Chapter II: Part 2

"Olga and I remained a short time in Berlin, but after the reports of the battle _bei_ Worth we grew too excited to stay so far from the scene of action; and accordingly went to Baden, taking only our maid with us, and not wishing to go to an hotel, we took apartments in a private _pension_ kept by a family from Edinburgh, two old maids and their brother, Mac Stab by name; and though I have travelled over nearly all Europe their equal I have never met, and have reason to believe Scotland or Germany could produce few such creatures.

"You may imagine the difficulties of travelling in time of war, with soldiers being transported to active service, and the sick and wounded to hospitals; and we lost our luggage, consisting only of two trunks.

"We explained to the elder Miss Mac Stab, who wore a couple of pig-tail curls each side of her face, that our trunks were lost, but we hoped would be found in a day or two.

"The second day passed, but our missing trunks did not appear--in fact never did--and the third morning, as poor Olga was descending the stairs for breakfast, Miss Mac Stab attacked her crying out, 'See the painted Jezebel! with her curls and diamond rings! The impostor seeks to deceive honest folk with her pretended wedding ring and tales of lost luggage!'

"Olga in perfect terror, pale as marble, came rushing to meet me. She could not speak, and did not need to, for I had heard what had passed. I took Olga by the arm and walked firmly to the breakfast-room. Miss Mac Stab was arranging our breakfast-table as we entered. I inquired if any letters were come.

"Miss Mac Stab glowered at us with an awful face, and replied savagely, in coarse tones, 'Yes, here is a letter; but you wrote and sent it to the post yourselves; nobody would write to the likes of you. Such grand pretensions, with your crests! You'll not get no more letters here; I'll intercept them, and expose your falsehoods.'

"We hastened to our rooms, and sent Paulina to call a carriage. I knew there was an English clergyman in the place, the Rev. William Samper, and we thought it better to acquaint him with our embarrassment, as we were alone, and ask his advice.

"Olga went, taking Paulina with her, and I remained alone. There were two or three strangers staying in the house who had also gone out, hence there was no one but the family at home.

"The day before, on going out for a drive, we had locked our door, and the Mac Stabs denied our right to lock any door, or even to keep any door-key. No sooner was Olga gone than Miss Mac Stab, accompanied by her brother and sister, came upstairs and entered my room without knocking. Mr. Mac Stab demanded the keys. I told him I should not deliver up the keys till I had done with the apartments, and expressed my surprise at the insolence in thus entering my room unbidden, and the cowardice of such conduct when no one was there to see or hear. Miss Mac Stab, with one sweep of her hand, brushed all my writing materials on the floor, and her no less amiable brother seated himself, saying he should wait till he had the keys. 'You will wait, then,' I said, 'until my sister and maid return.'

"'My maid'! cried Miss Mac Stab. Just then a loud ring hurried them all away.

"I locked my door till Olga returned. She had seen Mr. Samper, and shown our letters, and he would be with us in a few moments. He came and insisted on our going with him, perfect strangers though we were, at once to his house; assuring us Mrs. Samper was expecting us, breakfast was being made ready, and our rooms awaited us.

"The very atmosphere of their house was peace, and Mrs. Samper was like a mother to us, and the noble Christian pair have the warmest place in my memory and heart. The following day Mr. Samper received a letter from the Mac Stabs, claiming damages for a broken Sèvres vase and an injured piano, amounting to four pounds--all, of course, absolutely false. Mr. Samper wrote declining any further correspondence, and informed them the post and the law were open.

"Karl and Franz, on hearing our story, sent them a solicitor's letter, demanding an explanation of their infamous conduct to two defenceless ladies. The reply to this letter was absolute silence, and the sudden disappearance of the Mac Stabs from the town. We found they had treated many badly, and had sought in various instances, by driving people to leave before the expiration of the time already paid for, or by involving them in law proceedings, to gain money.

"We stayed a few days with the good minister, but in a state of feverish excitement, watching the descriptions of succeeding battles, and reading the lists of wounded, dead, and missing with a horrible fascination.

"At last we could bear the uncertainty no longer, and assuming the dresses of nuns, we joined several actual nuns and a couple of surgeons, who were going to France to follow the second army, in which Franz and Karl served, to nurse the wounded, seeking them out on the battle-field, which was very necessary, for there were not nurses and surgeons sufficient for the need, and many died for the lack of nursing in time.

"At length came the terrible battle of Mars la Tour--St. Hilaire, or Vionville--in the burning heat of August--the 16th it was--and Major Franz Omnesky was among the missing. Olga set off alone in her wild grief, to search on the battle-field, knowing we would not let her go; and when we first missed her, we had no idea how long she had been gone.

"Oh! how shall I attempt to depict that dreadful night-scene among the dead and dying on the field of Mars la Tour? The pale, ghastly faces looking up to God's pure, blue heavens so _fearfully calm_ above all this human woe and anguish.

"Among the heaps of the slain, stumbling over horse and rider, we searched till night grew pale before the dawn, and then we found what we sought--and dreaded to find--Franz dead, and Olga lying with her head on his breast, in a deathly swoon, her garments wet with dew, and her long beautiful hair falling over her dead husband's face.

"Olga never rallied; the grief, exposure, and fatigue were too much for her delicate frame and passionate love for Franz. We laid them both in one grave, on a knoll, under a clump of limes--the two brave hearts so true and noble.

"Then came the 18th of August, that most murderous of all the engagements of the war, the battle of Gravelotte, in which the Kaiser commanded in person, with a brilliant staff, Prinz Friedrich Karl, Steinmetz, Moltke, Roon, Bismarck being on it.

