Audifax and Hadumoth had returned to the castle on the Hohentwiel, without anybody having noticed their having made this nightly expedition. They did not speak of their adventures, even to each other; but Audifax brooded over them night and day. He became rather negligent in his duties, so that one of his flock got lost in the hilly ground near where the Rhine flows out of the Bodensee. So Audifax went to look for the goat; and after spending a whole day in the pursuit, he triumphantly returned with the truant, in the evening.
Hadumoth welcomed him joyfully; delighted at his success, which saved him from a whipping. By and by, the winter came, and the animals remained in their respective stalls. One day the two children were sitting alone before the fire-place in the servant's hall.
"Dost thou still think of the treasure and the spell?" said Hadumoth.
Then Audifax drew closer to her and whispered mysteriously. "The holy man has after all got the right God."
"Why so?" asked Hadumoth. He ran away to his chamber where, hidden in the straw of his mattress, were a number of different stones. He took out one of these and brought it to her.
"Look here," he said. It was a piece of grey mica-slate, containing the remains of a fish; the delicate outlines of which, were clearly visible. "That's what I have found at the foot of the Schiener mountain, when I went to look for the goat. That must come from the great flood, which Father Vincentius, once preached about; and this flood, the Lord of Heaven and Earth sent over the world, when he told Noah to build the big ship. Of all this, the woman of the wood knows nothing."
Hadumoth became thoughtful. "Then it must be her fault, that the stars did not fall into our lap. Let us go and complain of her, to the holy man."
So they went to Ekkehard, and told him all that they had beheld that night on the Hohenkrähen. He listened kindly to their tale, which he repeated to the Duchess in the evening. Dame Hadwig smiled.
"They have a peculiar taste, my faithful subjects," said she. "Everywhere handsome churches have been erected, in which the Gospel is preached to them. Fine church-music, great festivals and processions through the waving corn-fields, with cross and flag at their head,--all this does not content them. So they must needs sit on their mountaintops in cold, chilly nights, not understanding what they're about, except that they drink beer. 'Tis really wonderful. What do you think of the matter, pious Master Ekkehard?"
"It is superstition," replied he, "which, the Evil One sows in weak and rebellions hearts. I have read in our books about the doings of the heathens, how they perform their idolatrous rites in dark woods; by lonely wells and even at the graves of their dead."
"But they are no longer heathens," said Dame Hadwig. "They are all baptized and belong to some parish-church. But nevertheless some of the old traditions still live among them; and though these have lost their meaning, they yet run through their thoughts and actions, as the Rhine does in winter, flowing noiselessly on, under the icy cover of the Bodensee. What would you do with them?"
"Annihilate them," said Ekkehard. "He who forsakes his christian faith and breaks the vows of his baptism, shall be eternally damned."
"Not so fast, my young zealot!" continued Dame Hadwig. "My good Hegau people are not to lose their heads, because they prefer sitting on the cold top of the Hohenkrähen, on the first night of November, to lying on their straw-mattresses. For all that, they do their duties well enough, and fought under Charlemagne against the heathenish Saxons, as if everyone of them had been a chosen combatant of the Church itself."
"With the Devil there can be no peace," cried Ekkehard hotly. "Are you going to be lukewarm in your faith, noble Mistress?"
"In reigning over a country," returned she with a slight sarcasm in her voice--"one learns a good deal that is not written down in books. Don't you know that a weak man is often more easily defeated by his own weakness, than by the sharpness of the sword? When the holy Gallus one day visited the ruins of Bregenz, he found the altar of St. Amelia destroyed, and in its place three metal idols erected; and around the great beer-kettle the men sat drinking; for this is a ceremony which is never omitted when our Suabians wish to show their piety in the old fashion. The holy Gallus did not hurt a single man amongst them; but he cut their idols to pieces, threw them into the green waves of the lake, and made a large hole into their beer-kettle. On this very spot he preached the Gospel to them, and when they saw that no fire fell down from the Heavens to destroy him, they were convinced that their Gods were powerless, and so became converted. So you see that to be sensible is not to be lukewarm." ...
"That was in those times," began Ekkehard, but Dame Hadwig continued: "And now the Church has been established from the source of the Rhine to the North Sea, and far stronger than the ancient castles of the Romans, a chain of monasteries, fortresses of the christian faith, runs through the land. Even into the recesses of the Black-forest the Gospel has penetrated; so why should we wage war so fiercely against the miserable stragglers of the olden times?"
"Then you had better reward them," said Ekkehard bitterly.
"Reward them?" quoth the Duchess. "Between the one and the other, there is still many an expedient left. Perhaps it were better if we put a stop to these nightly trespasses. No realm can be powerful in which two different creeds exist, for that leads to internal warfare, which is rather dangerous, as long as there are plenty of outward enemies. Besides, the laws of the land have forbidden them these follies, and they must find out, that our ordinances and prohibitions are not to be tampered with in that way."
Ekkehard did not seem to be satisfied yet; a shadow of displeasure being still visible on his countenance.
"Tell me," continued the Duchess, "what is your opinion of witchcraft in general?"
"Witchcraft," said Ekkehard seriously, taking a deep breath, which seemed to denote the intention of indulging in a longer speech than usual--"witchcraft is a damnable art, by which human beings make treaties with the demons inhabiting the elements, whose workings in nature are everywhere traceable; rendering them subservient by these compacts. Even in lifeless things there are latent living powers, which we neither hear nor see, but which often tempt careless and unguarded minds, to wish to know more and to attain greater power, than is granted to a faithful servant of the Lord. That is the old sorcery of the serpent; and he, who holds communion with the powers of darkness, may obtain part of their power, but he reigns over the Devils by Beelzebub himself, and becomes his property, when his time is at an end. Therefore witchcraft is as old as sin itself, and instead of the one true faith, the belief in the Trinity reigning paramount, fortune-tellers and interpreters of dreams, wandering actors and expounders of riddles, still infest the world; and their partisans are to be found above all among the daughters of Eve."
