The hut of Rudenfranck differed but little in appearance from the
ordinary dwellings of the settlers of the district. Large pine logs,
piled rudely together, and cemented with mud, in order to exclude the
wind from the chinks, composed the cabin. Two or three common chairs, a
pine table, and a camp bed, with a few culinary utensils, constituted
the entire furniture of the hunter’s hut. A torch of resinous wood,
which flared from an iron bracket, gave light to the room, and a large
fire soon occupied the wide hearth. A few articles of sylvan warfare
hung round the cabin; and on a shelf, some pewter mugs and earthen
dishes, a pair of stag’s antlers, and two or three old folios, their
ponderous covers clasped together with silver clenches, lay exposed. A
large, rawboned dog, rough of coat, and muscular of form, whose fine
muzzle and bright eye, spoke of rare blood, was extended before the
hearth. Roused by the noise made by Rudenfranck and his companion in
entering, he sprang up, erected his bristles, and uttered a low growl.
“Down, Fritz, be quiet,” said Rudenfranck, as the dog, recognising his
master, fawned upon him; “welcome to my poor hut, Adolf. I can give thee
no better cheer than our coarse mountain fare will afford, although I
may assist thee in some other important matters. Come, draw thy chair to
the fire, man. The wind is somewhat sharp to-night, and I will endeavor
to make out some refreshment for thee.”
He retired for a moment, and entered again, bearing a noble supply of
fat venison, which he immediately set about preparing for their supper.
The rich steam of the savory steaks soon attracted the attention of
Fritz, who, stretched out before the fire with lion-like gravity,
inhaled their genial flavor with manifest symptoms of approbation.
Rudenfranck’s preparations were soon completed, and, producing a curious
green flask, and two tall silver cups from a recess, he invited Adolf,
by precept and example, to partake of the viands set before him.
But the spirit of Adolf was too heavy for feasting, and the morsel lay
untasted on the trencher before him. Rudenfranck himself, although he
pressed Adolf to eat, neglected his meal, and the table was speedily
cleared, Fritz being accommodated with the relics of the repast.
“Taste this wine,” said Rudenfranck, “although myself no great lover of
the grape, I am somewhat curious in my choice of wines, and may indulge
my little vanity so far as to quaff the juice I drink, out of a more
costly metal than falls to the lot of most gay hunters.”
“Truly, Rudenfranck,” replied Adolf, “thy promised plans for the relief
of my unfortunate condition seem to have escaped thy memory. For rather
would I hearken to them, than drink thy wine, even from a silver cup.”
“Not so, Adolf,” said the hunter, “I will now fulfil my promise to thee.
But first, the secret of my power to aid thee, and the means by which
this assistance may be rendered, must be explained to thee. Listen,
then, and regard not my countenance but my words.”
“You have heard the elders of the hamlet speak of Count Theodore
Falkenhelm, a renowned noble of Alsace, in Germany. This Falkenhelm was
known to have sailed from Germany, with many other settlers for America.
Few knew his reasons for quitting his native country, for he was a dark,
unsocial man, and some have said that he had dealings with the Spirit of
Evil. He had not been resident here for a long time, before it was
observed that he became averse to society, cautious of remark, and
jealous of scrutiny. The spot in which he had fixed his abode, was
visited by few footsteps, for his mood was fierce, and his society, at
times, was dangerous. It was concluded that he was insane. But it was
not so. Mark me.
“A youth, some five years after the count had taken his dwelling in
these mountains, arrived here from Germany. He had not long ranged these
woods, before the fame of the count inspired him with a boyish curiosity
to see and to know him. An opportunity was soon afforded; for returning
one evening, wearied with the chase, a thunder storm and night overtook
him near the cottage of the count. He demanded hospitality, and was
admitted, though reluctantly. What he saw that night, when all was
hushed in the death of sleep, he never told to mortal; but he raved
wildly of fiends and phantoms, and died, soon after, a maniac.
“Shortly after this event, the count disappeared, nor has since been
heard of here. But many succeeding years brought news of a dismal
tragedy in Germany, and from the account of him who brought the report,
it was supposed by those who remembered the count, that he was the
principal actor in the scene of blood.
“The hut which the recluse had deserted, was the source of continual
dread to the superstitious peasants, whose fears had magnified the
ruinous cabin into a palace, where the revels of the great fiend were
held. But one, whose heart was bolder, and who had lately arrived in the
settlement, took possession of the hut, repaired it, and there fixed his
abode. That man, Adolf Westerbok, stands before you.
