Front matter (continued 2)

He fled on the wings of love to the castle of Liutburga, and hearing of her retirement he penetrated the mountains to seek out the spot. At last he discovered the cave, and his heart was ready to burst with bliss.

He called loudly her name, but no voice answered, only the echo of the mountains. He climbed the mountain, and reached the entrance to the cave. There lay Liutburga in the moss. "She sleeps!" he thought.

Yes, she slept. The cheeks were ashy pale, the eye broken, cold and still the lips; she awoke no more at his call.

The birds of the wood had sung her death-song, and the trees had showered their leaves and blossoms over the still form.

Volkmar returned no more to the world, which had nothing to offer his broken heart.

Where Liutburga had dwelt in her grief was now his home; the crucifix before which she had knelt was his sanctuary, and henceforth he turned all his thoughts to God, and to the consolation of the sorrowing.

That is the Liutburga of romance. The Liutburga of history[1] is indeed a highly interesting and noble personality, if less poetic.

Countess Gisela, of the Harzgau, whose seat was Blankenburg Schloss, after the death of her husband, Earl Unwan, built Kloster Wenthusen, and other convents and churches.

Once on a journey she was overtaken by the darkness, and took refuge in a Kloster.

Among the nuns who welcomed her, one, Liutburga, won her affections, and on leaving, Gisela took her home with her.

After Gisela's death, Liutburga, with the consent of Bishop Thiatgrin, of Halberstadt, retired to this cave somewhere between 827 and 840, in which Bernhard, son of Gisela, built her a cell and a chapel.

She was renowned for sanctity and good works, and endowed with a superior mind.

A priest of the cathedral of Halberstadt wrote her biography more than a thousand years ago.

We return to the later Kloster Michaelstein, which is not so rich in poetic legends.

Not even a ghostly monk haunts the ruins, nor wanders by moonlight in the venerable cloisters. But on the mountains that surround the dale the two monks, Hans and Henning, still hold guard.

Once the Abbot, fearing the attack of an enemy, sent the unfortunate brothers out to watch, with the command not to return till the enemy approached.

No enemy came, and the Abbot forgot to recall the monks.

They watched conscientiously till they became stone pillars, and stand still there. The face of one, Hans, is of admirable beauty.

There is a legend that once, when the enemy stormed the gates, St. Michael suddenly appeared over the entrance in a flame, with countenance of wrath and drawn sword, at sight of whom every man fled.

Reinhilde of the Königsburg.

The Königsburg stood on the right bank of the Bode, on a mountain not far from Bodfeld. Originally it belonged to the Saxon Kaisers. The Sausenburg was on the left bank of the Bode, about an hour's walk from Elbingerode. Of the latter nothing is now left save the hewings in the stone masses which formed its foundations. From the battlements of its tower the hunting castles Bodfeld and Königsburg could be seen.

In this romantic neighbourhood, in the thick fir forest, stand the crumbling tower and scraps of broken walls of the Königsburg, overshadowed by the green veil of the wood, moss, ivy, and wild-flowers, and the mystic fascination of a time more than a thousand years ago.

Desolate stand the ruins of the once imperial hunting seat, the moat so thickly overgrown with the buck-thorn that no human foot would willingly attempt to tread it.

A light sighing stirs in the foliage like a ghostly breath from the primeval days.

Dost thou remember the time when we listened to the rustling and moaning of the fir-trees, like echoes of the voices of olden times? In our dreams we saw the ancient Königsburg in splendour, heard the forest ring with the noise of the hunt, saw the troop of huntsmen ride back to the castle, among them many a knight, earl, and prince, and foremost rode the Kaiser with his blushing daughter Reinhilde.

How radiant was the royal maiden, her green veil floating on the breeze, her clear eyes gazing fearlessly around her, her sweet face smiling like a bright morning in spring.

The Kaiser bends to her and whispers in her ear.

Why do her blushing cheeks turn pale? What has caused the smile to vanish so suddenly from her face, and the tears to rush to her eyes?

She turns in fear and looks upon her following train. Why does a noble knightly countenance there also turn pale?

The Kaiser glances in surprise at his shrinking daughter.

"Dear little Reinhilde, have I grieved thee? Hast thou understood me? Two princes beg the honour of thy hand."

Reinhilde raises her eyes with firmness to his and replies: "Dear father, forgive, but I do not seek for crowns. Thou thyself hast not hidden from me how heavy is the crown. Thou hast often told me that only love makes happy; and I have found a love deep and pure, and could shout for joy; a heart, a knightly heart is mine. Oh! do not tear this true and noble heart from mine."

The Kaiser frowns and the anger-vein swells on his brow as he replies: "Dost thou dare to speak thus to me, thou shameless girl? Who is the low knave, the insolent coxcomb, who has dared to raise his eyes to the Kaiser's daughter? My rage shall crush him; ruin on his head who has robbed me of the joy of my old age—the heart of my daughter."

All stand aghast at the Kaiser's wrath, all save one noble knight, who steps fearlessly forth from the circle, with head proudly raised, a youth of manly beauty, the blond locks falling on his shoulders, the blue eyes blazing in just indignation, approaches the Kaiser, and cries, "Herr Kaiser, it was not a 'knave.' At the breach on the bloody field thou hast said, 'Brave Werner, thou art my bravest hero!' And thou hast chosen me as companion for thy kingly son. Oft hast thou said to me, 'For Werner's faithfulness where shall I find a worthy reward?' Herr Kaiser, now thou hast the reward; take back the word of scorn; listen to the voice of love; make two hearts happy."

Gently Reinhilde clasps the father's hands; but the anger-vein swells higher on the imperial brow.

"Throw the traitor in the deepest dungeon in chains!" he cries; "and thou, whom I disown as daughter, get out of my sight; let me never see thee again!"

The Kaiser sets spurs to his steed and rides to the Schloss, the attendants bring the unhappy knight to the dungeon, Reinhilde faints and sinks from her steed in the grass, and soon no sound is heard save the sighing in the firs.

With heavy head resting on his arm, the Kaiser sits alone in the great hall of the Königsburg.

Suddenly he starts wildly to his feet; was that a moan that fell upon his ear? No, 'tis only the rattle of the hoarse weathercock. Hark! surely that is a cry of anguish. He listens in agony.

"No, no," the watcher cries from the tower. He hears the moaning of the tempest, and rain and hailstones beat against the windows.

In heartrending tones the Kaiser cries, "Reinhilde! It was too hard and cruel; a loving word had been better."

Quickly he calls his old servant. "Alter,[1] bring me my little daughter."

The servant trembles in terror, and tears burst forth.

"What ails thee, Alter?" cries the Kaiser.

"Herr Kaiser, thou knowest thy little daughter is not here! Thou hast disowned her."

The Kaiser stares at him in horror, "Reinhilde not here? Since when?"

"Herr Kaiser, since yesterday. She has not returned to the Schloss; her steed came back without its rider. We sent out messengers, but none have found her."

The Kaiser turns pale.

"And thou hast not told me till now! Reinhilde, Reinhilde not here? Merciful God! Reinhilde, my child! Lost in the forest in storm and tempest! Up; ring the alarm! To horse! to horse! Let loose the hounds in the forest; let the horns resound that my child may know the father calls. Bring me my steed, I will myself ride forth into the storm."

And a thousand torches light up the forest, and the echo of a thousand voices rings far and wide. And the Kaiser's voice combats with the storm as he cries, "Reinhilde! Reinhilde! my little daughter!"

At length despair seizes the father's heart, he throws himself to the earth in wild agony, beats his brow and tears his hair, while a troop of attendants stand weeping around him.

With a sudden light in his face, he springs to his feet and exclaims, "Back to the Schloss! There is one who will find Reinhilde, but that one pines in the dungeon. He has loved her like me. I know his love is true; the God of love will be with him; he will find my little daughter." And the Kaiser commands, "Let Werner be set free! And when he finds Reinhilde, she herself shall be his reward; let her be his wife, and he my son!"

In the dark mountain cave, on the hard, cold ground, kneels the silver-haired hermit Volkmar, and without before the entrance, by the image of the Virgin, Reinhilde, pale and trembling, is kneeling, in prayer. She vows to become the bride of heaven if the Kaiser does not relent.

The good old man, when she came yesterday telling him all her sorrow, received her lovingly, and gave her a secure refuge in his peaceful retreat. "Stay here, my daughter," he said; "hope and trust in God."

Hark! The horns are heard, and Volkmar rises hastily from his knees and cries, "Quick, in the cave, Reinhilde, that no one see thee; the way leads close by the Virgin's shrine."

The searchers come, and cry, "God greet thee Volkmar! Hast thou not seen the Kaiser's daughter?"

And Volkmar replies, "I have only seen a bride of heaven, who is resting in the cave."

They ride on, and Volkmar asks the trembling Reinhilde, "Hast thou heard? They are seeking thee."

"My father has disowned me. I stand alone. Only in the Kloster can I find a home."

And now a single man approaches, stops by the entrance, throws himself on his knees before the shrine of the Virgin, and as Reinhilde hears the voice she trembles and turns pale, for the Kaiser it is who prays.

She exclaims in anguish, "It is my father, but I do not answer, for he has disowned me his child. I stand in the world alone. Only in the Kloster can I find a home."

The Kaiser rides forth with his train, and a knight comes on foot and alone, kneels before the shrine and prays, and at the sound of his voice Reinhilde's eye grows bright.

His prayer ended his voice rings mightily through the forest as he cries in love and longing, "Reinhilde! Reinhilde!"

And a silvery voice answers, "Who calls Reinhilde?"

