Chapter V: Introduction (5)

When she came to herself she was again in her own little room at home, and might have thought this was but a second awakening from a dream, only that a great noise of rejoicing broke upon her ear, and when she went out into the village, she found that in every house whence a maiden had once been stolen away, the lost one was now restored to the love of her people. Her own parents, too, clasped her with joy to their hearts, for she now found that she had been missing for a whole year, and they also had given her up as lost. When her story was known, the enthusiasm of the village knew no bounds; Antonia was looked up to by every one as only next door to a saint herself, and a splendid shrine, you may be sure, was raised by the people to St. Anthony.

There was one person in the village, however, who thought that nobody had made enough of Antonia, after all, and so he devoted himself for the rest of his days to making up the lack.

And now, amid all the happy faces in the village, faces of parents consoled and lovers reunited, only a few sad ones were seen, those of the maidens who had returned young, to find their loved ones old, or forgetful, or dead. For these Antonia came too late; and thus it is that no evil can be so blotted out but that it will leave some traces in this world.

Of the castle on the hill, however, no traces were left save a few ruins. It was years, to be sure, before any one ventured up there, and then nothing was found but owls and bats and a heap of whitened bones. But something like the old castle still reappears now and then, the people say; only it always shows itself down in the valley, where it first stood, and where the pit now is. It has been seen once or twice, and the saying is, that if only the beholder could throw something that belonged to him upon this castle--a cap, a kerchief, or what not--it would be fixed to the spot and would become his property. Once a maiden, who knew naught of the tale, went to draw water near the spot, and came running home to tell her father she had seen a splendid house standing above the old pit.

“And didst thou cast thy kerchief on it?” asked the father in haste.

“Nay,” replied the girl.

Then he gave her a stinging box on the ear, and ran out himself, but the castle was gone.

As for the witch, St. Anthony’s curse was fulfilled upon her, and she still haunts the hill, carrying the heavy casket and the huge bunch of keys; nor has any one yet been found to ease her of her burden.

XIII

THE SILVER NAIL

Many years ago there lived in the little town of Stolberg, which is the centre of a mining district in the Hartz Mountains, a certain Joseph Kerst, who was the overseer of one of the neighbouring mines. He had begun work there as a boy, and had no thought or care but for the treasures that were to be found in those dusky depths, so that he had come, early in life, to enjoy a position of trust, and a certain degree of wealth. This, however, was not enough to satisfy him; his great ambition was to discover a fresh vein of silver, that should be his alone, and make him the richest of men; and to this end he would wander night and day about the mountains, and through the disused pits, pick in hand, seeking for a spot that seemed to promise what he desired.

Now, with the wealth which was his already, he might easily have kept a wife, and, indeed, many a girl in the town was on the look-out for overseer Joseph, and would gladly have become the mistress of the comfortable old house on the market-place. At last he did seem to have made his choice, and a good choice too; for he often spent his spare hours with the watchmaker’s daughter Anna, who was the sweetest, gentlest girl in the world, and plainly did not want him for his money, for it was easy to see she worshipped the ground he trod on. If the truth were known, she often wept in secret over his craze for silver, and his dangerous midnight excursions into the heart of the mountains; but the poor, loving creature fancied that when once he had “given her the ring,” which he promised soon to do, she could persuade him to turn his mind to other things.

Meanwhile, however, he did not give up his search, and this is what befell him at last:--It was a moonlight night; he had turned his steps towards one of the disused tunnels of the _Auerberg_, and was going to enter it, when he saw that the inside of the tunnel itself was flooded with light, as though the moonbeams had found their way in there also. Yet he presently perceived that this was no ray of the moon, for the shaft of light streamed forth from within, even from the very heart of the cavern, and as he gazed, a sound of far-off music struck upon his ear. Now all miners know that there are spirits in the mountain, who draw the precious metal down to the depths of the earth, or suffer it to rise nearer to the surface, according to their pleasure; and Joseph guessed at once that here might be the clue he was seeking. So, spurred on by the thought that he was perhaps near the realisation of his dearest hope, he stepped with a beating heart into the cavern and along the shining pathway of light. Brighter and brighter it grew; louder and sweeter, too, the music swelled forth, till his eyes were dazzled, and his heart throbbed with so exquisite a pleasure that he could hardly draw breath. And now misty forms, as of men and maidens dancing, began to whirl before his eyes upon the golden floor; and then, as these disappeared, he was aware of one radiant figure, clad in snowy, shimmering garments, who stood alone against the dark rock and beckoned to him. As he went nearer he saw that the form was that of a maiden. Her long, dusky tresses fell round a pale, delicate face, in which the large eyes shone out like lamps; her raiment was woven all of silver threads, and in one hand she held a slender silver staff, shaped like a long nail.

