CHAPTER V—FALKENBURG TO AUERBACH

The Legend of Falkenburg

In the imperial fortress of Falkenburg dwelt the beautiful Liba, the

most charming and accomplished of maidens, with her widowed mother. Many

were the suitors who climbed the hill to Falkenburg to seek the hand

of Liba, for besides being beautiful she was gentle and virtuous, and

withal possessed of a modest fortune left her by her father. But to all

their pleadings she turned a deaf ear, for she was already betrothed

to a young knight named Guntram whom she had known since childhood, and

they only waited until Guntram should have received his fief from the

Palsgrave to marry and settle down.

One May morning, while Liba was seated at a window of the castle

watching the ships pass to and fro on the glassy bosom of the Rhine,

she beheld Guntram riding up the approach to Falkenburg, and hastened to

meet him. The gallant knight informed his betrothed that he was on his

way to the Palsgrave to receive his fief, and had but turned aside in

his journey in order to greet his beloved. She led him into the castle,

where her mother received him graciously enough, well pleased at her

daughter’s choice.

“And now, farewell,” said Guntram. “I must hasten. When I return we two

shall wed; see to it that all is in readiness.”

With that he mounted his horse and rode out of the courtyard, turning

to wave a gay farewell to Liba. The maiden watched him disappear round a

turn in the winding path, then slowly re-entered the castle.

Meanwhile Guntram went on his way, and was at length invested with his

fief. The Palsgrave, pleased with the manners and appearance of the

young knight, appointed him to be his ambassador in Burgundy, which

honour Guntram, though with much reluctance, felt it necessary to

accept. He dispatched a messenger to his faithful Liba, informing her

of his appointment, which admitted of no delay, and regretting the

consequent postponement of their marriage. She, indeed, was ill-pleased

with the tidings and felt instinctively that some calamity was about to

befall. After a time her foreboding affected her health and spirits, her

former pursuits and pleasures were neglected, and day after day she sat

listlessly at her casement, awaiting the return of her lover.

Guntram, having successfully achieved his mission, set out on the

homeward journey. On the way he had to pass through a forest, and,

having taken a wrong path, lost his way. He wandered on without meeting

a living creature, and came at last to an old dilapidated castle, into

the courtyard of which he entered, thankful to have reached a human

habitation. He gave his horse to a staring boy, who looked at him as

though he were a ghost.

“Where is your master?” queried Guntram.

The boy indicated an ivy-grown tower, to which the knight made his way.

The whole place struck him as strangely sombre and weird, a castle of

shadows and vague horror. He was shown into a gloomy chamber by an aged

attendant, and there awaited the coming of the lord. Opposite him was

hung a veiled picture, and half hoping that he might solve the mystery

which pervaded the place, he drew aside the curtain. From the canvas

there looked out at him a lady of surpassing beauty, and the young

knight started back in awe and admiration.

In a short time the attendant returned with a thin, tall old man, the

lord of the castle, who welcomed the guest with grave courtesy, and

offered the hospitality of his castle. Guntram gratefully accepted his

host’s invitation, and when he had supped he conversed with the old man,

whom he found well-informed and cultured.

“You appear to be fond of music,” said the knight, indicating a harp

which lay in a corner of the room.

He had observed, however, that the strings of the harp were broken, and

that the instrument seemed to have been long out of use, and thought

that it possibly had some connexion with the original of the veiled

portrait. Whatever recollections his remark aroused must have been

painful indeed, for the host sighed heavily.

“It has long been silent,” he said. “My happiness has fled with its

music. Good night, and sleep well.” And ere the astonished guest could

utter a word the old man abruptly withdrew from the room.

Shortly afterward the old attendant entered, bearing profuse apologies

from his master, and begging that the knight would continue to accept

his hospitality. Guntram followed the old man to his chamber. As they

passed through the adjoining apartment he stopped before the veiled

portrait.

“Tell me,” he said, “why is so lovely a picture hidden?”

“Then you have seen it?” asked the old keeper. “That is my master’s

daughter. When she was alive she was even more beautiful than her

portrait, but she was a very capricious maid, and demanded that her

lovers should perform well-nigh impossible feats. At last only one of

these lovers remained, and of him she asked that he should descend into

the family vault and bring her a golden crown from the head of one of

her ancestors. He did as he was bidden, but his profanation was punished

with death. A stone fell from the roof and killed him. The young man’s

mother died soon after, cursing the foolish maid, who herself died in

the following year. But ere she was buried she disappeared from her

coffin and was seen no more.”

When the story was ended they had arrived at the door of the knight’s

chamber, and in bidding him good night the attendant counselled him to

say his paternoster should anything untoward happen.

Guntram wondered at his words, but at length fell asleep. Some hours

later he was awakened suddenly by the rustling of a woman’s gown and the

soft strains of a harp, which seemed to come from the adjoining room.

The knight rose quietly and looked through a chink in the door, when

he beheld a lady dressed in white and bending over a harp of gold. He

recognized in her the original of the veiled portrait, and saw that even

the lovely picture had done her less than justice. For a moment he stood

with hands clasped in silent admiration. Then with a low sound, half

cry, half sob, she cast the harp from her and sank down in an attitude

of utter despondency. The knight could bear it no longer and (quite

forgetting his paternoster) he flung open the door and knelt at her

feet, raising her hand to his lips. Gradually she became composed. “Do

you love me, knight?” she said. Guntram swore that he did, with many

passionate avowals, and the lady slipped a ring on his finger. Even as

he embraced her the cry of a screech-owl rang through the night air,

and the maiden became a corpse in his arms. Overcome with terror,

he staggered through the darkness to his room, where he sank down

unconscious.

On coming to himself again, he thought for a moment that the experience

must have been a dream, but the ring on his hand assured him that the

vision was a ghastly reality. He attempted to remove the gruesome token,

but he found to his horror that it seemed to have grown to his finger.

In the morning he related his experience to the attendant. “Alas, alas!”

said the old man, “in three times nine days you must die.”

Guntram was quite overcome by the horror of his situation, and seemed

for a time bereft of his senses. Then he had his horse saddled,

and galloped as hard as he was able to Falkenburg. Liba greeted him

solicitously. She could see that he was sorely troubled, but forbore to

question him, preferring to wait until he should confide in her of his

own accord. He was anxious that their wedding should be hastened, for he

thought that his union with the virtuous Liba might break the dreadful

spell.

When at length the wedding day arrived everything seemed propitious,

and there was nothing to indicate the misfortune which threatened the

bridegroom. The couple approached the altar and the priest joined their

hands. Suddenly Guntram fell to the ground, foaming and gasping, and was

carried thence to his home. The faithful Liba stayed by his side, and

when he had partially recovered the knight told her the story of the

spectre, and added that when the priest had joined their hands he had

imagined that the ghost had put her cold hand in his. Liba attempted

to soothe her repentant lover, and sent for a priest to finish the

interrupted wedding ceremony. This concluded, Guntram embraced his wife,

received absolution, and expired.

Liba entered a convent, and a few years later she herself passed away,

and was buried by the side of her husband.

The Mouse Tower

Bishop Hatto is a figure equally well known to history and tradition,

though, curiously enough, receiving a much rougher handling from the

latter than the former. History relates that Hatto was Archbishop of

Mainz in the tenth century, being the second of his name to occupy that

see. As a ruler he was firm, zealous, and upright, if somewhat ambitious

and high-handed, and his term of office was marked by a civic peace not

always experienced in those times. So much for history. According to

tradition, Hatto was a stony-hearted oppressor of the poor, permitting

nothing to stand in the way of the attainment of his own selfish ends,

and several wild legends exhibit him in a peculiarly unfavourable light.

By far the most popular of these traditions is that which deals with

the Mäuseturm, or ‘Mouse Tower,’ situated on a small island in the

Rhine near Bingen. It has never been quite decided whether the name was

bestowed because of the legend, or whether the legend arose on account

of the name, and it seems at least probable that the tale is of

considerably later date than the tenth century. Some authorities regard

the word Mäuseturm as a corruption of Mauth-turm, a ‘toll-tower,’ a

probable but prosaic interpretation. Much more interesting is the name

‘Mouse Tower,’ which gives point to the tragic tale of Bishop Hatto’s

fate. The story cannot be better told than in the words of Southey, who

has immortalized it in the following ballad:

THE TRADITION OF BISHOP HATTO

The summer and autumn had been so wet,

That in winter the corn was growing yet;

’Twas a piteous sight to see all around

The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor

Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door,

For he had a plentiful last-year’s store,

And all the neighbourhood could tell

His granaries were furnished well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day

To quiet the poor without delay;

He bade them to his great barn repair,

And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,

The poor folk flocked from far and near;

The great barn was full as it could hold

Of women and children, and young and old.

Then when he saw it could hold no more,

Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;

And while for mercy on Christ they call,

He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.

“I’ faith, ’tis an excellent bonfire!” quoth he,

“And the country is greatly obliged to me

For ridding it in these times forlorn

Of rats that only consume the corn.”

So then to his palace returnèd he,

And he sat down to supper merrily;

And he slept that night like an innocent man,

But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he enter’d the hall

Where his picture hung against the wall,

A sweat like death all over him came,

For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he looked there came a man from his farm,

He had a countenance white with alarm;

“My lord, I opened your granaries this morn,

And the rats had eaten all your corn.”

Another came running presently,

And he was pale as pale could be;

“Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly!” quoth he,

“Ten thousand rats are coming this way—

The Lord forgive you for yesterday!”

“I’ll go to my tower on the Rhine,” replied he,

“’Tis the safest place in Germany;

The walls are high and the shores are steep,

And the stream is strong and the water deep.”

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away,

And he crossed the Rhine without delay,

And reached his tower, and barred with care

All windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes;—

But soon a scream made him arise,

He started and saw two eyes of flame

On his pillow from whence the screaming came.

He listened and looked—it was only the cat;

But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,

For she sat screaming, mad with fear,

At the army of rats that were drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep,

And they have climbed the shores so steep,

And up the tower their way is bent,

To do the work for which they were sent.

