Albrecht

Sô gesach sie valken vliegen. Dietmar von Aist.

Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1890.

_Copyright, 1890_, BY ARLO BATES.

University Press: John Wilson And Son, Cambridge.

To _THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER_, NIRAN BATES, _AND OF MY MOTHER_, SUSAN THAXTER BATES, I Dedicate this Book; _profoundly conscious that it can bring to me no other satisfaction or honor so great as the keeping in remembrance the fact that I am their son_.

_Fore-Word._

_It must be evident to the most careless observer that the treatment of the theme with which the present story deals would probably not have taken the form it has, had "Undine" not been written before it; but it is to be hoped that "Albrecht" will not on that account be set down as an attempt either to imitate or to rival that immortal romance._

_No effort has been made to secure historical exactness, as the intent of the tale was wholly independent of this. To furnish a picture of the times was not in the least the thing sought._

_A romance can hardly fall into a more fatal error than to attempt the didactic, and there is no intention in the present story of enforcing any moral whatever; and yet the problem which lies at the heart of the tale is one which is of sufficient significance in human life to furnish a reasonable excuse for any book which, even without contributing anything to its solution, states it so that it appeals to the reader until he recognizes its deep import._

Contents.

Chapter Page

I. How One Went 11

II. How One Came 25

III. How The Knight Sang 33

IV. How He Remained To Woo 44

V. How They Discoursed Of Kisses 56

VI. How They Came To Kisses Themselves 66

VII. How The Time Wore To The Wedding Day 75

VIII. Of The Eve Before The Wedding 83

IX. Of The Wedding Morning 93

X. How They Were Wed 101

XI. How Albrecht Confessed 113

XII. How The Morgengabe Was Bestowed 125

XIII. How The Days Sped At Rittenberg 134

XIV. How The Priest Became Troubled 144

XV. How Count Stephen Returned 154

XVI. How The Count Talked And Sang 162

XVII. How They Hunted The Stag 172

XVIII. How Herr Von Zimmern Came Again 181

XIX. How Erna And Albrecht Talked Of Life 191

XX. How They Rode To Fly The Falcon 198

XXI. How Albrecht And Herr Frederich Talked In The Wood 211

XXII. How Albrecht Rode Home 225

XXIII. How Erna Suffered 234

XXIV. How Count Stephen Met Herr Frederich 242

XXV. How Father Christopher Sent For Albrecht 252

XXVI. How Albrecht And Erna Forgave Each Other 258

Albrecht.

I

How One Went.

Like a vast sea the mighty Schwarzwald stretched its forests of pine and its wide wastes of heather around Castle Rittenberg, its surface forever fretted into waves by the wind. Like the sea it seemed measureless, and the lands which lay beyond its borders appeared to the scattered dwellers in its valleys as remote as might appear the continents to the people of far islands.

Like the sea, moreover, the Schwarzwald was peopled by strange beings, of whom alike the peasant folk who dwelt upon its borders, the rude churls whose huts stood here and there in clusters in its less intractable nooks, and the nobles whose castles overtopped the wilderness of trees and bracken, went always in secret dread. In the north lurked the hordes of the Huns, the terrible barbarians who from time to time descended, hardly human, upon the fertile lands which lay beyond the borders of the forest, swarming as they went upon whatever luckless castle lay in their path. The boldest knight might well tremble at the name of the ferocious Huns, and even the army of Charlemagne himself had hardly been able to cope with this foe.

But more near at hand, and more terrible than even the Huns, were the strange creatures who abode in the forest, and who walked invisible at their will, the mysterious beings who lurked in dim recesses, and of whom men spoke only in awe-struck whispers. Even what they were it was not easy to say; and who could tell how they were offended or how to be placated? The nixies of the lakes and streams; the dwarfs and gnomes of cave and mountain; the kobolds, who were more daring and more human in appearance than either, so that haply a man might endanger not only his life but even his soul holding commerce with them, unsuspecting that they were not of his fellow mortals,--all these and many others dwelt in the shadowy recesses, and against these not even the hosts of the Great Emperor would avail.

The wind soughing all day in the pine-trees, and the weird, sweet music of the elfin harps which belated wanderers heard sounding to lure them on into blinder depths of the wood, seemed to sing the same song; but its mystery human ears might not fathom, and scarcely could human will resist its spell. In the tempest the bugles of the Wild Huntsman pealed shrilly through the storm, and the retainers at Castle Rittenberg crossed themselves at the sound almost as openly as did the damsels; but there was less danger in this than in the heavenly sweet strains which beguiled the wayfarer into forgetfulness of home and of dear ones until he joined himself to the soulless folk of the forest, and was heard of no more.

It was music of this sort, more sweet than words might tell, faint on the air as the breath of a sigh or yet again swelling full and strong as a blast from the horns when the hunt is rushing through the wood, that had of late been heard around the castle. Delicious, enervating, seductive and yet pleading, the strange melodies had seemed to surround the towers, as if throngs of invisible musicians floated in the air to bring their heavenly minstrelsy to the Countess Erna.

There had indeed been more than one token that something mysterious was forward in the forest; and although the priest of Rittenberg frowned upon all talk of the wood-spirits and their doings, the folk of the castle whispered under their breath many a wild surmise.

Mayhap it was of these things that the Countess Erna dreamed as one spring morning she sat by her open lattice, albeit she had before her a parchment from which she might be reading. From below arose the noise of horses' hoofs, the cries of grooms and pages, the clatter of spurs upon the stone pavement, and all the sounds that betoken the preparation of a troop to leave the castle. So little did she heed, however, that she seemed not to hear. So motionless was she that the doves which had perched upon the wide window-ledge in perfect fearlessness had ceased to regard her at all, and preened themselves in the sun with soft, full-throated cooings, contrasting oddly with the clamor which arose from below.

The morning sun shone gloriously, casting a flood of light through the room; and although Erna sat withdrawn from the fervor of its direct rays, she seemed to glow in the radiance like a lily golden-hearted. Her hair, yellow as the flax on a fairy's distaff, caught a stray sunbeam which stole through a crevice in the curtain-folds, and scattered the light in a hundred reflections, making of them an aureole about the graceful young head. The eyes, blue as an oker-bell, were now and then raised from the richly illuminated parchment before her, absently regarding the doves as if she saw them not, while the slender hands which held the scroll were only a little warmer in their color than the robe of snowy wool loosely confined at the waist with a golden girdle. As she sat there in the still chamber, withdrawn from the bustle of the courtyard below in mind no less than in place, there was about the countess an atmosphere of peace, of innocence, of purity, one might almost have said of holiness, that he must be dull indeed who could not feel, or who, feeling, failed to reverence.

There was little reverence, however, in the mien of the old dame who came hastily into the chamber, and broke in upon the reading and the dreaming of the Countess Erna with exclamations full of vexation.

"Body of Saint Fridolin!" she cried. "Thou sittest here reading as quietly as if thy suitor, Count Stephen, were a thousand leagues away instead of waiting below to take leave of thee. No wonder that he declares that thou hast not a drop of warm blood in thy body, as his squire reported to my damsel."

"Count Stephen is no suitor of mine," Erna responded calmly, "as no one knoweth better than thou, Aunt Adelaide. He is my guest, however, and I should be loath to fail in aught of courtesy toward him. Why have I not been summoned if he be in truth waiting?"

"Well, if he be not waiting," the old dame replied with a lower voice and some softening of manner, "he is at least ready to set out, and that is much the same thing. It would certainly look more attentive on thy part shouldst thou be in the hall when he comes to take leave rather than to wait to be sent for."

"Doubtless; but I have no wish to be attentive to Count Stephen beyond the claim of any guest."

"But Count Stephen is a member of the family."

"His connection is hardly near enough to count in this matter," Erna answered. "Dear Aunt," she continued, coming closer to the other, and laying a caressing hand lightly upon the old woman's arm, "I am sorry that thou shouldst be disappointed. I did what I could to fulfil thy wish when I bade thee have Count Stephen come here, although what we had heard of him was so little of the sort to make me long for such a guest, because I knew that more than for aught else in the world thou didst long for the perpetuation of the Von Rittenberg name by my becoming his wife. I shrank from the knight from the first moment I saw him, and never could it be that I should be brought to look upon him with favor. Happily he feels the same repugnance to me, so that I am spared the pain of telling him nay; but I cannot fail to be glad at his departure."

The old dame, who was so small and so old that she seemed to have shrivelled away in long centuries, overlooked and forgotten by the Angel of Death, was evidently moved by the caressing air of the countess; but her grievance was too deep and of too long standing to be so lightly passed over, and she could not restrain herself from the further venting of her displeasure.

"Why does he feel cold toward thee?" she demanded. "Hast thou been other than an ice-hill to him since he entered the castle? I sent for Count Stephen to come here to pay his respects to me because he is the only man alive who bears our name; and whatever thou mayst say, he bears it like a brave knight. Thou hast met him as if thou wouldst remind him that while he hath no great possessions thou art chatelaine of the richest domain in the Ober-Schwarzwald."

"Aunt Adelaide!" interrupted Erna, a flush of indignation rising in her clear cheek, "not even thou hast a right to charge me with insulting my guests."

"God's blood!" the other returned. "There spoke thy father, Heaven rest his soul! But thou knowest," she continued, softening her tone, "that I cannot live forever to have care for thee, and that I cannot die easy till thou art well wed. There are strange rumors in the air, too, and who knoweth what the music from the forest that has been heard of late may betoken? And Elsa tells me that there hath been about the place a weird creature in the guise of a man who walketh limpingly. It all bodes some wonderful thing that is to hap, and I would to the saints that Rittenberg had a man to defend it, whatever may befall."

The entrance of a servant who announced that the Count von Rittenberg was now in truth waiting to take leave, interrupted Lady Adelaide, and brought her at once to a request which had been in her shrewd mind ever since she learned that the guest was likely to set off without having made that proffer for the hand of Erna to secure which she had invited him to the castle.

"At least this thou canst do to please me," she said; "thou canst invite him to rest here on his way back from Strasburg, whither he is journeying."

"It will be idle for thy project, Aunt," the countess answered kindly; "but if it will please thee I will do it."

The old aunt looked after the slender maiden as she left the chamber, and sighed. The Lady Adelaide was almost a century old, and she had lived to see one generation after another fall around her like snowflakes that are a moment in the air and then are seen no more. She felt that upon her rather than upon her niece rested the burden of preserving the honor of the house of Von Rittenberg, and she could but feel keenly the failure of her schemes for the perpetuation of the line and the name. She had been accustomed, moreover, to being obeyed. For three generations she had held an important place in the councils of the family, even her imperious grand-nephew, the father of the Countess Erna, having been accustomed to consult her in matters of importance. She was not without a feeling of indignant surprise that her plans should be disregarded, and perhaps this helped her to endure the genuine sorrow which she felt whenever she thought of the possibility of the failure of the family name.

The late count had fallen fighting in the place of honor in the advance guard of the Great Emperor, at the head of the corps of Suabians whose valor inspired in Charlemagne so warm an admiration. So high had Count von Rittenberg stood in the favor of the emperor that a special messenger had been despatched by Charlemagne's order to bear the knight's sword and shield to his family with rich tokens of the royal favor and expressions of sympathy. But not even this great honor could prevent the shock from breaking the heart of his young wife, just recovering from the birth of her first child, the present countess; and Erna was thus left doubly orphaned while yet in her cradle.

During her infancy and girlhood Erna had been under the guardianship of the Lady Adelaide, who seemed to hold the infirmities of age at bay with a success little short of a miracle. The retainers believed her to be in possession of some secret by means of which she preserved her vigor; and many were the uncanny whispers which circulated through the castle concerning her. Father Christopher, the chaplain of the Von Rittenberg household, had more than once set himself to combat these rumors; but the Lady Adelaide herself never exhibited any annoyance if she chanced to hear them hinted at, and indeed seemed not ill-pleased that she should enjoy a reputation which so lifted her above the rest of her fellow mortals.

