Chapter II: Part 2

"But the Lady Abbess," went on Erna, determined to finish the tale she had begun, "would not allow the gates to be opened. 'Thou mayest throw him down thy bread, if thou choosest,' she told the little novice; 'but thou wilt get no more in its place.' So the little novice wrapped the bread up in the only blanket she had for her bed, and threw it down to the old pilgrim, and then she had to shut the window and leave him there in the cold. That very hour the water began to roll into the valley, though where it came from no one could tell; and it rose, and rose, and rose. And the wicked nuns ran to the top of their towers, but it was of no use, for the water rose over those until they were all drowned, and there was this lake."

"And didn't even the little novice escape?"

"Oh, yes; there came a boat, shining all like gold, and took the little novice off of the top of the tower; but when the others tried to get into it, it glided away and left them."

She crossed herself as she finished. Albrecht raised his eyes from the blue lake to the blue sky above them, and sighed, a sign of sadness Erna had never seen in him before.

"Why dost thou sigh?" she asked him.

"Because thou hast taught me to," he answered, with the wistful look of a loving animal in his eyes.

Then he laughed gleefully.

"Should not one sigh for the poor drowned nuns?" he asked.

"Yes," Erna said gravely; "they lost their souls."

"Always their souls," her companion responded impulsively. "Why is it that it is always the soul of which one speaks?"

"Because," she answered, with the same air she would have worn had his question been a reasonable one, "the soul is all; it is this which makes us different from the animals."

"And the nixies," he added; "and the undines, and the kobolds."

"Yes," she said gravely. She was silent a moment, and then added: "I do not know if it is right, but Father Christopher thinks it is no harm; I have always pitied the nixies and the kobolds. They are not so bad; and it is not their fault that they have no souls, and that they cannot be saved."

"No," he assented soberly, "it is certainly not their fault. Hast thou never heard it said," he went on, "that if one of them marries a mortal, he would win a soul?"

"Yes," she replied; "but Father Christopher does not believe that that is true."

"But if it were," he began, "wouldst thou--"

He broke off suddenly, and sprang up.

"Come," he cried, with his infectious laugh, "thou art making me as solemn as an owl. Did I talk in this sombre fashion when I came to Rittenberg?"

She did not answer save by a smile. She was aware that the knight had changed since he had been at the castle, although she did not realize what the alteration might mean. She had herself changed too much in the same time to be able to appreciate the subtile difference between what he now was and what he had been on his arrival; and she was too well content with whatever he was to study deeply over the question of the effect of her influence upon him. She rose from the grassy mound on which she had been sitting, and soon they were on their homeward way through the forest.

The day was wasting as they neared the castle, and already in the shadows of the forest the tree-trunks were black and dim. The way wound through the solemn pine-wood, rising and falling as it crossed the hills. Far above them they could see the peaks reddened by the rays of the late sun, while they rode forward in the dimness of the bridle-path below. Now and then some sudden turn in the way brought them to the crest of an elevation from which they could look far over the wide range of the tree-clad country. Spread before them were the sweeping black forests of pine, broken here and there with patches of ling and heather, as the surface of the ocean may be mottled by lighter spaces that mark where the concealed currents run.

Suddenly, as they turned a corner where the path ran along a rocky hillside, becoming so narrow that they were close together, Erna laid her hand on the arm of her companion.

"Look!" she exclaimed, pointing with the other hand.

Far, far before them, bathed in the golden light of the dying sun, lay the peaks of the Alps. White and pure as crystal the snowy summits rose toward the sky, while lower the slopes were flushed to rosy pink, or dyed to strange and lovely hues of gold and crimson and purple. From a cloud of rainbow colors soared the rosy peaks, fairer than dreams.

Erna checked her horse, and her companion did the same, although he seemed not fully to comprehend her enthusiasm.

"It is like heaven," she sighed. "Only once before in my whole life have I seen the Alps like that; they are not often to be seen from here."

Albrecht did not answer, but gazed upon the distant mountains, as if he were trying to understand why their appearance should affect his companion so strongly. As they gazed, the hues on the sides of the hills deepened; the rose and gold of the peaks faded; the white of the summits seemed to become transparent, as if one could see through them into the sky beyond; and little by little the sharp outline blended with the quickly dimming heaven against which they had stood out in relief. The shadow of the lower world crept upward; and as they stood there the glorious vision vanished. Only an empty sky where the dimness of night was growing lay in the distance before them in place of the beauty they had seen.

"It was like heaven," Erna said again, as she started her palfrey.

"Then," responded her companion, in a tone of deep gravity, "one must have a soul to appreciate it."

She turned and looked at him questioningly; but with one of those quick changes of mood which always seemed to her so surprising in so manly a knight, he burst into a merry laugh, and began in his rich voice to sing a gay hunting-song.

V

HOW THEY DISCOURSED OF KISSES.