“I have not always been what I now appear. I was well born, although
poor, and had served in my country’s battles, not without reputation. I
loved the daughter of a baron, of high family and large estates, whose
castle, on the Aar, stood near the dwelling of my father. Thy tale of
love is mine, thus far. Although loved in return, and loving—O! spirit
of my injured Thekla!—deeper, far deeper than mortal, whose blood
burned not like mine, could love; she was torn from me—me, who would
have died for her; whose only aim in life was to approve myself worthy
of her—and whose love was mine alone—torn from me, and dragged, an
unwilling, wretched sacrifice, to the castle of a rich nobleman of our
country. Here, her tears and visible decay, instead of moving compassion
in the heart of her husband, rendered him jealous and morose. On one
occasion, he struck her to the earth in furious rage—struck her, do you
mark me?—aye, inflicted a blow on that fair breast which I would have
braved hell to defend! It caused her death, for she was pregnant—she
died that day. I—yon insulted heaven knows how deeply!—I avenged her,
and the steel which struck the life blow to his heart, never has been,
and never shall be cleansed. Look at it—I keep it as a memorial of most
holy revenge!”
Rudenfranck drew from his vest a broad, sharp dagger, and threw it on
the table before Adolf, who saw with horror that the blade and hilt were
encrusted with the stains of long-spilled blood.
“I was forced to quit Germany, and wandered through Spain an aimless,
hopeless man. Here I became acquainted with Count Falkenhelm. He was in
danger from the Inquisition, and I aided his escape from their toils. A
hater of mankind, naught, save the knowledge of how bitter an enmity
Falkenhelm bore to it, prompted me to rescue him from the snare. A
murder was committed in Alsace. Letters came to me from Falkenhelm,
desiring me to hasten to him, and ere he met the inevitable doom of his
crime, to receive a last legacy which he wished to bequeath me.
“I hastened to him, and on the night ere he was executed, he imparted to
me this secret: that, deep within these forests, the mighty treasures of
a long buried sage and necromancer, whose power could control the
elements, and the spirits of fire, lay hidden. These were the treasures
of Bructorix, borne from Germany by magic spells. They were guarded by
potent spirits of hell. To me did he commit this knowledge, together
with those books, at which you have often wondered, and this spell,
which commands the world of demons.”
As he spoke, he again went to the recess, drew forth a small gold box,
and opening it with reverence, displayed a fair linen cloth, folded in
such a manner as to present five angles, at equal distances, in the
centre of which was fixed an opal, of immense value, upon which certain
mysterious letters were engraved. The letters which formed the spell,
glistened and flashed as though with internal fires, as the light fell
upon the polished jewel.
“This,” said Rudenfranck, closing the box, “is the magic pentagon, the
key to the treasures of King Bructorix.”
“Heavens!” cried Adolf, “you received, then, this most fatal gift?”
“I did; and took upon myself an awful penalty. I said, ‘Ambition! thou
shalt be my God, for love is lost to me!’ I came on to this country
immediately after the execution of the count, and have discovered the
treasure. Reasons, unimportant for you to know, have detained me here
some years, disguised as the hunter Rudenfranck. This is the point,
then. You cannot obtain Barbara Mullerhorn without gold; nor dare I, if
I could, bestow this treasure upon you. You must follow my example, and
call upon the spirit of Bructorix yourself. I will instruct you in the
manner, but you must undertake the adventure.”
“And the penalty you spoke of,” said Adolf, trembling, as the hot eyes
of Rudenfranck glared upon him.
“I cannot tell you. The spirit proposes different sacrifices. Mine is—”
A loud gust of wind interrupted the speaker, and Adolf shuddered, as he
fancied he could distinguish the flapping of pinions through the blast.
“Ha!” said Rudenfranck, breathing hard, and speaking low,—“I had
forgot!—I had forgot!”
“Is this thy plan?” said Adolf, “I fear me it is unhallowed. I will
begone and pray to be delivered from the evil one. Rudenfranck, I will
not accept of such assistance.”
“Thy life upon it,” said the hunter, “if thou betrayest me.”
“I have given my hand to secresy, and yet—”
“Choose well and warily, Adolf.”
“That will I, Rudenfranck. There can be no sin, I trust, in hearing so
unholy a tale. Is this the only plan—?”
“It is the only one. But, away, if thou canst not accept this aid. I can
give thee no other.”
“Then,” said Adolf, as he turned slowly to leave the hut, “I am ruined
and desperate!”
“Aye, go,” said Rudenfranck bitterly, looking after the retreating form
of Adolf, with a fiendish sneer, “go, fool! Thus is it ever with that
microcosm of folly, man. Aye, I can plainly see that the treasure of
King Bructorix will soon acquire a new guardian. Another victim, and I
leave these fatal shores, and forever.”