, as if someone had entered the house by way of the chimney.

Peering through the keyhole into the next room, he perceived a man

seated at the table opposite his hostess whose appearance filled him

with misgiving. He had not much leisure for a detailed examination of

this person, however, for the witch—for such she was—came to the door

of his room, entered, and bade him come and be introduced to a stranger

from the East who could tell him the secret of forging Damascus blades.

Wilhelm followed the old woman into the other room and beheld there a

swarthy man seated, wrapped in a flame-coloured mantle. For a long time

the stranger regarded him steadily, then demanded what he wanted from

him. Wilhelm told him the circumstances of his quest, and when he

had finished the story the man laughed and, drawing from his pocket a

document, requested the youth to sign it. Wilhelm perceived that it was

of the nature of a pact with Satan, by which he was to surrender

his soul in return for the coveted secret. Nevertheless, he set his

signature to the manuscript and returned to his couch—but not to sleep.

The consequences of his terrible act haunted him, and when morning

came he set off on his homeward journey with a fearful heart, carefully

guarding a well-sealed letter which the mysterious stranger had put into

his hand.

Without further adventure he reached Solingen, and having acquainted

Ruthard with what had transpired, he handed him the letter. But the good

old man refused to unseal it.

“You must keep this until your own son and my grandson can open it,” he

said to Wilhelm, “for over his infant soul the enemy can have no power.”

And so it happened. Wilhelm married Martha, and in the course of a few

years a little son was born to them, who in due time found the letter,

opened it, and mastered the Satanic secret, and from that time the

blades of Solingen have had a world-wide renown.

The Architect of Cologne Cathedral

Travellers on the Rhine usually make a halt at Cologne to see the

cathedral, and many inquire the name of its creator. Was the plan the

work of a single architect? they ask; or did the cathedral, like many

another in Europe, acquire its present form by slow degrees, being

augmented and duly embellished in divers successive ages? These

questions are perfectly reasonable and natural, yet, strange to relate,

are invariably answered in evasive fashion, the truth being that the

name of the artist in stone who planned Cologne Cathedral is unknown.

The legend concerning him, however, is of world-wide celebrity, for the

tale associated with the founding of the famous edifice is replete with

that grisly element which has always delighted the Germans, and figures

largely in their medieval literature, and more especially in the works

of their early painters—for example, Dürer, Lucas Cranach, and Albrecht

Altdörfer.

It was about the time of the last-named master that a Bishop of Cologne,

Conrad von Hochsteden, formed the resolve of increasing the pecuniary

value of his diocese. He was already rich, but other neighbouring

bishops were richer, each of them being blest with just what Conrad

lacked—a shrine sufficiently famous to attract large numbers of wealthy

pilgrims able to make generous offerings. The result of his jealous

musing was that the crafty bishop vowed he would build a cathedral whose

like had not been seen in all Germany. By this means, he thought,

he would surely contrive to bring rich men to his diocese. His first

thought was to summon an architect from Italy, in those days the country

where beautiful building was chiefly carried on; but he found that this

would cost a far larger sum than he was capable of raising; so, hearing

that a gifted young German architect had lately taken up his abode at

Cologne itself, Conrad sent for him and offered him a rich reward should

he accomplish the work satisfactorily. The young man was overjoyed, for

as yet he had received no commissions of great importance, and he set

to work at once. He made drawing after drawing, but, being in a state of

feverish excitement, found that his hand had lost its cunning. None

of his designs pleased him in the least; the bishop, he felt, would be

equally disappointed; and thinking that a walk in the fresh air might

clear his brain, he threw his drawing-board aside and repaired to the

banks of the Rhine. Yet even here peace did not come to him; he was

tormented by endless visions of groined arches, pediments, pilasters,

and the like, and having a stick in his hand, he made an effort to trace

some on the sand. But this new effort pleased him no better than any

of its predecessors. Fame and fortune were within his reach, yet he was

incapable of grasping them; and he groaned aloud, cursing the day he was

born.

As the young man uttered his fierce malediction he was surprised to

hear a loud “Amen” pronounced; he looked round, wondering from whom

this insolence came, and beheld an individual whose approach he had not

noticed. He, too, was engaged in drawing on the sand, and deeming that

the person, whoever he was, intended to mock his attempts at a plan for

the projected cathedral, the architect strode up to him with an angry

expression on his face. He stopped short, however, on nearing the rival

draughtsman; for he was repelled by his sinister aspect, while at the

same time he was thunderstruck by the excellence of his drawing. It was

indeed a thaumaturgic design, just such a one as the architect himself

had dreamt of, but had been unable to execute; and while he gazed at it

eagerly the stranger hailed him in an ugly, rasping voice. “A cunning

device, this of mine,” he said sharply; and the architect was bound to

agree, despite the jealousy he felt. Surely, he thought, only the Evil

One could draw in this wise. Scarcely had the thought crossed his mind

ere his suspicion was confirmed, for now he marked the stranger’s tail,

artfully concealed hitherto. Yet he was incapable of withholding his

gaze from the plan drawn so wondrously on the sand, and the foul fiend,

seeing that the moment for his triumph was come, declared his identity

without shame, and added that, would the architect but agree to renounce

all hopes of salvation in the next world, the peerless design would be

his to do with as he pleased.

The young man shuddered on receiving the momentous offer, but continued

to gaze fixedly at the cunning workmanship, and again the Evil One

addressed him, bidding him repair that very night to a certain place on

a blasted heath, where, if he would sign a document consigning his soul

to everlasting damnation, he would be presented with the plan duly

drawn on parchment. The architect still wavered, now eager to accept the

offer, and now vowing that the stipulated price was too frightful. In

the end he was given time wherein to come to a decision, and he hurried

from the place at hot speed as the tempter vanished from his sight.

On reaching his dwelling the architect flung himself upon his bed and

burst into a paroxysm of weeping. The good woman who tended him observed

this with great surprise, for he was not given to showing his emotions

thus; and wondering what terrible sorrow had come to him, she proceeded

to make kindly inquiries. At first these were met with silence, but,

feeling a need for sympathy, the architect eventually confessed the

truth; and the good dame, horrified at what she heard, hurried off to

impart the story to her father-confessor. He, too, was shocked, but he

was as anxious as Bishop Conrad that the proposed cathedral should be

duly built, and he came quickly to the architect’s presence. “Here,” he

told him, “is a piece of our Lord’s cross. This will preserve you. Go,

therefore, as the fiend directed you, take the drawing from him, and

brandish the sacred relic in his accursed face the moment you have

received it.”

When evening drew near the architect hurried to the rendezvous, where

he found the Devil waiting impatiently. But a leer soon spread over his

visage, and he was evidently overjoyed at the prospect of wrecking a

soul. He quickly produced a weird document, commanding his victim

to affix his signature at a certain place. “But the beautiful plan,”

whispered the young man; “I must see it first; I must be assured that

the drawing on the sand has been faithfully copied.” “Fear nothing.”

The Devil handed over the precious piece of vellum; and glancing at it

swiftly, and finding it in order, the architect whipped it under his

doublet. “Aha! you cannot outwit me,” shrieked the fiend; but as he was

laying hands upon the architect the young man brought forth the talisman

he carried. “A priest has told you of this, for no one else would have

thought of it,” cried the Devil, breathing flame from his nostrils. But

his wrath availed him naught; he was forced to retreat before the sacred

relic, yet as he stepped backward he uttered a deadly curse. “You have

deceived me,” he hissed; “but know that fame will never come to you;

your name will be forgotten for evermore.”

And behold, the fiend’s prophecy was fulfilled. The cathedral was

scarcely completed ere the young architect’s name became irrevocably

forgotten, and now this grisly tale is all that is known concerning his

identity.

Cologne Cathedral: Its Erection

There are several other tales to account for the belief prevalent at

one time that Cologne Cathedral would never be completed. The following

legend attributes the unfinished state of the edifice to the curse of

a jealous architect. At the time the building was commenced a rival

architect was engaged in planning an aqueduct to convey to the city a

supply of water purer than that of the Rhine. He was in this difficulty,

however: he had been unable to discover the exact position of the spring

from which the water was to be drawn. Tidings of the proposed structure

reached the ears of the builder of the cathedral, a man of strong

passions and jealous disposition, and in time the other architect asked

his opinion of the plans for the aqueduct.

Now it so happened that the architect of the cathedral alone had known

the situation of the spring, and he had communicated it to his wife, but

to no other living creature; so he replied boastfully:

“Speak not to me of your aqueduct. My cathedral, mighty as it will be,

shall be completed before your little aqueduct.” And he clinched his

vainglorious assertion with an oath.