The Kaiser, who is yet near, turns in joyful surprise in the direction of the voice. "Merciful Heaven!" he cries, "hast thou heard our earnest petitions?"

See! From the dark cave issues a light form, and a cry of joy resounds through the whole forest. And in a blissful embrace kneel before the Kaiser Werner and Reinhilde.

The Twelve Knights in the Schöneburg.

About a Stunde[1] from Treseburg, up the Bode, lies the picturesque foundry village Attenbrack, the spot where in the old days Schloss Schöneburg looked down from its high, steep mountain seat into the vale below.

On three sides the mountain rises steep from the Bode, being scarcely approachable save from the south side; and in wild confusion lie scattered over the mountain sides shapeless heaps of fallen stones, the sole ruins of the once stately castle; of walls and vaulted chambers no trace remains.

From the south side the height is connected by a narrow tongue of land with the vast forests that cover the high table-lands of the Harz.

Seldom is the spot trodden by the foot of man, except by some benighted traveller, some inquisitive student of history, and the passionate lover of wood and mountain solitude.

More frequently resounds the tread of the hunter in this lonely spot, and of the herdsman, who pastures his cows in the beech forest.

Once a herdsman stood, on St. John's Day, on the narrow path leading to the then not entirely fallen walls, and dreamed of the days of the past, of the Burg and its knights, dames, and maidens, and the treasures that were said to lie concealed under the ruins.

The forest rustled mysteriously, mingled with the dreamy tinkling of the cow-bells.

Suddenly it seemed to him he heard a tumbling noise and loud, merry laughter. This was wonderful, but what he saw was still more astounding. For, stealing forward and looking over the broken walls, he saw twelve knights in antique costume, who amused themselves with the game of skittles.

The herdsman was not sure whether he was awake or dreaming. He rubbed his eyes, and looked bewildered around him, but it could be no illusion, for there stood the oaks and beeches, every tree of which he knew, there grazed his herd to the music of their jingling bells, the dogs cowering watchfully near, and from the valley could be heard the rattle of the foundry.

He saw it all clearly, for it was mid-day, and there within the mouldering walls the twelve knights played on, and he heard the rolling and bouncing of the balls.

But he had not much time for observation, for the knights caught sight of him, and beckoned him to approach.

He did so with trembling.

They treated him gruffly and severely, and commanded him to set up the fallen pins, and he was obliged to yield.

Perhaps an hour had passed in this employment, when lo! no ball more rolled, and looking up to see the cause of the delay, the knights had vanished!

It was not a dream, for all the pins lay there before him; but knowing that his neighbours in Attenbrack would hold him for a dreamer without proof, he decided to take the pins home with him.

But they were so large and heavy, he could not carry them all, so he took only the king.

All listened incredulously to his tale of the knights and old dress, and feared he was not quite right in his head.

Then he drew forth from his pocket the pin, as proof; but it was so heavy he could not hold it, and it fell to the ground with a clear ring; when, lifting it up, it was found to be pure gold.

No one doubted longer, but all hastened to the ruins to get the other eight pins; but they were all only of wood—of light Taxus wood.

The Gegensteine.

In the midst of the bright landscape opposite Schloss Ballenstedt rise the two huge boulders called the Gegensteine, which mark the eastern termination of the Devil's Wall.

The taste and passion for the wonderful and mysterious are too strong in the human mind to permit of these majestic rocks being without their Sage.

In the time long ago, when all this district was covered with dense forests, swamps, and morasses, where now ripen the golden corn, fruits, and every blessing that crowns the husbandman's toil, and wild beasts preyed on the around-lying mountains, evil spirits practised their devices in the Gegensteine.

In the distance one could see during the night, especially at midnight, now fiery balls, now flames of fire rising in the air, and could hear death cries, or the most delightful tones, which the evil spirits employed to decoy unwary mortals to destruction.

Many who ridiculed the idea of danger, paying no heed to friendly warnings, forced their way through thorns and thickets to behold the mystery, and returned no more.

They were carried by demons through the air, and one heard their moanings of despair without the power to save them.

Only he who was consecrated to God could approach the Gegensteine unharmed.

One morning a farmer rode before sunrise from Ballenstedt to Quedlinburg, to offer prayers and obtain absolution in the convent church, only just founded by the Kaiserin Matilda—for in Ballenstedt there was neither church nor pater.

Lost in devotional thoughts, hence without fear, he rode quietly along; an irresistible languor seized him and he fell asleep.

The nag, feeling no longer the hand guiding the reins, turned aside to seek for himself a fresh breakfast, stood still, and began to graze.

The farmer awoke. He rubbed his eyes in amazement, for he found himself in an unknown spot, in a dark thicket, without road or path; all around him towered mighty rocks that almost shut him in. He heard the roaring of water outside, beneath him a raging din, and before him yawned an awful chasm.

The farmer had never heard of such a wild and savage scene so near his place of residence, and fancied he had been transplanted through enchantment to some distant land. Anxiously he gazed around him, convinced himself he was not dreaming, for the sun was shining upon the savage rocks, and his nag grazed unconcerned.

The thought occurred to him he might be in the domains of wicked spirits, and a cold shudder ran over him; but he lacked the courage to turn back, fearing some monster might follow him. He was indeed in a painful position, for it was out of the question that he should remain where he was.

Meanwhile the terrible din and roar had ceased, all grew peaceful, the birds sang joyfully in the sunlight, and all notion of danger vanished from his mind.

He gained confidence as he looked around him to mark the place, resolving the next day to bring his wife and children to see it, and convince them that all the tales about the terrors of the Gegensteine were untrue.

"But what may there be in the cave yonder?" he thought.

He would like to know, and now arose a struggle between curiosity and fear.

"I will venture it!" he cried, dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and went with light steps, as if afraid some one might hear him, over the fallen rocks, and stretched his neck to look into the cave.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" he cried, clapping his hands together above his head; "what do my eyes see?" And what did they?

In the middle of the pit, or cavern, a large brewer's copper, full of gold pieces, every one as large as the palm of the hand.

Upon it rested a silver tray with a border of fiery carbuncles, and letters and figures in the centre formed of garnets.

Beside the copper lay a new driving-whip, and on the other side lay a savage black bull-dog.

The farmer stood with crossed arms for at least ten minutes, gazing at the immense treasures, thinking what was to be done to secure them without falling into the power of the savage guard—the dog.

At last he exclaimed, "I will attempt it. I will not take much, but I must have the whip!"

Encouraged, he walked into the cave, his eye always fixed on the dog, till at last he reached the copper; the dog did not move; he plunged both hands into the gold coins, filled his pockets, and with two leaps reached his horse, where he sank down overcome with terror and joy.

Recovered, he emptied his pockets, counted the glittering coins, and dreamed thereby of a happy future.

His horse neighed and pawed the ground impatiently.

"Patience, old nag!" he cried; "I must have that beautiful whip." And again he descended emboldened into the cave, seized the whip, and turned to go, when his eye fell again upon the tempting gold; he could not resist the allurement, and plunged both hands, twice into the copper.

At the second handful the dog rose and ground his teeth in rage; but Jacob had lost all fear, and cried, "Growl away; but one must have all good things three times, and I shall take another handful."

But as he did so the eyes of the dog shot fire, an awful groaning and noise, a raging storm, thunder, lightning, with cracking of the rocks, broke forth in fury. The earth trembled, the rocks fell upon each other, trees were rent into splinters, torrents burst from the rocks, and the heavens enveloped themselves in night and flames.

The unlucky farmer never knew how he got out of the cave; only, as he came to himself, he remembered having seen the Gott-sei-bei-uns[1] in the midst of a terrible confusion and fire-rain in giant form, surrounded by a thousand imps, rise out of the pit, holding in one claw the copper with the gold, in the other the tray.

Was he or had he been dreaming? No, for had he not the whip in his hand?

But the tremendous weight in his pockets weighed him down. Rejoiced to think of his treasure, he dived into his pockets for the gold—and what did he find?

For every piece of gold a pebble, as large again, and not one piece of gold!

He stared at the stones, crying and trembling with pain and distress.

Still weeping, he mounted his horse, reached home, sank exhausted, laid himself down in his bed, from which he never rose; and in a fortnight he lay in his grave.

Since then the foul fiend has guarded his treasures in the Gegensteine, and in only one way can the enchantment be broken and the treasure won.

When a maiden, born on the ocean, pure as the dawn, comes here alone at the midnight hour of Halloween, kneels, and with raised hand calls her own name aloud three times, and then entreats the Most High to break the enchantment, and annihilate the monster in the rocks, they shall sink at her prayer, the treasures of gold and gems shall rise to the surface, become the maiden's possession, and the hobgoblin shall vanish for ever.

The Three Crystal Goblets and Three Golden Balls of Schloss Falkenstein.

The Lady von Falkenstein was once summoned by the Berggeist[1] to attend the Queen of the Gnomes in her extremity. He conducted her through long dark subterranean passages to her fairy Majesty; and, after the birth of a son, the Queen presented her with three golden balls and three crystal goblets, with the warning to preserve them well, for the fate of the Asseburgs was closely connected with them.

The three golden balls have been unhappily lost, and only two goblets remain.

Two sons of the family, when visiting their widowed mother at Wallhausen, besought her to permit them to drink out of these mysterious goblets, which she imprudently allowed; and as they struck their glasses together with a merry prosit, one was shattered.

Deep melancholy seized the youths, and during their drive home the wild horses plunged with the carriage into a deep abyss, where the youths were found broken in pieces.

Since then the two remaining ghostly gifts have been sacredly preserved—one, of green-yellow glass, in Hinneburg; the other, of mountain crystal, in Falkenstein.

