Chapter IV: Part 4

"From the little that I read, I made myself a set of notions of what the world was, and what men were; and very queer ones they were; for they were all taken from myself and the society in which I lived. If we talked of gay, bright, happy people, I could only fancy them like the little dog; beautiful stately ladies must look like the bird, and ancient dames like my old woman. My stories contained something about love, and I made myself the heroine of many wonderful adventures: I pictured for myself the most beautiful knight the world had ever seen; I adorned him with every grace and every perfection; and though, after all my trouble, I could not tell exactly what he was like, I could feel the most passionate despair if he did not return my affection; and I had all sorts of eloquent speeches to make--which I would often repeat aloud--to win his love. You smile! Ah, well, we are none of us young now!

"I was much the happiest when I was by myself; for then I was absolute mistress in the cottage. The dog was very fond of me, and did all that I wished; the bird replied with his song to all my questions; my wheel went round merrily; and I never for a moment felt a wish for any change. When the old woman came back from her long expeditions, she would praise me for being so good and attentive. Her household, she said, was much better attended to since I had been there; she was pleased with my growth, and the general healthiness of my appearance; in short, she spoke to me and treated me exactly as if I had been her daughter. 'You are going on well indeed, my child,' she said one day, with a roughish coarse voice: 'if you continue in this way, you will never come to any mischief. But, you may depend upon it, it never fails, if once one gets out of the right road, but sooner or later we shall be punished for it.' I took little notice of this at the time she said it; for in all I did and said I was a lively, thoughtless child; but by and by, in the night, her words recurred to me, and I could not conceive what she meant. I thought them all over and over again. I had often read about riches and wealth, and so on; and at last it occurred to me that those pearls and precious stones must be of great value. This soon became more plain to me; but what could she have meant by the right road? I could not make any thing of it, do what I would.

"I was now fourteen years old; and it is unfortunate for people that generally they only get their understanding to lose their innocence by the light of it. I now came clearly enough to comprehend that it would be easy for me, while the old woman was away, to take the bird and the jewels, and go with them into the world that I had read about; and then very likely I might find my beautiful knight, who still continued in my thoughts.

"At first this idea was no more than any other, just flashing across my mind and then gone again; but when I sat by myself at my wheel, in spite of myself it kept coming back to me, till at last it completely took possession of my mind; and I already saw myself dressed with the greatest magnificence, with knights and princes standing round me; and so I would let myself dream on, and then when I started up and found myself in a little narrow room, I felt vexed and disappointed. For the rest, so that I did what I was told, the old woman did not trouble herself about what was passing in my mind.

"One day she went away again, telling me that this time she would be absent longer than usual; I was to see that every thing was kept right, and do what I could to prevent the time hanging heavy on my hands. I took leave of her with some distress, as I felt a misgiving that I should never see her again; I stood watching her a long time as she hobbled away, almost without knowing myself why I was so unhappy. It seemed as if my purpose was already before my mind, and yet I was not actually conscious of it.

"Never did I take so much care of the dog and the bird as now; they seemed closer to my heart than they had been before. The old woman had been gone some days, when one morning I got up with the fixed purpose to leave the cottage with the bird, and go and look for what was called the world. Still I felt unhappy and miserable. I wished to stay where I was, and yet this thought had got too strong a hold on me; there was a singular struggle going on in my soul, as if two opposite spirits were fighting in me. One moment came the sweetness of that sequestered spot before me, looking so beautiful; and then the next, the ravishing idea of a new world, and all the wonderful things in it. I hardly knew what to make of myself. The little dog kept jumping up upon me incessantly. The sunshine lay spread out brilliantly over the green fields, and the chestnut-leaves glistened as it fell on them. Suddenly I felt a strong impulse seize me; I caught the little dog and tied it up in the cottage, and then took the cage and the bird under my arm. The dog whined and struggled at this unusual treatment; he looked up at me with imploring eyes, but I could not venture to take him with me. One of the boxes of precious stones I took and made fast to my girdle, the rest I left in their places. The bird stretched and strained with his head in an odd wild way as I went out with him through the door; the dog sprung at his chain to follow me; but he was bound fast, and he was obliged to stay. I avoided the road that led to the mountains, and went down the valley the opposite way. The little dog kept whining and barking incessantly, and I felt for him in my heart; the bird made one or two attempts to sing, but it seemed he did not like being carried, and would not go on.

"For a long time I heard the barking of the dog, getting weaker and fainter, however, as I got further away; at last it ceased altogether. I cried, and had almost turned about and gone back again, but the craving for something new urged me forward. I was soon over the hill, and I walked on through wood and meadow till towards evening, when I found myself near a village. I felt rather frightened at first in going into an inn among strange people; but they shewed me into a chamber with a bed, and I slept there very comfortably, only that I dreamed of the old woman, who seemed to threaten me.