They are not to be told by the dozen or score,

By thousands they come, and by myriads and more,

Such numbers had never been heard of before,

Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore.

Down on his knees the Bishop fell,

And faster and faster his beads did he tell,

As louder and louder, drawing near,

The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.

And in at the windows and in at the door,

And through the walls helter-skelter they pour,

And down through the ceiling, and up through the floor,

From the right and the left, from behind and before,

From within and without, from above and below,

And all at once to the Bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones,

And now they pick the Bishop’s bones;

They gnawed the flesh from every limb,

For they were sent to do judgment on him.

A Legend of Ehrenfels

Many other tales are told to illustrate Hatto’s cruelty and treachery.

Facing the Mouse Tower, on the opposite bank of the Rhine, stands the

castle of Ehrenfels, the scene of another of his ignoble deeds.

Conrad, brother of the Emperor Ludwig, had, it is said, been seized and

imprisoned in Ehrenfels by the Franconian lord of that tower, Adalbert

by name. It was the fortune of war, and Ludwig in turn gathered a small

force and hastened to his brother’s assistance. His attempts to storm

the castle, however, were vain; the stronghold and its garrison stood

firm. Ludwig was minded to give up the struggle for the time being, and

would have done so, indeed, but for the intervention of his friend and

adviser, Bishop Hatto.

“Leave him to me,” said the crafty Churchman. “I know how to deal with

him.”

Ludwig was curious to know how his adviser proposed to get the better of

Adalbert, whom he knew of old to be a man of courage and resource, but

ill-disposed toward the reigning monarch. So the Bishop unfolded

his scheme, to which Ludwig, with whom honour was not an outstanding

feature, gave his entire approval.

In pursuance of his design Hatto sallied forth unattended, and made his

way to the beleaguered fortress. Adalbert, himself a stranger to cunning

and trickery, hastened to admit the messenger, whose garb showed him to

be a priest, thinking him bound on an errand of peace. Hatto professed

the deepest sorrow at the quarrel between Ludwig and Adalbert.

“My son,” said he solemnly, “it is not meet that you and the Emperor,

who once were friends, should treat each other as enemies. Our sire is

ready to forgive you for the sake of old friendship; will you not give

him the opportunity and come with me?”

Adalbert was entirely deceived by the seeming sincerity of the Bishop,

and so touched by the clemency of the sovereign that he promised to go

in person and make submission if Hatto would but guarantee his safety.

The conversation was held in the Count’s oratory, and the Churchman

knelt before the crucifix and swore in the most solemn manner that he

would bring Adalbert safely back to his castle.

In a very short time they were riding together on the road to Mainz,

where Ludwig held court. When they were a mile or two from Ehrenfels

Hatto burst into a loud laugh, and in answer to the Count’s questioning

glance he said merrily:

“What a perfect host you are! You let your guest depart without even

asking him whether he has breakfasted. And I am famishing, I assure

you!”

The courteous Adalbert was stricken with remorse, and murmured profuse

apologies to his guest. “You must think but poorly of my hospitality,”

said he; “in my loyalty I forgot my duty as a host.”

“It is no matter,” said Hatto, still laughing. “But since we have come

but a little way, would it not be better to return to Ehrenfels and

breakfast? You are young and strong, but I—”

“With pleasure,” replied the Count, and soon they were again within the

castle enjoying a hearty meal. With her own hands the young Countess

presented a beaker of wine to the guest, and he, ere quaffing it, cried

gaily to Adalbert:

“Your health! May you have the reward I wish for you!” Once again they

set out on their journey, and reached Mainz about nightfall. That very

night Adalbert was seized ignominiously and dragged before the Emperor.

By Ludwig’s side stood the false Bishop.

“What means this outrage?” cried the Count, looking from one to the

other.

“Thou art a traitor,” said Ludwig, “and must suffer the death of a

traitor.”

Adalbert addressed himself to the Bishop.

“And thou,” he said, “thou gavest me thine oath that thou wouldst bring

me in safety to Ehrenfels.”

“And did I not do so, fool?” replied Hatto contemptuously. “Was it my

fault if thou didst not exact a pledge ere we set out for the second

time?”

Adalbert saw now the trap into which he had fallen, and his fettered

limbs trembled with anger against the crafty priest. But he was

impotent.

“Away with him to the block!” said the Emperor.

“Amen,” sneered Hatto, still chuckling over the success of his strategy.

And so Adalbert went forth to his doom, the victim of the cruel

Churchman’s treachery.

Rheingrafenstein

Rheingrafenstein, perched upon its sable foundations of porphyry, is

the scene of a legend which tells of a terrible bargain with Satan—that

theme so frequent in German folk-tale.

A certain nobleman, regarding the site as impregnable and therefore

highly desirable, resolved to raise a castle upon the lofty eminence,

But the more he considered the plan the more numerous appeared the

difficulties in the way of its consummation.

Every pro and con was carefully argued, but to no avail. At last in

desperation the nobleman implored assistance from the Enemy of Mankind,

who, hearing his name invoked, and scenting the possibility of gaining

a recruit to the hosts of Tartarus, speedily manifested his presence,

promising to build the castle in one night if the nobleman would grant

him the first living creature who should look from its windows. To

this the nobleman agreed, and upon the following day found the castle

awaiting his possession. He did not dare to enter it, however. But he

had communicated his secret to his wife, who decided to circumvent the

Evil One by the exercise of her woman’s wit. Mounting her donkey, she

rode into the castle, bidding all her men follow her. Satan waited on

the alert. But the Countess amid great laughter pinned a kerchief upon

the ass’s head, covered it with a cap, and, leading it to the window,

made it thrust its head outside.

Satan immediately pounced upon what he believed to be his lawful prey,

and with joy in his heart seized upon and carried off the struggling

beast of burden. But the donkey emitted such a bray that, recognizing

the nature of his prize, the Fiend in sheer disgust dropped it and

vanished in a sulphurous cloud, to the accompaniment of inextinguishable

laughter from Rheingrafenstein.

Rüdesheim and its Legends

The town of Rüdesheim is a place famous in song and story, and some

of the legends connected with it date from almost prehistoric times.

Passing by in the steamer, the traveller who cares for architecture will

doubtless be surprised to mark an old church which would seem to be

at least partly of Norman origin; but this is not the only French

association which Rüdesheim boasts, for Charlemagne, it is said, loved

the place and frequently resided there, while tradition even asserts

that he it was who instituted the vine-growing industry on the adjacent

hills. He perceived that whenever snow fell there it melted with amazing

rapidity; and, judging from this that the soil was eminently suitable

for bringing forth a specially fine quality of grape, he sent to France

for a few young vine plants. Soon these were thriving in a manner

which fully justified expectations. The wines of Rüdesheim became

exceptionally famous; and, till comparatively recent times, one of the

finest blends was always known as Wein von Orleans, for it was thence

that the pristine cuttings had been imported.

But it need scarcely be said, perhaps, that most of the legends current

at Rüdesheim are not concerned with so essentially pacific an affair as

the production of Rhenish. Another story of the place relates how one of

its medieval noblemen, Hans, Graf von Brauser, having gone to Palestine

with a band of Crusaders, was taken prisoner by the Saracens; and during

the period of his captivity he vowed that, should he ever regain his

liberty, he would signify his pious gratitude by causing his only

daughter, Minna, to take the veil. Rather a selfish kind of piety this

appears! Yet mayhap Hans was really devoted to his daughter, and his

resolution to part with her possibly entailed a heart-rending sacrifice;

while, be that as it may, he had the reward he sought, for now his

prison was stormed and he himself released, whereupon he hastened back

to his home at Rüdesheim with intent to fulfil his promise to God. On

reaching his schloss, however, Graf Hans was confronted by a state of

affairs which had not entered into his calculations, the fact being

that in the interim his daughter had conceived an affection for a young

nobleman called Walther, and had promised to marry him at an early date.

Here, then, was a complication indeed, and Hans was sorely puzzled to

know how to act, while the unfortunate Minna was equally perplexed, and

for many weeks she endured literal torment, her heart being racked by a

constant storm of emotions. She was deeply attached to Walther, and she

felt that she would never be able to forgive herself if she broke her

promise to him and failed to bring him the happiness which both were

confident their marriage would produce; but, on the other hand, being of

a religious disposition, she perforce respected the vow her father had

made, and thought that if it were broken he and all his household would

be doomed to eternal damnation, while even Walther might be involved in

their ruin. “Shall I make him happy in this world only that he may lose

his soul in the next?” she argued; while again and again her father

reminded her that a promise to God was of more moment than a promise

to man, and he implored her to hasten to the nearest convent and retire

behind its walls. Still she wavered, however, and still her father

pleaded with her, sometimes actually threatening to exert his parental

authority. One evening, driven to despair, Minna sought to cool her

throbbing pulses by a walk on the wind-swept heights overlooking the

Rhine at Rüdesheim. Possibly she would be able to come to a decision

there, she thought; but no! she could not bring herself to renounce her

lover, and with a cry of despair she flung herself over the steep rocks

into the swirling stream.

A hideous death it was. The maiden was immolated on the altar of

superstition, and the people of Rüdesheim were awestruck as they thought

of the pathetic form drifting down the river. Nor did posterity fail

to remember the story, and down to recent times the boatmen of the

neighbourhood, when seeing the Rhine wax stormy at the place where Minna

was drowned, were wont to whisper that her soul was walking abroad, and

that the maiden was once again wrestling with the conflicting emotions

which had broken her heart long ago.

Gisela

Knight Brömser of Rüdesheim was one of those who renounced comfort and

home ties to throw in his lot with the Crusaders. He was a widower, and

possessed a beautiful daughter, Gisela. In the holy wars in Palestine

Brömser soon became distinguished for his bravery, and enterprises

requiring wit and prowess often were entrusted to him.

Now it befell that the Christian camp was thrown into consternation

by the appearance of a huge dragon which took up its abode in the

mountainous country, the only locality whence water could be procured,

and the increasing scarcity of the supply necessitated the extirpation

of the monster. The Crusaders were powerless through fear; many of them

regarded the dragon as a punishment sent from Heaven because of the

discord and rivalry which divided them.