Tidian's Höhle, or Cave

Below Schloss Falkenstein, in the valley where the gentle Selke winds through her flower-strewn paths, the shepherd of the Graf von Falkenstein grazed his sheep on the dew-gathering meadows.

It was the morning of St. John's Day, and every Härzer knows that St. John's Eve and St. John's Day are rich in miracles in these mountains, and unfold many a mysterious flower.

Not only at this time is the St. John's wort gathered, which is said to bear a red dewdrop at midnight—hence called St. John's blood—and to be a sure remedy against every disease; but also the Spring-wursel, or caper-spurge, which bursts open gates, and even opens the earth and the rocks; the magic wand—Wünschelruthe—Aaron's rod—which points out the spot where buried treasures or the precious metals lie hidden; and the Wunderblume—marvel of Peru—which opens the eyes of him who is so fortunate as to find this wonder-flower, so that he sees sunken or enchanted castles, and discovers untold riches in gold, diamonds, and rubies.

Tidian found a tiny blue flower, attracted to it by its perfume and its beauty, which must have been one of these miracle-working plants, for no sooner had he stuck it in his hatband than a never-before-seen cave in the side of the mountain opened its splendours to his dazzled eyes.

He entered it, his mind full of tales of buried treasures, filled his pockets with the glittering sand and stones, with the intention of offering them for sale to a jeweller in Aschersleben.

They proved to be more valuable than he had hoped, and the jeweller begged him to sell to no one but himself.

The fame of this gold speedily spread, and it happened the Graf von Falkenstein himself visited the goldsmith, when by chance this gold was spoken of.

"Yes," said the jeweller, "it is indisputable that Tidian's gold is as good again as any other."

"Tidian's gold!" cried the Earl, surprised. "Why do you give it that name?"

"The man from whom I buy it is Tidian."

Instantly it occurred to the Earl that his shepherd Tidian had lately grown rich, and he might be the seller. His avarice awoke; he hastened home, and demanded to know the cause of Tidian's wealth.

True of heart, the shepherd told him everything, showed him the concealed way to the cave, and in company they carried away much of the costly treasure; till at last avarice awaked the fear in the mind of the Earl that Tidian might at some future time reveal the secret to some one else.

This thought left him no peace. At length, to make himself secure of the entire wealth of the cave, he put out Tidian's eyes and shut him up in the castle dungeon.

Then the Earl hurried alone to the cave; he did not know that the flower which Tidian wore in his hat caused the cave to remain open.

The unhappy shepherd tore the flower in pieces, stamped upon and cursed it and the cave, and wished it to close and never again to open until, among the descendants of the Earl, a lame, a dumb, and a blind Falkenstein had ruled.

Immediately the cave shut with a thundering noise, and the greedy Earl wanders there yet, for the enchantment is not yet broken.

The Mägdesprung[1] and Mägdetrappe.[2]

In the valley of the Selke, that fair Undina of the Harz, near Alexisbad, rises the majestic rock Mägdesprung; and opposite, on the other bank of the river, the Mägdetrappe, both of which are so famed in fable.

In the latter rock one sees the impressions of giant feet, and Romance attempts to account for them. She is at least as competent to do so as anybody else, A giant virgin of the grey primeval times saw from the Mägdesprung her lover on a mountain on the opposite bank.

Her ardent love draws her to him, but she cannot climb the steep rocks, nor swim the Selke, then a torrent.

So she dares—for what will not love dare?—to leap over the wide space that divides the two rocks, leaving the impress of her feet in the rock, since called the Mägdetrappe.

Another Sage has a totally different motive.

A maiden of the Huns, a disciple of Diana, roaming fearlessly through the vale, hears from the Mägdesprung a cry of distress. She recognizes the voice that cries for aid, and her eagle eye perceives her friend being dragged away by two mountain robbers.

Her blood boils, and in the anguish of her soul the brave Hun maiden leaps the abyss, falls like an avenging angel upon the villainous mountaineers, with two blows of her spear pierces them both to the heart, and conducts her friend and favourite—for she is said to have been a Hun Queen—home to her parents.

Sage of Schloss Questenberg.[1]

The Ritter Knaught had a lovely little daughter, whose chief pleasure was to gather wild-flowers; for this purpose she went often with her nurse into the forest. But one day her nurse lost sight of her, and not being able to find her, hastened in great terror to the castle to give the alarm.

The Ritter summons all his retainers with the horn, and they storm through the forest whole nights and days, but of the lost child no trace.

At last one day, as the father gazes from the battlements of the castle, he sees people approaching bearing the Maien,[2] hears their shouts of joy, and in their midst beholds his lost Rosamund, decked as Queen of the May!

A coaler had met the child wandering through the wood, took her at first for an angel, and in his hut the retainers had found her.

The happy father bestowed gifts lavishly, and instituted an annual Volksfest, and called his castle Questenberg.

To this day a popular festival is held here, but whether connected with this tradition is uncertain.

The youths of Agnesdorf have the right, by an ancient statute, of digging up a young oak on the Questenberg;[3] the tree must be carried, and after it is planted is decorated with wreaths of flowers.

They then go in procession to the parsonage, conduct the pastor to the church, when Divine service is held; after which all return in procession to the newly-planted oak, and after all have partaken of refreshments they dance around it, and the youths shoot at the target.

Barbarossa and the Kyffhäuser.

On this mountain that overlooks the Golden Plain, amid the beech and oak woods that clothe it, stand the ruins of a square tower built of red sandstone, broken walls, and arches of the ancient gateway, gables, and the remains of the chapel of the fortress, where the first Electors and Emperors of Germany held their court.

Tradition and romance linger with an irresistible fascination around these lonely ruins.

Tradition tells us that Barbarossa never died, but remains enchanted in the heart of the Kyffhäuser.

He sits in an ivory chair by a marble table, his head resting upon his arm, and his long red beard has overgrown the whole table like moss. He wears the imperial mantle, and the knightly forms of his old courtiers, like spectres, come forth from their rocky chambers and place upon his aged uncovered head the oldest crown of Germany glittering with diamonds. His innocent daughter is his only attendant, or, according to other legends, a dwarf.

The Kaiser's eyes are closed, but at times he seems to awake from his enchanted slumber, and new life seems to animate the stiffened limbs. But he cannot awake, nor rise from his seat, nor leave the enchanted chamber until Germany's enemies are fallen and she is free. He seemed about to throw off the enchanted fetters in the days of Maximilian, again in Luther's time.

At the time of the Rhine Treaty, and when the first Napoleon won the brilliant victories of Ulm, Austerlitz, and Jena, the eyes of the old Redbeard sparkled with anger and grief, and at his cry of rage, lightnings flashed through the dark chambers of the Kyffhäuser, thunders rolled through its rocky caverns, and Barbarossa slumbered again till the great victory of the Allies in the "Battle of the Nations"[1] awaked him, and at the death of Napoleon on St. Helena he broke the enchantment, and Napoleon sits in his place.

There are many versions of this legend.

One holy day, a miner rambling to the Kyffhäuser, to rest under the trees and indulge in devotional reflections, saw, as he reached the ruined tower, a monk with a long grey beard, who addressed him, saying, "Come! I have long expected thee; thou shalt see the enchanted Kaiser. Graumannel has brought me the Springwurzel,[2] and I must have a mortal to accompany me; no evil shall befall thee."

The monk leads him to a green spot surrounded with walls, forms with the staff which he carries a circle around him and his companion, takes from his pocket a gold-coloured velvet book, and begins to murmur and read, no word of which the miner understands.

Suddenly there is a terrible clap of thunder. The mountain cracks, the circle on which they stand becomes loose, and sinks slowly into the mountain; the miner, in terror, clings to the cowl of the monk. At last they reach firm ground.

Now they go through a long dark passage to great brass gates. The monk touches them with the Springwurzel, and immediately they open. They enter an aisle, lighted by a brilliant lamp, and again stand before a door.

The monk cries, "Hephata!" and the door opens.

They enter a large, brilliantly lighted, magnificent chapel; the walls are of marble; the altar is of beaten gold, and its eternal lamp bathes all in a wondrous light.

The miner cannot gaze enough at the marvellous sight, crosses and recrosses himself; the monk kneels at the golden altar and says an Ave Maria. Then he rises, commands his companion to remain standing in the middle of the chapel, and approaches the door opposite the one by which they had entered.

At his mighty word this door opens also.

The imperial chamber, or throne-room, is brilliantly lighted; on the glittering golden throne, in imperial robes, sits Barbarossa, sad and silent.

The monk approaches the enchanted sovereign and bows reverently.

The Kaiser returns the greeting graciously, and the monk lifts with great solemnity some object from the ground, again bows low before the monarch, and retires slowly to the door, seizes the hand of the astonished miner, who has gazed as in a dream at the splendour of the enchanted chamber, leads him to the green circle, which begins at once to rise, and soon reaches the summit of the mountain.

The miner draws a long breath, receives two small metal rods from the monk, who exclaims, "Gelobt sei Jesus Christ!" and before the bewildered man can respond, "In Ewigkeit!" the mysterious monk has vanished.

The Burgfräulein[1] of Osterode.

One Sunday morning early, a poor linen weaver was walking to Osterode.

Aurora showed her gaily laughing and blushing face above the green mountains, a balsamic freshness floated over the valleys and streams, the peaks of the woody heights swam in the blue ether, and the dew-bathed mountain flowers sparkled in the sun's golden splendour. The songs of the birds rang out of the thickets, and soft chimes rose from the villages summoning to worship and praise—-a mild, blissful peace hovered over the entire scene.

