Transcribed from the 1867 Milner and Sowerby edition by David Price.
Many thanks to the Bodleian Library for making their copy available.

                     [Picture: Graphical title page]





                                  TALES
                                  OF THE
                         WILD AND THE WONDERFUL.


                                * * * * *

    “Messer, dovete havete pigliate tante coglionerie?” quoth the Reader.

                                      CARDINAL IPPOLITO D’ESTE TO ARIOSTO.

                                * * * * *

                                 LONDON:
                           MILNER AND SOWERBY,
                           44, PATERNOSTER ROW,
                         AND HALIFAX, YORKSHIRE.

                                * * * * *

                                  1867.




PREFACE.


PAUSE one moment, gentle Reader—only one little moment will I detain you,
while I reply to the question which I have supposed you to ask in the
title-page.  Blame not me, I beseech you, if you are compelled to make
the usual accusation against authors, that there is nothing new in the
pages which I diffidently present to you: I am sorry for it, but I cannot
help it.  Solomon asserted that all things under the sun were aged in his
time; and if the wisest of old gentlemen could find nothing new in that
early stage of his empire, what can be expected from a poor scribbler
like me, near three thousand years after him?  Consider too, dear Reader,
that this is the first time I have appeared before you in the character
of a story-teller; and that I am a timid, nervous subject, and very
easily discouraged.  Accept me then upon the score of wishing to amuse
you, and permit me to say something for my Tales, after having said so
much for myself.

Of the stories, “Der Freischütz,” as every body knows, is from the
German.  “The Fortunes of De la Pole” is original; so is “The
Prediction,” and “The Yellow Dwarf,” if I may be allowed that claim for
such a “thing of shreds and patches;” it is an _olla podrida_ of odds and
ends, a snip of the garment of every fairy tale written since the days of
King Arthur.  The story of “The Lord of the Maelstrom” is also original,
though, as in that of “The Yellow Dwarf,” I have raised my structure upon
an old nursery foundation; but it appeared to me an excellent vehicle for
the beautiful mythology of the North, and the introduction of Odin and
his exploits,—whose history, by the way, I believe, has been extracted
from the Talmud, or from the rabbinical traditions of the events previous
to the creation, and the deeds of Moses and others.  I, moreover,
designed to have given thee a little poetry for thy money, gentle Reader,
but the booksellers shook their heads when I mentioned my design, and
told me it was out of fashion; so I returned my treasures in that way to
my desk, there to remain, among many other excellent things, I assure
thee, until it should again be the taste in England; and, with two other
short stories, in the meantime offer these Tales of _diablerie_ for your
amusement.  Entreat me kindly, gentle Reader, I beseech you, for two
reasons;—first, because it will entirely depend upon your reception of
this, whether I shall ever write a second volume—and secondly, because
there has been a sad sweep lately among those who used to cater for your
diversion: many who were most deserving have been snatched from your
admiration and regard.  “Shelley is not—Lord Byron is not—and Maturin
have they taken away.”  For myself, I am not a long-lived man, and
therefore advise you to make much of me while I am with you; and as an
example, look upon these “_coglionerie_” with a milder eye than their
merits may seem to deserve from your judgment.

                     I am, dear Reader, truly yours,

                                                               THE AUTHOR.




CONTENTS.

                                                       PAGE
THE PREDICTION                                            9
THE YELLOW DWARF                                         44
DER FREISCHUTZ                                          101
THE FORTUNES OF DE LA POLE                              130
THE LORD OF THE MAELSTROM                               179
NOTES TO THE LORD OF THE MAELSTROM                      264
THE SPECTRE BARBER                                      267
THE SLEEPING FRIAR; OR THE STONE OF FATHER CUDDY        311




THE PREDICTION.


                     “Let’s talk of Graves.”—SHAKSPEARE.

ON the south-west coast of the principality of Wales stands a romantic
little village, inhabited chiefly by the poorer class of people,
consisting of small farmers and oyster dredgers, whose estates are the
wide ocean, and whose ploughs are the small craft, in which they glide
over its interminable fields in search of the treasures which they wring
from its bosom; it is built on the very top of a hill, commanding on the
one side an immense bay, and on the other, of the peaceful green fields
and valleys, cultivated by the greater part of its quiet inhabitants.
The approach to it from the nearest town was by a road, which branched
away into lanes and wooded walks, and from the sea by a beautiful little
bay, running up far into the land; both sides of which and indeed all the
rest of the coast were guarded by craggy and gigantic rocks, some of them
hollowing into caverns, into which none of the inhabitants, from motives
of superstition, reverence, and fear, had ever dared to penetrate.  There
were, at the period of which we are about to treat, no better sort of
inhabitants in the little village just described, none of those so
emphatically distinguished as “quality” by the country people; they had
neither parson, lawyer, nor doctor, among them, and of course there was a
tolerable equality among the residents.  The farmer, who followed his own
plough in the spring, singing the sweet wild national chaunt of the
season, and bound up with his own hands his sheaves in autumn, was not
richer, greater, nor finer, than he who, bare-legged on the strand,
gathered in the hoar weeds for the farmer in the spring, or dared the
wild winds of autumn and the wrath of the winter in his little boat, to
earn with his dredging net a yet harder subsistence for his family.
Distinctions were unknown in the village, every man was the equal of his
neighbour.

But, though rank and its polished distinctions were strange in the
village of N—, the superiority of talent was felt and acknowledged almost
without a pause or a murmur.  There was one who was as a king amongst
them, by the mere force of a mightier spirit than those with whom he
sojourned had been accustomed to feel among them: he was a dark and moody
man, a stranger, evidently of a higher order than those around him, who
had a few months before settled among them: he was poor, but had no
occupation—he lived frugally, but quite alone—and his sole occupation was
to read during the day, and wander out unaccompanied into the fields or
by the beach during the night.  Sometimes indeed he would relieve a
suffering child or rheumatic old man by medicinal herbs, reprove idleness
and drunkenness in the youth, and predict to all the good and evil
consequences of their conduct; and his success in some cases, his
foresight in others, and his wisdom in all, won for him a high reputation
among the cottagers, to which his taciturn habits contributed not a
little, for, with the vulgar as with the educated, no talker was ever
seriously taken for a conjuror, though a silent man is often decided to
be a wise one.

There was but one person in N— at all disposed to rebel against the
despotic sovereignty which Rhys Meredith was silently establishing over
the quiet village, and that was precisely the person most likely to
effect a revolution; she was a beautiful maiden, the glory and boast of
the village, who had been the favourite of, and to a certain degree
educated by, the late lady of the lord of the manor; but she had died,
and her pupil, with a full consciousness of her intellectual superiority,
had returned to her native village, where she determined to have an
empire of her own, which no rival should dispute: she laughed at the
maidens who listened to the predictions of Rhys, and she refused her
smiles to the youths who consulted him upon their affairs and their
prospects; and as the beautiful Ruth was generally beloved, the silent
Rhys was soon in danger of being abandoned by all, save doting men and
paralytic women, and feeling himself an outcast in the village of N—.

But to be such was not the object of Meredith; he was an idle man, and
the gifts of the villagers contributed to spare him from exertion; he
knew too, that in another point of view his ascendancy was necessary to
his purposes; and as he had failed to establish it by wisdom and
benevolence, he determined to try the effect of fear.  The character of
the people with whom he sojourned was admirably calculated to assist his
projects; his predictions were now uttered more clearly, and his threats
denounced in sterner tones and stronger and plainer words; and when he
predicted that old Morgan Williams, who had been stricken with the palsy,
would die at the turn of tide, three days from that on which he spoke,
and that the light little boat of gay Griffy Morris, which sailed from
the bay in a bright winter’s morning, should never again make the shore;
and the man died, and the storm arose, even as he had said; men’s hearts
died within them, and they bowed down before his words, as if he had been
their general fate and the individual destiny of each.

Ruth’s rosy lip grew pale for a moment as she heard of these things; in
the next her spirit returned, and “I will make him tell my fortune,” she
said, as she went with a party of laughers to search out and deride the
conjuror.  He was alone when they broke in upon him, and their mockeries
goaded his spirit; but his anger was deep, not loud; and while burning
with wrath, he yet could calmly consider the means of vengeance: he knew
the master spirit with which he had to contend; it was no ordinary mind,
and would have smiled at ordinary terrors.  To have threatened her with
sickness, misfortune, or death, would have been to call forth the
energies of that lofty spirit, and prepare it to endure, and it would
have gloried in manifesting its powers of endurance; he must humble it
therefore by debasement; he must ruin its confidence in itself; and to
this end he resolved to threaten her with crime.  His resolution was
taken and effected; his credit was at stake; he must daunt his enemy, or
surrender to her power: he foretold sorrows and joys to the listening
throng, not according to his passion, but his judgment, and he drew a
blush upon the cheek of one, by revealing a secret which Ruth herself,
and another, alone knew, and which prepared the former to doubt of her
own judgment, as it related to this extraordinary man.

Ruth was the last who approached to hear the secret of her destiny.  The
wizard paused as he looked upon her,—opened his book,—shut
it,—paused,—and again looked sadly and fearfully upon her; she tried to
smile, but felt startled, she knew not why; the bright inquiring glance
of her dark eye could not change her enemy.  Her smile could not melt,
nor even temper, the hardness of his deep-seated malice: he again looked
sternly upon her brow, and then coldly wrung out the slow soul-withering
words, “Maiden, thou art doomed to be a murderer!”

From that hour Rhys Meredith became the destiny of Ruth Tudor.  At first
she spurned at his prediction, and alternately cursed and laughed at him
for the malice of his falsehood: but when she found that none laughed
with her, that men looked upon her with suspicious eyes, women shrunk
from her society, and children shrieked at her presence, she felt that
these were signs of truth, and her high spirit no longer struggled
against the conviction; a change came over her mind when she had known
how horrid it was to be alone.  Abhorring the prophet, she yet clung to
his footsteps, and while she sat by his side, felt as if he alone could
avert that evil destiny which he alone had foreseen.  With him only was
she seen to smile; elsewhere, sad, silent, stern; it seemed as if she
were ever occupied in nerving her mind for that which she had to do, and
her beauty, already of the majestic cast, grew absolutely awful, as her
perfect features assumed an expression which might have belonged to the
angel of vengeance or death.

But there were moments when her naturally strong spirit, not yet wholly
subdued, struggled against her conviction, and endeavoured to find modes
of averting her fate: it was in one of these, perhaps, that she gave her
hand to a wooer, from a distant part of the country, a sailor, who either
had not heard, or did not regard the prediction of Rhys, upon condition
that he should remove her far from her native village to the home of his
family and friends, for she sometimes felt as if the decree which had
gone forth against her, could not be fulfilled except upon the spot where
she had heard it, and that her heart would be lighter if men’s eyes would
again look upon her in kindliness, and she no longer sate beneath the
glare of those that knew so well the secret of her soul.  Thus thinking,
she quitted N— with her husband; and the tormentor, who had poisoned her
repose, soon after her departure, left the village as secretly and as
suddenly as he had entered it.

But, though Ruth could depart from his corporeal presence, and look upon
his cruel visage no more, yet the eye of her soul was fixed upon his
shadow, and his airy form, the creation of her sorrow, still sat by her
side; the blight that he had breathed upon her peace had withered her
heart, and it was in vain that she sought to forget or banish the
recollection from her brain.  Men and women smiled upon her as before in
the days of her joy, the friends of her husband welcomed her to their
bosoms, but they could give no peace to her heart: she shrunk from their
friendship, she shivered equally at their neglect, she dreaded any cause
that might lead to that which, it had been said, she must do; nightly she
sat alone and thought, she dwelt upon the characters of those around her,
and shuddered that in some she saw violence and selfishness enough to
cause injury, which she might be supposed to resent to blood.  Then she
wept bitter tears and thought of her native village, whose inhabitants
were so mild, and whose previous knowledge of her hapless destiny might
induce them to avoid all that might hasten its completion, and sighed to
think she had ever left it in the mistaken hope of finding peace
elsewhere.  Again, her sick fancy would ponder upon the modes of murder,
and wonder how her victim would fall.  Against the use of actual violence
she had disabled herself; she had never struck a blow, her small hand
would suffer injury in the attempt; she understood not the usage of
fire-arms, she was ignorant of what were poisons, and a knife she never
allowed herself, even for the most necessary purposes: how then could she
slay?  At times she took comfort from thoughts like these, and at others,
in the blackness of her despair, she would cry, “If it must be, O let it
come, and these miserable anticipations cease; then I shall, at least,
destroy but one; now, in my incertitude, I am the murderer of many!”

Her husband went forth and returned upon the voyages which made up the
avocation and felicity of his life, without noticing the deep-rooted
sorrow of his wife: he was a common man, and of a common mind; his eye
had not seen the awful beauty of her whom he had chosen; his spirit had
not felt her power; and, if he had marked, he would not have understood
her grief; so she ministered to him as a duty.  She was a silent and
obedient wife, but she saw him come home without joy, and witnessed his
departure without regret; he neither added to nor diminished her sorrow:
but destiny had one solitary blessing in store for the victim of its
decrees,—a child was born to the hapless Ruth, a lovely little girl soon
slept upon her bosom, and, coming as it did, the one lone and lovely
rose-bud in her desolate garden, she welcomed it with a warmer joy and
cherished it with a kindlier hope.

A few years went by unsoiled by the wretchedness which had marked the
preceding; the joy of the mother softened the anguish of the condemned,
and sometimes when she looked upon her daughter she ceased to despair:
but destiny had not forgotten her claim, and soon her hand pressed
heavily upon her victim; the giant ocean rolled over the body of her
husband, poverty visited the cottage of the widow, and famine’s gaunt
figure was visible in the distance.  Oppression came with these, for
arrears of rent were demanded, and he who asked was brutal in his anger
and harsh in his language to the sufferers.  Ruth shuddered as she heard
him speak, and trembled for him and for herself; the unforgotten prophecy
arose in her mind, and she preferred even witnesses to his brutality and
her degradation, rather than encounter his anger and her own dark
thoughts alone.

Thus goaded, she saw but one thing that could save her, she fled from her
persecutors to the home of her youth, and, leading her little Rachel by
the hand, threw herself into the arms of her kin: they received her with
distant kindness, and assured her that she should not want; in this they
kept their promise, but it was all they did for Ruth and her daughter; a
miserable subsistence was given to them, and that was embittered by
distrust, and the knowledge that it was yielded unwillingly.

Among the villagers, although she was no longer shunned as formerly, her
story was not forgotten; if it had been, her terrific beauty, the awful
flashing of her eyes, her large black curls hanging like thunder-clouds
over her stern and stately brow and marble throat, her majestic stature,
and solemn movements, would have recalled it to their recollections.  She
was a marked being, and all believed (though each would have pitied her
had they not been afraid) that her evil destiny was not to be averted;
she looked like one fated to some wonderful deed.  They saw she was not
one of them, and though they did not directly avoid her, yet they never
threw themselves into her way, and thus the hapless Ruth had ample
leisure to contemplate and grieve over her fate.  One night she sat alone
in her wretched hovel, and, with many bitter ruminations, was watching
the happy sleep of her child, who slumbered tranquilly on their only bed:
midnight had long passed, yet Ruth was not disposed to rest; she trimmed
her dull light, and said mentally, “Were I not poor, such a temptation
might not assail me, riches would procure me deference; but poverty, or
the wrongs it brings, may drive me to this evil; were I above want it
would be less likely to be.  O, my child, for thy sake would I avoid this
doom more than for mine own, for if it should bring death to me, what
will it not hurl on thee?—infamy, agony, scorn.”

She wept aloud as she spoke, and scarcely seemed to notice the
singularity (at that late hour) of some one without, attempting to open
the door; she heard, but the circumstance made little impression; she
knew that as yet her doom was unfulfilled, and that, therefore, no danger
could reach her; she was no coward at any time, but now despair had made
her brave; the door opened and a stranger entered, without either
alarming or disturbing her, and it was not till he had stood face to face
with Ruth, and discovered his features to be those of Rhys Meredith, that
she sprung up from her seat and gazed wildly and earnestly upon him.

Meredith gave her no time to question; “Ruth Tudor,” said he, “behold the
cruelest of thy foes comes sueing to thy pity and mercy; I have
embittered thy existence, and doomed thee to a terrible lot; what first
was dictated by vengeance and malice became truth as I uttered it, for
what I spoke I believed.  Yet, take comfort, some of my predictions have
failed, and why may not this be false?  In my own fate I have ever been
deceived, perhaps I may be equally so in thine; in the mean time have
pity upon him who was thy enemy, but who, when his vengeance was uttered,
instantly became thy friend.  I was poor, and thy scorn might have robbed
me of subsistence in danger, and thy contempt might have given me up.
Beggared by many disastrous events, hunted by creditors, I fled from my
wife and son because I could no longer bear to contemplate their
suffering; I sought fortune all ways since we parted, and always has she
eluded my grasp till last night, when she rather tempted than smiled upon
me.  At an idle fair I met the steward of this estate drunk and stupid,
but loaded with gold; he travelled towards home alone; I could not, did
not wrestle with the fiend that possessed me, but hastened to overtake
him in his lonely ride.—Start not! no hair of his head was harmed by me;
of his gold I robbed him, but not of his life, had I been the greater
villain, I should now be in less danger, since he saw and marked my
person: three hundred pounds is the meed of my daring, and I must keep it
now or die.  Ruth, thou too art poor and forsaken, but thou art faithful
and kind, and will not betray me to justice; save me, and I will not
enjoy my riches alone; thou knowest all the caves in the rocks, those
hideous hiding-places, where no foot, save thine, has dared to tread;
conceal me in these till the pursuit be past, and I will give thee one
half my wealth, and return with the other to gladden my wife and son.”

The hand of Ruth was already opened, and in imagination she grasped the
wealth he promised; oppression and poverty had somewhat clouded the
nobleness but not the fierceness of her spirit.  She saw that riches
would save her from wrath, perhaps from blood, and, as the means to
escape so mighty an evil, she was not scrupulous respecting a lesser:
independently of this, she felt a great interest in the safety of Rhys;
her own fate seemed to hang upon his; she hid the ruffian in the caves
and supplied him with light and food.

There was a happiness now in the heart of Ruth—a joy in her thoughts as
she sat all the long day upon the deserted settle of her wretched
fireside, to which they had for many years been strangers.  Many times
during the past years of her sorrow she had thought of Rhys, and longed
to look upon his face and sit beneath his shadow, as one whose presence
could preserve her from the evil fate which he himself had predicted.
She had long since forgiven him his prophecy; she believed he had spoken
the truth, and this gave her a wild confidence in his power; a confidence
that sometimes thought, “if he can foreknow, can he not also avert?”  She
said mentally, without any reference to the temporal good he had promised
her, “I have a treasure in those caves; _he_ is there; he who hath
foreseen and may oppose my destiny; he hath shadowed my days with sorrow,
and forbidden me, like ordinary beings, to hope: yet he is now in my
power; his life is in my hands; he says so, yet I believe him not, for I
cannot betray him if I would; were I to lead the officers of justice to
the spot where he lies crouching, he would be invisible to their sight or
to mine; or I should become speechless ere I could say, ‘Behold him.’
No, he cannot die by me!”

And she thought she would deserve his confidence, and support him in his
suffering; she had concealed him in a deep dark cave, hewn far in the
rock, to which she alone knew the entrance from the beach; there was
another (if a huge aperture in the top of the rock might be so called),
which, far from attempting to descend, the peasants and seekers for the
culprit had scarcely dared to look into, so perpendicular, dark, and
uncertain was the hideous descent into what justly appeared to them a
bottomless abyss; they passed over his head in their search through the
fields above, and before the mouth of his den upon the beach below, yet
they left him in safety, though in incertitude and fear.

It was less wonderful, the suspicionless conduct of the villagers towards
Ruth, than the calm prudence with which she conducted all the details
relating to her secret; her poverty was well known, yet she daily
procured a double portion of food, which was won by double labour; she
toiled in the fields for the meed of oaten cake and potatoes, or she
dashed out in a crazy boat on the wide ocean to win with the dredgers the
spoils of the oyster beds that lie on its bosom; the daintier fare was
for the unhappy guest, and daily did she wander among the rocks, when the
tides were retiring, for the shell-fish which they had flung among the
fissures in their retreat, which she bore, exhausted with fatigue, to her
home—and which her lovely child, now rising into womanhood, prepared for
the luxurious meal; it was wonderful too, the settled prudence of the
little maiden, who spoke nothing of the food which was borne from their
frugal board; if she suspected the secret of her mother, she respected it
too much to allow others to discover that she did so.

Many sad hours did Ruth pass in the robber’s cave; and many times, by
conversing with him upon the subject of her destiny, did she seek to
alleviate the pangs its recollection gave her; but the result of such
discussions were by no means favourable to her hopes; Rhys had
acknowledged that his threat had originated in malice, and that he
intended to alarm and subdue, but not to the extent that he had effected:
“I knew well,” said he, “that disgrace alone would operate upon you as I
wished, for I foresaw you would glory in the thought of nobly sustained
misfortune; I meant to degrade you with the lowest; I meant to attribute
to you what I now painfully experience to be the vilest of the vices; I
intended to tell you, you were destined to be a thief, but I could not
utter the words I had arranged and I was struck with horror at those I
heard involuntarily proceeding from my lips; I would have recalled them
but I could not; I would have said, ‘Maiden, I did but jest,’ but there
was something that seemed to withhold my speech and press upon my soul,
‘so as thou hast said shall this thing be’—yet take comfort, my own
fortunes have ever deceived me, and doubtlessly ever will, for I feel as
if I should one day return to this cave and make it my final home.”

He spoke solemnly and wept,—but the awful eye of his companion was
unmoved as she looked on in wonder and contempt at his grief.  “Thou
knowest not how to endure,” said she to him, “and as soon as night shall
again fall upon our mountains, I will lead thee forth on thy escape; the
danger of pursuit is now past; at midnight be ready for thy journey,
leave the cave, and ascend the rocks by the path I shewed thee, to the
field in which its mouth is situated; wait me there a few moments, and I
will bring thee a fleet horse, ready saddled for the journey, for which
thy gold must pay, since I must declare to the owner that I have sold it
at a distance, and for more than its rated value.”

That midnight came, and Meredith waited with trembling anxiety for the
haughty step of Ruth; at length he saw her, she had ascended the rock,
and standing on its verge, was looking around for her guest; as she was
thus alone in the clear moonlight, standing between rock and sky, and
scarcely seemed to touch the earth, her dark locks and loose garments
scattered by the wind, she looked like some giant spirit of the olden
time, preparing to ascend into the mighty black cloud which singly hung
from the empyreum, and upon which she already appeared to recline;
Meredith beheld her and shuddered,—but she approached and he recovered
his recollection.

“You must be speedy in your movements,” said she, “when you leave me;
your horse waits on the other side of this field, and I would have you
hasten lest his neighings should betray your purpose.  But, before you
depart, Rhys Meredith, there is an account to be settled between us: I
have dared danger and privations for you; that the temptations of the
poor may not assail me, give me my reward and go.”

Rhys pressed his leathern bag to his bosom, but answered nothing to the
speech of Ruth: he seemed to be studying some evasion, for he looked upon
the ground, and there was trouble in the working of his lip.  At length
he said cautiously, “I have it not with me: I buried it, lest it should
betray me, in a field some miles distant; thither will I go, dig it up,
and send it to thee from B—, which is, as thou knowest, my first
destination.”

Ruth gave him one glance of her awful eye when he had spoken; she had
detected his meanness, and smiled at his incapacity to deceive.  “What
dost thou press to thy bosom so earnestly?” she demanded; “surely thou
art not the wise man I deemed thee, thus to defraud _my_ claim: the
friend alone thou mightest cheat, and safely; but I have been made
wretched by thee, guilty by thee, and thy life is in my power; I could,
as thou knowest, easily raise the village, and win half thy wealth by
giving thee up to justice; but I prefer reward from thy wisdom and
gratitude; give, therefore, and be gone.”

But Rhys knew too well the value of the metal of sin to yield one half of
it to Ruth; he tried many miserable shifts and lies, and at last, baffled
by the calm penetration of his antagonist, boldly avowed his intention of
keeping all the spoil he had won with so much hazard.  Ruth looked at him
with scorn: “Keep thy gold,” she said, “if it thus can harden hearts, I
covet not its possession; but there is one thing thou must do, and that
ere thou stir one foot.  I have supported thee with hard-earned industry,
_that_ I give thee; more proud, it should seem, in bestowing than I could
be, from such as thee, in receiving: but the horse that is to bear thee
hence to-night I borrowed for a distant journey; I must return with it,
or with its value; open thy bag, pay me for that, and go.”

But Rhys seemed afraid to open his bag in the presence of her he had
wronged.  Ruth understood his fears; but, scorning vindication of _her_
principles, contented herself with entreating him to be honest.  “Be more
just to thyself and me,” she persisted: “the debt of gratitude I pardon
thee; but, I beseech thee, leave me not to encounter the consequence of
having stolen from my friend the animal which is his only means of
subsistence: I pray thee, Rhys, not to condemn me to scorn.”

It was to no avail that Ruth humbled herself to entreaties; Meredith
answered not, and while she was yet speaking, cast side-long looks
towards the gate where the horse was waiting for his service, and seemed
meditating, whether he should not dart from Ruth, and escape her
entreaties and demands by dint of speed.  Her stern eye detected his
purpose; and, indignant at his baseness, and ashamed of her own
degradation, she sprung suddenly towards him, made a desperate clutch at
the leathern bag, and tore it from the grasp of the deceiver.  Meredith
made an attempt to recover it, and a fierce struggle ensued, which drove
them both back towards the yawning mouth of the cave from which he had
just ascended to the world.  On its very verge, on its very extreme edge,
the demon who had so long ruled his spirit now instigated him to
mischief, and abandoned him to his natural brutality: he struck the
unhappy Ruth a revengeful and tremendous blow.  At that moment a horrible
thought glanced like lightning through her soul; he was to her no longer
what he had been; he was a robber, ruffian, liar; one whom to destroy was
justice, and perhaps it was he—.  “Villain!” she cried, “thou—thou didst
predict that I was doomed to be a murderer! art thou—art thou destined to
be the victim?”  She flung him from her with terrific force, as she stood
close to the abyss, and the next instant heard him dash against its
sides, as he was whirled headlong into darkness.

It was an awful feeling, the next that passed over the soul of Ruth
Tudor, as she stood alone in the pale sorrowful-looking moonlight,
endeavouring to remember what had chanced.  She gazed on the purse, on
the chasm, wiped the drops of agony from her heated brow, and then, with
a sudden pang of recollection, rushed down to the cavern.  The light was
still burning, as Rhys had left it, and served to shew her the wretch
extended helplessly beneath the chasm.  Though his body was crushed, his
bones splintered, and his blood was on the cavern’s sides, he was yet
living, and raised his head to look upon her, as she darkened the narrow
entrance in her passage: he glared upon her with the visage of a demon,
and spoke like a fiend in pain.  “Me hast thou murdered!” he said, “but I
shall be avenged in all thy life to come.  Deem not that thy doom is
fulfilled, that the deed to which thou art fated is done: in my dying
hour I know, I feel what is to come upon thee; thou art yet again to do a
deed of blood!”  “Liar!” shrieked the infuriated victim.  “Thou art yet
doomed to be a murderer!”  “Liar!”  “Thou art—and of—thine only child!”
She rushed to him, but he was dead.

Ruth Tudor stood for a moment by the corpse, blind, stupefied, deaf, and
dumb; in the next she laughed aloud, till the cavern rung with her
ghastly mirth, and many voices mingled with and answered it; but the
noises scared and displeased her, and in an instant she became stupidly
grave; she threw back her dark locks with an air of offended dignity, and
walked forth majestically from the cave.  She took the horse by his rein,
and led him back to his stable: with the same unvarying calmness she
entered her cottage, and listened to the quiet breathings of her sleeping
child; she longed to approach her nearer, but some new and horrid fear
restrained her, and held back her anxious step: suddenly remembrance and
reason returned, and she uttered a shriek so full of agony, so loud and
shrill, that her daughter sprung from her bed, and threw herself into her
arms.

It was in vain that the gentle Rachel supplicated her mother to find rest
in sleep.  “Not here,” she muttered, “it must not be here; the deep cave
and the hard rock, these shall be my resting place; and the bed-fellow,
lo! now, he waits my coming.”  Then she would cry aloud, clasp her Rachel
to her beating heart, and as suddenly, in horror thrust her from it.

The next midnight beheld Ruth Tudor in the cave seated upon a point of
rock, at the head of the corpse, her chin resting upon her hands, gazing
earnestly upon the distorted face.  Decay had already begun its work; and
Ruth sat there watching the progress of mortality, as if she intended
that her stern eye should quicken and facilitate its operation.  The next
night also beheld her there, but the current of her thoughts had changed,
and the dismal interval which had passed appeared to be forgotten.  She
stood with her basket of food: “Wilt thou not eat?” she demanded; “arise,
strengthen thee for thy journey; eat, eat, thou sleeper; wilt thou never
awaken? look, here is the meat thou lovest;” and as she raised his head,
and put the food to his lips, the frail remnant of mortality shattered at
her touch, and again she knew that he was dead.

It was evident to all that a shadow and a change was over the senses of
Ruth; till this period she had been only wretched, but now madness was
mingled with her grief.  It was in no instance more apparent than in her
conduct towards her beloved child: indulgent to all her wishes,
ministering to all her wants with a liberal hand, till men wondered from
whence she derived the means of indulgence, she yet seized every
opportunity to send her from her presence.  The gentle-hearted Rachel
wept at her conduct, yet did not complain, for she believed it the effect
of the disease, that had for so many years been preying upon her soul.
Her nights were passed in roaming abroad, her days in the solitude of her
hut; and even this became painful, when the step of her child broke upon
it.  At length she signified that a relative of her husband had died and
left her wealth, and that it should enable her to dispose of herself as
she had long wished; so leaving Rachel with her relatives in N—, she
retired to a hut upon a lonely heath, where she was less wretched,
because abandoned to her wretchedness.

In many of her ravings she had frequently spoken darkly of her crime, and
her nightly visits to the cave; and more frequently still she addressed
some unseen thing, which she asserted was for ever at her side.  But few
heard these horrors, and those who did, called to mind the early
prophecy, and deemed them the workings of insanity in a fierce and
imaginative mind.  So thought also the beloved Rachel, who hastened daily
to embrace her mother, but not now alone as formerly; a youth of the
village was her companion and protector, one who had offered her worth
and love, and whose gentle offers were not rejected.  Ruth, with a
hurried gladness, gave her consent, and a blessing to her child; and it
was remarked that she received her daughter more kindly, and detained her
longer at the cottage, when Evan was by her side, than when she went to
the gloomy heath alone.  Rachel herself soon made this observation, and
as she could depend upon the honesty and prudence of him she loved, she
felt less fear at his being a frequent witness of her mother’s terrific
ravings.  Thus all that human consolation was capable to afford was
offered to the sufferer by her sympathising children.

But the delirium of Ruth Tudor appeared to increase with every nightly
visit to the cave of secret blood; some hideous shadow seemed to follow
her steps in the darkness, and sit by her side in the light.  Sometimes
she held strange parley with this creation of her phrensy, and at others
smiled upon it in scornful silence; now, her language was in the tones of
entreaty, pity, and forgiveness; anon, it was the burst of execration,
curses, and scorn.  To the gentle listeners her words were blasphemy;
and, shuddering at her boldness, they deemed, in the simple holiness of
their own hearts, that the evil one was besetting her, and that religion
alone could banish him.  Possessed by this idea, Evan one day suddenly
interrupted her tremendous denunciations upon her fate, and him who, she
said, stood over her to fulfil it, with imploring her to open the book
which he held in his hand, and seek consolation from its words and
promises.  She listened, and grew calm in a moment; with an awful smile
she bade him open, and read at the first place which should meet his eye:
“from that, the word of truth, as thou sayest, I shall know my fate; what
is there written I will believe.”  He opened the book, and read—

“_Whither shall I go from thy spirit_, _or whither shall I flee from thy
presence_?  _If I go up into heaven_, _thou art there_; _if I make my bed
in hell_, _thou art there_; _If I take the wings of the morning_, _and
dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea_, _even there shall thy hand lead
me_, _and thy right hand shall hold me_.”

Ruth laid her hand upon the book: “it is enough; its words are truth; it
hath said there is no hope, and I find comfort in my despair: I have
already spoken thus in the secrecy of my heart, and I know that he will
be obeyed; the unnamed sin must be—.”  Evan knew not how to comfort, so
he shut up his book and retired; and Rachel kissed the cheek of her
mother, as she bade her a tender good night.  Another month and she was
to be the bride of Evan, and she passed over the heath with a light step,
for the thought of her bridal seemed to give joy to her mother.  “We
shall all be happy then,” said the smiling girl, as the youth of her
heart parted from her hand for the night; “and heaven kindly grant that
happiness may last.”

The time appointed for the marriage of Rachel Tudor and Evan Edwards had
long passed away, and winter had set in with unusual sternness even on
that stormy coast; when, during a land tempest, on a dark November
afternoon, a stranger to the country, journeying on foot, lost his way in
endeavouring to find a short route to his destination, over stubble
fields and meadow lands, by following the footmarks of those who had
preceded him.  The stranger was a young man, of a bright eye and hardy
look, and he went on buffeting the elements, and buffeted by them,
without a thought of weariness, or a single expression of impatience.
Night descended upon him as he walked, and the snow storm came down with
unusual violence, as if to try the temper of his mind, a mind cultivated
and enlightened, though cased in a frame accustomed to hardships, and
veiled by a plain, nay almost rustic exterior.  The thunder roared loudly
above him, and the wind blowing tremendously, raised the new-fallen snow
from the earth, which, mingling with the showers as they fell, raised a
clatter about his head which bewildered and blinded the traveller, who,
finding himself near some leafless brambles and a few clustered bushes of
the mountain broom, took shelter under them to recover his senses, and
reconnoitre his position.  “Of all these ingredients for a storm,” said
he smilingly to himself, “the lightning is the most endurable after all;
for if it does not kill, it may at least cure, by lighting the way out of
a labyrinth, and by its bright flashes I hope to discover where I am.”
In this hope he was not mistaken: the brilliant and beautiful gleam
showed him, when the snow shower had somewhat abated, every stunted bush
and blade of grass for some miles, and something, about the distance of
one, that looked like a white-washed cottage of some poor encloser of the
miserable heath upon which he was now standing.  Full of hope of a
shelter from the storm, and, lit onwards by the magnificent torch of
heaven, the stranger trod cheerily forwards, and in less than half an
hour, making full allowance for his retrograding between the flashes,
arrived at his beacon the white cottage, which, from the low wall of
loose limestones by which it was surrounded, he judged to be, as he had
already imagined, the humble residence of some poor tenant of the manor.
He opened the little gate, and was proceeding to knock at the door, when
his steps were arrested by a singular and unexpected sound; it was a
choral burst of many voices, singing slowly and solemnly that magnificent
dirge of the church of England, the 104th psalm.  The stranger loved
music, and the sombrous melody of that fine air had an instant effect
upon his feelings; he lingered in solemn and silent admiration till the
majestic strain had ceased; he then knocked gently at the door, which was
instantly and courteously opened to his inquiry.

On entering, he found himself in a cottage of a more respectable interior
than from its outward appearance he had been led to expect: but he had
little leisure or inclination for the survey of its effects, for his
senses and imagination were immediately and entirely occupied by the
scene which presented itself on his entrance.  In the centre of the room
into which he had been so readily admitted, stood, on its tressels, an
open coffin; lights were at its head and foot, and on each side sat many
persons of both sexes, who appeared to be engaged in the customary
ceremony of watching the corse previous to its interment in the morning.
There were many who appeared to the stranger to be watchers, but there
were but two who, in his eye, bore the appearance of mourners, and they
had faces of grief which spoke too plainly of the anguish that was
mingling within: one, at the foot of the coffin, was a pale youth just
blooming into manhood, who covered his dewy eyes with trembling fingers
that ill concealed the tears which trickled down his wan cheeks beneath:
the other—; but why should we again describe that still unbowed and lofty
form?  The awful marble brow upon which the stranger gazed, was that of
Ruth Tudor.

There was much whispering and quiet talk among the people while
refreshments were handed amongst them; and so little curiosity was
excited by the appearance of the traveller, that he naturally concluded
that it must be no common loss that could deaden a feeling usually so
intense in the bosoms of Welsh peasants; he was even checked for an
attempt to question; but one man,—he who had given him admittance, and
seemed to possess authority in the circle,—told him he would answer his
questions when the guests should depart, but till then he must keep
silence.  The traveller endeavoured to obey, and sat down in quiet
contemplation of the figure who most interested his attention, and who
sat at the coffin’s head.  Ruth Tudor spoke nothing, nor did she appear
to heed aught of the business that was passing around her.  Absorbed by
reflection, her eyes were generally cast to the ground; but when they
were raised, the traveller looked in vain for that expression of grief
which had struck him so forcibly on his entrance; there was something
wonderful strange in the character of her perfect features: could he have
found words for his thought, and might have been permitted the
expression, he would have called it triumphant despair; so deeply
agonised, so proudly stern, looked the mourner that sat by the dead.

The interest which the traveller took in the scene became more intense
the longer he gazed upon its action; unable to resist the anxiety which
had begun to prey upon his spirit, he arose and walked towards the
coffin, with the purpose of contemplating its inhabitant: a sad
explanation was given, by its appearance, of the grief and the anguish he
had witnessed; a beautiful girl was reposing in the narrow house, with a
face as calm and lovely as if she but slept a deep and refreshing sleep,
and the morning sun would again smile upon her awakening: salt, the
emblem of the immortal soul, was placed upon her breast; and, in her pale
and perishing fingers, a branch of living flowers were struggling for
life in the grasp of death, and diffusing their sweet and gracious
fragrance over the cold odour of mortality.  These images, so opposite,
yet so alike, affected the spirit of the gazer, and he almost wept as he
continued looking upon them, till he was aroused from his trance by the
strange conduct of Ruth Tudor, who had caught a glimpse of his face as he
bent in sorrow over the coffin.  She sprung up from her seat, and darting
at him a terrible glance of recognition, pointed down to the corse, and
then with a hollow burst of frantic laughter, shouted—“Behold, thou
liar!”

The startled stranger was relieved from the necessity of speaking by some
one taking his arm and gently leading him to the farther end of the
cottage; the eyes of Ruth followed him, and it was not till he had done
violence to himself in turning from her to his conductor, that he could
escape their singular fascination.  When he did so he beheld a venerable
old man, the pastor of a distant village, who had come that night to
speak comfort to the mourners, and perform the last sad duty to the dead
on the morrow.  “Be not alarmed at what you have witnessed, my young
friend,” said he; “these ravings are not uncommon: this unhappy woman, at
an early period of her life, gave ear to the miserable superstitions of
her country, and a wretched pretender to wisdom predicted that she should
become a shedder of blood: madness has been the inevitable consequence in
an ardent spirit, and in its ravings she dreams she has committed one
sin, and is still tempted to add to it another.”

“You may say what you please, parson,” said the old man who had given
admittance to the stranger, and who now, after dismissing all the guests
save the youth, joined the talkers, and seated himself on the settle by
their sides; “you may say what you please about madness and superstition;
but I know Ruth Tudor was a fated woman, and the deed that was to be I
believe she has done: aye, aye, her madness is conscience; and if the
deep sea and the jagged rocks could speak, they might tell us a tale of
other things that: but she is judged now; her only child is gone—her poor
Rachel.  Poor Evan! he was her suitor: ah, he little thought two months
ago, when he was preparing for a gay bridal, that her slight sickness
would end thus: _he_ does not deserve it; but for her—God forgive me if I
do her wrong, but I think it is the hand of God, and it lies heavy, as it
should.”  And the grey-haired old man hobbled away, satisfied that in
thus thinking he was shewing his zeal for virtue.

“Alas, that so white a head should acknowledge so hard a heart!” said the
pastor; “Ruth is condemned, according to his system, for committing that
which a mightier hand compelled her to do; how harsh and misjudging is
age!  But we must not speak so loud,” continued he; “for see, the youth
Evan is retiring for the night, and the miserable mother has thrown
herself on the floor to sleep; the sole domestic is rocking on her stool,
and therefore I will do the honours of this poor cottage to you.  There
is a chamber above this, containing the only bed in the hut; thither you
may go and rest, for otherwise it will certainly be vacant to-night: I
shall find a bed in the village; and Evan sleeps near you with some of
the guests in the barn.  But, before I go, if my question be not
unwelcome and intrusive, tell me who you are, and whither you are bound.”

“I was ever somewhat of a subscriber to the old man’s creed of fatalism,”
said the stranger, smiling, “and I believe I am more confirmed in it by
the singular events of this day.  My father was a man of a certain rank
in society, but of selfish and disorderly habits.  A course of
extravagance and idleness was succeeded by difficulties and distress.
Harassed by creditors, he was pained by their demands, and his
selfishness was unable to endure the sufferings of his wife and children.
Instead of exertion, he had recourse to flight, and left us to face the
difficulties from which he shrunk.  He was absent for years, while his
family toiled and struggled with success.  Suddenly we heard that he was
concealed in this part of the coast; the cause which made that
concealment necessary I forbear to mention; but he as suddenly
disappeared from the eyes of men, though we never could trace him beyond
this part of the country.  I have always believed that I should one day
find my father, and have lately, though with difficulty, prevailed upon
my mother to allow me to make my inquiries in this neighbourhood; but my
search is at an end to-day,—I believe that I have found my father.
Roaming along the beach, I penetrated into several of those dark caverns
of the rocks, which might well, by their rugged aspects, deter the idle
and the timid from entering.  Through the fissures of one I discovered,
in the interior, a light.  Surprised, I penetrated to its concealment,
and discovered a man sleeping on the ground.  I advanced to awake him,
and found but a fleshless skeleton, cased in tattered and decaying
garments.  He had probably met his death by accident, for exactly over
the corpse I observed, at a terrific distance, the daylight, as if
streaming down from an aperture above.  Thus the wretched man must have
fallen, but how long since, or who had discovered his body, and left the
light which I beheld, I knew not, though I cannot help cherishing a
strong conviction that it was the body of Rhys Meredith that I saw.”

“Who talks of Rhys Meredith,” said a stern voice near the coffin, “and of
the cave where the outcast rots?”  They turned quickly at the sound, and
beheld Ruth Tudor standing up, as if she had been intently listening to
the story.  “It was I who spoke, dame,” said the stranger gently, “and my
speech was of my father, of Rhys Meredith; I am Owen his son.”

“Son!  Owen Rhys!” said the bewildered Ruth, passing her hand over her
forehead, as if to enable her to recover the combinations of these names;
“and who art thou, that thus givest human ties to him who is no more of
humanity? why speakest thou of living things as pertaining to the dead?
Father! he is father of nought save sin, and murder is his only
begotten!”

She advanced to the traveller as she spoke, and again caught a view of
his face; again he saw the wild look of recognition, and an unearthly
shriek followed the convulsive horror of her face.  “There! there!” she
said, “I knew it must be thyself; once before to-night have I beheld
thee, yet what can thy coming bode?  Back with thee, ruffian! for is not
thy work done?”

“Let us leave her,” said the good pastor, “to the care of her attendant;
do not continue to meet her gaze, your presence may increase, but cannot
allay her malady: go up to your bed and rest.”

He retired as he spoke; and Owen, in compliance with his wish, ascended
the ruinous stair which led to his chamber, after he had beheld Ruth
Tudor quietly place herself in her seat at the open coffin’s head.  The
room to which he mounted was not of the most cheering aspect, yet he felt
that he had often slept soundly in a worse.  It was a gloomy unfinished
chamber, and the wind was whistling coldly and drearily through the
uncovered rafters above his head.  Like many of the cottages in that part
of the country, it appeared to have grown old and ruinous before it had
been finished; for the flooring was so crazy as scarcely to support the
huge wooden bedstead, and in many instances the boards were entirely
separated from each other, and in the centre, time, or the rot, had so
completely devoured the larger half of one, that through the gaping
aperture Owen had an entire command of the room and the party below,
looking down immediately above the coffin.  Ruth was in the same attitude
as when he left her, and the servant girl was dozing by her side.  Every
thing being perfectly tranquil, Owen threw himself upon his hard couch,
and endeavoured to compose himself to rest for the night, but this had
become a task, and one of no easy nature to surmount; his thoughts still
wandered to the events of the day, and he felt there was some strange
connexion between the scene he had just witnessed, and the darker one of
the secret cave.  He was an imaginative man, and of a quick and feverish
temperament, and he thought of Ruth Tudor’s ravings, and the wretched
skeleton of the rock, till he had worked out in his brain the chain of
events that linked one consequence with the other: he grew restless and
wretched, and amidst the tossings of impatient anxiety, fatigue
overpowered him, and he sunk into a perturbed and heated sleep.  His
slumber was broken by dreams that might well be the shadows of his waking
reveries.  He was alone (as in reality) upon his humble bed, when
imagination brought to his ear the sound of many voices again singing the
slow and monotonous psalm; it was interrupted by the outcries of some
unseen things who attempted to enter his chamber, and, amid yells of fear
and execrations of anger, bade him “Arise, and come forth, and aid:” then
the coffined form which slept so quietly below, stood by his side, and in
beseeching accents, bade him “Arise, and save her.”  In his sleep he
attempted to spring up, but a horrid fear restrained him, a fear that he
should be too late; then he crouched like a coward beneath his coverings,
to hide from the reproaches of the spectre, while shouts of laughter and
shrieks of agony were poured like a tempest around him: he sprung from
his bed and awoke.

It was some moments ere he could recover recollection, or shake off the
horror which had seized upon his soul.  He listened, and with infinite
satisfaction observed an unbroken silence throughout the house.  He
smiled at his own terrors, attributed them to the events of the day, or
the presence of a corse, and determined not to look down into the lower
room till he should be summoned thither in the morning.  He walked to the
casement, and looked abroad to the night; the clouds were many, black,
and lowering, and the face of the sky looked angrily at the wind, and
glared portentously upon the earth; the _sleet_ was still falling;
distant thunder announced the approach or departure of a storm, and Owen
marked the clouds coming from afar towards him, laden with the rapid and
destructive lightning: he shut the casement and returned towards his bed;
but the light from below attracted his eye, and he could not pass the
aperture without taking one glance at the party.

They were in the same attitude in which he had left them; the servant was
sleeping, but Ruth was earnestly gazing on the lower end of the room upon
something, without the sight of Owen; his attention was next fixed upon
the corpse, and he thought he had never seen any living thing so lovely;
and so calm was the aspect of her last repose, that Meredith thought it
more resembled a temporary suspension of the faculties, than the eternal
stupor of death: her features were pale, but not distorted, and there was
none of the livid hue of death in her beautiful mouth and lips; but the
flowers in her hand gave stronger demonstration of the presence of the
power, before whose potency their little strength was fading; drooping
with a mortal sickness, they bowed down their heads in submission, as one
by one they dropped from her pale and perishing fingers.  Owen gazed,
till he thought he saw the grasp of her hand relax, and a convulsive
smile pass over her cold and rigid features; he looked again; the
eye-lids shook and vibrated like the string of some fine-strung
instrument; the hair rose, and the head cloth moved: he started up
ashamed: “Does the madness of this woman affect all who would sleep
beneath her roof?” said he; “what is this that disturbs me—or am I yet in
a dream?  Hark! what is that?”  It was the voice of Ruth; she had risen
from her seat, and was standing near the coffin, apparently addressing
some one who stood at the lower end of the room: “To what purpose is thy
coming now?” said she, in a low and melancholy voice, “and at what dost
thou laugh and gibe? lo! you; she is here, and the sin you know of,
cannot be; how can I take the life which another hath already withdrawn?
Go, go, hence to thy cave of night, for this is no place of safety for
thee.”  Her thoughts now took another turn; she seemed to hide one from
the pursuit of others; “Lie still! lie still!” she whispered; “put out
thy light! so, so, they pass by and mark thee not; thou art safe; good
night, good night! now will I home to sleep;” and she seated herself in
her chair, as if composing her senses to rest.

Owen was again bewildered in the chaos of thought, but for this time he
determined to subdue his imagination, and, throwing himself upon his bed,
again gave himself up to sleep; but the images of his former dreams still
haunted him, and their hideous phantasms were more powerfully renewed;
again he heard the solemn psalm of death, but unsung by mortals—it was
pealed through earth up to the high heaven, by myriads of the viewless
and the mighty: again he heard the execrations of millions for some
unremembered sin, and the wrath and the hatred of a world was rushing
upon him: “Come forth! come forth!” was the cry; and amid yells and howls
they were darting upon him, when the pale form of the beautiful dead
arose between them, and shielded him from their malice; but he heard her
say aloud, “It is for this, that thou wilt not save me; arise, arise, and
help!”

He sprung up as he was commanded; sleeping or waking he never knew; but
he started from his bed to look down into the chamber, as he heard the
voice of Ruth loud in terrific denunciation: he looked; she was standing,
uttering yells of madness and rage, and close to her was a well-known
form of appalling recollection—his father, as he had seen him last; he
arose and darted to the door: “I am mad,” said he; “I am surely mad, or
this is still a continuation of my dream:” he looked again; Ruth was
still there, but alone.

But, though no visible form stood by the maniac, some fiend had entered
her soul, and mastered her mighty spirit; she had armed herself with an
axe, and shouting, “Liar, liar, hence!” was pursuing some imaginary foe
to the darker side of the cottage: Owen strove hard to trace her motions,
but as she had retreated under the space occupied by his bed, he could no
longer see her, and his eyes involuntarily fastened themselves upon the
coffin; there a new horror met them; the dead corpse had risen, and with
wild and glaring eyes was watching the scene before her.  Owen distrusted
his senses till he heard the terrific voice of Ruth, as she marked the
miracle he had witnessed; “The fiend, the robber!” she yelled, “it is he
who hath entered the pure body of my child.  Back to thy cave of blood,
thou lost one! back to thine own dark hell!”  Owen flew to the door; it
was too late; he heard the shriek—the blow: he _fell_ into the room, but
only in time to hear the second blow, and see the cleft hand of the
hapless Rachel fall back upon its bloody pillow; his terrible cries
brought in the sleepers from the barn, headed by the wretched Evan, and,
for a time, the thunders of heaven were drowned in the clamorous grief of
man.  No one dared to approach the miserable Ruth, who now, in utter
frenzy, strode around the room, brandishing, with diabolical grandeur,
the bloody axe, and singing a wild song of triumph and joy.  All fell
back as she approached, and shrunk from the infernal majesty of her
terrific form; and the thunders of heaven rolling above their heads, and
the flashings of the fires of eternity in their eyes, were less terrible
than the savage glare and desperate wrath of the maniac:—suddenly, the
house rocked to its foundation; its inmates were blinded for a moment,
and sunk, felled by a stunning blow, to the earth;—slowly each man
recovered and arose, wondering he was yet alive;—all were unhurt, save
one.  Ruth Tudor was on the earth, her blackened limbs prostrate beneath
the coffin of her child, and her dead cheek resting on the rent and
bloody axe;—it had been the destroyer of both.




THE YELLOW DWARF.
A TALE OF THE ORANGE TREE.


                           Oranges and Lemons.

EVERY body knows, or at least ought to know, with what an uproar of
delight the birth of an heir to any noble family was celebrated in the
old baronial times of fisty-cuff memory; exactly such a festival would
we, the humble historian of the illustrious house of Tecklenburgh,
describe if we knew how to render justice to the outrageous mirth which
shook the old castle to its very foundation, on the day of the eventful
morn on which the lady of the eldest son of the family had presented her
lord, and his no less expecting father the count, with a new prop to the
seat of their ancient dignities.  It was amid the mingled uproar of
trumpets, bells, soldiers, women, horses, and dogs, that the respectable
purple-nosed dominican, who was confessor to the family, gave a blessing
and a name to its future representative; and immediately after the
ceremony, the knights and nobles, wearied by the blows given and received
in the jousts, retired to the dining hall with the threefold intention of
filling their empty stomachs with something better than the east wind,
solacing their spirits with the biting jests of the count’s fool, and
curing their wounds and bruises of the morning by bathing them in flagons
of rhenish, till the moon should look down upon the evening.

