Front matter (continued 3)

"And how high do you value it?"

"Well," said Levi, after having put his spectacles again on his nose, and examining the stone carefully, "if I am to give my honest opinion, it is worth three kingdoms."

The finder almost lost his equilibrium, while Bergmann put his hand to his head to see if it stood in the right place. "Three kingdoms, did you say?"

"Three kingdoms; and the purchaser could make money in the transaction."

An hour after, the two friends stood before the treasurer of the Prince, for the finder could not make up his mind to undertake the journey to Augsburg until he had provided for his wife and children, and asked him if he would advance a hundred thousand Thaler on the jewel, till they could sell it to Fugger.

But the treasurer was a vicious and avaricious man, who resolved to have the stone at any price, even by force if necessary, and as the friends would leave him, he threatened to throw them into prison if the stone were not delivered to him as his property for the hundred thousand Thaler.

To prevent unpleasantness they consented, and went home laden with gold.

Mother and children were provided with every comfort, and soon after they went to live in Aschersleben, for they could not be happy among people who had refused assistance in their need but fawned upon them now they were become rich.

The Jew received a handsome sum, and Bergmann was independent for life through his grateful friend.

But how did matters go with the dishonourable treasurer? His punishment was swift and terrible.

The next day he broke a piece from the stone, the tenth part of it, and presented himself before the Prince.

"Your Highness has given me a command to purchase jewels, as precious and costly as were to be found, that you might present them to the Princess of the adjoining dominions, and thereby win her hand and realm.

"I have not been able to find anything costly enough, and hence only one thing remains to be done. I possess a stone of priceless value, an heirloom of my family, which one of my ancestors took from a Mahomedan Sultan. I will resign it, however painful it may be. Only look at it and judge if any female heart could withstand such splendour. The Princess will bestow her hand upon your Highness, and I only ask in payment a few towns and villages, and a thousand acres of forest, and a thousand acres of arable land. Judge if I am unreasonable."

"Thou shalt have it; thou shalt have more than thy demand!" cried the Prince, as he beheld the glittering jewel, and embraced the treasurer, called him friend and brother, and commanded his secretary to draw up the documents giving the treasurer the half of his kingdom.

The treasurer went joyfully home, dreaming of princely honours, for had he not still a greater part of the stone in his possession?

Meanwhile the Prince called his favourite courtiers, and showed them the stone. No one spoke for astonishment. At last one of the surveyors of the mines remarked how wonderful it was that many pebbles possessed such brilliant colours, and it was to be regretted that they faded in a few days.

"What? a pebble?" cried the Prince.

"Yes, your Highness, only a pebble."

"A pebble? Not a precious stone? Then I have been deceived."

"Has your Highness bought it at a high price? Such stones are found in the earth, but the sunlight soon fades the colours."

"I have promised the treasurer half my kingdom for the stone."

Command was given to arrest the treasurer, but a friend had given him warning, and he had fled. They pursued him, the Prince at their head, found the unhappy man, deceived as well as deceiving, in a tree, and shot him dead on the spot.

The Monk and the Spring.

It was at Whitsuntide of the year 1292, as tradition tells us, that the town council of the free, imperial Möhlhausen issued a proclamation, that whoever could discover and conduct a spring into the upper town, which suffered much from fires through want of water, should be richly rewarded; and in case he had committed a crime, he should be pardoned.

At that time a monk of Kloster Reifenstein sat in the dungeon of the Rabenthurm[1]—now called the Adlerthurm[2]—-under sentence of death.

In the days of his freedom, when he had gone on affairs concerning his convent from Pfaffenrode to St. Daniel, he had often seen a spring among the hills.

The proclamation of the council penetrated to his criminal cell, and he recalled this spring to his memory, and felt a wild longing through it to regain his freedom.

But the spring bubbled up in a deep valley, and a long chain of hills lay between it and the town.

And the monk thought and studied, for before his soul stood the fragrant dishes of his convent and the costly wines, as attractive as the fleshpots of Egypt to the Jews; but with this vision stood the hangman, hand-in-hand with the impossibility of moving this spring through these hills, grinning in diabolical glee. He tossed restless on his bed of straw, longing for the dawn.

Now he sank into an uneasy slumber, disturbed by the most frightful dreams. The Rabenthurm seemed to quake and tremble, he heard distant thunder, and saw the glare of the lightning.

Now the foul fiend stood by his miserable bed tempting him.

In exchange for his soul, he promised to conduct the water of the spring to the upper town, and produced a roll of parchment containing a plan of the work.

At length the unhappy man consented to the proposals.

Again he dreamed of his childhood, of his dead mother, of the fields and woods where he gathered the first daisies and violets of spring; and now again he listened to the raging storm.

At break of day the monk opened the fatal roll. Judge of his astonishment and joy, as he saw the way marked out over hills and through ravines, by which the spring could be conducted with little difficulty to the place required.

He immediately made his proposals to the council.

His freedom was promised him if the work succeeded, and a body of labourers was given him for the carrying out of his plan.

And soon the crystal stream gladdened the thirsting upper town with an abundance of water.

But the monk, so soon as he had fulfilled his contract, disappeared, and even gratitude could find no trace of him. He was never seen again.

Hildegard and the Hainerburg.

In the thirteenth century there lived in Mühlhausen a respectable locksmith, who was also an alderman.

This Herr Adam had six sons and an only daughter, Hildegard, who was the loveliest maiden of all the plains of Germany.

The father's pride and joy were in these children, but his happiness was doomed to annihilation.

A wild and lawless knight of the Castle Hainerburg surprised Hildegard alone at home, her father and brothers being absent in the terrors of a fire in the city, and carried her off in a deadly swoon to his castle. Inexpressible rage filled the hearts of the citizens at the news of this violence, and they agreed to unite the coming week for the destruction of the castle.

But the father, distracted with grief, determined at once to rescue his child.

The very next night, the Ritter of the Hainerburg being absent on some villainous scheme, the father with his six sons knelt in the church of the Virgin, and besought her aid in his bold project.

And the petition was heard, for midnight was hardly past before the knights left behind in the Burg had been overpowered by the strong arms of the avengers of innocence, and thrust in the deepest dungeon.

They prayed again for strength, and now the walls and towers fell thundering into the moat, for the Virgin had appeared on the battlements encouraging them, and their strength had become superhuman.

And when morning dawned, the sun illuminated only a shapeless mass of ruins, and on the ruins the conquerors knelt and thanked heaven for the given strength.

Great were the jubilee and gratitude of the citizens when they saw the fallen fortress, and great their praise of the victors.

The fair Hildegard retired to the Brücken Kloster, where she died; and still the maidens of Mühlhausen sing many a song of her beauty and singular fate at the joyful dance of the Kirchweihfest.[1]

The Three Stone Partridges.

On a flying buttress of the colossal Marienkirche, in Mühlhausen, are three stone partridges, and I am about to explain to you how they came there.

At the time when Germany was in the middle of the great Reformation contest, two prelates sat together with their well-filled—for the empty ones were speedily filled—wine-cups before them, and discussed the pros and cons of the Reformed doctrines, and whether Mühlhausen was likely to adopt the Lutheran creed.

At last one of the reverend prelates grew angry and exclaimed: "Those three partridges now turning on the spit in the kitchen will fly, before the faith of the heretical Augustine monk will gain power in this good city."

But, lo! scarcely were the haughty words uttered, when a cooing and a fluttering of wings were heard.

The prelates fled in a fright, seeing themselves robbed of their dinner; the partridges flew forth and settled on a buttress, where they were turned to stone, and remained as heralds of the dawn of a better day.

The Forester and the Enchanted Castle.

The forester of Scharzfels, with his gun on his shoulder, was one day sauntering through the wood, when, as he turned a corner, he saw three men in a young plantation digging, and thereby doing much mischief.

Already a strong oath was on his lips as the figures turned round and, through their odd, foreign appearance, frightened back every expression of anger.

One was a tall, from the weight of years not much bent, grey-headed old man. His bald head, from which on each side short silver locks hung down, a long white beard falling over his breast, the lean, stern features, and the black robe, gave him the appearance of an anchorite.

The second was a strong, powerful youth with flaming eyes. An odd-shaped, pointed hat rested on his curly black hair, and an uncultivated beard covered the lower part of his face.

The third was a noble, imposing form, the fearless countenance framed in a thousand auburn locks of curly hair; the eye was full of fire and courage, the bold lips full of power.

All three looked at the approaching huntsman with so much firmness and composure that he was only able to inquire, "What are you doing here, gentlemen? You are trampling under foot the young growths, and with your scraping and digging you will destroy many a thriving tree."

One of the strangers replied to this address mildly, regretted that they certainly had caused a little damage, but that was unfortunately not to be prevented, since they sought just on this very spot certain stones which were absolutely necessary to them, and that they were come from a great distance to make the search.

They expressed themselves, however, willing to make indemnification, if the forester would only make his demands.

A further conversation betrayed to the forester that the strangers were Venetians, and the result of it was that he permitted them to depart without hindrance, or without accepting the smallest indemnity.

Several years passed away; but every St. John's Day the forester saw and spoke with the same three strangers.

At last, one sultry summer afternoon, he threw himself down under a tree, and soon sank into a deep sleep.

How long he had slept he could not tell; as he opened his eyes he saw himself in a perfectly strange place, in which directly before him rose a stately, wonderful castle, surrounded by a high wall.

