III
HOW THE KNIGHT SANG
The Lady Adelaide found small satisfaction for her curiosity so far as her niece was concerned, but she set her damsel Elsa to collect whatever information might be obtained from the knight's little retinue. Elsa, she knew from experience, might be trusted to gather whatever gossip was afloat about the castle, and to repeat it in a lively and entertaining fashion. But on the present occasion even the skilful Elsa failed to elicit much from the taciturn men-at-arms of Baron von Waldstein, and she could in the end report to her mistress little beyond the fact that the baron was travelling southward, though whether to join the court or army of the Great Emperor or for some private expedition did not appear.
Of his wealth there could be no question when the very bridles of his horses were set with jewels over which the eyes of the Rittenberg servants grew large and round with astonishment and admiration; while from the respect of his men it was evident that he was accustomed to being served as are only those who are born with the right to command. The sick retainer had under the care of the leech recovered somewhat from the severity of his first attack, and his disorder had been pronounced nothing contagious, – a point upon which the Lady Adelaide had been much exercised, – with the opinion of the leech that it would be necessary for him to rest a couple of days before continuing his journey.
Lady Adelaide was forced to be content with this scant information until the assembling of the family at dinner gave her an opportunity of observing the stranger for herself. She came into the hall with her niece prepared to subject the guest to a searching examination, such as she knew herself to be abundantly able to conduct; but for almost the only time in her life the ancient dame found herself from the first moment so completely under the spell of the stranger that she gave herself up unquestioningly to the charm of his presence and his conversation, without even an attempt to force him to give an account of himself.
Nor was she alone in this infatuation. Both Father Christopher and the Countess Erna were as strongly impressed with the singular fascination of the baron. There was about him a contagious joyousness, an exhilarating fulness of life, as if he had drunk from some fountain of youth, and shed about him the influence of his superabundant vitality. Doubtless the unusual vigor and manly beauty of the knight contributed much to this result; but back of these seemed to lie some rare and powerful quality in the nature of the man himself which was more effective than either. It would have been impossible to analyze his charm, but it was also impossible to resist it.
The talk at the table was so animated and full of frank gayety that they lingered by common though unspoken consent far beyond the usual time. The baron had throughout addressed himself to the whole company, seldom speaking directly to Erna, although he now and then appealed to the Lady Adelaide or to Father Christopher; and yet the countess was subtly conscious that in all he said there was a secret intention of interesting herself. She blushed as this thought came to her after she had retired to her chamber and sat over her embroidery, while the priest and the knight were left to entertain each other. So unsophisticated was she that this thought seemed almost unmaidenly, and she contradicted it as soon as it showed itself in her mind.
She was a maid with soul as white as the unspotted ermine. She had been bred under the eye of Father Christopher, – a priest who was also a man, and one of rare insight. She was as ignorant of evil as one must be who had lived ever in seclusion, and her temperament naturally inclined toward piety. Something of an education she had received from the priest. She could read; and there were in the castle several pious books, most of them, it is to be feared, looted by the late Count von Rittenberg on the day of some victory of the Great Emperor in the south at which he had assisted. Over these parchments, mostly religious works, although a wicked volume of the heathen poet Ovid had somehow chanced among them, Erna passed much time. The brilliant scroll of Ovid, with its profane pictures, at which she had never looked more than in a single glance that showed her what they were like, she had hidden away after a consultation with Father Christopher whether it should not be destroyed despite its value.
The colored threads of her embroidery that afternoon were scarcely more bright than the thoughts which floated through Erna's brain as she sat among her maidens, directing their work; and yet in her mind was no thought which was consciously different from those of the day before or of all the days that had preceded; only that now suddenly all those days appeared, as she looked back, somehow colorless and dull. She did not say to herself that the coming of the stranger knight had suddenly put new meaning into life, but her secret heart knew it, albeit she had yet to understand what her heart felt.
When that night she came into the great hall for supper, a lily-white maid in soul as well as robe, the eyes of the baron glowed as he looked at her. There was in his glance an adoration such as a noble dog might give to his mistress, a tender appeal as of one who beseeches a higher being to take pity upon him; and Father Christopher, who observed closely whatever concerned the countess, sighed as he looked, and secretly shook his head.