But happiness will not endure for ever, like riches, she maketh herself
wings and fleeth away: the company, after picking the flesh of the huge
wild boar to the bone, began to stare at each other with bleared eyes,
ask querulous questions with stuttering tongues, and reply with solemn
and important visages; and the count of Tecklenburgh, fearing that his
youngest son, the handsome Sir Ludolph, would soon grow as wise as the
rest of the party, and of course utterly unfit for business, withdrew him
quietly from the table and conducted him to his private apartment; there,
seating himself in his state chair and enrobing his person, with an air
of paternal dignity he solemnly demanded of his son, if he had, according
to his particular order, considered the subject of their last conference.
The young knight answered, without any hesitation, that he had not, for
that the subject was so disagreeable to him that he had never suffered it
to enter his mind since; that he thought the tonsure excessively
unbecoming, and that he had no inclination to pray every time St.
Benedict’s bells should ring; and he added moreover, that he was resolved
to carve himself out a fortune with his sword, and for that purpose
intended to set off immediately for the court of the injured princes of
Thuringia, whose cause was a just and honourable one, and make them an
offer of his services: all this was said with an air of so much
determination and composure, as partly to disturb, and partly to amuse
the gravity of the count of Tecklenburgh; but considering within himself
for a few moments, he thought this last project of his son was not quite
so foolish as he had at first been willing to imagine it.  In addition to
high courage and many knightly acquirements, Ludolph possessed a very
handsome person, and this idea connecting itself with the beautiful
sister of the princes of Thuringia, he began to think that it would be a
pity to hide that fine form under a greasy cassock; he reflected that
should the three sons of Albert the Depraved get their brains knocked out
in the skirmish, (a consummation devoutly to be wished, and, from their
warlike character and powerful enemies, very likely to happen,) their
possessions would descend to their sister, who might possibly fall in
love with his handsome son, and then possibly the margraviate of
Thuringia might finally centre in his family.  These, and many other
possibilities working in the brain of father Tecklenburgh, worked a
change in his countenance also; and Ludolph seeing a smile, or something
like one, hovering over his iron features, judged it a favourable
opportunity for re-enforcing his petition, which he did with all the zeal
and eloquence he could muster—eloquence which touched the heart of his
tender father, for he assured him that if he would permit him to depart,
he would not draw the smallest piece of copper from his treasury to fit
him out for the expedition, but would make his aunt’s legacy of relics
answer every purpose.  This last remonstrance settled the business; count
Tecklenburgh, finding it was to cost him nothing, gave his consent to the
measure, and made his son happy in his own way, though, if that happiness
had cost him a single cruitzner, he would have held fast to the tonsure
in spite of all the repugnance of poor Ludolph; as it was, he gave him
his blessing, and dismissed him with much good advice, but not a single
coin, and the knight was too happy in the granted permission to grieve at
his father’s lack of liberality.  With a lightened heart he went for his
holy legacy, which he found much heavier than he had expected; every bone
and rag was carefully marked with the name of its original owner, and,
after getting the monk to read him their titles, and affix a value to
each article, he hastened to dispose of his sanctified treasure.  He
imagined the most likely persons to bid handsomely for his commodities
would be the monks, who paid such respectful and humble reverence to
cargoes of that description; but, after visiting a convent of Dominicans
situated near the castle, in this instance he found himself most
grievously mistaken; these holy pedlars were much too wise to buy what
they had long found their account in selling: they had already a good
stock on hand, and, when this should be exhausted, they could manufacture
others at a much cheaper rate than they could purchase them of count
Ludolph: so he carried his legacy to the nuns, who rejected it
instantaneously, doubting whether the articles were genuine.  From the
nuns he went to all the orders of mendicants, who treated him and his
relics with great contempt, cried down his cargo, and impudently asserted
that the leg of St. Bridget, which he had considered the most valuable
article in the pious collection, was the leg of a woman who was hung some
years before for sorcery in Nuremburg, as they themselves had the real
original limb of the saint in their possession.  Thus disappointed among
the shorn lambs of the fold, Ludolph determined to seek for purchasers
among the laity, and accordingly found them in the persons of
priest-ridden princes, crusading nobles, pilgrim knights, and
convent-founding ladies: the great variety of his good aunt’s collection
enabled him to gratify the tastes of all, for his box contained one
member or other of every saint mentioned in the monk of Treves’s
martyrology.  St. Bridget’s leg he sold at a high price to a miserable
old noble who had grown rich by rapine, and who trusted by this measure
to scare away the goblins and spectres who nightly kept their revels
round his bed.  The thumb of St. Austin was purchased by a beautiful
princess, as the guard of her chastity amid the allurements of a court,
and was suspended like a camphor bag around her delicate neck; while the
illustrious mother of a reprobate young knight earnestly hoped, by
tacking a piece of the hair shirt of St. Jerome to the shirt of her son,
to effect a reformation in his morals, and an amendment in his manners.
There were always abundance of fools in the world, and in those
unlettered times it did not require the light of a lantern to look for
them.  Ludolph thought so, as, with a lightened box but a heavy purse, he
returned to Tecklenburgh to fit out for his expedition.  Hosen, boots,
vests, tunics, hoods, harness, and arms, were all ready in a short time;
for when a man has money, every thing else under the sun is very much at
his service.  His appointments were all of the handsomest kind; his
device was a boar, and his colours were blue and scarlet.  And thus,
having equipped the knight and sent him forward, let us look back for a
little, to ascertain whither he is going, and for what purpose when he
shall arrive there.

The cause of the princes of Thuringia was, as count Ludolph had truly
stated, a just and honourable one: their father, Albert the Depraved, had
disinherited them, and banished their mother, in favour of a worthless
mistress and his illegitimate son, for whom he anxiously endeavoured to
procure the investiture of his dominions after his decease.  Not
succeeding in this notable project, and bent upon the ruin of his own
children, he sold his landgraviate of Misnia to the emperor Adolphus, who
dying before he could be benefited by his purchase, bequeathed this
right, to which he had no right at all, to his brother Philip of Nassau,
who, poor in character, and still poorer in purse, was now levying an
army, aided by the emperor Albert, to deprive the legitimate heir,
Frederic with the Bite, and his brother Dictman, of their rights and
possessions.  To this project they were by no means disposed to consent,
more especially as their mother, Margaret, daughter of Frederic the
Redbeard, continually kept alive their resentment against their worthless
father and his abandoned associates.  This princess, on being years
before separated from her children by her husband, had requested
permission to take leave of them ere their departure, which being
granted, she, in the frenzy of rage and grief, left a singular memorial
of her wrongs with her eldest son; she bit a piece out of his cheek, and
the impression remaining upon his face for ever, inflamed his indignation
against the original author of this disfigurement; so that, when capable
of bearing arms, he deposed his father and assumed his place, to thrust
him from which Philip of Nassau was now threatening, and to oppose whom
half Germany was rising in arms to assist the cheek-bitten Frederic, and
among many others the knight of Tecklenburgh.

Margaret of Suabia, the mother of the princes, during the early part of
her life, had been confined by her husband in the castle of Wartzburg, in
order that she might be removed the more readily into a still smaller
abode, whenever the proper opportunity should occur, and which he piously
determined not to neglect.  She was at this period in a situation which
might have interested any man but such a husband, for she promised to
increase his illustrious family by an additional son or daughter; but as
he cared for no children but the son of his mistress Cunegunda, this
circumstance rather operated against the poor princess, who was left to
amuse herself as well as she could in superintending the infancy of her
sons, and hunting in the haunted forest of Eisenac.  One day, while thus
diverting her attention from the many anxieties which oppressed her, she
found herself suddenly separated from her attendants; but hearing a horn
sound to the right, she spurred on her palfrey in that direction, till,
after an hour’s hard riding, she began to fear she was removing still
further from her people, for no sound could she hear but that of the
eternal bugle, no hoof-tramp but that of her own steed.  Still the horn
sounded, and still the princess galloped, till at length wearied by her
exercise, and finding herself in a large open plain, she dismounted to
reconnoitre; at the same moment she remarked the silence of the horn, and
the appearance of a gigantic orange tree, loaded with fine fruit, in the
centre of the tranquil plain.  Astonishment she certainly felt on
beholding so extraordinary and beautiful an object; but hunger and
fatigue had entirely banished all notions of fear; besides, dame
Margaret, having no small share of the curiosity of her grandmother Eve,
could no more resist the temptation of tasting these oranges, than the
first woman did the apple; so climbing up into the tree, she regaled
herself to her heart’s content with this fine fruit of the forest.  By
the time she had fairly dined, and was as weary of eating as she had
previously been of riding, she bethought her of the boys at home, and
with what glee they would have marched to the sack of the orange tree;
but as that was not possible, she determined they should not be without
share of the spoil, and therefore began to fill her huge pockets with the
ripest and the largest of the fruit.  But this action displeased the
hospitable master of the table at which she had been so plentifully
regaled; “Eat, but take nothing away,” had been one of his maxims, and he
was mortally offended to see this honest rule set at nought in the person
of a princess, a lady who, he thought, ought to have understood better
manners.  Before, therefore, _she_ had laid up provisions for the march,
a little shrill voice from the tree commanded her highness “not to steal
his fruit,” and, at the same instant, there issued from the trunk which
opened to give him a passage, a figure which effectually satisfied the
curiosity of the princess of Suabia.  The animal which now quickly
ascended the tree, and placed himself _vis à vis_ with her highness, was
a little deformed man, about three feet and a half high, with a face as
yellow as the oranges upon which he lived, hair of the same hue hanging
down to his heels, and a monstrous beard, of the same bilious complexion,
gracefully descending to his feet; if you add to this, the gaiety of his
yellow doublet, short cloak, and hose, you will not wonder that Margaret
did not altogether relish the _tête à tête_ in which she found herself so
suddenly and singularly placed, independent of the awkwardness of paying
a first visit in the boughs of a tree.  “Princess,” said the little
yellow devil, after staring at her some time with his two huge goggling
yellow eyes, “what business have you here?”  “I have lost my way,” she
replied, “and being fatigued, was going to gather an orange to appease my
hunger:” but he, without the least respect for his guest, or the rank of
an emperor’s daughter, rudely answered, “Woman, you lie! you were
stealing my property to carry away.”  At this insolent reproach,
Margaret, whose patience was never proverbial, felt a strong inclination
to treat the demon as she afterwards did her son; but fearing that the
little gentleman might not endure it quite so temperately, prudently
restrained this effort of her indignation, and only said, “I did not know
the tree had any other owner than myself, or I would not have gathered
any; what I have eaten I cannot restore, but here is the last I have
taken;” and she threw it rather roughly at the Dwarf, who, irritated
excessively at this behaviour, told her, grinning hideously, and
exhibiting for her admiration his monstrous overgrown yellow claws, that
he had a strong temptation to tear her to pieces, which nothing but his
wish to be allied to the blood of the emperors should have prevented.
“My oranges,” said he, “which you have stolen, I estimate above all
price, except that which I am going to demand: I am a powerful demon, and
rule with unbounded sway many thousand spirits; but I am unhappy in not
having a wife with whom to share my power; as Adam was not delighted in
Paradise, neither am I in my Orange Tree, without a companion.  You are
about to present an infant to your lord, who is utterly indifferent about
the matter; it will be a girl, and I demand her in marriage on the day
she will be twenty years old: consent to be my mother, and I will avenge
your injuries upon your husband, and load you with honours and riches;
refuse, and I will tear you in pieces this moment, and furnish my supper
table with your carcass.”  Margaret, who had never been so terrified in
all her life, and would not only have given her daughter, but her sons
and husband into the bargain, to have got away, readily promised to agree
with the Dwarf’s wishes, who now became exceedingly polite, embraced his
dear mother, and assured her of his devotion.  He then informed her he
would give her notice some months before he should claim his wife, placed
her carefully and tenderly upon her palfrey, and mounting behind, spurred
on the animal, who flew like the wind to the entrance of the forest;
where again embracing his good mother, he dismounted and disappeared.
Margaret, freed from the odious company of the Yellow Dwarf, began to
reflect with no very pleasant feelings upon her present adventure and
future prospects.  She was, indeed, safe out of the orange-coloured
clutches of her dutiful and well-beloved son; and, vexed as she was by
the horrible promise she had been obliged to make, she could not help
congratulating herself with great sincerity upon this circumstance, and
began, like all who have just escaped a present danger, to make light of
the evils in the distance.  The farther she cantered from the Orange
Tree, the easier her mind became; and taking a few hints from “Time, the
comforter,” she reflected that many things might occur before the
expiration of twenty years: it was a long period to look forward; the
little yellow devil might die, (and, indeed, she could not but allow that
he looked most miserably ill,) or he might forget his bargain, or he
might be conquered and killed by some black, pea-green, or true blue
devil, who might be stronger or more powerful than himself; or, in case
of the worst, she could secure her daughter in some strong castle or
convent, or marry her, before the expiration of the term, to some prince
capable of protecting her; at all events, thought Margaret, “sufficient
to the day is the evil thereof;” and, delighted by these soothing
reflections, and charmed to find herself in a whole skin, she trotted
along with great complacency, and arrived quite comforted before the
gates of Wartzburg.



CHAPTER II.


    “These yellow cowslip cheeks,
    And eyes as green as leeks.”

TWENTY years is indeed a long period to look forward, but a very short
one to look back, and so thought the now widowed princess, when, nineteen
years and some months after her adventure in the forest, she sat beside
her lovely daughter in the palace of Erfurt, listening with earnest and
tender attention to the plans of her warlike sons for wresting their
dominions from the iron grasp of Albert the One-eyed and Philip of
Nassau.  It was necessary that they should give battle to their enemies;
and as the margrave of Misnia intended to fight for his country in
person, this would unavoidably deprive her beloved daughter of that
powerful protection which hitherto had been her security against the
threats of the Yellow Dwarf.  It now wanted but six months of the period
when he had determined to claim his bride; and as he had not hitherto
given any indication, according to his word, of his appearance for this
purpose, she trusted he might have forgotten it altogether, and, quietly
resolving not to complain of this breach of promise, forebore to mention
the subject to her children.

One day, during the bustle of preparation for the approaching warfare, a
knight, splendidly attired, arrived at the palace, and demanded to be
introduced to the princess Margaret, who no sooner beheld him, than she
recognised in the colour of his arms the livery of her dear son-in-law,
the Dwarf of the Orange Tree.  He announced himself as the knight of the
king of the oranges, and his embassy was to place abundance of gold at
the feet of the princess Margaret, and to carry away her daughter as the
bride of his master.  Concealment was no longer possible, so sending for
her children, she informed them of her forest adventure, and its
unfortunate result.  Poor Brunilda fainted away; her brothers swore as
lustily as ever queen Elizabeth did, and fairly bullied the knight
ambassador for his presumption in daring to think of their sister as a
helpmate for the little dirty low-lived sorcerer his master; and
Margaret, who before their entrance had been absolutely terrified to
death by his presence, now finding herself protected, suffered her tongue
to wag at a most unconscionable rate against the poor ambassador.  She
told him she had a great mind to cut off his ears, for bringing her such
a message; that his master was a little conceited monster; that if, with
all this gold and silver, he would buy a fine castle, cut off his beard,
and live like a gentleman, he should not want her interest with one of
the dairy-maids, but as it was, the thing was utterly impossible, he
would not succeed even with the lowest scullion.  “Madam,” replied the
knight, with a grim kind of gravity, which was not half relished by the
princess, “I would have you to understand I came not hither to bandy
words with you, nor to listen to a catalogue of my master’s perfections:
I must, however, inform you, that he would not part from his Orange Tree,
nor with his beard, for all the princesses in the universe, the fair
Brunilda included.  If you do not think proper to keep your promise, he
will find means to oblige you: neither does he require human aid to
obtain his betrothed bride; but his gallantry and good nature will not
allow him to force the will of the fair princess, if he can relinquish
his determination with honour.  He is fully aware of your present
repugnance to his nuptials, and he is now whispering me to say, that if
the princess herself declines his vows (which he can hardly believe), he
will release her upon condition of her finding a champion that shall
conquer me, and afterwards my invincible master, before the six months
have expired, in single combat on horseback, on foot, with lance or
sword, according to his highness’s good pleasure at the time of meeting:
shall I say these terms are accepted?”  “You may,” replied the margrave,
to whom these conditions did not appear very hard, and who thought it
better to comply with than refuse them, as he was not aware of the
strength of the enemy to whom his mother’s promise had really been given;
and he remembered he should probably be compelled to leave his lovely
sister unprotected, while absent on his distant wars.  The arrangements
were, therefore, soon made, and the yellow champion was satisfied.

And now a splendid scene opened to view in the territories of Frederic
with the bitten cheek.  No sooner each day had the bells rung out the
hour of prime, than the trumpet sounded to proclaim the challenge of the
yellow knight, and the promise of the margrave of Misnia, that the
successful champion of the fair Brunilda should obtain her hand for his
reward.  Day after day did some knight essay the adventure; and day after
day did the noble Margaret enter the lists, attended by her lovely
daughter, who looked through her fan of peacock’s feathers, as charming,
and carried herself as “daintily,” as whilom did the beauteous Esther,
when she entered into the presence of the loving Ahasuerus.  But not like
that beautiful daughter of the scorners of pork did she obtain her
petition; for day after day was she compelled to witness the ruin of her
hopes in the repeated triumphs of the yellow Haman over her own black,
brown, or party-coloured champions: knight after knight fell beneath his
ponderous arm, and were obliged to resign their claims to the fair
Brunilda, to her infinite regret, and their bitter mortification.
Already had the counts of Wartzburg, Oettingen, Henneberg, Hanau, and
Conrad of Reida, been compelled to acknowledge the superiority of his
powerful arm, when the arrival of the handsome knight of Tecklenburgh,
who just came in time to hear a week’s rest proclaimed, in order to gain
time for the approach of other knights from the most distant parts of
Germany to the aid of the endangered princess, revived the hopes of
Brunilda.  He came, he saw, he conquered—not the sword of the yellow
champion, but the heart of the charming princess, which was formed of too
tender materials to hold out against so well-looking and redoubted a
warrior: she fell instantly in love with him to distraction, and he, on
his part, was too well bred to be behind-hand.  In the extravagance of
her fondness, she thought all things possible to her lover, and made no
doubt that he would be victorious in the combat.  Ludolph was precisely
of the same opinion, and to manifest its justice, was most irritably
impatient for the day of combat, which was still at the distance of
several halting sun-risings and sun-settings, which that long-legged old
ragamuffin Time did not carry off, in the opinion of the lovers, quite so
rapidly as he ought to have done.

But it came at last, that day, that morning of miracles; it came, and
brought nothing with it to daunt the brave spirit of the knight of
Tecklenburgh.  Light as the plume in his casque, gay as the colours of
his harness, he entered the lists, and gallantly opposed his person
against the ponderous carcase of the yellow-coloured champion.  Blow
after blow was freely given, and as freely received, till the spectators
began to doubt whether either of the men before them was really made of
flesh and blood.  Proof decisive, however, was soon given, for the sword
of Ludolph cleft the helmet of his antagonist, and dashed his weapon from
his hand, so that, defenceless and at the mercy of his conqueror, he
yielded up his claim to victory, and was content to beg his life.  The
acclamations of the people proved to Ludolph the difficulty of the
conquest he had just achieved.  The nobles were all anxious to testify
their esteem and admiration, though some in their hearts were bursting
with envy, and felt themselves almost choked by the fine things they
thought it necessary to utter.  Ludolph took them all in good faith with
perfect confidence in their sincerity, for he was too happy and too
honest to suspect; and then turning to the poor champion, whom he hardly
allowed time to recover breath, recommended him to return to his little
lord, and bear his defiance, as he should quietly wait to fulfil the last
condition ere he received the hand of the beautiful Brunilda.  The Yellow
Champion took the advice thus kindly offered him, and quitted the palace
of Erfurt, leaving his conqueror busy enough in accepting those
disinterested professions of service which are seldom offered except to
those who do not want them, or from whom an adequate return may not
unreasonably be expected.

Ludolph waited with great impatience the Dwarf’s reply to his challenge.
His time was passed, meanwhile, in making love to the princess (who on
her part was tolerably well disposed to listen to him), and laying up a
stock of devotion, by prayer and fasting, to serve, as occasion should
warrant, in the approaching combat with the demon, of whose power he had
formed other notions, since his residence in the Misnian court, than
either thinking him so harmless or so insignificant as he had formerly
done.  But the days rolled on, and no dwarf appeared.  Margaret, who
sincerely admired the valour of Ludolph, was anxious to end his suspense,
and Brunilda’s terrors, by uniting him at once to her daughter, without
waiting for the presence of the Lord of the Orange Tree, of whom she
could never think without shuddering; but the margrave, who, much as he
loved his sister and her noble deliverer, was too much of a gentleman to
break his word, even with a dwarf, determined they should stay the full
time allotted by the demon.  The latter was too gallant, and too much in
love with the princess, to forget his engagement, and accordingly one
morning, as the trumpets were sounding the usual summons to the lists,
the Dwarf himself entered them in his customary dress, mounted upon a
yellow steed, and surrounded by a large troop of knights in his colours.
The nobles and ladies of the margrave’s court, struck by the oddity of
his appearance, entirely forgot their politeness, and burst into as
hearty and unanimous a laugh as ever was heard in our lower House at any
of Joe H—’s blunders.  But it was no laughing matter to Brunilda: she
saw, for the first time, her intended husband, and she felt that his
ugliness even exceeded her mother’s report, and heaven knows that had not
been flattering.  She cast a look of tender entreaty upon Ludolph, who,
impatient to punish his rival and relieve her anxiety, couched his lance,
and spurred forward to meet the demon, who, not to be behind-hand in
courtesy, advanced to receive him.  But the knight suddenly sprung back,
on observing the singular dress of his adversary, the extraordinary
lightness of those accoutrements struck him with astonishment.  “Sir
knight of the Orange Tree,” said he, “except the lance in your hand and
the sword in your belt, I see no sort of preparation for a combat;
sheathe your person in harness, I pray you, that so at least the chances
may be more equal between us.”  “What is that to thee?” replied the
Dwarf; “it is my pleasure to fight in these garments: thief as thou art,
conquer me in them if thou canst.  For thee, sweet lady, I am here, to
prove my right to thy hand, to rescue it from this craven, and fear not
but I shall deserve it: my palace is ready, thy dowry is ready, and twice
a thousand slaves wait to obey thy wishes.”  Ludolph could not endure
this insolence, so rushing forward as the yellow knights retired from the
person of their leader, he began a most furious attack upon the animal
who pretended to rival him in the affections of his lady.  Alas! poor
Brunilda! if she had trembled before, during the combats with the yellow
knight, what anxiety must not have filled her bosom now!  The lances were
soon shivered to pieces: the champions drew their swords, but seemed to
make very little impression with them.  Ludolph had not yet received a
wound, and yellow-jacket seemed determined to make good his boast, and
hold the knight of Tecklenburgh a tug.  Vain was all the skill and
strength of the latter; though he struck with all his might and main, and
heart and soul, he could not cut through a single hair of the Dwarf’s
long beard, which seemed to wag at him in derision.  Poor Brunilda sat as
uneasily upon her canopied throne as if she had been upon a bed of
nettles.  She prayed to all the saints in heaven, and St. Henry the
Limper in particular, to assist her dear knight in this terrible combat:
but St. Henry the Limper was not in good humour, or was otherwise
engaged, for he did not appear to pay the least attention to her request,
and Ludolph was left to fight it out by himself as he could.  In truth,
he did not want inclination to put an end to the business.  After pegging
and poking at every inch of the Dwarf’s invulnerable carcass, he espied a
little unguarded spot on the left side of his throat, exactly open to his
right hand.  Delighted by the prospect of slicing off his ragamuffin
head, he aimed a mighty blow with all his force, which the little demon
parried; he struck a second with no better success; but the third was
triumphant, for it sent the yellow head flying from his shoulders, and
bounding to another part of the area.  The knight leaped from his saddle
to seize the head and hold it up to the view of the people; but in this
race, to his horror, he was outstripped by the Dwarf himself, who
likewise, darting from his horse, flew to the head, grasped it firmly,
gave it a shake, clapped it upon his shoulders, and fixed it again as
firmly and steadily as ever.  Then, ere the spectators could recover from
the stupor into which this unexpected contretemps had thrown them, he
struck the staring Ludolph to the ground, seized the princess by her
flowing locks, swung her behind him, and bolted out of the area.  His
knights wheeled round to follow him, but the Misnian nobles, recovering
from their confusion, surrounded them with drawn swords, and began a
desperate battle, in which it appeared they clearly had the worst, only
hacking and hewing each other; for the knights, squires, pages, and
horses of the enemy suddenly vanished from their sight, and in their
places appeared a waggon load of oranges bowling and rolling about the
area in the most amusing manner possible.  It was some time ere the
nobles could direct their attention to the unfortunate count of
Tecklenburgh, who, stunned by the blow given to him as the parting
blessing of the spiteful Dwarf, was lying insensible on the ground: the
moment he recovered, he declared his intention of pursuing the enemy, in
which he was seconded by all the knights present, who, headed by Margaret
as guide and commander, resolved to storm the Orange Tree itself, and
liberate the captive damsel.  They set forward with great courage and in
good order; but they might just as effectively have stayed at home, for,
after wandering about the forest for three days, they returned
crestfallen enough, not only being unable to discover the Orange Tree,
but even the plain in which it stood!  Poor Ludolph, whom the princes had
vainly endeavoured to comfort with the assurance that he had fairly
gained the victory, though he had lost the fruit of it, did not return
with them.  They lost him from their company the first day of their
search, and they firmly and devoutly believed the yellow devil had hooked
him also in his infernal claws.  Margaret gave herself up to grief, and
her sons, finding nothing else was to be done, endeavoured to forget
theirs in the bustle of the approaching war.



CHAPTER III.


Ha!—such a pair!

    _S. Dro_.  _I_, Sir, am Dromio! command him away.

    _E. Dro_.  _I_, Sir, am Dromio; pray let me stay.

IN the meantime Brunilda was jogging on at no easy rate behind the Yellow
Dwarf, who, when arrived at the Orange Tree, opened the trunk by a sign,
and, dismounting, bore his lovely burden into it.  She felt herself,
immediately after, descending a flight of steps, which, from the duration
of time, appeared to be endless.  They did terminate, however, at last,
and the Dwarf, placing her roughly upon her feet, retired swiftly from
the place, closing the entrance at the bottom of the stairs carefully
after him.  It was some time after his departure ere Brunilda took
courage to open her eyes and look around her; when she did, she found
herself in a subterraneous apartment as large as the bed-chamber of the
empress Constance. {64}  Every article about it was of silver, and there
was a magnificence about this underground palace, which made her conclude
it to be the castle and principal residence of her intended husband, the
Yellow Dwarf, whose company she did not covet, and who, to do him
justice, did not appear to torment her.  Food was supplied, and every
attention paid to her wishes by many attendants of both sexes, who,
however, never exchanged one single word in her hearing.  Wearied out by
this continual taciturnity, she began to wish for the sound of a human
voice, and, thinking she might probably learn something of the Dwarf’s
intentions from himself, she one day instead of questioning her dumb
attendants as usual about her lover, demanded some tidings of their
master.  “He cannot approach your presence, madam,” replied one of the
mutes, breaking his hateful silence, “unless you request his appearance.
A mighty spirit, one of the enemies of my master’s and your felicity, has
contrived this misfortune by his spells, but if you command it, he is
permitted to attend you.”  Brunilda, who, in giving this required
permission, never dreamed of any thing more than making inquiries after
her family and lover, was confounded to hear the Dwarf, with the most
rapturous impertinence, volubly thank her for this approval of his, and
generous acknowledgment of her passion.  Putting aside his long beard
lest it should throw him down, he knelt fantastically at her feet, seized
her white hand, and declared himself the happiest of all demon-born
beings.  It was in vain that Brunilda reasoned, entreated, and scolded:
he protested he was satisfied with the proofs she had given of her love,
and, in order to spare her modesty the pain of appearing to yield too
soon, he should put a gentle restraint upon her liberty, and not suffer
her to quit his palace till she became his wife.  At this avowal the poor
princess grew outrageous; she asked the little monster how he had dared
to select a princess of her exalted rank to share his hole under ground,
and burrow like rats in the earth? why he had not rather chosen some
humble cast-away maiden, who, having nothing in the world to lose, might
be contented out of it?  “Rank!” replied the irritated little demon, “and
what is this rank of which you are so vain?  An imaginary splendour
bestowed upon some men by the cringing servility of others,—the weak
fancy that decks one with this supremacy, gives birth to the slavish fear
that ensures to him its possession.  Rank!” continued the atrabilious
little viper, swelling into a respectable width by the overflowing of his
angry venom, “rank! it is power gained by force, won by the sword, by
fraud, by oppression!  The strongest is the noblest; and if so I am more
than your equal beautiful Brunilda, for, princess as you are, you are my
captive and I am your master.”  Brunilda wept at this insolence, and,
like all who know not how to controvert what they yet cannot bear to
acknowledge, hated the Dwarf more than ever, and resolved to prove it by
seizing every opportunity of annoying him.  With laudable intention, she
renewed the attack by commenting with great severity upon his frightful
little person: she sneered at his long beard, short legs, and large head.
She demanded if he had ever looked in a mirror, and, if he had, how he
could presume to imagine he could captivate any woman under such a
detestable form?  In no age have ugly people borne to be laughed at, for,
however hideous they may happen to be, they seldom find it out
themselves, and are in consequence, very much surprised and offended when
informed of it by others; and, as vanity is usually the reigning passion
of the most disfigured, they seldom pardon an offence which is mortal.
The Dwarf, the ugliest animal the eyes of Brunilda had ever encountered,
could hardly believe this possible, and saw no joke in her mirth at his
expense, and, as he had his full share of that precious commodity,
vanity, he raved, stormed, and became so insolent, that Brunilda was
compelled to order him out of her presence.  This command, which he was
obliged to obey, irritated the little creature to madness, and he swore,
that, since he could not enter her presence without her permission, he
would find a mode of making her give it whenever he should condescend to
require it.  This threat had more of truth in it than Brunilda imagined.
A few days after this animated conversation, the Dwarf sent to ask leave
to be allowed to pay his visit to the princess, which was immediately
refused.  This threw him into a rage, and he informed the princess by one
of his mutes, “that her lover Ludolph of Tecklenburgh was in his power,
and that his head should pay for the scorn with which she thought proper
to treat her lord and husband.”  Poor Brunilda hastily gave the required
permission, upon condition that Ludolph should accompany him; and her
“lord and husband,” as he styled himself entered, a few moments after,
followed by the knight, whom his demons had seized in the forest.
“There, madam,” said he, grinning like Grimaldi, but not so merrily, “I
found this stranger in the neighbourhood of my Orange Tree, and I have
brought him hither to secure a welcome for myself.  Did I not tell you I
would make you glad to receive me?  Here shall this valorous knight
remain, a hostage for your good behaviour; and never shall you receive
him without admitting me at the same moment.”  Brunilda, who would have
been delighted, in her present condition, to have seen any human being
whatever, was in raptures at the sight of Ludolph, who, on his part, was
content with his captivity, since he shared it with her; and,
unrestrained by the presence of the Dwarf, they so often and so tenderly
repeated their mutual delight to each other, that the grim jailer could
not endure the sight of their happiness, and rather than witness it,
withdrew himself and Ludolph from the company of Brunilda, which he did
not again seek for some time.  When attended by Ludolph, he next entered
her apartment, his jealous tortures were increased by the renewed
endearments of the lovers, and resolving in his own mind not to endure
what he flattered himself he could easily remedy, he threw a spell over
the unlucky Brunilda, which he generously hoped would destroy all the
little tranquillity she enjoyed.  The charm operated upon the sight of
the princess, who no longer beheld her lover, but a hideous negro
advancing towards her.  Brunilda was terrified, but, reassured by the
explanation of the Dwarf, who felicitated himself on her mortification,
she resolved to punish him in kind; so collecting all the woman in her
soul, and conquering her dislike of the ugly shape he presented to her,
she gave it a most affectionate welcome, and caressed it as her dear
Ludolph.  The Dwarf would willingly have annihilated him; but obliged to
keep him in existence to ensure himself admittance to Brunilda, he
resolved to embitter that existence as much as lay in his power, and
having once more recourse to his spells, the handsome Ludolph, unchanged
to himself, appeared to the eyes of the fascinated princess a furious and
monstrous tiger, armed with tremendous fangs and claws.  But love
penetrates all disguises, and the princess was now a match for the
sorcerer.  She knew that the fangs and claws, however terrible to others,
had no danger for her, and she suffered him to lie at her feet, kiss her
snowy hand, and put his shaggy head upon her lap, without manifesting the
slightest apprehension, to the great annoyance of the Dwarf, whose dull
wit was sharpened by his jealousy, and he now contrived the master-piece
of spells, to the increased misery of poor Brunilda, over whose clouded
senses the charm once more operating, presented her beloved Ludolph only
under the form of the Yellow Dwarf himself.  This transformation was
horrible to both the sufferers, for each of the figures maintained that
he was the knight, and persisted in execrating the other as the impostor,
while Brunilda, wearied with gazing on their hateful countenances, dared
not afford the slightest notice to either, lest she should bestow the
tenderness designed for Ludolph upon his detestable rival.  In vain did
she weep, threaten, and supplicate the Dwarf to give her lover “any shape
but that.”  She knew not even to which of the pair she ought to address
her petition.  But the demon was inexorable, listened unmoved to her
sorrows, for his heart was as hard as Pharaoh’s, and even inwardly
laughed at her agonies.  In vain did she examine their features in the
hope of discovering some slight difference that might point out her
lover: both grinned the same ghastly smile,—both exhibited the same
unvarying ugliness of feature.  Alas, poor Brunilda!  Lavater himself
could not have assisted thee, though, hadst thou lived in our days, or
Dr. Spurzheim in thine, some professional examination of the cerebral
organisation of the two dwarfs might have set the question at rest.
Doubtless some bump extraordinary, some wonderful dilation of the organ
of self-esteem in the skull of the true dwarf, or amativeness or
combativeness in that of the false one, might have aided thee to discover
the brutified soul confined in the brutified body.  But, as it was, they
were both brutes to Brunilda, and, as she had no wish to charm the Yellow
Dwarf, she wept her disappointment incessantly.  Nor was Ludolph less
busy than the princess in employing threats and prayers by turns to
mollify the Dwarf, though one was to as little purpose as the other, in
the presence of the princess.  The cunning demon reiterated the same
whining petition, used the same arguments, and denounced the same
vengeance as the unhappy Ludolph; and when retired from her apartment,
laughed at his success, and defiance.  It was in vain that Ludolph
accused him of having broken all the laws of chivalry, held even by
demons so sacred.  He told him he regarded no laws, except those which he
had made himself.  It was to no purpose he argued his right to be set at
liberty at least.  The Dwarf, who was a philosopher in his way, replied
that men had no rights, and that “_might_,” which he possessed, was a
much better argument, and a more effective weapon.  All this was
unluckily true, but it did not convince the Westphalian.  Zeno, the
stoic, said, “that we had two ears, and but one tongue, that we might
hear much and say little.”  It was a wise observation, and happy are
those that profit thereby: our two captives might, if they had had the
good luck ever to have heard it; but as they had not, they acted directly
counter, for they so heartily used their two tongues, and so entirely
spared their four ears, that their jailer grew outrageous, and therefore,
except when he went to torment Brunilda, he resolved to free himself from
the society of the count of Tecklenburgh, who paid for his garrulity by
being condemned to talk to himself in one of the most dreary dungeons of
the cavern.  Here he had full leisure to think of his misfortunes, and
execrate the contriver of them.  He prayed night and morning with all the
strength of lungs he could command, to all the saints in the calendar, to
give him a lift out of this purgatory.  He was too good a Christian not
to abhor all thought of magic; but, finding how little notice was taken
of his petition by the higher powers, he could not help thinking of the
lower, and wishing and vowing, that if some sorcerer, witch, or even
devil, would but come to his assistance now, he would find time enough
for repentance hereafter, and heal his conscience, and propitiate Heaven
by many good deeds to be done in perspective.  “I would walk to
Jerusalem, for a penance,” said he, “or give the spoils I shall take in
my next battle to the church, or I would, when I shall be able, endow an
abbey.  Either of these designs would be satisfactory,” continued he,
“and oh that I had the good luck to be able to put them into execution!
Oh that some friendly spirit, some gnome of these caverns, or demon of
this forest, would but come to my assistance!”  No sooner said than done:
the sinner trembled at the instant fulfilment of his wicked wish, and
began with real alarm to suspect that he was a bit of a conjurer himself;
for there arose in a moment, from the bosom of the earth, a gigantic
dusky-looking figure in the human shape, inquiring his commands.  “I
could not come to your assistance,” said the object, “till you summoned
me, or you should not have suffered so long.  I am the mortal foe of the
Yellow Dwarf, and the legitimate prince of these mines, into which he has
intruded himself, during my absence on a short journey I made to the
centre.  He has fixed himself pretty firmly in my palace by his spells,
but I shall contrive to dispossess him.  I will begin by assisting you;
speak, knight of Tecklenburgh, how can I serve you?”  Ludolph, who,
recovered from his first fright, desired nothing better, immediately
struck a bargain with the friendly gnome; the first article of which was,
that he should liberate himself and the princess.  “I can free you
instantly,” replied the gnome, “but the spells around the princess are
too powerful to be suddenly broken; nevertheless, with your help it may
finally be done.  We must possess ourselves of the charm in which lies
the power of the Dwarf, this, unfortunately, is his beard; for it will be
a work of difficulty to master it.  Could you, in your combat, have cut
off that, instead of his head, all would have been well: but, as long as
that beard hangs to his chin, his body is invulnerable, for, cut him into
fifty pieces and he will unite together again.  Notwithstanding all these
difficulties, observe faithfully all my directions, and, ultimately we
may accomplish our wishes.  Beneath those mountains of Bohemia which
bound the marquisate of Misnia, there is a diamond mine, as yet unknown
to the human race, whose sacrilegious hands have not there torn open the
heart of their mother earth and disturbed the spirits who sleep in her
bosom.  There, concealed many fathoms beneath the mountain, has been
hidden for centuries the magic weapon which alone can conquer the Yellow
Dwarf.  It is that identical pair of scissors with which the demon Fate
cuts asunder your mortal destinies; these, and these only, can secure our
enemy.  It will be in vain to cut off his head so long as he retains his
beard, and that beard is unapproachable, except to the magic scissors of
fate: the chief difficulty will be in obtaining possession of this
wonderful instrument, since only a knight of unstained loyalty, pure,
spotless, free from taint of libertinism, drunkenness, and bloodshed, can
take them from the hands of the statue which holds them, without
incurring the severe penalty of instant death.  When such a knight shall
be found, the scissors must be put into the hands of a spotless virgin,
for only such can use them in cutting off the formidable beard; should
any other woman attempt it, the inevitable consequences would be also
death from the scissors themselves.”  Poor Ludolph was as much depressed
by the end of this discourse as he had been elevated by the beginning.
Such a knight it was indeed next to impossible to find.  He himself was
as good and true as most; his loyalty was indeed unstained, he had not
shed blood in murderous or treacherous manner; but he had been too
frequently engaged in his father’s petty, and often unjustifiable wars,
to undertake an enterprise that demanded hands free from stain.  Then as
to drunkenness, alas! for poor Ludolph, though naturally a very sober
man, he knew he had too often shared many a “t’other flask,” and too
frequently drowned his fears of the abbot of Fulda in the big bowl of
Tecklenburgh, to permit him any chance of success in the achievement.  In
his own person, therefore, he gave it directly up, satisfied of his
incapacity from the fore-mentioned weaknesses, without carrying his
self-examination any further, but at the same time almost despairing of
finding a substitute.  “For the spotless virgin, friendly gnome,” said
the honest Westphalian, “there I have better hopes, since there are
enough at court, and I shall find this part of my task easy enough.”
“Not quite so easy as you imagine, knight,” replied the gnome, “since
there is not an unmarried lady in all Thuringia who will not lay claim to
that honour, and you may thus be the innocent cause of the death of many;
but I can assist you here, and make this part of the undertaking much
less difficult.  Here is a magic girdle; obtain permission to try it,
without speaking of its virtues, upon the ladies of the margrave’s court.
Should the dame who should buckle it on be a deceiver, the girdle though
now appearing of large size, will shrink into the smallest compass, and
will not even encircle her slender waist: should the lady be the object
of your search, it will set closely and gracefully to her form.”  “A
thousand thanks,” replied the honest knight; “I have no fears for my
success in this point, and perhaps I may be more fortunate than I expect
in the other.  Now then, generous friend, accomplish your kind intention,
release me from this dungeon, and I will immediately hasten to Eisenac
and seek a maiden who may assist to break these abominable enchantments.”
“I will,” replied the spirit, “but do not forget that to other eyes as
well as Brunilda’s, you still wear the form of the Yellow Dwarf; this is
occasioned by three orange-coloured hairs, from his formidable beard,
tied round your right arm; unloose them, and you will appear to others as
you do to yourself and me.  Be under no alarm for the safety of the
princess, since I have already prevented your enemy’s entering her
presence without her permission, and will still continue to watch over
her.”  The knight again thanked the gnome for his friendly care, and
shutting his eyes, by command of his companion, and opening them again
the next instant, found himself, to his infinite joy, standing near the
Orange Tree, round which his horse was quietly grazing.  He soon sprang
lightly into his saddle, and turned his head from the wood, determined to
reach Eisenac ere daybreak.  With this resolution he spurred on gaily,
thinking of the joy he should feel upon liberating his beloved Brunilda,
when, in a turn of the wood, he suddenly encountered a troop of knights
in the livery of the Yellow Dwarf.  A cold shivering seized him, for he
expected to be dragged back neck and heels to the Orange Tree, when, to
his utter astonishment, they all lowly saluted and made way for him to
pass.  He now remembered that he had not yet removed the orange-coloured
hairs from his arm, and, feeling himself indebted to this circumstance,
for his safety resolved to let them remain till he should be quite out of
the infernal forest.  Dwelling fondly upon his hopes and brightening
prospects, the young morning sun found him entering Eisenac, where he was
greeted with a loud shout by a troop of boys, who seemed to recognise an
old acquaintance.  Soon the boy crowd was augmented by a multitude of
citizens, who surrounded Ludolph, yelling like fiends, seized his bridle,
pinioned his arms, and saluted him with a dreadful volley of curses.
“Sorcerer, robber, demon!” rung in his ears in all directions, and, while
the uproar raged in its greatest violence, he was dragged from his horse,
and thrown on the ground.  At this extraordinary treatment, the count
demanded to be conducted to the margrave, to the princess Margaret.  He
was told that the court had quitted Eisenac, but they were resolved to
burn him alive in revenge for his treatment of their beloved princess,
and the noble count Ludolph, her destined husband.  Solomon said, that
“fear is nothing else than a betraying the succours which reason
offereth;” and, in this case, it was most truly so, for the knight’s
agitation in the first part of the attack, had made him forget in time to
remove the orange-coloured hairs from his arm.  Their last exclamation
had shewn him their mistake, and his own fatal imprudence.  Now he found
that he was in danger of being burnt alive for the sins of the execrable
Dwarf, unless he could immediately free himself from the charm.  “Hear
me, dear friends,” he cried, “I am truly the unhappy Ludolph, but your
eyes are bewitched by the sorceries of that abominable demon, and you see
me only under his resemblance; release my arms for one moment, and I will
convince you.”  At this insult to their understandings, the wise men of
Eisenac set up a most tremendous howl, and were still more anxious to
collect faggots for his service.  They kicked, buffeted, and reviled his
person till he was almost delirious with rage, and the foamings of his
indignation confirmed them in their belief that he really was, what he
appeared, the demon of the Orange Tree.  During one of the pauses made by
his guards to listen to his earnest entreaties for a moment’s liberty, he
found means to disengage his hands from their grasp, tore open his
sleeve, and furiously rending away the slight bandage of hair, stood
before them in his own proper person.  Astonishment for a moment tied up
the tongues of the assembly, but quickly recovering themselves before
Ludolph could gain time to explain, they declared it a new piece of
sorcery, and swore that the form of their gallant favourite should not
shield the wizard who they firmly believed was his murderer.  The
magistrates and officers of Eisenac, aroused by the news of the seizure
of the demon Dwarf, had assembled upon the spot, and startled by the
wonders they now heard, trembled to think of the consequences of the
unbridled fury of the mob, should the story told by the equivocal knight
be really true.  Anxious to avoid the spilling of innocent blood, they
proposed conveying him to prison, and awaiting the decision of the
margrave; but the people anticipated a sight, and rather than lose so
excellent a joke as that of roasting a sorcerer, they would willingly
have run the hazard of sacrificing even Ludolph himself.  But the
magistrates, much to their honour, continued firm, and, through their
interference, poor Ludolph, who already felt the flames crackling under
him, with much difficulty obtained permission to say a few words to them
in defence.  “Noble magistrates and discerning judges,” said the
mob-hunted count of Tecklenburgh, “I trust that you will believe that I
am really myself as I declare to you by my knighthood I am.  As for the
Yellow Dwarf, a curse on him, I am his victim, not his ally; since it is
from his infernal enchantments, and still more infernal malice, all my
misfortunes have arisen.  How you can for a moment imagine that I could
be his friend because I have been unlucky enough to appear under his
odious form, I am at a loss to imagine, since nobody surely can possibly
believe such a transformation to be a matter of choice.”  The female part
of the audience perfectly agreed with the last observation of Ludolph,
and the magistrates, puzzled by the sincerity with which he had delivered
his remonstrance, determined to save him, at least from the fire and the
faggots.  But, as the people had expected a show, thought the wise men of
Eisenac, “a show they must have,” or the consequences, they knew, of
their disappointment in an affair so essential to their well-being, might
not be entirely insignificant to their betters.  So, while acquitting
him, in their consciences, of being the Yellow Dwarf, and forbidding the
animating use of fire and faggots, they condemned him to be put to the
ban, as a nobleman, for dabbling in a little private sorcery in
conjunction with the demon, in whose villainous shape he had just
appeared.  No sooner was this righteous sentence pronounced against the
unlucky Ludolph, than he was seized by the soldiers and followed by all
the crowd, who, anxious to join in the fun, exhibited many a practical
witticism at his expense, and cracked all their superfluous jokes upon
his unfortunate person: then stripping him of his armour and knightly
accoutrements, and clothing him in raw and filthy goatskins, they set him
upon a sorry mule with his face toward the tail, and led him through the
town, the herald proclaiming before him, “We declare thy wife, if thou
hast one, a widow, thy children, if thou hast any, orphans, and we send
thee, in the name of the devil, to the four corners of the earth.”  Thus
sent upon a long voyage, with such a friendly benediction, it would not
have been wonderful if the heart of the knight had sunk with his
circumstances, which any heart would have done except a Westphalian one,
but that was employed in swelling with indignation, and meditating the
best mode of returning the compliments of the Eisenac mobility.  While
thus occupied, he heard a voice close to his ear, which whispered,
“Attend to my orders, and you are safe.”  He looked earnestly in the
direction of the sound, and saw, to his infinite satisfaction, the dusky
face of his friend the gnome beneath the helmet of a soldier.  “Let these
people continue to believe you the Yellow Dwarf,” continued the spirit;
“it is the only way to preserve you from suspicion in your real
character; here are the hairs which, in your haste, you threw away.
Resist not while I tie them round your arm, and leave the rest to me.”
Ludolph sat silent while, under the appearance of a new insult, his
instructor twisted the light band round his arm, and the shrieks of the
people a moment after announced that the charm had taken effect upon
their senses.  “It is the sorcerer,” they cried, “the horrible
Dwarf—seize him, tear him, burn him!”  But, for this time, their kind
intentions were completely frustrated, for the gnome, entering into the
sorry mule which carried the prisoner, communicated to his worn-out frame
such inconceivable vigour and rapidity, that a few minutes were
sufficient to bear his rider far beyond the pursuit of his enemies, who
remained in the market-place, staring after the beast and cursing the
Yellow Dwarf.  The representative of that malignant little demon was
meanwhile receiving a few drops of a powerful cordial from the hand of
his friend the gnome of the mine, who politely apologised for not knowing
earlier the mischiefs into which his dear crony had fallen,—owing,
however, entirely to his own excessive carelessness, which he should
never have suspected.  “And, in truth,” continued the friendly spirit, “I
concluded you were safe at the margrave’s court which is at Weimar, and
whither I had intended to follow you.  Passing over Eisenac, I rested to
know the meaning of the tumult I witnessed, and was just in time to
rescue you from the rage of the mob, who would not have quitted their
prey, even after the soldiers should have set you at liberty.  Here,”
continued the gnome, giving him a heavy bag of coin, a most welcome
present to a half-naked knight errant, “hasten to equip yourself
according to your rank, and lose no time in joining the court at Weimar,
where you must select a damsel to conclude the adventure ere Brunilda can
recover her liberty, or you be freed from the malice of the Yellow
Dwarf.”  Ludolph heartily thanked his good friend, though he could not
help thinking it would have been as well if his assistance had been
tendered some few hours earlier.  But still, better late than never,
thought the knight; and, though he received a few cuffs and many bitter
curses, yet hard words break no bones, and the cuffs he hoped one day to
repay with interest.  In the interim his honour was preserved by the
contrivance of the gnome, as no man in Eisenac, no, not even the sapient
magistrates themselves, would ever believe the creature they had pounded
and worried so unmercifully, was any other than the Yellow Dwarf himself.
Receiving from his hands once more the magic girdle which he had lost in
the confusion, he bade farewell to the gnome, who promised to meet him in
the forest, when he should have obtained the magic scissors, upon which
their success depended; and after accoutring himself as became his
condition, not this time forgetting the three red hairs, he set forward
once more for the court of the margrave; and, he was by no means of a
melancholy complexion, his past misfortunes had no other effect upon his
spirits than elevating them to a joyous pitch for glee, that he had so
well escaped the dangers which he believed would have ended more
tragically.  And thus gay, and hoping much from the future, he arrived,
without any further adventure, at the palace of Weimar.



CHAPTER IV.


    Ane gat a twist o’ the craig,
    Ane gat a bunch o’ the wame,
    Anither gat lam’d o’ a leg,
    And syne he went bellowing hame.

THE princess Margaret was overjoyed once more to see her Brunilda’s
lover, and she welcomed him with the sincerest regard.  She listened with
burning indignation to the account of the Dwarf’s treatment of his
captives, and to such other parts of his history as he thought proper to
relate; for he carefully suppressed, in the presence of the court, his
adventures at Eisenac and his release by the gnome, lest the friendship
of this good-natured spirit should again subject him to the charge of
sorcery; and as he had already smelt fire at Eisenac, he was particularly
anxious to avoid so warm a reception elsewhere.  He informed the good
princess that the girdle would only fit the damsel appointed by destiny
to break the enchantment, and of consequence all were anxious to try it.
Three of the most beautiful ladies in Misnia attempted, but strange to
relate, in vain, to fix on the magic cestus: it shrunk to nothing round
their forms, and Ludolph began again to tremble for the fate of his poor
Brunilda.  In vain did the most prudish ladies of the court present their
slim forms to the girdle,—it would not meet around them.  Several of
those who had been most rigid in their own conduct, and most bitterly
virtuous in regard to that of others, took the girdle with a devout air
and blushing modesty, that quite revived the hope of the Westphalian
knight.  Alas! the cestus not only refused to clasp the waists of these
fair ones, but even flew right out of their hands the moment they touched
it; and this circumstance so disheartened Ludolph, that he foolishly
enough, ere above twenty ladies had made the attempt, gossiped out the
secret of its virtues in the delighted ear of the princess Margaret.
That good lady thought the joke too excellent to be confined to so few
persons; and there being among the unlucky twenty some whose beauty
rivalled that of her beloved Brunilda, she lost no time in publishing the
secret, which had the effect of making them all abhor Ludolph, and
defeating the plans he was so anxious to carry into effect; for now, not
a single woman acquainted with the virtue of the cestus would even try it
on, and, instead of laughing with the princess and Ludolph at the unlucky
discovery made by the twenty, they made, much to their honour, common
cause against them, and vowed to smother the mischievous knight whenever
they could conveniently catch hold of him.  It required all the authority
of the margrave, who at this juncture arrived at Weimar from the camp, to
protect the unfortunate knight from their vengeance, who began to be as
much afraid of these beautiful destroying angels as he had been of the
fire-loving devils of Eisenac, or even the Yellow Dwarf himself.  “Alas!
I am surely the most unfortunate of men,” said he to the margrave; “I
have been transformed to the detested shape of the Yellow Dwarf, for
wishing to deliver your sister out of his hands.  I have been near
roasted alive for killing myself.  I have been put to the ban for
suffering myself to be tormented by my powerful enemy, and now I am in
danger of being torn to pieces by the loveliest women in the world, only
for being anxious to find one virgin in their company.  Ah, my poor
Brunilda! what will become of thee?”  The margrave comforted the knight
with the assurance that he would certainly be successful, if he could but
prevail upon the ladies only to try on the girdle, and, in case of their
obstinacy, he advised him to put the magic scissors into the hands of
Brunilda herself, “For, if she be not worthy to use them,” said the proud
Frederic with the bitten cheek, “she is not worthy of liberty, nor the
tender love you bear her.  For the other conditions, I fear we must
despair, since I do believe there is not a knight in my court, no not in
all the courts of Germany, that will accept the challenge; though against
mortal foes, they are the bravest men in the universe.”  The margrave was
right.  Each knight knew his own secret weakness too well to accept the
office, when the conditions were stated to them, no one being willing, as
they honestly avowed, to hazard an ignominious death, by disregarding the
injunctions of the gnome.  There was not a man among them who had not, at
some time or other, offended by drunkenness, licentiousness, or breaking
heads in an unjust quarrel: indeed, with regard to the latter peccadillo:
it was scarcely possible, in the time of which I am treating, for it to
be otherwise, since not only disputes of chivalry, and all injuries,
whether public or private, were settled by the sword, even cases of
felony and suits of law were arranged by the same expeditious decision;
so that he of the strongest arm and stoutest heart infallibly gained his
cause, whether right or wrong, as his adversary could no longer contend,
either for reputation or property, after the dagger of mercy had been
struck into his heart, or drawn quietly across his throat.