Terrified, the forester gazed around. It was certain that he had never before seen the neighbourhood, and that he had been transplanted from Scharzfels to the spot by enchantment.

In the anguish of his spirit he said the Creed, the Lord's Prayer, the Ave Maria, prayers for storms, and all the others he could think of, all mingled in the wildest confusion, like one who had taken leave of his senses.

But whether it was that he had left out a word, or was not earnest and devotional enough, the castle and its enclosing walls stood immovable.

The terrified man knew of nothing better to do than to resign himself to his fate, and to observe more closely his surroundings.

Dark cypresses rose behind the stone walls, and fig trees thrust their wonderfully crooked fingers forward, as if they would draw him in; shining lizards crept up the wall, glanced at him with their glittering eyes, and then wriggled hurriedly into the garden, which he could see through a grated gate under a great arch.

Behind and among the shrubbery and trees he could see all sorts of marble figures; goat-footed heathen gods, making awful faces; small hump-backed dwarfs with cocked hats; hunters with puffed-out cheeks blowing the horn; ladies with farthingales and horse-heads; urns around which salamanders, dragons, and other poisonous worms, with open jaws and red tongues, dragged their slimy lengths; and many other indescribable, diabolical objects.

Among all these grinning creatures strutted a peacock, in which certainly pride made a most ridiculous figure, as he craned his beautiful neck in the brilliant sunlight, and dragged his gorgeous tail—alas! by means of the ugliest feet and legs ever made.

Suddenly the gilded, grated door flew open, an old Moor came out, bowed low before the forester with his hands meekly crossed before him, invited him by a wave of the hand to follow him, and both entered the garden.

Intoxicating clouds of perfume floated toward him from every bush and hedge.

Wonderful, never-before-seen flowers nodded to him in greeting from their slender stalks, and bent before him their lovely heads.

Brilliant birds flew from branch to branch before him, and sang with almost human voice.

Then an ugly sea-cat threw itself down from some tree, with its winding tail twisted around some branch, ground the teeth with a horrid grin, and sprang back into the thick foliage.

From a side path a purple stork came forward with solemn gravity, twisted the long neck up and down to affected compliment, scraped with his thin legs behind him, and then walked resolutely before the forester and the conducting Moor, looking almost constantly back to see if they were following.

In one of the marble basins a stone vintager upset continually the cask, and the clear, foaming new wine that streamed from the bung-hole bubbled up in the face of the sipping boy; in another an idol, ending in a fish's tail, blew out of a shell the clear stream in the air, and the dust of drops shone in the light like diamonds and rubies. White temples with ivy-entwined pillars glittered behind the hedges.

The forester followed like one in a dream, resisting, yet drawn on by an irresistible, enchanting power, until they reached a colossal castle, built in a style perfectly unknown to him.

He climbed a marble flight of steps, and went on over costly carpets, so soft and smooth that he could not hear his own steps.

The fragrance of balsamic spices floated delightfully on the air from censers in every chamber.

Richly-worked tapestry covered the walls, the softest cushions invited to repose, the light, like a soft twilight, fell through green windows, and composed the spirit to a sweet calmness and peace.

From the lofty ceiling rare birds warbled their delicious melodies in golden cages, and a grey parrot sat on his perch and pecked with his crooked bill the golden wires of his hated cage.

Here the Moor stood still, threw open a folding-door and pushed the benumbed forester into a great salon.

In the vast chamber he stood fascinated, like one under enchantment, and gazed upon the extraordinary objects on every side. Around the costly chamber, near the magnificent walls, stood all sorts of animals in life-size, in beaten gold, a perfect imitation of nature. Amazed, the forester gazed at the beautiful forms. He never could have satisfied his eyes with looking; and who knows how long he might have stood there, if through another door the three men had not entered whom he had so often seen near Scharzfels?

They approached him, pressed his hand in the most friendly manner, and inquired how the chamber pleased him, and which piece he would choose.

After he had expressed his astonishment at the way he had been introduced into the castle, the forester, in reply to the question as to what object he should prefer if permitted to choose, said he would unhesitatingly select the stag with his beautiful antlers.

After some conversation, the eldest of the three said: "You have known us many years, and are aware that we went frequently to Scharzfels to search for metals and stones, which you stupid Germans do not prize, but which are, notwithstanding, of great value. We have now sufficient wealth, but we would wish to thank you for your forbearance, and entertain you as an honoured guest."

The forester was conducted to a salle à manger glittering with gold, silver, and crystal. The rarest exotics beautified the table, and stood in graceful baskets and vases in every part of the apartment.

The most delicious viands and oldest wines were served, and not till a late hour did the merry party seek repose. The forester sank, in his silken couch, quickly into the arms of friendly sleep.

On awaking, he looked in surprise around him, for he lay under the shady beach in full view of Schloss Scharzfels.

"What a droll dream!" he cried, springing up and brushing the grass and moss from his clothes. But he stood as if transfixed, as he beheld the stag he wished for—the golden stag with great diamond eyes—lying in the grass beside him! The three men he never saw again, not even on St. John's Day.

The Steinkirche[1] and the Hermit.

In the grey days long ago, when paganism ruled the land, there stood on the hills near the cave called the Steinkirche—altars to the gods.

Bright were the fires to Krodo in the darkness of the night, and on the opposite cliffs rose the fire pillar in honour of the goddess Ostera.[2]

The crackling flames illuminated the country and the mountains, and invited the inhabitants of the near-lying vales and heights to the wild customs, the bloody sacrifices, and the raving dance of heathenism.

Then came from a southern land a hermit to this district. He beheld the smoking sacrificial altars, he heard the songs of the reeling, staggering heathen, and with a slow and solemn tread he climbed the mountain.

The peculiar, reverence-awaking appearance of the stranger produced quiet among the raging throng. One seated himself here, another there, another leaned on his spear, and all listened in silence and attention to what the strange figure might have to say to them.

And as the tempest with hollow moans and wails sweeps over the tree-tops, so the aged stranger lifted up his voice, and preached to the assembly the Christian faith with ever-increasing enthusiasm.

At first they heard quietly his earnest words; but as he began to condemn the gods so dear to them, and challenged them to break in pieces their idols, and turn to the worship of the only true God, their rage kindled.

They sprang to their feet, forced him to silence, and after a short consultation voted unanimously that the blasphemer of their gods must die.

In a few moments the trembling old man was seized by the giant forms, led down from the summit of the mountain to a place suitable for the execution.

The hermit sent up a petition to the Almighty for strength and courage in the trying moment, released himself from their arms with a Samson strength, seized from one standing next him a wooden battle-axe, and thus addressed the bloodthirsty multitude:

"So sure as I with this weak tool split this firm rock, so sure as this wood produces a temple for the worship of the one eternal God in this immovable mass of stone, so true is the word, the gospel, which I proclaim to you."

When he had uttered these words, he struck with trembling arm the rough cliff, and lo! the firm rock yielded like soft clay to the weak blow of the wooden axe!

And at this moment the sun shone forth from behind thick clouds, bathing rocks and wood with a warm, rosy light, and the birds in a thousand voices sang the praises of Creator and Father.

And the hearts of the wild Sassen[3] were opened; with one mind they sank on their knees in reverence and adoration before the God of the white-headed old man who had received the power to work such a miracle.

They vowed to a man henceforth to forsake the worship of Krodo, to remain true to the new faith, followed the venerable hermit to the banks of the Oder, and were baptized into Christ's death and resurrection, and from every side the people flocked to hear the words of the apostle.

Thus was formed in the rugged, steep cliff the primeval cave, the Steinkirche, the meeting-place of the first Christians of this neighbourhood.

The Nymph Ruma and the Weingarten Höhle.

In the middle of fruitful fields and green meadows not far from Scharzfels rises the ball-shaped alabaster Romerstein, on whose summit ragged cliffs rise in the air resembling the ruins of a castle.

In the days before authentic history a race of giants dwelt hereabout, who, fearing the mountain-spirit,[1] piled up these cliffs and constructed thus a giant fortress, of which these cliffs are the proud remains.

Romar, a blooming youth of this race, was once hunting in the neighbouring forest for deer or wild boar.

The soft air fanned gently his glowing face, the birds sang in the thicket, and the gentle influence of the hour led him to slacken his pace.

Suddenly he stood still before a maiden asleep on a mossy bank under the rustling trees.

Silently admiring, Romar gazed at the sleeping beauty, and the sweetest emotions filled his breast, till the stranger opened her eyes and beheld him, uttered a scream of terror, sprang up, and fled into the thickest of the forest.

A moment Romar stood rooted to the ground; then coming to his senses, he followed the fleeing maiden, and, soon overtaking her, quieted her fears by kind and honest words; and this first meeting gave rise to many others. All suspicion, every fear vanished, and love speedily filled the maiden's heart.

Romar inquired after the descent of his beloved, and turned pale as he discovered that she was a nymph, and the daughter of the Berggeist, so hostile to his race, and a river goddess, and dwelt in the neighbouring mountain lake.

The nymph reassured him, told him she was her father's favourite, and he had never refused her a single request, and certainly would not refuse his consent to their union.

Accordingly, during the absence of the Berggeist, they were married.

A long time had passed, and Romar slept one day under an oak near Ruma, who held a lovely boy in her arms. Her father, returning from his journey, stepped out of the thicket, and came suddenly upon them.

