CHAPTER XIII.
This hollow path must be his way,
It doth to Küssnacht lead,
So here I will his coming stay,
And here I'll do the deed.
Schiller.
Much has been said and written in all ages upon the folly of jealousy, but since the days of Uriah the world has nevertheless not grown wiser upon the subject.
The news which Albert von Sturmfeder had heard from the hostess of the Golden Stag respecting the nocturnal visits of the stranger to the castle of Lichtenstein, had created a feeling in his breast to which it had hitherto been a perfect stranger, and he did not possess sufficient coolness of blood, to exercise his judgment with calmness and moderation, upon a subject of such vital importance to his future prospects. Though he was of an age in which an open generous disposition places implicit reliance in the honour of others, yet taken by surprise, as his unsuspicious heart now was, in its dearest affections, the consequences were likely to become fatal to his happiness. The anguish attendant upon plighted faith broken, burnt within him; he could scarcely control the feeling of wounded pride, at being made the dupe of misplaced confidence; that calm judgment which teaches us to discriminate between right and wrong forsook his mind, and the truth was veiled from his sight in an atmosphere of gloomy foreboding. The fiendish associates, contempt, rage, and revenge, which, with many others, compose the steps of the ladder of feeling between love and hatred, now assailed him, and rendered even jealousy a secondary passion in his breast.
Brooding over these tormenting sensations, he sat upon the moss-covered stone, insensible to the chill of the night air, and his only thought was, to meet the nocturnal visitor, and demand an explanation.
When the clock struck two in a village beyond the wood, he observed lights moving in the windows of the castle. His heart beat in full expectation; he grasped the hilt of his sword. A few moments after the lights were visible behind the trellis of the gate, and dogs began to bark. Albert sprang upon his feet, and threw his cloak aside. He heard a deep voice very distinctly say, "Good night." The creaking drawbridge was lowered over the abyss which separates the rock of Lichtenstein from the country; the gate opened, when a man, his hat falling deep over his face, and enveloped in a dark cloak, came over the bridge, directly towards the spot where Albert was standing.
When he had arrived at a few paces from him, the young man called out in a threatening tone, "Draw, traitor, and defend your life!" and advanced on him. The man in the cloak stepped back, drawing his sword; in a moment the two blades met.
"You shall not have me alive," cried the other; "at least I'll sell my life dear!" and with these words the stranger attacked him vigorously, proving himself by the rapid and heavy blows which he dealt to be an experienced swordsman, and no despicable opponent. This was not the first time Albert had crossed blades in anger; for at the university of Tübingen he had fought many an honourable duel with success; but now he had found his match. His adversary pushed him hard, and his attack was maintained with so masterly a hand, that Albert was compelled to confine himself solely to his own defence, when, in a last attempt to settle the affair by one powerful thrust, his arm was suddenly seized by a strong hand from behind, and in the same moment his sword was wrested from his grasp. A loud voice, from the person who now held him fast in both his arms, cried, "Run him through, sir; such assassins don't deserve a moment's time to say their paternoster."
"You do it, Hans," said the stranger; "I am not the one to take the life of a defenceless man; run him through with his own sword, and be quick about it."
"Let me rather do it myself, sir," said Albert, with a firm voice; "you have robbed me of my love,--what further need have I of life?"
"What is that I hear?" said the stranger, and approached nearer.
"What voice is that?" said the other stranger, who still kept a firm hold of Albert; "I ought to know its sound." He turned the young man in his arms, and, as if struck by lightning, he let go his hold. "What on earth do I see! we might have made a pretty business of it!--but what unlucky star has brought you to this spot, sir? How could my people think of letting you depart without my knowledge?"