Indeed, it seemed as though his boast would be justified, for the

building of the sacred edifice proceeded apace, while the aqueduct was

not even begun, because of the difficulty of finding the spring. The

second architect was in despair, for of a certainty his professional

reputation was destroyed, his hopes of fame for ever dashed, were he

unable to finish the task he had undertaken.

His faithful wife strove to lighten his despondency, and at last,

setting her woman’s wit to work, hit on a plan whereby the threatened

calamity might be averted. She set out to visit the wife of the

rival architect, with whom she was intimate. The hostess greeted her

effusively, and the ladies had a long chat over bygone times. More and

more confidential did they become under the influence of old memories

and cherry wine. Skilfully the guest led the conversation round to the

subject of the hidden spring, and her friend, after exacting a promise

of the strictest secrecy, told her its exact situation. It lay under the

great tower of the cathedral, covered by the massive stone known as the

‘Devil’s Stone.’

“Let me have your assurance again,” said the anxious lady, “that you

will never tell anyone, not even your husband. For I do not know what

would become of me if my husband learnt that I had told it to you.” The

other renewed her promises of secrecy and took her leave. On her return

home she promptly told her husband all that had passed, and he as

promptly set to work, sunk a well at the spot indicated, and found the

spring. The foundations of the aqueduct were laid and the structure

itself soon sprang up. The architect of the cathedral saw with dismay

that his secret was discovered. As the building of the aqueduct

progressed he lost all interest in his own work; envy and anger filled

his thoughts and at last overcame him. It is said that he died of a

broken heart, cursing with his latest breath the cathedral which he had

planned.

The Wager

An alternative story is that of the Devil’s wager with the architect of

the cathedral. The Evil One was much irritated at the good progress

made in the erection of the building and resolved, by means of a cunning

artifice, to stop that progress. To this end he paid a visit to the

architect, travelling incognito to avoid unpleasant attentions.

The architect was a man of wit and good sense, as courteous as he was

clever; but he had one outstanding failing—a love of wagering. Satan,

who ever loves to find the joints in an opponent’s armour, chose this

one weak spot as a point of attack. His host offered him meat and drink,

which the Devil declined as not being sufficiently high-seasoned for his

taste.

“I have come on a matter of business,” said he briskly. “I have heard of

you as a sporting fellow, a man who loves his wager. Is that correct?”

The architect indicated that it was, and was all eagerness and attention

in a moment.

“Well,” said the other, “I have come, in a word, to make a bet with you

concerning the cathedral.”

“And what is your wager?”

“Why, I’ll wager that I bring a stream from Treves to Cologne before you

finish the cathedral, and I’ll work single-handed, too.”

“Done!” said the delighted architect. “But what’s the wager?”

“If I win, your soul passes into my possession; if you win, you may have

anything you choose.” And with that he was gone.

Next day the architect procured the services of all the builders that

were to be had on such short notice, and set them to work in real

earnest. Very soon the whole town was in a state of excitement because

of the unusual bustle. The architect took to dreaming of the wealth, or

the fame, or the honour he should ask as his due when the stakes were

won. Employing his imagination thus, he one day climbed to the top of

the highest tower, which by this time was completed, and as he feasted

his eyes on the beautiful landscape spread before him he happened to

turn toward the town of Treves, and lo! a shining stream was threading

its way to Cologne. In a very short time it would reach the latter city.

The Devil had won!

With a laugh of defiance the architect cast himself from the high tower

and was instantly killed. Satan, in the form of a black hound, sprang

upon him, but was too late to find him alive.

But his death stopped for many years the progress of the cathedral;

it long stood at the same stage of completion as when the brook first

flowed from Treves to Cologne.

The Fire-bell of Cologne

In one of the grand towers of Cologne Cathedral hangs a massive bell,

some 25,000 lb. in weight. No mellow call to prayer issues from its

brazen throat, no joyous chimes peal forth on gala-days; only in times

of disaster, of storm and stress and fire, it flings out a warning in

tones so loud and clamorous, so full of dire threatenings, that the

stoutest hearts quail beneath the sound. Because its awful note is only

to be heard in time of terror it is known as the Fire-bell, and a weird

tradition relates the story of its founding and the reason for its

unearthly sound.

Long ago, when bell-founding was looked upon as an art of the highest

importance, and especially so among the Germans, the civic authorities

of Cologne made it known that the cathedral was in need of a new bell.

There was no lack of aspirants for the honour of casting the bell, and

more than one exponent of the art imagined his handiwork swinging in the

grand tower of the cathedral, a lasting and melodious monument to its

creator’s skill.

Among those whose ambitious souls were stirred by the statement of the

city fathers was one, a bell-founder named Wolf, a man of evil passions

and overbearing disposition, whose heart was firmly set on achieving

success. In those days, let it be said, the casting of a bell was

a solemn, and even a religious, performance, attended by elaborate

ceremonies and benedictions. On the day which Wolf had appointed for

the operation it seemed as though the entire populace had turned out to

witness the spectacle. Wolf, having prepared the mould, made ready to

pour into it the molten metal. The silence was almost oppressive, and

on it fell distinctly the solemn words of the bell-founder, as in God’s

name he released the metal. The bright stream gushed into the mould,

and a cheer broke from the waiting crowd, who, indeed, could scarce be

restrained till the bell had cooled, such was their curiosity to see the

result. At last the earthy mould was removed, they surged round eagerly,

and lo! from crown to rim of the mighty bell stretched a gaping crack!

Expressions of disappointment burst from the lips of the people, and to

Wolf himself the failure was indeed galling. But his ambitious

spirit was not yet completely crushed. “I am not beaten yet,” he said

boastfully. “I shall make another, and success shall yet be mine.”

Another mould was made, once more the people came forth to see the

casting of the bell, once more the solemn invocation of God’s name

fell on awed ears. The glowing metal filled the mould, cooled, and was

withdrawn from its earthy prison. Once more cries of disappointment were

heard from the crowd; again the massive bell was completely riven!

Wolf was beside himself. His eyes glowed with fury, and he thrust aside

the consolations of his friends. “If God will not aid me,” he said

fiercely, “then the Devil will!”

The crowd shrank back from the impious words; nevertheless on the third

occasion they attended in even greater numbers than before.

Again was all made ready for the casting of the huge bell. The mould

was fashioned as carefully as on the previous occasions, the metal was

heated in the great furnace, and Wolf, pale and sullen, stood ready to

release it. But when he spoke a murmur of astonishment, of horror, ran

through the crowd. For the familiar words “In the name of God!” he had

substituted “In the name of the Devil!” With fascinated eyes the people

watched the bright, rushing metal, and, later, the removal of the mould.

And behold! the bell was flawless, perfect in shape and form, and

beautiful to look upon!

Wolf, having achieved the summit of his ambition, cared little for the

means by which he had ascended. From among a host of competitors he was

chosen as the most successful. His bell was to hang in the belfry

of Cologne Cathedral, for the envy of other bell-founders and the

admiration of future generations.

The bell was borne in triumph through the streets and fixed high in the

tower. Wolf requested that he might be the first to try its tone, and

his request was granted. He ascended into the tower and took the rope in

his hands; the mighty bell swung forth, but ah! what a sound was that!

The people pressed their hands over their ears and shuddered; those in

the streets hurried to their homes; all were filled with deadly fear as

the diabolical bell flung its awful tones over the startled city. This,

then, was the result of Wolf’s invocation of the Devil.

Wolf himself, high in the cathedral tower, was overcome with the brazen

horror of the sound, and, driven mad with remorse and terror, flung

himself from the tower and fell, a crushed and shapeless mass, on the

ground below.

Henceforth the bell was used only to convey warning in times of danger,

to carry a message of terror far and wide across the city, and to remind

the wicked at all times of the danger of trafficking with the Evil One.

The Archbishop’s Lion

In 957 Cologne was constituted an imperial free city, having as its

nominal prince the archbishop of the see, but possessing the right to

govern its own affairs. The good bishop of that time acquiesced in the

arrangement, but his successors were not content to be princes in name

only, and strove hard to obtain a real influence over the citizens.

Being for the most part men of unscrupulous disposition, they did not

hesitate to rouse commonalty and aristocracy against each other, hoping

to step in and reap the benefits of such internecine warfare as might

ensue. And, indeed, the continual strife was not conducive to the

prosperity of the burghers, but rather tended to sap their independence,

and one by one their civil liberties were surrendered. Thus the scheming

archbishops increased their power and influence in the city of Cologne.