The damsel Elsa was a trim and comely maid, with a bright eye and a ready tongue, of which the men and youths of the castle had learned to have a wholesome fear. She went about her affairs singing pleasant ditties, and one morning she crossed the great hall where Baron Albrecht was waiting for the countess, with whom he was to ride out, as had become much their fashion now; and as she went, she sang in her sweet, clear voice a little love-song that ran in this wise:

"When winter howls across the wold,
And all the gates are fast,
Then is thine heart, shut from the cold,
Safe from the blast,
And safe from whomsoe'er goes past.

"When Spring makes lovely all the land,
And casements open wide,
Beware lest some gay wandering band
Should slip inside,
And steal thine heart, and thee deride!

"When once 'tis gone, to win it back
Full vainly mayst thou try;
Nor golden bribes nor tears, alack!
Lost hearts can buy,
Since who loves once, loves till he die."

Baron Albrecht listened to her singing with a smile on his face.

"Now, by my beard," he said, "a song like that is worth a reward."

And he put his great shapely hand beneath her white chin, and kissed her full upon her red lips. At that very moment the Countess Erna came into the hall. Her cheek flushed as the damsel uttered an exclamation and fled hastily, and she looked at the baron in the evident expectation of seeing him also covered with confusion. But Albrecht merely smiled, and smoothed his chestnut beard.

"The damsel sings passing sweetly," he said, unmoved by her glance.

"Is it for that that thou hast kissed her?" demanded Erna, scornfully.

"Truly," replied he.

Erna regarded him with a look in which amazement struggled with disapprobation. She could not comprehend his strange indifference at being discovered.

"And hast thou no shame," she demanded, "to be seen trifling with the girl?"

"Shame?" he echoed. "Why should I have?"

"Nor any fear of my displeasure?"

"Thy displeasure?" he repeated. "Why shouldst thou be displeased?"

She regarded him in silence a moment; and as she did not speak, he continued:

"Surely thou canst not be jealous of a serving-wench?"

She drew herself up proudly, all the blood of her ancestors aflame in her clear pale cheek.

"The Von Rittenbergs are jealous neither of serving-wenches nor on account of strangers," she returned haughtily.

Albrecht looked at her in a perplexity that it was impossible not to believe genuine.

"Then what is my offence?" he asked. "I did but kiss the maid. I meant her no harm. Why should not one kiss a smooth cheek if it likes him?"

He spoke humbly, yet with no air either of bravado or of conscious guilt. She felt that his ignorance was not feigned, yet could hardly bring herself to believe that he did not understand what her feeling must be at discovering him in the act she had seen. Moreover, she found herself strangely at a loss how to reply to his question, if it were in reality serious. If he did not perceive the impropriety of his conduct, it was not easy for her to explain it to him. She stood a moment in silence, regarding him with a penetrating glance under which he showed no sign of wavering, and then instead of turning away to leave him as had at first been her intention, she smiled faintly, and with an expression of doubt still in her eyes.

"One would think, Sir Knight," she said, "that thy father's house must needs be a rude place if it is there held proper to kiss the damsels that please one, without hindrance."

"In thy father's castle," he answered slowly, "we have perhaps lived in a fashion that would seem to thee rude, for that my mother died at my birth, and there has been no one but men to make the rules of the house; but why it is wrong to kiss a comely woman if she please thee, is one of the things that I have never been told there or here."

Erna's tender heart was at once touched by the thought of her companion's orphanage, her own motherless childhood being still too fresh in her mind not to render her susceptible to this plea. She took up her whip from the bench, and turned quickly, that he might not see the tears that sprang to her eyes whenever one mentioned the loss of a mother.

"Well," she said, "I will leave it to Father Christopher to deal with thy transgression."

The change in her tone did not escape his quick ears, and he hastened to follow her to the courtyard, where the horses were waiting.

Their way that morning led them over hill and dale, until they came at length to a wide meadow, where the knight was minded to fly his falcon. A stream ran through the midst of the valley, and along its banks the grass was as vividly green as the emeralds which sparkled in the hilt of Albrecht's dagger; while all through it the golden buttercups were set as thickly as the stars in the sky of a summer's night. Here and there grew clusters of tall reeds and water grasses gently swaying in the soft breeze; and as Albrecht took his falcon from the wrist of his squire, who carried the bird, a splendid white heron rose with smooth, steady flight from amid the rushes, and went soaring upward. The baron quickly and deftly pulled the hood from the falcon's head; but just as he was loosening the jess Erna leaned forward and laid her hand on his arm.

"Let the heron go unharmed," she said. "Why shouldst thou strike him down?"

"Because," he responded, "thou art to wear his plumes in thy cap after I am gone, in memory of me."

"After thou art gone?" she repeated softly, drawing back.

He smiled and shook off the hawk, which rose in graceful circles until it was far overhead, and hung dizzily above the meadow. It sailed to and fro a moment until its prey, which had discovered it and in dismay was straining every nerve to quicken its flight, was just beneath it; then suddenly, with the rapidity of a thunderbolt, it fell straight upon the beautiful heron. Erna uttered a cry of dismay, and covered her eyes with her hand.

"It is too cruel!" she exclaimed.

Albrecht struck his hands together in glee.

"It is a brave bird!" he cried. "I would rather lose a gold mine than that falcon. He is as sure of his quarry as the rain is to fall to the ground."

