Part 2 — THE CHRIST OF AUSFELDT.

We live in a sceptical age that laughs at what it calls the superstitions of the olden time; superstitions, if you will, but often most beautiful, particularly when viewed through the mists of time and change. It is a relief to come upon some living legend, so to speak, while travelling over the hard macadamized thoroughfare of our practical lives, and I shall never forget the pleasure I experienced in listening to the recital of a story of the olden time, told me by my gracious hostess at the village inn where I had been stopping for a few days while making a pedestrian tour through the southern part of Germany.

"Ach, mein Herr! and hast never heard the legend of the Christ of Ausfeldt?"

It stood, weather-beaten and worn, just where the solid piers set their mighty feet into the river; an old stone crucifix that seemed to have battled the storms of hundreds of years.

While pausing in my morning walk to gaze on it with a traveller's curiosity, something in the general characteristics of the figure attracted my attention; and examining it more closely, I immediately saw that it displayed greater evidence of artistic skill and execution than is generally manifested in wayside images. Too often they are but caricatures of that semblance which is the most holy and sacred of Christianity; but in the face of the Christ that looked down upon me from the stained and battered cross, I read an expression of patient suffering and God-like endurance that would have borne noble testimony to any sculptor.

Returning to the inn, a desire to discover something of the history rather of the sculptor than of the image prompted me to make inquiry of my good-natured landlady, who sat in the twilight just outside of the house door, knitting as only a German woman can.

From that "Ach, mein Herr!" I knew a story was coming; and knowing, likewise, that Frau Gretchen was a very princess in story-telling, I lighted my pipe, and, stretching myself on the wooden bench before the door, prepared to be either saddened, amused, or delighted, as the case might be.

Frau Gretchen laid down her stocking for a moment, smoothed the whitest of white aprons, and having looked toward the river, and then at the ruined castle that surmounted the hill beyond, resumed her knitting, and, heaving a gentle sigh began:

"More than three hundred years ago, and for hundreds of years before that time, there dwelt in that old castle yonder the noble lords of Ausfeldt. They were great warriors; mighty in stature and strength, and for generations on generations had been feared and hated by their vassals; for they were wicked as they were violent, and cruel as they were brave. Now, the women were all fair and gentle; for such was the power of the lords of Ausfeldt that it was ever given them to wed the flowers of the land; and it seemed that the good God made for them angel wives, so pure, and meek, and pious, and charitable were the ladies of Ausfeldt through centuries and centuries of time.

"Now, it fell out that Berthold, the reigning count, had been rescued from drowning by Arnold, a wood-carver of the town, whose skill in his craft was well known and much sought even from Alspach and Brauen. It was on a Good-Friday, and the grateful lord registered a vow to Heaven that he would commemorate his preservation by erecting an image of the Saviour crucified nigh to the spot where the waters had so nearly closed over him for ever.

"For in those days, mein Herr, although the great and mighty were fierce and cruel, faith was not dead in their hearts, as it is in these evil times of ours.

"Old Arnold of Ausfeldt, at his own beseeching, was deputed to essay his skill upon the Christ, and so well did he execute the task that his fame travelled far and wide. A large sum of money was promised him; but Berthold the master went off to the wars, and forgot, as men often do, his deliverer. Soon afterward old Arnold died and left all alone in the world his beautiful daughter, so fair and spotless that she was called 'the Lily of Ausfeldt.'

"As I said before, mein Herr, the dames of this haughty house were gentle and good, and when poor Bertha was left desolate, the Countess Barbara sent for her to the castle, and placed her among her own daughters as a sort of companion and teacher; for she had inherited from her mother great dexterity in the use of the needle, and from her father not a little artistic skill.

"For a time all went well. But alas! to every day, however bright, there comes an ending; and thus the morning of Bertha's happiness faded and deepened into night.

"There arrived from a long journey in the East the eldest son of the house, the young Rupert; none handsomer, none wittier, none more courtly than he. Unlike his father and most of his progenitors, he possessed a winning tongue and beguiling air; he had loitered in ladies' bowers, and they had taught him well.

"Into the pure blue eyes of the Lily of Ausfeldt he looked as would the serpent into the eyes of a trembling dove. But the blue depths, though they quivered, grew no darker nor deeper; there was no guile in the heart, and it knew not the presence of sin. Close to the innocent cheek of the maiden the tempter breathed his poisonous breath; but the guardian angel of purity folded his wings about her, and wafted a fold of his misty veil between that hot breath and her unsoiled innocence, until, man of the world though he was, Count Rupert shrank into himself abashed, and loved for the first time in his reckless life with a pure, deep, passionate love.

"Day after day he sought her side, night after night they wandered together by the river; her soul all full of faith, and hope, and beauty; his racked by fears of his father's anger; for in his heart of hearts he knew that his father would sooner slay him with his own hand than bend the lofty pride of Ausfeldt to a union with a simple burgher maiden.

