Chapter VI: Part 6

"Do not fear, White Lady of the Staufenburg, I will not betray you. I have sought you four long years, because I love you, and would save you from a life-long wretchedness. I was at your imagined funeral, and discovered the farce, but no mortal save myself knows of my discovery.

"Who are you? Why do you come here? to threaten, to torment me? Do you want money?"

"Why do I come? You are in danger. The Duchess has spies; stories of a White Lady in the Staufenberg are come even to the Court. The Duke's long absences excite suspicion. He is watched. Think of the storm that will burst upon you both if you are discovered. Leave here before it is too late."

"Why do you interest yourself for a lonely creature like me, dead and buried?"

"You do not know me--how could you? My own mother did not recognise me," and Alice threw off hump and wig, and stood before Eva, a tall, well-formed girl, nearly her own age.

"Alice!" cried Eva, rushing to her, and seizing her in her arms. "I thought you were a nun in the convent of Gandersheim. You are come to stay with me. Oh! say you are come to stay."

"No, I will not stay here. I have sought you all this time as an old lace-seller, to warn and save you. If you will give up Henry and leave this den of sin, I will follow you wherever you go. Oh! what words can I use to induce you to leave here? Eva! Eva! it is your foster-sister, your truest friend, who entreats you. Henry is your worst enemy. He has trodden your honour and name in the dust, but you consented, and destroyed what you might have been for ever. But repentance is left, and there is all eternity to come.

"How can you stand before God? how can you dare pray? You desecrated the holiest; virtue and innocence you have made the tools of vice; you have stolen the _monstrance_ from the altar; you swore a false oath before the altar of the Highest. Talk of a left-handed marriage. It is an insult to Heaven's laws. Eva! Eva! once my pure and dear playmate, the darling of your dead mother's heart, come away with me now--_now_. No one is here to betray our flight. We will go to some distant land, and I will stay with you so long as we both live. Follow your true friend. It is the voice of Heaven you hear. Forget the unworthy murderer of your youth and purity."

Eva trembled and turned pale. "What would become of my children?" she cried, wringing her hands in anguish.

"Children! have you children?"

"Yes, three. See, that is my noble Eitel with the long brown curls, playing in the garden."

"God will protect them. You can do nothing for them even if you remain. They are in the power of their father. Come, come; oh, listen to the voice of warning before it is too late," and Alice seized Eva's hand as if she would lead her away.

"I cannot! I cannot! I love Henry. Love his princely magnanimity, his bravery, his noble pride--even that which others hate in him I love. For him I have robbed the Duchess of her husband, deceived my brave father and my brothers, desecrated God's altar, sacrificed life, youth, honour, happiness; I live only for him. I cannot deceive him, cannot atone for one sin with another."

"I must save you, then, by telling your brothers where you are. They will punish the vile Henry before the whole German Empire." She released Eva's hand and turned to go.

With a scream Eva sprang forward, threw herself down before Alice, clasped her knees and cried, "Be merciful, Alice; have pity on my misery. God is merciful. Do not you be cruel. Do not betray me. I am crushed and bruised, the peace of my mind and heart destroyed. I could not be more wretched. What good would it do to betray me? and in betraying Henry, you destroy me, rob me of the only earthly protection I can ever hope to enjoy. Magda is a mother to my children as she was to me. She would not betray me."

"My mother was your nurse, hence has a mother's feelings for you. I will not stay here. If I should see Henry, I should forget all respect for his person as Duke, and give him a piece of my mind. I will keep your secret, but I warn you of a coming-danger. Then I can be of more service to you without than if I stayed here. God help you. I will not betray you." And hastily assuming her disguise, for footsteps were heard approaching, she hurried away.

Three years passed away after this interview, and Eva remained securely hidden; but Henry's absences from Court grew longer and more frequent, and at last one of the courtiers resolved to penetrate the mystery.

He followed Henry to the Staufenburg, watched four whole days in the thick woods, and the evening of the fourth day, to his utter amazement, recognised Eva von Trotta in the stone balcony by Henry's side. The secret was out! He hastened to the Duchess and told her what he had seen. Maria sent authorised messengers to the convent of Gandersheim, the coffin bearing Eva's name was broken open, and lo! a wooden figure with wax mask and hands!

The Duchess communicates this discovery to the King of Wurtemburg, her father, letters of reproof are sent to Henry from him and the Kaiser, and the Pope threatens him with excommunication.

Henry hastens to Eva with the dreadful news; but Alice has been before her, and Eva is prepared with another plan.

"Tell them to search the Staufenburg, and they will discover their mistake. Tell them I am dead--it is true. Magda shall conduct the children to Kirchberg, and with Alice's aid they and every trace of my having been here will vanish. I have a secure hiding-place."

"Where, Eva?"

"You shall know to-morrow on your return from Gandersheim, Henry."

She took an affectionate and reluctant leave of him, calling him back two or three times before she could let him go.

Then she sent for her children, wept over them, and gave her directions to Magda and Alice, and cut off Eitel's long curls that he might not be recognised, his resemblance to her with his long hair being so striking.

After she had dismissed them, Eva returned to her boudoir and wrote a note to Henry. Then she took a small flask from her writing-table, poured its contents in a glass of water, and reclining in her fauteuil, drank it.

Henry, on his return the following morning, hastened to Eva's boudoir.