The marriage of Erna and Count Stephen von Rittenberg was a project which had long occupied the thoughts of the Lady Adelaide. The count belonged to a younger branch of the family which had settled near the Lake of Constance half a century before, and lorded it over a petty colony of boatmen whose settlement was called Schaffhausen from their boat-sheds. There had never been very cordial relations between the two branches, and Count Stephen would never have been sought out by his aged relative had not her desire to perpetuate the Von Rittenberg name overcome her traditional scorn of the "Schaffleute," as the Schaffhausen Von Rittenbergs were contemptuously called by the elder branch. The count had a reputation not of the best, it was unhappily true; but he was at least a Von Rittenberg, and that outweighed all other considerations in the mind of the old matchmaker. She had invited him to visit her, taking care that he should understand that he was to be considered in the light of a possible candidate for the hand of the heiress of Rittenberg, and it was with sincere regret as well as vexation that she saw her scheming come to naught.

From the first the repulsion had been mutual between the countess and her guest. He was by no means insensible to the advantages of the match, which offered him the lordship of the richest holding in all the Schwarzwald, confirmed to the Von Rittenbergs by special decree of Charlemagne himself, but he was a man accustomed to consider his inclinations in all things and first of all things; so that when he found the countess not to his liking, he pushed the affair no further. He was a man to whom life meant sensuous pleasure; and Erna, in her white innocence, her purity and devotion, failed to please him. He found her cold and tediously religious, and instinctively felt that the presence of a wife with her standards of conduct would be a perpetual rebuke to his pleasure-loving life.

On her side Erna shrank from the count without understanding why. The taint of evil was on him, and her pure maidenly sense was offended without comprehending how. She felt in a way degraded by his very presence; the bold, curious looks with which he regarded her affected her like an affront. Her instinctive purity was repelled by the sensual atmosphere which he created wherever he came. She could not have explained even to herself what she felt, but it was impossible for her to endure his presence save by the strongest effort. It was with a feeling of relief that she passed down the long hall to say good-by to him; and even the fact that she had promised her aunt to ask him to return did not at the moment trouble her, since his return seemed too uncertain and remote to weigh against the present departure. The Lady Adelaide, with a diplomacy which was wholly wasted, had herself taken leave of Count Stephen earlier, to the end that her niece might receive his farewell alone.

There was short speech between the guest and his hostess, neither of whom wished to prolong the interview; and hardly ten minutes from the time she had left it, Erna re-entered her chamber. She took up the scroll she had been reading, a copy of the writings of Saint Cuthbert, but paused before she opened it to look out at the train of the departing guest, which was already in motion. She watched it cross the drawbridge and wind down the side of the hill upon which the castle stood; and after it had vanished, with its glitter of armor, flash of helmet, gay flutter of pennant and waving of plumes, into the obscurity of the pine forest below, which swallowed up the troop and hid its further progress from sight, she leaned wistfully upon the window-ledge, buried in thought. She was wondering if she were different from other maidens, that her heart had not been touched, but that she had rather been repelled by the handsome knight who had just left her; and she half doubted whether he had not been right in likening her to a human iceberg.

Suddenly her reverie was broken by the shrill, clear blast of a horn, which arose from the pine wood below, and came soaring upward like the piercingly sweet song of a bird that pours its whole heart out singing and straining its flight toward the blue heaven.

The sound broke in upon her revery as if it were a summons from some of the mysterious powers whose home was in the forest. Often as she had heard a bugle hailing the warder of Rittenberg, it had never happened that there had come with the sound such a thrill as this call brought. Far stretched and weird the great Schwarzwald lay, the warm summer sun seeming to glance from its impenetrable surface, unable to pierce to the depths wherein lurked the wild woodland creatures as the nixies lurked in the lakes; and something that was half a shudder crossed her frame, as the note of that horn called up the thought of all the strange secrets which therein lay hidden. Then, with an effort, she shook off the momentary oppression, and threw her clear glance down into the valley to see whence came the call.

II

How One Came.

Erna leaned forward over the wide stone window-ledge, and turned her gaze downward to where the road, little more than a bridle-path, emerged from the obscurity of the pine wood to begin its winding ascent to the castle gate. A second blast of the bugle-horn, blown with full lungs and with a good will that seemed to promise a jocund disposition in the visitor who came thus heralded, and there rode out of the wood a knight, followed by his squire and a couple of men-at-arms.

The countess strained her eyes in a natural curiosity to discover what manner of man the forest was sending her as a guest. He was too far below for her to be able to distinguish his features, although he rode with beaver up; but she could appreciate the fact that he sat his horse, a superb chestnut stallion, with the ease and grace of one thoroughly bred to knightly customs. He was a man of commanding stature, overtopping the squire who rode close behind him, and dwarfing the men-at-arms by contrast. His armor, she was able to perceive as he rode up the hill and thus came somewhat nearer, was of the richest, and the flash of jewels on his bridle-rein caught her eye as he rode into the sunlight.

So striking was the mien of the stranger knight that Erna suddenly found herself affected with a strange kindness for him, and unconsciously sighed as the thought flitted through her mind that whoever he might be, he was probably merely a traveller who sought rest and refreshment in the castle to-day, to vanish to-morrow into the unknown world from which he had come. Then she smiled at her own folly in thus grieving at the departure of a perfect stranger before she had even met him to welcome his arrival; and as he drew near the castle gate, and the squire for the third time blew a merry blast on the horn, she drew back from the window. As she did so, she fancied that the unknown cast a sudden glance up to her casement; and far away as he was, she seemed to catch a glimpse of eyes dark and full of fire.

Full of curiosity, Erna waited to be summoned as chatelaine of the castle, to go through the formality of according the hospitalities of the house to the guest. It was the generous custom of the Von Rittenbergs to receive all who came, although the Lady Adelaide was continually predicting evil results from a hospitality so unguarded and so unusual in a fortress where the head of the family was an unmarried woman. The countess took pride in keeping up the family traditions, but she was even more moved to this course by a genuine religious charity. It seemed to her tender heart monstrous to deny food and shelter to any when it was possible to give them; and if her course had been shaped rather by the sentiments of her confessor, Father Christopher, than by ordinary considerations of prudence, there had at least no harm befallen from her custom thus far.

When Erna descended to the great hall to meet the new-comer, she found him conversing with Father Christopher, whom he overtopped by nearly a head. She was astonished by the stranger's wonderful beauty. His face was of a mould as powerful as his figure. A heavy chestnut beard, curling and glossy, but barely descending to his collar, covered the lower part of his countenance. His head was firmly poised, and carried with the air of one accustomed to absolute mastery. His brow, displayed by the removal of his helmet, was wide and high.

But what most impressed Erna in the appearance of the stranger knight were his magnificent eyes, which were like no others she had ever seen. They were brown and liquid, with that glance at once appealing and defiant, pathetic and fierce, which one sees in the eyes of a stag that proudly leads the herd. One perceived that they could upon occasion kindle into splendid rage, although they were capable of looks of such wistful tenderness, such longing, such melting desire. As Erna advanced down the rush-strewn hall to meet the guest, it almost seemed to her that his glance drew her on, so strongly was she impressed; and yet when he spoke, his voice to her was more strangely sweet than even his wonderful eyes.

Father Christopher announced the new-comer as Baron Albrecht von Waldstein; and he added, with a touch of the gossip, that the knight's home lay in the Neiderwasser valley, to the northward.

The baron himself explained his presence at the castle.

"One of my retainers," he said, "was this morning, as we were riding toward the south, smitten with a strange illness. I feared that we should leave his bones to bleach in the forest for lack of a leech; and he himself had either small courage or strength to ride on. Fortunately his fellow knew that we were near Rittenberg, and I have ventured to bring him here, in the hope that we might for a little find shelter and the aid of a leech."

"He shall be looked to," Erna answered with a gentle gravity which became her well. "Our leech is not unskilful, and his best is at thy service."

"I thank thee," the baron responded, bowing profoundly. "It were a matter of much inconvenience to be left with but one man-at-arms thus far from home."

"Thou must, too, be concerned at the suffering of the poor man," the countess returned. "I am always unhappy if one of my people is ill. They seem so much like animals in their pain, and as if they could not understand what had happened to them. It is very pitiful."

The baron regarded her with a look of inquiry on his handsome face.

"Of course one cares for his servants," he assented, "since he can so ill get on without them."

Had her cousin, Count Stephen, the beat of whose horse's hoofs had so lately died upon the air, said these words, Erna would doubtless have regarded them as shockingly heartless; but now so strongly had the appearance of this stranger won upon her, that she only smiled and shook her head.

"Of a truth they have not our feelings," she said; "but after all, they are yet human beings. Wert thou in the forest through the night?" she added. "Thou canst not have come far this morning, especially riding with one who was ill."

"We were in the forest all night," the baron responded. "We made shift to shelter us in a cave that we chanced upon. It was the sickness of the man which prevented that we rode further yester-e'en, till we had found lodgings."

"But hadst thou no fear of the wood-sprites?" Erna asked.

"Nay," replied Baron Albrecht, "they troubled us not; though we were aware of them as they passed us by," he added, smiling.

"Thou art a bold knight," she murmured beneath her breath.

"Truly thou art favored of heaven," Father Christopher said, "if the wood-sprites can do thee no harm."

The countess looked at the stranger with admiration and astonishment. Bold as were the knights who had made the name of her family respected far and near, they had not been free from the fear of the wild folk of the wood, and it was with a thrill that she looked at the stranger knight as he avowed his fearlessness.

"At least now," she said, "we will do what is in our power for thee, whether it be to protect thee against the dangers of the forest or to offer thee rest and refreshment."

She gave the necessary orders, and passed down the hall again the way she had come. As she ascended the winding stair which led up toward her chamber, she turned and looked backward. The Baron von Waldstein stood where she had left him, and his eyes were fixed upon her retreating figure with a gaze which made her thrill with mingled confusion and pleasure. She turned away her face with a blush which she could not repress, and hastened on.

In her chamber Erna found her great-aunt, all alive with eager curiosity.

"Who is he?" Lady Adelaide demanded. "Elsa says he is the handsomest man alive, and that his jewels are wonderful. Is it so? Didst thou notice them?"

"He is certainly handsome," Erna answered. "As for his jewels, I do not think I noticed them; but now that thou speakest of it, I do remember that there was a splendid red fiery gem on the front of his corselet. It shone so that it caught my eye from the top of the stair as I went down."

"It must be a carbuncle," the old lady responded. "He must be a knight of much consequence; and yet I cannot remember that I ever heard of the Von Waldsteins in my life. I wonder if I have ever seen any of the family. How does he look?"

"He looks," replied her niece absently, "like a woodland god."

Her eyes, as she spoke, fell on the scroll she had been reading earlier in the morning. The place had been the passage in which Saint Cuthbert warns against the snares of appearances. She sighed and turned away from the eager questioning of her companion to take again the pious scroll; but when the Lady Adelaide, grumbling that her curiosity could not be gratified, had left the chamber, the parchment slipped unheeded to the floor, and the countess looked out over the undulating waves of the pine forest with eyes that saw not, so deeply was she absorbed in reverie. The sage words of Saint Cuthbert were forgotten, and she dreamed of the splendid knight of whom she knew nothing but what was to be learned from those appearances against the deceitfulness of which the page she had been reading admonished in vain.

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.

V

How They Discoursed Of Kisses.

The damsel Elsa was a trim and comely maid, with a bright eye and a ready tongue, of which the men and youths of the castle had learned to have a wholesome fear. She went about her affairs singing pleasant ditties, and one morning she crossed the great hall where Baron Albrecht was waiting for the countess, with whom he was to ride out, as had become much their fashion now; and as she went, she sang in her sweet, clear voice a little love-song that ran in this wise:

"When winter howls across the wold, And all the gates are fast, Then is thine heart, shut from the cold, Safe from the blast, And safe from whomsoe'er goes past.

"When Spring makes lovely all the land, And casements open wide, Beware lest some gay wandering band Should slip inside, And steal thine heart, and thee deride!

"When once 'tis gone, to win it back Full vainly mayst thou try; Nor golden bribes nor tears, alack! Lost hearts can buy, Since who loves once, loves till he die."

Baron Albrecht listened to her singing with a smile on his face.

"Now, by my beard," he said, "a song like that is worth a reward."

And he put his great shapely hand beneath her white chin, and kissed her full upon her red lips. At that very moment the Countess Erna came into the hall. Her cheek flushed as the damsel uttered an exclamation and fled hastily, and she looked at the baron in the evident expectation of seeing him also covered with confusion. But Albrecht merely smiled, and smoothed his chestnut beard.