"My journey had very little variety; but the further I went, the more I was haunted by the recollection of the old woman and the little dog. The poor little thing, I thought, would be sure to die of hunger, without me to help it; and at every turn in the forest I expected to see the figure of the old woman coming to meet me. Sighing and weeping, I travelled on: whenever I stopped to rest myself, and set the cage down upon the ground, the bird would sing his strange song, and then bitter feelings of regret would come upon me for the dear old cottage. So forgetful is our nature, I thought my first journey had not been half so miserable as that, and I craved to be again once more as I was then.

"I had parted with some of the jewels, and at last, after a long round of walking, one day I came to a village. I felt a strange emotion on entering it; I was overcome by something, and could not tell why. Very soon, however, I recollected myself, and found I was in the village where I was born. How surprised I was! a thousand reminiscences came pouring back upon me, and the tears ran down my cheeks. It was very much altered. New houses had sprung up; others, which were new when I went away, were crumbling to the ground; I found traces of burning also; and every thing looked much smaller and more confined than I had fancied. I was infinitely delighted, however, at the thought of seeing my father and mother again after so long an absence. I found the little cottage; the well-known doorway; the handle of the door was exactly as it used to be; it seemed like yesterday that I had had it in my hand. My heart beat and throbbed; I opened the door hastily; but all the faces in the room were strange to me; they stared at me as I entered. I asked for old Martin the shepherd; but they told me he and his wife had been dead for three years past. I drew back as quickly as I could, and went crying out of the village.

"I had been thinking how delightful it would be to surprise them with all my riches; the strangest accident had realised the dreams of my childhood--I could make them happy--and now all was vain. They could not share with me; and what all my life long had been the dearest object of my hope was lost to me for ever.

"I went to a pleasant-looking town, where I rented a small house with a garden, and took a servant to live with me. I did not find the world quite the wonderful place I expected; but I soon learnt to think less and less of the old woman and the cottage I had lived in with her; and so altogether I lived on pleasantly enough.

"For a long time the bird had left off singing, so that I was not a little frightened when one night he began again with a different song.

'My forest-bower,
Thou'rt far from me;
Oh, hour by hour
I grieve for thee:
Ah, when shall I see
My forest-bower?'

I could not sleep all night. The whole thing came back again into my thoughts, and I felt more clearly than ever that I had done what I ought not. When I got up, the bird's head was turned towards me; he kept watching me with a strange expression, and seemed to be reproaching me. Now he never stopped singing; and his song came louder and deeper I thought than it had ever been before. The more I looked at him, the more uncomfortable he made me. At last I opened the cage, thrust in my hand and caught him by the neck. I pressed my fingers violently together; he looked imploringly in my face; I let him go; but he was already dead: I buried him in the garden.

"After this I was haunted by a fear of my servant; my conscience told me what I had done, and I was afraid that some day or other she would be robbing, or perhaps murdering me. Shortly, however, I became acquainted with a young knight, who pleased me exceedingly. I gave him my hand; and here, Herr Walters, is my story ended."

"Ah, you should have seen her then," Egbert broke in hastily; "her youthful freshness and beauty; and what an indescribable charm she had received from her retired education! She came before me as a kind of miraculous being, and I set no bounds to my affection for her. I was poor myself; indeed I had nothing; but through her love I was placed in the position in which you find me. We withdrew hither, and neither of us has ever, for a single moment, regretted our union."

"But see, with our talking and chatting," interrupted Bertha, "it is already past midnight; we had better go to bed."

She rose to retire to her chamber; as they parted Walters kissed her hand, and wished her good night. "Thanks, noble lady," he said, "for your story. I think I can see you with your strange bird, and feeding the little Strohmian."

Walters, too, retired to sleep; but Egbert continued restlessly pacing up and down the hall. "What fools we men are!" he said to himself. "Was it not I that prevailed on my wife to tell her story? and now I am sorry it should have been told! Will he not make use of it for some evil purpose? Will he not blab, and let our secret out to others? Is he not very likely (it is just what a man would naturally do) to feel some accursed hankering after one's jewels, and lay some plan or other to get hold of them?"

It struck him Walters had not taken leave of him with, as much heartiness as he naturally would have done after being admitted into such a piece of confidence. When once a man has admitted a feeling of suspicion into his breast, every trifle becomes a confirmation of it. Then for a moment he would feel ashamed of so ungenerous a distrust of his noble-hearted friend; and yet he could not fling it off; all night long these feelings kept swaying to and fro through his breast. He slept but little.

The next morning Bertha was unwell, and could not appear at breakfast. Walters did not seem much to distress himself about it, and of the knight also he took leave with apparent unconcern. Egbert could not well make it out; he went to his wife's room, she was in a violent fever; she said she supposed telling her story the preceding night must have over-excited her.

After that evening Walters came seldom to his friend's castle; and when he did he never stayed, but went away again almost immediately with a few unmeaning words. Egbert was excessively distressed at this behaviour: he never said any thing about it, either to his wife or to Walters; but they must both have seen that there was something which made him uneasy. Bertha's illness too was another subject of distress to him. The physician became alarmed; the colour faded from her cheeks, and her eyes grew of an unnatural brightness. One morning she called her husband to her bedside, and sent the servants out of the room.