"Colonel Karl Omnesky was among the wounded, and I hastened on to nurse him, as I hoped, to renewed life and vigour, but the moment I saw him all hope died for ever. Death was written on his noble brow, but his great, deep violet eyes looked bravely and tenderly as ever into mine. Oh those precious days! Golden is their memory, though so unspeakably sad.

"He was ready to go, awaiting eagerly the change to the better land, but full of a tender sympathy and sorrow for me and his unborn child.

"He never was weary of hearing that wonderful prayer of our Saviour, the seventeenth of St. John, and the fifteenth of the First Epistle to the Corinthians.

"Often, accompanied by the harp he so loved, I sang his favourite lines, my heart frantic with grief, but outwardly calm, for God lent me strength.

"'Bleibe bei mir vom Morgen bis Abend,
Denn ohne Dich kann ich nicht leben.
Bleibe bei mir denn die Nacht ist dunkel,
Und ohne Dich darf ich nicht sterben.'

"'Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live.
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I cannot die.'

"The noble-hearted Kaiser honoured my dying husband, before the second army moved on, with a visit, and the tear his Majesty brushed away did honour to the Sovereign so deservedly beloved.

"In peace my poor Karl died, and I closed the loving eyes--and my heart died.

"I buried him beside Olga and Franz, and am building a chapel over them.

"Five months after Karl's death my golden-haired Tatjana was born. For her sake I strive to reconcile myself to life.

"But, alas! my wealth and joy are--a grave!

"Sitting the other day in the enchanting valley of the graceful Ilse, leaping proudly and gaily in a thousand tiny waterfalls over the moss-grown stones, as if conscious of her royal origin, I wrote the following lines, which express faintly my feelings, and which I beg you to keep as a souvenir of our first meeting.

ALONE.

"The sun has set, the evening brightness fades,
The gloom increases in the forest glades;
And a deep sadness all my soul pervades:
I am alone.

"A wild bird here and there still sings to cheer
His mate that nestles in the thicket near;
But ah! no voice of love falls on my ear:
I am alone.

"The gentle air plays with the rustling leaves,
Sweet with the fragrant odours it receives;
My bosom with no whispered incense heaves:
I am alone.

"A distant horn the evening silence breaks,
The mountain in soft echoes answer makes;
No heart responsive to my voice awakes:
I am alone.

"O'er rocky heights the Ilse, wild and free,
Hastes like an eager lover to the sea;
But whither shall _I_ turn for love? Ah me!
I am alone.

"Still dreaming dreams I can to none impart,
I live with Nature and my own sad heart;
Whatever comes of joy or suffering's smart,
I bear alone."

The following is the German translation:--

Des Abends ros'ger Glanz erbleicht, das Land
Wird dunkel, dunkel wird's am Waldesrand;
In mir auch nachtel's, einsam ist die Hand:
Ich bin allein.

Ein Vogel hier und dort dem Weibchen singt,
Das nestlos nähe lauscht, wie's zu ihm klingt;
Zu meinem Ohr kein Ruf der Liebe dringt:
Ich bin allein.

Die Blätter lispeln, sie umkost die Luft
Mit sanftem Spiel, einathmend ihren Duft;
Wer flüstert Balsam mir in's Herz hinein?
Ich bin allein.

Ein fernes Horn ertönt mit sanftem Schall,
Der Berg antwörtet ihm im Wiederhall;
Auf meinen Laut erwacht kein Herz im All:
Ich bin allein.

Es stürzt die Ilse sich vom Felsbett her
In hast'gem Liebeslauf hinab zum Meer;
Doch ich? wohin? die Welt ist liebeleer:
Ich bin allein.

Noch träum' ich Träume, doch sie theilt kein Herzr
Allein mit der Natur und meinem Schmerz,
--Kommt Freude mir, bricht Leid herein:
Ich trag's allein.

The Flower of the Lauenburg.

Broken walls of the grey, long-past centuries, on the wooded mountains, a dilapidated tower, moats overgrown with wild thorns, a few dark and gloomy vaults, and half-fallen windows and arches--those are the small remains of the most magnificent of the former castles of the Harz mountains, the ruins of the ancient seat of the Counts-palatine, the Lauenburg.

In former days the spot lay much more desolate than now; the old ways and the delicious wood-paths had not been opened up.

Heaps of rubbish and shapeless ruins lay scattered everywhere; scarcely could the wanderer break his way through the creepers of the common virgin's bower, and the prickles of the buckthorn over the moss-grown walls, to the broken tower.

But the young people of Dorf Steckelnberg, at the foot of the lower adjacent mountain, on which lie the ruins of Schloss Steckelnburg, found their way easier; it was just the wild and savage character of the place that attracted them, and it was very seldom that a troop of merry boys did not choose the lonely ruins as the scene of their games, and even timorous maidens ventured to approach the haunted walls in their search after berries and wild-flowers.

Once, more than a hundred years ago, on St. John's Day, a number of children from Steckelnberg were scattered in the thickets around the ruins gathering flowers and making wreaths and garlands, when suddenly one of the boys uttered a cry of astonishment.

The others ran to him, and lo! there stood on the edge of the tower walls, then rising only the height of a man from the _débris_, a wonderful flower, the like of which the children had never seen before.

It looked so strange, and still seemed to gaze so mildly and confidentially in the eyes of the children, that they all at once fancied something supernatural in the flower.