Presently she began to speak, and her voice was as sweet as the music which had heralded her coming. “Have no fear, good mortal,” the gentle voice said. “I have watched many a day for thy coming, for I knew thou wert bold, and wouldst venture much, and I need such a one to release me from my prison. Thou art seeking for precious ore. Know, then, that the silver nail I hold can guide thee to the spot where lies the richest vein in all these mountains. But there is a price to pay.” As she spoke these words a smile dawned upon her face. But Joseph had no ears save for the welcome news of the vein of ore; he forgot all his alarm and doubt, and springing forward, cried: “Beautiful spirit, there is no price I would not pay for such knowledge!”

“Art thou sure, Joseph? For this is the price--even that thou shalt wed me, and promise that thou wilt not ever, in the time to come, cast it in my teeth that I am a being of the under-world, and that thou hast been my releaser. Only thus can I be freed; for I seek for love, yea, as thou seekest for wealth; and if there be one in the town yonder who hath already taken thy love, why then the price is not thine to pay, and I warn thee to pause and consider ere thou promise it.”

Joseph felt a chill creep round his heart. He thought of Anna, but her image seemed to grow pale beside the one before him. Yet--a spirit dwelling in the old house on the market-place! How might this be?

The fairy maiden saw his hesitation, and her smile died away. “Nay, not now,” she cried as he opened his lips to answer, “not yet must thou reply, for thy fate and mine will be dark if thou dost promise what thou canst not fulfil. To-morrow night, when the moon is full, come again to the mountain, and let thy heart be honest and thy purpose firm, to answer according to truth.” As she spoke the light vanished, and Joseph stood once more alone at the cavern’s mouth. The moon was setting, and its beams were scarcely bright enough to guide him homeward again, but he stumbled on, unheeding, his mind in a whirl of perplexity and doubt. When he reached his own door, and creeping in, sat down by the warm stove, he could scarcely have told whether he had not been sitting there all night, or whether his adventure had been anything but a dream. Yet nay--he had surely set forth to the Auerberg that evening, and in such haste that his half-finished supper still stood there upon the table. Suppose it were true, and he within an ace of being the richest man in the land? There was Anna--but did he really love Anna? Had he promised her anything? He thought not; all his intercourse with her seemed misty and far off now. Thus through the night and day he struggled with one thought and another, his mind in a whirl. His work was neglected, and even his underlings laughed, unreproved, at his distraught and wandering looks. By evening he had reached a condition in which he could not have sworn to the truth of anything. Probably what he had seen the night before was all fancy; but he must prove it to himself, for if it were true, what vague and foolish lovers’ talk was there in the world worth giving up such a chance for?

Midnight and the full moon saw him standing again at the entrance of the cavern, his mouth dry and his heart beating with anxiety. He waited long. Despair, and a secret rage at his own credulous folly, were beginning to seize hold on him, when his straining eyes caught sight of a faint glimmer spreading through the dark. He hurried forward, and with each step the light grew brighter and brighter, till it led him at last to the rock where he had seen the maiden the night before. But she was not there; the only thing that met his eyes was an iron door, let into the rock on the spot where she had leant. He thrust against it with all his might, and straightway there rang out a strain of the sweetest music, such as he had heard before. And with the sound of the music, these words were borne to his ear: “If thou truly and with a loving heart seekest Eruna, call and she will answer.”

“Eruna!” repeated Joseph with trembling voice; “Eruna!”

At the second call the door flew open beneath his hand, and discovered a rock-hewn chamber, radiant with light that streamed from its walls, and at the farther end of it, just as he had seen her before, stood the magic maiden he had learnt to call Eruna. A golden table stood beside her, and upon it were a book, and a golden candlestick holding a burning taper, and the candlestick was in the shape of a tall lily, with buds and blossoms of gold. But in front of the table, on either side, crouched two strange, terrible creatures with flaming eyes, and their form was like that of a lion.

“Come to me without fear, Joseph,” cried Eruna as she saw him start back; “these beasts are my faithful guardians, but they will not touch one who comes without fear.” As she spoke she raised the silver nail in her hand, and a feeling of triumph swept over the heart of the man. It was true, then; this beautiful being and her promises were no dream, and he had reached his goal! He sprang forward, all fear driven out by his eager hopes, and the beasts crouched lower, as he passed them and fell at the feet of the radiant Eruna. Ah, lions with the flaming eyes! why was your sight darkened then, and why did no kindly instinct tell you that daring is not born of love alone?

“Joseph,” said the gentle voice again, “art thou truly come to set me free and take me for thy wife? And dost thou make the promise I asked of thee? Then raise thy hand and pluck this golden flower from its stem.” He obeyed, scarcely knowing what he did; and lo! as he broke the lily from the stalk, again the sound of music rang forth and echoed through the vaulted chamber. And at the plucking of the lily, the taper was extinguished, and with it all the light in the room. Darkness enveloped them, and he felt Eruna grasp his hand. He dropped the golden blossom, and would have fled, dragging her with him, for now the music had changed to a discord of horrid sounds, and he could hear the wild beasts moving towards them. But Eruna stopped him for a moment. “Wilt thou leave this behind thee,” said she--“the token of our love?” And raising the golden blossom from where it had fallen at her feet, she laid it in his hand. “Now, indeed, fly,” she hurriedly added, “or the door will close!” And, in truth, they had scarcely reached it, she guiding him with unerring steps, when the door clanged behind them--even striking Joseph upon the heel as he fled--and the clamour within rose to a hideous pitch. “I have angered my people, the spirits of the mountain,” murmured Eruna; “then do not thou, O love, ever forsake me!”