But, to return to our good Westphalian and his difficulties.  After many
objections, disputings, hopings, and fearings, the margrave at last found
a salvo for Ludolph, and a stainless knight for the service of the king
of the oranges.  This was his own son, a boy of ten years old, upon whom,
finding all other hope fail, he conferred the honour of knighthood, and
released him from his martial studies, in which the gallant child spent
all his time, and sent him to handle the shears of Atropus, and share in
the glory of shaving the orange-coloured beard of the execrable Dwarf.
The little knight Herman of Misnia was highly delighted by his admittance
to this post of honour, and attached himself fondly to his good cousin
Ludolph, who now began making preparations for his march.  So great was
the terror inspired among the people by the Yellow Dwarf, that it was
with much difficulty he could collect troops sufficient to defend the son
of the margrave upon this voyage of discovery, as all the nobles,
knights, and regulars of Thuringia, were gone to the camp in daily
expectation of an attack from the emperor Albert, who, having just been
overreached in his views upon Bohemia, by his good cousin Henry of
Carinthia, was advancing in no good humour upon the troops of the
margrave of Misnia.  After a proclamation of some days, in which Ludolph
puffed the vast riches of the diamond mine with almost as much skill as
Day and Martin puff their blacking, a number of strays from all parts of
the empire gathered themselves together under his standard; and though he
could not boast of commanding many of the nobles of Misnia, yet upon the
whole, his troop was about as respectable as David’s at the cave of
Adullam, when only those who were in debt, or distress, or discontented,
enrolled themselves in his service.  But great endings spring from small
beginnings.  From the captain of half-starved ragamuffins David became a
king; and Ludolph hoped that his regiment of black-guards would finally
conduct him to the feet of a princess.  With this notion he set forward,
full of expectation, with the youthful knight committed to his charge.
On the road, fearful of any other delays, he inspired his companions by
dwelling, with affected rapture, upon the spoils of the diamonds, which
were so soon to be at their service, in the sack of the mine.  These
observations acted like electricity upon his respectable warriors, and
sent them galloping toward the confines so rapidly, that before he had
either hoped or expected it, they had arrived at the foot of the mystic
mountain, where the whole troop made a halt, to await the return of
Ludolph, who, with his young companion, was to descend first into the
caves, seize the scissors, and then leave the coast clear for the
plunderers to attack the mine.  Matters were soon settled.  The two
knights found the entrance with some difficulty, and boldly descended
into these dismal abodes, the residence of the infernal spirits who were
in the pay of the Yellow Dwarf.  After traversing many dreary caverns,
they entered the last, where, elevated on a golden pedestal, stood the
gigantic statue which held the scissors of fate, and was the guardian of
the life of the Yellow Dwarf.  Forgetting, in his joy at the sight, the
caution of the gnome, he was advancing towards the statue, when a
tremendous box on the ear from the marble fist, taught him to know his
distance.  He fell back accordingly, and, young Herman of Misnia
approaching, the statue grinned as hideously at his protégé, but made no
attempt to injure the boy, as fearlessly he climbed the pedestal, and,
without any regard to the rights of property, grasped the magic scissors,
and brought them back in triumph.  Ludolph received them from his hands
with the wildest sensation of delight; but, prudence conquering his
emotions, he took his young preserver in his arms and retraced his way to
daylight.  Here he was greeted with shouts of applause by the soldiers,
who, in spite of all the entreaties of Ludolph, persisted to ransack the
caves, pursuant to their original agreement.  In vain did he assure them
the margrave’s enemies would furnish more spoils for them than the
vaults, and that his share should be divided among them.  Vainly did he
describe the threatening looks of the statue, and assure them he still
felt the tingling of the marble thump in his ear, with which he had
complimented him.  It was talking to the winds, or, as old Baker quaintly
saith, “to as little purpose as if he had gone about to call back
yesterday.”  Down they all dashed together, neck and heels, with
tremendous outcries, into the diamond caverns.  Their return was silent
and orderly enough.  The cave of Trophonius could not have effected a
better or more expeditious change.  They were all as grave as judges, and
every man appeared with his mouth twisted exactly under his left ear.
Ludolph could gain but little information as to what had befallen them;
all he understood was, that they had seen the statue, who had given the
first man such a thundering slap of the face that its shock was felt by
all the rest of his companions, and left the consequences which he now
beheld, and which they had such good reasons to deplore.  But, while the
knights of the scissors and their wry-mouthed confederates are pursuing
their road to Weimar, let us pop our heads under ground and see what has
become of Brunilda.

The poor princess, much disconcerted by the diabolical contrivance of the
Yellow Dwarf, gave way, when alone, to that indulgence of grief which she
resolutely suppressed in his presence.  She had encouraged the visits of
the two Dwarfs, in the tender hope that, though they afforded no
consolation to herself, they might yield some satisfaction to the bosom
of her tormented lover.  This being the real state of her feelings, she
was deeply distressed when, the day after Ludolph’s release by the gnome,
they neglected to pay her the customary visit, and therefore sent to
request the presence of her tyrant.  He came, and in no very good humour,
for he had just failed in the effect of a spell, which he hoped would
discover the runaway.  He told her, even more brutally than usual, that
Ludolph had escaped, that he was endeavouring to discover him, and that
in case he succeeded, of which he had no doubt, he would immediately hang
him, unless the princess would save his life by giving her hand to his
rival.  Delighted by the escape of the knight, Brunilda could not keep
her joy to herself, but expressed it so imprudently, and with such
heartfelt glee at the Dwarf’s vexation, that it irritated all the bile in
his little yellow body, and provoked him to have recourse to his most
powerful spells to discover the abode of Ludolph.  It was, luckily for
the knight, a work of time and difficulty, since the gnome of the mine
was at hand to unravel all his charms as fast as the other wrought them;
and he was, by this means, obliged to desist, in order to find the
invisible enemy who thus thwarted his plans and protected his victim.
The indefatigable gnome was still at his elbow, and poor yellow-beard
continued as much in the dark at the end of his spells, as he had been at
the beginning.  All this gave the knight time, which was what the gnome
wanted, and the Dwarf remained in ignorance of his movements, till the
spirits, who were the guardians of his talisman in the mountain caves,
informed him of his danger and the seizure of the magic scissors.  Such a
contrivance as that of knighting a child the demon never contemplated,
but finding one half of the adventure accomplished, he determined, as far
as in him lay, to prevent the achievement of the other.  Learning by his
fiends, that he was threatened with danger from Brunilda, he made it his
principal care that the magic scissors should not be wielded by her, and
accordingly penned her up more closely than ever, surrounding her by
spells, not only inaccessible to mortals, but even to his own attendant
spirits, whom he would not trust too far, lest his tyranny should have
inspired them with hatred to his person, and laxity in his service.
Among his equals in the demon world he well knew, and feared the
indignation of the gnome of the silver mines, whose territories he had
invaded, and before whose power, if joined to that of other enemies, he
would have good reasons to tremble.  These considerations determined his
conduct, and, to prevent Brunilda from handling the scissors, and the
scissors from approaching his beard, he devised a spell so potent, that
he fondly hoped and believed he was safe from the attacks of, and might
bid defiance to, all sorts of enemies, natural and supernatural.

In the mean time, Ludolph and his companions had arrived at the court of
Weimar, to the great joy of the margrave and his mother, who, looking
upon the adventure as nearly finished, entreated Ludolph to lose no time
in joining his friend the gnome in the enchanted forest.  He himself had
no wish to delay the business, and, after making one more unsuccessful
attempt to prevail upon the ladies of Misnia to try on the girdle, he set
off to present it to his lovely Brunilda: and, arriving near the Orange
Tree, was met by the friendly gnome.  “It is not yet in my power to
introduce you to the presence of the princess,” said he to the count, “as
I have not yet conquered the spells by which our enemy has surrounded
her: the cavern is inaccessible at present to any human foot, but it is
not in the power of the demon to limit my steps in the territory of which
I am the legitimate lord.  His spirits are as powerful as mine, and thus
I am obliged to have recourse to artifice to conquer him, which I should
not be able to effect, if he had not, by obtruding into my dominions,
placed the secret in my power.  Unlike the free spirits who have existed
from the beginning of the world, and who will probably survive its
demolition, the Dwarf is mortal born, though, by magic spells, he has
lengthened his life many hundred years; but his birth subjects him to
death, which will be inevitable, should the infernal power by which he
has accomplished his purposes be defeated.  To prevent this catastrophe,
he has placed his life in a talisman, which he believes unconquerable,
but which, I trust, we shall overthrow.  Caution is, however, necessary,
for his spells are mighty, and the spirits subjected to his command are
many.  In the interim you shall rest here, and I will provide for your
necessities till I shall be able to conduct you to Brunilda, to whom you
must explain the virtues of the scissors of fate, for, by an immutable
decree which no spirit dares violate, I am restrained from appearing
before her till she herself shall summon me.”  The gnome then raised a
comfortable tent for Ludolph, loaded it with provisions, drew a line of
protection about it, and vanished.

Three days passed tranquilly enough with Ludolph, while patiently
awaiting the re-appearance of his friend the gnome, but the fourth was
beginning to hang heavy, when the spirit entered the tent in the middle
of the night.  “I triumph,” said he; “I have unloosed the spell that kept
you from the presence of Brunilda.  The Dwarf, being mortal born, is
subject to mortal necessities, and at this hour he sleeps; rise and throw
yourself at the feet of the princess; give me your hand, and close your
eyes.”  Ludolph obeyed, and the next moment found himself in the
apartment of Brunilda.  As I, the honest chronicler of the loves of the
Westphalian knight and Misnian princess, am no great dealer in sentiment,
I shall omit all the particulars of the meeting, and only say how truly
happy Brunilda was to receive him, and how grateful she felt towards the
obliging gnome, whom she gladly summoned to her presence.  To the great
relief of Ludolph, who trembled and doubted grievously while making the
proposal, she had not the slightest objection, even after she was made
acquainted with its virtues, to try on the enchanted girdle, which fitted
her graceful form as if it had been purposely made for her: her lover
could not help commending the taste of the Yellow Dwarf, and was as much
overjoyed at this earnest of success as if he held the demon’s beard in
his hand.  The gnome then gave Brunilda the fatal scissors, and telling
them that the spirits of their enemy could not perceive them, from the
powerful spells by which they are surrounded, desired them to follow his
footsteps fearlessly to the inner caverns, where slept the demon, and
whom sleep would probably render defenceless.  Stretching out their necks
and stepping on tiptoe, the lovers followed the gnome to the private
apartment of the Dwarf, whom Brunilda anxiously hoped to serve in quality
of barber extraordinary.  With beating hearts they beheld their guide
throw open the door of his chamber, and desire the princess to advance,
at the same time approaching the couch of the demon, and drawing back his
curtain.  Brunilda obeyed; mustering all her courage, and collecting a
little army of disagreeable remembrances to her aid, she found herself so
strengthened that, like Judith, she resolved to finish the business with
a single snip.  But the Holofernes of Germany had had more wit than his
drunken predecessor, and had taken much better care of his shaggy head;
for the Judith of Misnia looked in vain for the yellow beard that was to
fall beneath the fatal scissors.  That _that_ had disappeared was not
wonderful, since the face to which it formed such a remarkable appendage
had entirely vanished from the body.  There lay the carcase of the Dwarf,
sleeping, it may be, but his head was dozing in some other place, for the
body was very quietly reposing without it.  Poor Brunilda shed tears of
vexation, and the gnome looked silly enough to find himself thus
completely outwitted; but knowing that he could find no remedy for the
disappointment by standing gaping at the demon’s trunk, he drew the
lovers from the chamber, conducted Ludolph back to his tent, and again
had recourse to his spells, which told him that the Dwarf, fearful of
surprise while disarmed by sleep, took off his head every night, and
concealed it in some place of safety, but where he could not discover.
This was a vexatious incident; but “_ruse contre ruse_,” thought the
gnome, and to work he went with a fresh resolution to outspell the yellow
conjuror and liberate the lovers.  In the mean time the demon awoke from
his invigorating slumber, and hastened to replace his ugly head upon his
shoulders, and then, head and tail once more united, sat down to consider
the possibility of recapturing the knight of Tecklenburgh, in whose
hands, notwithstanding the success of his spells, he did not like to
leave the magic scissors.  Brunilda, it is true, was safe enough; but the
Dwarf knew (though Ludolph could not discover them) that there were more
virgins than one in the Misnian court; and that the count wanted neither
eloquence to persuade such to assist him, nor resolution to attack his
enemy, when that difficulty should be conquered.  In the midst of these
cogitations he was aroused by a summons from the princess, who had not
permitted him to approach her since the day after Ludolph’s departure:
the little coxcomb was enchanted by the message, and hastened to arrange
his look in the most becoming manner possible, ere he presented himself
before the eyes of his lovely captive.  Brunilda was in tears when he
entered her apartment, and no sooner did she behold him than she poured
upon him such a torrent of reproach and abuse, that the Dwarf, though in
general tolerably well skilled in the use of that cutting weapon the
tongue, stood utterly confounded, and knew not what to reply.  She
accused him vehemently of the murder of her lover, her dear Ludolph,
which secret she said, had been revealed to her in a dream by her patron
saint that very night, and she had therefore sent to him to accuse him to
his guilty face.  The Dwarf listened in surprise; but this time far from
retorting with the usual bitterness upon Brunilda, he was hugging himself
in the notion that the patron saint might have told the truth, and that
Ludolph, whom all his arts had failed to discover, might really be no
longer an inhabitant of the earth, in which case he flattered himself he
might possibly succeed him in the affections of the fair Brunilda, whose
hand he coveted no less than her brother’s lands, of which he resolved to
dispossess him whenever he should become the husband of his sister.  Full
of these agreeable hopes and ideas, he soothed the weeping princess as
well as the ruggedness of his nature would permit, and assured her, that
though her lover was dead, (a circumstance of which he averred he was
well aware, though compassion had hitherto prevented his informing her,)
yet he had no hand in his death, and would endeavour by every mark of
tenderness and attention to reconcile her to this inevitable loss.
Brunilda suffered herself to be comforted, and even allowed his yellow
lips to press her fair hand, which so delighted the lover, that he
released her from her severe confinement, and permitted her to roam at
large through the caverns, and occupy her former apartment, where he
continued to visit her daily, and daily quitted her with the flattering
hope that he had at length discovered the mode of making himself
agreeable.  Brunilda encouraged this delightful dream by her changed
method of conduct; she ceased, after the first two interviews, entirely
to reproach the Dwarf, and permitting his devotions, she gradually
appeared to desire them, and even frequently condescended to rally him
upon the oddity of his dress, and the old-fashioned cut of his hood: he
immediately adopted another to gratify her taste, and was exceedingly
vain of the notice she took of him.  She admired his flowing hair, and
even his long beard had ceased to be an object of disgust to her: every
thing became beautiful by custom, she said; and she now discovered, what
her indignation before had prevented her from observing, that the colour
of his beard was the same as that of her great grandfather the emperor
Frederic II., who was universally accounted a very handsome man.  The
Dwarf smirked, bridled, and was equally delighted with Brunilda and
himself, since he now hoped no further opposition on her part would be
offered to his proposals: he grew excessively fond of, and very indulgent
to the princess, suffering her to command in his caverns, and taking
great delight in exhibiting to her the riches of which she was so soon to
be mistress.  In all ages, among all nations, flattery has ever been the
shortest and surest road to the human heart; and men, however they may
affect to smile at this weakness in the gentler sex, are not, whether
giants, middle-sized men, or dwarfs, one whit less subject to this poor
human frailty than the ladies themselves, in whom it is so pardonable.

If Eve yielded to the compliments of the serpent, Sampson was subdued by
the witching coaxing of Delilah; the sage Solomon drank flattery from the
lips of seven hundred wives (Heaven pardon the old monopoliser!) and
concubines; Holofernes lost his head for listening to the seducing tongue
of Judith; and the mighty Nebuchadnezzar was not sent to grass for any
other reason than swallowing down too plentiful a dose of this bewitching
opiate: of all these gentlefolks, Eve was certainly least blameable; for
it required diabolical power to turn her from the path of right, but the
men sunk their virtue before the lustre of black eyes or the gorgeousness
of costly attire.  As for profane story—O the tens and the fifties that
might be enumerated!—but as this is not our present business, let us
leave them to see what effect this pleasant medicine, so gently
administered, had upon the little Dwarf.  He was, in truth, the happiest
of all yellow men; for, deceived by the tranquillity of his life and the
strength of his spells, he believed his enemy had given up the task of
conquering him, and left him to wear his beard in quiet.  Brunilda still
continued amiable, and heard him frequently, without any marks of
indignation, express his hope that, when the time of her sorrowful
mourning for the count of Tecklenburgh should be over, she would listen
with compassion to a truer lover.  She neither checked nor encouraged
these expectations; and the happy demon determined not to forfeit her
affections by any precipitation on his part.  All this amiable conduct,
however, on the part of Brunilda, was in fact but a contrivance of the
friendly gnome, who thus hoped to extort by her means the secret of his
nightly pillow from himself.  According to the plan agreed upon by the
allies, the gnome, at this period of his enemy’s courtship, began again
to disturb and puzzle him by his enchantments; and he succeeded in
discomposing the harmony of his feelings so much, that he was obliged to
have recourse to Brunilda, and (secure of her attachment to his person)
vent all his complaints and vexations in her compassionating bosom.
_She_ was all astonishment at the cruel designs projected against her
Dwarf by his ungenerous enemies; she implored him pathetically to take
care of his head, (a request with which he graciously promised to comply,
more for her sake than his own,) and exhibited such anxiety to know if
his precautions were sufficient, that the Dwarf almost betrayed his
secret, overcome by the excessive vanity her conduct was so well
calculated to inspire.  Relaxing from his habitual caution, he was about
to inform her of some arrangements of his spells, when Brunilda,
overacting the part assigned to her, entreated him, if he valued her
happiness, to commit his precious head every night to her keeping,
promising to guard it with the utmost tenderness and care.  At this
imprudent request, all his suspicions returned; he eyed Brunilda askance,
and gravely told her that, even were she his bride, he could not grant
her desire, as it had always been his opinion that the less wives were
trusted with the care of their husbands’ heads the better.  He left her
surlily: he had himself told her of his headless rest, but he did not
expect such a request would follow his information; and Brunilda, alarmed
by the consequences of her ill-timed petition, summoned the gnome of the
mine to her presence.  He chid her precipitation, but gave her a small
vial containing a delicious cordial, which should repair the mischief.
“You may have observed,” said he, “that the Dwarf neither eats nor drinks
of your food: prevail upon him once to sup at your table, and pour a few
drops of this cordial into his drink: he must take it willingly, or it
will have no effect.  In the sleep which follows the enchanted draught,
he will be partly in my power, and compelled to answer any question you
may propose to him.  I need not direct you what to ask; but should he
reply according to our wishes, summon me to your side, and the business
is done.”  The gnome gave her the potion, and vanished; while Brunilda
diligently applied herself to remove the suspicions of the Dwarf.  In a
few days she completely succeeded; and the flattered demon, on hearing
her frequently complain of the insipidity of supping alone, requested
permission to attend her at table during her supper.  This request was
readily granted, and the visit constantly repeated by the Dwarf, who at
length, at her earnest entreaty, consented to partake of her repast.
This was continued till all suspicion was removed from the mind of the
Dwarf; and in one of his happiest moods she insisted upon his pledging
her in wine: he obeyed, and, with the contents of the bowl, swallowed the
magic cordial.  With what anxiety did Brunilda count the hours till she
deemed the Dwarf had retired to rest; how she trembled as she quitted her
chamber for that of her tyrant, whose beard, ere day-break, she hoped,
would be the reward of her courage!  With a beating heart she entered his
apartment, and stepping up to him, demanded in a trembling voice—“Dwarf
of the Orange Tree where hast thou hidden thy head?”  The stubborn
carcase made no reply to this straight-forward question; and Brunilda
shivered from head to foot as she considered the possibility of his not
yet being asleep, and both hearing and understanding her question.
“Should it be so, I am indeed utterly undone,” said poor Brunilda; “for
how shall I be able to deceive him again, since he must now be aware of
my motives.”  Another reflection brought more comfort: she recollected,
that as the head only can hear, so the head only can answer questions;
and she determined to walk quietly through all the caverns, and repeat
the question in each.  She had but a short time allowed her for action,
as the Dwarf was an early riser, and she lost none in putting her scheme
into execution.  Away she sallied, quick as anxiety would allow her;
unwearied she pursued her task, but ranged through every apartment of the
subterranean palace without obtaining an answer.  She almost thought the
Dwarf had removed his head further off, when, passing through a
dismal-looking hole in which were two iron pillars, she paused to repeat
the charm—“Dwarf of the Orange Tree, where hast thou hidden thy head?”
“Here,” replied a well-known voice; “here, in the pillar on your left
hand.”  Brunilda started at the sound, but quickly recovered her spirits,
and turning to the east, summoned, as agreed upon, her coadjutors to her
assistance—“Gnome of this mine, I call thee hither: bring with thee my
lover, and the magic scissors of fate.”  In the next instant her friends
were at her side, and the scissors glittered in her hand.  She explained
in few words the happy result of her enterprise; the gnome struck the
pillar with his mace, the massy substance divided, and the ugly head of
her detested jailer rolled at the feet of the delighted Brunilda, who,
without any apology, seized it and began most nimbly to ply the magic
scissors.  At that moment, the Dwarf, awakened by the near approach of
morning, flew to replace his head upon his shoulders, and discovered,
with the utmost rage and alarm, the intruders upon his premises.  The
opened eyes of the head now directed the motions of the body, which
rushed forward and bounced upon them so suddenly, that Brunilda shrieked
and dropped the head, only retaining a grasp of the beard.  The Dwarf as
nimbly caught it, and endeavoured to wrest it from her; but the princess,
invigorated by despair and the exclamations of her friends, kept fast
hold of it, and struggled stoutly with the demon.  The gnome lent her his
assistance, in holding the head for her scissors, while Ludolph kept
shoving, thrusting, and hacking with his sword at the invulnerable demon,
in the hope of obliging him to loosen his grasp of his head.  The
struggle continued some minutes, the Dwarf pulling, Ludolph shoving, and
Brunilda, utterly regardless of the scratches he was liberally bestowing
upon her lover, cutting away at the yellow beard with all her might and
main.  At length she observed, that the longer she cut the weaker grew
the resistance of the demon, and this gave new force to her delicate
fingers; she snipped on till the last hair was separated from the chin,
and the yellow head and deformed body both fell senseless together upon
the ground.  Brunilda was quietly looking upon her fallen enemy, when the
magic instrument of her success suddenly sprung from her hand, and she
beheld the scissors of fate gliding away rapidly through the air, as if
borne off by an invisible spirit.  The friendly gnome then conducted the
lovers to the margrave’s court, (after demanding from Brunilda the magic
belt, which he said would be too dangerous a weapon in the hand of a
lady,) and a few weeks after the battle of Luckow, in which the margrave
was successful, they were united, to the great joy of all parties, but
more particularly of those who expected to be invited to the wedding
dinner.  But that dinner!  O that dinner! why what a glory of gastronomy
were the dishes!  There was the porpoise stewed in his own oil; beeves
roasted whole; and proudly pre-eminent, even among them, the noble wild
boar, the standard dish of Germany, showed his grinning tusks, now no
longer formidable; roasted cranes, standing upon their long legs, seemed
just stepping out of their platters, making a “pretty drollery;” there
was the knightly peacock, the bird of chivalry, dressed out in his
brilliant feathers; the stately swan, sailing about in his golden dish;
while herons, turkeys, geese, and such small fry graced the magnificent
board in quality of side dishes.  In short, as the newspapers said,
“there were all the delicacies of the season,” which the nobles washed
down with floods of Rhenish, until they did not know what they were
swallowing.  The day was happier than it was long, for all thought its
felicity was too short-lived, except Ludolph and his princess, who had
many still brighter; as long years of happiness was the reward of the few
months of suffering.  The gnome of the mine returned to his recovered
territories, and, as he had now no farther occasion for their services,
never since that time interfered in the concerns of mortals.  The
princess Margaret lived to a good old age, and died at last in the odour
of sanctity, eschewing evil, Satan, sin, and the yellow Demon of the
Orange Tree.




DER FREISCHUTZ:
OR,
THE MAGIC BALLS.


                       FROM THE GERMAN OF A. APEL.

    Black spirits and white,
    Blue spirits and grey,
    Mingle, mingle, mingle,
    You that mingle may.

“LISTEN, dear wife,” said Bertram, the forester of Lindenhayn, to his
good and faithful Anne; “listen, I beseech you, one moment.  You know I
have ever done my utmost to make you happy, and will still continue to do
so; but this project is out of the question.  I entreat you, do not
encourage the girl any farther in the notion; settle the matter decidedly
at once, and she will only drop a few silent tears, and then resign
herself to my wishes; but by these silly delays nothing rational can be
effected.”

“But, dearest husband,” objected the coaxing wife, “may not Catherine be
as happy with William the clerk as with Robert the gamekeeper?  Indeed
you do not know him: he is so clever, so good, so kind—”

“But no marksman,” interrupted the forester.  “The situation which I hold
here has been possessed by my family for more than two hundred years, and
has always descended down in a straight line from father to son.  If,
instead of this girl, Anne, you had brought me a boy, all would have been
well; and the wench, if she had been in existence, might have chosen for
her bridegroom him whom she loved best; now the thing is impossible.  My
son-in-law must also be my successor, and must therefore be a marksman.
I shall have, in the first place, some trouble to obtain the trial for
him; and in the second, if he should not succeed, truly, I shall have
thrown my girl away: so a clever huntsman she shall have.  But observe,
if you do not like him, I do not exactly insist upon Robert: find another
active clever fellow for the girl, I will resign my situation to him, and
we shall pass the rest of our lives free from anxiety and happily with
our children.  But hush!—not another word!—I beseech you let me hear no
more of the steward’s clerk.”

Mother Anne was silenced; she would fain have said a few more words in
favour of poor William, but the forester, who was too well acquainted
with the power of female persuasion, gave her no further opportunity; he
took down his gun, whistled his dog, and strode away to the forest.  The
next moment, the fair curled head of Catherine, her face radiant with
smiles, was popped in at the door—“Is all right, dear mother?” said she.
“Alas! no, my child; do not rejoice too soon;” replied the sorrowing
Anne.  “Your father speaks kindly, but he has determined to give you to
nobody but a huntsman; and I know he will not change his mind.”
Catherine wept, and declared she would sooner die than wed any other than
her own William.  Her mother wept, fretted, and scolded by turns; till at
length it was finally determined to make another grand attack upon the
tough heart of old Bertram; and in the midst of a deliberation respecting
the manner in which this was to be effected, the rejected lover entered
the apartment.

When William had heard the cause of the forester’s objection,—“Is that
all, my Catherine,” said he, pressing the weeping girl to his bosom;
“then keep up your spirits, dearest, for I will myself become a forester.
I am not unacquainted with woodcraft, for I was, when a boy, placed under
the care of my uncle, the chief forester Finsterbuch, in order to learn
it, and only at the earnest request of my uncle the steward, I exchanged
the shooting-pouch for the writing-desk.  Of what use,” continued the
lover, “would his situation and fine house be to me, if I cannot carry my
Catherine there as the mistress of it?  If you are not more ambitious
than your mother, dearest, and William the gamekeeper will be as dear to
you as William the steward, I will become a woodsman directly; for the
merry life of a forester is more delightful to me than the constrained
habits of the town.”

“O dear, dear William,” said Catherine,—all the dark clouds of sorrow
sweeping rapidly over her countenance, and leaving only a few drops of
glittering sunny rain, sparkling in her sweet blue eyes,—“O beloved
William! if you will indeed do this, all may be well: hasten to the
forest, seek my father, and speak to him ere he have time to pass his
word to Robert.”  “Away,” replied William, “to the forest; I will seek
him out, and offer my services as gamekeeper: fear nothing, Catherine;
give me a gun, and now for the huntsman’s salute.”

What success he had in his undertaking was soon visible to the anxious
eye of Catherine, on her father’s return with him from the forest.  “A
clever lad, that William,” said the old man; “who would have expected
such a shot in a townsman?  I’ll speak to the steward myself to-morrow;
it would be a thousand pities such a marksman should not stick to the
noble huntsman craft.  Ha! ha! he will become a second Kuno.  But do you
know who Kuno was?” demanded he of William.

The latter replied in the negative.

“Look you there now!” ejaculated Bertram; “I thought I had told you long
since.  He was my ancestor, the first who possessed this situation.  He
was originally a poor horseboy in the train of the knight of Wippach; but
he was clever, obliging, grew a favourite, and attended his master every
where, to tournaments and hunting parties.  Once his knight accompanied
the duke on a grand hunting match, at which all the nobles attended.  The
hounds chased a huge stag towards them, upon whose back, to their great
astonishment, sat tied a human being, shrieking aloud in a most frightful
manner.  There existed at that period, among the feudal lords, an inhuman
custom of tying unhappy wretches who incurred their displeasure (perhaps
by slight transgressions against the hunting laws) upon stags, and then
driving them into the forest to perish miserably by hunger, or at least
to be torn to pieces by the brambles.  The duke was excessively enraged
at this sight, and offered immense rewards to any one who would shoot the
stag; but clogged his benefactions with death to the marksman, should his
erring bullet touch the victim, whose life he was desirous to preserve,
in order to ascertain the nature of his offence.  Startled by the
conditions, not one of the train attempted the rescue of the poor wretch,
till Kuno, pitying his fate, stepped forward and boldly offered his
services.  The duke having accepted them he took his rifle, loaded it in
God’s name, and earnestly recommending the ball to all the saints and
angels in heaven, fired steadily into the bush in which he believed the
stag had taken refuge.  His aim was true; the animal instantly sprung
out, plunged to the earth, and expired; but the poor culprit escaped
unhurt, except that his hands and face were miserably torn by the briers.
The duke kept his word well, and gave to Kuno and his descendants for
ever this situation of forester.  But envy naturally follows merit, and
my good ancestor was not long in making the discovery.  There were many
of the duke’s people who had an eye to this situation, either for
themselves or some cousin or dear friend, and these persuaded their
masters that Kuno’s wonderful success was entirely owing to sorcery; upon
which, though they could not turn him out of his post, they obtained an
order that every one of his descendants should undergo a trial of his
skill before he could be accepted; but which, however, the chief forester
of the district, before whom the essay is made, can render as easy or
difficult as he pleases.  I was obliged to shoot a ring out of the beak
of a wooden bird, which was swung backwards and forwards; but I did not
fail, any more than my forefathers; and he who intends to succeed me, and
wed my Catherine, must be at least as good a marksman.”

William, who had listened very attentively, was delighted with this piece
of family history; he seized the old man’s hand, and joyously promised to
become, under his direction, the very first of marksmen; such as even
grandfather Kuno himself should have no cause to blush for.

Scarcely had fourteen happy days passed over his head, ere William was
settled as gamekeeper in the forester’s house; and Bertram, who became
fonder of him every day, gave his formal consent to his engagement with
Catherine.  It was, however, agreed that their betrothment should be kept
secret until the day of the marksman’s trial, when the forester expected
to give a greater degree of splendour to his family festival by the
presence of the duke’s commissary.  The bridegroom swam in an ocean of
delight, and so entirely forgot himself and the whole world in the sweet
opening heaven of love, that Bertram frequently insisted, that he had not
been able to hit a single mark since he had aimed so successfully at
Catherine.

And so it really was.  From the day of his happy betrothment, William had
encountered nothing but disasters while shooting.  At one time his gun
missed fire; at another, when he aimed at a deer, he lodged the contents
of his rifle in the trunk of a tree: when he came home, and emptied his
shooting-pouch, instead of partridges, rooks and crows, and in lieu of
hares, dead cats.  The forester at length grew seriously angry, and
reproved him harshly for his carelessness: even Catherine began to
tremble for the success of the master-shot.

William redoubled his diligence, but to no purpose; the nearer the
approach of the important day, the more alarming grew his misfortunes;
every shot missed.  At length he was almost afraid to fire a gun, lest he
should do some mischief; for he had already lamed a cow and almost killed
the cowherd.

“I insist upon it,” said the gamekeeper Rudolph, one evening, to the
party, “I insist upon it that some wizard has bewitched William, for such
things could not happen naturally; therefore let us endeavour to loosen
the charm.”—“Superstitious stuff!” interrupted Bertram, angrily; “an
honest woodsman should not even think of such trash.  Do you forget the
three things which a forester ought to have, and with which he will
always be successful, in spite of sorcery?  Come, to your wits, answer my
query.”  “That can I truly,” answered Rudolph; “he should have great
skill, a keen dog, and a good gun.”  “Enough,” said Bertram; “with these
three things every charm may be loosened, or the owner of them is a dunce
and no shot.”

“Under favour, father Bertram,” said William, “here is my gun; what have
you to object against it? and as for my skill, I do not like to praise
myself, but I think I am as fair a sportsman as any in the country;
nevertheless, it seems as if all my balls went crooked, or as if the wind
blew them away from the barrel of my gun.  Only tell me what I shall do.
I am willing to do any thing.”  “It is singular,” muttered the forester,
who did not know what else to say.

“Believe me, William,” again began Rudolph, “it is nothing but what I
have said.  Try only once: go on a Friday, at midnight, to a cross road,
and make a circle round you with the ramrod, or with a bloody sword,
which must be blessed three times, in the name of Sammiel.”—“Silence!”
interrupted Bertram, angrily: “know ye whose name that is? he is one of
the fiend’s dark legion.  God protect us and every Christian from him!”
William crossed himself devoutly, and would hear nothing further, though
Rudolph still maintained his opinion.  He passed the night in cleaning
his gun, and examining minutely every screw, resolving, at dawn of day
once more to sally forth, and try his fortune in the forest.  He did so,
but, alas! in vain.  Mischiefs thickened round him: at ten paces distance
he fired three times at a deer; twice his gun missed fire, and although
it went off the third time, yet the stag bounded away unhurt into the
midst of the forest.  Full of vexation, he threw himself under a tree,
and cursed his fate, when suddenly a rustling was heard among the bushes,
and a queer-looking soldier with a wooden leg came hopping out from among
them.

“Holloa! huntsman,” he began, laughing at the disconsolate-looking
William, “what is the matter with you?  Are you in love, or is your purse
empty, or has any body charmed your gun?  Come, don’t look so blank; give
me a pipe of tobacco, and we’ll have a chat together.”

William sullenly gave him what he asked, and the soldier threw himself
down in the grass by the side of him.  The conversation naturally turned
upon woodcraft, and William related his misfortunes to him.  “Let me see
your gun,” said the soldier.  William gave it.  “It is assuredly
bewitched,” said he of the wooden leg, the moment he had taken it in his
hand; “you will not be able to fire a single shot with it; and if they
have done it according to rule, it will be the same with every gun you
shall take into your hands.”

William was startled; he endeavoured to raise objections against the
stranger’s belief in witches, but the latter offered to give him a proof
of the justice of his opinions.  “To us soldiers,” said he, “there is
nothing strange; and I could tell you many wonderful things, but which
would detain us here till night.  But look here, for instance: this is a
ball which is sure of hitting its mark, because it possesses some
particular virtue: try it; you won’t miss.”  William loaded his gun, and
looked around for an object to aim at.  A large bird of prey hovered high
above the forest, like a moving dot;—“Shoot that kite,” said the
one-legged companion.  William laughed at his absurdity, for the bird was
hovering at a height which the eye itself could scarcely reach.  “Laugh
not, but fire,” said the other, grimly; “I will lay my wooden leg that it
falls.”  William fired, the black dot sunk, and a huge kite fell bleeding
to the ground.  “You would not be surprised at that,” said he of the
wooden leg to the huntsman, who was speechless and staring with
astonishment; “you would not, I repeat, be surprised at that, if you were
better acquainted with the wonders of your craft.  Even the casting such
balls as these is one of the least important things in it; it merely
requires dexterity and courage, because it must be done in the night.  I
will teach you for nothing when we meet again; now I must away, for the
bell has told seven.  In the mean time—here, try a few of my balls; still
you look incredulous—well—till we meet again.”—

The soldier gave William a handful of balls, and departed.  Full of
astonishment, and still distrusting the evidence of his senses, the
latter tried another of the balls, and again struck an almost
unattainable object: he loaded his gun in the usual manner, and again
missed the easiest!  He darted forward to follow the crippled soldier,
but the latter was no longer in the forest; and William was obliged to
remain satisfied with the promise which he had given of meeting him again
hereafter.

Great joy it gave to the honest forester when William returned, as
before, loaded with game from the forest.  He was now called upon to
explain the circumstance; but not being prepared to give a reason, and
above all, dreading to say any thing upon the subject of his infallible
balls, he attributed his ill luck to a fault in his gun, which he had
only, he pretended, last night discovered and rectified.  “Did I not tell
you so, wife,” said Bertram, laughing.  “Your demon was lodged in the
barrel; and the goblin which threw down father Kuno this morning, sat
grinning, on the rusty nail.”  “What say you of a goblin,” demanded
William; “and what has happened to father Kuno?”  “Simply this,” replied
Bertram: “his portrait fell of itself from the wall this morning, just as
the bell tolled seven; and the silly woman settled it that a goblin must
be at the bottom of the mischief, and that we are haunted accordingly.”

“At seven,” repeated William, “at seven!” and he thought, with a strange
feeling of affright, of the soldier who parted from him exactly at that
moment.  “Yes, seven,” continued Bertram, still laughing.  “I do not
wonder at your surprise; it is not a usual ghostly hour, but Anne would
have it so.”  The latter shook her head doubtfully, and prayed that all
might end well; while William shivered from head to foot, and would
secretly have vowed not to use the magic balls, but that the thought of
his ill luck haunted him.  “Only one of them,” said he, internally; “only
one of them for the master-shot, and then I have done with them for
ever.”  But the forester urged him the next instant to accompany him into
the forest; and he dared not excite fresh suspicions of his want of
skill, nor offend the old man by refusing, he was again compelled to make
use of his wondrous balls; and in the course of a few days he had so
accustomed himself to the use of them, and so entirely reconciled his
conscience to their doubtful origin, that he saw nothing sinful or even
objectionable in the business.  He constantly traversed the forest, in
the hope of meeting the strange giver of the balls; for the handful had
decreased to two, and if he wished to make sure of the master-shot, the
utmost economy was necessary.  One day he even refused to accompany
Bertram, for the next was to be the day of trial, and the chief forester
was expected; it was possible he might require other proofs than the mere
formal essay, and William thus felt himself secure.  But in the evening,
instead of the commissary, came a messenger from the duke, with an order
for a large delivery of game, and to announce that the visit of the chief
forester would be postponed for eight days longer.

William felt as if he could have sunk into the bosom of the earth, as he
listened to the message, and his excessive alarm would have excited
strange suspicions, if all present had not been ready to ascribe it to
the delay of his expected nuptials.  He was now obliged to sacrifice at
least one of his balls, but he solemnly swore nothing should rob him of
the other but the forester’s master-shot.

Bertram was outrageously angry when William returned from the forest with
only one stag; for the delivery order was considerable.  He was still
more angry the next day at noon, when Rudolph returned loaded with an
immense quantity of game, and William returned with none; he threatened
to dismiss him, and retract his promise respecting Catherine, if he did
not bring down at least two deer on the following day.  Catherine was in
the greatest consternation, and earnestly besought him to make use of his
utmost skill, and not let a thought of her interrupt his duties while
occupied in the forest.  He departed—his heart loaded with despair.
Catherine, he saw too plainly, was lost to him for ever; and nothing
remained but the choice of the manner in which he should destroy his
happiness.  Whilst he stood lost in the agonising anticipation of his
impending doom, a herd of deer approached close to him.  Mechanically he
felt for his last ball; it felt tremendously heavy in his hand: he was on
the point of dropping it back, resolving to preserve his treasure at
every hazard, when suddenly he saw—O sight of joy!—the one-legged soldier
approaching.  Delightedly he let the ball drop into the barrel, fired,
brought down a brace of deer, and hastened forward to meet his friend;
but he was gone!  William could not discover him in the forest.

“Hark ye, William!” said the forester to him in the evening, rousing him
from the torpor of grief into which he had fallen; “you must resent this
affront as earnestly as myself: nobody shall dare utter falsehoods of our
ancestor Kuno, nor accuse him as Rudolph is now doing.  I insist,”
continued he, turning again to the latter, “if good angels helped him,
(which was very likely, for in the Old Testament we frequently read of
instances of their protection,) we ought to be grateful, and praise the
wonderful goodness of God.  But nobody shall accuse Kuno of practising
the black art.  He died happily—ay, and holily, in his bed, surrounded by
children and grandchildren,—which he who carries on a correspondence with
the evil one never does.  I saw a terrible example of that myself, when I
was a forester’s boy in Bohemia.”

“Let us hear how it happened, good Bertram,” said all the listeners; and
the forester nodded gravely, and continued.

“I shiver when I think of it; but I will tell you nevertheless.  When a
young man practising with other youths under the chief foresters, there
used frequently to join us a town lad, a fine daring fellow, who, being a
great lover of field sports, came out to us as often as he could.  He
would have made a good marksman, but was too flighty and thoughtless, so
that he frequently missed his mark.  Once, when we ridiculed his
awkwardness, we provoked him into a rage, and he swore by all that was
holy that he would fire with a more certain aim than any gamekeeper in
the country, and that no animal should escape him, either in the air or
on the earth.  But he kept his light oath badly.  A few days afterward an
unknown huntsman roused us early, and told us that a man was lying in the
road and dying without assistance.  It was poor Schmid.  He was covered
with wounds and blood, as if he had been torn by wild beasts: he could
not speak, for he was quite senseless, with scarcely any appearance of
life.  He was conveyed to Prague, and just before his death declared,
that he had been out with an old mountain huntsman to the cross road, in
order to cast the magic balls, which are sure of hitting their mark; but
that making some fault or omission, the demon had treated him so roughly
that it would cost him his life.”

“Did he not explain?” asked William, shuddering.

“Surely,” replied the forester.  “He declared before a court of justice,
that he went out to the cross road with the old gamekeeper; that they
made a circle with a bloody sword, and afterwards set it round with
skulls and bones.  The mountain hunter then gave his directions to Schmid
as to what he was to do: he was to begin when the clock struck eleven to
cast the balls, and neither to cast more nor fewer than sixty-three; one
either above or under this number would, when the bell tolled midnight,
be the cause of his destruction: neither was he to speak a single word
during his work, nor move from the circle whatever might happen, above,
below, or around him.  Fulfilling these conditions sixty balls would be
sure of hitting, and the remaining three only would miss.  Schmid had
actually begun casting the balls when, according to what we could gather
from him, he saw such cruel and dreadful apparitions, that he at length
shrieked and sprung out of the circle, falling senseless to the ground;
from which trance he did not recover till under the hands of the
physician in Prague.”

“Heaven preserve us!” said the forester’s wife, crossing herself.  “It is
a very deadly sin undoubtedly,” pursued Bertram, “and a true woodsman
would scorn such a practice.  He needs nothing but skill, and a good gun,
as you have lately experienced, William.  I would not, for my own part,
fire off such balls for any price; I should always fear the fiend would,
at some time or other, conduct the ball to his own mark instead of to
mine.”

Night drew round them with the conclusion of the forester’s story.  _He_
went to his quiet bed, but William remained in restless agony.  It was in
vain that he attempted to compose himself.  Sleep fled entirely from his
spirit.  Strange objects flitted past him, and hovered like dark omens
over his pillow.  The strange soldier of the forest, Schmid, Catherine,
the duke’s commissary, all rushed before his eyes, and his fevered
imagination converted them into the most dreadful groups.  Now, the
miserable Schmid stood warningly before him, and hollowly pointed to his
newly bleeding wounds; then the dark distorted face faded to the pallid
features of Catherine wrestling with the strength of death; while the
wild soldier of the forest stood mocking his agony with a hellish laugh
of scorn.  The scene then changed to his mind, and he stood in the forest
before the commissary, preparing for the master-shot.  He
aimed—fired—missed.  Catherine sunk down on the earth.  Bertram drove him
away; while the one-legged soldier, now again a friend, brought him fresh
balls; but too late—the trial was over, and he was lost.

In this manner wore away the agonised night, and with the earliest dawn
he sought the forest, hoping to meet with the soldier; the clear morning
air chased away the dark images of sleep from his brow, and ennerved his
drooping spirit.  “Fool!” said he to himself, “because I cannot
understand what is mysterious, must the mystery therefore be a sin?  Is
what I seek so contrary to nature that it requires the aid of spirits to
obtain it?  Does not man govern the mighty instinct of animals, and make
them move according to the will of their master?  Why then should we not
be able, by natural means, to command the course of inanimate metal which
receives force and motion only through him?  Nature is rich in wonders
which we do not comprehend, and shall I forfeit my happiness for an
ignorant prejudice only?  No!  Spirits I will not call upon, but nature
and her hidden powers I will challenge and use, even though unable to
explain its mystery.  I will seek the soldier, and, if I cannot find him,
I will at least be bolder than Schmid, for I have a better cause.  He was
urged by presumption, I by love and honour.”

But the soldier appeared not, however earnestly William sought him;
neither could any of those of whom he inquired give the slightest
information respecting him, and two days were wasted in these anxious and
fruitless inquiries.

“Then be it so,” exclaimed the unhappy young man; and in a fit of despair
he resolved to cast the magic balls in the forest.  “My days,” he added,
“are numbered to me; this night will I seek the cross road.  Into its
silent and solitary recess no one will dare to intrude; and the terrible
circle will I not leave till the fearful work shall be done.”

But when the shadows of evening fell upon the earth, and after William
had provided lead, bullet-mould, and coals, for his nocturnal occupation,
he was gently detained by Bertram, who felt, he said, so severe an
oppression, that he entreated him to remain in his chamber during the
night.  Catherine offered her services, but they were, to her
astonishment, declined.  “At any other time,” said her father, “I should
have preferred you, but to-night it must be William.  I shall be happier
if he will remain with me.”

William hesitated.  He grew sick in his inmost heart.  He would have
objected, but Catherine’s entreaties were so irresistible, that he had
nothing to oppose against her wishes.  He remained in the chamber, and in
the morning Bertram’s dark fears had faded, and he laughed at his own
absurdity.  He proposed going to the forest, but William, who intended to
devote the day to his search for the soldier, dissuaded him, and departed
alone.  He went, but returned disappointed, and once more resolved to
seek the forest at night.  As he approached the house, Catherine met him.
“Beloved William,” said she, “you have a visitor, and a dear one, but you
must guess who it is.”

William was not at all disposed to guess, and still less to receive
visits; for at that time the dearest friend would have been the most
unwelcome intruder.  He answered peevishly, and was thinking of a pretext
to turn back, when the door of the house opened, and the pale moon threw
her soft ray upon a venerable old man, in the garb of a huntsman, who
extended his arms towards him; and “William!” said a well-known voice,
and the next instant the young forester found himself folded to the bosom
of his beloved uncle.

Ah! magic of early ties, dear recollections, and filial gratitude!
William felt them all; his heart was full of joy, and all other thoughts
were forgotten.  Suddenly spoke the warning voice to the tranquil happy
dreamer.  The midnight hour struck, and William, with a shudder,
remembered what he had lost.  “But one night more remains to me,” said
he; “to-morrow, or never.”  His violent agony did not escape the eye of
his uncle, but he ascribed it to fatigue, and excused himself for
detaining him from his needful rest, on account of his own departure,
which he could not delay beyond the following day.  “Yet grieve not,
William,” said the old man as he retired to rest; “grieve not for this
short hour thus spent, you will only sleep the sounder for it.”  William
shivered, for to his ear these words conveyed a deeper meaning.  There
was a dark foreboding in his heart, that the execution of his plan would
for ever banish the quiet of sleep from his soul.

But day dawned—passed—and evening descended.  “It must be now or never,”
thought William, “for to-morrow will be the day of trial.”  The females
had been busied in preparations for the wedding and the reception of
their distinguished guest.  Anne embraced William when he returned, and,
for the first time, saluted him with the dear name of son.  The tender
joy of a young and happy bride glittered in the sweet eyes of Catherine.
The supper-table was covered with flowers, good food, and large bottles
of long-hoarded wine from the stores of Bertram.  “Children,” said the
old man, “this is our own festival; let us, therefore, be happy:
to-morrow we shall not be alone, though you may perhaps be happier.  I
have invited the priest, dear William, and when the trial is over.”—A
loud shriek from Catherine interrupted the forester.  Kuno’s picture had
again fallen from its place, and had struck her severely on the forehead.
Bertram grew angry.  “I cannot conceive,” said he, “why this picture is
not hung properly; this is the second time it has given us a fright: are
you hurt, Catherine?”  “It is of no consequence,” replied the maiden,
gently wiping away the blood from her bright curls; “I am less hurt than
frightened.”

William grew sick when he beheld her pale face, and forehead bathed in
blood.  So he had seen her in his distempered dreams on that dreadful
night: and this reality conjured up all those fearful fantasies anew.
His determination of proceeding in his plan was shaken; but the wine,
which he drank in greater quantities than usual, filled him with a wild
courage, and ennerved him to undertake its execution.  The clock struck
nine.  Love and valour must combat with danger, thought William.  But he
sought in vain for a decent pretence to leave his Catherine.  How could
he quit her on her bridal eve?  Time flew with the rapidity of an arrow,
and he suffered agonies even in the soft arms of rewarding love.  Ten
o’clock struck: the decisive moment was come.  Without taking leave,
William started from his bride, and left the house to range in the
forest.  “Whither go you, William?” said her mother, following him,
alarmed.  “I have shot a deer, which I had forgotten,” answered the
youth.  She still entreated, and Catherine looked terrified, for she felt
that there was something (though she knew not what) to fear, from his
distracted manner.  But their supplications were unheeded.  William
sprung from them both, and hastened into the forest.

The moon was on the wane, and gleamed a dark red light above the horizon.
Grey clouds flew rapidly past, and sometimes darkened the surrounding
country, which was soon relighted up by the wild and glittering
moonlight.  The birch and aspen trees nodded like spectres in the shade;
and to William the silver poplar was a white shadowy figure, which
solemnly waved, and beckoned him to return.  He started, and felt as if
the two extraordinary interpositions to his plan, and the repeated falls
of the picture, were the last admonitions of his departing angel, who
thus warned him against the commission of an unblessed deed.  Once more
he wavered in his intention.  Now he had even determined to return, when
a voice whispered close to him, “Fool! hast thou not already used the
magic balls, and dost thou only dread the toil of labouring for them?”
He paused.  The moon shone brilliantly out from a dark cloud, and lighted
up the tranquil roof of the forester’s humble dwelling.  William saw
Catherine’s window shine in the silvery ray, and he stretched out his
arms towards it, and again directed his steps towards his home.  Then the
voice rose whisperingly again around him, and, “Hence!—to thy
work!—away!” it murmured; while a strong gust of wind brought to his ear
the stroke of the second quarter.  “To my work,” he repeated; “ay; it is
cowardly to return half way—foolish to give up the great object when, for
a lesser, I have already perhaps risked my salvation.  I will finish.”

He strode rapidly forward.  The wind drove the fugitive clouds over the
moon, and William entered the deep darkness of the forest.  Now he stood
upon the cross road; the magic circle was drawn; the skulls and bones of
the dead laid in order around it; the moon buried herself deeper in the
cloudy mass, and left the glimmering coals at intervals fanned into a
blaze by the fitful gusts of wind, alone to lighten the midnight deed,
with a wild and melancholy glare.  Remotely the third quarter sounded
from a dull and heavy tower clock.  William put the casting ladle upon
the coals, and threw the lead into it, together with three balls, which
had already hit their mark, according to the huntsman’s usage: then the
forest began to be in motion; the night ravens, owls, and bats, fluttered
up and down, blinded by the glare of light.  They fell from their boughs,
and placed themselves among the bones around the circle, where, with
hollow croakings and wild jabberings, they held an unintelligible
conversation with the skulls.  Momentarily their numbers increased, and
among and above them hovered pale cloudy forms, some shaped like animals,
some like human beings.  The gusts of wind sported frightfully with their
dusky vapoury forms, scattering and reuniting them like the dews of the
evening shades.  One form alone stood motionless and unchanged near the
circle, gazing with fixed and woful looks at William; once it lifted up
its pale hands in sorrow, and seemed to sigh.  The fire burned gloomily
at the moment; but a large grey owl flapped its wings, and fanned the
dying embers into light.  William turned shivering away; for the
countenance of his dead mother gazed mournfully at him from the dark and
dusky figure.

The bell tolled eleven; the pale figure vanished with a groan; the owls
and night ravens flew screeching up into the air, and the skulls and
bones clattered beneath their wings.  William knelt down by his hearth of
coals.  He began steadily to cast, and, with the last sound of the bell,
the first ball fell from the mould.

The owls and the skulls were quiet: but along the road an old woman, bent
down with the weight of age, advanced towards the circle.  She was hung
round with wooden spoons, ladles, and other kitchen utensils, which made
a frightful clattering.  The owls screeched at her approach, and caressed
her with their wings.  Arrived at the circle, she stooped down to seize
the bones and the skulls; but the coals hissed flames at her, and she
drew back her withered hands from the fire.  Then she paced round the
circle, and grinning and chattering, held up her wares towards William.
“Give me the skulls,” she gabbled; “give me the skulls, and I will give
thee my treasures; give me the skulls, the skulls; what canst thou want
with the trash?  Thou art mine—mine, dear bridegroom; none can help thee:
thou canst not escape me; thou must lead with me in the bridal dance.
Come away, thou bridegroom mine!”

William’s breast throbbed; but he remained silent, and hastened on with
his work.  The old woman was not a stranger to him.  A mad beggar had
often haunted the neighbourhood, until she found an asylum in the
mad-house.  Now, he knew not whether her appearance was reality or a
delusion.  In a short time she grew enraged, threw down her stick, and
chattered anew at William.  “Take these for our nuptial night,” she
cried: “the bridal bed is ready, and to-morrow, when evening cometh, thou
wilt be wedded to me.  Come soon, my love; delay not, my bridegroom; come
soon.”  And she hobbled slowly away into the forest.

Suddenly there arose a rattling like the noise of wheels, mingled with
the cracking of whips and shouting of men.  A carriage came headlong,
with six horses and outriders.  “What is the meaning of all this in the
road?” cried the foremost horseman.  “Room there!”  William looked up.
Fire sprung from the hoofs of the horses, and round the wheels of the
carriage: it shone like the glimmering of phosphorus.  He suspected a
magical delusion, and remained quiet.  “On, on, upon it!—over it!—down!
down!” cried the horseman; and in a moment the whole troop stormed in
headlong upon the circle.  William plunged down to the earth, and the
horses reared furiously above his head; but the airy cavalry whirled high
in the air with the carriage, and, after turning several times round the
magic circle, disappeared in a storm of wind, which tore the tops of the
mightiest trees, and scattered their branches to a distance.

Some time elapsed ere William could recover from his terror.  At length
he compelled his trembling fingers to be steady, and cast a few balls
without farther interruption.  Again the well-known tower clock struck,
and to him in the dreadful solitary circle, consoling as the voice of
humanity, rose the sound from the habitations of men, but the clock
struck the quarter thrice.  He shuddered at the lightning-like flight of
time; for a third part of his work was hardly done.  Again the clock
struck, for the fourth time!—Horror!—his strength was annihilated, every
limb was palsied, and the mould fell out of his trembling hand.  He
listened, in the quiet resignation of despair, for the stroke of the
full, the terrible, midnight hour.  The sound hesitated—delayed—was
silent.  To palter with the awful midnight was too daring and too
dangerous even to the dreadful powers of darkness.  Hope again raised the
sunk heart of William; he hastily drew out his watch, and beheld it
pointing to the second quarter of the hour.  He looked gratefully up
towards heaven, and a feeling of piety moderated the transport, which,
contrary to the laws of the dark world, would otherwise have burst forth
in loud and joyous exclamations.

