Chapter VI: Part IV: The Twilight of the Gods (5)

Whilst Jupiter was laughing over his companion's complaints, and gaily bidding him not to care for aught done by one so fair and fickle, Baucis entered the room, bearing a jug full of goat's milk, which she placed before the visitors, saying that Philemon would shortly follow with ripe fruits, which he was even now gathering in the garden. Being even better pleased with the cheerful, kindly looks of Baucis, Jupiter entered into conversation with her; and when, on questioning her as to the reason of her evident contentment and happiness, she replied that this was due to the all-absorbing love that she and her husband had for each other, which made them count poverty and old age as nothing, he was filled with amazement.

"What!" he exclaimed. "You can still talk of love, even now that you are growing old?"

"Oh, yes," answered Baucis, with a smile of pure joy. "For love has been the guiding star of our simple lives; and now that our days are drawing to a close, our only regret is that we cannot start over again, and tread the same sweet path side by side a second time!"

At this moment, Philemon returned with a basket of fine ripe fruit from the garden, and a vessel of sparkling water from the spring; and placing these on the table beside the goat's milk, he invited his guests to draw near and partake of the humble food, which was, nevertheless, the best that his poor home could offer.

Jupiter, delighted at the gracious hospitality of the good old couple, gladly accepted the invitation; and having drained the vessel of water to satisfy his own thirst, he bade Baucis to fill out yet another cupful from the now empty flagon, for Vulcan. Baucis was greatly surprised at the strange bidding; but on receiving the command from Jupiter a second time, she inclined the empty vessel, and to her utter astonishment a stream of rich red wine immediately flowed into the goblet!

The poor peasants now knew that their strange guests were not ordinary mortals, and were in some fear as to who they might really be; but Jupiter, though still retaining his _incognito_, quickly reassured them, saying that he and his companion had been sent by the gods to bring dire punishment on the disobedient mortals in that neighbourhood who had offended them. He then bade them listen to the terrific thunderstorm which was now raging, and which would certainly destroy those on whom the gods' vengeance was to fall; but when the old couple began to tremble for their own safety, he told them to be of good comfort, since they should be spared, because of the hospitality and kindness they had shown to two travellers in distress. He then bade the wondering pair to lie down in peace, and rest securely until the morning, when they should awaken to reap the reward of their good deed.

Philemon and Baucis, now feeling a delicious drowsiness creeping over their senses, obeyed the god's authoritative command, and gladly laid themselves down to sleep; and then, as they sank into a peaceful slumber, Jupiter cast a magic spell over them, by means of which their beautiful youth was completely restored to them, and their humble cottage at the same moment transformed into a noble palace.

When morning dawned, the gods retired for awhile, that the rejuvenated pair might make their wonderful discovery alone. Baucis was the first to awaken; and, surprised at an unusual exhilaration of spirits, and at feeling the blood coursing merrily through her veins as in the days of her youth, she sprang to her feet and exclaimed as she now beheld the new grandeur around her, "I must be dreaming!" Then, on approaching her still sleeping husband, she was amazed to find him young and handsome as in the days of yore, when he had first won her love; and running to the mirror, her joy was complete when its reflection showed her that she also was now restored to beautiful youth, and was even fairer still than in the early flush of maidenhood long years ago!

"Philemon! Philemon! awake, my love, and rejoice!" she cried in delight; and when Philemon arose immediately at the sound of her sweet young voice, he also was astonished to find himself within a palatial mansion, and was utterly bewildered at the sight of the lovely maiden before him.

"Who art thou, fair one?" he asked in awestruck tones. "Thou art beautiful as my beloved Baucis was in the days of her youth!"

But Baucis held the mirror up before his eyes, and bade him look at his own reflection; and when Philemon saw that he also had regained his handsome youth, his joy was unbounded.

The happy pair now knew that this marvellous transformation must have been brought about by the influence of the gods, whose messengers they had entertained the previous evening; and overcome with gratitude and joy that the passion and delight of their youthful love was thus restored to them, they fell into each other's arms and rapturously embraced. The wondrous love of these two faithful hearts, though it had clung to them even in old age, had of necessity run in a calmer stream with advancing years; but now with youth and beauty once more before them, it flooded their hearts afresh with renewed life, and the all-absorbing desires and sweet joys of old again held them under magic sway.

For long the happy lovers rejoiced together in perfect bliss, regardless of time and heedless of the whole world; and then Baucis, growing suddenly timid and shy, broke coquettishly away from the embrace of Philemon, and ran laughing out into the open air, to hide in the groves beyond.

As Philemon turned to follow her, the god Vulcan appeared in the doorway of the palace; and on beholding one whom he felt to be his benefactor, the grateful peasant fell on his knees before him and tendered his grateful thanks. Vulcan, however, was still sulky and ill-tempered, and so gruffly bade him keep his thanks to himself, since the sight of one so happy in his love filled him with envy; nor was he any better pleased when Philemon innocently expressed the desire that a faithful loving wife might also fall to his benefactor's share, for the alluring glances of his fickle Venus were more frequently bestowed on other lovers than on himself! Philemon soon left the taciturn god to his own devices, and ran off in pursuit of Baucis; and shortly afterwards Jupiter appeared, and questioned his companion as to whether the peasants were satisfied with their changed lot.