Joseph shivered; an iron hand seemed to clasp his heart, but he replied, with the best grace he could muster: “I have sworn to love thee, Eruna, if thou hast indeed a mind to come down into our life, and bear our burdens; but, that we may be happy, and that I may give thee all it befits thee to have, wilt not thou, too, keep thy word and show me that which I was seeking when I first saw thee?”

He felt Eruna’s hand tremble in his. “So be it, foolish man,” she said. “I was nearly forgetting the store thou dost set by the dross that fills this mountain, and the sight of which wearies me. Come hither, then, and where I strike in my silver nail, do thou smite with thy pick, and leave it hanging there. To-morrow thou shalt find what thou seekest.” As she spoke she paused at a certain point of the rocky wall beside them, and raised her silver nail on high. Immediately a pale light shone round about them, and lit up the side of the cavern. Choosing a spot, she thrust in the point of the silver nail, and it sank into the rock, leaving scarcely a trace behind. But into the track it left Joseph eagerly drove his pick, and rolling up a large stone further to mark the spot, he turned to leave the cavern with Eruna.

All night long such a storm raged among the mountains that their rocky peaks seemed to reel beneath the echoing thunder-claps. Joseph never knew how he got home that night, or whose hand it was that tended him as he lay, smitten half senseless by the violence of the storm, upon his cold hearth-stone.

In the morning curious neighbours, and workmen from the mines, came pressing in to see if he were at home, and to inquire why he had been absent so long, and then he knew, for the first time, that a whole week had elapsed since his departure from home on a certain moonlight night. But this was no longer, any more than the rest, a surprise to Joseph; indeed, he rather welcomed the discovery, for how could he else have accounted for the sudden appearance in his house of the beautiful, pale woman with dusky tresses, who moved about with timid, uncertain footsteps, as though the place and its ways were strange to her? He was relieved to see her silvery raiment had disappeared. But she wore a garb somewhat different from the dress of the women of the district, and a happy thought struck him.

“Ha! ha!” he laughed, “I have stolen a march upon you all! Ye have often told me I needed a wife, and here I have one, but she comes from afar, from the other side of the mountains. I became acquainted with her last year, when I went to see my kinsfolk yonder, and I have had it in mind to wed her ever since; but I will have no gossips plaguing me about such matters, so I even went to fetch her home by myself, without any ado.”

The neighbours looked at one another, and those on the outskirts of the crowd slipped off to tell the news, with much added detail, to Anna, who was too sick to leave her bed. For the poor child had fretted herself into a fever over the supposed death of Joseph during one of his lonely rambles among the mountains.

“Why, then,” cried one of the miners in the crowd, “we have taken a deal of trouble, master, for naught; we have been seeking thee at the foot of every precipice in the country for days past.”

“Plague take ye for meddlesome fellows!” cried Joseph. “Cannot such a man as I go away for a holiday but it must raise the whole country-side? I’ll warrant you’ve been making it an excuse to do scant work; but wait a while, I shall have work enough for ye all soon--ay, and for many more!”

He would have driven them forth and hurried away to explore the fateful spot where he had left his pick hanging, but that a cry of wonder arose from a woman who had ventured close up to the spot where Eruna was standing--the spot where Joseph had lain through the night. She had picked up from the ground a tall branch of lilies, bud and blossom, all fashioned in pure gold, so cunningly that no such goldsmith’s work had ever been seen; and the weight of the branch was so great that she could scarcely lift it. Exclamations and questions rose on every side, and every one crowded round the holder of this wonderful treasure.

“That is my wife’s dowry,” explained Joseph, a little taken aback by the discovery of this prize, which he had forgotten for the moment, but proud enough of it withal. “There is naught like it, I’ll be bound, in all the length and breadth of Germany!”

The people stared open-mouthed, and the men were disposed to envy Joseph both bride and dowry, but many of the women, though they could not disguise their wonder and admiration over the golden blossom, began to cast suspicious glances at Eruna. Joseph was soon aware of them, and they only increased the uncanny feeling of deception and mystery which was to become but too familiar to him. For the moment, however, he smothered it in anger; and declaring that he would have no more gaping fools in his house, disturbing his honeymoon, he drove the neighbours forth, only to send them carrying the news of his wondrous marriage far and wide over the country.