Strengthened, by the experience of the last half-hour, against any new
delusion, William now went boldly on with his work.  Every thing was
silent around him, except that the owls snored in their uneasy sleep, and
at intervals struck their beaks against the bones of the dead.  Suddenly
it was broken by a crackling among the bushes.  The sound was familiar to
the sportsman, and, as he expected, a huge wild boar broke through the
briers, and came foaming towards the circle.  Believing this to be a
reality, he sprung hastily on his feet, seized his gun, and attempted to
fire.  Not a single spark came from the flint.  Startled at his danger,
he drew his hunting-knife to attack it,—when the bristly savage, like the
carriage and the horses, ascended high above his head, and vanished into
the silent fields of air.

The anxious lover worked on steadily to regain the time he had so
unhappily lost.  Sixty balls were cast.  He looked joyfully upwards; the
clouds were dispersing, and the moon again threw her bright rays upon the
surrounding country; he was rejoicing in the approaching end of his
labours, when an agonised voice, in the tones of Catherine, shrieked out
the name of “William!”  In the next moment, he beheld his beloved dart
from among the bushes, and gaze fearfully around her.  Following her
distracted steps, and panting closely behind her, trod the mad beggar
woman, extending her withered arms towards the fugitive, whose light
dress, fluttering in the wind, she repeatedly attempted to grasp.
Catherine collected her expiring strength in one desperate effort to
escape, when the long-sought soldier of the forest planted himself before
her and delayed her flight.  The hesitation of the moment gained time for
the mad woman, who sprung wildly upon Catherine, and grasped her in her
long and fleshless hands.  William could endure it no longer, he dashed
the last ball from his hand, and was on the point of springing from the
circle, when the bell tolled midnight, and the delusion vanished.  The
owls knocked the skulls and bones cluttering against each other, and flew
up again to their hiding-places; the coals were suddenly extinguished;
and William sunk, exhausted with fatigue, to the earth; but there was no
rest for him in the forest; he was again disturbed by the slow and sullen
approach of a stranger, mounted upon a huge coal-black steed: he stopped
before the demolished magic circle, and, addressing the huntsman,—“You
have stood the trial well,” said he; “what do you require of me?”

“Of you, stranger, nothing,” replied William; “of that of which I had
need, I have prepared for myself.”

“But with my assistance,” continued the stranger; “therefore a share of
it belongs to me.”  “Certainly not,” replied the huntsman; “I have
neither hired you nor called upon you.”

The horseman smiled.  “You are bolder than your equals are wont to be,”
said he.  “Take then the balls which you have cast: sixty for you, three
for me.  The first hit, the second miss.  When we meet again you will
understand me.”

William turned away.  “I will not meet you again; I will never see you
more,” he cried, trembling.  “Why do you turn from me?” demanded the
stranger, with a horrible laugh: “do you know me?”  “No; no,” said the
huntsman, shuddering; “I know you not; I will not even look upon you.
Whoever you may be, leave me.”

The black horseman turned his steed.  “The rising hairs of your head,”
cried he with gloomy gravity, “declare that you do know me.  You are
right; I am he whom you name in the secrecy of your soul, and shudder to
think you have done so.”  At these words he disappeared, and the trees
under which he had stood let their withered branches sink helpless and
dead to the earth.

“Merciful Heaven! William,” said Catherine, on remarking his pale and
distracted look on his return after midnight; “what has happened to you?
you look as if you had just risen from the grave.”  “It is the night
air,” he replied; “and I am not well.”  “But, William,” said the
forester, who had just entered, “why then would you go to the forest:
something has happened to you there.  Boy, you cannot thus blind me.”

William was startled; the sad solemnity of Bertram’s manner struck him.
“Yes, something has occurred,” said he; “but have patience for a few
days, and all shall be explained to your satisfaction.”  “Willingly, dear
son,” interrupted the forester; “question him no further, Catherine.  Go
to your needful rest, William, and indulge in hope of the future.  He who
goes on in his occupation openly and honestly, never can be harmed by the
evil spirits of the night.”

William had need of all his dissimulation; for the old man’s observations
so nearly meeting the truth, his forbearing love, and unshaken confidence
in William’s honesty, altogether distracted his mind: he hastened to his
room, determined to destroy the magical preparation.  “But one ball—only
one will I use,” exclaimed he, weeping aloud, with his folded hands held
up to heaven; “and surely this determination will efface the sin of the
deed I have committed.  With a thousand acts of penitence I will make
atonement for what is past, for I cannot now step back without betraying
my happiness, my honour, and my love.”  And with this resolution he
calmed the tumult of his spirits, and met the rays of the morning sun
with more tranquillity than he had dared to hope.

The commissary of the duke arrived; he proposed a shooting party in the
forest, before the trial of skill took place.  “For, though we must
certainly retain the old form,” said he, “of the essay shot, yet the
skill of the huntsman is, after all, best proved in the forest: so come,
young marksman, to the woods.”

William’s cheek grew pale, and he earnestly tried to excuse himself from
accompanying them.  But, when this was refused by the chief forester, he
entreated at least to be allowed to fire his trial shot before their
departure.  Old Bertram shook his head, doubtingly: “William,” said he,
“should my suspicion of yesterday be just”—“Father!” replied the youth;
and no longer daring to hesitate, he departed with them to the forest.

Bertram had in vain endeavoured to suppress his forebodings and assume a
cheerful countenance.  Catherine too was dejected, and it was not until
the arrival of the priest that she recollected her nuptial garland: her
mother had locked it up, and, in her haste to open the chest, broke the
lock, and was obliged to send into the village for another wreath, as too
much time had been wasted in endeavouring to recover the first.  “Let
them give you the handsomest,” said Anne to the little messenger, “the
very handsomest they have.”  The boy accordingly chose the most
glittering, and the seller, who misunderstood him gave him a death
garland, composed of myrtle and rosemary, intermingled with silver.  The
mother and daughter beheld and recognized the mysterious intimation of
fate; they embraced each other in silence, and endeavoured to smile away
their terror, in imputing it to the boy’s mistake.  Again the broken lock
was tried; it opened easily now; the wreaths were changed, and the bridal
garland was twined around Catherine’s brilliant locks.

The sportsmen returned from the forest.  The commissary was inexhaustible
on the subject of William’s wondrous skill.  “It almost appears
ridiculous,” said he, “after such proofs, to require any further trial;
yet, in honour of the old custom, we must perform what appears
superfluous; we will therefore finish the business as quickly as
possible.  There upon that pillar, sits a dove, shoot it.”  “For God’s
sake,” said Catherine, hastily approaching, “do not shoot that dove.
Alas! in my sleep last night I was myself a dove, and my mother, while
fastening a ring round my neck, on your approaching us, became covered
with blood.”

William drew back his gun; but the chief forester smiled.  “So timid,
little maiden!” said he, “that will never do for a huntsman’s bride:
come, courage! courage!—or is the dove a favourite, perhaps?”

“Ah, no,” she replied; “it is but fear.”

“Well then,” replied the commissary, “have courage; and now, William,
fire!”

William fired, and, in the same moment, Catherine sunk, with a loud
scream, to the earth.  “Silly girl,” exclaimed the commissary, lifting
her up: but a stream of blood flowed over her face, her forehead was
shattered, for the ball of the rifle was lodged in the wound.  William
turned on hearing loud shrieks behind him, and beheld his Catherine pale,
weltering in her own blood, and by her side the soldier of the forest,
who, with a fiendish laugh of scorn, pointed to his dying victim, and
cried aloud to William, “Sixty hit, three miss!”

“Accursed fiend!” shrieked the wretched youth, striking at the detested
form with his sword, “hast thou thus deceived me?”  His agony permitted
no further expression, for he sunk senseless to the earth by the side of
the victim bride.  The commissary and priest in vain endeavoured to
console the childless, heart-broken parents.  The mother had scarcely
laid the prophetic garland of death upon the bosom of the bridal corpse,
when her sorrow and life expired with her last-shed tear: the solitary
father soon followed her, and the miserable William closed his life in
the mad-house.




THE FORTUNES OF DE LA POLE.


    In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on
    men;
    Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones to shake.
    Then a spirit passed before my face, the hair of my head stood up.

                                                           _Job_ chap. iv.

EARLY in the seventeenth century, on a very cold November morning, a
gentleman of Winchester was returning to his home, by a road which then
led by the borders of the New Forest.  He was conversing gaily with his
attendants, when his dogs arrested the mirth of the party, by darting
suddenly into the mazes of the forest, and signifying their discovery of
some unusual object by loud and continued howls.  Sir Bernard Courtenay
instantly followed their track, and was startled by discovering, amid the
tangled bushes, the corpse of a man, frightfully mangled, and which
appeared to have lain some time in its concealment.  Little observation
was necessary to point out the identity of the sufferer,—Sir Bernard
Courtenay almost instantly recognized an intimate friend; and, with deep
and painful commiseration, prepared to assist his attendants to convey
the body to its home.

Many conjectures were immediately afloat, as to the cause and perpetrator
of this dreadful act, and, as is ever usual in such cases, many more
absurd and irrational than just:—there was no apparent possibility of
tracing the fact; it appeared to mock all the art and all the power of
justice.  He had not been robbed—murder alone had been intended, and had
alone been perpetrated; so that one fact at least was clear, that this
deed had been the work of an enemy: no common one, it was presumed, if
the appearance of the corpse might weigh any thing in evidence; it was
mangled fearfully, and the frightful distension of the muscles, the grim
and rigid expression of the features, the many deep and bloody wounds
upon the body, and the firm and powerful grasp with which the strained
fingers of one hand clenched a dark lock of human hair, while those of
the other as firmly closed over the hilt of a broken dagger, gave tokens
that a fierce and terrible struggle had preceded his unexpected
destruction.  It was hoped, that some corresponding token of wounds and
fierce exertion might lead to a discovery of the murderer; for none
deemed, after beholding the body, and calling to mind the noble courage
of the victim when in life, that the destroyer could pass from that gripe
unharmed.

He who had thus fallen, was one for whom every eye had a tear and every
heart a genuine sigh; he had been the friend of all, the enemy of none;
he was young, beautiful, and brave; and his native town had looked up to
him as one who was to add new glory to her venerable name, and new lustre
to his own princely blood; and cut off in the beginning of his career,
the very high day of his happiness and beauty, and so cut off—who was
there that did not lament for John de la Pole?  But, though all
Winchester, and the county in whose bosom it lies, sorrowed over the
corpse of John de la Pole, the agony borne from his death was to be found
in his family alone; there he had been adored, and there most truly and
deeply was his sad destiny accused.  His young and lovely wife, scarce
past her bridal year,—she who had, long before his marriage, been the
secret object of his ardent love, and who, upon the death of his father,
became the object of his choice—of her grief it was scarcely possible to
think without affright; for, in that convulsion of soul into which, in
the first horror of eternal separation from all we love, we invariably
fall, she had withdrawn herself from all consolation of her friends—all
succour of her attendants; and report whispered that she was using means,
though quietly, (in order to avoid public shame,) to shorten a life which
was now become odious and burthensome.  To this cruel resolution she had
been driven by a terrible incident; on the morning of the discovery of
the body, she had, believing him to be on his road towards his home,
ascended her carriage in order to meet him, and was driving cheerfully
through the town, when her progress was arrested by the appearance of the
crowd bearing the corpse of her husband.  She recognized it at a glance,
and, before they were aware of their imprudence, a piercing shriek
announced to the people that she did so.  She took another searching,
distracted look at the body, and shrunk into the arms of her attendants,
insensible and silent.  _They_ thought she was dead—it would not have
been wonderful if she had been; the husband of her soul was lying before
her, a deep gash across his throat, another had disfigured his snowy
brow, and almost divided his once lofty head, while the bosom upon which
she had been accustomed to repose was mangled and rent by stabs and blows
too many to number—what an object for a young and loving wife!
Remembrance was terrible to her, and the inability of justice to discover
the murderer added despair to her grief, and thus compelled her to seek
for consolation only in the prospect of death.

As bitter a grief, though perhaps not so deep or desperate, had fastened
upon the heart of the only survivor of his family, a youth of twenty, of
a beauty and virtue equal to his lamented brother, and who had indeed
ample reason for his regrets.  John de la Pole had been as a father to
his youth, and loved him with a warmth far surpassing the kindness of
ordinary brotherhood.  Eustace had never been taught to remember that he
was the younger, for the fortunes of his house were open to him, and the
purse of the elder was common to both.  On the marriage of the latter
with his beloved Agatha, the younger had timidly hinted at his fears of
an interruption to their friendship; but John had remedied this, by
generously providing for his brother, and entreating his Agatha to allow
him still a home at the castle: which being granted, Eustace, though
still fearful of the influence of his lovely sister, continued to reside
at home.

But the influence he so much dreaded during his life, became singularly
apparent after the death of his beloved John.  The will of the latter had
indeed left an independence to Eustace, but nothing to support the
splendour of that princely house of which he was now sole representative.
All was assigned to Agatha,—she was the sole heir of her husband,—the
being for whose sake alone he appeared to glory in the possession of
wealth.  Eustace indeed might still enjoy it, but it was upon a condition
which drew the blood from the young man’s cheek as he read, and palsied
the warm throbbings of the heart in his bosom; it was, that if John de la
Pole should die childless before he had attained the age of thirty,
Eustace should espouse the widow.  His brother even _entreated_ this
sacrifice of him: he said, he knew his heart had been sensible of other
charms, but he implored him to yield up this transient gratification to
his eternal happiness.  He could not endure, he said, the thought of
averting from Eustace the fortune of his house; yet still less could he
endure to know that Agatha would fill a subordinate state in his family
to that in which he had placed her.  He shuddered at the thought of her
being driven, by this circumstance, to become the wife of another—of one
who would love her, and whom she could also love.  He besought Eustace
therefore, if he valued his repose, to wed her, as no attachment
subsisted between them, and he was satisfied to believe that by him she
would be treated with gentleness.  Agatha he entreated to comply with his
last wishes, and accept the hand of Eustace within two months after his
death, or be content to resign, with her present rank, the estates to the
next of kin.  Such was the will of John de la Pole.  Eustace, full of
grief, instantly retired from the castle of his sister, whom he believed
as little inclined to fulfil the conditions of the will as himself, and
resigned his spirit for some days to despair; but his friends rallied
round him, and represented how much depended upon his calm decision.  The
next of kin had appeared too, a greedy rapacious man, the son of his
father’s sister, who seemed to be sure of his inheritance, and who John,
(it was conjectured,) had purposely named, to stimulate his brother to
fulfil his dying injunctions.  Hugh de Broke was insolent and brutal, had
never been on kindly terms with his cousins, and had once nearly been
murdered by the peasantry for wounding John in a quarrel which occurred a
few years before.  The inhabitants saw him return with disgust; his early
brutalities were remembered; and when he boasted, in his drink, that he
knew his cousin before his death intended to make a will in his favour,
all Hampshire was ready to accuse him of the murder, and many of its
gentlemen would have given half their estates to have been able to
substantiate the charge.  From earnest desire to action there is but one
step: the thought was scarcely uttered by one, ere many endeavoured to
prove it a fact, and Hugh de Broke became, from an object of mere
dislike, one of abhorrence and suspicion.  He was not told of the murmurs
afloat respecting him; and he was too much accustomed to signs of
dislike, to observe any thing new in their conduct.  The eyes that glared
upon him had nothing in them peculiarly ferocious to him now; nor did the
deep mutterings and suppressed curses as he passed, startle him at this
period from his path; he remembered the hatred of other days, and if he
_did_ observe any increase of this ill feeling towards him, he attributed
their malignity less towards himself in his own person, than against the
authority he would be enabled to hold over their actions as the fortunate
heir of John de la Pole.  At all events, he fortified himself against
their inflictions, by resorting in some cases to the exercise of his
native brutality, in others to a loud and bitter scorn, which only served
to increase their abhorrence and his own unsuspected danger.

The accusers were wary in their proceedings, and silently went on
collecting proofs and accumulating evidence, until they believed they had
truly in the ruffian kinsman, discovered the murderer of their popular
favourite.  It was remembered, that after three years’ absence, he had
appeared in Hampshire about a month previous to the murder of John, and
then had suddenly disappeared, to re-appear as suddenly in Winchester
after the contents of the extraordinary will were made public.  He had
boasted a previous knowledge of this document, and he had taken into his
service the man who attended John in his fatal journey, and who, by
delaying to follow his master, had given courage to the assassin to make
the attack.  This man had been dismissed by Eustace with a bitter
reproof, and had immediately repaired to De Broke.  Fear, or too much
security, (it was affirmed,) had dictated the measure of his adoption,
after a dismissal which ought to have rendered his services every where
suspicious.  John, it was urged, had been absent nearly a month, on a
visit to a distant friend; he had set out on foot on his return,
unaccompanied; for this man, according to his own statement, was
commanded by his master to follow him with the horses, one of which (De
la Pole’s) had been injured by an accident a few days before; but he had
loitered long after, in order to keep an appointment which he had made
with a damsel in the establishment of his master’s friend.  He was for
this loudly accused of treachery; and De Broke ferociously became his
champion, with a violence that only defeated the object he had in view.
The lock of hair found in the gripe of the corpse was remembered and
produced; it was a bunch of thick and clustering curls, and had been
forcibly torn from the head of the assassin.  The hair of the servant was
pale, but it was remarked that Hugh’s was dark and curling, and they
sought an opportunity to compare them together.  De Broke drove the party
from his presence with every mark of contempt, and hardly deigned to
assent to the repeated asseverations of his servants, that his hair was
much darker, and altogether of a different texture from that produced as
taken from the corpse.  His conduct was resented warmly.  By degrees all
the gentry assumed the opinions of the mob; and when, in a violent attack
upon his person, it was discovered that his hair had lately been polled
in order to facilitate the cure of a wound, and which had hitherto been
concealed by the (then) extraordinary contrivance of a peruke, the
magistrates made open cause with the people, and Hugh was conducted to
prison.  There his conduct was sullen and brutal; he would give no
explanation, save that the wound in his head arose from a fall from his
horse.  He was unusually ferocious; and considerably aggravated his case,
by his constant threats of deep and deadly vengeance against Eustace de
la Pole, who, he insisted, had conspired to cheat him of his estate, in
conjunction with his other enemies.  Many new proofs appeared against
him, and the whole county awaited, in trembling suspense, the event of
his anticipated trial.

But these anticipations were not to be gratified: a few nights before the
arrival of the judges, Hugh had contrived to escape from his prison, and
elude the vigilance of his enemies, by the aid, it was supposed, of his
servant, for he also fled the country; and neither master nor man again
fell into the hands of justice.

In the mean time, the interval months, the short period of time allowed
for most important considerations, were fast wearing away; the two
persons most interested in their progress had come to no decision; and
though Hugh de Broke had for the present withdrawn his claim, yet he had
heirs, who neither more delicate nor more generous than himself, might
endeavour to prove his incapacity, and substantiate their own in place of
his.  At all events, delays were dangerous, and the fortunes of De la
Pole were too considerable to be put to hazard.  Eustace loved another,
and Agatha could not forget her husband; yet a compliance with the terms
of the will became an absolute necessity.  Though with averted hearts,
they joined hands at the earnest entreaty of friends and relatives; nor
would it have been possible to have refused, since even royal majesty
evinced a solicitude, that the great fortunes and powerful political
interest of the family should not pass into any other hands than those of
that loyal and princely blood which had hitherto held them so nobly.
Agatha and Eustace became man and wife, and vowed to cherish and love
each other till death.

But it was soon evident to all, that this was not either in the power or
inclination of the new wedded pair: a deeper sorrow had sunk into their
minds, and their calm grief was supplanted by looks and feelings of
horror and despair.  They spent much of their time together; but their
conferences seemed rather to heighten than to soothe their mutual
suffering.  It was at length remarked, that Eustace never passed his
nights in the chamber of his wife, but sometimes in deep groans and
anguish in the seclusion of his own apartment, or in wandering wildly
through the gloomy mazes of the forest.  At such times a stupor would
overshadow the spirit of Agatha,—a silent and uncomplaining madness that
seemed to render her insensible to suffering; and only upon his return
did she vent her keen anguish in words, or dissipate her torture by
shrieks as piercing as they were fearful.

Those about them saw no other cause for this mental hell, than the grief
that had seized upon them, by constantly contemplating their eternal
separation from the being they most loved.  It was anticipated that time
would effect, if not a cure, at least some amelioration of its
bitterness; but time rolled on, and their agonies did not decrease.  Nor
did the prospect of an heir to their disastrous union afford any pleasure
or consolation to their minds; they went through the usual routine of
preparation, because, as it appeared, it _was_ usual; there was no joyous
anticipation on the part of Eustace,—no tender, trembling hope on the
side of Agatha; there was no anxiety, no care; it was a thing unspoken
of, unnoted; and when the bustle of the house, the importance of the
attendants, and the entrance of the friend (who, unsummoned, save by the
servants, yet judged it necessary to be near her,) told Eustace of the
near approaching throes of Agatha, he threw himself upon the ground in
the chamber adjoining her, and buried his face in his hands.

Eustace, young, beautiful, and of a gallant spirit, was adored by his
household, _all_ the members of which fondly contemplated the birth of an
heir, as an event well calculated to calm their mutual suffering, and
endear them to each other: and though the maternal anguish of Agatha took
place before the usual and expected time, the hopes so affectionately
cherished were not shaken by the event; but the conduct of their master
gave a wound to their generous devotion.  Sad and singular as it was,
that of Agatha was scarcely less inexplicable: no groans, no tokens of
pain accompanied her physical suffering; and it was apparent that some
keener pang of the mind, some woe too deep for utterance, had deadened
all sense to merely corporal pain.  Her eyes were generally closed,
except when some louder noise, or the nearer approach of an attendant
towards the couch, forced her to open them, and gaze around her for an
instant; but, when her senses were thus for a moment awakened, it was
evident the object which had aroused them had no share in their
attention.  Heedless of all that was passing, she took a shuddering rapid
glance around the chamber, as if in earnest search of one whom she yet
feared to encounter, and then closed them in evident affright, and sunk
anew into stupor and silence;—it was amidst this stupor and silence that
her first-born son entered the world.

Eustace had not long remained absorbed in his own painful meditations,
ere a mighty shriek from the chamber of Agatha broke upon his ear, and
made him partly raise his head from the hard pillow to which he had
consigned it.  But his soul was dead within him;—he thought no further
agony could reach him now—no keener pang could inflict a wound in his
already crushed heart; and though the scream was one of horror and
dismay, a sound of many voices in grief and consternation, it passed over
his senses without further notice, and he again dropped his head to the
ground, and, grovelling to earth, seemed as he would bury himself from
his anguish in the kindly bosom of his only parent—his last—his truest
friend.

But repose was not for him—no, not even the repose of despair—he was
again to wake, to feel, to suffer; there was an undreamed-of agony near—a
sting that was to penetrate his palsied bosom, and awake his crushed soul
from the dead; to die would have been bliss, but that was a bliss denied
him.

The unhappy young man arose;—a footstep was heard hastily rushing towards
his chamber—the wife of Courtenay approached him with a look of
commiserating regard, and took his arm to draw him to the apartment of
Agatha.  She did not speak, but Eustace read in the expression of her
features that there was yet more to encounter and to endure.  He entered
the apartment of his wife—_she_ was lying speechless and insensible upon
her couch, utterly incapable of any observation of what was passing
around her; and by her side lay a deformed and distorted infant, plunged
in the still deeper silence of death.

In the first moment of sorrow, the friend who had so hastily sought the
presence of Eustace, had done so under the compelling influence of the
circumstance and the time; but a few moments had scarcely elapsed, ere
Courtenay recovered sufficient recollection to decide that his wife had
judged unwisely in so rapidly flying from the chamber of the poor Agatha,
and bursting into that of her husband, dreading the influence the sudden
grief might probably acquire over the already racked brain of the latter.
With this feeling, Courtenay raised his eyes from the dead child to
observe the countenance of Eustace, and if possible, form a judgment as
to how he was likely to support this shock: but here his fears gave place
to a new feeling, and his grief was overpowered by astonishment at the
singular deportment of Eustace: the childless father advanced slowly
towards the corse of his infant, and gazed upon it intently for a moment;
a spasm of agony passed over his countenance, but there was no surprise
mingled with its expression.  “And is it indeed _thus_!” he murmured in a
low and agonised tone of voice; “and _so_ must my punishment begin!—yet
better is it even thus, than that thou, poor distorted thing! shouldst
live to reproach thy father, and, by thy sufferings, be an accusing
witness against him.”  A convulsive shivering seized upon his frame, and
he seemed to be struggling with some difficult and awful resolve.  At
that moment a similar convulsion appeared to extend itself to the body of
the infant; its eyes rolled, and one arm suddenly stretched itself out
with a convulsive kind of movement, and remained extended, pointing
towards Eustace.  The struggle was at an end in an instant; the change
from distracted to subdued sorrow was the work of a moment.  He grew
perfectly calm; and turning his looks again towards the infant, and
addressing it in a low steady voice, “I thank thee,” he said, “for this
warning; thou too shalt not have cause to reproach me; I have hesitated
too long; but his will and thine shall be done.”  Saying thus, his head
drooped upon his bosom as in deep thought, and the extended arm of the
child a moment after fell quietly down by its side.

Courtenay, the friend of Eustace, and the near relative of Agatha, now
judged that in this moment of calmness he might venture some expressions
of consolation.  He deeply regretted that he should have mistaken the
sleep of the infant for the last slumber of death, and he urged to
Eustace the possibility that the union of medical skill and paternal care
might relieve his child from its afflictions, and restore it, in natural
beauty, to his love.  He continued to dwell some time longer upon well
intended topics of consolation, until he perceived that Eustace no longer
heard his observations, or even remembered his presence.  Suddenly, a new
thought appeared to awaken the dormant faculties of the latter.  “Has
Agatha seen her child?” he demanded.  “No,” replied the wife of
Courtenay; “she was insensible at the time of its birth, and I instantly
rushed from the chamber to seek counsel of my husband: he could give
none; but, terrified as myself, followed me hither.  Now, I deem, that as
the child has uttered no sound since it came into the world, it were
better she were told of its death; it will be but an anticipation of what
must happen; for surely such an unhappy object cannot long exist.”  “I
know not that,” observed Eustace, sadly; “but at least do as thou hast
said, and remove the child from the castle.”  Courtenay retired from the
apartment; and the wish of De la Pole was speedily obeyed.

But it seemed as if this unmeasured sorrow had brought calmness to him
whom they feared it would annihilate: he sought not the apartment of his
wife, but retired tranquilly to his own; and there was a stillness in it
throughout the night, wholly unlike the restless pacings and disturbed
groans which had hitherto been heard to issue from it.  In the morning he
went to Agatha; their conference was long and sad, for traces of tears
were on her countenance when they parted; but the shrieks and agonies
which had formerly distinguished their interviews were no more; she had
caught consolation and fortitude from him, and her mind, it appeared, had
now grown as resigned and tranquil as his own.

Eustace made a journey to a distant part of the country: he spoke nothing
of his intention previous to his setting out, nor of its object on his
return; that it had been of importance, could only be collected from the
care with which he had concealed it, and the continual occupations which
followed his arrival at Winchester.  He was constantly employed in
writing, and once or twice had had earnest conversations with Courtenay.
It was during one of these that he received an unexpected interruption in
the person of Agatha, who entered calmly the apartment of her husband,
and demanded his attention.  Courtenay arose, and was preparing to
retire, when Agatha arrested his steps.  “That which I have to say is for
thy ear also,” she remarked; “stay, therefore, and answer me.  Sleeping
on my couch in the midday heat the voice of my damsels in discourse broke
upon my ear, and the sound they uttered gave me to know that my infant
boy yet lives; wherefore is it that it is not in the bosom of its mother?
and why was it ever banished from her care?”  There was a dead silence at
the conclusion of this speech.  Eustace replied not, and the lip of
Courtenay trembled.  “Eustace fears to reply,” observed Agatha; “he
trembles to accumulate more sorrow upon this drooping head; he may, in
tenderness, deceive; but thou, Courtenay, knowest not to lie, and from
thy lips must the bitter truth come; wherefore is my infant not here?”
“We feared it would die,” answered Courtenay; “and, therefore, in thy
already terrible agony, wished to spare thee the spectacle of its
dissolution.”  “But it did not die,” pertinaciously resumed Agatha; “why
was it not restored? it might have brought peace and consolation to the
bosom of its mother.”  “No, madam,” returned the shuddering speaker;
“that child would have brought sorrow and dismay, but no joy to the heart
of its unhappy parent.  We removed it to a distance, fearing the effect
of its appearance upon your mind; it is most fearfully disfigured.”
“Disfigured!” repeated Agatha, with a thrilling start.  A long pause
ensued.  “Let her behold the boy,” said Eustace, calmly.  “Yes! let me
behold my boy,” said the mother, while tears of sorrow heightened the
lustre of those splendid eyes; “let me behold my boy; I shall not shrink
from his sight, even though he be an eternal remembrancer of—”  She
paused, and sadly turned her eyes towards her husband.  “Well, then, thou
hast anticipated aright,” said Eustace; “he _will_ be to thee an eternal
remembrancer; to me—that ghastly face—that pointing hand—I will not
behold them; yet do I rejoice in thy resolve, for such is thy painful
duty, and thus wilt thou share my sacrifice without enduring my
suffering.”  He retired as he spoke; and soon after, conducted by
Courtenay, in silence and secrecy, the hapless mother folded the ghastly
boy to her breast.

It is rare that the human mind can dwell upon more than one wonder at a
period.  The neighbourhood, roused by the idle gossiping of the castle
damsels, had begun to be astonished at the disappearance of the heir of
De la Pole, who was said not to be dead, but deprived of his mother’s
tenderness and his father’s succession; and, offended that there should
be a secret, they determined that rendering justice to the injured child
should be the apology for their own ungenerous curiosity.  From this they
were diverted by a singular incident.

A meeting of the gentlemen of the county had been called for some public
purpose foreign to this narrative.  In the midst of this discussion, it
was observed that Eustace de la Pole was absent: this, to many who had
known of his recent griefs and habits, was nothing singular; but those
who resided more remote from the sphere of his influence, felt authorised
to demand his presence and attention in a matter which was supposed
deeply to interest the class to which he belonged.  A messenger was
despatched to request his attendance, and was told that he was preparing
to wait upon them; and he who was charged with the embassy had scarcely
returned to his employers, ere Eustace de la Pole entered the
council-chamber, leading by the hand a tall and graceful youth, whom he
placed at the table of the council, and behind whose chair he stood while
he spoke.  His words were few; but their stunning import threw horror and
astonishment over the noble assembly.  “I present to you this young man,”
calmly said he; “and I have assigned to him his appointed place; mine it
must be no longer; he is the son of Hugh de Broke, who is lately dead,
and who, a few months since, was accused of the murder of John de la
Pole.  I come to render him a late, though, I trust, not useless justice,
and restore the honour of his house.  This youth is not only the heir of
the fortunes of De la Pole, but of his father’s innocence, since I only
was the murderer of my brother.”

It would not be possible to paint all the feelings of the audience who
listened to this singular declaration, nor the contrariety of opinions
that pervaded the minds of men upon its disclosure.  Some asserted that
derangement had fastened upon the mind of Eustace, and that he only
imagined the fact; others, that grief had wearied him of existence, and
that, preferring to die by other hands than his own, he had chosen this
method of escaping from life and its convulsions; but the far greater
part (as is ever the case in human judgments) decided for the darker side
of the question, and concluded the self-accusation to be just, and were
only now interested in analysing his motive.  The will of the victim too
became a subject of infinite wonder; and when, to every interrogatory
(save those which implied the participation of Agatha, which he instantly
and earnestly denied,) Eustace remained mute, indignation supplied the
place of pity; and among those who had been his intimates and friends,
had eaten of his bread and drank of his cup, there were not wanting some,
who, baffled in their eager pursuit of the marvellous, and offended that
a secret was denied to them, even hinted at the torture, as a means of
compelling a discovery of his motives and accomplices.

There are many whose sickly existences find health only in the
contemplation of the severer agonies of others; many who, without either
hatred or malignity, yet love to feed their unnatural and craving
appetites for singularities and horrors; and would rather cherish them
with the blood of a dear friend, than suffer them to famish for want of
sustenance.  In small communities and country places, this inclination in
the inhabitants is most apparent: here it was cruelly visible.  John de
la Pole had always been a popular man, and his destiny had afforded them
a feast of blood, for which they felt grateful to his memory; from his
murderer they could exact it, and they would: the loudest for justice
appealed to the king for the application of the torture, and those who
pitied the sufferer did not oppose the petition, as curious to behold the
result.

The weak and inquisitive prince who then filled the English throne, saw
something singular and mysterious in the conduct of the young De la Pole,
and therefore unhesitatingly gave his assent to the sentence of his
judges.  The torture was borne by Eustace without a groan, though a close
imprisonment of some weeks might have weakened his spirit and exhausted
his bodily strength.  He walked calmly and unsupported to the scene of
suffering, conversing steadily with Courtenay, who never for an instant
forsook him.  From any outward tokens of anticipated agony or terror, it
would have been difficult to distinguish the criminal from the spectator:
he even smiled as he recognised his acquaintances in the crowd assembled
to gaze upon his sufferings.  There was only one action remarkable in his
bearing at this trying juncture; on ascending the scaffold, and while
they were binding his arms, his attention was arrested apparently by some
object near him, though no one could be seen by the crowd, and during the
whole period of the infliction of the “peine forte et dure,” the victim
kept his eyes still fastened upon this spot, but without articulating a
word.  When the accumulated weights pressed so heavily on his sinking
breast as to threaten dissolution, he raised his head to look upon his
mangled limbs, and surveyed them in silent attention; he then turned his
eyes to the spot which had so long occupied their regards, and, pointing
with a slow and solemn motion to the load upon his breast, said, in a
clear and steady tone, “Thou see’st!”

Eustace was remanded to prison; his friends, his enemies, those who were
neither, all besought him with equal earnestness not to die with this
secret sin upon his heart; he smiled at their anxiety, but answered
nothing to their queries;—they doubted his guilt, ascribed his conduct to
madness, to despair;—he replied by throwing off his cap and showing the
scar in his head, from which his brother, in the last agonising grasp of
death, had torn the dark and bloody lock which had once so nearly
condemned the unfortunate De Broke,—and they were silenced.  He continued
steadfast to his purpose—silent, sorrowful, but calm.

And where was Agatha during these scenes of insult and endurance?  Had
she too forsaken the dungeon of her husband, and given up her soul to
exultation in his captivity and anguish?  She had once, and only once,
demanded admittance to his prison; she had remained with him many hours,
and retired, like himself, tranquillised from the interview.  Soon after,
she formally resigned the castle and its dependencies to him whom Eustace
had named as the lawful heir: her own son and his claims, were now no
longer remembered, since the crime of his father had deprived him of the
succession, which had been awarded by the king to the son of the injured
De Broke.  After these arrangements, which were performed in silence and
celerity, and with only the casual assistance of Courtenay, Agatha
withdrew from her native town, and concealed her person and her sorrow
for ever from the eyes of the world.

But her desertion of her husband at the tremendous juncture when he so
much needed her help and consolation, was not regarded with indignation
by the many who considered the circumstances under which she stood:
_that_ husband was a murderer, and of whom?  The terrible question needed
no reply, and Agatha was speedily acquitted! her absence too was a
trivial circumstance compared with that of her husband’s situation.  All
eyes were turned to the prison at Winchester.

At length Eustace de la Pole was led out to die.  It was a splendid day
in the season of autumn, on which his mortal career was to terminate.
Consideration for the princely blood which flowed in his veins, had
forbidden, in his case, the strangulation by the degrading cord, and the
axe and the block had been substituted in its room.  The novelty of the
circumstance drew many thousands round the scaffold, who awaited, in
feverish and almost angry impatience, the arrival of him who was to
furnish forth the spectacle of the day.  He came,—not indeed as before,
with an erect and unassisted step, for his limbs had been crushed, and
his physical strength destroyed; but his pale countenance was composed,
and his soft rich voice was steady and clear, as he conversed at
intervals with Courtenay, the priest, and the executioner, who received
him courteously, as, led by the two former, he ascended the steps of the
scaffold.  Of the crowd around he took no heed, but with calm and silent
celerity prepared himself for the block.  At sight of the noble young
man, bare-headed and disrobed for the sad and ignominious death, there
were many who could no longer restrain their tears; and hard-hearted
grey-headed men who, hating his crime, believed they could find pleasure
in his sorrow, and went thither to feast upon his suffering, now wept
loudly for him whom, in their first feeling of horror, they had cursed.
He appeared unconscious of this change of temper, and seemed rather
disposed to hasten than to retard the preparations, for he laid his head
down upon his last pillow before the executioner had entirely completed
them.  He had himself promised to give the signal for the fall of the
axe; and while the multitude were anxiously awaiting this movement, they
beheld him suddenly raise his head from the block, and gaze intently upon
one particular spot upon the scaffold; all eyes were instantly directed
towards it, but to them at least no object was visible.  He gazed for a
few moments with intense earnestness, then calmly replacing his head upon
the block, exclaimed in solemn but eager accents, “Thou see’st!” and gave
the signal for his death.  The axe fell—heavily, rapidly—it was
over—swifter than thought.  The executioner held up the gory head to the
people; the features were calm, the eyes closed; but before he could
utter the customary sentence, they had once more opened and fixed
themselves upon the same spot which had attracted the last of their
living regards; they appeared slowly to follow the movement of some
unseen object round the scaffold, till they reached the opposite side;
then they withdrew their gaze, quivered for an instant, dropped, dark and
immoveable, for ever.

This, as many strange scenes, was however doomed to be forgotten, like
other things.  Ten years passed away, and ten other wonders had, during
that period, interested or frightened the people of Winchester and its
surrounding country.  John and Eustace de la Pole were no more
remembered, or their story only casually mentioned as belonging to the
odd things that were; Courtenay had glided into middle age, and the youth
for whom Eustace had done so much, had long since written man.—Ten years!
How many and how striking may be the changes of ten years!  Courtenay had
long pondered over the destiny of Agatha, and sighed to think whither her
unhappy fate might have conducted her; but the long interval which passed
had almost swept her from his mind, when a letter, in her unforgotten
character, was one day put into his hand.  It was couched in brief and
anxious terms, and conveyed a request that he would immediately proceed
to her dwelling.  Courtenay was no laggard in the cause of humanity; he
did not pause to speculate upon this address, or even to wonder at its
abruptness, but he set forward instantly, and the morning of the
following day saw him knock at a lonely cottage on the coast of
Dorsetshire, in the neighbourhood of Corfe Castle.  The door was opened
by Agatha herself, who habited in the black robes which she had worn
since the sad death of the last of her husbands, received him with
courteous sadness.  Years had not dimmed the beauty of her matchless
face, but sorrow had been busy with its expression; the same lovely
features were there, but their once bright character was gone.

Their meeting was tenderly sorrowful: Agatha said little in explanation
until she had conducted her guest into an adjoining chamber, and pointed
out one object for his observation.  Stretched upon a couch, grown to
boyhood, covered with wounds, and unchanged in person, save that his
deformities had now grown more manifest, lay extended the ghastly boy,
the only child of Agatha and the helpless Eustace.  Courtenay trembled as
he gazed; but the mother’s looks were calm.  “He is dead,” she said, on
observing the emotion of her guest; “what Heaven and Nature with so much
difficulty spared, the brutality of man has destroyed; he was my joy and
sorrow, and many a weary hour have I watched to snatch him from the
yawning grave: for ten years he has been my sole care; and for the
insults and scorn heaped upon his deformed and idiotic existence, he
found compensation in the tenderness of his mother.  The small pittance
which I derived from my father was sufficient for our wants; and never
should I have called upon any former friend, but for the cruel deed of
yesterday; robbers from the waters broke into my dwelling, and pillaged
thence my property.  I knew not how it was; I had gone to a distance to
buy food, and on my return found the poor idiot thus.  My only attendant,
an old woman, had been wounded in his defence; and from her I with
difficulty learned, that the convulsive movements of the boy, and his
pointing hand, as his menacing eye followed their actions, had drawn upon
him their wrath and its brutal consequences.  I am averse from again
appearing in the scenes which I have once and for ever abandoned, and
therefore I sent for thee, Courtenay, to spare myself the sad task of
interring the pale corpse of my boy, and drawing wondering and
inquisitive eyes upon my person and history.”

Courtenay was pleased with the confidence reposed in his friendship.  A
brother’s love might have done less for Agatha; it could not have
effected more.  Her wishes were immediately performed; and he was
preparing, with unintrusive delicacy, to return to his home, when Agatha
for a few moments detained him; “You have deserved unlimited confidence
at my hands,” said she, “and you shall obtain it: he who is now numbered
with the ignominious dead desired it should be so, and I withhold it no
longer.  You, in common with all the world, were ignorant of the motives
which impelled the unhappy Eustace to the deed which he perpetrated; but
you did not, in common with all the world, forsake him in his utmost
need: for you he drew up the story of his sorrows, and placed it in my
hands to be given to you only when I saw the fitting time; that time hath
arrived.  The child of sorrow is dead, and I shall still more completely
retire from a world where insignificance and poverty are no protection
from cruelty and avarice; a convent will shortly receive me, and, if I
continue to live, a newer and better existence will be mine: if not, I
shall have done wisely in thus obeying the last command of Eustace.”

Courtenay received the packet and retired; he lingered not a moment to
relieve the recluse of his presence, but returned to Winchester, after
receiving her commands to see her again in three days: he then hastened
to his apartment, and, with trembling avidity, read, in the confessions
of Eustace, the secret story of the fortunes of De la Pole.

“I know that thou despisest me, Courtenay; I know that thou deemest me no
less a fool than a coward; thou didst bring me the means of an honourable
death, gavest into mine hands the dagger and the drug, and I have
rejected both: we disputed, differed, parted, met again, and again
renewed the subject; thou didst even deign to persuade the coward (so
thou thoughtest him) to act like a man; but thy entreaties were unheeded
and thy counsel rejected: he will die like a thief and a criminal—he will
be hooted out of life; and curses will be the torches to give light to
his memory, that it sink not into darkness and oblivion.

“Said I not that I was a sacrifice? that my punishment was a propitiatory
offering?  Now again I say to thee the same thing.  Death would have few
horrors for me (for it is a thing I covet) without the ignominy of a
public execution; to offer my life for my wrong would be nothing, but to
offer it up thus!—This alone can satisfy immortal justice; this alone can
satisfy the spirit of the murdered man.  Read and behold the meaning.

“Thou knowest how fondly, contrary to his father’s hope, John de la Pole
loved the beautiful daughter of Philip Forester, thy kinsman; but thou
knowest not how much more fervently she was adored by the wretched
Eustace, and how tenderly the gentle Agatha returned that love.  Hope
there was none; for what had I to bribe the greedy father of my love,
when John de la Pole could hereafter lay the fortunes of his house at her
feet?  Philip suspected the state of his daughter’s heart, and had looked
deeper than I imagined into mine: he determined that a younger brother
was not deserving of his Agatha’s beauty, and, by cold civilities and
hints of my father’s and brother’s disapprobation, banished me from his
house.  One thing alone gave consolation to my blighted heart, the
steadiness with which my father resolved against the marriage of John
with the object of our mutual passion.  In one of the sad conferences
which I occasionally, though now but seldom, held with my beloved Agatha,
it occurred to my imagination, that though my father had resolved to
dispose differently of the heir of his house, he might not object to my
union with the object of my choice; and I received permission of my
beloved to make the attempt upon his feelings.  I did so immediately,
and, with a rapture which I dare not now dwell upon, received his
permission, and his solemn promise to purchase the approbation of the
selfish Forester, by bestowing upon me one-fourth of his more than
princely fortune.  He arranged to see Forester upon the following day:
the same evening I flew to Agatha.  O Courtenay! didst thou ever love?
Those few blessed hours were the most happy of my life, and the last that
were so.  We parted; Agatha radiant with happiness; I, to think, to hope,
to anticipate, to wish all things could share my transports, to love
creation, to love God.  In the morning my father was found dead on his
couch; and the following month Agatha became the wife of my brother!
Courtenay! didst thou ever love?

“Thou wilt ask, where was Eustace when his beloved was thus sacrificed?
Alas! sent to a distance, to execute some commands of that brother upon
whom I was so utterly dependent.  He had discovered my love, and thus,
without my suspecting his intentions, prevented its consequences: he
hastened to Agatha, represented the ruin she would bring upon me, and his
determination to abandon me for ever, unless she became his wife;
Forester, who was his ally, threatened her with his curse; I know not all
the artifices used,—I never could listen to the detail.  She became the
wife of the man she could not love, and I was suffered to wither beneath
his roof, while, with calm hypocrisy, he told his own tale,
ostentatiously enriched his younger brother, and declared he could not
live happy without him.  Fool that he was!—stupid, uncalculating idiot!
He had torn asunder two burning hearts, and expected to smother their
fires; he had separated two devoted beings, compelled them to live in
each other’s presence, and yet expected them to forget.  Agatha abhorred
his sight—his very aspect was loathsome to her.  I saw her agonies,—I saw
her daily shudderings at every demonstration of his love; and cold dews
of death spread over my own heart when I beheld her submitting to his
fondness.  I implored to be banished from the castle; I entreated to be
allowed the sad privilege of beholding Agatha no more: he could not trust
me from him, he said; and I was obliged to remain.  Merciless idiot!
blind looker into the human heart!  Had he consented, all might then have
been well; but how did he dare thus selfishly sport with torture?  He
went on a journey for a few weeks; he commanded me to a distant part of
the country on business of importance to his interests: I went, but
returned ere half the allotted time for his absence had expired—to be
alone with Agatha—to see her unrestrained—to mingle my tears with hers: I
could not resist this one sad bliss, and I hastened back to enjoy it.

“We met, the lover and the beloved, in grief—in madness—in despair!  Oh,
wonder not, that when we parted guilt should be added to the burthen of
our sorrows; but the terrible consciousness of crime changed at once our
natures and our deeds.  Agatha’s horror of her husband increased: and,
now that she was mine, I determined she should no more be his—to fly, and
rob the castle for the means of sustenance.  Alas! I feared to expose her
to scorn, should we be unable to evade the pursuit of justice; and, even
if in this we should succeed, what means had I of subsistence when that
slender source should fail, proscribed, as we should be, in every part of
our native land?  To live on, as I had lately done, was still more
impossible; since Agatha herself had armed her bosom with a knife to be
turned against her heart rather than again endure the horrors of her
husband’s love.  Again and again we met in passionate, though gloomy
conference; and thus continued to waste the time in fruitless debate
until his messenger announced his approaching return.  Despair gave wings
to my thought; Agatha’s eye glanced on mine; she drew the dagger from her
breast, and I snatched it from her hand.  Our thoughts had spoken—there
was no need of words—we had understood each other without them.

“I hastened to conceal myself in the New Forest, near the road through
which he must pass on his return.  He had taken his confidential servant
with him, and, rather than expose myself to observation, I had determined
to fire at him through the trees, calculating and believing that the
servant would mistake the attack for that of concealed robbers, and fly,
leaving his master to his fate.  But I had scarcely arranged my mode of
attack ere I heard a footstep in the road; I looked out, and beheld him
slowly advancing, with his eyes steadfastly directed towards the towers
of his castle, as if he sought out the apartment of his wife.  At the
sight of him all prudence vanished—all recollection of the calm attack
which I had meditated passed away from my mind; I did not even observe
that he was alone: hatred and rage filled my heart, and I rushed upon him
like a wild beast, tearing him to the earth by the bare strength of
sinew, and inflicting many mortal stabs upon his breast: he grappled
fiercely with me, struggled hard to rise, and even drew his dagger, which
I broke in his grasp before he could strike one blow.  He tore a lock of
hair from my head, but, during the terrible contest he had not uttered a
single word, till a deep and home-directed stroke upon his brow threw him
powerless on the sod, then he spoke gaspingly to his brother: ‘Have mercy
upon me,’ he said, ‘have mercy; I have wronged thee, but that is not the
heaviest of my crimes; I would live to repent: to expiate one, the
deepest, darkest, let me live; I dare not die.  My father!—I overheard
his arrangements with thee—I could not bear to lose—he was found dead on
his couch—I smothered him in the night.  Mercy, mercy!  O Eustace! let me
live,—I am not fit to die!’  But his words raised a wilder fiend in my
soul, that scared away the spirit of mercy.  He then had been the
monster—he!—I raved aloud, ‘Murderer! thou art not fit to live—hell gapes
for thee—begone!’  I drew my dagger across his throat; the blood gushed
upon my face, upon my hands; he grinned, scowled, gibbered as he sunk,
but he spoke and struggled no more.

“I hastened home,—but I saw not Agatha, neither did I seek her during the
long and terrible night that followed the sunset crime: I dared not tell
her what I had done; I could not have borne to hear her speak of the sin
which I had committed.  Towards the morning I grew calm; my fears and
horror subsided; I thought of the atrocious act of the guilty dead, and,
by degrees, persuaded myself that I had done an act of justice; I began
to calculate upon the consequences, and seriously consider whether, by
this deed, I had really achieved the consummation of my wishes—the
possession of my adored Agatha; she was my sister, the widow of my
brother; could I legally become her husband?  And, allowing the
possibility, was it probable that I should be permitted to do so?  These
considerations gave birth to the action which followed; I forged the
extraordinary will which gave the succession to me, but only with the
hand of Agatha; and it appeared the more natural, as, during the period
of her wedlock, she had borne no child to her husband.  That night and
succeeding day was thus intently occupied.  On the following morning the
corpse was discovered by you.  I had not seen Agatha, but, on hearing of
her meeting the body, hastened to calm her mind, and prepare her for the
will, which was opened after the interment.  I made use of the pretext of
another love, to appear repugnant to the wishes of my brother, and
quitted the castle to appease the inquietudes of Agatha, who entreated me
not to see her again until I could make her my wife.

“You remember the reading of that will; you remember the arrival of De
Broke; poor wretch! his drunken falsehoods, his silly boasts, and above
all, his ungoverned insolence, has cost him fatally dear.  I was not
concerned at the suspicion which fell upon him; on the contrary, I
rejoiced it had found such an object; but I trembled with horror when I
beheld him conducted to a dungeon, and reflected on the probability of
his paying the penalty of my crime.  Guilty enough already, this
accumulation of sin appalled me, and I determined that innocent blood at
least should not cry out from earth against me.  In the night previous to
the day fixed for his trial, which I dreaded equally, whether he should
be condemned or acquitted, I sought his prison, and, by an exaggerated
account of the popular rage against him, prevailed upon him to accept the
means of escape; his servant who attended him, terrified by the picture I
drew of his master’s danger, united his entreaties to mine.  Hugh’s
courage and fortitude gave way to our solicitations; he fled, and
preserved his life at the expense of his honour and his peace.

“I cannot express to you how deep was the pang the ruin of this man’s
character gave me, nor how I sunk from the eyes lifted to mine in
commiseration, whenever his name was mentioned before me; even now, now
that I have rendered back such severe justice, my heart sickens as I
recall the curses which I heard heaped upon his head as the murderer of
John de la Pole.  I should have suffered less had they branded the
criminal unknown, but to hear an innocent man thus accused for me—O
Courtenay! thou knowest not, mayest thou never know, remorse.

“I reasoned much even then upon the folly of this conduct; I said, I am a
cowardly villain, a sneaking murderer, who fears the consequences of the
crime he yet feared not to commit.  Why should I be careful of this man’s
life? what is his safety to me? his death might be my security, at least
would prevent suspicion from falling elsewhere; are not his manners
brutal, his heart selfish, avaricious, and cruel? who will miss him from
the earth? and by whom will his loss be mourned?  But it is my crime for
which he will suffer, and the curse of innocent blood will lie upon my
head: neither has he injured me, that I should doom him so hardly: I
cannot even taste the luxury of revenge.  These thoughts disquieted me,
and, recurring more frequently than I could bear, influenced my conduct
in regard to the prisoner.  ‘The means of escape shall be offered to
him,’ I said; ‘if, innocent as he knows himself to be, he be coward
enough to accept them, he is worthy of the opprobrium which will cling to
him, and I ought not to grieve for that ruin of character which he
himself alone will effect.’

“With this wretched sophistry I endeavoured to reconcile my conscience,
and, strange to say, I succeeded; care and regret departed from my bosom,
and I looked forward to the day of my approaching union with Agatha with
an impatience which I found it difficult to control: it came at length,
and under happy auspices, for all our friends were assembled around us,
and I saw in my beloved’s tranquil smile the scarce concealed joy of her
heart.

“You remember that day, Courtenay—you remember the brilliant assemblage
and the gay festival of night—you remember how brightly sparkled the
jest, how sweetly sounded the song, and how every creature present seemed
wrapped in the delicious intoxication of the hour—you remember my parting
commands after Agatha had retired, to carouse till the day-break, and
make the young sun a witness of your felicity: you did so; it was a scene
of joy and splendour.  Alas! there was another, and a widely different,
passing in a more retired part of the castle.

“I must pause in my narrative here for a few moments; all that has as yet
been detailed has been plain and simple fact, subject to no doubts,
liable to no misconstructions; hitherto all has been clear; that which
will follow is wild, strange, and improbable—mysterious, incomprehensible
indeed, yet not less true than that which I have hitherto written.  How
shall I make you understand what I have to present to your mind?  In what
words shall I clothe a narrative so extraordinary as to prevent its
stamping me with the opprobrium of folly or madness?  Even now, in my
dying hour, on the very steps of the scaffold, I hesitate at the thought
of being lightly esteemed by thee, or my sacrifice regarded as the result
of a weakened intellect or a disordered brain: it is more easy to die as
a knave than be lamented as a fool.

