THE WHITE EGBERT.

High up in the Hartz Mountains there lived in a castle a knight who

was known by the name of the White Egbert. He was about forty years

old, rather below the middle height; and he obtained his name from the

quantity of short, smooth, white hair which covered his pale haggard

cheeks. He lived a peaceable retired life, never involved in feuds

with his neighbours; indeed, he was seldom seen beyond the walls of

his small castle. His wife loved quiet as much as he; they were

passionately attached to each other; and their only cause of sorrow

was that Heaven had not blessed their union with children.

It was seldom that a guest was seen at the castle; and if ever

such an event did happen, it never was allowed to interfere with

their ordinary way of going on. No advance was made upon the

frugality--almost meanness--with which the establishment was

conducted; the only difference being that at such times Egbert assumed

an air of lightness and gaiety, whereas when alone he was observed to

be reserved and melancholy.

His most frequent visitor was Philip Walters; a man to whom Egbert had

attached himself, because he observed in him, on the whole, a general

resemblance to himself in his ways of thinking. This person was a

native of France, and spent the greater part of his time there; but he

was often for more than six months together in the mountains in the

neighbourhood of Egbert's castle, looking for grasses and minerals, of

which he was a collector. He had a small property of his own, and was

independent of every one. Egbert often accompanied him on these

expeditions, and every year a closer attachment formed itself between

them.

There are hours in every man's life in which, if he has a secret from

his friend, he becomes suddenly in labour with it, and what before he

may have taken the greatest pains to conceal, he now feels an

irresistible impulse to throw out of himself--to lay bare the whole

burden of his heart, that it may form a new link to bind his friend to

him. Friendship ebbs and flows, and is subject to singular influences.

There are moments of violent repulsion; there are others when every

barrier is dissolved, and spirits flow together and mingle into one.

On a dark cloudy evening, one day late in autumn, Egbert was sitting

with his friend and his wife Bertha round the fire in the castle-hall.

The flame flung a bright ruddy glow along the walls, and played and

flickered in the deep oak roof. The night looked in gloomily through

the windows, and the trees outside shook with the wet and the cold.

Walters complained of the distance he had to go to his house, and

Egbert pressed him to stay and spend half the night talking over the

fire, and then accept a room in the castle till next morning. Walters

agreed to do so; wine and supper were brought in; fresh logs of wood

were thrown upon the fire; and the friends' conversation became more

and more easy and confidential.

When the things were taken away, and the servants had retired, Egbert

took Walters' hand, and said, "My dear friend, you must let my wife

Bertha tell you the history of her younger days; it is a very strange

one, and well worth your hearing."

"With the greatest pleasure," said Walters; and they again drew their

chairs round the fire-place.

It was toward midnight; dark masses of cloud were sweeping across the

sky, and the moon looking fitfully out between. "Do not think I am

forcing myself on you," Bertha said. "My husband tells me you are so

noble-hearted a person, it is a shame to conceal any thing from you.

Singular as it may sound, the story I am about to tell you is true.

"I was born in a village in the plains. My father was a poor herdsman.

Our housekeeping was none of the best, and my parents often did not

know where they were to get a mouthful of bread. What was to me most

distressing of all was, that they often quarrelled because they were

poor, and each brought the bitterest complaints against the other for

being the cause of it. Of me, they and every one else said I was a

stupid, silly little creature; that I could not do the commonest thing

properly; and, indeed, I was a good-for-nothing helpless child.

Whatever I took up, I was sure to let fall and break. I could neither

sew, nor spin, nor knit, nor could I learn. I could not help in

managing the house; all I knew was that we were poor and miserable. I

used often to sit in a corner and think how I would help my parents if

I was all of a sudden to get rich; how I would shower gold and silver

on them, and what fun it would be to see how surprised they would

look; and I used to fancy all sorts of spirits sweeping round me, and

shewing me treasures buried under ground; or giving me little pebbles,

which suddenly turned to precious stones. In short, the strangest

notions got hold of me; and when I had to get up and help at any thing

in the house, I was all the stupider about it, because my brain was

running upon these sort of ideas.