As soon as they were gone, he too rushed out to the mountain, and presently found the spot marked by his pick. A few hours’ work convinced him that Eruna’s promise had not been false, and that here was a vein of silver whose richness surpassed his wildest dreams. And now for a time, indeed, Joseph reaped his reward. The country-side rang with tales of his strange marriage, and of his still more wonderful discovery of silver. Miners came from all sides, and found employment at the new works, for a shaft was being sunk, and the vein seemed inexhaustible. Joseph refused to give any particulars as to how he had made his discovery; he only insisted on calling the shaft “The Silver Nail,” a name which caused fresh wonderment among the townspeople. He was fast becoming a rich man, and the tale of his good-luck, and of the wondrous golden lily he owned, spread through the land, till it reached the ears of the King himself, who expressed a wish to behold the treasure that had fallen into the keeping of a working-man. So Joseph had to travel to court and show his golden lily--for he had almost forgotten that it belonged as much to Eruna as to himself, and had only been entrusted to him as a guerdon of their love. At court he was forced to baffle as best he could the inquiries that were made as to how he had come by this marvellous piece of work. It was an heirloom, he said; none knew how it had come into his family, and for years it had been hidden in the earth, lest thieves should get at it. Some one whispered to the bewildered man that he must offer it to His Majesty, since all treasure-trove rightly belonged to him. This had certainly not been part of Joseph’s plan, but the King and his courtiers overawed him, and he stammered forth his willingness to lay the offering at His Majesty’s feet.

“In sooth,” the King replied, “this is too rich a treasure for me to purchase it, or to think of taking it as a gift either, from this good fellow; yet I were proud to possess it, and it is, indeed, only fit for a king’s treasury. Now I have found a way. Leave me thy flower, Joseph Kerst, and take instead the barony of Stolberg, for thou hast enriched thy native town, and hast paid due homage to thy King, and art worthy to be reckoned amid the nobles of the land.”

So Joseph went forth a great man, and thought to return home and bring joy to his bride, Eruna, for whom he cherished a kind of awe-struck admiration, as the being who had brought him all his luck. But take her honestly to his heart, as a simple woman, and love her as he might have loved his faithful Anna, whom he had known from childhood, that he felt he could never do. He was dismayed, however, on his return home, to find a different reception from that which he expected. The townspeople, indeed, received him with acclamations, as their new baron, but Eruna’s eyes wore a sadder, more wistful look than usual.

“Thou hast parted with our lily, our marriage token!” she moaned. “Woe be to us, Joseph! what are lands and names beside the guarding of our love? Oh, blind of heart! hadst thou no care for the token that bound us together, or even for the treasures which my love alone can bring for thee from the depths of the earth? Take heed to thy tongue, then, for if love guard it not, it may easily speak the fatal word.”

Joseph would have replied angrily, but the close of her speech reminded him of the promise he had solemnly made on that night, which now seemed so far away, and he choked back his wrath. But from that day things went crookedly. He spent his money right and left, so that it was gone almost as soon as it came from the mines. That was of no consequence, indeed, since there seemed to be no end to “The Silver Nail” vein; but the riches soon ceased to bring him all the pleasure he had expected. He was ill at ease in his lordly castle, and heavy at heart when he went down into the town and saw how his old acquaintances shunned him, partly from awkwardness at feeling him now so much higher placed than themselves, and partly on account of the suspicions and rumours that were whispered about concerning his mysterious wife, who could never learn the ways of the other women, or talk like one having interests akin to theirs. Only Anna, who had so just a cause of offence against him, yet treated him as she had done of old; and when the poor child arose from the long illness which fell upon her at the sudden news of his marriage, her gentle, forgiving spirit gave him shelter as a friend, who now could never be a lover. In talk with her he learnt more and more to see how great a gift he had bartered away for his heaps of hard coin, and his lordly, unhome-like home. Yet Anna was often sick, and could not speak cheerfully even to him, and her father and the neighbours looked coldly upon his comings and goings.... And up yonder, at the castle, the pale face framed in dusky tresses gazed forth with despairing eyes as he turned his steps to the watchmaker’s house.

At last there came a day when Joseph too looked sadly down from the hill, watching a funeral train that wound its way along the valley; a train he might not join, for the people whispered, loud enough for him to hear, that Anna’s death lay at his door, and that he could do no less than let her go to her grave in peace. So he watched her go with remorse in his heart, and as he watched there was that in his face that no one could mistake. Eruna read it, and the fount of misery that had been gathering in her breast broke forth, for the first time, in uncontrollable wailings.

“Her, her thou hast loved, Joseph!” she cried, “and hast been false both to her and me! Ah, woe is me that I could not read one mortal’s heart aright!”

Now the pent-up wrath and pain in Joseph’s heart were more than he could bear. No remembrance of his covetous longings or of his false-hearted dealings withheld him, and he turned upon her, crying--

“And if it were so, what is that to thee? For what did I barter my happiness but to release thee and give thee mortal life, thou soulless clod of earth!”

