Twilight was already gathering, when a young knight, mounted on his
charger, trotted through a lonely vale: the clouds grew gradually
darker, and the glow of evening paler: a little brook murmured softly
along, concealed by the mountain bushes that overhung it.
The knight sighed, and surrendered himself to thought; the bridle hung
loose on the horse's neck; the steed itself no longer felt the rider's
spur, and now paced slowly along the narrow path that wound round the
precipitous rock.
The noise of the little brook waxed louder; the clang of the hoof rung
through the solitude; the shades of evening grew deeper, and the ruins
of an old castle lay wondrously poised on the precipice of the
opposite mountain. The knight became more and more absorbed in
thought; he gazed fixedly and vacantly on the darkness, scarcely
noticing the objects that environed him.
Now the moon rose behind him: her splendour tipped tree and shrub with
gold: the valley narrowed apace, and the shadow of the knight reached
to the opposite hill: the streamlet went foaming, all silver, over the
broken rocks, and a nightingale began her ravishing song, till it soon
sounded clearer from the forest. The knight now saw a crooked-grown
willow before him, that fell over the brook, while the water flowed
through its weeping branches. On a nearer approach, its dark outline
assumed a more decided form, and he now distinctly descried the figure
of a monk, bending low over the stream. He let the faint ripple flow
through the hollow of his hand, while a low and plaintive voice
exclaimed, "She comes not, she comes not! ah, in an eternity she'll
not float by!"
The steed shied: a sudden dread took possession of the rider: he
struck both spurs into his charger's flanks, and loudly neighing, it
galloped away with him.
The narrow path now grew wider, and led into a thick wood of oak,
through whose densely woven branches the moon could but sparely shoot
her beams. The knight soon stood before a cave, from which a small
fire shone invitation towards him: he alighted, tied his horse to a
tree, and entered the hollow.
Before a wooden crucifix kneeled an aged hermit in deep devotion; he
was not aware of the knight's entrance, but still continued in fervent
prayer. A long white beard flowed down over his breast: years had
ploughed deep furrows in his brow: his eyes were dim: he had the
seeming of a saint. The knight took his stand at some distance from
him, folded his hands across his breast, and repeated some Ave-Marias.
Then the old man arose, dried a tear in his eye, and observed the
stranger in his dwelling.
"Welcome to thee!" cried he, and offered the stranger a hand trembling
with age.
The knight pressed it warmly; he felt his soul yearn towards him, and
his reverence was transmuted into love.
"You did right to turn in here," continued the hermit, "for you will
not find a village or a hostelry for many a league. But why so silent?
Draw near to the fire and rest, and I will serve up such a little meal
as this cave of mine can best supply."
The knight took the helmet from his head: his brown locks fell adown
his neck: the old man gazed on him with a searching glance.
"Why does your eye wander so shily and unfixedly about?" he resumed,
in a friendly tone.
The knight seemed to be collecting his thoughts. "A strange feeling of
awe," replied he, "has seized on me since riding through that valley.
Explain to me, if you can, the singular phenomenon which I there
beheld: or perhaps it is not a spirit, but an inhabitant of these
parts: and yet that is impossible; I saw him wave to and fro like the
misty vapour in the gleam of the rising moon; and a cold thrill of
fear drove me this way. Explain to me the riddle and the words which I
heard through the whispering of the bushes."
"You saw the apparition?" said the hermit inquiringly, in a tone which
betrayed a warm interest in the event; "well, be seated at the fire,
and I will tell you the unhappy tale."
Both took their places. The old man appeared lost in thought. The
knight was all attention; and after a short silence the hermit began:
"It is now thirty years since I roamed the land in quest of adventures
and strife, just as you do now; since my locks flowed, just as yours
do, over my shoulders, and my glance with equal boldness confronted
danger. Grief has made me a decrepit old man before my time; not a
trace can you now discover of the lusty warrior, who at that time won
the respect of knighthood and the hearts of lovely girls. All is as a
dream to me now, and my joys and sorrows are shrouded in the twilight
distance. Farewell, ye happy days! scarce a faint glimmer from you now
can reach my cold worn heart.