At last the brave Brömser offered to attempt the dragon’s destruction,

and after a valiant struggle he succeeded in slaying it. On his way back

to the camp he was surprised by a party of Saracens, and after various

hardships was cast into a dungeon. Here he remained in misery for a long

while, and during his solitary confinement he made a vow that if he ever

returned to his native land he would found a convent and dedicate his

daughter as its first nun.

Some time later the Saracens’ stronghold was attacked by Christians and

the knight set free. In due course he returned to Rüdesheim, where he

was welcomed by Gisela, and the day after his arrival a young knight

named Kurt of Falkenstein begged him for her hand. Gisela avowed her

love for Kurt, and Brömser sadly replied that he would willingly

accede to the young people’s wishes, for Falkenstein’s father was his

companion-in-arms, were he not bound by a solemn vow to dedicate his

daughter to the Church. When Falkenstein at last understood that the

knight’s decision was irrevocable he galloped off as if crazed. The

knight’s vow, however, was not to be fulfilled; Gisela’s reason became

unhinged, she wandered aimlessly through the corridors of the castle,

and one dark and stormy night cast herself into the Rhine and was

drowned. Brömser built the convent, but in vain did he strive to free

his conscience from remorse. Many were his benefactions, and he built

a church on the spot where one of his servants found a wooden figure of

the Crucified, which was credited with miraculous powers of healing.

But all to no purpose. Haunted by the accusing spirit of his unfortunate

daughter, he gradually languished and at last died in the same year that

the church was completed.

Further up the river is Oestrich, adjacent to which stood the famous

convent of Gottesthal, not a vestige of which remains to mark its former

site. Its memory is preserved, however, in the following appalling

legend, the noble referred to being the head of one of the ancient

families of the neighbourhood.

The Nun of Oestrich

Among the inmates of Gottesthal was a nun of surpassing loveliness,

whose beauty had aroused the wild passion of a certain noble. Undeterred

by the fact of the lady being a cloistered nun, he found a way of

communicating his passion to her, and at last met her face to face,

despite bars and bolts. Eloquently he pleaded his love, swearing to free

her from her bonds, to devote his life to her if only she would listen

to his entreaties. He ended his asseverations by kneeling before the

statue of the Virgin, vowing in her name and that of the Holy Babe to be

true, and renouncing his hopes of Heaven if he should fail in the

least of his promises. The nun listened and in the end, overcome by his

fervour, consented to his wishes.

So one night, under cover of the darkness, she stole from the sheltering

convent, forgetting her vows in the arms of her lover. Then for a while

she knew a guilty happiness, but even this was of short duration, for

the knight soon tired and grew cold toward her. At length she was left

alone, scorned and sorrowful, a prey to misery, while her betrayer rode

off in search of other loves and gaieties, spreading abroad as he went

the story of his conquest and his desertion.

When the injured woman learned the true character of her lover her love

changed to a frenzied hate. Her whole being became absorbed in a

desire for revenge, her thoughts by day being occupied by schemes for

compassing his death, her dreams by night being reddened by his blood.

At last she plotted with a band of ruffians, promising them great

rewards if they would assassinate her enemy. They agreed and, waylaying

the noble, stabbed him fatally in the name of the woman he had wronged

and slighted, then, carrying the hacked body into the village church,

they flung it at the foot of the altar.

That night the nun, in a passion of insensate fury, stole into the holy

place. Down the length of the church she dragged her lover’s corpse,

and out into the graveyard, tearing open his body and plucking his heart

therefrom with a fell purpose that never wavered. With a shriek she

flung it on the ground and trampled upon it in a ruthlessness of hate

terrible to contemplate.

And the legend goes on to tell that after her death she still pursued

her lover with unquenchable hatred. It is said that when the midnight

bell is tolling she may yet be seen seeking his tomb, from which she

lifts a bloody heart. She gazes on it with eyes aflame, then, laughing

with hellish glee, flings it three times toward the skies, only to let

it fall to earth, where she treads it beneath her feet, while from

her thick white veil runnels of blood pour down and all around dreary

death-lights burn and shed a ghastly glow upon the awful spectre.

Ingelheim: Charlemagne the Robber

Among the multitude of legends which surround the name of Charlemagne

there can hardly be found a quainter or more interesting one than that

which has for a background the old town of Ingelheim (Angel’s Home),

where at one time the Emperor held his court.

It is said that one night when Charlemagne had retired to rest he was

disturbed by a curious dream. In his vision he saw an angel descend on

broad white pinions to his bedside, and the heavenly visitant bade

him in the name of the Lord go forth and steal some of his neighbour’s

goods. The angel warned him ere he departed that the speedy forfeiture

of throne and life would be the penalty for disregarding the divine

injunction.

The astonished Emperor pondered the strange message, but finally

decided that it was but a dream, and he turned on his side to finish his

interrupted slumbers. Scarcely had he closed his eyelids, however,

ere the divine messenger was again at his side, exhorting him in

still stronger terms to go forth and steal ere the night passed, and

threatening him this time with the loss of his soul if he failed to

obey.

When the angel again disappeared the trembling monarch raised himself

in bed, sorely troubled at the difficulty of his situation. That he, so

rich, so powerful that he wanted for nothing, should be asked to go out

in the dead of night and steal his neighbour’s goods, like any of the

common robbers whom he was wont to punish so severely! No! the thing was

preposterous. Some fiend had appeared in angelic form to tempt him. And

again his weary head sank in his pillow. Rest, however, was denied him.

For a third time the majestic being appeared, and in tones still more

stern demanded his obedience.

“If thou be not a thief,” said he, “ere yonder moon sinks in the west,

then art thou lost, body and soul, for ever.”

The Emperor could no longer disbelieve the divine nature of the message,

and he arose sadly, dressed himself in full armour, and took up his

sword and shield, his spear and hunting-knife. Stealthily he quitted

his chamber, fearing every moment to be discovered. He imagined himself

being detected by his own court in the act of privily leaving his own

palace, as though he were a robber, and the thought was intolerable. But

his fears were unfounded; all—warders, porters, pages, grooms, yea, the

very dogs and horses—were wrapped in a profound slumber. Confirmed

in his determination by this miracle—for it could be nothing less—the

Emperor saddled his favourite horse, which alone remained awake, and set

out on his quest.

It was a beautiful night in late autumn. The moon hung like a silver

shield in the deep blue arch of the sky, casting weird shadows on the

slopes and lighting the gloom of the ancient forests. But Charlemagne

had no eye for scenery at the moment. He was filled with grief and shame

when he thought of his mission, yet he dared not turn aside from it. To

add to his misery, he was unacquainted with the technicalities of the

profession thus thrust upon him, and did not quite know how to set about

it.

For the first time in his life, too, he began to sympathize with the

robbers he had outlawed and persecuted, and to understand the risks and

perils of their life. Nevermore, he vowed, would he hang a man for a

trifling inroad upon his neighbour’s property.

As he thus pursued his reflections a knight, clad from head to foot in

coal-black armour and mounted on a black steed, issued silently from a

clump of trees and rode unseen beside him.

Charlemagne continued to meditate upon the dangers and misfortunes of a

robber’s life.

“There is Elbegast,” said he to himself; “for a small offence I have

deprived him of land and fee, and have hunted him like an animal. He and

his knights risk their lives for every meal. He respects not the cloth

of the Church, it is true, yet methinks he is a noble fellow, for he

robs not the poor or the pilgrim, but rather enriches them with part of

his plunder. Would he were with me now!”

His reflections were suddenly stopped, for he now observed the black

knight riding by his side.

“It may be the Fiend,” said Charlemagne to himself, spurring his steed.

But though he rode faster and faster, his strange companion kept pace

with him. At length the Emperor reined in his steed, and demanded to

know who the stranger might be. The black knight refused to answer his

questions, and the two thereupon engaged in furious combat. Again and

again the onslaught was renewed, till at last Charlemagne succeeded in

cleaving his opponent’s blade.

“My life is yours,” said the black knight.

“Nay,” replied the monarch, “what would I with your life? Tell me who

you are, for you have fought gallantly this night.”

The stranger drew himself up and replied with simple dignity, “I am

Elbegast.”

Charlemagne was delighted at thus having his wish fulfilled. He refused

to divulge his name, but intimated that he, too, was a robber, and

proposed that they should join forces for the night.

“I have it,” said he. “We will rob the Emperor’s treasury. I think I

could show you the way.”

The black knight paused. “Never yet,” he said, “have I wronged the

Emperor, and I shall not do so now. But at no great distance stands the

castle of Eggerich von Eggermond, brother-in-law to the Emperor. He has

persecuted the poor and betrayed the innocent to death. If he could, he

would take the life of the Emperor himself, to whom he owes all. Let us

repair thither.”

Near their destination they tied their horses to a tree and strode

across the fields. On the way Charlemagne wrenched off the iron share

from a plough, remarking that it would be an excellent tool wherewith

to bore a hole in the castle wall—a remark which his comrade received

in silence, though not without surprise. When they arrived at the castle

Elbegast seemed anxious to see the ploughshare at work, for he begged

Charlemagne to begin operations.

“I know not how to find entrance,” said the latter.

“Let us make a hole in the wall,” the robber-knight suggested, producing

a boring instrument of great strength. The Emperor gallantly set to

work with his ploughshare, though, as the wall was ten feet thick, it

is hardly surprising that he was not successful. The robber, laughing

at his comrade’s inexperience, showed him a wide chasm which his boring

instrument had made, and bade him remain there while he fetched the

spoil. In a very short time he returned with as much plunder as he could

carry.

“Let us get away,” said the Emperor. “We can carry no more.”

“Nay,” said Elbegast, “but I would return, with your permission. In

the chamber occupied by Eggerich and his wife there is a wonderful

caparison, made of gold and covered with little bells. I want to prove

my skill by carrying it off.”

“As you will,” was Charlemagne’s laughing response.

Without a sound Elbegast reached the bedchamber of his victim, and was

about to raise the caparison when he suddenly stumbled and all the bells

rang out clearly.

