The Flying Castle
Beside the stream of Gerlach, and at the foot of the Glockenberg, in the Hartz Mountains, there is a deep pit, and here—so the country-folk tell—there once stood a mighty castle, that was inhabited, not by knights or earls, but by a wicked woman, who was known only as the “Lady of the Castle.” She was learned in all manner of evil lore, and cast spells upon many of the country-peopleand their belongings, so that she was feared and hated throughout the district. But her favourite pastime was to capture the village maidens as they passed along the road below, and shut them up in the castle, where she made them work for her, nor ever let them out again as long as they lived. All about the woods and hedges her spies and serving-men were hidden, ready to pounce on any luckless girl whose business obliged her to cross that dangerous valley.
One might suppose that the whole country-side would have risen in arms against this hateful tyrant. But her dread power of working spells and her authority as lady of all the surrounding lands made the people afraid to rebel. At last they could bear it no longer, however, and they determined to form a strong band, and march against the castle, with their priest at their head, carrying a crucifix, to be their defence against the spells and curses of the witch. When the little army reached the castle they found the great gates closed, the drawbridge up, and the walls manned by a host of grinning dwarfs, more like apes than men, who swarmed about the battlements with threatening gestures. This sight struck terror to the hearts of the rescuers, but the priest encouraged them by the assurance that, if every man did but cross himself faithfully, there could no danger befall him from any of these fiendish apparitions. However, as the castle could not be surprised, they determined to surround and keep watch about it that night, till they could bring ladders and storm it on the following day. So sentry-fires were lighted, and preparations made for a camp, but not one of the besiegers could get to sleep that night. And behold!at midnight, as they sat round their fires, watching the dark, silent fortress with anxious eyes, they saw three tongues of blue flame shoot up from the topmost tower, and suddenly there appeared upon it the Lady of the Castle, her witch’s staff in her hand. Her tall form, veiled in black, stood out in dusky outline against the lurid blue light; and as she stood there, she waved her wand towards the four corners of heaven, and uttered some words in an unknown tongue. Immediately the ground trembled, the light of the stars was darkened, a fearful roar and turmoil were heard, and with a rending sound, as though the earth were opening beneath it, the great castle was torn from its foundations and carried by an invisible hand through the air, till it reached the top of a neighbouring mountain, where it settled like some monster bird. But as it went the voice of the witch was heard crying aloud: “If ye dare to disturb me again in my dwelling, I will take your houses too, and carry them through the air, as I do this my castle—but into the lake yonder will I cast them down.” The terror-stricken besiegers hardly dared follow the flight of the castle with their eyes, but there it was the next morning, and for many days to come, standing upon the mountain far above them.
Now there was no more question of rescuing the maidens by force, and no one, you may be sure, ever set foot on that mountain if he could help it. But the witch’s servants still haunted the woodland paths, and bore off many a hapless girl into a captivity, which now seemed more terrible than ever, far away on yon lonely hill-top.
But as the years went on, there grew up in the village a brave and pious maiden whom her parents had dedicated fromchildhood to the holy St. Anthony, the patron saint of the family. For it was good, they thought, to be under the protection of a saint, when there was so much evil dwelling near at hand, and so much danger to be feared. The maiden was named Antonia, and got her living as a shepherdess. This often led her into lonely places among the woods and meadows at the foot of the dreaded mountain, but she was never afraid, and always escaped being caught, though many a maid she knew was taken almost from her side. Sometimes she would even lead her sheep up the slopes of the mountain itself, for every one shunned those pastures, so that they were rich and untrodden. And as she got nearer to the castle, and looked up at its dark, frowning walls, she mused more and more upon the poor creatures shut up within it, and how they might be helped to escape. At last the matter got such hold upon her mind that she dreamed of it at night, and her dreams took clearer and clearer shape, until this is what she dreamed. She saw a garden filled with shrubs and flowers, such as she had never known before; dark walls closed it in on every side, but within all was bright and blooming. Yet there was a taint in the scent of the blossoms, and an unwholesome heaviness filled the air. She herself lay upon a mossy bank, and above her hung boughs covered with trails of purple blossom. She tried to reach them, but could not move a limb. Then a dreadful sense of terror came over her, and she called aloud upon St. Anthony, and at once the heavy air cleared, and the weight was lifted from her limbs; and as she rose, cheerful and glad once more, a voice sounded among the trees: “From within the castle help must come—from within.”
The sound of the voice woke her, and there she lay in her own bed at home, and wondered. “From within.” Did that mean that she must give herself up into captivity? The more she thought of it, the more she was sure it must be so; but she dared ask counsel of no one, for she knew her parents would never consent to her casting herself into the lion’s jaws.