"You are really getting polite!" exclaimed Dame Hadwig.
"For the minds of women," continued Ekkehard, "have in all times been curious and eager to attain forbidden knowledge. As we shall proceed with our reading of Virgil, you will see the excess of witchcraft embodied in a woman, called Circe, who passed her days, singing, on a rocky headland. Burning chips, of sweet-scented cedar-wood, lighten up her dark chambers, where she is industriously throwing the shuttle, and weaving beautiful tapestry; but outside in the yard, is heard the melancholy roaring of lions and tigers, as well as the grunting of swine, which were formerly men, whom by administering to them her potent magic philters, she has changed into brutes."
"I declare, you are talking like a book," said the Duchess pointedly. "You really ought to extend your study of witchcraft. To-morrow you shall ride over to the Hohenkrähen and examine, whether the woman of the wood is a Circe also. We give you full authority to act in our name, and are truly curious to ascertain what your wisdom will decree."
"It is not for me to reign over a people and to settle the affairs of this world," replied he evasively.
"That will be seen," said Duchess Hadwig. "I do not think that the power of commanding has ever embarrassed anyone, least of all a son of the Church."
So Ekkehard submitted; the more readily, as the commission was a proof of confidence on her part. Early on the next morning he rode over to the Hohenkrähen on horseback, taking Audifax with him, to show him the way.
"A happy journey, Sir Chancellor!" called out a laughing voice behind him. It was the voice of Praxedis.
They soon reached the old hag's dwelling, which was a stone hut, built on a projecting part of the high rock, about half way up. Mighty oaks and beech-trees spread their boughs over it, hiding the summit of the Hohenkrähen. Three high stone steps led into the inside, which was a dark, but airy chamber. On the floor, there lay heaps of dried herbs, giving out a strong fragrance. Three bleached horses' skulls grinned down fantastically from the walls; whilst beneath them hung the huge antlers of a stag. In the door-post was cut a double, intricate triangle; and on the floor, a tame wood-pecker, and a raven with cropped wings, were hopping about.
The inhabitant of this abode, was seated beside the flickering fire on the hearth; sewing some garment. By her side stood a high, roughly hewn weather-beaten stone. From time to time, she bent down to the hearth, and held out her meagre hand over the coals; for the cold of November was beginning to be felt, especially on the mountains. The boughs of an old beech-tree came almost into the room through the window. A faint breeze was stirring them; and the leaves being withered and sere, trembled and fell off; a few of them falling right into the chamber.
The woman of the wood was old and lonely; and suffering probably from the cold.
"There you are lying now, despised and faded and dead," she said to the leaves--"and I am like you." A peculiar expression now came to her old wrinkled face. She was thinking of former times, when she also had been young and blooming, and had had a sweetheart of her own. But his fate had driven him far away from his native fir-woods. Plundering Normans, coming up the Rhine, robbing and burning wherever they came, had carried him off as a prisoner, like so many others; and he had staid with them more than a year, and had become a seaman, and in the rough sea-air he had got to be rough and hard also. When at last they gave him his liberty, and he returned to his Suabian woods, he still carried with him the longing for the North-Sea, and pined for his wild sailor life. The home-faces were no longer pleasant to his eyes; those of the monks and priests least of all; and as misfortune would have it, in the heat of passion he slew a monk who had upbraided him, so that he could no longer remain in his home.
The thoughts of the old woman were constantly recurring that day, to the hour when he had parted from her for ever. Then, the servants of the judge led him to his cottage in the wood of Weiterdingen, and exacted six hundred shillings from him, as a fine for the man he had slain. Then he had to swear a great oath, that beside his cottage and acre, he had nothing left, either above or underground.
After that he went into his house, took a handful of earth, and threw it with his left hand over his shoulder, at his father's brother, in sign that his debt was thus to pass on to this his only remaining relation by blood. This done, he seized his staff, and dressed in his linen shirt, without shoes or girdle, he jumped over the fence of his acre, for such was the custom of the "Chrene Chruda,"[9]and thus he became a homeless wanderer, free to go out into the wilderness. So he went back to Denmark to his own Northmen and never returned any more. All that had ever reached her, was a dark rumour that he had gone over with them to Seeland, where the brave sea-kings, refusing to adopt the christian faith with its new laws, had founded a new home for themselves.
All this had happened long, long ago; but the old woman remembered it all, as if it were but yesterday, that she had seen her Friduhelm going away from her for ever. Then she had hung up a garland of vervain at the little chapel of Weiterdingen, shedding many tears over it; and never had another lover been able to efface his image from her heart. The cold dreary November weather, reminded her of an old Norman song, which he had once taught her and which she now hummed to herself:
"The evening comes, and winter is near,The hoar-frost on fir-trees is lying;Oh book, and cross and prayers of monk--How soon shall we all be a dying.Our homes are getting so dusky and oldAnd the holy wells desecrated,Thou god-inhabited, beautiful wood,Wilt thou, even thou be prostrated?And silent we go, a defeated tribe,Whose stars are all dying and sinking,Oh Iceland, thou icy rock in the sea,With thee, our fates we'll be linking.Arise and receive our wandering race,Which is coming to thee, and bringingThe ancient Gods, and the ancient rights,To which our hearts are still clinging.Where the fiery hill is shedding its light,And the breakers are shorewards sweeping,On thee thou defiant end of the world!Our last long watch, we'll be keeping."
