“THE EMPEROR CONRAD AND THE COUNT’S SON.”
During the reign of the Emperor Conrad, there lived a certain count of the name of Leopold, who had risen to high commands by his bravery and his knowledge. Every one regarded the count with favor, and loved him for his kindness to suitors, and his prowess against the enemies of the emperor. Conrad alone looked on his servant with an evil eye; for he envied his reputation, and would have taken to himself the glories he had acquired, and ascribed to himself those victories which Leopold had won.
The count, unable to endure the evil looks and hard words of the emperor, and fearful that in time his present anger would be turned into bitter hatred, suddenly left the court of Rome, and fled with his wife into the forest of the Apennines. There he toiled all day, and labored diligently to support himself and his spouse. There he knew not what the fear of impending evil was; he had no one to envy him, no one to covet his position or his property.
It was a bright sunny day, and the meridian sun glared with unwonted fierceness, even through the thick trees of the forest, and rendered the air close and heavy from lack of a breeze to move even the highest leaves of the loftiest pines. The emperor pursued the chase with ardor; urged on by the exhilarating cry of the hounds, he thought not of the denseness of the forest, or the tangled nature of its winding ways, until at last, tired and thirsty, he checked his horse in a dark, close glade, and looked around for some hut where he might obtain rest and refreshment.
Many were the paths which the emperor and his attendants followed before they reached the cottage where Leopold lived in solitude; the count recognized the sovereign, but Conrad knew not his old servant, nor was he recognized by any of the hunting train; refreshments, such as the homely store could furnish, were soon placed before the emperor. It was now nigh to evening; already the glades of the forest were growing dark, and the devious paths more and more difficult to track out, even to the experienced eye of a woodman. It was useless to attempt to escape from the forest before the next morning. The attendants soon formed for themselves sylvan beds on the soft grass, and beneath the broad-spreading trees, their cloaks for coverlids, and the green mossy grass for their beds. The emperor fared better. One low tressel bed Leopold had in the lower room of his hut; this he resigned to the emperor.
Fatigued with his hard day’s riding, Conrad soon fell asleep; how long he slept he knew not; but when all was dark and still, both within and without the hut, a voice broke upon his ear.
“Take—take—take,” said the voice.
Conrad rose and listened. “What,” said he to himself, as he thought on the words, “what am I to take? Take—take—take: what can the voice mean?”
As he reflected on the singularity of the words, the emperor again fell asleep; again a voice awoke him from his slumbers.
“Restore—restore—restore,” said the mysterious voice.
“What means all this mystery?” exclaimed the emperor. “First I was to take, take, take, and there is nothing for me to take; and now I am to restore. What can I restore, when I have taken nothing?”
Again the emperor slept, and again the voice seemed to speak to him.
“Fly—fly—fly,” said the voice this time, “for a child is now born, who shall become thy son-in-law.”
It was early dawn when Conrad heard the voice the third time. He immediately arose, and inquired of his squires if they had heard a noise, and what had happened in the night.
“Naught,” replied they, “my lord, but that a son was born to the poor woodman whilst you slept.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Conrad, “a son—to mount—to horse—we will away.”
The emperor and his train had hardly found their way out of the wood, when Conrad called two of his knights to him.
“Go,” said he, “to the woodman’s hut, take away the new-born child, kill it; and bring its heart to me, that I may know that you have performed my commands.”
With sorrowful hearts the two knights returned towards the woodman’s cottage. The babe was nestled in its mother’s breast, and smiled on them as they seized it. Vain was the resistance of its mother, for she was alone; Leopold had gone into the wood, to his daily labor.
“I cannot strike the poor babe,” said one knight to the other, as they left the hut in the forest, “do you play the butcher.”
“Not I,” replied the other; “I can strike down my adversary in fair fight, but not this poor babe.”
At this moment a hare sprang across the path so close to the foremost of the knights, that he raised his hunting pole and struck it down.