Erna did not answer, but she regarded him with the look of one who strove to understand his pleasure, and to understand is almost to share. She said nothing while the squire rode off to bring in the game; and when the noble heron, its glistening throat stained with blood, was brought to them, she not only strove to restrain the involuntary shudder which seized her, but she did not remonstrate when her companion continued the praises of his bird.

"Did one ever see a more rich plumage?" Albrecht demanded. "It will set off thy cap bravely; and I have always been told that womenkind are fond of gay attire."

"It is indeed a beautiful bird," Erna responded; "but dost thou know that there is always something very amusing in the way thou speakest, as if thou hadst never seen human beings till now."

A faint flush crossed Albrecht's cheek. He looked at the dead heron.

"I never thought of it before," he said; "but it does seem hard that he should have to be killed just to please me."

Erna flushed in her turn. She thought she had offended him by her criticism of his manner of speech.

"I beg thy pardon," she began; but he interrupted her.

"Thou hast no need," he said. "Besides, thou art right. I know nothing of women. I do not even know, it seems, how they should be treated, or how to please them. Otherwise," he added with his warm smile, "I should not have offended thee this morning by kissing the damsel who sang so sweetly."

The countess smiled, and turned toward him with her face full of light. They had not dismounted, but had halted their horses near the margin of the brook on the banks of which the heron had been feeding lower down.

"That," she said, "is not a thing to be taught. It is learned from the air and from the birds."

"Then why has it not been revealed to me? I have been much in the forest."

"To kill the birds! In good sooth, I know not that one may learn of the air and the woods who goes as thou goest, with falcon and boar-spear. But at least," she added, regarding him with a smile, "thou must know that when one loves--"

She broke off suddenly, and turned away her face, with a flush creeping up into her cheek.

"Well," Albrecht demanded eagerly, "what then?"

"I was but thinking," she returned, in a voice lower than before, "that certainly every man knoweth that when one truly loveth another, he will care for the caress of none save only the loved one."

"I had never thought of that," the knight responded gravely.

"Then of a surety thou hast never known what it is to love."

"By that token, never," he answered, smiling; "albeit it were possible that the test would not hold; and in any case it were not difficult, perchance, for thee to teach me."

The Countess Erna looked into his face all flushed and radiant, and there was that in her eyes which no man could see and fail to understand; and although the squire waiting hard by might not note that aught had been said or done out of the ordinary course, none the less had their hearts spoken each to each from that moment. Erna wheeled her horse, and began to move toward the entrance of the valley; and as Albrecht rode beside her, he suddenly leaned forward and caught her palfrey's rein, so that the beast was almost thrown upon his haunches with the abruptness of his arrest.

"Do not ride toward the upper ford," he said; "the nix is in an evil mood to-day, and mayhap might do thee a mischief in her spitefulness."

Erna looked at him with astonishment and alarm.

"And how knowest thou of the moods of the nix?" she demanded.

His eyes fell, and a flush stained his swarthy cheek. Then he seemed to recover his self-possession.

"It is a knowledge," he replied, "that is learned from the air and from the birds, but only by those who are in sympathy with the woodland creatures so that they may comprehend it."

Erna laughed merrily, and turned her palfrey toward the lower ford.

"In sober sooth, thou knowest no more of the nix than do I," she told him; "but I mind not if I please thy fancy."

But when alone in her chamber she thought of this, she crossed herself and shivered a little with a not unpleasing awe.

VI

HOW THEY CAME TO KISSES THEMSELVES.

From that day when they rode together to the slaying of the heron by the stream in the meadow, there was a new bond between the Countess Erna and the Baron Albrecht. There had been nothing further said between them of love, even in the impersonal way in which they had then begun to talk of it, but the revelation of the glance which had then passed from her eyes to his changed all the old relations. They knew that they loved each other, and although they were not yet come to the confession in word of their love, they understood well that they belonged each to the other.

One day the countess sat at her embroidery in the hall, with her guest near her, and Father Christopher not far away. Without, a wild tempest of wind and rain shook the castle towers, and swept over forest and hill. From the casements one looked out upon a sea of mist that rolled above the tree-tops, beaten and torn by the wind, and lashing the hills in angry, mimic waves. All the weird voices of the Schwarzwald, melancholy or fierce, raged and wailed in the troubled air. It was a day when the unholy powers of the forest held high festival, and it was with inward shudders that Erna heard afar their hoarse tones, calling and yelling to one another in the storm.

Sitting at her embroidery frame without her damsels, who were scattered about the castle upon one mission or another, Erna talked with the baron and the priest, now and then thinking with dread of the night which was not far away, and hearing in her fancy already the roaring of the blast about the towers, the shrill cry of the Wild Huntsman, and the shrieks of his elfin train. When she looked up at the splendid form of her guest, however, her fears vanished in a breath, and she smiled that she should have found it possible to fear while he was at her side. In the warmth of his glance the tempest and all the dread dwellers in the forest were forgotten, and she was conscious only of the joy of his presence.

