ALBRECHT.
ARLO BATES.
Sô gesach sie valken vliegen.
Dietmar von Aist.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1890.
_Copyright, 1890_,
BY ARLO BATES.
UNIVERSITY PRESS:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
To
_THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER_,
NIRAN BATES,
_AND OF MY MOTHER_,
SUSAN THAXTER BATES,
I Dedicate this Book;
_profoundly conscious that it can bring to me no other
satisfaction or honor so great as the keeping in remembrance
the fact that I am their son_.
_FORE-WORD._
_It must be evident to the most careless observer that the treatment of
the theme with which the present story deals would probably not have
taken the form it has, had "Undine" not been written before it; but it
is to be hoped that "Albrecht" will not on that account be set down as
an attempt either to imitate or to rival that immortal romance._
_No effort has been made to secure historical exactness, as the intent
of the tale was wholly independent of this. To furnish a picture of the
times was not in the least the thing sought._
_A romance can hardly fall into a more fatal error than to attempt the
didactic, and there is no intention in the present story of enforcing
any moral whatever; and yet the problem which lies at the heart of the
tale is one which is of sufficient significance in human life to furnish
a reasonable excuse for any book which, even without contributing
anything to its solution, states it so that it appeals to the reader
until he recognizes its deep import._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. HOW ONE WENT 11
II. HOW ONE CAME 25
III. HOW THE KNIGHT SANG 33
IV. HOW HE REMAINED TO WOO 44
V. HOW THEY DISCOURSED OF KISSES 56
VI. HOW THEY CAME TO KISSES THEMSELVES 66
VII. HOW THE TIME WORE TO THE WEDDING DAY 75
VIII. OF THE EVE BEFORE THE WEDDING 83
IX. OF THE WEDDING MORNING 93
X. HOW THEY WERE WED 101
XI. HOW ALBRECHT CONFESSED 113
XII. HOW THE MORGENGABE WAS BESTOWED 125
XIII. HOW THE DAYS SPED AT RITTENBERG 134
XIV. HOW THE PRIEST BECAME TROUBLED 144
XV. HOW COUNT STEPHEN RETURNED 154
XVI. HOW THE COUNT TALKED AND SANG 162
XVII. HOW THEY HUNTED THE STAG 172
XVIII. HOW HERR VON ZIMMERN CAME AGAIN 181
XIX. HOW ERNA AND ALBRECHT TALKED OF LIFE 191
XX. HOW THEY RODE TO FLY THE FALCON 198
XXI. HOW ALBRECHT AND HERR FREDERICH TALKED IN THE WOOD 211
XXII. HOW ALBRECHT RODE HOME 225
XXIII. HOW ERNA SUFFERED 234
XXIV. HOW COUNT STEPHEN MET HERR FREDERICH 242
XXV. HOW FATHER CHRISTOPHER SENT FOR ALBRECHT 252
XXVI. HOW ALBRECHT AND ERNA FORGAVE EACH OTHER 258
ALBRECHT.
I
HOW ONE WENT.
Like a vast sea the mighty Schwarzwald stretched its forests of pine and
its wide wastes of heather around Castle Rittenberg, its surface forever
fretted into waves by the wind. Like the sea it seemed measureless, and
the lands which lay beyond its borders appeared to the scattered
dwellers in its valleys as remote as might appear the continents to the
people of far islands.
Like the sea, moreover, the Schwarzwald was peopled by strange beings,
of whom alike the peasant folk who dwelt upon its borders, the rude
churls whose huts stood here and there in clusters in its less
intractable nooks, and the nobles whose castles overtopped the
wilderness of trees and bracken, went always in secret dread. In the
north lurked the hordes of the Huns, the terrible barbarians who from
time to time descended, hardly human, upon the fertile lands which lay
beyond the borders of the forest, swarming as they went upon whatever
luckless castle lay in their path. The boldest knight might well tremble
at the name of the ferocious Huns, and even the army of Charlemagne
himself had hardly been able to cope with this foe.
But more near at hand, and more terrible than even the Huns, were the
strange creatures who abode in the forest, and who walked invisible at
their will, the mysterious beings who lurked in dim recesses, and of
whom men spoke only in awe-struck whispers. Even what they were it was
not easy to say; and who could tell how they were offended or how to be
placated? The nixies of the lakes and streams; the dwarfs and gnomes of
cave and mountain; the kobolds, who were more daring and more human in
appearance than either, so that haply a man might endanger not only his
life but even his soul holding commerce with them, unsuspecting that
they were not of his fellow mortals,--all these and many others dwelt in
the shadowy recesses, and against these not even the hosts of the Great
Emperor would avail.
The wind soughing all day in the pine-trees, and the weird, sweet music
of the elfin harps which belated wanderers heard sounding to lure them
on into blinder depths of the wood, seemed to sing the same song; but
its mystery human ears might not fathom, and scarcely could human will
resist its spell. In the tempest the bugles of the Wild Huntsman pealed
shrilly through the storm, and the retainers at Castle Rittenberg
crossed themselves at the sound almost as openly as did the damsels; but
there was less danger in this than in the heavenly sweet strains which
beguiled the wayfarer into forgetfulness of home and of dear ones until
he joined himself to the soulless folk of the forest, and was heard of
no more.