Even as he spoke Eruna glided close, and threw her arms about him, trying to stay his speech. But it was too late, the words were out, and as her cold white hand touched his lips, he felt a deadly chill at his heart, and fell senseless to the ground.

A clamour of voices, and the sound of hurrying footsteps, brought him to himself, as the workmen from his mines crowded into the hall.

“Woe be upon us all, master!” they cried, “where is thy lady? She is not to be found in the castle, and but an hour ago, as we were leaving our work to go homewards, we saw a white figure, that wore her face, though not her garb, glide past us and reach the mouth of the ‘Silver Nail’ shaft. And we followed after in fear; but as we approached, before any one could reach it, the white figure cast itself down the shaft. Then we were affrighted indeed, and the foremost of us went down, fearing to find a shattered form at the bottom, but there was no one--no, not a sign, though we searched with care. But strange sounds rang through the mountain, master. And we came up again, and hither in haste, to see if perchance she were dead and we had seen her wraith--but nowhere in the castle halls or woods can she be found.”

Nor, indeed, was Eruna ever found again; and, what is more, from the day that the white woman leaped down the shaft, no more ore was found in the “Silver Nail” mine, and though it still bears that name, no silver has again been found there to this day. But Joseph wandered away, distraught with grief, into the mountains; nor could any one prevail upon him to return again to the castle, but he continued to wander, seeking for his vein of lost silver, till he met his death by a fall from one of the mountain precipices, leaving behind him, as the only tokens of the riches so dearly bought, a ruined castle, and the forsaken shaft of the “Silver Nail.”

XIV

A DOUBTING LOVER

Upon a lofty crag, overhanging the river Weistritz, in Eastern Germany, stand the ruins of the Kynsburg. Once it was a splendid castle, and many an assemblage of noble knights and ladies, and many a gay revel, were held within its walls. It had its guardian spirit, too; for the tale went that an apparition, called by the castle-folk “the white lady,” often wandered by night through hall and garden, and most of all when some maiden of the house of Kynsburg needed help. So it had been, they said, when a daring and cruel knight once waylaid a daughter of Kynsburg as she passed alone at even along the corridor. For this knight had cast his eyes upon the maiden, who was beautiful, and had urged her to give him her love, but she denied it him; and so he would fain have won by foul means what he could not get by fair ones. But this maiden had, from her childhood, loved to hear of the “white lady,” and to fancy she was under her protection, and many a prayer had she said in the castle chapel for the repose of her soul. And now, in the hour of need, she called upon her, and at once the mysterious white figure appeared; and while the reckless knight fell upon his knees in terror, the closed doors of the corridor silently opened, and the girl fled through them to a place of safety. But next morning the knight was found lying dead upon the floor.

This was the story that was handed down from generation to generation among the folk of Kynsburg, and Adelheid, the beautiful daughter of the house, had often listened to it with eager ears, and had longed in her turn to see the “white lady,” and invoke her help.

For Adelheid, too, had her trouble, though it was hard to see how any, save one person, could mend it. And that person was not the “white lady,” but the knight, Bernhard von Haugwitz, whom Adelheid had secretly loved ever since she first saw him ride by to the hunt, in all the splendour of his youth and noble bearing. But she had no certainty, nor much hope even, of her love being returned, though sometimes, to be sure, she caught his eyes fixed upon her as earnestly as though he would have read her very soul, so that it needed all the pride that her blood and her upbringing had taught her, to help her to hide her agitation. And just at the time I tell of, the knight was at the castle, for the lord of Kynsburg was giving a great feast to celebrate the beginning of the autumn hunt; and all the nobles of the country, far and near, were gathered together for it. Many of their wives and daughters had come with them, too, so that the castle was overflowing with guests and merriment, and little time left for Adelheid to brood over her own thoughts. Yet even now she would sometimes draw aside from her young companions, as they paced the gardens or the terrace together, for she hoped that the knight would come and seek her out for a few moments alone, as he had done once or twice before. But he came seldom, and her heart grew heavier each day.

If only she could have known! If only she could have read that proud and secret heart, and seen how it was filled with love for her, which gloomy fears and doubts alone kept silent! For Bernhard von Haugwitz was not the cheery, hopeful being that his years and his fortune should have made him. Bitter experience and sorrow had already overshadowed him, and shaken his trust in his fellow-creatures, and his belief in the happiness of life. He would not, so he told himself, again stake everything upon the love of a woman; he hesitated to pluck the fruit, for fear it should leave a bitter taste behind. And this though his heart was wrung for longing after Adelheid’s love, and pity, too, for her; for he knew that she loved him, and that her life was consuming away for his sake; nor had he any good reason to fancy that her love was not pure and faithful.