Seeing Eva seated, and not springing up as usual to welcome him, he supposed she had fallen asleep--and so she had; but a sight of her face revealed the dreadful truth. She had taken poison. The empty flask lay on the writing-table beside her; near it a note addressed to himself. He tore it open. It only contained a few words.

"I told you, my beloved Henry, I had a secure hiding-place. I meant the grave. Tell them I am dead. They cannot follow where I am going. I would not bring ruin on you and your dominions. Oh, Henry! be good to my children, and never attempt to make Eitel your heir. My sin was loving you. Farewell.

"Yours in death, EVA."

Duke Henry had the broken-hearted girl--only twenty-three--buried in the garden of the Staufenburg, returned to Court and insisted on a search of the castle. They did search, of course discovering nothing, and the mystery was still impenetrable.

The Duchess Maria died a few months after her rival, and nothing was ever known of the well-guarded secret, until Henry himself betrayed it in his partiality for his favourite son Eitel Henry--Eva's only son and eldest child. The Duke besought the Pope to recognise him as the heir to the ducal throne, offering a heavy bribe. His Holiness consented, the more readily since the Duke's lawful heir, Henry Julius, had become a Protestant.

But Eitel proved himself, as his mother had said, noble in character as in name. He absolutely refused his consent to this injustice, and lived in retirement on the estate Kirchberg, which the Duke had given him, the name of which Eva's children bore. The Kirchbergs, however, soon became extinct.

The learned Duke Henry Julius, founder of a university, never forgot the refusal of his noble illegitimate brother to deprive him of his birthright, and ever remained his warm friend.

There were two castles in the Harz mountains, both of which bore the name of Staufenburg; that near Zorge, an hour and a half from the beautiful ruins of Convent Walkenried. It is said to have been occupied during the Thirty Years' War. When built or by whom destroyed are matters of conjecture. The Staufenburg of our tale is near Gittelde. Some derive the name from the idol _Stuvo_, or _Stuffo_, once set up on the mountain. The mountain was so steep that _Staufen_, or _Stufen_--steps--were used in climbing it, hence probably the name.

The Weingarten Höhle and the Three Men.

There is perhaps no cave in all Germany concerning which so many legends and traditions are in the mouth of the people as this Weingartenloch.

A plank crosses over a black piece of water from the outer portion of the cave further into the darkness, far from human help and human voices.

The tradition is, that whoever crosses that beam will be given over to the Evil One, who governs there, and sits, between heaps of gold and silver, by a table, with a great book before him, in which he writes the name of every person who approaches him.

But when three enter together and draw lots with one another, two of them may depart laden with treasures, and only the third, upon whom the lot has fallen, must remain behind, and is torn in a thousand pieces by the demon.

Two men from some distant country had often entered the cave, and had always succeeded in enticing a third to accompany them, who always fell into the hands of the _Gott-sei-bei-uns_, since they so arranged it that the lot fell to him.

Finally, it struck the inhabitants as something very remarkable that those who had entered the cave with the two strangers never returned, and henceforth they failed to find a follower.

Then they entered the hut of a poor man in Dorf Osterhagen, who had a wife and eight children, and challenged him, with brilliant promises, to follow them into the cave.

The man, whose name was Schlosser, felt little inclination for the expedition, and absolutely refused, even if they offered him eighty Thaler.

But the wife called her husband into another room, and said to him: "Thou knowest that I love thee dearly, and would sink from sorrow and anguish if thou shouldst be torn from me; but we have eight children, and no bread in the cupboard, and no money, and with the money the strangers offer thee we should have enough for our whole lives; so go with them, and be sure no evil will befall thee."

And she opened a cupboard, took out a plant, sewed it in his shirt in three different places, made a sign of the cross above each place, and said, "That which I have sewed in thy shirt is _origanum_, a sure defence against all enchantment, and even the devil; so go in peace, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."

And Schlosser embraced his wife and children, and went with the two men, who looked, scornfully laughing, at each other, after having laid eighty glittering new Thaler on the table.

They wandered on until they had reached the beam--the fatal beam--where they stood still, and the men warned Schlosser solemnly, if his life was dear to him, to utter no sound till they had passed the next two caves.

Schlosser promised, and the three crossed cautiously the dangerous bridge, and entered a cave filled with the most horrible vermin.

Bombinas and salamanders seemed to be giving a ball. Bats fluttered thick as a hailstorm through the air. Terrible serpents and dragons coiled hissing around each other. The most hideous brood of nature was flocked together, and swarmed around the feet of the three men entering, as if to form a wall to hinder their entrance.

With firmness the three went directly forward toward a second cave, which was large and lofty, and lighted with a magical splendour.

At the right, against the rocky wall, shimmering with gold and silver, stood a couch of red velvet embroidered in gold, and on the silken cushions lay a sleeping maiden of such super-terrestrial beauty, that Schlosser could not take his eyes from the picture, and was drawn forward by force by his companions. In the next cave they stood still, drew a long breath, looked anxiously at each other, and put down their lamps.

"Now, dear friend," said one of the men to Schlosser, "the moment is come. In a quarter of an hour we may become rich and happy, or for ever lost in perdition. Immeasurable wealth is in the cave we are about to enter, but only two of us can become possessed of the accumulated treasures, or ever see the light of day again; the third, on whom the lot falls, must remain as a sacrifice to the dark ruler of the subterranean world. Be firm and follow us!"