The knight had been asking concerning the armor of Erna's father, which hung in the hall; and from this the talk easily drifted to the Great Emperor, his noble deeds, his splendid army, and the brilliant court which he had gathered about him.

"How much I should like to see it all," the maiden said dreamily, as she looked earnestly at Albrecht; "the tourneys, the feasts, the processions, and all the beautiful court life."

Father Christopher regarded her in some amazement.

"Is it thou," he asked, "who sayest this? Thou who hast always been so thankful that thou wert spared the temptations and the worldliness of the court? Didst thou not refuse to go to Mayence when Charlemagne was there with his train, because thou didst not wish to fill thy mind with frivolous images?"

"So I did, Father, but mayhap my aunt was not wholly in the wrong when she called me a fool for my refusal," Erna answered, smiling.

"The court would ill suit me," Albrecht remarked, while the good priest remained sunk in astonishment at the change which the words of Erna indicated. "My choice is for the forest, for the hunt and the chase. The only thing at court that would attract me would be the tourney."

"Would that I might see thee in the lists!" Erna half murmured, leaning a little toward him.

"Mayhap that thou shalt," he replied. "Stranger things than this have come to pass. If thou dost, thou wilt see me break a lance in thy behalf right gladly."

"And thou no longer thinkest," Father Christopher interposed gravely, "that it is wrong for knights to risk their lives in mere wanton pastime?"

"Oh, there may be some danger," she returned with a slight air of impatience, "but why must one be forever troubling to examine too closely? Is there to be no pleasure in life lest harm should come after it, forsooth?"

Father Christopher left his seat, to stand for a moment looking at the countess as if in bewilderment. He did not in truth know what to make of his mistress in such a mood as this, so different was it from all that she had ever been before. He seemed minded to speak, and then, as if reflecting that her words did not after all contain aught which he was called upon to regard with severity, and perhaps that in any case what he might wish to say to her would be delivered better privately, he sighed deeply, and moved away without further speech. Erna looked after him as he slowly passed down the hall, the edge of his robe here and there catching upon one of the rushes with which the floor was strewn.

"Poor Father Christopher!" she said with a low, sweet laugh, "I have grieved him. It is a pity to make him unhappy. I never used to do that."

She regarded her gay-colored embroidery a moment absently, as if she did not see it; then suddenly she dropped the hand which held her needle and leaned toward her companion.

"What hast thou done to me?" she demanded. "Hast thou bewitched me, that all the things that I loved have become dull to me, and all the things which I wished not for are now in my thoughts with longing?"

A roaring blast shook the castle windows, and it was as if the spirits of the storm, sweeping up from the bosom of the wild and mighty Schwarzwald, shouted in mocking laughter outside; but neither Erna nor Albrecht regarded.

"I have done nothing to thee," the knight answered, in his turn bending forward; "but what hast thou done to me, that I linger here day after day, and that I consider now the pain of the beast that dies by my spear, or of the bird that my falcon strikes?"

"Nothing have I done to thee," Erna answered; but her voice faltered, and her glance fell.

Albrecht reached out his big brown hand, and took her milk-white fingers in his.

"Only," he said, "I love thee."

Erna rose to her feet, and cast a swift glance around the hall, as if she were minded to escape; then she turned toward him, and he sprang to her to clasp her in his arms. The knight kissed her glowingly upon her red lips.

"Now thou art mine," he said, "and all the world shall not wrest thee from me."

He had scarcely spoken when in the darkening afternoon a mighty blast seemed to throw itself against the tower; a yell of elfin laughter resounded in the hollow chimney, and the hound which had lain at Erna's feet crouched flat on the rushes, whining with deadly fear. Frighted, yet too full of her love to heed the cry of wild sprite or the fierceness of the tempest, Erna clung closely to the knight, and thus together did the Lady Adelaide, coming unexpectedly into the hall, surprise them.

"Body of Saint Fridolin!" she cried.

The lovers started, but although they released each other from the embrace in which they had been wound, they still stood together, and the arm of the knight was about Erna's waist. She clung to his hand in maidenly agitation, not wholly unmixed with the fear which the sudden vehemence of the tempest had aroused, yet she smiled bravely upon her aunt, with eyes which shone with the firmness and the joy of the troth she had just plighted.

The Lady Adelaide, whose nerves were already upset by the storm and by the weird sounds which were heard about the castle, was doubly overwhelmed with emotion by the sight before her. It was a shock from which it was not easy for her to recover, to see her niece in the arms of any man. She had so long looked upon Countess Erna as cold and devoid of all warm human passion, that she could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses now that she beheld the countess with her lips pressed to those of a lover. She had so long cherished, moreover, the hope that by a marriage with Count Stephen Erna might still bear the Von Rittenberg name, that it could not but be with a keen pang of disappointment that she saw all these schemes swept away.

Most of all things, however, did Lady Adelaide desire to see her niece married, and since it could not be to Count Stephen, she was not averse to the choice that Erna had made. She had been like everybody else in the castle, and had fallen an easy conquest to the fascination of Baron Albrecht. His joyous, winning manner, his persuasive presence, had captivated the ancient dame completely; and now when Erna was prepared for the gravest disapproval, she met, to her great surprise, only smiles.