“My sword, my sword!” cried Eggerich, springing up, while Elbegast sank

back into the shadows.

“Nay,” said the lady, trying to calm her husband. “You did but hear the

wind, or perhaps it was an evil dream. Thou hast had many evil dreams

of late, Eggerich; methinks there is something lies heavily on thy mind.

Wilt thou not tell thy wife?”

Elbegast listened intently while with soft words and caresses the lady

strove to win her husband’s secret.

“Well,” said Eggerich at last in sullen tones, “we have laid a plot, my

comrades and I. To-morrow we go to Ingelheim, and ere noon Charlemagne

shall be slain and his lands divided among us.”

“What!” shrieked the lady. “Murder my brother! That will you never

while I have strength to warn him.” But the villain, with a brutal oath,

struck her so fiercely in the face that the blood gushed out, and she

sank back unconscious.

The robber was not in a position to avenge the cruel act, but he crawled

nearer the couch and caught some of the blood in his gauntlet, for a

sign to the Emperor. When he was once more outside the castle he told

his companion all that had passed and made as though to return.

“I will strike off his head,” said he. “The Emperor is no friend of

mine, but I love him still.”

“What is the Emperor to us?” cried Charlemagne. “Are you mad that

you risk our lives for the Emperor?” The black knight looked at him

solemnly.

“An we had not sworn friendship,” said he, “your life should pay for

these words. Long live the Emperor!” Charlemagne, secretly delighted

with the loyalty of the outlawed knight, recommended him to seek the

Emperor on the morrow and warn him of his danger. But Elbegast, fearing

the gallows, would not consent to this; so his companion promised to

do it in his stead and meet him afterward in the forest. With that they

parted, the Emperor returning to his palace, where he found all as he

had left it.

In the morning he hastily summoned his council, told them of his

dream and subsequent adventures, and of the plot against his life. The

paladins were filled with horror and indignation, and Charlemagne’s

secretary suggested that it was time preparations were being made for

the reception of the assassins. Each band of traitors as they arrived

was seized and cast into a dungeon. Though apparently clad as peaceful

citizens, they were all found to be armed. The last band to arrive was

led by Eggerich himself. Great was his dismay when he saw his followers

led off in chains, and angrily he demanded to know the reason for such

treatment.

Charlemagne thereupon charged him with treason, and Eggerich flung

down the gauntlet in defiance. It was finally arranged that the Emperor

should provide a champion to do battle with the traitor, the combat to

take place at sunrise on the following morning.

A messenger rode to summon Elbegast, but he had much difficulty in

convincing the black knight that it was not a plot to secure his

undoing.

“And what would the Emperor with me?” he demanded of the messenger, as

at length they rode toward Ingelheim.

“To do battle to the death with a deadly foe of our lord the

Emperor—Eggerich von Eggermond.”

“God bless the Emperor!” exclaimed Elbegast fervently, raising his

helmet. “My life is at his service.” Charlemagne greeted the knight

affectionately and asked what he had to tell concerning the conspiracy,

whereupon Sir Elbegast fearlessly denounced the villainous Eggerich,

and said he, “I am ready to prove my assertions upon his body.” The

challenge was accepted, and at daybreak the following morning a fierce

combat took place. The issue, however, was never in doubt: Sir Elbegast

was victorious, the false Eggerich was slain, and his body hanged on a

gibbet fifty feet high. The emperor now revealed himself to the black

knight both as his companion-robber and as the messenger who had brought

him the summons to attend his Emperor.

Charlemagne’s sister, the widow of Eggerich, he gave to Sir Elbegast

in marriage, and with her the broad lands which had belonged to the

vanquished traitor. Thenceforward the erstwhile robber and his sovereign

were fast friends.

The place where these strange happenings befell was called Ingelheim, in

memory of the celestial visitor, and Ingelheim it remains to this day.

The Knight and the Yellow Dwarf

Elfeld is the principal town of the Rheingau, and in ancient times was a

Roman station called Alta Villa. In the fourteenth century it was

raised to the rank of a town by Ludwig of Bavaria, and placed under the

stewardship of the Counts of Elz.

These Counts of Elz dwelt in the castle by the river’s edge, and of

one of them, Ferdinand, the following tale is told. This knight loved

pleasure and wild living, and would indulge his whims and passions

without regard to cost. Before long he found that as a result of his

extravagance his possessions had dwindled away almost to nothing.

He knew himself a poor man, yet his desire for pleasure was still

unsatisfied. Mortified and angry, he hid himself in the castle of Elz

and spent his time lamenting his poverty and cursing his fate. While in

this frame of mind the news reached him of a tournament that the Emperor

purposed holding in celebration of his wedding. To this were summoned

the chivalry and beauty of Germany from far and near, and soon knights

and ladies were journeying to take their part in the tourney, the

feasting and dancing.

Ferdinand realized that he was precluded from joining his brother nobles

and was inconsolable. He became the prey of rage and shame, and at last

resolved to end a life condemned to ignominy. So one day he sought

a height from which to hurl himself, but ere he could carry out his

purpose there appeared before him a dwarf, clad in yellow from top to

toe. With a leer and a laugh he looked up at the frantic knight,

and asked why the richest noble in the land should be seeking death.

Something in the dwarf’s tone caused Ferdinand to listen and suddenly to

hope for he knew not what miracle. His eyes gleamed as the dwarf went on

to speak of sacks of gold, and when the little creature asked for but

a single hair in return he laughed aloud and offered him a hundred.

But the dwarf smiled and shook his head. The noble bowed with a polite

gesture, and as he bent his head the little man reached up and plucked

out but one hair, and, lo! a sack of gold straightway appeared. At this

Ferdinand thought that he must be dreaming, but the sack and gold pieces

were real enough to the touch, albeit the dwarf had vanished. Then, in

great haste, Ferdinand bought rich and costly clothing and armour, also

a snow-white steed caparisoned with steel and purple trappings, spending

on these more than twenty sacks of gold, for the dwarf returned to the

noble many times and on each occasion gave a sack of gold in exchange

for one hair. At last Ferdinand set out for the tournament, where,

besides carrying off the richest prizes and winning the heart of many

a fair lady, he attracted the notice of the Emperor, who invited him to

stay at his court.

And there the knight resumed his former passions and pleasures, living

the wildest of lives and thinking no price too high for careless

enjoyment. And each night, ere the hour of twelve finished striking, the

yellow dwarf appeared with a sack of gold, taking his usual payment of

only one hair. This wild life now began to tell upon Ferdinand. He fell

an easy prey to disease, which the doctors could not cure, and to the

pricks of a late-roused conscience, which no priests could soothe.

All his wasted past rose before him. Day and night his manifold sins

appeared before him like avenging furies, until at last, frenzied by

this double torture of mind and body, he called upon the Devil to aid

him in putting an end to his miserable existence, for so helpless was

he, he could neither reach nor use a weapon. Then at his side appeared

once more the dwarf, smiling and obliging as usual. He proffered, not a

sack of gold this time, but a rope of woven hair, the hair which he

had taken from Ferdinand in exchange for his gold. In the morning the

miserable noble was found hanging by that rope.

Mainz

Mainz, the old Maguntiacum, was the principal fortress on the Upper

Rhine in Roman times. It was here that Crescentius, one of the first

preachers of the Christian faith on the Rhine, regarded by local

tradition as the pupil of St. Peter and first Archbishop of Mainz,

suffered martyrdom in the reign of Trajan in A.D. 103. He was a

centurion in the Twenty-second Legion, which had been engaged under

Titus in the destruction of Jerusalem, and it is supposed that

he preached the Gospel in Mainz for thirty-three years before his

execution. Here also it was that the famous vision of Constantine, the

cross in the sky, was vouchsafed to the Christian conqueror as he went

forth to meet the forces of Maxentius. The field of the Holy Cross

in the vicinity of Mainz is still pointed out as the spot where this

miracle took place. The city flourished under the Carlovingians, and was

in a high state of prosperity at the time of Bishop Hatto, whose name,

as we have seen, has been held up to obloquy in many legends.

During the fourteenth century Mainz shared the power and glory of the

other cities of the Rhenish Confederation, then in the full flush of its

heyday. Its cathedral witnesses to its aforetime civic splendour. This

magnificent building took upward of four hundred years to complete, and

its wondrous brazen doors and sumptuous chapels are among the finest

ecclesiastical treasures of Germany.

The Fiddler

In the cathedral of Mainz was an image of the Virgin, on whose feet

were golden slippers, the gift of some wealthy votary. Of this image the

following legend is told:

A poor ragged fiddler had spent the whole of one bitter winter morning

playing through the dreary streets without any taking pity upon his

plight. As he came to the cathedral he felt an overmastering desire

to enter and pour out his distress in the presence of his Maker. So he

crept in, a tattered and forlorn figure. He prayed aloud, chanting his

woes in the same tones which he used in the street to touch the hearts

of the passers-by.

As he prayed a sense of solitude came upon him, and he realized that the

shadowy aisles were empty. A sudden whim seized him. He would play

to the golden-shod Virgin and sing her one of his sweetest songs. And

drawing nearer he lifted his old fiddle to his shoulder, and into

his playing he put all his longing and pain; his quavering voice grew

stronger beneath the stress of his fervour. It was as if the springtime

had come about him; life was before him, gay and joyful, sorrow and pain

were unknown. He sank to his knees before the image, and as he knelt,

suddenly the Virgin lifted her foot and, loosening her golden slipper,

cast it into the old man’s ragged bosom, as if giving alms for his

music.

The poor old man, astounded at the miracle, told himself that the

Blessed Virgin knew how to pay a poor devil who amused her. Overcome by

gratitude, he thanked the giver with all his heart.

He would fain have kept the treasure, but he was starving, and it seemed

to have been given him to relieve his distress. He hurried out to the

market and went into a goldsmith’s shop to offer his prize. But the

man recognized it at once. Then was the poor old fiddler worse off than

before, for now he was charged with the dreadful crime of sacrilege. The

old man told the story of the miracle over and over again, but he was

laughed at for an impudent liar. He must not hope, they told him, for

anything but death, and in the short space of one hour he was tried and

condemned and on his way to execution.