"My father was often very angry with me for being such an idle,

useless burden upon him. He sometimes spoke to me very harshly, and it

was seldom that I ever got a kind word from him. So it went on till I

was about eight years old; and now matters got serious--I must learn

to do something. My father thought it was wilfulness and obstinacy in

me, and all I wanted was to spend my time in amusement. Enough: one

day, after a number of threats which all proved fruitless, he gave me

a dreadful beating, and declared I should have the same every day till

I had learned to turn myself to some purpose or other.

"All that night I lay on my bed crying; I felt so wretched and

miserable that I wished to die. I was afraid of the daylight, because

I did not know what to begin about. I wished and wished for every

possible accomplishment, and I could not conceive why I was stupider

than other children that I knew. I was almost in despair. When morning

began to break, I got up; and hardly knowing what I did, I opened the

door of our little cottage. I ran out into the open fields, and

presently into a wood close by, which was so thick that daylight could

hardly find its way into it. I ran on and on without ever looking

behind me. I did not feel the least tired; all I was afraid of was

that my father would catch me, and beat me again worse than before for

running away.

"When I had got to the other side of the wood, the sun was by this

time high in the air, and I saw a dark heavy mass beyond me, covered

with a thick mist. Presently I had to scramble up some hills, and then

to follow a winding rocky path; and now I felt sure I must have found

my way into the neighbouring mountains, and I began to be afraid;

living as I did down in the plains, I had never seen them before; and

the name of mountains, when I heard people speaking of them, had a

somewhat fearful and ominous sound about it. Still, I could not find

courage to return; worse fears drove me forward; I often started and

looked round as the wind moaned among the fir-trees, or a distant

woodman's axe echoed among the hills; and at last when some of the

coalmen and miners met me, and I heard them speaking a language I did

not understand, I was almost frightened out of my senses. Soon,

however, I got used to them, and begged my way on through a number of

villages. People gave me enough to eat and drink, and I had always an

answer ready for any questions that might be asked me. I had gone on

this way for four days, when I fell into a narrow footpath; I followed

it, and it led further and further away from the main road, through a

wholly different sort of country, where the aspect of the mountains

was entirely altered, and became wilder and stranger,--among rocks and

cliff's tumbled rudely one upon another, and looking as if the first

gust of wind would bring them all crashing down. I did not know

whether I should go on or not. It was the middle of summer, so that

hitherto I had spent the night either in the woods or in some one or

other of the shepherds' huts; but here I saw no signs whatever of any

thing like a human habitation, nor in so wild a spot could I hope to

find any. The cliffs grew steeper and more precipitous; often I had to

pass along the edge of abysses that made me giddy even to look at; at

last the very path came to an abrupt conclusion. Now I gave myself up

for lost; I cried and screamed, and all the answer was the echoing of

my voice along the rocky valley; darkness came on, and I looked for a

bank of moss to lie down upon. I could not sleep, for all night long I

heard strange wild noises round me, which sometimes sounded like the

howling of wild beasts; at others, like the screaming of the

mountain-birds, or the moaning of the wind among the rocks and cliffs.

I prayed to God to protect me; and towards morning I fell asleep.

"Day had broken when I awoke. There was a steep hill immediately

before me, which I climbed up, in the hope of finding some way out of

the wilderness; when I had got at the top, however, all around me, as

far as my eye could reach, every thing was buried in fog; in the dull

grey light I could find nothing but rock, rock, rock, not a tree, not

a blade of grass, not a shrub to be seen, only here and there a branch

of heather projecting, with a sad lonely look, from a cleft or chasm

in the mountain's side. I cannot tell you how I craved for the sight

of a human being, if it was only to be afraid of him. I was hungry and

exhausted, and I flung myself down, and determined to lie there and

die. In a little while, however, the desire of life got the better of

this feeling; I raised myself up and walked on, crying and sobbing all

that day through. At last I hardly knew what or where I was; I was so

tired that I had almost lost all consciousness; I scarcely wished to

live, and yet I was afraid to die.

