Epics and Romances of the Middle Ages

by Wilhelm Wägner

THE AMELUNGS.

I.
HUGDIETERICH AND WOLFDIETERICH.

Hugdieterich and Fair Hildburg.

While Ortnit’s ancestors ruled over Lombardy, the great Emperor Anzius lived at Constantinople, and governed Greece, Bulgaria, and many other lands. When he died, he confided his son, Hugdieterich, to the care of his faithful friend, Berchtung, duke of Meran, whom he had himself brought up, and afterwards covered with honours.

Berchtung felt that his first duty was to choose a wife for his ward, and that only a princess of equal rank and great beauty and wisdom would be a suitable helpmeet for so mighty a prince. He had travelled far and wide, and amongst all the princesses he knew there was one and only one that he could propose as a wife for his liege lord. But there were many difficulties in the way. Berchtung confided his troubles to the prince, and told him how much he wished to bring about a marriage between him and Hildburg, daughter of King Walgund of Thessalonica; but he feared it would be impossible, for Walgund loved the maiden so dearly that he had shut her up in a high tower, and permitted no one to speak to her except the old watchman, himself, her mother, and her maid. This he did, fearing lest she should marry and leave him.

Hugdieterich listened to the strange story with great interest, and determined to get a sight of the maiden if he could. So he set to work to learn all that he might of women’s works and women’s ways, even going so far as to dress himself in women’s garments. After which he announced his intention of going to Thessalonica to make fair Hildburg’s acquaintance.

He arrived in due course at Thessalonica, disguised as a great lady, with a numerous train of female servants. Hearing of the new arrival, the king and queen invited the stranger to visit them. She did so, and gave their majesties to understand that she was Hildgunde, sister of the emperor Hugdieterich, and that she had been outlawed by her brother. She begged the king to protect her, and to provide her with a lodging in his palace, and at the same time presented the queen with a costly piece of embroidery, as a sign of her good will. Her request was granted. The queen then begged her to teach her ladies to embroider as she did herself. After this all went so well that Berchtung and his men-at-arms were sent back to Constantinople, their protection being no longer needed.

Fair Hildburg heard what was going on, and begged her father to allow her to see the embroideries, and the artist who worked them. No sooner had she done so than she wished to learn the art. Walgund gave his consent, thinking the stranger a very suitable companion for his daughter, and Hildburg found great pleasure in her company. It was not until weeks afterwards that she discovered who her teacher was, and when she did their friendship became stronger than before, until it grew into acknowledged love.

The fear lest their secret marriage should be discovered, one day reached a climax.

“What will become of us?” cried Hildburg. “My father will never forgive us. He will order us both to be slain.”

“Then, at least, we shall die together,” replied Hugdieterich, “but I hope for better things. The guards and your personal attendants are on our side, and I expect Berchtung very soon to come and take me home to Constantinople, on the plea that my brother has forgiven me. I shall then send an ambassador to ask for your hand in marriage; and when your father knows our secret, he will not refuse his consent.”

Berchtung came as Hugdieterich had expected, and fetched him away; but the wooing had to be put off till a more convenient season, as war had broken out on the frontier, and the emperor was obliged to take the field. Meantime Hildburg was in greater danger at home than her husband in the midst of battle. She had a son. He was born quietly in the tower, without any one except the three faithful friends who guarded the princess there knowing aught about it. It was not until months after this event that the queen, her mother, sent to say that she was coming to visit her daughter. She followed almost on the heels of the messenger. The porter pretended to have great difficulty in unlocking the door, and by the time he succeeded, the watchman had smuggled the child down to a safe hiding-place beside the moat. It was already evening, so the queen spent the night with her daughter. When she was gone next morning, the faithful servant hastened to where he had hidden the child, and it was not to be found. After long and anxious search, he returned to his mistress, and told her that he had taken the boy to a nurse, who had promised to bring him up carefully and well.

Soon after this, Berchtung arrived at Thessalonica to thank the king in his master’s name for the reception he and his family had given the princess, his sister, and to ask for the hand of the Lady Hildburg, with whom the emperor had fallen in love from his sister’s description. The king put off giving any immediate answer to this request, and asked Berchtung to a great hunt he intended to give in his honour on the following day.

It was a lovely morning when the hunters set out for the forest. They rode on cheerily, and had a good day’s sport. At length chance led the king and Berchtung past the tower where sad Hildburg spent her weary days in waiting for the husband who came not. As they rode along, they discovered the fresh track of a wolf leading towards a spring. They followed the spoor, which led them to a den in a thicket close by, and in the den was a strange sight.

In the centre of the nest, and surrounded by a litter of wolf-cubs so young as to be still blind, lay a beautiful child. He was playing with the little wolves, pulling their ears, and chatting in baby language such as only mothers and nurses can translate. But evidently his companions did not like his attentions, and the mother-wolf’s ire was so roused against him, that it wanted very little more to make her spring upon the child, and put a sudden end to his play. The old wolf came up at the same moment, so that the danger was much increased. Seeing this, the two hunters flung their spears with so much skill as to kill both the old wolves on the spot. Then the king lifted the baby in his arms as gently as if it had been his own child.

“It’s very strange,” he said, “how much I feel drawn to this boy. But he must be hungry, poor little man. My daughter’s tower is close to here; we shall find some fresh milk there, and she will be glad to see the little fellow; she is so fond of children, and seldom gets a chance of seeing them.”

They walked on slowly, Berchtung carrying the child, while the king examined the wolf’s track with great interest and attention.

“Look here,” he said, “is it not strange? The tracks lead straight from the den to the moat; I wonder if the wolf stole the child from anywhere near this.”