Vulcan replied in an aggrieved tone that they seemed to be very much in love with one another; and presently catching sight of Baucis hiding amidst the bushes, he bade Jupiter to look on his own handiwork. Now, when Jupiter beheld the lovely maiden as she mischievously sped from tree to tree to avoid her fond pursuer, he was so enthralled with her sweet fresh beauty, that he suddenly desired to possess her for himself; and, god-like, he at once sought the means of gratifying his desire.

After giving vent to an extravagant outburst of admiration for this new object of his fickle fancy, he began to persuade Vulcan to keep Philemon engaged for awhile; and presently the God of Iron departed on this thankless mission, leaving Jupiter free to go in search of Baucis.

In a very short time, Jupiter came face to face with the lovely maiden, and began to address her in tones of admiration, at the same time giving her to understand his high estate; and when Baucis knew that it was the great god Jupiter to whom she was indebted for her restored youth, and who now graciously condescended to speak with her, she was so overcome that she sank humbly to her knees, trembling with fear. But Jupiter gently raised her from the ground, reassuring her in tender accents; and more and more enthralled by the maiden's exquisite loveliness, he began to pour forth passionate protestations of love, even imploring her to accept his overtures.

At first, Baucis repulsed him, shrinking back with frightened mien; but at length her timidity was overcome, and with a feeling of pardonable pride that her beauty was sufficient to cause even the Master of the Gods himself to plead for her love, she began to enjoy the situation, and even to coquette with her exalted admirer. So, when Jupiter, pleased with this first success, went further still, and next boldly demanded the kiss that had been promised to Philemon, the maiden, having gone thus far, dared not refuse, for fear of offending the great god; but just at this moment, Philemon himself appeared on the scene, and was filled with amazement and indignation at beholding his beautiful wife in the arms of the stranger he had entertained the night before.

Baucis, quickly brought back to her senses by this timely interruption, instantly ran to her husband's side, begging him to curb his wrath until she could explain the matter to him; but Philemon's anger was not to be restrained, and he broke forth into passionate reproaches. Jupiter, though furious that Vulcan's carelessness should have caused this unwelcome interruption to his enjoyment, thought it prudent to retire for awhile; and when he had departed, Philemon's torrent of reproaches fell faster than ever. Even when Baucis explained that it was the Immortal Jupiter who had thus honoured her with his admiration, and whom he himself had addressed so roughly, the angry young peasant was not pacified, though he felt he was certainly doomed to destruction for crossing the pleasure of the mighty god; and he still continued to pour forth such scornful words, that Baucis also grew angry, and began to return his reproaches with equal passion.

Into the midst of this quarrel came Vulcan, who tried to make peace between them, grimly bidding Philemon to be of good cheer, since a matter of this sort was considered a mere trifle up in Olympus, where faithlessness in love was rather the rule than the exception; and he added that the fair daughters of earth were not likely to excel where goddesses failed.

But Philemon was not to be satisfied with any such doubtful comfort as this; and at last, in a paroxysm of anger, he overturned the household gods, which, in the form of statuettes, adorned his new abode, and then rushed wildly forth into the open air.

Baucis now began to weep bitterly, full of remorse that she should have so carelessly grieved the heart of her faithful Philemon; for, though a natural passing feeling of vanity in her re-born beauty had led her to be pleased with the admiration of the great god, yet her love for her husband had never for a moment wavered, and she was filled with despair at the thought that she might have forfeited his regard, which was her dearest possession.

After vainly trying to comfort the poor girl, Vulcan went off in search of Philemon, intending to act the part of peacemaker; and no sooner had he gone on this difficult errand, than Jupiter again appeared in the entrance. On beholding Baucis in tears, the amorous god hurried to her side, tenderly entreating her not to grieve, but rather to accept his tender caresses instead; but Baucis, determined not to let such alluring flatteries again overcome her nobler instincts, quickly withdrew herself from his embrace, and, falling on her knees before him, passionately besought him to take her fatal beauty away and make her old and wrinkled once more, that she might thus atone for the wrong she had done her faithful husband in listening even for a moment to words of love from other lips than his.

Jupiter was astounded at this request, thinking that the lovely maiden had taken leave of her senses; but Baucis exclaimed again:

"Nay, my lord, give me back my old age again, when calm and peaceful days were mine, and pure and perfect love for my faithful Philemon was happiness enough for me! What care I for beauty that but enthrals the hearts of others? I only want my husband's love, and that was mine when old! Therefore, make me old again, my lord!"

As Baucis was pleading with Jupiter, Philemon approached with Vulcan; and on thus learning from her impassioned words that his wife still loved him, he ran forward with great gladness, and clasped her in his arms. Baucis, full of thankfulness that her fault was forgiven, returned his caresses with great joy; and Jupiter, though at first furious that a mere mortal should be preferred before himself, the Master of the Gods, yet could not withhold his admiration at the sight of such perfect love as this.