And there was one other, too, in the village, who would never suffer it either. She thought of him, and sighed; yet now she thought far oftener of her captive sisters even than of him, and his glance and his smile made her sad instead of merry.
The day came—she had felt it coming for long—when she could resist the call no more: the dark walls of the castle drew her as by an irresistible fascination; and when it was time to lead her sheep homeward at evening, she gave them into the charge of another maiden who was going that way, and saying she had lost her staff upon the hill and must turn back to seek it, she sprang up the mountain-slopes.
To her surprise, no one spoke to her, no armed figures dashed out from among the bushes to seize her, but she was allowed to go on unharmed, right up to the castle. She had never been so far before, and when she reached the great gates, they looked so dark and frowning in the twilight, and the whole place so still and lonely, that for the first time her heart sank, and she almost turned back. But just then the vesper-bell sounded from the valley below, and it seemed to put heart into her, and to remind her that her saintly protector was just as near as in the valley. She advanced towards the gate, and was raisingher staff to knock upon it, when it opened silently, and in the dusky porch she saw a tall figure, veiled in black, and holding a golden key. It beckoned to her, and with a beating heart Antonia entered, and heard the great door swing to behind her.
For the first time her heart sank, and she almost turned back.
For the first time her heart sank, and she almost turned back.
For the first time her heart sank, and she almost turned back.
As she went forward, the air grew thick and heavy, and she felt the same sense of deadly faintness that she remembered in her dream steal over her now. Presently her guide lifted a dark hanging, that covered one of the doors in the passage they had been following, and they came out into a lofty hall. Here thedarkness had fully closed in, and the great, misty spaces of the roof were lit by swinging lamps, that threw out a strong perfume as they burnt. Underneath, all along the walls, ran long divans, or heaps of cushions, covered with silken drapery, and above them hung canopies formed of huge flower-heads, like poppies, whose transparent, blood-red petals waved and fluttered gently in the upper air, shedding the same drowsy perfume as the lamps. Upon the divans many maidens lay sleeping, in all sorts of positions, just as they had sunk down while at work. The faces of some were familiar to Antonia; these were the girls who had been ravished from the village since she could remember; and others there were, who had been taken many years before her birth, and of whom she had but heard. Before every girl—for they kept their youth unchanged—stood a wide tapestry-frame, on which, through each weary day, their fingers wove strange and lovely patterns, in delicate hues of every kind. As long as daylight lasted, the witch, as Antonia learnt afterwards, kept them awake by many ingenious means of torture; by unearthly and startling sounds that broke from the vaults below—by cruel pricks from the magic needles they worked with—by strokes, too, from her fairy wand, with which she walked up and down, and which lengthened at her pleasure, so that none were out of its reach. But even so, though their fingers might move, their heads were heavy and giddy, and no thought of home, no stirrings of a desire for freedom, ever arose with enough strength to give them energy to rebel.
As she entered the hall, the witch cast off her black veil, and Antonia beheld the cruel red eyes, the lank jaws, and the grizzled tresses, the sight of which had first bereft herwretched captives of all their will and courage. But upon brave little Antonia they failed in their dreadful effect, and the witch saw it with surprise. “Here we have a hearty lass indeed,” she jeered; “and truly I might have known it, since she is the first I have known foolhardy enough to come to these gates of her own accord. Perhaps she will be able to bear the burden of the keys.” And bending down, she drew from under an iron table a heavy ebony casket, bound with silver, and a huge bunch of keys. Both of these she fastened with chains about Antonia’s shoulder, and the poor girl almost sank to the ground beneath their terrible weight. The witch grinned. “I have long been looking for a girl strong enough to carry these about for me,” she said, “and perhaps they will keep thee quiet. Now follow me; thy time for slumber is not yet.”
So all through the night, and for many other nights and days, Antonia followed her about, staggering beneath her burden, while the witch visited all the doors and grated windows of the castle, all the underground cells where she put her few unruly prisoners, or where she kept her treasures of gold and jewels, and stores of beautiful silks for the embroideries. Antonia now carried the keys of all these doors, bound about her in such a way that she herself could not raise a hand to touch one.
When the midday sun was hot, all the maidens, and Antonia among them, were allowed to spend an hour in the garden; and as soon as she entered it Antonia knew it for the place she had seen in her dreams. There were the high, dark walls, that matted boughs of ivy, and a poisonous scarlet creeper, only partly succeeded in hiding. There were thestrange shrubs and nameless purple flowers, and there was to be felt the heavy, sickly air—she remembered it all so well. The sun struck through the overhanging boughs with a fierce, burning heat, as though it were shining through a roof of glass, and no refreshing breezes ever stirred the leaves, or cooled the brows of the captive maidens. Yet they never complained; and when, during their short hour of leisure, Antonia spoke to them as to old acquaintances, or told them she had come from their home, they did not seem to care about hearing of it, or to have any recollection of their former friends. She saw she could expect no help from them. From whom was she to look for it, then? Surely, only from her guardian, St. Anthony, whose voice it had been, she knew, that had bidden her “give help from within the castle.” But where, in all this bewitched, wicked place, could she find a corner to pray to him, or a spot worthy of his holy presence? Not one of the captive maidens wore her rosary, or seemed ever to think of saying a prayer. How could he turn his eyes upon such a household? Oh! could it be that she, in her earnest desire to obey his voice and help her forsaken sisters, might be thought worthy to make a shrine for him! Well, at any rate she would try.