It was long before the wanderer noticed these surrounding beauties of the morning, for a heavy sorrow lay at his heart. A beloved wife lay at home ill, six hungry children waited with her anxiously for his return, and he must return with empty hands.

His rich cousin, from whom he had hoped for assistance, had repulsed him with cruel words, and now his future lay dark and hopeless before him.

But as the sun rose higher, as all Nature bloomed and sent forth her frankincense of praise, and the streams murmured of peace, he grew more composed.

"How glorious! how wonderful!" he thought, as he stood still and gazed around him; "and what a mystery it is that only man is so often shut out from the universal enjoyment of creation. Why should he be crushed to the earth, and provide in sorrow and pain for his bodily sustenance, while the birds sing and the flowers bloom free from care? Doth He not clothe the lilies, and give the rose and violet their perfume and exquisite hues? Can the Eternal Father care less for an immortal soul? No, no, never!"

He began again to move forward, singing that noblest hymn in the German language, which has been so perfectly translated by John Wesley, beginning—

When he came to the lines—

he quickened his pace with a firmer tread and lighter heart.

Perhaps he would have sung on to the end of the hymn, had not a voice, clear as a silver bell, greeted him with "Guten Morgen!"

The singer looked in the direction of the voice, and stood like one transfixed at the sight of the vision before him.

On the banks of the brook which flowed past his path sat a lovely maiden clad in white, and bathed her marble-white feet in the crystal water.

Before he could recover from his astonishment, the figure rose and approached him, saying in a voice of the most delicious melody—

"Thou sangst just now a beautiful song, that was made for the troubled. May help be as near every one who sings it as to thee; for know, thou art come at a most happy hour. It is only permitted me once a year to be at this spot; and whoever meets me here and deserves it as thou, him I make happy—if wealth can make him happy. Listen, then: when the bells ring midnight, leave thy cottage, and climb the mountain in silence to the ruins of Burg Osterode. Between the sunken walls thou wilt find a flower; pluck it, and instantly all the treasures of the heart of the mountain will be revealed to thine eye, from which thou mayst take as much as thou wilt. Go now thy way, and carry comfort and hope to thy wife. My time is expired."

The slender form, the pale, loving face, transparent as moonlight, the long golden hair, were in a twinkling vanished.

Wonderfully cheered, the weaver hastened home and related his vision to his suffering wife and little children, and they waited with impatience for the appointed hour. At last the leaden-footed hours had passed—it was midnight.

The weaver kissed his wife and hastened forth. It was a glorious night. The full moon shone, the quail sang her nightly song. The picturesque ruin contrasted wonderfully in its dark grey masses with the cloudless blue of the heavens and the silver moonlight.

A peculiar light shone out of an arched chamber; he followed it, and there sat the pale maiden, adorned with a wreath of white roses in her hair. She raised her jasper-blue eyes, looked kindly on him, and beckoned him to approach and gather the shining flower.

The weaver obeyed and tremblingly plucked the lily.

Hardly had he the flower in his hand when a fearful, rumbling sound arose in the heart of the mountain, the ground close to his feet sank crashing into the depths, and a huge cauldron rose in flame, filled to the brim with glittering gold pieces. The maiden bade him take what he would, for he was so overcome with astonishment and terror that he could not move.

At her friendly voice he recovered from his fear, filled pockets and hat with the coins, bowed low and reverently, left the magic chamber, and hurried back to his cottage—and the sun rose on two happy people. Every anniversary of the day they went to the ruins to thank the fairy, who, however, ever afterward remained invisible.

The Key Fairy of the Gütersburg

At midnight, when the moonlight rests on the rustling oaks, or the winter snow glitters and winds howl, there rises a white form from the ruins of this robber Schloss, a wreath of flowers around the head, and in the girdle a bunch of keys.

Centuries ago a convent stood near, and a monk belonging to it, longing to possess some of the treasures of the underworld, was once bold enough, as the bells rang midnight, to climb to the spot where the fairy dwelt.

He used the formula employed to open the gates of the spirit-world, and instantly, white as a swan, rose the virgin beautiful to behold.

"What dost thou desire?" she asked.

The monk approached her too boldly, begging for the jewels of the depths, and she gave him such a blow with her keys that he fled in terror, and never dared to visit the place again.

Soon after, as a shepherd was feeding his sheep on a meadow near, a blooming, quiet maiden came and gathered flowers, which she bound in a garland; approaching him, and looking kindly at him, she let a flower fall. He picked it up and put it in his hat-band.

The maiden departed smiling, but beckoned him to follow her.

Soon they reached the summit of the Güntersburg.

They entered a subterranean passage, a door opened, and the youth beheld the wonders of the fairy-world. Gold and precious stones glittered in the soft starlight that illuminated the vaulted chambers.

"Take what thou wilt," said the fairy; "but choose wisely."

He filled his pockets with gold and costly jewels, but in his rapid movements the flower fell from his hat. He looked around seeking the door and rushed out, hearing only the words, "Forget not the most beautiful treasure," and never stopped till he had reached the meadow and his sheep. He emptied his pockets of the precious treasures, when lo! they were worthless stones.

Legend of the Devil's Mill.

The summit of the Ramberg, or Victor's Höhe, is strewed with gigantic ruins of the primeval rocks, and is called the Brocken of the Unterharz.

Two huge granite boulders, lying as if they had been placed there by hands, are the remains of the Teufelsmühle.

At the base of the mountain, in the ages long ago, a miller possessed a windmill.

But the mill, an inheritance from his great-great-grandfather, was in a tumble-down condition, and when the wind blew from the north or west the sweeps stood motionless, for mountain and forest intercepted the "breath of God."

Often the miller had sat on the summit of the mountain, and thought how nice it would be if the mill only stood there in the free, full breeze, with a strong tower, built from the materials that lay scattered around in superfluous abundance.

Once, as he thus sat and mused in the twilight, the bats and owls just beginning their nocturnal rounds, a huge, swarthy labourer suddenly appeared before him, greeted him with a Gott-sei-bei-uns! and told him he would build him a mill, so soon as the miller signed a promise with blood to be his in thirty years.

Want, avarice, and vanity won the day with their unholy counsel, and the bond was signed.

Suddenly scores of little black figures issued forth from the darkness of the night, and began to work among the rocks; trees were cut down with a stroke, chisel and hammer rang on the granite, and the work went forward with a rapidity of enchantment.

The fear of the miller rose to despair, and as he saw the roof and the huge sweeps set up and finished, and the last millstone rolled to its place, he seized it with the power of a deadly terror, threw it from the rollers with such force, that it rolled down the mountain.

Then the black wings of the arch-fiend unfolded and spread themselves, he soared high in the air, let fall the millstone on the miller, who was buried beneath it and the ruins of the mill, broken to atoms.

The Origin of the Rammelsberg Mine, near Goslar.

The rich treasures of the Rammelsberg were discovered in 970, according to tradition, by accident.

Otto the Great hunted in the forest. His squire Ramm dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and went after some game that had been shot. The impatient animal pawed and stamped, and his rider returning, found a glittering piece of silver ore laid bare.

Another story is, that the discovery was made by a servant girl in the mill at the base of the mountain.

She rose one morning before daybreak, and went out to gather wood, when she saw a fire burning on the mountain. She hurried to the spot, and found several men with white beards sitting around it.

Approaching them, she asked permission to take some of the burning coals to kindle her fire.

They gave no answer, but sat motionless and gazed upon the ground.

At last she took some coals, saying to herself, "No answer means yes," carried them home and laid them on the hearth, but they would not burn. This she repeated several times, but the coals, once thrown on the hearth refused to burn.

At last it became broad day, and a great heap of gold lay on the hearth, and on the spot where she had seen the fire, lay only pebbles. Search was made, and the wealth of the mountain discovered.

A similar tradition, with slight variations, is told of the Burgmühle, or castle mill, near Aschersleben, on the Wolfsberg.

The tradition is quite as probable that Askanas, grandson of Noah, died on the Wolfsberg in 1964 after the Creation, having left the East a few centuries previously to escape idolatry.

Legend of the Hoppelberg

Many and mighty tribes, as the Wenden, Katten, and Sassen, once dwelt in the Harz. Bloody battles have been fought for the possession of this district, whose dense forests and impassable valleys afforded not only defence, but the pleasures of the chase.

We find proofs of their existence here in huge mounds filled with human skulls and bones, and in the names of some of her villages, as, for example, Dorf Kattenstedt.

These primeval mountaineers were most disturbed by a wild and powerful monastic tribe of giant size and strength, who frequently broke into the mountains, plundered their huts, murdered children, women, and old men, and led away the strong men into slavery.

Sometimes they only came in small numbers, but the terror of their name went before them, and caused the inhabitants, despite their peculiar bravery, without opposition, to flee into the ravines and caves, while the enemy took possession of all they could lay hands on.

One called these giant people the Huns. No other race possessed such immense size and terrible strength. They were held to be unconquerable, and mighty magicians. Nevertheless, it happened that once when a body of these giants broke into these mountains, the bravest of the inhabitants united in defence against them; clad in steel, with shield and spear, they marched to meet the advancing foe.

The Huns, surprised at opposition, and the sight of the huge weapons of the mountaineers, hesitated to begin the attack.

Then the king of the Huns came forward and cried in scorn, "Do you fear these dwarf figures? Tarry here; I alone will fight their whole army, which extends itself beyond our view. As the storm-wind breaks in pieces the trees of the mountains, so shall these fall before my strong arm."