There came a time, however, in the civic history when the limit was

overstepped. In the thirteenth century Archbishop Engelbert, more daring

and ambitious than any of his predecessors, demanded that the municipal

treasure should be given up to him. Not content with taking away the

privileges of the burghers, he wished to lay his hands on the public

purse as well. This was indeed the last straw, and the sluggish blood of

the burghers was at length roused to revolt.

At this time the Burgomaster of Cologne, Hermann Grein by name, was an

honest, far-seeing, and diplomatic citizen, who had seen with dismay the

ancient liberties of his beloved city destroyed by the cunning of the

Archbishop. The latter’s bold attempt at further encroachments gave him

the opportunity he sought, and with the skill of a born leader Hermann

Grein united nobles and commons in the determination to resist their

mutual enemy. Feuds were for the time being forgotten, and with a

gallant effort the galling yoke of the Archbishop-prince was thrown off,

and the people of Cologne were once more free.

Grein performed his civic duties so firmly, albeit so smoothly and

gently, that he won the love and respect of all sections of the

populace. Old and young hailed him in their hearts as the deliverer of

their city from ecclesiastical tyranny. Only Engelbert hated him with

a deadly hatred, and swore to be revenged; nor was his resolve weakened

when a later attempt to subdue the city was frustrated by the foresight

of Grein. It became obvious to the Archbishop that force was unavailing,

for the majority of all classes were on the side of liberty, and were

likely to remain so while Hermann Grein was at their head. So he made

up his mind to accomplish by means of strategy the death of the good old

man.

Now there were in the monastery close by Cologne two canons who shared

Engelbert’s hatred of Grein, and who were only too willing to share in

his revenge. And the plan was indeed a cunning one. Belonging to a small

collection of animals attached to the monastery was a fierce lion, which

had more than once proved a convenient mode of removing the Church’s

enemies. So it was arranged that the Burgomaster should be asked to

meet the Archbishop there. The latter sent a suave message to his enemy

saying that he desired to treat with him on matters connected with the

civic privileges, which he was disposed to restore to the city, with a

few small exceptions. This being the case, would the Burgomaster consent

to dine with him at the monastery on a certain date?

The Burgomaster consented heartily, for he was a man to whom treachery

was entirely foreign, and therefore not prone to suspect that vice in

others; nevertheless he took the simple precautions of arming himself

and making his destination known to his friends before he set out.

When he arrived at the monastery resplendent in the rich garments

countenanced by the fashion of the time, he was told that the Archbishop

was in the garden.

“Will you walk in our humble garden with his Highness?” the canons asked

the Burgomaster, and he, a lover of nature, bade them lead the way.

The garden was truly a lovely spot, gay with all manner of flowers and

fruit; but Grein looked in vain for his host. “His Highness,” said the

wily canons, “is in the private garden, where only the heads of the

Church and their most honoured guests are admitted. Ah, here we are!

Enter, noble Burgomaster; we may go no farther.”

With that they stopped before a strong iron-bound door, opened it, and

thrust the old man inside. In a moment the heavy door had swung to with

a crash, and Grein found himself in a narrow, paved court, with high,

unscalable walls on every side. And from a dark corner there bounded

forth to meet him a huge lion! With a pious prayer for help the

Burgomaster drew his sword, wrapped his rich Spanish mantle round his

left arm, and prepared to defend himself against his adversary. With a

roar the lion was upon him, but with wonderful agility the old man leapt

to one side. Again the great beast sprang, endeavouring to get the man’s

head between its jaws. Again and again Grein thrust valiantly, and in

one of these efforts his weapon reached the lion’s heart and it rolled

over, dead. Weak and exhausted from loss of blood, the Burgomaster lost

consciousness.

Ere long he was roused from his swoon by the awe-inspiring tones of the

alarm-bell and the sound of a multitude of voices. A moment later he

recalled his terrible struggle with the lion, and uttered a devout

thanksgiving for his escape from death.

Meanwhile the people, growing anxious at his prolonged absence, and

fearing that some ill had befallen him, had hastened to the monastery.

The two canons, seeing the approaching crowd, ran out to meet them,

wringing their hands and exclaiming that the Burgomaster had strayed

into the lion’s den and there met his death. The angry crowd, in nowise

deceived by their pretences, demanded to be shown the lion’s den.

Arrived there, they broke down the door and, to their great joy, found

Grein alive, though wounded and much shaken. They bore him triumphantly

through the town, first crowning his hastily improvised litter with

flowers and laurels.

As for the monks, their priestly garb could not protect their persons

from the wrath of the mob, and they were hanged at the gate of the

monastery, which thereafter became known as the ‘Priests’ Gate.’

The White Horses

The year 1440 was a memorable one throughout Germany, for the great

plague raged with fearful violence, leaving blanks in many families

hitherto unvisited by death. Among the victims was Richmodis, the

beloved wife of Sir Aducht of Cologne, who deeply mourned her loss. The

lady was buried with a valuable ring—her husband’s gift—upon her finger;

this excited the cupidity of the sextons, who, resolved to obtain

possession of it, opened the tomb in the night and wrenched off the

coffin-lid. Their difficulties, however, were not at an end, for when

they tried to possess themselves of the ring it resolutely adhered to

the finger of the corpse.

Suddenly, to their horror, the dead body gently raised itself, with

a deep sigh, as though the soul of Richmodis regarded this symbol of

wifely duty as sacred, and would resist the efforts of the thieves to

take it from her.

The dark and hollow eyes opened and met those of the desecrators, and

a threatening light seemed to come from them. At this ghastly sight the

terrified sextons fled in abject panic.

Richmodis recovered by degrees, and gradually realizing where she was,

she concluded that she must have been buried while alive. In her terror

she cried aloud for help. But nobody could hear her; it was the lone

hour of midnight, when all nature reposes.

Summoning strength, she resolved to make an effort to go to the husband

who had placed the ring upon her finger, and getting out of the coffin,

she made her way shivering toward their home.

The wind moaned dismally through the trees, and their foliage cast dark,

spectral shadows that swayed fitfully to and fro in the weird light of

the waning moon as Richmodis staggered along feebly, absorbed in the

melancholy thoughts which her terrible experience suggested.

Not a sound, save the soughing of the wind, was heard within God’s

peaceful acre, for over the wrecks of Time Silence lay motionless in the

arms of Death.

The moon’s pale rays illumined the buildings when Richmodis arrived

at her house in the New Market. She knocked repeatedly, but at first

received no response to her summons. After a time Sir Aducht opened the

window and looked out, annoyed at the disturbance at such an hour.

He was about to speak angrily when the apparition looked up at him with

a tender regard of love and asked him to descend quickly and open the

door to receive his wife, nearly exhausted by cold and terror. The

bereaved husband refused to believe that the wife whom he had just

buried had come back to him, and he declared that he would as soon

expect his horses to climb upstairs as believe that his dead wife could

return to him alive.

He had hardly uttered the words when the trampling of his two horses on

the staircase was distinctly heard. A moment or two later he looked from

the casement and saw the steeds at an upper window, and he could doubt

no longer. Rushing to the door, he received his shivering wife into his

arms. The ring she still wore would have removed all doubts had there

been room for such.

Husband and wife spent many years together in domestic happiness, and in

memory of that remarkable night Sir Aducht fixed wooden effigies of two

horses’ heads to the outside of the window, where they still remain for

all to see.

The Magic Banquet

Another interesting tale of Cologne deals with the famous magician and

alchemist, Albertus Magnus, who at one time dwelt in the convent of the

Dominicans, not far from that city. It is recorded that on one occasion,

in the depth of winter, Albertus invited William of Holland to a feast

which was to be held in the convent garden. The recipients of the

curious invitation, William and his courtiers, were naturally much

amazed at the terms thereof, but decided not to lose the opportunity of

attending such a novel banquet.

In due course they arrived at the monastery, where all was in readiness

for the feast, the tables being laid amid the snow. The guests had

fortified themselves against the severe weather by wearing their warmest

clothing and furs. No sooner had they taken their seats, however, than

Albertus, exercising the magic powers he possessed, turned the wintry

garden into a scene of summer bloom and loveliness. The heavy furs were

laid aside, and the guests were glad to seek the shade of the spreading

foliage. Iced drinks were brought to allay their thirst, and a sumptuous

banquet was provided by their hosts; thus the hours passed unheeded,

till the Ave Maria was rung by the convent-bell. Immediately the

spell was broken, and once more snow and ice dominated the scene. The

courtiers, who had rid themselves of as much of their clothing as court

etiquette would permit, shivered in the bitter blast, and looked the

very picture of blank amazement—so much so that William forgot his own

suffering and laughed heartily at the discomfiture of his train.