The place of death was just opposite the great bronze doors of the

cathedral which sheltered the Virgin. “If I must die,” said the fiddler,

“I would sing one song to my old fiddle at the feet of the Virgin and

pray one prayer before her. I ask this in her blessed name, and you

cannot refuse me.”

They could not deny the prisoner a dying prayer, and, closely guarded,

the tattered figure once more entered the cathedral which had been

so disastrous to him. He approached the altar of the Virgin, his eyes

filling with tears as again he held his old fiddle in his hands. Then

he played and sang as before, and again a breath as of springtime stole

into the shadowy cathedral and life seemed glad and beautiful. When the

music ceased, again the Virgin lifted a foot and softly she flung her

other slipper into the fiddler’s bosom, before the astonished gaze of

the guards. Everyone there saw the miracle and could not but testify to

the truth of the old man’s former statement; he was at once freed from

his bonds and carried before the city fathers, who ordered his release.

And it is said that, in memory of the miracle of the Virgin, the priests

provided for the old fiddler for the rest of his days. In return for

this the old man surrendered the golden slippers, which, it is also

said, the reverend fathers carefully locked away in the treasure-chest,

lest the Virgin should again be tempted to such extravagant almsgiving.

The Maiden’s Leap

Once in the Hardt mountains there dwelt a giant whose fortress commanded

a wide view of the surrounding country. Near by, a lovely lady,

as daring in the hunt as she was skilful at spinning, inhabited an

abandoned castle. One day the twain chanced to meet, and the giant

thereupon resolved to possess the beauteous damsel.

So he sent his servant to win her with jewels, but the deceitful fellow

intended to hide the treasures in a forest.

There he met a young man musing in a disconsolate attitude, who confided

that poverty alone kept him from avowing how passionately he adored his

sweetheart. The shrewd messenger realized that this rustic’s charmer was

the same fair lady who had beguiled his master’s soul. He solicited the

youth’s aid in burying the treasures promising him a share in the spoil

sufficient to enable him to wed his beloved.

In a solitary spot they dug a deep hole, when suddenly the robber

assailed his companion, who thrust him aside with great violence. In

his rage the youth was about to stab the wretch, when he craved pardon,

promising to reveal a secret of more value than the jewels he had

intended to conceal.

The youth stayed his hand, and the servant related how his master, for

love of the pretty mistress of the castle, had sent him to gain her

favour.

Conscious of his worth, the ardent youth scornfully declared that he

feared no rival, then, seizing half of the treasure, he left the wretch

to his own devices.

Meanwhile the giant impatiently awaited his servant’s return. At length,

tired of waiting, he decided to visit the lady and declare in person his

passion for her. Upon his arrival at the castle the maid announced him,

and it was with a secret feeling of dread that the lady went to meet her

unwelcome visitor. More than ever captivated by her charms, the giant

asked the fair maid to become his wife. On being refused, he threatened

to kill her and demolish the castle.

The poor lady was terrified and she tearfully implored the giant’s

mercy, promising to bestow all her treasure upon him. Her maids, too,

begged him to spare their mistress’s life, but he only laughed as they

knelt before him. Ultimately the hapless maiden consented to marry her

inexorable wooer, but she attached a novel condition: she would ride a

race with her relentless suitor, and should he overtake her she would

accompany him to his castle. But the resolute maiden had secretly vowed

to die rather than submit to such degradation. Choosing her fleetest

steed, she vaulted nimbly into the saddle and galloped away. Her

persecutor pursued close behind, straining every nerve to come up with

her. Shuddering at the very thought of becoming his bride, she chose

death as the only alternative. So she spurred her horse onward to the

edge of a deep chasm.

The noble animal neighed loudly as though conscious of impending danger.

The pursuer laughed grimly as he thought to seize his prize, but his

laughter was turned to rage when the horse with its fair burden bounded

lightly across the chasm, landing safely on the other side.

The enraged tyrant now beheld his intended victim kneeling in prayer and

her steed calmly grazing among the green verdure by her side. He strode

furiously hither and thither, searching for a crossing, and suddenly

a shout of joy told the affrighted maid that he had discovered some

passage.

His satisfaction, however, was short-lived, for just then a strange

knight with drawn sword rushed upon the giant. The maid watched the

contest with breathless fear, and many times she thought that the tyrant

would slay her protector. At last in one such moment the giant stooped

to clutch a huge boulder with which he meant to overwhelm his adversary,

when, overreaching himself, he slipped and fell headlong down the steep

rocks.

Then the maid hastened to thank her rescuer, and great was her surprise

to discover in the gallant knight the youth whose former poverty had

kept him from wooing her. They returned to the castle together, and it

was not long ere they celebrated their wedding.

Both lived long and happily, and their union was blessed with many

children. The rock is still known as “The Maiden’s Leap.”

The Wonderful Road

Near Homburg, on the pinnacle of a lofty mountain, are the ruins of

Falkenstein Castle, access to which is gained by a steep, winding path.

Within the castle walls there once dwelt a maiden of surpassing beauty.

Many suitors climbed the stern acclivity to woo this charming damsel,

but her stern father repelled one and all. Only Kuno of Sayn was firm

enough to persevere in his suit against the rebuffs of the stubborn Lord

of Falkenstein, and in the end he was rewarded with the smiles and kind

looks of the fair maid.

One evening, as they watched the sun set, Kuno pointed out to the maiden

where his own castle was situated. The beauty of the landscape beneath

them made its appeal to their souls, their hands touched and clasped,

and their hearts throbbed with the passion felt by both. A few days

later Kuno climbed the steep path, resolved to declare his love to the

damsel’s father. Fatigued with the ascent, he rested for a brief space

at the entrance to the castle ere mounting to the tower.

The Lord of Falkenstein and his daughter had beheld Kuno’s journey up

the rugged path from the windows of the tower, and the father demanded

for what purpose he had come thither. With a passionate glance at the

blushing maid, the knight of Sayn declared that he had come to ask the

noble lord for his daughter’s hand in marriage. After meditating on the

knight’s proposal for some time, the Lord of Falkenstein pretended to

be willing to give his consent—but he attached a condition. “I desire

a carriage-drive to be made from the lowland beneath to the gate of my

castle, and if you can accomplish this my daughter’s hand is yours—but

the feat must be achieved by to-morrow morning!”

The knight protested that such a task was utterly impossible for anyone

to perform, even in a month, but all to no purpose. He then resolved to

seek some way whereby he could outwit the stubborn lord, for he would

not willingly resign his lady-love. He left the tower, vowing to do his

utmost to perform the seemingly impossible task, and as he descended the

rocky declivity his beloved waved her handkerchief to encourage him.

Now Kuno of Sayn possessed both copper and silver mines, and arriving at

his castle he summoned his overseer. The knight explained the nature of

the task which he desired to be undertaken, but the overseer declared

that all his miners, working day and night, could not make the roadway

within many months.

Dismayed, Kuno left his castle and wandered into a dense forest, driven

thither by his perturbed condition. Night cast dusky shadows over

the foliage, and the perplexed lover cursed the obstinate Lord of

Falkenstein as he forced his way through the undergrowth.

Suddenly an old man of strange and wild appearance stood in his path.

Kuno at once knew him for an earth-spirit, one of those mysterious

guardians of the treasures of the soil who are jealous of the incursion

of mankind into their domain.

“Kuno of Sayn,” he said, “do you desire to outwit the Lord of

Falkenstein and win his beauteous daughter?”

Although startled and taken aback by the strange apparition, Kuno

hearkened eagerly to its words as showing an avenue of escape from the

dilemma in which he found himself.

“Assuredly I do,” he replied, “but how do you propose I should

accomplish it?”

“Cease to persecute me and my brethren, Kuno, and we shall help you to

realize your wishes,” was the reply.

“Persecute you!” exclaimed Kuno. “In what manner do I trouble you at

all, strange being?”

“You have opened up a silver mine in our domain,” said the earth-spirit,

“and as you work it both morning and afternoon we have but little

opportunity for repose. How, I ask you, can we slumber when your men

keep knocking on the partitions of our house with their picks?”

“What, then, would you have, my worthy friend?” asked Kuno, scarcely

able to suppress a smile at the wistful way in which the gnome made his

complaint. “Tell me, I pray you, how I can oblige you.”

“By instructing your miners to work in the mine during the hours of

morning only,” replied the gnome. “By so doing I and my brothers will

obtain the rest we so much require.”

“It shall be as you say,” said Kuno; “you have my word for it, good

friend.”

“In that case,” said the earth-spirit, “we shall assist you in turn. Go

to the castle of Falkenstein after dawn to-morrow morning, and you shall

witness the result of our friendship and gratitude.”

Next morning the sun had scarcely risen when Kuno saddled his steed and

hied him to the heights of Falkenstein. The gnome had kept his word.

There, above and in front of him, he beheld a wide and lofty roadway

leading to the castle-gate from the thoroughfare below. With joy in

his heart he set spurs to his horse and dashed up the steep but smooth

acclivity. At the gate he encountered the old Lord of Falkenstein and

his daughter, who had been apprised of the miracle that had happened

and had come out to view the new roadway. The knight of Sayn related his

adventure with the earth-spirit, upon which the Lord of Falkenstein told

him how a terrible thunderstorm mingled with unearthly noises had raged

throughout the night. Terrified, he and his daughter had spent the

hours of darkness in prayer, until with the approach of dawn some of the

servitors had plucked up courage and ventured forth, when the wonderful

avenue up the side of the mountain met their startled gaze.

Kuno and his lady-love were duly united. Indeed, so terrified was the

old lord by the supernatural manifestations of the dreadful night he had

just passed through that he was incapable of further resistance to the

wishes of the young people. The wonderful road is still to be seen, and

is marvelled at by all who pass that way.