Gradually, his anger melted away, and though he might still have gratified his passing fancy by force, had he wished to do so, it pleased him instead to be magnanimous; and presently he graciously announced to the faithful pair that they should still retain their youth and beauty, and that he would no longer come between their affection, but pour blessings upon them instead.

Having thus restored harmony to the earthly home they had deigned to visit, the two gods returned to Olympus; and Philemon and Baucis were left in peace to rejoice in their renewed youth and the perfect love that should again guide them surely along the path of happiness and contentment to their lives' end!

ROMEO AND JULIET

In the city of Verona, a fierce private feud had existed for many years between the two noble families of Capulet and Montague; and to such a degree was this hatred carried that it was even shared by the servants, followers, and friends of the two rival houses, with the result that if a Capulet partisan met a Montague partisan, they invariably came to blows, and did not hesitate to shed each other's blood.

One evening it happened that a grand supper and masked ball was held at the palace of Lord Capulet; and to this festival all the chief lords and ladies of Verona were invited, with the exception, of course, of any members of the hated Montague family.

However, the son of Lord Montague, whose name was Romeo, and who was a handsome and daring young man of a romantic disposition, boldly announced his intention of attending, uninvited, the revels at the house of his family foe; and, disguised in the dress of a pilgrim, and masked, he proceeded thither, accompanied by his bosom friends, Benvolio and Mercutio.

They were admitted, unquestioned, into the house, and mingled with the guests; and for awhile no one suspected that a Montague was taking part in the revels.

Amongst the merry throng of dancers, Romeo very quickly noticed a beautiful young girl, whose wonderful grace and charm strangely fascinated him; and drawing the attention of his friends to this maiden, he exclaimed enthusiastically:

"O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night
As a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,
And touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night!"

This speech was overheard by a kinsman of the Capulets, a fiery youth named Tybalt, who immediately recognised the voice as that of one of his detested foemen; and, furious that a Montague should have thus dared to enter the house of Capulet, he challenged Romeo, and would have slain him then and there, had not old Lord Capulet himself interfered, and commanded him to sheathe his weapon, declaring that his enemy's son should remain for that night, since he was a young man spoken of in the city with honour and respect.

So peace was temporarily restored; and presently Romeo secured an opportunity of speaking with the lovely maiden whose fair looks had so quickly enslaved his heart. He found that the lady's disposition was as sweet and gentle as her looks; and to his joy she evinced great pleasure in his conversation, and returned his advances with many signs of favour.

Presently, the maiden was called away, and when she had departed, Romeo learnt that she was the daughter of Lord Capulet, and that her name was Juliet.

Although filled with dismay that he had thus fallen in love with his enemy's daughter, and knowing that he would put himself in great danger should he venture to make further advances to her, Romeo was quite determined to see the lovely maiden again; and with this object in view, when the revels came to an end, he made his way into Lord Capulet's garden, thinking of this new joy which had already filled his heart so completely.

To his delight, Juliet presently stepped out on to the balcony outside her chamber window; for she also was thinking of the strange, sweet love which had so suddenly filled her whole being at the ardent gaze of the handsome young pilgrim who had conversed with her at the ball, and wished to breathe her happy thoughts into the moonlit night.

But Juliet had also learnt that this noble youth, whose eager words had so quickly and unresistingly won her heart, was the son of Lord Montague, and that she ought to hate, rather than love him; and as she thought of this troublesome difficulty in the path of her happiness, she murmured softly:

"O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name;
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy:
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague;
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title: Romeo, doff thy name;
And for thy name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself!"

On hearing these words, which proved to him that Juliet returned his love, Romeo crept softly forward and made his presence known to her, replying to her spoken thought thus:

"I take thee at thy word!
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo!"

Juliet was filled with joy at thus beholding the object of her sweet reflections, giving him a tender greeting; and in answer to her question as to how he had effected his entrance into the garden without the knowledge of her kinsmen, Romeo replied:

"With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out:
And what love can do, that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me!"

For a long while the lovers talked happily together; and in spite of the fact that Juliet had already been promised by her parents to a young man of noble family named Paris, she now gladly listened to Romeo's passionate declaration of love, and vowed that she would wed none other than he.

Several times their sweet converse was interrupted by Juliet's old nurse calling to her charge from within the chamber; and at last the maiden was obliged to tear herself away from the presence of her adoring lover, and retire to rest.

But Romeo did not return to his home immediately; and as dawn was already breaking, he made his way to a neighbouring monastery, in order to seek the help of a good old monk named Friar Laurence.

The old Friar, who had a deep affection for the youth, listened indulgently to his rapturous recital of the love he had conceived for the beautiful Juliet; but when Romeo eagerly besought him to unite them in marriage that very day, he was at first horrified at such a wild suggestion. However, when Romeo again begged him to comply with his request, the good father at last consented; for it now occurred to him that good might come of such a deed, since this union possibly would lead to the healing of the ancient feud between the two rival houses.