This story has a quaint sequel. To show his approval of the magic feat

William granted to the convent a piece of land of considerable extent in

the neighbourhood of Cologne, and sent some of his courtiers to present

the deed of gift. The hospitable prior, anxious that the members of the

deputation should be suitably entertained, drew from the well-furnished

cellars of the monastery some choice Rhenish, which so pleased the

palates of the courtiers that they drank and drank and did not seem

to know when to stop. At length the prior, beholding with dismay the

disappearance of his finest vintage, privately begged the magician

to put a stop to this drain on the resources of his cellar. Albertus

consented, and once more the wine-cups were replenished. Imagine the

horror of the courtiers when each beheld ghastly flames issuing from his

cup! In their dismay they seized hold of one another and would not let

go.

Only when the phenomenon had disappeared did they discover that each

held his neighbour by the nose! and such was their chagrin at being seen

in this unconventional pose that they quitted the monastery without a

word, and never entered it again.

Truenfels

At a place called Truenfels, near the Oelberg, and not very far from

Cologne, there lived at one time in the Middle Ages a knight named Sir

Balther. His schloss was known as The Mount, and there dwelt with him

here his only daughter, Liba, whose great beauty had won for her a vast

entourage of suitors. Each was equally importunate, but only one was in

any way favoured, Sir Sibert Ulenthal, and at the time the story opens

this Sir Sibert had lately become affianced to Sir Balther’s daughter.

Now Sir Balther felt an ardent aversion to one of his neighbours, the

Bishop of Cologne, and his hatred of this prelate was shared abundantly

by various other knights and nobles of the district. One evening it

chanced a body of these were gathered together at The Mount; and after

Rhenish had circulated freely among them and loosened their tongues,

one and all began to vent wrath on the ill-starred Churchman, talking

volubly of his avarice and misdeeds in general. But why, cried one of

them, should they be content with so tame a thing as scurrilous speech?

Were not men of the sword more doughty than men of the robe? he added;

and thereupon a wild shout was raised by the revellers, and they swore

that they would sally forth instantly and slay him whom they all loathed

so passionately.

It happened that, even as they set out, the bishop was returning from

a visit to a remote part of his diocese; and being wholly unprepared

to cope with a gang of desperadoes like these, he fell an easy prey to

their attack. But the Church in medieval days did not take acts of this

sort passively, and the matter being investigated, and it transpiring

that The Mount had been the rallying ground of the murderers, a band of

troops was sent to raze Sir Balther’s castle and slay its inmates. The

news, meanwhile, reached the fair Liba’s fiancé, Sir Sibert, and knowing

well that, in the event of The Mount being stormed by the avenging

party, death or an equally terrible fate might befall his betrothed,

the lover felt sad indeed. He hastened to the King and implored his

intervention; on this being refused, he proposed that he himself should

join the besiegers, at the same time carrying with him a royal pardon

for Liba, for what concern had she with her father’s crimes? His Majesty

was persuaded to give the requisite document to Sir Sibert, who then

hied him at full speed to The Mount, there to find the siege going

forward. The walls of the castle were strong, and as yet the inmates

were showing a good fight; but as day after day went past their strength

and resources began to wane, and anon it seemed as though they could

not possibly hold out longer. Accordingly the soldiers redoubled their

efforts to effect a breach, which being compassed ultimately, they

rushed upon the little garrison; and now picture the consternation of

Liba when she found that her own lover was among the assailants of her

home! Amid the din of battle he called to her loudly, once and again,

telling her that he carried a royal pardon for her, and that all she had

to do was to forsake her father and follow her betrothed instead. But in

the din of battle she did not hear, or mistook the tenor of his words;

and ere he could make himself understood the garrison of the castle

began to yield, and a moment later the building was in flames. Many of

the besieged were burnt to death, but Liba and her father hastened to

a little chamber at the base of the schloss, and thence they won to a

subterranean passage which was known only to themselves, and which led

to a distant place in the surrounding wilds.

Gazing at the blackened ruins, Sir Sibert felt as though henceforth the

world held for him no joy whatsoever. He refused to be comforted, so

convinced was he that Liba had perished in the terrible fray; but

one stormy evening, wandering in the neighbourhood of the castle,

he perceived two figures who seemed to him familiar. True, both were

haggard and tattered, but as he drew near to them the knight’s pulses

quickened of a sudden, for he knew that his beloved stood before him.

Would she listen to him now? he wondered; or would she still imagine him

perfidious, and scorn the aid which he offered? While he was debating

with himself the storm increased, and the great peals of thunder

sounding overhead made the lover’s heart beat faster. He drew the

all-important document from within his doublet and approached the pair.

“Heart of my heart” ... the words faltered to Sir Sibert’s lips, but he

got no further; a great flash of lightning descended from on high, and

lo! Sir Balther and Liba lay stricken in death.

The broken-hearted lover built a chapel on the spot where his betrothed

had fallen, and here he dwelt till the end of his days. It would seem,

nevertheless, that those pious exercises wherewith hermits chiefly

occupy themselves were not his only occupation; for long after the

chapel itself had become a ruin its sight was marked by a great stone

which bore an inscription in rude characters—the single word “Liba.”

Doubtless Sir Sibert had hewn this epitaph with his own hands.

Rolandseck and Nonnenwerth

The castle of Rolandseck stands opposite Drachenfels. Below them, on an

island in the Rhine, is the convent of Nonnenwerth.

Roland, Charlemagne’s nephew, whose fame had spread throughout the

world, while riding one day on the banks of the Rhine, sought the

hospitality of the Lord of Drachenfels. Honoured at receiving such a

distinguished guest, the lord of the castle hastened to welcome him.

The ladies gave the brave knight as cordial a reception as their

lord, whose charming daughter seemed deeply impressed by the visitor’s

knightly deportment. Roland’s admiring glances lingered lovingly on the

fair maid, who blushed in sweet confusion, and whose tender looks alone

betrayed the presence of Cupid, who but waited for an opportunity to

manifest his power.

At his host’s bidding Roland put off his armour, but even in his own

room a vision of maidenly beauty haunted him, thereby showing how subtly

the young girl’s charms had wound themselves around the knight’s heart.

Roland remained for some time with the Lord of Drachenfels, fascinated

more and more by the grace and beauty of his winsome daughter. Besides

being beautiful, she was a clever needlewoman, and he admired the

dexterity with which she embroidered ornamental designs on damask.

Only when asked by her to relate some deeds of daring, or describe the

wondrous countries through which he had travelled, would Roland become

eloquent. Then he grew enthusiastic, his cheeks glowed, his eyes

sparkled, and the enamoured maid would regard her hero with admiration.

She evinced a lively interest in his exploits, their eyes would meet,

then with a throbbing breast she would resume her work by his side. From

this blissful dream Roland was summoned to the wars again.

The brave soldier prepared to depart, but he realized the joys he must

renounce. Once more he visited the favourite haunts where they had spent

such happy moments. The sound of someone weeping aroused him from

his reverie, and he beheld his lady-love seated in an arbour, sobbing

bitterly. Each knew the grief which separation must bring. Roland

consoled the maiden by promising to return soon, nevermore to part. Only

her tears betrayed how deeply the arrow of the winged god had sunk into

her heart.

A few days later they were betrothed, after which Roland departed in

quest of glory. Many victories were gained by him, and soon the enemy

was vanquished. Rejoicings were held to celebrate the event.

But at Drachenfels Castle sad faces and tearful eyes told a tale of

sorrow, for it had been announced that Roland was dead. The maid’s rosy

cheeks grew pale with grief; nothing could console her; for was not her

hero departed from her for ever?

In the intensity of her anguish she sought relief in prayer and found a

refuge in religion. She entered the convent at Nonnenwerth, resolved to

dedicate her life to Heaven, since the joys of earth had fled.

Her afflicted parents reluctantly acquiesced in this proposal. Daily

they beheld their daughter waving her hand to them as she entered the

chapel.

Suddenly there appeared before the gates of Drachenfels a troop of

cavaliers, whose armour shone brilliantly in the sun. Roland had

returned home from the wars, crowned with glory, to claim his bride. But

when he heard that she had taken the veil his buoyant spirits sank. The

Lord of Drachenfels told him that they had believed the report of his

death to be true.