It was the fifer of Hardt who addressed Albert, and now offered him his hand. He was not, however, much inclined to return the friendly salute of a man who but a moment before was going to perform the part of executioner. Burning with fury, he looked at the man in the cloak, and then at the fifer: "Do you mean to say," said he, addressing himself to the latter, "that I ought to have allowed myself to remain a prisoner in your house, for the purpose of not witnessing your traitorous designs? Miserable impostor! And you, sir," turning to the other, "as you value your honour, defend yourself singly, and not fall two upon one. If you wish to know my name, I am Albert von Sturmfeder, come here for the express purpose of measuring swords with you, to uphold my previous claim to the Lady of Lichtenstein, which pretension, perhaps, may not be unknown to you. I demand my sword back again, having been wrenched from my hand by an act of treacherous cowardice, and let each make good his pretensions in honourable fight. With my life alone will I cease to assert my right."
"Albert von Sturmfeder!" replied his opponent in surprise, but in a friendly manner. "It appears you must be labouring under some mistake. Believe me, that, instead of being your enemy I am much interested in you, and have long wished to see you. Accept my friendship, upon the word of honour of a man; and do not imagine I visit the castle with the sinister views you attribute to me."
He stretched out his hand from under his cloak, and offered it to the astonished youth, who hesitated, however, to take it. The skill with which he wielded his sword, and the heavy blows he dealt out, strengthened Albert in his opinion, that his opponent was accustomed to the use of his weapon; and that he was a man of honourable and generous character, seemed satisfactorily proved in the frank and unreserved manner he proffered his hand when he became acquainted with his name. Under these circumstances therefore he could scarcely forbear trusting to his word. Still his mind could not in an instant shake off doubts of being deceived under the specious dealings of the stranger, which made him undecided to accept, without further reserve, the proffered friendship of a man whom but the moment before he had looked upon as his bitterest enemy.
"Who is it that offers me his hand?" demanded Albert; "I have given you my name, it is but just you tell me yours."
The stranger threw his cloak back, and raising his hat, discovered to Albert, by the light of the moon, a noble countenance, with a brilliant sparkling eye, bearing the expression of commanding dignity. "Ask not my name," said he, whilst a ray of sorrow played about his mouth; "that I am a man of honour, is sufficient for you to know. I once, indeed, bore a name which was upon a level with the most honourable in the world; I once wore the golden spurs, and carried the waving plume of feathers in my helmet, and, at the sound of my bugle, could assemble hundreds of my people around me--but now all is lost. One thing alone remains to me," he added, with indescribable dignity, taking the hand of the young man with a firm grasp, "I am a man, and carry a sword,--
'Si fractus illabatur orbis
Impavidam ferient ruinæ.'"
With these words he drew his hat again over his face, and throwing his cloak over his person, withdrew, and was soon lost in the wood.
Albert von Sturmfeder stood in dumb astonishment, resting on his sword. The commanding look of the stranger, his winning benevolent features, his brave and generous conduct, filled his soul with admiration and respect. Revenge, which had agitated his breast before he crossed swords with him, no longer ruffled it, but gave way to the contemplation of the virtues which his opponent had displayed in his unexpected rencontre with one, whose life he might have taken in the just defence of his own person. But what conduced above all to raise this man higher in Albert's estimation, was the frank and honest manner in which he had disavowed any clandestine acquaintance with Bertha, having confirmed it by a gallant defence of his honour, which he seemed as capable of asserting as he did of wielding his weapon. Such was the result of this adventure upon the mind of Albert, that he felt it relieved of a mountain's weight of trouble and anxiety, with which, but a few moments back, it had been oppressed. The malicious reports of the hostess of the Golden Stag, which he had too readily given credit to, now stung him with shame and remorse. He would willingly have risked every thing at that moment to have gained admittance to the castle, and thrown himself at the feet of his beloved, to implore her forgiveness for having given place to a doubt of her faithful attachment.
When we consider the weight and respect which physical qualities carried with them in those times,--how bravery, even in an enemy, was prized and admired,--and that the word of a gallant man was held as sacred as an oath on the altar;--and, if we further recollect how imposing is the effect of a pleasing outward appearance upon a young, generous mind, it is not to be wondered that the change in Albert's feelings was as decided as it was rapid.
"Who is that man?" he asked the fifer, who still stood by him.
"You heard from his own lips that he has no name, and neither do I know what to call him."
"You don't know who he is," replied Albert, "and still you were present when we fought? Away with you; you deceive me."