“Comrade,” said the other knight, “I perceive how we may make the emperor believe that we have obeyed his commands, and yet not take this poor babe’s life—open the hare, take out its heart. As for the babe, we will place it on yonder high branch, where the wild beasts cannot get at it, until we have done our message to the emperor, then will I return and take this poor babe to my home, for I am childless.”
Leaving the babe, the two knights went on their message to the emperor; but before they could return, a good duke rode by the tree where the babe was, and took compassion on it, and carried the child to his own house, where it was nurtured as his own son. As for the child, he grew up a man of fine form, the joy of his adopted parents, eloquent in speech, and a general favorite at the emperor’s court. For a time, Conrad was as pleased with the attainments of the young Henry, as he had been with those of his poor father; but time brought with it envy, and he soon hated the youth, as he had before the unfortunate count. A dreadful suspicion haunted Conrad’s mind that he had been deceived by his knights, and that the youthful favorite of the people was the woodman’s child, against whom he had been warned by the secret voice. The most cruel thoughts entered his mind, and he determined, this time, not to be deceived by his agents.
“Henry,” said he to the young count, “I have a letter of the utmost importance that I wish to be delivered to my wife; to you I commit it, for you I can trust; haste, then, prepare for your journey, whilst I write the letter.”
Henry retired to his apartments to prepare for his ride he chose his best riding suit, and his strongest horse, desirous in every way to do honor to the emperor’s mission. Conrad went to his private room to prepare the letter.
“As soon as this letter reaches you,” he wrote, “I command you to cause the bearer thereof to be put to death. See that this be done, as you value my love.”
Henry received the letter, and prepared to commence his journey. As it happened, his horse cast one of its shoes, and he was compelled to wait until another could be forged. Unwilling that the emperor should know of the delay, the young man wandered into the royal chapel, and seating himself in one of the royal stalls, fell asleep.
There was a prying, crafty priest in the chapel, who had heard the message given to the young count, and wished very much to discover the secret of the message. Seeing the young man asleep, he silently approached the youth, and extracting the letter from the little silken bag in which it was enclosed, opened its folds, and read, with astonishment, the proposed wickedness.
“Poor youth,” murmured the priest, “thou little thinkest on what errand you are riding. But, come, I will deceive this cruel emperor,” continued he, as he erased the passage in which Henry’s death was commanded, and inserted these words: “Give him our daughter in marriage.”
The letter altered and replaced, his horse reshod, Henry set out on his journey, and soon arrived at the city where the queen dwelt. Presenting his letter to the queen, he was greatly surprised when she hailed him as her son-in-law, by virtue of the royal commands, and bade the priests and nobles of her court to assist in rendering the celebration of the nuptials as gorgeous as befitted the occasion.
It was in vain that Conrad raged against the deceit thus practised on him; one by one the wonderful facts of the young man’s deliverance were revealed to him, and he could not but recognize in them all the hand of a protecting Providence. Deeply penitent for his many offences against God and man, he confirmed the marriage of his daughter, recalled the old count from his forest hut, and proclaimed the young Henry heir to his empire.
“There is a great family likeness between this tale of yours, and the German story of The Giant with the Golden Hair.”
“In what respect?”
“In the manner in which the fortunate youth obtains the princess as his wife. In that legend, a king discovers the babe after a manner very similar to that in which Henry is found by Conrad, and—warned that the child is to be his son-in-law—he sends him on a message to his queen, with a letter of the same import as in your tale. Fatigued with his journey, the youth arrived at a robber’s cottage, falls asleep, and during his rest the thieves alter the letter, as the priest does that borne by Henry. The effect is, of course, similar.”
“But what of the golden-haired giant?” asked Herbert.
“He does not appear until the second part of the legend, and this is doubtless added on from some other tradition. You will find the whole story in Grimm’s most amusing collection of German popular stories.”
“With this tale, then, we conclude our evening’s amusement.”
“I am afraid it must be so, Herbert,” rejoined Lathom; “I should not like to be left without material for to-morrow, our last meeting; and between this and then I am unable to prepare any more tales.”