His first glance at the pair told him what had happened, and a smothered tone of anger forced itself from his trembling lips.

Terrified, the nymph sprang up, and as she saw her secret discovered, and her father so enraged, she rushed toward him and entreated him to be calm. Romar now came forward and sought from the old mountain god reconciliation; but the latter only became more enraged.

A wave of his hand called whole troops of well-armed dwarfs together, who were commanded to lead away mother and child; while others so maltreated Romar, that he only escaped covered with wounds to the Giant Castle.

The Berggeist now tormented his unhappy daughter every hour to give up her husband. But her love for Romar only increased, and her father in his insane rage seized the child, broke it in pieces on the rocks, cursed and swore because he could not take the same measures with his mother, created with a wave of his hand the cave, the Weingarten Höhle, banished her into it, and left her with a laugh of scorn.

Banished into the earth, shut up in a cave, the entrance guarded by malicious cobolds, the wretched Ruma sought to reach Romar, and a succession of cavings in proves her efforts to set herself free; but her watchful father always thrust her back into the depths of the earth.

At last, after long years, she succeeded, by a subterranean way, in escaping from her father's dominions, as a full stream to spring into the light of day, and at a time when he, by the decree of an inscrutable destiny, had been attacked by a sort of torpor, she reached her old residence, the Nymph's lake, and was reunited to her faithful husband.

The river which springs from the mountain on the border of the Gyps mountains is called, in honour of the faithful, loving nymph, the Ruma. Still its waters redden with the blood of her innocent child.

The cliffs of the ruinated Giant Castle wear mourning still, and bear the name of the hero, the Romerstein, or Romar's rock.

Legend of the Schildberg.

Not far from the Lautenthal there existed in the pre-historic times the Schloss Schiltberg, or Schildberg, of whose builders, destroyers, and history we know next to nothing. All we know is that the Kaiser Frederic I., in war against Henry the Lion, took the castle in 1180.

On the rugged, precipitous rocks stand the ruins of a dilapidated tower, now half veiled by clouds and mists, now echoing the roar of the savage tempest.

Beneath, in the still valley, is a half-sunken grave, and a weeping willow spreads sadly her branches over it. Above, on the wild rocks, once stood a strong castle, whose walls hid many a deed of horror and crime. Below, in the peaceful vale, there was a small, simple hermitage, where an old hermit had dwelt alone long years.

From the high fortress the robber-band of knights rode down the mountain, for they perceived the long-desired prey in the distance.

Beneath, by the quiet hermitage, appeared the pious old hermit, looked reprovingly upon them, and shook his silver-white locks.

"Ye wild knights!" he cried, "ye shall no longer bring disgrace and shame upon the honour of knighthood. No longer shall ye march forth to rob and plunder. Know, thou leader of thy robber-troop, thy time is expired. Enter my hermitage, confess, and take the communion, for thou shalt never again ride living into the valley."

But the proud knight fell in a rage at the solemn admonition. "Punish the old bird of ill omen!" he cried in a fury, and rode away.

Now the hermitage chapel is wrapped in flames, and the aged hermit sinks to the ground from many wounds.

Dying, he stretches forth his hands in pain, and cries after the retreating knight, "Ride on, ride till the judgment day; ride every night through the forests, till thy horse sinks exhausted under thee, and may no pious one meet thee, but only the foul fiend of perdition!"

Mourning, the robber-band rode back to the high castle, for their leader had fallen with his horse and broken his neck.

They laid him in the still vault, but he cannot enjoy the peace of the grave. When the moonbeams fall soft and pale on castle and rocks, he tears in a wild gallop on his black horse below into the quiet valley.

To the grave of the hermit is the ghostly ride, and there, a grey, bleeding shadow, stands the murdered old man.

And a ghostly voice whispers, "Ride on, wicked knight, till the day of eternal retribution; but do not terrify the good, only the wicked. And where the stumbling of thy horse once brought thee death, there shall thy ride end, there shalt thou stumble every night."

Already long the castle has laid in ruins; but the knight rides ever, without rest, on a wild black steed from its lonely tower to the hermit's weeping-willow-shaded grave; and the enchantment can only be broken when the robber-knight, on his night ride, meets one more wicked than himself.

Legend of Silberhohl.

In the neighbourhood of Leesen lies a spot called Silberhohl. It is almost round, and several feet deeper than the ground around it, and quite overgrown with swamp-moss. People go by with a shudder, for there is something the matter with the place.

Centuries ago a stately castle stood on the spot, in which there was always much drinking, gambling and wild merriment.

The nobles of the castle acted as if they owned the whole world; and everything did belong to them that they could take by force, for they lived by robbing, and were guilty of much violence and cruelty.

One could say with truth, there was not a single good heart in the Burg except the young girl Jutta. Everybody loved her, and often, when the robbers had marched out to plunder, she would visit the poor and the sick, and even the robbed, giving them food and the money she had saved. The suffering and poor called her Saint Jutta.

Once the robbers had committed a monster crime. Covered with the blood of those they had robbed, they returned laden with booty to the castle.

Soon the goblets stood on the oaken tables, and the unholy, lawless revel began.

Suddenly the most terrible thunder rolled, a mighty flash of lightning swept the hall, the earth quaked and opened, the walls trembled, the tower shook and fell with an awful noise that was heard miles away. All sank in the gulf, which closed again, and nothing was left of the castle but a deep round spot where it had stood.

Many came to see the place so marked by a Divine vengeance, and every one said, "Poor Jutta!"

Not long after the destruction of the Burg, a poor woman in a neighbouring village fell ill. She wept sore, for her three little children cried for bread, and she could work no longer.

The mother folded her hands and prayed. Then she said to herself, "Oh! if the dear Jutta were only alive!"

Then the door was opened softly; a light form wrapped in a white veil, with a gleaming diadem in her hair, came forward to the bed.

"Jutta!" cried the poor mother.

The figure waved the hand, glanced kindly at the sleeping children, set down a peculiar shaped basket on a table, drew a cross over the mother, and vanished.

A deep sleep fell on the poor woman, and when she awoke the next morning she found the basket full of gold pieces.

Lautenthal.[1]

Why dost thou sit so lonely on the declivity of the mountain, innocent daughter of the Felsenburg? Why does the cloud of care rest on thy countenance? Why dost thou gaze with such sad longing into the vale below?

The light of thy eyes is dimmed by a tear; heavy and anxious rests thy curly head on thy snowy arm; as the heavenly glory crowns the head of a martyred saint, so the splendour of sunset bathes thy form. Deep and great must be the anguish that fills thy breast, and yet thou dost endure speechless and silent. Not a sigh breaks from thy swelling heart, not a lament from thy lips, not a sad note from the strings of the lute that lies hushed before thee.

Weep no longer, child of grief; brighten thy saddened countenance. He for whom thou art waiting, the beloved of thy soul, will come; he will come with the quick step of love, and his glance will chase away grief and care from thy soul.

Hark! Already it rustles in the wood, already his tread resounds on the rocks; he climbs the mountain.

With the bliss of the purest love he clasps the sorrowing maiden in his strong arms—and yet thou remainest in mourning and tears?

Fairest of the blue-eyed daughters of the Harz, is thy heart cold in presence of the flame of love, as the ice of the Brocken is proof against the sun of the spring-time?

Ah! not cold and hard was her heart; pure and tender, as the dewdrops in the lily, it lay in her innocent breast, and adorned the morning of her life, till the sunny fire of love smiled down upon her. Then a never-before-imagined bliss trembled through the pure flower, her heart was filled with joy, the clear dewdrop dissolved in love. The dewdrop belongs to the sunbeams, and the heart of the maiden to the youth she loves.

But fate was not favourable to the lovers—fate, the destroyer of so many blissful bonds.

Jutta was the daughter of a noble whose Schloss lay near Leesen, and Ernst the son of an old warrior, who, after having fought many a battle in his youth and won many honours, now poor, weak from wounds, and forgotten by the world, had retired into solitude, to spend the remainder of his days in memories of his active life, and in the education of his only son. Under his guidance Ernst grew up strong and free, a true son of the Harz, lofty of stature and of an exalted mind, with a noble heart and countenance, with a fearless glance and bold design.

Where the Innerste, which springs from the Barenbruche, approaches her issue from the Harz, she quickens her course, flowing among steep, well-wooded mountains in youthful mirth, or silently over sands, playing with the water-violets, which from the damp moss bend their blue heads in the crystal ripples. Beautiful rises on either bank the forest. Here grow mighty firs, whose roots spring from the metal-rich graywacke; there, slender beeches in the clay-slate; yonder, maples with their lovely leaves. Wild lettuce, yellow and red, grows next the round shave-grass, and the water-lily and mallow rock themselves on the fragrant banks; on the rocky mountain wall shimmers the white-browed swallow-wort, the saxifrage, and the yellow wall-pepper; from the mossy ground of the forest spring the flaming purple toad-stool, the agaric, and the pale goat's-beard.

The classic wood-singers fill the air with wondrous melodies.

From the topmost branches of the firs, where he has built his nest, the tiny greenfinch sings his little song. Beneath, on the river-banks, sounds the soft flute-like voice of the white-breasted plover, the whistling of the thistle-finch; and the blackbird and linnet, the cross-bill and thrush make the green halls merry with their ringing voices.