Fair Hildburg was not a little astonished when she heard her father’s tale. She took the child in her arms, and at once recognised him by a birth-mark on his arm in the shape of a red cross. She struggled to conceal her feelings, and offered as calmly as she could to take care of the child, and only begged her father to send a nurse as quickly as possible.

When he got home, the king told the queen of his adventure, and she was very curious to see the child. She sent for a nurse, and accompanied her to the tower. Arrived there, the queen sought her daughter, and found her busied with the child.

“How I wish,” said the queen, taking it in her arms, “that I knew who the boy’s mother is! She must be in such distress.”

“Yes,” answered Hildburg; “but look at his clothes, how fine they are! They show that he is of princely descent.”

“Oh dear,” sighed the queen, “what a lucky woman I should think myself if I had a grandson like that!”

Hildburg could keep her secret no longer. She threw herself into her mother’s arms, and told her, with many tears, that she was secretly married to Hugdieterich, and that the child was theirs. The queen was startled, angry,—but—it was done, and could not be undone. It was at least a comfort to think that the child’s father was a mighty emperor! She told her daughter she would say nothing; but would think what was best to be done.

Walgund felt strangely attracted by the child. He came to the tower almost every day to visit it and his daughter. On such occasions the queen would tell him how much she wished for a son-in-law and such a grandchild as this. She reminded him that they might in their old age fall a prey to the barbarous tribes in the neighbourhood, if they had not some young, strong man to take their part, and added that in her opinion Hugdieterich would not be amiss. In short, the queen prepared the way so well that when Berchtung made his formal offer for the princess’ hand, the king after slight hesitation gave his consent, on the sole condition that Hildburg was not averse to taking Hugdieterich as a husband. The queen then told her lord the whole story.

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed, too much astonished to be angry.

Hugdieterich arrived soon afterwards, and was publicly married to the Lady Hildburg. After the wedding festivities were over, he set out for Constantinople, accompanied by his beautiful wife, and the little boy, who was named Wolfdieterich, in remembrance of his first adventure.

With the empress went Sabene, one of the notables of Thessalonica, as her father had much confidence in his wisdom, and wished him to be his daughter’s counsellor in any matters of difficulty. He made himself so useful, that he soon became necessary to her, and at the same time won the confidence of honest Duke Berchtung so completely that he persuaded the emperor to make Sabene regent during their absence on a foreign campaign.

The high position he had gained through the duke’s kindness, made the false-hearted man bolder and more self-confident than ever. One day he went so far as to speak unbecomingly to the empress. The noble lady reproved him severely, and he fell at her feet, begging her pardon, and entreating her not to tell the emperor of his impertinence. She promised, but commanded him never more to appear in her presence.

When Hugdieterich returned victorious, Sabene was the first to meet him. He gave him an account of his stewardship, and at last remarked, as though by chance, that there was a great deal of dissatisfaction amongst the people regarding Wolfdieterich, the heir-apparent, who rumour said was not the king’s child, but the son of an elf, or, worse still, of an alraun, who had been palmed off upon the royal family by a witch. Hugdieterich laughed at the story as at a nursery tale. The only effect it had on him was to make him take his son from under the charge of Sabene, and give him into the care of faithful Berchtung, that he might learn all knightly exercises with the duke’s sixteen sons.

Time passed on, and the empress presented her husband with two other sons, named Bogen and Waxmuth, who were also sent to Berchtung to be educated. The old duke loved all his pupils dearly, but Wolfdieterich was his special favourite, for he showed himself full of every quality that makes a true knight and noble warrior. The busy emperor seldom found time to go to Lilienporte, the castle of Meran, and Hildburg was a still less frequent visitor, so that Wolfdieterich had grown accustomed to look upon Berchtung as his father, and the duchess as his mother. His brothers, Bogen and Waxmuth, had long since returned to Constantinople, where crafty Sabene did all that he could to gain their friendship and confidence. Their mother was sorry to see it; and fearing lest evil should come of it, she told her husband all that had happened between them many years before. Hugdieterich’s wrath blazed forth, and Sabene scarcely escaped alive. He fled from the country, and sought refuge amongst his kindred in the land of the Huns.

Hugdieterich, worn out by many anxieties and battles, grew old before his time. When he felt his end approach, he arranged all his affairs with the utmost care. He bequeathed to his eldest son Constantinople and the larger part of the empire, while the two younger sons were given kingdoms farther to the south, and the empress and Berchtung were to see the will carried out. But scarcely was the emperor laid in the grave, when the notables of the land met in council, and demanded the recall of Sabene, because otherwise they feared he might carry out his threat of bringing the wild Huns upon them. The empress did not feel herself strong enough to withstand the clamour of the nobles, so she sent for the traitor.

Wolfdieterich and his Eleven.

No sooner had Sabene returned than he began to scheme again. He spread amongst the people his silly tales about the origin of Wolfdieterich. He said that the empress had been secretly wedded to an elf while she lived in that solitary tower; and that it was elfish spells that had prevented the wolves from tearing the child in pieces. The populace believed the story the more easily from its utter incredibility, and demanded that Wolfdieterich should remain at Meran. Sabene even succeeded in making the royal brothers, Waxmuth and Bogen, believe his tale, and give him the power for which he hungered. Sure of his own position, he acted with the utmost harshness. He bade the empress leave the palace and go to her son at Meran. He only allowed her to take with her a maid-servant, a horse, and her clothes. Everything else that she possessed, whether through her father or her husband, had to be left behind. The two young kings did not interfere on her behalf, for Sabene had shown them that her treasures would be very useful to them in equipping an army, supposing Wolfdieterich and the Duke of Meran attacked them.