A cry of despair broke from the hero of a hundred fights. He crossed

the Rhine to the castle of Rolandseck, where he remained for many weeks,

abandoned to grief.

Frequently he looked toward the convent which held his beloved. One

evening he heard the bells tolling and saw a funeral procession of nuns

carrying a coffin to the chapel. His page told him that his love was

dead, but Roland had already divined that she who had mourned his

supposed death had died through grief for him who was still alive to

mourn her death.

Time rolled on and Roland went again to the wars and achieved greater

conquests, but at length he fell fighting against the Moors at

Roncevaux, dying on the battlefield as he had wished. His valorous

deeds and his glorious death were sung by minstrels throughout all

Christendom, and his fame will never die.

LEGENDS OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE

Aix-la-Chapelle was the ancient seat of the Empire of Charlemagne,

and many legends cluster around it, several of which have already been

noticed in connexion with its great founder. The following legends,

however, deal with the town itself, and not with any circumstance

connected with the mighty Karl.

The Hunchbacked Musician

In Aix-la-Chapelle dwelt two hunchbacked musicians. Friedel was a lively

fellow with a pleasant face and an engaging manner. Heinz had red hair,

green eyes, and a malevolent expression. Friedel was a better player

than Heinz; that, combined with his agreeable looks, made him a general

favourite.

Friedel loved Agathe, the daughter of a rich wine-merchant. The lovers’

prospects were not encouraging, for Agathe’s father sought a son-in-law

from higher circles. The poor musician’s plight was rendered desperate

by the wine-merchant compelling his daughter to accept a rich but

dissipated young man. When the hunchback approached the merchant to

declare his feelings toward the maiden, he was met with derision and

insult. Full of bitterness, he wandered about, till midnight found him

in the fish-market, where the Witches’ Sabbath was about to take place.

A weird light was cast over everything, and a crowd of female figures

quickly gathered. A lady who seemed to be at the head of the party

offered the hunchback refreshment, and others handed him a violin,

desiring him to play for them. Friedel played, and the witches danced;

faster and faster, for the violin was bewitched. At last the violinist

fell exhausted, and the dancing ceased. The lady now commanded him to

kneel and receive the thanks of the company for his beautiful playing.

Then she muttered strange words over the kneeling hunchback.

When Friedel arose his hump was gone.

Just then the clock struck one, everything vanished, and the musician

found himself alone in the market-place. Next morning his looking-glass

showed him that he had not been dreaming, and in his pocket he found a

large sum of money, which made him the equal of the richest in the town.

Overjoyed at the transformation, he lost no time in seeking Agathe’s

house. The sight of his gold turned the scale in his favour, and the

wine-merchant consented to his suit.

Now Heinz was inflamed with jealousy, and tried to calumniate his

companion by spreading evil stories. Friedel’s strange adventure leaked

abroad, and Heinz determined to try his fortune likewise. So at the

next witch-meeting he hastened to the fish-market, where at the outset

everything happened in exactly the same manner. Heinz was requested to

play, but his avaricious gaze was fixed on the golden vessels on

the table, and his thoughts were with the large reward he would ask.

Consequently his playing became so discordant that the indignant dancers

made him cease.

Kneeling down to receive his reward, he demanded the valuable

drinking-cups, whereupon with scornful and mocking words the lady who

was the leader of the band fixed on his breast the hump she had taken

from Friedel. Immediately the clock struck one, and all disappeared. The

poor man’s rage was boundless, for he found himself now saddled with

two humps. He became an object of ridicule to the townsfolk, but Friedel

pitied him, and maintained him ever after.

The Legend of the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle

In former times the zealous and devout inhabitants of Aix-la-Chapelle

determined to build a cathedral. For six months the clang of the hammer

and axe resounded with wonderful activity, but, alas! the money

which had been supplied by pious Christians for this holy work became

exhausted, the wages of the masons were perforce suspended, and with

them their desire to hew and hammer, for, after all, men must have money

wherewith to feed their families.

Thus the cathedral stood, half finished, resembling a falling ruin.

Moss, grass, and wild parsley flourished in the cracks of the walls,

screech-owls already discovered convenient places for their nests, and

amorous sparrows hopped lovingly about where holy priests should have

been teaching lessons of chastity.

The builders were confounded. They endeavoured to borrow here and there,

but no rich man could be induced to advance the large sum required. The

collections from house to house produced little, so that instead of the

much-wished-for golden coins nothing was found in the boxes but copper.

When the magistracy received this report they were out of humour, and

looked with desponding countenances toward the cathedral walls, as

fathers look upon the remains of favourite children.

At this moment a stranger of commanding figure and something of pride

in his voice and bearing entered the council chamber and exclaimed: “Bon

Dieu! it is said that you are out of spirits. Hem! if nothing but money

is wanting, you may console yourselves, gentlemen. I possess mines of

gold and silver, and both can and will most willingly supply you with a

ton of them.”

The astounded magistrates sat like a row of pillars, measuring the

stranger from head to foot. The Burgomaster first found his tongue. “Who

are you, noble lord,” said he, ”that thus, entirely unknown, speak of

tons of gold as though they were sacks of beans? Tell us your name, your

rank in this world, and whether you are sent from the regions above to

assist us.”

“I have not the honour to reside there,” replied the stranger, “and,

between ourselves, I beg most particularly to be no longer troubled with

questions concerning who and what I am. Suffice it to say I have gold

plentiful as summer hay!” Then, drawing forth a leathern pouch, he

proceeded: “This little purse contains the tenth of what I’ll give. The

rest shall soon be forthcoming. Now listen, my masters,” continued he,

clinking the coin; “all this trumpery is and shall remain yours if you

promise to give me the first little soul that enters the door of the new

temple when it is consecrated.”

The astonished magistrates sprang from their seats as if they had been

shot up by an earthquake and rushed pell-mell into the farthest corner

of the room, where they rolled and clung to each other like lambs

frightened at flashes of lightning. Only one of the party had not

entirely lost his wits, and he collected his remaining senses and,

drawing his head out of the heap, uttered boldly: “Avaunt, thou wicked

spirit!”

But the stranger, who was no less a person than Master Urian, laughed at

them. “What’s all this outcry about?” said he at length. “Is my offence

so heinous that you are all become like children? It is I that may

suffer from this business, not you. With my hundreds and thousands I

have not far to run to buy a score of souls. Of you I ask but one in

exchange for all my money. What are you picking at straws for? One

may plainly see you are a mere set of humbugs! For the good of the

commonwealth (which high-sounding name is often borrowed for all sorts

of purposes) many a prince would instantly conduct a whole army to be

butchered, and you refuse one single man for that purpose! Fie! I am

ashamed, O overwise counsellors, to hear you reason thus absurdly and

citizen-like. What, do you think to deprive yourselves of the kernel of

your people by granting my wish? Oh, no; there your wisdom is quite

at fault, for, depend on it, hypocrites are always the earliest church

birds.”

By degrees, as the cunning fiend thus spoke, the magistrates took

courage and whispered in each other’s ears: “What is the use of our

resisting? The grim lion will only show his teeth once. If we don’t

assent, we shall infallibly be packed off ourselves. It is better,

therefore, to quiet him directly.”

Scarcely had they given effect to this new disposition and concluded

the bargain when a swarm of purses flew into the room through doors and

windows. Urian now took leave, but he stopped at the door and called out

with a grim leer: “Count it over again for fear I may have cheated you.”

The hellish gold was piously expended in finishing the cathedral, but

nevertheless, when the building was completed, splendid though it was,

the whole town was filled with fear and alarm at the sight of it. The

fact was that, although the magistrates had promised by bond and oath

not to trust the secret to anybody, one had prated to his wife, and she

had made it a market-place tale, so that one and all declared they would

never set foot within the walls. The terrified council now consulted the

clergy, but the good priests hung their heads. At last a monk cried

out: “A thought strikes me. The wolf which has so long ravaged the

neighbourhood of our town was this morning caught alive. This will be a

well-merited punishment for the destroyer of our flocks; let him be cast

to the devil in the fiery gulf. ’Tis possible the arch hell-hound may

not relish this breakfast, yet, nolens volens, he must swallow it. You

promised him certainly a soul, but whose was not decidedly specified.”

The monk’s plan was plausible, and the magistrates determined to put the

cunning trick into execution. The day of consecration arrived. Orders

were given to bring the wolf to the principal entrance of the cathedral,

and just as the bells began to ring, the trap-door of the cage was

opened and the savage beast darted out into the nave of the

empty church. Master Urian from his lurking-place beheld this

consecration-offering with the utmost fury; burning with choler at

being thus deceived, he raged like a tempest, and finally rushed forth,

slamming the brass gate so violently after him that the ring cracked in

twain.