And so, day after day, in the little time given her for rest and refreshment, Antonia toiled to make St. Anthony a shrine. She found a spot, hidden among wild-rose bushes—the only flowers in the garden that she knew—where there was a ruined pillar and what looked like the remains of an old archway. Here there were some fallen stones; and others she brought—staggering under their weight and that of her hateful keys—from more distant parts of the garden. Sometimesher strength almost gave way; sometimes she had to stop her work because of the spying eyes of the witch herself; sometimes she had to make great efforts to overcome the dull, faint feeling that the unwholesome air produced, and that she feared above all things.
But at last the work was done, and a little shrine rose unseen among the thick bushes. She covered the grey stone with a shower of rose-leaves, and the white petals of a fragrant flower that grew among the grass of the garden—and looked proudly and hopefully upon her labour of love. And now she flung herself upon her knees before it, praying St. Anthony to accept her work, to fill the shrine which she had made, and to free his children from the captivity of evil. At first there was no answer; the minutes of her short hour of rest were ebbing fast away, and the bell which called back the maidens to their tasks was beginning to sound, when her eager eyes caught sight of a shadowy form in the niche of the little shrine. It grew plainer, and a figure like that of an old man, robed in grey, hovered for a moment against the wall. Scarcely had his foot touched the rose-covered pedestal, when a sound like thunder rent the air, and a mighty blast of wind swept through the trees of the sleeping garden. Antonia fell with her face to the earth, but in the roar of the storm she was aware of these words, spoken by the same voice she had heard in her dream: “Thy prayer is heard, the prison-gates are open, and thou art freed from thy burden; but it shall fall upon her who laid it on thee—yea, for twice two hundred years.” The thunder rolled louder, and she heard and knew no more.
When she came to herself she was again in her own littleroom at home, and might have thought this was but a second awakening from a dream, only that a great noise of rejoicing broke upon her ear, and when she went out into the village, she found that in every house whence a maiden had once been stolen away, the lost one was now restored to the love of her people. Her own parents, too, clasped her with joy to their hearts, for she now found that she had been missing for a whole year, and they also had given her up as lost. When her story was known, the enthusiasm of the village knew no bounds; Antonia was looked up to by every one as only next door to a saint herself, and a splendid shrine, you may be sure, was raised by the people to St. Anthony.
There was one person in the village, however, who thought that nobody had made enough of Antonia, after all, and so he devoted himself for the rest of his days to making up the lack.
And now, amid all the happy faces in the village, faces of parents consoled and lovers reunited, only a few sad ones were seen, those of the maidens who had returned young, to find their loved ones old, or forgetful, or dead. For these Antonia came too late; and thus it is that no evil can be so blotted out but that it will leave some traces in this world.
Of the castle on the hill, however, no traces were left save a few ruins. It was years, to be sure, before any one ventured up there, and then nothing was found but owls and bats and a heap of whitened bones. But something like the old castle still reappears now and then, the people say; only it always shows itself down in the valley, where it first stood, and where the pit now is. It has been seen once or twice,and the saying is, that if only the beholder could throw something that belonged to him upon this castle—a cap, a kerchief, or what not—it would be fixed to the spot and would become his property. Once a maiden, who knew naught of the tale, went to draw water near the spot, and came running home to tell her father she had seen a splendid house standing above the old pit.
“And didst thou cast thy kerchief on it?” asked the father in haste.
“Nay,” replied the girl.
Then he gave her a stinging box on the ear, and ran out himself, but the castle was gone.
As for the witch, St. Anthony’s curse was fulfilled upon her, and she still haunts the hill, carrying the heavy casket and the huge bunch of keys; nor has any one yet been found to ease her of her burden.
The Silver Nail
Many years ago there lived in the little town of Stolberg, which is the centre of a mining district in the Hartz Mountains, a certain Joseph Kerst, who was the overseer of one of the neighbouring mines. He had begun work there as a boy, and had no thought or care but for the treasures that were to be found in those dusky depths,so that he had come, early in life, to enjoy a position of trust, and a certain degree of wealth. This, however, was not enough to satisfy him; his great ambition was to discover a fresh vein of silver, that should be his alone, and make him the richest of men; and to this end he would wander night and day about the mountains, and through the disused pits, pick in hand, seeking for a spot that seemed to promise what he desired.