Schlosser felt as if paralysed by lightning at the terrible disclosure, and without knowing what he did, he followed the two, who went on before, and knocked three times on a small iron door.

Cracking, it sprang open, and a blood-red splendour shone forth in the great space which they now entered. Gold, silver, and precious stones lay in colossal heaps on every side, and the place sparkled and shone so, that even the anxious Schlosser's heart was filled with joy.

But now from a corner a man of lofty stature came forward, with sparkling, burning eyes, black, bristly hair, dark, bushy eyebrows, and a crooked, arched hawk-nose.

In a frightful, peculiar manner he twitched his yellow face, and his garments were strange and odd. A fiery-red, gold-bordered mantle hung in bunchy folds from his shoulders; a broad, drooping Spanish hat, with a long, waving red plume, sat sideways on his head, and a long rapier hung at his side.

With a slight bow he passed the three men, and vanished through the iron door by which they had entered.

The two men now challenged Schlosser to help them fill their sacks, and as soon as that was done they returned through the iron door, which shut with a loud crash behind them.

"I cannot tell how it is with me to-day," said one stranger to his friend. "I am filled with fear, and my teeth chatter, and it creeps like fire in my veins. If only some misfortune does not meet us!"

"Thou art very foolish," replied the other. "Is it not the eighteenth time that we have been here, and we have always known how to turn and shuffle that the lot fell on the accompanying third person? And where could we have found a better companion than that fellow there, out of whose eyes the most charming simplicity and stupidity look, so that a child might deceive him?"

He would have added more, but Schlosser, who went on before, uttered a cry of horror, and the hearts of the two friends sank within them, although what they saw they had seen already eighteen times.

On the fatal beam over the foaming water stood the devil himself, with all the terrors peculiar to his dark majesty. Great burning eyes rolled like wheels of flaming fire in his awful face, a shaggy-haired hide clothed the spirit of the bottomless pit, and the fearful claws were extended to seize his prey.

With trembling hand the eldest of the two strangers produced the cards; but however falsely he shuffled them the death-card fell to him, and he began to quake, and grew as pale as the chalk of the wall.

Under the pretext that something had been omitted, the stranger shuffled again; but, to his terror, the death-lot fell, not upon Schlosser, but his own friend.

"The third time it will surely fall on the fellow," thought the stranger to himself, and began under all sorts of excuses to shuffle again.

The foul fiend raised himself to his greatest height, breathing flames of fire from mouth and nostrils, and cried in a hollow, smothered voice, like the sound of distant thunder: "Only once more can ye draw lots, no more. Over that person there," pointing to Schlosser, "I have no power; he is defended, by a plant which he carries on his person, from every danger!"

The two old sinners turned paler than ever, and looked despairingly at each other; but the devil waved his hand, and they drew lots for the third time. The lot fell on him on whom it had fallen the first time.

Like a tempest Satan threw himself on the despairing man, seized him with his claws, rose with him in the air, and tore him in pieces.

With swelling breast, breathless, Schlosser till now had looked on all that had passed; but at this fearful sight the last spark of firmness failed him, he closed his eyes and sank lifeless on the ground.

When he awoke he was lying before the entrance to the cave; near him a sack filled with beaten gold and silver.

He looked in vain for his companion, who must have already gone away, if the terror caused by the awful fate of his friend had not killed him.

Schlosser was as if paralysed, and could scarcely drag himself to the village near by.

He, however, soon recovered, moved from Osterhagen to Andreasburg, where he built a handsome house, and never forgot that it was through his wife's forethought that wealth and happiness had been won.

The Bell-Founder of Stolberg.

The traditions of the apprentices' pillar in Roslin Chapel, and of the bell-founder in Breslau, bear a strong resemblance to this of Stolberg.

There was once a bell-founder in Stolberg who was a master worthy of honour, skilled in counsel and deed.

He had already cast many bells, yellow and white, the poem tells us, for churches and chapels, to the praise and glory of God.

And his bells rang so full, so clear and pure in tone; he cast love and faith in with the metal.

And Stolberg desired also a work from his hand, and the master employed every means to produce a perfect bell for his place of residence.

But it was as if the Evil One had a hand too in the work, for the cast was a perfect failure.

Vexed, he threw the bell aside, commanded his sixteen-years-old apprentice to prepare everything for a new cast on a certain day, so soon as he returned, and then departed to visit his father, who was also a bell-founder, to relate his failure and ask his advice.

The thoughtful apprentice reflected unceasingly on the cause of the failure of his so skilful master in the last bell.

After long speculation he discovered the cause, sprang up joyfully, worked day and night, and soon the bell stood without a flaw before the youth's delighted eyes.

His heart beating high with joy, he went to meet his master, and found him sitting on a stone resting from the fatigue of his long walk. This stone tradition still points out in the Steigerthal, moss-grown, with a bell and a club hewn in it.

The apprentice could not keep his secret, and with a countenance shining with joy told his master that he had already cast another bell, which was perfect, and of the sweetest tone.

Then the veins on the master's forehead swelled with shame; rage and fury to find himself excelled by his pupil filled his usually mild heart.