"My dear husband," she began, seriously, "I have something to tell you, which, however unmeaning and trifling it may seem to you, has been the cause of all my illness, and has almost driven me out of my senses. You know that whenever I have spoken of the events of my childhood, in spite of all the trouble I have taken, I have never been able to think of the name of the little dog that was so long with me. The other evening as Walters took leave of me, he said, suddenly, 'I fancy I see you feeding the little Strohmian.' Can it be accident that he hit upon the name? or does he know the dog, and said what he did on purpose? In what mysterious way is this man bound up with my destiny? At times I try to persuade myself that it is all fancy; but no, it is certainly true, too true. I cannot tell you how it has terrified me to be so helped out with my recollection by a perfect stranger: what do you say, Egbert?"

Egbert regarded his suffering wife with the deepest emotion. For some time he could not speak, but stood lost in his own reflections. At last he muttered a few words of consolation, and left her. He retired to a remote apartment, and paced up and down in indescribable uneasiness. Walters had for many years been his only companion; and now was this man the only one in the world whose existence was a pain and grief to him. Could this one being be removed out of his path, all, he thought, would then be well with him. To dissipate his unpleasant reflections, he took his cross-bow and went out into the mountains to hunt.

It was a rough stormy winter's day; the snow lay deep upon the hill-side, and the heavy branches of the pine-trees bent under their burden. He scrambled rapidly on; the sweat stood upon his brow; but he could not light on any game, and that increased his ill-humour. Suddenly he saw a figure moving at some distance from him: it was Walters, who was gathering moss from the trunks of the trees. Hardly knowing what he did, he levelled his cross-bow at him; Walters looked round, and raised his hand with a menacing gesture; but the bolt was sped to its mark, and he fell to the earth.

Egbert now felt relieved from a heavy burden. Yet a feeling of terror drove him hastily back to his castle. He had a long way to go; for he had wandered far away into the forests. When he reached it, Bertha was already dead: on her deathbed she had spoken incessantly of Walters and the old woman.

Egbert now lived for a long time entirely alone. He had always been dark and gloomy enough; for his wife's strange history troubled him, and he was continually afraid some terrible misfortune would befall them. His own conscience made him uneasy also. His friend's murder was for ever before his eyes, and his life was an eternal self-upbraiding.

As some relief to his feelings, he went from time to time to the next great town, where he could find society and forget himself in feasting and dissipation. He longed to find a friend to fill up the dreary chasm in his soul; and then again when he thought of Walters, he shrunk in terror from it, as he felt convinced that any friend must only be a source of new misery to him. So many years he had lived with Bertha in their sweet seclusion, Walters' friendship had so long been his greatest delight; and now both were suddenly snatched away from him. There were many moments when it all seemed to him like a strange, wild romance, and that he only dreamt that he was alive.

A young knight, Hugo, attached himself to the silent, gloomy Egbert, and seemed to be inspired with a real deep affection for him. Egbert was very much surprised, and came forward to meet this new offer of friendship the more readily because it was so entirely unexpected. The two were now continually together. The stranger shewed Egbert every possible attention. Neither ever rode out without the other; in short, wherever they were, they appeared inseparable.

Yet it was only for a very brief interval that Egbert allowed himself to feel happy; for he was too sure that Hugo only loved him because he did not know his history. His friend was in an error respecting him; and he felt the same impulse as he had done before to unbosom himself to him, that he might be assured whether he was indeed his friend or not. Then, again, caution kept him back, and the fear of becoming an object of abhorrence to Hugo; there were times when he was so terribly oppressed with a sense of his unworthiness that he could not believe any one who was not an utter stranger to him could entertain the slightest regard for him. For all that, however, he could not contain himself; and one day as they were walking by themselves, he told his whole history, and then asked whether he could still love a murderer. Hugo was touched, and tried to comfort him; and Egbert returned with a lighter heart to the town.

Yet it seemed to be his curse that a feeling of suspicion must arise even in the hour of confidence; for hardly were they returned to their room, and the glare of the candle was thrown upon his friend's face, than he found something there which displeased him. He fancied he could trace a malicious laugh. It struck him too that Hugo did not seem so ready to talk to him as usual, and that his attention was almost entirely given to the other persons present. There was an old knight in the party who had never been a friend of Egbert, and used to ask unpleasant questions about his wife, and where he got his money from.... To this person Hugo attached himself, and the two held a long mysterious conversation together, while their looks were from time to time directed towards himself. Here he saw all his suspicions at once confirmed. He believed he was betrayed, and his fierce and gloomy temper now got complete mastery over him. As he stood with his eyes fixed on them as they talked, suddenly he saw Walters' face, his air, his gesture--the whole figure so familiar to him. He looked again; and now he was convinced that it was no one but Walters that was speaking with the old knight.... In unutterable terror, almost beside himself, he rushed out of the room, and that night left the city, and returned as fast as possible to his castle.