"The evening comes, and winter is near,The hoar-frost on fir-trees is lying;Oh book, and cross and prayers of monk--How soon shall we all be a dying.Our homes are getting so dusky and oldAnd the holy wells desecrated,Thou god-inhabited, beautiful wood,Wilt thou, even thou be prostrated?And silent we go, a defeated tribe,Whose stars are all dying and sinking,Oh Iceland, thou icy rock in the sea,With thee, our fates we'll be linking.Arise and receive our wandering race,Which is coming to thee, and bringingThe ancient Gods, and the ancient rights,To which our hearts are still clinging.Where the fiery hill is shedding its light,And the breakers are shorewards sweeping,On thee thou defiant end of the world!Our last long watch, we'll be keeping."
Ekkehard meanwhile had got down from the saddle, and tied his horse to a neighbouring fir-tree. He now stepped over the threshold, shyly followed by Audifax.
The woman of the wood threw the garment she had been working at, over the stone, folded her hands on her lap, and looked fixedly at the intruder in his monk's habit, but did not get up.
"Praised be Jesus Christ," said Ekkehard, by way of greeting, and also to avert any possible spell. Instinctively he drew in the thumb of his right hand, doubling his fingers over it, being afraid of the evil eye and its powers. Audifax had told him how people said, that with one look she could wither up a whole meadow. She did not return his greeting.
"What are you doing there," began Ekkehard.
"I am mending an old garment that is getting worn," was the answer.
"You have been also gathering herbs?"
"So I have. Are you an herb-gatherer? Here are many of them, if you wish for any. Hawk-weed and snail-clover, goats-beard and mouse-ear, as well as dried wood-ruff."
"I am no herb-gatherer," said Ekkehard. "What use do you make of those herbs?"
"Need you be asking what is the use of herbs?" said the old woman. "Such as you, know that well enough. It would fare ill with sick people and sick hearts, and with our protection against nightly sprites, as well as the stilling of lover's longings, if there were no herbs to be had!"
"And have you been baptized?" continued Ekkehard.
"Aye, they will have baptized me, likely enough." ...
"And if you have been baptized," he said raising his voice, "and have renounced the devil with all his works and allurements, what is the meaning of all this?" He pointed with his stick towards the horses' skulls on the wall, and giving a violent push to one, caused it to fall down on the floor, where it broke to pieces, so that the white teeth rolled about on the ground.
"The skull of a horse," quietly replied the old woman, "which you have shivered to pieces. It was a young animal, as you may see by the teeth."
"And you like to eat horse-flesh?"
"It is no impure animal, nor is it forbidden to eat it."
"Woman!" cried Ekkehard approaching her closer, "thou exercisest witchcraft and sorcery!"
Then she arose and with a frowning brow and strangely glittering eyes, she said: "You wear a priest's garment, so you may say this to me; for an old woman has no protection against such as you. Otherwise it were a grave insult which you have cast on me, and the laws of the land punish those that use such words." ...
During this conversation, Audifax had remained timidly standing at the door, but when the raven now made its way towards him, he was afraid and ran up to Ekkehard; from thence he saw the stone by the hearth, and walked up to it; for the fear even of twenty ravens would not have prevented him from examining a curious stone. Lifting the garment which was spread over it, he beheld some strange, weather-beaten figures carved on it.
At that moment Ekkehard's eye fell also on the stone. It was a Roman altar, and had doubtless been erected on those heights by cohorts, who at the command of their Emperor had left their camp in luxurious Asia, for the inhospitable shores of the Bodensee. A youth, in a flowing mantle and with Phrygian cap, was kneeling on a prostrate bull,--the Persian God of light, Mithras; who gave new hope and strength to the fast sinking faith of the Romans.
An inscription was nowhere visible. For a considerable time Ekkehard stood examining it; for with the exception of a golden coin bearing the head of Vespasian, which had been found in the moor at Rapperswyl, by some dependants of the monastery, and some carved stones among the church treasures, his eye had never before beheld any carving of the olden times; but from the shape and look of the thing, he guessed at its being some silent witness of a bygone world.
"Whence comes the stone?" asked he.
"I have been questioned more than enough now," defiantly said the old woman. "Find an answer for yourself."
The stone might have said a good deal for itself, if stones were gifted with speech, for a goodly piece of history often clings to such old and weather-beaten ruins. What do they teach us? That the races of men, come and go like the leaves; that spring produces and autumn destroys, and that all their thinkings and doings, last but a short span of time. After them, there come others, talking in other tongues and creating other forms. That which was holy before, is then pulled down and despised, and that which was condemned, becomes holy in its place. New Gods mount the throne,--and it is well if their altars are not erected on the bodies of too many victims....
Ekkehard saw another meaning in the stone's being in the hut of the woman of the wood.
"You worship that man on the bull!" he cried vehemently. The old woman took up a stick standing by the fire-place, and with a knife made two notches in it. "Tis the second insult you have offered me," she said hoarsely. "What have we to do with yonder stone image?"
"Then speak out. How is it that the stone comes to be here?"
"Because we took pity on it," replied she. "You, who wear the tonsure and monk's habit, probably will not understand that. The stone stood outside, on yonder projecting rock, which must have been a consecrated spot, on which many have knelt probably, in the olden times. But in the present days nobody heeded it. The people here about, dried their crab-apples, or split their wood on it; just as it suited them; and the cruel rain has been washing away the figures. 'The sight of the stone grieves me,' said my mother one day. It was once something holy, but the bones of those, who have known and worshipped the man on it, have long been bleached white,--and the man in the flowing mantle looks as if he were freezing with the cold. So we took it up, and placed it beside the hearth, and it has never harmed us as yet. We know how the old Gods feel, when their altars are shattered; for ours also have been dethroned. You need not begrudge its rest to the old stone."