This fissure commemorates the priest’s victory over the devices of the

Devil, and is still exhibited to travellers who visit the cathedral.

A Legend of Bonn

The city of Bonn is one of the most beautiful of all those situated on

the banks of the Rhine, and being the birthplace of no less celebrated

a composer than Beethoven, it naturally attracts a goodly number of

pilgrims every year, these coming from many distant lands to do homage

at the shrine of genius. But Bonn and its neighbourhood have older

associations than this—associations which carry the mind of the

traveller far into the Middle Ages—for hard by the town is Rolandseck;

while a feature of the district is the Siebengebirge (Seven Mountains),

a fine serried range of peaks which present a very imposing appearance

when viewed from any of the heights overlooking Bonn itself, and which

recall a justly famous legend.

This story tells that in the thirteenth century there lived at a castle

in the heart of these mountains a nobleman called Wolfram Herzog von

Bergendorf; and being no freebooter like most of the other German barons

of the time, but a man of very pious disposition, he was moved during

the prime of his life to forsake his home and join a body of crusaders.

Reaching Palestine after a protracted journey, these remained there for

a long time, Wolfram fighting gallantly in every fray and making his

name a terror to the Saracens. But the brave crusader was wounded

eventually, and now he set out for Germany, thirsting all the way for

a sight of his beloved Siebengebirge, and dreaming of the wind-swept

schloss which was his home. As he drew nearer to it he pictured the

welcome which his fond Herzogin would give him, but scarcely had the

drawbridge been lowered to admit him to his castle ere a fell piece of

news was imparted to him. In short, it transpired that his wife Elise

had been unfaithful to him during his absence and, on hearing that

he was returning, had fled precipitately with her infant son. It was

rumoured that she had found refuge in a convent, but Wolfram was quite

unable to ascertain his wife’s whereabouts, the doors of all nunneries

being impassable to men; while even the joy of revenge was denied him,

for, try as he might, he could not find out the name of the person who

had wronged him. So the Herzog was broken-hearted, and he vowed that

henceforth he would live a solitary life within his castle, spending his

time in prayer and seeing only his own retainers.

For many years this vow was piously observed, and Wolfram never stirred

abroad. In course of time, however, he began to chafe at the restraint,

feeling it the more acutely because he was an old soldier and had known

the excitement of warfare; and so it came about that he revoked his

decision and began to travel about the country as of old. It seemed

also, to some of his henchmen, that he was gradually becoming more like

his former self, and they sometimes said among themselves that he would

marry again and had quite forgotten his wrongs. But the very reverse was

the truth, and if Wolfram was growing more cheerful, it was because new

hopes of retribution were springing up in his heart. The chance would

come, he often told himself; surely the fates would one day confront him

with his wife’s lover! And one day, as he rode through the village of

Gudesburg, these revengeful thoughts were uppermost in his mind. They

engrossed him wholly, and he took little heed of the passers-by; but an

unexpected stumble on the part of his horse caused him to look up, and

of a sudden his eyes blazed like live coals. Here, walking only a few

yards away from him, was a youth who bore an unmistakable resemblance to

the unfaithful Elise; and dismounting instantly, the Herzog strode up

to the stranger, hailed him loudly, and proceeded to question him

concerning his identity. The youth was surprised at the anger expressed

on the elder man’s countenance; and being overawed, he answered all

questions without hesitation, unfolding the little he knew about his

parentage. Nor had Wolfram’s instincts deceived him; the tale he heard

confirmed his suspicions, and drawing his sword, he slew the youth in

cold blood, denying him even a moment in which to repeat a paternoster.

A rude iron cross, still standing by the road at Gudesburg, is said to

mark the place where the ill-starred and unoffending young man met his

doom. Possibly this cross was erected by Wolfram himself because he

experienced remorse, and felt that he had been unduly hasty in taking

life; but be that as it may, the story concludes by asserting that

the Herzog once more vowed that he would spend the rest of his days in

solitude and prayer, and that henceforth to the end his vow remained

unbroken.

The Treasure-seeker

This is a picturesque tale of the consequences of wealth attained by

the aid of the supernatural which hangs about the ancient village of

Endenich, near Bonn, where at the end of the seventeenth century there

dwelt a certain sheriff and his son, Konrad, who was a locksmith by

trade. They were poor and had lost everything in the recent wars, which

had also ruined Heribert, another sheriff, who with his daughter, the

beautiful Gretchen, eked out a frugal but peaceful existence in the same

neighbourhood. The two young people fell in love with each other, but

Gretchen’s father, becoming suddenly and mysteriously very rich and

arrogant withal, desired a wealthy or highly placed official as his

son-in-law and not a poor lad with no expectations such as Konrad, the

locksmith. The lovers were therefore compelled to meet in secret, and it

was on one of these occasions that Heribert, surprising them together,

attacked Konrad and felled him to the ground in his rage that he should

dare to approach his daughter.

Spurred by his love and knowing that he could never hope to win Gretchen

without wealth, the unhappy youth decided to barter for gold the only

possession left to him—his soul.

Now there lived in the churchyard a Lapp wizard who made such bargains;

so in the dead of night Konrad took his way to this dreadful and

unfrequented spot and exhorted the sorcerer to come forth. At the third

cry a terrible apparition appeared and demanded to know his wishes,

to which the terrified Konrad could only reply: “Gold.” Thereupon the

sorcerer led the way deep into a forest and, pointing mysteriously to

a certain spot, disappeared. At this spot Konrad found a chest full

of gold and silver coins, and returning to Bonn, he bought a house

the splendour of which surpassed that of Heribert, who could no longer

refuse his daughter to so wealthy a suitor.

The young wife tried all her arts to solve the mystery of her husband’s

wealth, and he was at length about to reveal it to her when he was

suddenly arrested and thrown into prison. Here he was put to torture

by the authorities, who suspected him of robbery, and at length he

confessed that he had found a treasure, while to his wife he confided

the gruesome details, all of which were overheard by his jailers.

He was released, but almost immediately re-arrested on the suspicion

that he had killed a Jew named Abraham, who had amassed great sums

during the wars as a spy. Tortured again, in his extremity he confessed

to the murder and named Heribert as his accomplice, whereupon both men

were sentenced to be hanged. Just as this doom was about to be carried

out a Jew who had arrived from a far country hurriedly forced his way

through the crowd. It was Abraham, who had returned in time to save the

innocent.

But his sin did not pass unpunished, for Konrad died childless; he

bequeathed his wealth to the Church and charities, in expiation of his

sin of having attained wealth by the aid of an evil spirit.

The Miller’s Maid of Udorf

Udorf is a little village on the left bank of the Rhine, not far from

the town of Bonn, and at no great distance from it stands a lonely

mill, to which attaches the following story of a woman’s courage and

resourcefulness.

Hännchen was the miller’s servant-maid, a buxom young woman who had been

in his service for a number of years, and of whose faithfulness both he

and his wife were assured.

One Sunday morning the miller and his wife had gone with their elder

children to attend mass at the neighbouring village of Hersel, leaving

Hännchen at the mill in charge of the youngest child, a boy of about

five years of age.

On the departure of the family for church Hännchen busied herself in

preparing dinner, but had scarcely commenced her task ere a visitor

entered the kitchen. This was no other than her sweetheart, Heinrich,

whom she had not seen for some time. Indeed, he had earned so bad a

reputation as a loafer and an idle good-for-nothing that the miller, as

much on Hännchen’s account as on his own, had forbidden him the house.

Hännchen, however, received her lover with undisguised pleasure,

straightway set food before him, and sat down beside him for a chat,

judging that the miller’s dinner was of small consequence compared with

her ill-used Heinrich! The latter ate heartily, and toward the end of

the meal dropped his knife, as though by accident.

“Pick that up, my girl,” said he.

Hännchen protested good-humouredly, but obeyed none the less. As she

stooped to the floor Heinrich seized her by the neck and held another

knife to her throat. “Now, girl, show me where your master keeps his

money,” he growled hoarsely. “If you value your life, make haste.”

“Let me go and I’ll tell you,” gasped Hännchen; and when he had loosened

his grip on her throat she looked at him calmly.

“Don’t make such a fuss about it, Heinrich,” she said pleasantly. “If

you take my master’s money, you must take me too, for this will be no

place for me. Will you take me with you, Heinrich?”