He sprang from the stone, seized his cane, and gave the youth such a powerful blow on his head that he sank bleeding, with glassy eyes, in the grass.

The master fled as if chased by the furies.

His anger cooled at the sight of the blood; fearful pangs of conscience seized the strong man, he repented his rash deed, turned hurriedly back, hoping he might yet quench the stream of blood, and save the unhappy boy.

He had soon reached him, but no help was possible. Despairing he fled.

Unsettled and a fugitive like Cain, he wandered the whole night in the forest, and when the morning dawned he had made his decision.

He returned to Stolburg, presented himself before the tribunal, accused himself of his crime, and demanded punishment.

Deep was the regret, but blood demands blood, and he heard his sentence of death with unmoved composure.

The Colt's Cave.

During the Seven Years' War the soldiers stole all the horses.

A farmer concealed a handsome colt in a cave in the Steigethal, or valley of the Steige, and fed it with great care. After the departure of the enemy he hastened to the cave to take home the animal, but it had grown so much it could no longer go through the entrance, and he was compelled to kill it. And the cave is called the Colt's Cave unto this day.

Legend of St. Christopher.

In the Goslar Cathedral, of which now but a small remnant remains, once existed a colossal wooden statue of this renowned Saint with the Christ-Child on his back.

St. Christopher once walked from Goslar to Halberstadt and Harzburg, and on the way shook on the ground a pea which had got into his shoe.

The pea grew, and became the sandstone rock called the Clus.

The interior of the rock was hewn into a chapel to the Virgin, which was a shrine of great celebrity.

A Schloss once stood on the Clus, traces of which are still to be seen.

The Maiden's Cave in the Spatenberg, near
where once stook the Spatenburg.

A young citizen of Sondershausen had, although honest, industrious, and skilful, fallen into great embarrassment.

Merciless creditors threatened with seizure; entire ruin stared him in the face; he saw himself already in fancy with wife and children abandoned to bitter want.

He took a walk into the country in order to seek relief for his oppressed heart for a few short hours.

Soon he was alone with his sorrow in the wood solitude.

He climbed the Göldner, till he had reached the summit of the Spatenberg, where the green-grass carpet and the shade of the old beeches invited him to a short repose.

He might have perhaps given expression to his trouble in loud lamentations.

However that may be, he at last prepared to go further, when suddenly he observed a lovely maiden, who, clad in mourning garments and weeping, sat on a moss-grown stone at the entrance to the Jungfernloch, or Maiden's Cave.

His sympathy at this sight was awakened in proportion to his own melancholy. He could not restrain himself from approaching the graceful figure, and inquiring the cause of her grief.

She, however, was of opinion that her sorrow was much too great to permit of her troubling any one else with it, and declared she could only find a mitigation of her woe in drying up the tears of others.

She told him she had, unseen, perceived what troubled him, and it afforded her soul sweet comfort to know that she could help him.

After she had made this statement to the astonished man, she bade him follow her into the cave.

When they had gone through several dark, gloomy passages, they entered a wonderfully lighted chamber, in the centre of which stood a chest filled with gold and treasures, from which the maiden's companion, at her command, must take as many pieces of money as were sufficient for relief from his embarrassment.

At the same time he must solemnly promise that at the expiration of a year, at a certain hour, he will return the same sum to the same place, because, as a result of his failing to do so, she herself would suffer great injury.

He promised, and the maiden dismissed him.

Of course he was now freed from his anxiety and distress, and from this day everything he undertook prospered.

Not only was he able to satisfy all the demands of his creditors, but also at the stated time, agreeably with his promise, to return the received loan.

But he could not go in his every-day dress to his benefactress, and the untruthful tailor neglected to deliver the red Sunday coat as promised.

At last he determined, though he had failed to reach the spot at the fixed hour, not to fail in the day.

As he climbed the Burgweg--castle road--it seemed to him that the tops of the beeches sighed mournfully. He drew near to the cave with painful apprehensions.

No maiden was to be seen. He entered the cave, and found himself at last in the lighted chamber.

But what must he see? The benevolent maiden lay on the ground dying, her countenance distorted with sorrow and pain.

Dreadful gloom enveloped the frightened man. Only the treasure in the chest glittered dismally.

A long-drawn sigh trembled through the chamber. He threw the too-late-brought money, at the same time crossing himself, into the trunk, which immediately closed, and with the dead maiden disappeared.

An awful roaring arose. Benumbed with terror, he fled from the chamber, that fell in behind him, and through the passages, that seemed to him suddenly falling into ruins.

A tumbling stone struck him so violently on the heel that he was always obliged to wear slippers after, and from that day he never recovered his spirits.

The Three Brothers of Zellerfeld.

There once lived three brothers in Zellerfeld who were hunters. They went together one day hunting to the Schalk, when the youngest saw three partridges, and shot at one of them.

He thought he had struck the bird, but it flew away, and he followed it to the top of the mountain where it disappeared.

The young hunter searched the spot carefully where the bird had vanished, and found an opening, which he marked, and then went back and called his two brothers.

All three entered the opening, and came soon to a large room containing a well-served meal on the table, and chairs placed ready.

The three seated themselves, ate, drank, and found all excellent.

After they had partaken of the repast, three beautiful ladies in rich attire entered, and told the brothers they were accursed and doomed to remain for ever under the earth. But if they would remain there three years without seeing the light of day, they would be released.

