In the days of King Coeur-de-Lion the good Count Hartmann ruled in
Kirchberg in the happy Swabian land. And never had that fair land been
happier than it was in those days, for the Count was a devout
Christian, a lover of peace in the midst of warlike and rapacious
barons, and a ruler just and merciful to his vassals. Among the green
and pleasant hills on his domain he had founded a monastery for the
monks of St. Benedict, and thither he often rode with his daughter
Itha, the delight of his heart and the light of the grim old castle of
the Kirchberg; so that, seeing the piety of her father, she grew up in
the love and fear of God, and from her gentle mother she learned to
feel a deep compassion for the poor and afflicted.
No sweeter maid than she, with her blue eyes and light brown hair, was
there in all that land of sturdy men and nut-brown maidens. The people
loved the very earth she stood on. In their days of trouble and sorrow
she was their morning and their evening star, and they never wearied of
praising her goodness and her beauty.
When Itha was in the bloom of her girlhood it befell that the young
Count Heinrich of the Toggenburg, journeying homeward from the famous
tournament at Cologne, heard of this peerless flower of Swabia, and
turned aside to the Castle of Kirchberg to see if perchance he might
win a good and lovely wife. He was made welcome, and no sooner had he
looked on Itha's fair and loving face, and marked with what modesty and
courtesy she bore herself, than he heard joy-bells ringing in his
heart, and said, "Now, by the blessed cross, here is the pearl of price
for me!" Promptly he wooed her with tender words, and with eyes that
spoke more than tongue could find words for, and passionate observance,
and all that renders a man pleasing to a maid.
And Itha was not loth to be won, for the Count was young and handsome,
tall and strong, and famous for feats of arms, and a mighty
lord--master of the rich straths and valleys of the Thur River, and of
many a burgh and district in the mountains beyond; and yet, despite all
this, he, so noble and beautiful, loved her, even her, the little
Swabian maid who had never deemed herself likely to come to such honour
and happiness. Nor were the kindly father and mother ill-pleased that
so goodly a man and so mighty a lord should have their dear child.
So in a little while the Count put on Itha's hand the ring of
betrothal, and Itha, smiling and blushing, raised it to her lips and
kissed it. "Blissful ring!" said the Count jestingly; "and yet,
dearest heart, you do well to cherish it, for it is an enchanted ring,
an old ring of which there are many strange stories." Even while he
was speaking Itha's heart misgave her, and she was aware of a feeling
of doubt and foreboding; but she looked at the ring and saw how massive
was the gold and how curiously wrought and set with rare gems, and its
brilliancy and beauty beguiled her of her foreboding, and she asked no
questions of the stories told of it or of the nature of its enchantment.
Quickly on the betrothal followed the marriage and the leave-taking.
With tears in her eyes Itha rode away with her lord, looking back often
to the old castle and gazing farewell on the pleasant land and the
fields and villages she should not see again for, it might be, many
long years. But by her side rode the Count, ever gay and tender, and
he comforted her in her sadness, and lightened the way with loving
converse, till she put from her all her regret and longing, and made
herself happy in their love.
[Illustration: _Itha rode away with her lord_]
So they journeyed through the rocks and wildwood of the Schwartzwald,
and came in view of the blue waters of the lake of Constance glittering
in the sun, and saw the vast mountain region beyond with its pine
forests, and above the forests the long blue mists on the high
pastures, and far over all, hanging like silvery summer clouds in the
blue heavens, the shining peaks of the snowy Alps. And here, at last,
they were winding down the fruitful valley of the Thur, and yonder,
perched on a rugged bluff, rose the stern walls of Castle Toggenburg,
with banners flying from the turrets, and the rocky roadway strewn with
flowers, and vassals and retainers crowding to welcome home the bride.
Now, for all his tenderness and gaiety and sweetness in wooing, the
Count Heinrich was a hasty and fiery man, quickly stirred to anger and
blind rage, and in his storms of passion he was violent and cruel. Not
long after their home-coming--woe worth the while!--he flashed out ever
and anon in his hot blood at little things which ruffled his temper,
and spoke harsh words which his gentle wife found hard to bear, and
which in his better moments he sincerely repented. Very willingly she
forgave him, but though at first he would kiss and caress her,
afterwards her very forgiveness and her meekness chafed and galled his
proud spirit, so that the first magical freshness of love faded from
their life, even as the dew dries on the flower in the heat of the
morning.