In this valley, on the rushing, roaring Innerste, stood the cottage of unhewn trees and stones, covered with moss, in which father and son led a contented life. A small garden surrounded it, in which Ernst loved to work; there he listened to the tales of his father, or hunted in the mountain forests.

One day, as he had gone in the direction of Goslar, a singular howling fell upon his ear. He listened, recognised the howl of a wolf, mingled with the piercing neighing of a horse in deadly terror, and at the same time saw a rider tearing in fear over the mountains, without giving any heed to his calls.

He hurried in the direction of the neighing and howling, where he heard at the same time a female voice crying for help.

A large wolf hung on the neck of the almost prostrate horse, on whose back sat a charming maiden.

To see this, and with practised hand to throw the javelin in the body of the beast of prey, that he sank at the feet of the horse, was the work of an instant. Quickly the youth thrust his hunting-knife in the beast, and the bowlings ceased.

The maiden was saved, and looked gratefully upon her deliverer—and what a look! An unspeakable bliss penetrated his breast, he stood speechless before the pure rescued maiden, and his whole soul hung on her eye.

It was not the rosy cheek, not the crimson lips, that wounded his heart so deliciously, but her eye.

The horse was not able to carry her home, her servant had fled, and Ernst undertook to conduct her to her father's Burg. Arrived there, not all the entreaties of the rescued maiden could induce him to enter, but already it was difficult to tear himself away.

The impression she had made did not escape her notice, and as she gave him her hand at parting, carried away by the depth of her own emotions, she yielded to his entreaties to meet him sometimes, and promised with tears in her eyes.

Ernst hunted no more on the mountains, but stood dreaming on a high spot whence he could see her father's castle. And when he espied Jutta with her lute descend into the castle garden, and wander into the wood, he rushed to meet her, and lived a blissful hour in listening to her voice and lute, and she at last confessed she loved him with all her heart.

But now a rich earl sought Jutta's hand, and the lord of the Felsenburg promised this suitor his daughter, because his debts were so great that only a wealthy son-in-law could save his estates.

In vain Jutta threw herself at her father's feet and declared she loved a handsome, good, and noble youth of ancient race.

"Is he rich?" was the father's sole question.

"No!" Alas, "no!" Ernst was in despair, and Jutta wept hours at a time, which only spoiled her pretty eyes without doing her the least good.

Jutta at last resolved to give up Ernst for her father's benefit, but she would see him once more, and assure him that her filial love could not lessen her affection for the choice of her heart.

That was what caused her sadness as we first saw her, and Ernst, as he rushed towards her, must have had some presentiment of the coming trouble in her resolve. But she could not tell him her purpose, and, as they parted, whispered, "to-morrow we will see each other again."

The following day was nearly gone, and evening had sent on her shadow before her. Jutta strengthened herself for her sad walk with a prayer, took her lute, and went through the garden into the forest, to the spot where she usually met her lover.

Ernst was not yet there. She walked some distance in the direction of his cottage to a projection of the mountain, whence she could look down into the vale, and waited there for him.

Lost in her sad thoughts, her fingers swept lightly the strings of the lute, calling forth soft melodious notes. Finding comfort in the tones, the harmonies grew louder and louder, and she listened with joy to the tones, now fancying them the voice of the nightingale or the thrush.

At last her hands swept wildly over the strings in the strength of her sorrow.

Meanwhile Ernst had approached. He listened amazed to the tones, which floated to meet him, sounding entirely different from anything he had ever heard from Jutta's lute before.

It was as if a clear harmonious voice called back every note that flew from the strings.

Slowly and in indescribable purity the harmonies echoed through the mountains, and just where Ernst stood the sweet tones trembled in the air, as if the whole vale were one great harp.

"Can there be a cave here," thought Ernst, "which has such a wonderful echo?" and turned over a moss-grown stone with his foot. Who shall describe his astonishment as he saw a white shimmering stone before him, which extended so deep as he removed the moss?

His exclamation brought Jutta to his side, who at the sight threw herself into his arms with tears of joy.

"We are saved! It is silver!" they both exclaimed in the same breath.

Of course the earl received a Korb.[2] Ernst and Jutta were married. Ernst became the director of the mine, loaded with honours for his discovery, and ever since the valley has been called the Valley of the Lute.

Eva von Trotta.

A HISTORICAL TALE.

On one of the border mountains, on the western slopes of the Harz, in gloomy desolation, rise the grey ruins of the old Schloss Staufenburg, which still remind us of a most romantic though sad history.

Home-like, and at the same time sublime, silent, and solitary, must have been this now destroyed seat of kaisers and princes in the mysterious Middle Ages. Its position is fascinating, surrounded on three sides by high wooded mountains, with a wide view open to the south, which was then probably partially shut out by the primeval dense forests, now, however, extending over the little mining town of Gittelde and the picturesque mountain landscape to Osterode and the high-seated Schloss Herzberg.

The magic of this picture is greatly enhanced by the soft lights of sunset, and the dim, semi-transparent mists, which like a floating veil half hide its beauties, and fill the excited fancy with a mysterious presage of that poetic something we call the Past.

The mountain—on which are decaying bits of walls, where, until a few years ago, a strong square tower, eighty feet in height, with openings here and there, looked solemnly down on the vale—is cut off sharp on the east, west, and south sides from its wooded brethren that rise high above it, only on the north side sloping gradually to its base; and it is on this side one climbs to the spot where Kaiser Henry the Vogler, or Fowler, had a decoy for birds.

The halls trodden by royalty, the boudoirs where Beauty ruled eight hundred years ago, are fallen into green ruin; the death-owl hoots, and bats and lizards house among their overgrown stones.

Many of these ruins on the borders of the Harz mountains remind us of Henry the Fowler, who built them to defend the plains and homes of this part of Germany from the wild and lawless Huns. As Duke of Saxony he is said to have lived here with his Duchess, in this hunting-seat, when he was chosen Kaiser of the holy Roman Empire in 920; several other places, however, claim the honour.

Later the Staufenburg came to the Earls of Katlenburg, who had their seat near; and after the extinction of this house it fell into the hands of the mighty Duke Henry the Lion, of Saxony and Brunswick, before whose sword even the powerful Barbarossa trembled, and remained in the possession of his descendants, several of whom wore the imperial crown.

The Harz forests with their rich stores of game attracted not seldom the hunt-loving princes of Brunswick to their deep shades, and horn and hound and the wild ho ho! hio hi! of the hunter were heard over mountain and vale.

Then came a calmer period for the old Staufenburg, as the retired seat of princely widows, and here lived, in the fourteenth century, the Duchess Elizabeth, widow of William the Younger.

Oblivion at last sits green a couple of centuries in this solitude, till it is chosen as the hiding-place of a sinful love, and wild tales came to be told among the simple mountaineers of a White Lady who haunted the castle.

On the grey stone balcony stood, one summer day in 1537, two persons in close conversation.

The lady, arrayed in white, was of remarkable and striking beauty. A tall form of the most perfect symmetry, brilliant white complexion, cheeks of a delicate rose, very large clear blue eyes, dark brown hair falling in luxuriant natural curls, and a dainty hand and foot, made her the delight of every eye that looked upon her.

The grace of all her movements seemed akin to poetry and music, and the expression of her radiant countenance betokened a noble and amiable mind.

Her companion, Duke Henry the Younger, of Brunswick-Lüneburg-Wolfenbüttel, clasped one of her tiny hands, glittering with diamonds, in his own, stroked her magnificent hair, and gazed into her face with silent rapture.

It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, and the coffee table, according to German custom at this hour, stood in the garden below draped in white, a silver coffee service glittered on the table, fragrant mountain strawberries lent a rich bit of colouring, and by one cup lay a spray of white roses.

The broken fountain suggested a feeling of loneliness, and the high old grey stone walls enclosing the castle shut it out—or in—from the world beyond, and all the events now transpiring behind them were a profound secret. The white-robed figure was literally dead and buried to the world, which had "assisted" at her funeral.

"Oh, Henry!" exclaimed Eva von Trotta, for the youthful form belongs to no other than this Fair Rosamond of Germany, "you strive to comfort me, but in vain. All your words of kindness and passionate love, cannot crush the worm that is gnawing at the thread of my life—cannot silence the voice of conscience. I must open my heart to you to-day, for every visit you make me here I tremble to think may be the last. And yet it is all wrong—all wrong, Henry; every visit, every gift from your dear hand is a sin against the good and noble-minded Duchess, once my motherly friend, a sin against your lawful children."

"Dear Eva," said Henry, interrupting her, "our children are lawful. I gave you my left hand at the altar, the wedding-ring and its diamond keeper glitter on this little hand I hold in mine. The Church has consecrated our union."

"That is only a hollow pretension. I see it all now. Look at this beautiful Prayer Book in gold and precious stones, and the Bible[1] with my name in gold on its cover," she continued, pointing to a small table where they lay.

"They were among your gifts on our—our—our marriage day. I come and sit here when alone, where I can look out on the mountains, and read them and seek consolation, but find none. They are a silent reproach to me. You had no right to give them, nor I to take them. And in my Bible I opened yesterday to St. Paul's words: 'the husband of one wife.' They pierced like daggers to my heart. Henry, Henry, I ought to flee this spot, and never see you more; and yet I cannot. I should die if I did not see your dear face sometimes, and hear your voice."

"My darling Eva, put away these harrowing thoughts; they are shortening your precious life."