He thought upon it as he sat with his companions round the great oaken table in the castle hall; the gold and silver flagons passed from hand to hand, but he let them go by untasted; songs and jesting sounded merrily on every side, but he did not heed them; the present scene faded from his sight, and he saw only the tall figure in the white, gold-embroidered garments, and the wistful eyes gazing into his, as he had seen them that evening, when he stood for a moment beside Adelheid in the dusky hall. As he mused he felt his resolution weakening, and swore that he would flee from the temptation to which he would not give way. Why not now, at once, without seeing her again? for a meeting might give rise to words and looks that could only increase his pain and remorse in the future. What had he to do with these carousing knights, whose thoughts were far from his own? He would slip out and look for his page; then the horses should be saddled forthwith, and they would be up and away. He rose and went out through the ante-rooms to the terrace of the castle, glad to let the night-wind lift his hair and cool his throbbing brow.

The stars shone bright above the opposite hills and sparkled in the river below. A little breeze whispered in the branches of the poplars; it was as though the trees talked together. A strange feeling of expectation was in the air; could it be only that he was looking upon this spot for the last time? Something moved beside him in the shadow--he turned, and saw that a tall white figure stood beneath the poplar-trees. He strained his eyes through the dark--surely he could not be mistaken, it was the maiden he loved and was leaving for ever.

“Adelheid,” he called almost in spite of himself, “is it thou? Then bid me farewell.”

The figure moved, as though making a sign of assent, and beckoning with her hand, glided on under the trees. He followed, scarcely knowing what he did. Onward along the winding paths the figure hurried, and now came out upon the open space before the castle, where stood the old well, overshadowed by a spreading lime-tree. Here the light from the windows fell in patches upon the flags; and before Bernhard had time to reach the fleeting white form, he saw it cross the streaks of light, and with a quick movement, spring upon the worn stone margin of the well. He dashed forward, but too late. With a despairing wave of the white hands, the figure had plunged into the deeps below.

Bernhard stood for an instant motionless with horror; then he roused himself and rushed toward the castle, raising an alarm. “Help, help!” he cried; “the Lady Adelheid ... the well!” His tongue refused to utter anything more; he stood gasping, and clinging to the pillars of the gateway, while a horrible sense of remorse and hopeless desolation began to stir in his heart. In the castle all was dismay and confusion; in an instant the knights and serving-men flocked out with torches, ropes, and ladders. The cries of Adelheid’s mother rose above the shouts of the men, and from the woods beyond the terrace came trooping the band of white-robed maidens.

“What is it?” asked one and another as they hurried along.

“Adelheid,” was the answer, “Adelheid has fallen down the well.”

“Adelheid!” repeated the maidens in astonishment. “Nay, she has been with us, yonder; she does but linger behind.”

And as the group parted, Bernhard beheld Adelheid, a flush of surprise upon her cheek, coming towards him down the line of eager, questioning maidens. The tide of sorrow which had gone nigh to drown his soul, turned to a flood of great joy, which swept every fear and doubt away. He sprang forward and cried, as he fell at her feet--

“Oh love, my love! that I thought by my folly to have lost! But thanks be to Heaven, who in the fear of the loss hath made certain to me the joy of the gain! Here, before all men, I own my love, too long hidden, and offer thee my heart and my life.”

So, in all the company, the brief moment of sorrow was turned to sweet rejoicing, and most of all in the hearts of Bernhard and Adelheid, who never to their lives’ end had any need to regret the events of that mysterious night.

So soon as she heard the story, and that no one else was missing from the castle, Adelheid felt sure she knew who the mysterious lady had been; it was the “white lady” of her dreams and fancies, the guardian of the maidens of Kynsburg, who had thus found a way to end her long uncertainty. But the question was not so easily answered for the rest of the company, and some doubting spirits insisted that the well should be explored. Blazing torches were lowered into its dark, silent depths, and long poles thrust down to sound it; but nothing was discovered, and the glare of the torches showed only the damp, moss-grown walls and the calm face of the slumbering water.

So the story was proudly added to the annals of Kynsburg, and since then many peasant youths and maidens have been quite sure that the “white lady” watches over their love-affairs, and that they have seen her wandering by night in the woods of the castle, and beside the old well.

XV

A LEGEND OF WALPURGIS-NIGHT

There was once a young fellow who dwelt near the Brocken, and he had won a lovely maiden for his bride. He thought himself a lucky man, but then he did not know that both the girl and her mother were witches. Now one evening he tarried very late at his bride’s house, and could not guess why she and her mother were so eager to send him away, for generally the maiden was loth to let him go; and he did not know that this was Walpurgis-night, the great meeting-time of the witches. Yet he grew suspicious, and after he had bidden his dear “good-night,” he hid himself in the hay-loft, for he half expected to see another man creep up for a stolen meeting with his sweetheart, and was ready to fly at his throat. But, instead of this, he beheld mother and daughter step into the hay-loft alone, and the mother held in her hand a strangely shaped glass. There they stood in the middle of the barn, and spoke strange words, and drank from the glass, when lo! on a sudden they had disappeared.