“Agatha had withdrawn from the hall with her damsels, and I hastened to
follow her; she had retired to an apartment adjoining her bridal chamber,
and thither, wearied of the noise and mirth of the rioters below, I also
hastened.  I longed for a delight I had not lately experienced, an
unreserved conversation with my wife, and to be allowed to dismiss the
coldness which, during the day, I had been obliged to feign towards her.
The damsels retired, and we were left to pour out our hearts to each
other in the unbounded confidence of our new relation, when we were
startled by hearing a slow and heavy foot steadily ascending the stairs;
as these were private, leading only to our apartments, Agatha was
surprised and offended.  ‘Who would intrude at this hour?’ she demanded,
while her eyes turned anxiously towards the door.  For me, a thrill of
horror shot through my inmost heart; I said, relinquishing the hand I had
till then so fondly clasped in mine, ‘_That is the step of my brother_!’

“And it was so, Courtenay: a moment more and the door slowly opened of
itself to give entrance to its master; John de la Pole entered the room
and stood between Agatha and me; his face was as in his dying hour,
ghastly and menacing, and every gash of the murderous knife upon his body
as frightfully distinct as on the night they were inflicted.  In one hand
he held a lock of dark hair; the other was extended threateningly towards
me; and thus he stood between us, drawn from another world by the crime I
meditated against his bed, and an everlasting barrier before me.

“My first emotion was astonishment—a boundless and stupefied
surprise—then a vague and horrid notion that my brother was not really
dead, that he had escaped alive from my hands, and was now come to accuse
and surrender me up to scorn.  The interval which had passed since his
death was obliterated from my mind, and I felt as if that night had been
the season of the deed.  I spoke in extenuation of my crime, accused his
selfishness, cursed his calculating cruelty; I implored his mercy, folded
my hands in supplication, and knelt before him in humble debasement.  No
muscle of his countenance moved, and not a sound escaped through his
bruised and blackened lips; he did not even look upon me, but continued
to fasten his stony eyes upon the face of Agatha, who stood silent and
motionless as himself, gazing like a fascinated thing upon this aspect of
horror.  I arose from my knees—shut my eyes—tossed my arms abroad to the
air—endeavoured to think I was in sleep, in drunkenness, in delirium: no,
_he was still there_!—I thought of the agony of tempestuous feeling I had
endured on the night following the commission of the crime, and,
believing that my jaded mind was suffering under the same infliction,
resolved to seek my couch, to restore my exhausted spirits by rest and
sleep.  I made an effort to move from my place; I knew that motion might
recall my scattered senses; and I exerted myself to enter the chamber of
Agatha.  Wilt thou believe me, Courtenay? the stern shadow anticipated my
movement, and, menacing me back, strode silently towards my bridal
chamber.  At the door its menacing attitude towards me was changed for
one of command to Agatha; one bloody finger was raised to beckon her to
follow: she did so.  Still stupidly insensible, gazing fixedly upon his
form, she followed the direction of his hand, and passed after him into
the chamber: the door closed upon them without a sound.

“Now I began to think more calmly: the dead, cold thing was gone, and
there was life and air in the apartment; the feelings of this world came
upon me, and I became sensible of fear.  I was safe; but where was
Agatha?—_he_ had beckoned her forth—was it reality?—she was gone—had it
been the work of imagination, she had still been there—but she might have
retired to her chamber alone.  This was to be ascertained.  I attempted
to enter—the door was fast; I called upon Agatha—there was no sound in
reply; I reviewed the last scene, considered the incidents of the past,
weighed the appearances of the present, and came at length to the
terrible conclusion that a spirit of the damned had stood before me, and
that Agatha was still in his grasp!  You will not wonder that temporary
insanity followed this hideous idea: I grew wild at the thoughts of her
danger; I shrieked aloud for mercy; I tore my hair in agony, and beat at
the closed door with the utmost exertion of strength.  I wonder even now
that none heard the uproar I made; but my cries remained unanswered—no
sound issued from the bridal chamber of the dead, and I continued to rave
until nature, exhausted, sunk speechless and senseless to the earth.

“Morning had broken over the apartment when I awoke, and I was some
moments in recovering recollection of my state and circumstances; slowly
the truth came before me.  I was lying extended on the bare ground, the
lights had burned out, and there was no trace of visitors having been
near me in my sleep.  I arose and listened for some sound that might
direct my first movements, for now I knew not what to think nor to do.  A
low sobbing from the chamber of Agatha rivetted my attention; I sprung
towards the door, and, to my astonishment, it yielded to the slightest
touch: I entered; Agatha was there, seated upon the bed, and gazing
around her with a look of agonising affright; she saw me on the instant,
and rushed into my arms.  ‘Thou art here! thou art safe!’ she cried in
delirious transport; ‘and for this I am at least grateful; I deemed he
had destroyed thee.  But thou didst leave me, Eustace.  O quit me not, I
beseech thee! save me from him, Eustace, for thou alone canst!’  I
endeavoured to soothe her anguish, and, after some time, succeeded in
restoring her to tranquillity and composure enough to be made acquainted
with the real state of our circumstances; and I implored her to inform me
whither the ghastly phantom had led her, on their retiring from the
chamber.  She shuddered at the question, and a wild and strange
expression passed over her countenance ere she spoke.  ‘I will tell
thee,’ she said; ‘yet it is but little that I have to say.  To this room
we came, and our footsteps wandered no further.  Without a word he gave
his commands to me, and without a word I obeyed him.  I ascended my
bridal bed, he had willed it so, and he continued to gaze upon me till my
head sunk upon the pillow; then the ghastly thing sat down by my side,
and though I closed mine eyes hard that I might not behold him, yet I
felt that the shadow of his unearthly face was upon me.  Once I looked up
in the hope that he was gone; beholding him I shrunk, and would have
called upon thee, but the stony eye of the spectre grew larger, and a
fiendish pang passed over the immoveable face; then I hid mine in my
mantle that I might look upon him no more: insensibility succeeded, and I
slept; in the morning I awoke, and he was gone!’

               [Picture: Agatha, Eustace, and the Spectre]

“This was the tale of Agatha! thou wilt doubt its truth, nor can I wonder
at thy most natural incredulity: yet I would now give my few short hours
of life, precious as they may be, that thou hadst been present and _seen_
her tell this story; I can give thee her words, her form of expression,
but what language of mine can portray her looks as she spoke, or describe
the harrowing tones of her voice as she cried to me for protection?  I
doubted not; for these powerful witnesses would have carried conviction
to my mind, had I not already beheld the shadowy thing she spoke of.

“What could I offer in consolation?  We wept bitter tears together, and
mingled our tender grief.  If we indulged a momentary hope that it was
but an illusion of the brain, and would return no more, we were quickly
undeceived at the approach of night.  Again came the ghastly shadow, and
again was the spirit of Agatha chained by the sleep of death in his
presence.  Nor were his visitations confined to the dark and silent hour
of night; when we met in the morning, to lament our fate and weep from
our stuffed bosoms the weight that pressed upon our hearts, then, with a
hideous familiarity, he would stand between us, mocking, with his
menacing grin and uplifted finger, the agony his presence created.

“_Another_ night came; we sat alone, solitary, speechless, motionless;
hour after hour passed, and we moved not, except to cast stern regards
towards the door, or listen with repressed impatience to every sound in
the castle.  Slowly, at last, came the step of the dead, heavily
ascending the stairs;—he entered—I rushed to meet him, and the long pent
up agony of my soul burst forth in madness uncontrolled.
‘Monster!—murderer!—destroyer of thy father and thy brother! why comest
thou thus to torture and not kill? why is thy bloody hand for ever
raised, and yet forbearing to fall?  If thine aim be vengeance,
strike—strike—strike—thou blood-bespotted horror! and rend from hope and
from life those who dared to make thee what thou art!—Strike, thou
silent, sullen thing! that we may be as thou art, and learn to fear thee
not!’

“I darted towards him, but was arrested by some invisible barrier ere I
had traversed half the distance between us; I could not reach him, but
sunk, as if felled by an unseen blow, helpless and almost senseless, to
the ground: _he_ did not even look upon me, but again sternly summoned
Agatha from the chamber, as nightly he had done before.  I—but wherefore
dwell upon these agonies?  Suffice it to say, that these accumulated
horrors at length drove me from the side of Agatha to solitude and
reflection: sorrow came upon my soul—a sorrow less for my crime than for
its fatal consequences.  ‘Alas!’ I said, ‘perhaps the tormentor is
himself more keenly punished by these hauntings than either of his
shrinking victims: said he not, in the hour of death, that he too was a
murderer? and did he not pray for time in which to expiate the sin?
Surely, surely, these visitations must be the hell of the parricide.’

“And a feeling of remorse arose in my mind, as I deemed it possible that
these unnatural hauntings might be involuntary.  I had stabbed at the
life of my brother, and plunged his unprepared spirit into the hell which
awaited it; and surely a more bitter one than looking again upon the
secret deeds of the survivors, could not well be imagined.  Agatha, too,
no longer wept over her separation from me, but hourly called upon Heaven
for pity and for pardon; madness and anguish passed away from her heart,
and sorrow and repentance entered it.

“I could not repent; at least I could not feel self-condemnation to that
degree which I had been early taught was so necessary—that perfect sorrow
which abhorred the crime and the criminal, and which, they say, is alone
the gift of Heaven—_that_ I did not feel: still, still did my inmost soul
worship the thought of Agatha, and abhor the treachery of John de la
Pole.  I could not regret that I had avenged my wrong—I could not repent
that I had attempted to make her mine; I knew that were the deed again to
do—again should I dare, and perform it.

“Repentance then was not mine; but I despaired of peace, and knew how to
punish crime: I was not yet weary of life; and though tears of remorse
did not fill my eyes for my brother’s early doom, yet his unnatural
tortures now, and Agatha’s suffering, seemed to call for something like
justice from my hand.  ‘Perhaps, in the stern mood in which I am,’ I
said, ‘the sacrifice will be greater than if repentance struck; and
believing myself sure of forgiveness, I hastened to make my peace with
Heaven.  Yes; I will die—I will inflict death upon myself as I would upon
another, and expiate crime with blood!’

“But I hesitated still; death, contemplated so near, in any shape, was
horrible; but, dealt by the hand of the executioner—I shrunk from the
thought, and could not bear the shadow of a stain upon the honour of my
house; so I went on from day to day, dreaming of justice but rendering
none, till the birth of Agatha’s son.  Thou wast surprised, I believe, at
the little emotion I betrayed at its sight: alas! I had long been
prepared for some object of horror, and now it was before me.  Thou didst
behold the action of the ghastly child; thou sawest the menacing finger
upraised towards my head, and the calm determination with which I met
this image: its presence had banished my indecision.  I believed now that
Agatha was lost to me for ever,—that Eternal Justice by this sign spoke
against me, and, in punishment of my hardness of heart, had thus
perpetuated the remembrance of my crime.  Now, then, I _resolved_ to die:
I communicated my purpose to Agatha, and earthly feelings once more
gained the mastery over my subdued spirit, and burst forth in words of
grief and reproach, on observing that she evinced no horror at my
approaching fate, and scarcely attempted to dissuade me from my purpose!
Agatha, for whom I had dared and suffered so much—even she had become
indifferent to my destiny: it was indeed time to die!  But I did her
wrong; sorrow had broken her heart, and repeated scenes of horror had
subdued and weakened her spirit.  With the feeling common to her sex, she
sought consolation only in religion, and thought that to reconcile
herself with Heaven was all that was left her now: love had fled with
every other human passion, and far from regarding death as an evil, she
looked upon it as a passport to bliss, and was more ready to rejoice at
than deprecate my fate.  Her conduct assisted my resolution.  Now, then,
the first step was to be made—the most difficult and appalling—the rest
would be consequential and easy.  It was necessary to begin, and I knew
of no better mode than that of rendering justice to the living.  Hugh de
Broke had been ruined by me, and it was now incumbent upon me to restore
him to honour and to happiness: I set out for the distant and humble
dwelling in which, since his escape, he had been obliged to conceal his
name and dignity: he was stretched upon a sick-bed—a heart-broken and a
dying man: it was no physical disease of which he was expiring,—but
disgrace had poisoned the fountain of his blood, and shame had eaten its
way like a canker-worm to his heart.  When he saw me, he shook off his
dying listlessness, and sprung upright in his bed.  ‘What more wouldst
thou have, thou blaster of mine honour!’ he said, ‘of a ruined and dying
man?  To thy pernicious counsel I owe the shame no after-conduct can
efface: cursed, cursed coward that I was! why did I heed or believe thy
murderous mercy?  Begone, wretch! and let me die.  I cannot shake off
this load of shame, but I shall sink under its burthen, and bequeath its
remorse to thee; go, wretch! and let me die.’

“He was submissively attended by his wife and son, who were earnest with
me to relieve him of my presence.  Sorrow, and the near approach of
death, had softened his heart and chastised the natural brutality of his
manners; he looked and spoke more mildly to them, though, with all his
failing strength, he continued to heap maledictions upon me.  My
humiliations were now to begin; I kneeled down by his side, detailed my
crime without any palliation, asked his forgiveness for the injury I had
done him, and finished by avowing my resolution to deliver myself into
the hands of justice, and restore his fame and happiness.

“I was astonished, that during this confession no word had been uttered
by him whom it so deeply concerned.  I looked up to behold its effect; he
was staring wildly at me, the strong energies of his spirit struggling
with the grasp of death to gain time to hear its termination; he strove
hard to articulate something; and finally whether he conquered for some
few moments the mighty power that was wrestling with him, or that that
power had now incorporated itself with his victim, and given him of its
potency, I knew not, but he suddenly grew calm and passionless, pain and
convulsion left him, his features assumed a pale rigidity, and his voice
the solemn earnestness of the grave, as he spoke.  ‘I have no time for
question,’ he said; ‘but I pray that the truth may be upon thy lips:
soon, very soon, shall we meet again; and my pardon shall be truly thine
when thou shalt tell me that my boy sits with honour in the halls of his
fathers.’  He paused, placed the hand of his son in mine, and expired
without a groan.

“What followed, I need not tell thee; the son of Hugh was restored, and
Eustace consigned to a dungeon.  The attempts of the people to force from
me my secret, you know how I resisted; calmly and even proudly I went to
my prison and prepared myself to die.  I had humbled myself to De Broke,
for to him I had done deep and particular injury; but to these men I owed
no other reparation than what my life would pay: what right had they to
demand further humiliation of me, or attempt to rend from my bosom the
mystery of its secret purpose?  I would die unaccusing, save myself; I
would die, shrouded in gloomy dignity,—a man to be wondered at and
feared, rather than pitied and scorned.  I will willingly furnish their
greedy eyes with the awful feast of death, but not their vulgar souls
with the struggles and humiliations of mine; my body is the law’s—is
theirs; my spirit is beyond their judgment.  John de la Pole shall sleep
on, embalmed in good opinions; I will not raise up his pall to show them
what corruption festers beneath it; I would not tell them what he _was_,
though it should even lessen in their thought the horror of what I _am_.
Grand and silent death—majestic in thy obscurity—I wait to bid thee
welcome!

“Thus far had I written, and thought that my story in the book of life
had come to its close, but other events have crowded upon me; and before
my death, (which will be on the morrow,) I would tell thee the incidents
of the last few days.  Thou knowest how calmly I beheld thee depart from
my prison, and how little emotion I manifested at my fate; but when thou
wert gone, when I was alone, in chains, degraded, the enthusiasm of the
moment past, and my spirit inactive, I wept bitter tears at the
waywardness of my early fate; yet I relaxed not in my determination; I
came hither to die, and nothing was left me but to finish my purpose
nobly.  It is my will to doom a murderer, and I am he so doomed.  I wept,
yet persisted; cursed the cruelty which had destroyed me, and yet prayed
to my brother for pardon.  Of the future I had as yet scarcely thought;
hitherto I had been solely employed about the method of quitting this
world, without much considering the terms of my admission to another; now
I pondered long, with anxiety, but not with fear.  Creeds puzzled me—I
made not my own heart—I cannot be answerable for its opinions.  I have
committed a deadly sin—I am about to expiate it with my blood—I cannot do
more; and is not this sacrifice greater than the cant of sorrow and the
whinings of prayer from one who never prayed before?  The one is from
myself, the child of my resolution—the other the offspring of fear—But I
was distracted still, and bewildered.  It was in this disturbed state
that I was startled by a light sound in my prison—I listened—a soft
voice, for the second time, pronounced in kindly accents, ‘My brother!’
I started up and gazed around me; on the opposite side of my dungeon
stood the form of John de la Pole, but not as I had seen him last, pale,
menacing, and bloody, but with that mild aspect and gentle look that had
distinguished his early brotherhood, ere Agatha’s fatal beauty cut
asunder the knot that bound our souls together.  ‘Thou hast done well,’
said the gentle spirit, ‘thus to render up thy life for thy crime; thy
severe justice hath merited and obtained thy pardon; my sufferings, too,
the punishment for unrepented sin, thy firmness hath terminated; and the
day of Agatha shall henceforth flow more peaceful.  Soon shalt thou be
with me, O brother! and the kiss of immortality shall be given to thee by
my lips: weep not—doubt not—but bear all things steadfastly; in thine
hour of agony I will stand by thy side.’

“A tender grief overpowered my spirit as he spoke, and tears fell from my
eyes.  I extended my arms as if I would have embraced him, but the
barrier between the living and the dead could not as yet be passed, and
the shadow receded from my touch.  But this visitation had brought joy to
my heart and tranquillity to my spirit, and the arrival of Agatha at the
prison still further reconciled me to my doom.  ‘Thy sacrifice is
hallowed,’ she said; ‘thou wilt die, but I must live to expiate my crime,
as the slave of thy ghastly son, till Heaven shall call him to itself.
_He_ stood by my couch last night; smilingly he looked upon me, as in the
days of his early love, and bade me live and hope: in this world I shall
behold him no more! but thou, my beloved! thou art for the distant land,
and the abode whither he is gone before thee.  Oh that I might share thy
doom, as I have already partaken thy guilt!’

“We parted—let me not dwell upon that—we parted for ever; for me there
remained a mighty duty to fulfil, and from which I did not shrink—no, not
even when those who had been my friends sought to wring my secret from my
heart by the infliction of the torture: I pitied _them_, but not myself.

“The day of torture came; thou wert by my side, and didst urge a
voluntary death to rescue me from agony and the stare of burning eyes
eagerly watching my pangs.  I rejected thy counsel; yet didst thou not
forsake me, but marched to the scene of my infamy by my side.  All
around, as I went thither, did I look for the promised appearance of my
brother, and trembled lest I should not behold him.  ‘Surely this is mine
hour of agony,’ I said, as I ascended the steps of the scaffold;
‘wherefore is he not by my side?’  And the guest from the other world,—he
beneath whose scowl my heart had for months been withering,—was desired
with more impatience than ever I had felt for the presence of earthly
friends.  I had not long to fear or to doubt—he was there before me; on
reaching the scaffold, I beheld him standing by the block, and calmly and
silently smiling a welcome to his brother.  Thou didst behold my
firmness, and the multitude saw my composure with wonder; but they beheld
not the cause; they saw not that _he_ was looking on, and that I drew in
resolution from his smile, and firmness from his awful brow.

“The ineffectual agony was past—curiosity was silenced—and I was
condemned to die; and to-morrow I _shall_ die,—from all that I have loved
hated, or valued, I shall be torn to-morrow.  The last sunset is falling
upon my paper, is gilding my pen as I write; to-morrow it will sparkle
upon the edge of the axe, and illuminate a brow from which the inward
light will have departed for ever; to-morrow will be the scene of my last
humiliation: but _he_ will be there to witness it, and convert it by his
presence into a triumph; and, when all shall be over, when the last
mortal throb shall be past, what then shall be my destiny?  ‘Thou art
pardoned,’ he said; ‘and an immortality is before thee!’  Oh, then let me
hope for an immortality of peace!  Now, then, I will go sleep—exhausted
nature must be recruited for her great labour to-morrow—for these broken
limbs, these strained sinews, and this bruised flesh, must needs want
repose, ere they can encounter the task of fresh exertion.  Serve me
well, ye mangled limbs, but to-morrow, and I shall require your service
no more.—Courtenay, good night.”

Such was the tale of the fratricide, and of him who was his victim: of
her who survived the deaths of both, no more was heard; for upon
Courtenay’s going to the cottage at the period she had appointed to
receive her last commands, he learned she had quitted it two days
previous, but had left a small parcel to be given to him: it contained a
few remembrances of herself and Eustace, and the following letter:—

    “COURTENAY—

    “In giving thee the papers containing our story, I have obeyed the
    last wish of him whose lightest word was a law to me; but I cannot
    look on thee again after this communication.  Grieve not for me, for
    my lot will not be wretched; the death of my child has released me
    from the world, and I hasten to withdraw myself from it: I had
    arranged all things for the purpose before I sent to request thy
    presence.  Endeavour not to discover me; such search would be
    fruitless and vain.  I retire from the kingdom; and in a convent of
    Clairs, beneath the habits and rules of the order, and under another
    name, conceal for ever, from the eyes of the world, the person, the
    crime, and the sorrow of

                                                      “AGATHA DE LA POLE.”




THE LORD OF THE MAELSTROM.


PART I.
THE RAVEN.


    —Hell is empty,
    And all the Devils are here.

                                                              SHAKESPEARE.

SOMEWHERE about the year 112, in winter or summer—we are not exactly
prepared to say which—died Olave the Second, one of the early kings of
Denmark; he was a “fellow of no reckoning,” for he took no account of any
thing that occurred during his reign, except the making of strong drink,
and the number of butts in his cellar.  His majesty, it must be avowed,
was in the presumptuous habit of forestalling the joys of heaven, (we
mean Odin’s,) that is to say, he impiously got drunk every day of his
life, before the regular allowance of fighting, the customary number of
enemies’ broken heads, and his own orderly death upon the field of
battle, bore testimony that he was properly qualified for such supreme
enjoyment.  Olave in his life was a happy fellow; for, never having been
sober during one hour of it, he had not the misfortune to hear all the
ill-natured things that his courtiers and subjects said of his
enormities, behind his back, or when he was asleep.  It must, however, be
acknowledged that, even among the unscrupulous Danes, who were not at
that period remarkable for their practice of sobriety, Olave was a filthy
fellow: to this hour he is held up as a monument of brutality and
stupidity, and the memory of Jeroboam, the son of Nebat, who made Israel
to sin, was not more devoted to execration among the Jews, than that of
king Olave the Second among the Danes.  On his death-bed, however, when
he could no longer swallow his usual enlivening potations, blue devils
beset his nights, and conscience twitted him with his ill-spent days.  He
had never broken a head in his life, except by proxy; and how could he
make his appearance in Valhalla without a skull to drink out of?—to knock
at the gates of Valasciolf without a goblet in his hand?—The thing was
impossible; it was clear he would be kicked through Asgard, and sent to
fret in Nifthiem, where the burning claws of Lok would set fire to the
good liquor incorporated with his being, and reduce him to the condition
of an eternal, thinking cinder!—Miserable anticipations! he tried to
weep; but water, which he had hitherto scorned, now scorned him, and
absolutely refused to come at his desire: he shed tears of mead, which he
caught in his mouth as fast as they fell, partly from fear lest Odin
should remark them, and partly because he could not endure to see good
liquor wasted.

But all things have an end—in this world at least—and so it was with the
life and repentance of king Olave the Second; he died without the
drinking-cup he had regretted so deeply, and before he had time to frame
a decent apology to Odin for venturing into Valhalla without one.  There
was a world of business now to be done at the palace of Sandaal: a dead
king to be buried, and two living kings to be crowned; for such was the
will of the lamented Olave, that both his sons should succeed him.  They
were princes of very different characters, yet their father, it should
seem, loved them equally, as he divided his dominions very fairly between
them, to the no small disgust of the elder prince, Frotho, who, like the
imperial Octavius, some years before, could not bear a divided throne.
This worthy in character resembled, in no slight degree, his excellent
father, of dozy memory, for he loved to drink much and fight little,—more
especially as his younger brother Harold had a decided vocation for the
latter employment, and none at all for the former: to him, therefore, he
left the charge of the glory of the Danish crown, while he, for the
present, contented himself with drinking to his successes.  This good
understanding, however, between the princes could not last for ever.
Frotho was, after all, only half a drunkard, and therefore extremely
sulky in his cups—more especially when his queen Helga seated herself at
his elbow to twit his courage with the heroic deeds of his brother.
Queen consorts should not meddle with politics, they never do anything
but mischief—and so it proved in this instance; for Frotho grew
absolutely delirious, kept himself entirely sober for three whole days,
buckled on his wooden target, put himself at the head of his troops, and,
swearing to be revenged upon his brother, marched on an expedition to
Jutland.  The expedition neither answered his intentions nor
expectations; the men of Jutland were too many for king Frotho, for,
headed by Feggo, (the murderous uncle of the philosophic Hamlet, whose
father was prince only of this part of Denmark,) they drove Frotho “home
without boots, and in foul weather too,” as Glendwr did, long afterwards,
king Harry Bolingbroke.  Frotho could not stomach this affront—the
beating was hard of digestion: his subjects made mouths at him too, and
mimicked a race whenever he appeared in public.  So he sent his brother,
king Harold, who was a fighter to the back-bone, to chastise the
Jutlanders, which when he had done most effectually, Frotho grew more
angry still; he detested his brother, dreaded his popularity, feared his
wisdom, and quivered at his anger,—so he began to consider seriously how
he might cleverly and quietly put him out of the way.

King Frotho had two counsellors, neither of whom ever agreed with the
other in the advice they gave his majesty: the reason was tolerably
obvious, for the one was an honest man, the other a rogue, and, like the
Topaz and Ebene of Voltaire, they bewildered the unhappy monarch with the
diversity of their opinions and advice.  On this occasion, however, king
Frotho troubled only the rogue for his advice, which he was pretty
certain beforehand would not differ very widely from his own.  Eric Swen
was an unprincipled ragamuffin, who hated Harold, because he had
discovered that Harold hated his vices; and, as that prince had two sons
who were rising into manhood, he shuddered at the prospect of two or
three strict warrior reigns, which would certainly bring virtue into
fashion: the prince had refused him, too, the hand of his sister, which,
to make the refusal more bitter, he had bestowed upon his rival in the
council and camp, Frotho’s general, Haquin.  All these offences were
carefully summoned up, to inflame his ire against Harold, by the devil,
in the shape of Frotho, who promised him—Heaven knows what—both on earth
and in Valhalla, if he would only push king Harold from his share of the
stool, and leave both halves of it to Frotho.

Notwithstanding all the provocations on both sides, the confederates were
two or three whole years before they could “screw their courage to the
sticking place,” that is, to the pitch necessary for the murder of king
Harold.  They had sent fifty inconsiderable nobles, whom they had found
troublesome, to Asgard, without ceremony; but Harold was a king and a
warrior, and required a good deal.  “If we could but pour poison into his
ear,” said Eric; “Or into his cup,” replied Frotho; “Or stab him in his
sleep,” said Eric; “Or coax him out hunting with us,” replied the
brother, “and give it to him quietly in the forest.”  But none of these
safe plans would answer;—so Frotho, accompanied by his sole and trusty
counsellor, rode off for the forest, to find the cave where, tradition
said, had resided, from the days of the “Avate” of Odin, his enemy
Biorno, the descendant of Lok, grand nephew of Surter, and first cousin
to the Wolf Fenris and Serpent Midgard.  Frotho, however well disposed to
beg the aid and advice of the sorcerer, by no means felt at ease when he
considered the family to which he belonged: the wolf and the eternal
earth-circling snake were known to bear no very great partiality to the
race of Odin,—and Frotho, they knew, if they knew any thing, was a true
son of their enemy.  Still the Danish monarch trotted on with his squire
till they reached the centre of the forest.

“After all, Eric,” said his majesty, as they trotted on cosily together;
“after all”—but, as an historian, I must make one observation here: you
are aware, dear reader, that the Scandinavians of the year 112, and some
time after, did not use the same simple, plain, common-place sort of
style which they have adopted to express their meaning now-a-days.  If we
may believe their own writers, they were always in alt, gave their
commands in a kind of heroic prose, and carried on dialogues in a sort of
rambling blank verse.  It must therefore be obvious to you, dear reader,
that I spare you their language, and only give you their sentiments,
which, to the best of my humble ability I will translate for you into
decent colloquial English, the better to carry your patience through the
long-winded history which I am preparing as a trial for it.  But to
return to Frotho the fifth of Denmark.  “After all, Eric,” said he, “I
have perhaps no great reason to fear these ugly immortals: as I am going
to consult their kinsman, and am withal very well disposed to put an end
to the race of Odin, (that part of it at least most devoted to him,) I
think they may be civil to me.  My own son Sevald is the only member of
the family I wish to preserve, and I may soon mould him to my own
opinions.  If the sorcerer will only dispose of Harold for me, or tell me
how I may safely dispose of him, I shall not haggle on the terms of
assistance; I will do any thing to serve him or his, which may not
interfere with my own safety, or rob me of the diadem I am so anxious to
wear alone.”  Eric was about to reply to his magnanimous master, but
paused, half afraid, as he discovered they were really in the sorcerer’s
neighbourhood, for the yawning mouth of the cave was actually staring
them in the face.  Frotho, as became him, now took the lead, and marched
dauntlessly forward, though not without a glance backward now and then to
see if Eric was close behind him, and as any sound struck upon his ear
that bore any resemblance to a hiss or a howl.  At length, after many
turnings and windings, he found himself in a cavern of large dimensions,
broadly lighted by a huge iron lamp, suspended from the upper part of it.
He turned round to make some remark to his patient tail-piece, but was
petrified to observe that he had fallen to the earth stiff and insensible
to every thing around him.  The Danish monarch’s cheeks waxed pale, and
his knees began to smite each other; nevertheless he grasped the hilt of
his falchion, as a slight noise on the opposite side withdrew his
attention from the insensible Eric Swen; there stood an old man of
reverend aspect, mildly but steadily gazing upon the king: “Art thou he
whom I have been so long taught to expect?” said the sorcerer; “art thou
the king of the race of Odin, alone chosen by his invincible foe to
render a service to the son of Lok, and deserve the everlasting gratitude
of his children?  If indeed thou art the appointed, I bid thee highest
welcome, for the task decreed to thee hath been denied to the immortals,
above whom the grateful Lok will raise thee.”

Frotho recovered his spirits at this address; half his business was
already done, for his wishes were anticipated.  He had been so little
accustomed to receive compliments from his subjects, that his opinion of
his own endowments had not been particularly high; but now he began to
think he had mistaken himself, and was really a much greater man than he
had suspected.  He readily promised obedience to the sorcerer, upon
certain terms, and assured him of his assistance when and wherever it
might be demanded.  The magician then proceeded to inform him that he was
himself a descendant of Lok, and an ally of the spirits of fire, those
daring beings who had for so many thousand years waged war with various
success against Odin and his warriors, and which warfare would not cease
till the end of the world; when, during a night which was to last a year,
there would be a general battle, in which Earth, Niftheim, and Asgard,
would go to wreck, and the conquering party be elevated to a newer and
more beautiful heaven in Gimle,—while Nastrande, a still gloomier hell,
would be made out of the fragments of the old one, for the accommodation
of the party conquered.  “Balder!” exclaimed Frotho, starting at this
part of the story,—for he never liked to hear any thing of the old hell,
which he thought quite bad enough without the spirits troubling
themselves about the creation of another; “but I thought, sir sorcerer,
that the wicked alone would be punished in Nastrande after the long night
and battle of the gods; I thought”—“Exactly so, my son,” interrupted the
sorcerer; “the wicked certainly; for the conquered _will_ be the
wicked—that is beyond dispute; but _who_ will conquer is not so certain;
perhaps Lok, perhaps Odin—each, as far as I see, have an equal chance;
take part then with us, and share our danger and glories in the next
world, and our certain assistance in this.”  To this world, then, (as
king Frotho had at present more business in it,) he limited his wishes,
and gave Biorno his steady attention as he proceeded in his narrative,
“Odin,” the magician continued to observe, “though utterly unable to
chain entirely the powers of Lok, had just now decidedly the advantage;
for he had a few hundred years before seized upon his eldest son, the
unwary Surter, whom he had caught out of his own territories, and wedged
him, in the shape of a raven, into an iron cage, there to remain till one
of his own race, a kingly son of his blood, should release him:”—a
condition from Odin probably implying an eternal punishment,—as that
divinity, who does not appear to have been as omniscient as he ought,
never imagined any member of his house would have been found silly enough
to fulfil it.  “Now then,” continued the magician, “I have consulted the
eternal powers, and find that thou, Frotho of Denmark, art the king
destined to this wondrous deed, and its following union with the
immortals.”  Frotho gave his assent to all and any thing proposed; and
the sorcerer immediately began his operations; he raised his ebon wand
above his head, with many magical flourishes—turned himself rapidly
round—then more slowly, pausing at each of the cardinal points, and
calling north, south, east, and west, upon the tremendous name of Lok.
At that sound, so terrible even to the ears of spirits, the thunder began
to rumble and the fires of Niftheim flash through the gloomy cavern;
something like music was heard, and, though the concert was hardly better
than those performed by king Frotho’s own band during his drinking
orgies, yet as the voices (and they were many) solely employed their
powers in singing his praises, and the approaching deliverance of the god
by his means, his majesty was pleased to think nothing in heaven could be
half so fine.  Presently the earth shook, and the sides of the cavern
rocked; Biorno pointed to the bottom of the cave,—and Frotho beheld it,
after a few violent convulsions, suddenly open, and disclose to his view
an enormous raven, in a gigantic iron cage.  “Behold,” said the magician
to him, “the prison of the immortal prince of fire!—in that shape he must
remain a hundred thousand years, unless a kingly hand of the line of Odin
shall restore him (by breaking the bars of his iron cage) to power and to
liberty.  Monarch of Denmark! go,—and success attend thee.”  Frotho
obeyed immediately; he made a desperate attack upon the iron cage, but
failed in his intention of rending away its bars; he made many earnest
efforts, but all in vain,—the bars remained unbroken.  The Dane paused in
vexation—he was frightened and mortified—and, by the howls and groans
which resounded on all sides of the cavern, it was evident the anxious
spirits of Niftheim sympathised in his distress: Biorno too, afflicted
beyond measure at the ill success of the enterprise, threw himself upon
the earth, tore off his magical cap, plucked up his hair by the roots,
and howled as loudly as the noisiest of them.  This dismal sight drove
Frotho desperate; he collected all his energies for one mighty pull,
rushed upon the cage, grappled with the bars, and, in an instant, threw
them at the sorcerer’s feet, who sprung up like an elk to receive them.
Frotho stood majestically silent, while an uproar, such as no human ear
has ever heard since, began its diversions in the cavern; a thick black
mist quickly filled its whole space, so that Frotho could but
indistinctly distinguish the figures who made up the ball; millions of
shadows were flitting about, and millions of voices were laughing,
singing, shouting, groaning, and cursing.  Midgard raised his glittering
snaky head above the darkness and the shadows, and greeted the monarch
with a cordial and complimentary hiss; wolf Fenris tried hard for a
good-natured howl; and the grim Hela, their sister, the queen of death,
tortured her ghastly face into a smile, as she capered nimbly backwards
and forwards in the festival, animated by the thought of the many meals
Frotho would furnish for her famished maw.  But, at length, the immortals
grew weary of their own noises—the infernal jollification came to an
end—the mist cleared off—the fires went out—the uproar died away,—and
Frotho’s courage returned to its half-bewildered master, who took heart
once again to look about him.  He was alone (to his great joy) with
Biorno, except that, in place of the raven and his cage, there sat,
reposing upon a light cloud, his beautiful brow diademed with his native
element, the triumphant prince of fire, in all the pride of beauty and
victory.  “Frotho, son of Olave,” said the sweet voice of the spirit;
“bravest among the brave, and wisest of the sons of Odin,—what is thy
will with me?  Tax my gratitude, preserver; ask, and obtain thy wishes.”
Frotho waited for no further encouragement, but directly stated his
wishes to reign alone in Denmark, and sweep off all the collaterals of
his house, who were such bars to his glory.  “Thy brother’s life I give
thee,” said the spirit; “destroy him when thou wilt, but be cautious to
keep it secret: his elder son shall in vain endeavour to oppose thee—I
will baffle his claim, and proclaim thee sole monarch in Denmark; but
touch not the life of Haldane; he has offended Lok, and the god demands
the victim, whom he will receive from no mortal hand: for Harold the
younger, do with him as thou wilt, but, if thou spare his life, he shall
have no power to harm thee; go—reign—prosper;—nothing shall do thee wrong
till thyself shall fulfil a decree which is gone forth respecting thee;
thou shall prosper till thy hand shall unite thy own blood to that of thy
deadliest foe: beware of this, and triumph.”  “Prince of the powers of
Niftheim,” said Frotho, “surely Harold, my brother, is my deadliest foe,
and he has no daughter to whom I can give my son; but I will be mindful
of thy words, and remember thy warning.”  The spirit then desired him,
should any event disturb his tranquillity, to come to the cavern and
strike thrice upon the side where stood the iron cage: “Biorno shall meet
thee,” continued he, “and yield thee, in my name, such help as thou
mayest require;” then, slowly and silently encircling himself in the
clouds which surrounded him, he gradually disappeared from the sight of
Frotho, leaving the cavern illuminated only by the light of the iron lamp
which hung from its centre.  Biorno, too, had vanished, leaving him alone
with Eric Swen, who, now easily awakened from his trance, prepared to
follow his master home, who simply informed his confidant that he had
consulted the magician, who had advised the murder of Harold, and
promised him success in its performance.  This was readily undertaken by
the profligate Eric, who, watching, with a lynx-like assiduity, his
opportunity, plunged his sword in the heart of the unhappy Harold with
such right good will and judgment, that the prince died before he knew he
was wounded: nor was Frotho behind his confederate in the good management
of a difficult affair, and skill in getting out of a dilemma; and this
was especially proved, when the body of Eric Swen, transfixed by a
well-aimed javelin, was found stark and stiff by the side of king Harold,
and Frotho ordered every body to believe that these enemies had fallen in
single combat with each other.

There was one Dane in the court of king Frotho who took the liberty of
believing contrarily to the royal orders; this was the brave Haquin, the
brother-in-law of the two kings, and their favourite general and
minister; he knew Frotho, and he suspected foul play.  He secured the
persons of his murdered master’s two sons, and, giving out that Haldane
should challenge his father’s crown against Frotho, in an assembly of the
states, retired from the court to his own towers, till the nobles should
be pleased to appoint a day for hearing the claim of his ward.  In the
mean time, Haldane himself had not been idle; he employed a good number
of his vacant hours in making tender love to his beautiful cousin, the
young Ildegarda, and laying at her feet the crown which he _was_ to have,
and which Ildegarda accepted, as a thing of course; for she already
considered herself the queen of Denmark.  Haldane was tenderly beloved,
and they each looked forward to the day on which he was to claim his
father’s crown from the ambitious Frotho, as that which was to seal their
love and their happiness.

That day at length arrived; the states, the nobles, the warriors, and a
great part of the troops, were assembled in an open plain, where Frotho,
on his throne, awaited the arrival of his kinsman.  His majesty had
arrayed himself with peculiar splendour for this solemn occasion; his
long hair, now slightly tinged with grey, floated down his back, while
all his face was clean shaven, except his upper lip, which exhibited a
most magnanimous moustache; his breast, arms, and legs were painted in
the brightest blue, and the most fashionable pattern in Denmark; a short
petticoat of lynx skin, fastened round his waist by the paws of the
animal, descended to his knees; and from his shoulders to his heels,
secured round his neck by claws of gold, fell the robe of royal
magnificence, the mantle made of the skins of many ermines; his feet were
defended by shoes of the sable of the black fox; his neck was ornamented
by a chain of gold, and the regal circle of the same precious metal shone
through his locks around his temples; on his left arm was a target of
leather, studded with brass nails of unusual brightness and immense
value; in his right hand he held the sceptre; he sat upon a throne
covered with the hides of wolves, and over his head floated, in proud
sublimity, the standard of Denmark, the raven.

People may talk as long as they please about innate dignity and the
majesty of mind, but the majesty of fine clothes has a much greater
influence upon popular opinion,—else wherefore that elderly proverb which
sayeth that “fine feathers make fine birds?”  Every body knows that king
Herod’s silver petticoat made the stupid mob of Judea mistake him for a
god; and on this day, so important to Haldane, Frotho’s amazing
magnificence made _his_ people mistake him for a hero.  So strong ran the
tide of popular opinion, that when Haldane, simply habited, mounted on
his snow-white steed, and only attended by Haquin and a few of his
father’s friends, rode up the area, they scarcely deigned (though he was
rich in all the pride of youth and graceful beauty) to consider him worth
looking at; all eyes were turned to Frotho’s painted waistcoat and superb
ermine cloak; and Haldane also beheld, with extreme disgust, that all his
own friends, and the warriors favourable to his claims, who had fought by
his side under his father’s banner, had been carefully excluded from the
council, which he beheld supplied by the creatures of his uncle; he saw
that his cause was lost before he could say a word: he was not daunted
nevertheless; he demanded his right from Frotho, who, refusing to admit
his claim, was challenged by the youth to decide the quarrel on the spot.
“The states and the troops are present,” said the prince; “let them be
witnesses of this combat, which thy ungenerous ambition must render
mortal: if thou desirest a double crown, shew that thou knowest how to
defend it; descend from thy throne, meet me fairly, and let Denmark be
the reward of the conqueror.”  Slowly, very slowly, king Frotho rose from
his throne, for he saw that something was expected of him: although not
precisely a coward, he had no mind to encounter his nephew, whose feats
of arms he well knew: and earnestly and anxiously he put up a prayer to
Surter to remember his promise, and baffle his kinsman in this trying
emergency.  Surter was not deaf; for scarcely had the monarch put forth
one leg for the purpose of descending from his throne, ere a wonder
attracted the attention of the whole assembly; the sound of rushing wings
was heard from a distance, and slowly, sailing steadily through the clear
air towards his point, appeared a gigantic raven: black as the shining
locks of Odin was the magnificent and stately bird, who, tranquilly
passing over the multitude, suspended himself in air over the head of
Frotho, and, hovering steadily above him, clapped his enormous pinions in
triumph.  Haldane suspected a trick—Haquin was startled—but the multitude
beheld a miracle, and the will of Odin clearly expressed by his own
particular messenger: the bird hovered in the air a few moments, to
witness the general acknowledgment of Frotho, then, amidst the deafening
shouts of the people, ascended slowly upwards, cleaved through the
clouds, and vanished.

Haldane stood apart, during the scene, in proud contempt of the
ingratitude of his people; and the multitude were making too terrific an
uproar to allow his few friends one word in his favour.  Frotho, pleased
by the timely aid of Surter, was grateful for the first time in his life;
and, remembering the commands of the spirit, abstained from taking what
he yet scarcely knew how to spare, the hated life of Haldane.  Assuming
an air of paternal interest and kindness, he bade the young prince retire
from his presence and kingdom, without fear of molestation.  “Son of my
brother,” said he, “seek another kingdom for thy rule, this the gods have
given to Frotho; retire peaceably, and take with thee what part of my
treasure thou wilt.”  “The crown, then,” boldly replied the prince; “for
what is there, traitor! in thy power to bestow, that is not already mine
by right?  No! mean-souled coward!  I scorn thy courtesy, and I defy thy
anger.”  But this gallant resistance availed nothing in a lost cause; his
own party counselled him, for the present, to get out of the reach of
Frotho’s javelin; and, too wise to disdain advice alike given by friends
and enemies, he obeyed their wishes, and, after taking a tender leave of
his betrothed Ildegarda, and promising to claim her as a king, withdrew
to Sweden to solicit aid from its warlike monarch in defence of his
title,—aid which he did not receive; for king Frotho soon after received
notice that he had been murdered on that inhospitable coast soon after
his landing, and, as it could never be ascertained by whom, Frotho
silently congratulated himself upon the sure and ready vengeance of his
ally and divinity, Surter.  Haquin, alarmed by this circumstance, and
more than ever suspecting the honesty of king Frotho, withdrew from court
with the young Harold, now the sole surviving son of his murdered master,
and, proclaiming him lawful king of Denmark, set up his standard in the
heart of the country.  Many powerful nobles, disgusted by the cruel
brutality of his uncle, immediately joined him; and Frotho, frightened by
danger into valour, and relying upon the promises of Surter, put himself
at the head of his troops, and prepared for a civil war.

Many skirmishes took place between the hostile powers, though nothing
very decisive occurred; but the troops of Frotho had generally the
advantage, and always when the king commanded in person.  Joy of this
discovery nearly upset his majesty; he began to think himself a great
general as well as a gallant warrior: he got exceedingly drunk with some
of his old cronies who had made the discovery, and, during the deep sleep
which followed this little extravagance, Haquin attacked his camp, beat
his generals, carried off his son Sevald a prisoner, and nearly seized
upon his sacred majesty himself, who knew nothing at all of the matter.
Poor Sevald was marched off for the camp of the enemy, in a transport of
sorrow and despair.

“Be not offended, prince,” said the good Haquin to him when he was
brought before him in his tent,—“be not offended that the chance of war
has placed thy person in my custody for a season; it is no dishonour to
be the prisoner of Haquin.  Our war is with thy father, not with thee;
and should Harold succeed, even to the slaying of his uncle, he will
never wrong thee, but yield thee thy just right, a second throne in
Denmark: be not disturbed therefore at the slight accident of this war.”
This was kindly meant, but it entirely failed in its purpose, and Sevald
would have still continued to grieve if he had not discovered that fair
princesses are better comforters than old soldiers.  He learned that his
lovely cousin Ildegarda was in the camp of her father, and he concluded
that things were not quite so bad as they might have been.  Sevald
admired his fair kinswoman extremely, and, as Haldane’s death had set her
free, he worked out the prettiest little romantic scheme possible for
putting an end to the horrors of civil war and restoring peace to
Denmark: he determined to entreat his father to give him Ildegarda for
his bride, to adopt Harold as his partner, and thus to reconcile all
parties to his ascendancy; but, unhappily for poor Sevald’s delightful
scheme, all the persons concerned in it were, though for different
reasons, materially against it.  Ildegarda, true to the memory of
Haldane, would listen to no second love,—Haquin, faithful to the cause he
had adopted, would rather have consigned his daughter to the grave than
to the arms of a son of Frotho,—and the Danish monarch would entirely
have lost the little wit he possessed, at the bare possibility of such a
destructive union as that of his own blood with that of his deadliest
foe, for such now had the father of Ildegarda become to him.  When he did
hear it, he grew absolutely wild with terror and rage; he imprecated the
most deadly curses upon his son, should he venture to espouse his cousin;
and flew off like a madman to the cave of Biorno in the forest, to
consult him in this most desperate emergency.  He found the sorcerer at
home, and willing to assist him, which he civilly did by the best advice
in his power; he desired him to return to his camp and attack the troops
of Haquin, promising to commit that leader, his daughter, and prince
Sevald, safely into his custody; at the same time hinting that, as Surter
had done as much for his friend as could decently be expected, he need
not call upon him for further assistance, which, unless from his own
imprudence, he would not need, and Lok had prohibited them from
supplying.  Frotho thanked him for past favours and present services,
and, promising to demand nothing more for the future, they parted good
friends, though not to meet again in this world at least, whatever might
happen in the other.  Frotho had no sooner reached his camp, than he
hastened to profit by his friend’s advice, and instantly experienced its
salutary effects; he defeated his antagonists in a pitched battle,
recovered his son Sevald, and, to his infinite joy, possessed himself of
the persons of Haquin and his daughter, though Harold escaped in the
battle, and hid himself securely from the pursuit of his enemy.  Had
Frotho followed the suggestions of his own cruel heart, he would have
decided Haquin’s destiny at once by taking off his head; but, fearful of
his nobles, who held the chief in high esteem, and having likewise no
hope of discovering Harold, except through his friend, he resolved to
spare his existence, but to keep him in close imprisonment with his
daughter, whose influence over Sevald he still dreaded, and whom, as the
daughter of his sister, he dared not injure farther.  The poor prince
wept bitterly over his ruined hopes, and Frotho rejoiced at the
delightful consummation of his: he enjoyed himself in his own way,
killing and drinking by turns,—till, in a fit of madness and
extravagance, he impiously declared that he had a Valhalla of his own,
which he would not change for Odin’s, upon any terms that divinity could
offer.  Every thing was happiness in the palace, and Frotho was the most
mischievous and merry of kings.



PART II.
THE ISLE OF THE MAELSTROM.


    What have we here? a Man or a Fish?—Legged like a Man, and his fins
    like arms.  SHAKESPEARE.

“EVERY sweet hath its sour,” saith a very respectable old ballad,—and
truly there is wisdom in the saying.  King Frotho’s sanctity, as a
crowned prince of the holy race of Odin, became at this period, for the
first time, somewhat of an inconvenience to him.  In the midst of his
festivities, howls and cries penetrated to his palace, and reached his
ears, though surrounded by buzzing flatterers, and rendered dizzy by
strong potations.  His people of Norway were unhappy, and they called
upon their common father to relieve their misery.  A pest had arisen
among them which no one could conquer, for no one knew how to attack: the
frightful whirlpool of the Maelstrom had a guest, and the desolate island
of Moskoe an inhabitant; it was neither man, beast, bird, nor fish, that
had taken up his residence in this part of his Danish majesty’s
dominions, but a most extraordinary compound monster, possessing all the
faculties of each of these several creations.  As he had his little
island entirely to himself, the want of society suggested to him an
expedient by way of amusement, and also of remedying this evil—he
employed his leisure in making descents upon the Norwegian coast, and
carrying off the grown inhabitants, four or five at a time, and the
little children by dozens, whom he devoured with as little remorse as he
would young rabbits or dried herrings.  The people were terrified, and
the nobles began to bestir themselves; they sent out armed men in
well-built boats, headed by an able leader, and desired them to bring in
the monster prisoner; but the lord of the Maelstrom, so far from being
brought to consent to this arrangement, exactly reversed the orders of
the Norwegian ministry, for he sunk all their boats, and carried their
crews prisoners to his island.  Frotho heard this pitiful tale with much
indifference, till they besought him to go in person against their enemy,
well knowing that no magic or infernal power could succeed against the
race of Odin;—then he sprung up in alarm, and declining, in his own
person, all pretensions to superior sanctity, sent one of his best
generals with a band of his own chosen troops, in two gallant vessels, to
seize or destroy the monster.  All Norway assembled on the coast to
witness their successes; they saw the ships sail gallantly on, and, on
the opposite coast, the giant monster rush into the waves to meet them.
With a strength against which they could not contend, he seized the
luckless vessels, drew them coolly and steadily on to the frightful gulf
of the Maelstrom, and then, swimming back to his island, left the noble
ships to be sucked into the frightful bosom of the gulf.—The waves swept
over them, and the tale of their deeds was told.

Frotho was frightened into sobriety when this news reached him; Denmark
became as clamorous as Norway in the matter, and he was compelled to
promise that he would exert his sanctity, and go in person to the attack
of the monster: but he delayed as long as he possibly could, and, under
pretence of making preparations, gave the fiend of the Maelstrom time to
eat half the children in Norway.  At length “delays became dangerous”
even to Frotho himself; he was obliged to depart, and, well armed, well
guarded, and well attended by a resolute band of the bravest of his
nobles and chiefs, set sail, on a fine sunny day, for the desolate isle
of the Maelstrom.  His magnanimous majesty could not, however, help
shivering at the first glance of the island; but he took courage, on
remarking that the beast did not come out to meet him, nor advance to the
attack as in the former instance; so he landed in good spirits on the
island, promising himself immortal glory in his conquest.  A sufficient
band was left in charge of the vessels, and Frotho, with his chiefs, went
boldly forward into the island.

In the first few miles there was nothing to astonish them; rugged rocks,
a roaring sea, and desolate naked heaths, were all that greeted the
travellers: they had expected nothing else, for the Moskoe was well known
to most of the party, and had never been suspected of sheltering a
paradise in its bosom.  Such, however, to their boundless astonishment,
the heroes now found to be the case.  A beautiful country arose amidst
the desolate isle; and, after the first five miles, hills, dales, fertile
valleys, richly wooded groves, and sparkling rivers, said a thousand
smiling good-morrows to the travellers.  The scene was too charming to
terrify, else the total absence of anything like human inhabitants might
have been sufficient to startle king Frotho, and make him doubt whether
all was as it should be in this particular part of his dominion.  There
was a total silence around them, unbroken, save by the sweet warblings of
birds, or now and then the light foot of the flying deer, as, scared by
the clatter of their arms, they fled from them into the forests.  Thus
they proceeded till they arrived before the gates of a majestic palace of
black marble, whose open portals courteously invited them to enter.
Frotho paused—so did his nobles; it was finer than any thing in Denmark;
infinitely larger, grander, bolder, blacker, than the palace of Sandaal,
the royal residence of king Frotho himself,—so that it was clear no human
hands had reared it: but whose hands had?—a puzzling question, which king
Frotho would not take upon himself to answer.

But the portals stood invitingly wide open, and king Frotho was waxing
weary; so, without any further debate or permission demanded, they
marched into a stately hall, where invisible cooks had made successful
preparation for a magnificent supper; Frotho looked and longed.  There
was venison, noble venison of the flesh of the elk, roasted wild boar,
and a cistern of excellent fish delicately stewed in whale fat; there was
a bowl of hydromel, in which king Frotho might have been drowned, and
another of milk, that might have served him for a bath:—in short, the
temptation was too great for the tempted; and though king Frotho well
knew the danger incurred, even by a son of Odin, in tasting enchanted
food, yet he could not resist the whale fat and the hydromel.  “The
monster certainly expected me,” said he to his attendants.  “He is
willing to make his peace with you,” said they to the king.  “It would be
uncivil not to taste his good cheer,” said the master.  “Let us shew that
we accept his submission,” replied the servants.  So they all sat down
with one accord to the feast, and ate, and drank, and were merry.