It was music of this sort, more sweet than words might tell, faint on
the air as the breath of a sigh or yet again swelling full and strong as
a blast from the horns when the hunt is rushing through the wood, that
had of late been heard around the castle. Delicious, enervating,
seductive and yet pleading, the strange melodies had seemed to surround
the towers, as if throngs of invisible musicians floated in the air to
bring their heavenly minstrelsy to the Countess Erna.
There had indeed been more than one token that something mysterious was
forward in the forest; and although the priest of Rittenberg frowned
upon all talk of the wood-spirits and their doings, the folk of the
castle whispered under their breath many a wild surmise.
Mayhap it was of these things that the Countess Erna dreamed as one
spring morning she sat by her open lattice, albeit she had before her a
parchment from which she might be reading. From below arose the noise of
horses' hoofs, the cries of grooms and pages, the clatter of spurs upon
the stone pavement, and all the sounds that betoken the preparation of a
troop to leave the castle. So little did she heed, however, that she
seemed not to hear. So motionless was she that the doves which had
perched upon the wide window-ledge in perfect fearlessness had ceased to
regard her at all, and preened themselves in the sun with soft,
full-throated cooings, contrasting oddly with the clamor which arose
from below.
The morning sun shone gloriously, casting a flood of light through the
room; and although Erna sat withdrawn from the fervor of its direct
rays, she seemed to glow in the radiance like a lily golden-hearted. Her
hair, yellow as the flax on a fairy's distaff, caught a stray sunbeam
which stole through a crevice in the curtain-folds, and scattered the
light in a hundred reflections, making of them an aureole about the
graceful young head. The eyes, blue as an oker-bell, were now and then
raised from the richly illuminated parchment before her, absently
regarding the doves as if she saw them not, while the slender hands
which held the scroll were only a little warmer in their color than the
robe of snowy wool loosely confined at the waist with a golden girdle.
As she sat there in the still chamber, withdrawn from the bustle of the
courtyard below in mind no less than in place, there was about the
countess an atmosphere of peace, of innocence, of purity, one might
almost have said of holiness, that he must be dull indeed who could not
feel, or who, feeling, failed to reverence.
There was little reverence, however, in the mien of the old dame who
came hastily into the chamber, and broke in upon the reading and the
dreaming of the Countess Erna with exclamations full of vexation.
"Body of Saint Fridolin!" she cried. "Thou sittest here reading as
quietly as if thy suitor, Count Stephen, were a thousand leagues away
instead of waiting below to take leave of thee. No wonder that he
declares that thou hast not a drop of warm blood in thy body, as his
squire reported to my damsel."
"Count Stephen is no suitor of mine," Erna responded calmly, "as no one
knoweth better than thou, Aunt Adelaide. He is my guest, however, and I
should be loath to fail in aught of courtesy toward him. Why have I not
been summoned if he be in truth waiting?"
"Well, if he be not waiting," the old dame replied with a lower voice
and some softening of manner, "he is at least ready to set out, and that
is much the same thing. It would certainly look more attentive on thy
part shouldst thou be in the hall when he comes to take leave rather
than to wait to be sent for."
"Doubtless; but I have no wish to be attentive to Count Stephen beyond
the claim of any guest."
"But Count Stephen is a member of the family."
"His connection is hardly near enough to count in this matter," Erna
answered. "Dear Aunt," she continued, coming closer to the other, and
laying a caressing hand lightly upon the old woman's arm, "I am sorry
that thou shouldst be disappointed. I did what I could to fulfil thy
wish when I bade thee have Count Stephen come here, although what we had
heard of him was so little of the sort to make me long for such a guest,
because I knew that more than for aught else in the world thou didst
long for the perpetuation of the Von Rittenberg name by my becoming his
wife. I shrank from the knight from the first moment I saw him, and
never could it be that I should be brought to look upon him with favor.
Happily he feels the same repugnance to me, so that I am spared the
pain of telling him nay; but I cannot fail to be glad at his departure."
The old dame, who was so small and so old that she seemed to have
shrivelled away in long centuries, overlooked and forgotten by the Angel
of Death, was evidently moved by the caressing air of the countess; but
her grievance was too deep and of too long standing to be so lightly
passed over, and she could not restrain herself from the further venting
of her displeasure.
"Why does he feel cold toward thee?" she demanded. "Hast thou been other
than an ice-hill to him since he entered the castle? I sent for Count
Stephen to come here to pay his respects to me because he is the only
man alive who bears our name; and whatever thou mayst say, he bears it
like a brave knight. Thou hast met him as if thou wouldst remind him
that while he hath no great possessions thou art chatelaine of the
richest domain in the Ober-Schwarzwald."
"Aunt Adelaide!" interrupted Erna, a flush of indignation rising in her
clear cheek, "not even thou hast a right to charge me with insulting my
guests."
"God's blood!" the other returned. "There spoke thy father, Heaven rest
his soul! But thou knowest," she continued, softening her tone, "that I
cannot live forever to have care for thee, and that I cannot die easy
till thou art well wed. There are strange rumors in the air, too, and
who knoweth what the music from the forest that has been heard of late
may betoken? And Elsa tells me that there hath been about the place a
weird creature in the guise of a man who walketh limpingly. It all bodes
some wonderful thing that is to hap, and I would to the saints that
Rittenberg had a man to defend it, whatever may befall."