He seized his lance and battle-axe, hurled his javelin into the thickest ranks of the enemy, his arrow to that point where their leader stood, and stormed after them down the hill like a rock suddenly broken from the mountain's side, crushing and destroying all on his way, defending himself against the cloud of arrows that met his advance with his huge shield.

His followers remained on the summit of the hill, and followed with flashing eyes their hero king, that they might be ready to hasten to his aid if in danger.

The crashing of his sword, as it rent helmet of oak and coat of mail resounded above the wild cry of the combatants and the clashing of shields.

Unceasing was his way through the ranks, and dying and maimed marked his path. At last he reached the spot where the commander stood surrounded by his braves, and here his progress was arrested.

Stubborn is the conflict, surrounded and shut in, his position seems terrible, and the onlooking Huns cry out, "Shall we hasten to his aid?"

And others answer, "No, no, he would be enraged if we deprived him of the glory of being the sole conqueror. But see! see! the enemy grows weak; now he totters, our king wields more quickly more mightily his arm! They sink! They fly! Victory! Victory! Great is the glory of our tribe, and of our mighty champion."

They raise the song of triumph and march to meet the royal conqueror, who leans upon his spear, and looks upon his advancing army without going forward to receive it.

He gives them a sign; they raise his helmet and loosen the coat of mail; and the hero sinks lifeless on his bloody shield.

Strong and deep is the sorrow of his people, and loud are the lamentations of woe.

At length one of the elders of the tribe exclaims, "Why do we lament the fallen? Is not death the destiny of all, and is there a more glorious death than that of the conqueror in the hour of victory? Let us make a grave for our king on the field of his victory, a grave that shall not only receive his ashes, but proclaim his victory to the most distant centuries."

And they did so. They made a funeral pile, and laid the victor, borne upon his shield, upon it, and the Huns formed a circle around the burning wood and sang the death-song, led by the bards.

"The people shall see their king no more. And the halls of his palace must remain for ever desolate. Never again shall the people hear his voice, but in their hearts he shall dwell for ever."

The flames grow less, the death-song ceases. In silence they gather the ashes in the sacred urn, lay the shield on the ground, the urn upon it, and his armour above it.

Many lay upon the sacred heap what is held most dear, hunting spear or battle-axe. And now the whole tribe sets hand to the work.

"We will build," they said, "a grave which neither man can destroy nor storms and tempests wash away."

And they heaped rock on rock, and levelled whole hills to the plain to pile up the giant grave to a giant king, and called it the Hero's Grave.

And that is the Sargberg, or Coffin mountain.

The White Lady.

The Blankenburg family ghost is called the White Lady. A portrait bearing this name hangs in the castle, said to be a likeness of a Countess of Orlamünde. The legend is as follows:

The Earl Otto von Orlamünde died in 1340—several dates are given—and left a young and beautiful widow, Agnes by name, a duchess by birth, and the mother of two little children, a son of three, and a daughter of two years.

The widow lived alone in the Plassenburg, and thought often it were better to marry again.

One day a remark of the Earl, Albert the Handsome von Nurnberg was repeated to her: "I would willingly espouse the fair Countess Agnes, but for the four eyes."

The Countess fancied he meant her two children. Seeing they stood in the way of her marriage, she resolved to free herself of them, and engaged a man named Hager, with promises of rich gifts, to murder them.

The murderer is said to have confessed his crime on the rack. According to another tale, the Countess murdered them herself by sticking pins in their skulls.

Her guilty spirit cannot rest, but wanders in Orlamunde and Blankenburg. Her appearance always betokens death in the family.

Frau Berta is also called the White Lady. She haunts the imperial royal palaces, and also Darmstadt and Carlsruhe.

As family ghost she harms no one, greets every one she meets, never speaks, and always wears a white veil and carries a bunch of keys in her girdle.

The Chapel of Roses.

It was a stormy, dismal winter night, when a teamster drove with a heavy load of wine along the almost impassable road near the little mountain church of Elend, at the foot of the Brocken.

The disc of the moon blinked only seldom through the dark clouds, which, restless, and ever succeeded by new ones, chased each other across the heavens.

A sharp north wind shook the bare branches of the trees that grew thick on both sides of the way, blew the snow in the ravines, and heaped it to huge snow-drifts, which threatened the traveller unacquainted with the locality with danger.

The wind grew every moment more sharp and cutting, the snow deeper, and the difficulty greater for the tired horses to draw their weary load.

Often the teamster stood and listened, and gazed into the darkness in search of some shelter, and called for help, and heard the echoes of his own voice ring deep in the snowy wood, but all remained desolate, dumb, and awful.

No bark of a dog that so rejoices the nightly wanderer, no lowing or neighing of friendly stall.

The silence of death reigned; only now and then the dark wings of some nocturnal bird of prey fluttered over his head, and a ghostly rustling was heard among the dry underbrush; the stars seemed like silent, cold eyes looking down on the weary man and horses, the clouds scudded silently past, and the snow, too, was silent as a spirit.

The lonely traveller grew more terrified, and urging on his horses, the waggon suddenly sank in a deep place, and no efforts of the tired animals could move it from the spot. Loud cried the deserted man for help. No one heard. In despair he wrung his hands and besought the Virgin to aid him in his distress.

Suddenly he heard a rustling in the thicket, and a female form, like the silver moon when she appears above the peaks of the mountains, glided out of the darkness into view, slender as the fir-tree of the Harz, rosy as the early dawn, fresh as meadow-dew, beautiful as eternal youth.

A lustre like a sunset in spring, or an Alpine glow on the eternal snow, floated around the heavenly form, and breathed on the rigid snow masses a soft glimmer like a fairy light.

Terrified, the teamster gazed at the radiant Virgin, who with an enchanting, heavenly smile approached the sunken waggon, and with a single touch drew waggon and horses out of the deep place.

Surprised by the mysterious vision, and cheered by the unexpected aid, the teamster endeavoured to thank his helper and deliverer, and expressed his regret that he had neither cup nor goblet in which to offer her a draught of wine.

At these words the strange apparition touched a shrub that stretched forth its dried, thorny branches, when instantly leaves and buds burst forth, and soon the whole shrub was loaded with most beautiful roses, that breathed forth a wondrous and unwonted perfume.

The Virgin Mary, for it was she herself, broke off clusters of the roses and formed a drinking-cup, and as the teamster would return it filled with wine, the vision had vanished.

Meanwhile the horses had gone on with the waggon, which they now drew with perfect ease, but stood still before the chapel of Elend, and could not be brought from the spot.

The teamster entered with reverence the oratorium, to thank the Almighty for his deliverance, when lo! he recognized in the figure of the Virgin his deliverer, and placed the rose drinking-cup as a costly relic before her shrine.

With amazing rapidity the fame of the miracle of the Church of Roses spread over Germany, and it became one of the most frequented and sacred shrines.

The original of the rose-cup was sent to Rome; but first an exact copy of it was made in clay and preserved in Elend.

The most wonderful miracles continued to be performed; the devotees swarmed to the mountain church, so that it was enlarged, and seven doors were cut in its walls.

Princess Ilse

The beautiful Princess Ilse, daughter of King Ilsing of Schloss Ilsenburg, having ridden to the chase with her royal father, and her lover the Ritter Ralf, lost her way on the wild mountains, and came at nightfall to the gates of the fairy world, over which the Fairy Queen of the mountains rules. The Queen met her with kindness, and invited her to enter her gorgeous crystal palace.

Hesitating and with fear she followed the powerful sovereign; gnomes and cobolds attended everywhere with homage.

Beautiful Ilse tarried a whole year in the richly adorned subterranean world, witnessed the mysterious government, policy, and life of the fairies, the creations and destructions by the king of the giants, the hostile relations of the Fairy Queen to the Giant King, the unhappy loves of her children Rumar and Romar, and what she could not understand the amiable Queen explained to her, and introduced her fully to the fairy world.

But all the splendour and glory of this fairy realm could not still Ilse's longing for her beloved Ralf, and the light of the upper world.

She demanded her return, which her fairy Majesty granted, but threatened her with destruction, should she ever reveal to mortal what she had seen.

Princess Ilse returned to the friendly light of day and rejoiced in the fidelity of her lover.

But he threatened her with the loss of his love if she did not tell him where she had been so long a time, and what she had seen.

The two lovers seated themselves on the soft moss. Ilse laid her lovely head upon Ralf's breast, and gazed up into his face with her wonderful and faithful eyes; Ralf laid his hand upon her shoulder, and beautiful Ilse began her tale.

With caresses she betrayed the secrets entrusted to her, and described the magnificence of the Fairy Queen.

The new moon rose and the stars appeared one after another in the dark-blue heavens; fair Ilse chatted on, related the legends of the Harz—of the giants and dwarfs.

Ralf listened at first in silent astonishment, and hung enraptured on the tales from her beautiful lips, then he began to dream and fancy, and at last fell asleep.

In the grey of the morning, as he awoke, he heard still the murmuring tones of the Princess, and as he turned to salute the princely maiden, he saw, instead of Ilse, a crystal-clear bubbling spring illuminated with the dawn.

The water sprang gaily out of the soft moss, and murmured ever in a thousand leaps and tiny waterfalls over the moss-grown rocks adown the vale.

Deepest despair seized Ralf's spirit; he knew now what he had done, and what had become of Ilse through her betrayed secret, a clear pure stream doomed for ever to ripple and murmur through the mountains.

Ralf built a cottage near the spring, and when the new moon rose Ilse awaited him by the mossy bank, leaned her head caressingly on his breast, and he heard her sweet prattle till the blushing dawn spread her radiance over the silver ripplets, and then the fairy virgin vanished in the blue air.