The bowl of hydromel was empty—Frotho was looking into it disconsolately
with one eye (for the other was asleep), and growing angry with his
nobles, who had assisted him too heartily, and been over-zealous in
obeying his commands to pledge him to the health of their entertainer.
After grumbling and growling for some time over the huge and now
dismal-looking bowl, his majesty took it into his head to be displeased
with the inattention of his host, who had failed to remark and replenish,
as he ought to have done, the empty bowl of departed hydromel.  “Lord
beast of the island,” said his majesty, at length, having thought till
his thirst grew intolerable; “lord beast of the island, I will permit
thee to be viceroy in Moskoe, but thou must not spare thy hydromel when
thy master deigns to visit thee.  For thy good cheer, I thank thee; thy
meat is of the best, and abundant, but, by the burning wheel on Balder’s
breast, thy drink was scanty; and I command thee hither to supply me with
more.”  A rumbling of thunder and a long terrific howl was the answer to
the speech of the monarch.  Frotho shivered with affright, for he thought
he recognised, amid the uproar, the voices of his old acquaintances the
illustrious snake and wolf, cousins of his sorcerer friend Biorno; and,
as he was a little diffident of their conduct, notwithstanding his
services to Surter, he did not altogether relish the meeting, under
present circumstances; so, ensconcing himself in the centre of his
gallant little band of valiant warriors, he patiently awaited what was to
be the second part of his entertainment.  This was settled in an instant;
neither Fenris nor Midgard broke upon the supper party of the monarch,
but a being more horrible than either, and infinitely more hideous than
his or any imagination had already conceived of the monster of the
Maelstrom gulf.  A stern gigantic shape entered the hall, and stood
steadily face to face with king Frotho and his nobles: his features were
frightfully flat, and two sunken fiery eyes shot terrific glances from a
visage almost entirely covered with dark and grisly hair; long black elf
locks hung down upon his shoulders, huge teeth grinned through his grisly
beard, and his fingers and feet were furnished with claws which were
worthy of Nebuchadnezzar himself; his enormous body was covered with
black bear-skins, so disposed as to serve him for a whole suit; and his
huge hand grasped a monstrous club, which seemed very desirous of a
nearer acquaintance with his majesty of Denmark’s brains.  The monster
contemplated the group for a moment in silence; he suffered them even to
draw their swords and advance exactly one step towards him, when he
suddenly lifted his terrible club, and, without striking a single blow,
laid them all prostrate at his feet.  He then approached king Frotho; the
son of Olave shrunk from the uplifted club, and bellowed out, in terror
and haste, that he was the king of Denmark.  “And thy errand?” said the
monster.  King Frotho was silent.  “I know it,” observed the spectre;
“and for its presumption, but for one thing which I expect of thee, would
bind thy trembling feet for ever to the spot where thou standest staring
at me.  Hark thee! thou fool of Surter’s making! who hopest to overcome
the invincible by human arms,—hear, and obey what I shall command thee.
I do not hate thee, and would not harm thee, for thou art the friend of
Lok; but my wrath against the kingdoms must be appeased, and my divinity
acknowledged.  I demand thy daughter.  A spotless virgin of royal blood
must come voluntarily hither to be sacrificed on this island, and thou
must conduct her: do this, and henceforth I too am thy friend; neglect
it, and my thunders shall shake thy palace of Sandaal, and this club dash
out thy brains and scatter them over thy sovereign throne.”

King Frotho looked aghast—not at the condition of his safety, but his
utter inability to fulfil it—there was no cheating such an enemy as
this—so he told him the plain truth, that he had no daughter, and humbly
apologised for the want of one.  The monster yelled at him, and again
lifted up his club.  Frotho, in agony, besought him to have pity, and
then suddenly recollected that he had a niece who was his prisoner, and
whom he very readily offered to his disposal.  The monster hesitated;—at
length, in reply to Frotho’s earnest entreaties, he consented to spare
his life, upon condition that, in the space of twenty days, he should
land the princess on the island, and deliver her safely into his hands,
to be sacrificed by his own high priest in his palace; and promising,
should Frotho fail in his engagement, on the very next day, to shake
Sandaal about his ears, and dish up his carcass as a meal for Midgard.
Frotho sealed his promise with a solemn oath, and the monster dismissed
him with a kick on the throne-honouring part of his person, which sent
him not only through the palace gates, but one mile forward in his
journey to the coast, which long before he had gained, his panting train
overtook him, being driven out by the lord beast, to wait upon and
console their disgraced and afflicted master.

King Frotho had no intention, rogue as he was, to cozen the Moskoe
monster; on the contrary, he was desirous to obtain his friendship and
forbearance towards his subjects and the little Norwegian children for
whom he had evinced such cannibal prepossessions.  He was not sorry,
either, so effectually to dispose of Ildegarda, whose union with his son
he had such good reason to fear.  The difficulty would be to persuade the
princess to go voluntarily to be eaten.  He was ingenious
however—naturally fertile in expedients—and he soon hit upon a method of
persuasion which he deemed infallible: he told the poor princess that the
monster demanded her or her father as prisoners; that he allowed her to
choose, and if she thought proper to decline, he should ship off old
Haquin immediately, to be stewed in whale fat, and served up for supper
with milk sauce, according to the pleasure of the monster, in the marble
palace of Moskoe: for his own part, in relation to herself, he pretended
he did not clearly understand to what the lord of the island had destined
her, but he hoped nothing so terrible as a roast or a hash.  Ildegarda
wept, but came into the scheme quicker than Frotho had anticipated.
Haldane was dead, and her father’s life in danger; by the sacrifice of
her own, which was now really become indifferent to her, she could at
least preserve the last of these beloved beings, and therefore she did
not hesitate.  Making Frotho swear a tremendous oath (which she knew no
Dane dared break), to release her father on his return from Moskoe, she
prepared to accompany the king, and, in less than twenty days, Frotho and
his beautiful victim landed on the island, and prepared to march to the
black palace alone.

They had not proceeded far on their journey, when their progress was
arrested by the appearance of a singular cavalcade coming to meet them;
this consisted of a magnificently painted chariot, drawn by four
snow-white rein-deer, each of whom, to the astonishment of Ildegarda, had
feet of pure gold: behind it came the monster-man himself, mounted upon a
coal-black steed of extraordinary size and beauty, who pawed the earth
impatiently, and, snorting and foaming as he reared, threw his
magnificent mane from side to side, as if weary of the slight restraint
which his rider appeared to impose upon him;—the latter had now a
bear-skin cap upon his head, on the top of which sat a monstrous raven,
decorating it by way of crest; and another on his wrist, with infinite
grace and gravity, seemed ready to serve him in quality of falcon
extraordinary.  The cavalcade paused on remarking the strangers; and the
grim monster, advancing to Frotho, sternly demanded, “Comes the maid
willingly?”  “She does,” replied Frotho; “and”—But the monster no longer
gave him any attention: he did not even look at Ildegarda, but, bending
his head down, towards his horse’s ears, gravely and mildly asked, “Steed
of heaven, art thou weary?”  “No,” replied the horse; “but I have to-day
been so long upon the earth, that its gross air is beginning to affect
me—the sod is heavy to my feet, and somewhat checks my swiftness: let me
relieve my legs, I pray thee.”  The strange monster nodded his grisly
head in reply, and Frotho beheld the courser slowly and deliberately draw
up his four black legs, and let down three white ones in their places.
The king began now to guess his company; “It is the wondrous steed of
Odin,” said he in a whisper to Ildegarda; “the immortal eight-legged
Sleipner: but what is he who rides him?”  The princess had no time to
answer this question, even had she been able, for the monster seemed
determined to have all the conversation to himself.  He spoke to the
raven on his head: “Hugo,” said he, “take the reins, guide my rein-deer
smoothly, and conduct the lady to the palace: and you, Mumin,” added he
to the bird on his wrist, “hasten homewards, and see that all be prepared
for the victim.”  At these terrible words, the tears of Ildegarda began
to flow, and Frotho prepared himself to make a speech.  The monster
heeded neither the one nor the other, but nodded to Ildegarda to ascend
the chariot, which when she had done, he turned round to Frotho, lifted
up his terrible club, and exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, “Go!”  It was
but one word, but the tone and the action weighed more than five hundred
with Frotho, who, fearing to hear it repeated, darted from the party, and
set sail for Denmark without once looking behind him.

In the mean time, Ildegarda was conducted by her ill-looking escort to
the marble palace, and left by him in the same hall in which Frotho had
rested on his first arrival: here, too, she found a supper prepared for
her, though in a somewhat different taste from the former; but the
princess had no inclination to eat—indeed she felt determined not to be
fattened before killing, and threw herself upon the earth in a paroxysm
of grief and despair.  Suddenly, soft and sweet music broke upon her ear,
and the beautiful voice of some holy unseen thing thus sung soothingly to
her sorrow:—

   When the thunder-bolt cleaveth
      The trembling sky—
   When the mad ocean heaveth
      His wild waves on high—
   When the coiling snake waketh
      From the heaving earth curled
   And upreareth and shaketh
      An agonised world—

   When his coil thrice he foldeth
      Around the night-born,
   Till the gazer beholdeth
      Red blood fill her horn—
   When Valkyries scatter
      The clouds which they tear,
   And their steed hoof’s loud clatter
      Is heard in the air—

   When on oak tops the trampling
      Of their hoofs echo loud,
   While their snorting and champing
      Is lost in the cloud—
   When wizards are breaking
      The sleep of the dead,
   And the shadows are waking
      From each gory bed—

   When the dog of hell howleth,
      As the sheeted dead glide
   Where the queen of death scowleth,
      Grim Fenris beside—
   When Surter assembleth
      The lost round his throne—
   Then the murderer trembleth,
      And the murderer alone.

   But then, guiltless beauty,
      What hast thou to fear?
   All owe thee their duty,
      All homage thee here:
   The life thou hast given
      The immortals will claim;
   And Rinda in heaven
      Stamps thy star-written name.

The princess listened in breathless astonishment, and, when the sweet
sounds died away, spoke in cheerful tones to the friendly singer.
“Thanks, gentle magician,” said she aloud; “I submit to the pleasure of
Odin, and will not be ungrateful for thy anxiety; see, I will partake of
thy hospitality, and then retire to rest confident in thy gracious
protection.”  Ildegarda then ate something of the repast, and the moment
she had concluded, the dishes and bowls retired of themselves from the
table, without any assistance, through the doors and windows of the
palace.  While she was lost in astonishment at this singular attendance,
the doors on the opposite side of the hall opened of themselves, and she,
supposing it a summons for her attention, immediately passed through
them, and heard them close behind her.  She traversed several stately
rooms, till at length she stood in one more magnificent than the rest,
and which, from the circumstance of the doors closing when she entered
it, she concluded was designed by her host for her chamber.  Grateful for
his indulgence, she determined to accept his courtesy, and threw herself
down upon her couch to sleep: satisfied, she reviewed the events of the
day, and found she had little reason to complain.  “I could even be
happy,” said Ildegarda, “if I were assured of the safety of my father.”
The wish was instantly gratified; a large curtain on the opposite side
was suddenly withdrawn, and, represented on a magic mirror, the princess
beheld her father in his own palace, conversing earnestly with his
attendants.  The vision lasted but a few moments—the curtain fell again
before the mirror, and Ildegarda, in a transport of gratitude, thanked
aloud the courteous monster, who thus sought, as he had promised, to
offer her the homage most pleasing to her feelings.

Ildegarda now tried to compose her spirits to sleep,—the pale moon had
risen over the island, and was pouring a flood of calm cold light into
each apartment of the palace,—suddenly, her beams were eclipsed by a
light so glorious that the senses of the princess ached as she
contemplated the wonder; she looked up to discover the cause, but
mortality drooped under its excess of glory, and she bent downwards
towards the earth; a soft voice called upon her name, but the princess
could not reply; then the beautiful being, who was resting upon the
light, beheld the embarrassment of her beloved, and, dismissing part of
the effulgence by which she was surrounded, stood visible to the mortal
sight, and Ildegarda beheld her beloved goddess, the guardian of her
youth, the divine object of her innocent worship, the radiant Rinda, the
daughter of the sun, the beloved of Odin and Freya.

Ildegarda bent her brow still lower to the earth, and kissed the fringe
of the mantle of her goddess; then the most lovely of those lovely
beings, who float on their ether thrones round the domes of Valasciolf,
spoke tenderly to the fairest of her worshippers.  “Thou hast done well
and wisely,” said the daughter of heaven to the child of earth, “in thus
offering thy life for thy father and thy country, and thou hast not
disappointed my hope; I carried up the perfume of the holy deed to the
foot of the throne of Odin; pleased, he took it from my hand, clothed it
in light, and placing it on a branch of Hydrasil, the tree of heaven,
bade it blow and expand into an immortal flower, to commemorate thy
virtue, and remind him of thy deserving.  Child of my love—hope all—fear
nothing—endure with patience—and thy reward shall be most glorious.”  The
goddess then recalled around her the extended beams of light, and,
concentrating their brightness round her person, again became
insupportably effulgent to human vision; in the next instant she was
gone, and the glory she had left died away when unfed by her presence.

How sweet was the sleep of Ildegarda that night, and how blessed was her
awakening on the morrow!  Morning, the gay bride of Balder, beheld her
descend joyfully to the hall, after adorning her lovely person with an
elegant dress, selected from many, which the unseen hands of her watchful
attendants had placed in her apartment for that purpose.  Arrived in the
hall, she expressed a wish to breakfast; and instantly the courteous
dishes glided in from doors and windows to the table, attended by a
grave-looking bowl of milk, which steadily sailed on till it placed
itself in the centre, where it remained till the princess, by rising from
table, dismissed its services for the present.  She then roamed through
the vast gardens of this beautiful place, and talked to the birds and the
deer, fondly hoping and expecting that they were enchanted princes and
princesses, and, like the black horse whom she beheld on her arrival,
endowed with the faculty of speech; but, after much conversation on her
own part, she was compelled to resign this pleasing illusion, and believe
that they were merely real birds and real deer, who could only sing and
leap.  She then returned to the palace, wandered over its spacious
apartments, and amused herself by counting the passages and doors.  Still
the day went off heavily, even with the aid of these time-killing
pastimes; and when the hour of supper arrived, the princess welcomed it
as sincerely as if hunger had been the instigator of the pleasure her
countenance expressed; she seated herself at the table, and was earnestly
and anxiously employed in coaxing the birds to partake of it,—when a loud
clap of thunder shook the palace to its foundation, and terrified all
appetite from the poor princess.  She had hardly time to think of its
cause, ere it became apparent, for the monster-man himself entered the
hall, and clad in his customary dress, stood still in the middle of the
apartment.  Although his appearance was as usual, yet his manner was
entirely different, for his step was slow and irresolute, and his voice
mild and timid; he scarcely ventured to look up as he asked, in a humble
and supplicating manner, if the princess would permit him to pay his duty
while she supped.  Ildegarda, somewhat re-assured by his gentleness,
requested him to use his pleasure in a place where unquestionably all
things were at his disposal.  “Not so, gracious lady,” replied the
courteous monster; “I will not stay in your presence, but with your
express permission: my power I cede to your beauty and virtue, and am
content myself to be the first subject of so lovely a sovereign.”  This
gallant speech was made with so much humility and respect, that Ildegarda
was not alarmed by its tenderness; and the monster, to shew (after she
had granted permission) how highly he valued this trifling favour, and
how little he was disposed to encroachment, declined the seat which,
after a struggle, she offered him, and seated himself upon the ground, at
a considerable distance from her.  Touched by this humble homage and
generous delicacy of a being so powerful, and at whose mercy she so
entirely was, the princess so far conquered her abhorrence, as to present
him with food and drink; the former he declined, but he took the
again-summoned bowl of milk from her snowy hand, and, with a gesture of
respectful gratitude, tasted the balmy liquor, as if to indulge her wish.
At length, after a long silence, he asked her if she could be happy in
the island? “I hope so,” replied the princess; “But will you tell me, sir
sorcerer, what has thus singularly changed my destiny?  I came hither to
die—yet I live,—and anxiety is even manifested by my enemy for my
happiness.  How am I to understand these contradictions?”  “Call me not
your enemy, beautiful Ildegarda,” replied the monster, “for that I have
not been; destiny had decreed you to be a victim, though not of death; I
am but its instrument to work out its intentions; the sacrifice of your
liberty only was demanded, and your generous resignation of life itself
has impelled me to love your worth, and lighten, as far as my power will,
the burthen of your sorrows.  I cannot release you from this rock, but I
can surround you with pleasures, and render your bondage supportable.”
Ildegarda was pleased with this explanation, and, after thanking her host
for his generous intentions, withdrew to her chamber, though not till she
had accorded to Brandomann (for that he had told her was his name)
permission to attend her on the next evening to supper: this was an
honour she would gladly have declined,—but she felt it would be
ungracious, and that he had some right to calculate upon her
complaisance.  The next night came, and Brandomann was
punctual—conducting himself in the same timid manner—though, observing
the dislike of Ildegarda towards him, he put an end to the interview
earlier than usual, and quitted her presence in sorrow.  The princess was
sad that she had inflicted pain, yet she could not but hope that the
hideous being would not again seek her society.  In this she was
disappointed;—he came at night, as before, and seated himself silent and
sorrowfully at her feet; he spoke not, and scarcely ventured to look at
her, till she, affected by his grief, offered him the bowl and bade him
drink; he took it with a smile—the poor monster intended it so, but the
frightful grin which distorted his features was so odious, that Ildegarda
sickened with affright, and heartily repented her condescension.
Brandomann understood her disgust.  “Ildegarda,” he said mournfully, “I
too well know how justly I must be an object of abhorrence to the eye of
beauty; I will not give you pain therefore—though it will destroy the
only happiness I have ever enjoyed, I will intrude no more into your
presence,—I will not destroy the little felicity which fate has left
you.”  He arose to retire; but the generosity of the princess overcame
her reluctance,—she was not proof against his noble self-denial,—and,
rising hastily from her seat, she requested, entreated,—nay, commanded
him to continue his visits.  Brandomann was but too happy to obey; and he
retired comforted from her presence.  The next night Brandomann was not
so silent—he exerted himself to amuse and interest his lovely prisoner;
and he succeeded admirably when he spoke of the present state of
Denmark—the disorders of the king—the disappearance of both the princes,
sons of Harold—and the courage and integrity of her noble father; upon
this theme he discoursed till tears of pleasure filled the eyes of the
princess, whom he repeatedly assured of Haquin’s safety.  “Should you
wish a confirmation of the intelligence which I give you,” continued
Brandomann, “on the first day of every month examine the magic mirror in
your chamber; it will satisfy your curiosity, by representing your father
and his employments; but only at that time must you consult it.”  Still
Brandomann continued to talk, and Ildegarda to listen, till she forgot to
wish for the hour of separation, and even suffered the monster to retire
first; the next day she grew weary ere evening, and waited with something
like impatience for the supper hour: it came at last, and Brandomann with
it, who perceived, by the reception she gave him, that he was no longer
so unwelcome a guest as formerly.  Animated by this belief, he again
exerted all his powers to interest the princess; he related to her the
early history of her country, and the exploits of the greatest heroes,
her ancestors of the race of Odin; he then went on to discourse of the
Scaldres, their singular union, their mystic occupations, and their
magnificent poems; he himself, he remarked to her, was of this privileged
order, and, without wearying her attention, recited some of his own
composition and those of his noble brethren.  Ildegarda was charmed by
his discourses.  Balder had touched his lips with eloquence, and Brage
had rendered his voice melodious, and many words flowed over his lips,
sweet, yet powerful, as a torrent of silvery waters.  The princess was
pleased while she only listened,—when she looked, the spell was broken.



PART III.
THE GUESTS.


    Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

                                                     SHAKSPEARE—_Tempest_.

DAY after day thus glided on without much variation, though not so
heavily as formerly.  One evening Brandomann said to her, “Your mornings
must still be wearisome to you; perhaps it might give you pleasure to
travel around this little island; when such shall be your wish, summon
aloud your carriage, with the snow-white deer, (that which brought you
hither,) and it will instantly attend your command.”  The princess was
impatient, till the next morning gave her an opportunity of indulging
this new pleasure;—for when our pleasures are few, every little variation
is hailed as a new one;—she sprung lightly from her couch, and, with
beaming eyes and a throbbing heart, ascended her chariot, which, at her
wish, waited at the gates of the marble palace.  For some hours she was
delighted to be borne swiftly by the coursers of light through flowery
vales and blooming gardens; but at length grew weary of the silence and
monotony which every where surrounded her, and the inability to utter or
reply to an observation.  The deer looked at her with their intelligent
eyes, and seemed to understand her feelings.  “Yes, turn then, my lovely
deer,” she replied in answer to their silent interrogatory; “bear me
again to my home.”  She entered the marble hall.  It was many days since
she no longer startled at the clap of thunder which announced the
approach of Brandomann, and now she heard it with pleasure.  “You have
been amused to-day,” said he to her as he entered.  “Not much,” she
replied; “although I blush to say so; I would be happy if I could, yet I
cannot help feeling that solitude is melancholy.”  “Alas! yes,” replied
the lord of the Maelstrom; “but there are companions to whom it is
preferable.  If I did not fear offending by my presumption.”—He was
eagerly interrupted by Ildegarda, who accepted the embryo offer with
delight; and her manner had such an effect upon the monster, that again
the princess repented her condescension.  He made ample amends for his
hideous joy, however, on the following day, when attending Ildegarda on
her journey, by his timid and gentle modesty.  Mounted on his coal-black
steed, he respectfully followed her brilliant chariot, and never, except
in answer to her summons, ventured to approach her side.  The princess
was naturally generous, and this conduct secured her confidence.  She now
encouraged him to converse, called him frequently to her side, and took
pleasure in calling forth and listening to his observations.  On their
return to the palace, a huge raven flew down from a tree upon the
shoulder of Brandomann, and whispered something in his ear; the latter
immediately turned to Ildegarda: “Princess,” he said, “the only friends
who ever enliven this solitude by visiting me, are now on the island;
will you permit them to attend you at supper?”  Ildegarda consented
joyfully: the thought of once more seeing human beings filled her spirit
with rapture; and, hastening to her apartment, she spent the intervening
time in dressing her lovely person to the utmost advantage, not only for
her own sake, but also to do honour to the taste and generosity of
Brandomann, who had been most lavish in his preparations for her toilet.
At length she descended, and, with a palpitating heart, entered the hall.
At the door she was met by Brandomann himself, who courteously led her
forward to present her to his guests—they rose to receive her—but imagine
the astonishment of Ildegarda!—No words can do justice to her surprise,
as she surveyed the assembled party: neither knight nor lady, spirit nor
fiend, greeted her entrance,—but on one side stood an enormous wild
boar—on the other a beautiful white she-goat—in front stood the
eight-legged steed of Odin—and the two ravens, whom she had seen on her
landing on the island, had perched themselves with infinite gravity upon
Brandomann’s club.  The princess turned to her friend, and was about to
demand an explanation, when she was prevented by the beautiful goat, who,
with an air at once kind and dignified, welcomed her to the island, which
she said was happy under the government of the good Brandomann, the
favourite of Odin, and whom all good spirits loved: the boar made her his
best bow—Sleipner assured her of his devotion—the ravens were happy in
the honour of her acquaintance—and Ildegarda, after replying to each of
these extraordinary visitors, recovered something of her composure, and
smilingly sat down to supper with her company.  She was about to
apologise for the want of proper fare, when she beheld them supplied with
their own particular dishes by the same unseen attendants who so
assiduously waited upon her.  Oats and hay, in a silver manger, were
placed before Sleipner—a huge tray of nuts and acorns sallied in, and
stood stationary at the tusks of the boar—a salad was the supper of the
white goat—and a raw beef-steak was provided for the accommodation of the
ravens.  The princess began to be amused with her situation and company,
and listened to their conversation with considerable interest: Mumin and
Hugo, the raven messengers of Odin, were talking over some of the
divinities of Asgard; and Sleipner mentioned a journey which Thor the
Thunderer intended shortly to take upon his back, to correct the impious
inhabitants of Jutland, who, since the ascension of the murderer Feggo to
his brother’s throne, had totally neglected his worship.  “Is the
murdered prince in Asgard?” demanded Brandomann.  “He has a magnificent
palace in Valasciolf,” replied the huge boar, “where he resides among the
other heroes and the divine family and ministers of Odin, and with them
usually spends his nights at the banquet in Valhalla; but he is not a
favourite warrior there: if he was no more amiable on earth than he is in
heaven, I am not surprised at his wife’s wishing to get rid of him.
Hamlet is also there, and almost as unpopular as his father.  Can you
imagine it possible, he spends all his time with Forsete at Glitner, and
has grown so wise and disputacious, that he is continually instructing
Odin himself; nay, the other morning, just before the sounding for the
combat, he spoke so learnedly to that blind Horror, whom we dare not name
out of heaven, and who is already sufficiently inclined to mischief, that
Thor, provoked, lifted up his mallet to knock out the shadow of his
brains,—but Balder interfered, and his eloquence and Lofna’s smile
restored peace to heaven.”

“And how go on the happy Scaldres;” demanded Brandomann; “what is become
of the unlucky Hiarn, whose skill in singing gained him a crown?”  “He is
singer-in-chief in Valhalla,” replied Sleipner; “and indeed his strains
well deserve this distinction.  But see,” he continued; “the princess
looks to you for an explanation: take your harp, Brandomann, and let it
tell the story of Hiarn.”  “I obey you,” replied the lord of the
Maelstrom; and caught up his harp and sung—

                           THE LEGEND OF HIARN.

   The heart of the monarch was savage and wild,
      And his red hand with life-blood was gory;
   He spared not the matron, he spared not the child,
      Proud youth, nor the head that was hoary.

   Then Hiarn arose—and his melody’s voice,
      As over the wild harp it swept,
   Brought relief to the land, bade its nobles rejoice,
      For the dark monarch listened—and wept!

   And his sorrow was holy, for into his heart
      Those tones tender pity had flung—
   And Fate whisper’d, “Thy soul shall with music depart”—
      So he died, while the sweet harper sung.

   Then Hiarn was king—for the fierce nobles came
      Subdued by his powers alone,
   They crowned his bright brow, proclaimed his great name,
      And lowlily knelt at his throne.

   Then Hiarn was king, and—

“Alackaday!” said the boar, who did not appear to have any very great
taste for music, and who was beginning besides to be weary of
Brandomann’s dismal ditty; “alas! for the poor harper; it is a pity,
after such a glorious opening, the close of his history should have been
so dismal.”  “What was it?” demanded Ildegarda; “tell me, I pray you,
what was the fate of Hiarn?”  “A prince of the blood,” replied the
courteous boar, “the warrior Fridleff, who did not understand music,
challenged the crown from Hiarn: he was too good a musician to make any
thing but a contemptible soldier, so, as might have been expected, he
sunk under the first blow of Fridleff.  But, grieve not for him, charming
princess, he is well rewarded for his short period of suffering; a throne
in Asgard—a palace dome in Valasciolf—are surely higher blessings than
even reigning in Denmark”—“Serimnor!” said the white goat, interrupting
the conversation, and pointing with her horns to the stars, which were
now rapidly gemming the heavens; “see, the lights in the palaces of
Asgard are lit—the deities and heroes are on their way to Valhalla—let us
not keep them waiting, but hasten to supper, lest we should offend the
Highest by our presumption.”  Thus saying, she departed, after a friendly
good-night to the princess, and a promise to spend many evenings with her
in the island.  Serimnor, deeply engaged at that moment in a dispute with
Brandomann about the politics of Jutland, did not remark her departure,
but was reminded of it, to the no small astonishment of Ildegarda, in a
very extraordinary manner; a gigantic pair of hands, the right
brandishing an enormous carving knife, coolly entered the folding doors,
and, seizing the throat of the luckless Serimnor, without any sort of
notice or preparation, cut it from one side to the other, just as he was
pronouncing the names of Harwendil and Feggo, which, from the suddenness
of this manœuvre, burst through the gaping orifice in his throat, instead
of by the usual channel of communication—the mouth.  The terror of
Ildegarda, who had begun to esteem the polite and obliging Serimnor, was
greatly increased by the extraordinary coolness of Brandomann, who stood
looking on as if nothing particular had happened, and only discontinued
his speech when the body of the poor boar was dragged from the apartment
by the murderous pair of hands.  It seemed as if the whole party had been
in a conspiracy to frighten the timid Ildegarda; for, on the
disappearance of the boar, Sleipner started up, and, snorting till fire
darted from his nostrils and eyes, sprung up into the air, and pawing,
and dashing, and foaming, ascended up to the clouds through the roof of
the palace, which parted to give him passage,—while the two ravens flew
screaming out of the window.  Brandomann had disappeared in the bustle,
and, as he did not attend her on the following morning, she waited with
much uneasy impatience for an explanation in the evening: this was given
by the good-natured boar himself, who had marked her anxiety, and hurried
first to the palace in order to relieve it.  He thanked her for the
interest she took in what appeared to be his suffering; “But grieve not,
loveliest of maidens,” said the gallant beast, “at an event which is to
me but the consummation of my glory: every night thus I die without pain,
and my flesh is served up to the banquet of the gods,—while my spirit
enjoys a blissful sleep, from which it awakes in the morning to animate
the same form in which it was clothed the day before.  The beautiful goat
whom you saw, is the immortal Heidruna, whose milk is the hydromel served
up to the table of Odin.  She alone, last night, was punctual to her
engagement, while the rest of the party, enchanted by your beauty, forgot
the hour, and had some difficulty to reach Valhalla in time to avoid the
reproach of Odin.”  Scarcely was this explanation given, ere Heidruna
herself entered, attended by the ravens and Sleipner, who apologised for
their hasty departure the evening before; and a moment after, the clap of
thunder announced the approach of Brandomann.  The whole party now sat
contentedly down to supper, infinitely pleased with themselves and each
other; and perhaps it would have been difficult to find one more happy,
or its members bearing more sincere good will towards each other.  The
next day was the first of the month, and the princess hastened to avail
herself of the magic gift of Brandomann.  With intense anxiety she raised
the curtain, and her heart throbbed with delight to behold her father in
health and spirits, well armed, and travelling, attended by a band of
gallant warriors, who appeared to be anxious for his safety.  Ildegarda
looked at him with rapture, and new feelings of gratitude to Brandomann
gave the evening which followed this happy morning, fresh charms in her
eyes, and made her confinement in the desolate island, with none but the
ugliest of orangutangs for a constant companion, no longer either gloomy
or dreadful.

One morning, while surveying together the beauties of the island in a
sentimental walk, Brandomann asked the princess if she had now entirely
resigned herself to the lot of total seclusion in the island of the
Maelstrom.  “I may, and do sometimes regret the halls of my fathers,”
replied the tender Ildegarda.  “But when I reflect from what miseries my
devotion has preserved my beloved country, and still more beloved father,
I feel that I ought not to complain.  Neither am I insensible of what I
owe to you; and I acknowledge that, without any other motive, your
generous protection of me and care of my happiness deserves the sacrifice
even of these regrets: I am willing to make it, and should even rejoice
in an opportunity that would allow me to convince you of my sincerity.”
“You have, then, (and permit me to say I hope it,) banished from your
heart the remembrance of Haldane?” said the monster.  “Alas! no,” replied
Ildegarda, bursting into tears of tenderness at his recollection; “that
can I never do; and it is the certainty of his loss that enables me so
well to support this destiny: but do not let this disturb you—the
recollection of Haldane will never interrupt my gratitude to you.”  “And
you could resolve upon fresh sacrifices if they were demanded of you?”
inquired Brandomann.  “I could,” replied the princess.  Brandomann
paused—he looked sadly and earnestly, at Ildegarda, and then, as with a
violent effort, flung himself at her feet, and tremblingly demanded,
“Princess, will you become my wife?”  A shriek of horror, and a look of
unmeasured abhorrence, was the only reply of the hapless Ildegarda; and
too plainly these tokens spoke to the unfortunate Brandomann.  He calmed
his agitation—arose from her feet, and spoke kindly and steadily to
tranquillise her.  “Do not hate me, beautiful sovereign of my destiny,”
said he, “that thus I am compelled to add to your inquietudes.  Yet be
not alarmed needlessly; I adore you, but no force shall be put upon your
inclinations: forgive me, if, impelled by a power I dare not disobey, I
am sometimes obliged to give you pain by this question.  But fear not—my
wishes shall be sacrificed to yours—I would not receive that hand, dear
as it would be, unless voluntarily presented by yourself.”

The princess took courage at this declaration of her hideous lover.  She
knew he was a monster of his word; and she thought if he would not
receive her hand till she presented it, she should be safe from the
infliction of such a husband.  Assuring him, therefore, that she was far
from hating him, and expressing with warmth the sentiments she really
felt for her grim admirer, the poor monster was somewhat comforted, which
Ildegarda was not sorry to remark; for if Brandomann was ugly when he was
gay, he was ten thousand times more so when in sorrow.  They returned to
the palace in tolerable spirits, and in the evening Ildegarda took an
opportunity of depositing her perplexities in the bosom of the
respectable white goat, for whom she began to experience something of
filial affection.  Heidruna consoled the princess by her unqualified
praises of the honour and sincerity of Brandomann, and her firm
conviction that Ildegarda would never be molested by his fondness;
although Heidruna thought, and could not help telling her young friend,
that in the world she might have matched herself with many a greater
beast than Brandomann: but, as this was entirely a matter of opinion, she
rather soothed the princess than contradicted her.  The good Serimnor
interrupted the _tête-à-tête_, and fully seconded the opinion of
Heidruna, both as to the honour and goodness of the lord monster of
Moskoe.  “You observe,” said he to Ildegarda, “that he has been admitted
among the Scaldres, an order which generally requires perfection from its
aspirants; and great must his virtues be, when the unbounded ugliness of
his person could not outweigh them, nor conceal the richness and beauty
of his mind.  He is also, as we are, the descendant of Odin, and
peculiarly favoured by the mightiest of the gods, and his son Thor, the
thunderbolt: he enjoys extensive power, and many prerogatives not granted
to the more beautiful children of nature, to compensate for the
imprisonment of such a spirit in so hideous and detestable a frame.  Were
it possible to overcome your natural repugnance, you would have no reason
to regret the change; but should your aversion be invincible, you will
have nothing to fear, since he will continue to you the tenderest and
humblest of lovers, and we shall always remain your friends.”

The princess thanked the friendly boar for his kind assurance, and they
separated for the night in increased good will towards each other.  In a
few days after this conversation, Brandomann sought the princess in her
chamber.  “A storm is gathering above the whirlpool,” said he; “its
effects will be terrific—our friends are collected to watch its
progress—shall we follow them to the coast?  If it will interest you, I
will raise my magic tent upon the top of the highest rock, and, sheltered
even from the slightest drops of rain, you shall see the storm in its
terrors, and the fiends unseen of mortal eyes, who increase its horrors
and sport in its bosom.”  Ildegarda accepted the invitation, and the
rein-deer swiftly bore their light and lovely burthen to the rocks,
accompanied by Brandomann, whose eight-legged steed would far have
outstripped the nimble coursers of the princess, but for the frequent
checks of his rider.  Arrived at the point of rock, they beheld the
waters raging around them, (for the island was seated in the midst of the
gulf,) but with less violence than Ildegarda had expected: she remarked
this to her attendant.  “The waters are now at their height,” replied
Brandomann; “and for one quarter of an hour it will be tolerably calm,
but the power of the storm will be tremendous when that short interval
shall be past: many, deceived by the calm, venture out while it lasts,
and encounter certain destruction at its close.”  Ildegarda continued
watching for the termination of the delusive calm, when her meditations
were interrupted by the arrival of Heidruna, Serimnor, and the ravens:
they arranged themselves round the chariot of the princess, and,
protected from the storm by the magic tent of Brandomann, stood watching
its progress in silent anxiety.  The deceitful calm, as the lord of the
island had predicted, was of no long duration.  In a few minutes the
brightness of Balder was entirely obscured; the wind chorus began, and
swept low and sullenly over the waters, which now rose upwards, gently
murmuring, as if they were the echoes of the distant song.  “Listen,
Ildegarda,” said Brandomann; “to you it is given to hear the secrets and
wonders of the earth, in recompense for being thus shut out from its more
social intercourse: listen, and you will hear the unknown song of the
winds: hark! how it rises from an immeasurable distance, and yet you can
distinguish their voices, and the words they utter.  Now they come
nearer—hush!”

                          THE SONG OF THE WINDS.

   From the couch of the billows
      The hollow bed
   Where ocean pillows
      His giant head—

   From secret caves,
      Where ancient Night
   Sleeps secure
      From staring light—
   From the breast

      Of the trembling earth,
   Scorning rest,
      We have our birth.
   Up, up, upward, murmuringly,
   Up, up, upward, still go we.

   From wild Hecla’s burning cells,
   Where the giant mother dwells,
   Who to Lok, in days of yore,
   Sin and death and horror bore—
   From the Geyser’s boiling springs,
   We soar, upborne on rushing wings,
   Singing louder as we go,
   Blow, ye wild winds, louder blow!
   Up from the Dolstein still rise we,
   Where about us rolled the sea,
   And beneath, for ever whirled,
   The master spirit of the world—
   From the raging Dofrefeld,
   Where green Niord’s feast is held—
   From the land of eternal snow,
   Blow, ye wild winds, louder blow!

   We come, we come! the forests wave,
   As above their tops we rave.
   Blow winds, blow! the crashing tree
   Of our might shall the witness be;
   The staggering ship, and the broken mast,
   Heaving, rended, sinking last;
   And the crash of falling towers,
   Speak our presence, and our powers.
   Blow winds, blow! to heaven ascending,
   Clashing, crashing, crushing, rending,
   Wrath on earth and ocean pouring,
   O’er the scared world, raging, roaring.

“The storm is indeed terrific now,” said Ildegarda; “I can almost see it
in the air, as it scatters the clouds before it: look how the waters rise
to meet it, roaring with the fury and force of the cataract!”  Amid the
uproar, she thought she distinguished other noises than those of the
tempest—a sound like the howls and shrieks of pain: she noticed the
circumstance to Brandomann.  “You are right,” he replied; “look yonder,
where a desperate battle is waging, in despite of this scene of tempest.
A bear has swum from this mountain territory of Hilseggen to prey upon
the flocks of Suarven, one of the few islands in this gulf which is
inhabited; a single gallant shepherd has attacked him, but I fear the
bear has the mastery: see! the shepherd has lost his staff, and the
monster grapples with him closely—he hugs him fiercely!—Is there no way
by which I can save him?  What, ho! shepherd!—what, ho!—loosen yourself
from the grasp of your enemy and fly—stand on the very edge of the rock,
and let him spring against you!—So, so—the fellow fears me no less than
the bear, yet he obeys—he is crouching—his enemy runs—plunges—ah! ah!—he
has lost his balance and dashes headlong into the stream—well, run,
shepherd!—He stays not to sing the death-song for his foe.—Good night,
friend bear, you will sup with the fish of the Maelstrom to-night!”
While they looked on, they beheld the savage animal struggling for his
life against the dreadful current, but in vain; borne onward, despite of
his roarings, he was soon over the terrible pool, and then whirled
rapidly round, till he was sucked down into the bosom of the dismal gulf,
which, sages have written, penetrates the globe.  Ildegarda pitied the
poor bear, whose love of mutton had occasioned him so miserable a fate;
but a new wonder now claimed her attention and diverted her thoughts from
his sorrows: this was another island, slowly arising from the bottom of
the lake, and covered with sea-weeds, becoming stationary at no great
distance from Moskoe.  Before Ildegarda could point it out to her
companions, Serimnor advanced hastily towards Brandomann.  “There is
mischief abroad, dear brother,” said he; “this storm is not of Niord’s
raising.  Some friend beloved of Odin, and abhorred of Lok, is certainly
in danger; for look who are sporting in the tempest.”  He pointed to the
bosom of the gulf and to the rocky shore of Otterholm.  In the centre of
the one, Ildegarda beheld the head of a monstrous serpent reared above
the waves, and surveying with fiery eyes the distant sea; and on the
other a hideous wolf, with his attention fixed in the same direction, and
howling in concert with the storm.  The princess shuddered, and, for the
first time in her life, drew nearer to Brandomann for protection.  “You
have nothing to fear, dearest,” said he, “from these monsters whom you
behold; they are indeed your foes and mine, for they are the children of
Lok, and the enemies of Odin; but they have no power over you, and mine,
by the gift of their conqueror, is greater than their own.  He whom you
see in the waters is the giant snake, whose folds of sin encircle the
guilty earth, and who now, from its centre, is bidding defiance to some
noble foe of his evil father.  Fenris, the wolf-dog, guard of hell,
appears only when mischief is in the air, to increase, by his cries and
the horror of his form, the fears and the danger of his victim.  I deem
some hapless vessel has approached too near this coast during the calm,
and now the storm will drag it to destruction.  But let us watch—Hugo and
Mumin, stretch out your pinions—fly over the waters, and tell me what you
descry.”  The messengers of Odin obeyed—they flew over the bosom of the
lake—then out towards the boundless and ungirt ocean: suddenly they
returned.  “A sail! a sail!” said Hugo.  “A gallant ship!” cried Mumin;
“the whirl has surely caught her, she comes on so rapidly.”  Soon, very
soon, she neared, and drove onwards, visible to all.  Brandomann grasped
his club: “Some bold adventurers,” said he, “doubtless, who seek to land
upon this island in defiance of the will of Odin; if so, they are lost
indeed, for the king of Valhalla has resigned them to the power of the
infernals.”  It was frightful to mark the force with which the ship drove
on.  “They make for the island which has just risen from the lake,” said
the princess.  “Death will too surely greet them there,” replied
Brandomann; “for that is no land, but the snare of fiends to beguile; it
is the dreadful Kraken, that monster of the deep, who, when the vessel
touches him, will sink, and draw it with him.”—And the vessel was near
the monster, when a piercing shriek from Ildegarda arrested the thoughts
of Brandomann.  “It is my father!” she cried—“it is my father!—I know his
banner—he seeks me on this island—have mercy, Odin!—Oh, Brandomann, if
thou lovest me”—“If I love thee!—lo! now I disobey the will of Odin for
thee!—judge, then, how dear thou art!”  He started from her side, sprung
upon Sleipner, darted from the rock, and the next instant Ildegarda
beheld his giant form stemming the torrent with a power equal to its own.
The wolf beheld him and ran howling away, while a single blow from his
mighty club drove the grim serpent beneath the waves, to howl his
disappointment in Niftheim.  Ildegarda heard none of the consoling
speeches addressed to her by her friends; her ear—her eye—her heart, were
all with Brandomann: she shrieked aloud.  “He will not reach it ere it
touches the Kraken,” she cried, “and then all help will be in vain.”
“Not so, dear princess,” replied Serimnor; “he acts with the power of
Odin, and will save your father; and then what will not his generosity
deserve?”  “My life—my love!” distractedly replied the wretched
Ildegarda, totally incapable of accepting any consolation, and only alive
to the danger of her father.  “Oh, Odin! save him!” she cried; “and thou,
thou the nameless!—the mighty in strength—the blind invincible—preserve
the faithful Brandomann!”  At this instant the Kraken sunk—the hoof of
Sleipner had touched him—and Brandomann sternly approached the vessel: a
band of warriors, headed by her father, prepared to oppose him, and
Ildegarda beheld their bright weapons gleaming above his head.  At this
sight, “Harm him not,” she exclaimed; “ye know not whom ye strike!”  But
the next instant shewed her the folly of her fear and the mighty power of
her lover.  Heedless of the flashing swords, Sleipner sprung among the
warriors, whose arms were now useless in their deadened hands, and
Brandomann stood upon the deck, sternly reproving their presumption, and
commanding the gallant ship to return home to Denmark.  The vessel
obeyed—the warriors knew the eight-legged steed of Odin, and were silent;
but Haquin accused aloud the murderer of his daughter, for he judged he
beheld the lord of the Maelstrom.  “Thy daughter lives,” replied the
terrible Brandomann; “but she is mine: at her entreaty I have saved thy
forfeited life—but approach no more the island forbidden by Odin to
mortal foot, else will I resign thee to the fate thy presumption will
incur, and which, but for thy daughter’s tears, thou wouldest ere now
have tasted.  Hence, Haquin, and learn submission!”

Sleipner plunged into the waters, and the vessel, now removed beyond the
power of the whirlpool, sailed back to Denmark, while Brandomann returned
to Ildegarda, by whom he was received with a welcome far surpassing his
hopes or expectations.  He said nothing, however, of the important
service he had just rendered her; and his delicate conduct, which did not
pass unobserved by the princess, created for him an advocate in her bosom
stronger than his own entreaties, or those of all his friends united,
could have done.  She saw how tenderly Brandomann loved her, but she saw
also that he was resolved not to give her pain; and, to say the truth,
she could not help being pleased by this circumstance; for gratitude,
great as it certainly was, was yet not sufficiently powerful to make so
cruel a sacrifice to his happiness.  By the time he had landed, the storm
had passed from the face of heaven, and all was calm upon the bosom of
the waters as if the fiends of Niftheim had not been raging within it a
few moments before; the party returned to sup in the palace, and all
things went on pleasingly as usual.  Days, weeks, passed away, but
Ildegarda, no longer wretched in submitting to the sentence she had once
thought so cruel, took little heed of time, except to notice the first
day of the month, which presented to her anxious eyes the person and
occupations of her father.  Twice, successively, she had seen him in his
tent, surrounded by heroes, amid preparations for war; he was cheerful,
and appeared to be encouraging the spirits of a young man, whom Ildegarda
knew to be prince Harold, and who, with a gentle, downcast look, was
listening to his observations: this was confirmed to her by the accounts
of Brandomann, whose cares to lighten her anxieties and anticipate her
wishes sensibly affected the generous daughter of Haquin.  She took
increased delight in his conversation; and he, from whose presence she
was at first so anxious to fly, was now frequently summoned to relieve
solitude by his cheering conversation.  She was herself surprised at the
change; and could she have shut from her bosom the thought of her early
and beautiful love.  Brandomann, even in person, would not have been
disgusting.  As it was, he daily grew less odious, and daily grew the
princess more contented with her lot; the happy society of the marble
palace met nightly, and mirth, and song, and tale, gave wings to the
cheerful hours.



PART IV.
THE RETURN.


    Wilt thou begone?

                                                               SHAKSPEARE.

ONE night when the conversation particularly turned upon the exploits of
the ancestors of Ildegarda, Sleipner, who possessed a natural love of
noble actions, inquired of the boar whether king Uffon was constant in
his attendance upon the nightly festival of the hall of Odin?  “He is so,
frequently,” replied Serimnor; “but he takes more delight in the combat
of the morning—from that he is never absent:—but what an extraordinary
history is his!” continued the boar; “it is necessary that he should be
in Asgard, for its inhabitants to believe it.”  Ildegarda’s attention was
aroused; she had never heard of her ancestor, and she entreated
Brandomann to indulge her curiosity.  He took up his harp immediately—for
he appeared to have no occupation so delightful as to obey her slightest
wish—and thus related to her the legend of Uffon the Merciful:—

                             LEGEND OF UFFON.

                                     I.

   There was a halo round
   The golden crown which shone on Vermund’s brow,
   The light of many noble deeds—
   Some deathless flowers
   From heaven’s immortal tree,
   (The abode of changeless destiny,)
   Were wreathed
   Around his conquering sword:
   But years rolled on, and age
   Silvered his golden locks—
   And darkness fell
   Heavily on him,
   Veiling the beauty of his latter day—
   For Lok in hate,
   Or envy, breathed on him a withering curse—
   And he grew blind!

                                     II.

   He was a childless man,
   And to the gods he prayed
   That his own royal diadem might fall
   Upon a kindred brow.
   He asked a son—
   And Odin granted to his agony
   The son he craved.
   Again the evil one
   Blighted the bud of joy—
   He laid his dark hand on the infant’s head,
   And left its evil shadow on his brain,
   He grew an idiot boy!

                                    III.

   The Saxon king,
   A wild, fierce warrior, heard of Vermund’s grief,
   And he did rage to snatch, with greedy hand,
   The sceptre of the blind.
   Madly he poured
   His thousands o’er the land;
   The red steel clashed—
   The curling fire ran—
   The ravens fed
   On beauty, and the eagles gorged on strength,
   The blind prince trembling heard
   His people’s dying groan!

                                     IV.

   The Saxon king
   Rode, like the thunderbolt, his mighty steed
   To the sad Danish camp.
   He mocked the king—
   And to his peers, with haughty action, said
   “Doth it become
   The noble sons of Odin thus to bend
   The knee before a blind man, and a fool?”

                                     V.

   “Out on thee, wretch!”
   The sightless prince exclaimed;
   “It more becomes the warrior to protect
   Than scorn the weak and aged!—
   Mighty!—to thee—
   Thee! whom we fear to name—
   Thee! strongest pillar of Odin’s great throne—
   Thee! dark, but terrible!—whose woe I bear—
   Thee! whose most awful name
   The reckless echo dares not repeat, and we
   Shudder as we pronounce!
   HODER!—I call on thee!—
   Be thou the judge
   Between this wretch and me!”

                                     VI.

   The Saxon heard
   And shrunk at that dread name—
   The nobles groaned—
   The father wept, and clasped,
   To his chilled heart, his dumb and idiot boy.
   When, lo! a wonder!—
   His sacred tears fell on the youthful brow
   Like holy rain upon the scorched up earth,
   And upward to the sun of glory sprung
   The buried seeds of intellect—
   He spoke!—

                                    VII.

   “Ha! scoffer!” said the boy, “didst thou not know
   The blind and weak are sacred?”—
   His eye shone
   With a miraculous light—
   “Hark!  Saxon churl!
   I summon thee unto the field of death—
   _I_, the dumb idiot—_I_ will meet thee there,
   And on thy craven bosom write a truth,
   That Vermund hath a son—Denmark a prince,
   Who _will_ protect their glories!”

                                    VIII.

   The day came—
   And Uffon’s fiery chariot bore him forth
   Unto the battle field—
   Less bright—less beautiful
   Is Balder when, from Lidscialf’s diamond steps,
   He rises to illuminate the worlds
   Which wheel caressingly around him—and
   Gallantly rode the Saxon.
   But the king—
   The blind—the father—where is he?  He sits
   On yonder rock, high o’er the foaming sea,
   There to await the battle.
   Should _he_ fall—
   His own—his only one—
   Ocean will catch his form,
   And hide his griefs for ever.

                                     IX.

   It was a deadly fight
   Between the Saxon and the Dane;
   And once
   There was a scream, as if the inspired boy
   Was lost, for he had sunk upon his knee—
   But he beheld his father’s sightless eye
   Upturned in agony—
   And he arose—and then
   Another sound was heard—a mighty shout—
   The scorner of the blind was slain!

                                     X.

   The son—he flew,
   A bounding reindeer to his father’s arms—
   He paused—
   _They_ were upraised,
   In attitude of thankfulness
   His lips
   Were pale, and still, and smiling—
   But—his heart
   Had broke in that fierce struggle—
   He was gone—
   Heimdaller’s wings were shadowing him, as o’er
   The wonderous bridge he trod;
   Valkyries bore
   His spirit to the foot of Odin’s throne,
   To tell of Uffon’s glory.

                                     XI.

   Nameless one!
   This justice was thy deed—
   We worship thee,
   Although we love thee not!

“No, truly,” said Serimnor, on the conclusion of the legend; “that would
be quite impossible either for heaven or earth; but glory to the good
Uffon—few warriors in Valhalla are more esteemed than he.  The skull of
the impious Saxon is now his drinking cup; and his father, restored to
sight, beholds the pledge of victory with undying felicity: and, in the
combats and martial sports of the morning, the battle between his noble
son and the Saxon is daily renewed, to gladden him with the sound of
conquest and triumph over his shadowy foe.”  “Look, Serimnor,” said the
horse of Odin, interrupting him impatiently, as a bright flash of
lightning darted into the hall and played against his head for a moment;
“Look, we are again outstaying our time—the son of Rinda is shooting his
brilliant arrows, and one has already touched you: let us obey the
summons, and not provoke him to make his fatal shafts unerring.”  “Away,
then!” cried Heidruna.  The ravens flapped their wings—Brandomann
rose—and the hall was cleared in a moment.

Ildegarda had hitherto been happy in the reports of the magic mirror, and
satisfied with its assurances of her father’s safety.  On the first of
the tenth month of her residence on the island, she again withdrew the
curtain,—but a different spectacle awaited her; Haquin was lying wounded
upon his couch, pale and insensible, while his attendants were anxiously
endeavouring to stanch the blood which flowed from his injured side.  The
princess became wild with apprehension; instantly she sought her faithful
Brandomann, to pour into his bosom the grief which distracted hers.  He
listened with tender sympathy.  “There has been a battle between your
father and Frotho, no doubt,” he replied; “but though I am not informed
of all the particulars, I know that Haquin will not die of this wound:
take comfort from this assurance, for when did I ever deceive you?”  But
Ildegarda refused all consolation, and persisted in thinking and making
herself the most miserable of all human beings.  Her father was
ill—wounded—in need of her assistance—and she herself uncertain of his
fate for a whole month at least.  Her anxiety hourly increased, and her
grief, too powerful to be concealed from Brandomann, affected him no less
painfully than herself.  It was in vain he exerted his talents to divert
her anguish; she was grateful for his kindness, but did not shed one tear
the less: his conversation had lost its charms, his tales and songs their
interest.  Brandomann discovered this, and, after a terrible struggle,
his generous nature overmastered every selfish and interested feeling.
“I cannot,” said he at length to the weeping princess; “I cannot bear to
witness your sorrow, and know that I am the cause.  For your sake I will
again disobey the command of Odin, which had decreed your captivity to be
perpetual; you shall go to your father: promise me that you will return
hither, and you shall be swiftly conveyed to his tent—and remain with him
seven days; at the close of that period you must return, or my life will
pay the forfeit of my fault, and be demanded to appease the anger of
Odin.  Go, then, beloved princess,—but sometimes think of Brandomann, and
what he will suffer for your sake.”  The princess could scarcely believe
what she heard: in a rapture of joy she accepted the offer, and was most
fervent in her promises to return at the expiration of seven days.
Brandomann sighed heavily, but made no reply to her frequent
protestations of their soon meeting again.  “You shall be with your
father to-morrow morning,” said he: “merely take this ring—put it upon
your finger when you go to rest to-night, and do the same thing when you
wish to return to me; but do not wear it at any other time.”  The
princess joyfully accepted the gift—took an affectionate leave of her
admired monster—and retired to rest full of hope and
expectation—expectations which were fully realised on her awaking in the
morning; for she found her couch in her father’s tent, and he himself
gazing upon her with tender anxiety and wonder.