When Hildburg arrived at Hugelwarte, an outwork of Lilienporte, she was travel-stained and sorely spent. At first Duke Berchtung refused to admit her, because she had recalled Sabene contrary to his advice. But at last, filled with pity for the unhappy woman, he led her into the castle, and treated her there with royal honours. The duchess received her surrounded by seventeen young men, who all called her mother. The empress did not at once recognise her son, who was the tallest and stateliest amongst them; but as soon as each knew the other, Wolfdieterich, throwing himself into her arms, tried to comfort her by promising to restore her to her former rank and splendour.

Duke Berchtung at first counselled peace, because the position of the two kings seemed to him so strong and unassailable; but at length, carried away by his foster-son’s enthusiasm, he not only gave his consent, but placed his sixteen sons and their sixteen thousand followers at the disposal of the prince. It was settled, while the men were being called together, that the duke and Wolfdieterich should set out for Constantinople, and see whether they might not attain their end by peaceful means.

The day after their arrival, they met Sabene and the kings in council. Berchtung was received with all honour, while nobody seemed even to see his companion. When Wolfdieterich rose, and demanded his rightful share of the royal heritage, Bogen answered that a changeling had no right to any share; and Sabene added that he ought to apply to the alraun, his father, for a kingdom in the realms of hell. Wolfdieterich laid his hand on his sword; but his foster-father’s words and looks of entreaty sufficed to calm him down and prevent any open expression of anger. The kings and Sabene did their utmost to persuade the duke to join their party, but in vain; and when the council broke up, the old man went away, hiding his displeasure as best he could. He and Wolfdieterich mounted their horses and returned to Lilienporte without loss of time.

After a few days’ rest they set out again for Constantinople, but this time in battle array. On reaching the borders of Meran, they found the royal forces drawn up to meet them. As evening was closing in, they encamped in a wide valley surrounded on all sides by a forest. Next morning the troops rose refreshed, and each side made sure of victory.

The battle-song was now raised, and echoed amongst the mountains like rolling thunder. Next instant the armies met. Wolfdieterich was always to be seen in front. All at once he turned to Berchtung, and said:

“Do you see Sabene and my brothers on yonder hill? I will go and see whether they or the alraun’s son are the better men.”

With these words, he set spurs to his horse and dashed through the enemy’s ranks. Old Berchtung, who had vainly tried to restrain him, now followed with his sons and a small body of his men-at-arms.

As they neared the hill, they found themselves surrounded by the Greeks on every side. The carnage was terrible. Six of Berchtung’s sixteen sons fell at his side, while a stone struck Wolfdieterich on the helmet, and stretched him senseless on the ground. But the old duke and his other sons picked him up, and brought him safely off the field. All night long they fled, and after resting only a few hours during the day, resumed their journey. On their arrival at Lilienporte, they found that many of their men had got there before them.

“We will await the traitors here,” said Berchtung. “They may break their teeth on our stone walls, and then go away worse than they came. We have supplies enough to last four years, and can bid them defiance.”

Soon after this, the enemy appeared before the fortress. Sabene demanded that the prince should be delivered up to them, and threatened that if this were refused he would burn the castle and all within it. The only answer made by the besieged was a sortie, led by Wolfdieterich in person. He still was hopeful of victory, but numbers prevailed. He had to retreat, and with difficulty regained the fortress. From that day he lost the confidence and gaiety of youth, and became grave and silent; his trust in the sure success of a righteous cause was gone. He lost his faith in Divine justice, and said he had fallen a victim to the resistless power that men call Fate.

Sigeminne.

The siege had already lasted three years, and yet there was no hope of an end. The food had grown scanty; and if the enemy chose to make famine their ally, the castle must finally capitulate. The duke vainly sought for some plan of deliverance. One day Wolfdieterich came to him, and said that he intended to slip out of the fortress by night, make his way through the enemy’s camp, and go to Lombardy, there to ask the help of Ortnit, the powerful emperor of the West. The old man did his best to dissuade the lad, reminding him that their provisions would last yet a year, and that the enemy, already weakened by sickness, might raise the siege before long. The young hero was not to be held back: at midnight he took leave of his foster-father and his other faithful friends.

“May God protect you, my dear lord,” said Berchtung, clasping him in his arms. “You will have to cross the deserts of Roumelia, which are uninhabited, save by wild beasts and evil spirits. There you will find Rauch-Else, who lies in wait for young warriors. Beware of her, for she is a witch, cunning in enchantments. If you are fortunate enough to reach the emperor Ortnit, do not forget your trusty henchmen, me and my ten remaining sons.”

So they parted. They arranged that the besieged should make a sally through the principal gate of the fortress, to draw off the enemy’s attention to that quarter, while Wolfdieterich got away by a postern door at the back. He was nearly out of the enemy’s camp when he was recognised. Immediately mounting his horse, he drew his sword and cut his way through their midst, and once in the dark forest beyond, he was safe from pursuit. All night long Wolfdieterich rode through the wood. He heard the were-wolves howling in the distance, but none came near to seek his life. As morning broke, he found himself by the side of a broad moorland lake. All sorts of strange creatures rose out of it, and sought to bar the road. Two of them he killed, but he let the others escape. He wandered three days in the wilderness, finding nothing for his horse or himself to eat. He shared the bread he had in his wallet with his steed. It was but a little at best; and the faithful creature was at last too exhausted to carry him farther, so he dismounted and led it by the bridle.