"Oh! why did we meet? or meeting, why was it not earlier, when our love had been no sin? When I recall the affection and confidence of the Duchess, and reflect on my base, false friendship, my face burns with pain and shame. The world would curse me; she would too, if she knew. The watch I wear, that you gave me that last morning in the antechamber, when I was on duty as lady in waiting, reminds me of the flight of time, and the unceasing approach of a coming judgment. I never look upon it without a throb of bitter anguish. 'Nothing that loveth or maketh a lie' shall enter heaven—and my life is a lie. Oh, Henry! I shall perish eternally, and my noble boy will grow up to curse my memory;" and leaning her head on Henry's breast, she wept bitterly.

Probably Henry's own reflections were not of the most agreeable and consoling character, as he was thus compelled to recall his injustice and sin in his neglect of the Duchess. He gave, however, no expression to his misgivings, but only said, pointing to the coffee-table: "Let us think of this no more; dry up these childish tears, and let us go down—come, dear."

"My tears are not childish, Henry, only useless. But the world will discover our dreadful secret, the Duchess and her powerful father will complain to Kaiser and Pope, your visits will be forbidden—and what will become of me and my boy?"

"Eva, I will do what I before proposed, before you came here. I will seek a divorce from the Duchess, and we will be married in the face of the empire, and your boy, my favourite son, shall be my heir to the ducal throne."

"God forbid!" cried Eva in feverish, wild excitement, clasping her hands and looking up to heaven, in which attitude she presented such an enchanting grace and beauty that Henry caught her in his arms and covered her face and hair with kisses, calling her by every endearing name he could think of.

"No, Henry; never, never will I be guilty of such a gigantic wrong. My son shall never be your heir, shall never supplant your first-born son and lawful heir. My noble Eitel[2] is noble in character as in name; he would never consent no more than I. But I live in constant terror of discovery."

"Do not fear that, my darling; every servant here is bound by a solemn oath; your faithful nurse Magda is the only one who is permitted to leave the castle, and she does so in the deepest disguise. The priest at Gandershein who united us at the convent altar is bound by his priestly vows, and the heavy bribe I gave him, to silence. The Abbess, too, who managed the details of your funeral, and the artistic priest who made your wax effigy and the plague-spots with ink on your white face and hands, are both bound by the most solemn oaths. None of these will ever betray us, and no one else knows our secret—we are safe."

Henry was right. Though this relation continued seven years, and ended only through Eva's death, no one discovered the secret; he himself revealed it in his partial love for her only son, whom he sought to make his heir. But the lovers little imagined that one person knew Eva was not lying in the damp vaults of the convent, and that they would be at the mercy of this discoverer.

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the little Eitel Henry, a princely boy, who inherited his mother's striking beauty, his long brown curls, falling over his shoulders.

"Come, Mütterchen, coffee is ready, and I have put some white roses for you, and Babette has brought mountain strawberries: come—come, Papa," and the little fellow put up his mouth for a kiss. The mother stooped and covered his head and face with passionate kisses, and Henry, springing forward, enclosed them both in a tender embrace.

Behind came nurse Gretchen in snowy cap and apron, with a lovely babe in her arms, and both parents sprang forward as if each would be the first to seize the child.

To a stranger who had not been behind the scenes it was an innocent and pure family scene, betraying nothing of the wrong and bitterness these relations had caused. To explain further, we must go back in our history to Eva's childhood, and her introduction to the court of Henry the Younger, Duke of Brunswick and his Duchess Maria von Wurtemberg.

A lovely spring morning dawned joyously over the castle of the Marshal Adam von Trotta—or Troth—of Brandenburg, but sorrow housed within it, for the lady of the castle must die. The invalid reclined on a huge old-fashioned sofa, propped up with silken cushions, surrounded by her husband, her two sons, and her young and only daughter Eva. It was a large and richly-furnished chamber, hung with rare paintings, but the most charming pictures of all were the views its windows commanded.

The dying mother kissed and dismissed her children, knowing it was for the last time. The manly youths kissed the mother's emaciated hand and silently retired, but Eva flung herself sobbing on her breast, and refused to be comforted.

At last the Marshal led her from the room.

"We are alone for the last time," said the invalid, as the Marshal returned, putting her hand in his. "Move me nearer the window, that I may look once more on the park I love so well."

After a pause she exclaimed, "My poor motherless Eva!—as she will be before this morning's sun goes down. I can leave my sons with more resignation, for they are noble youths, and able to fight the world's battles; but Eva has the dangerous gift of an unusual beauty, and the world is full of snares and traps for such as she promises to be."

"She is your image when I brought you home a young wife.[3] She has your eyes, your brown curls, now touched with grey, and to me dearer than ever. In her I shall see your form and face every hour."

"Nurse Magda has promised me never to leave her, and her foster-sister Alice, who is strongly attached to her, will be of great assistance in watching over her as they both grow older. Keep Eva with you as long as you can, but in the event of a campaign send her to your brother."

The speaker exhausted, sank into a peaceful slumber, and when the setting sun illuminated the chamber, its golden beams fell upon the face of death.

They laid the mother in the old family vault; husband and children brought immortelles and roses for her coffin, and left her to her cold but safe repose.

The Marshal did as his dying wife had counselled, and kept Eva in the parental castle till her sixteenth summer. The bud had blossomed into a wonderful flower, the pride of the desolate father's heart.

But the time has arrived when the soldier must go forth to battle, and Eva is sent to her aunt and uncle for a visit of indefinite length. At this period, undecided as to Eva's home, and depressed with fears and anxieties regarding her future, business calls the Marshal to the Court of Brunswick,[4] then held in the ancient Castle of Wolfenbüttel,[5] and this visit is destined to decide the fate of the youthful Eva.

The piety and amiability of the Duchess Maria made such a deep impression on the mind of the statesman and soldier, that he entreated her to become the guardian of his motherless daughter. Her Transparency consented, and Eva became first lady-in-waiting to the Duchess.

Little did the father imagine he was thrusting his child into the wolf's den, for a worse example of a false and neglectful husband than Henry the Younger of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel it were not easy to find.

The Duke and Duchess were in no wise congenial spirits. Henry was a handsome man of fiery temper and hot blood, loved both chase and feud, possessed more physical strength and beauty than mind or virtue, troubled himself little with the duties of government or the interests of his subjects, leaving affairs of State to his minister.

Henry had no sympathy for prayers and church-going, neglected his pale, youthful wife, seldom visiting the wing of the gloomy old castle she occupied except when etiquette demanded his presence.

In this deplorable state of things Eva von Trotta appeared at Court. She stood in the courtyard by her father's war-horse to take leave of him, promised to be good, which promise she fully intended to keep; the stern old soldier kissed her, sprang on his horse, brushed away a tear which defied all his iron firmness, stormed over the drawbridge, and never saw his fair child again.

Suddenly it began to be reported at Court that Henry had bridged over the cleft between himself and his high-born wife. He was seen every evening at her side in the stone balcony, whence they could look down into the courtyard and witness the sports of the courtiers and the drilling of steeds, and his conjugal attentions were most edifying to witness; while the new maid of honour Eva stood behind the seat of her ducal mistress, a picture of bewildering loveliness.

But the Court did not permit itself long to be deceived by the royal hypocrite. It was not the pale, pious Duchess who had so suddenly fascinated Henry, but the maid of honour, radiant in black Genoa velvet and silver spangles, into whose clear blue eyes Henry's brown ones looked so willingly.

It soon became perfectly well known to Henry when Eva was on duty in the antechamber of the Duchess, and half-hidden by the heavy hangings of the deep windows, he chatted with her by the hour, and no favourite maid dared tell her royal mistress who entertained the lady-in-waiting while she sat alone.

At last, one day, the Mistress of the Robes, who had more than once reproved Eva for frivolity, and whose curiosity had got the better of her dignity, listens and hears Henry ask Eva to meet him in the evening at ten o'clock in the linden allée for a walk to the arbour at the end of it, and the thoughtless girl consents. At the same time she sees Henry present her with a watch and his portrait.

Horrified, she at once informs the Duchess of this proposed rendezvous, and persuades her to accompany her in disguise to the arbour at the appointed hour, where, concealed behind the thick foliage, she might learn what was best to be done.

Later on this same day Eva sat alone in her boudoir gazing at the portrait, an exquisite enamel set in diamonds. It was a beautiful chamber, adorned with frescoes and paintings, mirror panellings, books, and flowers.

Opposite where Eva was sitting hung a life-size portrait of Duke Henry the Lion in tapestry. The old nurse Magda had just left her beloved young mistress, and Eva held the portrait in her hand, while a tumult of emotions shook her heart.

She was interrupted by a knock, and slipped the portrait hastily out of sight. It was her foster-sister Alice, who was her favourite maid.

"Why do you disturb me at this hour, Alice?" inquired her mistress, who struggled to conceal her emotion. "You know I am in the habit of spending this hour alone."

"Pardon, gracious lady, but I have something to tell you which admits of no delay," replied Alice, who had caught a glimpse of the portrait, and noticed the agitation of her mistress. "I wish to leave the Court. It is my wish to enter the convent of Gandersheim. I intend to become a nun."

"Become a nun! When did that insane idea enter your head?"

"I am weary of the Court. I am unhappy here. Let me go."

Alice did not tell her of the Court gossip she had overheard, and that grief and pain drove her to the convent.