A little later in the day a message was secretly conveyed to Juliet, who, with the aid of her old nurse, in whom she had confided, found means to make her way to Friar Laurence's cell, where Romeo was awaiting her; and there the old monk performed the rite of marriage for the loving pair, and made them man and wife. Juliet then hurried back to her home with speed, fearing lest her absence should be remarked, for she did not dare to breathe a word of what had passed; and Romeo, after declaring that he would see her again in the garden after nightfall, went to join his friends, Benvolio and Mercutio, whom he had arranged to meet in a certain street.

To his dismay, he found them engaged in a hot dispute with the fiery-tempered young Capulet, Tybalt, who, having met them in the street, had quickly sought a quarrel in order to vent his suppressed rage at their temerity of the night before; and in spite of Romeo's efforts to make peace between them, being now desirous of establishing more friendly relations with his beloved Juliet's kinsfolk, Mercutio and Tybalt drew their swords, and engaged in a deadly fight, which ended in Mercutio receiving a mortal wound.

On seeing his friend fall in an expiring condition, Romeo, full of grief and indignation, at once made a furious onslaught upon Tybalt; and in the struggle which followed he killed the Capulet noble.

By this time, the news of the encounter had spread in the city, and soon members of both the Capulet and Montague families hurried to the spot, together with the Prince of Verona himself, who had been summoned by the watch.

Lady Capulet was overcome with grief at the death of Tybalt, who was her nephew, and with tearful entreaties insisted on Romeo's summary punishment; and Lady Montague as earnestly defended her son's action in avenging the death of his friend Mercutio. The matter ended in the Duke declaring sentence of immediate banishment upon Romeo; and, full of despair, the young man concealed himself until night-time in Friar Laurence's cell, being determined to see Juliet again before leaving the city.

When darkness fell, Romeo made his way once more to the Capulet's garden, and, scaling the balcony, bade a long and passionate farewell to the weeping Juliet. With the first signs of dawn, he was compelled to depart, with a last fond embrace, and then, with a heavy heart, and reluctant steps, he made his way to Mantua, from whence his messengers and friends could keep him acquainted with all news concerning the fair young bride from whom he had been thus so cruelly parted.

Very soon after the departure of Romeo, Juliet found herself in a position of the utmost difficulty; for her parents determined that her marriage with the brilliant young Count Paris should take place without further delay, and the nuptials were announced to be celebrated a few days hence.

It was in vain that the dismayed Juliet, not daring to reveal the fact of her secret marriage with the banished Romeo, pleaded her extreme youth, her indifference to Paris, and the family mourning for their kinsman, Tybalt; for her parents were indignant at her unwillingness and disobedience to their wishes, and declared that they would cast her off for ever should she fail to accept Paris as her husband on the Thursday appointed.

Poor Juliet, full of woe and dismay, sighed distractedly:

"Is there no pity sitting in the clouds
That sees into the bottom of my grief?"

Then, suddenly, she bethought her of the kind old monk who had wedded her to Romeo; and leaving the house with the utmost secrecy, she made her way to the cell of Friar Laurence, to whom she poured forth her tale of woe, and besought him to counsel her in this terrible dilemma.

It happened that the old Friar had studied the properties of many valuable drugs; and presently he declared that he could provide Juliet with a certain potion which, if she drank it just before the approaching wedding festivities began, would cause her to fall into a trance, so that her friends, thinking her to be dead, would place her in the family vault, from whence, on waking after forty-two hours had elapsed, she could be rescued by Romeo, and secretly conveyed to Mantua, where they could dwell happily together.

The Friar then asked the maiden if she had the courage to go through this ordeal; and Juliet, overjoyed at the thought of being thus preserved for her beloved Romeo, answered eagerly:

"Give me, give me! O tell not me of fear!
Love, give me strength! and strength shall help afford!"

So the old Friar gave her a phial containing the potion, and promised to send messengers to Romeo, that he might come secretly at night to the vault to rescue her on her awakening; and Juliet departed to her home much comforted.

She now no longer refused to wed Count Paris; and when the bridal day arrived, she moved quite calmly amongst the throng of merry guests. But she had not forgotten the old Friar's potion; and in spite of the horror she felt at the thought of awakening in the gloomy family vault, in which her cousin Tybalt was already lying, she had bravely conquered her fears, and secretly swallowed the contents of the phial with these words:

"Romeo, Romeo, Romeo! I drink to thee!"

Her parents and their guests were therefore horror-struck when, soon after the festivities had begun, the lovely Juliet fell to the ground, apparently dead; and the revels ended in the greatest confusion and dismay.

Lord and Lady Capulet were overcome with grief at what they supposed to be the sudden death of their fair young daughter; and with heart-rending tears and cries of woe, the still, cold form of Juliet was laid to rest on a bier in the family vault.

Friar Laurence, after waiting to hear how his plot had succeeded, despatched a messenger to Mantua to inform Romeo of all that had happened, and to bid him come secretly to rescue his bride on her awakening; but, unhappily, before the good father's messenger arrived in Mantua, Romeo had already heard from another source the terrible news of Juliet's supposed death.

Thus knowing nothing of the old monk's plan, and believing his beloved one to be dead, Romeo was distracted with grief; but, determined to at least look once more upon the sweet face of Juliet, even though in death, he instantly mounted a horse, and galloped at a furious pace to Verona.