Not far from the castle, in a clearing in the woods, nestled the little
convent and chapel of Our Lady in the Meadow, and thither, attended by
one of her pages, the Countess Itha went daily to pray for her husband,
that he might conquer the violence of his wild heart, and for herself,
that she might not grow to fear him more than she loved him. In these
days of her trial, and in the worse days to come, a great consolation
it was to her to kneel in the silent chapel and pour out her
unhappiness to her whose heart had been pierced by seven swords of
sorrow.
Time went by, and when no little angel came from the knees of God to
lighten her burden and to restrain with its small hands the headlong
passion of her husband, the Count was filled with bitterness of spirit
as he looked forward to a childless old age, and reflected that all the
fruitful straths of the Toggenburg, and the valleys and townships,
would pass away to some kinsman, and no son of his would there be to
prolong the memory of his name and greatness. When this gloomy dread
had taken possession of him, he would turn savagely on the Countess in
his fits of fury, and cry aloud: "Out of my sight! For all thy
meekness and thy praying and thy almsgiving, God knows it was an ill
day when I set eyes on that fair face of thine!" Yet this was in no
way his true thought, for in spite of his lower nature the Count loved
her, but it is ever the curse of anger in a man that it shall wreak
itself most despitefully on his nearest and best. And Itha, who had
learned this in the school of long-suffering, answered never a word,
but only prayed the more constantly and imploringly.
In the train of the Countess there were two pages, Dominic, an Italian,
whom she misliked for his vanity and boldness, and Cuno, a comely
Swabian lad, who had followed her from her father's house. Most
frequently when she went to Our Lady in the Meadow she dismissed
Dominic and bade Cuno attend her, for in her distress it was some crumb
of comfort to see the face of a fellow-countryman, and to speak to him
of Kirchberg and the dear land she had left. But Dominic, seeing that
the Swabian was preferred, hated Cuno, and bore the lady scant
goodwill, and in a little set his brain to some device by which he
might vent his malice on both. This was no difficult task, for the
Count was as prone to jealousy as he was quick to wrath, and with
crafty hint and wily jest and seemingly aimless chatter the Italian
sowed the seeds of suspicion and watchfulness in his master's mind.
Consider, then, if these were not days of heartbreak for this lady,
still so young and so beautiful, so unlovingly entreated, and so far
away from the home of her happy childhood. Yet she bore all patiently
and without complaint or murmur, only at times when she looked from
terrace or tower her gaze travelled beyond the deep pine-woods, and in
a wistful day-dream she retraced, beyond the great lake and the Black
Forest, all the long way she had ridden so joyfully with her dear
husband by her side.
One day in the springtime, when the birds of passage had flown
northward, carrying her tears and kisses with them, she bethought her
of the rich apparel in which she had been wed, and took it from the
carved oaken coffer to sweeten in the sun. Among her jewels she came
upon her betrothal ring, and the glitter of it reminded her of what her
lord had said of its enchantment and the strange stories told of it.
"Are any of them so sad and strange as mine?" she wondered with tears
in her eyes; then kissing the ring in memory of that first kiss she had
given it, she laid it on a table in the window-bay, and busied herself
with the bridal finery; and while she was so busied she was called away
to some cares of her household, and left the chamber.
When she returned to put away her marriage treasures, the betrothal
ring was missing. On the instant a cold fear came over her. In vain
she searched the coffer and the chamber; in vain she endeavoured to
persuade herself that she must have mislaid the jewel, or that
perchance the Count had seen it, and partly in jest and partly in
rebuke of her carelessness, had taken it. The ring had vanished, and
in spite of herself she felt that its disappearance portended some
terrible evil. Too fearful to arouse her husband's anger, she breathed
no word of her loss, and trusted to time or oblivion for a remedy.