He wandered restlessly from chamber to chamber; not a thought could he find to soothe him; sleep fled from his eyes, and from one terrible imagination he could only fall into another yet more terrible. He thought he must be mad, and that what he had seen was but a crazed dream; but Walters' features had been too vivid, and all was again a riddle. He resolved to leave the castle, and set out upon his travels, to bring his mind again into order: every thought of friendship, every wish for society, he had now given up for ever.

He set out without having made up his mind which way he would go; indeed he thought little of the country through which he passed. One day he had been riding for some time at a rapid pace among the mountains, when he found himself suddenly involved in a labyrinth of rocks, from which he could not discover any way of escape. At last he fell in with an old countryman, who shewed him a path leading past a waterfall. He offered the old man some money as a reward, but he declined to accept it.

"What is the matter with me?" said Egbert to himself; "I could have fancied this was Walters again." He looked round, and Walters it certainly was. Egbert spurred his horse on at its utmost speed; he flew away over rocks and through woods and meadows, until at length it sunk exhausted under him to the earth. He did not pause to think of this, but continued to hurry on on foot.

In a kind of half-dream, he climbed a little hill; he fancied he heard the lively barking of a dog somewhere near him. Tall chestnuts rustled in the wind, and he caught the strange wild strains of a song:

"In my forest-home
Again sing I,
Where pain hath no life;
No envy and strife.
Oh, am I not happy
In my forest home?"

Egbert was completely stupified, his senses reeled; all seemed a dark painful riddle to him. He could not tell whether he was dreaming now, or whether he had not dreamt of a Bertha as his wife. The common and the wonderful were so strangely mingled together; the world round him was enchanted.... His thoughts and recollections swam confusedly before his mind.

A crooked hump-backed old woman came panting up the hill with a crutch.

"Are you come to bring me my bird? my pearls? my dog?" she screamed to him; "see how wickedness is its own punisher! I was your friend Walters--I was Hugo."

"God in heaven," muttered Egbert to himself, "to what dreadful place have I wandered? Where am I?"

"And Bertha was your sister."

Egbert fell to the ground.

"What made her run away from me in that way? the time of trial was almost over, and thus all had ended well. She was the daughter of a knight; he sent her to the herdsman to be brought up. She was your father's daughter."

"Oh, why, why have I ever had this dreadful foreboding?" cried Egbert.

"Because when you were young you once heard your father speak of it. He could not let her stay with him, for he was afraid of his wife; she was the child of an earlier marriage."

Egbert's heartstrings burst; he lay gasping out his life upon the ground; faintly and more faintly he heard the old woman speak, the dog bark, and the bird chant on his unwearying song.

THE FAITHFUL ECKART.

That noble duke, the great
Of Burgundy's proud land,
Felt all his foemen's hate,
And, vanquish'd, bit the sand.

He spoke: "I'm struck! I bleed!
Where is my valour fled?
Friends fail me at my need,
My knights are flown or dead;

I cannot hold the field--
I faint! My strength, my pride,
Has left me here to yield--
True Eckart's from my side.

It was not thus of old,
When war raged fierce and strong--
The last to have it told,
He loved his home too long.

Now, see they trooping come--
Not long my sword is mine:
Flight's made for the base groom--
I'll die as died my line."

With that he raised his sword,
And would have smote his breast;
When, truer than his word,
Good Eckart forward prest.

Back spurn'd the vaunting foe,
And dashed into the throng;
Nor was his bold son slow
To bring his knights along.

The bold duke saw the sign,
And cried, "Now, God be praised!
Now tremble, foemen mine,
My drooping hopes be raised!"

Again he charged and cheer'd,
True Eckart wins the fight;
"But where's his boy?" he heard;
"No more he sees the light."

When now the foe was fled,
Out spoke the duke aloud;
"Well hath it with me sped,
Yet Eckart's head is bow'd.

Though many thou hast slain,
For country and for life;
Thy son lies on the plain,
No more to join the strife."

Then Eckart's tears flow'd fast,
Low stoop'd the warrior down;
Embraced and kiss'd his last,
And sadly made his moan.

"Sweet Heins, how died'st so young,
Ere yet thou wert a man?
What boots it that I'm strong,
And thou so still and wan?

Yet thou hast saved thy prince
From his dread foeman's scorn!
Thou art his--accept him, since
He never will return!"

Bold Burgundy then mourn'd
To see a father's grief;
His heart within him burn'd,
But could not bring relief.

He mingles tears with tears;
He clasps him to his breast;
The hero he reveres,
And speaks his deep distress:--

"Most faithful hast thou been,
When fail'd me all beside;
Henceforth we will be seen
Like brothers, side by side.

Throughout all Burgundy,
Be lord of me and mine;
And could more honour be,
I'd freely make it thine."

He journey'd through the land,
Each liege-man hail'd him home;
To each he gave command,
True Eckart to welcome.