Now this tore the bridegroom’s heart with dread and foreboding, and he determined to follow them. So he came from his hiding-place, and took up the glass they had left behind. A few drops of red, fiery liquid still remained in it. Then the lad went out and plucked a garland of dragon-wort, which he wound round about him, to preserve him from witchcraft; and after he had done this, he boldly drank all that remained in the glass, repeating the same words that he had heard his sweetheart use. And behold! in the twinkling of an eye, he found himself on the Brocken, in the midst of the magic circle among the rocks, where the witches meet.

Jagged peaks and giant fir-trees, with boughs bent crooked by the breath of the storm-wind, rose on every side, and here and there, on the rocks, huge fires were burning. The company was arriving in great numbers, and the bridegroom was astonished to see how many of his neighbours and familiar acquaintance came riding up, some on pitchforks, some on goats, cats, or geese. His lovely bride was there, riding pillion behind her mother on the hay-fork that had been lying beside him in the loft. He himself was sitting, he knew not how, on a great hay-waggon, that was drawn to one side of the open dancing-space, and he laid his wreath of dragon-wort so as to form a kind of circle around him. Presently the oldest and fiercest among the witches came swooping down upon him, riding a huge tom-cat. “Ah!” she cried with a disappointed scowl, “curse thy hedge of dragon-wort, thou interloper! ’Twould have gone ill with thee but for that!” The tom-cat gave an angry spit, and the baffled witch pulled him round by the whiskers, and rode away into the dance. For the dance had begun, fast and furious, so that the lad could hardly see which way the frantic creatures bounded and pranced; and all the while there was a terrible being with horns upon his head, who moved about and directed the festivities. And what was the bridegroom’s dismay when this fearful being came towards him, and looking up with a jeering expression, said: “A bridegroom should have a merry heart, and thou art not here only to stare and be idle, I take it. I know thee well enough for a fine cornet-player; here, catch hold of this instrument, and help to play for our dance.”

With that he threw up a splendid new cornet into the waggon, and the bridegroom was fain to take it, and join in with the other players, who, hidden among the rocks, where he could not see them, were filling the air with a burst of music. Now the bridegroom could not help agreeing with the opinion expressed about his playing, and so for some time he played on, not a little pleased with himself, upon the beautiful cornet.

But after a while the Terrible Being gave a sign, and music and dance stopped at once. Then all the company stood silent, while he drew water from the “witches’ well,” and poured it into the “witches’ basin,” where the witches then had to wash themselves, while he sprinkled some of the water, too, upon them.

While the bridegroom was watching this dread ceremony, he became aware that his sweetheart had spied him out, and was gazing at him anxiously. As soon as she caught his eye, she danced up, and whispered: “Dear lover, come with me, and I will prepare a couch for thee, for thou must be weary of this long, wild night.” He would have opened his lips to scold her, but she touched them, and he was unable to say another word. Then, taking him by the hand, she drew him, as he thought, into the neighbouring thicket, where she showed him a downy feather-bed, shut in by flowered curtains. “Creep in there,” she whispered, “and sleep; but thy new cornet thou mayst keep as thy reward for playing so finely; our master hath said so.” With this, she was gone, and he heard the music and tumult of the dance break forth again, but presently a great weariness overcame him, and he fell asleep.

When he awoke it was high noon, and he lay in a meadow close to his home; the downy bed with thick curtains turned out to be the skeleton of an old horse, which had lain mouldering in the fields, and between the ribs of which he found himself wedged. The new cornet, too, proved to be nothing but a dead cat, with a stumpy tail, which he had almost chewed off during his fine musical efforts.

The bridegroom went home, seething with indignation, and bent upon revenge. That very same evening he betook himself, armed with his righteous wrath, to his sweetheart’s house, and began:--

“Wretched girl! what honest man can have any more to do with thee now?”

But in a moment the tables were turned, and he found himself in an unexpected position. “Wretched!” cried she. “I? whom thou hast spied upon, stolen a march upon, from whose magic glass thou hast dared drink, and but for whose care thou wouldst have been crushed to powder last night, thou foolhardy meddler!”

“’Twas not thou, but my dragon-wort, that saved me,” began the unlucky fellow.

“Nonsense!” screamed mother and daughter, now both together. “Dost think that could have availed thee at all had _we_ raised our voices against thee? Nay, ’twas we who saved thee; and hadst thou not been kept out of sight and put to sleep, thou couldst never have lived through the terrible hour of the ‘witches’ sprinkling.’”

“At any rate,” complained the brow-beaten man, trying to keep up his dignity, “I should have been warned it was a witch I was taking for my bride. But it is time yet,” he added angrily, “and take such a bride I will not--I will not, I say!”

“Warned!” shouted mother and daughter at once; “he, a common mortal, _warned_ of the honour we did him in stooping to mate with his like! Nay, ’tis plain he is only fit for one lot--a donkey’s! And a donkey he shall be; let that be his punishment.”

So before the hapless bridegroom could defend himself, or take refuge in flight, the magic words were pronounced, and he went forth, an ugly, rough, braying donkey, a terrible example of man’s folly in attempting, with however much right on his side, to argue with a witch--or a woman.