"I had a brother, who was only two years older than myself. We were
like each other in form and feeling, except that he was more impetuous
and stormy, and more especially inclined to be passionate. We loved
each other fondly; we shared no pleasure apart; in every conflict he
fought at my side; we seemed to live but for one another.
"He became acquainted with a lady, whose love soon formed him to an
accomplished man. Her tenderness tempered his boisterous spirit; she
taught him that gentleness which is essential to every man who will
appear amiable in the eye of his friend. Clara became his wife; and
after the lapse of a year, the mother of a boy. Nothing now seemed
wanting to his happiness.
"About this time the signal of the cross was again raised against the
infidels. Fired with holy zeal he girt on the sword, took the sign of
the Redeemer on his cloak, and marched forth with the enthusiast
throng to peril and to fame. My entreaties and his wife's tears were
too weak to detain him; the fervour of his enthusiasm tore him from
our arms. Ah, heavens! I still hoped at that time that we should have
the delight of seeing him once more: I foreboded dangers for him, but
not those sad events which have beguiled my life of every joy.
"We now looked in vain for news: our anxious impatience suggested to
us a thousand mishaps, and fed us again with increased hope. Week
after week, and month after month passed away without our expectation
being in the smallest degree satisfied. To be sure, we heard that on
their march to the Holy Land discomforts of a thousand kinds had
befallen the crusaders; that they had been attacked by savage hordes,
and given up to misery and want; that the greater part of them had
been scattered in the woods, there to become a prey to hunger or the
wild beasts. But we had no special news of my brother, and we were
obliged to accustom ourselves to the thought that he too belonged to
the greater number of those unfortunates. His desolate widow wept for
him daily, and gave little ear to the weak grounds of consolation that
issued from the dejected heart of a suffering brother.
"Five long sorrowful years were thus passed in lamentation and tears,
when I beheld at a tournament the daughter of William of Orlaburg. Oh,
sir knight, let me dwell for a moment on this brilliant epoch of my
life, and refresh my soul on the beautiful past. Ah, a rapturous
spring rose upon me, but winter returned all the colder to my heart:
not a flower remains to me of all those sunny days; a spiteful
hurricane has snapt them all away. Ida of Orlaburg was the most
charming creature of her sex: graceful and full of majesty, her lofty
figure claimed respect of every one, and her charitable temper won
every heart. She united the loveliness of woman with the nobility of
manly strength.
"At a tournament given by her father, she saw Clara; her soul was
interested by the deep sorrow which spoke in the features of the
desolate wife. In misfortune, friendships are the most quickly and the
most lastingly formed. They saw each other very often; they loved each
other like two sisters, that had grown up together and shared each
other's every thought; and on the death of Ida's father, Clara had her
friend a constant guest at her castle. Ida it was who at last dried
the tears from eyes that were dim with weeping; who taught her to
smile again at the rising of the sun, and who, as I saw her so often,
at last robbed me of my heart and of my peace.
"I experienced all the torments and all the ecstacies of love; my
nights were sleepless, my days without repose; the world lay extended
more beautifully before me; a charm and a loveliness sprang up every
where beneath my footsteps; an impetuous longing hurried me to her;
and yet in her presence my heart beat still more madly.
"Am I not a child to speak to you so diffusely of my folly? In a few
months I disclosed to her my love; with an angel voice she assured me
of her attachment; we were betrothed, and--oh, who could participate
in my sense of happiness!--in two months we were to be married. How
did I reckon up every day and every hour! The tide of time flowed past
me in vexatious dilatoriness; I wanted to see it roll along in a
foaming torrent at my feet.
"At last a messenger reached us with news of my brother. It was a
knight from Spain who had seen him in Africa. Corsairs had taken the
vessel in which he sailed, and sold him as a slave in Tunis. A very
high price was set on his liberty.
"We were more pleased than saddened by this news, because we had
already taken his death for certain. Clara now dried her tears, and
surrendered herself to her joy. She got together the required sum as
quickly as possible, and made preparations to travel to her husband.
"The stranger knight was in fact returning to Spain, and Clara
proposed setting out in his company; while Ida, who found it
impossible to part from her friend, resolved to accompany her in
knightly costume.
"My most urgent expostulations were in vain, and I was at last obliged
to yield to their united entreaties. My brother's infant son was
consigned to the protection of a convent. They took their departure,
and, full of foreboding, my weeping eye followed them.
