By Constance Maud
The stars came out in the deep blue sky of night, waiting for the summer moon.
The stately walls of the royal palace of Antwerp threw mysterious shadows all around. And in the darkness of these shadows crept two figuresstealthily. They seated themselves at length under a tree which faced the windows of the Princess Elsa’s apartments.
Looking up, they saw a light still burning.
Then they talked together earnestly in muffled tones.
By and by the moon arose, and cast her silvery light about, shifting the shadows according to her royal pleasure.
The two dark figures, a man and a woman, moved with the shadows, still keeping close to the palace. They took no thought of rest or sleep that night.
The man looked at the woman, and shuddered.
The woman turned to the man, a scornful light in her eyes. She was for action, and despised useless regrets and groans.
“Frederick of Telramund, why dost thou mistrust me?” she asked quietly.
“Why?” he cried wrathfully. “Was it not on thy false word that I accused the guiltless, and condemned an innocent maid? Thou who didst swear that thine own eyes beheld her murder the youthful Godfrey!”
“Dost thou know who is this mysterious hero, drawn hither across the sea by a wild swan?” she asked.
“Nay, I know not,” he answered.
“Hearken now to me,” said Ortruda. “It is forbidden him to reveal either his name or country. That, his own words allowed. The reason I will tell thee. Should he do so, all his magic power instantly vanishes. There is but one person whocan tear his secret from him—she whom he so strictly forbade to ask him.”
“Ha! Elsa! She must be made to do this!” cried Telramund eagerly. Ortruda looked at him and smiled. Her smile was very terrible. “If thou wilt be but silent and watchful, thou shalt taste the sweets of revenge. But—hist!”
The window opposite opened softly. Ortruda and Telramund drew back farther into the shadow. A white-robed figure came out on the balcony.
Ortruda whispered in Telramund’s ear: “Go thou, and leave her alone with me,” and Frederick withdrew.
“Elsa!” cried a wailing, miserable voice.
Elsa started. “Who calls me?”
“Is my voice so strange to thee?” answered Ortruda piteously. “Wilt thou repulse one in sore distress?”
“Ortruda! Thou! What doest thou here, and at this hour, unhappy woman?” asked Elsa, in surprise.
“Ah, woe is me!” moaned Ortruda. “What have I done, that such dark trouble should fall on me? How different thy fate! After a brief time of trouble, every cloud has vanished, and life smiles gloriously before thee.”
“Most unworthy should I be of my great happiness, could I spurn one in misery such as thine, Ortruda. Come! I myself will open the door to you.”
“Ortruda, where art thou?” called the gentle voice of Elsa, opening the door.
“Here at thy feet!” replied Ortruda, throwing herself down before the white-robed figure.
“Kneel not to me, I beseech thee, Ortruda,” cried Elsa, much distressed. “Thou, whom I have always beheld in pride and magnificence! Freely I forgive thee. And if in aught thou hast suffered through my fault, I pray thee pardon me in like manner.”
“How can I thank thee for such gracious favor?” returned Ortruda, in tones of great humility. “And for thy husband Telramund,” continued Elsa, “I will beseech my noble bridegroom on the morrow, that he show him grace and pardon. So let me see thee once more restored to happiness. Arrayed in thy robe of state, come thou with me to the minister, where our marriage will to-morrow be celebrated before God and all men.”
“Thou loadest me with chains of gratitude,” said Ortruda. “Only one way is there in which I may perhaps repay thee—by my knowledge of the hidden arts I may be able to protect thy life, and warn thee should grave danger arise.”
“What meanest thou?” asked Elsa, in astonishment.
“Trust not thy happiness too blindly,” replied Ortruda darkly, “lest some evil entrap thee unawares.” Ortruda drew closer, and lowered her voice: “Dost know by what magic arthecame to thee?”
By Constance Maud
It was Princess Elsa’s wedding-day.
The sober old city of Antwerp had blossomed out in colors gay as a spring garden, with banners, ribbons, garlands of flowers, and triumphal arches.
Not a burgher or a prentice but kept holiday.
Royal weddings were not an everyday sight, more especially when the bride was a princess of such beauty and virtue, and the bridegroom a knight who had risked his life for her sake.
Every maid in Antwerp would gladly have gone through fire and water just for a sight of the knight in silver armor. Greatly were those envied who had seen him arrive, drawn by the snow-white swan.
The bells of the old cathedral rang out a joyful chime. From every quarter came a stream of people, all hurrying to secure the best places from which to see the bridal procession. Guarding the entrance of the cathedral, on either side, were stationed knights and nobles in full court dress, ablaze with medals and decorations, helmets and waving plumes.
“She comes! She comes! Make way for the bride,” sang a chorus of voices. And Elsa appeared, more beautiful than a spring morning. Little children, clad in white, strewed her path with flowers. Maidens of high degree followed, bearing her bridal train. Never had a fairer, happier maid passed through the ancient doorway to become a bride.
“THROUGH HEAVEN’S VICTORY, THY LIFE IS MINE!”—page 158From the painting by Ferdinand Leeke
“THROUGH HEAVEN’S VICTORY, THY LIFE IS MINE!”
—page 158
From the painting by Ferdinand Leeke
Smiling and bowing graciously, Elsa ascended the cathedral steps, when suddenly her way was barred by a tall commanding figure, who pushed through the astonished crowd and stood before her. It was Ortruda.
“Back, I say!” she cried wrathfully. “Thinkest thou that I am going to follow thee, like a serving-maid! No longer will I suffer it! The time has come when thou shalt bow before me!”
The attendants and courtiers stood aghast. “The woman must be mad!” they exclaimed to one another.
Elsa could scarce believe that this was the same Ortruda who, a few hours before, had knelt in the dust at her feet.
Pale and trembling she cried:
“Ortruda! Is it possible? What has happened to change thee thus terribly?”
Ortruda gave a mocking laugh.