The hulking fellow was taken completely off his guard by her apparent

acquiescence, and touched by her desire to accompany him, which

he attributed, with the conceit of his kind, to his own personal

attractions.

“If I find the money, you shall come with me, Hännchen,” he conceded

graciously. “But if you play me false—” The sentence ended with an

expressive motion of his knife.

“Very well, then,” said the maid. “The money is in master’s room. Come

and I will show you where it is concealed.”

She led him to the miller’s room, showed him the massive coffer in which

lay her master’s wealth, and gave him a piece of iron wherewith to prise

it open.

“I will go to my own room,” she said, “and get my little savings, and

then we shall be ready to go.”

So she slipped away, and her erstwhile sweetheart set to work on the

miller’s coffer.

“The villain!” said Hännchen to herself when she was outside the room.

“Now I know that master was right when he said that Heinrich was no fit

suitor to come courting me.”

With that she slammed the door to and turned the key, shutting the thief

in a room as secure as any prison-cell. He threatened and implored her,

but Hännchen was deaf to oaths and entreaties alike. Outside she found

the miller’s son playing happily, and called him to her. “Go to father

as quickly as you can,” she said, putting him on the road to Hersel.

“You will meet him down there. Tell him there is a thief in the mill.”

The child ran as fast as his little legs would carry him, but ere he had

gone many yards a shrill whistle sounded from the barred window behind

which Heinrich was imprisoned.

“Diether,” shouted the robber to an accomplice in hiding, “catch the

child and come and stop this wench’s mouth.” Hännchen looked around

for the person thus addressed, but no one was in sight. A moment later,

however, Diether sprang up from a ditch, seized the frightened boy,

and ran back toward the mill. The girl had but little time in which to

decide on a course of action. If she barricaded herself in the mill,

might not the ruffian slay the child? On the other hand, if she waited

to meet him, she had no assurance that he would not kill them both. So

she retired to the mill, locked the door, and awaited what fate had in

store for her. In vain the robber threatened to kill the child and burn

the mill over her head if she would not open to him at once. Seeing that

his threats had no effect, he cast about for some means of entering the

mill. His quick eye noted one unprotected point, an opening in the wall

connected with the big mill-wheel, a by no means easy mode of ingress.

But, finding no other way, he threw the frightened child on the grass

and slipped through the aperture.

Meanwhile Hännchen, who from the position of her upper window could not

see what was going on, was pondering how she could attract the attention

of the miller or any of their neighbours. At last she hit upon a plan.

It was Sunday and the mill was at rest. If she were to set the machinery

in motion, the unusual sight of a mill at work on the day of rest would

surely point to some untoward happening. Hardly had the idea entered her

head ere the huge sails were revolving. At that very moment Diether

had reached the interior of the great drum-wheel, and his surprise and

horror were unbounded when it commenced to rotate. It was useless to

attempt to stop the machinery; useless, also, to appeal to Hännchen.

Round and round he went, till at last he fell unconscious on the

bottom of the engine, and still he went on rotating. As Hännchen had

anticipated, the miller and his family were vastly astonished to see the

mill in motion, and hastened home from church to learn the reason for

this departure from custom. Some of their neighbours accompanied them.

In a few words Hännchen told them all that had occurred; then her

courage forsook her and she fainted in the arms of the miller’s eldest

son, who had long been in love with her, and whom she afterward married.

The robbers were taken in chains to Bonn, where for their many crimes

they suffered the extreme penalty of the law.

Rosebach and its Legend

The quiet and peaceful valley of Hammerstein is one of the most

beautiful in all Rhineland, yet, like many another lovely stretch of

country, this valley harbours some gruesome tales, and among such

there is one, its scene the village of Rosebach, which is of particular

interest, as it is typical of the Middle Ages, and casts a light on

the manner of life and thought common in those days. For many centuries

there stood at this village of Rosebach a monastery, which no longer

exists, and it was probably one of its early abbots who first wrote down

the legend, for it is concerned primarily with the strange events which

led to the founding and endowment of this religious house, and its whole

tenor suggests the pen of a medieval cleric.

In a remote and shadowy time there lived at Schloss Rosebach a certain

Otto, Count of Reuss-Marlinberg of Hammerstein; and this Count’s evil

deeds had made him notorious far and near, while equally ill-famed was

his favourite henchman, Riguenbach by name, a man who had borne arms in

the Crusades and had long since renounced all belief in religion. This

ruffian was constantly in attendance on his master, Otto; and one day,

when the pair were riding along the high-road together, they chanced

to espy a bewitching maiden who was making her way from a neighbouring

village to the convent of Walsdorf, being minded to enter the novitiate

there and eventually take the veil. The Count doffed his hat to the

prospective nun, less because he wished to be courteous than because it

was his habit to salute every wayfarer he encountered on his domain; and

Riguenbach, much amused by Otto’s civility to one of low degree, burst

into a loud laugh of derision and called after the maiden, telling her

to come back. She obeyed his behest, and thereupon the two horsemen

drew rein and asked the damsel whither she was bound. “To Walsdorf,” she

replied; and though Otto himself would have let her go forward as

she pleased, the crafty Riguenbach was not so minded. “There are many

dangers in the way,” he said to the girl; “if you push on now that

evening is drawing near you may fall a prey to robbers or wolves, so

you had better come to the castle with us, spend the night there, and

continue your journey on the morrow.” Pleased by the apparently friendly

offer, and never dreaming of the fate in store for her, the girl

willingly accepted the invitation. That night the people around Schloss

Rosebach heard piercing screams and wondered what new villainy was on

foot. But the massive stone walls kept their secret, and the luckless

maiden never again emerged from the castle.

For a time the Count’s crime went unpunished, and about a year later he

commenced paying his addresses to Eldegarda, a lady of noble birth.

In due course the nuptials of the pair were celebrated. The bride had

little idea what manner of man she had espoused, but she was destined

to learn this shortly; for on the very night of their marriage an

apparition rose between the two.

“Otto,” cried the ghost in weird, sepulchral tones, “I alone am thy

lawful spouse; through thee I lost all hopes of Heaven, and now I am

come to reward thee for thy evil deeds.” The Count turned livid with

fear, and the blush on Eldegarda’s cheek faded to an ashen hue; but the

spectre remained with them throughout the night. And night after night

she came to them thus, till at last Otto grew desperate and summoned to

his aid a Churchman who happened to be in the neighbourhood, the Abbot

Bernard of Clairvaux.

Now this Bernard enjoyed no small fame as a worker of miracles, but when

Otto unfolded his case to him the Abbot declared straightway that no

miracle would be justifiable in the present instance, and that only by

repentance and by complete renunciation of the world might the Count

be released from his nightly menace. Otto hung his head on hearing this

verdict, and as he stood hesitating, pondering whether it were possible

for him to forgo all earthly joys, his old henchman, Riguenbach, chanced

to enter, and learning his master’s quandary, he laughed loudly

and advised the Count to eject Bernard forcibly. The Abbot met the

retainer’s mirth with a look of great severity, and on Riguenbach

showing that he was still bent on insolence, the Churchman cried to

him: “Get thee behind me, Satan”; whereupon a flame of lightning darted

suddenly across the chamber, and the man who had long aided and abetted

the Count’s wickedness was consumed to ashes.

For a moment Otto stood aghast at the awful fate of his retainer; and

now, beholding how terrible a thing is divine vengeance, he began at

last to feel truly repentant. He consented to have his marriage annulled

without delay, and even declared that he himself would become a monk. At

the same time he counselled his wife to take the veil, and they parted,

thinking never to see each other again. But one night, ere either of

them had taken the irrevocable vows, the Virgin Mary appeared to Abbot

Bernard and told him he had acted unwisely in parting the bride and

bridegroom in this wise, for was not Eldegarda wholly innocent? The

Churchman instantly returned to Otto’s presence, and on the following

day the Count and his wife were duly remarried. The newly found piety

of the penitent found expression in the building and endowment of a

religious edifice upon his domains.

So it was, then, that the Abbey of Rosebach was founded, and though

the ruthless hand of time has levelled its walls, the strange events to

which they owed their being long ago are still remembered and recited in

the lovely vale of Hammerstein; for, though all human things must needs

perish, a good story long outlives them all.

The Dancers of Ramersdorf

At Ramersdorf every Sunday afternoon the lads and lasses of the hamlet

gathered on the village green and danced gaily through the sunny hours.

But wild prophecies of the coming end of the world, when the year 1000

should break, were spreading throughout the countryside, and the spirit

of fear haunted the people, so that music died away from their hearts

and there was no more dancing on the village green. Instead they spent

the hours praying in the church for divine mercy, and the Abbot of

Löwenburg was well pleased.