He reached the city at midnight of the second day since Juliet had been reported dead; and making his way at once to the churchyard, he secured a torch and mattock, and began fiercely to break open the tomb of the Capulets. He was just about to enter the vault when he was interrupted by a newcomer, who cried to him sternly:

"Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague!"

These words were spoken by Count Paris, who had also come to weep beside the remains of his lost bride; and on seeing Romeo there before him, he believed him to have come for some evil purpose.

Romeo was now half frantic with his grief; and refusing to be delayed in his quest, he drew his sword upon Paris. The two fought furiously in the dark, until at last Paris fell mortally wounded; and when Romeo took up the torch to look upon the face of his fallen antagonist, and recognised the features of Paris, his sorrow was increased, and he said:

"O, give me thy hand,
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave!"

He therefore lifted the dead youth tenderly, and laid him within the vault, that he might at least share the resting-place of the maiden he had loved; and then, placing the torch against the wall, he knelt, overwhelmed with despair, beside the bier of Juliet.

So fair and lovely did she still appear that at first he could scarcely believe her to be dead; but when he felt her still, cold form, he could doubt it no longer. He had already determined that he could not bear to live on without Juliet; and with this object he had broken his journey once in order to procure from an apothecary some deadly poison which would act instantaneously. He now bent down to bid his beloved one farewell, and to kiss her cold lips for the last time; and then, drawing forth the phial, he swallowed the poison, saying:

"Here's to my love!...
... Thus with a kiss I die!"

The poison took effect immediately; and with a sigh, Romeo fell dead beside the bier of his bride.

It happened that this was the hour at which Juliet was to awaken from her trance; and Friar Laurence therefore now appeared at the opening of the vault, fearing that his messenger had been delayed, since he had seen nothing yet of the banished Montague; and when he entered the cell and beheld the dead bodies of Paris and Romeo, he guessed at the terrible catastrophe that had occurred, and uttered loud cries of woe.

At this moment, Juliet awakened from her death-like sleep, and looked around her in wondering horror; and the old Friar besought her earnestly to leave the vault.

But Juliet's eyes had already fallen upon the dead body of her beloved Romeo, and from the empty phial in his hand, she at once gathered that he had poisoned himself upon believing her to be dead; and in an agony of grief, she came down from her bier to clasp her lover's limp form in her arms, whilst the Friar fled in alarm at the sound of approaching steps, for the disturbance at the tomb had by this time attracted the notice of the watch, who were now hastily bringing both Capulets and Montagues to the churchyard.

Juliet also heard the approaching sounds, and knew she must act quickly; for she was determined to live no longer, since her lover was dead. As she clasped Romeo in her arms, she kissed him passionately, hoping to imbibe some of the poison from his silent lips; but finding this unavailing, she drew forth the dagger which he wore, and with it stabbed herself to the heart with these last words:

"O, happy dagger!
This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die!"

The kinsfolk of the two unfortunate lovers now rushed into the vault, accompanied by Friar Laurence, who had returned to relate the sad story; and as the bereaved parents wept together over the dead bodies of their beloved children, and understood that their tragic fate had entirely arisen from the old selfish family feud, they humbly joined hands in token of mutual forgiveness and renewed friendship.

A statue of the purest gold was raised to the memory of Juliet by the Capulet family, whilst the same honour was vouchsafed to Romeo by the sorrowing Montagues; and all who gazed upon these monuments of affection shed tears of sympathy for the hapless fate of the faithful lovers:

"For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo!"

THE JEWESS
(_La Juive_)

Towards the end of the fourteenth century, Monseigneur de Brogni, Chief Magistrate of Rome, issued an Edict which decreed that all Jews were to be banished from the sacred city; and the persecuted people, knowing too well that delay meant torture and death, were compelled to submit to their enforced exodus, and to seek refuge in other lands.

Before all had departed, however, the Neapolitans, who were at that time waging war with the Roman Government, laid siege to the city, and having forced an entry, commenced ruthlessly to pillage and burn. During the absence of Monseigneur de Brogni, his splendid palace was sacked, and set ablaze; and when his arduous duties at length permitted the Chief Magistrate to return, he found his home destroyed, and was informed, to his horror, that his beloved wife and infant daughter had been left to perish in the flames.

But this was not in reality the truth, since, though the mother had indeed been burned, the babe had been rescued by a Jew, named Eleazar, who, having thus saved the child by a sudden impulse, immediately carried her away with him to share his own fortunes, rather than restore her to the hated enemy of his race.

De Brogni, frantic at the loss of his beloved ones, sought solace by joining the Church; and having attained to the rank of a Cardinal, he quickly rose to great eminence and power in the service of Sigismund, Emperor of the West.

Meanwhile, Eleazar, the Jew, had journeyed with many of his brethren to the city of Constance, then under the sway of the Pope; and, settling here, he engaged in the occupation of a dealer in gems, and by his industry soon became very wealthy. The little girl he had rescued was given the name of Rachel, and brought up as his own daughter, and in his own religion.