Osric the Lion

Other tales besides the foregoing have their scene laid in the castle

of Falkenstein, notable among them being the legend of Osric the Lion,

embodied in the following weird ballad from the pen of Monk Lewis:

Swift roll the Rhine’s billows, and water the plains,

Where Falkenstein Castle’s majestic remains

Their moss-covered turrets still rear:

Oft loves the gaunt wolf ’midst the ruins to prowl,

What time from the battlements pours the lone owl

Her plaints in the passenger’s ear.

No longer resound through the vaults of yon hall

The song of the minstrel, and mirth of the ball;

Those pleasures for ever are fled:

There now dwells the bat with her light-shunning brood,

There ravens and vultures now clamour for food,

And all is dark, silent, and dread!

Ha! dost thou not see, by the moon’s trembling light

Directing his steps, where advances a knight,

His eye big with vengeance and fate?

’Tis Osric the Lion his nephew who leads,

And swift up the crackling old staircase proceeds,

Gains the hall, and quick closes the gate.

Now round him young Carloman, casting his eyes,

Surveys the sad scene with dismay and surprise,

And fear steals the rose from his cheeks.

His spirits forsake him, his courage is flown;

The hand of Sir Osric he clasps in his own,

And while his voice falters he speaks.

“Dear uncle,” he murmurs, “why linger we here?

’Tis late, and these chambers are damp and are drear,

Keen blows through the ruins the blast!

Oh! let us away and our journey pursue:

Fair Blumenberg’s Castle will rise on our view,

Soon as Falkenstein forest be passed.

“Why roll thus your eyeballs? why glare they so wild?

Oh! chide not my weakness, nor frown, that a child

Should view these apartments with dread;

For know that full oft have I heard from my nurse,

There still on this castle has rested a curse,

Since innocent blood here was shed.

“She said, too, bad spirits, and ghosts all in white,

Here used to resort at the dead time of night,

Nor vanish till breaking of day;

And still at their coming is heard the deep tone

Of a bell loud and awful—hark! hark! ’twas a groan!

Good uncle, oh! let us away!”

“Peace, serpent!” thus Osric the Lion replies,

While rage and malignity gleam in his eyes;

“Thy journey and life here must close:

Thy castle’s proud turrets no more shalt thou see;

No more betwixt Blumenberg’s lordship and me

Shalt thou stand, and my greatness oppose.

“My brother lies breathless on Palestine’s plains,

And thou once removed, to his noble domains

My right can no rival deny:

Then, stripling, prepare on my dagger to bleed;

No succour is near, and thy fate is decreed,

Commend thee to Jesus and die!”

Thus saying, he seizes the boy by the arm,

Whose grief rends the vaulted hall’s roof, while alarm

His heart of all fortitude robs;

His limbs sink beneath him; distracted with fears,

He falls at his uncle’s feet, bathes them with tears,

And “Spare me! oh, spare me!” he sobs.

But vainly the miscreant he tries to appease;

And vainly he clings in despair round his knees,

And sues in soft accents for life;

Unmoved by his sorrow, unmoved by his prayer,

Fierce Osric has twisted his hand in his hair,

And aims at his bosom a knife.

But ere the steel blushes with blood, strange to tell!

Self-struck, does the tongue of the hollow-toned bell

The presence of midnight declare:

And while with amazement his hair bristles high,

Hears Osric a voice, loud and terrible, cry,

In sounds heart-appalling, “Forbear!”

Straight curses and shrieks through the chamber resound,

Shrieks mingled with laughter; the walls shake around;

The groaning roof threatens to fall;

Loud bellows the thunder, blue lightnings still flash;

The casements they clatter; chains rattle; doors clash,

And flames spread their waves through the hall.

The clamour increases, the portals expand!

O’er the pavement’s black marble now rushes a band

Of demons, all dropping with gore,

In visage so grim, and so monstrous in height,

That Carloman screams, as they burst on his sight,

And sinks without sense on the floor.

Not so his fell uncle:—he sees that the throng

Impels, wildly shrieking, a female along,

And well the sad spectre he knows!

The demons with curses her steps onwards urge;

Her shoulders, with whips formed of serpents, they scourge,

And fast from her wounds the blood flows.

“Oh! welcome!” she cried, and her voice spoke despair;

“Oh! welcome, Sir Osric, the torments to share,

Of which thou hast made me the prey.

Twelve years have I languished thy coming to see;

Ulrilda, who perished dishonoured by thee

Now calls thee to anguish away!

“Thy passion once sated, thy love became hate;

Thy hand gave the draught which consigned me to fate,

Nor thought I death lurked in the bowl:

Unfit for the grave, stained with lust, swelled with pride,

Unblessed, unabsolved, unrepenting, I died,

And demons straight seized on my soul.

“Thou com’st, and with transport I feel my breast swell:

Full long have I suffered the torments of hell,

And now shall its pleasures be mine!

See, see, how the fiends are athirst for thy blood!

Twelve years has my panting heart furnished their food.

Come, wretch, let them feast upon thine!”

She said, and the demons their prey flocked around;

They dashed him, with horrible yell, on the ground,

And blood down his limbs trickled fast;

His eyes from their sockets with fury they tore;

They fed on his entrails, all reeking with gore,

And his heart was Ulrilda’s repast.

But now the grey cock told the coming of day!

The fiends with their victim straight vanished away,

And Carloman’s heart throbbed again;

With terror recalling the deeds of the night,

He rose, and from Falkenstein speeding his flight,

Soon reached his paternal domain.

Since then, all with horror the ruins behold;

No shepherd, though strayed be a lamb from his fold,

No mother, though lost be her child,

The fugitive dares in these chambers to seek,

Where fiends nightly revel, and guilty ghosts shriek

In accents most fearful and wild!

Oh! shun them, ye pilgrims! though late be the hour,

Though loud howl the tempest, and fast fall the shower;

From Falkenstein Castle begone!

There still their sad banquet hell’s denizens share;

There Osric the Lion still raves in despair:

Breathe a prayer for his soul, and pass on!

The Conference of the Dead

A legend of later date than most of the Rhineland tales, but still

of sufficient interest to merit inclusion among these, is that which

attaches to the palace of Biberich. Biberich lies on the right bank

of the river, not very far from Mainz, and its palace was built at the

beginning of the eighteenth century by George Augustus, Duke of Nassau.

The legend states that not long after the erection of the palace a

Duchess of Nassau died there, and lay in state as befitted her rank in a

room hung with black velvet and lighted with the glimmer of many tapers.

Outside in the great hall a captain and forty-nine men of the Duke’s

bodyguard kept watch over the chamber of death.

It was midnight. The captain of the guard, weary with his vigil, had

gone to the door of the palace for a breath of air. Just as the last

stroke of the hour died away he beheld the approach of a chariot, drawn

by six magnificent coal-black horses, which, to his amazement, drew up

before the palace. A lady, veiled and clad in white, alighted and made

as though she would enter the building. But the captain barred the way

and challenged the bold intruder.

“Who are you,” he said sternly, “who seek to enter the palace at this

hour? My orders are to let none pass.”

“I was first lady of the bedchamber to our late Duchess,” replied

the lady in cold, imperious tones; “therefore I demand the right of

entrance.”

As she spoke she flung aside her veil, and the captain, instantly

recognizing her, permitted her to enter the palace without further

hindrance.

“What can she want here at this time of night?” he said to his

lieutenant, when the lady had passed into the death-chamber.

“Who can say?” replied the lieutenant. “Unless, perchance,” he mused,

“we were to look.”

The captain took the hint, crept softly to the keyhole, and applied his

eye thereto. “Ha!” he said, shrinking back in amazement and terror, and

beckoning to his lieutenant. “In Satan’s name what have we here?”

The lieutenant hastened to the chamber door, full of alarm and

curiosity. Putting his eye to the keyhole, he also ejaculated, turned

pale, and trembled. One by one the soldiers of the guard followed their

officers’ example, like them to retreat with exclamations of horror. And

little wonder; for they perceived the dead Duchess sitting up in bed,

moving her pale lips as though in conversation, while by her side stood

the lady of the bedchamber, pale as she, and clad in grave-clothes. For

a time the ghastly conversation continued, no words being audible to

the terror-stricken guard; but from time to time a hollow sound reached

them, like the murmur of distant thunder. At length the visitor emerged

from the chamber, and returned to her waiting coach. Duty, rather than

inclination, obliged the gallant captain to hand her into her carriage,

and this task he performed with praiseworthy politeness, though his

heart sank within him at the touch of her icy fingers, and his tongue

refused to return the adieu her pale lips uttered. With a flourish of

whips the chariot set off. Sparks flew from the hoofs of the horses,

smoke and flame burst from their nostrils, and such was their speed that

in a moment they were lost to sight. The captain, sorely puzzled by the

events of the night, returned to his men, who were huddled together at

the end of the hall furthest from the death-chamber.

On the morrow, ere the guard had had time to inform the Duke of these

strange happenings, news reached the palace that the first lady of the

bedchamber had died on the previous night at twelve o’clock. It was

supposed that sorrow for her mistress had caused her death.

Eppstein

Of the castle of Eppstein, whose ruins still remain in a valley of the

Taunus Mountains, north of Biberich, the following curious story is

told.

Sir Eppo, a brave and chivalrous knight—and a wealthy one to boot, as

were his successors of Eppstein for many generations—was one day hunting

in the forest, when he became separated from his attendants and lost his

way. In the heat of the chase his sense of direction had failed him, and

though he sounded his bugle loud and long there was no reply.

Tired out at length with wandering hither and thither, he rested himself

in a pleasant glade, and was surprised and charmed to hear a woman’s

voice singing a mournful melody in soft, clear tones. It was a sheer

delight to Sir Eppo to listen to a voice of such exquisite purity, yet

admiration was not the only feeling it roused in his breast. There was

a note of sadness and appeal in the song, and what were knighthood worth

if it heeded not the voice of fair lady in distress? Sir Eppo sprang to

his feet, forgetting his own plight in the ardour of chivalry, and set

off in the direction from which the voice seemed to come. The way was

difficult, and he had to cut a passage with his sword through the dense

thicket that separated him from the singer. At length, guided by the

melancholy notes, he arrived before a grotto, in which he beheld a

maiden of surpassing beauty, but of sorrowful mien. When she saw the

handsome knight gazing at her with mingled surprise and admiration

she ceased her song and implored his aid. A cruel giant, she said, had

seized her and brought her thither. At the moment he was asleep, but he

had tied her to a rock so that she might not escape.