"Your Gods?" said Ekkehard, "who are your Gods?"
"That you ought to know best, for you have driven them away, and banished them into the depths of the lake. In the floods below, everything has been buried. The ancient rights and the ancient Gods! We can see them no more, and know but the places where our fathers have worshipped them, before the Franks and the cowl-bearing men had come. But when the winds are shaking the tops of yonder oak-tree, you may hear their wailing voices in the air; and on consecrated nights, there is a moaning and roaring in the forest, and a shining of lights; whilst serpents are winding themselves round the stems of the trees; and over the mountains you hear a rustling of wings, of despairing spirits, that have come to look at their ancient home."
Ekkehard crossed himself.
"I tell it thus as I know it," continued the old woman. "I do not wish to offend the Saviour, but he has come as a stranger into the land. You serve him in a foreign tongue, which we cannot understand. If he had sprung up from our own ground, then we might talk to him, and should be his most faithful worshippers, and maybe things would then fare better in Allemannia."
"Woman!" cried Ekkehard wrathfully, "we will have thee burned ..."
"If it be written in your books that trees grow up, to burn old woman with, very well. I have lived long enough. The lightning has lately paid a visit to the woman of the wood,"--pointing to a dark stripe on the wall,--"the lightning has spared the old woman."
After this she cowered down before the hearth, and remained there motionless like a statue. The flickering coals threw a fitful, varying light on her wrinkled face.
"Tis well," said Ekkehard as he left the chamber. Audifax was very glad when he could see the blue sky again over his head. "There they sat together," said he pointing upwards.
"I will go and look at it, whilst thou goest back to the Hohentwiel, and sendest over two men with hatchets. And tell Otfried the deacon of Singen to come and bring his stole and mass-book with him."
Audifax bounded away, whilst Ekkehard went up to the top of the Hohenkrähen.
In the castle on the Hohentwiel, the Duchess had been sitting meanwhile taking her midday meal. She had often looked about, as if something were missing. The meal was soon over, and when Dame Hadwig found herself alone with Praxedis she began:
"How dost thou like our new teacher, Praxedis?"
The Greek maid smiled.
"Speak," said the Duchess in a commanding voice.
"Well I have seen many a schoolmaster before this, at Constantinopolis," said Praxedis flippantly.
Dame Hadwig threatened her with her finger, "I shall have to banish thee from my sight, if thou indulgest in such irreverent speeches. What hast thou to say against schoolmasters?"
"Pardon me," said Praxedis. "I did not mean any offence. But whenever I see such a bookman, wearing such a very serious expression, and assuming such an important air, drawing out of his manuscript some meaning which we have already nearly guessed; and when I see how he is bound up in his parchments, his eyes seeing nothing but dead letters, having scarcely a look to spare for the human beings around him,--then I always feel strongly tempted to laugh. When I am in doubt whether pity would be the proper feeling, I take to laughing. And he certainly does not require my pity, as he knows so much more, than I do."
"A teacher must be serious," said the Duchess. "Seriousness belongs to him, as the snow does to our Alps."
"Serious,--ah well! in this land where the snow covers the mountain-peaks, everything must be serious," resumed the Greek maid. "If I were only as learned as Master Ekkehard to be able to express all that I want to say! I mean that one can learn many things jestingly, without the sweat-drops of hard labour on one's brow. All that is beautiful ought to please, and be true, at the same time. I mean that knowledge is like honey, which can be got at in different ways. The butterfly hovers over the flowers and finds it; but such a learned German appears to me like a bear, who clumsily puts his paws into a bee-hive and then licks them. I for my part don't admire bears."
"Thou art a frivolous minded maiden and not fond of learning. But how does Ekkehard please thee otherwise,--I think him very handsome."
Praxedis looked up at her mistress. "I have never yet looked at a monk, to see whether he were handsome."
"Why not?"
"Because I thought it quite unnecessary."
"Thou givest queer answers to-day," said Dame Hadwig, getting up from her seat. She stepped to the window and looked out northwards; where from the dark fir-trees rose the heavy mass of the steep, rocky Hohenkrähen.
"The goat-boy has just been here, and has told some of the men to go over," said Praxedis.
"The afternoon is mild and sunny," observed the Duchess. "Tell them to saddle the horses and we will ride over, and see what they are doing. Ah--I forgot that thou complainedst of the fatigue of riding, when we returned from St. Gallus. So I will go there alone ..."
Ekkehard meanwhile had inspected the scene of the nightly revel, of which but few traces remained. The earth around the oak-tree was still wet and reddish looking, and a few coals and ashes indicated where the fire had been.
With astonishment he beheld here and there, hanging in the branches of the oak, small wax effigies of human limbs. There were feet and hands, as well as images of cows and horses,--offerings for the recovery of sick men and beasts, which the superstitious peasantry, preferred hanging up on old consecrated trees, to placing them on the altars of churches.
Two men, with hatchets, now came up.
"We have been ordered to come here," they said.
"From the Hohentwiel?" asked Ekkehard.
"We belong to the Duchess, but we live yonder on the Hohenhöwen; where you can see the smoke rise from the charcoal-pile."
"Good," said Ekkehard. "You are to cut down this oak for me."
The men looked at him. Embarrassment was visible in their faces.
"Begin at once, and make haste, for before nightfall, the tree must be felled to the ground."
Then the two men walked up to the oak. With gaping mouths they stood before the magnificent tree. One of them let his axe fall.
"Don't you know the spot, Chomuli?" quoth he to his companion.
"How should I know it, Woveli?"
The former pointed towards the east, and lifting one of his hands to his mouth, imitated the act of drinking. "On account of that, Chomuli."
Then the other looked downhill where Ekkehard was standing, and winking cunningly with one eye, said: "We know nothing, Woveli."