As time went on, Rachel grew up to be a very beautiful maiden; and as she had been always taught to regard Eleazar as her father, she rendered him due reverence and obedience as such, and proved herself to be a loving and devoted daughter. So the years passed peacefully enough for Eleazar and Rachel; but at last a change came, and terrible trouble fell upon them.

One day, in the year 1414, the city of Constance put on its gayest appearance, and the people prepared to celebrate a solemn festival in honour of recent brilliant victories gained by their young Prince, Leopold, over certain hated enemies, and as the Emperor Sigismund was to make a triumphal entry into the city during the day, all work was suspended, and the citizens prepared to receive their ruler with loyal rejoicings.

A solemn thanksgiving service was first held in the chief church of the city, which was situated in a great square, at one end of which was the jewel shop and dwelling of Eleazar the Jew; and presently, noticing signs of work going on within the Hebrew's abode, contrary to the decree gone forth that the day was to be observed as a sacred festival, the people in the crowded square gathered in angry groups before the gem shop, and indignantly shouted commands for the work to be stopped instantly.

Eleazar, having scorned to recognise the Christian Festival as applying to himself, had decided to carry on his work as usual; and now, hearing the menacing cries of the outraged populace, he appeared fearlessly at the door of his shop, accompanied by his daughter, and a handsome young man, whom he had recently taken into his service as an artist, though a complete stranger to him.

This stranger was in reality none other than the young Prince Leopold, who, having on a former visit to the city seen the jeweller's lovely daughter, had straightway fallen in love with her; and knowing that he would never be permitted to wed with a Jewess, he had resorted to a disguise in order to satisfy the longings of his heart, and enjoy intercourse with the object of his affections. For this purpose, he had left the Court a few weeks before the Emperor's entry into Constance, giving out that he would join the royal party when the day of rejoicing arrived, since great honours were to be showered upon him on that occasion; and then, disguising himself in the humble dress of an artist, he journeyed to Constance, and introduced himself as a Jew, named Samuel, to Eleazar, who willingly took him into his service, since he had great natural abilities. Here he quickly won the affections of Rachel; but, still remembering that he could never marry the beautiful Jewess, he persuaded her to keep their love for awhile from the knowledge of Eleazar, as he could not bear the thought of parting from her so soon.

As the three now appeared at the shop door, the indignant mob dragged them roughly outside, declaring that they deserved to die by torture for their sacrilege of a solemn Festival Day; and, in spite of Rachel's piteous plea for mercy, she and her father would have been quickly borne away to their death, had not an interruption occurred by the entry of the Cardinal de Brogni, who was at the time passing on his way to join the Emperor. Seeing that a disturbance was taking place, de Brogni stopped to inquire the reason for it; and this being explained to him, he gave orders for the persecuted pair to be released, recognising Eleazar as one of the prominent Hebrews he had known in Rome, although quite unconscious that the fair Rachel was in reality his own daughter, whose loss he had never ceased to mourn. Compelled to obey the command of the powerful Cardinal, the crowd drew back sullenly; and Eleazar and Rachel returned in safety to their home.

That evening, being the Jewish Feast of the Passover, a number of Hebrews met together to celebrate the solemn service at the house of Eleazar, who was a leader amongst his brethren of the faith; and amongst the company was the disguised Prince Leopold, who, though pretending to join in the ceremony, yet did not commit himself, for when the consecrated bread was handed to him, he surreptitiously flung it aside when he thought himself unobserved.

As the ceremony came to an end, a loud clamour was heard at the entrance, and upon the door being opened, to the astonishment of all, guards and attendants in the royal livery were seen without, escorting a richly-dressed lady, who entered the house alone, and announced herself to be the Princess Eudossia, niece of the Emperor. As she entered, Leopold quickly retired into the background, and kept himself concealed from view; for he was affianced to this same fair princess, and knew that ruin awaited him should he be discovered by her in the Jewish household.

The Princess, however, addressed herself to Eleazar, stating that she had come to purchase from him a handsome jewelled chain, which she wished to present to her betrothed, Prince Leopold, when he appeared at her uncle's Court on the morrow; and having chosen the most magnificent ornament of the kind which Eleazar possessed, she bade him bring it to the Palace next day, and then withdrew.

The Jewish brethren having also by this time all departed, Leopold and Rachel found themselves alone; and the beautiful Jewess, observing her lover's pale face and agitated looks, entreated him to tell her the reason of this. Then the young Prince, having been awakened by Eudossia's visit to a sense of the wrong he was doing Rachel by thus seeking to win her love by deception, and filled with remorse, confessed to the Jewish maiden that he was a Christian, though still not revealing his true rank; and Rachel, overcome with grief at this revelation, reproached him bitterly for having thus led her into the crime of having loved and sacrificed her honour to a Christian. But when her father, hearing their voices, suddenly entered the room, and hearing of the stranger's deception, was about to stab him in his wrath, her mood instantly changed; and, flinging herself upon her knees between them, she implored Eleazar to have pity on them both, and to permit them to marry.

"My father! Be not angry, but grant my wish!" she cried passionately, "for I love Samuel, and he is all the world to me!"