The entrance of a servant who announced that the Count von Rittenberg
was now in truth waiting to take leave, interrupted Lady Adelaide, and
brought her at once to a request which had been in her shrewd mind ever
since she learned that the guest was likely to set off without having
made that proffer for the hand of Erna to secure which she had invited
him to the castle.
"At least this thou canst do to please me," she said; "thou canst invite
him to rest here on his way back from Strasburg, whither he is
journeying."
"It will be idle for thy project, Aunt," the countess answered kindly;
"but if it will please thee I will do it."
The old aunt looked after the slender maiden as she left the chamber,
and sighed. The Lady Adelaide was almost a century old, and she had
lived to see one generation after another fall around her like
snowflakes that are a moment in the air and then are seen no more. She
felt that upon her rather than upon her niece rested the burden of
preserving the honor of the house of Von Rittenberg, and she could but
feel keenly the failure of her schemes for the perpetuation of the line
and the name. She had been accustomed, moreover, to being obeyed. For
three generations she had held an important place in the councils of the
family, even her imperious grand-nephew, the father of the Countess
Erna, having been accustomed to consult her in matters of importance.
She was not without a feeling of indignant surprise that her plans
should be disregarded, and perhaps this helped her to endure the genuine
sorrow which she felt whenever she thought of the possibility of the
failure of the family name.
The late count had fallen fighting in the place of honor in the advance
guard of the Great Emperor, at the head of the corps of Suabians whose
valor inspired in Charlemagne so warm an admiration. So high had Count
von Rittenberg stood in the favor of the emperor that a special
messenger had been despatched by Charlemagne's order to bear the
knight's sword and shield to his family with rich tokens of the royal
favor and expressions of sympathy. But not even this great honor could
prevent the shock from breaking the heart of his young wife, just
recovering from the birth of her first child, the present countess; and
Erna was thus left doubly orphaned while yet in her cradle.
During her infancy and girlhood Erna had been under the guardianship of
the Lady Adelaide, who seemed to hold the infirmities of age at bay with
a success little short of a miracle. The retainers believed her to be in
possession of some secret by means of which she preserved her vigor; and
many were the uncanny whispers which circulated through the castle
concerning her. Father Christopher, the chaplain of the Von Rittenberg
household, had more than once set himself to combat these rumors; but
the Lady Adelaide herself never exhibited any annoyance if she chanced
to hear them hinted at, and indeed seemed not ill-pleased that she
should enjoy a reputation which so lifted her above the rest of her
fellow mortals.
The marriage of Erna and Count Stephen von Rittenberg was a project
which had long occupied the thoughts of the Lady Adelaide. The count
belonged to a younger branch of the family which had settled near the
Lake of Constance half a century before, and lorded it over a petty
colony of boatmen whose settlement was called Schaffhausen from their
boat-sheds. There had never been very cordial relations between the two
branches, and Count Stephen would never have been sought out by his aged
relative had not her desire to perpetuate the Von Rittenberg name
overcome her traditional scorn of the "Schaffleute," as the Schaffhausen
Von Rittenbergs were contemptuously called by the elder branch. The
count had a reputation not of the best, it was unhappily true; but he
was at least a Von Rittenberg, and that outweighed all other
considerations in the mind of the old matchmaker. She had invited him to
visit her, taking care that he should understand that he was to be
considered in the light of a possible candidate for the hand of the
heiress of Rittenberg, and it was with sincere regret as well as
vexation that she saw her scheming come to naught.
From the first the repulsion had been mutual between the countess and
her guest. He was by no means insensible to the advantages of the match,
which offered him the lordship of the richest holding in all the
Schwarzwald, confirmed to the Von Rittenbergs by special decree of
Charlemagne himself, but he was a man accustomed to consider his
inclinations in all things and first of all things; so that when he
found the countess not to his liking, he pushed the affair no further.
He was a man to whom life meant sensuous pleasure; and Erna, in her
white innocence, her purity and devotion, failed to please him. He found
her cold and tediously religious, and instinctively felt that the
presence of a wife with her standards of conduct would be a perpetual
rebuke to his pleasure-loving life.
On her side Erna shrank from the count without understanding why. The
taint of evil was on him, and her pure maidenly sense was offended
without comprehending how. She felt in a way degraded by his very
presence; the bold, curious looks with which he regarded her affected
her like an affront. Her instinctive purity was repelled by the sensual
atmosphere which he created wherever he came. She could not have
explained even to herself what she felt, but it was impossible for her
to endure his presence save by the strongest effort. It was with a
feeling of relief that she passed down the long hall to say good-by to
him; and even the fact that she had promised her aunt to ask him to
return did not at the moment trouble her, since his return seemed too
uncertain and remote to weigh against the present departure. The Lady
Adelaide, with a diplomacy which was wholly wasted, had herself taken
leave of Count Stephen earlier, to the end that her niece might receive
his farewell alone.