Princess Ilse and the Deluge

Princess Ilse, says another legend, in order to escape the general deluge, fled with her lover to the Brocken. But before they had reached that witch-haunted mountain, and just when standing on the rocky wall connecting the Ilsenstein with the Westerberg, the rock on which they stood was rent asunder in order to separate the lovers, whereupon they both leaped together into the floods.

The Ilsenstein

This lordly cliff and the Westerberg were once connected, it is said, by a granite wall, which was rent asunder by flood and storm from the Brocken; and according to one legend, Princess Ilse issues from the rock at dawn, when the weather is mild, robed in white satin, her long golden hair floating around her like a veil, a diadem of mountain crystal adorning her regal brow, lays aside her costly array, bathes in the crystal stream, and combs her golden hair.

Whoever is so happy as to meet her at the right moment, she calls with friendly voice, takes him by the hand and leads him before the Ilsenstein, which at her command opens, when she conducts him to her palace in the heart of the mighty rock.

There the most unheard-of splendour rivets his astonished gaze; the floors, walls, and ceilings glitter with gold, silver, and precious stones; the lofty arches are supported by columns of mountain crystal; while carbuncles illuminate the vast chambers with a soft light.

In the most magnificent of these chambers will the happy mortal find the most delightful entertainment; and when a youth, pure, and free from all guilt, bathes in the Ilse at the same time as the Princess, she will be free from the enchantment.

Whoever approaches her with impure heart, she sprinkles with water, and instantly he turns into a fir tree.

A Dream under Princes Ilse's Firs.

It was during the heat of August, when my friend Josephine and I sat long chatting on a moss-grown stone under Princess Ilse's dark evergreens.

Finally she went to gather some ferns and wild-flowers, and I fell asleep.

Then I heard a deep voice above me say, "I am Castiglione the magician. I approached the Princess Ilse with the guilt of falsehood on my soul, and she transformed me into the fir against which you are leaning. If she would only break the enchantment, and set me free, I would lead an honest, truthful life. Plead with her to release me."

"How can I do that?" I asked. "I never expect to see the Princess."

"Oh yes, you will. You will see her to-day."

Another voice joined in—"I am Booth, of Lincoln renown. People never knew what became of me. I came here to the Harz mountains, hoping to find favour with the noble Ilse after my heroic deed in freeing my country from a tyrant; but the Princess called my act murder, and I have been a sighing fir tree ever since."

"And you deserve it," cried Castiglione.

"Pull the beam out of your own eye, please," replied the infuriated Booth. "You dare to reproach me, you, who did not hesitate to add the last drop of an infant's blood to make your elixir of life? What insolence!"

I felt sure they would come to blows right over my head. Happily a melodious voice struck in, and interrupted the quarrel.

"I am Don Carlos, the unhappy son of Philip of Spain, and the victim of priestly bigotry. The Inquisitors gained my royal father's permission to make away with me, a son who loved him truly.

"I escaped, and History does not tell what became of me, simply because she does not know. I fled here to Princess Ilse for refuge, but I approached her at an unfavourable moment, and she transformed me into this spruce. If I could only be set free I would carry out my ideas of freedom."

"You are too late, my young friend," cried Castiglione. "Your ideas have been carried out. You don't seem to have kept up with the history of events. Bismarck has set the Germans free, and cleansed the moral atmosphere of the whole empire, sent the Jesuits adrift, and put a bayonet into the hands of every eighty men in a hundred to keep them out."

Here a deep sigh was heard.

"Oh, I am tired with standing so long! Walking isn't half so fatiguing. Oh, how my back aches!"

"Who are you?" cried Castiglione.

"I am the Wandering Jew. They keep up the story of my wanderings, but I have stood here in this tree for ages, shivering or roasting."

I felt quite bewildered, and almost afraid in the midst of this odd Gesellschaft, and shuddered as I thought more dreadful additions would speedily be made to it.

Suddenly a radiant form stood before me. Such beauty no mortal eye ever beheld outside of a dream. It was the Princess Ilse. Her long golden curls fell nearly to her feet, over a silvery-like robe almost transparent.

Her eyes were deep violet with an expression none could describe.

Above her milk-white regal brow glittered a diadem of brilliants and sapphires. Bracelets and rings of diamonds and pearls adorned her fair arms.

Extending her swan-white hand, with a ravishing smile, she said, "Come, I will show thee my home, my palace, and thou shalt dine with me."

We entered the Ilsenstein under a gigantic arch of mountain crystal; a group of white-robed maidens met us, and attended us to the great throne-room.

This was an immense chamber, lighted by a chandelier of brilliants hung in the centre, and single lamp-shaped rubies and carbuncles hung along the sides and in the corners.

The floor was of white and red roses, which were not crushed by the tread, but remained ever in rich fulness.

On each side of this regal chamber were sixteen colossal Norman arches, through which one saw, on the right advancing up it, a garden of every sort of fruit-tree, all bearing ripe fruits.

At the left, flowers of every clime. Fountains played, white-robed maidens moved among the fruit and flowers, or reclined on banks of violets and roses.

Soft music floated around us. Between each arch was a seat. Every seat was a bank of flowers, each different from the other.

Above each seat was a statue of a fairy of the Harz, alternately in mountain crystal and snowy alabaster.

At the upper end, under a majestic arch, stood Princess Ilse's throne.

The throne was one ruby, the canopy a single pearl, the steps leading up to the throne were emeralds.

Near the throne, in front of an arch, stood a table of silver, and two chairs of mountain crystal beside it.

The service was of gold, filled with the viands of the fairy world, and the choicest fruits and flowers.

A group of fair maidens sat in a rose arbour playing harp, lute, and harpsichord, while others stood by the table in attendance.

A pearl plate was handed us, and Princess Ilse herself poured the crimson wine into gilded crystal goblets bearing her monogram in diamonds and sapphires, touched her glass to mine, and saying, "I drink to thy happiness," she pressed her own glass to my lips, when lo! I awoke, and there stood Josephine, poking a fern in my face.

"Oh, Josie!" I exclaimed, "you can never know of how much you have robbed me with that stupid fern!"

The Red-haired Trude

At a time when very few men lived upon the earth, when towns and villages were few and very widely separated, when there were no roads in the mountains, and before Romulus and Remus were rescued by the motherly wolf on the yellow Tiber, or Nausikaa fell in love with Odysseus, there stood a house on the site of Schloss Ilsenburg, inhabited by a widow and her daughter Trude.

Deeper in among the mountains stood an old stone Schloss, on the granite wall connecting the Ilsenstein and the opposite-lying Westerberg, which had been bought, and was inhabited by a father and his fair daughter Ilse.

Nobody knew who the father was, but it was supposed—as people do in many cases—that he was some fallen and deposed Prince.

During the absence of the Prince and Princess Ilse on a journey, a stranger, handsome and gay, without money, sack, or scrip, but rich in self-confidence and flattering words, sought hospitality of the widow and her daughter, and was warmly received and entertained.

Ralf "fell in love" with Trude, and a blissful summer was spent gathering wild fruits and flowers and hunting birds' nests among the mountains.

The nuptials were near, and the widow was busy with the bride's trousseau, when unexpectedly with Autumn arrived the foreign Prince and fair Ilse from their mysterious journey.

Ritter Ralf, it must be confessed, was very naughty. With an eagle-eye he perceived the radiant charms of Princess Ilse, and poor Trude was forsaken.

The widow reproached him with his perfidy, but he replied, "The eagle mates but with the eagle, and though I have fled from a severe father, I am of noble blood, and have found a Braut of my own rank."

The widow swore revenge, and consoled the weeping Trude, begging her only to wait till Walpurgisnacht[1] and her perfidious lover should be punished.

She made a league with the evil spirits of the mountains and the air, and devoted herself to the unholy arts of a witch.

Walpurgisnacht arrived, the widow stood on the balcony of her house and invoked the demons and witches, who swept through the night, which rested black as destruction on the mountains, heavy as the day of wrath and vengeance.

From the Brocken broke a terrible tempest. Awful thunders rolled, lightnings in fiery serpents cut their way through the heavens and mountains, and a tremendous flood swept down from the Brocken, destroying all in its course.

The coalers clung to the rocky walls, but Princess Ilse looked calmly on the wild scene, saw the rocks rent on which her father's castle stood, and it, her lover, father, and servants all swept away; and as she too was about to perish, a tall manly form, with majestic head and black locks—probably the Fairy King—seized her in his strong arms, wrapped her in a white mantle, and vanished.

Poor Trude, from the balcony by her mother's side, saw her faithless Ralf carried down the torrent, threw herself over after him, and when the flood had subsided the widow found them in each other's arms, washed up on the banks of the river.

The Wild Huntsman.

Earl Eberhard von Wurtemberg rode one day alone into the forest to amuse himself with the chase. Suddenly he heard a loud roar and noise, as of a hunter riding furiously past; he was terrified, dismounted in haste from his horse, and approaching a tree, as if for defence, cried aloud to the imagined huntsman, asking if he intended violence.

"No," replied the now visible form of the hunter, "I am a man like thyself, and stand before thee quite alone. I too was formerly a noble.

"I found such pleasure in the chase, that I besought God to permit me to hunt until the judgment-day. Unhappily my sinful wish was granted, and for four hundred and fifty years I have hunted the same deer. But my race and name are known to no one."

Thereupon the ghostly hunter vanished.

Hans von Hackelberg, a master of the hunt in Brunswick, had an unhappy dream one night on the Harzburg; it seemed to him in his dream as if he struggled with a huge wild boar which conquered him after a long combat, and that he died of his wounds.