“Thinkest thou,” she answered, “that because I foolishly forgot my high position and my worth for one short hour, I must forever after approach thee crawling? My lord was first in all the land! Not a foe but feared his sword, not a tongue but spake his praise. But thy hero! No man ever heard of him! Thou thyself canst not even give him a name.”
The people murmured indignantly:
“Will no man silence this slanderous woman?”
But all trembled, remembering her reputation as a witch, and not daring to brave her wrath.
Fortunately at this moment appeared the king’s outriders, followed by the royal bodyguard, andKing Henry himself, riding side by side with the bridegroom.
“What! Ho!” cried the king, looking at the threatening figure standing across the bride’s path. “Who dares to make strife on a wedding morn?”
Lohengrin hastened to Elsa’s side. “What do I see? Why is this terrible woman near thee?” he asked.
“Oh, my deliverer, protect me from her! Pardon me, that I forgot thy warning. Seeing her in misery at my door last night, I took her in. Behold now how she turns on me, and mocks me for my trust in thee!”
Lohengrin stood between Ortruda and the trembling Elsa. “Begone, thou fearful woman!” he cried. “Carry elsewhere thy poison. Here is no soil in which it can take root.”
“Hold there!” cried a loud harsh voice. “O king, hearken, I pray. Greatly hast thou been deceived. The combat was no Heaven’s ordeal, for, by the evil power of magic, justice was turned aside. Here, before all men, I challenge him, the impostor, to declare his name and race, and from where he came, drawn hither by that unholy bird. If he dare not say, methinks it looks bad for his knightly truth and honor! I appeal to thee, illustrious prince! Demand thou a reply from this unknown hero. He will scarcely dare to call thee unworthy of his answer.”
Lohengrin confronted the wrathful Telramund: “All honor would I ever show to his most illustrious majesty; but there is one only to whom I ambound to reveal my secret—that one is Elsa, my bride.”
Lohengrin feared for one dread moment that the wicked Ortruda’s poison had, after all, begun to work. One moment only; then, to his joy, Elsa raised her head, and shaking off all doubt, she cried: “What he keeps secret, that he does in wisdom. She whom he has saved, shall she not trust him?”
And the king added heartily: “My hero, pay no regard to evil-speakers. Thou art too far above them for such to tarnish thy spotless fame.”
The nobles then pressed round Lohengrin, assuring him of their trust and devotion, even though he should never see fit to reveal his name; and the wedding procession entered the cathedral in solemn state.
When the wedding-feast was over and the wedding-guests had gone, Elsa and Lohengrin sat at the window, looking out on the starlit night.
Elsa sighed. A tiny cloud crept over her heart at the thought that she knew no name by which to call her love.
Lohengrin noticed it and strove to turn her thoughts from the dangerous subject. But Elsa continued, as though forced to return to it: “Ah show thou thinkest me worthy of thy trust! Now that we are alone, tell me thy secret and let it be buried in my heart, safe, where never the world can reach it.”
“Have I not shown thee highest trust?” answered Lohengrin. “I have trusted in thy promise. Now my greatest joy is in thy love. It is the only rewardI ask for all I have left behind. For not out of night and sorrow did I come to thee, but out of light and glory.”
“Alas!” cried Elsa. “Then art thou farther removed, and I yet more unworthy, than e’er I dreamt! Any day may rob me of thee! Ere long thou wilt surely regret thy humble choice, and long after thy departed glory.” Tears blinded her eyes. Lohengrin saw, too late, that what he had told her but increased her doubt and unhappiness. She longed now more than ever to be trusted with his secret.
“The fear lest thou depart will haunt me day and night! Who is this unknown one? Whence comes he?” No peace now for Elsa, day or night, until she can answer.
“Alas!” she cried, “it was by a miracle thou camest here! Thy path is hidden, like thyself, in mystery. Thy life is divided from mine by a cloud.”
“Ah, look!” she cried, clutching wildly Lohengrin’s arm. “See the swan? He comes! There—down the river! He brings the boat! Thou hast called him!”
“Oh, Elsa, cease this madness!” cried Lohengrin, in despair.
“Nothing can give me peace again, till I know—even though it cost me my life—who thou art, and whence thou comest.”
“Alas!” groaned Lohengrin, covering his face with his hands.
So absorbed were they both, that they did not hear the stealthy tread upon the stair, nor the low, muffled voices outside the door.
Suddenly there was a crash. The door was broken open, and a group of dark figures, cloaked and masked, barred the passage, while one of the number rushed towards Lohengrin, drawing his naked sword.
It was the work of an instant. Lohengrin had but time to seize his sword, when the stalwart figure closed with him.
In the flickering torchlight, he parried the foe’s first deadly thrust, and before he had time for a second, the trusty sword of Lohengrin had pierced to his traitorous heart. With a deep groan he fell back, and Elsa beheld, as she suspected, the face of Frederick of Telramund.
Hearing the noise, Elsa’s attendants and guards now crowded into the room. The dark masked figures had fled on seeing their master fall.
Lohengrin turned to the guards, and bade them bear the body of Telramund before the king’s judgment-seat.
Then to Elsa’s attendants, who supported their fainting mistress, he said sadly: “Make her ready to appear before the king. There I will meet her, and answer her question—Who I am, and from whence I come?”
At noon next day, King Henry held a review of his troops.
Before leaving Antwerp, the king desired to collect forces for a war against the savage Drohns, who were threatening the peace of Germany. The king counted greatly on Lohengrin’s help, for never had he seen one more fitted to command and lead his troops.
But now the appointed hour had come, and still the king waited for the arrival of the knight.
Presently all were startled by the appearance of a solemn procession, bearing in their midst the body of a dead man. “Make way!” whispered the crowd, awestruck. “These are the followers of Telramund.”
Close on them followed Elsa and her ladies. Alas, how changed from the happy bride of yesterday!
“Ah, here he comes! Our hero!” cried the people, as Lohengrin at length appeared. “Welcome, sir knight,” said the king. “We look to thee to lead these brave troops on to victory.”