There was short speech between the guest and his hostess, neither of
whom wished to prolong the interview; and hardly ten minutes from the
time she had left it, Erna re-entered her chamber. She took up the
scroll she had been reading, a copy of the writings of Saint Cuthbert,
but paused before she opened it to look out at the train of the
departing guest, which was already in motion. She watched it cross the
drawbridge and wind down the side of the hill upon which the castle
stood; and after it had vanished, with its glitter of armor, flash of
helmet, gay flutter of pennant and waving of plumes, into the obscurity
of the pine forest below, which swallowed up the troop and hid its
further progress from sight, she leaned wistfully upon the window-ledge,
buried in thought. She was wondering if she were different from other
maidens, that her heart had not been touched, but that she had rather
been repelled by the handsome knight who had just left her; and she half
doubted whether he had not been right in likening her to a human
iceberg.
Suddenly her reverie was broken by the shrill, clear blast of a horn,
which arose from the pine wood below, and came soaring upward like the
piercingly sweet song of a bird that pours its whole heart out singing
and straining its flight toward the blue heaven.
The sound broke in upon her revery as if it were a summons from some of
the mysterious powers whose home was in the forest. Often as she had
heard a bugle hailing the warder of Rittenberg, it had never happened
that there had come with the sound such a thrill as this call brought.
Far stretched and weird the great Schwarzwald lay, the warm summer sun
seeming to glance from its impenetrable surface, unable to pierce to the
depths wherein lurked the wild woodland creatures as the nixies lurked
in the lakes; and something that was half a shudder crossed her frame,
as the note of that horn called up the thought of all the strange
secrets which therein lay hidden. Then, with an effort, she shook off
the momentary oppression, and threw her clear glance down into the
valley to see whence came the call.
II
HOW ONE CAME.
Erna leaned forward over the wide stone window-ledge, and turned her
gaze downward to where the road, little more than a bridle-path, emerged
from the obscurity of the pine wood to begin its winding ascent to the
castle gate. A second blast of the bugle-horn, blown with full lungs and
with a good will that seemed to promise a jocund disposition in the
visitor who came thus heralded, and there rode out of the wood a knight,
followed by his squire and a couple of men-at-arms.
The countess strained her eyes in a natural curiosity to discover what
manner of man the forest was sending her as a guest. He was too far
below for her to be able to distinguish his features, although he rode
with beaver up; but she could appreciate the fact that he sat his horse,
a superb chestnut stallion, with the ease and grace of one thoroughly
bred to knightly customs. He was a man of commanding stature,
overtopping the squire who rode close behind him, and dwarfing the
men-at-arms by contrast. His armor, she was able to perceive as he rode
up the hill and thus came somewhat nearer, was of the richest, and the
flash of jewels on his bridle-rein caught her eye as he rode into the
sunlight.
So striking was the mien of the stranger knight that Erna suddenly found
herself affected with a strange kindness for him, and unconsciously
sighed as the thought flitted through her mind that whoever he might be,
he was probably merely a traveller who sought rest and refreshment in
the castle to-day, to vanish to-morrow into the unknown world from which
he had come. Then she smiled at her own folly in thus grieving at the
departure of a perfect stranger before she had even met him to welcome
his arrival; and as he drew near the castle gate, and the squire for the
third time blew a merry blast on the horn, she drew back from the
window. As she did so, she fancied that the unknown cast a sudden glance
up to her casement; and far away as he was, she seemed to catch a
glimpse of eyes dark and full of fire.
Full of curiosity, Erna waited to be summoned as chatelaine of the
castle, to go through the formality of according the hospitalities of
the house to the guest. It was the generous custom of the Von
Rittenbergs to receive all who came, although the Lady Adelaide was
continually predicting evil results from a hospitality so unguarded and
so unusual in a fortress where the head of the family was an unmarried
woman. The countess took pride in keeping up the family traditions, but
she was even more moved to this course by a genuine religious charity.
It seemed to her tender heart monstrous to deny food and shelter to any
when it was possible to give them; and if her course had been shaped
rather by the sentiments of her confessor, Father Christopher, than by
ordinary considerations of prudence, there had at least no harm befallen
from her custom thus far.
When Erna descended to the great hall to meet the new-comer, she found
him conversing with Father Christopher, whom he overtopped by nearly a
head. She was astonished by the stranger's wonderful beauty. His face
was of a mould as powerful as his figure. A heavy chestnut beard,
curling and glossy, but barely descending to his collar, covered the
lower part of his countenance. His head was firmly poised, and carried
with the air of one accustomed to absolute mastery. His brow, displayed
by the removal of his helmet, was wide and high.
But what most impressed Erna in the appearance of the stranger knight
were his magnificent eyes, which were like no others she had ever seen.
They were brown and liquid, with that glance at once appealing and
defiant, pathetic and fierce, which one sees in the eyes of a stag that
proudly leads the herd. One perceived that they could upon occasion
kindle into splendid rage, although they were capable of looks of such
wistful tenderness, such longing, such melting desire. As Erna advanced
down the rush-strewn hall to meet the guest, it almost seemed to her
that his glance drew her on, so strongly was she impressed; and yet when
he spoke, his voice to her was more strangely sweet than even his
wonderful eyes.
Father Christopher announced the new-comer as Baron Albrecht von
Waldstein; and he added, with a touch of the gossip, that the knight's
home lay in the Neiderwasser valley, to the northward.
The baron himself explained his presence at the castle.