"Indeed not, sir," answered the fifer: "it is true, God knows! that in these times he has no name. But, if you must know what he is, I can tell you. He has been driven from his castle by the League, and now wanders in banishment: he was once a powerful knight in Swabia."
"Poor man! for this reason he conceals his person? Well might he, indeed, have taken me for an assassin. I recollect his having said he would sell his life dearly."
"Don't be offended, worthy sir," said the countryman, "that I also took you for one of those who are lurking about to take his life; I came therefore to his assistance, and, had I not heard your voice, who knows how much longer you would have breathed? But what brought you hither at this hour of the night? and what mishap threw you into the path of the banished man? Truly, you may think yourself fortunate that he did not cut you in two, for there are few who can stand before his sword. Some one, I suspect, has been playing this cruel game with you."
Albert related to his former guide the news he had heard in the Golden Stag of Pfullingen. He pointed out particularly the evidence of the nurse, the fifer's sister, which gave it an air of so much probability.
"I thought it would come to that," replied the fifer: "Love has played many worse tricks, and I don't know what it might not have done to me in such a case, when I was young. No one is in fault but old Rosel, the gossip! What business had she to make the hostess of the Golden Stag her confidant, who cannot keep a secret for a moment?"
"But there must be some truth in the affair," said Albert, whose former suspicions were again awakened; "for Rosel could never have said it without some foundation."
"Yes, there is indeed much truth in the report. Everything is as true as she has related. The servants are sent to bed, and the old spy also. At eleven o'clock the man appears at the castle,--the drawbridge is let down,--the doors open,--the young lady receives him and leads him into the saloon----"
"Well, don't you see?" cried Albert, impatiently, "if all be as you say, how could that man swear that he had nothing to do with----"
"That he had nothing of any kind to do with the lady, you would say?" answered the fifer, "without hesitation he can swear to that; but there is one essential difference in the story, which that old goose Rosel certainly never knew; namely, that the knight of Lichtenstein always receives his guest in the saloon, and, as soon as his daughter has placed before him the refreshments which she has prepared, she withdraws. The old gentleman remains with the banished man till the first crow of the cock, when, after having well satisfied his hunger and thirst, and warmed his weary limbs at the fire, he leaves the castle in the same way that he entered it."
"Oh, fool that I was not to have thought of all this before! The truth was close at hand, and I pushed it from me! But cursed be the curiosity and slanderous spirit of those women, who always fancy they can divine something extraordinary in the most trifling circumstance, and whose greatest charm consists in conjecturing improbabilities. But tell me," said Albert, after a moment's thought, "it strikes me very odd, that this banished man should visit the castle every night exactly as the clock strikes eleven--in what inhospitable neighbourhood does he reside, which obliges him to seek subsistence here at that unseasonable hour? Now, mind, I am not to be trifled with!"
The eye of the fifer rested upon Albert with an expression almost amounting to disdain: "Such gentlemen as you," he answered, "certainly know little of the pain of banishment; you never experienced the horror of being obliged to conceal yourself from the hand of the assassin, shivering in damp caves, living in inhospitable caverns, among the society of owls, deprived of a warm meal and a cheering glass! But come with me, if you have an inclination,--the day does not break yet, and you cannot go to Lichtenstein by night,--and I will lead you to the habitation of the banished knight. You will not ask me again why he visits the castle at midnight."
The appearance of the stranger had excited Albert's curiosity to such a degree, that he willingly accepted the offer of the fifer of Hardt, more particularly as he then would have the best opportunity of finding out the truth or falsehood of his assertions. His guide took the bridle of his horse, and led him down a narrow pathway in the wood. Albert followed, after he had taken a farewell look at the windows of Lichtenstein. They moved on in silence, which the young man made no attempt to break, his thoughts being wholly taken up with the person whom he was about to visit, and the strange occurrence which had just taken place. He recollected to have heard somewhere or other that many staunch partisans of the Duke had been driven from their possessions by the fury of the League, and he thought that it must have been in the inn at Pfullingen, where mention had been made of a knight of the name of Maxx Stumpf von Schweinsberg, whom the confederates were in search of. The bravery and extraordinary strength of this man was the common talk of all Swabia and Franconia; and when Albert recalled to his mind the powerful figure, the commanding countenance of his late heroic opponent, he thought it could not possibly be any other than this knight, one of Duke Ulerich's most faithful followers. The idea of having had an affair with such a man, and to have measured swords with him in fair fight, was particularly flattering to the amour propre of the young man, although the result had been left undecided.