They had often heard their parents and grandparents relate how once, in the greyest times, a maiden had been carried off by the Ritter of the Lauenburg, and in the hour of her greatest danger had been rescued from his power by transformation into a flower, which bloomed every year a single day, and the maiden came and wandered a single night through the ruins.

"Might this be the flower?" they asked.

At last one of the boys began climbing up the tower walls to pluck it, when he heard a soft voice murmur so clearly that all heard it, "Do not pluck me."

The boy started back in affright; but, vexed at his fear, feeling sure a flower could not speak, he began again to mount the tower; but the same voice came from the flower, "Do not pluck me," and the children cried, "Give it up and come down!"

This excited him still more, and stretching out his hand to pick the flower, a hideous serpent raised its head hissing from under the leaves, when the boy fell back in deadly terror among thorns and fallen stones; and was carried home with broken limbs.

Again, on a St. John's Day, the children of Steckelnberg played among the ruins of the Lauenburg, when they saw again the wonderful flower, and heard the same soft voice, "Do not pluck me." In affright they fled down the mountain.

But a quiet little girl had remained behind, for it seemed to her the flower did not say, "Do not pluck me," but, "Pluck me." Hence she stood thoughtfully gazing in the flower's clear eye, when again she heard in soft tones, "Pluck me! pluck me!"

The maiden came nearer, the flower's glance grew more loving, but under her leaves she saw the serpent-head, which rose hissing and coiling.

Then she drew back her hand, and dared not touch the flower, and as she fled she heard still the voice, "Only pluck me!"

The next day she went back, determined to obey the voice, and pick the flower, but it and the serpent had vanished.

Years fled. The little girl had grown to womanhood and become the Braut of an honest but poor youth.

Then she recalled the wonder-flower and entreating voice, and thought to herself she had missed her good fortune through her disobedience.

This she related to her lover one day as they wandered through the wood around the ruins.

And he strove to comfort her, and thought they were enough in each other, and would be able to support themselves without aid from the world of enchantment; but in his mind he thought she might have gathered the flower, for tales were still told of great treasures guarded by the maiden of the Lauenburg, and he had himself already seen much of the wonder-world, and the influence of higher powers over human destiny.

Was he not a Sunday child?[1]

[1] In the Harz it is said all children born on Sunday are always fortunate.

He was present as the owner of the estate Winatahusen in Thale, had removed the wonder-stone, on which the good fortune of the estate hangs, and had seen how sixteen horses and hundreds of men had only with difficulty moved it; while the heavens had grown dark, and the storm threatened to destroy the buildings, and only misfortune followed misfortune, till the stone was restored to the ancient convent estate.

He had also learned the power of enchantment possessed by the dwellers of the caves in the Bodethal.

A dwarf of one cave had often brought him a bundle of healing herbs for his sick mother, and he knew that he always laid healing plants ready for those who had entreated his help.

But the angry cobold, who in the form of a green bottle-fly dwelt in another cave, had once nearly thrown him headlong from the rocks as he gathered plants, and he only saved himself by making the sign of the cross three times.

He had also seen the blue flame in the garden of the Kloster estate in Thale, which marked the spot where treasures were hidden.

While indulging in these reminiscences a low exclamation from his companion aroused him from his reverie.

She grasped him by the arm, and pointed to the ruins. There, above the tower, rose amid the slender grass, in wonderful beauty, white as a lily and as graceful, the Flower of the Lauenburg, which had just been the subject of their conversation and their dreams.

She seemed to bend her white corolla in greeting, and like a low melody to call down to them, "Pluck me! pluck me!"

The lovers gazed a moment, surprised, at each other; and, as if the glance had filled him with enthusiasm, the youth then hastened forward, and raised his arm to gather the flower.

At this moment the serpent head raised itself, terrible to behold; the scales of the coiled body seemed to bristle, and resembled a coat of mail; the vicious eyes burned in rage, and the sharp tongue pointed at them like a poisoned arrow.

Terrified at the sight, he lost his courage, forgot to cross himself, and, seizing the hand of the maiden turned to flee.

But she held him back; she stood lost in thought a moment; then pressing his hand warmly and glancing toward heaven, she approached fearlessly the tower, and stretched forth her hand firmly to pluck the flower.

And see! the serpent, though hissing more furiously, drew slowly back its head, and as she plucked the flower fled, and at the same moment the whole scene changed.

Where the flower grew, now stood, sweetly smiling, in swan-white garments, a graceful maiden, who looked kindly on the lovers, and, pointing to a vault at the base of the tower, in which glittered gold and silver vessels of all sorts, stooped and handed one piece after another to the astonished lovers, who took the costly gifts as in a dream.

When they had all they could carry, she waved the hand in farewell, as bidding them to depart, and vanished.

The White Stag.

Long centuries ago a peculiar appearance attracted the attention of the inhabitants of Dorf Treseburg.

Every morning stood, high on the summit of the Hagedornberg, which rises perpendicular to the banks of the Bode, a White Stag, and gazed fixedly below into the valley.

He stood hours at a time, and had done so over a hundred years, without any variation or the faintest sign of age. Wonderful as this was, it was still more remarkable that no one had ever been able to come near him, although various sportsmen had attempted it, not even when they waited in the early morning on the spot where he was wont to appear.

They waited in vain, and yet at the same time the villagers below had seen him as usual.

So it had come that for a whole generation no one had sought to come near the White Stag. Hence every one shook the head doubtfully when one day an herb-gatherer of the village, named Weidemann, declared that he had not only been near the Stag, but that the animal had come close to him, leaned against him, eaten of the plants he carried, and finally had followed him part way down the declivity of the mountain.