“Alas, my lord the king!” answered Lohengrin, “it is not possible for me now to lead thy soldiers, as I hoped.”
“Heaven help us! What means this?” cried the king, dismayed, not only at Lohengrin’s words, but by his sad, solemn bearing.
“First, I ask thy righteous judgment, before all the people, concerning this man.” He pointed to the body of Telramund. “In the middle of the night, he fell on me unawares. Was I right in that I slew him?”
“Thy hand was but the instrument of a just Heaven in so slaying him!” replied the king, sternly regarding the dead traitor.
“Ye heard all how she, my bride, gave me her promise, that never would she ask who I am or from whence I came. Now, alas! she has broken that promise—she has listened to traitorous counsel! Now hear, all ye people, whether my secret isone to be ashamed of before king, nobles, and the world!” Lohengrin raised his voice till it rang on all sides like a clarion.
“In the distant land, far from hence, is a mountain named Mount Salvat. In the midst stands a temple; none on earth can compare with its magnificence. Therein is guarded a sacred treasure, brought thither years ago by an angel-host. It is the Holy Grail. The knight who serves the Grail derives divine strength from the power of its might. Before him evil flies, and death itself is vanquished. Even when far away in distant lands, so long as the knight remains unknown, the Grail still renews his strength. But the working of the Holy Grail must ever remain veiled. Once the source of mystery is revealed, the blessings granted must be withdrawn—such is the Grail’s command. I was hither sent to you by order of the Grail. My father is Parsifal, the king—I am his warrior, Lohengrin!”
Elsa listened like one hearing her death-sentence. Had not her ladies supported her, she must have fallen.
“Oh, Elsa,” he cried mournfully, “why didst thou tear my secret from me? Now, alas, we are parted forever!”
“The swan! The swan!” cried a chorus of voices near the bank of the river.
Elsa turned to look, and there, sailing swiftly towards them, came the snow-white swan, drawing the small boat in which the shining knight had arrived.
“Oh, my Elsa,” he said, “the Grail has sent forme—I dare not tarry. One year only, and I might have had the joy of seeing thee again united to thy long-lost brother. For he is not dead, and by the might of the Grail he was then to be restored to thee. Now hearken. Should he return, give him these—my sword and horn and ring. The sword will bring him victory in battle, the horn will bring him help in time of need, and the ring he shall wear in memory of me. Farewell, my beloved bride; farewell forever!”
From the Gudrun Lay
When Hettel, the young King of Denmark, but newly crowned, was minded to take him a wife, he sent and gathered together his high vassals and lieges to his palace in Hegelingen to give him counsel.
And Morung of Nifland said to the king: “There is one maiden that for comeliness surpasseth all others in the world: that is Hilda, daughter of wild Hagen, King of Ireland; and she is peerless.”
“That may be so,” answered the king, “but Hagen is waxed so proud that there is no dealing with him by fair words; and many kings and yarls which sought to carry her off by strength of arm now sleep the sword-sleep because of her.”
Then spake the sweet-voiced Horant: “Full well I know the maiden. She is radiant as the soft new snow beneath the dawn. Stern is her father, and cruel as the north wind that tears the clouds and breaks the sea, and shakes the pines in his fists. Wherefore if the king must send a messenger, let him not choose me.” Frute spake also: “Neither am I fain to go upon this errand. But let the king send and summon Yarl Wate of Sturmen; he is more reckless than any man, and heedeth no living thing.”
But when Yarl Wate was come before the king, and understood what was required of him, he was but ill-pleased, and said: “I ween Horant and Frute to have counseled thee in this, and to have done in no friendly wise toward me. Howbeit I am not the man to pick an enterprise that hath no peril in it. I will go. But since Horant and Frute esteem my life so lightly, they shall go likewise.”
Then Yrolt of Ortland and Morung said: “It is well spoken; and inasmuch as it behooveth none to hang back when brave men take their lives in their hands, we also will go with them.”
So the king made ready a great ship of cypress wood, in fashion like a dragon. It was all aglow with golden scales; the anchor was of silver, and the steering paddle overlaid with gold. Within he furnished it abundantly with victual for the voyage, with armor and raiment, and presents of great price.
Then Yarl Wate and Morung, Horant and Frute and Yrolt, entered into the ship with seven hundred of their men. They drew aloft the embroidered sail; a fair wind arose and bore them out of harbor. For many days they tilled the barren sea-fields, until weary of sea toil they saw the welcome land, and steered in for Castle Balian, where Hagen the king kept court.
Being come to shore, Horant and Yrolt took precious jewels in their hands worth many thousand marks, and leaving their men hidden in the ship, came to King Hagen, saying: “Behold we have voyaged from a far country where we have heardof thy fame, and we pray thee take these presents at our hands.” Hagen looked at the jewels and marvelled at their great worth. He said: “What kings are ye, and whence have you come with all this treasure.”
Horant answered, saying: “Banished folk are we. Hast thou not heard of Hattel, who is king in Hegelingen, and of his might and majesty, of the battles he has fought and the riches he has gathered together? He despiseth such as we, and being well befriended careth nothing for his men. Wherefore a few of us, weary of his overbearing ways, have left him seeking service.” Then said Hagen: “Ye shall abide with me”; and he commanded to make ready lodgings for them in the city.
But Horant and Yrolt gave gold away so lavishly to all within the city that the people said, “Of a truth these must be the richest kings of the earth.”
And the fair Hilda hearing of it desired greatly to see these strangers; wherefore her father bade them to a feast.