"Towards evening I approached a part where the country resumed a

softer and milder look; and my heart began to beat again, and the

desire of life tingled in all my veins. I fancied I caught the sound

of a mill-wheel in the distance; I redoubled my speed; and oh! how

light and happy I felt when at last I found myself at the end of the

rocks and mountains, and saw once more the woods, and meadows, and

soft swelling pleasant hills, spread smiling out before me! It seemed

as if I had broke at once from hell into Paradise, and I cared no more

for being alone and helpless. Instead of the mill I hoped to find, I

came upon a waterfall, which a good deal diminished my exultation. I

was stooping down, however, to drink some water out of my hands, when

on a sudden I fancied I heard some one cough at a short distance from

me. Never had I a more agreeable surprise than at that moment. I went

towards the place the sound seemed to come from, and on turning the

corner of a wood, I saw an old woman sitting down, apparently resting

herself. She was dressed all in black, a black cap covering her head

and half her face; in her hand she had a crooked stick.

"I went up to her, and asked her to help me. She bade me sit down at

her side, and gave me some bread and a little wine. While I was eating

she chanted a sort of hymn in a harsh, rough voice; and as soon as I

had done, she rose and told me to follow her. Strange and odd as the

old woman's voice and appearance was, I was delighted at this

invitation; she limped away before me, helping herself along with her

stick; and I followed, at first hardly able to keep from laughing at

the strange faces she made at every step. We soon left the mountains

behind us; we walked on over soft grassy meadows, and then along a

forest glade; as we came out again into the open country the sun was

just setting, and the splendour of that evening, and the feeling it

produced in me, I never shall forget. The sky was steeped in gold and

crimson; the trees stood with their tops flushed in the evening glow;

a gleam of enchanting beauty lay upon the fields; every leaf was

hushed and still; and the pure heaven looked down as if the

sky-curtain was withdrawn, and Paradise lay open to our eyes; the

brook bubbled along the valley; and from time to time, as a soft air

swept over the forest, the rustling leaves appeared to gasp for joy.

Visions of the world, and all its strange and wondrous incidents, rose

up before my chilled soul. I forgot myself and my conductress, and

eyes and heart were lost in ecstacy in gazing on those golden clouds.

"We went up a gentle hill which was planted with chestnut-trees; from

the top of which we saw down into a green valley, in the middle of

which, surrounded by a clump of chestnuts, lay a little cottage.

Presently a burst of merry barking greeted us, and a bright beautiful

little dog came bounding and jumping up against the old woman, and

frisking round us with every sign of the greatest satisfaction. Then

he turned to me, and, after looking me all over, seemed tolerably

satisfied, and ran back again to his mistress. As we descended the

hill, I heard a strange kind of song, which seemed to come from the

cottage, and to be sung by a bird:

'In my forest-bower

I sing all day,

Hour after hour,

To eternity.

Oh, happy am I

In my forest-bower!'

These few words were repeated over and over again: the nearest

description I can give of the sound is, that it was like the effect of

a bugle and a cornet answering each other at a great distance over

water.

"My curiosity was at the greatest possible stretch of excitement; and

without waiting for the old woman's permission, I ran into the

cottage. The twilight was beginning to fall; and, by the sinking

light, I found a neat, well-arranged little room, a few cups and

glasses on a sideboard, and some singular-looking boxes on a table. In

a very beautiful cage in the window hung a bird; and it was indeed

from it that the song came which I had heard. The old woman was

coughing and panting, hardly able to recover her breath. She took

scarcely any notice of me--did not even seem to know I was

present--but patted her little dog, and then turned and talked to the

bird, which only answered with singing the same song. All this time I

stood watching her movements; and it almost frightened me to see how

eternally her face kept working and twitching; her head, too, shook as

if age had loosened its hold on her shoulders; and altogether she

looked so odd and strange, that, do what I would, I could not make out

what her features were like.

"When she had got her breath again, she lit a candle, threw a cloth

over a little table, and put out some supper. At last she turned round

to me, and told me to take one of the twisted-cane chairs, and sit

down. I did so, and seated myself exactly opposite to her, with the

light between us. Then she folded her lanky withered fingers together,

and said a long prayer, making all the time such strange contortions

with her face, that again it was all I could do to help bursting out

laughing. But I was afraid of making her angry, and checked myself.