Her beauty and grace, her childlike innocence, her piteous plight, moved

Sir Eppo strangely. First pity, then a stronger emotion dawned in his

breast. He severed her bonds with a stroke of his keen falchion.

“What can I do to aid thee, gentle maiden?” he said. “You have but to

command me; henceforth I am thy knight, to do battle for thee.”

The damsel blushed at the courteous words, but she lifted her eyes

bravely to the champion who had so unexpectedly appeared to protect her.

“Return to my castle,” she said, “and there thou wilt find a consecrated

net. Bring it hither. If I lay it upon the giant he will become as weak

as a babe and will be easily overcome.”

Eagerly the young knight obeyed the command, and having found the net

according to the damsel’s directions, he made all haste to return. At

the grotto he paused and hid himself, for the strident voice of the

giant could be heard within. Presently the monster emerged, and

departed in search of reeds wherewith to make a pipe. No sooner had he

disappeared than the maiden issued from the grotto, and Sir Eppo came

out of his concealment and gave her the consecrated net. She spoke a few

words of heartfelt gratitude, and then hurried with her treasure to the

top of the mountain, where she knew the giant had intended to go.

Arrived at her destination, she laid down the net and covered it with

moss, leaves, and sweet-smelling herbs. While engaged in her task the

giant came up, and the damsel smilingly told him that she was preparing

a couch whereon he might take some rest. Gratified at her solicitude, he

stretched himself unsuspectingly on the fragrant pile. In a moment the

damsel, uttering the name of the Trinity, threw a portion of the net

over him, so that he was completely enveloped. Immediately there arose

such loud oaths and lamentations that the damsel ran in terror to the

knight, who had now come upon the scene.

“Let us fly,” she said, “lest he should escape and pursue us.”

But Sir Eppo strode to the place where the howling monster lay entangled

in the net, and with a mighty effort rolled him over a steep precipice,

where he was instantly killed.

The story ends happily, for Sir Eppo and the maiden he had rescued were

married soon after; and on the spot where they had first met was raised

the castle of Eppstein. It is said that the bones of the giant may still

be seen there.

Flörsheim: The Shepherd Knight

In the now ruined castle of Wilenstein, overlooking the wooded heights

of the Westrich, dwelt Sir Bodo of Flörsheim and his fair daughter

Adeline. The maiden’s beauty, no less than her father’s wealth,

attracted suitors in plenty from the neighbouring strongholds, but the

spirit of love had not yet awakened in her bosom and each and all were

repulsed with disconcerting coldness and indifference, and they left the

schloss vowing that the lovely Adeline was utterly heartless.

One day there came to Sir Bodo a youth of pleasing manners and

appearance, picturesquely clad in rustic garb, who begged that he might

enter the knight’s service in the capacity of shepherd. Though he hinted

that he was of noble birth, prevented by circumstances from revealing

his identity, yet he based his request solely on his merits as a tender

of flocks and herds, and as Sir Bodo found that he knew his work well

and that his intelligence was beyond question, he gave him the desired

post. As time went on Sir Bodo saw no reason to regret his action, for

his flocks and herds prospered as they had never done before, and none

but good reports reached him concerning his servant.

Meantime Adeline heard constant references to Otto (as the shepherd was

called) both from her father and her waiting-women. The former praised

his industry and abilities, while the latter spoke of his handsome looks

and melancholy air, his distinction and good breeding, and the mystery

which surrounded his identity. All this excited the maiden’s curiosity,

and her pity was aroused as well, for it seemed that the stranger had

a secret grief, which sometimes found vent in tears when he thought

himself unobserved.

Adeline saw him for the first time one afternoon while she was walking

in the castle grounds. At sight of her he paused as though spell-bound,

and the maiden blushed under his earnest scrutiny. A moment later,

however, he recovered himself, and courteously asked her pardon for his

seeming rudeness.

“Forgive me, fair lady,” said he; “it seemed that I saw a ghost in your

sweet face.”

Adeline, who had recognized him from the descriptions she had received,

now made herself known to him, and graciously granted him permission to

walk with her to the castle. His offence was readily pardoned when he

declared that the cause of it was a fancied resemblance between Adeline

and a dear sister whom death had lately robbed him of. Ere they parted

the young people were already deeply in love with one another, and had

promised to meet again on the following day. The spot where they had

first encountered each other became a trysting-place which was daily

hallowed by fresh vows and declarations.

On one such occasion Otto told his beloved the story of his early life

and revealed to her his identity. It was indeed a harrowing tale, and

one which drew a full meed of sympathy from the maiden.

Otto and his sister—she whose likeness in Adeline’s face had first

arrested his attention—had been brought up by a cruel stepfather, who

had treated them so brutally that Otto was at length forced to flee

to the castle of an uncle, who received him kindly and gave him an

education befitting his knightly station. A few years later he had

returned home, to find his sister dead—slain by the ill-treatment of her

stepfather, who, it was even said, had hastened her death with poison.

Otto, overcome with grief, confronted her murderer, heaped abuse on

his head, and demanded his share of the property. The only answer was

a sneer, and the youth, maddened with grief and indignation, drew his

sword and plunged it in his tormentor’s heart. A moment later he saw

the probable consequences of his hasty action, concealed himself in

the woods, and thenceforth became a fugitive, renounced even by his own

uncle, and obliged to remain in hiding in order to escape certain death

at the hands of the murdered man’s kindred. In a fortunate moment he had

chanced to reach Flörsheim, where, in his shepherd’s guise, he judged

himself secure.

Adeline, deeply moved by the tale, sought to put her sympathy in the

practical form of advice.

“Dear Otto,” she said, “let us go to my father and tell him all. We must

dispatch an embassy to your uncle in Thuringen, to see whether he

may not consent to a division of the property. Take courage, and your

rightful position may yet be assured.”

So it was arranged that on the following day the lovers should seek Sir

Bodo and ask his advice in the matter. But alas! ere their plans could

be carried out Bodo himself sent for his daughter and informed her that

he had chosen a husband for her, Sir Siegebert, a wealthy and noble

knight, just returned from Palestine.

In vain Adeline wept and implored. Her father remained adamant, and

at last lost his temper and confined her within strict bounds till she

should consent to the marriage. Sir Siegebert was but ill pleased

with her pale cheeks and haggard eyes and her obvious distaste for his

society; and seeing this, Bodo was more than ever wroth, and swore to

send her to a nunnery if she did not greet her lover with a better face.

Day after day Otto waited at the trysting-place, yet his mistress did

not appear, nor did she send him any message. He was filled with anguish

at the thought that her ardent vows were forgotten, and wandered through

the woods like one distraught, seeking solace and finding none. At

length news reached him that on the morrow his beloved was to wed with

the knight Siegebert, and his last shred of hope vanished. He made his

way to a bridge where he had often watched for Adeline’s coming, and

with a prayer flung himself into the turbid stream beneath.

Meanwhile the unceasing cruelty to which Adeline had been subjected had

reduced her to a state of terrified submission, so that, scarce knowing

what she did, she consented to wed Siegebert. At length all was in

readiness for the ceremony; the bells were ringing gaily, the feast was

spread, and the bride arrayed in her wedding dress. Unseen she slipped

out by a little postern gate and made her way quickly to the hut of her

shepherd. Alas! it stood empty. In despair she ran hither and thither,

calling his name in anguished accents. Suddenly she espied some

shepherds endeavouring to draw something out of the water. A strange

instinct told her the truth, and she crept closer to the little group.

One glance sufficed to show her that it was her lover’s corpse which was

being taken ashore. No need to ask how he had perished, or why! With a

wild cry she flung herself into the stream where Otto had met his death,

and was speedily overwhelmed.

The bridal party sought high and low for the bride, but she was nowhere

to be seen. Bodo loudly vented his indignation at his daughter’s

rebelliousness, but his anger was changed to mourning when the body

of the drowned maiden was washed ashore a few days later. Too late he

repented him of his rash folly. All his lamentations could not restore

poor Adeline to life. He caused the lovers to be buried together, and

spent the remainder of his days in prayer and penitence.

Frankfort

Frankfort, the castle of the Franks, was, it is said, founded by

Charlemagne at the time of the overthrow of the pagan Saxons, which has

already been recorded in the Song of the Saxons. Here Charlemagne

was led across the Rhine by deer, escaping with his army from certain

slaughter at the hands of the savage horde who sought to ambush him.

Other picturesque stories cluster round the city, the best of which are

the following.

The Poacher of Frankfort

In the city of Frankfort-on-the-Main stands a five-pointed tower, and in

the midst of one of these points is a vane containing nine round holes,

forming the figure 9. The origin of this figure is as follows:

A notorious poacher lay in the tower condemned to death for numerous

offences against the stringent game-laws of the country. He awaited his

end in silence, and sat moodily unobservant of the bright rays of the

sun which poured into his cell through the grated window. Others, he

pondered, were basking in the joyous light outside yonder in the verdant

summer fields, whilst he, who even now felt the noose tighten round

his neck, was plunged in semi-darkness. Well, as darkness was to be

his element, he might as well make present use of it for its special

purpose—to aid sleep; especially as sleep would remove him for the time

being from gloomy contemplation upon his approaching end.

As he slept a pleasant smile took the place of the sombre expression

natural to his waking moments. But on a sudden he started in his

slumber, grating his teeth, his face transformed with violent rage.

“Ha, villain, that was a trap,” he muttered, but almost immediately his

countenance resumed the sad expression which had lately become habitual

to it. In the course of a few moments, however, this gave way to a look

of resolution and conscious strength, and even in sleep he appeared to

have made up his mind unalterably upon some matter of importance.

At this juncture the turnkey entered the cell, accompanied by two

officials, one of whom read to him a missive from those in authority

which stated that a petition for mercy which he had made could not be

entertained, and that he must suffer the extreme penalty of the law.