"Be not angry, Lady," the baron said, looking the old duenna frankly in the face, "but we were plighting our troth."

The cheeks of Erna were like a late rose amid untimely snow, but her eyes did not flinch from the regard of Lady Adelaide.

"Give us thy blessing," she pleaded; "the castle of Rittenberg is to have at last the lord which thou hast so long wished for it."

The old dame laughed and came forward.

"The time has gone by," she said, "when elders were asked to advise in the love affairs of young folk, but mayhap all goes not wrong for that. Thou wilt have thy own way in this matter, so why should I cumber myself to frown and chide at what cannot be helped by me?"

"Now, nay, Aunt Adelaide," Erna responded, smiling at the manner in which the other accepted the situation, "that is but a curt and unkind way in which to give greeting to me on my betrothal; and thou alone of all my house left to wish me joy!"

The great-aunt put up her shrivelled lips and kissed the girl, patting her hand kindly.

"Nay, nay," she said, the tears coming into her aged eyes, "I wish thee well, and thou shalt not lack for my blessing, though the Von Rittenberg name vanish from the earth when I am laid away. I wish thee joy; and, Sir Baron, I give thee my greeting. It is much that thou askest, when thou wouldst claim the last of our house, but there is that about thee that speaks the brave man, and one who will defend her in these troublous times."

The sight of a pair of lovers in their first joy will move even hearts which are encased in triple coats of worldliness and pride; and the Lady Adelaide, who of all folk was least likely to be touched by sentiment, when she had clasped the hands of Erna and Albrecht, had wet eyes as she went slowly down the hall again as she had come, leaving them alone.

And thus were the Countess von Rittenberg and the stranger knight betrothed.

VII

HOW THE TIME WORE TO THE WEDDING DAY.

Much had matters altered at Rittenberg since Baron Albrecht came thither, and yet still more did they change after his betrothal to the castle's chatelaine. The whole household took on a festive air, until even the humblest retainer seemed to be affected by the joyous spirit which Albrecht had brought. The change in Erna herself doubtless had not a little to do with this, since it hath ever been found that the mood of the mistress is likely to give the key-note to her dependants. The countess had laid aside all her old air of pensive contemplation, the pious mien which had so wearied her cousin Count Stephen; and had so taken on an air of gayety that all in the castle felt it, and each in one way or another, according to the nature of each, responded to it.

Now and then over this gayety seemed to steal the faint shadow of some unknown dread from the forest. The retainers whispered among themselves that there had been strange portents and signs that the wood-folk were astir and full of excitement. Now and then one of Erna's damsels would hint that wild rumors were afloat. The churls that drove the swine and the geese afield had seen vague forms flitting among the shadows of the glades; they had heard what they could not tell, yet what had filled them with terror; and while no one could say why the unhuman beings who peopled the dim recesses of the forest should be thus aroused, there was much dread of them in the timorous bosoms of the serfs and serving-wenches at Rittenberg.

But however greatly these things perturbed the simple-minded serving-folk, they did not trouble the happiness of Albrecht and Erna. Between the knight and his betrothed there were now many sweet confidences, in which, indeed, nothing especial was imparted by one to the other, but which nevertheless gave them great satisfaction. They had met little opposition to their wishes, and indeed, when one considered the rank of the countess, and how completely a stranger was the baron, it might be wondered much that there was not more difficulty in his obtaining his bride. But the times were uncertain, the castle had no male head, Charlemagne was far away, and who knew what might happen if they waited to ask the imperial consent to the alliance; while the baron had won everybody to his side by his winsomeness. He pressed for a speedy marriage, and no one said him nay. They had in the war-full years learned to do quickly whatever was to be done at all, and there seemed no need to hinder the joy of the young people, which might at any moment be broken, should a summons come from the Great Emperor calling all the knights to his standard.

Toward her lover Erna was by turns arch and tender, as if she had not yet mastered the art to conceal her feelings, even in sport. She said to him once, as they stood together by the window in the great hall of the castle, looking down into the valley where the solemn pine-forests stretched far and far to the very horizon:

"Hast thou learned yet why one does not kiss any maid save the one whom alone he loves?"

"I have at least learned that there is no kiss in the whole world so sweet as thine," he answered.

Father Christopher was of all the house most deeply moved by the betrothal of his mistress, and although he had become much attached to the baron, he was not without forebodings for the result of this marriage.

"It is in thy hands, my daughter," he said solemnly to Erna, "to shape the life of this man. He is noble and generous and true, and I believe that his heart is all that one might wish. But he knows little of spiritual things, and I consent to unite thee to him that thou, who hast been richly blessed by Heaven, mayst teach him the high things of life. His soul will be required at thine hands in the Day of Judgment; for while the souls of all husbands are in the keeping of their wives, his will be doubly so in thine, for that thou hast been taught the heavenly way, and I gather that his childhood has been but an heathenish one, and his youth without godly instruction. On thy head be it, daughter, if he be not led to the light; and great will be thy blessing if thou doest but win him to paths of spiritual life."