Eleazar, who loved his adopted daughter with great tenderness, gently raised her from the ground, and in tones from which the anger had all vanished, he said that he would consent to the marriage, since her happiness depended upon it. But Leopold, knowing that he, a royal prince, could never enter into such a marriage, now felt himself compelled to repudiate the bride offered to him, madly though he still loved and longed to possess her; and, declaring cruelly that he could never wed with a Jewess, he rushed hastily from the house, despising himself for his own base conduct, and followed by the furious curses of Eleazar.

Next day, the Jew and his daughter made their way to the royal Court, taking with them the splendid jewelled chain which the Princess Eudossia had purchased the evening before; and upon arriving at the Palace, they were at once ushered into the presence chamber. Here the Court was assembled with great magnificence, and Prince Leopold, seated on a throne beside his betrothed, was receiving the congratulations and praises of the courtiers upon his success in the recent war.

When Rachel beheld the young Prince, in spite of his resplendent attire, she at once recognised him as her false lover, Samuel; and as the Princess Eudossia was about to present her gift, determined to be revenged for her cruel treatment, she sprang forward, and, snatching the chain away, passionately denounced Leopold before the whole company, declaring that he had committed the sacrilegious crime of having betrayed a Jewess.

"I, Rachel, am the maiden he has sacrificed to his unlawful passion!" she added, in a voice that trembled with emotion. "And, since I, too, have shared in his guilt, I am prepared to suffer for my sin!"

Upon hearing Rachel's denunciation a wave of horror swept over the whole assemblage, for the deed of which she accused the young Prince was regarded at that time as a terrible crime, and was punishable by death; and since Leopold did not attempt to deny the accusation, but bent his head in acknowledgment of guilt, they knew that he had indeed committed this act of sacrilege against his religion.

The Cardinal de Brogni, who was also present, seeing that this was so, now rose in righteous indignation at this outrage which had been offered to the Christian Church, and declared that, in accordance with the existing law, Leopold and Rachel must both suffer death for their crime, and that Eleazar should also share their fate as an accomplice; and then, followed by the curses of the whole Court, the condemned three were led away to prison.

The Princess Eudossia was overwhelmed with grief at this terrible conclusion to all her dearest hopes; but, in spite of Leopold's faithlessness, she still passionately loved him, and determined to make an effort to save him from death.

Having obtained permission to visit Rachel in prison, she repaired to the fortress without delay, and when the young Jewess was brought before her, she besought her to save Leopold's life by declaring to the judges that he was not guilty of the crime of which she had accused him.

Rachel, however, at first indignantly refused to help one who had so basely betrayed and repudiated her; but when Eudossia fell on her knees, and passionately pleaded with her again and again to save the man they both loved, she relented, unable to struggle longer against the natural promptings of her own heart, in which her false lover's image was for ever enshrined. She therefore promised Eudossia to obey her wish; and when brought before the judges a short time later, she declared to them that Leopold was not guilty of the crime she had attributed to him. The Cardinal de Brogni, rejoicing at this news, now declared Leopold to be innocent, and gave orders for his instant release; but Eleazar and Rachel, being now accused of having fabricated the whole story to entrap the royal Prince, were condemned for such high treason to the terrible death of being flung into a cauldron of boiling oil.

The Cardinal, however, feeling pity for the dreadful fate about to fall upon the lovely Jewish maiden, gave Eleazar the opportunity of saving his daughter by abjuring his faith and becoming a Christian, but this suggestion the staunch Jew scornfully repudiated, declaring that he preferred to die in his own faith rather than live to join the ranks of the Christians, whom he hated. Then, having suddenly bethought him of a means of revenging himself upon the Cardinal for thus condemning him to so terrible a death, he related to him the story of how his infant daughter had been rescued from the fire years ago, saying that her preserver was a friend of his own, and that she was still living; and the Cardinal, who had never ceased to mourn for his lost child, implored him to say where the maiden was to be found, that he might cherish her once again.

But Eleazar refused to reveal the secret, having determined not to give de Brogni the information until Rachel was no more, that he might thus bring everlasting grief upon him for having condemned his own child to such an agonising death; and though the Cardinal even humbled himself by kneeling in supplication before the Jew he despised, the longing of his heart remained unsatisfied.

However, when the day of execution arrived, and Rachel and himself were brought out to meet their fate, and were left together for a few moments near the scaffold from which they were to be flung into the boiling oil, the old Jew's resolution broke down, and, feeling horror at the thought of sacrificing the beautiful maiden he had loved as his own daughter, to satisfy his private vengeance, he besought her with all his heart to become a Christian, since by that means she could save herself from the awful death that awaited her.

But Rachel declared nobly that she would never forsake the faith in which she had been brought up, and had learned to love; and thus firmly resolved to wear the martyr's crown, she heroically sprang upon the scaffold, and with a cry of exultation, leapt into the seething cauldron.

Eleazar's moment of revenge had now arrived, although he had sought to avert it; and as his beloved Rachel vanished from sight, he turned to de Brogni, and cried in a frenzied voice in which triumph and anguish struggled for the mastery, "Behold, your daughter, proud Cardinal, now lost to you for ever!"