The Danish knights came at his bidding, arrayed most sumptuously. And the feast being over, and the wine outpoured, the queen and Hilda left the table, desiring that the guests might be brought to them in the inner chamber. First Yarl Wate went in, a huge and burly man, with a great rough beard and brawny hands. But when the queen bade him sit between her and the princess he blushed and stammered, and then blundered shamefaced to the seat. “Thou art strangely ill at ease incompany of ladies,” said the queen. “Aye, mistress,” said Yarl Wate, “I am not oversmooth of tongue. I am not skilled to lisp about the weather. What shall I say? This seat is soft enough. I never mind me to have sat so soft before, nor to have wrought so hard in doing it. By my life, good ladies!” he cried upstarting, “a good day’s battle with a brisk enemy never wearied me so much, or made me deem myself so great a fool.” Hilda and her mother laughed pleasantly at his bluff behavior, and sought to put him at his ease; but Wate would have no more; he strode off to the hall among the king and his men, and in an hour or so became himself again. For the king won on him. Hagen’s big voice, his battle knowledge, and his love of fight, opened Yarl Wate’s heart, and the two were soon made friends. But for the women, there was none in their esteem like the sweet-voiced Horant. He was fair to look upon as a woman, yet had no lack of courage in the battle time. His wit was quick; and when he talked his face was in a glow at sight of the strange pictures in his mind, whereby he likened things to one another in curious sort, so that all which heard him wondered and were glad.
Now Hagen spake much with Wate concerning sword play, and the mystery thereof. So presently Yarl Wate besought the king to appoint him a master of fence to teach him a little of it, because fencing after their manner was a thing in which he was little learned. Then King Hagen sent for the best fence master that he had, and set him to teach Yarl Wate the rules of sword play. But quickly losing patience at the long list of early rules whichthe fence master laid down, Hagen caught the foil from out his hands crying: “Away with you! Why all this stuff? In four strokes I will teach this man to use a sword.”
So the king fell to with Wate, whom, however, he very soon found an exceeding skilful master of fence. Thereat being somewhat angry, he struck in fiercely; and they both carried on the sport till the buttons flew off the foils; yet neither gat the better of the other. Then Hagen throwing down his foil cried: “In sooth, never saw I youth learn so quickly.” And Yrolt said: “There is very little wherein the serving men of our lord’s country are not already learned.”
So as Yarl Wate and his fellows abode continually at the king’s court and feasted with him every day, it befell once on a time, when night was past and the day had begun to dawn, that Horant arose and tuned his voice to a song. The birds, waking in the hedges, had begun to sing, but hearing music sweeter than theirs, they held their peace. Ever higher and sweeter Horant lifted his song till it rang about the palace; and all the sleepers dreamed of Baldur and his home in Ganzblick in the sky.
Soon they woke; nor were they sorry to lose their dreams at hearing Horant’s song. Hagen heard it and rose up from his bed. Hilda and her maidens heard it, and arose. Men and women came thronging to thank the singer; but when they came the song was done. Yet none the more would the birds begin their lays; they had lost their notes from wonder.
Then Hilda besought her father that by any means he should constrain Horant to sing again. And Hagen being no less crazed with the song, recked not for aught else, and he promised the singer a thousand pounds of gold by weight if he would sing again at eve.
At evening Horant sang. The people filled the hall and flocked about the castle for a great space. The sick came thither and remembered their pains no more.
The beasts in the forest and the cattle in the fields left their food; the worms forgat to go in the grass, and the fishes left swimming in the sea. And when the song was done and the folk went their ways, they heard the minster choirs and the chiming of the bells, but took no more pleasure in them.
Hilda sent twelve purses of gold to Horant, entreating him to come and sing to her in her chamber. The singer came and sang the song of Amile, the like whereof no man had ever heard save on the wild flute. No gold was ever so good. The maiden laid her hand within the singer’s and bade him choose whatever he listed for a song-gift. He said: “I pray thee give me but the girdle from thy waist, that I may take it to my master.” She asked: “Who is thy master?” He answered: “No banished men are we, but servants of Hettel, King of Denmark, come to woo thee for his bride.” Then Hilda said: “So thou couldst always sing to me at morn and eve, I would not care whose bride I were.” Horant said: “Lady, within my master’s courts abide twelve minstrels, better far than I; and yet with all the sweetness of their singing my lord sings best ofall.” And Hilda said: “If that be so, I fain would follow thee and be King Hettel’s bride. But I know not how. My father will give me to no suitor with his good will. I would go but I durst not.” Horant answered her: “Since thou wouldst, be it ours to dare. We ask no more.”
Then Horant and his comrades got ready their ship for sea, and afterward they came to Hagen, saying: “The time for our departure draweth nigh, and we must sail to other lands. But before we go, we pray you bring the queen and your fair daughter, that they may see the treasures which we have within the ship.” So on the next day, after mass, King Hagen came down to the beach, with his queen, and the fair Hilda and her maids; with them went a thousand good knights of Ireland. The ship was swung to a single cable, the anchor aboard, the sail tackle free. Upon the sands were spread the Danish treasure chests, filled with costly raiment embroidered with gold and jewels. There was a crowding round the chests to see; Yarl Wate was there, and Frute, and Horant; and in the crowding Hilda was parted from her mother. Hagen and his knights saw nothing for the crowd, and the queen forgot her daughter at beholding the glories of the raiment. But suddenly they heard a shout, and looking up beheld Yarl Wate leap on the bulwarks with fair Hilda in his arms; the next moment Horant and Frute sprang on board with two other maidens. Yrolt smote at the cable with his axe; it parted. The sail was hauled aloft, and twenty oars shot out from either side to lift the ship along. Hagen and hisknights ran quickly down into the sea; but the rowers rowed hard, and armed men in the ship arose, seven hundred strong, and laid about them. Short was the fight, and soon the vessel reached deep water. Loud laughed the Danes to see on the fading shore the angry crowd, the weeping queen, and Hagen raging like a madman, up to his waist in the sea.
Fast sped the ship and the wind was fair. The Danes made Hegelingen in ten days, and Hettel was wed to Hilda with great joy.