"But he will know, Chomuli."
"That remains to be seen," was the reply.
"It is really a sin and a shame," continued the other. "That oak is at least two hundred years old, and has lived to witness many a bright May- and Autumn-fire. I really can't do it."
"Don't be a fool," said his companion making the first stroke. "The more readily we hew away at the tree, the less yonder monk will believe, that we have sat under its branches in nightly worship. Remember the shilling fine! A man must be cautious, Woveli!"
This last remark did not fail to have its effect. "Yes, a man must be cautious," he repeated aiming a blow at the tree of his devotion. But ten days ago, he had hung up a wax effigy himself, in order to cure his brown cow of fever.
The chips flew about, and keeping regular time, their blows quickly followed each other.
The deacon of Singen had also arrived with stole and mass-book. Ekkehard beckoned to him to go with him into the hut of the woman of the wood. She was still sitting motionless as before, beside her hearth. A sharp gust of wind, entering as the door opened, extinguished her fire.
"Woman of the wood," called out Ekkehard imperiously, "put your house in order and pack up your things, for you must go!"
The old woman seized her staff and cut a third notch. "Who is it, that is insulting me for the third time," growled she, "and who wishes to cast me out of my mother's house, like a stray dog?"
"In the name of the Duchess of Suabia," continued Ekkehard solemnly, "and on account of your practising heathenish superstitions, and nightly idolatries, I banish you herewith from house and home; and bid you leave the land. Your chair shall be placed before the door of your hut, and you shall wander restlessly about, as far as the sky is blue, and christians visit the church; as far as the falcon flies on a day of Spring when the wind is carrying him along, faster than his wings. No hospitable door shall be opened to you; no fire be lighted to give you warmth; and may the wells deny you water, until you have renounced the powers of darkness, and made your peace with the almighty God; the judge of the living and dead."
The woman of the wood had listened to him, without showing great emotion.
"An anointed man, will insult thee three times under thy own roof," muttered she, "and thou shalt make a sign on thy staff, in witness of this; and with that same staff, thou shalt go out towards the setting sun, for they will not give thee sufficient ground, to rest thy head upon. Oh mother! My mother!"
She then scraped her scanty belongings together, making a bundle of them; and taking her staff, prepared herself to go. The heart of the deacon of Singen was touched. "Pray God through his servants to have mercy on you, and perform some christian penance," he said, "so that you may find forgiveness."
"For that, the woman of the wood is too old," she replied. Then she called her wood-pecker, which flew about her head; the raven followed, with a scared frightened look, and she had already opened the door and cast back one last look on the walls and fire-place, the herbs and horses' skulls, when she struck her stick violently on the threshold; so as to make the stone flags resound. "Be cursed ye dogs!" cried she; then followed by her birds, took the path leading into the woods, and disappeared.
"And silent we go, a defeated tribe,Whose stars are all dying and sinking,Oh Iceland, thou icy rock in the sea,With thee, our fates we'll be linking!"
"And silent we go, a defeated tribe,Whose stars are all dying and sinking,Oh Iceland, thou icy rock in the sea,With thee, our fates we'll be linking!"
was her low chaunt; slowly dying out, among the leafless trees.
Ekkehard now put on the stole; and the deacon of Singen carrying the mass-book before him, they proceeded through chamber and closet. The walls were sanctified by the sign of the cross, so as to banish the evil spirits for ever; and finally, with prayers, he pronounced the mighty exorcism over the place.
The pious work had lasted long; and when the deacon took off Ekkehard's stole, the cold sweat-drops stood on his brow; as he had never before heard such impressive words. Just when all was over, the tramping of horses' feet was heard.
It was the Duchess, accompanied by one servant only. Ekkehard went out to meet her; and the deacon directed his steps homewards.
"You were so long away, that I had to come hither myself, to see how you had settled everything," graciously called out the Duchess.
The two wood-cutters had in the meanwhile finished their job, and made their retreat by the back of the hill. They stood in awe of the Duchess. Ekkehard then told her about the life and doings of the woman of the wood, and how he had driven her away.
"You are very severe," said Dame Hadwig.
"I thought I was very mild," replied Ekkehard.
"Well, we approve of that which you have done. What do you intend to do with the deserted hut," casting a hasty look at the stone walls.
"The power of the evil spirits has been banished and exorcised," said Ekkehard. "I mean to consecrate it as a chapel to St. Hadwig."
The Duchess looked at him with a well pleased expression.
"How did you hit upon that idea?"
"The thought struck me just now, ... the oak I have had cut down."
"We will examine that spot; and I think that we shall approve also, of the felling of the oak."
She climbed the steep path, leading up to the top of the Hohenkrähen, accompanied by Ekkehard.
There lay the oak on the ground; its mighty branches almost preventing their further ascent. A flat stone, but a few paces in circumference, crowned the top of the strangely shaped hill. They were standing on the rocks, which formed a declivitous wall beneath their feet. It was a giddy height, on which was neither stone nor tree for support, and the two figures stood out picturesquely, against the blue sky; the monk in his dark garment and the Duchess, wrapped up in her bright coloured mantle. Silently they stood thus; looking at the splendid view before them. In the depth below, the plain lay stretched out before them, through the green meadows of which, the river Aach ran in serpentine lines. The roofs and gables of the houses in the valley, looked like tiny dots on a map. Opposite rose darkly, the proud, well-known peak of the Hohentwiel; blue, flat mountain-ridges rising like walls, behind the mighty one; hiding the Rhine after its escape from the Bodensee.
The Untersee with the island of Reichenau lay bathed in light; and in the far off distance, the faint outlines of gigantic mountains were visible, through transparent clouds. They became clearer and clearer as the sun sank down, a golden glow surrounding them like a halo of glory ... the landscape becoming softer, shadows and glittering lights melting into each other ...
