THE PERFORATED HARNESS.
The Lady Bertha of Elz was left by her brother, who had gone to fight in the Holy Land, to take care of the castle of Elz; her lover, Count Edmund, had died, and she mourned for him whom she so dearly had loved.
One evening, when the stars were consoling her for the loss of her lover, she sat gazing on them, and tranquillity fell on her heart.
The hours silently passed, and the lady prepared for her rest, little thinking how near to its final repose life was passing. Suddenly she saw glittering of helmets, and heard noises of clanking of armour below in the valley. Rousing her attendants, Bertha armed herself in a light suit of mail, and went forth with her esquires and adherents to oppose the robbers, who came like caitiffs to attack a female by night.
Advancing in front of her friends, the courageous lady addressed the leaders of the marauders, asking why thus they attacked her. An arrow, launched from an unseen bow, pierced her harness: this was the only reply. Bertha fell dying, and her soldiers rushed on and defeated the foe.
The Lady Bertha was laid in a grave near the castle, over which a weeping willow still points out the spot; and in the still, starlight nights, she and her lover, happy in death, sit hand-in-hand, contented and silent.
The castle of Elz was at length taken from its proper possessors by the Archbishop Baldwin of Trèves, who, although outwitted by Lauretta of Sponheim, seems generally to have worsted his enemies.
There had been a long feud between the knights and the Bishop, who at last vowed to reduce them to obedience. He accordingly besieged the castle in form, and, in order to cut off all supplies, caused a new castle to be erected on the rocks opposite (a fragment of it still exists). This new castle he filled with armed men, and at length the knights of Elz agreed to own the warlike Bishop for their liege lord, and henceforth they held the castle as vassals.
Elz.
Three or four miles higher up the valley of Elz is the castle of Pyrmont. It is romantically seated on rocks which border the stream that a little lower down falls in a cascade into a deep pool. This fall is said to have been a favourite resort of the lady whose lover met the sad fate here recorded:—
JUTTA OF PYRMONT.
A minstrel came to the castle-gate,
And tidings ill he bore;
He told of the brave Count Fred’rick’s fate,—
The Count was now no more.
For in the far Italian land,
In lowly grave he lay;
Slain by the loathsome headsman’s hand,
Though spared in the bloody fray.
Of all who loved the noble knight
Only this Page was left,
Who now fulfilled, in woful plight,
His master’s last behest;
That he should seek far Pyrmont’s walls,
And there his master’s fate,
In Lady Jutta’s lofty halls,
With speed and truth, relate
How many frays the Count did win
Till that sad field was fought,
Where he and brave Count Conraddin
Both prisoners in were brought;
How then the coward Duke d’Anjou
Struck off his captive’s head,
And slew his followers so true
(All save this Page were dead).
The Lady Jutta heard the tale;
No word the lady spake,
But still she sat, and deadly pale,
The whilst her heart did break.
To convent walls the dying maid
Retired, her days to close;
Soon in the grave her sorrow laid,
God sent her his repose.
Retracing our steps down the valley of the Elzbach, we found a good path leading through the bottom of the vale. Little meadows bordered the brook which we were compelled to cross frequently, but the great stepping-stones afforded a sure footing over the stream in which the trout were greedily rising at flies. It was evening, and on our left the dense foliage was glowing in light, while the meadows and opposite hills were in shade with little puffs of grey spreading in thin lines among the trees.
At the mouth of the valley we came upon Moselkern, and put up at a tidy little inn, where the young lady of the house rather despised two travellers who had no baggage but what their capacious pockets contained. She was a pretty girl, and doubtless a village belle, so had a right to give herself airs. She, however, relented, and became more polite, when we, regardless of expense, ordered the best wine, which cost at least eighteen-pence a bottle.
In all these inns, we observed that the landlord or his representative thought it a matter of necessity to sit and keep company with his guests, even if they did not talk.
Moselkern we found to be a cheerful village, very prettily placed among the trees, just below where the Elz brook falls into the Moselle. Between it and the river is a broad, green piece of land, where boat-building is generally going on.
Here the youth of the place bathe, and the inhabitants meet to discuss the prospects of the coming vintage, and rejoice or mourn over the past one.
There seemed to be a great leaning towards the French on the banks of our river. In most of the villages there is to be found some old soldier, who expatiates to his listeners on the glorious days of the old Napoleon; and many of the better class of villagers speak a sort of mongrel French. Even among the lowest, French expressions are common.
Sketch at Carden.