“I protest against such a sentence,” cried the poacher, “for, after

all, I have only killed those animals which were given us by God for our

common use. Would you forfeit the life of a man because he has slain the

beasts of chase?”

“That is not the only charge against you,” retorted one of the officials

harshly. “Your comrades, as well as the honourable Company of Foresters,

accuse you of being in league with the enemy of mankind, and of

procuring from him charmed bullets.”

The poacher laughed. “It is false,” he cried, “They are jealous because

I am such a good shot. Provide me with a gun and with powder and shot

blessed by a priest, and I will undertake to place through the vane of

this tower nine shots which shall form the figure 9.”

“Such an opportunity shall be afforded you,” said one of the officials,

who had not as yet spoken. “It would be an injustice not to give you

such a chance, especially as, if you are successful, you will remove the

most odious portion of the charge against you.”

The news of the poacher’s challenge spread quickly through Frankfort,

and even the foresters who had given evidence against him were so

impressed that they forced their way into the council and insisted that,

should he be successful, a free pardon should be granted to him. To this

the council agreed, and an intimation of the decision was conveyed to

the poacher. But he was assured that if one bullet missed its mark he

would certainly die. To this he agreed, and the succeeding day was fixed

for the trial of skill. At an early hour the square in which the tower

was situated was thronged by an immense crowd. The walls of the city, of

which the tower was a part, were thronged by members of the Foresters’

Guild. Soon the prisoner was led forth, and was publicly admonished by a

monk not to tempt God if his skill had its origin in diabolic agencies.

But to all such exhortations the poacher replied: “Fear not, I will

write my answer upon yonder tower.”

The master of the Foresters’ Guild loaded the gun and handed it to him.

Amidst a deep silence he aimed at the vane and fired. The shot found its

mark. Once more he fired. Again the vane swung round, and another hole

appeared therein. The crowd vented its feelings by loud huzzahs. Nine

times did he fire, and nine times did the bullet hit its mark. And

as the last bullet sang through the weather-cock the figure 9 showed

clearly therein, and the poacher, sinking to his knees, bared his head

and gave thanks for his life to God. All there, also, bared their heads

and accompanied him in his thanksgiving.

That night, loaded with gifts, he quitted Frankfort, nevermore to

return. But the vane on the tower remains there to this day as a witness

of his prowess with the long rifle.

The Knave of Bergen

The city of Frankfort was once the scene of a great coronation festival,

during the course of which a bal masqué was given by the King and Queen

to a brilliant assembly of high-born ladies and nobles. The knights and

princes in their fancy costumes were hardly less resplendent than the

ladies in their jewels and brocaded silks, and the masks they all wore

added to the excitement and gaiety of the scene. In all the gathering

there was but one sombre note—a knight in coal-black armour, visored,

of great stature and stately in motion. His graceful mien won the

admiration of the ladies and the envy of the gallants, and the question

of his identity excited much speculation.

With courtly air the Black Knight approached the Queen, knelt before

her, and begged that she would deign to be his partner in the dance.

The charm of his voice and the modest yet dignified manner in which he

proffered his request so touched the Queen that she stepped down from

the dais and joined in the waltz. Never had she known a dancer with a

lighter step or a more delightful gift of conversation. When that dance

was over she granted him another and yet another, till the company

became very curious to know who the gallant knight might be on whom the

Queen bestowed her favours with such a lavish hand. At last the time

came for the guests to unmask, and the dancers made themselves known to

each other—with one exception, that is, for the Black Knight refused

to lift his visor. The King and Queen, however, shared to the full the

curiosity of their guests as to the identity of their strange guest, and

they commanded him to uncover his face, whereupon the knight raised his

visor, though with some reluctance. Neither the royal hosts nor any of

the noble guests recognized him, but a moment later two officials of the

Court advanced and to the astonishment and indignation of the company

declared that the stranger was no other than the executioner of Bergen!

The King’s wrath knew no bounds. He commanded that the knave should be

seized and put to death immediately. To think that he had allowed the

Queen to dance with a common executioner! The bare idea was intolerable!

The knave fell humbly on his knees before his irate sovereign.

“I acknowledge my crime, sire,” he said, “but your Majesty must be aware

that even my death would not be sufficient to wipe out my disgrace, and

the disgrace of her Majesty, who has danced with an executioner. There

is one other way to efface my guilt and to wipe out the humiliation of

your Majesty’s gracious consort. You must make a knight of me, sire,

and I will challenge to mortal combat any who dares to speak ill of my

King!”

The King was astounded by this bold proposition, but the very audacity

of it caught his fancy. He struck the executioner gently with his sword.

“Rise, Sir Knight,” he said, adding, as the Black Knight rose to his

feet: “You have acted like a knave this night. Henceforth you shall be

called the Knave of Bergen.”

Darmstadt: The Proxy

In the days of chivalry there dwelt in Birbach a knight named Walther,

no less renowned for his piety than for his skill in arms, and the

Virgin, according to the following legend, was not unmindful of her

humble worshipper. A great tournament—so runs the tale—was to take place

in Darmstadt, and Sir Walther, who was about to enter the lists for

the first time, was not feeling confident as to the issue. He knew

that there were to be present many knights whose strength and skill far

exceeded his own, and, brave though he was, he could not but recognize

that his chances of victory were small. Yet he felt that he dared

not suffer defeat; he must not be disgraced before the spectators. In

particular, there was a certain fair lady whose colours he wore; he must

not be shamed before her. His mind, as he rode on his way to Darmstadt,

was filled with conflicting emotions, love, hope, fear, shame, in turn

dominating his thoughts. Suddenly he came to a wayside altar, upon which

was set an image of the Virgin, and he decided to carry his troubles

to her as he was wont to do. So he descended from his horse, which he

secured to a tree, and made his way to the altar.

So deep were his emotions and so ardent his prayer that he passed into a

sort of trance and fell at the foot of the altar like one dead. While

he lay thus unconscious the Virgin descended from the altar, unlaced his

armour, and donned it herself. Then taking sword and shield and lance,

she mounted his steed and rode into Darmstadt. She was absent for some

time, but when she returned the knight still lay in the death-like state

in which she had left him. She tied his horse once more to the tree,

replaced his armour, and then took her accustomed place on the altar.

Shortly after Walther recovered consciousness and rose hastily, then,

after another prayer to the Virgin, he rode as quickly as he might into

the town. Here, to his intense surprise, he was greeted with joyful

shouts and congratulations. His friends hailed him as a mighty champion,

and she who had won his affections bestowed upon him the reward of

knightly valour—her promise of marriage. The bewildered Walther scarce

knew whether he was awake or asleep, but at length it was borne in upon

him that someone had won great triumphs in his name. Who could have so

successfully personated him as to deceive even his dearest friends? Who,

indeed, save she to whom he had turned in his distress, the Holy Virgin

herself?

Soon he was wedded to the lady of his choice; and to show his gratitude

for the intervention of Mary he built her a magnificent chapel on

the spot where the miracle had taken place. Nor did he grow any less

diligent in her service, but continued to live a noble and pious life,

in which he was ever encouraged and assisted by his wife.

The Cooper of Auerbach

It is said that from the ruined castle of Auerbach a fragrant perfume of

wine sometimes steals upon the air, and then the country folk whisper,

“The cooper is tasting his wine.” And if asked for the reason of this

saying they tell the following story.

Once when the sun shone golden on the vine-clad hills, deepening the

heavy clusters of grapes to a darker purple, a peasant, passing by

the ruins, thought longingly upon the wine that, in the past, had been

stored in those dark, cool cellars, wondering if perhaps some might not

yet be found there, or if all had been wasted and lost. And while he

yet pondered a rubicund little man, with leathern apron dark with

wine-stains girded about his portly waist, stood at his side looking up

at him with twinkling eyes.

“So, my friend, you think upon the wine, eh? Come and spend an hour with

me and you shall taste it.” As he spoke a warm, sweet wine-scent rose

like incense about him, making the peasant’s brain reel with delight. He

could not but follow the little man, tripping under the vines, thrusting

his way through thorn-hedges and over crumbling walls, till he came to a

flight of ancient steps, streaked grey and green with moss, leading down

to a weather-stained cellar-door. The door opened into dusky vaults

and from a niche in the wall the little cooper took a candle and a huge

bowl. Then on he went over the moist floor until there rose before them

in the candlelight, darker than the gloom about it, a gigantic tun. In

a crooning murmur the cooper began to tell of his possessions. He called

the vaults his realm, the tuns his dearly loved subjects—for, as the

peasant gazed, he saw a long procession of tuns stretching away into the

darkness. He shouted with mad delight at the sight, he clapped his hands

and smacked his lips in anticipation, he declared the tuns glittered

like pure gold. At this the cooper laughed and pointed out that the wine

had fashioned its own casks, gleaming crusts, from which the ancient

wood had fallen away long ago.

And next he filled the huge bowl with deep glowing wine and drank to the

peasant, whose hands ached to hold the bowl and lift it to his lips. At

last, with a courtly bow, the cooper put it into his hands, and then

the rustic emptied the bowl in one draught and drew a deep sigh of

satisfaction.

In rapture he sang the praises of the wine, but the cooper assured him

that there was better to come. Again he tasted, and again the little

man led on from cask to cask. Then, mad with delight, the peasant sang

aloud, but the song broke into wild howling; he danced about the

tuns, then fell to embracing them, stroking and kissing them, babbling

love-words to the dusky fragrant wine. And still the cooper led on to

the next cask, still he filled the bowl, and still the peasant drank,

till at last in very joy tears ran down his face, and before his eyes

the tuns danced round him in a giddy whirl; then slumber fell upon him

and he sank down to sleep in the gloom.

When he awoke next morning his body lay stretched in a muddy ditch, his

lips pressed to clammy moss. Stumbling to his feet, he looked around for

the door of the wine vault, for the flight of steps leading down to that

realm of delight, but though he searched long and carefully, yet never

again could he find it, nor did his eyes see the little cooper with his

wine-stained leathern apron and his rubicund face.