Now, with the wealth which was his already, he might easily have kept a wife, and, indeed, many a girl in the town was on the look-out for overseer Joseph, and would gladly have become the mistress of the comfortable old house on the market-place. At last he did seem to have made his choice, and a good choice too; for he often spent his spare hours with the watchmaker’s daughter Anna, who was the sweetest, gentlest girl in the world, and plainly did not want him for his money, for it was easy to see she worshipped the ground he trod on. If the truth were known, she often wept in secret over his craze for silver, and his dangerous midnight excursions into the heart of the mountains; but the poor, loving creature fancied that when once he had “given her the ring,” which he promised soon to do, she could persuade him to turn his mind to other things.
Meanwhile, however, he did not give up his search, and this is what befell him at last:—It was a moonlight night; he had turned his steps towards one of the disused tunnels of theAuerberg, and was going to enter it, when he saw that the inside of the tunnel itself was flooded with light, as though the moonbeams had found their way in there also. Yet he presently perceived that this was no ray of the moon, for the shaft of lightstreamed forth from within, even from the very heart of the cavern, and as he gazed, a sound of far-off music struck upon his ear. Now all miners know that there are spirits in the mountain, who draw the precious metal down to the depths of the earth, or suffer it to rise nearer to the surface, according to their pleasure; and Joseph guessed at once that here might be the clue he was seeking. So, spurred on by the thought that he was perhaps near the realisation of his dearest hope, he stepped with a beating heart into the cavern and along the shining pathway of light. Brighter and brighter it grew; louder and sweeter, too, the music swelled forth, till his eyes were dazzled, and his heart throbbed with so exquisite a pleasure that he could hardly draw breath. And now misty forms, as of men and maidens dancing, began to whirl before his eyes upon the golden floor; and then, as these disappeared, he was aware of one radiant figure, clad in snowy, shimmering garments, who stood alone against the dark rock and beckoned to him. As he went nearer he saw that the form was that of a maiden. Her long, dusky tresses fell round a pale, delicate face, in which the large eyes shone out like lamps; her raiment was woven all of silver threads, and in one hand she held a slender silver staff, shaped like a long nail.
Presently she began to speak, and her voice was as sweet as the music which had heralded her coming. “Have no fear, good mortal,” the gentle voice said. “I have watched many a day for thy coming, for I knew thou wert bold, and wouldst venture much, and I need such a one to release me from my prison. Thou art seeking for precious ore. Know, then, that the silver nail I hold can guide thee to the spot where lies the richest vein in all these mountains. But thereis a price to pay.” As she spoke these words a smile dawned upon her face. But Joseph had no ears save for the welcome news of the vein of ore; he forgot all his alarm and doubt, and springing forward, cried: “Beautiful spirit, there is no price I would not pay for such knowledge!”
“Art thou sure, Joseph? For this is the price—even that thou shalt wed me, and promise that thou wilt not ever, in the time to come, cast it in my teeth that I am a being of the under-world, and that thou hast been my releaser. Only thus can I be freed; for I seek for love, yea, as thou seekest for wealth; and if there be one in the town yonder who hath already taken thy love, why then the price is not thine to pay, and I warn thee to pause and consider ere thou promise it.”
Joseph felt a chill creep round his heart. He thought of Anna, but her image seemed to grow pale beside the one before him. Yet—a spirit dwelling in the old house on the market-place! How might this be?
The fairy maiden saw his hesitation, and her smile died away. “Nay, not now,” she cried as he opened his lips to answer, “not yet must thou reply, for thy fate and mine will be dark if thou dost promise what thou canst not fulfil. To-morrow night, when the moon is full, come again to the mountain, and let thy heart be honest and thy purpose firm, to answer according to truth.” As she spoke the light vanished, and Joseph stood once more alone at the cavern’s mouth. The moon was setting, and its beams were scarcely bright enough to guide him homeward again, but he stumbled on, unheeding, his mind in a whirl of perplexity and doubt. When he reached his own door, and creeping in, sat down by the warm stove,he could scarcely have told whether he had not been sitting there all night, or whether his adventure had been anything but a dream. Yet nay—he had surely set forth to the Auerberg that evening, and in such haste that his half-finished supper still stood there upon the table. Suppose it were true, and he within an ace of being the richest man in the land? There was Anna—but did he really love Anna? Had he promised her anything? He thought not; all his intercourse with her seemed misty and far off now. Thus through the night and day he struggled with one thought and another, his mind in a whirl. His work was neglected, and even his underlings laughed, unreproved, at his distraught and wandering looks. By evening he had reached a condition in which he could not have sworn to the truth of anything. Probably what he had seen the night before was all fancy; but he must prove it to himself, for if it were true, what vague and foolish lovers’ talk was there in the world worth giving up such a chance for?