"The damsel sings passing sweetly," he said, unmoved by her glance.

"Is it for that that thou hast kissed her?" demanded Erna, scornfully.

"Truly," replied he.

Erna regarded him with a look in which amazement struggled with disapprobation. She could not comprehend his strange indifference at being discovered.

"And hast thou no shame," she demanded, "to be seen trifling with the girl?"

"Shame?" he echoed. "Why should I have?"

"Nor any fear of my displeasure?"

"Thy displeasure?" he repeated. "Why shouldst thou be displeased?"

She regarded him in silence a moment; and as she did not speak, he continued:

"Surely thou canst not be jealous of a serving-wench?"

She drew herself up proudly, all the blood of her ancestors aflame in her clear pale cheek.

"The Von Rittenbergs are jealous neither of serving-wenches nor on account of strangers," she returned haughtily.

Albrecht looked at her in a perplexity that it was impossible not to believe genuine.

"Then what is my offence?" he asked. "I did but kiss the maid. I meant her no harm. Why should not one kiss a smooth cheek if it likes him?"

He spoke humbly, yet with no air either of bravado or of conscious guilt. She felt that his ignorance was not feigned, yet could hardly bring herself to believe that he did not understand what her feeling must be at discovering him in the act she had seen. Moreover, she found herself strangely at a loss how to reply to his question, if it were in reality serious. If he did not perceive the impropriety of his conduct, it was not easy for her to explain it to him. She stood a moment in silence, regarding him with a penetrating glance under which he showed no sign of wavering, and then instead of turning away to leave him as had at first been her intention, she smiled faintly, and with an expression of doubt still in her eyes.

"One would think, Sir Knight," she said, "that thy father's house must needs be a rude place if it is there held proper to kiss the damsels that please one, without hindrance."

"In thy father's castle," he answered slowly, "we have perhaps lived in a fashion that would seem to thee rude, for that my mother died at my birth, and there has been no one but men to make the rules of the house; but why it is wrong to kiss a comely woman if she please thee, is one of the things that I have never been told there or here."

Erna's tender heart was at once touched by the thought of her companion's orphanage, her own motherless childhood being still too fresh in her mind not to render her susceptible to this plea. She took up her whip from the bench, and turned quickly, that he might not see the tears that sprang to her eyes whenever one mentioned the loss of a mother.

"Well," she said, "I will leave it to Father Christopher to deal with thy transgression."

The change in her tone did not escape his quick ears, and he hastened to follow her to the courtyard, where the horses were waiting.

Their way that morning led them over hill and dale, until they came at length to a wide meadow, where the knight was minded to fly his falcon. A stream ran through the midst of the valley, and along its banks the grass was as vividly green as the emeralds which sparkled in the hilt of Albrecht's dagger; while all through it the golden buttercups were set as thickly as the stars in the sky of a summer's night. Here and there grew clusters of tall reeds and water grasses gently swaying in the soft breeze; and as Albrecht took his falcon from the wrist of his squire, who carried the bird, a splendid white heron rose with smooth, steady flight from amid the rushes, and went soaring upward. The baron quickly and deftly pulled the hood from the falcon's head; but just as he was loosening the jess Erna leaned forward and laid her hand on his arm.

"Let the heron go unharmed," she said. "Why shouldst thou strike him down?"

"Because," he responded, "thou art to wear his plumes in thy cap after I am gone, in memory of me."

"After thou art gone?" she repeated softly, drawing back.

He smiled and shook off the hawk, which rose in graceful circles until it was far overhead, and hung dizzily above the meadow. It sailed to and fro a moment until its prey, which had discovered it and in dismay was straining every nerve to quicken its flight, was just beneath it; then suddenly, with the rapidity of a thunderbolt, it fell straight upon the beautiful heron. Erna uttered a cry of dismay, and covered her eyes with her hand.

"It is too cruel!" she exclaimed.

Albrecht struck his hands together in glee.

"It is a brave bird!" he cried. "I would rather lose a gold mine than that falcon. He is as sure of his quarry as the rain is to fall to the ground."

Erna did not answer, but she regarded him with the look of one who strove to understand his pleasure, and to understand is almost to share. She said nothing while the squire rode off to bring in the game; and when the noble heron, its glistening throat stained with blood, was brought to them, she not only strove to restrain the involuntary shudder which seized her, but she did not remonstrate when her companion continued the praises of his bird.

"Did one ever see a more rich plumage?" Albrecht demanded. "It will set off thy cap bravely; and I have always been told that womenkind are fond of gay attire."

"It is indeed a beautiful bird," Erna responded; "but dost thou know that there is always something very amusing in the way thou speakest, as if thou hadst never seen human beings till now."

A faint flush crossed Albrecht's cheek. He looked at the dead heron.

"I never thought of it before," he said; "but it does seem hard that he should have to be killed just to please me."

Erna flushed in her turn. She thought she had offended him by her criticism of his manner of speech.

"I beg thy pardon," she began; but he interrupted her.

"Thou hast no need," he said. "Besides, thou art right. I know nothing of women. I do not even know, it seems, how they should be treated, or how to please them. Otherwise," he added with his warm smile, "I should not have offended thee this morning by kissing the damsel who sang so sweetly."

The countess smiled, and turned toward him with her face full of light. They had not dismounted, but had halted their horses near the margin of the brook on the banks of which the heron had been feeding lower down.

"That," she said, "is not a thing to be taught. It is learned from the air and from the birds."

"Then why has it not been revealed to me? I have been much in the forest."

"To kill the birds! In good sooth, I know not that one may learn of the air and the woods who goes as thou goest, with falcon and boar-spear. But at least," she added, regarding him with a smile, "thou must know that when one loves--"

She broke off suddenly, and turned away her face, with a flush creeping up into her cheek.

"Well," Albrecht demanded eagerly, "what then?"

"I was but thinking," she returned, in a voice lower than before, "that certainly every man knoweth that when one truly loveth another, he will care for the caress of none save only the loved one."

"I had never thought of that," the knight responded gravely.

"Then of a surety thou hast never known what it is to love."

"By that token, never," he answered, smiling; "albeit it were possible that the test would not hold; and in any case it were not difficult, perchance, for thee to teach me."

The Countess Erna looked into his face all flushed and radiant, and there was that in her eyes which no man could see and fail to understand; and although the squire waiting hard by might not note that aught had been said or done out of the ordinary course, none the less had their hearts spoken each to each from that moment. Erna wheeled her horse, and began to move toward the entrance of the valley; and as Albrecht rode beside her, he suddenly leaned forward and caught her palfrey's rein, so that the beast was almost thrown upon his haunches with the abruptness of his arrest.

"Do not ride toward the upper ford," he said; "the nix is in an evil mood to-day, and mayhap might do thee a mischief in her spitefulness."

Erna looked at him with astonishment and alarm.

"And how knowest thou of the moods of the nix?" she demanded.

His eyes fell, and a flush stained his swarthy cheek. Then he seemed to recover his self-possession.

"It is a knowledge," he replied, "that is learned from the air and from the birds, but only by those who are in sympathy with the woodland creatures so that they may comprehend it."

Erna laughed merrily, and turned her palfrey toward the lower ford.

"In sober sooth, thou knowest no more of the nix than do I," she told him; "but I mind not if I please thy fancy."

But when alone in her chamber she thought of this, she crossed herself and shivered a little with a not unpleasing awe.

VI

How They Came To Kisses Themselves.

From that day when they rode together to the slaying of the heron by the stream in the meadow, there was a new bond between the Countess Erna and the Baron Albrecht. There had been nothing further said between them of love, even in the impersonal way in which they had then begun to talk of it, but the revelation of the glance which had then passed from her eyes to his changed all the old relations. They knew that they loved each other, and although they were not yet come to the confession in word of their love, they understood well that they belonged each to the other.

One day the countess sat at her embroidery in the hall, with her guest near her, and Father Christopher not far away. Without, a wild tempest of wind and rain shook the castle towers, and swept over forest and hill. From the casements one looked out upon a sea of mist that rolled above the tree-tops, beaten and torn by the wind, and lashing the hills in angry, mimic waves. All the weird voices of the Schwarzwald, melancholy or fierce, raged and wailed in the troubled air. It was a day when the unholy powers of the forest held high festival, and it was with inward shudders that Erna heard afar their hoarse tones, calling and yelling to one another in the storm.

Sitting at her embroidery frame without her damsels, who were scattered about the castle upon one mission or another, Erna talked with the baron and the priest, now and then thinking with dread of the night which was not far away, and hearing in her fancy already the roaring of the blast about the towers, the shrill cry of the Wild Huntsman, and the shrieks of his elfin train. When she looked up at the splendid form of her guest, however, her fears vanished in a breath, and she smiled that she should have found it possible to fear while he was at her side. In the warmth of his glance the tempest and all the dread dwellers in the forest were forgotten, and she was conscious only of the joy of his presence.

The knight had been asking concerning the armor of Erna's father, which hung in the hall; and from this the talk easily drifted to the Great Emperor, his noble deeds, his splendid army, and the brilliant court which he had gathered about him.

"How much I should like to see it all," the maiden said dreamily, as she looked earnestly at Albrecht; "the tourneys, the feasts, the processions, and all the beautiful court life."

Father Christopher regarded her in some amazement.

"Is it thou," he asked, "who sayest this? Thou who hast always been so thankful that thou wert spared the temptations and the worldliness of the court? Didst thou not refuse to go to Mayence when Charlemagne was there with his train, because thou didst not wish to fill thy mind with frivolous images?"

"So I did, Father, but mayhap my aunt was not wholly in the wrong when she called me a fool for my refusal," Erna answered, smiling.

"The court would ill suit me," Albrecht remarked, while the good priest remained sunk in astonishment at the change which the words of Erna indicated. "My choice is for the forest, for the hunt and the chase. The only thing at court that would attract me would be the tourney."

"Would that I might see thee in the lists!" Erna half murmured, leaning a little toward him.

"Mayhap that thou shalt," he replied. "Stranger things than this have come to pass. If thou dost, thou wilt see me break a lance in thy behalf right gladly."

"And thou no longer thinkest," Father Christopher interposed gravely, "that it is wrong for knights to risk their lives in mere wanton pastime?"

"Oh, there may be some danger," she returned with a slight air of impatience, "but why must one be forever troubling to examine too closely? Is there to be no pleasure in life lest harm should come after it, forsooth?"

Father Christopher left his seat, to stand for a moment looking at the countess as if in bewilderment. He did not in truth know what to make of his mistress in such a mood as this, so different was it from all that she had ever been before. He seemed minded to speak, and then, as if reflecting that her words did not after all contain aught which he was called upon to regard with severity, and perhaps that in any case what he might wish to say to her would be delivered better privately, he sighed deeply, and moved away without further speech. Erna looked after him as he slowly passed down the hall, the edge of his robe here and there catching upon one of the rushes with which the floor was strewn.

"Poor Father Christopher!" she said with a low, sweet laugh, "I have grieved him. It is a pity to make him unhappy. I never used to do that."

She regarded her gay-colored embroidery a moment absently, as if she did not see it; then suddenly she dropped the hand which held her needle and leaned toward her companion.

"What hast thou done to me?" she demanded. "Hast thou bewitched me, that all the things that I loved have become dull to me, and all the things which I wished not for are now in my thoughts with longing?"

A roaring blast shook the castle windows, and it was as if the spirits of the storm, sweeping up from the bosom of the wild and mighty Schwarzwald, shouted in mocking laughter outside; but neither Erna nor Albrecht regarded.

"I have done nothing to thee," the knight answered, in his turn bending forward; "but what hast thou done to me, that I linger here day after day, and that I consider now the pain of the beast that dies by my spear, or of the bird that my falcon strikes?"

"Nothing have I done to thee," Erna answered; but her voice faltered, and her glance fell.

Albrecht reached out his big brown hand, and took her milk-white fingers in his.

"Only," he said, "I love thee."

Erna rose to her feet, and cast a swift glance around the hall, as if she were minded to escape; then she turned toward him, and he sprang to her to clasp her in his arms. The knight kissed her glowingly upon her red lips.

"Now thou art mine," he said, "and all the world shall not wrest thee from me."

He had scarcely spoken when in the darkening afternoon a mighty blast seemed to throw itself against the tower; a yell of elfin laughter resounded in the hollow chimney, and the hound which had lain at Erna's feet crouched flat on the rushes, whining with deadly fear. Frighted, yet too full of her love to heed the cry of wild sprite or the fierceness of the tempest, Erna clung closely to the knight, and thus together did the Lady Adelaide, coming unexpectedly into the hall, surprise them.

"Body of Saint Fridolin!" she cried.

The lovers started, but although they released each other from the embrace in which they had been wound, they still stood together, and the arm of the knight was about Erna's waist. She clung to his hand in maidenly agitation, not wholly unmixed with the fear which the sudden vehemence of the tempest had aroused, yet she smiled bravely upon her aunt, with eyes which shone with the firmness and the joy of the troth she had just plighted.

The Lady Adelaide, whose nerves were already upset by the storm and by the weird sounds which were heard about the castle, was doubly overwhelmed with emotion by the sight before her. It was a shock from which it was not easy for her to recover, to see her niece in the arms of any man. She had so long looked upon Countess Erna as cold and devoid of all warm human passion, that she could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses now that she beheld the countess with her lips pressed to those of a lover. She had so long cherished, moreover, the hope that by a marriage with Count Stephen Erna might still bear the Von Rittenberg name, that it could not but be with a keen pang of disappointment that she saw all these schemes swept away.

Most of all things, however, did Lady Adelaide desire to see her niece married, and since it could not be to Count Stephen, she was not averse to the choice that Erna had made. She had been like everybody else in the castle, and had fallen an easy conquest to the fascination of Baron Albrecht. His joyous, winning manner, his persuasive presence, had captivated the ancient dame completely; and now when Erna was prepared for the gravest disapproval, she met, to her great surprise, only smiles.

"Be not angry, Lady," the baron said, looking the old duenna frankly in the face, "but we were plighting our troth."

The cheeks of Erna were like a late rose amid untimely snow, but her eyes did not flinch from the regard of Lady Adelaide.

"Give us thy blessing," she pleaded; "the castle of Rittenberg is to have at last the lord which thou hast so long wished for it."

The old dame laughed and came forward.

"The time has gone by," she said, "when elders were asked to advise in the love affairs of young folk, but mayhap all goes not wrong for that. Thou wilt have thy own way in this matter, so why should I cumber myself to frown and chide at what cannot be helped by me?"

"Now, nay, Aunt Adelaide," Erna responded, smiling at the manner in which the other accepted the situation, "that is but a curt and unkind way in which to give greeting to me on my betrothal; and thou alone of all my house left to wish me joy!"

The great-aunt put up her shrivelled lips and kissed the girl, patting her hand kindly.

"Nay, nay," she said, the tears coming into her aged eyes, "I wish thee well, and thou shalt not lack for my blessing, though the Von Rittenberg name vanish from the earth when I am laid away. I wish thee joy; and, Sir Baron, I give thee my greeting. It is much that thou askest, when thou wouldst claim the last of our house, but there is that about thee that speaks the brave man, and one who will defend her in these troublous times."

The sight of a pair of lovers in their first joy will move even hearts which are encased in triple coats of worldliness and pride; and the Lady Adelaide, who of all folk was least likely to be touched by sentiment, when she had clasped the hands of Erna and Albrecht, had wet eyes as she went slowly down the hall again as she had come, leaving them alone.

And thus were the Countess von Rittenberg and the stranger knight betrothed.

VII

How The Time Wore To The Wedding Day.

Much had matters altered at Rittenberg since Baron Albrecht came thither, and yet still more did they change after his betrothal to the castle's chatelaine. The whole household took on a festive air, until even the humblest retainer seemed to be affected by the joyous spirit which Albrecht had brought. The change in Erna herself doubtless had not a little to do with this, since it hath ever been found that the mood of the mistress is likely to give the key-note to her dependants. The countess had laid aside all her old air of pensive contemplation, the pious mien which had so wearied her cousin Count Stephen; and had so taken on an air of gayety that all in the castle felt it, and each in one way or another, according to the nature of each, responded to it.

Now and then over this gayety seemed to steal the faint shadow of some unknown dread from the forest. The retainers whispered among themselves that there had been strange portents and signs that the wood-folk were astir and full of excitement. Now and then one of Erna's damsels would hint that wild rumors were afloat. The churls that drove the swine and the geese afield had seen vague forms flitting among the shadows of the glades; they had heard what they could not tell, yet what had filled them with terror; and while no one could say why the unhuman beings who peopled the dim recesses of the forest should be thus aroused, there was much dread of them in the timorous bosoms of the serfs and serving-wenches at Rittenberg.

But however greatly these things perturbed the simple-minded serving-folk, they did not trouble the happiness of Albrecht and Erna. Between the knight and his betrothed there were now many sweet confidences, in which, indeed, nothing especial was imparted by one to the other, but which nevertheless gave them great satisfaction. They had met little opposition to their wishes, and indeed, when one considered the rank of the countess, and how completely a stranger was the baron, it might be wondered much that there was not more difficulty in his obtaining his bride. But the times were uncertain, the castle had no male head, Charlemagne was far away, and who knew what might happen if they waited to ask the imperial consent to the alliance; while the baron had won everybody to his side by his winsomeness. He pressed for a speedy marriage, and no one said him nay. They had in the war-full years learned to do quickly whatever was to be done at all, and there seemed no need to hinder the joy of the young people, which might at any moment be broken, should a summons come from the Great Emperor calling all the knights to his standard.

Toward her lover Erna was by turns arch and tender, as if she had not yet mastered the art to conceal her feelings, even in sport. She said to him once, as they stood together by the window in the great hall of the castle, looking down into the valley where the solemn pine-forests stretched far and far to the very horizon:

"Hast thou learned yet why one does not kiss any maid save the one whom alone he loves?"

"I have at least learned that there is no kiss in the whole world so sweet as thine," he answered.

Father Christopher was of all the house most deeply moved by the betrothal of his mistress, and although he had become much attached to the baron, he was not without forebodings for the result of this marriage.

"It is in thy hands, my daughter," he said solemnly to Erna, "to shape the life of this man. He is noble and generous and true, and I believe that his heart is all that one might wish. But he knows little of spiritual things, and I consent to unite thee to him that thou, who hast been richly blessed by Heaven, mayst teach him the high things of life. His soul will be required at thine hands in the Day of Judgment; for while the souls of all husbands are in the keeping of their wives, his will be doubly so in thine, for that thou hast been taught the heavenly way, and I gather that his childhood has been but an heathenish one, and his youth without godly instruction. On thy head be it, daughter, if he be not led to the light; and great will be thy blessing if thou doest but win him to paths of spiritual life."

If Erna received these words with less pious enthusiasm than would have been the case a few short weeks before, she was yet much moved by them, and most solemnly did she promise the old priest that she would spare no effort to draw her lover toward those higher things for which he did indeed as yet show small concern.

"Father," she answered humbly, "I know not what I may do, but as much as is in me I will not spare to work and to pray for the salvation of him whom I love."

"With love and faith," the priest replied, "and the blessing of the holy ones, there is nothing that a woman may not do in the heart of her husband."

It was on the same morning that these words passed between Father Christopher and Erna, that the betrothed pair rode out of the castle into the forest, followed by a groom who carried on the pommel of his saddle a covered basket.

"I feel so safe in the forest when thou art with me," Erna said, as after descending the hill they turned from the broad way into a narrow track overgrown with ferns and wild shrubs, and heavily shaded above by the interlaced branches of the murmuring pine-trees.

"There is naught to fear in the forest," he answered, smiling, "save only when--Nay, we will not talk of that. Whither do we go?"

Erna looked at him with a doubt, born of his broken speech, in her eyes; but the brightness of his smile reassured her.

"The little daughter of the charcoal-burner is ill," she answered, "and I am carrying her food and a healing draught from the leech."

"But why shouldst thou trouble about the daughter of the charcoal-burner?"

"Why should I not? Is she not human, and has she not a soul like ours?"

"Like thine, perchance," the knight responded. "Thou hast a soul like a child's, all white and fair."

And for all the rest of their way through the forest he was so deeply sunk in thought that he said scarcely a single word, so that Erna could not but wonder what had come over the spirit of her merry betrothed. From time to time he looked at her and sighed, as if he were reasoning with himself whether he did well to be still with her; and at last, as they rode homeward, she questioned him of what was in his mind.

"It is the doubt," he told her, "whether I had the right to make thee love me. It did not come to me to consider that until now; and now--"

"And now," she said in a ringing voice, as he broke off and left his sentence unfinished, "now it is too late."

The knight shook himself, as if to shake off a gloomy doubt, and struck his spurs into his splendid chestnut stallion.

"Yes," he cried in a voice of exultation; "now it is too late!"

And away they went, galloping madly down the shaded woodland way, bursting soon into laughter and singing as they dashed along.

These moods of Albrecht became more and more noticeable as by the intimacy of their betrothal the lovers were brought more closely together. Erna pondered sometimes when alone whether it were possible that her lover had upon his conscience some dark deed which made him in truth unworthy to claim her love; but no sooner did such a suggestion present itself to her mind than it was rejected with indignation. She was as sure of his innocence as of her own, and perhaps no proof could have persuaded her to the contrary. Yet she did secretly feel that there might be some mystery hidden behind the outward frankness of Albrecht; though even if there were she loved him with a passion that was now too strong to be restrained by any vague suspicions or dim forebodings.

When the baron was asked if he wished to send for any of his people to be present at his nuptials, he had answered:

"My mother died when I was an infant, and I have neither brothers nor sisters. My father lost his life in a snow-slide three years since, so that I am the last of my race. I will send my squire home for a certain fardel that shall be my _Morgengabe_; and if I may have leave, he shall bring back with him my old foster-father, who has taught me knightly customs and the fashion of Christian folk."

"He shall be right welcome for thy sake," the countess had answered. "How is he called, and who is he? Is he of thy kin?"

"Nay; he is only a friend of my father," the baron replied with a strange smile, "but he hath dealt well by me. He is called Herr von Zimmern, and he hath an infirmity in his walk, concerning which I would that thy people vex him not."

"He shall be courteously dealt with by them all," was Erna's response, "even as if he were thyself."

So the squire and one of the men-at-arms rode off into the forest to take the road to Castle Waldstein in the Neiderwasser valley, to fetch the _Morgengabe_, the gift of gold or of gems which the bridegroom gives to the bride on the morning after their marriage; and the knight abode at Rittenberg, being always by the side of Erna, so that it was not strange that the two became more and more like to each other in their thoughts with every day that the sun brought on its rising to the Ober-Schwarzwald.

And so the time wore until the day before that set for the wedding morn, and on that day arrived the squire who had been sent to the castle of Waldstein.

VIII

Of The Eve Before The Wedding.

With the squire came the foster-father of Baron Albrecht, and a singular-looking mortal did he prove to be. He had apparently been a tall man and a strong, but that one of his ankles was lame, as if it had been houghed, either by some accident of warfare or by the cruelty of some enemy, so that he must needs forever thenceforth go halting through life. His eyes were keen and piercing, and there was in them a sinister gleam, a smouldering evil fierceness, from which Erna shrank in dread, although for the sake of Albrecht she strove to conceal her feelings and to treat the newly come guest not only with kindness but with warmth. The sight of his burning eyes, his shaggy hair which hung in tumbled black masses about his shoulders, his knotted powerful hands, which he had an uncanny fashion of clenching as he talked or as he thought deeply, together with his sunburned face, seamed and marred by deep lines which might tell of both sins and sufferings to the eye that was wise enough to read them, made her shudder; and when she thought how this strange man had been the companion of Albrecht, she no longer wondered that her lover should show so little knowledge or sympathy with spiritual things, since in the keeping of Herr von Zimmern had his youth been passed.

The dependants of the household were one and all afraid of the new-comer, and indeed some among them were ready to swear on the book of the Gospels that this was the same man that in the guise of a beggar had been in the castle just before the going of Count Stephen von Rittenberg. They muttered among themselves that there was evil in the cripple, and Elsa even whispered in the ear of her mistress, crossing herself not a little meanwhile, that it was believed among the folk of the castle that Von Zimmern was really some demon of the forest who was striving to win power over the soul of Baron Albrecht, that he might lure it to destruction.

"Fy upon thee for a fool!" Lady Adelaide said testily. "There be demons enough in the wood, it is true, but it is not to be believed that they would venture into the houses of Christian folk where mass is said by a consecrated priest. Leave thy silly gossiping, or it may hap that the countess shall get some hint of it, and then if it go not ill with those who dare to chatter about them that belong to the train of her future lord, I ken little of the Von Rittenberg blood."

It was evident that Herr von Zimmern had the happiness of Baron Albrecht much at heart, so greatly was he delighted at his approaching marriage. He was wellnigh oppressive in the warmth of his manner. He spoke with the greatest feeling to Erna, while to the Lady Adelaide he was so complimentary that her old heart, already perchance somewhat fluttered by the unusual doings at Rittenberg, was all in a tremble of delight, and had she been but the better part of a century younger there would have been no telling what might have come of her liking for the flattering guest.

It was in the evening of the day on which the squire returned, and it was on the morrow that the bridal rites were to be celebrated, when after supper the household and their guests sat together by torchlight in the castle hall. The Baron Albrecht was in the wildest spirits, and played innumerable harmless little tricks upon the priest and upon his betrothed. He was so full of glee that one could not but smile to behold his joyousness, and to be touched by the sight of a happiness so genuine and so keen.

Erna had astonished them all that night by appearing in the hall clad in a robe of saffron-hued silken stuff, while on her neck she wore a triple string of pearls. So simple was her attire in general that they stared at her in surprise as she came in dressed in this sumptuous guise. She flushed a little as she felt their glances, but she only held her head somewhat higher, smiling on them all, but most upon her betrothed, and so took her place in the tall carved chair where she always sat at supper. Now that the meal was over, she had moved to a lower seat, and there she leaned back in a corner, as if she were half timid in her new robes; but the Lady Adelaide muttered to herself in satisfaction that this marriage was like to make a woman out of her niece after all; for the shrewd old dame knew that when a damsel begins to give her heart to the frivolities of attire she cannot long remain an iceberg.

Not far from the young countess sat Herr von Zimmern, a dark figure, the more sombre by contrast with her golden brightness. He seemed to watch the company with the deepest interest, and if there were in his intentness something too eager to be wholly pleasing, no one regarded this, since the little company were all absorbed in observing the jocund merriment of Albrecht and the blushing fairness, half timid and half sportive, of Erna.

Suddenly Albrecht sprang up as they sat together chatting gayly, and seized a boar-spear which chanced to be standing in the corner where Erna sat.

"See!" he cried, aiming at the head of a deer which was fixed high against the wall over the great hollow fireplace.

Like a shaft of light the spear flew gleaming down the long hall, straight as a sun-ray and swift as the wind. It transfixed the brown head exactly between the eyes, although in the dim and flickering light of the torches such a shot might well have seemed impossible, and there stood quivering.

A cry of applause greeted this feat.

"Bravo!" exclaimed Herr von Zimmern. "That is a pupil to be proud of."

"It is, indeed," responded Father Christopher. "If thou hast taught him to throw the spear, thou hast truly no reason to look upon thy pains as wasted."

"All that I know of knighthood he has taught me," Albrecht said heartily. "He found me an unlicked whelp of the forest, and whatever I am he has made me."

"Then," Erna rejoined with tender archness, turning toward Von Zimmern, "I have to thank thee that thou hast trained a husband for me."

"Only," burst in Albrecht, with a rich laugh, "if in anything I do not suit, remember it is he and not I who is to bear the blame."

"Nay," she said, giving the black-browed guest her white hand with a gesture of infinite grace, "I thank thee for thy work, even though he should contrive to spoil it himself."

"Come!" cried Albrecht, playfully threatening her with his hand, "that is rank insubordination, and as such--"

"As such, Sir Baron," interrupted his foster-father, with a smile that hardly made him less ugly than before, "you must bear it still a while. There has been no promise to obey or to honor as yet."

The Lady Adelaide simpered, and laid her hand upon the arm of her niece.

"Think of it, Erna," she whispered, "how wilt thou like to obey?"

"Oh, of that I have small notion!" the countess retorted aloud. "When it comes to that, we shall see!"

The gay spirits of her lover had infected her, and she answered with a manner quite unlike her own. Herr von Zimmern chuckled, and drew from his otter-skin pouch a tiny roll of soft leather.

"So well doth this sentiment approve itself to me," he said, "that humbly and with my Lord Baron's permission I make bold to offer you a token in honor of a marriage to be conducted on principles so reasonable."

There was a mocking note in his voice, albeit his face was too perfectly controlled to betray any undesirable emotion. As he spoke he unrolled the leather, and brought to light a ring of red gold in which was set a large carbuncle engraved with strange characters. Erna could not restrain a cry of admiration at sight of so splendid a jewel, and Lady Adelaide broke out into voluble expressions of delight.

"It is not so much," Herr von Zimmern said coolly, as he cast a side glance at Albrecht, "but it is cunningly fashioned, and--"

"But on the wedding eve," interrupted Albrecht, somewhat abruptly, "no one gives a ring to the bride save only her betrothed. All in good season, Herr Frederich, she will doubtless be glad to wear thy ring, but to-night it is mine that must fetter her."

As he spoke, he leaned forward, and took the carbuncle ring from the hand of Erna, who was about to slip it on her slender finger, and before any one could object or protest he had thrust it into the embroidered pouch by his side, and had in its place produced a second ring in which blazed a ruby so splendid that it seemed to emit sparks of fire.

Across the face of Von Zimmern shot a glance of baffled rage and anger so fierce that the priest, who alone caught sight of it, shuddered and secretly crossed himself under his robe; but it was gone as quickly as it came, and Herr Frederich smiled as he said:

"My gems must needs be poor beside yours, my master, but the ring had powers which made it not unworthy the acceptance of the bride."

"Do not I know its power?" responded Albrecht, gayly. "There is time enough for the proving of its might without troubling the bridal therewith."

As he spoke, he put the glowing ruby on the white finger of his betrothed, and raising the hand to his lips, he kissed it fervently.

"Body of Saint Fridolin!" exclaimed Lady Adelaide, "what a gem! It is like a coal of fire. It is worth a king's ransom."

"It is not rich enough to be worthy of the hand that graces it," Albrecht cried joyously.

Then, without waiting for further speech, he suddenly caught up a lute which lay upon the broad ledge of the open window, and after a few notes by way of prelude burst out into this song:

"My love has eyes like the roe, And a voice like the wood-dove's call; While her bosom is white as the snow Of the foam on the torrent's fall. Fine her hair as the mist By the sun golden kissed, And my heart she holds in its thrall.

"My love has lips like the glow Of rubies red from the mine; And her glances thrill me so For her I'd life resign. For their fire makes my heart Wake to tremble and start, With a passion no words may divine.

"My love has a throat like the swan That haunts the river reeds; Not shapelier the dappled fawn That feeds in the flower-set meads. When I clasp her, no bliss Has all earth like her kiss, No sweetness her sweetness exceeds!"

The effect of these ardent verses upon the company was apparently rather one of astonishment than of admiration. The Lady Adelaide simpered and assumed an expression of virtuous disapproval; Herr von Zimmern laughed significantly and openly; while a look of pain came over the face of Father Christopher.

"It is a ballad rather for the singing of an effeminate and sensual Southron," he said, "than for the brave and virtuous lips of a Northern knight."

"It is a foolish tune which Herr Frederich here taught me," returned Albrecht, in too good spirits to be cast down by the reproof. "There is no harm in it that I can see, save that it cannot tell half that a lover feels!"

"Body of Saint Fridolin!" muttered Lady Adelaide, greatly scandalized.

Erna cast down her eyes and said nothing; but though her glance fell only upon the rushes with which the stone floor was strewn, she saw still the form of Albrecht as he stood erect in splendid manly beauty, with the boar-spear poised above his head, ready to fling it like a dart of light down the long hall to transfix the head of the deer above the chimney-place.

IX

Of The Wedding Morning.

Father Christopher lingered long at his prayers on the wedding morning. There was in his heart so deep concern for the good of his beloved mistress, and so keenly did he feel the responsibility which rested upon him as the spiritual head of the castle, that he could not but be most profoundly anxious that naught of evil should come of this marriage.

The good priest was not without a secret consciousness that his consent to the union of Erna and Albrecht had been in no small degree due to the interest which the knight had aroused in him. He could not tell why he was so strongly attracted toward the stranger, and he endeavored to convince himself that it was because he recognized in Albrecht the possibilities of a high and spiritual life, and believed that it lay within the sphere of Erna's influence to bring these possibilities to fruition. The fascination of Albrecht's personality was so great, however, that it followed the man even into his closet, and made him secretly glad that the knight should have his will, whether it was to be justified to the mind of the priest or not.

It was still early in the morning, but from below the sounds of the preparations for the wedding rose to Father Christopher's ear. Somewhere over in the tower next to that in which was his cell, there sounded the tinkling of a rebec, as if one of the musicians were practising the minstrelsy with which the bridal pair were to be attended to church, and from the court below came the lusty voice of a knave that heeded not who slept, but sang in a full, lusty voice a rude song of the forest. The priest repeated his orisons, but it was hard to keep his thoughts fixed. Sighing, he rose at last from his knees.

"God grant I have not done amiss in consenting to this marriage," he said to himself. "At least I shall soon know how it lies with the soul of Sir Albrecht, for he comes to me for confession before the marriage. When I have shrived him I shall be lighter-hearted, albeit, God knows, I trust to find no evil in him. Even though, he added in his thought, I much misdoubt me of Herr von Zimmern, who has been his foster-father."

The sun was half-way to noon when Albrecht, with his firm, free stride, crossed the castle courtyard to join Father Christopher in the chapel, as had been arranged between them when the priest had requested the knight to receive shrift before he was united in marriage with Erna. The baron's bearing had in it little of that humility which might have seemed becoming in one who was on his way to confess his sins. His handsome head was carried well erect, and there was in his eye not only the joy of the bridegroom, but also a mischievous sparkle as of one who apprehends some merry jest which is forward. As he walked rapidly across the court, he hummed to himself under his breath a merry tune, ill suited to his pious errand.

The gloom and cool quiet of the chapel, as he entered the sacred place, checked for the moment Albrecht's song, and he went more soberly up the aisle between the rudely sculptured forms of dead and gone Von Rittenbergs, recumbent on their tombs in dismal state, until he found himself face to face with Father Christopher, who stood awaiting his penitent at the chancel. The chapel had already been decorated for the bridal, which indeed was to take place in little more than an hour's time, and all the air was fragrant with the odors of the boughs of pine. The damsel Elsa, who had had always a liking for the baron, and who liked him none the less since the kiss he had given her in the hall for her love-song, had taken it upon herself to see that the chapel was properly adorned and her skill and taste were alike evident from the result.

"I have kept thee waiting long, Father," Albrecht said, as he approached the priest; "but my servitor, whose illness was the cause of my first coming to the castle, is once more stricken down, and in the delirium of his fever he called for me so piteously that his fellow could not forbear to fetch me to his bedside. He believes, in his madness, that he is beset by wolves, and that none else save his master may avail to preserve him."

"It indeed waxes late," Father Christopher answered, "and it is well on toward an hour since the countess left me here. I have passed the time in prayers for her and thee, and perchance thou hast not so long a list of sins to confess that there will be lack of time, although it draweth toward noon and the hour of marriage."

As he spoke he moved toward the confessional, and with an expression of gravity which was new to him, the knight followed; but just at the moment when Albrecht kneeled to begin the recital of whatever transgressions might lie on his conscience, there arose without a horrid din, which penetrated the sacred place, rudely breaking up the stillness of the consecrated shrine. The leathern curtains which hung before the entrance were flung rudely aside, and with piercing cries a half-naked figure rushed forward, waving its arms and calling for help most piteously.

Albrecht and the priest both sprang to their feet, startled and amazed at this unexpected interruption; and the fleeing figure rushed down the nave to fling itself at the feet of the baron, where it knelt, clasping his knees and revealing in the dull light the disordered features of the fever-stricken man-at-arms.

"The wolves, Master!" he shrieked in accents of terror. "Save me! Save me!"

Down the aisle of the chapel came limping the sinister figure of Herr von Zimmern, who seemed to be in pursuit of the sick man.

"I tried to stop him," he said, with a singular smile which brought a sudden frown to Albrecht's brow, "but he escaped from me, and because of my infirmity I could not keep pace with him. He is stark mad till this fit passes, but after, he will perchance be as well-witted as ever he has been."

He stooped over the sick man, and endeavored to persuade him to allow himself to be led away; but the man-at-arms could not be torn from his hold upon the knees of Albrecht, to whom he clung with the desperate clutch of a wretch who clings for life to some last hope.

"It is useless," Father Christopher said, after they had for some moments united their efforts in a vain endeavor to bring the sick man to reason. "He is too fully possessed by his fears and the madness of his sickness to be within the reach of our words. He will yield to no one save to the baron, and unless thou art willing, Sir Knight, to lead him back to his chamber, I know not if he may not remain here till the very hour set for thy marriage. It would but ill accord with the place to use violence, and he is not minded to quit his hold on thee."

The madman had by this time thrown himself upon the pavement, as with heart-rending cries he called upon his master to rescue him in his peril, and not to leave him to be devoured alive. His yells had called half the servants of the castle to the spot, and the more superstitious of them crossed themselves in fear at sight of an omen so doubtful and fearful on the morn of their mistress' wedding day. They whispered together of their fears, and some of them recalled the signs which had attended the coming of the baron to the castle.

"The wood-folk are wroth," one old crone whispered to her favorite gossip. "They have smitten the churl, and who knows what power they may have over the master? Holy Wood of the Cross, but I fear me for the well-born countess!"

The confusion every moment waxed greater. The sick man had torn off his clothing until he grovelled upon the cold stone floor wellnigh as naked as he had been born, while his powerful hands, as yet all unwasted by his sickness, were clasped about the legs of Albrecht with a grip like that of the mountain bear in its fury when the huntsmen have reft away its cubs and it clutches the dogs in a last desperate struggle.

Herr von Zimmern stooped down and took the man-at-arms strongly by the shoulder.

"Come!" he cried in a deep, penetrating voice; "we must get away. The gracious baron will save thee, only thou must go with him away from this place of danger."

The sick man seemed to comprehend, for he loosed his hold and sprang to his feet.

"Go with him, my son," Father Christopher said. "Mercy comes before even a sacrament, and none save thee can lead this madman to his chamber."

"But my shrift?" demanded Albrecht, half under his breath.

"Thou must needs be married without it," the priest responded. "But I charge thee," he added solemnly, speaking so that his words reached the ears of the baron only, "if thou hast aught of crime on thy conscience, that thou do not betray the Lady Erna into a union with thy sin."

The young man looked straightforwardly into the eyes of the old priest, as in the same tone he answered:

"If it be not a sin to desire her love and to long more than for life to be lifted toward heaven by her, I have no sin on my conscience, Father."

The priest raised his hand in blessing, and the bystanders, although they knew nothing of the import of the words which had hastily passed between him and the knight, understood the motion, and bowed their heads in reverence. Albrecht as if struck with sudden awe fell upon his knees, and so received the benediction which served him instead of shrift on his wedding day. Then rising he took the arm of the demented man-at-arms, who for the moment seemed somewhat more quiet, perhaps through exhaustion, and so led him away, all the bystanders following until the chapel, with its stony knights in eternal rest, its fragrance of pine boughs and of forest flowers, was left for a little deserted.

X

How They Were Wed.

It seemed to the Lady Adelaide as a matter not unlike a scandal and almost savoring of impiety for the last of the Von Rittenbergs to be wed without the sanction of the emperor, and with none of that pomp and circumstance which had accompanied the bridals of the members of the house from time immemorial. She pleaded that at least the neighboring nobles might be summoned, but in even this she was overruled, her niece declaring that if they summoned one of the friends of the family they must needs bid them all, and that this she would not do. She was content, so she might but be united to the knight whom she loved, that none but those of the castle stand by, and that she be married with no more pomp than would attend the coupling of a kitchen-wench with the keeper of the swine.

"Body of Saint Fridolin!" Lady Adelaide cried in scandalized horror. "Thou art a changeling. Thou wert never born of our blood; the elf-folk in the forest changed thee in thy cradle. And yet thou art enough of a Von Rittenberg to have thine own way," she muttered under her breath, giving up the vain discussion.

So far as the emperor was concerned, Lady Adelaide was really not much disquieted at heart, since with feminine wit she reasoned that when once the thing was done, there was little likelihood that Charlemagne, busy with his wars and the cares of state, would take the trouble of breaking it. She took it upon herself to order that a messenger be ready to set out for Aix-la-Chapelle, where the emperor might perhaps be found at this season, to bear to his Majesty the announcement of the alliance and to tender the homage of Baron Albrecht. It had been suggested that Herr von Zimmern be entrusted with this mission, but he refused it.

"I have had you on my hands from your cradle," he said to Albrecht with that strange mingling of respect and scorn with which he was wont to address his master, "and now that you are disposed of I am to be free. Was not that our bargain?"

"Truly," the baron returned, smiling; "I promised thee thy freedom on my wedding day."

Greatly did Herr von Zimmern seem interested in this marriage, perhaps from this reason, albeit his service did not appear to be so irksome that he had great reason to complain of it. He set himself to do whatever might come within the compass of his station to hasten it onward; and yet it came into the mind of Lady Adelaide, who had not lived the better part of a century without learning something, and who whatever her natural short-comings was still a woman, and thus understood many things which do not appear upon the surface,--it being the kind provision of Nature that women, who cannot compass reason, shall be gifted with intuition,--that he was not in his secret heart so pleased as he took pains to seem. She pondered somewhat upon this contradiction, but she could come to no conclusion in regard to it, and so in the end she ceased troubling herself about it, the rather as she had just at this time many other things with which to cumber her head.

There was not long delay in the setting out of the bridal train when the hour had come. At high noon the sound of rebecs and pipes and tambours made merry all the castle as the bridal train moved toward the chapel. Even as far as the solemn, moaning pine-tops that murmured ever the strange secrets of the wood, the blithe strains sounded; and if indeed the wood-folk concerned themselves with the doings of the people in the castle they must this day have understood that the mood of the dwellers at Rittenberg was a jocund one.

And after the musicians came the pages, all in brave attire; and after the pages walked the damsels, shining and glowing in raiment bright and gay, and decked with many a gaud of gold and jewel; and behind the damsels came the bride herself in all her state and all her fairness. The Countess Erna was clad all in white, her long robe, which was trimmed with the snowy down from the breasts of swans, borne behind her by a pair of pretty pages, scarce large enough for even that weight. About her neck were wound strings of pearls, so large and so many that the ivory throat was scarcely to be seen because of them. In her hair was the tuft of white heron's feathers which marked her rank as head of the Von Rittenbergs, held in place by a single pearl so large and so round and of so silvery lustre that it was a wonder to see. The gem had been given to her father by a Greek whose life he had saved long ago in one of the emperor's campaigns in Italy, and never before had Erna worn it.

After the countess followed Lady Adelaide and those of the damsels of the castle who pertained rather to her than to her niece, although, to say sooth, so little state had Erna kept hitherto that all the maidens had seemed to belong to her aunt more than to her; and behind, at a proper distance, came those of the household who were not of consequence to walk with the bridal train itself.

The Baron Albrecht, for his part, was on this day clad in green velvet of the color of a beech-leaf in the shade, slashed with samite of the hue of the same foliage when the sun shines upon it. Richly was his raiment wrought in gold with curious devices of leaf and blossom, and set thickly with gems which made the eyes blink to look at them, so bright was their radiance. The clasps of his mantle, and even those of his sandals were of precious stones, while about his neck was a collar of jewels such as had never before been seen at Rittenberg. On his cap of marten's fur was fastened a carbuncle as large as the egg of the wood-pigeon and as red as the heart's blood of a rock-dove when it is spilled upon the bird's white breast.

All of the retainers of the castle were there to witness the marriage, and even some of the serfs crept unrebuked to the doors of the chapel, where they could hear most of the service and haply see a little, albeit it was not to be expected that they could understand if they did hear, although under the pious rule of Countess Erna they were commanded to attend Mass.

The solemn words were said at last, and with an emotion which was unusual, Father Christopher united the maid whose guardian he had been from her earliest infancy to the knight. Even at the altar there came upon the priest a dim and nameless fear what might be the results of this marriage. In the elevation of that hallowed moment he seemed to catch some faint glimpse of startling possibilities which were to depend upon the union, of momentous consequences which transcended the bounds of ordinary experiences, and of some mystery that thrilled him without his being able to grasp or to understand it. He felt for the instant a wonderful uplifting, as of one called to take part in some mighty conflict, of which the outcome was doubtful, but in which the cause was glorious. It was as if he were seized upon by some mystic power such as thrills the heart of a seer in the moment of his ecstasy; as if his hand almost touched some profound and mighty secret upon which depended the fate of mankind. As if in a vision he felt about him the might of the forest and the terror of its witchery; the powers of night and of hell seemed to surge around him in awful conflict with those of light; he was as if for the moment rapt away from the holy place in which he stood, and encompassed by the blackness in which the wild and dread beings of the wilderness worked their sinful spells against mankind.

Only an instant did the vision, if vision it were, hold him, and then the candles upon the altar shone again upon him; but the soul of Father Christopher was filled with wild surmise and strange questionings what this might mean. He pronounced the nuptial benediction with lips that hardly knew what they said, and with eyes which scarcely saw the pair kneeling before him in all the glory of youth and beauty and the bravery of their splendid attire.

It was to be expected that Erna should be deeply affected by the rite which bound her for life and death to the knight by her side. Her religious nature was keenly susceptible to all the offices of the Church, and although she might at this moment be strongly swayed by passion and by personal sentiment, the occasion was one of too much solemnity to fail of touching her profoundly. What most impressed the good priest was the reverential bearing of the groom during the rite. There was in the mien of Albrecht a gravity and a respect which was to Father Christopher surprising, accustomed as he was to the levity and joyousness of the knight. The baron seemed even more serious and religious in his attitude than the bride, so that the priest could not but wonder at this reversal of their usual attitudes.

After the ceremony there was a feast in the great hall of the castle, and not a little wine was drunk, albeit the most of it was consumed below the salt. Never had Albrecht been so gay. The seriousness which Father Christopher had noted in the chapel had vanished, and he was like a roistering, jocund woodland god, overflowing with merriment. His mirth was contagious, and as he jested and sang, and in gleeful wise teased the Lady Adelaide, even the priest was constrained to laugh until the tears ran down upon his wrinkled cheeks.

It was after the feast was over, and the torches had been lighted, that Herr von Zimmern approached Erna.

"Gracious lady," he said, "I have ventured to provide a pastime for your wedding day. As we came hither through the forest the other day, we met a band of wandering gypsies from the South. They are skilful in the song and the dance, and I ventured to bid them to be here to-night. They are in the courtyard, and await your presence to begin their sports."

Erna hesitated a little, even while she thanked him; but Albrecht sprang up joyously.

"Oh, the gypsies!" he cried. "They are almost as good as the wood-folk themselves, for they live in the open air and love the forest."

Seeing that her husband was pleased, Erna yielded despite whatever secret disinclination she may have felt, and the company went out upon a balcony that overlooked the courtyard. There in a gay and picturesque group under the flaring torches were the wandering band, their tawdry finery showing in the wavering and uncertain light like real bravery of attire. The jugglers tossed the glittering balls; the dancers twined themselves lightly through the measures of their strange dances, and the poor tame bear was made to go clumsily through his uncouth antics. The serfs were clustered in wondering knots in the shadows; the torches flamed, and the quaint instruments of the vagrant musicians sounded weirdly on the night air in the plaintive tunes of the wild folk. Erna felt an unknown feeling stealing over her, as if some incantation were being performed which was to transform her into a new creature. She fancied that secretly Herr von Zimmern watched her steadily; and half in pleasure and half in fear she shrank close to her husband's side, as if in him were strength and reliance.

At length a gypsy girl came forward into the ring which her fellows made for her, and after a short prelude on the instruments of the musicians, began to sing. Her voice was of passionate sweetness, full of the languor of the South, the luxurious sensuousness which is as sweet as love and as enervating. Erna's whole body trembled with a sensation such as she had never known, and she seemed to herself at once to cling closer to Albrecht and to desire to flee from him. The song was one of the gypsy's life and love.

"When day is breaking, The gypsy, waking, His way is taking Through thicket and thorn. No bird upward sailing On glad wing prevailing, More jocund is hailing The gay, laughing morn.

"No walls may cage him, No cares engage him, No wars enrage him, No castles can hold; He roams with the breezes, He loves where he pleases, Ambition ne'er teases His heart free and bold.

"The gypsy lover From dreams that hover Awakes to discover His loved one nigh; Oh, the joy of the hour When hid in some bower His passion's full power No word can deny!

"Then lip to lip meeting, Gives love's fullest greeting, And hearts hotly beating Respond each to each. Then breast to breast straining Fresh raptures is gaining, And past all restraining Love's ecstasies reach!"

Despite herself, Erna felt the hot blushes chasing one another over her face. She leaned backward to be in the shadow, while Albrecht bent over to touch under the chin the damsel Elsa, who stood close by behind the chair of the Lady Adelaide.

"By my sword!" he cried gayly; "but the gypsy maid's song is of warmer stuff than thine."

Herr Frederich chuckled, and Erna flushed more deeply still.

"Come," she said, rising, "we have had enough. The night air is becoming chill."

"And besides," Herr Frederich said softly, "it is time that the bride were conducted to her chamber."

She turned away from him, giving no sign if she heard; and the little party returned to the great hall, where indeed the maidens of the castle soon assembled to lead Erna to the bridal chamber, to the white and perfumed bride-bed which Father Christopher had blessed with prayer in his soul no less than upon his lips.

All white and blessed, like a blossom of the hawthorne over whose snow the flush of early morn casts a rosy tint, Erna lay to await the quick coming of the bridegroom, while the unknown world of married love stretched out before her, mystic, enticing, yet not without dread. One by one the steps of her maidens died down the corridor, and ringing upon its stone floor she heard the footsteps of Albrecht, swift with eagerness. And as if with an instinct half prophetic she almost comprehended that this marriage meant the saving or the wrecking of souls; so that when her husband came into the chamber and bent over to kiss her, warm and flushed, and glowing with love and with laughter, she threw her arms about his neck with sudden and inexplicable tears.

XI

How Albrecht Confessed.

The dawn was only just beginning to glow when Erna awakened next morning; but Albrecht had already arisen, and was standing, fully dressed, by the bedside. She started up from her pillow and regarded him with surprise.

"Where art thou going?" she asked. "Surely thou wert not trying to steal away without my knowing?"

Albrecht bent over and kissed her fondly.

"I am going," he answered, in a tone of strange tenderness and solemnity, "to the chamber of Father Christopher. I was interrupted yesterday when I should have made confession."

"Come again quickly!" Erna cried, putting up her white arms to clasp them about her husband's neck.

He returned the embrace with passionate eagerness.

"How can I ever repay thee," he murmured, "for what thou givest me! But at least, sweetheart," he added, as he freed himself from her clinging arms, "I have at last learned what thou didst mean when thou didst reprove me for kissing the damsel in the hall; and henceforth I cannot care for the kisses of any save of thee only."

There was in Albrecht's mien something which was new to Erna, and which affected her profoundly. After he was gone she lay thinking of the grave, half-wondering expression of his handsome face. She felt some subtile change in him so strongly that it seemed as if the real alteration must be in herself. The jocund, sportive air with which he had always treated her, even since their betrothal, seemed to have given place to a tender and almost adoring manner which touched her deeply while it made her flush with pleasure.

Father Christopher was at his orisons when Albrecht presented himself at the door of his little chamber, high up in the western tower, from whose narrow windows the kindly and pious old man could see the first gleams of the morning sun, and the last fading glimmer of the dying day, and from which he could look far over the wild and haunted forest which stretched like a sea about the hill on which the castle stood. The priest rose from his knees and opened the door, the surprise he felt at the sight of the baron appearing undisguisedly in his face.

"Good morrow, Father," the knight said, advancing somewhat hesitatingly into the chamber.

"Good morrow, my son," the priest responded, regarding his visitor curiously. "Is it well with the countess?"

"All is well with her," answered Albrecht, gravely, and with something not unlike timidity appearing in his manner; "unless," he added with sudden vehemence, "it be not well that she hath wed with me."

The face of Father Christopher became instantly grave.

"Why dost thou say that?" he demanded almost fiercely, coming closer to the knight.

"Nay, Father," Albrecht said, meeting the eyes of the other with a deep and grave regard that did not falter, "I know not that it be not well, and I have not knowingly done her harm. Only," he continued, his tone changing suddenly into one of entreaty and profound emotion, "I cannot tell what I may have done. Bless me, Father, and I will tell thee all. I have sore need of thy guidance."

He fell on his knees as he spoke, and half mechanically the bewildered priest extended his hands in benediction. The baron remained kneeling for a moment in the attitude of prayer, though his lips did not move. Then he rose, and began to pace up and down the little chamber with long strides.

"Father," he said, "it is an awful thing to possess a soul. Had I known--"

The priest seated himself and watched his visitor with concern and curiosity. As Albrecht broke off and walked with eyes fixed upon the floor and brows knit, Father Christopher said aloud, although he was really speaking only to himself:

"How ill was it that that madman broke in upon us yesterday! I should not be in this painful uncertainty but for that unhappy chance which prevented thy confession."

"Father," the other replied, turning toward him, "it was not a chance. The man did but act a part that Herr von Zimmern taught him. It was done that I need not confess."

"What!" exclaimed the priest, springing to his feet. "Thou hast mocked at the holy sacrament! Thou wentest to the altar with a lie on thy lips; thou--"

"Wait!" Albrecht interrupted, with an air of noble authority which arrested his companion's words and even somewhat reassured him. "I have come to tell thee everything, and thou wilt see that I was innocent because I knew not what I did."

"How can that be?" Father Christopher responded. "Surely, that it is impiety to trifle with the sacraments is known to every man."

Albrecht paused in his agitated walk, and for a moment stood regarding the priest with a strange look.

"To every man, yes," at length he responded, "but not to me. I am a kobold."

The priest sprang to his feet with a cry of astonishment and horror. Like a flash came the remembrance of all the strange circumstances which attended the coming of the baron and his stay at Rittenberg. He grew pale with anger and dread.

"A kobold!" he cried. "One of the accursed, soulless race!"

"Soulless no longer," Albrecht murmured, bending his head as if against a storm.

"What hast thou done!" the priest continued. "How hast thou dared to wed the countess with such a secret between you?"

"Father," the baron returned, laying his hand upon the other's arm, and speaking with more coolness than could have been expected, "it is only to-day when I awake with a soul, that I realize what I have done. How could I know before? I was like the beasts in the forest, and I have understood good and evil only as they. Now that the higher light has burst upon me, it dazzles and blinds me. I see only that I have wronged her whom now I would give my life to save from harm. She has given me a soul, and by it I realize how unfit I am to be her mate. Help me, Father, for with all the strength of my new soul I love her, love her, love her!"

The most profound feeling thrilled in Albrecht's voice as he pronounced these words. He sank down at the feet of his companion, and on his knees he clasped the other's hand.

"I am confused, blinded," he went on. "The prospect that opens before me is so vast that it overwhelms me. I have never feared anything in my life, Father; but of this thing which thou callest a soul that has come to me I am afraid, I am afraid, Father Christopher."

The priest was not unnaturally overcome by a situation so far aside from any previous experience of his life. His first thought was that he had to deal with a madman, but there was in the tones and manner of the baron that which compelled his belief. He could not understand, but he was too kindly not to be deeply moved by the emotion of his companion, and he wisely determined to learn as quickly and as clearly as possible the real facts of the strange situation, in order that he might determine what was his own duty in the case. He raised Albrecht from the floor, and motioned him to a seat.

"My son," he said gravely but not unkindly, "thou must be calm, and thou must tell me everything, that I may know how to advise thee and how to act myself. Relate all, from the very beginning."

Albrecht sank into the chair toward which the priest waved his hand, and for a moment he sat with his chin in his hand, his full chestnut beard pushed up so that it half covered his cheeks.

"I know not where to begin, Father," he said, "unless it be at my birth. My father was king of the kobolds in the Neiderwasser valley, and a brave and merry tribe they are. My mother died at my birth; and as this is a thing which seldom happens with our race, I was always looked upon as destined for some great or strange destiny. When I was four or five years old, my father caught Herr von Zimmern in the forest where he was hunting, and brought him home to the mountain caves where we dwelt, that he might teach me all knightly skill, for we kobolds are always jealous of the arts of knighthood."

"But did Herr von Zimmern desire to stay in such strange company?" asked Father Christopher, whose countenance expressed the greatest astonishment at this tale.

"He had no choice," rejoined Albrecht. "Once he tried to escape, and my father houghed him, that he should never again be able to travel through the forests fast enough to give trouble in bringing him back."

The priest shuddered, and the other for the first time in his life seemed to perceive the cruelty of this deed.

"My father," he said humbly, "had no soul."

Father Christopher's expression of horror changed to one of pity; and with a sigh Albrecht went on with his narrative.

"I was bred up at home," he said, "but now and then Herr von Zimmern has taken me to the cities, and to the fairs of the country, and now and then to a tourney that I might prove my knightly prowess. My father was killed in an avalanche some ten years since. He had offended the mountain sprites, and they lay in wait for him. I have lived with Herr von Zimmern since, and he has been my servant because I am ruler as my father was. It was he who told me of the delights of possessing a soul, and that a kobold might win one if a mortal maiden should love him with her whole heart and wed him. It was for this that he brought me to Rittenberg, and it was for this that I wooed its mistress."

There was a deep silence in the chamber as Albrecht ceased speaking. Strongly moved as he was by the confession, Father Christopher felt his heart so strongly yearn toward the baron, and so touched was he by the other's evident contrition, that he could not find it in his heart to speak the condemnation which the knight's course might merit. It was now too late, moreover, to prevent the mischief, and there seemed more wisdom in considering whether it were not possible to comply with Albrecht's agonized request, and to aid him to become worthy of his wife rather than to make any endeavor to separate them. If this might be done, it would be the saving of a soul; and however it had been come by, if Albrecht had indeed gained a spirit, it demanded the priest's best efforts to bring it to salvation.

"My son," the priest said after some moments' reflection, "what thou hast done would indeed be a grievous sin if thou hadst been a mortal, and I know not whether it is to be called a sin as it is or no. But now at least thou hast a soul, and it is mortal sin to live unbaptized."

"I was afraid," Albrecht said with simple candor and with an air of relief, "that thou wouldst command me to leave my wife; and that I could not do."

"No," the priest answered, "whom God through the Church hath joined are not lightly to be put asunder; but the rite of baptism is not to be neglected for a single hour."

"I know so little of these things," Albrecht murmured doubtfully.

"The priests of the Great Emperor," answered the old man, "administer baptism to the barbarians in token that they desire Christian light, and I can do no less for thee, who art in a devout mind."

Albrecht leaned forward in his chair and put out his hand half timidly to touch that of the other.

"I feel that I am ignorant of everything," he said. "Father, it is like suddenly coming into a strange land where I know not even the tongue that I should speak. I am afraid to go forward, lest I stumble into pitfalls I do not see."

Father Christopher laid his wrinkled hand kindly upon that of his penitent.

"But the way will become clear," he said, smiling. "Only follow the light that is given thee, and pray to God and his saints."

"But I know not how to pray."

"My son," the priest responded with a smile which comforted Albrecht more than words could have done, "our Great Emperor has said in his Capitularies: 'Let none suppose that prayer cannot be made to God save in three tongues, for God is adored in all tongues, and man is heard if he do but ask for the things that be right.' Be of good cheer, my son; God would not give a soul and not add enough knowledge for its salvation."

There was in the mien of Albrecht, as he knelt to receive the rite of baptism, the showing forth of great feeling. He had the air of one who comes into the fruit of a quest with joy, yet who regards that which he has won with something of doubt and secret awe; while withal it was evident that to his mind did this christening seem a thing which should serve in a sort as a talisman to defend him from this strange and awful guest that had come to dwell within him, but which even yet scarce seemed a part of himself. He was as one who knew not himself, but who was rather confused than enlightened by the new vision which had been imparted by the miracle that had been wrought.

"Father," he asked hesitatingly, "my wife, must I tell her?"

The priest considered a moment.

"Dost thou wish to tell her?" he inquired.

"Would to God that she had known!" was Albrecht's answer, "but how can I tell her now? What if she should turn against me?"

The strength of his newly found soul seemed to go out in his love for Erna, and he was white and trembling at the thought of losing her affection. Father Christopher regarded him keenly, with sympathy and complexity struggling in his mind.

"Now thou needst not tell her," he said. "The time may come; but now strive to become worthy of her whiteness, her innocence, her piety. If thou wouldst be sure of her love, my son, look upon this as a respite that thou mayest be one soul with hers when the day comes that she must be told. And of this be sure," the priest continued, his eye kindling as if some higher power were speaking through him, "since thou hast won thy soul through her, it is with hers that thine must stand or fall. If thou shalt drag hers down, there can be no salvation for thine."

XII

How The Morgengabe Was Bestowed.

Albrecht walked slowly back to his chamber after he had left the priest, all his mind in a confused whirl of strange and new emotions. He could not find the old self in this man whom he had become. He was still within the shadow of the awe which had fallen upon him when he awakened in the early dawn a human being, and he still thrilled with the reverential dread which had pierced him as the waters of baptism were laid upon his head.

Erna had not yet risen, but had fallen into a light sleep; and as he came to the bedside she softly murmured his name, as if she were even in her morning dream conscious that he had returned. Her white throat was bare, and from her lovely bosom the draperies were half displaced, so that its rounded swell melted into a foam of lace as if she were Aphrodite just emerging from the waves. All his newly found earnestness fell from Albrecht like a garment, and he was only conscious of his wife and his passion for her; albeit his love was not to-day the selfish desire of the kobold alone, as it had been last night. Fired by her beauty, he bent over and kissed her. She awoke with a smile that melted into a blush as she saw the ardent eyes of Albrecht bent upon her and felt his embrace steal about her. She let him lift her to kiss her again, and then she hid her shining face in his breast.

"Now thou must go," she said, as she returned his embrace. "They will stay for us in the hall. Send me my damsel, and I will be ready very quickly."

"Yes," he cried, springing up with all his old joyousness; "be thou as swift as may be, that we may bestow upon thee the _Morgengabe_."

The Lady Adelaide, after the manner of her kind, had been most curious in regard to the _Morgengabe_. Her maid Elsa had plied the retainers of Baron von Waldstein with questions, and the Lady Adelaide herself had not been above some cunning attempts to extract from Herr von Zimmern somewhat touching the nature and extent of the bridegroom's ability and probable liberality in this direction, but neither had obtained any definite information. Herr Frederich had replied that his master certainly had the means and the disposition to do things upon a grand scale, but he professed complete ignorance as to Baron Albrecht's actual intentions, a statement which Lady Adelaide took the liberty of doubting, as it seemed probable that the orders which her newly made nephew had sent home had been executed through Herr von Zimmern. As nothing further was to be got out of this functionary, however, and as Elsa found the men of the baron equally uncommunicative, there was no help for it, but curiosity must wait unsatisfied until the bridegroom's gift should be bestowed.

The Lady Adelaide, her black eyes shining with excitement, was already in the great hall when Albrecht and his bride entered, and Father Christopher was not far behind. All the household gathered, for the bestowing of the _Morgengabe_ was an important ceremony which hardly ranked below that of the bridal. The damsel Elsa, who could no more help coquetting than she could help breathing, took advantage of a chance which for a moment brought her face to face with Baron Albrecht to cast upon him one of her most languishing glances, but to her surprise and mayhap vexation he only smiled good-humoredly like one who comprehended thoroughly her wiles, and passed on to the side of Erna, who had already taken her place in readiness for the entrance of the bearers of her husband's gift.

"Body of Saint Fridolin!" muttered Elsa to herself, unconsciously using her mistress's favorite expletive, "but the wind has changed, methinks, since he touched me under the chin last night. Marriage has tamed you quickly, my Lord Baron! But we may see wonders yet."

And now with a peal of music, a wild strain which the retainers of the baron had learned from no human master, the great doors were thrown open and the little train of Von Waldstein's followers entered. Behind the musicians walked Herr von Zimmern, and after him followed six servitors, each pair bearing between them a casket of goodly size and apparently of some weight.

"The baron's _Morgengabe_ does not take up too much room," murmured Elsa in the ear of Lady Adelaide, behind whom she stood, with the familiarity of long and close service.

"Hush, simpleton!" her mistress responded. "If those caskets hold jewels, he is giving her a king's ransom."

The bringers of the _Morgengabe_ marched up the long hall, and saluting the company, the musicians fell back and ended their weird refrain. Herr von Zimmern stopped before Erna, and made a sign to the first pair of his followers to set down their burden at her feet.

"Gracious lady," Albrecht said, indicating it with his hand, "deign to accept this casket as a part of the unworthy _Morgengabe_ that I offer."

At a sign from Herr von Zimmern, the thralls threw back the lid and lifted out the trays of the casket, while a murmur of astonishment and delight ran through the hall. Within, in a glowing heap, in strings and clusters and singly, lay the most glorious carbuncles and topazes and sapphires that had ever been seen at Rittenberg, where, too, there had been some notable jewels in times gone by.

"Body of Saint Fridolin!" cried the old great-aunt. "Oh, that I were young and had married thee, Baron!"

A sunbeam shone through a high window and fell upon the gems, making them glow with all the hues of the rainbow. Erna knelt down beside the glittering heap, an exclamation of surprise and pleasure on her lips. She took up in her hands now one and then another of the splendid bawbles, her woman's love of finery and her sense of beauty alike appealed to by the wonderful stones. From the treasures she selected a string of magnificent sapphires, blue as the sky in springtime, and clasped it about her throat. She said not a word, but her look satisfied her husband. At a sign from him, Herr von Zimmern moved the casket aside, and had the second set in its place. This in its turn was opened, and within were gems more splendid and more precious than in the first; emeralds, rubies, and diamonds. The wealth of the coffer was confusing, so great was it.

"God's blood!" cried out the Lady Adelaide, falling back upon the oath which she kept for the very last extremity; "it is the ransom of a kingdom rather than of a king. Should the Huns hear of this _Morgengabe_ they might well come from the North for no other purpose than to capture it. By my soul! Herr Baron, one would think that thou wert in league with the gnomes to be possessed of jewels like these."

"I am on friendly terms with them," he answered, his truthfulness passing as a jest.

Father Christopher said not a word, but he observed how a sudden look of malice darted through the eyes of Herr von Zimmern at the words of Lady Adelaide, and how he smiled at the reply of his master. The good priest was troubled in his mind at the sight of all this wealth of gems. He saw how Erna's eyes shone, and with what fondness she gazed upon the gleaming, glancing stones; and he saw, too, how the expression of the face of Albrecht, as he regarded the treasures and the delight of his bride, lost the look of reverence and earnestness which it had worn when he left the priest's chamber, and took on an expression of greed and passion. The old man sighed, and looked away as still another casket, the third and last, was brought forward and opened at the feet of Erna.

If the third casket when it was opened did not shine with so great a splendor as did the others, its contents were none the less wonderful and beautiful. It was filled with pearls of the most clear and exquisite sheen, and with opals of fires as varied as the changing hues of the sunset, or of the foam-bubbles on a mountain-stream rocking in the sunlight with the swiftness of the current.

Words failed them all as they looked at the three caskets, and even Lady Adelaide was reduced to inarticulate ejaculations of amazement and admiration. Erna still said nothing, save now and then to cry out in wonder at the glory of some jewel more magnificent than its fellows, but she paused now and then in her gloating over the treasure to take her husband's hand and press it in a sort of ecstasy of fond delight.

"That is all the _Morgengabe_ I have to offer thee," Albrecht said with a smile, as the last casket was opened. "I cannot pretend that it is worthy of thy beauty, but it will make me happy that thou shouldst accept it."

"That is, forsooth, but false modesty," Father Christopher broke in with a brusqueness quite unusual in him. "The gift is one which Charlemagne himself need not be ashamed of; and indeed it is of too great splendor for simple folk like those who are not sovereigns but subjects."

Albrecht turned toward him with a fleeting expression of disquiet which was instantly chased away by a jovial smile.

"But the countess is a sovereign, at least of me and mine," he retorted.

"Doubtless the baron thinks the price small to pay for the joys of his wedding night," broke in Herr Frederich with a laugh.

Erna flushed and bent lower over the pearls she was examining, while Albrecht turned haughtily upon Herr von Zimmern with a look of rebuke under which the other dropped his head. Bowing profoundly to the company, Herr Frederich made a sign to the musicians, and as they again took up their wild strain and led the way down the hall, he followed with the bearers who had accompanied him to bring in the caskets.

For the first time in his life Albrecht found himself penetrated with a sense of disgust and of distrust of his teacher as he looked after him. He felt for the first time that the relations of himself and his wife were too sacred to be jested upon, and it seemed, moreover, as if his new powers gave him an insight into the true nature of Herr von Zimmern which he had never possessed before; so that one of the earliest results of his winning the quest to which he had been incited by his instructor was the springing of an instinctive repulsion from the latter as from an evil thing.

All this, however, was but the feeling of an instant as he stood in the hall and watched the delight of Erna over the jewels. He laughed at her childlike surprise and delight, and jested with the Lady Adelaide in his accustomed fashion. He even had a smile for Elsa when that forward maiden, behind the backs of the ladies, held a great carbuncle, as large as a pigeon's egg, up to her ear, and pretended to find the weight unbearable. But at last a chance word of Erna's changed again his mood.

"Look!" she said, holding up a rope of pearls, "they are as large again as those the emperor gave to the Madonna at Mayence."

And at the name of the Madonna Albrecht remembered his baptism, and the burden of his soul once more fell upon him.

XIII

How The Days Sped At Rittenberg.

In the life of the late Count von Rittenberg it had fallen to the lot of Father Christopher to see not a few strange things. He had accompanied that warrior in several of his campaigns, and he had seen the fierce Huns and the gigantic Saxons, with their barbaric ornaments of beaten gold, their dress of skins, and their strange weapons. He had more than once pondered in his mind whether these hordes of the dark North had human souls, at least before the Church had set upon them the seal of baptism and thus forever marked them as separated from the beasts of the field or the forest which to the eye of the priest they so much resembled.

All that he had hitherto seen, however, faded into insignificance in his mind when compared with that which was now daily before his eyes. He seemed to himself sometimes involved in some strange dream from which he might at any moment awake with only a more or less confused remembrance of what it had been. His old vague questionings concerning the souls of the Huns recurred to his mind; but the perplexing thing was that they who really had souls should have so completely seemed to lack them, while Baron Albrecht, with his magnificent beauty, his manly bearing, his knightly skill and courtesy, should have in truth been without an immortal spirit. The secret of which the priest had been made the repository so absorbed his attention that he could scarcely give either thought or interest to anything else, and not infrequently did Erna laughingly assure him that his one occupation in life seemed to have become watching her husband.

It was noticeable how much Erna had changed since she had known Albrecht. Even Father Christopher, who so deeply loved her that he had secretly regarded her as perfection and therefore could conceive of no possible alteration in her, was not so blind that he failed to appreciate that she was a different creature from the white, calm maiden, with unstirred soul, who had welcomed the baron on the morning when he had ridden with call of bugle and gleam of jewelled armor out of the gloom of the pine forest below the castle. Whether this change was one for which to be glad Father Christopher could not determine. His love for Erna and his loyalty to the Von Rittenbergs rendered it impossible for him to feel that it was not an improvement that now Erna should be gay where she had hitherto been calm, that she should be jocund where she had before been only happy, that she should apparently have discovered the delights of the eye, of the body, and of the world, and exchanged her former innocence for a more worldly wisdom; and yet all this confused him. He could not think it wrong that now the countess adorned herself with the splendid gems of which her caskets were so well filled; especially as she had bestowed upon the Madonna in the castle chapel jewels that would have bought the entire holding as it had been before Baron von Waldstein's coming. He did not find it in his heart to reprove or indeed even to blame her newly developed fondness for hawking, a sport for which her husband had a strong inclination and in which he had also unusual skill. He could not condemn her gay raiment, her frequent laughter, her increased attention to the comforts and luxuries of the castle. There was nothing in all this which was sinful, there was not even anything which was not eminently fitting to the youth of the countess, her estate, and her condition.

And yet the mind of the priest was somehow strangely troubled. Perhaps his inner consciousness apprehended a change in Erna that was so s