After supper, she said another long grace, and then shewed me a bed in

a little narrow chamber adjoining, she herself sleeping in the room in

which we supped. I was tired and half stupified, and so soon fell

asleep. I awoke several times, however, in the night, and heard the

old woman coughing and talking to her dog, and the bird now and

then--which seemed to be in a dream--bringing out single words and

lines of its song. The chestnuts rustled outside the window; far away

a nightingale was singing; and all these sounds together made so odd a

mixture, that I could hardly persuade myself I was awake, and that I

had not fallen into another still stranger dream.

"In the morning the old woman woke me up, and presently set me to

work. I had to spin, and I soon learnt how to do it; and besides this,

I had to take care of the dog and the bird. I very quickly got into

the way of managing the household matters, and of knowing the uses of

the different articles. One can get used to any condition, and I was

no exception: I soon ceased to think there was any thing odd about the

old woman, that the cottage was remarkably situated, and that one

never saw any other human being there, or that the bird was so very

extraordinary a creature. I was delighted with its beauty; all its

feathers glittered with every conceivable colour, the brightest

sky-blue alternating with deep scarlet over its head and body; and

when it sang, it swelled itself out so proudly, that the colours

shewed more brilliantly than ever.

"The old woman often went out in the morning, and did not return till

evening, when I used to go out with the little dog to meet her; and

she would call me her child, her little daughter. In one's childhood

one soon takes to people, and I became exceedingly attached to her. In

the evenings she would teach me to read, and I was quick and ready in

learning; and this afterwards, when I was much alone, became a source

of infinite amusement to me; for she had a number of old manuscript

books in the cottage, full of fairy-tales, and all sorts of queer old

stories.

"There is something very odd about my recollections of the way I went

on then. Not a human creature ever came near us; our home

family-circle certainly was not an extensive one; and the dog and the

bird make the same impression on me now that the recollection of long

and well-known old friends produces; yet, often and often as I must

have repeated it, do what I will, I cannot call back again the

singular name of the little dog.

"So things went on for some four years or more; and I must have been

about twelve years old, when the old woman took me at last deeper into

her confidence, and revealed to me a secret. Every day the bird laid

an egg; and in each egg was a pearl, or some other precious stone. I

had often observed before that she had some mysterious doings with the

cage; but I had never troubled myself much about it. Now, however, she

gave me a charge while she was absent to take these eggs, and put them

by carefully in the odd-looking boxes. Leaving me sufficient food in

her absence, she would now be away sometimes weeks and months at a

time; and my wheel went round, and the little dog barked, and the bird

sang, and all was so still in the country round, that while I was

there I do not remember a single storm. No foot of man ever strayed

there; no wild beast ever came near our dwelling; I worked on there

day after day, and I was happy. Oh, fortunate indeed would men be, if

they could but go on through life in such peace and quiet to their

graves!

"From the little that I read, I made myself a set of notions of what

the world was, and what men were; and very queer ones they were; for

they were all taken from myself and the society in which I lived. If

we talked of gay, bright, happy people, I could only fancy them like

the little dog; beautiful stately ladies must look like the bird, and

ancient dames like my old woman. My stories contained something about

love, and I made myself the heroine of many wonderful adventures: I

pictured for myself the most beautiful knight the world had ever seen;

I adorned him with every grace and every perfection; and though, after

all my trouble, I could not tell exactly what he was like, I could

feel the most passionate despair if he did not return my affection;

and I had all sorts of eloquent speeches to make--which I would often

repeat aloud--to win his love. You smile! Ah, well, we are none of us

young now!

"I was much the happiest when I was by myself; for then I was absolute

mistress in the cottage. The dog was very fond of me, and did all that

I wished; the bird replied with his song to all my questions; my wheel

went round merrily; and I never for a moment felt a wish for any

change. When the old woman came back from her long expeditions, she

would praise me for being so good and attentive. Her household, she

said, was much better attended to since I had been there; she was

pleased with my growth, and the general healthiness of my appearance;

in short, she spoke to me and treated me exactly as if I had been her

daughter. 'You are going on well indeed, my child,' she said one day,

with a roughish coarse voice: 'if you continue in this way, you will

never come to any mischief. But, you may depend upon it, it never

fails, if once one gets out of the right road, but sooner or later we

shall be punished for it.' I took little notice of this at the time

she said it; for in all I did and said I was a lively, thoughtless

child; but by and by, in the night, her words recurred to me, and I

could not conceive what she meant. I thought them all over and over

again. I had often read about riches and wealth, and so on; and at

last it occurred to me that those pearls and precious stones must be

of great value. This soon became more plain to me; but what could she

have meant by the right road? I could not make any thing of it, do

what I would.