The joy of Haquin, at again folding his beloved child to his bosom, was
considerably damped by the narrative of her adventures, and the promise
which she had given to Brandomann to return.  As he did not deem it
possible that she intended to keep her word, he was not a little
astonished at her declaration, when she assured him she could remain with
him only during the seven days.  He argued strongly against her
intention; and she at present, unwilling to distress him, ceased to
oppose his opinions, and occupied herself entirely with the care of his
health, knowing that it would always be in her power to return whenever
she felt the inclination.  Her tender attention was fully appreciated by
Haquin, but she herself was far from being at ease in the midst of a
tumultuous camp, where her wishes were not anticipated with the swift and
delighted obedience of her island attendants: she had no change of dress
either: a circumstance peculiarly vexatious, as she was daily surrounded
by admiring warriors, who constantly paid homage to her charms,—and among
whom prince Harold was not the least fervent in his expressions of
devotion to her beauty.  Awakening one morning after many regrets upon
this subject to herself overnight, she was surprised to see the chest
which ornamented her chamber at Moskoe, and which contained her superb
wardrobe, standing by the side of her couch: she opened it hastily:
“Kind, generous Brandomann, always alike solicitous for my happiness and
pleasure,” she exclaimed; “how much do I not owe thee!”  She immediately
decorated her lovely person and returned to her father, who, cheered by
her presence and renovated by her care, was quickly recovering from the
effects of his wound: he now informed her that Haldane was universally
said to have been murdered by his uncle; and that, in consequence of
their disgust at this act of cruelty, many noble Danes had resorted to
the standard of Harold, whom they unanimously called to the throne,
though they held not the gentle boy in the same estimation as his more
valiant brother.  To this he added, that as the young king had declared a
passion for Ildegarda, he had determined to unite them despite of the
wrath of Frotho, and thus repay her long captivity by placing her upon a
throne.  His daughter had many objections to this arrangement, but her
father’s heart appeared to joy so deeply in its contemplation that
Ildegarda had not the courage to undeceive him: the tenderness of Haquin,
the novelty of again seeing human faces, and the pleasure of listening to
the gallant praises of the noble Danes, at length rendered Ildegarda
forgetful of her promise, and not only seven days, but twice that number
slipped away, ere she called to mind the probable anxiety of Brandomann.
She now determined to repair her fault and hasten back to the island, but
when, upon retiring to rest, she sought her ring to place it upon her
finger, the talisman was nowhere to be found.  In great distress she
hastened to her father, expecting him perhaps to sympathise in her
misfortune, but, unlike the gentle monster of the Maelstrom, he laughed
at her anxiety, and congratulated her upon her loss; he bade her be under
no apprehension respecting her ring, since it was safe in his
possession—he had stolen it on being informed of its virtue, in order to
secure her company,—“which,” he continued, “it appears, without this
precaution I should have lost.”  He observed that he could not permit
such a preposterous union between beauty and a beast, who, instead of
being a descendant of Odin, was doubtless a member of the infernal royal
family of Lok, and consequently some diabolical sorcerer, who had thus
bought her, body and soul, of Frotho: he would give her, he remarked, a
husband better suited to her rank and beauty, and commanded her to
prepare to espouse the royal cousin Harold, within at least ten days.
Ildegarda was much startled by this conversation; and she who in the
desolate island had mourned over the idea of perpetual captivity, now
wept with more bitterness her recovered liberty, and the prospect of
never more returning to her prison; she thought of the tender obedience
of Brandomann to her lightest wish, and his generous self-denial upon all
occasions respecting her.  She lamented the kind-hearted Serimnor, the
chivalrous horse, the affectionate goat, and even the ravens and reindeer
received the tribute of her tears; but the idea of the probable suffering
of Brandomann for his devotion to her, and disobedience in her favour,
filled her heart with the most poignant regret; she hated Harold, and she
esteemed her Maelstrom friend, and not a day passed without the severest
search for the ring that was to convey her back to his territories.  At
length Rinda, in pity, heard her prayers.  In her father’s bosom, during
his sleep, she found her glittering ring, which she hastily secured as
her dearest treasure, and instantly retired to rest; and when morning
again looked upon her, it was in her chamber of the desolate isle.

Ildegarda scarce waited fully to throw off the fetters of sleep ere she
descended to the marble hall, and instantly gave the signal which used to
summon Brandomann to her presence, and which he had never neglected; now
it was unheeded.  Alarmed, she repeated it more strongly—Brandomann
replied not to the call; half-distracted she hurried through the palace
and harrowed her own feelings by recalling to mind his mournful
prediction of the fate which awaited him, should she exceed her allotted
time.  She shuddered to reflect how long that time had elapsed.  From the
palace she traversed the gardens, running wildly with an aching heart and
burning brow to every quarter, and asking every object she met for
tidings of her lamented Brandomann: the birds and the echoes alone
replied to her mournful queries, and disconsolate and despairing she
threw herself upon the sod to give vent to the bitterness of her sorrow,
and lament undisturbed her affliction.  “Brandomann!” she exclaimed;
“Brandomann! where art thou? friend of my soul, art thou yet in
existence, or hath my ingratitude destroyed thee?  Oh, if thou hearest,
if thou beholdest these tears, have pity on thy wretched Ildegarda, and
hasten to relieve her agony, and pardon her involuntary crime.”  She
started up in a sudden ecstasy, for a low groan at no great distance from
her seemed to be an answer to her question; she rushed forward in that
direction, and soon beheld the hapless Brandomann stretched upon the
earth, and apparently in the agonies of death; but her beloved voice, the
touch of her gentle hand, the glance of her worshipped eye, either of
these would have recalled him to life, and now all were lavishly employed
to restore him: he looked up for a moment.  Mournfully he said, “Beloved,
thou art come to see me die!” and then relapsed into stupor and
forgetfulness.  Ildegarda wept in agony—she was hanging over him in
listless sorrow, when her thoughts were aroused by the appearance of
Heidruna.  “Brandomann is dying,” said the white goat, “and from grief at
your neglect; but you have returned, and, in compassion to your
sufferings, I am permitted to restore him to you: take the bowl you see
yonder, draw forth a portion of my milk, and give it to his lips; the
hydromel of heaven will call him back to life.”  Ildegarda obeyed—she
gave the miraculous draught to Brandomann, who as instantly recovered his
reason and his strength; with tears of joy she expressed her gratitude to
Heidruna; and the Moskoe chief observing her delight, and too happy once
more to behold her, readily forgave her all he had suffered in her
absence.  There was much happiness that night in the marble palace;
Sleipner bowed down his arched neck to receive a pat from her snowy hand;
Serimnor grinned till his huge tusks were completely visible; the ravens
presented her the tips of their wings, and flew screaming about, as if
_they_ had been drinking the hydromel of Valhalla.  Ildegarda was happy,
and Brandomann dared not trust his feelings to words.  Sunny walks and
moonlight musings were now the pursuits of the imprisoned pair; for
instead of retiring to rest, as formerly, when the Valhalla people went
to their party, they roamed over the island, contemplating the stars, and
talking tenderly of course, for when were love and moonshine separated?
It is true, in this instance, the tenderness was all on one side; for
though Ildegarda permitted it, since she saw the happiness it gave to
Brandomann, she yet could not prevail upon herself to return it, or say
the words he wished to hear from her lips.  One evening, as thus, in the
tranquil moonlight, they sat alone in the summery isle, Ildegarda was
astonished, by the appearance of a wonder she had never yet remarked in
the island; the moon was suddenly eclipsed by a light so glorious, yet so
soft, that every object around her was visible in the brightness of
beaming gold, yet without giving pain to the sense.  Brandomann remarked
her admiration.  “This beauteous light,” said he, “is a mark of the
approbation of the father of the gods, at some virtuous action of a
favourite of heaven; it is Odin’s fire, dear Ildegarda, the light of his
glorious smile; and shining now as it does upon thee, and our lonely
isle, it comes to tell thee he is satisfied with thy past conduct, and
approves thy present.”  Scarcely was this explanation given, ere the
beauteous light died away from the mountains and the palace, and night
wore again her solemn robe of darkness.  As they prepared to return, the
star-studded sky, the jewel-paved floor of the palaces of Asgard,
sparkling with its unnumbered lights, and shining in its soft blue glory,
struck on their souls with delight; and, while they were gazing in
rapture, a large and brilliant star shot from its place in the heaven and
vanished rapidly from their sight.  “Some noble warrior or virtuous sage
has closed his eyes upon this mortal scene,” said Brandomann, tenderly:
“that was the star of his destiny; it fell from its seat in the heaven
when he quitted his on the earth: this is the sign that tells to the
survivors his fate, if it is fulfilled in the night; by day it is the
vision of the rainbow bridge, the sacred arch that connects this earth
with heaven, and over which the spirits of the just must pass.”  “I have
heard that it is only visible to mortal sight, when the peculiarly brave
and virtuous ascend its brilliant road,” said Ildegarda.  “And you have
heard aright, dearest,” replied Brandomann; “it is only then that the
guardian spirit of the bridge, Heimdaller of the radiant brow, descends
from his abode on its top to meet and welcome the traveller; then it is,
that the light from his rushing wings, and the gems which compose his
jewelled crown, shine so strongly on the arch, as to render it visible to
mortal sight, clad in the reflected glories of its guardian’s diadem.”

On the morrow Brandomann relieved her anxiety, which had been awakened by
the sight of the falling star, lest her father’s should no more have a
seat in the heavens, nor himself a name on the earth.  “A mild and
gracious being hath left us,” said he, “for the happier scenes of Asgard;
Sevald is dead—the virtuous son of the abandoned Frotho is no more—he
fell, as became his race, in the battle-field, contending against your
victorious father and his kinsman Harold, against whom the tyrant rages
and vows destruction, as now the only rival he has to fear.”  The
princess was satisfied by this explanation, the more especially as the
first day of the month again presented the person of her father, though
surrounded by the bustle of war.



PART V.
ODIN.


    He hath borne all things well.

                                                     SHAKSPEARE—_Macbeth_.

“WHENCE is it, Brandomann,” said Sleipner one evening to the Scaldre,
“that among those of the heroes whose virtues and glories you are nightly
celebrating, I never heard the actions of Odin; why, while thus honouring
his friends, are you neglectful of the great father of our race?  Surely
he, from whom all inspiration flows, deserves the best, ay, and the
finest fruits of your genius!”  “It was only because I feared my feeble
strains would not do justice to the lofty subject,” replied Brandomann;
“the glory of the father of gods and men requires a mightier hand than
mine to celebrate it; Brage alone should strike the golden chord to his
honour—alone should sing of deeds beyond the feeble thought of mortality;
that which I can, I will; I dare not wake the voice of song, but I will
speak of his wondrous deeds, that to-night, in Valhalla, thou mayest tell
bright Asgard’s king that I have instructed this lovely maiden what
honours and love are due to the first of her race, and the friend of her
father.  Will it please thee, Ildegarda, to listen to the legend of
Sigge?”  “Beyond all other things,” replied the princess, pleasedly: and
Brandomann, smiling, began—

From his high and everlasting throne in Valhalla, had Odin, the dispenser
of good, poured forth, with unsparing hand, innumerable benefits upon his
attendant spirits.  In the burning benevolence of his heart he forgot, or
he disregarded, that to some essences obligation is pain, and gratitude a
toil; so high did he raise some of those bright creations that stood
nearest to his throne, that they became too great for obedience, and
impatient of the most gentle restraint.  Lok, the most glorious of these
glorious things, seated on the lowest step of the throne of light, saw
but one between him and the highest; and once on that, what should
restrain from him the throne of the universe?  Thus he thought, and thus
he did: by his eloquence he seduced the higher spirits from their duty—by
his beauty and promises the lower.  The worlds of Asgard sent their
governing spirits forth to fight under his banner, and Surter brought
myriads to his side.  For the first time since the creation, the
standards of revolt flew in the cities of Asgard, and the proud Lok drove
back, with contempt, the interceding ministers of Odin, who came to
remonstrate upon his madness.  Confident in his power, the giant spirit
entered Valasciolf, the city of the king, and dared even advance to
Valhalla: the immortal beings who surround the diamond throne shuddered
at his presumption, and, veiling their bright heads from the terrible
glances of Odin, wept the approaching destiny of companions once so
beloved, which they read in the eye of their master: the sovereign of the
universe gave no command to his people—he uttered no reproach—he suffered
his faithful spirits to fly before the sword of Lok and the devouring
fires of Surter—he even permitted the lost ones to approach the steps of
his eternal throne—then, when with proud exultation they advanced to
seize upon him whose power they believed departed, he calmly arose from
his seat and stretched out his right hand, armed with its invincible
falchion, towards his enemies: at that tremendous signal Niord let loose
the oceans of heaven, and, in terrific grandeur they came rolling down
upon the revolted; the winds from all the worlds were summoned up to
heaven to aid their master, and rend and scatter his offenders.  Balder
deserted his throne in the orb of day,—and the mad and governless globe
flew up into Asgard, and burst its destructive flames upon the rebels.
Thor, the first-born of Odin, threw by his star-formed diadem, girded his
brow with the thunder, and, wielding the red bolt of vengeance, rushed
upon them.  The sightless horror rose in his terrible strength, and the
arrows of Vile, unerring as the lance of Hela, flew among the foes: all
was confusion, terror, and despair—cries of anguish polluted the happy
city—Odin recalled his warriors, and plunged their enemies in the burning
lake, bidding the proud Lok and the ambitious Surter obtain their wish
and seat themselves on thrones.

But though the power of the infernal spirits was thus curbed, it was not
destroyed; and, still invincible in malice, they resolved to wound Odin
through his favourite, man.  Lok gave birth to the snaky sin, whose folds
encircle the earth, and bade him breathe from his poisonous jaws upon her
surface the blast of contention and hate: he obeyed; and man, no longer
beneficent and kind, rose up against his brother; with bitter words he
poured curses on the father who called him into life, and smote on the
bosom that had nourished him in helplessness.  The father of evil beheld
and smiled—his work was half accomplished—and he called into existence
death, to finish the deeds begun: the pale shadow stalked over the earth
and drank the crimson blood till she grew wanton in her mirth, and
besought her father for a companion: he heard, and sent Fenris up to
follow her steps, and exult in her multiplied victims.  The fiends in
hell heard the sounds of their triumph, and shouted responsive, when the
shivering spirits of the slain were hurled weeping into Niftheim.  At
length their cruel joy was heard in Asgard, at the same moment that
sounds of sorrow ascended from the earth, from the few who still
remembered his name.  It was from Scythia the plaining voice arose, and
the monarch, looking down from his throne, beheld the last remnant of his
people sinking beneath the power of the Roman.  Now then he determined to
descend to the earth, not only to lead them to conquest, but teach them
wisdom and virtue.  Frea, the mother of the gods, resolved to partake the
toils of her husband; and Thor, the eldest born of Odin, the ruler of the
air, forsook his palace of nine hundred and forty halls, laid by his
terrific thunderbolt, and his diadem of twelve stars, and, debasing his
giant frame to the standard of humanity, descended with his father to the
earth.  Cased in the armour of Scythians, they joined the troops of that
beloved people, and the father god bidding them contend no longer against
the power of the Romans, to whom Odin had given their country, promised
to lead them to other fields, and give them other lands for their
inheritance.  The fierce Scythians yielded to the persuasive voice of him
whom they only knew as the warrior Sigge, and, rather than submit to the
slavery they abhorred, they forsook the tombs of their fathers, and
sought an empire in the north.

In vain the inhabitants of these regions sought to oppose the
establishment of the heaven-conducted Scythians; in every battle they
were defeated and driven with loss from their cities: the arrows of Frea
carried destruction to the enemy—the mallet of Thor crushed thousands—and
Odin, raging through their ranks, now as a warrior, now as a ferocious
lion, spread devastation through their armies, and drove them from the
field.  The Scythians saw these wonders, and secretly acknowledged
Valhalla’s lord beneath the form of Sigge.  When the rage of battle was
past, he lulled the wounded to repose, and arrested the parting spirits
of the dying with the celestial strains of his harp; the wounds of his
people were cured, and their strength restored by his celestial power,
while, from the same cause, his enemies were bereft of courage and of
vigour.  Sweden and Norway yielded to the matchless warrior, and received
with joy the unknown Sigge for their king, but the Danes refused to
acknowledge the leader of armies; and Mimer, their prince, an enchanter,
and the friend of Lok, opposed himself against the victorious prince of
Scythia.  Before the assembled Danes he contended with the stranger in
eloquence and poetry, and in these his own people were compelled, by the
severe laws of truth, to yield the palm to his rival.  Mimer was wise,
eloquent, and brave; the strains of his harp were only inferior to those
of Sigge, and he felt deeply the injury which he had sustained by the
decision against him.  Determined to recover, with his sword, the glory
he had lost, he called his armies together, and bade defiance to the
Scythians: the opposing bands drew near; furious was the contest, for
now, like a tiger sprung Mimer on his foes—now as a fiery serpent stung
their hearts, or crushed them in his mighty folds.  As terrible raged
Odin in various forms, carrying dismay around him, and thinning the ranks
of the valiant Danes.  At length the monarchs met—in human form stood
Mimer—in human form, prepared to oppose him, stood Valhalla’s mighty
king: but momentary was the contest, the terrible blow of the Scythian
brought the head of the Dane to his feet, as its faltering tongue
pronounced the name of Odin.  The foe fled to the camp, while the father
of men again raised to life his beloved Scythians who had fallen in this,
the greatest of his fields.  At length, wishing to give peace to the
weary land, he summoned the Danish chiefs to meet him in conference.
Seated on a throne, he received the warriors: in one hand he held the
sceptre of his power, the other rested on a golden dish, in which, now
richly embalmed, and adorned with a crown of gold, lay the head of the
wretched Mimer.  The chiefs gazed in silence—a silence unbroken by human
sounds, but disturbed by the voice of the dead, for the ghastly head
opened its closed lips, fixed its eyes, and bade, in hollow but
authoritative tones, its countrymen no longer oppose the will of the
gods, but receive for their prince and lawgiver him who was master of the
world!  Again it sunk into silence, and the astonished Danes, obeying its
dictates, fell at the feet of the conqueror of Mimer.  And now, seated in
peace on the thrones of the north, more brightly shone the unmatched
virtues of Sigge.  He taught his subjects husbandry—he taught them to
plough the waters—he opened to them the riches of commerce—and he dug
from the earth the treasures which ages had concealed in her bosom;—he
punished vice with severity—he rewarded virtue with munificence—he taught
them letters, instructed them in the mysteries of the Runic—and obliged
them to cultivate the milder graces of music and verse;—he allured men to
obey by the charms of his eloquence and the splendour of his glory; and
he spoke to their reason by his divine Hovamaal, which he gave them as
his best gift—his richest legacy.  In this he bade them do no wrong to
each other—to honour the eternal gods—and to render up life at the
command of their country.  When he beheld the good effect of his
regulations, and saw his people firmly attached to his laws, he called
around him his children, born of his mortal wives, of the daughters of
Scythia, and, dividing his dominions among them, taught them to govern
according to his ordinances and example.  Satisfied with his work, he
called Frea and Thor to his side, and, blessing once more his mortal
children, ascended with them into the regions of light.  Then loudly the
Danes acknowledged Odin, and paid their homage to his glory; to his race
they have ever been faithful, for they still fill the earthly thrones of
their father, who, from his abode in Asgard, looks down upon his
children, and crowns their lives with prosperity: and thus shall he do
till the long night which is to witness the last battle of the gods—the
last attack of Lok and his allies, and which for ages they have been
preparing—against Odin and the happy spirits of Asgard.  In the dreadful
conflict, men and demons, oceans, earths, Niftheim, nay, even Asgard
itself, shall be involved in one general wreck—one entire and
undistinguished ruin; the infernal spirits shall fall in the
convulsions—evil shall be no more—and from the ashes of the universe
shall arise a brighter heaven—a gloomier hell, than those which have
passed away.  To the glorious seats of Gimle, the city of burnished
gold—to its diamond-studded palaces and star-paved courts—shall the
spirits of the just ascend, with Odin and his triumphant sons, to the
enjoyment of one endless festival; while the cowards and wicked of the
earth shall sink with their infernal allies—the revolted of heaven—into
the caves of Nastronde, an abode more horrible than Niftheim—a den built
up of the carcasses of snakes, and illuminated by devouring flames, where
ever-enduring sorrow shall be the punishment of the lost, from which they
shall have no power to escape, again to disturb the repose of the just.

Honour and praise to Frea—victory to Thor—glory to Odin, the greatest,
and the best—hail to the master of gods and men!

                                * * * * *

Happily for his hearers, it was here, at length, that the merciless
Brandomann terminated his long-winded history.  Sleipner had for some
time been his only auditor—Ildegarda had been nodding repeatedly—Heidruna
fidgetily trotting backwards and forwards to the portal, watching the
clouds—Serimnor had given two or three most portentous yawns—while the
two ravens who did every thing in concert, had tucked their heads under
their wings, and gone fairly to sleep:—but they all started up when the
hum of his voice had ceased, and thanked the good Brandomann as sincerely
as if they had been excessively delighted, for they were grateful that he
had finished at last, and were besides too well bred not to be charmed
with what had been done entirely for their amusement.

On the following day, during their usual rambles about the island, the
princess looked so unusually depressed, and said so little in reply to
the observations of her companion, that his attention, ever on the watch,
was aroused by her sadness; tenderly he inquired the cause.  “I will tell
you,” replied Ildegarda: “when absent from you, and believing your life
in danger, my only anxiety was to return; now, when that difficulty has
passed away, I confess I am wretched respecting my father’s feelings and
conduct, when he shall discover that I have quitted him for ever; neither
is my heart without a pang when I reflect that I shall see him no more.
Oh that I knew what is to come!—that I could look into the future, and
behold my destiny and his!”  “I know not that it is in my power
altogether to fulfil your wishes,” answered Brandomann; “but I can give
you a glance into the future, so as to discover its general complexion,
but not to enable you to read exactly the very page of destiny.  That
which I can, to gratify your curiosity, I will do,—I will arrest for a
few minutes the flight of the triune deity Time, and, by her appearance,
we shall be able to judge of what is to come.—Urda, Werandi, Skulda!”
continued Brandomann, raising his powerful voice to its utmost pitch,
“obey the command of the lord of the Maelstrom, the mighty delegate of
Odin—pause in your flight for a moment, and stand visibly before him!”
Scarcely was the peremptory order uttered, ere a light cloud was seen
advancing towards them from the sea, and when it became stationary
Ildegarda beheld a female form slowly and gracefully emerging from its
centre; her features were indistinctly visible, and upon the floating
misty robe that enveloped her figure, many changing objects were, some
faintly, some powerfully, represented.  “It is Urda the Past,” said
Brandomann to Ildegarda; “the events written upon her breast and brow are
partially concealed in her garment of oblivion and doubt; and when this
is penetrated by mortal sight, they are still seen through the mists of
passion and prejudice, by which she is ever surrounded: look now upon her
breast and brow—what objects do they represent to you?”  “I see a
criminal,” said the princess, “about to suffer the sentence of
justice—the executioner is preparing to strike.”  “To my view the
representation is different,” replied Brandomann; “I see a crowned king
falling beneath the murderous swords of his rebellious subjects.”  “I
observe a dying parent,” continued Ildegarda, “who consigns his child to
a noble warrior who weeps by his couch, but presses the babe to his
heart.”  “I also see the dying father,” said Brandomann, “but he resigns
his infant to a demon in form, and worse than a demon in heart, for he
instantly plunges a dagger in its throat: what else do you remark?”
“Many other objects,” continued the princess, “but nothing clearly; the
goddess herself is retiring slowly from my gaze, and to whom does she
give place?”  “To Werandi the Present,” answered Brandomann, “in
snow-white robe, with her unveiled face and open brow and eye—how clear
she looks upon us!—and her garments will shew us our actions of this
moment:—but she retires, and Skulda the Future supplies her place; clad
in a robe of darkness, she exhibits nothing to our eyes, and the veil
which covers her person conceals also her face from our observation: she
shall withdraw it, and her smile or frown will shadow forth your
destiny.”  The goddess gently withdrew her veil, and the soft enchanting
smile which she beamed upon the princess banished anxiety from her bosom,
and graced the departure of the triune spirit with the sweet attribute of
benevolence.

A few days after the prophetic smile of the deity of Time had given such
hope to the heart of Ildegarda, they were wandering about the gardens of
the palace, astonished by the roaring of thunders which announced a
distant storm: they were surprised by the sudden change from daylight to
darkness, and were puzzling each other respecting its cause, when the
storm died rapidly away, the clouds fell down in a gentle shower, and the
rainbow bridge stood out in faint splendour from the heavens.  “Look,
dearest,” said Brandomann; “the spirit of the bow has lowered his
beautiful bridge—some of the lesser warriors are ascending to Valhalla—I
will address the guardian of it, and bid him render the road and its
passengers visible to your sight.—All hail Heimdaller of the coloured
crown!” continued Brandomann, “the friend of Odin speaks to thee;
beautiful spirit of the rushing wings and eyes of tender glory, let us
look upon thy face, and the road which leads to thy dwelling!”  The
silvery voice of the spirit answered him, giving an immediate assent to
his desire, and in a moment the road and its travellers became visible to
Ildegarda.  Slowly, and with feeble steps, the wounded warriors dragged
themselves on till they reached the summit of the bridge, when the gates
of light flew open, and the spirit, in giving them his hand bestowed upon
them strength and beauty, and thus prepared them for the presence of Odin
and the glories of the Valhalla.

While Ildegarda with intense interest was watching the solemn procession
of the dead, her eyes were suddenly dazzled by a brilliant light thrown
upon the bridge, which now shone out in tenfold splendour, colouring the
mountains of the island with tints of its beautiful hues.  She looked up,
and beheld the spirit of the bow descending, glorious in his youthful
beauty; his diadem of many-coloured gems was on his lofty brow, and, in
the ineffable loveliness of his sunny smile, there was a sweetness that
made Ildegarda weep.  “He goes to welcome one of the greatest of mortal
heroes,” said Brandomann—“one of the favourites of Odin; his presence
throws this glory round him, and at this moment the beings of earth, who
gaze upon the bridge, behold its colours at the brightest: but see—at the
foot of the arch there is one ascending to meet the spirit!—his wounds
are terrible—his bosom is fearfully gored—and his steps are feeble and
slow—but he has the brow and the port of a hero; as yet I know him not.”
“But _I_ do!” shrieked the hapless Ildegarda—“O Brandomann, I know him
well!”  The lord of the Maelstrom looked up again, and painfully
recognised the shadow—it was indeed her father;—the pale inhabitant of
another world, whom she saw ascending slowly to meet the welcome smile of
the angel of light, was once the noble Haquin, the last friend of Harold
and his sons.  Brandomann gazed in grief and terror, and the sorrow he
felt for the death of the warrior was scarcely mitigated by the change
wrought in his wearied frame by the touch of the radiant Heimdaller.
“Ildegarda!” he cried in a voice of tenderness and pity; “Ildegarda,
think not that thou art alone in the world, or that all that loved thee
have left it; look up, my dear one!—look on the happiness of thy noble
father, and cease to regret his fate; what could thy love offer him in
exchange for this?”  Ildegarda mournfully assented as she saw his glory,
and her grief became more resigned and gentle.  She returned to the
palace with Brandomann, who, far from attempting to console, wept with
her the loss she had sustained.  In the evening her friends did not as
usual visit the island, but they explained the cause of their absence on
the next.  It was in honour of Haquin they had been detained at Valhalla,
as Odin had commanded the feast earlier, in order to compliment this
noble warrior,—“who now,” continued Sleipner, “sits highest in the hall,
and nearest to Odin’s self.”

Time reconciled the princess to her father’s death, and to her hopeless
imprisonment in Moskoe.  The generous Brandomann, now that she had lost
in the world all that was dear to her, and was most entirely in his
power, never spoke to her of the love which it was but too plain he bore
her.  She saw and rewarded his virtue.

“Brandomann!” she said to him one day as they wandered through the
gardens of the desolate isle; “Brandomann, friend of my heart, in the
world, where my father walks no longer, I have no interest, and can never
wish to return; yet I feel that I could love and render some deserving
being more happy than a lonely destiny could make him; thou alone art
worthy of this heart, and of the duty which I will pay thee; I cannot
love thee as I once loved Haldane—as I fear I should love him still—that
feeling it is not in thy power to inspire; but I honour thy virtue, and
am grateful for its exercise.  Wilt thou accept this hand—this heart?  If
so, take me, Brandomann, for I am thine!”

She threw herself as she spoke, into the arms which opened transportedly
to receive her, and bowed her head upon his breast.  She could not
distinguish his reply, for a sudden peal of thunder rolled above their
heads, and the earth was shaken to its foundation—a frightful darkness
covered the island, and shrieks and howlings rung in their ears, mingled
with shouts of triumph and the cheering blasts of the trumpet.  Ildegarda
clung closer to her lover for protection, when a gentle, well-known voice
reassured her spirits and relieved her terrors.  “Look on me, my
beloved,” it said; “look on me, and receive the reward of thy virtue, and
the approbation of Heaven on thy choice.”  The princess raised her eyes
to the face of her lover, and beheld—not Brandomann, but Haldane—the one,
the only beloved, the first choice of her innocent heart; it was on his
bosom she leaned—it was his arm that supported her slender form: she
trembled with painful emotion.  “But Brandomann?” she demanded—“Is at thy
feet, my beloved,” replied the graceful warrior: “beneath that hideous
form, Lok, in revenge for an ancient scorn, had condemned me to wear out
my life, unless I could inspire a royal virgin with sufficient love to
become my wife.  Odin, in compassion to my sufferings, confined me to
this island, and endowed me with sufficient power to fulfil the
condition, and deceive and baffle the evil spirits themselves, by the
means of their wretched agent, the detestable Frotho.  Around thee stand
the gallant chiefs and the Norwegian captives, who were sent against the
monster of the Maelstrom, and who seemed to be destroyed by my vengeance;
they are now my friends, and wait to conduct us to Denmark, where Haldane
will lay his crown at thy feet.”  The chiefs paid their homage to the
princess, and immediately after, there arrived, to offer their sincere
congratulations, her tender friends of many moons, the eight-legged,
four-legged, and two-legged animals of Valhalla.  Ildegarda, even on the
bosom of Haldane, wept at the parting; for she knew she should behold
them no more.  They attended her to the shore, and beheld her embark in
the gallant ship which Niord, at the command of Odin, had preserved for
them in one of the ocean caves.  Soon they were wafted to Denmark, and
Haldane burst upon the usurper so suddenly, that he had no time even to
arm his household guards for his defence.  He was presiding at a festival
when Haldane entered his presence; some of his nobles humbly acknowledged
their prince, and the others, not caring to attack him, made the best of
their way out of the palace, leaving the miserable Frotho in the power of
his nephew, who, without giving him time to make his will, threw him
headlong into the cistern of mead before which he was sitting.

Whether Haldane, in his natural shape, was as amiable and complaisant as
he had been under his assumed one, is a question which the historian of
his life cannot answer—nor whether Ildegarda, on her throne in Denmark,
found as true friends and faithful servants as she had in the gulf of the
Maelstrom: certain it is, she lived to a great age with her glorious
husband, (who was the greatest prince of the race of Dan that ever swayed
the sceptre of the north,) and that once or twice during their lives they
had together visited the desolate isle; and the princess, to the great
scandal of the ladies and gentlemen of the court, and surprise of her
husband, wept bitterly on finding that the marble palace and its
beautiful gardens had disappeared, the Moskoe isle had resumed its
ancient appearance, and nothing remained to mark it out as the scene of
such wonders as had passed in it.  It has much the same character at this
hour; and it would be very difficult to persuade its inhabitants, or the
stranger who may visit its shores, that it once was a paradise only
second to the bowers of Valasciolf’s own.  You, gentle reader, know
better; and complimenting you on the patience by which you have acquired
this knowledge, I bid you, for the present, farewell.



NOTES
TO THE
LORD OF THE MAELSTROM.


PART I.


_Olave the Second_—one of the early kings of Denmark, of the race of Dan.
These princes believed themselves descended from Odin.  Olave was a
worthless, profligate prince, who left two sons, who succeeded him; the
elder, Frotho the Fifth, murdered his brother Harold, and afterwards the
assassin who, by his own order, had stabbed him.  He endeavoured to
secure the persons of the princes his nephews; but a nobleman, friend to
their father, conveyed them out of his reach, and concealed them in a
cave till they were of an age to revenge these injuries.

_Asgard_—the country of the gods; the Olympus of the north.

Valasciolf—its chief city, in which the principal divinities and more
illustrious dead resided in magnificent palaces.

_Valhalla_—the chief palace of Valasciolf, the regal residence of Odin.

_Niftheim_—Hell.  A territory of devouring flames typifying eternal
remorse; the abode of the evil principle and his attendant spirits.

_Feggo_—the brother of Harwendil, king of Jutland, and uncle to Hamlet.
The latter prince feigned madness after the murder of his father, but
killed Feggo at a festival.  He succeeded to the crown, which he wore
with honour till killed in battle by Viglet, king of Denmark.

_Lok_—the evil principle.  He gave birth to Midgard (sin), the snake
whose folds encircle the earth—Hela (death)—and the wolf Fenris, the
guardian of the gate of hell; these were the evil progeny of Lok,
begotten for the destruction of the human race.

_Surter_—the evil divinity of fire—the next in rank to Lok.  The
Scythians represented him as a beautiful youth; the Saxons as an old man,
to whose honour they dedicated the seventh day of the week.

_Balder_—son of Odin, god of eloquence and poetry, and ruler of the
sun—the Scandinavian Apollo.  He was represented as a youth with a
burning wheel upon his breast; his face resembled the sun.

_Nastronde_—According to the Scandinavian mythology, at the end of the
world, during a night which was to last a year, a tremendous battle was
to be fought between the good and evil spirits, in which the former were
to conquer and reign in Gimle, a more glorious heaven than Asgard; while
the wicked were to be banished to Nastronde, a new hell, made purposely
for them.


PART II.


_Maelstrom_, _Malestrom_, or _Moskoestrom_—a tremendous whirlpool on the
Norwegian coast, very dangerous, and often fatal to navigators venturing
too near it.  Moskoe is an island situated in the gulf: there are also
several others.

_Sleipner_—the warrior horse of Odin.  He had four black legs and four
white ones: he generally travelled through the air.

_Rinda_—daughter of Balder, and mother of Vile, by Odin.  The favourite
goddess of the Scandinavian women.

_Hydrasil_—the tree of heaven, standing in the garden of Odin.  It was
the abode of the disposer of man’s destiny.


PART III.


_Heidruna_—the immortal goat, whose milk was the hydromel served up
nightly at the festivals of Valhalla.

_Serimnor_—the wild boar, whose flesh served them for food.

_Hugo_ and _Mumin_—the raven messengers of Odin.

_Thor_—the warrior god—the eldest son of Odin, who, in his journey over
the world, defeated Midgard, and loosened his folds from the earth; he is
typical of divine justice and vengeance.  In the beautiful fables of the
Scalds, he is represented as a stern warrior, armed with an enormous
mallet, and wearing a crown of twelve stars.  He lived in a palace of
Valasciolf, of five hundred and forty halls, and was the ruler and
wielder of the thunderbolt.

_Forsete_—divinity of controversy.  I believe this deity is peculiar to
the Scandinavians.  He lived in a palace called Glitner.

_Blind horror_—Hoder—whose name was never pronounced by the Scythians
without fear and immediate expiation—son of Odin, and born blind—the
deity of strength.  He was abhorred in heaven, because, from envy, he
attacked Balder, threw him from his throne, and put out the sun.  Odin
interfered, and punished Hoder by the arrows of Vile (lightning), and
afterwards restored the sun.  It was thus, in their beautiful and
fanciful mythology, like the Greeks, and I think no less elegantly, that
the Scalds described natural, but not understood events.  This story
describes an eclipse of the sun, the strong and blind Hoder signifying
darkness.

_Lofna_—goddess of reconciliation.  I believe this deity is also peculiar
to the Scythians; they have deified her with great propriety.  Her post
could not have been a sinecure in a paradise where happiness consisted in
drinking and fighting.

_Hiarn_—his story is strictly historical.  It was Eric the Third who was
so maddened by music as to commit murder for no other cause.

_Geysers_—boiling spouting springs in Iceland: they are near to Skalholt
and Hecla; they spout water to a tremendous and incredible height.

_Dofrefeld_—a mighty range of Norwegian mountains, intersected by rivers
and cataracts.

_Dolsteen_—a wonderful cavern beneath the Dofrefeld mountains.

_Niord_—the Scandinavian Neptune.


PART IV.


_Uffon_—this story is also historical.  Shakspeare, who read Danish
history, borrowed the circumstance of Vermund’s death for that of Gloster
in King Lear.

_Lidscialf_—the throne of Odin.

_Heimdaller_—guardian of the bridge Bifrost, or the rainbow, by which the
happy dead ascended into Asgard.  He received the souls who were selected
by the Valkyries, and conducted them to Odin.

_Vile_—god of archery; son of Odin and Rinda.


PART V.


_Brage_—god of music and song.

_Hovamaal_—bible of Odin.

_Odin_—a wise and virtuous warrior, whose beneficence procured him among
the early Scythians, deification.  As a divinity, the father of gods and
men, he is the husband of Frea (the earth), and from the union of divine
love and the earth, spring light, heat, the elements, the seasons,
strength, and genius, typified by Balder, Thor, Frey, Hoder, and Balder
again, as orator and poet.  Odin, mounted upon his horse Sleipner,
represents active benevolence.




THE SPECTRE BARBER.


    Sir Ryence of North Gales greeteth well thee,
    And bids thy beard anon to him send,
    Or else from thy jaws he will it off rend.—_Percy_.

THERE formerly lived at Bremen, a wealthy merchant named Melchior, of
whom it was remarked that he invariably stroked his chin with complacency
whenever the subject of the sermon was the rich man in the Gospel; who,
by-the-bye, in comparison with him, was only a petty retail dealer.  This
said Melchior possessed such great riches, that he had caused the floor
of his dining-room to be paved with crown-pieces, which ridiculous luxury
gave great offence to his fellow-citizens and relations.  They attributed
it to vanity and ostentation, but did not guess its true motive; however,
it perfectly answered the end Melchior designed by it; for, by their
constantly expressing their disapprobation of this ostentatious species
of vanity, they spread abroad the report of their neighbour’s immense
riches, and thereby augmented his credit in a most astonishing degree.

At length Melchior died suddenly, while at a corporation dinner, and
consequently had not time to make a disposition of his property by will;
so that his only son Francis, who was just of age, came into possession
of the whole.  This young man was particularly favoured by fortune, both
with respect to his personal advantages and his goodness of heart; but
his immense inheritance caused his ruin.  He had no sooner got into the
possession of so considerable a fortune, than he squandered it, as if it
had been a burthen to him; ran into every possible extravagance, and
neglected his concerns.  Two or three years passed over without his
perceiving that, owing to his dissipations, his funds were considerably
reduced; but at length his coffers were emptied: and one day, when
Francis had drawn a draft to a very considerable amount on his banker,
who had no funds to meet it, it was returned to him protested.  This
disappointment greatly vexed our prodigal, but only as it caused a
temporary check to his wishes; for he did not even then give himself the
trouble to inquire into the reason of it.  After swearing and blustering
for some time, he gave his steward a positive but laconic order to _get
money_.

All the brokers, money-changers, and usurers, were put in requisition,
and the empty coffers were soon filled; for the dining-room floor was in
the eyes of the lenders a sufficient security.

This paliative had its effect for a time; but all at once a report was
spread abroad in the city that the celebrated silver floor had been taken
up: the consequence of which was, that the lenders insisted on examining
into and proving the fact, and then became urgent for payment; but as
Francis had not the means to meet their demands, they seized on all his
goods and chattels; every thing was sold by auction, and he had nothing
left excepting a few jewels, which had formed part of his heritage, and
which might for a short time keep him from starving.

He now took up his abode in a small street in one of the most remote
quarters of the city, where he lived on his straitened means.  He,
however, accommodated himself to his situation; but the only resource
that he found against the _ennui_ which overpowered him was to play on
the lute; and when fatigued by this exercise, he used to stand at his
window and make observations on the weather; and his intelligent mind was
not long in discovering an object which soon entirely engrossed all his
thoughts.

Opposite his window there lived a respectable woman, who was at her
spinning wheel from morning till night, and by her industry earned a
subsistence for herself and her daughter.  Meta was a young girl of great
beauty and attraction: she had known happier times: for her father had
been the proprietor of a vessel freighted by himself, in which he
annually made trading voyages to Antwerp; but he, as well as the ship and
all its cargo, was lost in a violent storm.  His widow sustained this
double loss with resignation and firmness, and resolved to support
herself and her daughter by her own industry.  She made over the house
and furniture to the creditors of her husband, and took up her abode in
the little bye street where Francis lodged, where, by her assiduity she
acquired a subsistence without laying herself under an obligation to any
one.  She brought up her daughter to spinning and other works, and lived
with so much economy, that by her savings she was enabled to set up a
little trade in linen.

Mother Bridget (which was the appellation given to our widow,) did not,
however, calculate on terminating her existence in this penurious
situation; and the hope of better prospects sustained her courage.  The
beauty and excellent qualities of her daughter, whom she brought up with
every possible care and attention, led her to think that some
advantageous offer would one day present itself.  Meta lived tranquilly
and lonely with her mother, was never seen in any of the public walks,
and indeed never went out but to mass once a day.

One day, while Francis was making his metrological observations at the
window, he saw the beautiful Meta, who, under her mother’s watchful eye,
was returning from church.  The heart of Francis was as yet quite free:
for the boisterous pleasures of his past life did not leave him leisure
for a true affection; but at this time, when all his senses were calm,
the appearance of one of the most enchanting female forms he had ever
seen, ravished him, and he henceforth thought solely of the adorable
object which his eyes had thus discovered.  He questioned his landlord
respecting the two females who lived in the opposite house, and from him
learned the particulars we have just related.

He now regretted his want of economy, since his present miserable state
prevented him from making an offer to the charming Meta.  He was,
however, constantly at the window, in hopes of seeing her; and in that
consisted his greatest delight.  The mother very soon discovered the
frequent appearance of her new neighbour at his window, and attributed it
to its right cause.  In consequence, she rigorously enjoined her daughter
not to show herself at the windows, which were now kept constantly shut.

Francis was not much versed in the arts of finesse, but love awakened all
the energies of his soul.  He soon discovered that if he appeared much at
the window, his views would be suspected; and he resolved therefore
studiously to refrain from coming near it.  He determined, however, to
continue his observation of what occurred in the opposite dwelling
without being perceived.  He accordingly purchased a large mirror, and
fixed it in his chamber in such a position that it distinctly presented
to his view what passed in the abode of his opposite neighbour.  Francis
not being seen at the window, the old lady relaxed in her rigour, and
Meta’s windows were once more opened.  Love, more than ever, reigned
triumphant in the bosom of Francis; but how was he to make known his
attachment to its object? he could neither speak nor write to her.  Love,
however, soon suggested a mode of communication which succeeded.  Our
prodigal took his lute, and drew from it tones the best adapted to
express the subject of his passion: and by perseverance, in less than a
month he made a wonderful progress.  He soon had the gratification of
seeing the fair hand of Meta open the little casement, when he began to
tune his instrument.  When she made her appearance, he testified his joy
by an air lively and gay; but if she did not show herself, the melancholy
softness of his tones discovered the disappointment he experienced.

In the course of a short time, he created a great interest in the bosom
of his fair neighbour; and soon had reason to be convinced that Meta
shared a mutual attachment.  She now endeavoured to justify him, when her
mother with acrimony spoke of his prodigality and past misconduct, by
attributing his ruin to the effect of bad example.  But in so doing, she
cautiously avoided exciting the suspicions of the old lady; and seemed
less anxious to excuse him, than to take a part in the conversation that
was going on.

Circumstances, which our limits will not allow us to relate, rendered the
situation of Francis more and more difficult to be supported; his funds
had now nearly failed him; and an offer of marriage from a wealthy
brewer, who was called in the neighbourhood the “King of Hops,” but which
Meta, much to her mother’s disappointment, refused, excited still more
the apprehensions of poor Francis, lest some more fortunate suitor might
yet be received and blast his hopes for ever.

When he received the information that this opulent lover had been
rejected for his sake, with what bitterness did he lament his past
follies.

“Generous girl,” said he, “you sacrifice yourself for a miserable
creature, who has nothing but a heart fondly attached to you, and which
is riven with despair that its possessor cannot offer you the happiness
you so truly merit.”

The King of Hops soon found another female, who listened more kindly to
his vows, and whom he wedded with great splendour.

Love, however, did not leave his work incomplete; for its influence
created in the mind of Francis a desire of exerting his faculties and
actively employing himself, in order, if possible, to emerge from the
state of nothingness into which he was at present plunged; and it
inspired him also with courage to prosecute his good intention.  Among
various projects which he formed, the most rational appeared that of
overlooking his father’s books, taking an account of the claimable debts,
and from that source to get all he possibly could.  The produce of this
procedure would, he thought, furnish him with the means of beginning in
some small way of business; and his imagination led him to extend this to
the most remote corners of the earth.  In order to equip himself for the
prosecution of his plans, he sold all the remainder of his father’s
effects, and with the money purchased a horse to begin his travels.

The idea of a separation from Meta was almost more than he could endure.
“What will she think,” said he, “of this sudden disappearance, when she
no longer meets me in her way to church?  Will she not think me
perfidious, and banish me from her heart?”  Such ideas as these caused
him infinite pain; and for a long while he could not devise any means of
acquainting Meta with his plans; but at length the fertile genius of love
furnished him with the following idea:—Francis went to the curate of the
church which his mistress daily frequented, and requested him, before the
sermon and during mass, to put up prayers for a happy issue to the
affairs of a young traveller; and these prayers were to be continued till
the moment of his return, when they were to be changed into those of
thanks.

Every thing being arranged for his departure, he mounted his steed, and
passed close under Meta’s window.  He saluted her with a very significant
air, and with much less caution than heretofore.  The young girl blushed
deeply; and mother Bridget took this opportunity of loudly expressing her
dislike to this bold adventurer, whose impertinence and foppery induced
him to form designs on her daughter.

From this period the eyes of Meta in vain searched for Francis.  She
constantly heard the prayer which was put up for him; but was so entirely
absorbed by grief at no longer perceiving the object of her affection,
that she paid no attention to the words of the priest.  In no way could
she account for his disappearing.  Some months afterwards, her grief
being somewhat ameliorated and her mind more tranquillized, when she was
one day thinking of the last time she had seen Francis, the prayer
arrested her attention; she reflected for an instant, and quickly divined
for whom it was said; she naturally joined in it with great fervour, and
strongly recommended the young traveller to the protection of her
guardian angel.

Meanwhile Francis continued his journey, and had travelled the whole of a
very sultry day, over one of the desert cantons of Westphalia without
meeting with a single house.  As night approached, a violent storm came
on: the rain fell in torrents; and poor Francis was soaked to the very
skin.  In this miserable situation he anxiously looked around, and
fortunately discovered in the distance a light, towards which he directed
his horse’s steps; but as he drew near, he beheld a miserable cottage,
which did not promise him much succour, for it more resembled a stable
than the habitation of a human being.  The unfeeling wretch who inhabited
it, refused him fire or water, as if he had been a banished man—he was
just about to extend himself on the straw in the midst of the cattle, and
his indolence prevented his lighting a fire for the stranger.  Francis
vainly endeavoured to move the peasant to pity: the latter was
inexorable, and blew out his candle with the greatest nonchalance
possible, without bestowing a thought on Francis.  However, as the
traveller hindered him from sleeping, by his incessant lamentations and
prayers, he was anxious to get rid of him.

“Friend,” said he to him, “if you wish to be accommodated, I promise you
it will not be here; but ride through the little wood to your left hand,
and you will find the castle belonging to the chevalier Eberhard
Bronkhorst, who is very hospitable to travellers; but he has a singular
mania, which is, to flagellate all whom he entertains: therefore decide
accordingly.”

Francis, after considering for some minutes, resolved on hazarding the
adventure.  “In good faith,” said he, “there is no great difference
between having one’s back broken by the miserable accommodation of a
peasant, or by the chevalier Bronkhorst: friction disperses fever;
possibly its effects may prove beneficial to me, if I am compelled to
keep on my wet garments.”

Accordingly he put spurs to his horse, and very shortly found himself
before a gothic castle, at the iron gate of which he loudly knocked, and
was answered from within by—“Who’s there?”  But ere he was allowed time
to reply, the gate was opened.  However, in the first court he was
compelled to wait with patience, till they could learn whether it was the
lord of the castle’s pleasure to flagellate a traveller, or send him out
to pass the night under the canopy of heaven.

The lord of the castle had from his earliest infancy served in the
Imperial army, under the command of George of Funsberg, and had himself
led a company of infantry against the Venetians.  At length, however,
fatigued with warfare, he had retired to his own territory, where, in
order to expiate the crimes he had committed during the several campaigns
he had been in, he did all the good and charitable acts in his power.
But his manner still retained all the roughness of his former profession.
The newly-arrived guest, although disposed to submit to the usages of the
house, for the sake of the good fare, could not help feeling a certain
trembling of fear as he heard the bolts grating, ere the doors were
opened to him; and which, by their groaning noise, seemed to presage the
catastrophe which awaited him.  A cold perspiration came over him as he
passed the last door; but finding that he received the utmost attention,
his fears a little abated.  The servants assisted him in getting off his
horse, and unfastened his cloak-bag; some of them led his horse to the
stable, whilst others preceding him with flambeaux, conducted him to
their master, who awaited his arrival in a room magnificently lighted up.

Poor Francis was seized with a universal tremor, when he beheld the
martial air and athletic form of the lord of the castle, who came up to
him and shook him by the hand with so much force as nearly to make him
cry out, and in a thundering voice, enough to stun him, told him he was
welcome.  Francis trembled like an aspen leaf in every part of his body.

“What ails you, my young comrade?” cried the chevalier Bronkhorst; “what
makes you thus tremble, and render you as pale as if death had actually
seized you in the throat?”

Francis recovered himself; and knowing that his shoulders would pay his
reckoning, his fears gave place to a species of audacity.

“My lord,” answered he with confidence, “you see that I am so soaked with
rain that one might suppose I had swam through the Wezer; order me
therefore some dry clothes instead of these I have on, and let us then
drink a cup of hot wine, that I may, if possible, prevent the fever,
which otherwise may probably seize me.  It will comfort my heart.”

“Admirable!” replied the chevalier; “ask for whatever you want, and
consider yourself here as at home.”

Accordingly Francis gave his orders like a baron of high degree: he sent
away the wet clothes, made choice of others, and, in fine, made himself
quite at his ease.  The chevalier, so far from expressing any
dissatisfaction at his free and easy manners, commanded his people to
execute whatever he ordered with promptitude, and condemned some of them
as blockheads, who did not appear to know how to wait on a stranger.  As
soon as the table was spread, the chevalier seated himself at it with his
guest; and they drank a cup of hot wine together.

“Do you wish for any thing to eat?” demanded the lord.

Francis desired he would order up what his house afforded, that he might
see whether his kitchen was good.

No sooner had he said this, than the steward made his appearance, and
furnished up a most delicious repast, Francis did not wait for his being
requested to partake of it: but after having made a hearty meal, he said
to the lord of the castle, “Your kitchen is by no means despicable; if
your cellar is correspondent, I cannot but say you treat your guests
nobly.”

The chevalier made a sign to his butler, who brought up some inferior
wine, and filled a large glass to his master, who drank to his guest.
Francis instantly returned the compliment.

“Well, young man, what say you to my wine?” asked the chevalier.

“‘Faith,” replied Francis, “I say it is bad, if it is the best you have
in your cellar; but if you have none worse, I do not condemn it.”

“You are a connoisseur;” answered the chevalier.  “Butler, bring us a
flask of older wine.”

His orders being instantly attended to, Francis tasted it.  “This is
indeed some good old wine, and we will stick to it if you please.”

The servants brought in a great pitcher of it, and the chevalier, being
in high good-humour, drank freely with his guest; and then launched out
into a long history of his several feats of prowess in the war against
the Venetians.  He became so overheated by the recital, that in his
enthusiasm he overturned the bottles and glasses, and flourishing his
knife as if it were a sword, passed it so near the nose and ears of
Francis, that he dreaded he should lose them in the action.

Though the night wore away, the chevalier did not manifest any desire to
sleep; for he was quite in his elements, whenever he got on the topic of
the Venetian war.  Each succeeding glass added to the heat of his
imagination as he proceeded in his narration, till at length Francis
began to apprehend that it was the prologue to the tragedy in which he
was to play the principal part; and feeling anxious to learn whether he
was to pass the night in the castle, or be turned out, he asked for a
last glass of wine to enable him to sleep well.  He feared that they
would commence by filling him with wine, and that if he did not consent
to continue drinking, a pretext would be laid hold of for driving him out
of the castle with the usual chastisement.

However, contrary to his expectation, the lord of the castle broke the
thread of his narration, and said to him:—“Good friend, every thing in
its place; to-morrow we will resume our discourse.”

“Excuse me, sir knight,” replied Francis; “to-morrow, before sun-rise, I
shall be on my road.  The distance from hence to Brabant is very
considerable, and I cannot tarry here longer, therefore permit me to take
leave of you now, that I may not disturb you in the morning.”