The ladies promised them the best table during the time, and conducted them to see their treasures, and pointing out three casks filled with gold, promised each one.

They also told them they must now become black, and would only visit them once a year, exhorted the brothers to firmness, and left them.

At the end of the first year they returned; they were become somewhat whiter.

At the next visit, at the end of the second year, they were grown still whiter. They exhorted the brothers earnestly to perseverance and again left them.

The first half of the third year passed happily, but in the last half the eldest brother grew impatient, and asked: "Why should we remain here any longer?"

But the younger reminded them of their promise. At last the second brother became undecided and restless, and finally the two resolved to remain no longer.

They threatened to murder the youngest if he would not accompany them, and to save his life he yielded to their entreaties.

At the proposal of the eldest, they took as much of the gold as they could carry with them.

They reached Zellerfield with their wealth, agreed to keep all a secret, and began to live in luxury, each taking to himself a wife.

The two elder brothers soon squandered all, but the youngest avoided their extravagance.

The two elder, having lost all, determined to return to the treasure in the mountains, and compelled the youngest to go with them.

They entered the familiar chamber with the table and chairs, but all was changed.

Every object was draped in black, and on the table stood three mourning lamps.

The three ladies entered, now coal-black, and silent, and sad; they were followed by three men, who cried, pointing to the eldest brother, "Thou perjured rascal!" seized him, quartered him, and packed him in a barrel, likewise the second.

The youngest looked on in terror; but the ladies exclaimed, "Thou art a true friend, and innocent. Take what thou wilt and go home. But we must remain here until we find three rescuers."

The Raven of Clausthal.

A gentleman in Clausthal had a raven and a maid-servant.

The raven carried off all the silver spoons, and suspicion fell on the poor girl. She was tried, and under torture confessed she had stolen them.

She was executed, but before her death declared her innocence.

Soon after new eave-troughs were put on the gentleman's house, and the spoons were all found where the raven had hidden them.

The Bergmönch[1] and Wilder Mann.[2]

[1] _Bergmönch_--mountain monk.

[2] _Wilder Mann_--wild man.

There are numerous traditions of the Bergmönch in the mining districts.

He is always seen in the dress of a master-miner, with a silver mine-lamp in his hand.

It is said he was a master-miner, and begged to be permitted to inspect the mines until the Judgment Day. The Monk's valley--Mönchsthal--near Clausthal, was his favourite retreat.

In St. Andreasberg the tradition is, he was a monk who sought to open the mines there, but failed.

According to this tradition, he completed nearly the entire canal at the base of the Rehberg,[3] called the Rehberger Graben, which conveys all the water to St. Andreasberg for the working of the Samson mine, but became bankrupt through the undertaking.

[3] _Rehberg_--stag mountain.

Many wild tales are told of his bringing aid to the miners, and to the poor and distressed, and of his severity toward the wrong-doer.

In the mining town Wildemann there is a tradition of a wild man who gave the place its name.

Once a robber from the Thuringian Forest lived here in a cave with a wild woman; they were clothed with moss and the branches of fir-trees.

The knight Claus, founder of Clausthal, once saw this wild man on the Wildmann's Cliffs, with a fir-tree, torn up by the roots, in his hand, and a bear on his. back.

The Nimrod of the Rehbergerklippe.[1]

[1] _Rehbergerklippe_--cliff of the stag mountain.

A legend of this gloomy wild mountain, at the base of which one drives from Clausthal to St. Andreasburg, lingers still with a poetic charm on and around its rocky walls, and is in harmony with its decorations.

In the grey primeval days dwelt in this savage wilderness a mighty hunter, hard and rough as the rocks on which his house stood.

Hunting was his pleasure and passion, and daily he ranged, with his men, the wood, which resounded with the barking of dogs and the notes of the horn, which filled the clefts and caves of the rocks and mountains with a thousand-voiced echo.

Not even the peace of the Sabbath could check the delight of the huntsman in the chase, or restrain him from his continued persecution of the animals of the woods.

A pious hermit admonished him frequently, and entreated him not to disturb God's peace of the holy day with his tumult and noise; but the sportsman closed his ears to the warnings of the old man, and the hermit returned to his hermitage accompanied by the scornful derision of the ungodly hunter.

The evening of an October Sunday fell softly over the mountains; the tops of the fir-trees, rocks, and mountains were bathed in the golden splendour of sunset; on the whole scene lay deep silence, only the waves of the Oder murmured in the distance their eternal song; only the timid game left its secure hiding-place, stole cautiously with light, slow steps out of the thickets, and sought the spicy plants or the cooling spring.

Then resounded suddenly the noise of the hunt in the distance; the game so peacefully refreshing itself fled in terror, and the tumult increased every instant.

A snow-white stag flew with the rapidity of the wind over the mountains, pursued by the hunters on foot and on horseback, and surrounded by the barking pack of hounds.

The ground thundered beneath the horse-hoofs, and the mountains rang with the wild "hallohs!" of the riders, the cracking of whips, and the clashing of weapons.

The hunted stag groaned, and escaped his pursuers with his last strength.

The noble animal stood breathless on the brink of the abyss which is called after him the Stag Cliff, and started back in fear and trembling from the black gulf.