"I was now fourteen years old; and it is unfortunate for people that

generally they only get their understanding to lose their innocence by

the light of it. I now came clearly enough to comprehend that it would

be easy for me, while the old woman was away, to take the bird and the

jewels, and go with them into the world that I had read about; and

then very likely I might find my beautiful knight, who still continued

in my thoughts.

"At first this idea was no more than any other, just flashing across

my mind and then gone again; but when I sat by myself at my wheel, in

spite of myself it kept coming back to me, till at last it completely

took possession of my mind; and I already saw myself dressed with the

greatest magnificence, with knights and princes standing round me; and

so I would let myself dream on, and then when I started up and found

myself in a little narrow room, I felt vexed and disappointed. For the

rest, so that I did what I was told, the old woman did not trouble

herself about what was passing in my mind.

"One day she went away again, telling me that this time she would be

absent longer than usual; I was to see that every thing was kept

right, and do what I could to prevent the time hanging heavy on my

hands. I took leave of her with some distress, as I felt a misgiving

that I should never see her again; I stood watching her a long time as

she hobbled away, almost without knowing myself why I was so unhappy.

It seemed as if my purpose was already before my mind, and yet I was

not actually conscious of it.

"Never did I take so much care of the dog and the bird as now; they

seemed closer to my heart than they had been before. The old woman had

been gone some days, when one morning I got up with the fixed purpose

to leave the cottage with the bird, and go and look for what was

called the world. Still I felt unhappy and miserable. I wished to stay

where I was, and yet this thought had got too strong a hold on me;

there was a singular struggle going on in my soul, as if two opposite

spirits were fighting in me. One moment came the sweetness of that

sequestered spot before me, looking so beautiful; and then the next,

the ravishing idea of a new world, and all the wonderful things in it.

I hardly knew what to make of myself. The little dog kept jumping up

upon me incessantly. The sunshine lay spread out brilliantly over the

green fields, and the chestnut-leaves glistened as it fell on them.

Suddenly I felt a strong impulse seize me; I caught the little dog and

tied it up in the cottage, and then took the cage and the bird under

my arm. The dog whined and struggled at this unusual treatment; he

looked up at me with imploring eyes, but I could not venture to take

him with me. One of the boxes of precious stones I took and made fast

to my girdle, the rest I left in their places. The bird stretched and

strained with his head in an odd wild way as I went out with him

through the door; the dog sprung at his chain to follow me; but he was

bound fast, and he was obliged to stay. I avoided the road that led to

the mountains, and went down the valley the opposite way. The little

dog kept whining and barking incessantly, and I felt for him in my

heart; the bird made one or two attempts to sing, but it seemed he did

not like being carried, and would not go on.

"For a long time I heard the barking of the dog, getting weaker and

fainter, however, as I got further away; at last it ceased altogether.

I cried, and had almost turned about and gone back again, but the

craving for something new urged me forward. I was soon over the hill,

and I walked on through wood and meadow till towards evening, when I

found myself near a village. I felt rather frightened at first in

going into an inn among strange people; but they shewed me into a

chamber with a bed, and I slept there very comfortably, only that I

dreamed of the old woman, who seemed to threaten me.

"My journey had very little variety; but the further I went, the more

I was haunted by the recollection of the old woman and the little dog.

The poor little thing, I thought, would be sure to die of hunger,

without me to help it; and at every turn in the forest I expected to

see the figure of the old woman coming to meet me. Sighing and

weeping, I travelled on: whenever I stopped to rest myself, and set

the cage down upon the ground, the bird would sing his strange song,

and then bitter feelings of regret would come upon me for the dear old

cottage. So forgetful is our nature, I thought my first journey had

not been half so miserable as that, and I craved to be again once more

as I was then.