"Magda will not leave me, Alice; why will you? Stay with me. You knew my dear mamma; you are nearly of my own age; I should miss you sadly."

"No, I have determined to take the veil; it is my calling. Let me go:"

Eva sighed, and replied, rising and laying her hand on Alice's shoulder, at the same time glancing nervously at the portrait of Henry the Lion, "I am not happy either, dear Alice. Oh! I wish I had never left my uncle's castle, and the protection of my brothers. Why was I doomed to lose my mother? You seem to me more like a friend than a servant, Alice; how can I do without you, my foster-sister?"

Again Eva paused and listened. Suddenly the portrait of Henry the Lion advanced into the room, and Duke Henry stood in the opening it had left in the wall. Eva flushed, turned pale, and stood in confusion, while Alice looked on in bewildered amazement. But Henry said carelessly, "The Duchess is coming, Fräulein von Trotta; I am only a minute in advance."

Alice saluted and retired, muttering to herself, "It is true, then, and worse than I thought. A secret door. And what does that portrait mean? I wonder if mother knows all this?"

The following day Alice departed for the convent.

The castle clock was ringing ten when two muffled figures stole through a postern gate of the garden wall behind it into the park, and, concealed by the darkness, hastened through by-paths to the lime-tree arbour. Here they waited some time, when at last steps and voices were heard approaching through the lime-tree avenue.

Eva was saying, "Do not ask me to stay at Court, Henry. I cannot, I must go at once. The courtiers are talking; Alice insists on leaving me; I know it is out of sorrow she condemns me who am so far innocent. Think of my youth—I am only sixteen. My mother is dead, my father absent. Oh, I cannot deceive the Duchess. She has been so kind to me, and she is so good. I shall return your presents, which I should never have accepted, and go back to my uncle's little castle."

"And forsake me, and leave me to loneliness and wretchedness? Oh Eva! pity me and remain."

"And bring disgrace and misery and ruin upon you and myself, and anguish to the Duchess? Maria's royal father is all-powerful with the Kaiser, who would betray you to the Pope, and you would be excommunicated. I do love you, Henry—but—it is too late. If we had met earlier, we might have belonged to each other. I would live shut out from the world for ever for you, and you alone, and, safe from disturbance and discovery, would be happy."

"How very noble and self-sacrificing we would be!" exclaimed the Duchess, coming forward from her concealment. "And such is my reward for my affection bestowed upon a motherless maiden! To such a shameful conversation must I listen between her and my husband. But I have the power to punish you both, and I will use it;" and the Duchess and her attendant speedily disappeared in the darkness.

The storm had broken upon them. The two figures stood in the arbour, motionless as marble, while Maria hastened to send messengers immediately to her father and other princes, acquainting them of Henry's perfidy.

But Eva at bay seems suddenly to have changed her character. She forgets her former scruples, and with a single move checkmates her rival, but at what a cost! She proposes perhaps the most extraordinary plan that ever entered a human brain, and all the more astounding as coming from a girl of sixteen.

"What is to become of me?" at last exclaimed Eva, starting from the stupor of terror the sudden appearance of the Duchess had caused. "There is not a place where I can go where disgrace and shame will not follow me."

"I will seek a divorce, declare the children of the Duchess illegitimate, and we will be married."

"Under the ban of Kaiser and Pope!" cried Eva, wringing her hands in despair.

After a pause, in which Eva remained buried in thought, she resumed, "I have a plan, Henry, but the world shall know nothing of our secret. You shall give me your left hand, but I must die—I mean seem to. I shall resign my office at Court and retire, ostensibly to return to my uncle's. On the journey I will be attacked with the plague in the convent of Gandersheim, and die in a few hours; and then there must be a public funeral; the world and the Court shall see me buried. I leave the carrying out of the details to you. Leave Wolfenbüttel on some plausible plea, and in your absence I will retire. Dead to the world, I will live only for you."

Henry, enraptured, caught her in his arms. "My darling Eva! will you indeed do that? Oh! then I am happy, and could defy the world. Here is the seal of our bond," and he placed a diamond ring on her finger.

They walked arm-in-arm under the silent lindens back to the castle. The moon had risen, and bathed the night in her mystic light; the stars looked mournfully down on the betrayed maiden. Was there no hand to save her from this ruinous step—no voice to warn the betrayer of his sin?

The following day, after a stormy scene between the Duke and Duchess, Henry left the castle to attend to business, as he said, and on his return found that the new maid of honour had resigned her office and left the Court.

The Capuchin convent of Gandersheim, situated in the Duchy of Brunswick, on the river Gande, enjoyed an equal rank with the abbeys of Drübeck and Quedlinburg. The Abbesses of these three mitred convents[6] had a seat and vote in the Reichstag, and during the earliest period of their existence the abbesses were of the blood-royal, and only princesses and daughters of the nobility were admitted into their sacred retirement.

This imperial convent Gandersheim, once endowed with such wealth and power, was founded by Duke Ludolf of Saxony in the last half of the ninth century. It obtained its greatest power under the Ottos, and the imperial princesses were often sent here for their education, or for security in times of danger. To this ancient convent I must beg my readers to accompany me.

It is midnight. A fearful tempest sweeps over the mountains. The Wilde Jäger[7] is out with his ghostly train, and Tut-Ursel's[8] howlings ring through the darkness.

The rain beats against the windows of the convent as if it would force an entrance, flashes of lightning illuminate the night, and the thunder shakes the old building in its fury, as if it would uproot its very foundations.

Before a convent altar stands a bridal pair. The bridegroom places the nuptial ring on the bride's hand; kneeling they receive the priest's blessing, the young wife rises Frau von Kirchberg, and after remaining some days in concealment in the convent, she escapes in the disguise of a monk to Schloss Staufenburg.

Meanwhile tidings reach the Court at Wolfenbüttel that the retired Court lady has been attacked with a virulent plague on her homeward journey, and has expired after a painful illness of only a few hours.

The Court is aghast at the news; Henry retires to his private apartments. Duchess Maria, softened to hear of the lady Eva's death, sends members of her Court to attend the funeral.

And now we have the second act of the drama in old Gandersheim.

The convent church is brilliant with a thousand tapers. High on a rich catafalque before the great altar stands Eva's coffin in a blaze of light. The face of the dead is of a wondrous beauty, the long brown curls fall over the breast, the small white hands, marked with plague-spots, are crossed above the still, cold heart.

The nuns, the Abbess at their head, chant the mournful dirge, and the organ weeps and wails as if it were the very soul of sorrow. The courtiers wear the deepest black, and are completely overwhelmed with the awful solemnity of the scene.

Through all the ceremony the novice Alice seems like one in a dream. The suddenness of the thing is to her incomprehensible. Only a few days ago she took leave of her foster-sister, and now she gazes on the dead! Finally the coffin is lowered; they are about to close it for ever, when Alice, before the Abbess or the two priests, who alone knew the truth, can prevent her, rushes forward with a cry of agony and kisses the cold hands in her sorrow. Suddenly she discovers they are only wax! Conscious of the danger to herself if she betrays her discovery, she weeps and sobs louder than ever, and must be almost forcibly removed. They bear the coffin to the convent vaults, the courtiers return to the Court to picture the marvellous beauty of the departed Eva to the Duke and Duchess.

In the meantime novice Alice is no novice. She ponders over the matter in secret.

"Eva is not dead," she reflects. "Where can she be? What can it all mean? I will find her if I walk every inch of the Harz mountains. I will disguise myself as an old woman, a seller of lace; thus I can gain admittance everywhere. But I must get away from here without exciting suspicion."

As the result of these soliloquies, Alice informs the Abbess she must relinquish her plan of becoming a nun, at least for the present, and go to her mother, who must be in great distress at the sudden loss of her nursling.

But on her arrival at the castle of Wolfenbüttel, Magda has disappeared, and no one knows what has become of her.

For a period of four years, Alice, disguised in a grey wig, with an artificial hump on her back, sought Eva, wandering from castle to castle, from town to town through the mountains; but without discovering the faintest trace of either Eva or nurse Magda.

The princes of the House of Brunswick were, as I said before, passionate lovers of the chase, and Henry the Younger was no exception to his race. But suddenly this penchant increased to such an extent that his time was almost entirely absorbed with this pastime.

He began to be absent weeks and even months in his favourite Harz.

At length these long absences excited the suspicions of the Court and the Duchess. Tales came to their ears of a lady in white, who had been seen at the deserted old Staufenburg. Spies were sent out several times to watch the castle, but no discovery was made. Eva remained dead for the world.

Alice, who heard these reports, knowing what others did not, that Eva was not in the vaults of the convent at Gandersheim, resolved to make a visit to the Staufenburg, thinking very likely the reports of the lady in white were not simply wild mountain tales, but having some truth in them. This she felt to be all the more probable, since in all her ramblings from town to castle no trace of the lost girl was to be found.

Accordingly Alice made her way to the Staufenburg, and after watching from the thick woods three whole days she saw her mother, Magda, issue from a small postern door in the outer walls, so hidden by trees and underbrush as to be unseen when shut.

Alice hastened to meet her, secure of her disguise, and told her she had a special message from the Master to the Lady Eva, and must speak with her alone.

Magda, terrified, exclaimed, "Who are you? Whom do you mean by the Lady Eva?"