Midnight and the full moon saw him standing again at the entrance of the cavern, his mouth dry and his heart beating with anxiety. He waited long. Despair, and a secret rage at his own credulous folly, were beginning to seize hold on him, when his straining eyes caught sight of a faint glimmer spreading through the dark. He hurried forward, and with each step the light grew brighter and brighter, till it led him at last to the rock where he had seen the maiden the night before. But she was not there; the only thing that met his eyes was an iron door, let into the rock on the spot where she had leant. He thrust against it with all his might, and straightway there rang out a strain of the sweetest music, such as he had heard before. And with the soundof the music, these words were borne to his ear: “If thou truly and with a loving heart seekest Eruna, call and she will answer.”
“Eruna!” repeated Joseph with trembling voice; “Eruna!”
At the second call the door flew open beneath his hand, and discovered a rock-hewn chamber, radiant with light that streamed from its walls, and at the farther end of it, just as he had seen her before, stood the magic maiden he had learnt to call Eruna. A golden table stood beside her, and upon it were a book, and a golden candlestick holding a burning taper, and the candlestick was in the shape of a tall lily, with buds and blossoms of gold. But in front of the table, on either side, crouched two strange, terrible creatures with flaming eyes, and their form was like that of a lion.
“Come to me without fear, Joseph,” cried Eruna as she saw him start back; “these beasts are my faithful guardians, but they will not touch one who comes without fear.” As she spoke she raised the silver nail in her hand, and a feeling of triumph swept over the heart of the man. It was true, then; this beautiful being and her promises were no dream, and he had reached his goal! He sprang forward, all fear driven out by his eager hopes, and the beasts crouched lower, as he passed them and fell at the feet of the radiant Eruna. Ah, lions with the flaming eyes! why was your sight darkened then, and why did no kindly instinct tell you that daring is not born of love alone?
“Joseph,” said the gentle voice again, “art thou truly come to set me free and take me for thy wife? And dost thou make the promise I asked of thee? Then raise thy hand and pluck this golden flower from its stem.” He obeyed,scarcely knowing what he did; and lo! as he broke the lily from the stalk, again the sound of music rang forth and echoed through the vaulted chamber. And at the plucking of the lily, the taper was extinguished, and with it all the light in the room. Darkness enveloped them, and he felt Eruna grasp his hand. He dropped the golden blossom, and would have fled, dragging her with him, for now the music had changed to a discord of horrid sounds, and he could hear the wild beasts moving towards them. But Eruna stopped him for a moment. “Wilt thou leave this behind thee,” said she—“the token of our love?” And raising the golden blossom from where it had fallen at her feet, she laid it in his hand. “Now, indeed, fly,” she hurriedly added, “or the door will close!” And, in truth, they had scarcely reached it, she guiding him with unerring steps, when the door clanged behind them—even striking Joseph upon the heel as he fled—and the clamour within rose to a hideous pitch. “I have angered my people, the spirits of the mountain,” murmured Eruna; “then do not thou, O love, ever forsake me!”
Joseph shivered; an iron hand seemed to clasp his heart, but he replied, with the best grace he could muster: “I have sworn to love thee, Eruna, if thou hast indeed a mind to come down into our life, and bear our burdens; but, that we may be happy, and that I may give thee all it befits thee to have, wilt not thou, too, keep thy word and show me that which I was seeking when I first saw thee?”
He felt Eruna’s hand tremble in his. “So be it, foolish man,” she said. “I was nearly forgetting the store thou dost set by the dross that fills this mountain, and the sight of which wearies me. Come hither, then, and where I strike inmy silver nail, do thou smite with thy pick, and leave it hanging there. To-morrow thou shalt find what thou seekest.” As she spoke she paused at a certain point of the rocky wall beside them, and raised her silver nail on high. Immediately a pale light shone round about them, and lit up the side of the cavern. Choosing a spot, she thrust in the point of the silver nail, and it sank into the rock, leaving scarcely a trace behind. But into the track it left Joseph eagerly drove his pick, and rolling up a large stone further to mark the spot, he turned to leave the cavern with Eruna.
All night long such a storm raged among the mountains that their rocky peaks seemed to reel beneath the echoing thunder-claps. Joseph never knew how he got home that night, or whose hand it was that tended him as he lay, smitten half senseless by the violence of the storm, upon his cold hearth-stone.