"I had parted with some of the jewels, and at last, after a long round

of walking, one day I came to a village. I felt a strange emotion on

entering it; I was overcome by something, and could not tell why. Very

soon, however, I recollected myself, and found I was in the village

where I was born. How surprised I was! a thousand reminiscences came

pouring back upon me, and the tears ran down my cheeks. It was very

much altered. New houses had sprung up; others, which were new when I

went away, were crumbling to the ground; I found traces of burning

also; and every thing looked much smaller and more confined than I had

fancied. I was infinitely delighted, however, at the thought of seeing

my father and mother again after so long an absence. I found the

little cottage; the well-known doorway; the handle of the door was

exactly as it used to be; it seemed like yesterday that I had had it

in my hand. My heart beat and throbbed; I opened the door hastily; but

all the faces in the room were strange to me; they stared at me as I

entered. I asked for old Martin the shepherd; but they told me he and

his wife had been dead for three years past. I drew back as quickly as

I could, and went crying out of the village.

"I had been thinking how delightful it would be to surprise them with

all my riches; the strangest accident had realised the dreams of my

childhood--I could make them happy--and now all was vain. They could

not share with me; and what all my life long had been the dearest

object of my hope was lost to me for ever.

"I went to a pleasant-looking town, where I rented a small house with

a garden, and took a servant to live with me. I did not find the world

quite the wonderful place I expected; but I soon learnt to think less

and less of the old woman and the cottage I had lived in with her; and

so altogether I lived on pleasantly enough.

"For a long time the bird had left off singing, so that I was not a

little frightened when one night he began again with a different song.

'My forest-bower,

Thou'rt far from me;

Oh, hour by hour

I grieve for thee:

Ah, when shall I see

My forest-bower?'

I could not sleep all night. The whole thing came back again into my

thoughts, and I felt more clearly than ever that I had done what I

ought not. When I got up, the bird's head was turned towards me; he

kept watching me with a strange expression, and seemed to be

reproaching me. Now he never stopped singing; and his song came louder

and deeper I thought than it had ever been before. The more I looked

at him, the more uncomfortable he made me. At last I opened the cage,

thrust in my hand and caught him by the neck. I pressed my fingers

violently together; he looked imploringly in my face; I let him go;

but he was already dead: I buried him in the garden.

"After this I was haunted by a fear of my servant; my conscience told

me what I had done, and I was afraid that some day or other she would

be robbing, or perhaps murdering me. Shortly, however, I became

acquainted with a young knight, who pleased me exceedingly. I gave him

my hand; and here, Herr Walters, is my story ended."

"Ah, you should have seen her then," Egbert broke in hastily; "her

youthful freshness and beauty; and what an indescribable charm she had

received from her retired education! She came before me as a kind of

miraculous being, and I set no bounds to my affection for her. I was

poor myself; indeed I had nothing; but through her love I was placed

in the position in which you find me. We withdrew hither, and neither

of us has ever, for a single moment, regretted our union."

"But see, with our talking and chatting," interrupted Bertha, "it is

already past midnight; we had better go to bed."

She rose to retire to her chamber; as they parted Walters kissed her

hand, and wished her good night. "Thanks, noble lady," he said, "for

your story. I think I can see you with your strange bird, and feeding

the little Strohmian."

Walters, too, retired to sleep; but Egbert continued restlessly pacing

up and down the hall. "What fools we men are!" he said to himself.

"Was it not I that prevailed on my wife to tell her story? and now I

am sorry it should have been told! Will he not make use of it for some

evil purpose? Will he not blab, and let our secret out to others? Is

he not very likely (it is just what a man would naturally do) to feel

some accursed hankering after one's jewels, and lay some plan or other

to get hold of them?"

It struck him Walters had not taken leave of him with, as much

heartiness as he naturally would have done after being admitted into

such a piece of confidence. When once a man has admitted a feeling of

suspicion into his breast, every trifle becomes a confirmation of it.

Then for a moment he would feel ashamed of so ungenerous a distrust

of his noble-hearted friend; and yet he could not fling it off; all

night long these feelings kept swaying to and fro through his breast.

He slept but little.

The next morning Bertha was unwell, and could not appear at breakfast.

Walters did not seem much to distress himself about it, and of the

knight also he took leave with apparent unconcern. Egbert could not

well make it out; he went to his wife's room, she was in a violent

fever; she said she supposed telling her story the preceding night

must have over-excited her.