So thought Albert von Sturmfeder on that night. And after a lapse of many years, when his noble antagonist had been long reinstated in his rights, and by sound of bugle could as formerly assemble his followers in hundreds, he reckoned it among his best feat of arms to have stood his ground before the brave and powerful stranger.
They were now arrived at a small open meadow in the wood, which terminated in a thick hedge of thorns and briars. The fifer having secured the horse to a tree off the path, made a gap through the entangled branches, and gave a sign to Albert to follow. It was not without difficulty and some danger that he obeyed his leader's directions, who in many places was obliged to assist him with his hand, as they proceeded down a narrow footpath into a deep ravine. When they had descended about eighty feet they came to even ground again, where the young man expected to find the dwelling of the banished man; but he was disappointed. His companion then went to a tree of great circumference, and which was hollow from age, and brought forth two large torches of pine wood, and striking fire by means of a steel and flint, and a small bit of sulphur, ignited them.
Albert observed, by the brilliant light of the torches, that they stood before a large opening which nature had formed in the wall of the rock. This must be, he thought, the entrance to the habitation of the stranger, who, as the fifer had expressed himself, had his lodgings among owls. The man of Hardt took one of the torches, and giving the other to his companion, said, "The path is dark, and here and there difficult to trace." With this warning he went on in front, leading through the dark entrance.
Albert, whose imagination was on the stretch, had expected to be introduced to a low cavern, short and narrow, like the dwelling of wild beasts, such as he had seen about the forests of his own country; but what was his astonishment, when he entered an immense natural cavern, resembling the lofty halls of a subterranean palace! He had heard in his boyhood, from a man-servant whose great-grandfather had been prisoner in Palestine, a story, which had been handed down from generation to generation in his family, of a boy who had been enticed by the arts of a wicked magician into a palace under ground, which surpassed everything in magnificence he had ever seen above it, and displayed to his view whatever the bold imagination of the east could fancy of splendour. Golden pillars surmounted by crystal capitals, arched cupolas studded with emeralds and sapphires, walls of diamonds dazzling the eye by their numerous refracting rays, were united in this subterranean habitation of the genii. This story, which had made a deep impression on his youthful imagination, now came to his recollection, and appeared to be realised in what he saw before him. He stopped every moment in fresh surprise, and holding the torch high up, viewed in amazement and wonder the lofty and majestic vaulted arches which continued the whole length of the cavern, sparkling and glittering like thousands of crystals and diamonds. But his astonishment was still more excited when his leader, turning to the left, conducted him into a spacious grotto, which fancy might figure to itself the magnificent saloon of the subterranean palace.
The fifer could not help remarking the powerful impression which this wonder of nature made on the mind of the young man. He took his torch from him, and mounting a high jutting rock, illumined more effectually the greatest part of the grotto.
Brilliant white rocks composed its walls. The bold arched cupola, formed of innumerable stalactites, from the ends of which hung millions of small drops of water, reflected the light in all the colours of the rainbow. The surrounding rocks were thrown together in such happy confusion, as to give the imagination full scope to fancy it could discover in their grotesque shapes, here a chapel, having its high altarpiece ornamented with flowing drapery; there its corresponding pulpit of rich gothic architecture. An organ even was not wanting to complete the idea of a subterranean church, and the changing shadows thrown on the walls by the light of the torches, resembled the solemn figures of martyrs and holy men placed in niches.
The guide came down again from his position on the rock, after having, as he thought, sufficiently satisfied the curiosity of his companion. "This is called the Nebelhöhle, or the Misty Hollow," said he; "it is little known in the country, excepting to huntsmen and shepherds, and few venture to enter it, as all kinds of fearful stories are abroad of ghosts inhabiting its chambers. I would not advise any one who is not minutely acquainted with its locality to venture down, for there are deep cavities and subterranean waters, whence no one would see the light again, if once entangled amidst their intricacies. There are also secret passages and compartments known only to five individuals now alive."