On the fourth evening, fatigue overpowered him so much that he was forced to rest. He lighted a fire with the brushwood scattered about. The warmth did him good, for a cold mist hung over the face of the earth. He and his horse quenched their thirst at a neighbouring rill, after which he lay down, and making a pillow of his saddle, thought over his sad fate. Sleep was beginning to steal upon his senses, when he was suddenly roused by a noise in the dry grass. Something black, and horrible to look upon, crept nearer and nearer. It raised itself in the air; its height was appalling. It spoke to him, not with a human voice; the sound was more like the growling of an angry bear.

“How dare you rest here!” said the monster. “I am Rauch-Else (rough Alice), and this ground belongs to me; besides which, I have another and a wider realm. Get up, and go at once, or I will throw you into the quaking bog.”

Wolfdieterich would willingly have obeyed, but he was too tired. He could not move. He therefore begged the bear-like queen to give him something to eat, telling her that his cruel brothers had deprived him of his inheritance, and that he was now starving in the desert.

“So you are Wolfdieterich,” growled the bear-woman. “Well, Fate has marked you out to be my husband, so you may count upon my aid.”

Upon which she gave him a juicy root, and scarcely had he eaten one mouthful when his courage returned, and his strength seemed tenfold what it had ever been before. It even came into his mind that he could conquer the Greek forces single-handed, and set his eleven faithful servants free. In obedience to Rauch-Else’s command, he gave the rest of the root to his horse, which first smelt it carefully, and then ate eagerly. No sooner had it done so, than it began to paw the ground, and neighed with eagerness to resume its journey.

“Speak, will you be my true love?” asked the bear-woman, coming up to the youth, and preparing to clutch him to her heart with her terrible claws.

“Keep back,” he cried, drawing his sword. “Demon that you are, seek a husband in hell, where alone you will find a helpmeet worthy of you.”

“Have I not fed and succoured you?” asked Rauch-Else; “was that done like a demon? I have long waited for you to come and free me from an evil spell. Love me, and save me.”

It seemed to the warrior as if her voice had all at once grown soft and human in its tones.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “if only you were not so rough and hairy.”

He had hardly spoken, when the black fleece slowly slipped to her feet, and a beautiful woman stood before him, her brow encircled by a diadem, and her green silken garment confined at the waist by a jewelled belt. Her voice was sweet and thrilling as she repeated her former words.

“Speak, young hero, will you love me?”

His only answer was to clasp her in his arms and kiss her.

“You must know,” she said, “that although Rauch-Else was my name here in the wilderness, I am really Sigeminne, queen of Old-Troja. Your ‘yes’ has set me free from the spell of the enchanter, so we can now set out for my country, of which you shall be king.”

Full of joy and thankfulness, they started on their way, followed by Wolfdieterich’s horse. At last they heard the sound of waves breaking upon the shore, to which they soon afterwards descended. There they found a curious vessel awaiting them. The prow was formed of a fish’s head, large and pointed. At the helm stood a merman, whose outstretched arm was the handle by which the rudder, or fish’s tail, was worked. Instead of sails, the vessel was rigged out with griffins’ wings, the advantage of which was, that they enabled it to go against both wind and tide, when such a course was thought desirable. The merman was so marvellously fashioned out of cedar-wood from Mount Lebanon, that it could steer wherever the travellers wished without their help. There were other wonders on board the ship, such as a cap of darkness, a ring with a stone ensuring victory to the wearer, a shirt of palm-silk, and many other things. The shirt seemed as though it would only fit a little child; but when Sigeminne put it on her lover, it grew bigger and bigger, until it fitted him exactly.

“Take great care of it,” she said, “and wear it whenever you are in any danger, for it will protect you alike from steel and stone, from fire and dragon’s tooth.”

Wafted by the griffins’ wings, the vessel clove the western sea, swift as the wind, and soon brought the travellers to Old-Troja. There the people received their beloved queen with shouts of joy, and cheered loud and long when she introduced the stately warrior Wolfdieterich as her future husband. The marriage was solemnized with great festivities, and a life of joy began for the new king. By the side of his fair wife he forgot all his misfortunes and sorrows, and, alas! even the Eleven Friends he had left in peril of their lives. Now and then, when he was alone, the memory of all that had come and gone would cross his mind like something he had dreamt, and then he would reproach himself with neglecting his duty; but Sigeminne had only to take his hand, and he once more forgot that honour and duty alike bade him be up and doing.

Once when he, his wife, and the whole court were out hunting, a wondrous stag with golden horns broke out of a neighbouring thicket. He did not seem to be afraid, but, after looking at the hunters, turned back to the wood.

“Up, good folk,” cried Sigeminne. “Whoever kills that stag, and brings me the golden antlers, shall stand high in my favour, and receive a ring from my own hand.”

A number of huntsmen started in pursuit, first among them Wolfdieterich. The stag led him by many devious paths, only to disappear at last. Wolfdieterich returned to the tents much disappointed. When he got there, he found all in confusion; for that terrible magician, Giant Drusian, followed by many armed dwarfs, had fallen on the camp during the absence of the king and his warriors, and had carried off the queen. No one knew where he had taken her to. Wolfdieterich was now as much alone in the world, and as wretched, as he had been that terrible day in the desert. One thought filled his mind—the thought of Sigeminne. He would seek her through the world; and if he could not find her, he would die!