The herb-gatherer, however, was known to be a man of veracity, and they soon became convinced of the truth of his statement; for no sooner had he climbed the Hagedorn than the White Stag ran to him, and walked trustfully by his side, ate from his hand, and followed his steps.

This excited all the more surprise inasmuch as the stag avoided everybody else. Weidemann was surprised himself at this confidence, which grew every day; and it seemed to him, when the stag gazed at him with its clear eyes so winningly, as if it would speak, and only language failed.

At last, he said one day to his wife, "There is something the matter with the White Stag, and he longs to tell. If I only could know what it is!"

"That is not so difficult," replied his wife. "Just ask old Fischersche, who will be able to tell thee."

Fischersche was, according to some, a wise, good old woman, according to others a witch, who lived in a hut a little out of the village, never leaving it, alone and without friends, avoiding men and shunned by them in return--but only till they got into some trouble; when illness or some accident had befallen them, then they sought out old Fischersche, related their trouble, and found ever help and counsel, or herbs and healing draughts, before which every sickness fled.

To her the herb-gatherer applied, told her what had happened, and begged for an explanation of the matter.

Fischersche bent her ice-grey head and remained a while sunk in thought. At length she said: "It is a wonderful history of the White Stag; my aged grandmother told it me over a hundred years ago, but I cannot now remember it perfectly! I only know that it is an enchanted young noble, the son of an Earl, but how it all hangs together has escaped me. But we will soon learn. I will ask my ravens."

So saying, she opened the windows of the hut, one towards the north, the other to the south, and murmured a few unintelligible words, and uttered one piercing whistle.

Soon the beating of heavy wings was heard, and a hoarse croaking, and a pair of huge primeval ravens flew down, and sat, one on the north, one on the south window, and cried:

"Kra! Kra! Kra--h!
Wir sind da!"

And Fishersche addressed them in a loud voice: "Ye good ravens, ye are as old as the Harz and the primeval forests, and ye know all things; hence ye shall tell me the history of the White Stag."

Then one raven flapped his wings, nodded with his head, opened his bill and cried:

"Kra! kra! kra--h!
Ich weiss wie es geschah!"

"The son of an Earl had fallen in love with the daughter of the Ritter who dwelt ages ago in Schloss Treseburg, and came every day and stood on the summit of the Hagedorn, and gazed across to the Treseburg, to see if he could catch a glimpse of the maiden, or a greeting from her.

"It happened once that he met there a noble white stag, and being a passionate lover of the chase, he threw his spear, killing the animal on the spot.

"Just as he was about to detach the splendid antlers, to hang up in his castle--for a pair of antlers was his coat of arms--the Waldfrau, the powerful queen of the forest and all game, suddenly broke forth from the underbrush with indignation and wrath, for the dead stag had been her favourite, and cursed the youth in words of fury:

"'Thou bloodthirsty man, thou shalt henceforth no more hunt, but be hunted; thou shalt be thyself a stag in the place of the one thou hast killed, and shalt wander in these preserves centuries long.'

"And at these words the Earl's son was transformed into that of the stag, and that is the White Stag of the Hagedorn."

The raven nodded three times with his head in confirmation of his tale, and remained silent.

And Fischersche asked further: "'Say on, raven, who knowest all things, if and how the enchantment may be broken."

Immediately the other raven rose, flapped his wings and cried:

"Kra! Kra! Kra--h!
Ja! Ja! Ja!"

"It was a deed of blood! Blood can break the enchantment. If a hunter who has never shed blood gives him blood that belongs neither to man nor beast, and he both drinks and eats it at the same time, the enchantment of the White Stag is broken."

Fischersche would inquire further, but the ravens both remained silent, shook their heads, spread rustling their wings, and flew forth, one up the other down the roaring Bode, to their Hort[1] in the steep rocks of the Bodethal, which still bear the name of the Rabenstein.[2]

[1] Safe retreat in the rocks; usually applied to the eagle.

[2] Ravens' cliffs.

When the ravens had disappeared, Fischersche sank in deep thought, and seemed to forget the presence of Weidemann.

"That is a dark saying," she at length said, breaking the silence, and muttered thoughtfully to herself. "Just wait, just wait, I begin to see through the thing. How was it, then? Who can break the enchantment?"

"A hunter who has never shed blood," replied Weidemann.

"And where may we find such an one?"

"Probably nowhere."

Fischersche looked at him oddly, while a smile flitted over her wrinkled face.

"Tell me, then, hast thou ever shed blood?"

The man started at the question.

"God forbid!" cried he hastily. "How canst thou imagine anything so dreadful of me?"

"Well, well, I did not mean it so badly. I know now where I am, and listen well. Thou thyself canst break the enchantment. Thou art called Weidemann,[3] because thy ancestor was ranger to the knights of the Treseburg; and dost thou not say thou hast never shed blood? So a Weidemann is found, and it is clear why the White Stag has approached thee: he sees in thee his deliverer."

[3] _Weidemann_, or _Waldemann_, signifies sportsman--hunter--ranger.

The good Weidemann was speechless with astonishment, but doubted not the truth of Fischersche's words.

"But the blood," he said meditatively--"the blood that I must give him both to eat and drink; the blood that shall neither be of man nor beast--whence shall it come?"

"That is thy affair," said Fischersche, dryly. "That belongs to thy department; for if the blood must not belong to the animal, perhaps it might be found in the vegetable kingdom. Reflect upon it thyself."

And Weidemann leaned his head on his hand in deep thought.

Suddenly his face grew bright, he sprang up and almost fell on the neck of old Fischersche.

