Albrecht

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."