"One of my retainers," he said, "was this morning, as we were riding
toward the south, smitten with a strange illness. I feared that we
should leave his bones to bleach in the forest for lack of a leech; and
he himself had either small courage or strength to ride on. Fortunately
his fellow knew that we were near Rittenberg, and I have ventured to
bring him here, in the hope that we might for a little find shelter and
the aid of a leech."
"He shall be looked to," Erna answered with a gentle gravity which
became her well. "Our leech is not unskilful, and his best is at thy
service."
"I thank thee," the baron responded, bowing profoundly. "It were a
matter of much inconvenience to be left with but one man-at-arms thus
far from home."
"Thou must, too, be concerned at the suffering of the poor man," the
countess returned. "I am always unhappy if one of my people is ill. They
seem so much like animals in their pain, and as if they could not
understand what had happened to them. It is very pitiful."
The baron regarded her with a look of inquiry on his handsome face.
"Of course one cares for his servants," he assented, "since he can so
ill get on without them."
Had her cousin, Count Stephen, the beat of whose horse's hoofs had so
lately died upon the air, said these words, Erna would doubtless have
regarded them as shockingly heartless; but now so strongly had the
appearance of this stranger won upon her, that she only smiled and
shook her head.
"Of a truth they have not our feelings," she said; "but after all, they
are yet human beings. Wert thou in the forest through the night?" she
added. "Thou canst not have come far this morning, especially riding
with one who was ill."
"We were in the forest all night," the baron responded. "We made shift
to shelter us in a cave that we chanced upon. It was the sickness of the
man which prevented that we rode further yester-e'en, till we had found
lodgings."
"But hadst thou no fear of the wood-sprites?" Erna asked.
"Nay," replied Baron Albrecht, "they troubled us not; though we were
aware of them as they passed us by," he added, smiling.
"Thou art a bold knight," she murmured beneath her breath.
"Truly thou art favored of heaven," Father Christopher said, "if the
wood-sprites can do thee no harm."
The countess looked at the stranger with admiration and astonishment.
Bold as were the knights who had made the name of her family respected
far and near, they had not been free from the fear of the wild folk of
the wood, and it was with a thrill that she looked at the stranger
knight as he avowed his fearlessness.
"At least now," she said, "we will do what is in our power for thee,
whether it be to protect thee against the dangers of the forest or to
offer thee rest and refreshment."
She gave the necessary orders, and passed down the hall again the way
she had come. As she ascended the winding stair which led up toward her
chamber, she turned and looked backward. The Baron von Waldstein stood
where she had left him, and his eyes were fixed upon her retreating
figure with a gaze which made her thrill with mingled confusion and
pleasure. She turned away her face with a blush which she could not
repress, and hastened on.
In her chamber Erna found her great-aunt, all alive with eager
curiosity.
"Who is he?" Lady Adelaide demanded. "Elsa says he is the handsomest man
alive, and that his jewels are wonderful. Is it so? Didst thou notice
them?"
"He is certainly handsome," Erna answered. "As for his jewels, I do not
think I noticed them; but now that thou speakest of it, I do remember
that there was a splendid red fiery gem on the front of his corselet. It
shone so that it caught my eye from the top of the stair as I went
down."
"It must be a carbuncle," the old lady responded. "He must be a knight
of much consequence; and yet I cannot remember that I ever heard of the
Von Waldsteins in my life. I wonder if I have ever seen any of the
family. How does he look?"
"He looks," replied her niece absently, "like a woodland god."
Her eyes, as she spoke, fell on the scroll she had been reading earlier
in the morning. The place had been the passage in which Saint Cuthbert
warns against the snares of appearances. She sighed and turned away from
the eager questioning of her companion to take again the pious scroll;
but when the Lady Adelaide, grumbling that her curiosity could not be
gratified, had left the chamber, the parchment slipped unheeded to the
floor, and the countess looked out over the undulating waves of the pine
forest with eyes that saw not, so deeply was she absorbed in reverie.
The sage words of Saint Cuthbert were forgotten, and she dreamed of the
splendid knight of whom she knew nothing but what was to be learned from
those appearances against the deceitfulness of which the page she had
been reading admonished in vain.
III
HOW THE KNIGHT SANG.
The Lady Adelaide found small satisfaction for her curiosity so far as
her niece was concerned, but she set her damsel Elsa to collect whatever
information might be obtained from the knight's little retinue. Elsa,
she knew from experience, might be trusted to gather whatever gossip was
afloat about the castle, and to repeat it in a lively and entertaining
fashion. But on the present occasion even the skilful Elsa failed to
elicit much from the taciturn men-at-arms of Baron von Waldstein, and
she could in the end report to her mistress little beyond the fact that
the baron was travelling southward, though whether to join the court or
army of the Great Emperor or for some private expedition did not appear.
Of his wealth there could be no question when the very bridles of his
horses were set with jewels over which the eyes of the Rittenberg
servants grew large and round with astonishment and admiration; while
from the respect of his men it was evident that he was accustomed to
being served as are only those who are born with the right to command.
The sick retainer had under the care of the leech recovered somewhat
from the severity of his first attack, and his disorder had been
pronounced nothing contagious,--a point upon which the Lady Adelaide had
been much exercised,--with the opinion of the leech that it would be
necessary for him to rest a couple of days before continuing his
journey.