"I have it! I have it!" he exclaimed joyfully. "That is the Hypericon, or St. John's Wort. It drops blood on St. John's Eve and St. John's Day, and to-morrow will be St. John's Day, and the flower grows abundantly by my garden fence."

Accordingly the next morning he cut a bunch of the St. John's Wort, in which at this time all wonder-power lies, and carried it to the White Stag on the Hagedorn. The stag sprang impetuously forward to meet him, and hardly had he eaten the plants, when the stag took the form of a stately youth, in knightly gold-embroidered doublet, streaming plume in his barret, and baldrick worked in gold and antlers. With beaming countenance and sparkling eyes he embraced the astonished Weidemann, and cried: "Have thanks, thou honest man; thou hast released me, and shalt not go unrewarded. My father, when I return home, will bestow a rich reward on the deliverer of his son. But tell me. I see there only ruins, where once a strong castle raised its towers. Who has destroyed it, and where is the radiant daughter of the Treseburg?"

"Ah, Herr!" replied the herb-gatherer sadly, "so long as I can remember, and my parents and grandparents, no castle has stood there, and neither knight nor maiden has dwelt in its broken walls. Dost thou, then, not know that long centuries have passed since thy enchantment began?"

"Centuries?" cried the young noble in horror.

"Yes, centuries!" exclaimed a scorn-laughing voice, and the Waldfrau stood before them; "that is thy punishment for thy criminal deed. Now go and seek thy lordly family and thy beloved; thou wilt find them mouldering in the vault of the dead.

"Thou mayest find rest, now thy enchantment is broken. But thy punishment is not yet at an end. Every seven years, on this day, thou shalt take the form of my slain White Stag for a single day, and appear on this spot."

With these words the Waldfrau vanished.

The youth shuddered, and said, deeply sighing: "Is it so? Is my age so far in the past? Then truly I have nothing more to find in life. Neither can I find treasures at home to reward thee, honest man. Thou must be contented with my baldrick, all that I can give thee, with God's blessing."

And giving him the baldrick, he walked away and was seen no more.

And sometimes still, on St. John's Day, the White Stag is seen on the Hagedorn, gazing with fixed eyes into the peaceful vale.

The Fisherman of Treseburg.

From the windings of the Bode, a huge greenstone rock rises steep and rugged, partially overgrown with the _Planta genista_, or wild broom, and creeping plants, nearly its entire base being washed by the waves of the clear mountain stream.

On its summit, half hidden by moss and wild thorns, are grey ruins of a castle, of which no trace of its history is left to us save its name--the Treseburg.

At the foot of this massive rock, on the opposite bank of the Bode, stood, nearly two hundred years ago, a small cottage, in which dwelt a poor but good fisherman, who earned but a scanty subsistence from the fruits of his toil.

At that time thousands of strangers did not, as now, visit the sublime rocky valley, to enjoy its wild and savage grandeur, and its trout and merlins, and the poor man, though naturally of a contented mind, often murmured at his poverty.

Also the romantic situation of his cottage satisfied him no longer, and when he looked across the Bode to the mighty rock, and the ruins on its top, all sorts of foolish and ambitious thoughts crowded his mind.

These reflections were all the more bitter since there was a tradition in the village that he himself was a descendant of the ancient Ritter who once ruled in the Treseburg.

And in fancy he pictured the old Schloss in its former state, throned on the proud rock, with giant round tower, and arched entrance gates, and Gothic windows, the battlements covered with soldiers in steel harness, with sword and lance.

Thus he frequently sat hours at a time by his nets, lost in dreams, ever glancing again across to the wild ruins, and wishing the long-vanished centuries back again.

Once--it was a St. John's day--he saw a Graumännchen[1] on the other side of the stream, who evidently wished to cross, but did not venture to wade through, since the waters had risen in the late thunderstorm, and there was at that time no bridge.

[1] Little grey man.

Graumännchen seemed in great embarrassment; this awakened the pity of the fisherman, and he called across that he would come and carry him over the water.

He waded over and did as he had said.

Graumännchen was much pleased at this kindness, thanked the fisherman in the warmest terms, and said, "Thou art a good, obliging man, and since thou hast fulfiled my wish, I could wish that thou also hadst a wish or two that I might grant."

"Ah!" said the fisherman, "every one has wishes. I have just one, but it cannot be realized."

"Only one?" said Graumännchen. "I would grant thee willingly two or three. But what might be thy wish?"

"My greatest wish," replied the fisherman, "is to be set back five hundred years, in order that, instead of that heap of ruins across there, the Treseburg might raise its proud battlements and tower."

"Well," said Graumännchen, "that can easily happen," and bade him close his eyes for a minute. He did so, and on opening them again gazed around him in wonder, for there opposite on the dark rock stood the Treseburg, that he had so often seen in ruins. Really and truly there it stood, with white walls, colossal round tower at the entrance, battlements shimmering in the sunlight, and squires glittering in steel, with sword and lance.

The fisherman almost devoured the singular picture with his eyes, and in his admiration could not turn away his gaze, till Graumännchen put an end to his puzzlement with the question, "Thy wish is granted; art thou satisfied?"

The fisherman hesitated, for it seemed to him at the moment as if he might add another wish. At the same time the immediate fulfilment of his wish appeared to have its shady sides, for the soldiers who stood on the walls of the castle grew noisy, and called down to him with abusive and threatening words, and commanded him at once to bring up all the fish and other articles of provision which he had, or his last hour was come.