DIE KÖNIGSKINDER
(_The Kingly Children_)

In the midst of the dense Hella Woods, at the back of which towered the great mountain known as the Hellagebirge, a small clearing had been made in one of the sunny glades; and here, many miles away from human habitation, a mysterious old witch had made her abode. A rough, tumble-down hut served her for shelter, winter and summer alike; and for companion she had a little maiden whom she had kidnapped when but a tiny toddler, and whom she had brought up to look upon her as her grandmother, to mind her geese for her and to assist in the brewing of her magic potions.

The little goose-girl, since babyhood, had never beheld any other human being, and was never permitted to wander beyond sight of the hut; but she knew that other people existed, since she had heard the old dame speak of the folk she had seen in her own journeyings to and fro, and whom she often cursed when muttering her evil spells.

In vain did the captured child ask for news of the bright world beyond the forest depths, and express her longings for beautiful things, for fair companions, and for the love and joy that her youth demanded; for, in reply, she only gained cruel beatings and harder tasks than ever, and she learned to hide her longings and to find pleasure in her secret thoughts.

When she was good and obedient, she was set to mind the geese and prevent them from straying far into the woodland depths; and this was a task she loved, for then she could sit outside in the sunshine, or gaze at the reflection of her own pretty face in the sparkling streamlet, and even deck herself with flowers when the old witch was not looking.

The geese all loved her, since she was gentle with them and regarded them as her friends, as well as the other birds and timid wild creatures that dwelt in the woods; and one fair dove that nested in a neighbouring linden-tree, she loved above them all, for its soft cooing often brought her comfort when she was sad at heart.

One sunny day, the little goose-girl lay stretched on a hillock beneath the linden-tree, whilst the geese snapped and plucked at the grass around her, or splashed in the pond close by; and as she lay there, she pulled at the daisies and hummed softly to herself, whilst her feathered friend, the gentle dove, cooed softly on a branch above.

Though still clad in a short, ragged gown, she was now in the first flush of fair young maidenhood, and possessed marvellous beauty, with the natural grace and noble bearing of a Princess; and in spite of the red kerchief which so tightly swathed her head, a few stray golden locks escaped to betray the hidden wealth of her woman's crowning glory.

She lay thus sweetly day-dreaming in full sight of the hut, on the roof of which hopped a tame raven cawing to a big yellow tom-cat on the ground below; but, presently, she was interrupted by the old witch, who popped her head out of the window and began to scold the girl for letting the geese stray too far.

The goose-girl sprang up and collected the geese together once more; and then, hearing the witch still calling to her, she entered the little garden, where she stopped again to gaze at a lovely golden-yellow lily-bud growing there, sighing because it refused to open to the light of day.

The old dame, however, soon dragged her away with a cuff, and, putting a kettle into her hands, bade her draw water from the trough near by; and when the girl stooped again to smile at her fair reflection in the water, she scolded her more than ever, and set her to knead a magic cake.

The goose-girl made the cake, kneading into it various strange powders and herbs given her for the purpose by the witch; and when it was done, she held it high above her head, declaring that he who ate of it should see his sweetheart quickly. The old witch, however, snatched it from her and declared instead that it would bring death to those who ate of it.

The girl, full of horror, ran off to rest beneath the linden-tree and seek comfort from her pet dove; and presently, the old witch departed into the forest depths beyond, to gather simples and loathsome things for her potions, first telling the young captive that it was useless for her to try to wander away, since she had cast a spell over the bushes and briars, and that they would thus hold her back.

As soon as the dame had departed, the little goose-girl's spirits rose at once, so that she began to sing and dance in the sunshine; and then, snatching up a wreath of wild-flowers she had made earlier in the day and hidden in a bush, she set it on her head, and ran to gaze at her reflection in the water trough.

The charming picture she saw there delighted her, and she called to the geese to come and admire her also; but whilst she laughed at their quacking and rejoiced in her own fair looks, she was suddenly addressed by a stranger, and, turning in haste, found herself face to face with a handsome youth, who, though clad in garments torn and travel-stained, yet had the proud and kingly air of one of royal birth.

Though at first terrified, the goose-girl gazed in amazement at the stranger, her fear quickly vanishing in wonder, admiration, and delight; and when the youth laughed at her surprise and begged her to give him greeting, she asked in awestruck tones:--"Are you a man?"

The stranger laughingly assured her that he was, keeping his own eyes fixed upon her face, for, though he had beheld many fair maidens before, he had never yet been confronted with one of such dazzling loveliness as this ragged child.

He told her that he was a king's son, but that, dissatisfied with the emptiness of his life, he had wandered forth from his royal home to seek adventures in the wide world and to gain renown alone and unaided, but that his sword had gained him little glory yet, and that his wanderings had reduced him to the point of beggary; and then he asked her if he might quench his thirst at the trough, begging her also to drink with him.

The goose-girl gladly agreed to his request; and afterwards she led him to her favourite nook beneath the linden-tree, where the pair sat together and gazed into each other's eyes, still entranced by their mutual beauty.