"Ach, ach, Herr Karl! love is a pleasant thing, and a delicious thing, and a holy thing; for it is heaven-born: but woman's faith is still more beautiful and heavenly; and man's fickleness and perfidy the story of every day. It has been the same all the world over since time began, and so it will be to the end.

"They parted at last—war called him away; but he left her with a vow upon his lips that was broken ere the birds sang the advent of another summer. There came rumors of a marriage with a great heiress of the north; but Bertha knew no fears, for her own heart was pure and true, and she did not dream that his could be faithless. Alas! there are many like her in the world, mein Herr, even in our day, when most people are forgetting what love means.

"Soon the castle was astir with unusual bustle and preparation, and then there was no secret made of the fact that the young Lord Rupert would soon bring home a bride. Whether he was weak or wicked, who can tell? God has judged and meted him his portion long ere this; but in her heart poor Bertha never blamed him. Yet she grew pale and thin; but no one noticed it; and that she spent long nights of weary weeping none knew save her guardian angel.

"It was a still, starry midnight. All alone in her little chamber, Bertha leaned forth from the casement; but she did not weep. Suddenly, as by an irresistible impulse, she hurried from the room, down the winding stairs, through the long garden, down, down the steep hill, till she stood on the brink of the river.

"Beneath her its waters flowed dark and rippling, and they were cold, oh! so cold, and her head burned and throbbed so wildly.

"One plunge, and her woes would be over for ever—thus whispered the fiend beside her—one step, and the cool waves would receive her! 'What is life to thee now?' said a mocking voice in her ear. 'What eternity of woe canst thou suffer more terrible than this? There is no eternity, naught but oblivion. Nearer and nearer thy faithless lover hastens with his beautiful bride; how canst thou bear day after day to meet him, to dwell under the same roof with thy rival. Have courage, plunge boldly! the waves, more merciful than the world, will receive thee, and to-morrow thou wilt float on their broad bosom, far away to the sea.'

"As the maiden lifted her hands from her eyes, as though to take a last look on the world ere she left it, something white gleamed in the moonlight; it was the stone crucifix at whose feet she had so often knelt in days of happiness and innocence, the cross her father had fashioned with hands and heart consecrated to heaven.

"Trembling in every limb, she dragged her weary feet to the spot; and as she threw herself upon her knees before the image, bitter sobs burst from her bosom.

"The sad face of the dead Christ looked down upon her with eyes of divine compassion, and brought to her memory and to her heart a vision of the dear departed who had wrought this labor of love, and of that father's affection, and of his pure and holy teachings, which she had so nearly forgotten for evermore.

"With a wild cry she clasped the nail-pierced feet, and her whole soul poured itself forth in one deep, wailing supplication.

"'My God, my God!' she moaned, 'why hast thou forsaken me? Take me out of this weary world, as I lie here penitent and fearful, lest the evil one come again to tempt me, and I yield in my weakness and brokenness of heart. The river is black and pitiless, my Saviour; but not so black and pitiless as the world. Save me, oh! save me from myself. How shall I know that thou hast not deserted me? How shall I hope that thou wilt pardon, that thou wilt hear my prayer?'

"The moon, which had shrunk behind a cloud, came softly forth and bathed the image and the shrinking figure at its feet in holy light; while, as the maiden knelt, there passed into her stricken heart a quiet, hopeful feeling, and, looking up half timidly, she pushed back her loosened hair to meet once more the sad, pitying glance above her.

"And then she clasped her trembling hands together, and bent her weary head low down to the very earth; for around the brow of the dead Christ there shone a heavenly halo, blood trickled from the thorny crown and reddened the outstretched hands, and from the soft, compassionate eyes great tears were falling.

"Twenty years afterward, the holy Abbess of Ausfeldt lay upon her death-bed; and the good sisters gathered around her, and even the choristers and little serving-boys; for they all loved her well: and there came into her eyes a light, and to her voice a strength, neither had known for many a day; and just as I tell it to you, mein Herr, she told them the story of the Christ of Ausfeldt. For her name had been Bertha, and it was her own story.

"And she begged that no Christian might ever pass the sacred spot without breathing a prayer for her soul. Ah! mein Herr, many a time have I passed the holy image and almost fancied it smiled upon me as I went."

Silently Frau Gretchen folded up her knitting, and with a sigh toward the river, and another toward the ruined castle, stepped slowly down the garden path, humming dreamily as she walked Schiller's song of "The Mill":

Catching her thought, I murmured the plaintive words as I passed out of the gateway and down the old, shadowy street. They had "vanished long ago"—the great inheritors and the noble line, the faithless lover and the pure "Lily of Ausfeldt." But the bright, silvery moonlight made clear and distinct the sculptured image I had come to seek. The legend had invested it with an almost living interest, and as I paused before it, with as reverential a feeling as I have ever known in the contemplation of earth's grandest Raphaels or Murillos, I said half aloud, as I lingered for a moment near the quiet river, "O beautiful old German legends! may you live in your purity and holiness in the hearts of the German people as long as the Rhine flows through the pleasant courses and by the fruitful vineyards its wandering spirit loves."