Some even, as if in joke, bent their cross-bows toward him, and one pointed iron bolt lodged in the trunk of a rotten tree close by him.

Finally the fisherman replied, "Yes, the fulfilment of my wish is delightful, and the Treseburg is a right stately Schloss; but I should like, as my ancestors once ruled there, to be transplanted into the position of my ancestor who lived there five hundred years ago, in exactly the same circumstances."

"Very well," said Graumännchen; "also this wish can be granted," and bade him again to shut his eyes.

When he opened them he found himself in a spacious hall, its stone walls adorned with armour and arms, and on a massive oak table lay also arms, partly broken, partly covered with fresh blood.

From without, a wild deafening noise penetrated to the hall, mingled with loud shouting, sometimes a piercing cry of pain, and the clashing of arms.

He lay himself, in steel armour, on a bench, but one arm was free from armour, and he felt a burning pain in it, and to his terror he observed a gaping wound, as from the blow of a sword, stretching from the shoulder to the elbow, and the warm blood trickled down.

Just then a door opened, and an old squire entered and said, "I left you a moment to prepare an ointment for your wound, in order that you may yourself appear on the walls and defend the Schloss. The danger is great, Herr! Listen! They are storming again already, and our men are so weak from hunger and thirst, they can scarcely stand.

"I have obeyed your command, gestrenger Herr--your Lordship--and in case of the worst have buried the treasures in the small vault, three times seven paces from the tower westward, and three times seven paces from the entrance gates to the south. But hark! The gates are burst in! We are lost!"

And the old man hastened away. The transformed fisherman grew dizzy, and felt extremely uncomfortable.

But he had little time for reflection, for the tumult grew louder and came nearer. The door of the hall was broken in with heavy blows, and with loud shouts a troop of men, dripping with blood, rushed in and threw themselves in rage upon him, crying: "We have thee at last, thou foul knave! thou who hast robbed and murdered so many. At last the hour of retribution has come."

And the leader cried: "Fasten a rope to the arch of the gates, give him an hour to say his prayers, but in the deepest dungeon, and then hang him for a punishment and a warning."

And strong arms seized him and threw him in the dungeon on damp straw.

There he lay, and could not for some time collect his thoughts; but when he came to his full senses a deep sorrow seized him to see what he had brought upon himself through his foolish wish. Now he must die as a criminal, separated from wife and children, who would never know what had become of him.

"Ah!" cried he in anguish. "Graumännchen! Graumännchen! why hast thou done this? If thou hast granted me, fool that I was, two wishes, so grant me the third--the only one I have--to return home," and hot tears rolled down his face.

But when he had dried his eyes, and opened them again, he drew a long breath, for he lay on the banks of the Bode beside his nets, which had filled with fish; and of Schloss and Ritter was nothing to be seen--only the ruins as ever.

Graumännchen stood by him, pressed his hand, and said with friendly smile: "Willst thou be henceforth contented, or hast thou still another wish?"

"_Nein! Nein!_" cried the fisherman decidedly, "I have not a wish but to remain what I am my life long."

Graumännchen took his departure with a smile, and the fisherman's dreams of castle and knight with him.

For many years he related only to his wife what had happened, but as he grew old he told the history to his sons, that they might learn therefrom the same lesson as himself.

They laughed to themselves, and held the whole story for a dream, save one brother, who found something very remarkable in it, and when he had a leisure hour he climbed the rock where the Treseburg had stood, observed the direction of the walls and the moat, and removed the moss, underbrush, and thorns. At last he seemed to have found what he sought. One clear moonlight night he mounted with hook and shovel to the ruins; there, where once the tower had stood, he measured three times seven paces to the west from the tower, and the same distance from the gate southward. Then he began to dig and soon came to a vault.

The following day the villagers who had gone to gather sticks found a vault broken in, and a half-rotten chest open, but empty, and on the ground around lay scattered gold and silver coins with an unknown stamp.

Legend of Volkmarskeller

On the borders of the wood stand the ruins of the ancient Kloster Michaelstein, which we pass, and go up the valley, the brook acting as our guide.

It conducts us first past a number of ponds, which formerly supplied the self-denying monks with carp for their fasts, and now swarm with speckled trout.

Low willows adorn the banks, and bathe their locks in the waves, out of which a thick wood of slender reeds springs forth.

Now the vale narrows, magnificent walls of rock rise, and picturesque waterfalls toss themselves down the stream.

Suddenly the forest grows thin; the vale divides itself in two arms, and in the dale to the right, we see, close by the red-roofed forage-house for game, grey rocks and ruins.

We ascend this dale, and stand by the ruins of the old church Michaelstein, the mother of the later Kloster.

Beneath the ruins extends a wide cave, which gave rise to the building of the church.

This cave served centuries ago as the dwelling-place of a hermit named Volkmar, and still bears his name. Others of like mind joined themselves to Volkmar, and thus arose the brotherhood, and the forest church.

One can now scarcely trace the site of the walls; fruit-trees run wild, and lilacs mark the spot where once the Kloster garden lay, and besides, no trace of a human habitation where once good and holy men dwelt in the mountain solitude.

This spot--this hermitage--was once a renowned shrine, and thousands flocked here to seek consolation, for in the cave was a grave where were said to rest the bones of the Virgin Mary.

Let us enter the cave, which has two openings, one to the south-east, the other to the south-west; it is of considerable height and breadth, resembling a subterranean chapel, formed of cross-arches, and provided with niches. Near the west entrance is the far-famed tomb of Mary.

The small forest church could boast the protection of the great of the earth. Papal bulls gave indulgences for forty days to all who prayed at, and brought gifts to, the shrine.