And louder and nearer thundered the wild call of the hunters, the hunting horns came fearfully near, and as the hounds would seize their prey, the stag, in deathly terror, made the leap into the frightful deeps.

And there arose a singular light, a dazzling splendour shone around the hunted animal, and unseen hands bore it softly below into the secure valley.

But the hunters, with horse and hound, were driven by magical power to follow the stag.

From the rocky cliff the whole company leaped into the depths, and huge blocks of granite and high pines sank after them and buried their mangled bodies in eternal night.

From that time it has been a haunted spot, full of untold horrors, and the wanderer hastens by in fear when darkness is closing in on the mountains.

And at midnight, when the death-owl hoots and soars over the vale on heavy wing, and the fantastic moonlight transforms the dry trunks of the trees into grey spirits of the night, the giant forms of hunters brush past, and the firs whisper, then roar, and a smothered crash rushes on like the swelling waves of the sea.

The Tanzteich[1] bei Zorge.

[1] _Tanzteich_--dance pond.

On the spot now covered by the Tanzteich once stood a stately Schloss with lofty walls and battlements.

A rich knight, whose name has been drowned in the stream of time, dwelt in it in luxury and splendour.

Every dawn brought a new festival, and even night was turned into day; but neither discipline nor virtue ruled in the brilliant assemblages of his numerous guests.

Once the lord of the castle gave a brilliant entertainment. The merriment of the guests rang out into the night; in the wildest dance mingled men and women, youths and maidens, and loud music smothered the rolling thunder which could be heard in the distance.

And the night grew darker, and the waves of the Zorge murmured with a hollow moan, and the flowers grew wet with dew.

The heavens gathered blackness, the water of the river seemed to sing a death-song, and the flowers on its banks to weep.

Then the lightnings covered the mountains with flames, making the darkness still more terrible.

An old man stole softly and slowly up to the castle. His garments betrayed the greatest poverty, but his countenance was noble, and his thin locks were dripping with the rain.

He entered, but the servants paid no attention to him, but sat drinking.

He mounted the stone stairway, and reached the ball-room, where knights and ladies whirled in the dance regardless of the storm.

He did not venture to enter, but stood timidly near the door, hoping that some one might take pity on his condition. He did not stand long unobserved.

The master himself perceived him, but his heart was not touched with pity.

With a countenance red with anger, he pounced upon the trembling man, thrust him out of his humble posture, and cried in a voice of thunder, "Insolent beggar! how couldst thou dare to enter my castle? Thou shalt pay dearly for thy impudence, and go down more quickly than thou camest up!"

And he seized him, dragged him to a window, and threw him, amid the laughter of the guests, into the depths below the castle.

But the beggar stood suddenly in the midst of a wonderful light, and cried in an awful voice, before which all merriment died, and the hot blood turned to ice: "Cursed are ye who despise the poor, and give him over to death; cursed be this spot with all your pleasure and luxury; ye shall sink this very hour in night and darkness!"

And lo! scarcely were the words uttered, when a hissing flash of lightning, like a fiery serpent, pierced the castle, a fearful clap of thunder followed, the earth opened, the castle sank in the hidden deeps, and was seen no more.

Only the lonely wanderer hears in the stillness of the night a gloomy noise like distant merriment and shouting, mingled with smothered groans and a horrible dirge.

The Dwarfs of the Sachsenstein.

On the spot where the few houses forming Dorf Neuhof now stand lay, centuries ago, a farmhouse built of stone and ornamented with oddly-twisted chimneys.

A green meadow valley lay before the house, on which fat, comfortable-looking cows were grazing; well-scoured milk-pails hung on the garden fence, fruit-trees were trained on the house-walls, a powerful dog lay basking in the glowing sunshine before the door; from the well-populated barn-yard one heard an animated conversation among the feathered tribes, where a peacock was chairman, and made short emphatic speeches, and a turkey-cock filled the office of crier; in short, all bore the stamp of wealth and comfort.

And yet the owner of all, Herr Adam Neubauer, walked discontentedly up and down his room.

His sharp eye had long observed that pilfering hands had laid hold of his field-products, and it had pained him excessively that one would steal from him, for he had never permitted the needy to depart with empty hands; but in the last night so much had been stolen from his pea-field that his hitherto silent displeasure broke forth in expressions of anger.

"Anna," said he to his wife, a blonde of perhaps thirty years, with soft features and gentle dove eyes, "thou knowest I am patience itself, but that is too bad--that is too bad. The people take advantage of my forbearance and kindness, and it is time to let them see that I can also be angry. The first one I catch stealing, if he has only taken one ear, shall be so punished that he will forget to come again, thou mayest depend on it!"

"But, dear husband," replied Frau Anna, in a gentle voice, for she had not seen her husband so excited for a long time, "do not excite thyself so. Certainly it is vexatious when wicked men lay hands on our property; but as all the people of the earth are not purely honourable, if thou wilt appoint guards, thou wilt soon have the pleasure of seeing the thieves face to face."

"It is just that that makes me so angry," answered Neubauer--"that all the appointed sentinels do not help in the least. Since eight days, our servants, well hidden, have watched; but no one has shown himself, and nevertheless as much has been stolen as before. What is to be done?"

Anna heard with surprise this puzzling communication, and after many suppositions on the subject she went out shaking her head, to direct household matters, and Adam remained alone with his vexation.