But while they yet sat at the marriage feast Hagen’s war-ship bore down upon their coast. Quickly the Danes rose from the tables, put their armor on, and ran down to the shore. Hagen drave his ship upon the sand, and leaped into the water with his men. A shower of arrows thick as hail was his greeting. Hettel rushed foremost to withstand him. There was fierce fighting between the two for a little space; then Hettel fell, sore wounded; and over his body Hagen and his knights pressed on and hewed their way to land. Fast fell the men, both Danes and Irelanders. Then Yarl Wate encountered Hagen; and the battle anger fell on both the men; they fought like wild beasts of the wood, till, Wate being wounded on the head, Hagen’s war-pike brake at the next blow he struck. Meantime the battle raged furiously. The Irelanders kept their footing, but could not drive back the Danish men; the numbers slain on either hand were equal, man for man. Then Hettel’s wounds being bound up, the Danish king cried out to Hagen: “Of what avail shall it be to youor me to fight this battle out? For every man of mine that falls a man of thine goes down. When it is done there will be an end to Danes and Irelanders alike. But if thou must needs prolong the fight, I will now meet thee, and if Hilda weeps for a dead husband she shall mourn a dead father too.” Then Hagen cast down his sword, and called off his men. And he said to Hettel: “Give me thy hand; for in sooth my child has married a brave man; and had I half a score more daughters they should all come to Hegelingen.” So the kings made peace together. And the marriage feast was all begun again, and kept for twelve days in King Hettel’s palace. Moreover a wise woman brought forth herbs and roots, and healed the warriors of their wounds. And after the feasting, Hagen and his men were loaded with gifts, and they entered into their ship and departed to Ireland.
By Xavier B. Saintine
The Lady of Kynast owned a large domain, and on this domain a ruined old tower which stood on the summit of a steep, high rock, surrounded on all sides by a deep abyss.
Rich, young and beautiful, eagerly sought for by a number of admirers, The Lady of Kynast did not think, in her desire to keep them from becoming too pressing, of undertaking an endless piece of embroidery, like Penelope. She did not embroider; in fact she looked with contempt, and almost with disgust, upon every kind of work that was done by women. She told her admirers that she was betrothed to Kynast—this was the name of the old tower—and that anyone who thought of winning her good graces would first have to compete with her betrothed. To do this nothing was required but to climb up the rock and the tower, and having reached the battlements, to make a complete round, not on foot, however, or assisted by the hands and knees, but on horseback, without other assistance than the bridle.
The flock of lovers took flight instantly; only two remained, two brothers who had completely lost their heads.
After having cast lots, the first one attempted the task and seemed on the point of being successful.But that was all. He had no sooner reached the crenelated top of the old tower than he was seized with vertigo and instantly fell into the abyss.
The second brother, in his turn, climbed to the top and actually succeeded in riding some distance along the battlements; but soon his horse, feeling the stones slipping from under its hoofs, and the whole tower rocking under the weight, refused to go on. Determined to carry through the undertaking he encouraged his horse with his voice and with his spurs, but the poor animal remained immovable, apparently wedged in between the large stones of the tower. In the morning both horse and rider had disappeared.
For quite a while no other claimants appeared to woo the fair lady, when suddenly one day a third lover presented himself and asked leave to attempt the trial.
She did not know who it was, and this surprised her; for how could he have fallen in love with her? He might possibly have seen her on her balcony, or at some royal feast; perhaps he was only allured by her great reputation. However, there was nothing to lose by accepting the offer.
For some days a thick, heavy fog had shrouded the castle and the old tavern from top to bottom, so as to make the ascent impossible. The simple laws of hospitality required, therefore, that the lady should offer her castle to the newly arrived knight.
He proved to be a handsome man with a fine commanding figure, and the large number of his servants bespoke his high rank and large fortune. During three days he spent almost all his time withthe young lady, but as yet he had not dared say a word of his love. On her side, however, the young lady felt herself gradually conquered by a feeling which had, until now, been unknown to her heart.
When the dense veil of mist was at length torn aside and the Kynast shone forth in its full splendor, she was on the point of telling the knight that she would not insist on the trial in his case.
When the moment came the Lady of Kynast felt her heart fail her. She shut herself in, she wept and she cried, and prayed that he might be successful. Loud clamors were heard below, and as she thought the spectators were bewailing the death of her last lover, she fainted away.
Cries of joy and of triumph roused her again; the knight had successfully accomplished the task. Overcome, she rushes to meet him, and in her excitement she forgets that all eyes are upon her, and breathlessly cries out: “My hand is yours.” But he draws himself up to his full height, and haughtily and harshly he replies, with a proud smile:
“Have I ever asked you for your hand? I only came to avenge my two brothers, whom you have killed, and I have done it, for I do not, could not, love you, and yet you love me. Farewell!”
That same evening the wretched lady had herself conducted up to the top of the tower, from whence she wished, she said, to watch the setting sun. She was never seen alive again.
By Xavier B. Saintine
A white figure appeared before the young girl as she awoke. “I am your Guardian Angel!”
“Then you will grant me the wishes which I shall mention?”
“I shall carry them to God’s throne. You may count upon my assistance. What are your wishes?”
“O White Angel, I am tired of continually turning the spindle and my fingers are getting to be so hard by constant work that yesterday, at the dance, my partner might have imagined he was holding a wooden hand.”
“Your partner was that fine-looking gentleman from Hesse? Did he not tell you that he adored blue eyes and fair hair, and that he would make you a baroness, if you would go home with him, if you would wickedly run away?”
“White Angel, make me a baroness!”
The evening of that day a young peasant came and asked Louisa’s mother for her daughter’s hand. The mother said, Yes.
“White Angel, deliver me from this poor man. I want to be a baroness!”
The mother, who was a sensible woman, and a widow, had good sense enough and energy enough for two. The White Angel did not appear again, and Louisa married the peasant—and she kept on turning the spindle.
One day her husband, who was a hard-workingman, had over-exerted himself and was taken ill. In the meanwhile Louisa had seen her handsome gentleman again.