The Empress Matilda, the wife of Henry the Fowler, endowed it with lands, and Kaiser Otto loaded it with favours, so that an enlargement became necessary, and hence an hour's distance down the valley the larger and more magnificent Kloster was built.

From the charter granted by Kaiser Otto, we learn that this cave was not first occupied by Volkmar; but that a hermitess, Liutburga, dwelt in it long before. Romance has brought them together.

Volkmar was a stately knight, and Liutburga the fairest of the maidens of the Harz, and they loved each other. In her heart lived only his image, and their souls were knit together.

But the Kaiser challenged his knights to combat against the Wenden, who still clung to heathenism, and refused to recognize Christianity, or the authority of the Kaiser.

Every true knight marched to the conflict, and Volkmar girded on his sword, and the scarf that Liutburga had woven for him, and bade farewell to his beloved.

She stood on the battlements of her castle, and saw him ride away, and when she could see him no longer her sighs and tears burst forth.

Before the image of the Virgin she knelt daily, and prayed for his return; but her petitions seemed unheeded, for troops of combatants returned from battle, but nowhere could she see the plumed helmet of Volkmar, and all were silent and sad at her questioning.

An inexpressible sorrow seized her, she clad herself in mourning garments, grew paler than the flower that droops before the mighty frost, and refused to be comforted. She could no longer dwell among men, who understood not her grief, and sought the solitude of the forest.

One day in her solitary ramble she discovered this rocky cave, and here she resolved to retire, and spend the remainder of her days in contemplation and devotion.

But her sorrow gnawed at her heart, and she sank to the earth like a drooping flower. The death-angel came, and kissed away her tears.

But Volkmar was not fallen in battle, but had been only severely wounded and taken prisoner by the Wenden, and led away into their deep forests, and it was long before they gave him back his freedom.

He fled on the wings of love to the castle of Liutburga, and hearing of her retirement he penetrated the mountains to seek out the spot. At last he discovered the cave, and his heart was ready to burst with bliss.

He called loudly her name, but no voice answered, only the echo of the mountains. He climbed the mountain, and reached the entrance to the cave. There lay Liutburga in the moss. "She sleeps!" he thought.

Yes, she slept. The cheeks were ashy pale, the eye broken, cold and still the lips; she awoke no more at his call.

The birds of the wood had sung her death-song, and the trees had showered their leaves and blossoms over the still form.

Volkmar returned no more to the world, which had nothing to offer his broken heart.

Where Liutburga had dwelt in her grief was now his home; the crucifix before which she had knelt was his sanctuary, and henceforth he turned all his thoughts to God, and to the consolation of the sorrowing.

That is the Liutburga of romance. The Liutburga of history[1] is indeed a highly interesting and noble personality, if less poetic.

[1] See _History of Blankenburg_.

Countess Gisela, of the Harzgau, whose seat was Blankenburg Schloss, after the death of her husband, Earl Unwan, built Kloster Wenthusen, and other convents and churches.

Once on a journey she was overtaken by the darkness, and took refuge in a Kloster.

Among the nuns who welcomed her, one, Liutburga, won her affections, and on leaving, Gisela took her home with her.

After Gisela's death, Liutburga, with the consent of Bishop Thiatgrin, of Halberstadt, retired to this cave somewhere between 827 and 840, in which Bernhard, son of Gisela, built her a cell and a chapel.

She was renowned for sanctity and good works, and endowed with a superior mind.

A priest of the cathedral of Halberstadt wrote her biography more than a thousand years ago.

We return to the later Kloster Michaelstein, which is not so rich in poetic legends.

Not even a ghostly monk haunts the ruins, nor wanders by moonlight in the venerable cloisters. But on the mountains that surround the dale the two monks, Hans and Henning, still hold guard.

Once the Abbot, fearing the attack of an enemy, sent the unfortunate brothers out to watch, with the command not to return till the enemy approached.

No enemy came, and the Abbot forgot to recall the monks.

They watched conscientiously till they became stone pillars, and stand still there. The face of one, Hans, is of admirable beauty.

There is a legend that once, when the enemy stormed the gates, St. Michael suddenly appeared over the entrance in a flame, with countenance of wrath and drawn sword, at sight of whom every man fled.

Reinhilde of the Königsburg.

The Königsburg stood on the right bank of the Bode, on a mountain not far from Bodfeld. Originally it belonged to the Saxon Kaisers. The Sausenburg was on the left bank of the Bode, about an hour's walk from Elbingerode. Of the latter nothing is now left save the hewings in the stone masses which formed its foundations. From the battlements of its tower the hunting castles Bodfeld and Königsburg could be seen.

In this romantic neighbourhood, in the thick fir forest, stand the crumbling tower and scraps of broken walls of the Königsburg, overshadowed by the green veil of the wood, moss, ivy, and wild-flowers, and the mystic fascination of a time more than a thousand years ago.

Desolate stand the ruins of the once imperial hunting seat, the moat so thickly overgrown with the buck-thorn that no human foot would willingly attempt to tread it.

A light sighing stirs in the foliage like a ghostly breath from the primeval days.

Dost thou remember the time when we listened to the rustling and moaning of the fir-trees, like echoes of the voices of olden times? In our dreams we saw the ancient Königsburg in splendour, heard the forest ring with the noise of the hunt, saw the troop of huntsmen ride back to the castle, among them many a knight, earl, and prince, and foremost rode the Kaiser with his blushing daughter Reinhilde.