"How I burned with desire to accompany them! but I was entangled in a
feud, in which I had promised a friend my succour, and my pledged word
bound me to Germany. Ah! in an ill-fated hour they departed; I never
beheld them more.
"From that moment begins the dark period of my life. I was successful
in the feud. Oh, that I had fallen beneath the sword of an enemy, to
have escaped long years of torture, and the frightful hours in which
I first--oh, forgive me these tears! they still often flow at the
remembrance of Ida and my brother: age cannot so blunt our sympathies
that pain may not sometimes return with new force to our bosoms.
"On their journey Ida was seized with the unhappy fancy of not
discovering herself to my brother till they all should have reached
their native country again, in order that she might then surprise him
the more joyfully as my bride. They arrived in Spain, and sent the
required sum to Tunis. The prisoner was liberated; on the wings of
affection he hastened over the sea, and forgot on Clara's bosom, in
one moment of rapture, the sufferings which he had endured for years.
"Ida was soon presented to him as a friend; he received her kindly,
and enjoyed for some days in the society of his spouse that happiness
which he had so long been deprived of. But his eyes were soon rivetted
on Ida: he observed the tender connexion subsisting between her and
his wife, and suspicion kindled in his soul. 'She is untrue to me,'
cried he when alone; 'she divides her heart between me and this
hateful stranger!'
"He now watched them both more closely than before, and soon thought
his suspicions justified; he thought he could discover a tenderness
which neither of them even took pains to conceal. By degrees he became
colder towards his wife, hiding the wound she had inflicted; whilst
she on her part, unconstrainedly and without the shadow of fear,
shared her affections with her consort and her friend.
"Jealousy raged in my brother's bosom; he began to hate Clara and her
companion; he imputed a significancy to every look and every gesture;
the rancour within him robbed him of his sleep, or suspicion appalled
him in hideous dreams.
"'For this, then, I came across the sea,' said he to himself; 'these
are the joys of meeting; these, then, are the delights of my love. I
am come to be the prey of racking torture. I find my home again at
the side of a faithless wife, and she herself meets me only that she
may the earlier proclaim to me her effrontery and her broken vows.'
"He made an old squire the confidant of his chagrin: both now watched
the two friends with an indefatigable vigilance; they beheld a
thousand proofs of the supposed infidelity, without in the least
conjecturing the true posture of affairs; my brother's fury rose more
and more, and a dark resolve at last began to ripen in his breast.
"It happened that he was with them and a faithful servant in a small
boat. The moon was up, and the shallop drifted slowly down the gentle
stream; he sat in cold unconsciousness by Clara, who had laid her hand
in his. He caught her eye with a searching glance; her husband seemed
strange to her, and abashed she sunk her head. Ida had seized her
other hand.
"'Traitress!' cried he of a sudden; 'impostor! who sport with the
peace of a man, with truth, and truth's best vows!' Ah! at that moment
his good genius forsook him!--gnashing his teeth, he plunged his
dagger into Clara's bosom: Ida sank lifeless at the side of her
friend; he grasped the bloody poniard, raised the reeking blade, and
smote my Ida to the heart.
"The dying Clara discovered to him his error. Her blood floated down
the stream. The film gathered in her eye. For a long time he stood
like one entranced; then sprang into the river, swam unconsciously to
land, and, deaf and dumb, without sensation or words of woe, he set
out on his return to Germany.
"Thus, then, an ill-starred jest was the wreck of my every hope and
joy. In the mean time, I stood at a window of the castle, anxiously
awaiting the return of those I loved. Often was I aroused from my
musing mood by the hoof-tramp of horses: my eye wandered vacantly over
field and hill, while a joyful thrill passed through me at the sight
of a female figure.
"At length came a knight dashing up on a black charger: it was my
brother. But ah, my joy was vain; his countenance was haggard, his
eyes rolled wildly, his heart beat impetuously.
"'Where are Ida and Clara?' cried I.
"A tear was the answer; he hung speechless on my neck.
"'In the grave,' said he at length, violently sobbing.
"O heavens! those were fearful hours that I then went through! My fist
trembled, my heart throbbed convulsively; a low voice whispered murder
and vengeance in my ears: but I saw my brother's wretchedness--I
forgave him; and well it is for me that I did so.