Down the road the poor donkey ambled, trying to express his deep sense of injury by piteous brayings. Presently a neighbour heard him, and though far from recognising in him an old comrade of the workshop and the ale-house, he still had pity on him, and noticing, besides, that he was a fine donkey, he drove him into a stall and put fresh hay before him. But the donkey could neither eat nor drink, nor bear to be put to work, so at last the farmer lost patience and drove it out of his stable. And now the wretched donkey wandered about the country, munching such dusty grass and thistles as he could find by the wayside, but driven out of every green paddock as a useless beast, and receiving more kicks than kind handling. At last, half starved and hopeless, he determined to swallow his pride, and return to beg the cruel witches for mercy.

Now, his bride had been thinking things over, on her side, since he had been turned from her door in the shape of a donkey. She noticed that the village-folk shunned her more of late, and besides, they had always held a kind of suspicious attitude towards her and her mother.

What if the bridegroom should have let out the horrid truth, during those few hours that he had spent in the village, after awaking from his enchanted sleep? What if she should get no one else to woo her now? So, when she saw the poor donkey appear beneath her window, with lean ribs and drooping ears, her heart was quite prepared to be softened, and she listened graciously to his bray of apology and repentance.

“Well, I will forgive thee this once,” she said, “on one condition, and that is, that thou dost wed me within twelve hours of the time thou art rid of thy donkey’s skin. If thou wilt promise this, I will tell thee how to get back thy proper shape.”

The donkey went feebly down on his knees in the dust, and held up one hoof, as a solemn sign that his promise was given.

“Listen, then,” said the little witch; “thou must watch for a child to be christened in the village, and wait at the church door till the water from the font is thrown out; if some only falls on thy back, thou wilt be changed directly.”

The donkey threw up his hoofs in glee, and trotted off to the village. It was a long time before any christening took place; never had there seemed such a scarcity of births before. But at last the donkey heard that the son and heir of his old friend the farmer was to be christened the following Sunday, and he watched eagerly for the party to go to church, and return again, and then for the beadle to come out upon the porch and empty away the water from the font. When at last he did so, the donkey stood right in his way. “Get away, foolish beast,” called the beadle; but the donkey did not budge. “What care I?” the beadle thereupon angrily exclaimed, and threw the whole pan of water over the donkey’s back. He nearly fell to the ground when he saw his old friend the bridegroom, who had so long been missing, standing in the donkey’s place; but the young fellow gave him a golden crown to hold his tongue, and trump up some tale about his having been away on a journey, and he firmly believed ever after that the beadle had done so.

Then the bridegroom hurried to claim his bride, and keep his promise, which was not so very hard after all, for she was a pretty bride, and one only had to forget that little matter of the Brocken, and take care to sleep sound on every future Walpurgis-night. But she kept him in order--“For, mind,” said she, “if ever thou dost treat me to any foolish behaviour, back into the donkey’s skin thou shalt go again, and this time every one shall know of it.”

XVI

SEEKERS AFTER GOLD

Among those mountains of Saxony known as the Obererzgebirge, once famous for their silver-mines, there lived, nearly three hundred years ago, a man named Ran, who was overseer of the mines of Schneeberg. Now many among his workmen tried to win the favour of overseer Ran, not only because he was master of the works, but because of his only child, his beautiful daughter Gretchen. Her loveliness and her sweetness were the talk of the country, and every young man in Schneeberg fancied himself ready to jump down the shaft of the mine for her sake, if it were required of him. This, however, was not what Master Ran needed. He was a grasping man, and the constant handling of precious metal seemed to have increased his thirst for riches. So he was determined that lovely Gretchen should be a mine of wealth to him, all the more, perhaps, that the other mine with which he had to do was no longer as prosperous as it had been. There were general complaints over the quantity of “blind ore,” as the people called it, that had lately been found--worthless stuff, that did not repay smelting. This misfortune was said to be due to the “silver-thief,” or “Kobold,” a wicked little dwarf that was supposed to haunt the mountain, and draw the silver down out of the quartz as the workmen approached. At any rate, the failure of the mine, whoever was to blame for it, was like to bring poverty among the folk of Schneeberg, and Ran was all the more anxious to secure riches for himself and his child against that evil day. So he let it be known that the man who could produce the largest bag of gold in all the district, should have the beautiful Gretchen to wife.

“Let those who would get her seek,” said he, “for it is well known there is plenty of gold in these mountains for any who have wit to find it, and courage to risk something in the winning of it.”

Now here was a gauntlet thrown down. Every one knew that the overseer must be speaking of the mysterious treasures hidden under trees and in caverns by the dwarfs, and other mountain-spirits; and at the ale-house of an evening, when the men were gathered together, every one had some tale to tell of people who had tried to “lift” these wonderful treasure-pots, or who had been befriended by the dwarfs.