In the morning curious neighbours, and workmen from the mines, came pressing in to see if he were at home, and to inquire why he had been absent so long, and then he knew, for the first time, that a whole week had elapsed since his departure from home on a certain moonlight night. But this was no longer, any more than the rest, a surprise to Joseph; indeed, he rather welcomed the discovery, for how could he else have accounted for the sudden appearance in his house of the beautiful, pale woman with dusky tresses, who moved about with timid, uncertain footsteps, as though the place and its ways were strange to her? He was relieved to see her silvery raiment had disappeared. But she wore a garb somewhat different from the dress of the women of the district, and a happy thought struck him.
“Ha! ha!” he laughed, “I have stolen a march upon you all! Ye have often told me I needed a wife, and here I have one, but she comes from afar, from the other side of the mountains. I became acquainted with her last year, when I went to see my kinsfolk yonder, and I have had it in mind to wed her ever since; but I will have no gossips plaguing me about such matters, so I even went to fetch her home by myself, without any ado.”
The neighbours looked at one another, and those on the outskirts of the crowd slipped off to tell the news, with much added detail, to Anna, who was too sick to leave her bed. For the poor child had fretted herself into a fever over the supposed death of Joseph during one of his lonely rambles among the mountains.
“Why, then,” cried one of the miners in the crowd, “we have taken a deal of trouble, master, for naught; we have been seeking thee at the foot of every precipice in the country for days past.”
“Plague take ye for meddlesome fellows!” cried Joseph. “Cannot such a man as I go away for a holiday but it must raise the whole country-side? I’ll warrant you’ve been making it an excuse to do scant work; but wait a while, I shall have work enough for ye all soon—ay, and for many more!”
He would have driven them forth and hurried away to explore the fateful spot where he had left his pick hanging, but that a cry of wonder arose from a woman who had ventured close up to the spot where Eruna was standing—the spot where Joseph had lain through the night. She had picked up from the ground a tall branch of lilies, bud and blossom, all fashioned in pure gold, so cunningly that nosuch goldsmith’s work had ever been seen; and the weight of the branch was so great that she could scarcely lift it. Exclamations and questions rose on every side, and every one crowded round the holder of this wonderful treasure.
“That is my wife’s dowry,” explained Joseph, a little taken aback by the discovery of this prize, which he had forgotten for the moment, but proud enough of it withal. “There is naught like it, I’ll be bound, in all the length and breadth of Germany!”
The people stared open-mouthed, and the men were disposed to envy Joseph both bride and dowry, but many of the women, though they could not disguise their wonder and admiration over the golden blossom, began to cast suspicious glances at Eruna. Joseph was soon aware of them, and they only increased the uncanny feeling of deception and mystery which was to become but too familiar to him. For the moment, however, he smothered it in anger; and declaring that he would have no more gaping fools in his house, disturbing his honeymoon, he drove the neighbours forth, only to send them carrying the news of his wondrous marriage far and wide over the country.
And declaring that he would have no more gaping fools in his house, disturbing his honeymoon, he drove the neighbours forth.
And declaring that he would have no more gaping fools in his house, disturbing his honeymoon, he drove the neighbours forth.
And declaring that he would have no more gaping fools in his house, disturbing his honeymoon, he drove the neighbours forth.
As soon as they were gone, he too rushed out to the mountain, and presently found the spot marked by his pick. A few hours’ work convinced him that Eruna’s promise had not been false, and that here was a vein of silver whose richness surpassed his wildest dreams. And now for a time, indeed, Joseph reaped his reward. The country-side rang with tales of his strange marriage, and of his still more wonderful discovery of silver. Miners came from all sides, and found employment at the new works, for a shaft wasbeing sunk, and the vein seemed inexhaustible. Joseph refused to give any particulars as to how he had made his discovery; he only insisted on calling the shaft “The Silver Nail,” a name which caused fresh wonderment among the townspeople. He was fast becoming a rich man, and the tale of his good-luck, and of the wondrous golden lily he owned, spread through the land, till it reached the ears of the King himself, who expressed a wish to behold thetreasure that had fallen into the keeping of a working-man. So Joseph had to travel to court and show his golden lily—for he had almost forgotten that it belonged as much to Eruna as to himself, and had only been entrusted to him as a guerdon of their love. At court he was forced to baffle as best he could the inquiries that were made as to how he had come by this marvellous piece of work. It was an heirloom, he said; none knew how it had come into his family, and for years it had been hidden in the earth, lest thieves should get at it. Some one whispered to the bewildered man that he must offer it to His Majesty, since all treasure-trove rightly belonged to him. This had certainly not been part of Joseph’s plan, but the King and his courtiers overawed him, and he stammered forth his willingness to lay the offering at His Majesty’s feet.