“White Angel,” she said, “he loves me still. He has sworn he would marry me if I were a widow.” She dared not say more. The husband recovered from his illness. The White Angel still turned a deaf ear to her wishes. She lost all hope of ever becoming a baroness.
Later her husband became more successful, so that his work alone supplied all their wants. Two beautiful children had come to gladden their lives, and now, when Louisa worked at the spindle, it felt quite soft in her fingers.
One evening, when she was only half asleep, the white figure appeared once more, and a gentle voice whispered in her ear this story:
“A little fish was merrily swimming about in the water and looking seriously at a pretty blackcap which first circled around and around in the air, and then alighted on a branch of a willow which grew close to the bank of the river.
“‘Oh,’ said the little fish, ‘how happy that bird is! It can rise up to the heavens and go high up to the sun to warm itself in its rays. Why cannot I do the same?’
“The blackcap, who was looking down at the fish, thought to himself:
“‘Oh! how happy that fish is! The element in which it lives furnishes it at the same time with food; it has nothing to do but to glide along. How I should like to sport in the fresh, transparent water!’”
“At that moment a kite pounced upon the poor little fish, while a scamp of a schoolboy threw a stone at the bird; the blackcap fell into the water—the fresh, transparent water—and for a moment struggled in it before it died, while the little fish, carried aloft, could go up on high to the sun and warm itself in its rays. Their wishes had been granted.”
By Xavier B. Saintine
An old duke of Bavaria had at his court a dwarf named Ephesim, and a giant named Grommelund. The giant laughed at the dwarf, and the dwarf threatened to box his ears. Grommelund laughed a big hoarse laugh that seemed to come up from his toes, and dared Ephesim to go ahead. The dwarf accepted the challenge at once, and the duke, having been a witness of the scene, ordered that a field for a single combat should be gotten ready.
Everybody expected to do as the giant had done, and laugh at the pigmy, as the poor little fellow was hardly two feet high and would have had to climb a long way before reaching the giant’s ears.
The dwarf began by walking all around the giant, as if to take his measure. The good-natured giant, standing up immovable, looks down upon him and quietly laughs till his sides shake; but while he is holding his hands to his sides, the dwarfunties his shoestrings and then worries him by kicking and pinching his calves.
Grommelund laughs more loudly than ever, thanks to the tickling; takes a few strides, steps on his loose shoestrings, nearly stumbles, and at last, with thoughtful presence of mind, stoops down to tie the strings.
Ephesim was watching for this. He quickly slapped the giant’s cheek so vigorous and sounding a smack that the duke and all the lords of the court looked up in astonishment.
The poor giant was so shamed and humiliated that he hurriedly shambled off the field and sought refuge in the mountains, where, it is said, he hid himself and refused to come out.
By Lillian M. Gask
There was once a man named Offero, so tall and strong that he stood among his fellows as a sturdy oak in a grove of saplings. His eyes were keen and clear as some great eagle’s, his lips spoke nothing but gentle words, and his heart was as pure and tender as a little child’s. His spirit was brave and fearless, and while he was yet in the prime of his strength he resolved to devote it to some good purpose.
“My friends,” he said, when he had called together his companions, “I must leave you now, for something within me whispers that I was born to serve a king so great that fear is unknown to him; a king to whom all men bow.”
Then he strode away into the forest, and was seen by them no more.
For many a day he traversed valley and mountain, inquiring of all he met who was the greatest king. At last he came to a splendid country, where reigned a monarch of high renown. His armies were vast and powerful, and his fleet of warships was like a flock of birds bearing death on their grim brown wings.
When he was told that Offero desired to serve him, he welcomed him gladly, and liked the youngman so well that he soon made him his trusted counsellor and friend.
It was Offero’s pride to see how all men trembled at his master’s frown, and he could not believe that there lived a monarch greater than he.
One day, however, when the king was present, a courtier made some remark about “the Evil One;” his Majesty’s august brow grew pale, and Offero could have sworn he saw his stem lips quiver. Pained and surprised, he humbly asked the king why he was troubled.
“I am afraid of the Devil,” said that monarch, “although I fear no mortal man. He is the King of Hades, and more powerful even than I.”
“Then I must leave you, O king!” cried Offero with haste, “since I have vowed to serve none other than the most powerful monarch in existence.” And sorrowfully he turned away.
“Where is the Devil?” he asked the first man he met.
“He is everywhere,” returned the traveller, looking round uneasily; and this was the usual answer that Offero received to his inquiry. Wherever he went men looked uneasy at the Devil’s name, but would not say where Offero was most likely to meet with him.
He found him at last among a group of idle men and maidens on the village green, and hailed him as his master. The Devil was glad to have so strong a follower, and amused himself by showing the astonished giant his power over rich and poor. There seemed to be no limit to his might; heswayed the nobles in their velvet robes, and the peasants in their tattered garments.
“He is indeed master of the world,” sighed Offero, and though he liked not the Devil’s ways, he stifled his distaste that he might keep his word.
One day his master led him through the outskirts of the town into the open country.
“We are going to visit a hermit,” he said with a burst of laughter. “He has left the town to be quit of me, but he will find me in his cave!”
Before Offero could ask him what he meant to do with the good hermit, they came to a turn where four roads met. A rough wind swayed the branches of the trees, and a peal of thunder echoed among the lofty hills. It was neither wind nor thunder, however, that made the Devil tremble, but the sight of a wooden cross which some pious folk had erected here. With gaunt arms pointing east and west it stood immovable; the rain beat down on it mercilessly, as if to cleanse it from the roadside dust; and turning his head away that he might not see it, the Devil hastened past. Not until it was far behind them had Offero an opportunity of asking why he had trembled.
“I was afraid,” answered his grim companion, with another shudder.
“Afraid?” repeated Offero in puzzled tones. “Why, what was there to be afraid of?”
“Did you not see the crucifix?” cried the Devil impatiently. “The figure on it is that of the Christ, and this is why I trembled.”