He exchanged his royal robes for a pilgrim’s dress, and hid his sword in a hollow staff, which served to support him on his journey. Thus accoutred, he wandered through many lands, asking everywhere for the castle of Giant Drusian. At length he learnt from a tiny dwarf, that the man he sought lived in the lofty mountains far over the sea, and that many dwarfs owned him for their lord. He set out again, and journeyed on and on, till at length the castle came in sight. He sat down to rest by a spring, and gazed longingly at the place where, as he believed and hoped, he should find his wife. His fatigue was so great that he fell asleep, dreamt of her, and was happy in his dreams.

All at once he was wakened by a rough voice, and a blow on the ribs.

“What, ho! pilgrim,” said the voice. “Have you snored long enough? Come home with me, and have some food. My wife wants to look at you.”

Wolfdieterich sprang to his feet, and followed the giant who had wakened him so roughly, and who now strode before him to the castle. He knew that he had reached the end of his pilgrimage, and entered the wide hall with thanksgiving and joy.

There sat Sigeminne, her eyes red with weeping; and as she looked at him, he saw that she knew who he was. He pulled himself together with a violent effort not to betray his identity.

“There, wife,” growled Drusian, “there’s the priest you wanted to see, that he might speak to you about his religion. What a mite he is, to be sure, and as dumb as a lizard into the bargain! There, bag-of-bones,” he added, turning to the pilgrim, “sit down by the fire, and see if some of our good food will not warm your thin blood.”

The pilgrim did as he was desired, for, anxious and excited as he felt, he was starving. Dwarfs brought in food and drink, and he ate till his hunger was satisfied. The giant questioned him up and down, and received short answers, some of them, it must be confessed, far enough from the truth!

As twilight deepened, Drusian seized the lady by the hand, and pulled her from her seat, saying, “There, you see the son of the alraun, who freed you from the bearskin, he will not succeed in freeing you from me a second time. He fears a broken skull too much. The term you asked for is over now, so come with me.”

He would have dragged Sigeminne from the room, but the pilgrim had already thrown aside his disguise, and drawn his sword from the hollow staff.

“Back, monster,” he shouted, “that is my wife.” With these words he sprang upon the giant. The suddenness of the attack made the latter jump back, exclaiming, “Why, alraun, are you Wolfdieterich? If that is the case, we must have everything fair and in order. You must arm and fight with me—if you are brave enough, that is to say. Sigeminne shall be the wife of the conqueror.”

WOLFDIETERICH FIGHTS WITH DRUSIAN FOR HIS WIFE.

The hero consented to fight the duel, and the dwarfs brought him three suits of armour to choose from. One was of gold, the second of silver, and the third of iron, very heavy, but old and rusty. He chose the last, but kept his own sword. Drusian also put on his coat of mail, and caught up his battle-axe.

After some time, Wolfdieterich’s shield was broken by a violent blow from his opponent’s axe. The hero seemed lost; but avoiding the next blow, and grasping his sword with both hands, he struck so hard a stroke that the sharp blade cut deep down through neck and shoulder. Scarcely had the monster fallen, when the dwarfs swarmed round the victor with their small daggers and spears to avenge their master. The fine needle-points pierced the rings of his armour, but the palm-silk shirt protected the solitary warrior from every wound. At last he forced them back, and husband and wife were able to clasp each other’s hands, and to assure one another of a love that would last till death.

“Let us away from this cursed house,” cried the hero; “who can tell but the dwarfish rabble are spinning new toils for us.”

They hastened out into the deserted court, and then sought a stable, in which they found two saddled horses. These they mounted, and rode away.

After a long and tiring journey, they reached Old-Troja, where the return of the queen and her brave husband was greeted with joy.

Sigeminne ruled her people with a gentle hand, but justly and firmly; no wonder, then, that they loved her. After her return, she was even sweeter and more thoughtful for others than she had ever been before; but she was pale and thin, and what was worse, grew paler and thinner day by day. One evening, when she and her husband were sitting alone together, she raised her sweet face to his and said, “When I am gone, you must go back to your own country and people, for then you will be looked upon as a stranger and usurper here, and the land might be wasted by civil war.”

The thought of her death cut him to the heart, but he strove to look cheerful for fear of distressing his wife. He redoubled his anxious care of her, but all in vain: her doom was sealed. He had been strong enough to conquer the giant and save his wife, but he was powerless to save her now. She died in his arms, and he laid her in her early grave.

The Knife Man.

Once, when he was standing sadly by her last resting-place, he suddenly remembered that she had bidden him go back to his own country when she was dead; and then the thought of his mother and his Faithful Eleven rushed back into his mind. He also recollected that he had never carried out his plan of calling the Emperor Ortnit to their assistance.

“I shall never forget you, dear wife,” he murmured, “but I should be unworthy of your great love for me if I did not at once set out to bring freedom to those who have been true to the death in their fidelity to me.”

He turned away, and hastened to make ready for his journey.

He passed through many lands, rich and poor. One evening he saw a castle before him, and asked a passing traveller to whom it belonged.

“Sir,” replied the man, crossing himself, “ride on quickly, if you be a Christian, for that stronghold is where the heathen king Beligan lives, with his daughter Marpilia, a maiden learned in magic arts. He slays every Christian he can catch, and sticks his head on a spike placed on the battlements for the purpose. Look, there is one place empty still; beware lest your head be sent to fill it.”

The hero explained that he felt no fear of that, as his armour was good, and he must have sharp weapons who sought to pierce it. But the traveller assured him that the king so thoroughly understood the art of dagger-throwing, that none could escape from him alive.

