When Martin was emperor of Rome, his uncle Malitius was steward of his household, and his nephew Fulgentius, his only sister’s son, an orphan, was his constant attendant, his cup-bearer at meals, and his page of his chamber. For Martin loved his nephew, and was kind to him; and regarded him as his own child, for he was not a father. Malitius hated this Fulgentius; seeing that if he should succeedto the kingdom, his own son would lose that crown which he had so long regarded as his by right of inheritance. Day and night he thought how he might cause Martin to discard Fulgentius.
“My lord,” said he with a face of assumed distress, one day to the emperor, “it is with great pain, my lord, that I speak unto you, but in that I am thy true servant, it is my duty to warn my sovereign of any thing that lessens his honor and repute.”
“Speak on,” said the emperor.
“Will my lord,” rejoined the steward with apparent anxiety, “keep what I shall tell him a secret between him and me?”
“If thou wishest it, Malitius,” said the emperor.
“Oh, my dear lord, how ungrateful is the world,” began the steward.
“Well, well, that is as it may be,” rejoined the emperor; “but to your secret, the sun is rising high in the heavens, and my horses wait me.”
“Your nephew, Fulgentius—”
“Ha!” said Martin, “Fulgentius; what of him?”
“I grieve to say, my lord, he most ungratefully defames you among his companions, speaking ill of your habits, and especially of yourbreath, and saying that it is death to him to serve you.”
“If I could but prove this,” muttered the emperor.
“Remark him, my lord, when he next serves you with the cup, and if he turns away his head when he gives you the goblet, be sure that he so accuses, and thus endeavors to make the bystanders believe that his accusation is true.”
“It is well,” replied the emperor; “go, good Malitius, we will remember your advice.”
Then went the steward unto Fulgentius, and spoke kindly to him, and professed, as a friend and a near relative, to warn him how nearly he was about to lose the good wishes of Martin, and perhaps forfeit his succession to the throne.
“Fulgentius, my dear relative,” said he with a fawning smile, “thy breath is sadly displeasing to the emperor, and he talks of removing you from near attendance on his person.”
“Oh! good sir,” replied the youth, “can this be true?”
“Alas! I fear it is so. I have experienced it myself; but be sure it is merely temporary ill health, it will soon pass off.”
“And before then I shall have lost my uncle’s good opinion. What shall I do, Malitius?”
“There is but one thing,” replied the steward; “when you hand the cup to the emperor, turnaway your head from him; then will he not be incommoded by your breath, and will see that you do your best to please him.”
“Thanks, good Malitius. Your advice has made me feel happy.”
“Thy happiness be thy ruin,” muttered Malitius to himself as he turned away.
That day Fulgentius attended on his uncle at dinner; and as he handed to him the cup he held it far off, and turned away his face, lest he should distress the emperor.
“Wretch!” cried the emperor, at the same time striking Fulgentius on the breast; “now know I that it is true what I have heard of thee; go, go from my sight, thou varlet, I thought to have made thee a king; but now see my face no more.”
Sorely wept Fulgentius as he passed from the hall, amid the jeers and scoffs of his former companions; for he was now disgraced, and they cared not for him.
“Malitius,” said the emperor, “let thy son supply the place of this ingrate. Come, my good lord, counsel me how I may rid myself of this varlet, that disgraces me before the world.”
“Sire, this would I propose; some miles from this city your workmen burn lime in a vast forge in the forest; send to them this night, and bid them cast into their furnace whoever firstcomes to them to-morrow morning, and asks of them ‘Have you performed the emperor’s will?’ Call also Fulgentius to thee, and bid him early on the morrow go to the lime-burners, and ask them whether they have fulfilled your commands; then will they cast him into the fire, and his evil words will perish with him.”
And the emperor did so. He bade Fulgentius be at the kilns before sunrise; and that night sent a horseman to the lime-burners, bidding them burn the first man that on the morrow should inquire of them whether they had performed the emperor’s will.
Long before sunrise Fulgentius rose from his sleepless couch, and hastened to perform his uncle’s commands, hoping by this means to regain the good-will of the emperor. As he went on his way with a heavy heart, and drew near to the wood within the depths of which the lime-burners dwelt, the sound of the matin bell of a neighboring chapel arrested his steps. The tones of the bell seemed to bring peace to his troubled mind, and he turned from the path towards the way-side chapel, and offered up his prayers and thanksgivings to his God. But as the service was ending, the fatigue he had undergone disposed him to rest himself; so he sat himself down in the porch of the chapel and fell asleep.