No great while after this, as the Swabian page was rambling in the wood
near the convent, he heard a great outcry of ravens around a nest in an
ancient fir-tree, and prompted partly by curiosity to know the cause of
the disquiet, and partly by the wish to have a young raven for sport in
the winter evenings, he climbed up to the nest. Looking into the great
matted pack of twigs, heather and lamb's wool, he caught sight of a
gold ring curiously chased and set with sparkling gems; and slipping it
gleefully on his finger he descended the tree and went his way homeward
to the castle.
A few days later when the Count by chance cast his eye on the jewel, he
recognised it at a glance for the enchanted ring of many strange
stories. The crafty lies of the Italian Dominic flashed upon him; and,
never questioning that the Countess had given the ring to her
favourite, he sprang upon Cuno as though he would strangle him. Then
in a moment he flung him aside, and in a voice of thunder cried for the
wildest steed in his stables to be brought forth. Paralysed with
fright, the luckless page was seized and bound by the heels to the tail
of the half-tame creature, which was led out beyond the drawbridge, and
pricked with daggers till it flung off the men-at-arms and dashed
screaming down the rocky ascent into the wildwood.
Stung to madness by his jealousy, the Count rushed to the apartment of
the Countess. "False and faithless, false and faithless!" he cried in
hoarse rage, and clutching her in his iron grasp, lifted her in the air
and hurled her through the casement into the horrible abyss below.
As she fell Itha commended her soul to God. The world seemed to reel
and swim around her; she felt as if that long lapse through space would
never have an end, and then it appeared to her as though she were
peacefully musing in her chair, and she saw the castle of Kirchberg and
the pleasant fields lying serene in the sunlight, and the happy
villages, each with its great crucifix beside its rustic church, and
men and women at labour in the fields. How long that vision lasted she
could not tell. Then as in her fall she was passing through the tops
of the trees which climbed up the lower ledges of the castle rocks,
green leafy hands caught her dress and held her a little, and strong
arms closed about her, and yielded slowly till she touched the ground;
and she knew that the touch of these was not the mere touch of
senseless things, but a contact of sweetness and power which thrilled
through her whole being.
Falling on her knees, she thanked God for her escape, and rising again
she went into the forest, wondering whither she should betake herself
and what she should do; for now she had no husband and no home. She
left the beaten track, and plunging through the bracken, walked on till
she was tired. Then she sat down on a boulder. Among the pines it was
already dusk, and the air seemed filled with a grey mist, but this was
caused by the innumerable dry wiry twigs which fringed the lower
branches of the trees with webs of fine cordage; and when a ray of the
setting sun struck through the pine trunks, it lit up the bracken with
emerald and brightened the ruddy scales of the pine bark to red gold.
Here it was dry and sheltered, with the thick carpet of pine-needles
underfoot and the thick roof of branches overhead: and but for dread of
wild creatures she thought she might well pass the night in this place.
To-morrow she would wander further and learn how life might be
sustained in the forest.
The last ray of sunshine died away; the deep woods began to blacken; a
cool air sighed in the high tops of the trees. It was very homeless
and lonely. She took heart, however, remembering God's goodness to
her, and placing her confidence in His care.
Suddenly she perceived a glimmering of lights among the pines. Torches
they seemed, a long way off; and she thought it must be the retainers
of the Count, who, finding she had not been killed by her fall, had
sent them out to seek for her. The lights drew nearer, and she sat
very still, resigned to her fate whatsoever it might be. And yet
nearer they came, till at length by their shining she saw a great stag
with lordly antlers, and on the tines of the antlers glittered tongues
of flame.
Slowly the beautiful creature came up to her and regarded her with his
large soft brown eyes. Then he moved away a little and looked back, as
though he were bidding her follow him. She rose and walked by his
side, and he led her far through the forest, till they came to an
overhanging rock beside a brook, and there he stopped.
In this hidden nook of the mountain-forest she made her home. With
branches and stones and turf she walled in the open hollow of the rock.
In marshy places she gathered the thick spongy mosses, yellow and red,
and dried them in the sun for warmth at night in the cold weather. She
lived on roots and berries, acorns and nuts and wild fruit, and these
in their time of plenty she stored against the winter. Birds' eggs she
found in the spring; in due season the hinds, with their young, came to
her and gave her milk for many days; the wild bees provided her with
honey. With slow and painful toil she wove the cotton-grass and the
fibres of the bark of the birch, so that she should not lack for
clothing.