"But the banished knight," asked Albert, "where is he?"
"Take the torch, and follow me," replied the other, and led the way though a side passage. They had proceeded about twenty paces, when Albert thought he heard the deep tones resembling those of an organ. He drew the attention of his leader to it.
"That is some one singing," the fifer answered, "the voice sounds particularly beautiful and full in these caverns. When two or three men join their voices together, it resembles the full chorus of monks chanting the Ora." The music became still plainer; and as they approached the spot, the expressive feeling of a beautiful melody was distinctly heard. They were obliged to bend themselves under the corner of a rock, as they proceeded, when the voice of the songster sounded from above, and broke in repeated echo on the indentations of the wall of rock, until it was lost in the mingled noises of dripping water from the moist stones, and the murmur of a subterranean waterfall.
"That is the place," said the guide; "above there, in the side of the rock, is the habitation of the unhappy man. Hearken to his voice! We'll wait and listen till he has finished, for he never was accustomed to be interrupted, even when he lived above ground." It was with great difficulty that they could catch the following words on account of the great echo and the murmur of falling and rushing water.
The tow'r from whence my childhood gazed
Upon the subject fields so fair,
Now bears a stranger's banner, raised
Where erst my father's fann'd the air.
To ruin sink my father's halls,
The portion of my ancestry;
O'erthrown and unavenged, the walls
In earth's deep bosom buried lie.
O'er fields, where once in happier tide
My jocund bugle horn I blew,
The savage foemen fiercely ride:
A noble quarry they pursue.
I am their game, the quarry chased;
The slot-hound follows where he flies,
Athirst the stag's warm blood to taste,
Whose antlers[1] are the hunter's prize.
The murderers have bent their bow,
They ransack forest, hill, and plain;
Whilst clad in rags I nightly go
A beggar on my own domain.
Where once I rode in lordly state,
Whilst greeting vassals bow'd the head;
I fear to tap the cotter's gate,
And beg in pity's name for bread.
From my own doors ye thrust me out;
Yet will I knock while knock I can:
All is not lost, if heart be stout:
I bear a sword, I am a man.
I quail not: tho' my heart should break,
I will endure unto the end;
And thus my foes of me shall speak,
"This was a man, and ne'er would bend."
A deep sigh, which followed the conclusion of the song, gave the hearers reason to suppose, that the burden of it had not afforded the unfortunate exile much consolation. A large tear had rolled down the tanned cheek of the man of Hardt as they stood listening; and Albert perceived the inward struggle which this good peasant seemed to contend with in order to compose his mind, and appear before the inhabitant of the cavern with a cheerful countenance. He requested the young man to hold his torch awhile; and clambered up the smooth, slippery rock which led to the grotto whence the sounds they had just heard had issued. Albert supposed he had gone to acquaint the stranger of his arrival, but his guide returned with a strong rope in his hand. He descended half way down the rock again, threw one end of the rope to him, and desiring him to tie the torches on to it, he pulled them up, and placed them in a secure corner in the rock. He then assisted his young master to mount to the spot where he was standing, which he would not have been well able to accomplish alone. Once up there, they were only a few paces from the inhospitable abode of the exile.
We have attempted to describe this remarkable cavern according to its natural formation. Some further observations may be interesting to the reader. The entrance is about 150 feet in circumference; two paths, which form two natural excavations, one of 100 feet long, the other 82, lead from thence, and, taking different directions, meet again in the interior at the distance of about 200 feet. The place where they join forms a grotto, whence, on the right towards the north, higher up in the rock, is another smaller one, the spot to which we have led the reader, to the dwelling of the exile. The whole length of the cavern, from the entrance to the innermost point, is about 577 feet.
FOOTNOTES TO CHAPTER XVIII.:
[Footnote 1]: Referring, probably, to the arms of Würtemberg.]