* * * * *

It was the voice of an old mountaineer that sung this song, resounding far among the rocks, where the faithful Eckart was sitting upon a declivity, weeping aloud. His youngest boy stood near his father, and said, "Why do you cry so bitterly, my dear father? Why are you so much better and stronger than other men, if you are afraid--can you be afraid of them?"

Meanwhile the duke, at the head of a hunting-party, was leisurely proceeding homewards; Burgundy himself was mounted upon a stately, richly caparisoned steed. His princely gold and silver trappings sparkled in the evening sun; insomuch that the young Conrad could not sufficiently admire the fine procession as it passed. Faithful Eckart raised his eyes, and looked darkly and sorrowfully towards the place; while his tender Conrad began to sing, as he lost sight of the princely cavalcade in the distance:--

"If you'd wield
Sword and shield,
And have good steed
With spear at need
And harquebuss,--what must you do?
You must feel
Your nerves like steel,
Strong in heart and spirit;--
Manhood good
In your blood
To bear you stoutly through with merit."

The old warrior pressed his son to his heart, and looked earnestly at his large clear blue eyes. He then said, "Did you hear the song of the good mountaineer, my boy?"

"Did I?" repeated the boy: "surely he sang loud enough. And are you, then, still that faithful Eckart whom I was glad to hear so praised?"

"That same duke is now my enemy: he holds my second son in durance,--yea, hath already laid him low, if I must believe all that the people of the country say."

"Then take your great sword, father, and bear it no longer," exclaimed his brave boy: "they will tremble when they see you; the good people will uphold you all the country round, for they say you are their greatest hero."

"No, I must not do that, my boy; for then I should prove my enemies' worst words true. I must not be unfaithful to my native prince. I will not break my fealty and the peace of the country, to keep which I have sworn."

"But what does he want to do with us?" inquired Conrad, impatiently.

Eckart had risen, but he again seated himself, and said, "Dear boy, the whole of that history would sound too harsh and strange in thy young ears. Enough to know that great people always bear their worst enemy in their own heart, and live in fear night and day. The duke now thinks he has trusted me too much, and been all along only cherishing a viper in his bosom. Yet in the country they call me the prince's sword--the strong sword that restored him life and land;--all the people call me Faithful Eckart, and the wretched and oppressed cry unto me for help in the hearing of the court. This the duke cannot bear. His envy hath turned to rage, and they who might help, set him against me, and have turned his heart from love to hatred."

The aged hero then related how the duke had spoken evil words, and banished him from before his face for ever; and how they now became quite strange, like enemies, because envious men had said that he was going to deprive the duke of his dominions. More sadly did he proceed to tell, as he passed his hand across his eyes, how the duke had seized upon himself and his son, and accused them of wanting to take his land and life; "Yea, 'tis said he hath even doomed my son to die."

Young Conrad spoke not to his father, seeing he wept. At length he said, "Father, let me go to the court, and I will talk to the duke, that he may be brought to understand you, and treat you better. Should he have hurt a hair of my brother's head, he is so bad a man that you shall punish him; yet it can scarce be that he hath so soon forgotten all your services."

"Alas! don't you remember the old proverb, poor boy?--

'When the mighty want your hand,
They'll promise you both gifts and land;
When the evil day hath pass'd,
Their friendship flieth too as fast.'

Yes, and all my long and painful life has gone for nothing. Wherefore did he raise me high above my peers, only to plunge me into the lowest ignominy? The love of princes is like a fatal poison, which they ought to reserve only for their enemies, and which finally often proves the ruin of its heedless possessor: so it hath ever been."

"I will hasten to him," said Conrad; "I will plainly remind him of all you have done and suffered for him; and then he will treat you as well as he did before."

"You forget," replied Eckart, "that they have pronounced us traitors: we had better seek refuge together quickly in some foreign land, where we shall, perhaps, be more fortunate than here."

"What, father, in your old age!--and will you turn your back upon our sweet home? Let us rather try any way but this," said Conrad. "I will see the Duke of Burgundy; I will appease and make him friendly to us; for what harm can he do _me_, though he does hate and fear you?"

"I do not like to let you go," replied Eckart; "for my mind misgives me sadly; yet I should like to be reconciled to him, for he was once my kind friend, and for the sake of your poor brother, who is lingering in prison, or perhaps dead."

The sun was now casting its last wild beams upon the green earth; and Eckart sat down, absorbed in deep thought, leaning against the root of a tree. He looked at Conrad earnestly a long while, and at length said, "If you will go, my son, then go now, before the night gathers in: the lights are already up, you see, in the windows of the duke's castle. I can hear the trumpets sounding at a distance for the festival;--perhaps his son's bride is arrived, and he may feel more friendly disposed towards us."

His son was instantly on his way; yet he parted with him unwillingly, for he no longer put any faith in his own good fortune or the duke's gratitude. Young Conrad was bold and hopeful; doubting nothing but that he should touch the duke's heart, who had heretofore caressed him on his knees.

"Art thou sure thou wilt come back to me, my sweetest child?" cried the old man; "for were I to lose thee, I have seen thee for the last time--the last of thy race." His young son then kissed and comforted him, promising that he would be with him very soon; and they separated.

Conrad knocked at the castle-gate, and was admitted. The aged Eckart remained seated where he was, exposed to the night-winds, all alone. "And I have lost him too; I am sure I have lost him." He cried bitterly in his solitude, "These eyes will never rest upon his dear face again." While thus lamenting, he saw an old wayfaring man leaning upon his crutch, and trying, at great hazard, to make his way down the mountain. A precipice yawned beneath him; and Eckart, aware of his danger, went and took him by the hand. "Whither are you going?" he inquired, as he assisted him down to the place where he had himself sat.

The old man sat down, and wept till the tears ran over his furrowed cheeks. Eckart sought to comfort him with gentle advice; but the other seemed too much afflicted to pay attention to him.

"What terrible calamity can it be that thus overpowers you?" inquired Eckart. "Only try to speak."

"Alas, my children!" exclaimed the aged man.

Then Eckart again thought of Conrad, of Heins, and Dietrich, and became himself inconsolable.

"I say nothing," he added, "if your children are all dead; for then your grief is, indeed, great."

"Oh, worse than dead!" exclaimed the other. "No, they are not dead," he repeated in a still more bitter voice; "but they are lost to me for ever! Yea, would to Heaven that they were only dead!"

The good old hero almost shrieked at hearing these words, and besought the unhappy father to explain so horrible a mystery: to which the latter replied, "We live in a wonderful world; and these are strange times. Surely the last dreaded day cannot be far from hand; for alarming signs and omens are daily abroad, threatening the world more and more. All evil things seem to have broken loose beyond their ancient boundaries, and rage and destroy on every side. The fear of God restrains us not--there is no foundation for any thing good; evil spirits walk in the broad day, and boldly scare the good away from us, or celebrate their nightly orgies in their unholy retreats. O my dear sir, we are grown grey in the world, but not old enough for such prodigious things. Doubtless you have seen the great comet--Heaven's portentous lightning in the sky, which glares so prophetically down upon us. Every one forebodes disasters; but none think of reforming their lives in order to escape the threatened evil. As if this, too, were not enough, the ancient earth discovers her trouble, and casts up her mysterious secrets from the deep, while that portentous light serves to reveal them from above. And, hark! have you never heard of the strange mountain which the people round call Venus-berg?"

"No, never," said Eckart, "though I have travelled far and wide here around the hills."

"At that I wonder much," replied the old man; "for the dreadful thing is now become as well known as it is true: for that, good sir, is the very mountain whither the devils fled for refuge in the centre of the earth, when the holy Christian faith began to wax strong, and pressed hard upon the heathen idols. There, they now say, that fatal goddess Venus holds her unblest orgies; whither the infernal powers of worldly lust and ambition, and all forbidden wishes, come trooping in myriads for their prey; so that the whole mountain hath become forsaken and accursed from time immemorial."

"On what side lies the mountain?" inquired Eckart.

"There is the mystery; it is a secret," whispered the old man, "which those who know dare not tell, and none know but those who are in the power of our great adversary; and indeed none but wicked persons will ever venture the discovery. Once only a wandering musician by miracle appeared again; but he came commissioned by the powers of darkness to traverse the world; and he plays strange notes upon a pipe--sounds which are heard to echo first in the distance, then more loud and sweet. Those who approach too close within his sphere are seized with a strange unaccountable delirium; and away they run in search of the mountain, heedless of every obstacle, and never weary--never satisfied until they gain the fatal summit, which opens for them, and whence there is no return. Their supernatural strength forsakes them only in the infernal abode; when they continue wandering round its unhallowed precincts like unblest pilgrims, without the least hope of salvation. I lost all hope of comfort in my two sons long ago: they grew wilful and abandoned; they despised their parents, and our holy faith itself. Then they began to hear the strange music; and they are now fled far into the hills--the inhabited world is too narrow for them; and they will never stop until they reach the boundless regions below." And the old man wrung his hands.

"And what do you think of doing in this matter?"

"What should I do?--with this crutch, my only support, I have set out in pursuit of them, being determined either to find them or to die."

At these words he rose with a resolute effort, and hastened forward as fast as his feeble steps could bear him, as if fearful of losing a moment; while Eckart gazed after him with a look of pity, lamenting his useless anxiety and sorrows yet to come.

"To all his other evils," cried Eckart, "even madness itself does not seem to have brought any relief."

Night came, and passed away;--the morning broke, yet no signs of young Conrad. The old warrior wandered among the hills, and cast his eyes wistfully towards the castle; still no one appeared. Then he heard a tumult, as if proceeding from the place; and, unable to restrain his anxiety, he at last mounted his steed that was grazing near, and rode hastily towards the castle. He no longer disguised himself, but spurred boldly among the troops and pages surrounding the castle-gates, not one of whom ventured to stop or lay a hand upon him. All opened to him a path.

"Where is my son Conrad?" inquired the old hero, as he advanced.

"Inquire nothing," said one of the pages, casting down his eyes: "it would only grieve you;--better turn back."