In the warm summer months there was a great tranquillity and hushed joy
in this hard life. A tender magic breathed in the colour and music of
the forest, in its long pauses of windless day-dreaming, in its breezy
frolic with the sunshine. The trees and boulders were kindly; and the
turf reminded her of her mother's bosom. About her refuge the wild
flowers grew in plenty--primrose and blue gentian, yellow cinquefoil
and pink geranium, and forget-me-nots, and many more, and these looked
up at her with the happy faces of little children who were innocent and
knew no care; and over whole acres lay the bloom of the ling, and
nothing more lovely grows on earthly hills. Through breaks in the
woodland she saw afar the Alpine heights, and the bright visionary
peaks of snow floating in the blue air like glimpses of heaven.
But it was a bitter life in the winter-tide, when the forest fretted
and moaned, and snow drifted about the shelter, and the rocks were
jagged with icicles, and the stones of the brook were glazed with cold,
and the dark came soon and lasted long. She had no fire, but, by God's
good providence, in this cruel season the great stag came to her at
dusk, and couched in the hollow of the rock beside her, and the lights
on his antlers lit up the poor house, and the glow of his body and his
pleasant breath gave her warmth.
Here, then, dead to the world, dead to all she loved most dearly, Itha
consecrated herself body and soul to God for the rest of her earthly
years. If she suffered as the wild children of nature suffer, she was
free at least from the cares and sorrows with which men embitter each
other's existence. Here she would willingly live so long as God
willed; here she would gladly surrender her soul when He was pleased to
call it home.
The days of her exile were many. For seventeen years she dwelt thus in
her hermitage in the forest, alone and forgotten.
Forgotten, did I say? Not wholly. The Count never forgot her. Stung
by remorse (for in his heart of hearts he could not but believe her
true and innocent), haunted by the recollection of the happiness he had
flung from him, wifeless, childless, friendless, he could find no rest
or forgetfulness except in the excitement and peril of the
battle-field. But the slaughter of men and the glory of victory were
as dust and ashes in his mouth. He had lost the joy of life, the pride
of race, the exultation of power. For one look from those sweet eyes,
over which, doubtless, the hands of some grateful peasant had laid the
earth, he would have joyfully exchanged renown and lordship, and even
life itself.
At length in the fulness of God's good time, it chanced that the Count
was hunting in a distant part of the forest, when he started from its
covert a splendid stag. Away through the open the beautiful creature
seemed to float before him, and Heinrich followed in hot chase. Across
grassy clearings and through dim vistas of pines, over brooks and among
boulders and through close underwood, the fleet quarry led him without
stop or stay, till at last it reached the hanging rock which was Itha's
cell, and there it stood at bay; and alarmed by the clatter of hoofs, a
tall pale woman, rudely clad in her poor forest garb, came to the
entrance.
Surprised at so strange a sight, the Count drew rein and stared at the
woman. Despite the lapse of time and her pallor and emaciation, in an
instant he recognised the wife whom he believed dead, and she too
recognised the husband she had loved.
How shall I tell of all that was said between those two by that lonely
hermitage in the depth of the forest? As in the old days, she was
eager to forgive everything; but it was in vain that the Count besought
her to return to the life which she had forgotten for so many years.
Long had she been dead and buried, so far as earthly things were
concerned. She would prefer, despite the hardness and the pain, to
spend in this peaceful spot what time was yet allotted to her, but that
she longed once more to hear the music of the holy bells, to kneel once
more before the altar of God.
What plea could Heinrich use to shake her resolution? His shame and
remorse, even his love, held him tongue-tied. He saw that she was no
longer the meek gentle Swabian maiden who had shrunk and wept at every
hasty word and sharp glance of his. He had slain all human love in
her; nothing survived save that large charity of the Saints which binds
them to all suffering souls on the earth.
Wofully he consented to her one wish. A simple cell was prepared for
her in the wood beside the chapel of Our Lady in the Meadow, and there
she dwelt until, in a little while, her gentle spirit was called home.