If Erna received these words with less pious enthusiasm than would have been the case a few short weeks before, she was yet much moved by them, and most solemnly did she promise the old priest that she would spare no effort to draw her lover toward those higher things for which he did indeed as yet show small concern.

"Father," she answered humbly, "I know not what I may do, but as much as is in me I will not spare to work and to pray for the salvation of him whom I love."

"With love and faith," the priest replied, "and the blessing of the holy ones, there is nothing that a woman may not do in the heart of her husband."

It was on the same morning that these words passed between Father Christopher and Erna, that the betrothed pair rode out of the castle into the forest, followed by a groom who carried on the pommel of his saddle a covered basket.

"I feel so safe in the forest when thou art with me," Erna said, as after descending the hill they turned from the broad way into a narrow track overgrown with ferns and wild shrubs, and heavily shaded above by the interlaced branches of the murmuring pine-trees.

"There is naught to fear in the forest," he answered, smiling, "save only when--Nay, we will not talk of that. Whither do we go?"

Erna looked at him with a doubt, born of his broken speech, in her eyes; but the brightness of his smile reassured her.

"The little daughter of the charcoal-burner is ill," she answered, "and I am carrying her food and a healing draught from the leech."

"But why shouldst thou trouble about the daughter of the charcoal-burner?"

"Why should I not? Is she not human, and has she not a soul like ours?"

"Like thine, perchance," the knight responded. "Thou hast a soul like a child's, all white and fair."

And for all the rest of their way through the forest he was so deeply sunk in thought that he said scarcely a single word, so that Erna could not but wonder what had come over the spirit of her merry betrothed. From time to time he looked at her and sighed, as if he were reasoning with himself whether he did well to be still with her; and at last, as they rode homeward, she questioned him of what was in his mind.

"It is the doubt," he told her, "whether I had the right to make thee love me. It did not come to me to consider that until now; and now--"

"And now," she said in a ringing voice, as he broke off and left his sentence unfinished, "now it is too late."

The knight shook himself, as if to shake off a gloomy doubt, and struck his spurs into his splendid chestnut stallion.

"Yes," he cried in a voice of exultation; "now it is too late!"

And away they went, galloping madly down the shaded woodland way, bursting soon into laughter and singing as they dashed along.

These moods of Albrecht became more and more noticeable as by the intimacy of their betrothal the lovers were brought more closely together. Erna pondered sometimes when alone whether it were possible that her lover had upon his conscience some dark deed which made him in truth unworthy to claim her love; but no sooner did such a suggestion present itself to her mind than it was rejected with indignation. She was as sure of his innocence as of her own, and perhaps no proof could have persuaded her to the contrary. Yet she did secretly feel that there might be some mystery hidden behind the outward frankness of Albrecht; though even if there were she loved him with a passion that was now too strong to be restrained by any vague suspicions or dim forebodings.

When the baron was asked if he wished to send for any of his people to be present at his nuptials, he had answered:

"My mother died when I was an infant, and I have neither brothers nor sisters. My father lost his life in a snow-slide three years since, so that I am the last of my race. I will send my squire home for a certain fardel that shall be my _Morgengabe_; and if I may have leave, he shall bring back with him my old foster-father, who has taught me knightly customs and the fashion of Christian folk."

"He shall be right welcome for thy sake," the countess had answered. "How is he called, and who is he? Is he of thy kin?"

"Nay; he is only a friend of my father," the baron replied with a strange smile, "but he hath dealt well by me. He is called Herr von Zimmern, and he hath an infirmity in his walk, concerning which I would that thy people vex him not."

"He shall be courteously dealt with by them all," was Erna's response, "even as if he were thyself."

So the squire and one of the men-at-arms rode off into the forest to take the road to Castle Waldstein in the Neiderwasser valley, to fetch the _Morgengabe_, the gift of gold or of gems which the bridegroom gives to the bride on the morning after their marriage; and the knight abode at Rittenberg, being always by the side of Erna, so that it was not strange that the two became more and more like to each other in their thoughts with every day that the sun brought on its rising to the Ober-Schwarzwald.

And so the time wore until the day before that set for the wedding morn, and on that day arrived the squire who had been sent to the castle of Waldstein.

VIII

OF THE EVE BEFORE THE WEDDING.

With the squire came the foster-father of Baron Albrecht, and a singular-looking mortal did he prove to be. He had apparently been a tall man and a strong, but that one of his ankles was lame, as if it had been houghed, either by some accident of warfare or by the cruelty of some enemy, so that he must needs forever thenceforth go halting through life. His eyes were keen and piercing, and there was in them a sinister gleam, a smouldering evil fierceness, from which Erna shrank in dread, although for the sake of Albrecht she strove to conceal her feelings and to treat the newly come guest not only with kindness but with warmth. The sight of his burning eyes, his shaggy hair which hung in tumbled black masses about his shoulders, his knotted powerful hands, which he had an uncanny fashion of clenching as he talked or as he thought deeply, together with his sunburned face, seamed and marred by deep lines which might tell of both sins and sufferings to the eye that was wise enough to read them, made her shudder; and when she thought how this strange man had been the companion of Albrecht, she no longer wondered that her lover should show so little knowledge or sympathy with spiritual things, since in the keeping of Herr von Zimmern had his youth been passed.