"And Dietrich," added the old man,--"where is he?"

"Mention his name no more," said an aged knight, "the duke's rage was kindled, and he thought to punish you through him."

Hot scorn flushed the face of the old hero when he heard these words; grief and fury took possession of him, and he rode through the castle-gates with speed. All opened a way for him with fear and reverence; and he soon threw himself from his horse at the palace-doors. With trembling step he mounted into the marble halls.

"Am I here," he cried, "in the dwelling of the man who was once my friend?" He tried to collect his thoughts; but dreadful visions seemed to rise before him: and he staggered wildly into the duke's presence.

Not aware of his arrival, Burgundy uttered a cry of alarm, as he found himself confronted with the old man. "Art thou the Duke of Burgundy?" asked the old hero.

The duke replied, "I am."

"And hast thou caused my son Dietrich to die?"

The duke answered, "Yes."

"And my youngest boy! my Conrad!--was not he too good and beautiful for thy sword?--hast thou killed him too?"

"I have," said the duke again.

And Eckart replied, as he shed tears, "Oh, say not that! say not that, Burgundy!--for I cannot bear those words: recall them. Say, at least, that it repents you of all you have done; and I will yet try to take comfort, though you have now done your worst to break my heart."

The duke answered, "Away! thou faithless traitor! hence from my sight! thou art the bitterest enemy I have on the face of the earth."

Eckart stood firm, and said, "Heretofore thou didst call me thy best friend; but good thoughts are now become strange to thee. Never did I aught against thy honour: nay, I have revered and loved thee as my true prince, so help me God! or here, with this hand upon my good sword, I could take speedy and bitter vengeance for all my wrongs. But no; I will for ever banish myself from your presence, and end my few and evil days in solitude and woe."

Having uttered these sad words, Eckart turned away; while Burgundy, agitated with hateful passions, called aloud for his pages and his lancers, who surrounded the old hero, and followed him with the points of their spears out of the duke's palace; none venturing, though at their lord's command, to put him to death.

Away he spurred at speed,
Eckart that noblest knight;
And spoke, "No more I heed
The world, nor wrong, nor right.

My sons are gone, and I
Am left to mourn alone;
My prince would have me die;
And friends I have not one."

Then made he to the woods,
And with full heart did strive
To bear his dismal moods--
To bear his woes and live.

"I fly man's hated face!
Ye mountains, lakes, and trees,
Be now my resting-place,
And join your tears to these.

No child beguiles my grief;
Their lives were sworn away;
Their days were all too brief--
My last one they did slay!"

Thus wild did Eckart weep,
Till mind and sense were gone;
Then madly down the steep
He spurr'd his true steed on.

He bounded, leaped, and fell,
Yet Eckart took no heed;
But said it was right well,
Though sadly he did bleed.

He next ungirt his horse,
And lay down on the ground;
And wish'd it had happ'd worse--
That he his grave had found.

None of the duke's peasantry could say whither the faithful Eckart had fled; for he had taken to the wild mountain-woods, and been seen by no human being. The duke dreaded his great courage and prudence, and he repented that he had not secured him, blaming his pages that they had suffered him to escape. Yet, to make his mind more easy, he proceeded at the head of a large train, as if going to the chase; being determined to ride through all the surrounding hills and woods until he should find the spot where Eckart had concealed himself, and there put him to death.

His followers spread themselves abroad on all sides, and vied with each other in the hope of pleasing the prince, and reaping the reward of their evil deed; but the day passed, and the sun went down, without their discovering any traces of him they sought.

A storm was now gathering, and the great clouds came darkling over the woods and hills; the thunder began to peal along the sky; the lightning flashed athwart the heavens, smiting the largest oaks; while torrents of rain fell upon their heads. The duke and his followers ran for shelter among the rocks and caves; but the duke's steed burst his reins, and ran headlong down the heights; while his master's voice was lost in the uproar of the storm, and separated from all his followers, he called out in vain for assistance.

Wild as the animals of the forest, poor Eckart had wandered, unconscious now of his sorrows or whither he went. Roots and berries, with the water of the mountain-spring, formed his sole refreshment: he would no longer have known any of his former acquaintance; the day of his despair seemed at length to have gone by. Yet no! As the storm increased, he suddenly seemed to recover some portion of his intellect, and to become aware of objects around him. Then he uttered a loud cry of horror, tore his hair, and beat his aged breast, as he bethought himself of his children. "Dear as the life-blood of my heart," he cried, "whither, my sweet boys, are ye all gone? Oh, foul befell my coward spirit that hath not yet avenged ye! Why smote I not your fell destroyer, who hath pierced my heart through and through, worse than with a thousand daggers? Mad wretch that I am! I deserve it all--all; for well may your tyrant murderer despise me, when I oppose not the assassin of my own children. Ah, would that he might once come within the reach of my arm!--for now I long, when it is all too late, to taste the sweetness of revenge."