After that evening Walters came seldom to his friend's castle; and

when he did he never stayed, but went away again almost immediately

with a few unmeaning words. Egbert was excessively distressed at this

behaviour: he never said any thing about it, either to his wife or to

Walters; but they must both have seen that there was something which

made him uneasy. Bertha's illness too was another subject of distress

to him. The physician became alarmed; the colour faded from her

cheeks, and her eyes grew of an unnatural brightness. One morning she

called her husband to her bedside, and sent the servants out of the

room.

"My dear husband," she began, seriously, "I have something to tell

you, which, however unmeaning and trifling it may seem to you, has

been the cause of all my illness, and has almost driven me out of my

senses. You know that whenever I have spoken of the events of my

childhood, in spite of all the trouble I have taken, I have never been

able to think of the name of the little dog that was so long with me.

The other evening as Walters took leave of me, he said, suddenly, 'I

fancy I see you feeding the little Strohmian.' Can it be accident that

he hit upon the name? or does he know the dog, and said what he did on

purpose? In what mysterious way is this man bound up with my destiny?

At times I try to persuade myself that it is all fancy; but no, it is

certainly true, too true. I cannot tell you how it has terrified me

to be so helped out with my recollection by a perfect stranger: what

do you say, Egbert?"

Egbert regarded his suffering wife with the deepest emotion. For some

time he could not speak, but stood lost in his own reflections. At

last he muttered a few words of consolation, and left her. He retired

to a remote apartment, and paced up and down in indescribable

uneasiness. Walters had for many years been his only companion; and

now was this man the only one in the world whose existence was a pain

and grief to him. Could this one being be removed out of his path,

all, he thought, would then be well with him. To dissipate his

unpleasant reflections, he took his cross-bow and went out into the

mountains to hunt.

It was a rough stormy winter's day; the snow lay deep upon the

hill-side, and the heavy branches of the pine-trees bent under their

burden. He scrambled rapidly on; the sweat stood upon his brow; but he

could not light on any game, and that increased his ill-humour.

Suddenly he saw a figure moving at some distance from him: it was

Walters, who was gathering moss from the trunks of the trees. Hardly

knowing what he did, he levelled his cross-bow at him; Walters looked

round, and raised his hand with a menacing gesture; but the bolt was

sped to its mark, and he fell to the earth.

Egbert now felt relieved from a heavy burden. Yet a feeling of terror

drove him hastily back to his castle. He had a long way to go; for he

had wandered far away into the forests. When he reached it, Bertha was

already dead: on her deathbed she had spoken incessantly of Walters

and the old woman.

Egbert now lived for a long time entirely alone. He had always been

dark and gloomy enough; for his wife's strange history troubled him,

and he was continually afraid some terrible misfortune would befall

them. His own conscience made him uneasy also. His friend's murder

was for ever before his eyes, and his life was an eternal

self-upbraiding.

As some relief to his feelings, he went from time to time to the next

great town, where he could find society and forget himself in feasting

and dissipation. He longed to find a friend to fill up the dreary

chasm in his soul; and then again when he thought of Walters, he

shrunk in terror from it, as he felt convinced that any friend must

only be a source of new misery to him. So many years he had lived with

Bertha in their sweet seclusion, Walters' friendship had so long been

his greatest delight; and now both were suddenly snatched away from

him. There were many moments when it all seemed to him like a strange,

wild romance, and that he only dreamt that he was alive.

A young knight, Hugo, attached himself to the silent, gloomy Egbert,

and seemed to be inspired with a real deep affection for him. Egbert

was very much surprised, and came forward to meet this new offer of

friendship the more readily because it was so entirely unexpected. The

two were now continually together. The stranger shewed Egbert every

possible attention. Neither ever rode out without the other; in short,

wherever they were, they appeared inseparable.

Yet it was only for a very brief interval that Egbert allowed himself

to feel happy; for he was too sure that Hugo only loved him because he

did not know his history. His friend was in an error respecting him;

and he felt the same impulse as he had done before to unbosom himself

to him, that he might be assured whether he was indeed his friend or

not. Then, again, caution kept him back, and the fear of becoming an

object of abhorrence to Hugo; there were times when he was so terribly

oppressed with a sense of his unworthiness that he could not believe

any one who was not an utter stranger to him could entertain the

slightest regard for him. For all that, however, he could not contain

himself; and one day as they were walking by themselves, he told his

whole history, and then asked whether he could still love a murderer.