“Just as you please about that; but you will not leave the castle before
I am up; we will breakfast together, and I shall accompany you to the
outer gate, and take leave of you according to my usual custom.”

Francis needed no comment to render these words intelligible.  Most
willingly would he have dispensed with the chevalier’s company to the
gate; but the latter did not appear at all inclined to deviate from his
established usage.  He ordered his servant to assist the stranger in
undressing, and to take care of him till he was in bed.

Francis found his bed an excellent one; and ere he went to sleep, he
owned that so handsome a reception could not be dearly bought at the
expense of a trifling beating.  The most delightful dreams (in which Meta
bore the sway) occupied him the whole night; and he would have gone on
(thus dreaming) till mid-day, if the sonorous voice of the chevalier and
the clanking of the spurs had not disturbed him.

It needed all Francis’s efforts to quit this delightful bed, in which he
was so comfortable, and where he knew himself to be in safety; he turned
from side to side; but the chevalier’s tremendous voice was like a
death-stroke to him, and at length he resolved to get up.  Several
servants assisted him in dressing, and the chevalier waited for him at a
small, but well-served table; but Francis, knowing the moment of trial
was at hand, had no great inclination to feast.  The chevalier tried to
persuade him to eat, telling him it was the best thing to keep out the
fog and the damp of the morning.

“Sir knight,” replied Francis, “my stomach is still loaded from your
excellent supper of last evening; but my pockets are empty, and I should
much like to fill them, in order to provide against future wants.”

The chevalier evinced his pleasure at his frankness by filling his
pockets with as much as they could contain.  As soon as they brought him
his horse, which he discovered had been well groomed and fed, he drank
the last glass of wine to say Adieu, expecting that at that signal the
chevalier would take him by the collar and make him pay his welcome.
But, to his no small surprise, the chevalier contented himself with
heartily shaking him by the hand as on his arrival; and as soon as the
gate was opened, Francis rode off safe and sound.

In no way could our traveller account for his host permitting him thus to
depart without paying the usual score.  At length he began to imagine
that the peasant had simply told him the story to frighten him; and
feeling a curiosity to know whether or not it had any foundation in fact,
he rode back to the castle.  The chevalier had not yet quitted the gate,
and was conversing with the servants on the pace of Francis’s horse, who
appeared to trot very roughly; and seeing the traveller return, he
supposed that he had forgotten something, and by his looks seemed to
accuse his servants of negligence.

“What do you want, young man?” demanded he: “Why do you, who were so much
pressed for time, return?”

“Allow me, most noble sir,” replied Francis, “to ask you one question: It
is said, that, after having hospitably received and entertained
strangers, you make them at their departure feel the weight of your arm.
And although I gave credence to this rumour, I have omitted nothing which
might have entitled me to this mark of your favour.  But, strange to say,
you have permitted me to depart in peace, without even the slightest mark
of your strength.  You see my surprise; therefore do pray inform me
whether there is any foundation to the report, or whether I shall
chastise the impudent story-teller who related the false tale to me.”

“Young man,” replied Bronkhorst, “you have heard nothing but the truth;
but it needs some explanations.  I open my door hospitably to every
stranger, and in Christian charity I give them a place at my table; but I
am a man who hates form or disguise: I say all I think, and only wish in
return that my guests would openly and undisguisedly ask for all they
want.  There are unfortunately, however, a tribe of people, who fatigue
by their mean complaisance and ceremony, who wear me out by their
dissimulation, and stun me by propositions devoid of sense, or who do not
conduct themselves with decency during the feast.  Gracious heavens! I
lose all patience when they carry their fooleries to such excess, and I
exert my right as master of the castle, by taking hold of their collars,
and giving them a tolerably severe chastisement ere I turn them out of my
gates.—But a man of your sort, my young friend, will ever be welcome
under my roof; for you boldly and openly ask for what you require, and
say what you think; and such are the persons I admire.  If in your way
back you pass through this canton, promise me you will pay me another
visit.  Good bye.  Let me caution you never to place implicit confidence
in any thing you hear; believe only that there may be a single grain of
truth in the whole story; be always frank, and you will succeed through
life.—Heaven’s blessings attend you.”

Francis continued his journey towards Anvers most gaily, wishing as he
went, that he might every where meet with as good a reception as at the
chevalier Bronkhorst’s.

Nothing remarkable occurred during the rest of his journey, and he
entered the city full of the most sanguine hopes and expectations.  In
every street his fancied riches stared him in the face.  “It appears to
me,” said he, “that some of my father’s debtors must have succeeded in
business, and that they will only require my presence, to repay their
debts with honour.”

After having rested from the fatigue of his journey, he made himself
acquainted with every particular relative to the debtors, and learnt that
the greater part had become rich, and were doing extremely well.  This
intelligence re-animated his hopes; he arranged his papers, and paid a
visit to each of the persons who owed him any thing.  But his success was
by no means equal to what he had expected; some of the debtors pretended
that they had paid every thing; others that they had never heard mention
of Melchior of Bremen; and the rest produced accounts precisely
contradictory to those he had, and which tended to prove they were
creditors instead of debtors.  In fine, ere three days had elapsed,
Francis found himself in the debtor’s prison, from whence he stood no
chance of being released till he had paid the uttermost farthing of his
father’s debts.

How pitiable was this young man’s condition!  Even the horrors of the
prison were augmented by the remembrance of Meta:—nay, to such a pitch of
desperation was he carried, that he resolved to starve himself.
Fortunately, however, at twenty-seven years of age such determinations
are more easily formed, than practised.

The intention of those who put him into confinement was not merely with a
view of exacting payment of his pretended debts, but to avoid paying him
his due; so, whether the prayers put up for poor Francis at Bremeu were
effectual, or that the pretended creditors were not disposed to maintain
him during his life, I know not; but after a detention of three months,
they liberated Francis from prison, with a particular injunction to quit
the territories of Anvers within four-and-twenty hours, and never to set
his foot within that city again:—They gave him at the same time five
florins to defray his expenses on the road.  As one may well imagine his
horse and baggage had been sold to defray the costs incident to the
proceedings.

With a heart overloaded with grief he quitted Anvers, in a very different
frame of mind to what he experienced at entering it.  Discouraged and
irresolute, he mechanically followed the road which chance directed; he
paid no attention to the various travellers, nor indeed to any object on
the road, till hunger or thirst caused him to lift up his eyes to
discover a steeple or some other token announcing the habitation of human
beings.  In this state of mind did he continue journeying on for several
days incessantly; nevertheless, a secret instinct impelled him to take
the road leading to his own country.

All on a sudden he roused, as if from a profound sleep, and recollected
the place in which he was: he stopped an instant to consider whether he
should continue the road he was then in, or return: “For,” said he, “what
a shame to return to my native city a beggar!”  How could he thus return
to that city in which he formerly felt equal to the richest of its
inhabitants?  How could he as a beggar present himself before Meta,
without causing her to blush for the choice she had made?  He did not
allow time for his imagination to complete this miserable picture, for he
instantly turned back, as if already he had found himself before the
gates of Bremen, followed by the shouts of the children.  His mind was
soon made up as to what he should do; he resolved to go to one of the
ports of the Low Countries, there to engage himself as a sailor on board
of a Spanish vessel, to go to the newly-discovered world; and not to
return to his native country till he had amassed as much wealth as he had
formerly so thoughtlessly squandered.  In the whole of this project, Meta
was only thought of at an immeasurable distance; but Francis contented
himself with connecting her in idea with his future plans, and walked, or
rather strode along, as if by hurrying his pace he should sooner gain
possession of her.

Having thus attained the frontiers of the Low Countries, he arrived at
sun-set in a village situated near Rheinburg; but since entirely
destroyed in the thirty years’ war.  A caravan of carriers from Liege
filled the inn so entirely, that the landlord told Francis he could not
give him a lodging; adding, that at the adjoining village he would find
accommodations.—Possibly he was actuated to this refusal by Francis’s
appearance, who certainly, in point of garb, might well be mistaken for a
vagabond.

The landlord took him for a spy to a band of thieves, sent probably to
rob carriers; so that poor Francis, in spite of his extreme lassitude,
was compelled, with his wallet at his back, to proceed on his road; and
having at his departure, muttered through his teeth some maledictions
against the cruel and unfeeling landlord, the latter appeared touched
with compassion for the stranger, and from the door of the inn called
after him: “Young man—a word with you!  If you resolve on passing the
night here, I will procure you a lodging in that castle you now see on
the hill; there you will find rooms in abundance, provided you are not
afraid of being alone, for it is uninhabited.  See, here are the keys
belonging to it.”

Francis joyfully accepted the landlord’s proposition, and thanked him for
it as if it had been an act of great charity.

“It is to me a matter of little moment where I pass the night, provided I
am at my ease, and have something to eat.”  But the landlord was an
ill-tempered fellow, and wishing to revenge the invectives Francis had
poured forth against him, he sent him to the castle, in order that he
might be tormented by the spirits which were said to frequent it.

This castle was situated on a steep rock, and was only separated from the
village by the high road and a little rivulet.  Its delightful prospects
caused it to be kept in good repair, and to be well furnished, as its
owner made use of it as a hunting seat; quitting it, however, every
night, in order to avoid the apparitions and ghosts which haunted it.

When it was quite dark, Francis, with a lantern in his hand, proceeded
towards the castle.  The landlord accompanied him, and carried a little
basket of provisions, to which he added a bottle of wine (which he said
would stand the test,) as well as two candles and two wax-tapers for the
night.  Francis, not thinking he should require so many things, and being
apprehensive he should have to pay for them, asked why they were all
brought.

“The light from my lantern,” said he, “will suffice me till the time of
my getting into bed; and ere I shall get out of it, the sun will have
risen, for I am worn out with fatigue.”

“I will not endeavour to conceal from you,” replied the landlord, “that
according to the current reports, this castle is haunted by evil spirits;
but do not let that frighten you; you see I live sufficiently near, that,
in case any thing extraordinary should happen to you, I shall hear you
call, and shall be in readiness with my people to render you any
assistance.  At my house there is somebody stirring all night, and there
is also some one constantly on the watch.  I have lived on this spot for
thirty years, and cannot say that I have seen any thing to alarm me;
indeed I believe that you may with safety attribute any noises you hear
during the night in this castle, to cats and weasels, with which the
granaries are overrun.  I have only provided you with the means of
keeping up a light in a case of need, for, at best, night is but a gloomy
season; and, in addition, these candles are consecrated, and their light
will undoubtedly keep off any evil spirits, should there be such in the
castle.”

The landlord spoke only the truth, when he said he never had the courage
to set his foot within its doors after dark; and though he now spoke so
courageously, the rogue would not have ventured on any account to enter.
After having opened the door, he gave the basket to Francis, pointed out
the way he was to turn, and wished him good night; while the latter,
fully satisfied that the story of ghosts must be fabulous, gaily entered.
He recollected all that had been told him to the prejudice of the
Chevalier Bronkhorst, but unfortunately forgot what that brave Castelian
had recommended to him at parting, “always to believe there was some
truth in what he might hear.”

Conformably to the landlord’s instructions, he went up stairs, and came
to a door, which the key in his possession soon unlocked; it opened into
a long dark gallery, where his very steps re-echoed; the gallery led to a
large hall, from which issued a suite of apartments, furnished in a
costly manner: he surveyed them all, and made choice of one in which to
pass the night, that appeared more lively than the rest.  The windows
looked to the high road, and every thing that passed in front of the inn
could be distinctly heard.  He lighted two candles, spread the cloth, ate
very heartily, and felt completely at his ease, so long as he was thus
employed; for while eating, no thought or apprehension of spirits
molested him; but he no sooner arose from the table, than he began to
feel a sensation strongly resembling fear.

In order to render himself more secure, he locked the door, drew the
bolts, and then looked out from each window.  Every thing along the high
road and in front of the inn was tranquil, where, contrary to the
landlord’s assertions, not a single light was discernible.  The sound of
the horn belonging to the night-guard was the only thing that interrupted
the silence which universally prevailed.

Francis closed the windows, once looked round the room, and after
snuffing the candles, that they might burn the better, he threw himself
on the bed, which he found good and comfortable; but although greatly
fatigued, he could not get to sleep so soon as he had hoped.  A slight
palpitation of the heart, which he attributed to the agitation produced
by the heat of his fatiguing journey, kept him awake for a considerable
time, till at length sleep came to his aid.  After having, as he
imagined, been asleep somewhat above an hour, he awoke and started up in
a state of horror, possibly not unusual to a person whose blood is
over-heated; this idea in some degree allayed his apprehensions, and he
listened attentively, but could hear nothing excepting the clock, which
struck the hour of midnight.  Again he listened for an instant, and
turning on his side, he was just going off to sleep, when he thought he
heard a distant door grinding on its hinges, and then shut with a heavy
noise.  In an instant the idea of the ghost approaching caused him no
little fear; but he speedily got the better of his alarm, by fancying it
was only the wind; however, he could not comfort himself long with this
belief, for the sound approached nearer and nearer, and resembled the
clanking of chains, or the rattling of a bunch of keys.

The terror which Francis experienced was beyond all description, and he
put his head under the clothes.  The doors continued to open with a
frightful noise, and at last he heard some one trying different keys at
the door of his room; one of them seemed perfectly to fit the lock, but
the bolts kept the door fast, however, a violent shock like a clap of
thunder caused them to give way, and in stalked a tall thin figure, with
a black beard, whose appearance was indicative of chagrin and melancholy.
He was habited in the antique style, and on his left shoulder wore a red
cloak or mantle, while his head was covered with a high-crowned hat.
Three times with slow and measured steps he walked round the room,
examined the consecrated candles and snuffed them: he then threw off his
cloak, unfolded a shaving apparatus, and took from it the razors, which
he sharpened on a large leather strap hanging to the belt.

No powers are adequate to describe the agonies Francis endured: he
recommended himself to the Virgin Mary, and endeavoured, as well as his
fears would permit, to form an idea of the spectre’s designs on him.
Whether he purposed to cut his throat, or only take off his beard, he was
at a loss to determine.  The poor traveller was a little more composed,
when he saw the spectre take out a silver shaving pot, and in a bason of
the same metal put some water; after which he made a lather, and placed a
chair.  But a cold perspiration came over Francis, when the spectre with
a grave air, made signs for him to sit in that chair.

He knew it was useless to resist this mandate, which was but too plainly
given; and thinking it most prudent to make a virtue of necessity, and to
put a good face on the matter, Francis obeyed the order, jumped nimbly
out of bed, and seated himself as directed.

The spirit placed the shaving-bib round his neck; then taking a comb and
scissors, cut off his hair and whiskers; after which he lathered,
according to rule, his beard, his eye-brows, and head, and shaved them
all off completely from his chin to the nape of his neck.  This operation
ended, he washed his head, wiped and dried it very nicely, made him a low
bow, folded up his case, put his cloak on his shoulder, and made towards
the door to go away.

The consecrated candles had burnt most brilliantly during this operation;
and by their clear light Francis discovered, on looking into the glass,
that he had not a single hair remaining on his head.  Most bitterly did
he deplore the loss of his beautiful brown hair; but he regained courage
on remarking, that, however great the sacrifice, all was now over, and
that the spirit had no more power over him.

In effect, the ghost walked towards the door with as grave an air as he
had entered; but after going a few steps, he stopped, looked at Francis,
with a mournful air, and stroked his beard.  He three times repeated this
action; and was on the point of quitting the room, when Francis imagined
he wanted something.  With great quickness of thought he imagined it
might be that he wished him to perform a like service for him to that
which he had just been executing on himself.

As the spectre, spite of his woe-begone aspect, appeared more inclined to
raillery than gravity, and as his proceedings towards Francis appeared
more of a species of frolic than absolute ill-treatment, the latter no
longer appeared to entertain any apprehension of him; and in consequence
determined to hazard the adventure.  He therefore beckoned the phantom to
seat himself in the chair.  It instantly returned and obeyed; taking off
its cloak, and unfolding the case, placed it on the table, and seated
itself in the chair, in the attitude of one about to be shaved.  Francis
imitated precisely all he had seen it do: he cut off its hair and
whiskers, and then lathered its head.  The spirit did not move an inch.
Our barber’s apprentice did not handle the razor very dexterously; so
that having taken hold of the ghost’s beard against the grain, the latter
made a horrible grimace.  Francis did not feel much assured by this
action; however, he got through the job as well as he could, and rendered
the ghost’s head as bald as his own.

Hitherto the scene between the two performers had passed in profound
silence: but on a sudden it was interrupted by the ghost exclaiming, with
a smiling countenance—“Stranger, I heartily thank you for the eminent
service you have rendered me; for to you I am indebted for deliverance
from my long captivity.  During the space of three hundred years I have
been immersed within these walls, and my soul has been condemned to
submit to this chastisement as a punishment for my crimes, until some
living being had the courage to exercise retaliation on me, by doing to
me what I have done by others during my life.

“Count Hartmann formerly resided in this castle; he was a man who
recognised no law nor superior; was of an arrogant and overbearing
disposition; committed every species of wickedness, and violated the most
sacred rights of hospitality; he played all sorts of malicious tricks to
strangers who sought refuge under his roof, and to the poor who solicited
his charity.  I was his barber, and did every thing to please him.  No
sooner did I perceive a pious pilgrim, than in an endearing tone I urged
him to come into the castle, and prepared a bath for him; and while he
was enjoying the idea of being taken care of, I shaved his beard and head
quite close, and then turned him out of the bye door with raillery and
ridicule.  All this was seen by Count Hartmann from his window with a
sort of devilish pleasure, while the children would assemble round the
abused stranger and pursue him with cries of derision.

“One day there came a holy man from a far distant country: he wore a
plenipotentiary cross at his back, and his devotion had imprinted scars
on his feet, hands, and sides; his head was shaved, excepting a circle of
hair, left to resemble the crown of thorns worn by our Saviour.  He asked
for some water to wash his feet as he passed by, and some bread to eat.
I instantly put him into the bath; but did not respect even his venerable
head.  Upon which the pilgrim pronounced this terrible curse on
me.—‘Depraved wretch,’ said he, ‘know that at your death, the formidable
gates of heaven, of hell, and of purgatory, will alike be closed against
your sinful soul, which shall wander through this castle, in the form of
a ghost, until some man, without being invited or constrained, shall do
to you, what you have so long done to others.’

“From that moment the marrow in my bones dried up, and I became a perfect
shadow; my soul quitted my emaciated body, which remained wandering
within these walls, according to the prediction of the holy man.  In vain
did I look and hope for release from the painful ties which held me to
earth; for know that no sooner is the soul separated from the body, than
it aspires to the blissful regions of peace, and the ardour of its wishes
causes years to appear as long as centuries, while it languishes in a
strange element.  As a punishment, I was compelled to continue the trade
I had exercised during my life; but, alas! my nocturnal appearance soon
rendered this castle deserted.  Now and then a poor pilgrim entered to
pass the night here: when they did, however, I treated them all as I have
done you; but not one has understood me, or rendered me the only service
which would deliver my soul from this sad servitude; henceforth, no
spirit will haunt this castle, for I shall now enjoy that repose of which
I have been so long in search.  Once again let me thank you, gallant
youth; and believe, that had I power over the hidden treasures of the
globe, I would give them all to you, but unfortunately, during my life
riches did not fall to my lot, and this castle contains no store;
however, listen to the advice I am about to give you.

“Remain here till your hair is grown again; then return to your own
country; and at that period of the year when the days and nights are of
equal length, go on the bridge which crosses the Weser, and there remain
till a friend, whom you shall there meet, shall tell you what you ought
to do to get possession of terrestrial wealth.  When you are rolling in
riches and prosperity, remember me; and on every anniversary of the day
on which you released me from the heavy maledictions which overwhelmed
me, cause a mass to be said for the repose of my soul.  Adieu!  I must
now leave you.”

Thus saying, the phantom vanished, and left his liberator perfectly
astonished at the strange history he had just related.  For a
considerable time Francis remained immoveable, and reasoned within
himself as to the reality of what he had seen; for he could not help
fancying still that it was only a dream; but his closely shaved head soon
convinced him that the event had actually taken place.  He got into bed
again, and slept soundly until mid-day.

The malicious inn-keeper had been on the watch from the dawn of day for
the appearance of the traveller, in order that he might enjoy a laugh at
his expense, and express his surprise at the night’s adventure.  But
after waiting till his patience was nearly exhausted, and finding it
approached to noon, he began to apprehend that the spirit had either
strangled the stranger, or that he had died of fright.  He therefore
called his servants together, and ran with them to the castle, passing
through every room till they reached the one in which he had observed the
light the over-night; there he found a strange key in the door, which was
still bolted; for Francis had drawn the bolts after the ghost had
vanished.  The landlord, who was all anxiety, knocked loudly; and Francis
on waking, at first thought that it was the phantom come to pay him
another visit; but at length recognising the landlord’s voice, he got up
and opened the door.

The landlord, affecting the utmost possible astonishment, clasped his
hands, and exclaimed, “Great God and all the saints! then the red cloak
has actually been here and shaved you completely?  I now see that the
story is but too well founded.  But pray relate to me all the
particulars; tell me what the spirit was like; how he came thus to shave
you; and what he said to you?”

Francis, having sense enough to discover his roguery, answered him by
saying: “The spirit resembled a man wearing a red cloak; you know full
well how he performed the operation; and his conversation I perfectly
remember;—listen attentively:—‘Stranger,’ said he to me, ‘do not trust to
a certain inn-keeper, who has a figure of malice for his sign; the rogue
well knew what would happen to you.—Adieu! I now quit this abode, as my
time is come; and in future no spirit will make its appearance here.  I
am now to be transformed into a night-mare, and shall constantly torment
and haunt this said inn-keeper, unless he does penance for his villainy,
by lodging, feeding, and furnishing you with every thing needful, till
your hair shall grow again, and fall in ringlets over your shoulders.”

At these words, the landlord was seized with a violent trembling: he
crossed himself and vowed to the Virgin Mary, that he would take care of
the young stranger, lodge him, and give him every thing he required free
of cost.  He then conducted him to his house, and faithfully fulfilled
what he promised.

The spirit being no longer heard or seen, Francis was naturally looked on
as a conjurer.  He several times passed a night in the castle; and one
evening a courageous villager accompanied him, and returned without
having lost his hair.  The lord of the castle, hearing that the
formidable Red Cloak was no longer to be seen, was quite delighted; and
gave orders that the stranger who had delivered him from this spirit
should be well taken care of.

Early in the month of September, Francis’s hair began to form into
ringlets, and he prepared to depart; for all his thoughts were directed
towards the bridge over the Weser, where he hoped, according to the
barber’s predictions, to find the friend who would point out to him the
way to make his fortune.

When Francis took leave of the landlord, the latter presented him with a
handsome horse well appointed, and loaded with a large cloak-bag on the
back of the saddle, and gave him at the same time a sufficient sum of
money to complete his journey.  This was a present from the lord of the
castle, expressive of his thanks for having his castle again rendered
habitable.

Francis arrived at his native place in high spirits.  He returned to his
lodging in the little street, where he lived very retired, contenting
himself for the present with secret information respecting Meta.  All the
tidings he thus gained were of a satisfactory nature; but he would
neither visit her, nor make her acquainted with his return, till his fate
was decided.

He waited with the utmost impatience for the equinox; till which, time
seemed immeasurably long.  The night preceding the eventful day, he could
not close his eyes to sleep; and that he might be sure of not missing the
friend with whom he was as yet unacquainted, he took his station ere
sun-rise on the bridge, where no human being but himself was to be
discovered.  Replete with hopes of future good fortune, he formed a
thousand projects in what way he should spend his money.

Already had he during the space of an hour, traversed the bridge alone,
giving full scope to his imagination; when on a sudden the bridge
presented a moving scene, and amongst others, many beggars took their
several stations on it, to levy contributions on the passengers.  The
first of this tribe who asked charity of Francis was a poor vagabond with
a wooden leg, who, being a pretty good physiognomist, judged from the gay
and contented air of the young man, that his request would be crowned
with success; and his conjecture was not erroneous, for he threw a
demi-florin into his hat.

Francis, meanwhile, feeling persuaded that the friend he expected must
belong to the highest class of society, felt no surprise at not seeing
him at so early an hour, and waited therefore with patience.  But as the
hour for visiting the Exchange and Courts of Justice drew near, his eyes
were in constant motion.  He discovered at an immense distance every
well-dressed person who came on the bridge, and his blood was in a
perfect ferment as each approached him, for in some one of them did he
hope to discover the author of his good fortune; but in vain he looked
people in the face, no one paid attention to him.  The beggars, who at
noon were seated on the ground eating their dinner, remarking that the
young man they had seen from the first of the morning, was the only
person remaining with them on the bridge, and that he had not spoken to
any one, or appeared to have any employment, took him for a lazy
vagabond; and although they had received marks of his beneficence, they
began to make game of him, and in derision called him the provost of the
bridge.  The physiognomist with the wooden leg observed, that his air was
no longer so gay as in the morning, and that having drawn his hat over
his face, he appeared entirely lost in thought, for he walked slowly
along, nibbling an apple, with an abstracted air.  The observer,
resolving to benefit by what he had remarked, went to the further
extremity of the bridge, and after well examining the visionary, came up
to him as a stranger, asked his charity, and succeeded to his utmost
wish; for Francis, without turning round his head, gave him another
demi-florin.

In the afternoon, a crowd of new faces presented themselves to Francis’s
observation, while he became quite weary at his friend’s tardiness; but
hope still kept up his attention.  However, the fast declining sun gave
notice of the approach of night, and yet scarcely any of the passers-by
had noticed Francis.  Some few, perhaps, had returned his salutation, but
not one had, as he expected and hoped, embraced him.  At length, the day
so visibly declined, that the bridge became nearly deserted; for even the
beggars went away.  A profound melancholy seized the heart of poor
Francis, when he found his hopes thus deceived; and giving way to
despair, he would have precipitated himself into the Weser, had not the
recollection of Meta deterred him.  He felt anxious, ere he terminated
his days in so tragical a manner, to see her once again as she went to
mass, and feast on the contemplation of her features.

He was preparing to quit the bridge, when the beggar with the wooden leg
accosted him, for he had in vain puzzled his brain to discover what could
possibly have caused the young man to remain on the bridge from morning
till night.  The poor cripple had waited longer than usual on account of
Francis, in order to see when he went; but as he remained longer than he
wished, curiosity at length induced him openly to address him, in order
to learn what he so ardently desired to know.

“Pray excuse me, worthy sir,” said he: “and permit me to ask you a
question.”

Francis, who was by no means in a mood to talk, and who now heard from
the mouth of a beggar the words which he had so anxiously expected from a
friend, answered him in rather an angry tone: “Well then, what is it you
want to know, old man?”

“Sir, you and I were the first persons on this bridge to-day; and here we
are still the only remaining two.  As for me and my companions, it is
pretty clear that we only came to ask alms; but it is equally evident you
do not belong to our profession, and yet you have not quitted the bridge
the whole day.  My dear sir, for the love of God, if it is no secret,
tell me, I entreat you, for what purpose you came, and what is the grief
that rends your heart?”

“What can it concern you, old dotard, to know where the shoe pinches me,
or what afflictions I am labouring under?”

“My good sir, I wish you well: you have twice bestowed your charity on
me, which I hope the Almighty will return to you with interest.  I could
not but observe, however, this evening your countenance no longer looked
gay and happy as in the morning; and, believe me, I was sorry to see the
change.”

The unaffected interest evinced by the old man pleased Francis.  “Well,”
replied he, “since you attach so much importance to the knowledge of the
reason I have for remaining the whole day here plaguing myself, I will
inform you that I came here in search of a friend who appointed to meet
me on this bridge, but whom I have expected in vain.”

“With your permission I should say your friend was a rogue, to play the
fool with you in this manner.  If he had so served me, I should make him
feel the weight of my crutch whenever I met him; for if he has been
prevented from keeping his word by any unseen obstacle, he ought at least
to have sent to you, and not have kept you here on your feet a whole
day.”

“And yet I have no reason to complain of his not coming, for he promised
me nothing.  In fact it was only a dream that I was told I should meet a
friend here.”

Francis spoke of it as a dream, because the history of the ghost was too
long to relate.

“That alters the case,” replied the old man.  “Since you rest your hopes
on dreams, I am not astonished at your being deceived.  I have also had
many dreams in my life; but I was never fool enough to pay attention to
them.  If I had all the treasures that have been promised me in dreams, I
could purchase the whole city of Bremen; but I have never put faith in
dreams, and have not taken a single step to prove whether they were true
or false; for I know full well, it would be useless trouble; and I am
astonished that you should have lost so fine a day, which you might have
employed so much more usefully, merely on the strength of a dream, which
appears to me so wholly devoid of sense or meaning.”

“The event proves the justness of your remark, old father; and that
dreams generally are deceitful.  But it is rather more than three months
since I had a very circumstantial dream relative to my meeting a friend
on this particular day, here on this bridge; and it was so clearly
indicated that he should communicate things of the utmost importance,
that I thought it worth while to ascertain whether this dream had any
foundation in truth.”

“Ah, sir, no one has had clearer dreams than myself; and one of them I
shall never forget.  I dreamt, several years since, that my good angel
stood at the foot of my bed, in the form of a young man, and addressed me
as follows:—‘Berthold, listen attentively to my words, and do not lose
any part of what I am about to say.  A treasure is allotted to you; go
and secure it, that you may be enabled to live happily the rest of your
days.  To-morrow evening, when the sun is setting, take a pick-axe and
spade over your shoulder, and go out of the city by the gate leading to
Hamburgh; when you arrive facing the convent of St. Nicholas, you will
see a garden, the entrance to which is ornamented by two pillars; conceal
yourself behind one of these until the moon rises; then push the door
hard, and it will yield to your efforts; go without fear into the garden,
follow a walk covered by a treillage of vines, and to the left you will
see a great apple-tree; place yourself at the foot of the tree, with your
face turned towards the moon, and you will perceive at fifteen feet
distance, two bushy rose-trees; search between these two shrubs, and at
the depth of about six feet you will discover a great flag-stone, which
covers the treasure enclosed within an iron chest; and although it is
heavy and difficult to handle, do not regret the labour it will occasion
you to remove it from the hole where it now is.  You will be well
rewarded for your pains and trouble, if you look for the key which is
under the box.’”

Francis remained like one stupified at this recital; and certainly would
have been unable to conceal his astonishment, if the darkness of the
night had not favoured him.  The various particulars pointed out by the
beggar brought to his recollection a little garden which he had inherited
from his father, and which garden was the favourite spot of that good
man; but possibly for that very reason it was not held in estimation by
the son.  Melchior had caused it to be laid out according to his own
taste, and his son in the height of his extravagance had sold it at a
very low price.

The beggar with his wooden leg was become a very interesting personage to
Francis, who perceived that he was the friend alluded to by the ghost in
the castle of Rummelsbourg.  The first impulse of joy would have led him
to embrace the mendicant; but he restrained his feelings, thinking it
best not to communicate the result of his intelligence to him.

“Well, my good man,” said he, “what did you when you awoke? did you not
attend to the advice given by your good angel!”

“Why should I undertake a hopeless labour?  It was only a vague dream;
and if my good angel was anxious to appear to me, he might choose a night
when I am not sleeping, which occurs but too frequently; but he has not
troubled his head much about me; for if he had, I should not have been
reduced, as I am now, to his shame, to beg my bread.”

Francis took from his pocket another piece of money, and gave it to the
old man, saying, “Take this to procure half a pint of wine, and drink it
ere you retire to rest.  Your conversation has dispelled my sorrowful
thoughts; do not fail to come regularly to this bridge, where I hope we
shall meet again.”

The old lame man, not having for a long while made so good a day’s work,
overwhelmed Francis with his grateful benedictions.  They separated, and
each went his way.  Francis, whose joy was at its height from the near
prospect of his hopes being realised, very speedily reached his lodging
in the bye street.

The following day he ran to the purchaser of the little garden, and
proposed to re-purchase it.  The latter, to whom this property was of no
particular value, and who, indeed, began to be tired of it, willingly
consented to part with it.  They very soon agreed as to the conditions of
the purchase, and went immediately to sign the contract: with the money
he had found in his bag, as a gift from the lord of Rummelsbourg, Francis
paid down half the price: he then procured the necessary tools for
digging a hole in the earth, conveyed them to the garden, waited till the
moon was up, strictly adhered to the instructions given him by the old
beggar, set to work, and without any unlucky adventure he obtained the
hidden treasure.

His father, as a precaution against necessity, had buried this money,
without any intention to deprive his son of this considerable portion of
his inheritance; but dying suddenly, he had carried the secret to his
grave, and nothing but a happy combination of circumstances, could have
restored this lost treasure to its rightful owner.

The chest, filled with gold pieces, was too heavy for Francis to remove
to his lodging without employing some person to assist him; and feeling
unwilling to become a topic of general conversation, he preferred
concealing it in the summer-house belonging to the garden, and fetching
it at several times.  On the third day the whole was safely conveyed to
his lodging in the back street.

Francis dressed himself in the best possible style, and went to church to
request that the priest would substitute for the prayers which had been
previously offered up, a thanksgiving for the safe return of a traveller
to his native country, after having happily terminated his business.  He
concealed himself in a corner, where, unseen, he could observe Meta.  The
sight of her gave him inexpressible delight, especially when he saw the
beautiful blush which overspread her cheeks, and the brilliancy of her
eyes, when the priest offered up the thanksgiving.  A secret meeting took
place, as had been formerly arranged: and so much was Meta affected by
it, that any indifferent person might have divined the cause.  Francis
repaired to the Exchange, set up again in business, and in a very short
time had enough to do; his fortune each succeeding day becoming better
known, his neighbours judged that he had had greater luck than sense in
his journey to collect his father’s debts.  He hired a large house in the
best part of the town, engaged clerks, and continued his business with
laudable and indefatigable assiduity: he conducted himself with the
utmost propriety and sagacity, and abstained from the foolish
extravagances which had formerly been his ruin.

The re-establishment of Francis’s fortune formed the general topic of
conversation.  Every one was astonished at the success of his foreign
voyage: but in proportion to the spreading fame of his riches, did Meta’s
tranquillity and happiness diminish; for it appeared that the silent
lover was now in a condition to declare himself, and yet he remained
dumb, and only manifested his love by the usual rencontre on coming out
of church; and even this species of rendezvous became less frequent,
which appeared to evince a diminution of his affection.

Poor Meta’s heart was now torn by jealousy; for she imagined that the
inconstant Francis was offering up his vows to some other beauty.  She
had experienced secret transports of delight on learning the change of
fortune of the man she loved, not from interested motives and the wish to
participate in his better fortune herself, but from affection to her
mother, who, since the failure of the match with the rich brewer,
absolutely seemed to despair of every enjoying happiness or comfort in
this world.  When she thought Francis faithless, she wished that the
prayers put up for him in the church had not been heard, and that his
journey had not been attended with such success; for had he been reduced
to means merely sufficient to procure the necessaries of life, in all
probability he would have shared them with her.

Mother Bridget failed not to perceive her daughter’s uneasiness, and
easily guessed the cause; for she had heard of her old neighbour’s
surprising return, and she knew he was now considered an industrious,
intelligent merchant: therefore she thought if his love for her daughter
was what it ought to be, he would not be thus tardy in declaring it; for
she well knew Meta’s sentiments towards him.  However, feeling anxious to
avoid the probability of wounding her daughter’s feelings, she avoided
mentioning the subject to her; but the latter, no longer able to confine
her grief to her own bosom, disclosed it to her mother, and confided the
whole to her.

Mother Bridget did not reproach her daughter for her past conduct, but
employed all her eloquence to console her, and entreat her to bear up
with courage under the loss of all her hopes.  “You must resign him,”
said she: “you scorned at the happiness which presented itself to your
acceptance, therefore you must now endeavour to be resigned at its
departure.  Experience has taught me that those hopes which appear to be
the best founded are frequently the most delusive; follow my example, and
never again deliver up your heart.  Do not reckon on any amelioration of
your condition, and you will be contented with your lot.  Honour this
spinning-wheel, which produces the means of your subsistence, and then
fortune and riches will be immaterial to you: you may do without them.”

Thus saying, mother Bridget turned the wheel round with redoubled
velocity, in order to make up for the time lost in conversation.  She
spoke nothing but the truth to her daughter; for, since the opportunity
was gone by when she hoped it was possible to have regained her lost
comforts, she had in such a manner simplified her present wants and
projects of future life, that it was not in the power of destiny to
produce any considerable derangement in them.  But as yet Meta was not so
great a philosopher; so that her mother’s exhortations, consolations, and
doctrines, produced a precisely different effect on her from what they
were intended.  Meta looked on herself as the destroyer of the flattering
hopes her mother had entertained.  Although she did not formally accept
the offer of marriage proposed to her, and even then could not have
reckoned on possessing beyond the common necessaries of life; yet, since
she had heard the tidings of the great fortune obtained by the man of her
heart, her views had become enlarged, and she anticipated with pleasure
that by her choice she might realise her mother’s wishes.

Now, however, this golden dream had vanished: Francis would not come
again; and, indeed, they even began to talk of an alliance about to take
place between him and a very rich young lady of Anvers.  The news was a
death-blow to poor Meta: she vowed she would banish him from her
thoughts; but still she shed very many tears.

Contrary, however, to her vow, she was one day thinking of the faithless
one; for whenever she filled her spinning-wheel, she thought of the
following distich, which her mother had frequently repeated to her to
encourage her in her work.—

   “Spin the thread well, spin, spin it more,
   For see your intended is now at the door.”

Some one did in reality knock gently at the door: and mother Bridget went
to see who it was.  Francis entered, attired as for the celebration of a
wedding.  Surprise for a while suspended mother Bridget’s faculties of
speech.  Meta blushed deeply, and trembling, arose from her seat, but was
equally unable with her mother to say a word.  Francis was the only one
of the three who could speak; and he candidly declared his love, and
demanded of Bridget the hand of her daughter.  The good mother ever
attentive to forms, asked eight days to consider the matter, although the
tears of joy which she shed, plainly evinced her ready and prompt
acquiescence; but Francis, all impatience, would hear of no delay:
finding which, she, conformable to her duty as a mother, willing to
satisfy Francis’s ardour, adopted a midway, and left the decision to her
daughter.  The latter, obeying the dictates of her own heart, placed
herself by the side of the object of her tenderest affection; and
Francis, transported with joy, thanked her with a kiss.

The two lovers then entertained themselves with talking over the delights
of the time when they so well communicated their sentiments by signs.
Francis had great difficulty in tearing himself away from Meta, and such
“converse sweet,” but he had an important duty to fulfil.

He directed his steps towards the bridge over the Weser, where he hoped
to find his old friend with the wooden leg, whom he had by no means
forgotten, although he had delayed making the promised visit.  The latter
instantly recognised Francis; and no sooner saw him at the foot of the
bridge, than he came to meet him, and showed evident marks of pleasure at
the sight of him.  “Can you, my friend,” said Francis to him, after
returning his salutation, “come with me into the new town and execute a
commission? you will be well rewarded for your trouble.”

“Why not?—with my wooden leg I walk about just as well as other people;
and, indeed, have an advantage over them, for it is never fatigued.  I
beg you, however, my good sir, to have the kindness to wait till the man
with the grey greatcoat arrives.”

“What has this man with the grey great-coat to do with you?”

“He every day comes as evening approaches and gives me a demi-florin; I
know not from whom.  It is not, indeed, always proper to learn all
things; so I do not breathe a word.  I am sometimes tempted to believe,
that it is the devil who is anxious to buy my soul; but it matters
little, I have not consented to the bargain, therefore it cannot be
valid.”

“I verily believe that grey surtout has some malice in his head: so
follow me; and you shall have a quarter-florin over and above the
bargain.”

Francis conducted the old man to a distant corner, near the ramparts of
the city, stopped before a newly-built house, and knocked at the door.
As soon as the door was opened, he thus addressed the old beggar:—“You
have procured a very agreeable evening for me in the course of my life;
it is but just, therefore, that I should shed some comfort and joy over
your declining days.  This house and every thing appertaining thereto
belongs to you.  The kitchen and cellar are both well stocked; there is a
person to take care of you, and every day at dinner you will find a
quarter-florin under your plate.  It is now time for you to know that the
man in the grey surtout is my servant, whom I every day sent with my alms
till this house was ready to receive you.  You may, if you please,
consider me as your guardian angel, since your good angel did not acquit
himself uprightly in return for your gratitude.”

Saying this, he made the old man go into the house, where the latter
found every thing he could possibly desire or want.  The table was
spread; and the old man was so much astonished at his unexpected good
fortune, that he thought it must be a dream; for he could in no way
imagine why a rich man should feel so much interest for a miserable
beggar.  Francis having again assured him that every thing he saw was his
own, a torrent of tears expressed his thanks; and before he could
sufficiently recover to express his gratitude by words, Francis had
vanished.

The following day, mother Bridget’s house was filled with merchants and
shopkeepers of all descriptions, whom Francis had sent to Meta, in order
that she might purchase and get ready every thing she required for her
appearance in the world with suitable éclat.  Three weeks afterwards he
conducted her to the altar.  The splendour of the wedding far exceeded
that of the King of Hops.  Mother Bridget enjoyed the satisfaction of
adorning her daughter’s forehead with the nuptial crown, and thereby
obtained the accomplishment of all her desires, and was recompensed for
her virtuous and active life.  She witnessed her daughter’s happiness
with delight, and proved the very best of grandmothers to her daughter’s
children.




THE SLEEPING FRIAR;
OR,
THE STONE OF FATHER CUDDY.


ABOVE all the islands in the Lakes of Killarney, give me
Innisfallen—“sweet Innisfallen,” as the melodious Moore calls it.  It is
in truth a fairy isle, although I have no fairy story to tell you about
it; and if I had these are such unbelieving times, and people of late
have grown so sceptical, that they only smile at my stones and doubt
them.

However none will doubt that a monastery stood once upon Innisfallen
Island, for its ruins may still be seen; neither, that within its walls
dwelt certain pious and learned persons called monks.  A very pleasant
set of fellows they were, I make not the least doubt; and I am sure of
this, that they had a very pleasant spot to enjoy themselves in after
dinner:—the proper time, believe me, and I am no bad judge of such
matters, for the enjoyment of a fine prospect.

Out of all the monks you could not pick a better fellow nor a merrier
soul than Father Cuddy;—he sang a good song, he told a good story, and
had a jolly, comfortable-looking paunch of his own that was a credit to
any refectory table.  He was distinguished by the name of “the fat
Father.”  Now there are many that will take huff at a name: but Father
Cuddy had no nonsense of that kind about him; he laughed at it, and well
able he was to laugh, for his mouth nearly reached from one ear to the
other,—his might in truth be called an open countenance.  As his paunch
was no disgrace to his food, neither was his nose to his drink.  ’Tis a
question to me if there were not more carbuncles upon it than ever were
seen at the bottom of the lake, which is said to be full of them.  His
eyes had a right merry twinkle in them, like moonshine dancing on the
water, and his cheeks had the roundness and crimson glow of ripe arbutus
berries.

   He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept,—what then?
   He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept again!

Such was the tenor of his simple life; but when he prayed a certain
drowsiness would come upon him, which it must be confessed never occurred
when a well filled ‘black-jack’ stood before him.  Hence his prayers were
short, and his draughts were long.  The world loved him, and he saw no
reason why he should not in return love its venison and its usquebaugh.
But, as times went, he must have been a pious man, or else what befell
him never would have happened.

Spiritual affairs—for it was respecting the importation of a tun of wine
into the inland monastery—demanded the presence of one of the brotherhood
of Innisfallen at the abbey of Irelagh, now called Muckruss.  The
superintendence of this important matter was confided to Father Cuddy,
who felt too deeply interested in the future welfare of any community of
which he was a member to neglect or delay such a mission.  With the
morning’s light he was seen guiding his shallop across the crimson waters
of the lake towards the peninsula of Muckruss, and having moored his
little bark in safety beneath the shelter of a wave-worn rock, he
advanced with becoming dignity towards the abbey.

The stillness of the bright and balmy hour was broken by the heavy
footsteps of the zealous father:—at the sound the startled deer, shaking
the dew from their sides, sprang up from their lair, and as they bounded
off—“Hah,” exclaimed Cuddy, “what a noble haunch goes there!—how
delicious it would look smoking upon a goodly platter.”

As he proceeded, the mountain bee hummed his tune of gladness around the
holy man, save when buried in the foxglove bell, or revelling upon a
fragrant bunch of thyme,—and even then, the little voice murmured out
happiness in low and broken tones of voluptuous delight.  Father Cuddy
derived no small comfort at the sound, for it presaged a good metheglin
season; and metheglin he considered no bad liquor, particularly when
there was no stint of usquebaugh in the brewing.

Arrived within the abbey gate, he was received with due respect by the
brethren of Irelagh, and arrangements for the embarkation of the wine
were completed to his entire satisfaction.—“Welcome, Father Cuddy!” said
the prior, “grace be on you.”

“Grace before meat then,” said Cuddy, “for a long walk always makes me
hungry, and I am certain I have not walked less than half a mile this
morning, to say nothing of crossing the water.”

A pasty of choice flavour felt the truth of this assertion as regarded
Father Cuddy’s appetite.  After such consoling repast, it would have been
a reflection on monastic hospitality to have departed without partaking
of the grace-cup:—moreover Father Cuddy had a particular respect for the
antiquity of that custom.  He liked the taste of the grace-cup well;—he
tried another,—it was no less excellent; and when he had swallowed the
third he found his heart expand, and put forth its fibres, as willing to
embrace all mankind!—Surely then there is christian love and charity in
wine!

I said he sung a good song.  Now though psalms are good songs, and in
accordance with his vocation, I did not mean to imply that he was a mere
psalm-singer.  It was well known to the brethren, that wherever Father
Cuddy was, mirth and melody were with him.  Mirth in his eye, and melody
on his tongue; and these, from experience, are equally well known to be
thirsty commodities; but he took good care never to let them run dry.  To
please the brotherhood, whose excellent wine pleased him, he sung, and as
“in vino veritas,” his song will well become this veritable history, I
give it.

       O ’tis eggs are a treat
       When so white and so sweet
    From under the manger they’re taken:
       And by fair Margery,
       Och! ’tis she’s full of glee,
    They are fried with fat rashers of bacon.

       Just like daisies all spread
       O’er a broad sunny mead
    In the sun-beams so beauteously shining,
       Are fried eggs well displayed
       On a dish, when we’ve laid
    The cloth, and are thinking of dining.

Such was his song.  Father Cuddy smacked his lips at the recollection of
Margery’s delicious fried eggs, which always imparted a peculiar relish
to his liquor.  The very idea caused Cuddy to raise the cup to his mouth,
and, with one hearty pull thereat, he finished its contents.

This is, and ever was, a censorious world, often construing what is only
a fair allowance into an excess;—but I scorn to reckon on any man’s drink
like an unrelenting host; therefore I cannot tell how many brimming
draughts of wine, bedecked with the venerable Bead, Father Cuddy emptied
into his “soul-case,”—so he figuratively termed the body.

His respects for the goodly company of the monks of Irelagh detained him
until their adjournment to vespers, when he set forward on his return to
Innisfallen.  Whether his mind was occupied in philosophic contemplation
or wrapped in pious musings, I cannot declare; but the honest Father
wandered on in a different direction from that in which his shallop lay.
Far be it from me to insinuate that the good liquor, which he had so
commended, had caused him to forget his road, or that his track was
irregular and unsteady.  Oh no! he carried his drink bravely, as became a
decent man and a good christian; yet somehow, he thought he could
distinguish two moons.  “Bless my eyes,” said Father Cuddy, “everything
is changed now-a-days!—the very stars are not in the same places they
used to be;—I think Camcéachta (the plough) is driving on at a rate I
never saw it before to-night, but suppose the driver is drunk, for there
are blackguards everywhere.”

Cuddy had scarcely uttered these words, when he saw, or fancied he saw,
the form of a young woman; who, holding up a bottle, beckoned him towards
her.  The night was extremely beautiful, and the white dress of the girl
floated gracefully in the moonlight, as with gay step she tripped on
before the worthy Father, archly looking back upon him over her shoulder.
“Ah, Margery,—merry Margery!” cried Cuddy, “you tempting little
rogue—‘_Et a Margery bella_—_Quæ festiva puella_.’—I see you—I see you
and the bottle!—let me but catch you, Margery _bella_.”  And on he
followed, panting and smiling, after this alluring apparition.

At length his feet grew weary, and his breath failed, which obliged him
to give up the chase; yet such was his piety, that unwilling to rest in
any attitude but that of prayer, down dropped Father Cuddy on his knees.
Sleep as usual stole upon his devotions, and the morning was far advanced
when he awoke from dreams, in which tables groaned beneath their load of
viands, and wine poured itself free and sparkling as the mountain spring.

Rubbing his eyes, he looked about him, and the more he looked the more he
wondered at the alterations which appeared in the face of the country.
“Bless my soul and body,” said the good Father, “I saw the stars changing
last night, but here is a change!”  Doubting his senses he looked again.
The hills bore the same majestic outline as on the preceding day, and the
lake spread itself beneath his view in the same tranquil beauty, and was
studded with the same number of islands; but every smaller feature in the
landscape was strangely altered;—naked rocks were now clothed with holly
and arbutus.  Whole woods had disappeared, and waste places had become
cultivated fields; and to complete the work of enchantment the very
season itself seemed changed.  In the rosy dawn of a summer’s morning he
had left the monastery of Innisfallen, and he now felt in every sight and
sound the dreariness of winter; the hard ground was covered with withered
leaves;—icicles depended from leafless branches; he heard the sweet low
note of the robin who familiarly approached him, and he felt his fingers
numbed by the nipping frost.  Father Cuddy found it rather difficult to
account for such sudden transformations, and to convince himself it was
not the illusion of a dream he was about to arise; when lo! he discovered
that both his knees were buried at least six inches in the solid stone:
for notwithstanding all these changes, he had never altered his devout
position.

Cuddy was now wide awake, and felt, when he got up, his joints sadly
cramped, which it was only natural they should be, considering the hard
texture of the stone, and the depth his knees had sunk into it.  The
great difficulty was, to explain how, in one night, summer had become
winter—whole woods had been cut down, and well-grown trees had sprouted
up.  The miracle, nothing else could he conclude it to be, urged him to
hasten his return to Innisfallen, where he might learn some explanation
of these marvellous events.

Seeing a boat moored within reach of the shore, he delayed not, in the
midst of such wonders, to seek his own bark, but, seizing the oars,
pulled stoutly towards the island; and here new wonders awaited him.

Father Cuddy waddled, as fast as cramped limbs could carry his rotund
corporation, to the gate of the monastery, where he loudly demanded
admittance.

“Holloa! whence come you, master monk, and what’s your business?”
demanded a stranger who occupied the porter’s place.

“Business—my business!” repeated the confounded Cuddy, “why do you not
know me?  Has the wine arrived safely?”

“Hence, fellow,” said the porter’s representative, in a surly tone, “nor
think to impose on me with your monkish tales.”

“Fellow!” exclaimed the Father, “mercy upon us that I should be so spoken
to at the gate of my own house!—Scoundrel!” cried Cuddy, raising his
voice, “do you see my garb—my holy garb?”

“Ay, fellow,” replied he of the keys, “the garb of laziness and filthy
debauchery, which has long been expelled from out these walls.  Know you
not, lazy knave, of the suppression of this nest of superstition, and
that the abbey lands and possessions were granted in August last to
Master Robert Collan, by our Lady Elizabeth, sovereign queen of England,
and paragon of all beauty, whom God preserve!”

“Queen of England,” said Cuddy; “there never was a sovereign queen of
England;—this is but a piece with the rest.  I saw how it was going with
the stars last night—the world’s turned upside down.  But surely this is
Innisfallen Island, and I am the Father Cuddy who yesterday morning went
over to the Abbey of Irelagh respecting the tun of wine.  Do you know me
now?”

“Know you! how should I know you?” said the keeper of the abbey—“yet true
it is, that I have heard my grandmother, whose mother remembered the man,
often speak of the fat Father Cuddy of Innisfallen, who made a profane
and godless ballad in praise of fried eggs, of which he and his vile crew
knew more than they did of the word of God, and who, being drunk, it was
said, tumbled into the lake one night and was drowned; but that must have
been a hundred—ay, more than a hundred years since.”

“’Twas I who composed that song, in praise of Margery’s fried eggs, which
is no profane and godless ballad.  No other Father Cuddy than myself ever
belonged to Innisfallen,” earnestly exclaimed the holy man.  “A hundred
years!  What was your great grandmother’s name?”

“She was a Mahony of Dunlow, Margaret ni Mahony; and my grandmother—”

“What, merry Margery of Dunlow your great grandmother!” shouted Cuddy;
“St. Brandon help me! the wicked wench, with that tempting bottle—why
’twas only last night—a hundred years—your great grandmother said you?
Mercy on us, there has been a strange torpor over me, I must have slept
all this time!”

That Father Cuddy had done so, I think is sufficiently proved by the
changes which occurred during his nap.  A reformation, and a serious one
it was for him, had taken place.  Eggs fried by the pretty Margery were
no longer to be had in Innisfallen, and, with heart as heavy as his
footsteps, the worthy man directed his course towards Dingle, where he
embarked in a vessel on the point of sailing for Malaga.  The rich wine
of that place had of old impressed him with a high respect for its
monastic establishments, in one of which he quietly wore out the remnant
of his days.

The stone impressed with the mark of Father Cuddy’s knees may be seen to
this day.  Should any incredulous persons doubt my story, I request them
to go to Killarney, where Clough na Cuddy—so is the stone called, remains
in Lord Kenmare’s park, an indubitable evidence of the fact: and
Spillane, the bugle man, will be able to point it out to them, as he did
to me.

                                * * * * *

                                 THE END.

                                * * * * *

                                * * * * *

                  MILNER AND SOWERBY, PRINTERS, HALIFAX.




FOOTNOTE.


{64}  An open field, in which, to satisfy the doubts of the nobles, the
Emperor Frederic II., her son, was born.