“Poor child,” said the good priest as he passed through the porch, “thou lookest wearied and careworn; sleep on, no one shall disturb thee.” When he awoke the sun was going down in the heaven.
Malitius was as sleepless during the night as the poor youth, and his anxiety drove him early from his bed, and suffered him not to be at peace all the day. Now when it was noon the steward could no longer remain in the palace, but he hastened to the lime-kilns, and demanded of the lime-burners “whether they had performed the emperor’s will.”
“Not yet,” cried they, with hoarse voices, “but no fear, master; it shall be done forthwith.”
With these words, the men seized Malitius, and hurried with him in their arms to the mouth of the kiln.
“Mercy, mercy, good sirs,” cried the steward, “it is Fulgentius you should burn; not me.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the lime-burners; “we know neither thee nor Fulgentius; thou art the first man that has come here this day and asked us: ‘Whether we have done the emperor’s will’; so peace, man, peace. Ha! ha! his will is done.”
So Malitius died in the fire.
It was past noon when Fulgentius awoke, and the sun was going down in its course.
“Alas! alas!” he said, “I have delayed to perform my lord’s will.”
And he hastened through the wood, and came to the lime-kilns.
“What wantest thou, boy?” asked the chief of the lime-burners.
“Tell me, tell me, sirs,” asked Fulgentius, anxiously, “hast thou performed the command of the emperor?”
“Ay, my lad, right well; come, look into the furnace—and see, his bones yet burn.”
“His bones; whose bones, sirs?” asked Fulgentius, aghast with fear.
Then they told him all that had been commanded them, and how Malitius coming first to the lime-kilns had been cast into the fire and burnt.
“Thanks be to God,” said the youth, devoutly kneeling, “who hath saved me from this terrible death.” With these words he bade the burners farewell, and returned to his uncle’s palace.
“Ha!” said the emperor, when Fulgentius bowed himself before his uncle’s throne, “thou here, sir varlet; hast thou not been to my lime-burners?”
“Verily, my lord, I have been there and performed thy commandment; but before I came your will had been performed.”
“Performed,” rejoined the emperor, “how performed? Malitius; is he not here?”
“No, my lord, he is burnt in the lime-kiln,” replied the youth; “he came first to the kiln, and the burners obeyed your commands, and he is dead, and I have escaped. But, O my dear uncle, how couldst thou contrive such a death for thy poor nephew?” and he wept bitterly.
Then did they each declare to the other the deceits of the wicked steward; and the emperor raised up the youth, and acknowledged him before all his people as his very true and good nephew, his heir and successor to the throne; rendering thanks to God who had preserved the uncle from so deadly a sin against his relative, and the nephew from so horrible a death.
“The German poet has been equally successful in his amendments with Parnell,” said Herbert.
“In none more so,” said Thompson, “than in substituting in the place of the unpleasant bodily affection, the more courtly failing of jealousy excited in the mind of the knight by the malice of the huntsman Robert.”
“Was it then from this old book, or from some similar tradition of his own country, that Schiller obtained his incidents?” asked Herbert.
“It is impossible to determine; it is said that Schiller learnt his plot from an Alsatian legend that he heard at Manheim; and yet the similarity of the incident renders it more than probable that the poet was acquainted with this form of the tale. The story as it appears in the monks’ books, and the tradition of Alsatia, most probablystarted from the same original, which, being immediately written down by the monk, we now have in its original form. The tradition went on from mouth to mouth, and became gradually varied to suit the popular feelings.”
“Your instances of conversion, Lathom,” said Thompson, “remind me of Washington Irving’s vision in the library of the British Museum, when all the old writers leapt down from their shelves and despoiled the moderns of the patchwork garments, made of the shreds of countless writers, and left them plucked of their borrowed plumes.”
“Nay,” replied Lathom, “rather of those few who had borrowed gems from the writers of old, and by new setting and repolishing so improved their original lustre that the former owner was eager to tender his thanks to his modern adapter, who had renewed his long-lost glories.”
“I am afraid your old monks would have had as many to pluck of their borrowed plumes as to compliment on their ingenuity as working jewellers,” said Thompson.
“The process of recovery would be curious in some cases,” said Herbert: “the modern adapter would have to settle with Lydgate or Gower; the old poet would resign his title to the middle-age monk or chronicler; and he perhaps be finally stripped of his gem by some Eastern fabler.”
“Be sure that Shakspeare, Parnell, and Schiller would meet with more thanks than reproaches,” was Lathom’s reply, as he closed his book for that evening.