Lady Adelaide was forced to be content with this scant information until
the assembling of the family at dinner gave her an opportunity of
observing the stranger for herself. She came into the hall with her
niece prepared to subject the guest to a searching examination, such as
she knew herself to be abundantly able to conduct; but for almost the
only time in her life the ancient dame found herself from the first
moment so completely under the spell of the stranger that she gave
herself up unquestioningly to the charm of his presence and his
conversation, without even an attempt to force him to give an account of
himself.
Nor was she alone in this infatuation. Both Father Christopher and the
Countess Erna were as strongly impressed with the singular fascination
of the baron. There was about him a contagious joyousness, an
exhilarating fulness of life, as if he had drunk from some fountain of
youth, and shed about him the influence of his superabundant vitality.
Doubtless the unusual vigor and manly beauty of the knight contributed
much to this result; but back of these seemed to lie some rare and
powerful quality in the nature of the man himself which was more
effective than either. It would have been impossible to analyze his
charm, but it was also impossible to resist it.
The talk at the table was so animated and full of frank gayety that they
lingered by common though unspoken consent far beyond the usual time.
The baron had throughout addressed himself to the whole company, seldom
speaking directly to Erna, although he now and then appealed to the Lady
Adelaide or to Father Christopher; and yet the countess was subtly
conscious that in all he said there was a secret intention of
interesting herself. She blushed as this thought came to her after she
had retired to her chamber and sat over her embroidery, while the priest
and the knight were left to entertain each other. So unsophisticated was
she that this thought seemed almost unmaidenly, and she contradicted it
as soon as it showed itself in her mind.
She was a maid with soul as white as the unspotted ermine. She had been
bred under the eye of Father Christopher,--a priest who was also a man,
and one of rare insight. She was as ignorant of evil as one must be who
had lived ever in seclusion, and her temperament naturally inclined
toward piety. Something of an education she had received from the
priest. She could read; and there were in the castle several pious
books, most of them, it is to be feared, looted by the late Count von
Rittenberg on the day of some victory of the Great Emperor in the south
at which he had assisted. Over these parchments, mostly religious works,
although a wicked volume of the heathen poet Ovid had somehow chanced
among them, Erna passed much time. The brilliant scroll of Ovid, with
its profane pictures, at which she had never looked more than in a
single glance that showed her what they were like, she had hidden away
after a consultation with Father Christopher whether it should not be
destroyed despite its value.
The colored threads of her embroidery that afternoon were scarcely more
bright than the thoughts which floated through Erna's brain as she sat
among her maidens, directing their work; and yet in her mind was no
thought which was consciously different from those of the day before or
of all the days that had preceded; only that now suddenly all those
days appeared, as she looked back, somehow colorless and dull. She did
not say to herself that the coming of the stranger knight had suddenly
put new meaning into life, but her secret heart knew it, albeit she had
yet to understand what her heart felt.
When that night she came into the great hall for supper, a lily-white
maid in soul as well as robe, the eyes of the baron glowed as he looked
at her. There was in his glance an adoration such as a noble dog might
give to his mistress, a tender appeal as of one who beseeches a higher
being to take pity upon him; and Father Christopher, who observed
closely whatever concerned the countess, sighed as he looked, and
secretly shook his head.
The talk at supper touched upon hunting, and the eyes of the baron
sparkled as he said:
"Ah! when the wild boar turns on thee, and there is only thy spear-head
between thee and his tusks, that is pleasure! That sends the blood
through one's veins, and makes the heart tingle!"
Erna shuddered.
"I cannot understand how it can be pleasure," she said, "to put one's
life in danger, or to take the life of a beast that has never injured
thee."
Baron Albrecht regarded her in some surprise.
"I have never thought of that," he returned frankly. "Why should one
consider the beasts? They are made for our sport, are they not?"
"I know you men think so," she responded with a smile; "but I cannot
bear that they should suffer for my amusement."
The guest still looked puzzled, and apparently was on the point of
questioning further, when Lady Adelaide, evidently fearing lest the
words of her niece might offend the baron or give him the idea that Erna
was full of strange fancies, said quickly:
"And yet thou canst sing very prettily of the hunting. Let us get nearer
the fire, and thou shalt sing for us now. Beshrew me, but this storm is
enough to freeze one's bones."
The night had indeed darkened into a storm such as it was unusual to
experience at that time of year. Outside the castle turrets they could
hear the wind and rain beating, and all the wild uproar of the tempest,
as it howled and raged along over the wood. They drew close about the
broad hearth, where a cheerful fire had been lighted, despite the fact
that the month was June; and in accordance with her aunt's wish, Erna
took her lute and sang a gay little ditty in praise of hunting.
"I do not mean it," she protested as she ended, and smiled in pleasant
fashion, as if it were his opinion which she was anxious should be set
right.
"Perhaps," Father Christopher said, "thou also canst sing, Sir Baron? If
so, it will delight us to hear thee."
The request was warmly seconded by Lady Adelaide. Erna said nothing.
"Is it thy wish that I should sing?" the stranger knight asked, turning
toward her.
She flushed a little as she answered in the affirmative, and then said
to herself that her confusion arose from the fact that there was so
seldom any need to consult her wish in such a matter that the attention
seemed unusual.