Dame Hadwig was touched, for her noble heart could feel and appreciate nature's beauty and grandeur. But the feelings lie very close to each other, and at that moment, a certain tenderness, pervaded her whole being. Her looks from the snowy Alpine peaks fell on Ekkehard. "He is going to consecrate a chapel to St. Hadwig," something whispered within her, over and over again.
She advanced a step, as if she were afraid of becoming giddy, and putting her right arm on Ekkehard's shoulder, leaned heavily on him; her sparkling eyes looking intently into his. "What is my friend thinking about?" said she in soft accents.
Ekkehard who had been lost in thought started.
"I have never before stood on such a height," said he, "and I was reminded of the passage in Scripture: 'Afterwards the devil, taking him up into a high mountain, shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time. And the devil said unto him: All this will I give Thee, and the glory of them, if thou wilt worship me. But Jesus answered and said unto him: Get thee behind me Satan, for it is written, thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou serve.'"
With a strange look the Duchess stepped backwards; the light in her eyes changing, as if she would have liked to push the monk down into the abyss.
"Ekkehard!" cried she, "you are either a child--or a fool!"
Then she turned round, and hastily and displeased descended the path. Mounting her horse, she rode back to the Hohentwiel, at a gallop, so furious, that her servant could scarcely follow her.
Ekkehard full of consternation, remained where he was. He passed his hand over his eyes, as if to remove a mist from before them.
When late at night he sat in his tower on the Hohentwiel, thinking of all that had happened that day, he beheld a distant gleam of fire. He looked out and saw that the fiery blaze, arose from the fir-trees on the Hohenkrähen. The woman of the wood, had been paying her last visit to the future chapel of St. Hadwig.
The evening on the Hohenkrähen, cast a gloom also over the following days. Misunderstandings are not easily forgiven; least of all by him who has caused them.
For this reason, Dame Hadwig spent some days in a very bad humour, in her own private apartments. Grammar and Virgil had both a holiday. With Praxedis, she took up the old jest about the schoolmasters at Constantinople; seeming now to enjoy it much better. Ekkehard came to ask whether he were to continue his lessons. "I have got a toothache," said the Duchess. Expressing his regret, he attributed it to the rough autumnal weather.
Every day, he asked several times how she was, which somewhat conciliated the Duchess.
"How is it," said she to Praxedis, "that a person can be of so much more real worth, than he appears outwardly to possess?"
"That comes from a want of gracefulness," replied the Greek maid. "In other countries I often found the reverse; but here, people are too lazy, to manifest their individuality by every movement or word. They prefer thinking, to acting; believing that the whole world must be able to read on their foreheads, what is passing within."
"But we are generally so industrious," said Dame Hadwig, complacently.
"The buffaloes likewise work the live-long day," Praxedis had almost said,--but she finally contented herself, with merely thinking it.
Ekkehard all this time, felt quite at his ease; for the idea, that he had given an unsuitable answer to the Duchess, never struck him. He had really been thinking of that parable in Scripture and failed to see, that in reply to the timid expression of a friendly liking, it might not always be quite the right thing, to quote Scripture. He reverenced the Duchess; but far more as the embodied idea of sublimity, than as a woman. That sublime beings demand adoration, had never struck him; and still less that even the sublimest personage, is often perfectly satisfied with simple affection. That Dame Hadwig was out of spirits, he noticed however, but he contented himself by making the general observation, that the intercourse with a Duchess was rather more difficult than that with the brotherhood at St. Gall.
Amongst the books which Vincentius had left behind, were the Epistles of St. Paul, which he now studied. Master Spazzo during those days, put on a still haughtier mien than usual, when he passed him. Dame Hadwig soon found out, that it were better, to return to the old order of things.
"It was really a grand sight, which we had, that evening, from the Hohenkrähen," said she one day to Ekkehard. "But do you know our weather-signs on the Hohentwiel? Whenever the Alps appear very distinct and near, the weather is sure to change. So we have had some bad weather since. And now we will resume our reading of Virgil."
Upon this, Ekkehard, highly pleased, went to fetch his heavy metal-bound book; and so their studies were resumed. He read and translated to them, the second book of the Æneid, about the downfall of Troy, the wooden horse and the fearful end of Laocoon. Further, of the nightly battle; Cassandra's fate, and Priamus' death; and finally Æneas' flight with the aged Anchises.
With evident sympathy, Dame Hadwig listened to the interesting tale. Only, with the disappearance of Æneas' spouse Kreüsa, she was not quite satisfied.
"That, he need not have told so lengthily to Queen Dido," she said, "for I doubt much, whether the living woman was overpleased, that he had run after the lost one so long. Lost is lost."
And now the winter was drawing near. The sky became dreary and leaden, and the distance shrouded with mists. First the mountain peaks round about, put on their snow-caps; and then valley and fields followed their example. Small icicles fastened on the rafters under the roofs; with the intention of quietly remaining there, for some months; and the old linden-tree in the courtyard, had for some time, like a careful and economical man, who disposes of his worn-out garments to the Hebrews,--shaken down its faded leaves to the winds. They made up a good heap; which was soon scattered in all directions, by the merry, gambolling breezes. The bare branches of the tree, were often crowded with cawing rooks, coming from the neighbouring woods, and eagerly watching for a bone or crumb, from the kitchen of the castle. Once, there was one amongst the sable brotherhood, whose flight was heavy, as its wings were damaged; and on beholding Ekkehard, who chanced to go over the courtyard, the raven flew screeching away. It had seen the monk's habit before, and had no reason to like it.