The dependants of the household were one and all afraid of the new-comer, and indeed some among them were ready to swear on the book of the Gospels that this was the same man that in the guise of a beggar had been in the castle just before the going of Count Stephen von Rittenberg. They muttered among themselves that there was evil in the cripple, and Elsa even whispered in the ear of her mistress, crossing herself not a little meanwhile, that it was believed among the folk of the castle that Von Zimmern was really some demon of the forest who was striving to win power over the soul of Baron Albrecht, that he might lure it to destruction.

"Fy upon thee for a fool!" Lady Adelaide said testily. "There be demons enough in the wood, it is true, but it is not to be believed that they would venture into the houses of Christian folk where mass is said by a consecrated priest. Leave thy silly gossiping, or it may hap that the countess shall get some hint of it, and then if it go not ill with those who dare to chatter about them that belong to the train of her future lord, I ken little of the Von Rittenberg blood."

It was evident that Herr von Zimmern had the happiness of Baron Albrecht much at heart, so greatly was he delighted at his approaching marriage. He was wellnigh oppressive in the warmth of his manner. He spoke with the greatest feeling to Erna, while to the Lady Adelaide he was so complimentary that her old heart, already perchance somewhat fluttered by the unusual doings at Rittenberg, was all in a tremble of delight, and had she been but the better part of a century younger there would have been no telling what might have come of her liking for the flattering guest.

It was in the evening of the day on which the squire returned, and it was on the morrow that the bridal rites were to be celebrated, when after supper the household and their guests sat together by torchlight in the castle hall. The Baron Albrecht was in the wildest spirits, and played innumerable harmless little tricks upon the priest and upon his betrothed. He was so full of glee that one could not but smile to behold his joyousness, and to be touched by the sight of a happiness so genuine and so keen.

Erna had astonished them all that night by appearing in the hall clad in a robe of saffron-hued silken stuff, while on her neck she wore a triple string of pearls. So simple was her attire in general that they stared at her in surprise as she came in dressed in this sumptuous guise. She flushed a little as she felt their glances, but she only held her head somewhat higher, smiling on them all, but most upon her betrothed, and so took her place in the tall carved chair where she always sat at supper. Now that the meal was over, she had moved to a lower seat, and there she leaned back in a corner, as if she were half timid in her new robes; but the Lady Adelaide muttered to herself in satisfaction that this marriage was like to make a woman out of her niece after all; for the shrewd old dame knew that when a damsel begins to give her heart to the frivolities of attire she cannot long remain an iceberg.

Not far from the young countess sat Herr von Zimmern, a dark figure, the more sombre by contrast with her golden brightness. He seemed to watch the company with the deepest interest, and if there were in his intentness something too eager to be wholly pleasing, no one regarded this, since the little company were all absorbed in observing the jocund merriment of Albrecht and the blushing fairness, half timid and half sportive, of Erna.

Suddenly Albrecht sprang up as they sat together chatting gayly, and seized a boar-spear which chanced to be standing in the corner where Erna sat.

"See!" he cried, aiming at the head of a deer which was fixed high against the wall over the great hollow fireplace.

Like a shaft of light the spear flew gleaming down the long hall, straight as a sun-ray and swift as the wind. It transfixed the brown head exactly between the eyes, although in the dim and flickering light of the torches such a shot might well have seemed impossible, and there stood quivering.

A cry of applause greeted this feat.

"Bravo!" exclaimed Herr von Zimmern. "That is a pupil to be proud of."

"It is, indeed," responded Father Christopher. "If thou hast taught him to throw the spear, thou hast truly no reason to look upon thy pains as wasted."

"All that I know of knighthood he has taught me," Albrecht said heartily. "He found me an unlicked whelp of the forest, and whatever I am he has made me."

"Then," Erna rejoined with tender archness, turning toward Von Zimmern, "I have to thank thee that thou hast trained a husband for me."

"Only," burst in Albrecht, with a rich laugh, "if in anything I do not suit, remember it is he and not I who is to bear the blame."

"Nay," she said, giving the black-browed guest her white hand with a gesture of infinite grace, "I thank thee for thy work, even though he should contrive to spoil it himself."

"Come!" cried Albrecht, playfully threatening her with his hand, "that is rank insubordination, and as such--"

"As such, Sir Baron," interrupted his foster-father, with a smile that hardly made him less ugly than before, "you must bear it still a while. There has been no promise to obey or to honor as yet."

The Lady Adelaide simpered, and laid her hand upon the arm of her niece.

"Think of it, Erna," she whispered, "how wilt thou like to obey?"

"Oh, of that I have small notion!" the countess retorted aloud. "When it comes to that, we shall see!"

The gay spirits of her lover had infected her, and she answered with a manner quite unlike her own. Herr von Zimmern chuckled, and drew from his otter-skin pouch a tiny roll of soft leather.