Wolfdieterich and the man parted company. The former would have ridden past the castle, had not the owner come out to meet him, and invited him to spend the night with him; an invitation the hero was far too brave a man to decline. The daughter of his host, a young and beautiful girl, received him at the gate, and led him into the hall. While they supped together, Wolfdieterich, on being questioned, told them whence he came, and whither he was going; and Beligan saw from his answers that he was a Christian. The heathen king then informed his guest, with a diabolical smile, that he had come just in time to provide a head to make up the required number on the battlements. Wolfdieterich understood what was meant, but shewing no signs of fear, he raised his goblet to his lips, and emptied it to the health of his host and his daughter.

Bedtime came, and Beligan, taking him aside, told him that he had found grace in the eyes of his daughter Marpilia, and that he might marry her if he liked, receiving both castle and kingdom as her dowry, on one condition—that he would worship Mahmet. Wolfdieterich asked for time to think over the proposal; but the heathen smiled, and said—

“You may have to-night to consider the plan; that is long enough.”

He then offered him a goblet of wine, into which he had secretly thrown a powder.

“Drink, friend,” he said, “and you will sleep long and soundly to-night.”

The hero was on the point of obeying, when Marpilia, who had re-entered, snatched the goblet out of her father’s hand, and emptying it on the floor, exclaimed,—

“Not so, father. I intend to teach the stranger better things to-night.”

She led her guest to his room, and said,—

“I have saved you from a great danger. My father was about to give you a sleeping potion, that he might slip into your room in the night and cut off your head, as he has already done to many a Christian. I now offer you my hand and kingdom, if you will only pretend to follow our faith.”

Wolfdieterich thought of Sigeminne, and turning to Marpilia did his best to convert her to his faith. They spent the whole night talking on these subjects.

The next morning Beligan came, and invited his guest to join him at breakfast, and after that, in a little game of throwing the dagger, explaining that such was their custom. As soon as breakfast was over, they went into the court, where the king’s servants stood round them in a wide circle. The hero laid aside his armour and sword as he was desired, and received a buckler and three sharp and pointed daggers. The heathen took his stand opposite, armed in like manner. The latter flung the first dagger at his opponent’s foot, and he avoided it by springing to one side.

“By the beard of the Prophet,” cried the heathen, “who taught you that? Are you Wolfdieterich, from whom it is foretold that evil shall befall me?”

Wolfdieterich would not confess to his name, but stood ready again for the fight. The second dagger scratched his head, carrying off a bit of the scalp; the third he caught on his buckler.

It was now the hero’s turn to throw. His first dagger pinned the heathen’s left foot to the ground; the second scratched his side; but the third, which he flung with the cry, “I am Wolfdieterich!” struck him to the heart. He was now attacked on all sides, but succeeded in putting his opponents to flight. He then re-entered the castle, put on his armour, took his horse out of the stable, and was about to mount, when he suddenly saw that a wide lake surrounded the castle on every side, and a gale of wind was blowing the great waves so high that there seemed no chance of escape. At the edge of the water stood Marpilia, describing circles in the air and on the ground with a magic wand, and murmuring to herself the while. Riding up to her, he caught her in his arms, and swung her before him on his horse.

“If I am to drown, witch, you shall not escape,” he said.

With these words he spurred his horse into the wild waves, and saw that the waters stretched out farther and farther, until they seemed a sea. He looked around, and saw that only one chance was left him. He flung the witch-woman off his horse; instantly the storm ceased, the waters retired, and he was once more on dry land.

But Marpilia was not drowned. She appeared before him again in all her beauty, stretching out her arms as if to embrace him, but he threatened her with his drawn sword. Then she changed into a magpie, flew to the top of a high rock, and sought from thence to entangle him with new enchantments, each more terrible than the other. At last, thoroughly spent with fatigue, he exclaimed, “Help me, Thou Three in One, or I die.”

Scarcely had he uttered the words when the witch vanished, the sun shone once more upon mount and vale, and before him lay the broad road that led to Lombardy.

After meeting with many adventures by land and water, he travelled through a wild mountain region, and there he fell in with a giantess, an old friend of his father, who received him very kindly, and told him, amongst other things, of the sad fate of Ortnit and Liebgart. Although her tale diminished his hopes of help, he was yet determined to continue his journey. The giantess said it would take an eternity travelling as he did, horses were so slow! With that she picked up both horse and rider, and carried them pick-a-back on her broad shoulders three hundred and fifty miles in one day, over mountains, valleys and rivers, and set him down in the fair land of Lombardy.

The Lind-Worm.

It was a beautiful moonlight night when Wolfdieterich reached Garden. He dismounted, and standing under the shadow of an olive-tree, he looked about him. He saw two women walking on the sea-shore. One of them was tall and stately. When she threw back her veil, he nearly uttered a cry of astonishment, she was so like Sigeminne. Had the grave given up its dead, or had some deceitful elf taken the beloved form to lead him into danger?

He stood breathless to listen, and heard Queen Liebgart, for it was she, complain to her serving-maid of the manifold sorrows and indignities she had been forced to endure.

“The cowardly vassals!” she said. “They have courage enough to frighten a weak woman, but no one dares to do the only thing that I desire on earth—to avenge the death of their king on the monster that killed him. And yet I have promised, although unwillingly, to give my hand to the true knight and hero that will do this thing!”

“There is only one man,” said the maid, “who could do the deed, and that is the Greek Wolfdieterich, whose fame is spread abroad in every land.”

“The avenger is come, great queen,” said the hero, stepping out of the shade where he had stood. “I will venture my life to conquer the dragon.”

The two women started back in alarm.

“It is Wolfdieterich!” cried the maid. “He once saved me from a band of robbers.”