The nights of winter, are long and dark. Now and then, appear the northern lights; but far brighter than these, in the hearts of men, is the remembrance of that night, when angels descended to the shepherds in the fields, greeting them with:
"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will towards men."--
On the Hohentwiel they were preparing for Christmas, by getting ready all sorts of presents. The year is long, and numbers many a day, in which people can show each other little kindnesses; but the Germans like having one especial day, set aside for that, in particular. Therefore, before all other nations, they keep up the custom of making Christmas presents. The good heart has its own peculiar rights.
During that time, Dame Hadwig had almost put aside the grammar entirely; taking to sewing and embroidery. Balls of gold-thread and black silk, lay about in the women's apartments; and when Ekkehard once came in unawares, Praxedis rushed up, and pushed him out of the door whilst Dame Hadwig, hid some needle-work in a basket.
This aroused Ekkehard's curiosity, and he arrived at the not unreasonable conclusion, that some present was being made for him. Therefore he thought about returning the kindness; intending to exert his utmost powers and abilities for that purpose. So he sent word to his friend and teacher, Folkard, at St. Gall, to send him parchment, colours and brushes, as well as some precious ink; which request was speedily fulfilled. Then Ekkehard sat up many an hour at night, in his tower; pondering over a Latin composition, which he wanted to dedicate to the Duchess, and which was to contain, some delicate homage.
But all this was not so easy, as he had thought. Once he began, at the creation of the world; intending to proceed in daring flight, to the beginning of Dame Hadwig's reign in Suabia; but he had already written some hundred hexametres and had only got as far as King David; and the work would probably have taken him, three years to complete. Another time he tried to number up, all the women, who either by their strength or their beauty, had influenced the fate of nations; such as Queen Semiramis and the virgin Amazons; the heroic Judith and the tuneful Sappho;--but to his great regret he found out, that by the time his pen had worked its way to the Duchess; it would have been quite impossible, to find anything new to say in her praise. So he went about much downcast and distressed.
"Have you swallowed a spider, pearl of all professors?" enquired Praxedis one day, on meeting him in the aforesaid mental condition.
"You may well be jesting," said Ekkehard sadly;--and under the seal of secrecy, he confided his griefs to her.
"By the thirty-six thousand volumes; in the library at Constantinopolis!" exclaimed she, "why, you are going to cut down a whole forest of trees, when a few flowers are all that's wanted. Why don't you make it simple and graceful,--such as your beloved Virgil would have made it?" After this she ran away, and Ekkehard crept back to his chamber. "Like Virgil?" he mused. But in the whole of the Æneid, there was no example of a similar case. He read some cantos, and dreamily sat thinking over them, when a good idea suddenly struck him. "I've got it!" cried he. "The beloved poet himself, is to do homage to her!" He then wrote a poem, as if Virgil had appeared to him, in his solitude; expressing his delight, that his poetry was living again in German lands; and thanking the high-born lady, for thus befriending him. In a few minutes it was ready.
This poem Ekkehard now wished to write down on parchment; adorned by some handsome illustrations. So he composed the following picture. The Duchess, with crown and sceptre, sitting on her throne, accosted by Virgil in white garments; who inclining his bay-crowned head, advances towards her. He is leading Ekkehard,--who modestly walking by his side, as the pupil with the master, is likewise humbly bowing before her.
In the strict manner of the excellent Folkard, he first drew the sketch. He remembered a picture in a psalm-book, representing the young David, before King Abimelech. Thus, he arranged the figures. The Duchess, he drew two fingers breadth higher than Virgil; and the Ekkehard of the sketch, was considerably shorter than the heathen poet. Budding Art, lacking other means, expressed rank and greatness, outwardly.
With the figure of Virgil, he succeeded tolerably well; for they had always used ancient pictures as models, for their drawings at St. Gall; and assumed a stereotype way of executing both drapery and outline. Likewise he succeeded with his own portrait; in so far as he managed to draw a figure in a monk's habit, wearing a tonsure; but a terrible problem for him, was the representation of a queenly woman's form, for as yet no woman's picture, not even God's holy Mother, had received admittance, amongst the monastery's paintings. David and Abimelech, which he was so well accustomed to, were of no help to him here, for the regal mantle scarcely came down to their knees; and he knew not how to draw it any longer. So, care once more resumed its seat on his forehead.
"Well, what now?" quoth Praxedis, one day.
"The poem is finished," replied Ekkehard. "Now something else is wanting."
"And what may that be?"
"I ought to know, in what way, women's garments cling to their tender limbs," said he in doleful accents.
"You are really saying quite wicked things, ye chosen vessel of virtue," scolded Praxedis. But Ekkehard then made his difficulties known to her, in a clearer way, upon which the Greek maid, made a movement with her hand, as if to open his eyes.
"Open your eyes," she said, "and look at the living things around you."
The advice was simple enough, and yet entirely novel to one, who had acquired all his skill in art in his solitary cell. Ekkehard cast a long and scrutinizing look at his counsellor. "It avails me nothing," said he, "for you do not wear a regal mantle."
Then the Greek took pity on the doubt-beset artist. "Wait," said she, "the Duchess is down stairs in the garden, so I can put on her ducal mantle, and you will be helped." She glided out, and after a few minutes reappeared, with the purple mantle, hanging negligently from her shoulders. With slow measured steps, she walked through the chamber. On a table stood a metal candlestick, which she seized, and held up like a sceptre; and thus with head thrown back, she stood before the monk.
He had taken out his pencil and parchment. "Turn round, a little more towards the light," said he, beginning at once to draw eagerly.
Every time however, when he looked at his graceful model, she darted a sparkling look at him. His movements became slower, and Praxedis looked towards the window. "But, as our rival in the realm," began she with an artificially raised voice, "is already leaving the courtyard, threatening to take us by surprise; we command you on pain of losing your head, to finish your drawing within the next minute."