The knight took the lute, which in his large and strong hands looked
absurdly out of place, yet which he handled with a great deal of
dexterity, and after a brief prelude began in a voice of wonderful
richness to sing
THE KOBOLD'S SONG.
The kobold's life is full of glee.
For him the forest is made;
For him the leaf swells on the tree,
The fount wells in the glade.
Well he knows every nook,
Every pool where the brook
Breeds him trout in the sun or the shade;
Where the wild berries grow,
Where the cool waters flow;
Where dappled deer hide them
With sleek fawns beside them;
And where the wood-dove's eggs are laid.
He knows the hidden mountain mine
Where wondrous jewels lie;
The caves in which their glorious shine
Dazzles his feasting eye;
He heaps up the red gold
Till his treasures untold
Would the souls of a multitude buy!
All the wealth of the earth
Is his dower from birth.
Who can strength with him measure?
Who baffle his pleasure?
What kings with his riches can vie?
When winds rush whistling through the wood,
The kobold's merry heart bounds;
For well he knows the bugle good
That calls up horse and hounds.
The Wild Huntsman rides past
On the wings of the blast,
And the forest with tumult resounds;
The blithe wood-elves are there,
With the sprites of the air;
And as faster and faster
They follow their master,
He joins in their turbulent rounds!
The baron would have sung further in his wild praises of the life of the
race of forest sprites with whom his verse dealt, but he was interrupted
by the Lady Adelaide, who crossed herself fervently, exclaiming:
"Now beshrew me, Sir Baron, but it is ill to speak of the Wild Huntsman
on a night like this when he may be abroad. Heaven send he be not near
enough to the castle to have heard your song!"
The singer stared at her an instant in silent amazement, and then broke
into a peal of golden-throated laughter, which was hardly as respectful
as was the due of a person of the age and quality of the old dame.
"By my sword," he cried, "it is, then, really true that thou art afraid
of the Wild Huntsman! I give thee my word that he is far too much
engaged in his pleasure to bother his head about what may be said of
him."
It was the turn of the company to stare at the speaker, who seemed to
realize that his words might seem strange to them, for instantly he
hastened to apologize, and laying aside the lute endeavored to give a
new turn to the conversation by a reference to the talk which had taken
place at table. But the priest, with a gentle smile, brought him back to
the song.
"It is a heathenish ditty, Sir Baron," he said, "with which thou hast
favored us, if thou wilt allow me to say so. The treasures of the little
men of the hills are doubtless mighty, if half that is said of them be
true; but when they boast that their gold can buy the souls of men, they
claim too much."
The guest regarded the speaker with a new look of interest and respect;
but as he made no reply, Father Christopher continued:
"It is said that often the little men, and the Devil who is in league
with them, have tried to entice men to barter their souls for gold; but
even if they succeed, it is the Evil One to whom the soul goes, and the
kobolds are no richer."
"That is indeed true," the knight responded gravely. "The soul is a
curious thing, and the kobolds can have little idea of what it is like.
Indeed," he continued, after a moment's pause in which the others
regarded him in wonder, "dost thou not suppose, Father, that a kobold
might think he were better off for escaping a responsibility so heavy as
that of a soul?"
The priest looked at him in gentle reproof, while the Lady Adelaide
again crossed herself with the air of being not a little scandalized.
"Perhaps a kobold, who has no soul, might have such a thought," Father
Christopher said; "but it is strange that it should come into Christian
heads like ours, my son. It grieves me that thou shouldst harbor such
fancies."
"Nay," interposed Erna, softly, "I am sure our guest meant no harm. To
beings so unhappy as not to know the glory of having a soul, very likely
it has been kindly permitted not to realize how melancholy their case
is. They are like the animals."
The eyes of the knight were fixed on her face with an intense gaze of
wistful longing, and had her earnestness been less she must have blushed
under their fire. As it was, she remembered, after she had lain down
upon her bed, the look which the baron bent upon her as she thus spoke
in his behalf. She rose with the words, and after bidding the guest
goodnight, withdrew with Lady Adelaide, leaving the priest to sit over
the dying fire with the baron as long as suited their mutual pleasure.
IV
HOW HE REMAINED TO WOO.
The stay of the Baron von Waldstein at the castle prolonged itself from
day to day. At first there was the continued illness of the man-at-arms,
which did not yield to the remedies of the leech as quickly as was to be
expected; then there was one pretext after another; and in the end there
was no pretext at all, save that the guest was loath to depart and the
folk at Rittenberg wished him to remain.
He was like a great, sunny, jovial comrade in the castle; and his
presence seemed to change the whole atmosphere of the household. Before
his coming the Lady Adelaide had seemed to be the dominant spirit
because she most asserted herself. The gentle, quiet chatelaine,
absorbed in the half-mystical contemplation which had been encouraged by
the life she led and nourished upon the pious writings that formed her
little library, had allowed the reins of government to rest undisturbed
in the hands of her aunt; seldom interfering unless the matter were
really serious. She was known among the few peasants that were scattered
through the neighborhood as the "White Lady," and the charcoal-burners
of the forest would almost have said their prayers to her with as much
confidence and reverence as to the Holy Virgin herself, so pure and
saintly did she seem to them.