"I am one who knows all the secret, and that the beautiful maid of honour, Eva von Trotta, does not lie in her coffin. Better if she did. But my message is pressing and admits of no delay. My orders are to deliver it to the lady alone. Admit me here, and leave the door unlocked that I may let myself out again."

Magda stared at the old hump-backed woman and her basket, and hesitated; but seeing she knew the secret, at last concluded all was right.

"Follow me," she said; and opening the postern door and pointing out to her an outer flight of stone steps leading down to a garden, continued, "mount those steps leading to the stone balcony. You will find the lady you seek in her boudoir, which you enter from that open door. She is alone. I will wait for you here, for I dare not leave the gate open. It might be discovered, for I have seen people prowling about here lately a good deal."

Alice did as directed. Arrived on the balcony she paused and gazed at the graceful but passive figure half reclining in a fauteuil in full view of the mountains.

Eva is now in her twenty-first year, and lovelier than ever. Her face and hands are so white as to seem almost transparent; her curls fall in rich masses over her white silken robe; her blue eyes have a strange far-away look in them that strikes Alice to the heart.

Suddenly Eva becomes aware of the presence of a stranger, starts out of her pensive reverie and exclaims, "Who are you? How did you get in the garden?"

"I met a servant at the postern gate in the wall," replied Alice in a constrained voice. "I told her I had a special message for you."

"From Henry? Then you know all! Quick! quick! What is it?"

Alice hesitated, for she was so moved at sight of her playmate and foster-sister, she could not command her voice to speak.

"Why are you so long? Speak. I will reward you richly if you bring me good news from Duke Henry."

"I do not bring you a message from Henry of Brunswick, but from God," said Alice, slowly and solemnly. "Leave this castle, forget Henry, return to the path of duty and virtue, and seek forgiveness."

"Who are you?" cried the terrified Eva, springing from her seat. "If the Duke did not send you, who did? Oh! I am betrayed! Magda! Magda! What have you done?"

"Do not fear, White Lady of the Staufenburg, I will not betray you. I have sought you four long years, because I love you, and would save you from a life-long wretchedness. I was at your imagined funeral, and discovered the farce, but no mortal save myself knows of my discovery.

"Who are you? Why do you come here? to threaten, to torment me? Do you want money?"

"Why do I come? You are in danger. The Duchess has spies; stories of a White Lady in the Staufenberg are come even to the Court. The Duke's long absences excite suspicion. He is watched. Think of the storm that will burst upon you both if you are discovered. Leave here before it is too late."

"Why do you interest yourself for a lonely creature like me, dead and buried?"

"You do not know me—how could you? My own mother did not recognise me," and Alice threw off hump and wig, and stood before Eva, a tall, well-formed girl, nearly her own age.

"Alice!" cried Eva, rushing to her, and seizing her in her arms. "I thought you were a nun in the convent of Gandersheim. You are come to stay with me. Oh! say you are come to stay."

"No, I will not stay here. I have sought you all this time as an old lace-seller, to warn and save you. If you will give up Henry and leave this den of sin, I will follow you wherever you go. Oh! what words can I use to induce you to leave here? Eva! Eva! it is your foster-sister, your truest friend, who entreats you. Henry is your worst enemy. He has trodden your honour and name in the dust, but you consented, and destroyed what you might have been for ever. But repentance is left, and there is all eternity to come.

"How can you stand before God? how can you dare pray? You desecrated the holiest; virtue and innocence you have made the tools of vice; you have stolen the monstrance from the altar; you swore a false oath before the altar of the Highest. Talk of a left-handed marriage. It is an insult to Heaven's laws. Eva! Eva! once my pure and dear playmate, the darling of your dead mother's heart, come away with me now—now. No one is here to betray our flight. We will go to some distant land, and I will stay with you so long as we both live. Follow your true friend. It is the voice of Heaven you hear. Forget the unworthy murderer of your youth and purity."

Eva trembled and turned pale. "What would become of my children?" she cried, wringing her hands in anguish.

"Children! have you children?"

"Yes, three. See, that is my noble Eitel with the long brown curls, playing in the garden."

"God will protect them. You can do nothing for them even if you remain. They are in the power of their father. Come, come; oh, listen to the voice of warning before it is too late," and Alice seized Eva's hand as if she would lead her away.

"I cannot! I cannot! I love Henry. Love his princely magnanimity, his bravery, his noble pride—even that which others hate in him I love. For him I have robbed the Duchess of her husband, deceived my brave father and my brothers, desecrated God's altar, sacrificed life, youth, honour, happiness; I live only for him. I cannot deceive him, cannot atone for one sin with another."

"I must save you, then, by telling your brothers where you are. They will punish the vile Henry before the whole German Empire." She released Eva's hand and turned to go.

With a scream Eva sprang forward, threw herself down before Alice, clasped her knees and cried, "Be merciful, Alice; have pity on my misery. God is merciful. Do not you be cruel. Do not betray me. I am crushed and bruised, the peace of my mind and heart destroyed. I could not be more wretched. What good would it do to betray me? and in betraying Henry, you destroy me, rob me of the only earthly protection I can ever hope to enjoy. Magda is a mother to my children as she was to me. She would not betray me."

"My mother was your nurse, hence has a mother's feelings for you. I will not stay here. If I should see Henry, I should forget all respect for his person as Duke, and give him a piece of my mind. I will keep your secret, but I warn you of a coming-danger. Then I can be of more service to you without than if I stayed here. God help you. I will not betray you." And hastily assuming her disguise, for footsteps were heard approaching, she hurried away.

Three years passed away after this interview, and Eva remained securely hidden; but Henry's absences from Court grew longer and more frequent, and at last one of the courtiers resolved to penetrate the mystery.

He followed Henry to the Staufenburg, watched four whole days in the thick woods, and the evening of the fourth day, to his utter amazement, recognised Eva von Trotta in the stone balcony by Henry's side. The secret was out! He hastened to the Duchess and told her what he had seen. Maria sent authorised messengers to the convent of Gandersheim, the coffin bearing Eva's name was broken open, and lo! a wooden figure with wax mask and hands!

The Duchess communicates this discovery to the King of Wurtemburg, her father, letters of reproof are sent to Henry from him and the Kaiser, and the Pope threatens him with excommunication.

Henry hastens to Eva with the dreadful news; but Alice has been before her, and Eva is prepared with another plan.

"Tell them to search the Staufenburg, and they will discover their mistake. Tell them I am dead—it is true. Magda shall conduct the children to Kirchberg, and with Alice's aid they and every trace of my having been here will vanish. I have a secure hiding-place."

"Where, Eva?"

"You shall know to-morrow on your return from Gandersheim, Henry."

She took an affectionate and reluctant leave of him, calling him back two or three times before she could let him go.

Then she sent for her children, wept over them, and gave her directions to Magda and Alice, and cut off Eitel's long curls that he might not be recognised, his resemblance to her with his long hair being so striking.

After she had dismissed them, Eva returned to her boudoir and wrote a note to Henry. Then she took a small flask from her writing-table, poured its contents in a glass of water, and reclining in her fauteuil, drank it.

Henry, on his return the following morning, hastened to Eva's boudoir.

Seeing Eva seated, and not springing up as usual to welcome him, he supposed she had fallen asleep—and so she had; but a sight of her face revealed the dreadful truth. She had taken poison. The empty flask lay on the writing-table beside her; near it a note addressed to himself. He tore it open. It only contained a few words.

"I told you, my beloved Henry, I had a secure hiding-place. I meant the grave. Tell them I am dead. They cannot follow where I am going. I would not bring ruin on you and your dominions. Oh, Henry! be good to my children, and never attempt to make Eitel your heir. My sin was loving you. Farewell.

"Yours in death, EVA."

Duke Henry had the broken-hearted girl—only twenty-three—buried in the garden of the Staufenburg, returned to Court and insisted on a search of the castle. They did search, of course discovering nothing, and the mystery was still impenetrable.

The Duchess Maria died a few months after her rival, and nothing was ever known of the well-guarded secret, until Henry himself betrayed it in his partiality for his favourite son Eitel Henry—Eva's only son and eldest child. The Duke besought the Pope to recognise him as the heir to the ducal throne, offering a heavy bribe. His Holiness consented, the more readily since the Duke's lawful heir, Henry Julius, had become a Protestant.

But Eitel proved himself, as his mother had said, noble in character as in name. He absolutely refused his consent to this injustice, and lived in retirement on the estate Kirchberg, which the Duke had given him, the name of which Eva's children bore. The Kirchbergs, however, soon became extinct.

The learned Duke Henry Julius, founder of a university, never forgot the refusal of his noble illegitimate brother to deprive him of his birthright, and ever remained his warm friend.

There were two castles in the Harz mountains, both of which bore the name of Staufenburg; that near Zorge, an hour and a half from the beautiful ruins of Convent Walkenried. It is said to have been occupied during the Thirty Years' War. When built or by whom destroyed are matters of conjecture. The Staufenburg of our tale is near Gittelde. Some derive the name from the idol Stuvo, or Stuffo, once set up on the mountain. The mountain was so steep that Staufen, or Stufen—steps—were used in climbing it, hence probably the name.

The Weingarten Höhle and the Three Men.

There is perhaps no cave in all Germany concerning which so many legends and traditions are in the mouth of the people as this Weingartenloch.

A plank crosses over a black piece of water from the outer portion of the cave further into the darkness, far from human help and human voices.