"I thank you," said Ekkehard, putting down his pencil.
Praxedis stepped up to him, and bending forwards, looked at what he had done. "What shameful treason!" exclaimed she, "why, the picture has no head!"
"I merely wanted the drapery," said Ekkehard.
"Well you have forfeited a great piece of good fortune," continued Praxedis in her former tone. "If you had faithfully portrayed the features, who knows, whether we should not have made you Patriarch of Constantinople, in sign of our princely favour."
Steps were now heard outside. Praxedis quickly tore off the mantle from her shoulders, so that it dropped on her arm; just as the Duchess was standing before them.
"Are you again learning Greek?" said she reproachfully to Ekkehard.
"I have shown him the precious sardonyx, in the clasp of my mistress's mantle;--it is such a beautifully cut head," said Praxedis. "Master Ekkehard has much taste for antiquities, and he was greatly pleased with the stone ..."
Even Audifax made his preparations for Christmas. His hope of finding treasures being greatly diminished,--he now stuck more to the actual things around him. Often he descended at night-time, to the shores of the river Aach, which slowly flowed on towards the lake. Close to the rotten little bridge, stood a hollow willow-tree; before which, Audifax lay in ambush, many an hour; his raised stick directed towards the opening in the tree. He was on the look-out for an otter. But no philosopher trying to fathom the last cause of Being, ever found his task such a difficult one, as Audifax did his otter-hunting; for from the hollow tree, there was still many a subterranean outlet to the river, which the otter knew, and Audifax did not. And often when Audifax, trembling with cold, said: "Now it must come,"--he would hear a noise far up in the river, caused by his friend the otter putting its snout out of the water, to take a good breath of air; and when Audifax softly crept up to the place from whence the sound had come, the otter was lying on its back, and floating comfortably down the river.
In the kitchen on the Hohentwiel, there was great bustle and activity;--such as there is in the tent of a commander-in-chief, on the eve of a battle. Dame Hadwig herself stood amongst the serving maidens. She did not wear her ducal mantle, but a white apron; and stood distributing flour and honey for the gingerbread. Praxedis was mixing, ginger, pepper and cinnamon, to flavour the paste with.
"What shape shall we take?" asked she. "The square with the serpents?"
"No, the big heart is prettier," said Dame Hadwig. So the gingerbread was made in the shape of hearts, and the finest was stuck with almonds and cardamom, by the Duchess's own hand.
One morning Audifax entered the kitchen, half frozen with cold, and crept up to the fire-place. His lips trembled as in a fever; but he seemed to be merry, and in high spirits. "Get ready, my boy," said Praxedis, "for this afternoon, thou must go to the forest and hew down a fir-tree."
"That is none of my business," proudly said Audifax, "but I will do it, if you will also do me a favour."
"And what does Master goat-herd desire?" asked Praxedis.
Audifax ran out, and on returning, triumphantly held up, a dark-brown otter's skin; glossy and soft to the touch.
"Where did you get that from?" asked Praxedis.
"I caught it myself," replied Audifax, looking with sparkling eyes at his booty. "You are to make a fur-cap out of it for Hadumoth."
The Greek maid, who liked the boy well, promised to fulfil his request.
The Christmas-tree was brought home, and adorned with apples and wax-lights. The Duchess arranged everything in the great hall. A man from Stein on the Rhine, had arrived and brought a basket, tightly sewn up in linen. He said that it was from St. Gall, and destined for Master Ekkehard. Dame Hadwig had the basket put unopened on the table with the other gifts.
Christmas-Eve had arrived. All the inhabitants of the castle were assembled, dressed in their best; for on that day, there was to be no separation, between masters and servants. Ekkehard read to them the story of Christ's nativity; and then they all went, two and two, into the great hall. There the Christmas-tree, with its many candles, lighted up the room splendidly. The last to enter were Audifax and Hadumoth. A little bit of tinsel, with which the nuts had been gilt, lay on the threshold. Audifax took it up. "That has fallen off, from the wings of the Christ-child," whispered Hadumoth.
On large tables, the presents for the serving people, were laid out; a piece of linen, or cloth, and some cakes. They rejoiced at the generosity of their mistress, which was not always so manifest. Beside the share allotted to Hadumoth, verily lay the fur-cap. She cried, when Praxedis kindly betrayed the giver to her. "I have got nothing for thee, Audifax," said she.
"It is instead of the golden crown," whispered he.
Men and maid-servants then offered their thanks to the Duchess, and went down again to the servants' hall. Dame Hadwig taking Ekkehard by the hand, led him to a little table apart. "This is meant for you," said she.
Between the almond-covered, gingerbread heart and the basket; there lay a handsome, velvet priest's cap, and a magnificent stole. Fringe and grounding were of gold thread, and embroideries of black silk, interwoven with pearls, ran through the latter; which was worthy indeed of a bishop.
"Let me see, how it becomes you," said Praxedis, and in spite of their ecclesiastical character, she put the cap on his head, and threw the stole over his shoulders. Ekkehard cast down his eyes. "Splendid," exclaimed she, "you may offer your thanks!"
Shyly Ekkehard put down the consecrated gifts; and then drawing the parchment roll from out his ample garment, he timidly presented it to the Duchess. Dame Hadwig held it unopened in her hand. "First we must open the basket," she said. "The best"--smilingly pointing to the parchment,--"must come last."
So they cut open the basket. Buried in hay, and well-preserved by winter's cold,--there lay a huge mountain-cock. Ekkehard lifted it up. With outspread wings, it measured above six feet. A letter accompanied this magnificent piece of feathered game.
"Read it aloud!" said the Duchess, whose curiosity was aroused. Ekkehard breaking the clumsy seal then read as follows: