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                    LEGENDS OF THE RHINE

                             BY

                       WILHELM RULAND


              WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PAINTINGS
                    BY CELEBRATED ARTISTS

                         8TH EDITION




                        KÖLN AM RHEIN
                VERLAG VON HOURSCH & BECHSTEDT




      "O, the pride of the German heart is this noble river!
      And right it is; for of all the rivers of this
      beautiful earth there is none so beautiful as this."

                                                 Longfellow.




Prefatory Note.


Last year I made the journey between Mainz and Bonn on one of our
splendid Rhine steamers. Our vessel glided along like a great
water-bird. On the shore rose mountains, castles, and ruins, and over
all the sun shined brightly from a blue August sky. It was twelve
years since I had visited the scenes of my youth, and every
Rhinelander will understand with what pleasure I saw again those
smiling landscapes arrayed in their summer beauty. Wandering back to
my deck-chair, I soon became absorbed in the ever-changing panorama.

Then the sound of a melodious female voice speaking English fell on my
ears. I looked around. A girl was bending over a book, and
entertaining her father and mother by reading something of special
interest and beauty. I listened and recognised some of my own
sentences rendered into the speech of Shakespeare. These three were
learning to feel the charms of the Lorelei legend as I had felt it. I
confess my pulse beat quicker as I heard my poor endeavours highly
praised, and I could not refrain from advancing and thanking the young
reader for her kindly appreciation of my endeavours. She seemed
delighted when she discovered that I was the author, and rose to greet
me in the most amiable manner. I complimented the travellers that
during the past century the Rhine had become the home of romance for
the English speaking nations, the same as Italy for the Germans. The
girl smiled, and remarked that I must pay that compliment to her
mother in particular, as she was by birth an Englishwoman. But the
head of the family hastened to add that among Americans, whom he might
speak for, the enthusiasm for the beauties of the Rhine was not less
than among their Anglo-Saxon cousins. These two nations which are
bound by so many ties to each other, and also to ourselves, were thus
represented before me. The English-speaking people undoubtedly form by
far the largest contingent of our Rhine travellers, and it was
pleasant indeed to receive so fine a testimonial to the beauties of my
birth place.

We had a most interesting conversation, and I was not a little moved,
as I observed that these foreigners who had travelled over half the
world, and had seen the grandeur of Switzerland and the charms of
Italy, should have such an unaffected admiration for our grand old
river. I am rather sorry for those who neglect the Rhine. "Aren't
Lohengrin and Siegfried, immortalised by the great Master of Bayreuth,
also heroic figures in your Rhine legends?" remarked the young
Anglo-American enthusiastically. It was the first time I had seriously
thought of this. I was indeed touched, and my thoughts travelled back
to the days of "long, long ago" when as a little chap in my native
Bonn, I had first listened with interest to the charming voices of the
golden-haired daughters of old Albion who came in large numbers to
reside in the famous Beethoven-town.

As I separated from my friends at the foot of the Drachenfels I gave
them a small present to keep as a memento of the Rhine and one of its
poets.

      München, Mai 1906.                           Dr. Wilhelm Ruland.




Contents


=St. Gotthard.= The Petrified Alp                                    7

=Thusis on the Hinter Rhine.= The Last Hohenrätier                  10

=Bodensee.= The Island of Mainau                                    13

=Basle.= One Hour in Advance                                        18

=Castle Niedeck.= The Toy of the young Giantess                     20

=Strassburg.= The Cathedral Clock                                   22

      The little Man at the Angel's Pillar                          25

=Worms.= The Nibelungen Lied                                        27

=Speyer.= The Bells of Speyer                                       31

=Frankfort.= The Knave of Bergen                                    33

=Mayence.= Heinrich Frauenlob                                       36

      Bishop Willigis                                               38

=Johannisberg.=                                                     40

=Ingelheim.= Eginhard and Emma                                      45

=Rüdesheim.= The Brömserburg                                        53

=Bingen.= The Mouse-Tower                                           58

=Valley of the Nahe. Kreuznach.= A mighty draught                   62

      The Foundation of Castle Sponheim                             65

=Assmannshausen.= St. Clement's Chapel                              69

=Castle Rheinstein.= The Wooing                                     72

=Castle Sooneck.= The Blind Archer                                  76

=The Ruins of Fürstenberg.= The Mother's Ghost                      79

=Bacharach.= Burg Stahleck                                          83

=Kaub.= Castle Gutenfels                                            88

=Oberwesel.= The Seven Maidens                                      93

=St. Goar.= Lorelei                                                 97

=Rheinfels.= St. George's Linden                                   103

=Sterrenberg and Liebenstein.= The Brothers                        109

=Rhense.= The Emperor Wenzel                                       117

=Castle Lahneck.= The Templars of Lahneck                          120

=Coblenz.= Riza                                                    123

=Valley of the Moselle.= The Doctor's wine of Bernkastel           125

=Andernach.= Genovefa                                              128

=Hammerstein.= The old Knight and his Daughters                    138

=Valley of the Ahr.= The Last Knight of Altenahr                   142

      The Minstrel of Neuenahr                                     145

=Eifel.= The Arrow at Prüm                                         152

=Aachen.= The Building of the Minster                              154

      The Ring of Fastrada                                         162

=Rolandseck.= Knight Roland                                        167

=Siebengebirge.= The Drachenfels                                   177

      The Monk of Heisterbach                                      182

      The Origin of the Seven Mountains                            188

      The Nightingale Valley at Honnef                             190

=Godesberg.= The High Cross at Godesberg                           192

=Bonn.= Lord Erich's Pledge                                        200

      The Roman Ghosts                                             203

=Cologne.= Richmodis of Aducht                                     208

      The Goblins                                                  212

      Jan and Griet                                                216

      The Cathedral-Builder of Cologne                             220

=Xanten.= Siegfried                                                231

=Cleve.= Lohengrin                                                 237

=Zuydersea.= Stavoren                                              244




ST. GOTTHARD

The Petrified Alp


[Illustration: Aus dem Quellgebiet des Rheines--Near the Source of the
Rhine--Au pays du Rhin]

In the region where the Rhine has its source there towered in ancient
times a green Alp. This Alp belonged to an honest peasant, and along
with a neat little house in the valley below formed his only
possession.

The man died suddenly and was deeply mourned by his wife and child.
Some days after an unexpected visitor was announced to the widow. He
was a man who had much pastureland up in that region, but for a long
time his one desire had been to possess the Alp of his neighbour now
deceased, as by it his property would be rounded off to his
satisfaction.

Quickly making his resolution he declared to the dismayed woman that
the Alp belonged to him: her husband had secretly pledged it to him in
return for a loan, after the bad harvest of the previous year. When
the widow angrily accused him of being a liar the man produced a
promissory note, spread it out, and with a hard laugh showed her his
statement was confirmed in black and white. The distressed woman burst
into tears and declared it was impossible that her late husband should
have made a secret transaction of such a nature. The Alp was the sole
inheritance of their son, and never would she willingly surrender it.

"I will pay you compensation for the renunciation of your claim,
although nothing obliges me to do so," declared the visitor with
apparent compassion, in the meantime producing his purse.

The weeping woman motioned to him to put back his gold and told him to
go, which he did.

Three days later the widow was summoned before the judge. There the
neighbour produced his document and repeated his demand for the
possession of the disputed Alp.

The judge, who had been shamefully bribed, declared the document valid
and awarded the Alp to the pursuer. The broken-hearted widow staggered
home.

The new possessor of the Alp on the other hand hastened up to the
mountains at full gallop. The man could no longer master his
impatience to see for the first time as his legally recognised
property the pastureland he had acquired by deceit.

There, for three days a storm had raged uninterruptedly. As quickly as
the soaked ways would permit he ascended to the high country.

Having arrived he stared around with horrified eyes, and fell in a
swoon to the earth, overcome with consternation.

Upon the soft green Alp an unseen hand had rolled a mountain of ice.
Of the possession which the unjust judge had assigned to him nothing
was now to be seen. His own pastures too which adjoined were covered
with snow and ice, whilst the meadows of the other Alpsmen below, lay
spread out in the morning light like a velvet carpet.

Towards noon a broken man rode home into the valley cursing himself
and the wicked magistrate who had consented to such an evil
transaction.

The people there however said to each other: "The Fronfasten Mütterli
(the little mother of the Emberweeks) Frau Sälga passed over our
valley last night with her train of maidens. Over the house of that
greedy rich man the ghostly company stopped, and by that it is fixed
which one must die in the course of the year."

And so it happened. Up there where the youthful Rhine rushes down
through deep rocky chasms the petrified Alp stands to this day, a
silent warning from by-gone days.




THUSIS ON THE HINTER RHINE

The Last Hohenrätier


[Illustration: Der letzte Hohenrätier--Nach dem Gemälde von E.
Stückelberg]

The Domleschg valley was formerly the scene of bitter feuds, and is
mentioned in the struggle for freedom by the Swiss peasants of the
ancient Bund, some five hundred years ago. There stood the castle of
the Hohenrätier.

The last descendant of the degenerate race on the high Realt was
rightly feared in the whole district. He was the terror of the
peaceful inhabitants of the district, and harried not only them but
also merchants and pilgrims who passed along the highway below.

The wrath against this unchivalrous wickedness increased mightily. One
day this man perpetrated a daring deed of violence.

Whilst on an excursion into the valley he had discovered a charming
maid who sought berries in a lonely wood. In his wicked eagerness he
dragged the maiden on to his horse and fled. Amusing himself with her
lamentations, he carried his booty up the steep castle hill.

A poacher had observed the occurrence and alarmed the inhabitants of
the village. They carried the intelligence without delay into the
Domleschg.

The oppressed people around then rose and joining together approached
the castle that very night. Having felled giant trees they threw a
bridge over the moat, cast firebrands into the interior, and stormed
into the castle-yard through gaps in the gates and walls.

Then the baron appeared mounted on his war-horse, driven out of his
abode by tongues of flame.

Before him he held the captured maiden, and in the light of the
conflagration his naked sword glittered in his right hand.

Dealing mighty blows on both sides he forced his horse forward (the
eyes of which had been bound), intending to make a way down the hill.
But the living wall of peasants was impenetrable.

Quickly making his resolution the knight rushed to the side where the
wall of rock fell some seven hundred feet sheer into the youthful
Rhine.

The foaming steed stood trembling in front of the yawning abyss. The
shout of the multitude echoed into the night. Thousands of arms were
instantly stretched towards the river and one of them at the last
moment succeeded in snatching his prey from the robber, just as the
steed tortured and bleeding from sword and spur hurled itself with a
mighty spring into the depths below. So ended the last of the
Hohenrätiers.

In the dawn only the smoking ruins of the proud castle remained, and
the morning bells announced to the peasants that their long desired
freedom had been won.

These ruins are situated on the Hinter Rhine above Thusis, and it is
said that the last Hohenrätier, like many others of the former tyrants
of the Rätigau, yearly on St. John's Eve (when this event occurred)
may be seen riding round the fallen walls of his castle, clad in black
armour which emits glowing sparks.




BODENSEE

The Island of Mainau


For many hundreds of years the names of the Masters of Bodmann have
been very closely connected with the island in the lake of Boden. At
first the island was in the possession of this noble race, but later
on, in the thirteenth century, it passed into the hands of an order of
German Knights. A legend relates the story to us of how this change
came to pass.

About this time the whole of this magnificent property was held in
possession by a youthful maiden, who had inherited this beautiful
island with all its many charms. As may be supposed, the wooers for
the lovely maiden's hand and inheritance became very numerous. She,
however, had made her own choice, and it had fallen upon a nobleman
from Langenstein.

Every evening when the sun was sinking down into the golden waters,
this maiden walked along the strand watching and listening for some
longed-for sound. Then the measured splash of an oar would be heard
approaching in the twilight, and a little boat would be drawn up on
the shore, a youthful boatman would spring joyfully forth, and
lovingly greet the maiden. There this pair of lovers wove dreams
about the time from which only a short period now separated them, when
they should belong openly to each other before the world.

The nobleman landed one evening as usual, but this time his heart was
depressed and sorrowful; he informed his betrothed mournfully that his
father, who was then suffering agony from gout, had once taken a vow
to God and to the emperor that he would go on a crusade to the Holy
Land, but being unable to fulfil his oath, he laid it to his son's
charge to carry it out as he meant to have done.

The maiden wept bitterly on hearing these unexpected tidings.

"Trust me and the Powers on high, I shall not make this great
sacrifice in vain," said her lover consolingly. "I shall return, that
I feel confident of."

Thus with bright hopes in his heart the youthful crusader bade his
weeping betrothed good-bye.

       *       *       *       *       *

And every evening when the sun was sinking into the golden waters the
maiden walked along the strand, looking with longing eyes out into the
misty distance. Spring came and disappeared, summer followed, and the
swallows fled from the lake to warmer climes, the maiden sending many
a warm greeting with them. Wintry storms blew over the waters,
whistling round the lonely island, and the maiden had become as pale
as the flakes of snow which fell against the window-panes.

News one day reached the castle that the crusaders had returned from
the East, but that the nobleman from Langenstein was languishing in a
Turkish prison in a remote castle belonging to the Sultan. The maiden
was heart-broken by these tidings and now spent her days in prayers
and tears.

       *       *       *       *       *

Within the mighty walls of a gloomy castle in the far-off East, a
young hero was sitting pining over his bitter fate. He prayed and
groaned aloud in his grief thinking of his betrothed from whom he had
been so cruelly separated. The Sultan had offered the fair-haired
youth his favourite daughter, a seductive eastern beauty, but the
prisoner had turned scornfully away, her dark glancing eyes having no
charm for him.

That night the youth had a strange dream. An angel was soaring over
his couch and came down to his side, and a voice whispered, "Promise
yourself to me, and you will see your native land again."

The knight started up and said reverently, "That was the voice of
God!" Confused thoughts rushed through his soul, he must renounce his
love, but at least he would see her again. Throwing himself on his
knees, he promised with a fervent oath that he would dedicate himself
to the Lord, if he might only see the beloved maiden once more.

An earthquake shook the castle to its very foundations, unfastening
the prison doors, thus setting the prisoner at liberty in a marvellous
way. He succeeded in reaching the coast without being caught by the
guards of the Sultan, and a vessel sailing to Venice took him on
board. But as he approached his native land the struggle in his soul
between love and duty was very great; at one moment it seemed to
overcome him, and he felt he could no longer keep his vow. But God
again admonished him. Reaching the lake he steered his boat towards
the island, but a sudden storm arose, threatening him with a watery
grave. He prayed fervently to Heaven, again swearing his oath.

The storm subsided, and the little boat having missed its course
landed on the other side of the lake, where the Grand Master of an
Order of German Knights had his seat.

The tired way-farer approached, begging to be received, a boon kindly
granted to him. Then starting off again with his boat the youth
reached the island. He there imprinted a sorrowful kiss on his
beloved's pure white forehead, bidding her and the world good-bye for
ever.

The young girl resigned herself at first silently to her fate; but she
soon resolved on another plan: this place which had once been such a
happy home had no longer any charms to offer her, and she therefore
presented the island of Mainau to the German Order of Knights on one
condition, that the nobleman from Langenstein should be the successor
of the Grand Master. This request was willingly granted, the noble
maiden gave up all her rich possession and left the island in the
Bodensee. It is said that she retired to a convent, but no one ever
knew where.

The chronicle informs us that Hugh of Langenstein became one of the
most capable Grand Masters of this Order of Knights of Mainau. He is
also known as a great poet, and his poem on the martyr Martina still
exists in old manuscripts.




BASLE

One Hour in Advance


Basle was once surrounded by enemies, and very hard pressed on all
sides. A troop of discontented citizens made a shameful compact with
the besiegers to help them to conquer the town. It was arranged one
dark night that exactly as the clock was striking twelve the attack
was to be made from within and without. The traitors were all ready,
waiting for midnight in great excitement, having no evil presentiments
of what was about to happen.

The expected hour approached. Accidentally the watchman of the tower
heard of the proposed attack, and no time being left to warn the
commander of the garrison or the guard, he quickly and with great
presence of mind determined upon a safe expedient; he put forward the
hand of the great clock one hour, so that instead of striking
midnight, the clock struck one.

The traitors in the town looked at each other aghast, believing the
enemies outside had neglected or perhaps betrayed them. General doubt
and misunderstanding reigned in both camps. While they were debating
what plan they must now adopt, the sharp-witted watchman had time to
communicate with the magistrate and with the governor of the town. The
alarm was raised, the citizens warned, and the treacherous plan
completely wrecked. The enemy at last, tired of the useless siege,
retired discouraged.

The magistrate in remembrance of this remarkable deed ordered that the
town-clock should remain in advance as the courageous watchman had set
it that eventful night. This singular regulation continued till the
year 1798, and although the honest inhabitants of Basle were, as
talkative tongues asserted, a century behind-hand in everything else,
yet with regard to time they were always one hour in advance.




CASTLE NIEDECK

The Toy of the young Giantess


[Illustration: Das Riesenspielzeug--Nach dem Gemälde von Cnopf--The
Giant's Toy--Les jouets des géants]

In olden times a race of giants is said to have lived in Alsace.
Castle Niedeck in the valley of the Breusch was their residence, but
even the ruins of this fortress have long since disappeared. The
legend however remains to tell us that they were a peaceable people,
well disposed to mankind.

The daughter of the master of the castle was one day leisurely walking
through the adjoining wood. On approaching the fields and meadows of
the valley, she perceived a peasant ploughing. The young giantess
looked in great astonishment at the tiny man who seemed to be so
busily engaged trudging along after his little team, and turning up
the ground with his small iron instrument. She had never before seen
anything so wonderful and was very much amused at the sight.

It seemed to her a nice little toy, and she clapped her hands in
childish glee, so that the echo sounded among the mountains; then
picking up man, horse, and plough, she placed them in her apron and
hurried back gaily to the castle. There she showed her father the
nice little toy, greatly pleased at what she had found.

The giant however shook his enormous head gravely, and said in a
displeased tone, "Don't you know, child, who this trembling little
creature with his struggling tiny animal is, that you have chosen for
a plaything? Of all the dwarfs down in the valley below, he is the
most useful; he works hard and indefatigably in scorching heat as well
as in windy cold weather, so that the fields may produce fruit for us.
He who scoffs at or maltreats him will be punished by Heaven. Take the
little labourer therefore back to the place he came from."

The young giantess, greatly ashamed and deeply blushing with
embarrassment, put the amusing little toy back into her apron, and
carried it obediently down to the valley.




STRASSBURG

The Cathedral Clock


The Cathedral was finished, and the city magistrates resolved to place
an ingenious clock on the upper tower. For a long time they searched
in vain, but at last a master was found who offered to create a work
of art such as had never been seen in any land. The members of the
council were highly satisfied with this proposal, and the master began
his work.

Weeks and months passed, and when at last it was finished there was
general astonishment; the clock was indeed so wonderful that nothing
to match it could be found in the whole country. It marked not only
the hours but the days and months as well; a globe was attached to it
which also marked out the rising and the setting of the sun, and the
eclipses of that body and the moon could be seen at the same time as
they took place in nature. Every change was pointed out by Mercury's
wand, and every constellation appeared at the right time. Shortly
before the stroke of the clock a figure representing Death emerged
from the centre and sounded the full hour, while at the quarter and
half hours the statue of Christ came forth, repelling the destroyer
of all life. Added to all these wonders was a beautiful chime that
played melodious hymns.

Such was the marvellous clock in the cathedral of Strassburg. The
magistrates however proved themselves unworthy of their new
possession; pride and presumption got the better of them, making them
commit a most unjust and ungrateful action.

They desired their town to be the only one in the land which possessed
such a work of art, and in order to prevent the maker from making
another like it, they did not shrink from the vilest of crimes.

Taking advantage of the rumour that such a wonderful work could only
have been made by the aid of witchcraft, they accused the clock-maker
of being united with the devil, threw him into prison, and cruelly
condemned him to be blinded. The unhappy artist resigned himself to
his bitter fate without a murmur. The only favour he asked was that he
might be allowed to examine the clock once again before the judgment
was carried out. He said he wanted to arrange something in the works
which no one else could understand.

The crafty magistrates, being anxious to have the clock perfect,
granted him this request.

The artist filed, sawed, regulated here and there, and then was led
away, and in the same hour deprived of his sight.

The cruel deed was hardly accomplished, when it was found that the
clock had stopped. The artist had destroyed his work with his own
hands; his righteous determination that the chimes would never ring
again, had become a melancholy truth. Up to the present no one has
been able again to set the dead works going. An equally splendid clock
now adorns the cathedral, but the remains of the first one have been
preserved ever since.




The little Man at the Angel's Pillar


Close to the famous clock in the Cathedral of Strassburg, there is a
little man in stone gazing up at the angel's pillar which supports the
south wing of the cathedral. Long ago the little man who is now
sculptured in stone, stood there in flesh and blood. He used to stare
up at the pillar with a criticising eye from top to bottom and again
from bottom to top. Then he would shake his head doubtfully each time.

It happened once that a sculptor passed the cathedral and saw the
little man looking up, evidently comparing the proportions of the
pillar.

"It seems to me you are finding fault with the pillar, my good
fellow," the stone-cutter remarked, and the little man nodded with a
self-satisfied look.

"Well, what do you think of it? Speak out my man," said the master,
tapping the fellow's shoulder encouragingly.

"The pillar is certainly splendid," began the latter slowly, "the
Apostles, the angels, and the Saviour are most beautiful too. But
there is one thing troubling me. That slender pillar cannot support
that heavy vault much longer; it will soon totter and fall down, and
all will go to pieces."

The sculptor looked alternately at the work of art and at its strange
fault-finder. A contemptuous smile passed over his features.

"You are quite convinced of the truth of your statement, aren't you?"
asked he enquiringly.

The bold critic repeated his doubts with an important air.

"Well," cried the stone-cutter, with comical earnestness, "then you
will remain there always, gazing at the pillar until it sinks down,
crushed by the vault."

He went straight off into his workshop, seized hammer and chisel, and
formed the little man into stone just as he was, looking upwards with
a knowing face and an important air.

This little figure is still there at the present day with both hands
leaning on the balustrade of St. Nicholas' chapel, awaiting the
expected fall of the pillar, and most likely he will remain there for
many a century to come.




WORMS

The Nibelungen Lied


[Illustration: Siegfried auf der Totenbahre--Nach dem Gemälde von Emil
Lauffer]

To-day we are deeply touched, as our forefathers must have been, at
the recital of the boundless suffering and the overwhelming
concatenation of sin and expiation in the lives of the Recken and
Frauen of the Nibelungen Legend. That naive singer has remained
nameless and unknown, who about the end of the 12th century wrote down
this legend in poetic form, thus preserving forever our most precious
relic of Germanic Folksepic. A powerful story it is of sin and
suffering: corresponding to the world itself and just as the primitive
mind of a people loves to represent it. The story begins as a lovely
idyll but ends in gloomy tragedy.

The ancient Rhenish town of Worms was during the great migrations the
seat of authority of the Burgundian invaders, an east Germanic stock.
During the glorious reign of King Gunther there appears, attracted by
the beauty of Chriemhild the king's sister, a young hero, Siegfried,
by name. He is himself a king's son, his father Siegmund reigning in
Xanten "nieden by dem Rine." King Gunther receives the fair Recken
into his service as a vassal.

Siegfried, exhibiting the fairest loyalty to his overlord, and
rendered invisible by magic, conquers for him the redoubtable
Brunhild, the proud queen of the island kingdom of Isenland (Iceland)
and compels her to wed King Gunther. As a reward Siegfried receives
the hand of Chriemhild. In the fulness of his heart the hero presents
to Chriemhild as a marriage gift, the Nibelungen Hoard, which he had
gained in his early years from the sons of the king of the Nibelungen
and from Dwarf Alberich the guardian of the treasure.

Joy reigns in the king's court at Worms, but it was not shared by all.
Besides Chriemhild there was another secretly drawn towards the hero,
and in Brunhild's heart the bridal happiness of Chriemhild awakens
such envy that soon no friendly word passes between the women. They
become estranged and one day her bad feeling leads Brunhild to harsh
words. Then alas, Chriemhild gave unbridled licence to her tongue. In
her rash insolence she represents to Brunhild that it was not Gunther
but Siegfried who formerly overcame her. As proof of this she produces
the ring and girdle which Siegfried had taken on that night from the
powerful Brunhild, and which he had presented to Chriemhild. With
fierce haughtiness Chriemhild taunts her opponent with a hateful name
no woman could endure, and forbids her to enter the cathedral.

Brunhild, weeping, informs King Gunther of the contumely heaped upon
her. The king is filled with wrath, and his vassal, the gloomy Hagen,
considers how he may destroy Siegfried avowedly to avenge the Queen,
but secretly for the possession of the Nibelungen Hoard. During a hunt
in the Odenwald Siegfried was treacherously stabbed by Hagen whilst
stopping to drink from a well. The intention was to spread the report
that Siegfried had been slain by robbers whilst hunting alone. So, on
the following day they crossed the Rhine back to Worms.

In the night Hagen caused the dead body of Siegfried to be laid in
front of Chriemhild's chamber. In the early morning as Chriemhild
accompanied by her attendants was preparing to go to mass in the
cathedral she noticed the corpse of her hero. A wail of sorrow arose.
Chriemhild threw herself weeping on the body of her murdered husband.
"Alas!" she cried "thy shield is not hewn by swords: thou hast been
foully murdered. Did I but know who has done this, I would avenge thy
death." Chriemhild ordered a magnificent bier for her royal hero, and
demanded that an ordeal should be held over the corpse. "For it is a
marvellous thing, and to this day it happens, that when the
bloodstained murderer approaches wounds bleed anew."

So all the princes and nobles of Burgundy walked past the dead body,
above which was the figure of the crucified Redeemer of the world, and
lo! when the grim Hagen came forward the wounds of the dead man began
to flow. In the presence of the astounded men and horrified women
Chriemhild accused Hagen of the assassination of her husband.

Much treachery and woe accompanied the expiation of this great crime.
The Nibelungen Hoard, the cause of the shameful deed, was sunk in the
middle of the Rhine in order to prevent future strife arising from
human greed. But Chriemhild's undying sorrow was not mitigated, nor
her unconquerable thirst for revenge appeased.

After the burial of his son King Siegmund begged in vain that
Chriemhild should come to the royal city of Xanten; she remained at
Worms for thirteen years constantly near her beloved dead.

Then the sorrowing woman removed to the Abbey of Lorch which her
mother, Frau Ute, had founded. Thither also, she transferred
Siegfried's body.

When Etzel (Attila) the ruler of the Huns wooed her, Chriemhild urged
not by love but by very different feelings gave him her hand and
accompanied her heathen lord to the Ungarland. Then she treacherously
invited Siegfried's murderers to visit her husband, and prepared for
them a destruction which fills the mind with horror. The Burgundian
king and his followers, who, since the Hoard had come into their
possession, were called the Nibelungen, fell slaughtered in the
Etzelburg under the swords of the Huns and their allies, thus atoning
for their faithlessness to the hero Siegfried. And with this awful
holocaust ends the Lied of the Nibelungen Not, the most renowned
heroic legend in the German tongue.




SPEYER

The Bells of Speyer


The German Emperor, Henry IV., had much trouble to bear under his
purple mantle. Through his own and through stranger's faults the crown
which he wore was set with thorns, and even into the bosom of his
family this unhappy spirit of dissension had crept. The
excommunication of the Pope, his powerful enemy, was followed by the
revolt of the princes, and lastly by the conspiracy of his own sons.
His eldest son, Conrad, openly rebelled against him, and treated his
father most scornfully. When this prince died suddenly, the second
son, Henry, attempted the deposition of his father and made intrigues
against him. Thus forced to abdicate his throne the broken-down
emperor fled to Liège, accompanied by one faithful servant, Kurt, and
there lay down to his last rest.

His body was left for five years in unconsecrated ground in a foreign
country. Kurt remained faithful, and prayed incessantly at the
burial-place of his royal master.

At last the Pope at Henry's request consented to recall the ban. Henry
ordered his father's remains to be brought to Speyer and solemnly
interred with the royal family. Kurt was allowed to follow the
procession to Speyer, but wearied out by this long watching the old
man died a few days afterwards. Just at the moment of his death the
bells in the cathedral at Speyer tolled without any human hand putting
them in motion, as they always did when an imperial death took place.

Years passed.

The German emperor Henry V. lay dying on his luxurious couch at
Speyer. His bodily sufferings were intense, but the agony of his mind
was even greater; he had obtained the crown which now pressed so
heavily on his head, by shameful treacherous means. The apparition of
his father dying in misery appeared to him, and no words of the
flatterers at his bed-side could still the voice of his conscience. At
last death freed him from all his torments, and at the same hour the
bells which were always rung when a poor sinner was led to execution,
tolled, set in motion by no human hand.

Thus were the bells the instrument of that Hand which wisely and
warningly wrote ... "Honour thy father and thy mother...."




FRANKFORT

The Knave of Bergen


[Illustration: Der Scharfrichter von Bergen--Nach einer Zeichnung von
Adolf Menzel--The Knave of Bergen--Le bourreau de Bergen]

The emperor was to be crowned at Frankfort, and great festivities were
to be given in the town in his honour, among them a masquerade, at
which knights and noble ladies rivalled each other in splendour. Joy
was depicted on every face at this great assembly, only one knight
among the many guests being noticeable for his gravity and restraint.
He wore black armour, and the feather waving above his visor was black
too. No one knew him or could guess who he was. He approached the
empress with a noble grace, bent his knee, and asked her to dance with
him, which she graciously consented to do. He glided gracefully
through the splendid halls with the queen of the festival, and soon
every eye was turned on them, and everyone was eager to know who he
was.

The empress was charmed with her excellent partner, and the grace of
his refined conversation pleased her so much that she granted him a
second and a third dance.

Everyone became more and more curious to know who this masked knight
was. Meanwhile the hour struck when every mask had to be raised, and
every masked guest must make himself known. More than all the others
the empress was anxious to know who her partner was. But he hesitated
and even refused to take off his mask until she ordered him
peremptorily to do so. The knight obeyed, but none of the high ladies
or noble knights recognised him. Suddenly two stewards pressed through
the crowd, crying out with indignation and horror;

"It is the headsman from Bergen!"

Then the emperor in great wrath ordered the shameful offender who had
thus degraded the empress and insulted his sovereign to be led to
execution.

But the culprit, throwing himself at the emperor's feet, said boldly,
"I have transgressed, my lord, and offended you and your noble guests,
but most heavily have I sinned against my queen. No punishment, not
even blood, will be able to wash out the disgrace you have suffered
through me. Therefore, oh King! allow me to propose a remedy to efface
the shame. Draw your sword and knight me, and I will throw down my
gauntlet to any one who dares to speak disrespectfully of my
sovereign."

The emperor was taken by surprise at this bold proposal. However it
appeared the wisest plan to adopt.

"You are a knave," he replied after a moment's consideration, "but
your advice is good and displays prudence, just as your offence shows
adventurous courage. Well then,"--laying his sword on the man's
neck--"rise Sir Knight. You have acted like a knave, and the Knave of
Bergen you shall be called henceforth."

A joyful shout of approbation pealed through the halls, and the new
knight again glided gracefully through the crowd with the queen of the
festival.




MAYENCE

Heinrich Frauenlob


[Illustration: Heinrich Frauenlob--Steinbild im Dom zu Mainz]

The priest or as some say, canon, in the old town of Mayence was a
very worthy man, and at the same time a heaven-gifted singer. Besides
devoting himself to science, he composed numerous pious verses which
he dedicated to the Holy Virgin. He also played the harp, and wrote
many beautiful songs in honour of the female sex.

In contrast to many contemporary poets, he considered "woman" a higher
title than "wife," which only signifies a married woman. So on account
of the chivalry displayed in his numberless poems and songs, posterity
gave him the name of "Frauenlob," under which title he is better known
than under his own name of Heinrich of Meissen.

The love and veneration which thankful women paid him was very great,
not only during his life-time, but even more so after his death. Their
grief was intense when it became known that the poet's voice would
never more be heard in this world. It was agreed to honour him with
such a burial as no poet had ever before received. The funeral
procession moved slowly and sorrowfully along the streets, the greater
part of the cortege being women in deep mourning who prayed for the
repose of the poet's soul. Eight of the most beautiful among them
carried the coffin, which was covered with sweet-scented flowers.

At the grave songs of lamentation were heard from women's gentle
voices. Precious Rhine-wine which had been the poet's favourite drink,
and which so often had inspired his poetry, was poured by hands of his
admirers over his grave, so profusely, the legend relates, that the
entrance of the church was flooded by the libation. But still more
precious than all these gifts were the tears, which on this memorable
day were shed by many a gentle lady.

The wanderer can still see the monument erected to this great
benefactor in the cathedral at Mayence, which represents the figure of
a beautiful woman in pure-white marble placing a wreath on the coffin
of the great singer, who had honoured women in the most chivalrous of
songs.




Bishop Willigis


[Illustration: Bischof Willigis in der Klosterschule--Nach dem Gemälde
von Lindenschmitt]

In the year 1000 there was a very pious priest in Mayence called
Bishop Willigis. He was only the son of a poor wheelwright, but by his
perseverance and his own merit he had attained to the dignity of first
priest of the kingdom. The honest citizens of Mayence loved and
honoured the worthy divine, although they did not altogether like
having to bow down to one who had been brought up in a simple cottage
like themselves.

The bishop once reproved them in gentle tones for thinking too much of
mere descent. This vexed the supercilious citizens, and one night they
determined to play Willigis a trick. They took some chalk and drew
enormous wheels on all the doors of his house.

Early next morning as the bishop was going to mass, he noticed the
scoffers' malicious work. He stood silently looking at the wheels, the
chaplain by his side expecting every moment that the reverend prelate
would burst forth in a terrible rage. But a gay smile spread over the
bishop's features and, ordering a painter to be sent to him, he told
him to paint white wheels on a scarlet back-ground, visible to every
eye, just where the chalk wheels had been drawn, and underneath to
paint the words, "Willigis! Willigis! just think what you have risen
from." But he did not stop there. He ordered the wheelwright to make
him a plough-wheel, and caused it to be placed over his couch in
memory of his extraction.

Thereafter the scoffers were put to silence, and the people of Mayence
began to honour and esteem their worthy bishop, who, though he had
been so exalted, possessed such honest common-sense.

White wheels on a red ground have been the arms of the Bishops of
Mayence ever since.




JOHANNISBERG


Wherever the German tongue is heard, and even further still, the king
of all Rhine wines, "Johannisberger" is known and sought after. Every
friend of the grape which grows on the banks of this river is well
acquainted with it, but few perhaps know of its princely origin. It is
princely, not because princes' hands once kept the key to
Johannisberg, but rather because princely hands planted the vine in
the Rhine country, and this royal giver was no other than Charlemagne,
the all-powerful ruler of the kingdom of the Franks.

Once in early spring Charles the Great was standing on the balcony of
his castle at Ingelheim, his eyes straying over the beautiful stretch
of country at his feet. Snow had fallen during the night, and the
hills of Rüdesheim were clothed in white. As the imperial ruler was
looking thoughtfully over the landscape, he noticed that the snow on
one side of Johannisberg melted quicker in the sun's rays than on any
other part. Charles, who was a great and deep thinker, began to
reflect that on a spot where the rays of the sun shone so genially,
something better than grass would thrive.

Sending for Kunrat, his faithful servant, he bade him saddle his horse
the next day at dawn and ride to Orleans, a town famous for its good
wine. He was to inform the citizens that the emperor had not forgotten
the excellent wine they had given him there, and that he would like to
grow the same vines on the Rhine. He desired the citizens of Orleans
therefore to send him plants from their country.

The messenger set off to do the king's bidding and ere the moon had
again gone round her course, was back in the castle at Ingelheim.
Great satisfaction prevailed at court. Charles, mighty ruler as he
was, even went so far as to cross to Rüdesheim, where he planted with
his royal hand the French vine in German soil.

This was no mere passing whim on the part of the emperor. He sent
messengers constantly to bring word how the vines were thriving in
Rüdesheim and on the flanks of Johannisberg, and when the third autumn
had come round, the Emperor Charlemagne set out from his favourite
resort, Aix-la-Chapelle, for the Rhine country, and great rejoicing
prevailed among the vine-reapers from Rüdesheim to Johannisberg.

The first cup of wine was solemnly offered to the emperor, a golden
wine in a golden goblet, a wine worthy of a king.

Charles took a long deep draught, and with brightened eyes praised the
delicious drink. It became his favourite wine, this fiery
"Johannisberger," making him young again in his old age. What
Charlemagne then felt when he drank this wine, every one who raises
the sparkling grapejuice to his lips is keenly sensible of also.
Wherever the German tongue is heard, and even further still, the king
of all Rhine wines is known and sought after, Johannisberger wine.

       *       *       *       *       *

The legend weaves another wonderful tale about the great emperor
blessing his grapes.

A poet's pen has fashioned it into a song, which is still often heard
among the grapegatherers.

Every spring when the vines are blossoming on the hills and in the
valleys along the river, and their fragrance scents the air, a tall
shadow wanders about the vineyards at night, a purple mantle hanging
from his stately shoulders, and a crown on his head. It is
Charlemagne, the great Emperor, who planted the grapes long years
before. The luscious scent of the blossoms wakens him up from his tomb
in Aix-la-Chapelle, and he comes to bless the grapes.

When the full moon gently casts her bright beams on the water,
lighting up the emperor's nightly path, he may be seen crossing the
golden bridge formed by her rays and then wandering further along the
hills, blessing the vines on the other side of the river.

At the first crow of the cock he returns to his grave in
Aix-la-Chapelle, and sleeps till the scent of the grapes wakens him
next spring, when he again wanders through the countries along the
Rhine, blessing the vineyards.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let us now relate another little story which is told of the monks who
lived at Johannisberg.

Once the high Abbot of Fulda came unexpectedly to visit the cloister
at Johannisberg just about the time when the grapes were ripe. The
worthy Abbot made many inquiries about his people, showed himself
highly pleased with the works of the industrious monks, and as a mark
of his continued favour, invited all the inmates of the cloister to a
drinking-bout.

"Wine maketh the heart glad," thus quoting King David's significant
words, the holy man began his speech: "God's loving hand will be
gracious in future years to your vines. Let us profit by his grace,
brothers, and drink what he has provided for us in moderation and
reverence. But before we refresh ourselves with God's good gifts, take
your breviaries and let us begin with a short prayer."

"Breviaries!" was whispered along the rows, and the eyes of the fat
genial faces blinked in helpless embarrassment.

"Yes, your breviaries," and the white-haired Abbot looked silently but
sternly at the brothers.

They searched and searched.

Gradually the frown disappeared from the Abbot's face, and a smile
gradually spread over his withered features.

"Well, never mind, let us drink," said he. Then feeling his pockets,
he said with a gleam in his eye, "That's too bad! I ought to have
brought a corkscrew with me when I came to the Rhine."

"A corkscrew!" Every one dives his hand into his pocket, and as many
corkscrews were produced before the worthy Abbot as there were
brothers present.

Then a gleam of merriment beamed in the Abbot's eyes.

"Bravo, ye pious monks! what a plentiful supply of corkscrews! Do not
all look so embarrassed, we shall not be annoyed about it to-day
but--to-morrow! Now we shall sing with King David, 'Wine maketh the
heart glad,'" and the uncorked bottle went the rounds.




INGELHEIM

Eginhard and Emma


I.

The story which we have now to relate is a very touching one, and it
becomes even more interesting when we know that it is based on real
fact.

In the little town of Ingelheim there was a beautiful marble castle,
the favourite residence of Charlemagne. He often retired to this
lonely, peaceful spot accompanied only by a few of his faithful
vassals and the members of his own family. Eginhard, the emperor's
private secretary, was never missing from this little circle.
Charlemagne thought highly of this man, then in the prime of youth, on
account of his profound knowledge and extraordinary talents.

The young scholar, so different from the wise councillors not only in
his learning but in his cultivated manners, was a great favourite
among the ladies of the court.

Eginhard who was a constant companion of the emperor, had also become
an intimate member of the family circle, and Charlemagne entrusted him
with the education of his favourite child Emma, daughter of his wife
Gismonda. This dark-eyed maiden was considered the most beautiful of
her age, and the young scholar could not long remain cold and
indifferent to her charms. The undisturbed hours which should have
been spent in learning, led to a mutual understanding. Eginhard
struggled to remind himself of his duty towards his sovereign, but
love overcame him, and soon an oath of eternal fidelity united these
young hearts.


II.

The great emperor ought to have known what would be the consequence of
allowing the young scholar to enjoy the society of his dark-eyed,
passionate daughter. In the still hours of the night when all the
inmates of the castle lay wrapped in sleep, Eginhard sought the
chamber of his beloved. She listened enchanted to the glowing words of
his burning heart, but their love was chaste and pure, no gusts of
passion troubling them.

But fate was against these lovers. One night they were sitting in
Emma's chamber talking confidentially together. The great palace was
veiled in darkness, no ray of light, no star was to be seen in the
heavens. As Eginhard was about to leave the chamber, he perceived that
the courtyard below was covered with snow. It would have been
impossible to pass across it without leaving a trace behind him, but
at all risks he must reach his room.

What was to be done? Love is ingenious. After considering for some
time together, they both concluded that there was but one way to
prevent their being betrayed. The slender maiden took her lover on
her back and carried him across the courtyard, thus leaving behind
only her two small foot-prints.

It happened that Charles the Great had not yet sought the repose he
needed so much, as care banished sleep from his eyes. He sat at his
window and looked out into the silent night. In the courtyard below he
perceived a shadow crossing the pavement and, looking carefully, he
recognised his favourite daughter Emma carrying a man on her
back.--Yes! and this man was Eginhard, his great favourite. Pain and
anger struggled in his heart. He wanted to rush down and kill him--an
emperor's daughter and a mere secretary--but with a great effort he
restrained himself, mastered the violent agitation which this
unexpected sight caused him, and went back to his chamber to wait
wearily for dawn.


III.

The next day Charles assembled his councillors. They were all
horrified to see his ghastly look; his brow was dark, and sorrow was
depicted on every feature. Eginhard looked at his master apprehending
coming evil. Charlemagne stood up and spake:--

"What does a royal princess deserve, who receives the visit of a man
at night?" The councillors looked at each other speechless. Eginhard's
countenance became white as death. The councillors soon guessed the
name of the royal princess, and they consulted together for some time
not knowing what to say, but at last one councillor answered:--

"Your Majesty, we think that a weak woman must not be punished for
anything done out of love."

"And what does a favourite of the emperor deserve who creeps into a
royal princess' chamber at night?"

Charlemagne cast a dark look at his secretary, who trembled and became
even paler. "Alas! all is lost," murmured he to himself. Then, raising
his voice, he said, "Death, my Master and Emperor!"

Charles looked at the young man full of astonishment. The wrath in his
soul melted at this self-accusation and fervent repentance. Deep
silence followed this answer, and in a few minutes the emperor
dismissed his councillors, making a sign at the same time to Eginhard
to follow him.

Without a word Charles led him into his private chamber, where in
answer to his summons, Emma appeared.

Her heart misgave her as she saw the dark look on her father's face
and the troubled features of her beloved. She understood all at once,
and with a convulsive cry of pain threw herself at her father's feet.

"Mercy! mercy! my father, we love each other so dearly!" murmured she,
raising her large eyes imploringly. "Mercy!" murmured Eginhard too,
bending his knees.

The emperor remained silent. After a time he began to speak earnestly
and coldly at first, but his voice changed to a milder tone on hearing
the sobs of his favourite child.

"I shall not separate you who are bound to each other by love. A
priest shall unite you, and at dawn to-morrow you must both be gone
from the castle, never to return."

He left them, shutting the door behind him.

The beautiful maiden sank down on her knees, only half conscious in
her grief of what her father had said. But Eginhard's soft voice soon
whispered in her ear.

"Do not weep, Emma. By thrusting you from him, your father, my master,
has only bound us together for ever. Come," he continued in a
trembling voice, alarmed at her passionate tears, "we must go, but
love will be ever with us."

The next day two pilgrims left the castle of Ingelheim, and took the
road in the direction of Mayence.


IV.

Time wore on.

Charles the Great had made war on Saxony, had set the Roman crown upon
his own head, and had become famous throughout the whole world. But
all his fame had not prevented his hair from becoming grey, nor his
heart from being sad. A mournful picture had imprinted itself on his
mind, despite all his efforts to forget the past. In the evening when
the setting sun glittered on the marble pillars of the royal palace,
casting its golden rays into the chamber of the great emperor, it
would find him sitting motionless in his carved oak-chair, his grey
head buried in his hands, mournful dreams troubling his peace. He was
thinking of the days which were past, of the young man whose gentle
ways made him so different from the rough warriors of the court, how
he used to recite poetry and sing the songs of the old bards so
passionately, and the old legends which the emperor prized so much,
how he used to read to him from the old gray parchment which he,
Eginhard, had written so carefully, how his own favourite dark-eyed
daughter had so often been present, sitting at his feet listening
intently to the reader--all this came back to his memory, saddening
his heart, and filling his eyes with tears.


V.

Bugle-horns sounded through the forest, Charles and his followers were
at the chase. The old emperor, seeking to forget his grief, had seized
his spear and had gone out to hunt.

In his eagerness to follow a magnificent stag he had become separated
from his escort. The sun was already low in the west; the animal, now
seeing no way of escape, as his pursuer was close behind him, dashed
into a river and swam to the other side. The emperor, in hot pursuit
and much exhausted, arrived at the water's edge, and for the first
time noticed that he was alone, and in a part of the country quite
unknown to him.

The river lay before him and the forest behind, but the latter seemed
to be quite impenetrable. It was already night, and Charles sought in
vain to find some path or track.

As he was looking round him, he perceived a light in the distance.
Greatly pleased he started off in that direction, and found a little
hut close to the river, but on looking through the window Charlemagne
saw the room was a very poor one.

"Perhaps this is the hermitage of some pious man," thought he, and
knocked at the door, whereupon a fair-haired man appeared on the
threshold.

Without mentioning his name, the emperor informed him of what had
happened, and begged shelter for the night.

At the sound of this loved voice, the man trembled, but controlling
himself, he invited the emperor to enter. A young woman was sitting on
a stool rocking a baby in her arms. She started, became very pale at
the sight of the emperor, and then hurried into the next room to hide
her emotion; Charles sat down, and refusing refreshment from his host
leaned his head wearily on his hands.

Minutes passed, and still he sat there lost in thought, dreaming of
those happy by-gone days.

At last the sweet prattle of a child roused him, and looking up he saw
a little girl about five years old at his side, stretching out her
arms to him, bidding him good-night. Charles looked closely at the
little angel-like creature, his heart throbbing within him. "What is
your name, little one?" asked he. "Emma," answered the child.

"Emma," repeated Charles with tears in his eyes, and drawing the child
closer to him he pressed a kiss on its forehead.

In a moment the man and his young wife were at the emperor's feet
imploring pardon. "Emma! Eginhard!" cried he with great emotion,
embracing them both. "Blessed be the place where I have found you
again!"

Emma and Eginhard returned in great pomp to the emperor's court. The
latter gave them his beautiful palace at Ingelheim, and only felt
himself happy when he was with them.

He caused a cloister to be built on the spot where he had found them
again, which to the present day is called "Seligenstadt," "town of the
happy."

In the church belonging to this little town the tomb of Eginhard and
Emma is still shown, for according to their wishes, their bones were
interred in the same coffin.




RÜDESHEIM

The Brömserburg


In the lofty cathedral of Spires stood a great assemblage of knights,
and on the throne near the altar sat Conrad der Staufe with his hands
resting on the hilt of his sword. All were listening intently to the
burning words of Bernard of Clairvaux who was describing the ruthless
manner in which the holy places of Palestine had been laid waste. As
the saintly preacher ended with a thrilling appeal to the religious
feelings of his audience, a great shout, "On, to Jerusalem!" rang
through the sacred edifice. Most of the knights offered to bring as
many followers as possible to aid their pious Emperor. Among those
present was Hans Brömser, the lord of the Niederburg at Rüdesheim.
This noble knight, the last of his race, was not detained at home by
family cares. His wife had early been taken from him by death, and
Mechtildis, the only offspring of their marriage, was left under the
protection of the neighbouring Falkenstein family.

So the pious warriors marched by devious and dangerous routes to that
land where Our Lord lived and suffered. In fierce battle with the
Saracens many a noble knight closed his eyes forever. Many met a
harder fate--a living death in the noisome prisons of the unbelievers.
After a lost battle Sir Brömser fell into the hands of the Turks, and
in a dungeon had to suffer shameful imprisonment. Sometimes they would
force their knightly foe to turn a millstone, while the crowd jeered.
Then, in the hour of deepest misery the knight made a vow to God.
"Give me my freedom again, and I vow that my child Mechtildis shall
devote her life to the Church." And he repeated the solemn words
again, and yet a third time.

Then happened what none of his companions-in-arms had ever hoped for.
The brave crusaders stormed this Turkish stronghold in the Syrian
desert, and liberated their fellow-crusaders from captivity. Full of
gratitude to God, Hans Brömser again fought valiantly in the holy
cause.

Meanwhile at home in the hospitable keep above the Rhine a maiden
awaited with anxiety the return of her father. Often in the silent
hours, with sweetness and sunshine around her, without and within, she
stood on the castle-wall and she saw in reverie that blue Eastern
land, whilst she listened to the wild throbbing of her young heart in
which the blossoms of first love were bursting.

Then one night her father returned to the Rhineland.

In the moss-covered courtyard of the castle Mechtildis embraced her
father long and silently. Beside the maiden, now in her seventeenth
year, stood the young lord of Falkenstein. The youth bowed deeply to
the lord of the Brömserburg, and greeted him kindly with the words,
"Welcome home, father!" Then the vow made in the Syrian prison rose
like a spectre to pall the joy of the crusader's return.

In the banqueting-hall of the castle a large company had assembled to
celebrate the happy return of Hans Brömser and his faithful
companions. The praise of the crusaders resounded and many stories
were told of the dangers the heroes had encountered. With stirring
words the knight related to his listening guests how he himself had
fought in the sacred cause, and how he had suffered imprisonment among
the heathen. Then in a lower tone, and with solemn words, he told his
friends of the vow he had made in his hour of deep despair in the
Syrian dungeon.

The painful silence which followed was broken by a stifled cry, and
the knight's daughter, pale as the covering on the festive board, sank
unconscious to the floor. With burning cheek and flashing eye the
young lord of Falkenstein rose, and with a firm voice exclaimed,
"Mechtildis belongs to me; she has solemnly given herself to me
forever." The murmur soon subsided before the stern countenance of the
lord of the castle. "Mechtildis has been dedicated to heaven, not to
you, boy. The last of the Brömser race has sworn it, and abides by
it." The knight said this with suppressed fury, and soon his guests
departed in silence.

Mechtildis lay in her chamber in wild grief. The flickering lamp
beside the crucifix threw an unsteady light on the extended form of
the maiden who was measuring the tedious night hours in the
love-anguish of her young heart. To the distracted maid her chamber
seemed to be transformed to an oppressive dungeon. Seizing the lamp
with a trembling hand she hurried up the narrow winding stair on to
the roof of the castle, and there committed her great grief to the
listening ear of night. Leaning on the wall, she looked away towards
the castle where lived the noble young lord to whom she had dedicated
her life. "I am thine, my beloved," she sobbed. No star was visible in
the sky. A wild autumn wind shrieked and swirled round the keep in
accompaniment to the storm in the maiden's breast. A short piercing
cry echoed in the darkness. Was it the bride of the winds or a human
cry? The night swallowed it. From the parapet of the Brömserburg a
female form had been hurled down into the dark floods of the Rhine
below.

A bright harvest morning followed a stormy night. In the Brömserburg
they were searching everywhere in vain for their lord's daughter. Soon
however a mournful procession approached bearing the mortal remains of
Mechtildis. In the early dawn a young woman had rescued the body from
the waters of the river. Now the walls of the Brömserburg echoed with
sounds of woe over the early death of this last fair young flower of
the Brömser race. Hans Brömser threw himself on the body and buried
his stern features in the snowy linen. Not a tear bedewed his eyelids.

As a propitiatory offering for the rest of the soul of the maiden who
had thus avoided the monastic life, the knight in his deep sorrow
vowed to build a chapel on the hill opposite his castle. Then Hans
Brömser shut himself up in his chamber, and passed the following days
in silent grief, while the grave closed over his wretched child.

Many months passed, but still not a stone of the promised chapel had
been set up. In the bitterness of his sorrow the grief-stricken father
had separated himself more and more from the world, and now brooded in
gloomy isolation. One day a servant came before him with a likeness of
the Mother of God which an ox had scraped up while ploughing a field
on the hill opposite the castle, and three times the servant declared
he had heard the "Not Gottes" (Suffering of God) called out. Then Hans
Brömser remembered his vow, and the chapel for the peace of the soul
of Mechtildis was erected. "Not Gottes" it is called to this day.




BINGEN

The Mouse-Tower


Below Bingen in the middle of the Rhine there is a lonely island on
which a stronghold is to be seen. This tower is called "the
Mouse-Tower." For many centuries a very gloomy tale has been told
about it in connection with Hatto, Archbishop of Mayence, whose evil
deeds were well-known throughout the country.

Hatto is said to have been ambitious, heartless, and perfidious, as
well as cruel towards the poor. He extorted taxes from his people,
tolls were imposed, and new burdens invented only to gratify his
haughty pride and his love of display. On a little island between
Bingen and Rüdesheim he caused a tower to be built, so that all
passing ships could be stopped in the narrow passage, where they were
obliged to pay toll.

Soon after the building of this custom-house there was a very bad
harvest in the country round Mayence. Drought had parched the fields,
and the little seed remaining had been destroyed by hail. The scarcity
was felt all the more, because the bishop had bought up all the stores
of corn that were left from the year before, and had stored them up
safely in his granaries.

A terrible famine now threatened the land, spreading misery among the
poor. The unhappy people implored the cruel bishop to lower the price
of the corn in his store-house, which he wished to sell at such
exorbitant prices that his subjects could not buy it. All their
petitions were in vain. His advisers besought him to have pity on the
deplorable condition of the poor, but Hatto remained unmoved. When
cries of distress and the murmuring voices of the exasperated folk
were raised against their hard-hearted master, the bishop gave free
vent to the wicked thoughts of his soul.

One day a troop of hungry beggars came crowding to the episcopal
palace crying for food. Hatto and his guests were just sitting down to
a luxurious banquet. The bishop had been talking to his companions of
these wretched people, and had expressed his opinion that it would be
a good thing to do away with them altogether in some drastic way.

As the ragged mob of men, women and children, with hollow cheeks and
pale faces threw themselves at his feet crying for bread, a still more
fiendish plan suggested itself. Beckoning to them with hypocritical
kindness he promised them corn, and caused them to be led outside the
town to a barn, where each one was to receive as much corn as he
wished. The unhappy folk hurried forth, their hearts full of
gratitude; but when they were all in the barn, Hatto ordered the doors
to be locked and the barn to be set on fire.

The screams of the poor wretches were heart-rending, and could be
heard even in the bishop's palace.

But cruel Hatto called out scornfully to his advisers, "Listen! how
the mice are squeaking among the corn. This eternal begging is at an
end at last. May the mice bite me if it is not true!"

But the punishment which Heaven sent him was terrible. Thousands of
mice came out of the burning barn, made their way to the palace,
filled every chamber and corner, and at last attacked the bishop
himself. His servants killed them by hundreds, but their numbers
seemed only to increase, as did their ferocity also. The bishop was
seized with horror and, anticipating God's punishment, he fled from
the town and went on board a boat hoping to defend himself from his
terrible pursuers. But the innumerable horde swam in legions after
him, and when he reached his tower on the island thinking at least he
would be safe there, the mice followed him, gnawing the tower and
tearing for themselves an entrance with their sharp teeth, till at
last they reached him whom they sought. The cruel man was devoured by
the mice, which attacked him by scores. In his despair he offered his
soul to the Evil One, if he would release his body from such awful
agony. The Evil Spirit came, freed his body, but took his soul away
for himself.

Thus runs the legend. History however speaks less severely of Hatto,
the imperious prelate.

       *       *       *       *       *

His great ambition was his desire of power. He was the founder of the
temporal power which the seat of Mayence obtained, and which later on
made it the first bishopric of the kingdom, but he was always hated by
the citizens, who suffered much owing to his proud, despotic
character.

It is true that he was the founder of the toll which ships in olden
times were obliged to pay on the Rhine, so that this fact and many
other cruel exactions of his, have helped to evolve the terrible
legend of the Mouse-Tower.




THE VALLEY OF THE NAHE

KREUZNACH

A mighty draught


Once upon a time in the high castle called Rheingrafenstein near
Kreuznach, the flower of the knights belonging to the Rhine country
were assembled.

They were powerful warriors, these nobles of ancient rank, but the
most prominent among them was the host himself, the proud Rhine Count.
Many a cup had he already emptied to the health of his distinguished
guests, and rising up once more from his richly carved chair he cast a
look over the brilliant assembly and said in a boastful tone:

"I have got a knight's high boot here, my noble lords. A courier left
it behind him once. Now I promise on the honour of my house that
whoever will drink it empty at one draught, to him I will give the
village of Hüffelsheim yonder."

The count, smiling at the novelty of the challenge, took the boot from
his attendant's hand, caused it to be filled to the brim, and held up
this novel cup to his guests. "Tis a fair challenge! Come on whoever
will dare!" said he.

Among the illustrious company present there was one, John of
Sponheim, a knight well-known in the country for his enormous drinking
powers; but he remained unmoved at these defiant words, only looking
inquiringly at his neighbour, Knight Weinhart of Dhaun, who in great
perplexity, was striving to hide his head behind a large goblet. Old
Flörsheimer, another knight whose thirst usually seemed unquenchable,
stroked his gray beard doubtfully, while Kunz of Stromberg, a tall
thin man, shook his head at the thought of the after-effects which
such a draught would bring. Even the chaplain of the castle, who
attributed his effective intoning of high-mass to the virtues of the
Rhenish wine which he indulged in so freely, looked longingly at the
boot, but had not the courage to attempt such a rash act.

Suddenly a knight, Boos of Waldeck by name rose. He was a muscular man
with the strength of a bear. In a voice of thunder he banged his
mighty fist upon the table and said scornfully, "Bring me that little
boot!"

The distinguished company stared at him in great astonishment, but
Boos of Waldeck, taking the boot in his sturdy fist, cried out. "Your
health, my lords!"

Then flourishing it in the air, he emptied the boot at one draught.

When this act was accomplished, Boos threw himself heavily into his
chair, and addressing the master of the ceremonies, said with a
humorous twinkle in his eye:

"Did the courier not leave the other boot too? I might possibly win a
second bet, and thus acquire the village of Roxheim into the bargain."

The count looked much abashed, but the noble guests only laughed
heartily at the joke.

Thus stout Boos of Waldeck became lord of the village of Hüffelsheim.




The Foundation of Castle Sponheim


The following legend tells us about the origin of Castle Sponheim in
the valley of the Nahe. Once a Knight of Ravensberg was eagerly wooing
the beautiful young Countess of Heimburg, but there was a serious
obstacle in his path to success. Some years before a Ravensberg had
killed a Heimburg in a quarrel, and since that time a bitter feud had
divided the two houses. The brave knight felt this bitterly, but in
spite of it he did not leave off his wooing. The young countess was
much touched by his constancy, and one day she spoke thus to her
impetuous suitor:

"My lord, if you will dare to go to the Holy Land there to expiate the
sins of your fathers, and bring me back a relic from the sepulchre of
our Redeemer, in that same hour your suit will be heard."

The knight in great joy kissed the maiden's slender hand and departed,
carrying the memory of her sweet smile away in his heart.

Just at this time the call of the Emperor Barbarossa, now an old man,
sounded throughout the land, and the Knight of Ravensberg did not
neglect the opportunity, but hastened forth to join the imperial army.

The expedition was a long and terrible one, and the troops wearily
made their way across the desert plains of Palestine.

The knight, though a brave man, had no special love for warlike
adventures, and during these exhausting marches he thought sorrowfully
of his quiet castle on the Nahe; of how he used to lie down there in
peace and safety at night without being in fear of the Saracens who,
under cover of darkness would break in waving their scimitars in air,
an event which was a nightly occurrence on this expedition.

Ravensberg however fought bravely in many a battle, and after the
deaths of Barbarossa and his son, he joined the army of Richard the
Lion-hearted.

Through all this anxious time he never forgot his dear one at home,
and his longing for her became stronger every day, till it seemed to
get beyond endurance.

King Richard was called back to England on some urgent state-affairs,
and the Knight of Ravensberg was among the few companions-in-arms who
embarked with him. The brave knight was very happy, and while the
king's ship was sailing along the coast of Greece and up the blue
Adriatic Sea, he would often stand on deck and weave bright dreams of
the future; sometimes when no one was near, he would pull out a little
black ebony box set with precious stones, on which a woman's name was
written in golden letters; the interior was beautifully lined with
costly silk; and a small splinter of wood lay within which the knight
would kiss most reverently. He had paid a large sum of money for it
in the Holy Land, where he had bought it from a Jewish merchant. This
man had sworn to him that this fragment was from the cross to which
the Son of God had been nailed.

The knight was very happy during this long homeward journey, but a
great misfortune awaited him. Just as the crusaders came in sight of
Italy their vessel was wrecked. The King of England, the Knight of
Ravensberg, and a few others were saved with great difficulty, and
brought to land. But our poor knight was inconsolable; he had held the
precious little box high above him in the water, but a mighty wave had
torn it from him, and on opening his eyes he found himself on shore.
The holy relic had saved him, but he had lost his treasure, and now
all hope of his promised happiness was gone.

       *       *       *       *       *

One day a weary and dispirited crusader returned to the castle of
Heimburg. He announced his arrival to the young countess most humbly,
but she, her lovely face lighted up by a bright smile, hurried to meet
the knight whose sunburnt countenance betokened great hardships.

She listened silently to his mournful story, then raising her
beautiful head she asked: "Was not the little box set with precious
stones and was not my name in golden letters on it?"

"Yes, noble lady," said the knight, the bitterness of his
disappointment newly awakened, "And now it lies at the bottom of the
sea in spite of my fervent prayers to St. George to save the precious
fragment of our Saviour's cross."

The countess beckoned to a page, and after a few minutes the boy
brought her on a velvet cushion a little black ebony box set with
precious stones with a woman's name written on it. The knight uttered
a cry of joyful surprise, for he recognised the jewel at once.

"Entreat the Holy Patron of Knighthood to pardon you," said the
countess with a smile. "A strange knight brought this to the steward a
few days ago, and before I had time to send for him, he had
disappeared."

"It was St. George himself!" whispered the knight, crossing himself
piously, "which proves that the fragment really belonged to the Holy
Cross."

Then he bent his knee before his charming mistress who, with a deep
blush on her cheeks, gave the man she had long but secretly loved
love's first kiss.

       *       *       *       *       *

A happy marriage was speedily celebrated in Heimburg. The Knight of
Ravensberg then called his castle Spanheim (Span being the German word
for chip) in memory of the precious little relic. This name was later
on corrupted into Sponheim.




ASSMANNSHAUSEN

St. Clement's Chapel


[Illustration: Gefangener Raubritter--Nach dem Gemälde von Konrad
Weigand (zur Sage: Die Clemenskapelle)]

There is a very melancholy legend connected with the foundation of St.
Clement's church, which was built on the banks of the Rhine and which,
not long since, was rebuilt and renovated by the generosity of the
present great lady of Rheinstein Castle.

Rudolphus of Habsburg, elected emperor after the terrible anarchy
which had reigned in Germany when the land was left without a ruler,
determined by firm and vigorous government, to put an end to the
evil-doings of the robber-knights who held sway along the Rhine.

He had already threatened these much-dreaded nobles who disturbed the
peace of the country and the government of its ruler, and now hearing
that they still continued their ravages, the emperor appeared himself
in the Rhine countries, resolved to annihilate them and to destroy
their strongholds.

On his way through the land, Rudolphus set fire to all the strongholds
on the upper Rhine. The burning of the castles of Reichenstein,
Sooneck, Heimburg and others, was an awful sight to the inhabitants of
the valley below. Numerous members of these ancient noble races met
the death of felons, and their bodies were hung up on trees as a
warning to others.

Through the gates of Mainz many a robber baron was led as a prisoner
by the soldiers of the emperor. Every time that one of these barons
and his companions-in-arms were led along with bound hands, towards
the Imperial tribunal, young and old, rich and poor poured forth from
the streets and alleys, and accompanied the highborn malefactors with
curses. The windows of the houses around were filled with eager
onlookers, admiring the conduct of their emperor.

Moaning and wailing were then heard throughout the land, mothers,
wives, and daughters weeping for their dead. On the other hand the
merchants who had endured hardships and sufferings during these years,
were now delighted with the stern justice dealt out by the emperor.

Under cover of darkness stealthy forms could be seen creeping to the
place of execution, and silently and mournfully taking away the bodies
of their relatives to preserve them from ignominious destruction. They
then buried the wretched remains in consecrated ground, hoping thus to
satisfy the fears which haunted them of future punishment, for many of
their dear ones had stained their swords with the blood of their
neighbours.

In order to atone for these sins, and in accordance with the wise
counsel of a priest, the trees on which the bodies had been hanged
were cut down, and the wood used to build a chapel of expiation.
Stones were also taken from the smoking ruins of the burning castles
and employed for the same purpose. The little church was built on the
lonely place of execution on the Rhine near Assmannshausen.

The day arrived--a day of great sorrow and weeping--when all was
ready, and the priest was to read prayers from the altar for the first
time. Many funeral barges were to be seen on the river, bringing the
dead who were buried in the aisle of the church.

The Archbishop of Mayence absolved the bodies from their sins, and
afterwards they were all interred together near the little church for
the second time.

This occurred towards the end of the thirteenth century. For long
years afterwards prayers were offered up in this church in
Assmannshausen for the souls of the dead.

The once proud and mighty races gradually died out, and their
strongholds fell into ruins. And time which had demolished the castles
on the heights above, began her work of destruction on the little
church below; its roof decayed and its walls crumbled.

The ancient little church of St. Clement has since that time been
raised again from its ruins, and now the voice of God's priest is
heard chanting in it again, as it was heard six hundred years ago.




CASTLE RHEINSTEIN

The Wooing


[Illustration: Der Brautzug--Nach dem Gemälde von L. Herterich--(zur
Sage von Burg Rheinstein)]

In Castle Rheinstein once lived a knight called Diethelm, who devoted
himself without restraint to all the excesses of the robber barons.
From one of his pillaging expeditions he brought back a charming
maiden called Jutta. As the delicate ivy twines itself round the rough
oak and clothes its knotty stem with shimmering velvet; so in time the
gentle conduct of this maiden changed the coarse baron to a noble
knight who eschewed pillaging and carousing, and ultimately made the
fair Jutta the honoured wife of her captor.

The first fruit of their love cost the tender mother her life. Gerda
however, who much resembled her mother, grew to such a noble beauty
that soon wooers from far and near came to sue for the hand of the
beautiful daughter of the aged Diethelm. But the aged knight made a
most careful selection, and many gay wooers had to depart in sorrow.
One young man was however regarded favourably by the maid, and not
unkindly looked upon by the old man. He was the oldest son of the
owner of the Sternburg. This young man had contrived to win the
maiden's heart, and one day, while Gerda presided as queen of love
and beauty at a tournament held in the courtyard of Castle Rheinstein,
Helmbrecht made an avowal of his love.

Some days thereafter the young lord according to courtly fashion
appointed his uncle Gunzelin of Reichenstein to woo his chosen bride
for him. But Gunzelin though an old man was full of knavery and
falsehood, and so instead of wooing for his nephew he ingratiated
himself with Gerda's father. Moreover, as the old knight was descended
from an ancient family and possessed of much wealth Diethelm was
easily induced to promise him the hand of the fair Gerda. To the
astonishment of this worthy pair Gerda would not listen to the suit of
her rich wooer. Her heart belonged to the nephew, not to the uncle.
Now Count Diethelm was aroused, and with the blind fury of his earlier
years swore to his rich companion that Gerda belonged to him, and
should never wed the young cock-sparrow of the Sternburg.

In her quiet chamber the unhappy maid wept out her heart's grief, but
burning tears did not thaw the ice-cold heart of the father. In vain
the young lover tried to gain the old knight's favour, but Diethelm
merely referred to his knightly word solemnly pledged to the lord of
Reichenstein.

Soon the day approached on which Gunzelin, with the smiling
self-satisfaction of an old roué, and decked out to give himself all
the appearance of young manhood, was to lead the fairest maiden in the
Rhineland to his stately castle. Gerda who possessed the mild
disposition of her deceased mother had submitted to the inevitable. On
a bright summer morning the bridal procession started from the
courtyard of Castle Rheinstein, and moved towards the Clement's Chapel
situated in the neighbourhood. Horns blew and trumpets sounded. On a
milkwhite palfrey, sat the fair young bride, deadly pale. She was
thinking of her absent lover who in this hour must be enduring the
greatest anguish on her account. Then all at once a swarm of buzzing
gadflies came out of the bush and fastened fiercely on the palfrey
which bore the fair Gerda. The animal reared and broke from the bridal
procession. Boldly the bridegroom on his grandly caparisoned steed
dashed forward to check the frightened animal, but his war-horse
missing its footing on the narrow bridle path fell over a precipice
carrying its master with it. The dying knight was carried by the
wedding-guests back to Castle Rheinstein. The aged Diethelm was also
unfortunate in his attempt to stop the runaway steed. The maddened
animal had struck him on the shinbone, and wounded him. The servants
were thus obliged to carry the moaning greybeard back to his castle as
speedily and carefully as possible. The surgeon had a sad time of it
during the next week as he attended to the enraged old knight's wounds
and bruises.

When the runaway horse had disappeared round a bend of the path a man
threw himself upon it, and bringing the trembling animal to a
standstill clasped the unconscious bride in his arms. Helmbrecht,
concealed in the brushwood, had been watching the bridal procession,
and now came to the rescue of his true love. When the old lord heard
of this he came to his senses and gave the lovers his blessing. Some
weeks later a bridal procession advanced from the Clement's Chapel up
to the festively decorated Castle Rheinstein. Trumpets were blown and
horns resounded. Much more joyfully than on the previous occasion the
musicians marched in front. Upon a milkwhite palfrey, as formerly, sat
a noble maiden in bridal state, clothed in undulating robes bordered
with fur. Her head was bent in maiden modesty as she listened to the
endearments which the youthful knight whispered in her ear. Behind
rode the father of the bride sunk in thought, and along with him was
his pious sister Notburge, the canoness of Nonnenwerth.

A life of unalloyed married bliss followed this union, and God granted
to the noble pair a long and happy life. They rest together in front
of the altar in the Clement's Chapel which is situated across the
Rhine from Assmannshausen. Castle Rheinstein stands in renewed
youthful beauty on the edge of its precipitous cliff overlooking our
noble stream.




CASTLE SOONECK

The Blind Archer


In his stronghold at Sooneck, Siebold, one of the most rapacious of
the robber barons presided over a godless revel. Wanton women with
showy apparel and painted cheeks lolled in the arms of tipsy
cavaliers. The music blared, and to complete their carousal wine
flowed freely. The lord of Sooneck flushed with drinking, and leering
on the assembly with evil-looking eyes spoke as follows:

"Noble ladies (drunken applause from his worthy associates) and
much-married nobles (loudly giggled the shameless females), after food
and drink, I, as your host will be pleased to entertain you by
bringing before you a ferocious animal which I keep confined here."

While the ladies pretended to take shelter timidly behind their lords,
and the men stared at their host expecting some further explanation,
the doors of the room opened, and led by two servants a man in coarse
garments, and with unkempt hair and beard stood before them. A
suppressed whisper passed round the festive board and all eyes were
fixed on the haggard countenance of the prisoner. When for a moment
the weary eyelids were raised, two ghastly cavities were visible.
Again, with the same tone of levity, the lord of the castle spoke,
"Lovely ladies, and knightly companions, the best marksman on the
Rhine was Hans Veit of Fürsteneck. Like ourselves he was dreaded far
and near. He and I entered on a feud of life and death. He went down."

"With broken brand and battered shield, bleeding from numerous wounds
I lay prostrate before you awaiting manfully the death-thrust,"
murmured the prisoner, and his voice sounded as if from the grave. "It
pained me to finish him off," said Siebold flippantly, "I got his two
eyes taken out, and thus added to my collection of rarities, the best
archer on the Rhine."

"My murdered eyes behold your scorn," said the prisoner harshly. "But
surely chivalry still flourishes on Sooneck," said the lord of the
castle. "Understand then that my servants have informed me, that even
blind, you can, guided only by sounds, hit a given mark with a bolt.
If you come out of this ordeal successful, freedom shall be the
reward." Stormy applause greeted these words.

"Death were dearer to me than life," murmured the blind archer. As he
seized the crossbow however, a gleam of joy went over his countenance
like a ray of sunshine over a sombre landscape. Crowded together in a
corner of the room the guests watched the proceedings. The lord of
Sooneck seized a goblet and ordered the prisoner to draw upon it,
after hearing the sound. In the next moment the silver clang
resounded, as the goblet fell on the floor.

"Shoot now," said Siebold of Sooneck, and immediately an arrow pierced
his mouth. With a grunt like a slaughtered ox, Siebold sank among the
rushes. Silent and motionless with the two eye-cavities gaping, stood
the blind man. Then his shaggy head sank on his heaving breast. Like a
flock of frightened crows the knights and their paramours fled, and
only a few terrified squires and servants muttered prayers over the
body of the lord of Sooneck.




THE RUINS OF FÜRSTENBERG

The Mother's Ghost


Lambert of Fürstenberg was a hearty jovial knight, and had married
Wiltrud, a daughter of the Florsheim family. He was attached to his
gentle wife, who had just presented him with a son and heir. But an
evil genius entered the castle in the person of a noble maiden called
Luckharde. This maiden who had suddenly been left an orphan, belonged
to a family long befriended by the house of Fürstenberg. She was only
eighteen, but possessed a lascivious beauty, very dangerous to men.

The lady of the castle, who had been in delicate health since the
birth of her child, gave Luckharde a warm-hearted welcome into the
bosom of her family, trusting that the young woman would be of great
service to her in the management of her little realm, and would repay
her kindness by sisterly love and sympathy. Luckharde however was of a
vain and frivolous disposition, and had little love for household
affairs, or womanly duties.

As the months passed, Luckharde's ripening and dangerous beauty gained
gradually and almost imperceptibly more and more influence over the
susceptible heart of the lord of the castle, and soon the day came
when he yielded himself entirely to the charms of this beautiful
woman. Wiltrud's eyes were by no means blind to the shameful
ingratitude of the adulteress, and the godless conduct of her husband.
Her weakness however, prevented her from calling down the judgment of
heaven on the sinners. Luckharde, led on by her unbridled passion, now
formed a devilish design which would enable her to take the place of
the lawful wife of Lambert. One night she slipped into the chamber of
the lady of the castle, approached the bed of the sleeping woman with
a cat-like step, and smothered her with the pillows, the poor invalid
offering but a feeble and ineffective resistance.

Wiltrud's death was deeply mourned by the household, who believed that
she had died of a broken heart. Lambert too might be grieved, but in
the arms of his raven-locked enchantress he soon forgot his deceased
wife, and in a few weeks Luckharde was made lady of Fürstenberg. The
little boy whom Wiltrud had borne to her unfaithful husband was
hateful to the second wife, who fondled her lord, and flattered him
with the hope of the children she would bear him. Then it was arranged
that the knight's first-born should be handed over to the care of an
old crone who lived in a remote tower of the castle.

One night this old woman awoke suddenly, and was terrified to see a
female form dressed in a flowing white robe, bending over the cradle
of the little boy, who slept near. The woman seemed to be tending
the child, and after blessing him, she vanished. The old woman crossed
herself, and in terror muttered many prayers. In the early morning she
hurried to her new mistress in great agitation and with white lips
told her of her strange visitor. Luckharde at first laughed in her
usual frivolous manner at this ridiculous ghost story, but soon she
became more serious and alarmed. Then she ordered the old woman to
arrange her bed beside the other servants, but still to leave the
child in the tower-chamber. A dreadful fear had taken possession of
Luckharde's guilty soul. Perhaps people were deceived when they
believed Wiltrud to be dead, and it was thus that she returned at
night to nurse her child.

Then this daring and sinful woman prepared a bed for herself in the
lonely tower beside the child. She also brought with her a formidable
dagger, and thus she awaited what the night might bring forth. At
midnight the female figure dressed in the flowing white robe appeared
once more. It approached the cradle of the child, tended him and
blessed him. Then the terror-stricken Luckharde stared motionless at
the apparition as it rose and approached her bed. Towering there above
her were the pallid features of the dead Wiltrud, and the lifeless
entreating eyes looked steadily at this sinful woman who had taken the
place of her benefactress. To Luckharde it seemed as if a great
precipice was slowly bending over to overwhelm her. With a last mad
effort the wretched woman seized the dagger, and struck at the
apparition; but she might as well have struck at a misty cloud. Now
Luckharde perceived that she was in the presence of the murdered lady
of the Fürstenberg, and harrowed with the thought of her guilt she
seemed to hear a voice as if from another world saying, "Do penance
for thy sins."

Next morning Lambert waited in vain for his wife to appear. On looking
around however he noticed a piece of parchment. On it Luckharde had
confessed with deep sorrow, how she had murdered his first wife in
order to further her evil designs, and how the spirit of the dead had
appeared to her in the night, and warned her of her great guilt. She
was going to fly to a cloister to do penance during the remainder of
her days, and she recommended her sinful accomplice to do the same.
Lambert of Fürstenberg was deeply grieved on receiving this
revelation. He handed over his castle and child to a younger brother,
and spent the rest of this life as a solitary hermit.




BACHARACH

Burg Stahleck


Ancient Bacharach was once a famous place, and long before the fiery
wine that grows there became famous throughout the world--"it was in
the good old times" as our grandmothers say--it was the delight of
many a connoisseur abroad. About that time its grateful lovers erected
an altar to Bacchus who provided them so liberally with wine. The
place of sacrifice was on a huge rock projecting out of the Rhine,
between an island and the right bank of the river, and in honour of
the god they gave the town the name it still bears.

The inscriptions on the altar-stone have become unintelligible, but
the Bacharach folk know well to the present day the original meaning
of them.

Fishermen still keep up the old custom but now more as an amusement;
they dress up a straw-man as Bacchus, place him on the altar, and
surround him singing.

The ruins of the castle of Stahleck are situated on the Rhine, above
the wild, romantic country of Bacharach.

About the time of Conrad III., the first Emperor of the House of
Hohenstaufen, a young ambitious knight, Palatinate Count Hermann,
inhabited this castle. Being a nephew of the emperor, this aspiring
knight considered his high and mighty relationship as a sufficient
reason for enlarging his dominions.

He conceived no less a plan than that of taking possession of part of
the property which bordered on his land, belonging to the Archbishops
of Mayence and Treves, supporting his claim by declaring that for more
than one reason he had a right of possession. The jealousy which at
that time existed between the clerical and the secular powers, brought
a number of neighbouring knights to his side as allies, and the count
began his unprovoked quarrel by taking a castle at Treves on the
Moselle by storm. This castle belonged to the diocese of that town.

Adalbert of Monstereil, a man of an undaunted character, was then
Bishop both of Treves and Metz.

He at once collected his warriors to drive the bold robber from the
conquered castle. The temerity of the count and his superior forces
dismayed Adalbert, giving him grounds for sober reflections. But the
good bishop was a clever man and, not believing himself sufficiently
strong to resist the count, he sought refuge in spiritual weapons.

When his people were about to assault the stronghold, he made a most
enthusiastic speech to his troops.

Holding up a crucifix in his right hand, he told to them that in the
silent hours of the previous night the Archangel Michael had appeared
to him, and had given him this crucifix, at the same time promising
him certain victory if each of his warriors attacked the enemy in the
firm belief that an invincible Higher Power was near to help them.

The bishop's words inspired his men with a great courage. Led on by
the holy man carrying the crucifix in his raised hand, they marched on
to the assault, stormed the castle, and made Hermann's troops flee in
great confusion. The ambitious count, now finding himself deserted by
his troops, was forced to renounce the feud which he had hoped to
carry on against the bishop.

       *       *       *       *       *

The disgraceful defeat the count had suffered was most humiliating to
him, but it had not killed his ambition.

He now directed his thoughts to his other ecclesiastical neighbour.

Having searched through some ancient documents, he thought he had
found full right to a strip of land which Arnold of Solnhofen, Bishop
of Mayence, then held in possession. He at once sent in his claim to
this mighty prince of the church, who received it with a scornful
laugh. "Oh!" said the bishop, tearing up the written complaint, "I
shall be able to manage this little count as well as I have all along
managed the stubborn people of Mayence, some of whom have bitterly
repented of having rebelled against their bishop."

Hermann was told how Solnhofen had treated his claim. In great wrath
he swore to take vengeance on the man who had dared to tear up his
complaint so contumeliously. His young wife implored him with tears in
her eyes not to raise his hand against a servant of the Lord again.
But he turned contemptuously away.

Herman was well aware that, through the influence of the bishop's
companions-in-arms, he was now hated by the citizens of Mayence. This
circumstance made him determine to rob Arnold of land and dignity, as
he ascribed the cause of this deadly dissension to the power the
bishop exerted over the people of his diocese.

The count, now joined by several daring knights, again prepared to
make war against the representative of the church, and marched to
attack the bishop in his stronghold.

Arnold was enraged at this persistent striving against the dominions
of the church, and his dark soul conceived a dastardly plan to rid
them of their enemy. He hired two villains who treacherously put the
count to death.

Soon afterwards the rebellious citizens of Mayence successfully
stormed the bishop's palace and turned the cruel prelate out of his
episcopal seat, whereupon he was obliged to flee for his life. But
Arnold was not so easily subdued and he soon returned, breathing
vengeance. His friends warned him in vain, and even the famous
prophetess, Hildegarde of Rupertusberg, sent a messenger to him with
the words, "Turn to the Lord whom you have forsaken, your hour is
near at hand."

But he heeded not this admonition, and at last he was killed by the
rebels in the Abbey of Jacobsberg, some distance from the town where
he had taken up his residence.




KAUB

Castle Gutenfels


[Illustration: Turnier zu Köln--Zu der Sage von Burg Gutenfels]

About the middle of the thirteenth century, there was a stately castle
near Kaub which was inhabited by Count Philip of Falkenstein. There he
lived very happily with his beautiful sister Guta, who was as good as
she was fair.

Numerous knights had sought to win her love, but none had achieved
this conquest, the castle maiden having no desire to exchange her
brother's hospitable home for any other.

At that time a magnificent tournament was held at Cologne, to which
knights from all countries of the kingdom far and near and even from
England were invited.

A great multitude of spectators were assembled to see the stately
knights contending for the prize, which a fair hand would bestow on
them.

Among the nobles present at the tournament was a knight from England,
whose graceful figure and splendid armour were particularly striking.
He wore a veiled visor, and the stewards of the tournament announced
him under the name of "the Lion Knight," a golden lion ornamenting his
shield. Soon the majestic knight's master-like manner of fighting
created a great sensation, and when he succeeded in unhorsing his
opponent, a most formidable combatant, loud rejoicings rang through
the lists.

Count Philip and his sister were among the guests. Guta had been
watching the strange knight with ever increasing interest during the
tournament, regretting at the same time that she could not see his
face.

But an opportunity soon presented itself when the knight was declared
victor. When she was selected to present the prize, a golden
laurel-wreath, to the winner, she became much embarrassed, and a
feeling such as she had never before experienced seized her as she
looked at the Briton's face for the first time.

Perhaps the knight may have read in the lovely maiden's countenance
what she in vain tried to hide from him, perhaps a spark from that
passionate fire which had so suddenly fired her heart, may have flown
into his soul as he knelt before her to receive the wreath, which she
placed on his head with a trembling hand. Who can tell?

Afterwards when these two were conversing together in subdued
whispers, the knight silently admiring her grace and the maiden
scarcely able to restrain her feelings, the thoughts which he longed
to tell her, flamed in his heart. The same evening in the banqueting
hall, when the music was sounding within its walls, he was Guta's
inseparable companion, and eloquent words flowed from his lips telling
her of the love which his eyes betrayed.

The proud stranger begged Guta for her love and swore to be hers; he
told her he must at once return to his country where urgent duty
called him, but that he would come back to claim her in three months'
time. Then he would publicly sue for her hand and declare his name,
which circumstances compelled him to keep secret for the time being.

Love will make any sacrifice; Guta accepted her lover's pledge
willingly, and thus they parted under the assurance that they would
soon meet again.

Five months had passed. That terrible time ensued when Germany became
the battle-field of the party-struggles over the election of the
emperor. Conrad IV., the last of the house of Hohenstaufen, had died
in Italy. In the northern countries there was a great rising against
William of Holland who was struggling for the imperial throne;
Alphonso of Castile was chosen king in one part of the country, while
Richard of Cornwall, son of John, king of England, was elected in
another; but Richard, having received most influential votes, was
crowned at Aix-la-Chapelle, and from thence he started on a journey
through the Rhine provinces, to the favour of which he had been
chiefly indebted for his election.

       *       *       *       *       *

Spring was casting her bright beams over waves and mountains in the
valley of the Rhine, but in Falkenstein castle no ray of sunshine
penetrated the gloom. Guta, pale and unhappy, sat within its walls,
weaving dreams which seemed destined never to be fulfilled. Sometimes
she saw her lover dying on a terrible battle-field with her name on
his lips, then again laughing and bright with a maiden from that
far-off island in his arms, talking derisively of his sweetheart on
the Rhine. She became more and more conscious that she had given him
her first love, and that he had cruelly deceived her. Sorrow and grief
had taken possession of her, and all her brother's efforts to amuse
her and to distract her attention were in vain.

A great sound of trumpets was heard one day on the highway, and a
troop of knights stopped at the castle. Guta saw the train of warriors
from her window, where she had been sitting weeping. The count with
chivalrous hospitality received them, and led them into the
banqueting-hall. His astonishment was great, when he recognised the
bold Briton, the victor at the tournament in Cologne, as leader of
this brilliant retinue, he who had broken his secret pledge to his
beloved sister. A dark glance took the place of the friendly
expression on his face. The Briton seemed to notice it and pressing
Philip's hand said cordially, "I am Richard of Cornwall, elected
Emperor of Germany, and I have come here to solicit the hand of your
sister Guta, who promised herself to me five months ago in Cologne. I
come late to redeem my promise, but my love is unchanged. I beg you to
announce my arrival to her without betraying my name."

Philip bowed deeply before the illustrious guest, and the retainers
respectfully retired to a distance. The great guest strode up and down
the room impatiently. Then the doors were suddenly thrown open, and a
beautiful figure appeared on the threshold, her face glowing with
emotion.

With a low cry Guta threw herself into her lover's arms, and the first
moments of their reunion were passed in silent happiness.

Philip now entered the room unperceived, and revealed the secret to
his sister. The maiden in great confusion and shame stole a look at
her lover's eyes, and he, drawing her gently to him, asked her to
share all--even his throne with him.

Shortly afterwards Richard celebrated his marriage with imperial
magnificence at the castle on the Rhine, which Philip thence forward
called Gutenfels, in honour of his sister.




OBERWESEL

The Seven Maidens


The scattered ruins of an old knight's tower are still to be seen on
one of the heights near Oberwesel. The castle was called Schönberg,
after the seven virgins who once lived there, and whose beauty was
renowned throughout all the Rhine countries.

Their father had died early, some say of grief, because Heaven had
denied him a son, and an elderly aunt had striven in vain to guide the
seven wild sisters; but her influence had not been sufficiently strong
to lead them in the right way. After the death of this relative the
seven beautiful maidens were left to themselves, and now their longing
after liberty and the pleasures of the world broke out even stronger
than before.

Many a tale was told about them, how they used to ride out hunting and
hawking, how many a magnificent banquet was given by them, and how
their beauty, their riches, and the gay and joyous life led by them
attracted many knights from near and far; how many a stately noble
came to their castle to woo one of the sisters, and how these maidens
at first ensnared and enchanted him with a thousand attractive
charms, only in the end to reject the enamoured suitor with scorn and
mockery.

Ashamed and very wrathful many a great knight had left the castle, and
with indignation and disdain had blotted out of his memory the names
of these bewitching sirens who at first had listened with deceitful
modesty to his honest wooing, only afterwards to declare with scornful
laughter that their liberty was so dear to them, that they would not
give it up for the sake of any man.

Alas! there were always youths to be found who put no faith in such
speeches and, trusting to their great names and peculiar merits,
sought their happiness among these maidens. But all the trials ended
in the same mournful manner; no suitor succeeded in winning the heart
of these seductive beings. Thus they continued their dangerous and
contemptible life for some years.

Once again there was a great banquet and feasting in the halls of the
castle. A circle of knightly figures sat round the brilliant board
among the seven sisters, who were quite conscious of their charms, one
rivalling the other in gaiety and liveliness.

The joyous scene was disturbed for a short time by two knights who
were disputing about one of the sisters, and had angered each other by
their growing jealousy.

The scene excited general attention and was looked on at first as a
most amusing one, but when the youths were about to draw their
swords, it was thought necessary to separate them.

Seizing this opportunity one of the other knights proposed that to
guard against further discord, the castle maidens should be urged to
make a final decision, so that each suitor--they all recognised one
another as such--might know what he had to expect.

The proposal met with general applause, only the sisters showed
discontentment, declaring they could not agree to such a presumptuous
plan. However the wooers tried every imaginable means of persuading
them, and at last one of the sisters wavered, a second followed her
example, and the remaining ones, after whispering to each other for
some time, declared with laughing countenances that they would decide
the fate of their suitors the next day.

The expected hour arrived, and the knights in great suspense assembled
in the large hall.

Every eye was riveted on the door through which these Graces should
enter, bringing a sweet surprise to some or a bitter disappointment to
others.

The folding-doors were suddenly thrown open, and an attendant
announced that the mistresses of the castle were waiting to receive
the knights in the garden near the river.

The numerous suitors all hurried out. To their great astonishment they
saw the fair ones all seated in a boat on the Rhine. With a peculiar
smile they beckoned the knights to approach, and the eldest sister
standing up in her seat, made the following speech.

"You may all throw your hopes to the winds, for not one of us would
dream of falling in love with you, much less of marrying you. Our
liberty is much too precious to us, and we shall not sacrifice it for
any man. We are going to sail down to Cologne to the property of a
relation, and there we shall disappoint other suitors, just as we have
misled you, my noble lords. Good-bye, good-bye!"

The scornful speech was accompanied by a scoffing laugh which was
re-echoed by the other sisters, and the boat set sail.

The rejected suitors stood speechless with shame and anger.

Suddenly a terrible storm arose, the boat was agitated violently, and
the laughter of the seven sisters was turned to cries for help. But
the roaring of the waves drowned their voices, and the billows rushed
over the boat, burying it and the seven sisters in the depths below.

Just on the spot where these stony-hearted maidens met their deaths,
seven pointed rocks appeared above the surface of the water, which up
to the present day are still to be seen, a salutary warning to all the
young maidens of the country.




ST. GOAR

Lorelei


[Illustration: Die Loreley--Nach dem Gemälde von C. Begas]


I.

Above Coblenz where the Rhine flows through hills covered with
vineyards, there is a steep rock, round which many a legend has been
woven--the Lurlei Rock. The boatman gazes up at its gigantic summit
with awful reverence when his boat glides over the waters at twilight.
Like chattering children the restless waves whisper round the rock,
telling wonderful tales of its doings. Above on its gray head, the
legend relates that a beautiful but false nymph, clothed in white with
a wreath of stars in her flowing hair, used to sit and sing sweet
songs, until a sad tragedy drove her forever away.

Long long ago, when night in her dark garment descended from the
hills, and her silent comrade, the pale moon, cast a silver bridge
over the deep green stream, the soft voice of a woman was heard from
the rock, and a creature of divine beauty was seen on its summit. Her
golden locks flowed like a queenly mantle from her graceful shoulders,
covering her snow-white raiment so that her tenderly-formed body
appeared like a cloud of light. Woe to the boatsman who passed the
rock at the close of day! As of old, men were fascinated by the
heavenly song of the Grecian hero, so was the unhappy voyager allured
by this being to sweet forgetfulness, his eyes, even as his soul,
would be dazzled, and he could no longer steer clear of reefs and
cliffs, and this beautiful siren only drew him to an early grave.
Forgetting all else, he would steer towards her, already dreaming of
having reached her; but the jealous waves would wash round his boat
and at last dash him treacherously against the rocks. The roaring
waters of the Rhine would drown the cries of agony of the victim who
would never be seen again.

But the virgin to whom no one had ever approached, continued every
night to sing soft and low, till darkness vanished in the first rays
of light, and the great star of day drove the gray mists from the
valley.


II.

Ronald was a proud youth and the boldest warrior at the court of his
father, the Palatinate Count. He heard of this divine, enchanting
creature, and his heart burned with the desire to behold her. Before
having seen the water nymph, he felt drawn to her by an irresistible
power.

Under pretence of hunting, he left the court, and succeeded in getting
an old sailor to row him to the rock. Twilight was brooding over the
valley of the Rhine when the boat approached the gigantic cliff; the
departing sun had long sunk below the mountains, and now night was
creeping on in silence; the evening star was twinkling in the deep
blue firmament. Was it his protecting-angel who had placed it there
as a warning to the deluded young man?

He gazed at it in rapture for some time, until a low cry from the old
man at his side interrupted him. "The Lorelei!" whispered he,
startled, "do you see her--the enchantress?" The only answer was a
soft murmur which escaped from the youth. With wide-open eyes he
looked up and lo! there she was. Yes, this was she, this wonderful
creature! A glorious picture in a dark frame. Yes, that was her golden
hair, and those were her flowing white garments.

She was hovering up above on the rocks combing her beautiful hair;
rays of light surrounded her graceful head, revealing her charms in
spite of the night and the distance and as he gazed, her lips opened,
and a song thrilled through the silence, soft and plaintive like the
sweet notes of a nightingale on a still summer evening.

From her height she looked down into the hazy distance and cast at the
youth a rapturous look which sank down into his soul, thrilling his
whole frame.

His eyes were fixed on the features of this celestial being where he
read the sweet story of love.... Rocks, stream, glorious night, all
melted into a mist before his eyes, he saw nothing but the figure
above, nothing but her radiant eyes. The boat crept along, too slowly
for him, he could no longer remain in it, and if his ear did not
deceive him, this creature seemed to whisper his name with unutterable
sweetness, and calling to her, he dashed into the water.

A death-like cry echoed from the rocks ... and the waves sighed and
washed over the unhappy youth's corpse.

The old boatman moaned and crossed himself, and as he did so,
lightning tore the clouds asunder, and a loud peal of thunder was
heard over the mountains. Then the waves whispered gently below, and
again from the heights above, sad and dying away, sounded the Lurlei's
song.


III.

The sad news was soon brought to the Palatinate Count, who was
overpowered with grief and anger. He ordered the false enchantress to
be delivered up to him, dead or alive.

The next day a boat sailed down the Rhine, manned by four hardy bold
warriors. The leader looked up sternly at the great rocks which seemed
to be smiling silently down at him. He had asked permission to dash
the diabolical seducer from the top of the rocks into the foaming
whirlpool below, where she would find a certain death, and the count
had readily agreed to this plan of revenge.


IV.

The first shades of twilight were gliding softly over mountain and
hill.

The rock was surrounded by armed men, and the leader, followed by some
daring comrades, was climbing up the side of the mountain the top of
which was veiled in a golden mist, which the men thought were the
last rays of sunset. It was a bright gleam of light enshrouding the
nymph who appeared on the rocks, dreamingly combing her golden hair.
She then took a string of pearls from her bosom, and with her slender
white hand bound them round her forehead. She cast a mocking glance at
the threatening men approaching her.

"What are the weak sons of the earth seeking up here on the heights?"
said she, moving her rosy lips scornfully. "You sorceress!" cried the
leader enraged, adding with a contemptuous smile, "You! We shall dash
you down into the river below!"

An echoing laugh was heard over the mountain.

"Oh! the Rhine will come himself to fetch me!" cried the maiden.

Then bending her slender body over the precipice yawning below, she
tore the jewels from her forehead, hurling them triumphantly into the
waters, while in a low sweet voice she sang:--

    "Haste thee, haste thee oh father dear!
    Send forth thy steeds from the waters clear.
    I will ride with the waves and the wind!"

Then a storm burst forth, the Rhine rose, covering its banks with
foam. Two gigantic billows like snow-white steeds rose out of the
depths, and carried the nymph down into the rushing current.


V.

The terrified messengers returned to the count, bringing him the
tidings of this wonderful event.

Ronald, whose body a chance wave had washed up on the banks of the
river, was deeply mourned throughout the country.

From this time forth, the Lorelei was never seen again. Only when
night sheds her dark shadow on the hills, and the pale moon weaves a
silver bridge over the deep green stream, then the voice of a woman,
soft and low, is heard echoing from the weird heights of the rocks.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Lorelei has vanished, but her charm still remains.

Thou canst find it, O Wanderer, in the eyes of the maidens near the
Rhine. It blooms on their cheeks, it lingers on their rosy lips, there
thou wilt find its traces.

Arm thy heart, steel thy will, blindfold thine eye!

As a poet of the Rhine once wisely and warningly sang, "My son, my
son, beware of the Rhine...."

The Lorelei has vanished, but her charm still remains.




RHEINFELS

St. George's Linden


The ruins of Castle Rheinfels, which stand above the pretty little
town of St. Goar, are the most extensive of their kind on the Rhine.
The castle was erected in the middle of the 13th century by Count
Dietherr, a nobleman belonging to the famous Rhenish family of
Katzenelnbogen. It was a strongly fortified burg, and within ten years
of its completion the mighty ramparts witnessed several bloody
encounters. Twenty-six Rhenish cities once combined to carry the
invulnerable fortress, but though some 4000 lives were sacrificed the
army retreated baffled. For centuries after this, the banner of the
Hessian Landgraf waved from its battlements, none daring to attack it.
Then the fanatic Gallic forces of the Revolution entered the
Rhineland, and laid the magnificent castle in ruins.

There is a legend associated with Rheinfels which dates from that age
of chivalry when noble knights and their squires trod its courts, and
this legend seems touched with the sadness of the history of the
castle itself. The Count of Rheinfels was the proud father of a lovely
daughter, and among her numerous wooers it was George Brömser of
Rüdesheim who had won the maiden's heart. No one was more incensed at
this than the knight of Berg. This knight belonged indeed to a race
said to have been descended from an archbishop of Cologne, but his
disposition was evil, and his covetousness and avarice made him wish
to increase what earthly possessions he had. But the lord of Rheinfels
was shrewd enough and hesitated before entrusting his pretty daughter
and her large dowry to such a man. As already remarked this entirely
agreed with the maiden's desire. She was really deeply in love with
the chivalrous young knight of Rüdesheim, but shrank, almost with
aversion, from the impetuous wooing of the harsh and selfish knight of
Berg.

Some time after the betrothal of the lovers the date of the marriage
was fixed. Before the marriage had been celebrated however young
Brömser appeared at Rüdesheim in the early dawn on his steaming
war-horse, having ridden during the night from Rüdesheim to bring the
following sad intelligence to his beloved. The Emperor Albrecht had
summoned the nobles to do battle against the Swiss confederates, who
had renounced their allegiance, driven the imperial representatives
from their land, and finally declared war against their overlord. The
knights of the Rhineland were called upon to suppress the flames of
rebellion. On receiving the pressing call of the Emperor, Brömser did
not hesitate for a moment but resolved to obey his feudal superior.

At first the young bride wept, but when her lover comforted her with
words of endearment, and her father praised the soldierly resolution
of the young man, the maiden calmly submitted to the will of God.
Before the young knight rode off he took a young linden-tree which he
had pulled up in a grove, and having removed the soil with his sword,
he planted the sapling in front of the castle. Then he spoke as
follows to his bride. "Tend this budding linden which I have planted
here to the honour of my patron saint. You shall keep troth with me so
long as it flourishes, but if it fade (and may St. George in his grace
prevent it) then you may forget me, for I shall be dead." The weeping
bride threw herself in her lover's arms, and while he enfolded her
gently with his right, with his left he raised his sword, and showed
her engraved upon it in ancient letters, for daily repetition, the
words: "Preserve O everlasting God, the body here, the soul hereafter.
Help, knight St. George." Then, after receiving many kind wishes from
his sorrowing friends, the young soldier rode in the morning mist down
through the woods to join the imperial forces.

Several months passed. Then the melancholy news got abroad in the
German land that something disastrous had happened in the campaign
against the Swiss peasants. At last came a trustworthy report to the
effect that a bloody defeat had overtaken the proud army of Albrecht.
It was at Morgarten, where the noble hero called Arnold of Winkelried
had opened up to his countrymen a pathway to freedom over his
spearpierced body. Many counts and barons found on that day a grave in
the land of the Swiss, and sounds of mourning were to be heard in many
a German castle. But to Castle Rheinfels no traveller brought any
tidings either of weal or woe, and we can imagine with what sickness
of heart the maiden waited, and how her hope faded as the days and
weeks slipped past. It was so long since the ill-fated army had set
out against the Forest Cantons, and now the thoughts of men were
turned in other directions, while the Swiss peasants were quietly
allowed to reap the fruits of their bravery. The most sanguine found
it difficult to cheer the drooping maiden of Castle Rheinfels.

Then one day her former wooer, the mean avaricious Dietrich of Berg,
presented himself. It was certain that George Brömser must be dead,
and he was come again to sue for the hand of so desirable a young
lady. The dejected maiden informed her eager wooer that she had
plighted her troth to her absent lover beside the linden-tree
flourishing in front of the castle. Only when this tree, consecrated
to St. George, should fade would she be released from her promise. The
knight of Berg departed in anger, and immediately betook himself to a
wood and there selected a decayed linden, as similar as possible to
the green one growing before Castle Rheinfels. In the night he
cautiously approached the castle, tore up the linden, flung it with a
curse into the Rhine, and then planted in its place the withered
sapling. Next morning, a morning bright with the promise of spring,
the fair daughter of Rheinfels stepped out on the lawn. A cry of pain
escaped her lips when she perceived the faded tree. The days and weeks
that followed were spent in deep grief. After a suitable time had
elapsed, the knight of Berg again put in an appearance at Rheinfels,
mightily pleased with himself. Again he sought the hand of the maiden
now released from her solemn promise. Sadly, but firmly however she
told her importunate wooer that she would keep troth with her lover in
death as in life. Then the wrath of the despised knight drove him to
commit a horrible deed. In his savage anger he drew his sword and
buried it in the maiden's breast. Fleeing from the scene of his
dreadful crime he was suddenly seized with remorse, and like Our
Lord's avaricious disciple, he went and hanged himself. Deep was the
sorrow in Castle Rheinfels over the sacrifice of this innocent young
bride, who had kept her troth so nobly. But grief and tears could not
replace the lost one. In the midst of the mourning a stranger was
announced. He came from the Swiss land.

After the battle of Morgarten a brave Swiss had found George Brömser
with broken limbs and many bleeding wounds amongst a heap of slain. In
a peasant's hut the wounded man lay long in pain and weakness. His
broken limbs required long and patient attention. Finally, after much
suffering, George Brömser, the last of all the campaigners rode back
to the Rhineland, with his lover's name on his lips and her image in
his heart.

With uncovered head the lord of Rheinfels showed the young man the
grave of his beloved, and there the two men embraced each other long
and silently. The young soldier pulled up the faded linden-tree and
hurled it into the Rhine, while on the newly-made grave he planted
white lilies. George Brömser did not a second time fall in love, but
remained true to his chosen bride to the end of his days. We are told
that in the company of knightly minstrels he sought to forget his
great sorrow, and that later he composed many pretty songs. One of
them has survived the centuries, and was recently discovered, along
with the melody, in an old manuscript. It begins:

    "A linden stands in yonder vale,
    Ah God! what does it there?"




STERRENBERG AND LIEBENSTEIN

The Brothers


I.

In the middle ages, an old knight belonging to the court of the
Emperor Conrad II. lived in a castle called Sternberg, near Boppard.
The old warrior had two sons left to him. His wife had died many years
before, and since her death, merry laughter had seldom been heard in
the halls of the beautiful castle.

Soon a ray of sunshine seemed to break into these solemn rooms; a
distant cousin at Rüdesheim had died, leaving his only child, a
beautiful young girl, to the care of his relative.

The golden-haired Angela became the pet of the castle, and won the
affection and friendship of the two sons by her engaging ways. What
had already happened hundred of times now happened among these young
people, love replaced the friendship of the two young knights and both
tried to win the maiden's favour.

The old master of the castle noticed this change, and his father's
heart forbode trouble.

Both sons were equally dear to him, but perhaps his first-born, who
had inherited his mother's gentle character, fulfilled his heart's
desire more than the fiery spirit of Conrad the younger.

From the first moment when the orphan appeared at his family seat, he
had conceived the thought that his favourite son Henry, who was heir
to his name and estates, would marry the maiden.

Henry loved Angela with a profound, sincere feeling which he seldom
expressed.

His brother, on the contrary, made no secret of his ardent love, and
soon the old man perceived with sorrow that the beautiful girl
returned his younger son's passionate love. Henry, too, was not
unaware of the happiness of this pair, and in generous self-denial he
tried to bury his grief, and to rejoice heartily in his brother's
success.

The distress of the elder brother did not escape Angela. She was much
moved when she first remarked that his voice trembled on pronouncing
her name, but soon love dazzled her eyes, so that the clouds on his
troubled countenance passed unnoticed by her.

About this time St. Bernhard of Clairvaux came from France to the
Rhine, preaching a second crusade against the Infidels. The fiery
words of the saintly monk roused many thousands to action; his appeal
likewise reached the castle of Sternberg.

Henry, though not envying his brother's happiness, felt that it would
be impossible for him to be a constant witness of it, and thus he was
glad to answer this call, and to take up the cross.

Conrad, too, longing for action and dominated by the impulse of the
moment, was stirred up by the witching charms which a crusade to
Palestine offered. His adventurous soul, cramped up in this castle so
far removed from the world, thirsted for the adventures, which he
imagined were awaiting the crusaders in the far-off East. In vain the
tears and prayers of the young girl were shed, in vain was the sorrow
of his father who begged him not to desert him.

The old man was in despair about the unbending resolutions of his
sons.

"Who will remain at the castle of my forefathers, if you both abandon
it now, perhaps never to return," cried he sorrowfully. "I implore
you, my eldest son, you, the very image of your mother, to have pity
on your father's gray hairs. And you, Conrad, have pity on the tears
of your betrothed." The brothers remained silent. Then the eldest
grasped the old man's hand, saying gently.

"I shall not leave you, my father."

"And you, Angela," said the younger to the weeping maiden, "you will
try and bear this separation, and will plant a sprig of laurel to make
a wreath for me when I return."


II.

The next day the young knight left the home of his forefathers. At
first the maiden seemed inconsolable in her grief. But soon her love
began to slumber like a tired child; on awakening from this
drowsiness indignation seized her, whispering complainingly in her
ear, and disturbing all the sweet memories in which the picture of her
light-hearted lover gleamed forth, he who had parted from her for the
sake of empty glory.

Now left to herself, she began to consider the proud youth who was
forced to live under the same roof with his rejected love. She admired
his good qualities which all seemed to have escaped her before, his
great daring at the chase, his skill with weapons, and his many kind
acts of pure friendship to her, with the view of sweetening the bitter
separation from which she was suffering.

He seemed afraid of rousing the love which was still sleeping in his
heart.

In the meantime Angela felt herself drawn more and more towards the
knight; she wished to try and make him understand that her love for
his younger brother had only been a youthful passion, which seemed to
have flown when he left her. She felt unhappy when she understood that
Henry, whom she now began really to love, seemed to feel nothing but
brotherly affection for her, and she longed in her inmost soul for a
word of love from him.

Henry was not unaware of this change in her affections, but he proudly
smothered every rising thought in his heart for his brother's
betrothed.

The old knight was greatly pleased when, one day, Angela came to him,
and with tears in her eyes disclosed to him the secret of her heart.

He prayed God fervently to bring these two loving hearts together
whom he believed were destined for one another by will of God. In his
dreams he already saw Angela in her castle like his dead wife and his
first-born son, rocking her little baby, a blue-eyed, fair-haired
child. Then he would suddenly recollect his impetuous younger son
fighting in the crusades, and his dreams would be hastily interrupted.

Just opposite to his ancestral hall he caused a proud fort to be
built, and called it "Liebenstein," intending it for his second son
when he returned from the Holy Land. The castle was hardly finished,
when the old man died.

The crusade at last was at an end. All the knights from the Rhine
country brought back the news with them on their return from the Holy
Land, that Conrad had married a beautiful Grecian woman in the East
and was now on his way home with her.

Henry was beside himself with wrath on hearing this news. Such
dishonourable conduct and shameful neglect seemed impossible to him,
and going to the maiden he informed her of his brother's approaching
return.

She turned very pale, her lips moved, but her tongue found no words.


III.

A large ship was seen one day sailing along the Rhine with strange
flags waving on its masts. Angela saw it from her tower where she now
spent many a long day reflecting on her unfortunate destiny, and she
hastily called up the elder brother.

The ship approached nearer and nearer. Soon the cries of the boatmen
could be heard, and the faces of the crew could be distinguished.

Suddenly the maiden uttered a cry, and threw herself weeping into the
arms of the knight. The latter gazed at the vessel, his brows
contracted. Yes! there on board, in shining armour, stood his brother,
with a beautiful strange woman clinging to his arm.

The ship touched land. One of the first, Conrad sprang on shore. The
two watchers in the tower disappeared. A man approached Conrad and
informed him that the new castle was destined for him. The same day
the impetuous knight sent notice of his arrival to Sternberg castle,
but his brother answered him, that he would wait for him on the
bridge, but would only meet sword in hand the faithless lover who had
deserted his betrothed.

Twilight was creeping over the two castles. On the narrow ground
separating the forts the brothers strove together in a deadly fight.

They were equally courageous, equally strong those two opponents, and
their swords crossed swiftly, one in righteous anger, the other in
wounded pride. But soon the elder received a blow, and the blood began
to drop on his breastplate.

The bushes were at this moment suddenly pushed asunder, and a maiden,
veiled in white, dashed in between the fighters thrusting them from
each other. It was Angela, who cried out in a despairing voice:

"In God's name stop! and for your father's sake cease, ere it be too
late. She for whom you have drawn your swords, is now going to take
the veil, and will beg God day and night to forgive you, Conrad, for
your falseness, and will pray Him to bless you and your brother for
ever."

Both brothers threw down their arms. Conrad, his head deeply bowed,
covered his face with his hand. He did not dare to look at the maiden
who stood there, a silent reproach to him. Henry took the weeping
girl's hand.

"Come sister," said he, "such faithlessness does not deserve your
tears."

They disappeared among the trees. Silently Conrad stood gazing after
them. A feeling which he had never known seemed to rise up in his
heart, and, bending his head, he wept bitterly.


IV.

The cloister, Marienburg, lay in a valley at some distance from the
castles, and there Angela found peace. A wall was soon built up
between the two forts Sternberg and Liebenstein, a silent witness of
the enmity between the two brothers.

Banquet followed banquet in the newly built castle, and the beautiful
Grecian won great triumphs among the knights of the Rhine.

But sorrow seemed to have taken possession of Sternberg castle. Henry
had not wished to move the maiden from her purpose, but from the time
of her departure, his strength faded away. At the foot of the
mountain he caused a cloister to be built, and a few months later he
passed away from this world, just on the same day that the bells were
tolling for Angela's death.

The lord of Liebenstein was not granted a lasting happiness with his
beautiful wife. She fled with a knight who had long enjoyed the lavish
hospitality at castle Liebenstein. Conrad, overcome by sorrow and
disgrace, threw himself from a pinnacle of the castle into the depths
below.

The strongholds then fell into the hands of Knight Brömser of
Rüdesheim, and since that time have fallen into ruins. The church and
cloister still remain in the valley, and are the scene of many a
pilgrimage.




RHENSE

The Emperor Wenzel


In the middle of a beautiful meadow at Rhense near Coblenz stands the
famous historical "king's chair." Here, where the lands of the three
great prelates of Cologne, Mayence and Treves join together, the
princely Seven met to choose the new ruler who was to direct the
destiny of the Holy Roman Empire.

Here Charles IV. was chosen by the free will of the Electors; here
also the Seven elected Wenzeslaus of the house of Luxemburg, Charles'
son, emperor. During his life-time Charles had exerted himself very
much over the election of his first-born son, and he even made a
pilgrimage with him to Rhense on the Rhine where, at the renowned
"Königsstuhl," the chancellor of the kingdom, Archbishop of Mayence,
often held important conferences with their Graces of Treves and
Cologne, and the Count Palatine.

This Wenzeslaus of Bohemia had a great predilection for the Rhine and
its wines, and later on, when, less by his own merits, than by the
exertions of his father and the favour of the electors, he became
German emperor, his brother inheriting the sandy country of
Brandenburg, he had even then paid more honours to the Rhine wine than
any other of its lovers. It afforded him a greater pleasure than the
enjoyment of wearing a crown. Finding that a good drink tasted better
at the place of its origin, he often visited the brave Count Palatine
of the Rhine who dwelt in this blissful country, and who had more
casks in his cellar than there are saints' days in a year.

This proof of imperial confidence was by no means disagreeable to the
very noble Elector Ruprecht of the Palatinate, and he neglected no
opportunity of striving to ingratiate himself more and more in the
emperor's favour.

Gallant Ruprecht would not unwillingly have exchanged his little
Palatinate crown for an imperial one. Sometimes when his royal guest,
becoming very jovial from the wine he had taken, confessed that the
high dignity of emperor was becoming troublesome to him, the count
agreed with him frankly, and never failed to let his imperial master
know that the electors were discontented at his careless
administration, and would be well pleased if he retired. Emperor
Wenzel listened to all he said with perfect indifference, continuing
in the meantime to revel in his wine.

One day the emperor was sitting with his gay companions at the
Königsstuhl in Rhense. They were all very merry, as the cup of
Assmannshäuser wine had already been passed round many times. This
delicious vintage was very pleasing to Wenzel, and the other drinkers
could not find words enough to praise it.

While the goblets were being handed round, and sounds of joviality
filled the royal hall, the emperor stood up suddenly and, addressing
himself to the count, said in a very light-hearted tone.

"I think the crown which was set on my head would not be very
unsuitable to you. Well, I offer it to you, if you are able to place
before me and my companions here, a wine which tastes better than this
Assmannshäuser."

There was a cunning twinkle in the count's eyes as he beckoned to his
page. After a while a servant rolled in a great cask, from which the
cups were at once filled. The count stood up and presented the first
goblet to the emperor.

"That is my Bacharacher wine, noble lords. Taste it; I can wait for
your judgment without fear."

They all drank, and every face beamed with pleasure. The opinions were
undivided in favour of the fiery Bacharacher. The emperor rose and
loudly declared he preferred it to the Assmannshäuser. He could not
praise it too highly, nor drink enough of it.

"This wine is worth more than a thousand crowns!" said he,
enthusiastically. Wenzel kept his word and ceded his crown to Ruprecht
of the Palatinate who, in his turn, made the emperor a present of six
waggon-loads of Bacharacher wine.




CASTLE LAHNECK

The Templars of Lahneck


On the opposite side of the Rhine from Coblenz, and towering above
Lahnstein, rises Castle Lahneck, a keep shaped somewhat in the form of
a pentagon. Lahneck succumbed to the hordes of Louis XIII. in the same
year as the castle of Heidelberg was destroyed. The following stirring
tale is associated with Lahneck.

It was the Templars of Jerusalem who erected this fortress whose
imposing watch-tower rises nearly 100 feet above the main building.
The riches of the Templars led to their destruction. The contemptible
French king, Philip the Fair, by making grave complaints to the Pope
obtained an order for the abolition of this much-abused order, and
dragged the Grand Master with fifty of his faithful followers to the
stake. Everywhere a cruel policy of extermination was immediately
adopted against the outlawed knights, the chief motive of the
persecutors being rather a desire to confiscate the rich possessions
of the Templars than any religious zeal against heretics and sinners.

Peter von Aspelt, Archbishop of Mainz, had cast envious eyes on proud
Lahneck which sheltered twelve Knights-Templars and their retainers.
Alleging some faulty conduct on the part of the soldiers of the cross,
he gave orders that the castle should be razed, and that the knights
should exchange the white mantle with the red cross for the monk's
cowl, but to this the twelve as knights _sans peur et sans reproche_
issued a stout defiance. This excited the greed and rage of the
archbishop all the more. From the pontiff, whom with his own hands he
had successfully nursed on his sick-bed at Avignon, Peter von Aspelt
procured full power over the goods and lives of the excommunicated
knights of Lahneck. He then proceeded down the Rhine with many vassals
and mercenaries, and presented the Pope's letter to the Templars, at
the same time commanding them to yield. Otherwise their castle would
be taken by storm, and the inmates as impenitent sinners would die a
shameful death on the gallows. The oldest of the twelve, a man with
silvery hair, advanced and declared in the name of his brethren, that
they were resolved to fight to the last drop of their blood, and
further, that they were quite prepared to suffer like their brethren
in France. And so the fight between such fearful odds began. Many
soldiers of the Electorate fell under the swords of the knights and
their faithful servants, but ever the furious archbishop ordered
forward new bands to fill the gaps. Day by day the ranks of the
defenders became thinner. Prominent everywhere in this hand to hand
struggle were the heroic forms of the twelve Templars, in white mantle
with blood-red cross. At last, at a breach which had been defended
with leonine courage, one of the noble twelve sank beneath his
shattered shield, and closed his eyes in death. A second shared his
fate, then a third. The others, bleeding from many wounds and aided by
the sorely diminished remnant of their retainers, redoubled their
brave efforts, but still death made havoc in their ranks. When, on the
evening of the day of fiercest onslaught the victorious besiegers
planted their banner on the captured battlement, the silver-haired
veteran, the former spokesman, stood with blood-flecked sword among
the bodies of his fallen comrades, the last survivor. Touched by such
noble heroism the archbishop informed him that he would be allowed to
surrender; but calling down the curse of heaven on worldly churchmen
and their greed of land, he raised on high his sword and rushed upon
his foes. Pierced with many wounds the last of the twelve sank to the
earth, and over the corpse of this noble man the soldiers of Mainz
pressed into the fortress itself.

Peter von Aspelt preserved Lahneck as a place of defence and residence
for an officer of the Electorate of Mainz, and nominated as first
holder of the post, Hartwin von Winningen. The castle remained in the
possession of the Electorate of Mainz for 300 years, but the sad story
of the twelve heroic Templars is remembered in the neighbourhood of
Lahneck to this day.




COBLENZ

Riza


In the first quarter of the 9th century, when the pious Ludwig, son of
Charlemagne, was struggling with his misguided children for the
imperial crown, a church was built in Coblenz to St. Castor, the
missionary who had spread christianity in the valley of the Moselle.
The four-towered edifice arose on a branch of the Rhine.

The palace of the Frankish king stood at this time on the highest
south-western point of Coblenz, on the site of a former Roman fort,
and near by was a nunnery, dedicated to St. Castor. In this building
lived Riza, a daughter of Ludwig the Pious, who had early dedicated
her life to the church. Every day this king's daughter went to mass in
the Castor church on the opposite side of the Rhine. So great grace
had Riza found in the sight of Our Lord, that like His disciple of old
on the sea of Genesareth, she walked over the Rhine dry-footed to the
holy sacrament in St. Castor's. One day, the sacred legend goes on to
say, the stream was agitated by a storm. For the first time doubt
entered the maiden's heart as her foot touched the waves. Prudently
tearing a prop from a neighbouring vineyard, she took it with her for
a staff over the troubled waters. But after a few timid steps, she
sank like St. Peter on the Galilean lake. In this wretched plight she
became full of remorse for her want of faith in God. She flung the
stick far away, and lifting her arms towards heaven, committed herself
to the sole protection of the Almighty. At once she rose up from the
waves, and arrived, with dry feet as heretofore, on the other side.
More than ever after this did Riza, this saintly daughter of a saintly
king, strive to excel in those works which are pleasing to God. She
died within the cloister, and her bones were laid in the Castor
church, near the burial-place of the saint. Soon the popular
imagination canonised Riza, and her marble tomb is still to be seen in
the North transept of the Castor church at Coblenz.




VALLEY OF THE MOSELLE

The Doctor's wine of Bernkastel


The wine of Bernkastel is called "Doctor's wine," or even shorter
still "Doctor," and it has been known by this singular name for more
than five hundred years.

About the middle of the fourteenth century Bishop Bohemund lay ill of
a very violent fever at Bernkastel. The worthy man was obliged to
swallow many a bitter pill and many a sour drink, but all without
avail. The poor divine began at last to fear the worst. Despite his
high calling and his earnest search after holy things, his bishopric
on the lovely Moselle pleased him better than any seat in heaven. He
caused it to be proclaimed throughout the length and breadth of his
diocese, that whoever should be able to cure him of this terrible
fever, be he layman or learned doctor, should receive his pastoral
blessing, and a rich present into the bargain.

At that very time, a brave old warrior lived at Treves, who heard
about the suffering bishop and had pity on him in his great need.

Moreover this gray-haired veteran, whose name has not come down to
posterity, was very much indebted to the bishop, for once, many years
before, Bohemund had saved him from the hands of the enemy in a
skirmish near Sponheim.

The noble old soldier was much distressed to hear that the holy man
was suffering so terribly. He remembered too, that once he himself had
been attacked by violent fever and had fought hard with death, and
that his friends had talked about pills and certain bitter drinks, but
he had sent them all away and had called his servant, desiring him to
bring him a good bowl of fiery Bernkastler wine. When he had taken a
hearty drink,--no small matter for one lying ill of fever--he awoke
out of a deep sleep twelve hours later, the fever completely gone.

Why should not this same Bernkastler cure, thought he, have the same
effect on the worthy prelate?

After considering for a time, the old knight set out quite alone from
his castle in the forest of Soon to visit his spiritual benefactor,
taking only a little cask with him.

Bohemund, lying on his sick bed, is said to have cast a very
suspicious look at the good man who stated that he could cure him, but
who carried all his medicines and mixtures in a little cask on his
shoulder. The knight however, making a sign to the officious servants
and attendants to leave the chamber, informed the reverend gentleman
of what he was about to do. He then calmly took the plug out of the
cask, and gave the sick man a drink of the sparkling wine which he had
brought with him.

The bishop readily swallowed the wine at one draught. Another was
administered to him soon after, and the eminent prelate fell into a
deep sleep.

The next day the people of Treves heard with great joy that the fever
had completely disappeared.

The bishop on awaking took another stout draught, and sang out of the
depths of his grateful heart:--

    "This famous wine restored my health,
        Sure, 'tis a splendid doctor."




ANDERNACH

Genovefa


I.

In all the Rhine provinces the virtuous spouse of Count Siegfried of
the Palatinate was esteemed and venerated. The people called her St.
Genovefa, which name indeed she was worthy of, as she suffered cruel
trials and sorrows. Siegfried's castle stood near the old town of
Andernach, just at the time when Charles Martel was reigning over the
Franks.

Siegfried and his young wife lived in peaceful unity, till a cloud
came over their happiness. The much-dreaded Arabs from Spain had
forced their way into Gaul, and were now marching northwards, burning
and destroying all on their course. The enemies of the cross must be
repulsed, unless the west was to share the fate of Africa, which had
been subdued by the Mohametans.

The war-cry reached the Palatinate, and Siegfried had to go forth to
the fight. Equipped in his armour, and having kissed his weeping wife,
he bade farewell to the castle of his fathers. But he was sad at heart
at leaving the spot where the happiest days of his life had been
spent. He entrusted the administration of his property to Golo, his
steward, and recommended his beloved wife very earnestly to his
protection, begging her in turn to trust him in everything.

The poor countess was heart-broken at this bitter separation. She felt
the loneliness of the castle deeply, she longed for his happy presence
and the sound of his voice. She could never speak to Golo as to the
friend to whose care her husband had recommended her. Her pure eyes
shrank from the passionate look which gleamed in his. It seemed to her
that he followed her every movement with a look which her childlike
soul did not understand.

She missed her husband's presence more and more. She would go out on
the balcony and weave golden dreams, and while she sat there, looking
out over the hazy blue distance, she longed for the moment when
Siegfried would return, when she could lean her head upon his breast,
and tell him of the great happiness in store for them.

Perhaps the war against the heathens might last so long that she would
be able to hold the pledge of their love joyfully out to him from the
balcony on his return. And the countess' lovely face would be lit up
with a gleam of blissful happiness, and she would while away the time
on her favourite spot, dreaming and looking out into the hazy blue
distance.

The secret aversion which the countess felt towards the steward was
not without a reason. Her angel-like beauty had awakened lustful
passion in Golo's breast, which he did not strive to hide. On the
contrary his frequent intercourse with her, who was as gracious to him
as to all her other inferiors, stirred his passion still more, and one
day, losing all control, he threw himself at the countess' feet,
declaring his love for her, and imploring her to return it. Genovefa
was horrified at this confession. With indignation and scorn she
rejected his love, forbidding him to appear before her as he had
utterly forgotten his duty, and at the same time, threatening to
complain of him to her husband. Golo's eyes flared up, and a deadly
look of hatred gleamed from them.

He could hope for no pardon from his angry mistress. Besides, his
pride would not allow him to seek it, and now his one desire was
revenge. It only remained for him to follow his dastardly plan and to
avoid Siegfried's wrath.

Hatred raged in his breast. He dismissed all the servants of the
castle and put new ones of his own creation in their places. Then one
day he appeared before the horrified countess, and openly accused her
of being unfaithful to her husband far away.

Shame and wrath robbed Genovefa of speech. Golo explained to the
servants who were standing around in silent amazement, that he had
already informed the count of his wife's faithless conduct, and that
he, Golo, as present administrator of the castle, now condemned the
countess to be imprisoned in the dungeon.

The unhappy Genovefa awakened to find herself in an underground cell
of the castle. She covered her face in deep sorrow, imploring Him who
had sent her this trial, to help her in her present affliction. There
after some time a son was born to her. She baptized him with her
tears, giving him the name of Tristan, which means "full of sorrows."


II.

Siegfried had already been absent six months. He had fought like a
hero in many a desperate battle. The fanatical followers of Mohamet
having crossed the Pyrenees, struggled with wild enthusiasm, hoping to
subdue the rest of western Europe to the doctrines of Islam by fire
and sword. In several encounters, the Franks had been obliged to give
way to their power. These unbridled hordes had already penetrated into
the heart of Gaul, when Charles first appeared and engaged the Arabs
in the bloody battle of Tours. From morning till evening the struggle
on which hung the fate of Europe raged. And there Charles proved
himself worthy of the name of Martel, "the hammer," which he
afterwards received.

Siegfried fought at the leader's side like a lion; but towards evening
a Saracen's lance pierced him, and though the wound was not mortal,
yet he was obliged to remain inactive for several months on a
sick-bed, where he thought with longing in his heart of his loving
wife by the Rhine.

A messenger arrived one day at the camp bearing a parchment from Golo,
Siegfried's steward. The count gazed long at the fateful letter,
trying to comprehend its meaning. What he had read, ran thus: "Your
wife is unfaithful to you and has betrayed you for the sake of Drago,
a servant, who ran away." The hero crushed the letter furiously in his
hand, a groan escaping from his white lips. Then he started off
accompanied by a few followers, and rode towards the Ardennes, never
stopping till he reached his own fort. A man stood on the balcony,
looking searchingly out into the distance, and seeing a cloud of dust
approaching in which a group of horsemen soon became visible, his eyes
gleamed triumphantly.

A stately knight advanced, his charger stamping threateningly on the
drawbridge. Golo, with hypocritical emotion stood before the count,
who had now alighted from his foaming horse, and informed him again of
what had happened. "Where is the evil-doer who has stained the honour
of my house, where is he, that I may crush his life out?" cried
Siegfried in a fury.

"My lord, I have punished the wretch deservedly and lashed him out of
the castle," answered Golo in a stern voice, sighing deeply.

The count made a sign to Golo whose false eyes gleamed with devilish
joy, to lead the way.

Siegfried entered the dungeon, followed by his servants and also by
those who had travelled with him. Genovefa listened breathlessly in
her prison, with a loved name trembling on her lips and a prayer to
God in her heart. Now the terrible trial would come to an end, now she
would leave this dungeon of disgrace triumphantly, and exchange the
crown of thorns for the victor's wreath.

The bolt was unfastened, firm steps and men's voices were heard, the
iron doors were dashed open. She snatched her slumbering child, the
pledge of their love, and held it towards her dear husband. His name
was on her lips, but before she could utter it, a cry of agony escaped
her. He had cast her from him and, his accusations falling like blows
from a hammer on her head, the poor innocent countess fell senseless
to the ground. The next day two servants led mother and child out into
the forest, where with their own hands, they were to kill her who had
been so unfaithful to her husband, and her child also. They were to
bring back two tongues to the count as a proof that they had obeyed
his orders.

The servants drove them into the wildest depths of the forest where
only the screams of birds of prey broke the silence. They drew their
knives. But the poor countess fell on her knees, and holding up her
little child, implored them to spare their lives, if not for her sake,
at least for the sake of the helpless child. Pity entered the two
men's hearts and withheld their hands. Dragging the mother and child
still deeper into the forest, they turned away hastily, leaving their
victims to themselves.

They brought two harts' tongues to the count, informing him that they
had fulfilled his orders.


III.

Genovefa's tired feet wandered through the unknown forest, her child
crying with hunger. She prayed fervently to Heaven in her despair, and
tears were sent to relieve the dull pain in her heart, after which she
felt more composed, and her child was soon sweetly slumbering. To her
great astonishment she perceived a cavern near her, where she could
take shelter, and as if God wished to show that He had heard her
prayer, a white doe came towards the cavern, rubbing herself
caressingly against the abandoned woman. Willingly the gentle animal
allowed the little child to suckle it. The next day the doe came back
again, and Genovefa thanked God from the depths of her heart. She
found roots, berries, and plants, to support herself, and every day
the tame doe came back to her, and at last remained always with her.

Days, weeks, and months passed. Her unfaltering faith had rendered her
agony less. In time she learned to forgive her husband who had
condemned her unjustly, and she even pardoned him who had taken such
bitter revenge on her. Her lovely cheeks had become thinner, but the
forest winds had breathed a soft red into them, and the child who had
no cares nor gnawing pain in its heart, grew into a beautiful little
boy.


IV.

At the castle on the Rhine, sorrow was a constant guest since this
terrible event had happened. Siegfried's burning anger had sunk into
sorrow, and often when he was wandering restlessly through the rooms
so rich in sweet memories, where now a deserted stillness reigned, the
agony awoke again in his heart. He now repented of his hastiness, and
a voice whispered in his ear that he had been too severe in his cruel
punishment, that he had condemned too quickly, and that he should have
considered what he could have done to mitigate her punishment.

When these haunting voices pursued him, he would hurry away from the
castle and its loneliness, not being able to bear the torment of his
thoughts. Then to forget his trouble, he would follow the chase with
the yelping hounds. But he only seldom succeeded in dulling his
misery. Everywhere he seemed to see the pale face of a woman looking
imploringly at him.

The state of his master's soul had not escaped Golo, and this crafty
man cringed the more to the sorrowful count, feigning to care for his
welfare. A starving person accepts even the bread which a beggar-man
offers, and Siegfried, supposing his steward wished to compensate him
for his loss, accepted willingly every proof of devotion, and
recompensed him with his favour, at the same time hating the man in
his inmost soul who had rendered him such a terrible service.

One day the count rode out to the chase, accompanied by only a few
retainers, one of whom was Golo. Siegfried pressed deeper than was his
custom into the forest. A milkwhite doe sprang up before him and
sportsmanlike, he chased this singular animal through the bushes,
hoping to shoot it. His spear had just grazed it, when it disappeared
suddenly into a cavern. A woman whose ragged garments scarcely covered
her nakedness, leading a little boy by the hand, suddenly came out of
the opening in the rock, and the doe, seeking protection, rubbed
herself against her. She looked at the hunter, but her limbs trembled
so that she could scarcely stand, only her large sad eyes gazed
wistfully at him. A stifled cry, half triumphant, half a groan,
escaped from her lips, and she threw herself at the count's feet. From
the voice which for long months had only moved in earnest prayer or in
low sweet words to the child, now flowed solemn protestations of her
innocence. Her words burned like fire into the soul of the count, and
drawing her to his breast, he kissed her tears, and then sank at her
feet imploring her pardon.

He pressed his little boy to his heart, overcome with gratitude and
happiness, and wept with joy, calling him by a thousand affectionate
names.

Then at the sound of his bugle-horn his retinue hastened towards him,
Golo among them.

"Do you know these two?" thundered out the count to the latter,
tearing him from the throng and conducting him to Genovefa.

The wretch, as if struck by a club, broke down and, clasping his
master's knees, he confessed his wickedness and begged for mercy.
Siegfried thrust him contemptuously from him, refusing sternly, in
spite of the countess' intercession, to pardon his crime. Golo was
bound and led away, and a disgraceful death was his reward.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now began a time of great happiness for Siegfried and his saint-like
wife, and they lived in undisturbed peace with their little son.

In gratitude to Heaven Siegfried caused a church to be built on the
spot where the white doe had appeared to him first. The countess often
made a pilgrimage to this house of God, to thank Him who had caused
her tears to be turned into joy. Then a day came when her corpse was
carried into the forest, and was buried in the church. Even now in
Laach, the wanderer is shown the church and the tombstone, also the
cavern where she suffered so much. Thus the name of St. Genovefa will
last to all time.




HAMMERSTEIN

The old Knight and his Daughters


[Illustration: Am Sarge Kaiser Heinrich IV.--Nach dem Gemälde von
L. Rosenfelder--Zur Sage von der Burg Hammerstein]

Above Rheinbrohl, on a dreary sandstone rock, stand the ruins of the
old imperial fortress of Hammerstein. For a thousand years the storms
have beat on those desolate walls. One of the first owners was Wolf
von Hammerstein, a faithful vassal of the Emperor. It was Henry IV.
who then ruled, and partly by his own faults, partly by those of
others, the crown had indeed become to this sovereign one of thorns.
Wolf of Hammerstein had made the historic pilgrimage to Canossa alone
with his master. Now, on account of the infirmities of age the
venerable knight seldom descended the castle-hill, and only from afar,
the loud trumpet call of the world fell upon his ears. His wife, now
for several years deceased, had born him six daughters, all attractive
maidens and tenderly attached to their surviving parent, but their
filial affection met with the roughest and most ungrateful responses
from the sour old fellow. It was a sore grievance to Wolf of
Hammerstein that he had no son. He would willingly have exchanged his
halfdozen daughters for a single male heir. The girls were only too
well aware of this fact, and tried all the more, by constant love and
tender care to reconcile their ungracious parent to his lot.

One evening it thus befell. The autumn wind grumbled round the castle
like a croaking raven, and the old knight, Wolf of Hammerstein, sat by
a cheerful fire and peevishly nursed his gouty limbs. In spite of the
most assiduous attentions of his daughters he remained in a most surly
mood. The pretty maidens however kept hovering round the ill-tempered
old fellow like so many tender doves. Then the porter announced two
strangers. Both were wrapped in their knightly mantles, and in spite
of his troubles the hospitable lord of the castle prepared to welcome
his guests. Into the comfortable room two shivering and weary
travellers advanced, and as outlaws they craved shelter and protection
for the night. At the sound of one of the voices the knight started
up, listening eagerly, and when the stranger raised his visor and
threw back his mantle, Wolf of Hammerstein sank on his knees at the
stranger's feet, and seizing his hand he pressed it to his lips,
exclaiming: "Henry, my lord and king!" Then, with trembling voice the
Emperor told his old comrade-in-arms that he was a fugitive, and
before one who had torn from him the imperial crown and mantle. And
when the old knight, trembling with excitement, demanded who this
impious and dishonourable man might be, the Emperor murmured the
words, "My son," and then buried his face in his hands.

Rigid as a marble statue stood the old knight. Like a bolt from
heaven the consciousness of his past ignoble conduct had flashed upon
him. Suddenly he seemed to feel how tenderly the loving arms of his
daughters had enfolded him. He spread out his hands towards them, as
if anxious to atone by the tenderness of a minute for the harshness of
years. Then the Emperor, deeply touched, thus addressed the old man.
"Dear comrade-in-arms, your position is indeed enviable. The faithful
love of your daughters will tend you in your declining years. No
misguided son, impatient for your end, will hunt you from your home.
Alas, for me, to-morrow accompanied by a few faithful followers, I
must go down to battle against my own flesh and blood."

Towards midnight the unhappy monarch was conducted to a room prepared
with care for his reception; and, while he sank into a troubled sleep,
the old knight overwhelmed his daughters with long-delayed caresses.
In his heart, he silently entreated for pardon for the deep grudge he
had long cherished against the God who had been pleased to grant him
no son.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three months had passed by. Sad news came to the Rhine from the
Netherlands. The Emperor Henry was dead. In the midst of fresh warlike
preparations death claimed him. His faithful partisans were therefore
greatly grieved and more especially Wolf of Hammerstein. But the
second part of the tidings made him even sadder. The consecrated earth
was denied to the unfortunate dead Emperor. His coffin was placed in a
cellar in Liege without any respect. Whoever wished could go there to
slander or to pray for the repose of his soul, whenever they desired.
When the knight was told of this he swore vehemently and did not close
his eyes for several nights. Then his mind was made up. All the
prayers and weeping of the daughters did not make him alter his
decision.

One day he stood before the Archbishop of Cologne and reminded him how
he had saved his life more than twenty years ago, and he recalled to
his memory that he had promised to grant any wish of the Hammersteins.

There was a great discussion between the knight and the bishop. But
the fidelity of the vassal was rewarded. The strong ecclesiastical
protection of the church at Cologne facilitated the steps to the
priests in Liege. Surrounded by pious women and earnest men he knelt,
a week later, before the sarcophagus, he pressed his lips to it and
murmured "Henry my master and my King." Afterwards he had the body
transferred to Speyer where it was placed in the royal tomb.

When the mournful vessel went up the Rhine from Cologne, by order of
the knight black flags fluttered in the wind and greeted the dead
Emperor. Hammerstein was always known later on as the most faithful
vassal of the King.




VALLEY OF THE AHR

The Last Knight of Altenahr


Only a few mouldering ruins now show where one of the proudest
strongholds of the Rhine country, Castle Altenahr, once stood. A
legend relates the mournful story of the last of the race which had
lived there for centuries.

This man was a very stubborn knight, and he would not bow down to or
even acknowledge the all-powerful archbishop, whom His Majesty the
Emperor had sent into the Rhine country as protector of the church.

Unfortunately the bishop was also of a proud and unyielding character,
and he nursed resentment in his heart against this spurner of his
authority.

It was not long before his smouldering rancour blazed into an open
feud, and the mighty bishop, accompanied by a large band of followers,
appeared before the proud castle of Altenahr. A ring of iron was
formed round the offending vassal's hold.

But its owner was not disturbed by this formidable array, and only
laughed sneeringly at the besiegers' useless trouble, knowing well
that they would never be able to storm his rocky stronghold.

The warlike priest saw many of his little army bleeding to death in
vain. He was very wrathful, but nevertheless undismayed.

He had sworn a great oath that he would enter this invincible hold as
a conqueror, even if the fight were to last till the Judgment Day; the
lord of Altenahr had sworn a similar oath, and these two powerful foes
were well matched.

Thus the siege continued for some months. The besieger's anger grew
hotter, for every attack cost him the lives of numbers of his
followers, and all his efforts seemed useless.

Already there was an outburst of discontent in his camp; many servants
and vassals deserted from such a dangerous venture. Revolt and
disobedience seemed on one occasion to threaten a complete dissolution
of the besieging army, as a desperate attack had been again repulsed
by the hidden inhabitants of the fort.

The bishop's allies urged the unrelenting man to desist from his
merciless purpose, but he received their protests with a sneer: "When
you leave me, my greater ally, hunger, will draw near. It will come,
that I am sure of." Then followed an uproar of confused voices;
mutinous troopers, now become bold by the wine they had taken, fell to
brawling with their leader. The bishop's grim smile died away.

"Wait my men, just wait for one more attack," he cried in a powerful
voice, "it will be the fiercest and the last," and with a dark face he
turned and strode away.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dawn was creeping over the valley of the Ahr. There was a great stir
in the camp on the side of the mountain, and up above, in the castle
of Altenahr, silence reigned round hazy pinnacles. Suddenly a flourish
of trumpets was heard, and the drawbridge having been let down, the
lord of the castle galloped forth on a milkwhite charger, his tall
figure towering over the animal, the feather of his helmet waving
above his grey hair, and the first rays of the rising sun irradiating
his steel armour.

Holding his steed with a firm grip, he raised his right hand to the
shouting besiegers, signifying that he wished to speak. His voice
sounded far and wide.

"See here the last man and the last charger of all those who lived in
my tower. Hunger has snatched them all from me, wife, child, comrades.
They all preferred death to slavery. I follow them, unvanquished and
free to the last."

The noble animal reared up at the spur of its rider ... a great
spring, followed by a thundering crash ... then the Ahr closed her
foaming waters over man and steed.

A shudder seized those who were looking on. The dark countenance of
their leader became pale as death, and he rode off without a moment's
delay, followed by the curses of his mutinous troops.

Since that time the castle of Altenahr has remained deserted; no one
dared to enter the chambers hallowed by the memory of this heroic
defence. Thus it was avoided by mankind, till time gnawed at its walls
and destroyed its battlements.




The Minstrel of Neuenahr


I.

He was called Ronald, this tall handsome man, with blue eyes and fair
hair; he had a noble bearing and was a master of song.

The knight at the Castle of Neuenahr had made a great feast, and
Ronald was sitting on the drawbridge playing his harp and singing. The
guests stopped their noisy conversation within doors and knights as
well as noble ladies listened breathless to the unseen singer. The
proud lord of the castle bade his page bring the traveller in. Thus
the tall handsome man, the blue eyed, fair-haired stranger with the
noble bearing, appeared before the high company. The knights looked at
him with wonder and many a handsome lady regarded him with admiration
covertly.

Among the high company there was a beautiful young girl, the daughter
of the knight, whose birthday was being celebrated. The lord of the
castle rose from his richly carved stool, and made a sign to the
singer who was bowing graciously to the knights and ladies and lower
still to the master of the castle.

"Give us a song, musician, in honour of our child who is seventeen
years old to-day."

The musician fixed his glance in silent admiration on the maiden. She
dropped her eyes, and a lovely blush covered her cheeks. He seized his
harp, and after a few chords, began to sing a song of homage. Sweetly
sounded the music, and even sweeter the flattering words. The maiden
flushed a deeper crimson and cast down her eyes. Once when the harper
in his song compared her to a star lighting a wanderer's path, she
glanced up, and their eyes met; but hers sank quickly again. She
seemed to waken out of a dream when the song ended amid loud applause.
She saw her father lifting up a massive goblet and handing it to the
singer, saw how the latter raised it first to her, afterwards to her
father and his guests, and then put it to his own lips. The maiden
felt she was no longer mistress of her heart which was beating as it
had never done before.


II.

"You might teach my Rothtraut to play the harp," cried the proud lord
of the castle, who was in a very lively humour, having partaken freely
of wine. She heard it as in a dream, and the musician bowed, murmuring
that he was not worthy to receive so signal an honour.

He remained however at the castle. Lovely Rothtraut felt afraid in her
heart like a trembling child crossing a bridge leading to flowery
meadows; she had no mother in whom she could confide those fears for
which she could find no words. She therefore yielded to her father's
desire, wishing to amuse him during the long, lonely evenings by
playing and singing. Singing came naturally to her, for a nightingale
seemed to slumber in her bosom, but she found more difficulty with the
harp. Her slender fingers drew many a discordant sound from the
strings, and often her father, comfortably seated in his armchair,
laughed heartily at her, which made the maiden blush with shame. Her
large eyes would wander from the harp to the musician's face; but her
confusion only became worse when her eyes timidly met his. He was very
patient with all her imperfect efforts, never blaming her but on the
contrary praising all her modest attempts beyond their merits. Then he
would sing a song of his own and play some deep chords which seemed to
thrill the air. The knight would listen entranced, and the maiden felt
love's blissful pain in her heart. She did not know what it was, or
how he had long since sung himself into her soul, and her tender heart
trembled at love's first revelation. The passion possessed her more
and more; it spread its power over these two hearts, and soon in the
quiet garden of the castle, Ronald clasped the daughter of the proud
knight to his heart.


III.

Love's first rapture is often followed by sorrow however, and
beautiful Rothtraut had yet to experience it.

It once happened that the knight surprised his child in the musician's
arms. His anger knew no bounds, and like a beast of prey he rushed at
the singer, when his daughter, suddenly become a woman, placed herself
bravely between her father and her lover. Her confession went to his
heart like a dagger, for with trembling lips and glowing cheeks, the
maiden acknowledged the secret of her love.

Pale but firm the singer stood before the knight.

"I am only a wanderer but not a dishonourable one. Do not destroy with
a rough hand the flower which God has planted in our hearts, but give
me time. I will set out on my journey and will take up arms for my
beloved. And when I come back as a nobleman, you will give me your
daughter who loves me. Either I shall return as a knight, or you will
never see me again."

The lord of the castle looked at him sternly, while his daughter stood
weeping, holding Ronald's hand. "Good-bye, maiden. Do not forget me,
Rothtraut!" He was gone, and a wailing cry burst from the lips of the
unhappy girl.


IV.

To atone for many a wrong against Pope and Church, and also to fulfil
a solemn vow, the Emperor Barbarossa started on a crusade in his old
age. Many knights and heroes joined him, and his great army marched
through several countries until they came to the Levant. Then they
journeyed on to Syria where the great hero's career ended. Barbarossa
was drowned, and the eyes of his followers turned to Henry, his son,
as their leader. The latter, who became emperor under the name of
Henry VI. was a very capable general; he was also a lover of music,
and is said to have composed many a melody which remains with us to
the present day.

Many supposed that it was not the royal minstrel who composed the
songs, but that they came from the hand of Ronald who was now as
skilled with his sword as with his harp, and who had become a great
favourite of the emperor. He was a powerful warrior, and had already
overthrown many a Saracen. Once when the crusaders had gained a
glorious victory, he composed a song in honour of it, and sang it
himself on his harp. The song went the round of the camp, and the
singer became a great friend of the emperor. But even such favour did
not drive the shadow from Ronald's soul, and often when he was singing
one of his most beautiful songs to Henry, he would suddenly break off
and rush out of the tent in great grief. One day the emperor found out
what he had long guessed, and made Ronald confess his story to him.

Some days afterwards the crusaders began the storming of Acre, the
impregnable fortress of the Saracens. Ronald was fighting by Henry's
side. A Saracen dashed his falchion at the king's head, but Ronald
with a mighty blow clove the infidel's skull in two. In the evening of
the same day Henry called all his warriors together, and dubbed the
brave champion knight with his own hand. Ronald of Harfenstein was to
be his name, and a lyre lying on a falchion and a sword, were to be
his arms. The emperor promised to build him a castle on the borders of
the Rhine, which was to be called Harfeneck.

Plague broke out in the camp, and many a gallant crusader fell victim
to it. Among them was the emperor himself, whose death caused
unspeakable grief to Ronald.


V.

One day a weary crusader was seen riding along the banks of the Rhine.
Wherever he passed, the people asked him if it were true that
Barbarossa was not drowned in the Holy Land, but was living in the
Kyffhäuser Mountain, and would soon come back to his own neglected
kingdom. The crusader barely answered their questions, but urged on
his tired steed along the Rhine. At last the silvery waters of the Ahr
appeared before him, and he saw the gables of the castle. The rider
joyously spurred on his horse, and rode up through the forest to the
fortress where once he had sat on the drawbridge as a poor traveller.

The late guest was ushered up to the lord of the castle.

The knight, now a bent old man, rose from a melancholy reverie to
greet the unknown stranger.

"I am Ronald, and have become a knight through the grace of the
Emperor Henry in the camp at Acre, and now I have come to win your
daughter Rothtraut."

"Win her from death, for it robbed me of her two months ago," said the
proud lord of the castle, turning his head aside in deep grief. Then a
despairing groan thrilled through the chamber. Harsh words passed
between those two, one a man in his disconsolate sorrow, the other a
repentant father.

Ronald strode off to the lonely corner of the garden, and the newly
dug up earth showed him the place where Rothtraut lay. There he
remained late into the night, till darkness had surrounded him and
black night had settled on his soul. Then he turned and went away,
never to come back again.

In the East whence the crusaders had now returned, everyone talked of
the heroic deeds accomplished by Richard the Lion-hearted. The
Saracens well knew the fearless leader and the German knight who
fought at his side. Richard valued his bravery, even though he was
still a young knight. He meant to make him one of his vassals when he
returned to his own country. But his desire was never fulfilled, for
the thrust of a hostile lance which he had so often escaped, pierced
the knight's heart. So the minstrel of Neuenahr found a grave in the
Holy Land; the race of Harfenstein became extinct with the first of
the line, and the castle was never built.




EIFEL

The Arrow at Prüm


It was in the little town of Prüm many a long year ago that Lothaire,
the degenerate son of St. Louis, did penance for his sins. In the
church belonging to the town there are two very ancient pictures; one
of them represents a knight standing on a huge rock, shooting an
arrow, while his wife and retinue are looking devoutedly towards
heaven; the other represents a priest at an altar to whom an angel is
bringing an arrow.

Who is the knight?

Who is the holy man?

The knight is Nithard, noble lord of Guise, who lived in the north of
France towards the end of the ninth century. No children having been
born to his excellent wife Erkanfrida, the knight determined to leave
his estate for some pious object.

He meant to endow a cloister, where after their deaths, masses would
be read for him and his spouse. But it was a difficult matter to
select the most worthy from the many cloisters in the neighbourhood,
and by the advice of a pious priest he resolved to leave the decision
to Heaven.

He fastened the document bequeathing his possessions to an arrow, and
then set out for a great rock near the castle, accompanied by his wife
and numerous followers.

After a fervent prayer he shot the arrow skyward, and, so the pious
story runs, it was borne by angel hands, till it came to Prüm--a
journey of several days.

Ansbald, the holy abbot of the cloister, was standing at the altar
when the arrow fell at his feet. He read the document with
astonishment and gratitude, and in a moved voice, announced its
contents to the assembled congregation.

Knight Nithard assigned his estate to the cloister, and from that time
forth many pilgrims journeyed to Prüm to see the arrow which had been
carried there by angel hands.

The storms of many centuries have blown over those hallowed walls, but
the pictures in the old church belonging to the abbey still remain,
thus preserving the legend from oblivion.




AACHEN

The Building of the Minster


[Illustration: Karl der Große--Nach dem Gemälde von Albrecht Dürer]

As Charlemagne, the mighty ruler of the Franks, rode one day from his
stronghold at Aix-la-Chapelle into the surrounding forest, his horse
is said to have suddenly trodden upon a spring. On touching the water,
the animal drew its foot back neighing loudly as if in great pain.

The rider's curiosity was aroused. He alighted, and dipping his hand
into the spring, found to his surprise that the water was very hot.
Thus Charlemagne, as the legend records, discovered the hot spring
which was to become the salvation of many thousands of ill and infirm
people.

The pious emperor recognised in this healthgiving spring the kind gift
of Providence, and he resolved to erect near the spot a house of God,
the round shape of which should remind posterity of the horse's hoof.

The building was soon begun, and Charlemagne saw with great
satisfaction the walls of the new minster rising high into the air. He
was not however destined to see its completion. When he died, he had
to leave the great Empire of the West to a feeble son, Lewis the
Pious. The latter was compelled to draw his sword against his own
children in order to assure for himself the crown he had inherited.

Many a great undertaking that Charlemagne had begun, remained
unfinished.

The building of the minster too was interrupted. The ground was left
desolate, and the walls and towers were threatened with decay before
they were finished.

It was quite useless for the honourable magistrate of the town to
apply for money to the charitable Christian inhabitants. Contributions
came in very slowly, and were never sufficient to finish the church.

The aldermen of Aix-la-Chapelle would very often seriously debate the
question, and discuss how they could remedy the grievous lack of money
and successfully effect the completion of the minster. They found
however that good counsel was just as rare as building material.

Once when they were met thus together, a stranger was announced who
said he had most important news to communicate. He was allowed to
enter the session room. After having duly saluted the Council, he said
modestly but without any shyness, "Gentlemen, my business, in a word,
is to offer you the money for the completion of the church." The
worthy aldermen looked in wonder first at the speaker, then at each
other.

They silently agreed in the opinion that the man before them looked
very suspicious in his quaint outlandish clothes and his sharp pointed
beard.

But the newcomer was not at all abashed by their suspicious looks. On
the contrary he repeated politely but firmly his proposal, saying:
"Honourable Sirs, I should like to help you out of your difficulty,
and will advance you the necessary thousands without even wishing to
be paid back."

At this frank offer the councillors pricked up their ears and opened
their eyes wide in astonishment. Before they could recover from their
amazement, the stranger continued: "I know well, you are all far too
proud to accept this great offer of mine without giving me a reward of
some sort. Therefore I require a small compensation. I demand the
first living being, body and soul, that enters the new minster on the
inauguration day."

On hearing this the honourable aldermen rose horrified from their
seats. Many of them made the sign of the cross or uttered a short
prayer, because nobody but the devil himself could require anything so
monstrous.

The eyes of the chairman shot a reproachful glance at the strange
speaker, and he muttered between his teeth: "Be off! your words are
giving offence."

But Master Satan, the stranger, stood calmly in his place: "Sirs,"
said he, "Let me answer you with a word from the scriptures, "Why are
you so fearful, oh ye of little faith?" On the field of battle the
sword mows down thousands of brave men. They fall often as victims to
the ravening ambition of a single man. You can even see fathers
fighting against their sons, brothers against their brothers, and
nobody thinks it unjust. Now you cry out, when I only ask for one
single living soul to be sacrificed for the welfare of the whole
community."

The eyes of the stranger looked round in triumphant joy when he had
finished, for he read a favourable reply in the puzzled faces of the
aldermen.

Many of them at once gave up their scruples, and after a few minutes
even the most cautious among them had no more objections to urge.

The offer was closed with, and Master Satan left the Town Hall with a
proud smile.

The next day the council was again gathered together anxiously waiting
for the promised sum.

It arrived promptly, rightly weighed and in good honest coin.

The joy of the aldermen was boundless.

       *       *       *       *       *

Once more the workmen began the work of building the minster. They
worked very busily as if to make up for the long interruption, and
after three years the cathedral was finished.

On the day when the new church was to be consecrated, a great festival
was held in the town.

The distinguished company, secular as well as clerical, who appeared
at the inauguration ceremony, praised the magnificence of the minster,
the great liberality of the citizens, and more than all, the wisdom of
the Town Council.

The aldermen listened to the general praise with pleasure, and
accepted it as their due. They felt however bound to confess to each
other that they did not feel easy when they thought of the
inauguration day. None of them had spoken to anybody of Master Satan's
condition.

Only one of them, a henpecked fellow as malicious people said,
confessed the whole transaction to his wife. It is needless to say
that from that moment the whole town knew about the affair. On the
important day of the consecration of the minster many venerable
prelates, abbots, and monks, thousands of noble knights and lords who
had come as guests, and the whole population of Aix-la-Chapelle looked
forward to the fatal hour with beating hearts. It was a grand
procession indeed that marched on in ceremonious solemnity through the
streets. The gaily coloured flags waved merrily in the air, the
trumpets and clarions sounded cheerily. The nobility and clergy were
in their most gorgeous attire. On every side were the signs of joy and
thanksgiving.

But the hearts of the people were all oppressed, and many a sorrowful
eye gazed at the morning sky, as if expecting to see Satan flying down
with his bat-like wings.

When the aldermen in their bright robes joined the procession, the
general anxiety rose to the highest pitch.

Before the worthy councillors a bulky cage was carried by four stout
footmen. What was hidden under the covering nobody knew, but everybody
felt sure that it contained the victim.

When the procession reached the minster it stopped, the cage being
carried foremost.

At a sign from the mayor, one of the footmen quickly stripped off the
cover and exposed to view a howling hideous wolf. Two of the men
pushed the church door wide open with their long halberds, and the
fourth pushed the wolf skilfully through the open door. A terrible
noise arose suddenly within.

The devil had been waiting for his spoil, as a tiger that watches for
his prey.

When the wolf entered the devil darted towards it, but seeing that it
was only a beast he burst into a wild howl of rage.

He wrung the poor wolf's neck with the quickness of lightning and
disappeared suddenly, leaving nothing behind him but a strong smell of
sulphur.

A few minutes later the bells rang, and the whole magnificent
procession thronged into the church, duly to celebrate its
consecration.

       *       *       *       *       *

While divine service was being held in the new minster and hymns of
praise and thanksgiving were offered at God's altar, the devil flew
with horrible maledictions over the country.

He swore an oath to punish with the utmost severity the population of
Aix-la-Chapelle who had so cunningly outwitted him.

In his flight he came to the sea-shore where he stopped a little, in
order to consider how he could best destroy the town. As he looked at
the sandy dunes the thought struck him, that he might bury the whole
town with all its prelates and abbots under such a hill. With a mighty
pull he tore one of the dunes from the shore, piled it on his
shoulders, and flew rapidly towards the doomed city. But the way was
much longer than Master Satan had thought. He began to perspire very
freely under his unwonted burden, and when from time to time the wind
blew a rain of loose sand into his eyes, he swore most horribly.

In the valley of the Soers not far from Aix-la-Chapelle he was obliged
to rest, as he was very tired after his exertions.

While he was thus sitting by the wayside wiping his forehead and
looking hot and weary, an old wrinkled woman came limping along, who
looked with suspicion at the man and his strange burden.

She wanted to pass by without saying a word, but the stranger stopped
her and said: "How far is it from here to Aix-la-Chapelle?" The woman
cast a sharp look at the speaker.

As she had reached years of discretion, being now in her
seventy-second year, she was shrewd enough to recognise in the man
before her the very devil in person. She was also quite sure, that he
must have some wicked plan in his head against the good town,
Aix-la-Chapelle.

Therefore assuming a very sad expression she answered in a complaining
voice: "Kind sir, I am so sorry for you, the way to the town is still
very long. Only look at my boots, they are quite worn from the long
way, and yet I got them new from the shoemaker at Aix-la-Chapelle."

Master Satan uttered something that sounded like a bitter curse. Then
he shook off the sandy dune from his shoulders and flew away in a
fury.

The old woman was for a moment terror-stricken, but when she saw the
fatal figure of the stranger disappearing, she was inexpressibly glad
at having saved the town and outwitted the devil himself.

If he had only looked a little more carefully he could have seen the
tower of the new minster not a mile off.

The sandy dune is still lying in the very same place where the devil
dropped it. Its name is "Losberg" or "Ridmountain," so called because
the town Aix-la-Chapelle got rid of a great danger.

The memory of the poor wolf is also still preserved. Its image is
engraved on the middle of the minster door, where you can also see the
big cracks produced by the devil's hammering it in his impotent anger.




The Ring of Fastrada


This story too leads us back to the time of the great Emperor Charles,
whose life has come down to us with a halo of glory.

Charlemagne's favourite residence was Aix-la-Chapelle, but he also
held court in Helvetia. His imperial stronghold stood on the shores of
the Lake of Zürich. In its neighbourhood there was a high pillar which
the emperor had erected to mark the place where Felix and Regula had
died as martyrs for the Christian faith. A small bell was attached to
this monument, which everybody in distress and want might ring if they
wanted relief. As often as Charles held his court in Zürich he himself
appeared at the pillar when the bell was rung, and listened to the
complaints and petitions of his subjects.

One day the sound of the bell was heard, yet nobody could be perceived
near the pillar. On the following day about dinner-time the same thing
happened, the bell rang, yet no one was there. The emperor, curious to
know what this meant, commanded one of his pages to hide in the bushes
behind the pillar.

When mid-day approached the boy noticed that a serpent crept out of
the sand, wriggled up to the pillar, and set the bell a-ringing. This
astonishing fact was at once communicated to the emperor, who came
without delay to the spot. He was very much surprised at seeing such
an unusual applicant, but he said with great earnestness, "Every one
who comes to me shall find justice, be it man or beast."

The serpent bent low before the monarch, and then crept back into its
den. Charlemagne followed, anxious to learn the reason of its strange
behaviour. He was surprised when, on looking into the dark hole, he
saw an ugly toad sitting on the serpent's eggs, and filling nearly the
whole space with its hideous form.

The emperor bade his attendants kill the intruder at once.

In a short time Charlemagne had nearly forgotten the strange incident.

But one day when he was sitting at dinner the serpent unexpectedly
entered the hall, and crept up to the emperor's seat. Bowing low three
times it lifted its head and dropped a precious stone into the
emperor's goblet. It then disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Charlemagne took the stone out of the cup, and saw to his amazement
that it was a precious diamond. He ordered it to be mounted in a
golden ring, which he presented to his well-beloved wife, Fastrada.

The jewel possessed a wonderful quality. Fastrada had always been
loved tenderly by her imperial husband, but after the diamond ring
adorned her slender finger, a sweet charm seemed to bind her still
more strongly to him.

To many people this great love of the emperor for his wife seemed too
absorbing, almost superhuman, and when death ruthlessly snatched her
from the side of Charlemagne, everybody believed that it was a
judgment from heaven.

The monarch was inconsolable at this great bereavement. He spent days
and nights in unspeakable grief by her corpse. The rumour was, that
his sorrow was so intense that he refused to permit the remains of his
wife to be duly buried. The charm the living Fastrada had exercised
over him seemed to linger even after her death.

The Archbishop of Rheims, the pious Turpin, heard of the emperor's
sorrow, and he offered fervent prayers to God for help. Soon
afterwards he had a strange dream. He saw the wonderful ring on
Fastrada's finger glittering with a thousand lovely colours and
surrounding the emperor with a magic light. The bishop was now sure
that the precious stone was the cause of the superhuman love the
emperor bore to his wife.

On the following day before sunrise Turpin, the venerable old bishop,
got up and went into the room where Charlemagne had again spent a
night in bitter grief by the remains of his beloved wife. He was
kneeling by the uncovered bier in fervent prayer when the bishop
entered. Turpin went straight up to the body, and making the sign of
the cross he took the cold waxen hand of Fastrada for a moment in
his. Without being observed by the mourning emperor, he slipped the
enchanted ring gently from her finger. As he had guessed the emperor
at once rose, and kneeling down before the bishop, kissed his hand in
adoration. Then he rose and bade Turpin have the remains of his wife
buried that same day. So it happened that Fastrada's remains were
brought to their last resting place in the Church of St. Albans at
Mayence.

From that time the emperor was attached with rare devotion to the old
Archbishop of Rheims.

He would not allow him to leave his side, but requested that Turpin
should always live near him. The pious man was also nominated first
councillor of the Empire.

Turpin used his high position only for the welfare of the empire, and
did a great many good works.

Sometimes however he felt a pang of regret at the manner in which he
had acquired the high favour of his lord, and it seemed to him very
unfair.

Once when he accompanied the monarch on one of his journeys in Western
Germany, he threw the ring into a spring from which it could never
more be brought up again.

From that moment Charlemagne felt himself irresistibly drawn to that
particular part of his extensive dominions.

He erected a stronghold there, and a flourishing township soon
surrounded this palace. Later on it was called Aix-la-Chapelle, and
became the favourite residence of the great emperor.

Within its walls he liked best to rest from the burden of affairs of
State, and sometimes the old ruler could be seen sitting by the margin
of the spring in which Fastrada's ring lay buried, recalling the sweet
memories of past days.




ROLANDSECK

Knight Roland


[Illustration: Roland in der Schlacht von Roncevalles--Nach dem Gemälde
von A. Guesnet]


I.

The Emperor Charlemagne was surrounded by a circle of proud knights,
the flower of whom was Count Roland of Angers, nephew of the King of
the Franks. The name of no knight was so famous in battle and in
tournaments as his. Helpless innocency adored him, his friends
admired, and his enemies esteemed him. His chivalrous spirit had no
love for the luxuries of life, and scorning to remain inactive at the
emperor's court, he went to his imperial uncle, begging leave to go
and travel in those countries of the mighty kingdom of the Franks,
which up to that time were unknown to him. In his youthful fervour he
longed for adventures and dangers. The emperor was much grieved to
part with the brave knight, however, he willingly complied with his
request.

One day early in the morning the gallant hero left his uncle's palace
near the Seine, and rode towards the Vosges Mountains, accompanied by
his faithful squire. The first object of his journey was castle
Niedeck near Haslach, and from there he visited Attic, Duke of Alsace.

He continued his travels, and one evening as he was riding through
the mountains, the glittering waters of the Rhine, washing both sides
of the plain, greeted him. The river in that part of the country
offered him few charms in its savage wildness, but he knew that the
scenery would soon change. He moved on down the Rhine to where a
gigantic mountain shuts the rushing current into a narrow space. Its
foot stands chained in the floods, which only in places retire a
little, thus leaving the poor folk a narrow stretch of land.

On the heights there were proud castles, telling the wanderer below of
the fame of their illustrious races. Thus Roland made many a long
journey on his adventurous course down the Rhine. He passed many a
place rich in old memories: the Lorelei Rock, where the water nymph
sang at night: the cheerful little spot where St. Goar lived and
worked at the time of Childebert, the Merovingian, (that wonderful
saint who once spread a fog over his imperial uncle, compelling him to
pass the night in the open air, because his Majesty, while journeying
from Ingelheim to Coblenz had neglected to bend his knee in his
chapel) and the green meadows near Andernach, where Genovefa, wife of
Palatine Count Siegfried lived. And now Roland neared the place where
the stream reaches the end of the Rhine Valley, and where the seven
giants are to be seen, the summit of one of which is crowned with a
castle; there they stand like the seven knights who in later times
stood weeping round the holy remains of the German emperor.

A wooded island lay in the deep-blue waters. The setting sun threw a
golden light over the hills. On the sides of the mountains there were
numberless vineyards, to the left, hedges of beeches ascending to the
heights of the rugged summits, to the right, the murmur of the
rippling waters, and above, visible among the legendary rocks where
once a terrible beast lived, the pinnacles of a knight's castle, and
over all, the heavens clothed with a garment of silver stars.

The knight paused in silence; his glance rested admiringly on the
beautiful picture. His steed pawed the ground uneasily with his
bronze-shod hoofs, and his faithful squire looked anxiously at the
darkening sky. He reminded his master modestly that it was time to
seek shelter for the night.

"I should like to beg for it up there," said Roland dreamingly, an
inexplicable feeling of sweet sadness coming over him for the first
time. He bade his squire ask the boatman who was putting out his
little bark to cross the river, what was the name of the castle? The
castle was the Drachenburg, where Count Heribert sojourned sometimes.
Thus ran the answer which pleased Roland very much. He had been
charged with many greetings and messages to the old count at the
Drachenburg from his friends living near the upper Rhine. Roland now
hesitated no longer, and soon a boat was ploughing the dark waves.


II.

In the meantime night had come on. The full moon's soft beams showed
them their way through the dark forest. Count Heribert, a worthy
knight in the flower of his age, bade the nephew of his imperial
master heartily welcome to his castle. Far past midnight they stayed
in the count's chambers, engaged in entertaining conversation.

The next day Count Heribert presented his daughter Hildegunde to the
knight. Roland's eyes, full of admiration, rested on the blushing
young maiden. Never before had the charms of a woman awakened any deep
feeling in his heart; he had only thirsted after glory and deeds of
daring, after tournaments and feuds. Now the bold champion was struck
with a shaft from the quiver of love. He who had opposed the dreaded
adversary so often, now bowed his fearless head in almost girlish
confusion before Hildegunde's charms. She, too, stood crimsoning
deeply before the celebrated hero whose name was famous, and who was
beloved in all the country round.

The old knight broke up the scene of embarrassing silence between the
youthful couple with gay laughing words, and conducted his guest
through the high halls of his castle.

Roland tarried longer at the friendly castle than he had ever done
before in any other place in the country. He seemed bound to the
blissful spot by love's indissoluble chains, and so it happened that
one day these two found themselves, hand in hand, the deep love in
their hearts rushing forth in ardent words. Count Heribert bestowed
his lovely daughter very willingly on the celebrated knight, his only
desire being to complete the happiness of his child whom he loved so
dearly. A castle should be erected for her on the heights of the rocks
on the other side of the Rhine, opposite the Drachenburg, and this
proud fort on the rugged rocky corner of the mountain, should be a
watch-tower for the glorious Seven Mountains and their castle. In
later times it became the famous Rolandseck. Soon the walls could be
seen raising themselves up, and every day the lovers stood on the
balcony of the Drachenburg looking across, where industrious workmen
and masons were busily toiling. Hildegunde began to weave sweet dreams
of the future round her new home, where she meant to chain the
adventurous hero with true love.

But one day a messenger appeared at the Drachenburg on a horse white
with foam. He was sent by Charlemagne and brought the tidings of a
crusade which the emperor had decreed against the Infidels beyond the
Pyrenees. Charlemagne desired to have the famous knight among the
leaders of his army. Roland received the message of his great master
in silence. He looked at Hildegunde who with a death-like face was
standing beside him. Grief stabbed cruelly at his heart, but he must
obey the call of honour and duty, and, informing the royal messenger
that he would arrive at the imperial camp in three days, he turned
sorrowfully away, Hildegunde sobbing at his side.


III.

The cross and the half-moon were fighting furiously for the upper hand
in Spain. Terrible battles were fought, and much blood flowed from
both Christians and Infidels. Bloody victories were gained by the
emperor's brave knights, the chief of whom was Roland. His sword
forced a triumphant way for Charlemagne, it guarded his army, passing
victoriously through the unknown country of the enemies. But the sad
day of Ronceval, so often sung by German and other poets was yet to
come. Separated from the main body of the army, Roland's brave
rearguard was making its way through the dusky forest. Suddenly wild
shouts sounded from the heights, and the cowardly Moor pressed down on
the little band, threatening them with destruction. But the noble
Franks fought like lions. Roland's charger, Brilliador, flew now here,
now there, and many a Saracen was hewn down by its noble rider's
sword, Durant. But numbers conquer bravery. The little army of Franks
became less and less, and at last Roland sank, struck by the lance of
a gigantic Moor. The combat continued furiously round him. When night
spread mournfully over the battle-field, the Infidels had already done
their terrible work. The Franks lay dead; only a few had escaped from
the slaughter.

"Where is Roland?" was the frightened cry from pale lips. He was not
among the saved. "Where is Roland?" asked Charlemagne anxiously of the
messengers. Through the whole kingdom their answers seemed to
resound, Roland the hero had fallen in battle fighting against the
Saracens; wherever this cry was heard, it awakened deep sorrow.

The news soon spread as far as the Rhine, and one day the imperial
messengers appeared at the Drachenburg, bringing the sad tidings and
the deepest sympathy of the emperor. Heribert sighed deeply on hearing
the news and covered his eyes with his hands; Hildegunde's grief was
heart-breaking. Before the altar of the Queen of sorrows she lay
sobbing her heart out, imploring for comfort in her great need. For
days on end she shut herself up in her little bower, and even her
father's gentle sympathy could not assuage her bitter grief.

Weeks passed. Then one day the pale maiden entered the knight's
chamber, her grief quite transfigured. He drew her softly towards him,
and then she revealed the resolution which was in her heart. Count
Heribert was overwhelmed with grief, but he pressed a loving kiss on
her pure forehead.

The day came, when down below on the island Nonnenwert, the convent
bells rang solemnly. A new novice, Count Heribert's lovely daughter,
knelt before the altar. In the holy stillness of the convent she
sought the peace which she could not find in the castle of her father.
With a last great convulsive sob she had torn her lover's name from
her heart, had quenched the flame of sorrowing love for him, and now
her soul was to be filled ever with the holy fire of the love of God.
In vain her afflicted father hoped that the unaccustomed loneliness
of the convent would shake her resolution, and that when the first
year's trial was over, she would return to him. But no! the pious
young maiden fervently begged the bishop, who was a relation of her
father, to release her from the year's trial and to allow her after a
short time to take her final vows. Her longing desire was fulfilled.
After a month Hildegunde's golden locks were no more, and the lovely
daughter of the Drachenburg was dedicated to the Lord forever.


IV.

Time rolled on. Spring had vanished and the sheaves were ripening in
the fields. Where the river reaches the end of the Rhine valley
crowned by the Seven Giants, a knight with his horse stopped to rest.
Far away in the south, where the valley of Ronceval lies bathed in
sunshine, he had lain in the hut of a poor herd. There the faithful
squire had dragged his master pierced by a Moorish lance. The bold
hero and leader had remained for weeks and months on his sick-bed
struggling with death, till the force of his iron nature had at last
conquered. Roland was recovering under loving care, while they were
mourning him as dead in the land of the Franks. Then having recovered,
he hurried back to the Rhine urged by an irresistible longing.

A wooded island lay in the deep-blue waters. The setting sun threw a
golden light over the hills; numberless vineyards flanked the
mountains, hedges of beeches were on one side, the murmur of waters
on the other, and above the pinnacles of a knight's castle among the
legendary rocks where once a terrible beast lived, over all the
heavens clothed with a garment of silver stars.

Silently the knight paused, his glance resting admiringly on the
beautiful picture. Now as in months before an inexplicable feeling of
sweet sadness came over the dreamer.

"Hildegunde!" murmured Roland, glancing up at the starry heavens.
Again as formerly a boatman rowed across the stream, and Roland soon
was striding through the forest towards the Drachenburg, accompanied
by his faithful squire.

The old watchman at the castle stared at the late guest, and crossing
himself, he rushed up to the chambers of his master. A man's figure,
bent with age and sorrow, tottered forward. "Roland!" he gasped forth.
The knight supported the broken-down old man in his arms. When Roland
had departed long ago, his grief had found no tears; now they flowed
abundantly down his cheeks.

The knight tore himself from the other's arms. "Where is she?" he
asked in a hoarse voice, "dead?" Count Heribert looked at him with
unspeakable sorrow. "Hildegunde, bride of Roland whom they supposed
dead, is now a bride of Heaven."

The hero groaned aloud, covering his face with his hands.

In spring he left the Drachenburg and went to the castle on the rocky
corner, and there he laid down his arms for ever; his thirst for
action was quenched. Day by day he sat over there, looking silently
down on the green island in the Rhine, where the nun, Hildegunde,
wandered about among the flowers in the convent garden every morning.
Sometimes indeed it seemed that she bowed kindly to him, then the
knight's face would be lighted up with a gleam of his old happiness.

But even this joy was taken from him. One day his beloved did not
appear; and soon the death-bell tolled sorrowfully over the island. He
saw a coffin which they were carrying to its last resting-place, and
he heard the nuns chanting the service for the dead, he saw them all,
only one was wanting ... then he covered his face. He knew whom they
were carrying to the grave.

Autumn came, withering the fresh green on Hildegunde's tomb. But
Roland still kept his watch, gazing motionlessly at the little
churchyard, and one day his squire found him there, cold and dead, his
half-closed eyes turned towards the place where his loved one was
sleeping.

For many a century the proud castle which they called Rolandseck,
crowned the mountain. Then it fell into ruins, like the mighty
Drachenburg, the tower of which is still standing. Fifty years ago the
last arches of Roland's castle were blown down one stormy night, but
later on they were built up again in memory of this tale of true and
faithful love in the olden times.




SIEBENGEBIRGE

The Drachenfels


I.

When the wanderer has left the "city of the Muses," Bonn, he perceives
to the left the mighty summits of the Seven Mountains. The rocky point
of one of these hills is still crowned by the tower and walls of an
old knight's Castle. A most touching legend is related of the mountain
with the terrible name.

In the first centuries after the birth of the world's Redeemer, the
Germans on the left side of the Rhine accepted willingly the doctrines
of the Cross; Maternus, a disciple of the great Apostle, had brought
them over from Gaul. At first the pious messenger of Christ worked
among the heathen tribes in vain. They persisted in their paganism,
and even prevented the priests from coming into their country.

At that time there was a terrible dragon living in the hollow of the
rock which even now is called the Dragon's hole. He was of a hideous
form, and every day he used to leave his den and rage through the
forests and valleys, threatening men and animals. Human strength was
powerless against this monster; the people thought that an angry deity
had his abode in this terrible beast, so they bestowed godlike honours
on him, sacrificing criminals and prisoners to him.

A tribe of heathens lived at the foot of the mountain. These men,
desirous of war, often made raids on the neighbouring countries,
carrying fire and sword among their Christian brothers. They once
crossed the water, plundering the land and making prisoners of the
people. Among the latter there was one most lovely maiden, whose
beauty and grace inflamed two of the leaders so much, that each of
them desired to have her for himself. One was called Horsrik the
Elder, a famous chieftain, known to have the strength of a bear and
the wildness of a tiger; the other, Rinbold, of a less rough nature,
but of equal bravery.

The beautiful maiden turned aside shuddering when she saw the two
chiefs' glaring eyes, contending for possession of her. All round were
their men intoxicated with victory. The struggle for the Christian
maid affected the two leaders more than the division of the booty.
Soon the angry words of the two opponents found an echo in the hearts
of the men standing round.

Horsrik, the much-feared fighter, claimed her, and was received with
cheers. Rinbold, the proud young chieftain, claimed her also,--great
applause greeted him. The former glared sternly, grasping his club in
a threatening manner. The high-priest, an old man with silver-white
hair and stern features, stepped in between the two combatants, and in
a voice surging with anger he said:

"Cursed be every dissension for the possession of this stranger! A
Christian must not disunite the noblest of our tribe. A daughter of
those we hate, she shall fall to nobody's share. She, the author of
so much strife, shall be sacrificed to the Dragon, and shall be
dedicated to Woden's honour at the next rising of the sun."

The men murmured applause, Horsrik more than the rest. The maiden held
her head upright. Rinbold, the proud young chieftain, looked
sorrowfully at her angel-like face.


II.

Early the following day before the sun had poured his bright beams on
the earth, the valley showed signs of life. Through the dusk of the
forest a noisy procession moved upwards towards the highest point, the
priest in the middle, behind him the prisoner, pale but resolute.
Silently, for her Lord's sake, she had allowed the priest to bind her
forehead as a victim, and to place consecrated flowers in her loose
flowing hair. Many a sympathetic look from the crowd had been cast at
the steadfast maiden. The young chieftain was stricken with pain at
the sight of her death-like countenance.

There stood the projecting rock which had often been dishonoured by
human blood. The fanatical priests wound ropes round the maiden's
body, and then tied her to St. Woden's tree which overhung the
precipice. No complaint escaped the Christian's white lips, no tears
glistened in her eyes which were glancing up at the morning sky. The
throng of people moved off, waiting silently in the distance to see
what would happen.

The first rays of the sun streamed over the mountain; they lighted up
the wreath of flowers in the maiden's hair, playing about her lovely
face, and crowning it with glory. The Christian maid was awaiting
death, as a bride awaits her bridegroom, her lips moving slightly as
in prayer.

A gloomy sound came up from the depths. The Dragon started from his
den, spitting fire on his path. He cast a look at his victim there on
the spot which his blood-thirsty maw knew so well. He raised his scaly
body, thus letting his sharp claws be more visible, moved his snaky
tail in a circle, and showed his gaping mouth. Snorting the monster
crawled along, shooting flames out of his bloodshot eyes.

A shudder of death crept over the maiden at the sight of this awful
beast. Tremblingly she tore a sparkling golden crucifix from her
breast, held it towards the monster piteously, and called on her Lord
in a heart-rending voice. Wonder of wonders! Raising himself, as if
struck by lightning, the monster turned, dashing himself backwards
over the jagged stones into the waters below, and disappearing in the
river among the falling rocks.

Wondering cries arose from the waiting heathens. Astonishment and
wonder were depicted on every face. In quiet submission, her eyes
half-closed, the maiden stood praying to Him who had saved her. The
cords fell from her sides; two strong arms caught her and carried her
into the midst of the astonished crowd. She raised her eyes and
perceived the younger of the two chieftains. His rough warlike hand
had seized hers. The young man bent his knee as if to a heavenly
being, and touched her white fingers with his lips. Loud applause
greeted him on all sides.

The old priest came forward, the people waiting in great expectation.
"Who had saved her from certain destruction? Who was the God who so
visibly aided His own?" asked he solemnly of the Christian. With
bright eyes the maiden answered triumphantly:

"This picture of Christ has crushed the Dragon and saved me. The
salvation of the world and the welfare of man lies in Him." The priest
glanced at the crucifix with reverent awe.

"May it soon lighten your spirit and those of all these people round,"
said the maiden earnestly. "It will reveal greater wonders than this
to you, for our God is great."

The maiden and all the other prisoners were conducted back to their
own country. But the former soon returned again, accompanied by a
Christian priest. The voice of truth and innocence worked wonders in
the hearts of the heathens. Thousands were converted and baptized. The
old priest and Rinbold were the first who bowed their heads in
submission to the new doctrine. Great rejoicings were held among the
tribe when the maiden gave her hand to the young chieftain. A
Christian temple was erected in the valley, and a splendid castle was
built on the summit of the rocks for the newly-married couple. For
about ten centuries their descendants flourished there, a very
powerful race in the Rhine countries.




The Monk of Heisterbach


In olden times in a lovely valley near the Seven Mountains, stood a
cloister called Heisterbach. Even now parts of the walls of this old
monastery remain, and it was not by the hand of time, but by the
barbarism of foolish warfare, that its halls fell into ruins. The
monks were driven away, the abbey was pulled down, and the stones were
used for the building of a fortress.

Since that time, so the country folk relate, the spirits of the
banished monks wander nightly among the ruins, raising mute
accusations against their persecutors and the destroyers of their
cells. Among them there was one, Gebhard, the last Prior of
Heisterbach, who now, they say, wanders about the graves of the monks,
and also haunts the burial-places of the Masters of Löwenburg and
Drachenburg.

In the Middle Ages the monks of Heisterbach were very famous. Many a
rare copy of the Holy Scriptures, many a highly learned piece of
writing was sent out into the world from this hermitage, telling of
the industry and learning of the pious monks.

There was one brother, still young in years, who distinguished himself
by his learning. He was looked up to by all the other brethren, and
even the gray-haired Father Prior had recourse to his stores of
knowledge. But the poisonous worm of doubt began to gnaw at his soul;
the mirror of his faith was blurred by his deep meditations. His keen
eye would often wander over the faded parchment on which the living
word of God was written, while his childlike believing heart, humbly
submitting itself, would lamentingly cry out, "Lord, I believe, help
Thou mine unbelief!" Like a ghost his restless doubts would hover
about him, making his soul the scene of tormenting struggle.

One night with flushed face he had been meditating over a parchment.
At daybreak he still remained engrossed in his thoughts. The morning
sun threw his bright rays over the heavens, casting playful beams on
the written roll in the monk's hands.

But he saw them not, his thoughts were wholly taken up by a passage
which for months past had ever been hidden to him and had been the
constant subject of his reflections, "A thousand years are but as a
day in Thy sight."

His brain had already long tormented itself over the obscure words of
the Psalmist, and with a great effort he had striven to blot it out of
his memory, and now the words danced again before his weary eyes,
growing larger and larger. Those confusing black signs seemed to
become a sneering doubt hovering round him: "A thousand years are but
as a day in Thy sight."

He tore himself away from the silent cell, seeking the cool solitude
of the cloister-gardens. There with a heavy heart he paced the paths,
torturing himself with horrid doubts.

His eyes were fixed on the ground, his mind was far away from the
peaceful garden, and without being aware of what he was doing, he left
the cloister-gardens and wandered out into the neighbouring forest.
The birds in the trees greeted him cordially, the flowers opened their
eyes at his approach; but the wretched man heard and saw nothing but
the words: "A thousand years are but as a day in Thy sight."

His wandering steps grew feeble, his feverish brain weary from want of
sleep. Then the monk sank down on a stone, and laid his troubled head
against a tree.

A sweet, peaceful dream stole over his spirit. He found himself in
spheres glowing with light; the waters of Eternity were rushing round
the throne of the Most High; creation appeared and praised His works,
and Heaven extolled their glory; from the worm in the dust, which no
earthly being has been able to create, to the eagle soaring above the
heights of the earth: from the grain of sand on the sea-shore, to the
gigantic crater, which, at the Lord's command, vomits fire out of its
throat which has been closed for thousands of years: they all spoke
with one voice which is not heard by the haughty, being only manifest
and comprehensible to the humble. These were the words of Him who
created them, be it in six days or in six thousand years, "A thousand
years are but as a day in Thy sight."

With a slight shudder the monk opened his eyes.

"I believe Lord! help Thou my unbelief," murmured he, taking heart.

The bell sounded in the distance. They were ringing for vespers;
sunset was already gleaming through the forest.

The monk hastily turned towards the cloister. The chapel was lighted
up, and through the half-opened door he could see the brothers in
their stalls. He hurried noiselessly to his place, but to his
astonishment he found that another monk was there; he touched him
lightly on the shoulder, and strange to tell, the man he saw was
unknown to him. The brothers, now one, now another, raised their heads
and looked in silent questioning at the new comer.

A peculiar feeling seized the poor monk, who saw only strange faces
round him. Growing pale, he waited till the singing was over. Confused
questions seemed to pass along the rows.

The Prior, a dignified old man with snow-white hair, approached.

"What is your name, strange brother?" asked he in a gentle, kind tone.
The monk was filled with dismay. "Maurus," murmured he in a trembling
voice. "St. Bernhard was the Abbot who received my vows, in the sixth
year of the reign of King Conrad, whom they called the Frank."

Incredulous astonishment was depicted on the brothers' countenances.

The monk raised his face to the old Prior and confessed to him how he
had wandered out in the early morning into the cloister-gardens, how
he had fallen asleep in the forest, and had not wakened till the bell
for vespers sounded.

The Prior made a sign to one of the brothers. Then turning to the monk
he said: "It is almost three hundred years since the death of St.
Bernhard and of Conrad, whom they called the Frank."

The cloister annals were brought; and it was there found that three
hundred years had passed since the days of St. Bernhard. The Prior
also read the following note.

"A doubter disappeared one day from the cloister, and no one ever knew
what became of him."

A shudder ran through the monk's limbs. This was he, this brother
Maurus who had now come back to the cloister after three hundred
years! What the Prior had read sounded in his ears as if it were the
trumpet of the Last Judgment. Three hundred years!

With wide-open eyes he gazed before him, then stretched forth his
hands as if seeking for help. The brothers supported him, observing
him at the same time with secret dismay; his face had become ashy
pale, like that of a dying person, the narrow circle of hair on his
head had become snow-white.

"My brothers," murmured he in a dying voice, "value the imperishable
word of the Lord at all times, and never try to fathom what he in His
wisdom has veiled from us. May my example never be blotted out of your
memory. Only to-day the words of the Psalmist were revealed to me. 'A
thousand years are but as a day in Thy sight.' May he have mercy on
me, a poor sinner." He sank lifeless to the ground, and the brothers,
greatly moved, repeated the prayers for the dead over his body.




The Origin of the Seven Mountains


In olden times the Rhine flowed into a deep mighty lake above the town
of Königswinter. Those who then lived near the Eifel Mountains or on
the heights of the Westerwald, were in constant fear of these swelling
waters which often overflowed, causing great destruction in the
country. They began to consider that some great saviour was necessary,
and sent a messenger into the country of the Giants, begging some of
them to come down and bore through the mountain, which prevented the
waters from flowing onward. They would receive valuable presents as a
recompense.

So one day seven giants arrived in their country bringing enormous
spades with them, and with a few good strokes of their tools, they
made a gap in the mountain so that in a few days the water washed
through the gap which visibly became larger. At last the river
streamed through in torrents. The lake gradually dried up and
completely disappeared, and the liberated Rhine flowed majestically
towards the plain.

The Giants looked at their work with satisfaction. The grateful folk
brought them rich treasures, which they had taken out of the mines.
Having divided them fraternally, the Giants shouldered their spades
and went their way. These heaps of rocky ground which they had dug out
were so great, that ever since they have been called the Seven
Mountains, and will remain there until the Giants come again and sweep
them away.




The Nightingale Valley at Honnef


Honnef is one of the most lovely little spots on the earth, nestling
sweetly at the foot of the old Drachenfels. The mountain protects it
from the icy winds of the north, and the breezes blow gently in the
valley, which may be called the German Nice.

When the setting sun reminds the wanderer on the Drachenfels of coming
darkness, and he strolls down through the valley of Honnef, the songs
of numerous nightingales sound in his ears. This has been the
meeting-place of these songsters for many a long year, and there is an
old legend which gives us the reason.

There was a time when they used to sing in the forest round the old
Abbey Himmerode, as they now do in the valley of Honnef.

The pious monks, walking about in the cloister gardens in holy
contemplation heard their seductive songs: the penitents in their
cells, mortifying the flesh heard them also. Their alluring warble
mingled itself with their murmured prayers; and in the heart of many a
monk, who had long since renounced the world and its pleasures, the
remembrance of them was gently awakened, and sweet sinful things were
whispered into the holy brother's ears.

Then one day it happened that St. Bernhard came to the Abbey
Himmerode, to examine the brother's hearts. He was greatly distressed
to find that many a holy soul had turned from the path of peace, and
the cause of this also became known to him. In a violent passion the
holy man strode out into the forest surrounding the cloister, and
raising his hand angrily towards the seductive singers, he cried.

"Go from here! Ye are a curse to us." St. Bernhard had spoken
threateningly, and lo! with a great stir in the branches, a throng of
numberless nightingales rose from the bushes, filled the forest once
more with their glorious song, and fled with a great flapping of
wings.

They settled down in the valley of Honnef, and no excommunication has
driven them from there. Those who wander there are not averse to the
pleasures of the world like St. Bernhard, and every one after his own
manner reads a different meaning in their song.




GODESBERG

The High Cross at Godesberg


If you walk on the high road between Bonn and Godesberg which is not
far distant, you perceive on the left side, shimmering white amid the
green woodland, a high pillar crowned with a cross known as the "High
Cross."

It is a pleasing sight to him who passes by on a bright day; but in
the twilight its glaring white contrasting so sharply with the dark
back ground, makes a dismal impression on him, which is still more
enhanced by the legend told about it.

The story leads us back to the time when instead of the grey ruins, a
proud stronghold near Godesberg looked down into the wonderful valley
of the Rhine. An old knight lived there, who was well known far and
near for his bravery and generosity. His beloved wife had died,
leaving him two sons.

The elder was the very image of his mother in body and mind; he had
gentle childlike manners, and it was therefore natural that the
father's eye rested with more pleasure on him than on the younger son
who was very daring, and in spite of his youth had already gone after
strange, and not always honourable adventures. Yet the old father did
not grieve much on his account, hoping that the sooner the reckless
youth emptied his cup of pleasure, the sooner he would come to the
bitter dregs. Then like others he would surely become more serious,
and would yet fulfil the longing desire of his late mother. She had
fervently wished to see him when a man adorned with St. Mathern's
ring, which the bishops of Cologne wore, while Erich, the elder,
should become lord of Godesberg Castle.

The father's thoughts lingered with pleasure on the pleasant prospects
of his sons' future. He sent up many a fervent prayer to heaven for
the fulfilment of his desires, well knowing that the spirit of his
beloved wife supported him at the throne of the Almighty with her own
supplications.

The old knight often spoke to his younger son about his vocation in
life, but always observed with disappointment that his son avoided any
allusion to the subject.

When the father felt his death approaching, he imparted once more his
wish to his two sons, that the elder should become master of the
castle, and the younger, bishop of Cologne. With a blessing for them
on his lips, he closed his eyes for ever.

His death was sincerely deplored by all the poor people of the
neighbourhood.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some time after the two brothers sat as usual in the high
banqueting-hall of Godesberg. It was a very dismal meal, for they sat
opposite to each other, the elder with reproachful looks, the younger
with knitted brows.

"I only took what the ancient law of my fathers bestowed upon me,"
said the elder mildly but firmly, in answer to some harsh words of his
companion. "I am not master, but only manager of the family
possessions. All our ancestors whose pictures look down on us in this
hall would curse me, if I did not take good care of their legacy. But
you, my dear brother, will receive a higher gift than a castle. You,
the offspring of a noble race, shall become a worthy servant of our
Saviour."

"Never!" burst forth the younger one in passionate eloquence "never
will I bow my neck to an unjust law that compels one to take up arms,
and another meekly to accept a monk's cassock. If they offered me now
a bishop's ring or a cardinal's hat, I would not become a priest, I
shall remain a knight."

The elder brother listened sorrowfully to this headstrong speech. "May
God, whom you thus blaspheme, enlighten your dark heart. I would
willingly share with you whatever I possess, but our father's will
forbids it. Therefore bend your proud neck humbly, and beware of the
judgment that will fall on him who despises the will of his dying
father."

       *       *       *       *       *

Hunting horns and trumpets sounded through the green forest which
extended at that time from the town of Godesberg to the gates of Bonn.
This huge wood abounded in noble game.

The two brothers were indulging together in the pleasures of the
chase, as they had done so often in their father's life-time. Count
Erich had gladly accepted his brother's invitation to accompany him.

He was only too glad to see how his dark mood had changed in the last
few days and given way to greater cheerfulness. It appeared to Lord
Erich as if his brother had come to reason, and after all had made up
his mind to fulfil their parents' wish. He believed all the more in
the happy change when he heard that his brother intended presenting
himself to the Archbishop of Cologne, in order to deliver a letter of
great importance from his late father to him.

Count Erich's heart was glad. He roamed joyfully through the forest,
and his gladness seemed to increase his good luck in the sport.
Several gigantic boars were pierced through by a spear sent from his
hand. A deer also met with a similar doom.

The younger brother's success was on the contrary very meagre. His
hand was unsteady and his whole bearing betrayed restlessness. A
strange subdued fire gleamed in his eyes.

While he was following the trail of a mighty boar, Count Erich met him
and offered to pursue the animal in his company.

They hunted through thorns and thicket, accompanied by the yelping
hounds. Suddenly the foliage rustled, and the boar was seen to break
wildly through the bushes. A spear from the younger brother whirred
towards the beast, but missed its aim and remained sticking in the
bark of an oak.

"Your hand is more fit to bless pious Christians," said Count Erich
with a smile.

"But still fit enough to rid me of an inconvenient brother!" muttered
the younger brother between his teeth, and tearing his hunting knife
rapidly from his belt, he plunged the two-edged steel into his
brother's breast. A terrible cry at the same time rang through the
forest, and the murderer fled in haste.

Two attendants of the Count who were hunting close by, hearing the cry
came running to see what was the matter, and found Lord Erich lying in
his blood, dying. They bent down over him to see if they could help
him, but alas! it was too late. The man, mortally wounded, was beyond
the reach of human aid. With a last effort he opened his lips,
muttered lowly but audibly the words, "My brother!" then sank back and
closed his eyes for ever.

The terrible news that the Lord of Godesberg had been foully murdered
by his own brother, spread swiftly through the country. Mourning again
filled the castle on the mountain, when they carried the body of the
poor slain man to his untimely grave. They buried him in the family
vault next to the recent grave of his father.

From that time the castle stood desolate. The next relative of the
noble family, who lived in a lovely part of the Rhine valley near the
Palatinate, avoided a place where such an unheard of crime had been
committed. Only an old man kept watch in the empty castle. But even he
was soon compelled to leave it. One night the high tower was struck by
lightning and the whole building burnt down. Nothing remained but
blackened ruins, looking mournfully on the gay landscape beneath.

       *       *       *       *       *

Years went by after this crime. Nobody heard or saw anything of the
murderer. He seemed to have totally disappeared. Some people however
whispered that on the day of the black deed, a man was seen fleeing
from the forest of Godesberg. He was pale and ghastly looking, and
darted off, not caring which way he went. It was he who on the
previous day had fostered in his burning brain the longing desire to
take possession of his brother's heritage, and now he was a murderer,
and bore Cain's mark on his forehead.

The unfortunate youth had rashly contrived this hellish plan to rid
himself of his brother and to become lord of Godesberg. His plan was
to kill him while hunting, and then make the people believe that he
had aimed at a boar and hit his brother accidentally instead. But when
his victim sank down in agony, the knife dropped from his murderous
hand, his courage failed him, and he felt himself driven from the wood
as if chased by a demon.

After many years had come and gone, a tired wanderer once knocked at
the door of the cloister of Heisterbach, which had been erected by St.
Benedict's pious disciples in a remote valley of the Seven Mountains.
The man who desired admission looked more like a beggar than a
pilgrim. His garments hung torn and ragged round his thin body, and
his face was deeply furrowed by marks of long and cruel suffering.

"Have pity on me," said he in a trembling voice, "I come from the Holy
Sepulchre, my feet will bear me no further." The door-keeper was
moved, and retired to inform the Abbot of the poor man's request. He
received permission to bring him in. When the beggar appeared before
the Abbot, he fell on his knees and renewed his demand for food and
rest. For some moments the monk looked penetratingly at the man before
him, then a sign of recognition passed over his face, and he cried
out. "Good heavens! is it you Sir Knight?" The pilgrim trembled,
prostrated himself before the Abbot, and embraced his knees in
overwhelming grief. "Have mercy on me," exclaimed he, "it was I who
twenty years ago slew my brother in the forest of Godesberg. During
twenty long years I tried to atone for my cursed deed and obtain
forgiveness and peace. As a pilgrim I cried for mercy at the grave of
him whom I murdered; as a slave of the Infidels, under the weight of
heavy chains I prayed incessantly for God's mercy, but I cannot find
peace. Three months ago the fetters were struck from my hands, and I
have again come home, weary unto death. You, oh worthy Abbot, have
known me from a child. Let me rest within the walls of this cloister,
that I may daily see the castle where I was an innocent child. I will
pray and do penance until death releases me from my wretched life."

The Abbot felt intense pity for the unhappy man. He bent down, laid
his hands on him, and blessed him.

       *       *       *       *       *

For many years the poor penitent remained in the cloister trying to
atone for his crime with fervent prayers and hard penance. At last God
in His grace called him away, and the repenting sinner died hopeful of
Heaven's forgiveness. The monks buried him in a shady place in their
cloister garden.




BONN

Lord Erich's Pledge


On the Klochterhof at Friesdorf near Bonn, a nobleman once lived, who
was well known in the whole Rhine valley as a great tippler.

Once Lord Erich had indulged with great relish in the noble sport of
the chase in the forest that surrounded the neighbouring town of
Godesberg. The day was hot, the chase unsuccessful and rather tedious
for him, as he was more than usually tormented by a mighty thirst.

The sun had set and his last golden rays were glittering on the waves
of the Rhine, when Lord Erich shouldered his blunderbuss and turned
homeward with a small bag, consisting of one fat hare.

In those days one small inn (now they can be counted by the dozen)
stood on the margin of the large forest of Godesberg. There Lord Erich
entered to rest his tired limbs, but principally to quench his great
thirst. He gave the hare to the landlady, that she might prepare it
with skilful hands, and ordered a flowing bumper of golden Rhine wine
which he emptied at one deep draught. I am sure that the juice of the
grapes must have been far better then, than it is now-a-days.

The landlady soon prepared the game and placed the tempting meal
before the hungry hunter, who enjoyed it thoroughly. But he
appreciated still more the delicious, cool wine offered to him.

One glass after the other was swallowed by the thirsty Lord of
Klochterhof, and the landlord marked just as many charcoal strokes on
the door-post.

When night approached, the noble hunter began to think of returning
home. Sitting there had been agreeable and comfortable, but he found
it very difficult to get up and walk.

The landlord, perceiving his guest's preparations to take his leave,
came forward and said in rather a rough tone, being an outspoken
fellow: "Twelve bottles, my lord, don't forget to pay before you go."

Lord Erich who was standing very unsteadily on his legs, muttered in a
thick voice but very good-humouredly, "Dear landlord, I could pay you
if I had loaded my blunderbuss with money, but I did not."

With this cheerful response he turned to go.

The landlord was exceedingly aggravated at this careless answer. His
face grew quite purple with anger. "If you have no money, my lord, I
shall keep your trousers till you are able to pay for the twelve
bottles." So saying he took hold of the tipsy man. Whether he liked it
or not, Lord Erich was obliged to leave his inexpressibles with the
inexorable landlord, and to walk home without them.

The firs in the wood shook their heads in disapproval at such a
strange attire.

It is not known if Lord Erich ever came back to the inn to redeem his
nether garments.




The Roman Ghosts


Before the gates of the old Roman town of Bonn rises a mountain of
moderate height, called Kreuzberg, or "Crossmountain."

In early mediaeval times pious pilgrims went to this sacred place, in
order to kneel on the holy steps of the old convent church so rich in
memories of the martyrs, or to pray in the chapel. On the same spot at
the beginning of the fourth century, the great saints of the Theban
legion, Cassius, and his companions Florentius and Melusius, died for
the Christian faith.

These martyrs were the guardian saints of the country round Bonn. Many
a prayer sent up to them had graciously been fulfilled, since the time
when St. Helena, the pious mother of Constantine, erected a chapel to
their honour on Kreuzberg.

Once upon a time a simple peasant from the neighbouring country went
on a pilgrimage to St. Cassius' burial place.

He came to ask the kind martyr for assistance in his distress.
Dransdorf was his village, formerly called Trajan's village, because
the general, who later on became Emperor Trajan, is said to have had a
villa there.

A bad harvest had brought troubles on the peasant, but he firmly
believed that through the intercession of St. Cassius he would receive
money enough in one way or another to enable him to pay his many
debts.

On arriving at Kreuzberg, he began his religious exercises by
confessing his sins to one of the monks belonging to the order of St.
Francis. Then according to custom he knelt in succession on one sacred
step after the other till he reached the chapel. His wife had
carefully put a candle in his pocket which he now lighted before the
image of St. Cassius. Having thus fulfilled all the duties prescribed
by the church, he turned homewards, well content with himself.

When he crossed the principal square of the town, where already at the
time the magnificent Minster stood, he entered this church to pray
once more, and to put another coin into the poor-box.

Twilight was creeping through the aisles, and a pilgrimage being not
at all an easy thing, our peasant soon fell asleep over his
prayer-book.

He only awoke, when, somebody pulled him by his sleeve. It was the
sexton with a big bunch of keys.

At first the peasant gazed drowsily at the unwelcome intruder, then
with astonished eyes he looked round about him, until at last it
dawned upon him, that he must get up and leave the church. Rousing
himself he made the sign of the cross, and left the Minster with
tottering steps. The night winds rustled in the old limetrees of the
square and seemed to whisper strange tales into the ears of the late
wanderer.

The peasant crossed the open space sulkily, and steered his way
towards the Sternthor, which led to Dransdorf. An ancient Roman tower,
the remains of the high fortifications erected by the soldiers of
Drusus eighteen hundred years ago, stands in the narrow lane, leading
from the minster-square to the Sternthor. To the tired wanderer this
tower seemed a splendid shelter, all the more so, as it would not cost
him a penny.

He entered it, and tired out with the weary day, he was soon fast
asleep as if he had never been stirred up from the bench in the
Minster. No sexton with noisy keys was to be feared, and yet in his
sleep the countryman had the sensation of somebody tapping him on the
shoulder. He sat up and looked round. To his amazement he beheld a
magnificent warrior standing before him, clad in a coat of mail with a
Roman helmet on his head. Two companions in similar array stood by his
side.

They nodded genially down to him, and it struck him that he had
already seen them somewhere else. After some moments he remembered the
pictures of St. Cassius and his friends in the chapel on Kreuzberg.
There was no doubt the three holy martyrs stood in person before him.

Our good peasant was so much awed at this discovery that he could not
utter a word, but on a sign from his mysterious visitors, he followed
them at a respectful distance.

They marched towards the Sternthor, straight into the building, the
walls of which were as thick as the rooms were long in the peasant's
humble little cottage. In the middle of a high vault there was a table
covered with sparkling gold.

At this unusual sight the peasant opened his eyes very widely indeed;
but his astonishment changed into keen delight when one of his ghostly
visitors filled his left pocket and another his right with the
glittering metal. Meanwhile the third man took a tumbler from the
middle of the table, and presented it to him with an encouraging
smile.

He thought their language was very much like that which the vicar of
the village church used in reading the service. Though the simple man
could not understand a word of their conversation, he interpreted the
kind invitation quite correctly, and shouting out a merry, "Vivat!" as
a salute to his hosts, he emptied the tumbler at one big draught.

The whole building resounded with the echo, "Vivat!" The three
warriors looked pleased and answered in a cheerful voice, "Vivat,
Vivat!"

All at once it seemed to the peasant as if the vault was filled with a
multitude of Roman soldiers who all called out to him, "Vivat!" as if
happy to hear a sound of their native language in the country of the
north.

The man from Dransdorf became quite high-spirited, and kept on
shouting, "Vivat, Vivat!" Suddenly startled by the noise he made, he
awoke and found himself lying on the floor of the Roman tower in the
Sterngasse.

The events of the night only seemed to him like a strange dream. But
when he felt in his pockets he found them stuffed with real golden
coins of a strange ancient stamp.

Our friend's joy became quite uproarious. After having sent up a
heartfelt thanksgiving to St. Cassius, he gave vent to his delight by
shouting through the quiet streets at the top of his voice, "Vivat,
Vivat!"

A watchman stood on duty by the Sternthor, when the jocund peasant
passed by. He made a step forward and, reaching out his arm, he gave
the merry man a rude knock with his lance. Unmindful of this rough
admonition, the peasant related the event in the Roman tower to the
watchman, and finished his story by inviting the stern man of duty to
an early draught at the nearest inn.

Rumours of the wonderful events spread far and wide, and soon every
town and village knew the tale. The small lane leading from the
Minstersquare to the Sternthor was called "Vivat" lane, and bears that
name to the present day.

Some years ago a heavy winter gale destroyed the old Roman tower that
had so long withstood the vicissitudes of time. The people of Bonn
however did not wish to obliterate the memory of this curious story,
and therefore named the street running parallel with "Vivat"
lane--"Cassius Graben."




COLOGNE

Richmodis of Aducht


It was about the middle of the fifteenth century.

The shadows of death hovered above the holy City of Cologne. A strange
figure in dark garments hurried with quick steps through the streets
and lanes. It was the plague. Its poisonous breath penetrated into
cottages and palaces, extinguishing the lives of many thousands.

The grave-diggers marked innumerable houses with a black cross, to
warn the passers-by that the destroying angel had entered there. The
roll of the dead rose to such numbers that it was impossible to bury
them all in the customary manner. Therefore the bodies of the
unfortunate people were thrown together into a common grave, covered
only scantily with earth and marked with a plain wooden cross.

Woe and sorrow thus filled the old City of Cologne.

On the New-market, close to the Church of the Apostles, in a splendid
mansion, the rich Magistrate, Mengis of Aducht lived. Wealth could not
save his house from the dreadful epidemic, his youthful and lovely
wife, Richmodis, was seized with the plague and died. The grief of her
lord was boundless. He passed the whole night by the remains of his
beloved spouse, dressed her himself in the white wedding gown she had
worn as a happy bride a few years before, decorated the coffin with
sweet white flowers, and covered her with the precious jewels and
costly rings she had loved so much. Then she was buried.

Night approached, and the clear starry sky looked peacefully down on
the afflicted town.

Perfect stillness prevailed in God's acre.--Suddenly a jarring sound
like the opening of an old rusty lock was heard, and two dark shadows
glided among the graves, on and on till they stopped before the fresh
mound which enclosed the body of Richmodis of Aducht.--Those two knew
the spot, and well they might, for they were the grave-diggers, and
had prepared this grave themselves on the previous day.

They were present when the lid of the coffin was screwed down, and had
with hungry looks coveted the glittering precious stones Richmodis was
to be buried with.

Now they had come to rob the dead body. With spade and shovel the
wreaths and flowers were quickly removed from the mound, the earth dug
up, and the coffin laid bare. In feverish haste, spurred on by their
greed, they burst the lid open, and the dim light of their lantern
fell full on the mild pale face of the dead woman. With haste the
bolder of the two wretches loosened the white waxen hands folded
together as in prayer, and tried to tear off the rings.

Suddenly the body quivered, and the white hands spread out. Aghast
the robbers dropped their tools, scrambled in utmost terror out of the
grave, and fled as if chased by the furies.

A painful long sigh rose from the depth of the grave, and after some
time the white form of Richmodis who had been buried alive, emerged
from the tomb.

With wide open eyes, full of horror, she looked down into the ghastly
bed she had just left.--Could it really be true, or was it only a
frightful dream?

God's acre was silent, but for the rustling of the autumn leaves of
the weeping willows. Stillness of death everywhere!--No answer came to
her faint cry for help.--The horror of her situation however wakened
her declining strength. She took up the lantern which the robbers had
left behind them and with feeble steps reached the entrance of the
churchyard.

The streets were desolate. The stars overhead alone perceived the
slowly moving form, every now and then resting against the walls of
the houses.--At last she reached the New-market and stood before the
door of her home. Dark and quiet it seemed. But from the window in the
magistrate's room a faint light shone forth. A quiver ran through the
frame of the poor wife, and a wild longing desire seized her to be
sheltered by his loving arms and to feel in his embrace that she had
really returned to life again.

With a last effort she seized the knocker, and listened with newly
awakened hope to the tapping sound which rang clear through the night.

A few minutes elapsed. Then an old servant peeping out of the window
in the door, perceived the white ghostly figure of his late mistress.
Horror seized him, his hair stood on end. Richmodis called him by his
name and begged him to open the door. At the sound of her voice the
old man started, ran upstairs, dashed into his master's room uttering
incoherent sounds, and stammering: "O Lord, the dead rise; outside
stands our good Mistress and demands entrance!" But the Magistrate
shook his head in deep grief: "Richmodis, my beloved wife is dead and
will never return, never, never," he repeated in unspeakable sorrow;
"I will rather believe that my two white horses will burst from their
halters in the stable and mount the stairs to the tower."

A terrible sound suddenly filled the quiet house, a noise like thunder
was heard, and Mengis of Aducht and his servant saw the two white
steeds tearing and tramping in haste upstairs.

A moment later two horses looked out of the tower windows into the
night, and shortly afterwards the Magistrate laughing and crying with
joy at the same time, held in his arms his wife who had returned from
the grave.

For many years Richmodis lived happily with her husband, surrounded by
several lovely children. Deep piety remained the motive power of
Richmodis' being, and nobody ever saw her smile again.

If you come to Cologne, reader, you will still see the old house of
the Aduchts at the New-market, with two white wooden horses' heads
looking out of the top window.




The Goblins


This story goes back to the "good old times" of which we modern people
always speak with a sigh of regret.

It was then when good-natured goblins appeared to mortal eyes, and
tried to render the life of the troubled human race a little more
cheerful. In groves and dens they had magnificent dwellings and
watched there over the enormous mineral treasures of the earth.

Often these beneficent elves were busy miners or sometimes clever
artisans. We all know that they manufactured the precious trinkets and
arms of the Nibelungen treasure.

Deep in the interior of the earth they lived happily together, ruled
over by a king. They could be called the harmless friends of darkness,
because they were not allowed to come into broad daylight. If they did
so, they were transformed into stones.

The goblins did not always remain underground. On the contrary they
often came to the earth's surface through certain holes, called
goblin-holes, but they always avoided meeting man.

Alas! the advance of civilisation has driven these friendly spirits
gradually from the places where they used to do so much good. None of
us, I am sure has ever had the good luck of meeting one of them.

The goblins were of different sizes. Sometimes they were as small as
one's thumb, sometimes as large as the hand of a child of four years
old. The most remarkable feature of these tiny figures was the
enormous head and the pointed hump that so often adorned their backs.
Their look was on the whole more comical than ugly. German people used
to call them "Heinzchen" or "Heinzelmännchen."

A long time ago the good town of Cologne was inhabited by a host of
dwarfs, and the honest population knew a great many stories about
them. The workmen and artisans especially had, through the assistance
of the little wights, far more holidays than are marked in the
calendar.

When the carpenters, for instance, were lying on their benches in
sweet repose, those little men came swiftly and stealthily along, they
took up the tools and chiselled and sawed and hammered with a will,
and thus, records the poetical chronicles which I am quoting, before
the carpenters woke up, the house stood there finished.

In the same way things went on with the baker. While his lads were
snoring, the little goblins came to help. They groaned under the load
of heavy corn-sacks, they kneaded and weighed the flour, lifted and
pushed the bread into the oven, and before the lazy bakers opened
their eyes, the morning bread, brown and crisp, was lying in rows on
the table.

The butchers too could speak of similar agreeable experiences. The
good little men chopped, mixed and stirred with all their might, and
when the drowsy butcher opened his eyes at last, he found the fresh,
steaming sausages adorning the walls of his shop.

The cooper enjoyed also the help of the busy dwarfs, and even the
tailor could not complain of the goblins having neglected him.

Once Mr. Cotton, a clever tailor, had the honour of making a Sunday
coat for the mayor of the town. He worked diligently at it, but you
can easily imagine that in the heat of the summer afternoon, the
needle soon dropped from his hand, and he fell fast asleep.
Hush!--look there. One little goblin after the other crept cautiously
from his hiding place.

They climbed on the table and began the tailor's work, and stitched
and sewed and fitted and pressed, as if they had been masters of the
needle all their lives.

When Master Cotton awoke, he found to his great joy the mayor's Sunday
coat ready made, and so neatly and well done that he could present the
magnificent garment with pride to the head of the town.

The pretty wife of Mr. Cotton looked at this masterpiece of her
husband's art with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

In the night when her husband had fallen asleep, she rose from her bed
without making the slightest noise, and scattered pease all over the
floor of the workshop; she then put a half-finished suit on the table.
She kept a small lantern hidden under her apron, and waited behind
the door listening. Soon after the room was full of little men all
tumbling, falling, and slipping over the pease. Yells and screams rose
at the same time. The poor little men were indeed much bruised and
hurt. Without stopping they ran downstairs and disappeared.

The tailor's wife heard the noise, and thought it good sport. When the
yells were loudest, she suddenly opened the door to see her visitors,
but she came too late. Not a single goblin was left behind.

Since that time the friendly dwarfs have never more been seen in
Cologne, and in other places also they have entirely disappeared.




Jan and Griet


[Illustration: Jan und Griet--Steinbild am Jan von Werth-Denkmal in
Köln]

"There lived at Cologne on the old farm of Kümpchenshof a peasant who
had a maid called Griet and a man-servant called Jan."

Thus begins the old well-known Rhenish song of "Jan van Werth," the
celebrated general of the imperial cavalry at the time when the Swedes
and French were taking advantage of the civil war in Germany. But
nobody except the inhabitants of the holy City of Cologne, knows that
Jan van Werth was originally a simple labourer, and that he was
indebted for his luck in life to his bad luck in love.

Jan was an industrious farmer-boy with an upright character and a
handsome face.

Many a girl would not have rejected him as a sweetheart, but Jan's
tender heart had long been captivated by the good looks of pretty
Griet, the comely maid of the Kümpchenshof. His love could not long
remain a secret. One day he confessed to her with sobs that he loved
her dearly, and would with pleasure work and toil for her twice as
much as he then did for his master. He spoke long and earnestly, and
taking courage with every word he uttered, he at last put to her the
all-important question--would she become his wife?

Laughingly the pretty girl put her round arms akimbo, tossed her head
back and looked at her honest suitor with a mocking twinkle in her
eyes. Then she shook her head energetically and said: "You are only a
farmer's labourer, my dear boy, and will remain one most probably all
your life. True, it is not your fault, but all the same I should
prefer to marry a rich farmer with cows and oxen and horses."

Bitter anger rose in Jan's breast on hearing her talk so heartlessly,
but he controlled himself. "Just as you like," he said sadly, and
turned away from the haughty maid.

From that day he could not endure any longer the life at the farm, and
pocketing his wages, he said good-bye for ever to the Kümpchenshof and
became a soldier.

It was a furious war in which the German Emperor was engaged against
the enemies of his country, and brave soldiers were rare. Any valiant
warrior might distinguish himself and become an officer at that time.

The farmer-boy, Jan, soon won by his bravery and intrepidity the
esteem of his superiors, and was promoted to the rank of colonel. Once
when fighting against the Swedish troops he showed such determination
and courage that he won the battle. After this brilliant act he was
made a general. But the name of Jan van Werth became even more famous
when he beat the French in a skirmish at Tüttlingen.

In another way also his good luck reconciled him to the first bitter
disappointment caused for by Griet's scornful answer. He married a
lovely and noble young lady, who was very proud of becoming the wife
of such a celebrated general.

Let us now look back and see what happened in the meantime to Griet.
She had waited month after month and year after year for the rich
farmer. But the longed-for suitor never made his appearance. Even in
those by-gone days red cheeks and bright eyes were much less thought
of than ducats and glittering gold.

As time went on Griet grew old, and though she would now have been
content with a simple man for her sweetheart, not even such a one
condescended to ask her to become his wife.

Little by little Griet gave up all hopes of ever marrying, and had to
look out for a living to keep her in her old age from starving.
Therefore she started a fruit stall at one of the large gateways of
Cologne.

One day the good inhabitants of this town were in great excitement,
and crowded in their best Sunday-clothes round the gate of St.
Severin, where Griet sat at her apple-stall. They had come to meet Jan
van Werth, the celebrated general, who was returning victorious at the
head of his regiment.

There he was sitting on a powerful charger which was gorgeously
covered with gilded trappings. On his fine head Jan wore a
broad-brimmed hat with a flowing feather. Behind him rode his splendid
soldiers. The body-guard of the town beat the drum enthusiastically,
and the Cologne people called out: "Long live our Jan van Werth!"

When the celebrated general passed the gate, he stopped his horse
just in front of Griet's apple baskets, and looking down upon the old
wrinkled woman, met her questioning glance with an odd smile. "Ah
Griet," said he slowly; "whoever would have thought it?" At the sound
of his voice an expression of sudden recognition passed over her worn
features, and she muttered sorrowfully, but still audibly to the proud
rider, "Oh, Jan, if I had only known it!"

A magnificent monument in the form of the statue of Jan van Werth now
stands in the centre of the old market of Cologne.

It was erected there in memory not only of the heroic deeds of the
brave general, but also as a warning to all Cologne maidens not to
reject their suitors because they are poor, for one day, like Jan van
Werth, they may become famous, and then they will not, like Griet,
have to sigh over things that "might have been."




The Cathedral-Builder of Cologne


It was at Cologne in the year 1248 on the eve of the Ascension day of
our Lord.

Before the mighty Archbishop Kunrad of Hochstaden stood a simple
architect offering the plan of a church, and arrogantly boasting that
it would become one of the most beautiful cathedrals in Christendom.
That man was Master Gerhard of Ryle.

The Archbishop was greatly astonished at the grandeur of the design,
and ordered the execution of the bold plan without delay.

On the square which was selected for the erection of the new
cathedral, another church had once been standing under the reign of
the first king of the Franks, but it had been destroyed by the
Normans.

Now again gigantic masonry, slender pillars, bold vaults and arches
rose to unite into a proud dome.

Everybody admired the humble man, whose creative genius now employed
thousands of industrious workmen, and Master Gerhard's name was
mentioned with great praise at home and abroad.

When the choir was finished, crowds of pious pilgrims came from the
surrounding suburbs and even from a distance to pray before the
relics of the three holy kings which where enshrined there. Hymns of
praise re-echoed through the unfinished aisles.

Everybody rejoiced. But he, who ought to have been the most glad, was
sad, and dark forebodings damped his spirits. The question if after
all he would live to see his proud building finished, or if cruel fate
would tear him away before he should have tasted the sweetness of
triumph, tormented him day and night. His young wife saw with grief
the change in his disposition; but she tried in vain by tender words
and caresses to smooth his sorrowful brow.

The more he was troubled by his gloomy thoughts, the more he urged his
workmen on.--Four years had elapsed; it was now 1252. The tower on the
north side rose already proudly into the air. The scaffolding reached
higher and higher every day.

One day Master Gerhard stood beside the big crane, watching how the
gigantic blocks of stone taken from the quarries at the Drachenfels,
were lifted up. He thought with pride and satisfaction that his work
was going on well; and that he surely would see it finished. While
thus meditating he did not observe that a stranger stood by his side
watching him with an ugly sneer. A burning red cloak hung round his
tall figure, a gold chain glittered on his breast, and a cock's
feather nodded from a quaint velvet cap. He introduced himself to the
somewhat surprised builder as a fellow-architect. "You are building a
lovely church," he then said, "but I created a far more magnificent
mansion, long long years ago. Its stone will never crumble to dust,
and it will resist the influence of time and weather forever." In
saying this, his eyes glittered strangely under his shaggy brows. This
presumptuous speech did not please Master Gerhard, and without
answering he measured the bold speaker scornfully from head to foot.