The dreaded year came and went, yet the world had not ceased; the sun

still rose and set, life went on just the same. So fear passed from the

hearts of the people, and because they were happy again the young folk

once more assembled to dance the Sundays away on the village green. But

the abbot was wroth at this. When the music began he appeared among

the villagers, commanding them to cease from their revels and bethink

themselves of the House of God. But the lads and lasses laughed, and the

music went on as they footed it gaily. Then the abbot was angered; he

raised his hands to heaven and cursed the thoughtless crowd, condemning

the villagers to dance there unceasingly for a year and a day.

As they heard the dreadful words the young folk tried to stop, but their

feet must needs go on to the endless music. Faster and faster in giddy

round they went, day and night, rain and shine, throughout the changing

seasons, until the last hours of the extra day, when they fell in a

senseless heap in the hollow worn by their unresting feet. When they

awoke to consciousness all reason had passed from them. To the day of

their death they remained helpless idiots. Henceforth the village green

was deserted; no more were seen the lads and lasses dancing there on the

Sabbath day.

The Löwenburg

Tradition asserts that on the summit of this mountain once stood a

castle, of which, however, not the slightest trace can be found at the

present day. There is also a story of the lord who dwelt there, Hermann

von Heinsberg, with whom, for his sins, the direct line of the family

became extinct.

Graf Hermann was possessed by one overmastering passion, that of the

chase. The greater part of his life was spent in the dense forests which

clothed the valleys and mountains about his castle. Every other interest

must, perforce, stand aside. The cornfields, vineyards, and gardens of

his vassals were oftentimes devastated in his sport, to the utter ruin

of many. If any dared complain he laughed at or reviled them; but if he

were in angry mood he set his hounds on them and hunted his vassals as

quarry, either killing them outright or leaving them terribly injured.

Needless to say, he was well hated by these people, also by his own

class, for his character was too fierce and overbearing even for their

tolerance. To crown his unpopularity, he was under the ban of the

all-powerful Church, for saints’ days and Lord’s Day alike he hunted

to his heart’s content, and once, on receiving a remonstrance, had

threatened to hunt the Abbot of Heisterbach himself. So he lived,

isolated, except for his troop of jägers, from the rest of mankind. The

forest was his world, his only friends the hounds.

Once, on the eve of a holy festival, Hermann set out to hunt in the

ancient forest about the base of the Löwenburg. In the excitement of

the chase he outstripped his followers, his quarry disappeared, and,

overtaken by night, his surroundings, in the dim light, took on such an

unfamiliar aspect that he completely lost all sense of direction. Up and

down he paced in unrestrained yet impotent anger, feeling that he was

under some evil spell. Maddened by this idea, he endeavoured to hack

his way through the thick undergrowth, but the matted boughs and dense

foliage were as effectual as prison bars. He was trapped, he told

himself, in some enchanted forest, for the place seemed more and more

unfamiliar. He strove to bring back some recollection of the spot,

which surely he must have passed a thousand times. But no—he could not

distinguish any feature that seemed familiar. His spirits sank lower and

lower, his strength seemed on the point of failing, his brain seemed to

be on fire. Round and round he went like some trapped animal; then he

threw himself madly upon a mass of tangled underwood and succeeded in

breaking through to a more open space. This also seemed unfamiliar,

and in the dim light of the stars the tall trees shut him in as if with

towers of impenetrable shadow; silence seemed to lay everything under a

spell of terror, ominous of coming evil.

Wearied in body and mind, Hermann flung himself down on the sward and

quickly fell asleep. But suddenly a plunging in the brushwood aroused

him, and with the instinct of the huntsman he sprang up instantly,

seizing his spear and whistling to his dogs, which, however, crouched

nearer to the earth, their hair bristling and eyes red with fear.

Again their master called, but they refused to stir, whining, with eyes

strained and fixed on the undergrowth. Then Graf Hermann went forward

alone to the spot whence proceeded the ominous sound, his spear poised,

ready to strike.

He was about to penetrate into the brushwood when suddenly there emerged

from it a majestic-looking man, who seemed as if hotly pursued. He was

dressed in ancient garb, carrying a large crossbow in his right hand. A

curved hunting-horn hung at his side, and an old-fashioned hunting-knife

was stuck in his girdle.

With a stately motion of the hand he waved Hermann aside, then he raised

the horn to his lips and blew upon it a terrible blast so unearthly in

sound that the forest and mountains sent back echoes like the cry of

the lost, to which the hounds gave tongue with a howl of fear. As if

in answer to the echoes, there suddenly appeared hundreds of skeleton

stags, of enormous size, each bestridden by a skeleton hunter. With one

accord the ghostly riders spurred on their steeds, which with lowered

antlers advanced upon the stranger, who, with a scream for mercy, sought

frenziedly for some means of evading his grisly pursuers.

For the space of an hour the dreadful chase went on, Graf Hermann rooted

to the spot with horror, overcome by a sense of helplessness. There in

the centre he stood, the pivot round which circled the infernal hunt,

unable to stay the relentless riders as with bony hands rattling against

their skeleton steeds they encouraged them to charge, gore, and trample

the hapless stranger, whose cries of agony were drowned by shrieks of

fiendish glee and the incessant cracking of whips. Overcome at last by

terror, the count fell senseless, his eyes dazed by the still whirling

spectres and their flying quarry. When at last he slowly awaked from his

swoon he looked around, fearing to see again the hideous spectacle. All

but the stranger, however, had vanished. Graf Hermann shuddered as he

looked upon him, and only with difficulty could he summon sufficient

courage to address him. Indeed, it was only after the unwonted action of

crossing himself that he could speak.

“Who and what are you?” he asked in a hushed tone. But the stranger made

no reply, except to sigh mournfully. Again the count asked the question,

and again received but a sigh for answer.

“Then in the name of the Most High God I conjure you, speak!” he said

the third time.

The stranger turned to him, as if suddenly released from bonds.

“By the power of God’s holy name the spell is broken at last. Listen now

to me!”

He beckoned Hermann to his side and in strange, stern tones he related

the following:

“I am your ancestor. Like you, I loved the chase beyond everything

in life—beyond our holy faith or the welfare of any human being, man,

woman, or child. To all that stood in my path I showed no mercy. There

came a time when famine visited the land. The harvest was destroyed by

blight and the people starved. In their extremity they broke into my

forests; famished with hunger, they destroyed and carried off the game.

Beside myself with rage, I swore that they should suffer for it—that for

every head of game destroyed I would exact a human life. I kept my oath.

Arming my retainers, servants, and huntsmen, I seized my presumptuous

vassals in the dead of night, and dragging them to the castle, I

flung them into the deepest dungeons. There for three days I let them

starve—for three days also I kept my hounds without food. Meantime my

huntsmen had caught a great number of the largest and strongest deer

in the forests. At the end of three days the unfortunate wretches were

brought out, diminished now by a full hundred. My ready retainers bound

them naked to the stags. My best steeds were saddled. Then the kennels

were thrown open and the famished hounds rushed forth like a host of

demons. Off went the deer like the wind, each with his human burden,

the dogs following, and then the horsemen, shouting with glee at the new

sport. By nightfall not a stag or his rider was left alive. The hounds

in their fury worried and tore at both man and beast, and the last

unfortunate wretch met a hideous death on this spot where we now stand.”

He paused as if overcome by the memory of his crime.

“God avenged that dreadful deed. That night I died, and I am now

suffering the tortures of the damned. Every night I am hunted by my

victims, as you have seen. I am now the quarry, hunted from the castle

court, on through the forest, to this hidden and haunted spot. Thousands

and thousands of times I have suffered this: I endure all the agonies

I made them suffer. I am doomed to undergo this to the last day, when I

shall be hunted over the wastes of hell by legions of demons.”

Again he paused, his eyes terrible with the anguish of a lost soul. He

resumed in a sterner tone:

“Take warning by my fate. Providence, kinder to you than to me, has

guided you hither to-night that you might learn of my punishment. While

you still have time repent of your crimes and endeavour to make amends

for the suffering you have inflicted. Remember—the wages of sin is

death. Remember me—and my fate!”

The next moment the phantom had faded from view.

Only the hounds were crouching near the count, panting fearfully. All

else was silent gloom and night. After a terrible vigil the morning

came, and Graf Hermann, now a changed man, returned to his castle in

silence, and henceforth endeavoured to profit by the warning and follow

the advice of his unhappy ancestor.