The giant had never heard that Holy Name before, and felt more perplexed than ever as he demanded:“Who is this Christ whom you so fear?”
“He is the King of Heaven,” was the reluctant reply.
“Is he more powerful, then, than you?” persisted Offero, planting himself in the center of the pathway so that his master could not pass on.
“He is more powerful even than I!” admitted the Devil, his eyes becoming points of fire.
“Then I shall serve Him, and Him only,” the giant cried, and, turning on his heel, he left the Devil to go on his way alone.
When Offero reached the cross once more, a man was kneeling before it in prayer. As he rose from his knees, Offero asked him the way to Heaven.
“I cannot tell you,” said the man. “The way is long, and hard to find. ’Tis well that Christ is merciful.”
Offero met with like answers from many wayfarers whom he questioned, but at last came one who advised him to consult the hermit.
“He is a holy man,” he assured him earnestly, “and has retired from the world that he may give his time to prayer and fasting. He thinks he can serve Christ this way better than any other.”
So Offero sought the hermit, and learnt from him many things. He heard of the grandeur and goodness of Christ, and of the greatness of His Kingdom. All that he said made Offero more eager to serve Him than ever, and when the hermit explained that no one could enter the Heavenly Kingdom until he was summoned there by Christ Himself, he bowed his head in disappointment.
“How then can I serve this new Master,” he said, “unless I can see Him and hear His commands?”
“Do as I do,” replied the hermit. “Give up the world, and fast and pray.”
“If I were to fast,” said Offero shrewdly, “I should lose my strength, and then, when He called me to work for Him, I should be useless.” And although the hermit tried to persuade him, he would not stay, but set off again on his journey, determined to find the way to Heaven.
Presently he met a company of pilgrims. They were dusty and travel-stained, and very footsore, but their faces shone with joy. There were men and women and little children; some came from distant lands, and some from near, but one and all they were filled with a deep content.
“Who are you, and whence do you travel?” Offero asked them wonderingly.
“We are the servants of Christ,” they answered, “and we are marching towards Heaven. The path is rough, and the way is long, but His many mansions await us.”
“I will come with you, and be His servant too!” said Offero, and they welcomed him gladly.
The way was long, as they had said, but to the giant the days passed quickly. He was learning so much that he could scarcely sleep for the wonder of it, and his face also shone with happiness. He grew very grave when he heard of the swift-flowing river that all must cross before they could hope to reach the Kingdom of Heaven.
“There is no bridge to span it,” said an aged pilgrim, whose tottering limbs were now so feeble thatbut for Offero’s support they would hardly have borne him along. “The trembling woman, the little child, must cross it alone in the gloom and darkness, for though they call, no friendly boatman appears in sight. When Christ has need of us, His messenger will appear; he is clothed in raiment white as snow, and although his voice is always gentle, it is as clearly heard in the rush and roar of the tempest as on a summer’s day.”
At length the pilgrims came to the river-bank, and as the giant gazed at the foaming current, and saw the waves dashing against the shore, he marvelled greatly at what he had been told. Surely, he thought, no feeble woman or little child could breast its waters and reach the other side.
Even as he mused on this the white-robed messenger called to an ailing girl who was almost too weak to move. Her Master had need of her, he said, and in the fair courts of Heaven she would be strong again.
What joy was hers when she heard His voice! But alas! when she crept to the edge of the bank, and saw the river that swept beneath it, her heart grew sick with fear. She quivered and shook from head to foot, and moaned that she dare not venture. An exceeding pity moved Offero to go to her help.
“Do not weep,” he said, “but trust to me.” And taking her tenderly in his arms, he lifted her on to his shoulder, and bore her tenderly across. In spite of all his strength, the pitiless current nearly swept him off his feet, and he fought with the icy waters as he had fought no mortal foe. The girl tried invain to thank him as he placed her on the bank in safety; he would not let her speak.
“Tell Christ,” he said, “that I am His servant, and that until He shall summon me to His side I will help His pilgrims to cross the River of Death.”
From henceforth this was his work. He had no time to wonder when his own call would come, for day and night there arrived at the banks of the river pilgrims from every clime, and, since few had courage to face the dark waters alone, he crossed and recrossed it continually. In order that he might be always at hand, he built himself a rough log-hut by the waterside, and here he made his home.
One night when the waves rolled fiercely and the wind blew high, Offero laid him down to sleep. Surely, he thought, no one would dare to cross in such a storm. His eyes had scarcely closed, however, when he heard a knocking at the door.
“Who are you?” he cried as he threw it open. There was no answer, and by the light of his lantern he saw a wistful child on the river-bank. He was staring down at the rushing waters with piteous dread, but the tone of his voice was clear and firm as he turned and spoke to Offero.
“I must cross to-night,” he said. Offero looked at him with deep compassion.
“Poor child!” he murmured, “I am glad I heard you. With a tide like this it will be difficult even for me, giant as I am, but you would be swept away.”
With gentle hands he placed the boy on his shoulder, and bidding him not to fear, set out for the opposite shore.
He had not overestimated the difficulties he had to face. Time after time he was beaten backward, and the icy waters nearly engulfed them both. It took all his strength to bear up against them, and the weight of the child seemed greater than that of the heaviest man he had ever borne. When at last he climbed the steep, high bank, he was bruised as well as breathless, for the hidden rocks had worked him grievous harm.
“Tell Christ——” he panted. And then he saw that the figure beside him was not that of a little child, but of a radiant Being of kingly mien, with a crown of glory on His brow. The giant knelt before Him, and the Vision smiled.
“I am the Christ,” He said, “whom thou hast served so long. This night thou hast borne Me across the River of Death.… Thou didst find Me a heavy burden, for I bore the sins of the world.”
Then He named Giant Offero “Christopher,” meaning “He who has carried Christ,” and took him to dwell with Him in His Heavenly Kingdom.