“In sooth,” the King replied, “this is too rich a treasure for me to purchase it, or to think of taking it as a gift either, from this good fellow; yet I were proud to possess it, and it is, indeed, only fit for a king’s treasury. Now I have found a way. Leave me thy flower, Joseph Kerst, and take instead the barony of Stolberg, for thou hast enriched thy native town, and hast paid due homage to thy King, and art worthy to be reckoned amid the nobles of the land.”
So Joseph went forth a great man, and thought to return home and bring joy to his bride, Eruna, for whom he cherished a kind of awe-struck admiration, as the being who had brought him all his luck. But take her honestly to his heart, as a simple woman, and love her as he might have loved his faithful Anna, whom he had known from childhood, that he felt he could never do. He was dismayed, however, onhis return home, to find a different reception from that which he expected. The townspeople, indeed, received him with acclamations, as their new baron, but Eruna’s eyes wore a sadder, more wistful look than usual.
“Thou hast parted with our lily, our marriage token!” she moaned. “Woe be to us, Joseph! what are lands and names beside the guarding of our love? Oh, blind of heart! hadst thou no care for the token that bound us together, or even for the treasures which my love alone can bring for thee from the depths of the earth? Take heed to thy tongue, then, for if love guard it not, it may easily speak the fatal word.”
Joseph would have replied angrily, but the close of her speech reminded him of the promise he had solemnly made on that night, which now seemed so far away, and he choked back his wrath. But from that day things went crookedly. He spent his money right and left, so that it was gone almost as soon as it came from the mines. That was of no consequence, indeed, since there seemed to be no end to “The Silver Nail” vein; but the riches soon ceased to bring him all the pleasure he had expected. He was ill at ease in his lordly castle, and heavy at heart when he went down into the town and saw how his old acquaintances shunned him, partly from awkwardness at feeling him now so much higher placed than themselves, and partly on account of the suspicions and rumours that were whispered about concerning his mysterious wife, who could never learn the ways of the other women, or talk like one having interests akin to theirs. Only Anna, who had so just a cause of offence against him, yet treated him as she had done of old; andwhen the poor child arose from the long illness which fell upon her at the sudden news of his marriage, her gentle, forgiving spirit gave him shelter as a friend, who now could never be a lover. In talk with her he learnt more and more to see how great a gift he had bartered away for his heaps of hard coin, and his lordly, unhome-like home. Yet Anna was often sick, and could not speak cheerfully even to him, and her father and the neighbours looked coldly upon his comings and goings.... And up yonder, at the castle, the pale face framed in dusky tresses gazed forth with despairing eyes as he turned his steps to the watchmaker’s house.
At last there came a day when Joseph too looked sadly down from the hill, watching a funeral train that wound its way along the valley; a train he might not join, for the people whispered, loud enough for him to hear, that Anna’s death lay at his door, and that he could do no less than let her go to her grave in peace. So he watched her go with remorse in his heart, and as he watched there was that in his face that no one could mistake. Eruna read it, and the fount of misery that had been gathering in her breast broke forth, for the first time, in uncontrollable wailings.
“Her, her thou hast loved, Joseph!” she cried, “and hast been false both to her and me! Ah, woe is me that I could not read one mortal’s heart aright!”
Now the pent-up wrath and pain in Joseph’s heart were more than he could bear. No remembrance of his covetous longings or of his false-hearted dealings withheld him, and he turned upon her, crying—
“And if it were so, what is that to thee? For what didI barter my happiness but to release thee and give thee mortal life, thou soulless clod of earth!”
Even as he spoke Eruna glided close, and threw her arms about him, trying to stay his speech. But it was too late, the words were out, and as her cold white hand touched his lips, he felt a deadly chill at his heart, and fell senseless to the ground.
A clamour of voices, and the sound of hurrying footsteps, brought him to himself, as the workmen from his mines crowded into the hall.
“Woe be upon us all, master!” they cried, “where is thy lady? She is not to be found in the castle, and but an hour ago, as we were leaving our work to go homewards, we saw a white figure, that wore her face, though not her garb, glide past us and reach the mouth of the ‘Silver Nail’ shaft. And we followed after in fear; but as we approached, before any one could reach it, the white figure cast itself down the shaft. Then we were affrighted indeed, and the foremost of us went down, fearing to find a shattered form at the bottom, but there was no one—no, not a sign, though we searched with care. But strange sounds rang through the mountain, master. And we came up again, and hither in haste, to see if perchance she were dead and we had seen her wraith—but nowhere in the castle halls or woods can she be found.”
Nor, indeed, was Eruna ever found again; and, what is more, from the day that the white woman leaped down the shaft, no more ore was found in the “Silver Nail” mine, and though it still bears that name, no silver has again been found there to this day. But Joseph wandered away, distraught with grief, into the mountains; nor could any oneprevail upon him to return again to the castle, but he continued to wander, seeking for his vein of lost silver, till he met his death by a fall from one of the mountain precipices, leaving behind him, as the only tokens of the riches so dearly bought, a ruined castle, and the forsaken shaft of the “Silver Nail.”