As to Father Christopher, he was of a nature too kindly and easy-going
to interfere with the domination of anybody. The good priest was full of
simple faith, of genial, sane belief in God and man; he had confidence
in the higher nature which he believed to lurk in every human creature,
no matter how hidden it might have become by the overlaying of
worldliness or of sin; while in all desperate cases he fell back upon an
implicit trust in the efficacy of the Church,--an unshaken rock in the
midst of the tempests which he had seen rend the whole world in the
troublous times in which he lived.
The countess would have found it impossible to define the pleasure she
experienced in the society of Baron Albrecht, had she attempted to
express it, but she went no further than to say to herself and to her
aunt that he was by far the most pleasing man she had ever seen. The
careful student of events, had such an one been present, might have
found food for thought in the mutual influence which the hostess and her
guest exercised on each other. No one could see them together and fail
to appreciate the fact that Erna affected the baron profoundly. He had
often, it was true, the appearance of failing fully to understand much
that she said and did, but he evidently regarded her with a feeling akin
to reverence, and it was even possible to perceive that through his
interest in what she did and was he grew more thoughtful and earnest.
The effect of the stranger upon Erna was even more marked, perhaps
because it showed itself in outward acts rather than by the signs of
inward changes. She took up various habits and sports which were
calculated directly to please Von Waldstein; riding with him through the
forest, and even standing to watch him setting out for the hunt, a
pastime which she had hitherto held as cruel, although from old the Von
Rittenbergs had been famous hunters. The alteration in her was subtle,
but it was real. Father Christopher viewed it with mingled surprise and
doubt. Lady Adelaide, on the other hand, was naturally delighted with a
change which brought her niece more near to her own worldly views; and
while she was too clever to praise openly the course of Erna, she found
ways of lending her aid to the helping forward of the work which the
mere presence of Baron Albrecht seemed to be effecting.
One lovely summer day, when all the forest was filled with sweet breath
of balsamic odors, the perfume of flowers, and the gentle coolness of
the breeze which brought both to the riders as they passed along the
paths of the wood, Countess Erna and Baron Albrecht rode through its
ways, now full of golden sunshine and now dim with delicious shadow, to
a mountain tarn, set in the wooded hills like a gleaming gem. Blue as a
sapphire under the clear sky stretched the lake, all the surrounding
hills reflected in its surface, while along its shores the wild flowers
bloomed in rich profusion; the clustering primrose, the dazzling white
thistle, now fading beneath the fervid suns of summer, and the blue
forget-me-nots, dear to lovers.
The ride had been a long one; and when the lake was reached the countess
dismounted from her palfrey to rest. She seated herself upon a bank of
greensward where she could overlook the smooth blue lake, and Baron
Albrecht threw himself upon the ground at her feet, looking rather at
her than at the water. Behind them the wind murmured in the pine-tops,
chanting the song which is never done, but which rises ever from the
heart of the Schwarzwald as the wail of the ocean rises continually
from its beating waves: the yearning of the wild races of beings who
live and die in its mysterious recesses; the cries of the beasts who
perish without understanding the strange secrets hidden in the shadows
of the wood, secrets which men feel with awe, but which even they cannot
fathom.
Erna was conscious of the spell of the forest, and the tones of the song
in the pine-tops rang in her ears with powerful appealing; but she was
secure in the protecting presence of her companion, and she was more
deeply still conscious of the earnestness of his gaze. So closely did
Albrecht regard her that without comprehending her own feelings, she
began to be embarrassed; and at last to cover her confusion she said:
"Didst thou know that where we see a lake there was once a noble
convent, surrounded by beautiful gardens and even with fair
pleasure-grounds?"
The knight looked from his companion to the blue tarn below them.
"But where?" he asked.
"Where the lake is. It was the richest and the most influential convent
in all the Ober-Schwarzwald. All the nuns were of noble birth, and all
had brought with them rich dowries to the convent. But they were wicked
nuns; for Father Christopher says that even nuns and monks may be
wicked. They feasted and sported and flew falcons, and there was only
one in all the convent, a poor little novice whose betrothed had been
killed, and whose heart was broken, that was not given over to sin."
"Is it a sin, then, to be happy?" asked Albrecht, smiling up at her from
his station at her feet.
"Oh, no; not for us. But they were nuns, vowed to Heaven."
"I never could understand," he began with a puzzled face; then he broke
off suddenly. "No matter!" he said. "Go on with thy story. What became
of the convent?"
"The Lady Abbess," Erna continued, "was worst of all there; and on her
birth-night she made a great feast for all the nuns. They sat and drank
wine, and out of doors there was a bitter, bitter storm. And just at
midnight there came a knocking at the gate. The Lady Abbess, flushed
with wine, told the little novice, who would neither eat nor drink
herself, to go and see who was there. So the little novice went, and
found an old, old man, all drenched with the rain, and weak with hunger
and cold. So she went to the Lady Abbess, and begged that she might be
allowed to let the old man in, lest he perish with cold and hunger
before morning."
"Why should she care?" the knight asked, as Erna paused and looked over
the dark-blue lake as if she could see the scene she described.
"Oh, I told thee that she was not wicked like the rest."
"But would it be wicked not to care for a worthless, broken-down old man
that one never saw before?"
The countess smiled upon him.
"When thou askest me questions like that," she responded, "I know that
thou art laughing at me or trying to tease me."