How radiant was the royal maiden, her green veil floating on the breeze, her clear eyes gazing fearlessly around her, her sweet face smiling like a bright morning in spring.

The Kaiser bends to her and whispers in her ear.

Why do her blushing cheeks turn pale? What has caused the smile to vanish so suddenly from her face, and the tears to rush to her eyes?

She turns in fear and looks upon her following train. Why does a noble knightly countenance there also turn pale?

The Kaiser glances in surprise at his shrinking daughter.

"Dear little Reinhilde, have I grieved thee? Hast thou understood me? Two princes beg the honour of thy hand."

Reinhilde raises her eyes with firmness to his and replies: "Dear father, forgive, but I do not seek for crowns. Thou thyself hast not hidden from me how heavy is the crown. Thou hast often told me that only love makes happy; and I have found a love deep and pure, and could shout for joy; a heart, a knightly heart is mine. Oh! do not tear this true and noble heart from mine."

The Kaiser frowns and the anger-vein swells on his brow as he replies: "Dost thou dare to speak thus to me, thou shameless girl? Who is the low knave, the insolent coxcomb, who has dared to raise his eyes to the Kaiser's daughter? My rage shall crush him; ruin on his head who has robbed me of the joy of my old age--the heart of my daughter."

All stand aghast at the Kaiser's wrath, all save one noble knight, who steps fearlessly forth from the circle, with head proudly raised, a youth of manly beauty, the blond locks falling on his shoulders, the blue eyes blazing in just indignation, approaches the Kaiser, and cries, "Herr Kaiser, it was not a 'knave.' At the breach on the bloody field thou hast said, 'Brave Werner, thou art my bravest hero!' And thou hast chosen me as companion for thy kingly son. Oft hast thou said to me, 'For Werner's faithfulness where shall I find a worthy reward?' Herr Kaiser, now thou hast the reward; take back the word of scorn; listen to the voice of love; make two hearts happy."

Gently Reinhilde clasps the father's hands; but the anger-vein swells higher on the imperial brow.

"Throw the traitor in the deepest dungeon in chains!" he cries; "and thou, whom I disown as daughter, get out of my sight; let me never see thee again!"

The Kaiser sets spurs to his steed and rides to the Schloss, the attendants bring the unhappy knight to the dungeon, Reinhilde faints and sinks from her steed in the grass, and soon no sound is heard save the sighing in the firs.

With heavy head resting on his arm, the Kaiser sits alone in the great hall of the Königsburg.

Suddenly he starts wildly to his feet; was that a moan that fell upon his ear? No, 'tis only the rattle of the hoarse weathercock. Hark! surely that is a cry of anguish. He listens in agony.

"No, no," the watcher cries from the tower. He hears the moaning of the tempest, and rain and hailstones beat against the windows.

In heartrending tones the Kaiser cries, "Reinhilde! It was too hard and cruel; a loving word had been better."

Quickly he calls his old servant. "Alter,[1] bring me my little daughter."

[1] Old man.

The servant trembles in terror, and tears burst forth.

"What ails thee, Alter?" cries the Kaiser.

"Herr Kaiser, thou knowest thy little daughter is not here! Thou hast disowned her."

The Kaiser stares at him in horror, "Reinhilde not here? Since when?"

"Herr Kaiser, since yesterday. She has not returned to the Schloss; her steed came back without its rider. We sent out messengers, but none have found her."

The Kaiser turns pale.

"And thou hast not told me till now! Reinhilde, Reinhilde not here? Merciful God! Reinhilde, my child! Lost in the forest in storm and tempest! Up; ring the alarm! To horse! to horse! Let loose the hounds in the forest; let the horns resound that my child may know the father calls. Bring me my steed, I will myself ride forth into the storm."

And a thousand torches light up the forest, and the echo of a thousand voices rings far and wide. And the Kaiser's voice combats with the storm as he cries, "Reinhilde! Reinhilde! my little daughter!"

At length despair seizes the father's heart, he throws himself to the earth in wild agony, beats his brow and tears his hair, while a troop of attendants stand weeping around him.

With a sudden light in his face, he springs to his feet and exclaims, "Back to the Schloss! There is one who will find Reinhilde, but that one pines in the dungeon. He has loved her like me. I know his love is true; the God of love will be with him; _he_ will find my little daughter." And the Kaiser commands, "Let Werner be set free! And when he finds Reinhilde, she herself shall be his reward; let her be his wife, and he my son!"

In the dark mountain cave, on the hard, cold ground, kneels the silver-haired hermit Volkmar, and without before the entrance, by the image of the Virgin, Reinhilde, pale and trembling, is kneeling, in prayer. She vows to become the bride of heaven if the Kaiser does not relent.

The good old man, when she came yesterday telling him all her sorrow, received her lovingly, and gave her a secure refuge in his peaceful retreat. "Stay here, my daughter," he said; "hope and trust in God."

Hark! The horns are heard, and Volkmar rises hastily from his knees and cries, "Quick, in the cave, Reinhilde, that no one see thee; the way leads close by the Virgin's shrine."

The searchers come, and cry, "God greet thee Volkmar! Hast thou not seen the Kaiser's daughter?"

And Volkmar replies, "I have only seen a bride of heaven, who is resting in the cave."

They ride on, and Volkmar asks the trembling Reinhilde, "Hast thou heard? They are seeking thee."

"My father has disowned me. I stand alone. Only in the Kloster can I find a home."

And now a single man approaches, stops by the entrance, throws himself on his knees before the shrine of the Virgin, and as Reinhilde hears the voice she trembles and turns pale, for the Kaiser it is who prays.