Hugo was touched, and tried to comfort him; and Egbert returned with a

lighter heart to the town.

Yet it seemed to be his curse that a feeling of suspicion must arise

even in the hour of confidence; for hardly were they returned to their

room, and the glare of the candle was thrown upon his friend's face,

than he found something there which displeased him. He fancied he

could trace a malicious laugh. It struck him too that Hugo did not

seem so ready to talk to him as usual, and that his attention was

almost entirely given to the other persons present. There was an old

knight in the party who had never been a friend of Egbert, and used to

ask unpleasant questions about his wife, and where he got his money

from.... To this person Hugo attached himself, and the two held a long

mysterious conversation together, while their looks were from time to

time directed towards himself. Here he saw all his suspicions at once

confirmed. He believed he was betrayed, and his fierce and gloomy

temper now got complete mastery over him. As he stood with his eyes

fixed on them as they talked, suddenly he saw Walters' face, his air,

his gesture--the whole figure so familiar to him. He looked again; and

now he was convinced that it was no one but Walters that was speaking

with the old knight.... In unutterable terror, almost beside himself,

he rushed out of the room, and that night left the city, and returned

as fast as possible to his castle.

He wandered restlessly from chamber to chamber; not a thought could he

find to soothe him; sleep fled from his eyes, and from one terrible

imagination he could only fall into another yet more terrible. He

thought he must be mad, and that what he had seen was but a crazed

dream; but Walters' features had been too vivid, and all was again a

riddle. He resolved to leave the castle, and set out upon his travels,

to bring his mind again into order: every thought of friendship, every

wish for society, he had now given up for ever.

He set out without having made up his mind which way he would go;

indeed he thought little of the country through which he passed. One

day he had been riding for some time at a rapid pace among the

mountains, when he found himself suddenly involved in a labyrinth of

rocks, from which he could not discover any way of escape. At last he

fell in with an old countryman, who shewed him a path leading past a

waterfall. He offered the old man some money as a reward, but he

declined to accept it.

"What is the matter with me?" said Egbert to himself; "I could have

fancied this was Walters again." He looked round, and Walters it

certainly was. Egbert spurred his horse on at its utmost speed; he

flew away over rocks and through woods and meadows, until at length it

sunk exhausted under him to the earth. He did not pause to think of

this, but continued to hurry on on foot.

In a kind of half-dream, he climbed a little hill; he fancied he heard

the lively barking of a dog somewhere near him. Tall chestnuts rustled

in the wind, and he caught the strange wild strains of a song:

"In my forest-home

Again sing I,

Where pain hath no life;

No envy and strife.

Oh, am I not happy

In my forest home?"

Egbert was completely stupified, his senses reeled; all seemed a dark

painful riddle to him. He could not tell whether he was dreaming now,

or whether he had not dreamt of a Bertha as his wife. The common and

the wonderful were so strangely mingled together; the world round him

was enchanted.... His thoughts and recollections swam confusedly

before his mind.

A crooked hump-backed old woman came panting up the hill with a

crutch.

"Are you come to bring me my bird? my pearls? my dog?" she screamed

to him; "see how wickedness is its own punisher! I was your friend

Walters--I was Hugo."

"God in heaven," muttered Egbert to himself, "to what dreadful place

have I wandered? Where am I?"

"And Bertha was your sister."

Egbert fell to the ground.

"What made her run away from me in that way? the time of trial was

almost over, and thus all had ended well. She was the daughter of a

knight; he sent her to the herdsman to be brought up. She was your

father's daughter."

"Oh, why, why have I ever had this dreadful foreboding?" cried Egbert.

"Because when you were young you once heard your father speak of it.

He could not let her stay with him, for he was afraid of his wife; she

was the child of an earlier marriage."

Egbert's heartstrings burst; he lay gasping out his life upon the

ground; faintly and more faintly he heard the old woman speak, the dog

bark, and the bird chant on his unwearying song.