“Thanks, noble hero,” said Liebgart, “and may Heaven protect you on your quest! But—the monster will take your life as it did my husband’s. Nay, go your way in peace, and leave me to my fate.”

But when the Greek showed her that his mind was firm, Liebgart gave him a ring which the dwarf had told her would bring good luck to the wearer, wished him all success, and then returned to Castle Garden.

Without more delay the hero turned his horse to the mountains, and made the best of his way to the lind-worm’s hole, which at length he reached. He peeped into the dark cavern, and saw five dragons’ heads staring and hissing at him. These were the young “worms”—the old one had gone out to seek for food. The hero was about to slay them there and then, but it suddenly occurred to him that it would be better if the old worm knew nothing of his coming, and it would be an easy task to kill the little ones when the mother was dead. So remounting his horse, he set out in search of the monster. As he rode on slowly, he saw a beautiful child standing on a rock. It called to him,—

“You are come to revenge my son Ortnit; beware that you sleep not, for if you sleep my son will remain unrevenged, and you will fall a prey to the dragon.”

“My good friend,” laughed the hero, “you are too young to be a father. I advise you to look out for yourself. You would be a sweeter morsel for the monster than I!”

And setting spurs to his horse, he rode away laughing. Like Ortnit, he came first to the high cliffs, and then to the meadow, where clover grass and flowers grew in wonderful profusion. A linden-tree shaded part of it from the heat of the mid-day sun. The hero was tired after his long journey and wakeful night. He stretched himself in the shade to rest, while his horse grazed in the meadow. Fatigue, the fresh sweet air, and the song of the birds in the branches overhead, all combined to make him drowsy, so he gradually fell asleep.

Perfect peace reigned in the quiet spot. It seemed as though it might last for ever, but suddenly it was broken by a horrible hissing, a crashing of rocks and breaking of trees. The dreadful monster, the terror of the land, was drawing near. At the same moment Alberich exclaimed:

“Wake, noble hero; sleep no more; the lind-worm is upon you.”

The dwarf repeated his warning several times in vain. The faithful horse galloped up to his master, and kicked him, but he did not awake. It was not until the dragon gave utterance to a loud and hideous roar, that made the rocks crack and the mountains tremble, that the hero was at last aroused from his trance. He sprang to his feet and attacked the monster; but his weapons were all too weak for the work they had to do—they broke like reeds on the creature’s hide, without doing it any injury. So he flung the handle of his broken sword in the monster’s face, and commended his soul to God, for he was defenceless. The worm caught him up in the coils of its long tail, and at the same moment seized the horse in its great jaws. Then it bore its victims away to its den, and threw them down as food for its young. After which, it went away again in search of more food. The little dragons tried to devour Wolfdieterich, but could not, he was so well protected by his shirt of palm-silk, so they thrust him aside unconscious, and turned their attention to the horse, which they soon disposed of.

In the middle of the night Wolfdieterich came to himself, and began to look about him carefully. The moonlight penetrated the cavern, and showed him at a little distance something that shone bright red. He moved towards it cautiously for fear of waking the dragons, and found that the object which had attracted his eye was a huge carbuncle in a sword-hilt. He at once knew that this must be the sword Rosen, and took possession of it, as well as of the rest of Ortnit’s armour that he found lying uninjured amongst other coats of mail, which however were all more or less broken. With the armour he found a ring. This he put upon his finger. His preparations were no sooner completed than daybreak came, and with it the old lind-worm. He at once attacked her, and, thanks to the magic sword, slew her and all her brood after a hard struggle. Thoroughly exhausted, he threw himself under a tree, where he lay panting and breathless. There Alberich found him, and revived him with food and wine.

Before the victorious hero set out on his return to Garden, he went back into the dragon’s den to get the heads of the monsters; but when he had cut them off, he found that they were much too heavy to carry, so he contented himself with taking their tongues. These he put in a leather bag that one of Alberich’s dwarfs brought him for the purpose, and then began his journey, which was made longer and more wearisome by having to be done on foot. He often lost his way amongst the wild mountains, and did not reach his destination for many days.

When he got to Garden, he found the castle full of feasting and mirth. Wondering much, he went to a pious hermit who lived near, and asked him the meaning of what was going on. From him he learnt that the Burgrave Gerhart had slain the lind-worm, and was to be married to beautiful Liebgart that very evening. Wolfdieterich then begged the holy man to lend him priestly garments, and having received those that had formerly belonged to brother Martin, the hermit’s predecessor, he put them on over the armour he had found in the dragon’s cave, and repaired to the castle.

He entered the great hall, and saw Burgrave Gerhart, nicknamed “Hawk’s Nose,” seated next to the pale queen, who, with her maidens, filled the glasses of the guests. Above the Burgrave’s chair were the dragons’ heads, symbols of his victory. When the queen saw the pretended hermit, she took him a cup of wine, which he emptied at a draught, and then gave back, after having slipped into it the ring she had given him on the evening he started on his quest. Liebgart did not notice the ring till she had returned to her seat by Gerhart’s side. Then she trembled violently, but forcing down her emotion, she desired the hermit to approach, and tell her from whom he got the ring.

“Lady, you gave it me yourself,” he said, throwing aside his disguise.

Every eye was fixed on him as he stood in the middle of the hall, clad in Ortnit’s wondrous armour, and looking more like a god than a mortal man. When, advancing to the queen, he laid her husband’s ring in her hand, and told her how and where he had found it, many voices cried, “Hail to the avenger of our king, the slayer of the dragon and its brood! Hail to the new king of Lombardy!”