The tradition is, that whoever crosses that beam will be given over to the Evil One, who governs there, and sits, between heaps of gold and silver, by a table, with a great book before him, in which he writes the name of every person who approaches him.

But when three enter together and draw lots with one another, two of them may depart laden with treasures, and only the third, upon whom the lot has fallen, must remain behind, and is torn in a thousand pieces by the demon.

Two men from some distant country had often entered the cave, and had always succeeded in enticing a third to accompany them, who always fell into the hands of the Gott-sei-bei-uns, since they so arranged it that the lot fell to him.

Finally, it struck the inhabitants as something very remarkable that those who had entered the cave with the two strangers never returned, and henceforth they failed to find a follower.

Then they entered the hut of a poor man in Dorf Osterhagen, who had a wife and eight children, and challenged him, with brilliant promises, to follow them into the cave.

The man, whose name was Schlosser, felt little inclination for the expedition, and absolutely refused, even if they offered him eighty Thaler.

But the wife called her husband into another room, and said to him: "Thou knowest that I love thee dearly, and would sink from sorrow and anguish if thou shouldst be torn from me; but we have eight children, and no bread in the cupboard, and no money, and with the money the strangers offer thee we should have enough for our whole lives; so go with them, and be sure no evil will befall thee."

And she opened a cupboard, took out a plant, sewed it in his shirt in three different places, made a sign of the cross above each place, and said, "That which I have sewed in thy shirt is origanum, a sure defence against all enchantment, and even the devil; so go in peace, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."

And Schlosser embraced his wife and children, and went with the two men, who looked, scornfully laughing, at each other, after having laid eighty glittering new Thaler on the table.

They wandered on until they had reached the beam—the fatal beam—where they stood still, and the men warned Schlosser solemnly, if his life was dear to him, to utter no sound till they had passed the next two caves.

Schlosser promised, and the three crossed cautiously the dangerous bridge, and entered a cave filled with the most horrible vermin.

Bombinas and salamanders seemed to be giving a ball. Bats fluttered thick as a hailstorm through the air. Terrible serpents and dragons coiled hissing around each other. The most hideous brood of nature was flocked together, and swarmed around the feet of the three men entering, as if to form a wall to hinder their entrance.

With firmness the three went directly forward toward a second cave, which was large and lofty, and lighted with a magical splendour.

At the right, against the rocky wall, shimmering with gold and silver, stood a couch of red velvet embroidered in gold, and on the silken cushions lay a sleeping maiden of such super-terrestrial beauty, that Schlosser could not take his eyes from the picture, and was drawn forward by force by his companions. In the next cave they stood still, drew a long breath, looked anxiously at each other, and put down their lamps.

"Now, dear friend," said one of the men to Schlosser, "the moment is come. In a quarter of an hour we may become rich and happy, or for ever lost in perdition. Immeasurable wealth is in the cave we are about to enter, but only two of us can become possessed of the accumulated treasures, or ever see the light of day again; the third, on whom the lot falls, must remain as a sacrifice to the dark ruler of the subterranean world. Be firm and follow us!"

Schlosser felt as if paralysed by lightning at the terrible disclosure, and without knowing what he did, he followed the two, who went on before, and knocked three times on a small iron door.

Cracking, it sprang open, and a blood-red splendour shone forth in the great space which they now entered. Gold, silver, and precious stones lay in colossal heaps on every side, and the place sparkled and shone so, that even the anxious Schlosser's heart was filled with joy.

But now from a corner a man of lofty stature came forward, with sparkling, burning eyes, black, bristly hair, dark, bushy eyebrows, and a crooked, arched hawk-nose.

In a frightful, peculiar manner he twitched his yellow face, and his garments were strange and odd. A fiery-red, gold-bordered mantle hung in bunchy folds from his shoulders; a broad, drooping Spanish hat, with a long, waving red plume, sat sideways on his head, and a long rapier hung at his side.

With a slight bow he passed the three men, and vanished through the iron door by which they had entered.

The two men now challenged Schlosser to help them fill their sacks, and as soon as that was done they returned through the iron door, which shut with a loud crash behind them.

"I cannot tell how it is with me to-day," said one stranger to his friend. "I am filled with fear, and my teeth chatter, and it creeps like fire in my veins. If only some misfortune does not meet us!"

"Thou art very foolish," replied the other. "Is it not the eighteenth time that we have been here, and we have always known how to turn and shuffle that the lot fell on the accompanying third person? And where could we have found a better companion than that fellow there, out of whose eyes the most charming simplicity and stupidity look, so that a child might deceive him?"

He would have added more, but Schlosser, who went on before, uttered a cry of horror, and the hearts of the two friends sank within them, although what they saw they had seen already eighteen times.

On the fatal beam over the foaming water stood the devil himself, with all the terrors peculiar to his dark majesty. Great burning eyes rolled like wheels of flaming fire in his awful face, a shaggy-haired hide clothed the spirit of the bottomless pit, and the fearful claws were extended to seize his prey.

With trembling hand the eldest of the two strangers produced the cards; but however falsely he shuffled them the death-card fell to him, and he began to quake, and grew as pale as the chalk of the wall.

Under the pretext that something had been omitted, the stranger shuffled again; but, to his terror, the death-lot fell, not upon Schlosser, but his own friend.

"The third time it will surely fall on the fellow," thought the stranger to himself, and began under all sorts of excuses to shuffle again.

The foul fiend raised himself to his greatest height, breathing flames of fire from mouth and nostrils, and cried in a hollow, smothered voice, like the sound of distant thunder: "Only once more can ye draw lots, no more. Over that person there," pointing to Schlosser, "I have no power; he is defended, by a plant which he carries on his person, from every danger!"

The two old sinners turned paler than ever, and looked despairingly at each other; but the devil waved his hand, and they drew lots for the third time. The lot fell on him on whom it had fallen the first time.

Like a tempest Satan threw himself on the despairing man, seized him with his claws, rose with him in the air, and tore him in pieces.

With swelling breast, breathless, Schlosser till now had looked on all that had passed; but at this fearful sight the last spark of firmness failed him, he closed his eyes and sank lifeless on the ground.

When he awoke he was lying before the entrance to the cave; near him a sack filled with beaten gold and silver.

He looked in vain for his companion, who must have already gone away, if the terror caused by the awful fate of his friend had not killed him.

Schlosser was as if paralysed, and could scarcely drag himself to the village near by.

He, however, soon recovered, moved from Osterhagen to Andreasburg, where he built a handsome house, and never forgot that it was through his wife's forethought that wealth and happiness had been won.

The Bell-Founder of Stolberg.

The traditions of the apprentices' pillar in Roslin Chapel, and of the bell-founder in Breslau, bear a strong resemblance to this of Stolberg.

There was once a bell-founder in Stolberg who was a master worthy of honour, skilled in counsel and deed.

He had already cast many bells, yellow and white, the poem tells us, for churches and chapels, to the praise and glory of God.

And his bells rang so full, so clear and pure in tone; he cast love and faith in with the metal.

And Stolberg desired also a work from his hand, and the master employed every means to produce a perfect bell for his place of residence.

But it was as if the Evil One had a hand too in the work, for the cast was a perfect failure.

Vexed, he threw the bell aside, commanded his sixteen-years-old apprentice to prepare everything for a new cast on a certain day, so soon as he returned, and then departed to visit his father, who was also a bell-founder, to relate his failure and ask his advice.

The thoughtful apprentice reflected unceasingly on the cause of the failure of his so skilful master in the last bell.

After long speculation he discovered the cause, sprang up joyfully, worked day and night, and soon the bell stood without a flaw before the youth's delighted eyes.

His heart beating high with joy, he went to meet his master, and found him sitting on a stone resting from the fatigue of his long walk. This stone tradition still points out in the Steigerthal, moss-grown, with a bell and a club hewn in it.

The apprentice could not keep his secret, and with a countenance shining with joy told his master that he had already cast another bell, which was perfect, and of the sweetest tone.

Then the veins on the master's forehead swelled with shame; rage and fury to find himself excelled by his pupil filled his usually mild heart.

He sprang from the stone, seized his cane, and gave the youth such a powerful blow on his head that he sank bleeding, with glassy eyes, in the grass.

The master fled as if chased by the furies.

His anger cooled at the sight of the blood; fearful pangs of conscience seized the strong man, he repented his rash deed, turned hurriedly back, hoping he might yet quench the stream of blood, and save the unhappy boy.

He had soon reached him, but no help was possible. Despairing he fled.

Unsettled and a fugitive like Cain, he wandered the whole night in the forest, and when the morning dawned he had made his decision.

He returned to Stolburg, presented himself before the tribunal, accused himself of his crime, and demanded punishment.

Deep was the regret, but blood demands blood, and he heard his sentence of death with unmoved composure.

The Colt's Cave.

During the Seven Years' War the soldiers stole all the horses.

A farmer concealed a handsome colt in a cave in the Steigethal, or valley of the Steige, and fed it with great care. After the departure of the enemy he hastened to the cave to take home the animal, but it had grown so much it could no longer go through the entrance, and he was compelled to kill it. And the cave is called the Colt's Cave unto this day.

Legend of St. Christopher.

In the Goslar Cathedral, of which now but a small remnant remains, once existed a colossal wooden statue of this renowned Saint with the Christ-Child on his back.