Thus he spent the night, wandering, and weeping as he went. At last he thought he heard a distant voice of some one crying for help. He turned his steps towards the direction in which it came; and finally he approached a man, whom the darkness hid from his sight, though he heard his voice close to him. This voice beseeched him piteously to guide a stranger into the right path. Eckart shrieked as it again fell upon his ear--he knew it; and he seized his sword. He prepared to cut down the assassin of his children--he felt new strength--and drew nigh, in the hope of full vengeance; when suddenly his oath of fealty, and all his former promises, when he was the duke's friend, came across his mind. Instead of piercing him to the heart, he took the duke's hand, and promised to lead him into the right path. They passed along conversing together, although the duke trembled with fear and cold. Soon they met some one. It was Wolfram, the duke's page, who had been long in search of his master. It was still dark night--not a star cast its feeble rays through the thick black clouds. The duke felt very weak, and sighed to reach some habitation, to refresh himself and repose; besides, he was in dread of encountering the enraged Eckart, whose strange feigned voice he did not yet know. He feared he should hardly survive till morning, and trembled at every fresh blast of wind that shook the trees, or the thunder as it rolled more awfully above their heads. "My good Wolfram," cried the duke, "mount this lofty fir, and cast a keen glance around thee to discover some light--whether from house or hut it boots not, so that we can but live to reach it."

The page obeyed at his life's risk, as the storm bent the strongest branches of the huge tree as if it had been a tender reed. Its topmost boughs sometimes nearly touched the ground; while the boy appeared little more than an acorn growing on a branch of the tree. At length he cried out, "In the plain below us there I perceive a glimmering--I can see the way we ought to go." At the same time he carefully descended, and took the lead. In a short while the friendly light greeted the eyes of all three--the very sight of which greatly restored the fallen spirits of the duke.

Absorbed within himself, Eckart uttered not a word. He walked along, striving with the bitter feelings that rose in his breast, leading the duke by the hand.

At length the page knocked at the cottage-door; and an infirm old woman appeared. When they had entered, Eckart loosed the duke's hand, whom he had led along; and the latter fell trembling upon his knees, to return Heaven thanks for his deliverance from the perils of that terrific night.

Eckart retired into a dark corner; where he found, stretched in sleep, the same old man who shortly before had been bewailing his unhappy fate in regard to his sons, whom he was then in search of.

The duke having finished his prayers, thus spoke:--"This has indeed appeared a miraculous night to me. I feel the goodness and almighty power of God more than ever I had before reason to do. Yet my heart hath failed within me, and I feel that I must shortly die; only wishing for time, before I depart, to entreat forgiveness for my manifold sins and offences against the Most High; but I will take care to reward you both, my faithful companions, before I go, and that as handsomely as I can. To thee, my trusty page, I bequeath the two castles which lie close to the next mountain here, on condition that, in remembrance of this terrific night, thou dost in future call them the Tannenhaeuser, or Fir-houses.--And who art thou, good man, that hast laid thy weary limbs in the corner? Come forth, that I may reward thee quickly, according to thy great services and many kind offices shewn me during this terrific night."

Then up rose Eckart, like a thing
That starts from out the dim moonlight;
His furrowed cheek betrays the sting
Of many a woful day and night.

The soul of Burgundy sighed sore
To witness thus that aged face;
The blood forsook his veins--he tore
His hair, and swooned for dire disgrace.

They raise him from the low cold ground,
His limbs and temples warmly chafe:
"Then, O my God, at last he's found,"
He cried; "true Eckart's here--he's safe.

O whither shall I fly thy look?
Was't thou didst bring me from the wood?
And was it I thy dear babes struck--
Thou that to me hast been so good?"

And Burgundy, as thus he said,
He felt his heart was breaking fast;
On Eckart's breast he laid his head,
And thought he there would breathe his last.

His senses fled! Then Eckart spoke:
"I reck not, master, of their fate--
That so the world may see, though broke,
True Eckart's heart's yet true and great."

Thus passed the night. In the morning the followers of the duke arrived, and found him very sick. They placed him upon their mules, and carried him back to his castle. Eckart stirred not from his side; and often the duke took his hand, and, pressing it to his bosom, looked up at him imploringly; when Eckart would embrace him, and speak soft words of comfort till he was again still. The duke next called together his council, and declared that such was his confidence in his faithful Eckart, the bravest and noblest of all his land, that he would leave him governor of his sons. Having said which, he died.

Eckart then took the reins of government into his own hands, fulfilling the trust reposed in him in such a humane and prudent way as to excite the admiration of all the country. Shortly afterwards, the report spread more and more on all sides, of the arrival of the strange musician from Venus-berg, who seduced his victims with the strange sweetness of his tones; so that they disappeared without leaving a trace behind. Many gave credit to the report--others not; while Eckart again bethought him of the unhappy old man whom he had seen so forlorn and crazed upon the mountain.

"I have now adopted you as my children," he said to the young princes, as he one day sat with them on the bill before the castle; "your happiness is now become my inheritance; I shall continue to survive, after my departure, in your welfare and your good conduct."