"Your church," continued the stranger, "will be a very lovely
building, but don't you think that such an enterprise is far too
audacious for mortal man. You, Master Gerhard, you ought to have known
at the time when you laid the foundation stone of your church that you
never would see your work finished."

"Who is likely to prevent it?" angrily burst forth the builder. No one
had ever dared to use such language towards him, nor to wound his
pride so keenly. "Death," coolly replied the stranger. "Never," cried
Master Gerhard in a great fury, "I will finish what I began, and would
even bet with the devil himself to do so."

"Hallo!" laughed the stranger grimly. "I should like to deal with such
an audacious man as you, and make bold to bet with you that I will, in
a shorter space of time, finish the digging of a canal from Treves to
Cologne, fill it with water, and have merry ducks swimming on it, than
you will take to complete your church."

"So be it!" said Master Gerhard very much startled, taking the
outstretched hand of the strange man. At the touch of his cold
fingers, a sensation of horror crept into the heart of Master Gerhard.
But the red-cloaked man burst into a yelling laugh and cried out in a
formidable voice, "Remember we betted for your soul." Utmost terror
seized the trembling architect, cold perspiration stood on his brow,
and he tried in vain to utter a word.

Suddenly a storm rose, the stranger unfolded his red cloak, and was
lifted from the ground in a cloud of dust and vanished.

From that day the mind of Master Gerhard grew more and more gloomy. He
kept on wandering restlessly on the scaffoldings of the building. The
more he considered the huge dimensions of the cathedral, the more
doubtful he felt as to whether he would be able to finish it or not.

By daybreak he could be seen among his workmen, and till late in the
evening he wandered about on the building-ground, praising the
industrious and blaming the idle. He looked out anxiously sometimes in
the direction of Treves to see if he could discern anything uncommon
there. But he never saw the slightest change, nor any sign that the
stranger with whom he had betted, had really begun his canal in
earnest, and he looked more hopefully into the future.

One day he was standing as usual on the top of one of the completed
towers, when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. Turning round, he
beheld with disagreeable surprise the ghostly stranger. Was he a
master of the black art or was he the devil himself? "Well, Master
Gerhard," began the unwelcome visitor, "how are you getting on with
your work? I see it is making good progress. Happily I shall soon
have finished my canal, else I should run the risk of losing my bet."

"I can scarcely believe your boasting speech," answered the builder
scornfully, "because I do not perceive the slightest trace of your
having begun the canal." "Know, my dear man, that I am worth more than
a hundred workmen together and, as I told you, my work is nearly
ready," said the man in red.

"Really," said Master Gerhard a little startled, "I should like to
know what magic power could enable you to do so."

"Come and follow me," replied the stranger, taking the builder by the
hand. Off they flew through the air with the quickness of lightning,
and reached the earth in the district near Treves in a few seconds. At
the place where they descended, a spring arose from the ground and
sent its crystal waters into an opening in a rock. "Come with me,"
said the magic stranger, and bending down he disappeared in this
opening.

Master Gerhard followed him and came into a high glittering grotto,
where he perceived that the water gushed tumultuously into the mouth
of a black underground channel.

"You see," said the stranger, "how well I have used my time. If you
have the heart for it, we will follow the waters, and see how far my
canal reaches already."

Scarcely had he uttered these words, than a mysterious power seized
both and pushed them forward with tremendous rapidity. Master Gerhard
saw now with terror that the work of the Evil One was indeed not
far from its completion, for when they emerged from the dark canal,
they had the City of Cologne lying close before them. The
cathedral-builder could no longer doubt the great skill of his rival,
and he felt sure that he would lose his bet. The red-cloaked man
seemed to take great delight in the builder's discomfiture, and he
said with an ugly grin:

"Well, Master Gerhard, I see you have found more than you expected. I
am sure you would like to see the merry ducks which shall swim on my
brook, according to our bet."

He clapped his hands three times and then listened. Some minutes
passed, but no ducks appeared. The stranger's face assumed an
expression of rage, when he found his summons unsuccessful. He tried
again but in vain. After this he gave a frightful yell, and vanished
all at once, leaving nothing behind him but a smell of sulphur.

The cathedral-builder had looked on in wonder, and new hope began to
fill his heart, that after all he could win the bet.

"I know well, why the ducks won't appear," thought he, "but I shall
never betray my secret to him."

After this adventurous journey, Master Gerhard was a prey to
melancholy.

He was seen oftener than before on the building ground. It was
impossible for him to doubt any longer, that the stranger with whom he
had made the fatal bet, was the devil himself. The unfortunate man
was well aware that not only was his life at stake, but that the
salvation of his soul was likewise in danger, should the master of
hell carry out his work.

There was only one little hope left for him, namely, that the devil
would be unable to find out how to keep the ducks alive while they
were swimming through the long underground channel. So Master Gerhard
took courage, saying to himself: "He cannot win and I know why."

His young wife was strangely moved at her husband's silence and
melancholy. She tried by increased tenderness and love to unstop his
silent lips and to make him tell what was lying so heavily on his
heart.

He appreciated her endeavours to cheer him very much, but could not be
brought to tell of his dealings with the Evil One, and so he kept his
secrets to himself.

One day, not long after the mysterious journey of Master Gerhard, a
stranger, apparently a scholar, entered the architect's house, while
he was as usual on the building ground. A scarlet cloak enveloped his
tall figure, and a cock's feather sat boldly on his black cap.

His manners were soft and in general those of a gentleman. Hearing
that the builder was not at home, he asked for his wife. She came and
soon found that she liked talking to him, because he showed not only
great eloquence, but also great sympathy for her husband.

Involuntarily she disclosed to the kind stranger her secret grief
about Master Gerhard's sadness. The scholar listened to her troubles
with great attention, and seemed to feel for her in her sorrow. "My
dear Mistress," said he in a soft voice, "there is surely some secret
weighing heavily on his mind, and this and nothing else is the cause
of his melancholy. Unless we know it, we cannot cure him. You are
nearest to his heart. If you are very loving and tender to him, he
will not withhold the secret for long from you. Be extremely kind to
him. After three days I shall come back to see if you have been
successful. If not, I will give you a remedy that will unfailingly
make him tell you his inmost thoughts."

Thus speaking he took his leave, and she was unable to find words to
express her gratitude.

For three days she tried the scholar's advice, but found that her
husband, in spite of all her coaxing and caresses, would not tell the
cause of his melancholy.

On the fourth day, the scholar called again and heard with apparent
grief how badly her endeavours had succeeded, "I pity you heartily,"
said he, "but don't despair. Here is a wonderful herb. Prepare a
beverage with it for your husband and make him drink it before he goes
to sleep. He will dream after the draught and betray his secrets in
his sleep."

She accepted the gift gratefully, and prepared the potion according to
his advice. Her husband took the beverage willingly, and soon fell
into a profound sleep. After some time dreams seemed to trouble him;
he tossed restlessly to and fro in his bed murmuring incoherent
words. His wife listened anxiously and heard in feverish excitement
about the terrible dealings between him and the devil. After a pause
Master Gerhard muttered:

"He will never win, because I hold the secret."

"What may that be?" whispered she in the dreamer's ear.

"He may do what he will," unconsciously answered he, "it is quite
impossible that ducks should swim through the underground channel,
unless he makes air-holes at every mile. Of course this idea will
never come into his head."

The next morning the scholar called upon the wife and heard how well
his scheme had succeeded. She told him every thing. When she had
revealed her husband's secret to him, the meek features of her strange
guest suddenly changed. He gave a loud shrill scream of joy and
disappeared. The poor wife remained on the same spot, pale and
terror-stricken.

Master Gerhard was standing the next day by the high crane of the
cathedral as usual.

The air was sultry, and black clouds were gathering from across the
Rhine. He felt very restless, and urged his workmen even more than
before to hurry on. The builder's heart was strangely filled with dark
forebodings. All at once he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning
round, he beheld with terror the fatal stranger. A wondrous gleam of
red-like flames seemed to radiate all round his figure.

The cathedral builder grew pale as death and trembled from head to
foot. He was unable to utter a word.

Beaming with the joy of triumph, the Evil One pointed with his hand
downwards, and forced Master Gerhard to look in the same direction.
Behold! At the foot of the cathedral a silvery brook was visible
running from the direction of Treves. Merry ducks were swimming on its
shining surface.

It is impossible to describe the feelings of the builder at the sight
of the completed work of his rival. Despair and agony made his heart
sink within him, but the Evil One looked with joy on his victim. When
he suddenly tried to grasp him, Master Gerhard darted to the edge of
the scaffolding with a heart-rending scream, and dashed himself down
into the depth below, and was instantly killed.

A roar of thunder filled the air at that moment and the devil
vanished in a blaze of lightning. The thunderstorm grew more and more
violent. After a few minutes the unhappy cathedral builder's house was
struck by lightning and burnt to ashes in less than an hour.
Unfortunately, the admirable plan of the splendid church was also
destroyed.

This was the sad end of Master Gerhard and his ambition.

The cathedral remained untouched for more than six centuries after.
Its unfinished walls and towers began to decay as if they mourned the
terrible death of their builder. The Cologne people believed for a
long time that the spirit of Master Gerhard used to hover about
midnight round the high towers and the desolated vaults. Strange
sounds like the sighs of somebody in anguish were often heard in the
deserted building, and people said it was Master Gerhard's ghost
complaining that his proud cathedral remained unfinished.

Generation after generation passed by, and six centuries elapsed
before busy workmen began again hammering and building on the ground
which had lain so long quiet.

In 1880 the dome was finished, and towers now in all its majesty high
above the dwellings of the people, and can be seen miles away.

Since that glorious day when the last stone was added to the cathedral
of Cologne, Master Gerhard's ghost has never been heard or seen again.




XANTEN

Siegfried


[Illustration: Siegfried schleppt einen Bären ins Lager--Nach einer
Lithographie von Peter Cornelius]

Siegfried,--and as we pronounce this glorious name, the hero looks
forth at us with shining eyes, for was not Siegfried the perfect
embodiment of all that was beautiful and good?

For centuries stories have been told and poems have been sung of the
bold adventures of the young hero, whose energy only found
satisfaction in victorious fights.

The original name of the small town on the lower Rhine now called
Xanten, was "Ad Santos," "peace for the saints." It was thus named on
account of the pious warriors of the Theban legion who in the fourth
century had boldly died there for their creed under their leader,
Victor.

At the time to which our story refers, a mighty stronghold formed the
centre of the little town Xanten. A king called Siegmund with his wife
Siegelinde and their son Siegfried lived there.

While a mere boy, Siegfried had already a kingly stature, and an
almost untamable disposition of mind. When he was only thirteen years
of age, his longing for grand deeds was so great that he found it
impossible to remain inactive at home. From old songs and legends
which the minstrels recited in his father's castle, he had heard so
much of bold adventures and brilliant exploits performed by his
forefathers, that he was most anxious to follow in their steps. He
felt strong and valiant enough to undertake, like the heroes of old,
dangerous journeys. Therefore young Siegfried left one day his
ancestral halls, and wandered southwards along the clear blue river.
He soon found an opportunity of testing his courage.

At the foot of the Seven Mountains lived a celebrated armourer called
Mimer, renowned for making excellent swords. Our hero liked this
warlike trade, and he asked the master to receive him as an
apprentice, that he might learn the praiseworthy art of forging a good
sword for himself. The armourer agreed, and Siegfried remained at
Mimer's workshop. The journeymen with whom the youth had to work, soon
learned the enormous strength of their new companion. The boy, often
not knowing how to give expression to his desire for action, would
take up his fellow-workmen, lift them high into the air, and drop
them, not always softly, to the ground. Or when his anger was roused,
he would imprint black and blue marks on their backs with his strong
fists. Once he even smashed with one stroke of his hammer all the iron
bars in the armoury, and knocked the anvil into the ground with a
mighty blow.

Mimer looked on with dismay, amazed at the boy's almost supernatural
strength, but fearing that Siegfried's wrath might some time turn
against him, he thought to rid himself of his dangerous apprentice,
and conceived a cunning plan to kill him. A horrible dragon lived in
the neighbouring forest, which tore every wanderer to pieces who
chanced to cross its way. Mimer ordered Siegfried to fetch a sack from
the charcoal-burner in that forest, well knowing that the boy would
never return thence.

The youth, without knowing the danger he was about to meet, went
cheerfully on his way. In the middle of the thick wood he kindled a
charcoal-kiln, and amused himself by putting big burning branches and
young trees into the fire.

Suddenly the monster came swiftly creeping on its huge claws. Curving
its shimmering body the ugly beast opened wide its jaws to devour the
young charcoal-burner. Siegfried's eyes brightened up at the prospect
of an encounter with the terrible animal before him. Without a
moment's hesitation, he tore a flaming beam out of the kiln, and
pushed its burning end deep into the open mouth of the dragon. Roaring
with pain the monster turned round beating violently with its prickly
tail, trying in its agony to crush Siegfried. But he, jumping
skilfully aside, rapidly dealt it heavy blows, and succeeded at last
in smashing its head with a large piece of rock. He severed the head
from the body, and threw it into the blazing flames. To his
astonishment he observed how a stream of grease gushed from the
burning pile, and collected in a pool at his feet.

Close by the charcoal-kiln stood an old limetree. A little bird sang
merrily in its branches. Siegfried, involuntarily listening to the
clear strain, made out the following words: "If you would be covered
with horn, and become invulnerable, undress yourself and plunge into
the pool."

Siegfried quickly threw his clothes off and anointed his whole body
with the dragon's grease. While thus occupied a leaf from the old
limetree above dropped between his shoulders. This part of the hero's
body remained without horn. When he had finished, he took up the
monster's head and returned to Mimer's workshop. The nearer he got to
the smithy, the more his rage against his wicked master increased.
Mimer had seen the boy from afar approaching with the trophy of his
fight, and had hidden in great fear.

Siegfried however soon found him out and slew him on the spot. Then he
forged a good two-edged sword and shining armour for himself, and
having saddled the best horse of Mimer's stable, he left the smithy to
look for new adventures.

For a long time he travelled aimlessly about, saw mountains and
valleys, rivers and lakes, cities and hamlets, until he at last
arrived at the sea-shore. He embarked with his good horse, and was
cast by a gale on the rocky coast of an unknown country. The noble
animal climbed courageously up the stony beach, and carried its rider
to an enchanted castle which was surrounded by a wall of flames. For a
moment Siegfried stood irresolute. Suddenly the voice of the little
bird sounded again above him, "Break the charm. Straight into the
flames with a bold dash. A most lovely maiden will be thy reward."

The youth took courage, spurred his steed, and with a plunge horse and
rider disappeared in the flames, which were at once extinguished. The
charm was broken. Before him lay a wonderful castle. Siegfried
penetrated into its interior, and was amazed to find every living
creature in a profound sleep within; the horses in their stalls, the
grooms in the stables, the cook at the hearth. When he entered the
high hall a lovely scene presented itself to his view. On a couch the
most exquisite form of a woman lay sleeping. Her golden hair was
strewn with precious stones, and her limbs were clothed in the most
costly garments.

The young hero looked for a while, lost in admiration. Then bending
down to her, he pressed a passionate kiss on her rosy lips. Brunhilde,
the fair sleeper, opened her eyes, and at the same time every living
being in the castle awoke.

The old legend depicts in glowing colours the sweet hours of love that
followed for Siegfried and Brunhilde. Days and months passed by
without the lovers being aware of it. However fond of adventures
Siegfried was, he felt himself chained to the spot by her subtle
charms. While thus undecided he heard one day the bird's voice: "Leave
the castle and give up a life of ignoble leisure; direct your steps
towards the country of the Nibelungen, take possession of their
immense treasures and of the precious invisible cap."

At the prospect of new adventures Siegfried could not be kept back
any longer by Brunhilde. They parted with the solemn promise of
meeting again.

A great many exploits are recorded of the proud hero which he
performed in the country of the Nibelungen. After a long and hard
struggle with the cunning dwarfs, he took away with him their
treasure, as well as the cap which had the gift of making its wearer
invisible.

Years had passed by, and Siegfried longed to see the place of his
childhood again. So he turned homewards and reached Xanten after many
adventures. The joy of his noble parents at seeing their valiant son
again was indescribable.

The legend of Siegfried's youthful exploits and his home-coming is
full of romance and happiness. But if we listen to the continuation of
his story we shall find how every human feeling has its place in the
hero's biography, great joy, deep sorrow, passionate love, glowing
hatred, heroism and perfidy, cowardice and high courage, until at last
the legend of Siegfried ends in a pitiful wail of grief.




CLEVE

Lohengrin


[Illustration: Des Schwanenritters Abschied--Nach dem Gemälde von W. von
Kaulbach--Lohengrin's Departure--Le départ du chevalier au cygne]

The weathercock on the ancient stronghold at Cleve is a swan, and in
olden times the dynasty that ruled over the lovely country round Cleve
had also a swan in their crest. A legend, tragic and beautiful,
preserved to posterity forever in Richard Wagner's lovely opera, is
connected with it,--the legend of Lohengrin.

Long centuries ago deep sorrow brooded over the walls of the castle at
Cleve. Its mistress, the Duchess Elsa, was in great distress. Her
beloved husband had died, and his remains had been brought to their
last resting-place. As soon as the tomb had closed over them, one of
the late Duke's vassals, Telramund, rose in revolt, and imperiously
claimed the right to reign over the dukedom. The audacious man went so
far as to ask the widowed Duchess to become his wife, declaring that
this was the only means of saving her rank, which the death of her
husband had deprived her of.

Elsa, the youthful and lovely mistress, implored the knights of her
dominion to assist her in her trouble, and to take up arms against the
rebel. But Telramund, little disconcerted by this appeal, offered to
fight in single combat with anybody who dared to take up the quarrel
with him, well knowing that, on account of his immense strength,
nobody would dare to become his adversary.

The days passed in deepest sorrow for the unfortunate Duchess. The
moment was approaching when the rebel would make bold to proclaim
openly his claims before the whole assembled nobility on the open
space before the castle. The fatal hour came. Pale, her face covered
by her widow's veil, her queenly form enveloped in mourning garments,
Elsa descended from her castle to the assembly. The large plain was
crowded with a throng of people, and glittered with the brilliant
armour of the knights.

The unfaithful vassal, covered from head to foot in shining armour,
came forward with bold steps and claimed in a loud voice the hand and
dominion of the Duchess. The knights around, deluded by his valiant
appearance and the firmness of his voice, broke into loud applause.
Some of the crowd joined them in their cry of approbation, but most of
the people looked on, full of pity and admiration for their youthful
mistress.

No answer to his first challenge having come, Telramund repeated his
audacious demand, offering again to fight in single combat anybody who
dared to accept it. His eyes glanced defiantly over the brilliant
multitude of knights. He perceived with triumphant joy, how they all
shrank from fighting with him.--Elsa looked still paler than before.

For a third time the challenge of Telramund was heard. It sounded
clearly over the whole plain. But none of the bright warriors came
forward to take up the combat for Elsa's sake.

On the contrary deep silence followed the third challenge, and
everybody's eyes were fixed on the forsaken princess who looked in her
abandoned position still more lovely. The little hope that had till
that moment given her strength to bear her misfortune, had now
entirely vanished. In her utter desolation she offered a fervent
prayer to heaven. On her rosary, so the legend records, a little
silver bell was hanging, which possessed the wonderful gift of giving
forth, whenever slightly touched, a clear ringing sound audible even
at a great distance. In praying to God for deliverance from her great
trouble, she pressed the cross on her rosary fervently to her lips.
The silver bell tinkled, and at the same moment a little barge
suddenly appeared on the blue river. When it came nearer, everybody
looked with astonishment at the strange vessel. Its form was light and
graceful; but what astonished the people most was that it was not
moved by either oar or rudder, but was gently gliding on the blue
waves drawn by a snow-white swan. In the middle of the vessel stood a
knight in shining silver armour.

Long golden locks emerged from under his glittering helmet, his bright
blue eyes looked boldly over the crowd on the shore, and his hand held
the hilt of his broad sword firmly.

The strange boat stopped just opposite the plain where the people
stood motionless with amazement. The knight landed from the barge,
giving a sign with his hand to the swan, which swam gently down the
Rhine.

In silence and awe the multitude made room for the stranger who
approached with firm steps towards the middle of the brilliant circle,
and saluted the assembly with a solemn grace. Then he bent his knees
before the Duchess and rising, turned towards Telramund, challenging
him proudly to fight with him for the hand and dominion of Elsa of
Brabant. The bold rebel's temerity seemed to fail him for a few
moments, but gathering fresh courage he pulled his sword from its
sheath with a loud scornful laugh.

The next moment the two knights darted at each other, their blades
clashing in rapid strokes.

The whole crowd looked with wonder and amazement at the strange
knight's great prowess. He parried the blows of his strong adversary
skilfully. The combat lasted for some time, and neither of the
fighters seemed to give way. Suddenly a subdued cry was heard, and at
the same time the presumptuous vassal sank to the ground, pierced by
the sword of him whom God had sent, and expired. A tremendous shout of
joy burst from the gazing crowd, which rang from one end of the plain
to the other and was echoed by the glittering waves of the Rhine. The
people rejoiced in the victory, and thought that God himself had
decided the combat in favour of Elsa.

The Duchess felt greatly moved. In her overflowing gratitude she
sank down before her deliverer with tears in her eyes. But he bade her
rise, and bowing low before her asked her to become his wife. She
consented. What a heaven of bliss opened for the Duchess of Brabant!
All her former troubles were forgotten.

Her gratitude towards her rescuer was transformed into passionate
love, to which Lohengrin, the virtuous knight, responded with tender
adoration.

Yet though everything seemed now so serene in the life of the Duchess,
there was a dim cloud which threatened to darken the clear prospect of
her happiness. On their wedding-day Elsa had to promise her bridegroom
that she would never inquire about his name, his home, or his descent.

Trusting her deliverer's honour and chivalrous bearing, she took the
strange oath without a moment's hesitation.

Many years of bliss and happiness passed, and Elsa of Brabant had
strictly kept the promise she had made on her bridal morning. Their
happiness was still more enhanced by the birth of three hopeful boys.
They were their parents' joy, and promised to become in future shining
ornaments of knighthood.

It happened however, when the eyes of the Duchess were resting with
pride on her sons, that her mother's heart thought with grief of the
solemn oath she had sworn on her wedding-day.

With how much more pride would she have looked upon her sons if she
could have known them to be the offspring of a high and noble race.
She did not doubt however that her beloved husband's lineage was a
most noble one. Yet the thought that his sons might never bear their
father's name, nor be able to add new glories to it, was lying heavily
on her mind, and darkened the radiant image of her husband, that like
a deity filled her whole soul.

The fatal question she had for so long withheld burst one day forcibly
from her lips.

When she had pronounced the awful words, the proud hero grew pale, and
freeing himself softly from her tender embrace, he cried out in bitter
grief: "Woe to thee, my beloved wife and woe also to me! Now that thou
hast uttered the question thou didst sware solemnly never to ask, our
happiness is gone for ever. I must part from thee, never to see thee
again."

A cry of anguish rose from her lips, but she was unable to keep him
back. Waving his hand to her in a mute farewell her noble husband left
the castle. He went to the Rhine and blew his silver horn.

Its sound was echoed from the shore like a long sob. The white swan
with the boat soon appeared gliding gently over the river.

Lohengrin stepped into the boat and soon vanished out of sight and was
seen no more.

His unhappy wife was inconsolable. Her grief was so intense that a
short time after her health gave way, and she sank into a premature
grave.

Her sons became the ancestors of a noble and distinguished race in
the Rhenish country. Their badge is a swan.

The traveller who visits Cleve will still find a tombstone in its
church with a knight carved on it, and a swan sitting at his feet.




ZUYDERSEA

Stavoren


[Illustration: Stavoren--Nach einem Stich von Holbein]

A strange story is still told about the city of Stavoren on the
Zuydersea. It was a wondrous town, but like Vineta on the Baltic Sea
it vanished from the earth.

The merchants of Stavoren were the rulers of the Ocean, and the
treasures of all known countries were lying in their port. The houses
were lovely palaces, furnished in their interior like the marvellous
abodes of the Sultan Haroun Al Rachid, in the "Arabian Nights."

Of all the wealthy people of the town, there was nobody so much
blessed with riches as Richberta, a proud and beautiful lady. Smiling
fortune had lavishly poured its gifts upon her, and threw fresh
treasures daily at her feet. She seemed to own everything beautiful
that this life can bestow, but one thing she did not possess, and that
was the soft fire of woman's kindness which lightens and warms the
soul, and throws on all its surroundings a mild reflecting gleam.
Richberta was cold and indifferent to either the pleasures or sorrows
of her fellow-men. When night casts her shades upon the earth, all the
sweet bright birds and butterflies hide and make room for a host of
ghastly animals like owls and bats. So in Richberta's soul all her
soft qualities had gone to sleep for want of the tender gleam of love,
and only dark and harsh feelings haunted her soul. Immense pride in
her own wealth, a bitter envy towards those who possessed more than
she did, were her ruling passions.

Once Richberta gave a grand feast. While the luxurious meal was being
served, a stranger entered, who had come from far away to see the
wonders of Stavoren with his own eyes. "I have seen," said he, bowing
low to the lovely hostess, "many countries and many a princely court,
but I confess that Stavoren surpasses them all in splendour."

Highly flattered the proud lady bade him welcome to her table.
According to the customs of the Orient whence he came, he begged for
some bread and salt. Richberta ordered her servants to bring both, but
it was useless to look for such simple fare in her house where only
the most luxurious food was to be had.

Without making any remarks however the stranger sat down and partook
of the costly dishes. Then he began to relate his journeys, his
success and his failures in life, and dwelt with great eloquence on
the instability of earthly fortunes. All the guests listened with
interest to what he said. Only Richberta sat gloomily at the head of
her table. She felt angry that the stranger dared in her very presence
to find fault with wealth and splendour, and to predict its probable
destruction. Moreover she thought it rude in him that he had no word
of praise for her own brilliant beauty, nor a glance of astonishment
for her gorgeous palace. Her offended vanity induced her at last to
force from him the praise he so obstinately withheld. "O, gracious
Lady," said he rather reluctantly, "marvellous indeed is your home and
fit for a queen. If you travelled far and near, you could not find its
equal. But, my lady, among your treasures I miss one thing, and that
is the noblest that the earth produces."

Richberta was very anxious to learn what it was, that she might get
it, and entreated her guest to name the precious thing. But he avoided
any direct answer to her impetuous questions, and soon afterwards took
his leave under a slight pretext.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the open sea, a proud fleet was sailing. Its commander, strange to
say, did not himself know the aim of his journey. His mistress,
Richberta of Stavoren, had directed him to travel to all parts of the
world to find out and bring home the most costly treasure.

According to her command he set out, cruised the ocean to the East,
and to the West, and searched everywhere for the unknown gift.

In doing so it happened one day that seawater spoiled a part of the
provisions of one of the ships. It was the flour and bread, the want
of which was keenly felt by the whole crew. In this necessity the
captain saw clearly that neither gold nor pearls could outweigh the
value of bread, and the meaning of the mysterious words the stranger
from the Orient had spoken to Richberta, dawned upon him.

He steered to the coast and took a large cargo of the finest wheat
aboard his ships. Full of joy at having at last found what he deemed
the most costly thing on earth he sailed towards Stavoren, where he
arrived safely.

When Richberta learned of the common merchandise her captain had
brought home, she summoned him before her and asked him
contemptuously: "On which side of the vessel has the cargo of corn
been taken in?" "On the right, mistress," answered the faithful
servant, doubtful of what she meant. "Then," continued she coldly,
"throw it from the left into the sea again."

       *       *       *       *       *

The day after the return of the fleet an animated scene was witnessed
in the port of Stavoren.

The numerous poor people of the town on hearing of the wicked command
of Richberta, had come to beg of her not to spoil the precious wheat,
but to divide it among those who were so much in want of it.

The proud lady appeared herself to see that her will was executed. It
was a touching spectacle to see how the crowd of miserable women and
children surrounded the noble lady in her costly garments. The sight
of so much misery would have moved many a cold heart, but Richberta
showed no pity. She moved forward impatiently as if she heard not the
supplications. But the crowd of women stopped her. They fell on their
knees and entreated her with uplifted hands and tears in their eyes
for the preservation of God's precious gift. Richberta heard but
remained unrelenting. Her command was fulfilled, and the golden wheat
was thrown into the sea.

A storm of reproaches rose from the poor on the shore, and many a
mother prayed to God on her knees to revenge this wickedness.

The curses of the hungry people were fulfilled, far sooner than they
expected.

In the same year innumerable earless blades of wheat rose from the
bottom of the sea like a forest, catching up mud, mire, weed, and
remains of animals, so that by and by a dune rose under water which
stopped the ships from entering the port of Stavoren.

The inhabitants of the town who had principally lived by commerce,
suddenly found the source of their wealth stopped. Want and poverty
took possession of the once rich city. Richberta, in whom everybody
recognised the author of this misfortune, lost everything in the
general impoverishment, and was driven by the enraged populace from
the town. The once proud and rich lady had now to beg for her bread.
She walked wearily from village to village, curses following her
wherever she went. She died in utter destitution.

The sea that had for so many years been the blessing of Stavoren was
now the destruction of the voluptuous city. One night it rose with
immense power against the dunes, burst through them, and flooding the
town with huge waves, buried it forever.

To this day, the fishermen on the Zuydersea relate the story of the
wonderful sunken city that once towered high into the air. When the
water is clear they imagine they can see the high steeples of
Stavoren's churches and the towers of her palaces shimmering up from
the bottom of the sea.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Notes:

Illustrations were inserted between pages of the original text. In
this e-book they have been moved to the head of the relevant story.

Obvious printer errors (missing or transposed letters, misspellings,
missing punctuation, etc.) have been amended without note.

There are some instances of archaic spelling, which have been retained
throughout.

Hyphenation has been made consistent without note. There are some
occurrences of 'compound' nouns (for example, Folksepic, milkwhite,
spearpierced, etc.), which have been retained as part of the charm of
the text.

There are some variations in the spelling of proper nouns (for
example, Liege/Liège or Brunhild/Brunhilde). These have been retained
throughout, except where there was an obvious error, which has been
amended and noted. Missing titles or variations between titles and the
Table of Contents have been amended and noted. A complete list of
these amendments is included at the end of the text.

Finally, there are two instances of unusual grammar, which have been
retained: in the Prefatory note, "... and over all the sun _shined_
brightly ..." and on page 152, "... his wife and retinue are looking
_devoutedly_ towards heaven ...".

List of Amendments:

Prefatory Note--omitted 'I' added--"I soon became absorbed in the
ever-changing panorama."

Prefatory note--"english" amended to "English"--"... romance for the
English speaking nations ..."

Contents--"The Mothers Gost" amended to "The Mother's Ghost"

Page 7--title "ST. GOTHARD" amended to "ST. GOTTHARD"

Page 79--title "The mother's Ghost" amended to "The Mother's Ghost"

Page 97--title "I." added

Page 117--"Coblentz" amended to "Coblenz"--"... a beautiful meadow
at Rhense near Coblenz ..."

Page 145--title "I." added

Page 155--"Charlemange" amended to "Charlemagne"--"... that
Charlemagne had begun ..."

Page 167--title "I." added

Page 177--title "I." added

Page 192--title "GODESBERG" inserted, to match the Table of Contents

Page 216--opening quote mark in middle of the first paragraph moved to
beginning of paragraph

Page 240--"Brabrant" amended to "Brabant"--"... dominion of Elsa of
Brabant."