A Doubting Lover
Upon a lofty crag, overhanging the river Weistritz, in Eastern Germany, stand the ruins of the Kynsburg. Once it was a splendid castle, and many an assemblage of noble knights and ladies, and many a gay revel, were held within its walls. It had its guardian spirit, too; for the tale went that an apparition, called by the castle-folk “the white lady,” often wandered by night through hall and garden, and most of all when some maiden of the house of Kynsburgneeded help. So it had been, they said, when a daring and cruel knight once waylaid a daughter of Kynsburg as she passed alone at even along the corridor. For this knight had cast his eyes upon the maiden, who was beautiful, and had urged her to give him her love, but she denied it him; and so he would fain have won by foul means what he could not get by fair ones. But this maiden had, from her childhood, loved to hear of the “white lady,” and to fancy she was under her protection, and many a prayer had she said in the castle chapel for the repose of her soul. And now, in the hour of need, she called upon her, and at once the mysterious white figure appeared; and while the reckless knight fell upon his knees in terror, the closed doors of the corridor silently opened, and the girl fled through them to a place of safety. But next morning the knight was found lying dead upon the floor.
This was the story that was handed down from generation to generation among the folk of Kynsburg, and Adelheid, the beautiful daughter of the house, had often listened to it with eager ears, and had longed in her turn to see the “white lady,” and invoke her help.
For Adelheid, too, had her trouble, though it was hard to see how any, save one person, could mend it. And that person was not the “white lady,” but the knight, Bernhard von Haugwitz, whom Adelheid had secretly loved ever since she first saw him ride by to the hunt, in all the splendour of his youth and noble bearing. But she had no certainty, nor much hope even, of her love being returned, though sometimes, to be sure, she caught his eyes fixed upon her as earnestly as though he would have read her very soul, so that it needed all the pride that her blood and her upbringinghad taught her, to help her to hide her agitation. And just at the time I tell of, the knight was at the castle, for the lord of Kynsburg was giving a great feast to celebrate the beginning of the autumn hunt; and all the nobles of the country, far and near, were gathered together for it. Many of their wives and daughters had come with them, too, so that the castle was overflowing with guests and merriment, and little time left for Adelheid to brood over her own thoughts. Yet even now she would sometimes draw aside from her young companions, as they paced the gardens or the terrace together, for she hoped that the knight would come and seek her out for a few moments alone, as he had done once or twice before. But he came seldom, and her heart grew heavier each day.
If only she could have known! If only she could have read that proud and secret heart, and seen how it was filled with love for her, which gloomy fears and doubts alone kept silent! For Bernhard von Haugwitz was not the cheery, hopeful being that his years and his fortune should have made him. Bitter experience and sorrow had already overshadowed him, and shaken his trust in his fellow-creatures, and his belief in the happiness of life. He would not, so he told himself, again stake everything upon the love of a woman; he hesitated to pluck the fruit, for fear it should leave a bitter taste behind. And this though his heart was wrung for longing after Adelheid’s love, and pity, too, for her; for he knew that she loved him, and that her life was consuming away for his sake; nor had he any good reason to fancy that her love was not pure and faithful.
He thought upon it as he sat with his companions roundthe great oaken table in the castle hall; the gold and silver flagons passed from hand to hand, but he let them go by untasted; songs and jesting sounded merrily on every side, but he did not heed them; the present scene faded from his sight, and he saw only the tall figure in the white, gold-embroidered garments, and the wistful eyes gazing into his, as he had seen them that evening, when he stood for a moment beside Adelheid in the dusky hall. As he mused he felt his resolution weakening, and swore that he would flee from the temptation to which he would not give way. Why not now, at once, without seeing her again? for a meeting might give rise to words and looks that could only increase his pain and remorse in the future. What had he to do with these carousing knights, whose thoughts were far from his own? He would slip out and look for his page; then the horses should be saddled forthwith, and they would be up and away. He rose and went out through the ante-rooms to the terrace of the castle, glad to let the night-wind lift his hair and cool his throbbing brow.
The stars shone bright above the opposite hills and sparkled in the river below. A little breeze whispered in the branches of the poplars; it was as though the trees talked together. A strange feeling of expectation was in the air; could it be only that he was looking upon this spot for the last time? Something moved beside him in the shadow—he turned, and saw that a tall white figure stood beneath the poplar-trees. He strained his eyes through the dark—surely he could not be mistaken, it was the maiden he loved and was leaving for ever.
“Adelheid,” he called almost in spite of himself, “is it thou? Then bid me farewell.”