By Lillian M. Gask
In a far-off land surrounded by snow-capped mountains, and watered by rivers that flowed swiftly down to the sea, dwelt a mighty tsar. His people loved as well as feared him, for the glance of his eagle eye was very kind, and he was ever ready to listen to their pleas for help or justice. When he rode abroad on the great white horse that was shod with gold, they flocked to bless him, and throughout the whole of his wide dominion there was not one discontented man, woman, or child. He had no foes to trouble him, since rival monarchs knew full well that their troops would be dispersed like mist in sunlight before the charge of his victorious army, and his three sons, Dimitri, Vasili, and Ivan, were all that a father could desire. Yet the good tsar’s brow was clouded as he walked in his garden, and from time to time he uttered a deep sigh.
This garden was his greatest pride. In days gone by the forests had been rifled of their most splendid trees that they might spread their shade over the rare and lovely flowers that travellers brought him from every part of the globe. The perfume of his million rose trees was carried on the wind for fifty miles beyond the palace, and so wonderful were their colors that the eyes of those who beheld them were dazzled by so much brilliance. There were thegorgeous orchids which, in order that the garden of their beloved tsar might be the most beautiful in the world, men had risked their lives to obtain, and every imaginable kind of fruit hung in tempting clusters from the drooping boughs of the trees. To look at them was to make one’s mouth water, and the sick folk in his kingdom shared with the tsar the pleasures of taste and touch.
The tree that gave him most pleasure bore nothing but golden apples. When spring came round, and tender buds appeared upon the whispering branches, the tsar caused a net of fine white seed-pearls to be spread around it, so that the sweet-voiced choristers who filled his groves with music should not come near them. They might feast at will on every other tree in his garden, he said, but the golden apples they must leave for him; and as if in gratitude for his many kindnesses, even when the net of pearls was taken away, and the apples gleamed like fairy gold amid the emerald-green of their shapely leaves, not one of the birds approached them. When cares of state pressed heavily upon him, the tsar sought rest beneath the loaded branches, and forgot his troubles in watching the sunlight play on the golden balls.
Now all was changed, and the tsar’s deep sigh betokened feelings of deep annoyance. Morning after morning he found the apple tree stripped of its golden treasures, and its emerald leaves strewn on the ground.
This was the work of the Magic Bird, who once upon a time had lived in the great cloud castles that gather in the West, but was now the slave ofa distant king. The feathers of the Magic Bird were as radiant as the sun-god’s plumes, and her eyes as clear as crystal. When she had wrought her will on the apple trees, she would fly blithely home to the garden of her own master, and, try as they would, not one of the tsar’s head gardeners could even catch sight of her.
The good tsar meditated much upon the matter, and one windy morning in autumn he called his three sons to him.
“My children,” he said, “the source of my grief is known to you, and now I entreat your help. Will you each in turn forego your sleep, that you may watch in my garden for the Magic Bird? To him who shall capture her, I will give the half of my kingdom, and when I am called thence he shall reign in my stead.”
“Willingly, O my father,” answered each of his three sons; and Prince Dimitri, as the eldest, claimed the right to the first watch.
The garden was flooded with moonlight as the prince threw himself down on a moss-grown bank that faced the tree, and the fragrance of the roses soon worked its drowsy spell. From a grove of myrtles came the song of a sweet-voiced nightingale: “Glück—glück—glück,” she trilled, and in listening to her the prince fell fast asleep. When he awoke it was light again. The tree had been once more despoiled, and the Magic Bird had flown.
The same thing occurred when Prince Vasili took his turn in watching. It is only fair to him to say that he did not fall asleep until the night was far spent, but as the east began to quiver with light, hetoo became overpowered with slumber. The Magic Bird was watching her opportunity, and yet again she robbed the tree. When questioned by the tsar, both princes solemnly assured him that no strange bird had visited the garden during the night, but though he fain would have believed them, he could not doubt the evidence of his eyes.
It was now Prince Ivan’s turn to watch. He was not nearly so good-looking as his brothers, but he had a stout heart and a cool head, and he made up his mind to keep awake at any cost. Instead of reclining on the ground, he perched himself in the boughs of the tree, and when the song of the nightingale threatened to lull him to sleep, as it had done the elder princes, he put his fingers into his ears that he might not hear it.
An hour passed slowly; a second, and then a third. Suddenly the whole garden was lit up as if with a burst of sunshine, and with rays of light flashing from every shaft of her golden feathers the Magic Bird flew down and began to peck at the shining apples. Prince Ivan, scarcely daring to breathe, stretched out his hand and caught as much of her tail as he could grasp. With a startled cry the Magic Bird spread her beautiful wings and wrenched herself free, leaving behind one glittering feather, which the prince held firmly. At break of day he took this to his father, humbly apologizing for his ill success in not having caught the Magic Bird herself.
“Nevertheless, you have done well, my son,” said the tsar gratefully, and he placed the feather, which shone so brightly that at dusk it illuminated thewhole room, in a cabinet of cedar and mother-of-pearl.
The Magic Bird came no more to the palace garden, and the precious tree was never again despoiled of its golden apples. But the tsar was not content. He sighed to possess the bird that had robbed him, and once more he summoned his three sons.
“My children,” he said, “I am sick with longing for the Magic Bird. Seek her, I pray you, and bring her to me. What I have promised already shall then be yours.”
The princes assented gladly, each anxious to find the Magic Bird. Prince Ivan alone wished to please his father; his brothers were only thinking of the riches and honors they would gain for themselves. So dear was this youngest son to the monarch’s heart that he was loath to part with him when the time came, but the youth insisted.
“It will not be for long, dear father,” he cried “I shall soon return with the Magic Bird you sigh for.” So the tsar blessed him, and let him go.
Prince Ivan took the fleetest horse in the imperial stables, and rode on and on for many days. At last he came to a bare field set in the midst of fair green meadows, and in the center of this stood a block of rough gray stone. Inscribed upon the stone in crimson letters was a strange verse: