Folk-lore and Legends: German Part 4

As he spake he dipped his hand in the heap of gold and poured forth a handful into her lap.

"Use that," he continued, "use it without fear. It is my gift. No evil will come of it; I give you my royal word."

He beckoned her onward without waiting for her reply, and they were walking once again through the corridors of the palace.

"Adieu!" he said, waving his hand to her, "adieu!"

Darkness fell around her in a moment. In a moment more she awoke, as from a dream, in her warm bed.

PETER KLAUS.

Peter Klaus, a goatherd of Sittendorf, who tended herds on the Kyffhauser mountain, used to let them rest of an evening in a spot surrounded by an old wall, where he always counted them to see if they were all right. For some days he noticed that one of his finest goats, as they came to this spot, vanished, and never returned to the herd till late. He watched him more closely, and at length saw him slip through a rent in the wall. He followed him, and caught him in a cave, feeding sumptuously upon the grains of oats which fell one by one from the roof. He looked up, shook his head at the shower of oats, but, with all his care, could discover nothing further. At length he heard overhead the neighing and stamping of some mettlesome horses, and concluded that the oats must have fallen from their mangers.

While the goatherd stood there, wondering about these horses in a totally uninhabited mountain, a lad came and made signs to him to follow him silently. Peter ascended some steps, and, crossing a walled court, came to a glade surrounded by rocky cliffs, into which a sort of twilight made its way through the thick-leaved branches. Here he found twelve grave old knights playing at skittles, at a well-levelled and fresh plot of gra.s.s. Peter was silently appointed to set up the ninepins for them.

At first his knees knocked together as he did this, while he marked, with half-stolen glances, the long beards and goodly paunches of the n.o.ble knights. By degrees, however, he grew more confident, and looked at everything about him with a steady gaze--nay, at last, he ventured so far as to take a draught from a pitcher which stood near him, the fragrance of which appeared to him delightful. He felt quite revived by the draught, and as often as he felt at all tired, received new strength from application to the inexhaustible pitcher. But at length sleep overcame him.

When he awoke, he found himself once more in the enclosed green s.p.a.ce, where he was accustomed to leave his goats. He rubbed his eyes, but could discover neither dog nor goats, and stared with surprise at the height to which the gra.s.s had grown, and at the bushes and trees, which he never remembered to have noticed. Shaking his head, he proceeded along the roads and paths which he was accustomed to traverse daily with his herd, but could nowhere see any traces of his goats. Below him he saw Sittendorf; and at last he descended with quickened step, there to make inquiries after his herd.

The people whom he met at his entrance to the town were unknown to him, and dressed and spoke differently from those whom he had known there. Moreover, they all stared at him when he inquired about his goats, and began stroking their chins. At last, almost involuntarily, he did the same, and found to his great astonishment that his beard had grown to be a foot long. He began now to think himself and the world altogether bewitched, and yet he felt sure that the mountain from which he had descended was the Kyffhauser; and the houses here, with their fore-courts, were all familiar to him. Moreover, several lads whom he heard telling the name of the place to a traveller called it Sittendorf.

Shaking his head, he proceeded into the town straight to his own house. He found it sadly fallen to decay. Before it lay a strange herd-boy in tattered garments, and near him an old worn-out dog, which growled and showed his teeth at Peter when he called him. He entered by the opening, which had formerly been closed by a door, but found all within so desolate and empty that he staggered out again like a drunkard, and called his wife and children. No one heard; no voice answered him.

Women and children now began to surround the strange old man, with the long h.o.a.ry beard, and to contend with one another in inquiring of him what he wanted. He thought it so ridiculous to make inquiries of strangers, before his own house, after his wife and children, and still more so, after himself, that he mentioned the first neighbour whose name occurred to him, Kirt Stiffen. All were silent, and looked at one another, till an old woman said--

"He has left here these twelve years. He lives at Sachsenberg; you'll hardly get there to-day."

"Velten Maier?"

"G.o.d help him!" said an old crone leaning on a crutch. "He has been confined these fifteen years in the house, which he'll never leave again."

He recognised, as he thought, his suddenly aged neighbour; but he had lost all desire of asking any more questions. At last a brisk young woman, with a boy of a twelvemonth old in her arms, and with a little girl holding her hand, made her way through the gaping crowd, and they looked for all the world like his wife and children.

"What is your name?" said Peter, astonished.

"Maria."

"And your father?"

"G.o.d have mercy on him, Peter Klaus. It is twenty years since we sought him day and night on the Kyffhauser, when his goats came home without him. I was only seven years old when it happened."

The goatherd could no longer contain himself.

"I am Peter Klaus," he cried, "and no other," and he took the babe from his daughter's arms.

All stood like statues for a minute, till one and then another began to cry--

"Here's Peter Klaus come back again! Welcome, neighbour, welcome, after twenty years; welcome, Peter Klaus!"

THE LEGEND OF RHEINECK.

Graf Ulric Von Rheineck was a very wild youth. Recklessly and without consideration did he plunge into every excess. Dissipation grew to be the habit of his life, and no sensual indulgence did he deny himself which could be procured by any means whatever. Amply provided for as he was, the revenues of his wide possessions, which comprehended Thal Rheineck, and the adjacent country, to the sh.o.r.e of the Rhine, and as far as the mouth of the Aar, were soon discovered to be insufficient for all his absorbing necessities. One by one his broad lands were alienated from him, piece after piece of that n.o.ble possession fell from his house, until finally he found himself without a single inch of ground which he could call his own, save the small and unproductive spot on which Rheineck stood. This he had no power to transfer, or perhaps it would have gone with the remainder. The castle had fallen sadly into disrepair, through his protracted absence from home, and his continual neglect of it,--indeed there was scarcely a habitable room within its precincts, and he now had no means to make it the fitting abode of any one, still less of a n.o.bleman of his rank and consequence. All without, as well as all within it, was desolate and dreary to the last degree. The splendid garden, previously the pride of his ancestors, was overrun with weeds, and tangled with parasites and creepers. The stately trees, which once afforded shelter and shade, as well as fruits of the finest quality and rarest kinds, were all dying or withered, or had their growth obstructed by destroying plants. The outer walls were in a ruinous condition, the fortifications were everywhere fallen into decay, and the alcoves and summer-houses had dropped down, or were roofless, and exposed to the weather. It was a cheerless prospect to contemplate, but he could not now help himself, even if he had the will to do so. Day after day the same scene of desolation presented itself to his eyes, night after night did the same cheerless chamber present itself to his view. It was his own doing. That he could not deny, and bitterly he rued it. To crown his helplessness and misery, his va.s.sals and domestic servants abandoned him by degrees, one after another, and at last he was left entirely alone in the house of his fathers--a hermit in that most dismal of all solitudes, the desolate scene of one's childish, one's happiest recollections.

One evening about twilight, as he sat at the outer gate, looking sadly on the broad, bright river which flowed calmly beneath, he became aware of the presence of a stranger, who seemed to toil wearily up the steep acclivity on the summit of which the castle is situated.

The stranger--an unusual sight within those walls then--soon reached the spot where Ulric sat, and, greeting the youth in the fas.h.i.+on of the times, prayed him for shelter during the night, and refreshment after his most painful journey.

"I am," quoth the stranger, "a poor pilgrim on my way to Cologne, where, by the merits of the three wise kings--to whose shrine I am bound--I hope to succeed in the object of my journey."

Graf Ulric von Rheineck at once accorded him the hospitality he required, for though he had but scant cheer for himself, and nought of comfort to bestow, he had still some of the feeling of a gentleman left in him.

"I am alone here now," said he to the pilgrim, with a deep sigh. "I am myself as poor as Job. Would it were not so! My menials have left me to provide for themselves, as I can no longer provide for them. 'Twas ever the way of the world, and I blame them not for it. The last departed yesterday. He was an old favourite of my father's, and he once thought that he would not leave my service but with his life. We must now look to ourselves, however,--at least so he said. But that has nothing to do with the matter, so enter, my friend."

They entered. By their joint exertions a simple evening meal was soon made ready, and speedily spread forth on a half-rotten plank, their only table.

"I have no better to offer you," observed the young Count, "but I offer you what I have with right goodwill. Eat, if you can, and be merry."

They ate in silence, neither speaking during the meal.

"Surely," said the pilgrim, when it was over,--"surely it may not be that the extensive cellars of this great castle contain not a single cup of wine for the weary wayfarer."

The Count was at once struck by the idea. It seemed to him as if he had never thought of it before, though in reality he had ransacked every corner of the cellars more than once.

"Come, let us go together and try," continued the pilgrim; "it will go hard with us if we find nought to wash down our homely fare."

Accompanied by his persuasive guest, the Count descended to the vaults, where the wines of Rheineck had been stored for ages. Dark and dreary did they seem to him. A chill fell on his soul as he strode over the mouldy floor.

"Here," said the pilgrim, with great glee,--"here, here! Look ye, my master, look ye! See! I have found a cup of the best."

The Count pa.s.sed into a narrow cellar whither the pilgrim had preceded him. There stood his companion beside a full b.u.t.t of burgundy, holding in his hand a ma.s.sive silver cup, foaming over with the generous beverage, and with the other he pointed exultingly to his prize. The scene seemed like a dream to Ulric. The place was wholly unknown to him. The circ.u.mstances were most extraordinary. He mused a moment, but he knew not what to do in the emergency.

"We will enjoy ourselves here," said the pilgrim. "Here, on this very spot, shall we make us merry! Ay, here, beside this n.o.ble b.u.t.t of burgundy. See, 'tis the best vintage! Let us be of good cheer!"

The Count and his boon companion sat down on two empty casks, and a third served them for a table. They plied the br.i.m.m.i.n.g beakers with right goodwill; they drank with all their might and main. The Count became communicative, and talked about his private affairs, as men in liquor will. The pilgrim, however, preserved a very discreet silence, only interrupting by an occasional interjection of delight, or an opportune word of encouragement to his garrulous friend.

"I'll tell you what," began the pilgrim, when the Count had concluded his tale,--"I'll tell you what. Listen: I know a way to get you out of your difficulties, to rid you of all your embarra.s.sments."

The Count looked at him incredulously for a moment; his eye could not keep itself steady for a longer s.p.a.ce of time. There was something in the pilgrim's glance as it met his that greatly dissipated his unbelief, and he inquired of him how these things could be brought about.

"But, mayhap," continued the pilgrim, apparently disregarding the manifest change in his companion's impressions regarding him,--"mayhap you would be too faint-hearted to follow my advice if I gave it you."

The Count sprang on his feet in a trice, and half-unsheathed his sword to avenge this taunt on his manhood, but the pilgrim looked so unconcerned, and evinced so little emotion at this burst of anger, that the action and its result were merely momentary. Ulric resumed his seat, and the pilgrim proceeded--