He could not drive this terrible dream from his mind. Shortly after he encountered a boar in the Harz similar to the one in his dream. He attacked him; the struggle remained long undecided; at length Hans conquered and slew the animal. Rejoiced to see the boar stretched at his feet, he kicked the tusk with violence, exclaiming, "Thou shalt not yet kill me!"

But he had struck with such force that the sharp tooth pierced his boot and wounded his foot.

At first Hackelberg paid no attention to the wound, but continued the chase. On his return, however, the foot was so swollen, that the boot had to be cut off. He hastened back to Wolfenbüttel, but the vehicle shook the foot so that he was obliged to stop on the way at Wülperode, where he died.

Before his death he expressed a wish that he might hunt for ever, and his rash desire was granted.

The Tut-Osel, or Tut-Ursel, always accompanies him.

At midnight, when in storm and rain, Hackelberg with horse and dogs tears through the Thuringian Forest, the Harz, and the Hackel Forest, the night or death owl flies before him, which the people call the Tut-Osel.

The wanderer, when he hears the ghostly hunt, listens in terror to the barking of dogs, and hears the hu! hu! of the chase, and the uhu of the death-owl.

In a Kloster in Thuringia lived, in the primeval days of convents, a nun called Ursel—Ursula—who always disturbed the choir of nuns by her howling singing; hence she was called Tut-Ursel. But after her death she disturbed them even more than in her lifetime, for at eleven every evening she poked her head through a hole in the church tower and tooted dreadfully, and every morning at four she joined her voice in the matin-song.

For some days the holy sisters bore this lamentable disturbance; but at last one morning one of the nuns whispered in fear to her neighbour, "That is certainly the Ursel!"

Instantly the music ceased, their hair rose to mountains, and the nuns rushed out of the church screaming: "Tut-Ursel! Tut-Ursel!" And no punishment could induce a single nun to enter the church again until a Capuchin monk from a monastery on the Danube, noted for his sanctity, was summoned.

He condemned Tut-Ursel to banishment in the Harz, and to bear the form of a death-owl.

Here she encountered Hackelberg, and found as much delight in the hu, hu! of his eternal hunt as he in her uhu! and so they hunt for ever in company.

Another story is that the screech-owl is a nun who was false to her vows, and left her convent to follow Hackelberg.

The origin of this legend belongs to the ancient pagan days. It is even disputed that a person called Hackelberg existed, and if so, the legend is ages older than the sixteenth century, the time when he is said to have lived.

The Wild Hunter, the Wanderer, was Wodan himself in the pagan days.

At the introduction of Christianity we find a new development of the ancient myths. Wodan becomes the foul fiend, then the godless Hunter, and the Wandering Jew. In the Black Forest the eternal Hunter and the eternal Jew are regarded as the same person. They both always carry a groschen in the pocket. In some parts of Germany the harrows are placed in the fields with the teeth together, that the wanderer may rest himself. According to some authorities, he may only rest Christmas night, and then only when he finds a plough in the field; only on that may he sit down.

Every seven years the Huntsman passes over the seven mining towns of the Harz, and woe to him who calls after him.

According to one legend, the Wild Huntsman met Christ at a river where He sought to quench His thirst, and would not permit Him to drink; he also drove Him from a cattle trough, and when the Saviour found water in a horse's foot-print, and would drink there, he drove Him away. As a punishment, he is doomed to wander for ever, and eat only horse-flesh. This is the pagan legend Christianized. In West and South Germany we find the Wild Army. Odin, or Wodan, was the god, too, of armies, and always went out from Walhalla at the head of his ghostly array, while his nine Walküren conducted the fallen heroes back to Walhalla.

The Origin of the Philippine.

Once, long centuries ago, a Princess lived in Schloss Hohenstein who was very fond of almonds, but was firmly resolved never to marry, so she invented the following plan.

She caused every prince who came a-wooing—and her suitors were countless—to eat the half of a double almond, and she ate its twin half. And then she said, "If you can induce me to take anything from your hand without saying "J'y pense," I am ready for marriage with you; but if, on the other hand, I can lead you to receive any object from my hand without your repeating those saving words, you shall have your head shaved, and forthwith leave my dominions."

But there was a trick in the stipulation, namely, the etiquette of the royal court forbade any person, on pain of death, to hand anything direct to the Princess, but rather to the lady-in-waiting, who presented it to her mistress.

But if the Kaiser's daughter chose herself to hand any one anything, who was there to forbid it?

Thus it was for the luckless wooers a bitter sport, for let them exert themselves as they would to beguile the royal maiden into taking anything from their hands, the inevitable lady-in-waiting spoiled their sport.

But when Princess Huldigunde determined to get rid of a certain adorer, she grew so engaging that he became perfectly enchanted, and as he sat beside her, intoxicated with joy, she seized either a pomegranate, or an egg near her, and handed it to him, saying softly, "Keep that as a souvenir."

As soon as the wooer took the object, it sprang open, and a frog, or a hornet, or bat flew into his hair or face, and in his fright he forgot to say, "J'y pense!" And then he was shaved on the spot, and away with him.

This went on for years, and in all kings' houses princes wore wigs. It happened at last that a foreign prince saw Huldigunde, and found her fair, and saw through the trick.

A friendly fairy had given him an apple, which he was to smell once a year, when a prudent idea should occur to him.

Just at the time when he first saw Huldigunde, it was time to smell the apple; he smelt, and it occurred to him that if he would win the game through give and take, he must neither give himself nor take anything from her.

He caused his hands to be bound to his girdle, went with his marshal to court, and declared his wish to eat almonds.

Huldigunde liked this Prince, and commanded almonds to be handed him. Then his marshal took them and put them in his mouth.

The Princess inquired why he carried his hands in his girdle.

He replied that the etiquette of his court was still more severe than at hers; it was not permitted him to take anything with his hands, only with his feet or head.

"In that way," cried Huldigunde, "we shall never settle the game."

Prince Otto only shrugged his shoulder, and replied, "Only when you graciously condescend to take something from my boots."

And the court stood aghast at the bold idea.

"Why did you come to Schloss Hohenstein with such a stupid etiquette?" cried the Almond Princess.

"Because you are so beautiful," cried Otto; "and, if I cannot win you I can look at you."

So Otto remained at the castle, and Huldigunde liked him better every day. She tried daily to beguile him into setting a hand free with offerings of fruit, flowers, even her bracelet, but Otto nodded to his marshal, who received them.

Then she dropped her handkerchief; but Otto lifted it with the toe of his boot, and swung it carelessly to and fro, and she stooped and took it from his boot.

So a whole year passed away, and the Princess said to herself, "An end must be made of this matter." So she told Otto she had the best garden in the world, and proposed to show it to him the next day.

It was time for the Prince to smell the apple again, and a brilliant idea came to him.

As they entered the garden, Otto exclaimed, "It is wonderfully beautiful here; and in order that we may accompany each other without any disturbing element, I pray my Princess to adopt the etiquette of my court, and permit her hands to be bound one hour; then we shall both be secure, and nothing disagreeable can happen to either of us."

Huldigunde consented, and they walked side by side with their hands bound.

The birds sang, the sun shone warm and clear, and from the trees the red cherries hung down to their cheeks.

Huldigunde looked wishfully at the ripe fruit and cried, "What a pity you cannot pluck me any."

But Otto replied, "Want knows no law," took a cherry in his mouth and offered it to her. The Princess could only put her mouth to his to take the cherry, and when she had the fruit between her lips—and his kiss with it—could not at the moment say, "J'y pense."

And Otto cried, "Good morning, Philippine!" drew his hands from his girdle, and threw them around her her neck.

Graf Arno's Capture.

Arno, the wildest and most powerful robber knight of the Harz, dwelt securely enthroned in his strong Burg, the Arnstein, which lay on the Felsberg like an eagle's nest, from whose strong walls the old eagle flew daily forth for robbery and murder. He and his castle were inaccessible; frequently, when the inhabitants of the neighbourhood had united to storm his nest, he had sent them home with bleeding heads, and each time punished them by making worse disturbance than before.

The citizens of the near-situated Aschersleben suffered most by these raids; for when in the sweat of the brow they had cultivated their fields, and rejoiced in view of the approaching harvest, Arno would swoop down like a bird of prey, and gather the rich grains and fruits into his barns; and when the wealthy merchants of Magdeburg, Ascherslebeh, and Nordhausen, reckoning how they could make what was worth fifty per cent. bring a hundred, travelled past, he took pity on their problem-solving souls, and relieved their weary brains of the difficult calculations and the burden of sales by carrying off their goods to his castle—sometimes, indeed, the merchants themselves, whose friends redeemed them with heavy sums.

Often he kidnapped maidens, and it was not at all unwelcome to him, as one day, while he lay in vain in wait for booty, a troop of young girls showed itself near the wood where he lay hidden.

It was then, and is still in some Harz villages, the custom on the wedding-day of a youthful pair to lead the bride out upon a mountain or a meadow, where her friends seek to take from her the bridal wreath. Dancing and singing they follow the fleeing bride, who strives to keep her treasure as long as possible, hides behind hedges and underbrush, till at last they rob her of her wreath and carry it in triumph to the bridegroom. It was such a bridal party that issued this day from the gates of Aschersleben, to enjoy the fun after the fashion of their ancestors, for the fairest flower of Askania, Ida, a merchant's daughter, celebrated her wedding.

How her bridal veil and ribbons fluttered and shimmered in the wind and sun, as she in the joy of her heart, light of foot as a fawn, flew over the meadow, pursued by her laughing companions.

Shouts of merriment and scraps of song rang over the laughing landscape to the wood where Arno lay concealed, watching the charming scene.