The talk at supper touched upon hunting, and the eyes of the baron sparkled as he said:
"Ah! when the wild boar turns on thee, and there is only thy spear-head between thee and his tusks, that is pleasure! That sends the blood through one's veins, and makes the heart tingle!"
Erna shuddered.
"I cannot understand how it can be pleasure," she said, "to put one's life in danger, or to take the life of a beast that has never injured thee."
Baron Albrecht regarded her in some surprise.
"I have never thought of that," he returned frankly. "Why should one consider the beasts? They are made for our sport, are they not?"
"I know you men think so," she responded with a smile; "but I cannot bear that they should suffer for my amusement."
The guest still looked puzzled, and apparently was on the point of questioning further, when Lady Adelaide, evidently fearing lest the words of her niece might offend the baron or give him the idea that Erna was full of strange fancies, said quickly:
"And yet thou canst sing very prettily of the hunting. Let us get nearer the fire, and thou shalt sing for us now. Beshrew me, but this storm is enough to freeze one's bones."
The night had indeed darkened into a storm such as it was unusual to experience at that time of year. Outside the castle turrets they could hear the wind and rain beating, and all the wild uproar of the tempest, as it howled and raged along over the wood. They drew close about the broad hearth, where a cheerful fire had been lighted, despite the fact that the month was June; and in accordance with her aunt's wish, Erna took her lute and sang a gay little ditty in praise of hunting.
"I do not mean it," she protested as she ended, and smiled in pleasant fashion, as if it were his opinion which she was anxious should be set right.
"Perhaps," Father Christopher said, "thou also canst sing, Sir Baron? If so, it will delight us to hear thee."
The request was warmly seconded by Lady Adelaide. Erna said nothing.
"Is it thy wish that I should sing?" the stranger knight asked, turning toward her.
She flushed a little as she answered in the affirmative, and then said to herself that her confusion arose from the fact that there was so seldom any need to consult her wish in such a matter that the attention seemed unusual.
The knight took the lute, which in his large and strong hands looked absurdly out of place, yet which he handled with a great deal of dexterity, and after a brief prelude began in a voice of wonderful richness to sing
THE KOBOLD'S SONG
The kobold's life is full of glee.
For him the forest is made;
For him the leaf swells on the tree,
The fount wells in the glade.
Well he knows every nook,
Every pool where the brook
Breeds him trout in the sun or the shade;
Where the wild berries grow,
Where the cool waters flow;
Where dappled deer hide them
With sleek fawns beside them;
And where the wood-dove's eggs are laid.
He knows the hidden mountain mine
Where wondrous jewels lie;
The caves in which their glorious shine
Dazzles his feasting eye;
He heaps up the red gold
Till his treasures untold
Would the souls of a multitude buy!
All the wealth of the earth
Is his dower from birth.
Who can strength with him measure?
Who baffle his pleasure?
What kings with his riches can vie?
When winds rush whistling through the wood,
The kobold's merry heart bounds;
For well he knows the bugle good
That calls up horse and hounds.
The Wild Huntsman rides past
On the wings of the blast,
And the forest with tumult resounds;
The blithe wood-elves are there,
With the sprites of the air;
And as faster and faster
They follow their master,
He joins in their turbulent rounds!
The baron would have sung further in his wild praises of the life of the race of forest sprites with whom his verse dealt, but he was interrupted by the Lady Adelaide, who crossed herself fervently, exclaiming:
"Now beshrew me, Sir Baron, but it is ill to speak of the Wild Huntsman on a night like this when he may be abroad. Heaven send he be not near enough to the castle to have heard your song!"
The singer stared at her an instant in silent amazement, and then broke into a peal of golden-throated laughter, which was hardly as respectful as was the due of a person of the age and quality of the old dame.
"By my sword," he cried, "it is, then, really true that thou art afraid of the Wild Huntsman! I give thee my word that he is far too much engaged in his pleasure to bother his head about what may be said of him."
It was the turn of the company to stare at the speaker, who seemed to realize that his words might seem strange to them, for instantly he hastened to apologize, and laying aside the lute endeavored to give a new turn to the conversation by a reference to the talk which had taken place at table. But the priest, with a gentle smile, brought him back to the song.