"So well doth this sentiment approve itself to me," he said, "that humbly and with my Lord Baron's permission I make bold to offer you a token in honor of a marriage to be conducted on principles so reasonable."

There was a mocking note in his voice, albeit his face was too perfectly controlled to betray any undesirable emotion. As he spoke he unrolled the leather, and brought to light a ring of red gold in which was set a large carbuncle engraved with strange characters. Erna could not restrain a cry of admiration at sight of so splendid a jewel, and Lady Adelaide broke out into voluble expressions of delight.

"It is not so much," Herr von Zimmern said coolly, as he cast a side glance at Albrecht, "but it is cunningly fashioned, and--"

"But on the wedding eve," interrupted Albrecht, somewhat abruptly, "no one gives a ring to the bride save only her betrothed. All in good season, Herr Frederich, she will doubtless be glad to wear thy ring, but to-night it is mine that must fetter her."

As he spoke, he leaned forward, and took the carbuncle ring from the hand of Erna, who was about to slip it on her slender finger, and before any one could object or protest he had thrust it into the embroidered pouch by his side, and had in its place produced a second ring in which blazed a ruby so splendid that it seemed to emit sparks of fire.

Across the face of Von Zimmern shot a glance of baffled rage and anger so fierce that the priest, who alone caught sight of it, shuddered and secretly crossed himself under his robe; but it was gone as quickly as it came, and Herr Frederich smiled as he said:

"My gems must needs be poor beside yours, my master, but the ring had powers which made it not unworthy the acceptance of the bride."

"Do not I know its power?" responded Albrecht, gayly. "There is time enough for the proving of its might without troubling the bridal therewith."

As he spoke, he put the glowing ruby on the white finger of his betrothed, and raising the hand to his lips, he kissed it fervently.

"Body of Saint Fridolin!" exclaimed Lady Adelaide, "what a gem! It is like a coal of fire. It is worth a king's ransom."

"It is not rich enough to be worthy of the hand that graces it," Albrecht cried joyously.

Then, without waiting for further speech, he suddenly caught up a lute which lay upon the broad ledge of the open window, and after a few notes by way of prelude burst out into this song:

"My love has eyes like the roe,
And a voice like the wood-dove's call;
While her bosom is white as the snow
Of the foam on the torrent's fall.
Fine her hair as the mist
By the sun golden kissed,
And my heart she holds in its thrall.

"My love has lips like the glow
Of rubies red from the mine;
And her glances thrill me so
For her I'd life resign.
For their fire makes my heart
Wake to tremble and start,
With a passion no words may divine.

"My love has a throat like the swan
That haunts the river reeds;
Not shapelier the dappled fawn
That feeds in the flower-set meads.
When I clasp her, no bliss
Has all earth like her kiss,
No sweetness her sweetness exceeds!"

The effect of these ardent verses upon the company was apparently rather one of astonishment than of admiration. The Lady Adelaide simpered and assumed an expression of virtuous disapproval; Herr von Zimmern laughed significantly and openly; while a look of pain came over the face of Father Christopher.

"It is a ballad rather for the singing of an effeminate and sensual Southron," he said, "than for the brave and virtuous lips of a Northern knight."

"It is a foolish tune which Herr Frederich here taught me," returned Albrecht, in too good spirits to be cast down by the reproof. "There is no harm in it that I can see, save that it cannot tell half that a lover feels!"

"Body of Saint Fridolin!" muttered Lady Adelaide, greatly scandalized.

Erna cast down her eyes and said nothing; but though her glance fell only upon the rushes with which the stone floor was strewn, she saw still the form of Albrecht as he stood erect in splendid manly beauty, with the boar-spear poised above his head, ready to fling it like a dart of light down the long hall to transfix the head of the deer above the chimney-place.

IX

OF THE WEDDING MORNING.

Father Christopher lingered long at his prayers on the wedding morning. There was in his heart so deep concern for the good of his beloved mistress, and so keenly did he feel the responsibility which rested upon him as the spiritual head of the castle, that he could not but be most profoundly anxious that naught of evil should come of this marriage.

The good priest was not without a secret consciousness that his consent to the union of Erna and Albrecht had been in no small degree due to the interest which the knight had aroused in him. He could not tell why he was so strongly attracted toward the stranger, and he endeavored to convince himself that it was because he recognized in Albrecht the possibilities of a high and spiritual life, and believed that it lay within the sphere of Erna's influence to bring these possibilities to fruition. The fascination of Albrecht's personality was so great, however, that it followed the man even into his closet, and made him secretly glad that the knight should have his will, whether it was to be justified to the mind of the priest or not.

It was still early in the morning, but from below the sounds of the preparations for the wedding rose to Father Christopher's ear. Somewhere over in the tower next to that in which was his cell, there sounded the tinkling of a rebec, as if one of the musicians were practising the minstrelsy with which the bridal pair were to be attended to church, and from the court below came the lusty voice of a knave that heeded not who slept, but sang in a full, lusty voice a rude song of the forest. The priest repeated his orisons, but it was hard to keep his thoughts fixed. Sighing, he rose at last from his knees.