"Little maiden!" thought he, "if no train of waggons comes that I prefer, I can take thee; that is not difficult, and costs no blood."

And as the train came near, and the bride, ever in advance, would hide in the thicket, he seized her and bore her pitilessly away. The other maidens searched long in vain, till at last they caught sight of the fleeing robber with his booty.

What consternation! what lamentations! Breathless they fled back to the town, proclaiming the dreadful news with loud cries.

All became uproar, women ran moaning through the streets, girls locked themselves in their rooms, as if the robber were behind them, the older citizens talked and reasoned, the younger swore revenge, and the members of the town council moved with solemn steps and imposing mien toward the town hall, where the walls of the dark council chamber should become silent witnesses of all the wisdom of their puffed-up pride and self-importance.

Evening came on, the council chamber was lighted; the palate of each worthy member of the council rebelled against the fatigue of a longer sitting, and at last the Bürgermeister raised his voice and addressed his colleagues: "It is necessary, honourable gentlemen, that we come to a decision, and as it has been proved, through reliable witnesses, that the robber of the bride is our dangerous neighbour, the Earl von Arnstein, and the crime has been committed within the territory of our town, and as such a crime is punishable with death, we sentence the said Arno to death by the hangman, do we not?"

"Yes, your Worship!" cried the chamberlain.

"Of course!" said the syndic.

"Certainly!" echoed the town clerk.

"Certainly!" agreed every member of the council unanimously.

"If we take into consideration," continued the Bürgermeister, "how much damage the said Arno of Arnstein has caused, death by the sword is too mild. Shall he not die on the wheel, or be quartered?"

"Of course!" said the chamberlain, with a knowing nod.

"Certainly!" agreed the syndic.

"How wise!" cried one part of the councillors; "How just!" another.

"I am of opinion," resumed the Bürgermeister, "that the execution should take place immediately, before the said Arno does any more mischief."

"Of course! of course!" cried the assembly.

"But—but—a—" resumed his Worship, hesitating and undecided, "we must first have the criminal in our power, and that is—not—so—easy a matter. Can any one offer advice as to what is to be done?"

Silence! All were dumb. At last one cried, "We must take him prisoner!"

"Quite right," voted the councillors; "he must be taken prisoner."

"That is also my opinion," said the Bürgermeister. "Nevertheless it—is—no—easy matter—to accomplish. We could march out at once with all the armed men we possess, and storm——"

"Yes, yes," cried the syndic, "we will storm the nest!"

"We will storm it!" exclaimed the town clerk, with a look intended to be brave.

"How wise! how heroic!" was the praise on every lip, while the Bürgermeister continued his interrupted address: "But we have already experienced the fact that the Arnstein is not easy to seize. By force nothing can be done."

"No, by force nothing can be done!" echoed the assembly as one man.

"We might attempt to take him by strategy," continued the orator; "but Arno is cunning as a fox, and we should probably only expose our town to more robbery if he discovered that we were trying to waylay him."

"Certainly! certainly!" agreed every mouth.

"Hence I give it as my opinion," concluded the Bürgermeister, "that as force and stratagem would only bring upon us expense and danger, and the result is uncertain, that—that—a—that we allow the matter to rest as it is, and leave the criminal to the punishment of Heaven. Do you not think so, gentlemen?"

"Certainly, your Worship, certainly! How wise! how mild! how forbearing!" shouted the assembly.

The Bürgermeister rose with official dignity, dismissed his colleagues with a wave of the hand, and the exhausted councillors were in the act of retiring, when the unhappy bridegroom rushed breathless into their midst.

"What is decided?" he cried hastily, and seized the syndic by the arm.

"What's that to you?" growled that dignitary, who felt himself insulted by such familiarity. "How do you dare to force yourself unbidden into the council chamber?"

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," stammered the bridegroom, surprised. "I come to give you a capital piece of advice—the idea just occurred to me."

Every face grew long from assumed dignity.

"What! you will give advice? You—to us?"

But as the young man entreated them to hear him, the Bürgermeister permitted him to speak, provided he would be short.

The bridegroom unfolded his plan, which, though unwillingly, was approved of.

Meanwhile, Arno concluded that his robbery of the bride was undiscovered, and was strengthened in this idea, as some days after he saw a group of maidens, decked in bridal array, issue forth from the town to the same meadow.

Suddenly he resolved to carry off one of them, and when they had danced themselves weary and had thrown themselves down on the grass to rest, he rushed out of the wood, and, like a vulture, swooped down upon his prey.

But, to his astonishment, the maiden, instead of resisting, held him fast, and the others drew forth daggers and attacked and killed his retainers. Resistance was useless; he could not free himself from the powerful arms of the disguised soldier. They dragged him to Aschersleben, and shut him up in a cage, where he starved to death.

The bridegroom put on Arno's armour, and the troop, concealed in loaded wagons, were conducted to the Arnstein by the disguised bridegroom. The warder saw the train approaching, and at once opened the gates to admit it.

Too late, when all were within the walls, he discovered his error. Soon they had possession of the stronghold, and the bride was restored to the bridegroom.

The cage they still show in Aschersleben, and the meadow is still called the Dance meadow.

There is a tradition of another knight of Arnstein, who, cold and cruel to all who in the least displeased him, was buried in the now ruined chapel. His ghost still haunts the ruins.

His second wife, a cruel step-mother, who oppressed her beautiful step-daughter, keeps him company. She is the spinner of the Arnstein, doomed to spin on till her web breaks, when her spirit will be set free.

Whether the ghostly monk bore relation to this cruel pair we are not told. He visits the ruins, probably nightly, but can only be seen every seven years by those who were born on St. John's Eve. His duty is to chastise idle and deceitful servants.

The Pebble.

An old, poor, but honest man left his cottage to gather sticks and healing herbs in the wood for sale in the neighbouring town.

He soon had a huge bundle of sticks bound together for his weary, bent back—bent from the burden of toil and of years—and a luxuriance of the healing woodroofs made gathering them a light task; but when he reached the town everybody said, "What's the need of wood now, when it is summer?"

And the apothecary declared, "It is June, and the blossoms have already absorbed all the strength of the plants. You must bring them henceforth in May."

No one had an ear for the entreaties of the distressed man, and he set off for home hopeless and discouraged. He saw no way of deliverance out of his deplorable condition, no relief for his suffering wife. "Yes," he sighed, "if the bell in Wimmelburg had not been melted in the last fire, the bell through which God, the good Father, cured every sick person who heard its tones, there might be help for my poor wife; or, if it is not all a fable, of the great treasure which the monks buried in Sittichenbach, and we could find it; or, if it is true about the hidden treasure in Eisleben, that only he can find who can watch four-and-twenty days and nights without closing his eyes. Oh! I could watch the time, for sorrow keeps me awake every night. But all these tales must be only fancies, and the benevolent fairies in these mountains, who used to help the poor when they were near despair, are most likely long since gone, or else my trouble would have brought them to my relief. And with men, oh! with men there is no pity!"

It seemed to him by these reflections as if a long, giant, shadowy form brushed past him in the twilight, whispering in his ear, "Do not despair."

He looked up, but saw nothing but the shadow of the oak under which he sat, heard nothing save the sighing of the evening wind in its branches.

With a tear in his eye, he took the bundle of wood on his back and went on. A moment after he saw a shining object on his path. "Ei! what a beautiful pebble!" he thought. "I will take it home for the children to play with."

It was already late when he reached his cottage, and mother and children were asleep. The thought of their distress when they awoke caused him to try what he could do in the village, but all were deaf to his entreaties. It was a very dark night, and returning home from the village and opening the cottage door he almost sank down from terror, for it was light as if the house were on fire. He opened the door leading into the court; there it was as if all were in flames. He stood astonished, and gazed at the wonderful light, observed the direction whence it came, and perceived it came from the little room in which he had laid the pebble on the window bench.

He recollected the stone he had picked up, and the belief in a good mountain spirit, and hurried to the room.

The varied splendid colours of the pebble quite dazzled his eyes; he wrapped it in a cloth, and hastened to his neighbour Bergmann, who knew all the stones of the Harz, and showed it to him.

Bergmann examined it well, and said, "I don't know this stone, but it must be worth money. Come with me to-morrow to the town, and if you only get a Thaler for it, it is some help."

The following day they went to a jeweller, a Jew, and offered him the stone. Hardly had he cast eyes on it than he started, and cried, "Wonderful! How did you come by the stone?"

The poor man was so frightened he was unable to reply; but Bergmann, who had more experience, said, "It does not matter where the stone comes from; you need only tell us how much you will give for it."

"Well!" replied the Jew, "shall I have it for a hundred Thaler?"

"How much?" cried the finder, who could hardly believe his ears. "I am not in a mood for jokes; say honestly how much you will give."

"What, did I say a hundred Thaler?" replied the Jew, for he thought the apparent anger of the seller had another cause. "I beg pardon; I meant to say a thousand Thaler."

The two friends were speechless with astonishment; Bergmann, however, answered, "How could you make us such an offer? Give us the stone, for you will not pay what it is worth."

"Indeed you are right," said the Jew with a low bow. "You must be joking with poor Levi, for you must know I could not command a sufficient sum to buy so costly a jewel."

The amazement of the two friends increased every moment, for the Jew was known to be one of the richest men in the place. Bergmann, however, replied with caution, "You have guessed it; we only made a joke of the matter, and came really to beg you to recommend a purchaser."

"Why should I not?" replied the jeweller. "But as true as I am an honest Jew, there is only one person in the whole German Empire that could purchase the jewel, and that is Fugger in Augsburg."