The evening of the same day the heavens had greatly changed. It had been sultry all day, and now dark, silver-bordered clouds rose over the Harz, united and formed a colossal black wall.

It grew darker and darker. Hollow rolled the distant thunder, the dazzling lightnings flamed, and great drops fell. Fearfully raged the storm in the tops of the firs and beeches, and drove dust and gravel in wild whirls up the mountain path, on which now a wanderer, with hair wildly blowing in the wind and fluttering garments, descended.

Not a ray of light pierced the clouds save the fire of the lightning, followed ever more quickly by the deafening claps of thunder; in torrents the clouds now poured their streams on the mountains, the firm rocks seemed to quake to their foundations; it was as if the _Dies Iræ_ were come.

Shivering with the cold rain, the wanderer hastened to the house of Adam Neubauer, which, by the flashes of the lightning, he had long perceived in the distance.

He had to wait long before his knocking was heard, for the storm turned the weathercock with a rattling noise, shook the tiles of the roof, and threw at intervals an open-hanging shutter violently to and fro.

At last the hospitable door was opened, and the honest house-father received the stranger--a perhaps sexagenarian of lofty stature, powerful frame, with a shrewd countenance and snow-white hair--with the greatest readiness; and Frau Anna hurried away to look out dry garments from her husband's wardrobe, and to order from larder and cellar a strengthening, refreshing repast.

The stranger soon found himself comfortable, and Herr Adam took so much pleasure in his guest that he became confidential by the first glass, and speedily related to him his losses in the fields with all particulars.

The guest listened attentively, and then went out for a few minutes to look at the neighbourhood.

He shortly returned, took his staff, thanked Neubauer for the hospitable reception, and said: "Ye were to me as to a near relative, me a perfect stranger; hence, hear as a reward my counsel. If ye would discover the thieves who rob your fields, go out at midnight and strike about in the air with a willow rod, and ye will soon see the cunning rascals. And now farewell!"

He disappeared through the door and left his host in the greatest amazement at his odd advice.

True, his astonishment gave place to scornful laughter, and Adam concluded to himself not to permit himself to be made a fool of; but as he found, several hours afterwards, that a new robbery had been committed, he decided, nevertheless, to follow the stranger's advice.

It was a glorious still night. In the shadows sang the queenly nightingale. The full moon shone in the cloudless heavens.

The precipitous wall of the Sachsenstein stood in shadowy contrast against the star-powdered blue, and seemed in the magical moonlight as if silvered.

Herr Adam stood early in his peafield watching, and as the bell in the neighbouring Sachsa rang out the midnight hour, he struck, as the stranger had advised, with the willow rod he had brought with him up and down in the air, and soon saw, with the greatest amazement, two tiny beings, who, with folded hands and terrified mien, looked up to him.

If they had taken advantage of Adam's surprise, they might have made their escape; but fear and terror rooted them to the spot till he had recovered himself, seized them with a firm hand, and asked in a stern voice who they were, and where they came from.

"Ah!" replied one of the little creatures, "we are poor dwarfs, who house there in the Sachsenstein, and never do anybody any harm. But hunger drove us this time to take some peas from your field. We beg you to forgive us, and we will make good the damage we have done."

"Of course you will," answered Herr Neubauer, who observed closely the little men, of whose acts and deeds he had already heard so much; "but the reckoning will be large, for you have long done mischief to my property. First of all, tell me how it happened that my watchers did not discover you, nor I myself till I struck with the willow rod?"

"We possess _Nebelkappen_,"[1] said one of the two dwarfs, "which render us invisible to the human sight. You knocked them off our heads with the willow rod, and then we became visible. Will you permit us to look for them?"

[1] _Nebelkappen_--magical caps; literally, fog caps.

"Certainly not," returned Adam. "Do you fancy I shall be so stupid as to put the means into your hands of escaping? No, no; you follow me into my house, and will not regain your freedom till you have paid me!"

The dwarfs wept, and pleaded so pitifully to be released, that Adam's mild heart grew soft; but a glance at his field hardened it again, and he took his trembling prisoners home with him.

The next morning the two guilty dwarfs were examined, who related that they, governed by a king, had dwelt for untold ages in the caves of the Harz, more especially in the Sachsenstein, and had been happy; but now subterranean floods and landslips had caused them heavy losses, so that they had been compelled to appropriate the possessions of men for their necessities.

They would, however, never again venture to do so, and once more expressed their willingness to pay for the damages they had caused, and begged to know the sum demanded of them.

"If I should reckon all the mischief you have caused," said Herr Adam, "a pretty long account would be the result; but I demand only the value of the peas, and if you pay me three Gulden I will set you at liberty."

The dwarfs were well satisfied with this demand, but protested that they had neither money nor articles of value with them, and begged permission to go and bring the money.

But Adam could not be induced to permit this. Even to keep one as hostage, and allow the other to depart, he absolutely refused.

"Well, then, give us a rose-leaf and a pin," begged the dwarfs. "We will write to our king, and he will undoubtedly at once release us from our painful positions."

After some reflection, Adam permitted his wife, who looked at him with beseeching eyes, to bring the required objects.

As soon as the dwarfs had bescribbled the rose-leaf, they handed it to him with directions to carry it to the Sachsenstein, and blow it in through one of the crevices, and a reply would speedily follow.