"It is a heathenish ditty, Sir Baron," he said, "with which thou hast favored us, if thou wilt allow me to say so. The treasures of the little men of the hills are doubtless mighty, if half that is said of them be true; but when they boast that their gold can buy the souls of men, they claim too much."
The guest regarded the speaker with a new look of interest and respect; but as he made no reply, Father Christopher continued:
"It is said that often the little men, and the Devil who is in league with them, have tried to entice men to barter their souls for gold; but even if they succeed, it is the Evil One to whom the soul goes, and the kobolds are no richer."
"That is indeed true," the knight responded gravely. "The soul is a curious thing, and the kobolds can have little idea of what it is like. Indeed," he continued, after a moment's pause in which the others regarded him in wonder, "dost thou not suppose, Father, that a kobold might think he were better off for escaping a responsibility so heavy as that of a soul?"
The priest looked at him in gentle reproof, while the Lady Adelaide again crossed herself with the air of being not a little scandalized.
"Perhaps a kobold, who has no soul, might have such a thought," Father Christopher said; "but it is strange that it should come into Christian heads like ours, my son. It grieves me that thou shouldst harbor such fancies."
"Nay," interposed Erna, softly, "I am sure our guest meant no harm. To beings so unhappy as not to know the glory of having a soul, very likely it has been kindly permitted not to realize how melancholy their case is. They are like the animals."
The eyes of the knight were fixed on her face with an intense gaze of wistful longing, and had her earnestness been less she must have blushed under their fire. As it was, she remembered, after she had lain down upon her bed, the look which the baron bent upon her as she thus spoke in his behalf. She rose with the words, and after bidding the guest goodnight, withdrew with Lady Adelaide, leaving the priest to sit over the dying fire with the baron as long as suited their mutual pleasure.
IV
HOW HE REMAINED TO WOO
The stay of the Baron von Waldstein at the castle prolonged itself from day to day. At first there was the continued illness of the man-at-arms, which did not yield to the remedies of the leech as quickly as was to be expected; then there was one pretext after another; and in the end there was no pretext at all, save that the guest was loath to depart and the folk at Rittenberg wished him to remain.
He was like a great, sunny, jovial comrade in the castle; and his presence seemed to change the whole atmosphere of the household. Before his coming the Lady Adelaide had seemed to be the dominant spirit because she most asserted herself. The gentle, quiet chatelaine, absorbed in the half-mystical contemplation which had been encouraged by the life she led and nourished upon the pious writings that formed her little library, had allowed the reins of government to rest undisturbed in the hands of her aunt; seldom interfering unless the matter were really serious. She was known among the few peasants that were scattered through the neighborhood as the "White Lady," and the charcoal-burners of the forest would almost have said their prayers to her with as much confidence and reverence as to the Holy Virgin herself, so pure and saintly did she seem to them.
As to Father Christopher, he was of a nature too kindly and easy-going to interfere with the domination of anybody. The good priest was full of simple faith, of genial, sane belief in God and man; he had confidence in the higher nature which he believed to lurk in every human creature, no matter how hidden it might have become by the overlaying of worldliness or of sin; while in all desperate cases he fell back upon an implicit trust in the efficacy of the Church, – an unshaken rock in the midst of the tempests which he had seen rend the whole world in the troublous times in which he lived.
The countess would have found it impossible to define the pleasure she experienced in the society of Baron Albrecht, had she attempted to express it, but she went no further than to say to herself and to her aunt that he was by far the most pleasing man she had ever seen. The careful student of events, had such an one been present, might have found food for thought in the mutual influence which the hostess and her guest exercised on each other. No one could see them together and fail to appreciate the fact that Erna affected the baron profoundly. He had often, it was true, the appearance of failing fully to understand much that she said and did, but he evidently regarded her with a feeling akin to reverence, and it was even possible to perceive that through his interest in what she did and was he grew more thoughtful and earnest.
The effect of the stranger upon Erna was even more marked, perhaps because it showed itself in outward acts rather than by the signs of inward changes. She took up various habits and sports which were calculated directly to please Von Waldstein; riding with him through the forest, and even standing to watch him setting out for the hunt, a pastime which she had hitherto held as cruel, although from old the Von Rittenbergs had been famous hunters. The alteration in her was subtle, but it was real. Father Christopher viewed it with mingled surprise and doubt. Lady Adelaide, on the other hand, was naturally delighted with a change which brought her niece more near to her own worldly views; and while she was too clever to praise openly the course of Erna, she found ways of lending her aid to the helping forward of the work which the mere presence of Baron Albrecht seemed to be effecting.
One lovely summer day, when all the forest was filled with sweet breath of balsamic odors, the perfume of flowers, and the gentle coolness of the breeze which brought both to the riders as they passed along the paths of the wood, Countess Erna and Baron Albrecht rode through its ways, now full of golden sunshine and now dim with delicious shadow, to a mountain tarn, set in the wooded hills like a gleaming gem. Blue as a sapphire under the clear sky stretched the lake, all the surrounding hills reflected in its surface, while along its shores the wild flowers bloomed in rich profusion; the clustering primrose, the dazzling white thistle, now fading beneath the fervid suns of summer, and the blue forget-me-nots, dear to lovers.
The ride had been a long one; and when the lake was reached the countess dismounted from her palfrey to rest. She seated herself upon a bank of greensward where she could overlook the smooth blue lake, and Baron Albrecht threw himself upon the ground at her feet, looking rather at her than at the water. Behind them the wind murmured in the pine-tops, chanting the song which is never done, but which rises ever from the heart of the Schwarzwald as the wail of the ocean rises continually from its beating waves: the yearning of the wild races of beings who live and die in its mysterious recesses; the cries of the beasts who perish without understanding the strange secrets hidden in the shadows of the wood, secrets which men feel with awe, but which even they cannot fathom.
Erna was conscious of the spell of the forest, and the tones of the song in the pine-tops rang in her ears with powerful appealing; but she was secure in the protecting presence of her companion, and she was more deeply still conscious of the earnestness of his gaze. So closely did Albrecht regard her that without comprehending her own feelings, she began to be embarrassed; and at last to cover her confusion she said:
"Didst thou know that where we see a lake there was once a noble convent, surrounded by beautiful gardens and even with fair pleasure-grounds?"
The knight looked from his companion to the blue tarn below them.
"But where?" he asked.
"Where the lake is. It was the richest and the most influential convent in all the Ober-Schwarzwald. All the nuns were of noble birth, and all had brought with them rich dowries to the convent. But they were wicked nuns; for Father Christopher says that even nuns and monks may be wicked. They feasted and sported and flew falcons, and there was only one in all the convent, a poor little novice whose betrothed had been killed, and whose heart was broken, that was not given over to sin."
"Is it a sin, then, to be happy?" asked Albrecht, smiling up at her from his station at her feet.
"Oh, no; not for us. But they were nuns, vowed to Heaven."
"I never could understand," he began with a puzzled face; then he broke off suddenly. "No matter!" he said. "Go on with thy story. What became of the convent?"
"The Lady Abbess," Erna continued, "was worst of all there; and on her birth-night she made a great feast for all the nuns. They sat and drank wine, and out of doors there was a bitter, bitter storm. And just at midnight there came a knocking at the gate. The Lady Abbess, flushed with wine, told the little novice, who would neither eat nor drink herself, to go and see who was there. So the little novice went, and found an old, old man, all drenched with the rain, and weak with hunger and cold. So she went to the Lady Abbess, and begged that she might be allowed to let the old man in, lest he perish with cold and hunger before morning."
"Why should she care?" the knight asked, as Erna paused and looked over the dark-blue lake as if she could see the scene she described.
"Oh, I told thee that she was not wicked like the rest."
"But would it be wicked not to care for a worthless, broken-down old man that one never saw before?"
The countess smiled upon him.
"When thou askest me questions like that," she responded, "I know that thou art laughing at me or trying to tease me."
A strange look flitted across the face of the baron, but he only replied by a smile.
"But the Lady Abbess," went on Erna, determined to finish the tale she had begun, "would not allow the gates to be opened. 'Thou mayest throw him down thy bread, if thou choosest,' she told the little novice; 'but thou wilt get no more in its place.' So the little novice wrapped the bread up in the only blanket she had for her bed, and threw it down to the old pilgrim, and then she had to shut the window and leave him there in the cold. That very hour the water began to roll into the valley, though where it came from no one could tell; and it rose, and rose, and rose. And the wicked nuns ran to the top of their towers, but it was of no use, for the water rose over those until they were all drowned, and there was this lake."
"And didn't even the little novice escape?"
"Oh, yes; there came a boat, shining all like gold, and took the little novice off of the top of the tower; but when the others tried to get into it, it glided away and left them."
She crossed herself as she finished. Albrecht raised his eyes from the blue lake to the blue sky above them, and sighed, a sign of sadness Erna had never seen in him before.
"Why dost thou sigh?" she asked him.
"Because thou hast taught me to," he answered, with the wistful look of a loving animal in his eyes.
Then he laughed gleefully.
"Should not one sigh for the poor drowned nuns?" he asked.
"Yes," Erna said gravely; "they lost their souls."
"Always their souls," her companion responded impulsively. "Why is it that it is always the soul of which one speaks?"
"Because," she answered, with the same air she would have worn had his question been a reasonable one, "the soul is all; it is this which makes us different from the animals."
"And the nixies," he added; "and the undines, and the kobolds."
"Yes," she said gravely. She was silent a moment, and then added: "I do not know if it is right, but Father Christopher thinks it is no harm; I have always pitied the nixies and the kobolds. They are not so bad; and it is not their fault that they have no souls, and that they cannot be saved."
"No," he assented soberly, "it is certainly not their fault. Hast thou never heard it said," he went on, "that if one of them marries a mortal, he would win a soul?"
"Yes," she replied; "but Father Christopher does not believe that that is true."
"But if it were," he began, "wouldst thou – "
He broke off suddenly, and sprang up.
"Come," he cried, with his infectious laugh, "thou art making me as solemn as an owl. Did I talk in this sombre fashion when I came to Rittenberg?"
She did not answer save by a smile. She was aware that the knight had changed since he had been at the castle, although she did not realize what the alteration might mean. She had herself changed too much in the same time to be able to appreciate the subtile difference between what he now was and what he had been on his arrival; and she was too well content with whatever he was to study deeply over the question of the effect of her influence upon him. She rose from the grassy mound on which she had been sitting, and soon they were on their homeward way through the forest.
The day was wasting as they neared the castle, and already in the shadows of the forest the tree-trunks were black and dim. The way wound through the solemn pine-wood, rising and falling as it crossed the hills. Far above them they could see the peaks reddened by the rays of the late sun, while they rode forward in the dimness of the bridle-path below. Now and then some sudden turn in the way brought them to the crest of an elevation from which they could look far over the wide range of the tree-clad country. Spread before them were the sweeping black forests of pine, broken here and there with patches of ling and heather, as the surface of the ocean may be mottled by lighter spaces that mark where the concealed currents run.
Suddenly, as they turned a corner where the path ran along a rocky hillside, becoming so narrow that they were close together, Erna laid her hand on the arm of her companion.
"Look!" she exclaimed, pointing with the other hand.
Far, far before them, bathed in the golden light of the dying sun, lay the peaks of the Alps. White and pure as crystal the snowy summits rose toward the sky, while lower the slopes were flushed to rosy pink, or dyed to strange and lovely hues of gold and crimson and purple. From a cloud of rainbow colors soared the rosy peaks, fairer than dreams.
Erna checked her horse, and her companion did the same, although he seemed not fully to comprehend her enthusiasm.
"It is like heaven," she sighed. "Only once before in my whole life have I seen the Alps like that; they are not often to be seen from here."
Albrecht did not answer, but gazed upon the distant mountains, as if he were trying to understand why their appearance should affect his companion so strongly. As they gazed, the hues on the sides of the hills deepened; the rose and gold of the peaks faded; the white of the summits seemed to become transparent, as if one could see through them into the sky beyond; and little by little the sharp outline blended with the quickly dimming heaven against which they had stood out in relief. The shadow of the lower world crept upward; and as they stood there the glorious vision vanished. Only an empty sky where the dimness of night was growing lay in the distance before them in place of the beauty they had seen.
"It was like heaven," Erna said again, as she started her palfrey.
"Then," responded her companion, in a tone of deep gravity, "one must have a soul to appreciate it."
She turned and looked at him questioningly; but with one of those quick changes of mood which always seemed to her so surprising in so manly a knight, he burst into a merry laugh, and began in his rich voice to sing a gay hunting-song.