"Oh, that he could have forgiven himself! But his misery and his crime
were present day and night to his soul. Clara came back to him in his
dreams, and shewed him the dagger reeking with her heart's warm blood.
From that hour he never smiled again.
"'I am condemned to the most ghastly misery,' cried he, as he grasped
me by the hand; 'nor on the other side of the grave shall I be at
rest; my spirit will wander still in quest of Clara, and still never
find her: a fearful future drags its slow length in review before me.
Ah, my brother! even in death there is no more hope for me.'
"My heart was broken; but my life seemed now granted that I might
console him. We left the castle, and laid aside our knightly garb; we
shrouded ourselves in holy weeds, and thus we went wayfaring through
the dark woods and over the desert plains, till this cavern at last
received us.
"Often would my brother stand for long, long days by that rivulet,
gazing vacantly on the waters; even in the night he was sometimes
there; and then he would sit on a sundered fragment of the rock, while
his tears trickled down into the stream. My efforts to console him
were all in vain.
"At last he revealed to me that Clara had appeared to him in a dream;
but she never could be reconciled, she said, till her blood should
float down that little brook; and for this reason he sat on the bank,
counting and watching the waves, in the eager hope of again finding
the drops that had gushed from her heart in that fatal hour.
"I wept at the sight of my brother's madness; I tried to rid him of
the thought, but it was impossible. 'Ah!' cried he, 'and in distant
Spain her blood was shed; it flowed down the stream into the sea: how
long will it be before it returns hitherward to the springs?'
"Now he scarcely ever left the brook--his sorrow and his delusion
increased with every day: at last he died of a broken heart. I buried
him by my cave.
"Since then I have often seen his ghost sitting beside the stream: it
was always watching the passing ripple, and softly sighing, 'She comes
not--she comes not.' A thrill of horror runs through me every time,
and I pray till midnight for the peace of his soul."
* * * * *
The hermit ended; he cast down his eyes and silently counted his
beads. The knight had listened to the tale with anxious interest, and
after a few moments he inquired--
"And where was your brother's son left?"
"We sought him in the convent," replied the old man, "but he had
clandestinely made his escape from the monks."
"Your name?"
"Why do you so fix your gaze upon me?--Ulfo of Waldburg."
"O my uncle!" cried the knight, and threw himself on the bosom of the
astonished hermit. "Doubt not," cried he; "ah! that unhappy shade by
the rivulet is the spirit of my father."
"Your father! his name was"--
"Charles of Waldburg. I ran away from the monks because their lonely
cloisters appeared a prison to me. I took service with a knight; and
now for some years I have been seeking you and my father."
"O my son!" cried the old man, and locked him more fervently in his
arms; "yes, you are he: I know you by that sparkling eye; those are
your father's features and his chestnut locks."
"O my unhappy father!" sighed the youth; "would that I could procure
his wandering spirit peace! would that my prayers could conciliate
Heaven and my mother's shade!"
He stood in a musing mood, with his hands folded: "Uncle," cried he,
"what, if I have read aright the import of the dream? what, if my
mother's spirit had wished to direct the wretched man to me? Oh, come
now!"
They left the cave. Clouds shrouded the moon; a hallowed stillness
spread its mantle over the world; they went into the lonely forest as
into a temple. Charles kneeled down on his father's grave.
"Spirit of my father," said he in fervent prayer, "oh, hear thy son!
hearken to thy son, O my mother! and, gracious Heaven, let me not
implore thee in vain! Give rest to the unhappy one, and let the dread
pilgrim find a lodging in the grave. Oh, let me hear from thee, spirit
of my father, whether I conceived aright the sense of the prophecy!
Oh, grant me some sign that thou art reconciled with my mother's
ghost!"
Like the soft echo of a flute came a breathing through the tree-tops:
two bright apparitions floated downwards in closely-wound embrace.
They came nearer. "We are reconciled," whispered a more than earthly
voice. Two hands were stretched forth over the kneeling one; and like
a light zephyr the words passed over him, "Be true to knighthood!"
A cloud glided away from before the moon; and the phantoms dissolved
in her silver radiance. In glad amazement the two mortals gazed long
and lingeringly after them.