The features of the little creatures grew cheerful as they heard that their odd letter had been posted as directed, and they became merry and contented, although the day passed without anything happening for their release.

But when night came on, and the moon and stars shone in a clear sky, the door of the room opened suddenly in which Adam sat with his prisoners, and a troop of handsome dwarfs, neatly dressed, entered.

At their head walked the king himself, in gold and purple, and wearing a sparkling crown.

As soon as the prisoners beheld their sovereign they knelt reverently before him, and remained in that humble position until the monarch motioned to them to rise. The presence of the pygmean ruler was indeed so commanding, that Herr Neubauer himself involuntarily uncovered his head before him.

At last the king broke the silence, and said: "Ye have made two of my subjects prisoners, and I am come to interest myself on their behalf, for they are otherwise good men, who now only through pressure of circumstances have been led astray to do you damage. Moreover, that ye may see that I approve of your demand, I will cause ten times as much to be paid."

His Majesty signed to one of his suite, who immediately approached, and counted from a bag which he carried under his arm thirty shining new Gulden, and laid them on the table.

Adam opened his eyes on seeing so much money. He had already decided in his mind to set the delinquents free without ransom, as soon as he had frightened them a little.

Surprised at the royal generosity, he at once proclaimed to the prisoners their liberation, who sprang up with eyes shining with joy, fell at the feet of the Dwarf King, and thanked him for their freedom in the most touching expressions of gratitude.

After the king had graciously raised them from their knees, he turned again to Adam, and said: "I thank you that you have not harmed these poor people, and notify you that in future you have nothing to fear from us, for on St. John's Eve I shall march from this place over the bridge with my subjects. Already for a long period the subterranean water-floods have threatened to drive us from the Sachsenstein, which we have inhabited so long, and I shall leave only a few of my people, in order not to wholly lose this ancient possession; from them, however, you will suffer no molestation."

The sovereign bowed graciously and departed, attended by his train. The two released prisoners followed with joyful gestures, hand in hand.

St. John's Eve, Frau Anna and her husband, full of curiosity, together with the servants, hid themselves near the bridge to see the dwarfs march over.

Scarcely had the darkness come on, when the procession appeared in sight, a well-ordered company, and the concealed heard their march till the rising of the sun, and the noise thereof was like the light trampling of a flock of sheep.

Since that time nothing has been seen or heard of the dwarfs, and not only here but everywhere they are vanished; but their memory lives in the mouth of the people, and when the icy north wind blows, and the snow beats against the windows, young men and maidens gather around the fire in confidential chat, and to the rattling of the wheel tell of the deep clefts of the mountains, where in eternal night the dwarfs once held their weddings, and where gnomes and nymphs and fairies in darkness dwell.

The Burggeist[1] of the Haarburg.

[1] _Burggeist_--patron spirit.

The mountain called the Haarburg, which has a summit of only small circumference, bore in a long-forgotten time a fortress, which, like most ancient castles, consisted of a single strong tower.

In its walls were housed the first lords of Wernigerode. But the mountain on which the present Schloss Wernigerode stands was adorned only with the primeval forest.

For centuries the occupants of the Haarburg felt themselves happy in the grey giant tower, until a Graf Bodo dwelt in it. He was the father of a numerous progeny, and the tower grew too small for all the children and domestics, and he often felt a wish to have a more capacious dwelling.

An addition to the tower was not to be thought of, in consequence of the small space on the mountain summit; and one evening, as he sat with his wife before the entrance to the Haarburg, and looked out on the beautiful landscape, he said to her, pointing toward the mountain where the present castle stands:

"What thinkest thou? Would it not be well if we could live yonder? The mountain has plenty of space; and there would be room to build spacious salons and chambers, and even a chapel, and a single moat around the whole; then we should be able to entertain our friends, as many as could come. What is thy opinion?"

The lady of the castle quite agreed with her husband. They conversed long on the subject, and only separated as darkness began to settle over the vales and mountains, and the benevolent Luna hung out her silver lamp.

The night was lovely, and the Countess could not rest or sleep. She opened the window, and gazed at the shining moon, sank in thought, and did not observe that the moments fled swiftly, and midnight and the owls already hovered over her head.

Then, out of a corner of the chamber, with light, noiseless steps, issued an odd being, a little man, with an old, wrinkled face, a long grey beard, but with not disagreeable features.

His attire consisted of a grey coat and a pointed hat, and he carried a staff.

Silently the figure approached the thinking, dreaming Countess, on whose form the soft moonlight fell, and then twitched gently her garment with his tiny hand.

Alarmed, the Countess turned round, but lost all fear so soon as she beheld the form of the grey man.

She had recognised the Burggeist, who appeared seldom, but always brought happiness with him, and inquired in a gentle voice:

"What wilt them from me, thou good spirit?"

"I saw thee at such a late hour sitting in troubled thought," replied the patron spirit, in a melodious voice, "and came to ask the cause of thy sorrow. What trouble lies so heavily at thy heart?"

"No sorrow troubles me," said the Countess, smiling. "Only a wish moved my soul."

"And what might that be?" inquired the spirit, with strained attention.

"My husband," replied the Countess, "would wish this fortress on that spacious mountain opposite. He declares that we cannot live longer here; and I must say, after due reflection, he is perfectly right."