Burgrave Gerhart was not to be put aside so easily. He pointed to the dragons’ heads as proofs of his right; but when Wolfdieterich produced the tongues from his wallet, there was no more to be said but for Burgrave Gerhart to beg the hero’s pardon. This he received on condition of swearing fealty.

Wolfdieterich was now proclaimed king of Lombardy, and was told that he was expected to marry the queen.

“My lords,” he said, “as ruler of this kingdom, I am also the servant of my people, and am bound to labour for their welfare. But as regards personal matters, such as the choice of a wife, I must be free, and the queen must also be free to choose as she lists. She is yet mourning the loss of her first husband. But if she holds me worthy to succeed him, and thinks that my love and reverence will comfort her for his loss, I offer her my hand for life.”

Liebgart, remembering what Ortnit had said to her, placed her hand in the hero’s, and was married to him before long.

Wolfdieterich was no longer the impetuous boy who had left Lilienporte, but a man who could act with wisdom, prudence and forethought. He felt that his first duty was to restore peace and quiet to Lombardy, and that only after that was done would he be at liberty to consult his own wishes, and start to the assistance of his faithful servants. A year was spent in this labour, and then he told his wife that he must go to Lilienporte. She wept and said that she feared lest, like Ortnit, he should never return, but in the same breath confessed that he was right, and helped him to make ready for his journey and that of his army, which was to number sixty thousand men.

The Eleven.

Winds and waves were in their favour, and the army landed at a short distance from Constantinople. Whilst the men encamped in a wood, the king set out in peasant’s clothes to pick up all the news he could learn. After spending hours wandering about the city, and hearing nothing that was of any use to him, he chanced to meet Ortwin, a gaoler, and a former acquaintance of his. The man carried a basket filled with black bread. The hero went to him and asked him to give him a loaf for Wolfdieterich’s sake. The man looked at him keenly, and recognised him.

“Ah, sire,” he said, “things have gone badly here with us. The good old empress died during the siege of Lilienporte. When the fortress capitulated, the noble duke Berchtung and his sons were put in irons and flung into a dark and dismal dungeon. Death soon put an end to the old man’s pain, but the ten young lords are still kept in strict confinement, and I may bring them no better food than a daily supply of this black bread and water.”

Wolfdieterich was miserable when he thought that he was not without guilt with respect to his mother and his old friend. He could do nothing for them now, but he might still do something for the ten faithful servants who yet remained. He arranged with Ortwin that they should have better food, and should be cheered by the hope of a speedy deliverance. The old gaoler went on his way, and the king returned to his people.

He found his men already under arms, for they told him that Sabene had discovered not only that they were there, but what had brought them.

The armies met, and the battle raged long and furiously, without either side getting the better of the other. But at last the fortune of the day turned. The citizens of Constantinople rose in revolt against the tyranny that had ground them down so long, hastened to the prison, and set Berchtung’s ten brave sons at liberty. Having done this, they put themselves under their command, and marched to the assistance of Wolfdieterich. It was a glorious victory. The hero was proclaimed emperor on the battle-field.

Soon after their return to the capital, Sabene and the royal brothers were brought before their judges. The first was sentenced to death, and was at once led away to instant execution; the death of the two latter was likewise demanded by both people and army, and Wolfdieterich knew that they were guilty of causing the death of their mother and that of old Berchtung, and had brought upon him all the troubles and difficulties of his early youth. Yet he could not decide what was best to be done, and reserved judgment until the following day.

That night, as the victor slept the sleep of the just, his mother appeared to him in a dream, saintlike and beautiful in aspect. She said: “Spare my children, and my blessing shall rest on thee.”

And immediately Berchtung appeared at her side: “God has mercy upon His erring children; do not shed thy brothers’ blood.”

As the hero gazed at the apparitions in intense amazement, Liebgart joined them, and said gently: “Hast thou not gained kingdom, glory, and me, through the ill deeds of thy brothers? Return them, therefore, good for evil.”

Morning broke—the figures vanished, leaving Wolfdieterich resolved what he should do. He called the nobles together, and before them all pardoned Bogen and Waxmuth, restored them their dignities and lands, to be held thenceforth as great fiefs under him. At first no one approved of his clemency, but on hearing his explanation all were silenced.

As soon as his arrangements were completed, Wolfdieterich returned with his army to Lombardy, and was welcomed by Liebgart with the greatest joy. After resting there for awhile, he, his princes, and their followers went to Rome, where he was crowned emperor. At the feast which followed the coronation he appointed the ten sons of good Duke Berchtung to be rulers of great fiefs. Herbrand, the eldest, received Garden and its territory. Through his son Hildebrand, of whose valiant deeds we shall hear later on, he was the ancestor of the Wülfings. Hache was given Rhineland, with Breisach as his capital. His son Eckehart was the protector of the Harlungs, Imbreke, and Fritele. He is celebrated in song and story as the trusty Eckehart. Berchther, the third son, succeeded his father at Meran. The other sons were as well endowed, but not as famous as their brothers, so their names and possessions need not be told.

Wolfdieterich and Liebgart had a son, whom they named Hugdieterich after his grandfather. He grew up to be a mighty hero, and was the father of a valiant race.

SAMSON CARRIES OFF FAIR HILDESWID.

II.
KING SAMSON (SAMSING).

In the good old times a mighty yarl (earl) ruled over the rich town and district of Salern, which was one of the largest fiefs of a great kingdom. The yarl governed so strictly and justly that peace and plenty cheered the hearts of all that dwelt in the district. He kept up a large army to defend his coasts from the onslaught of the Vikings, who often descended on them in great numbers in hopes of plunder.

Amongst the followers of the yarl was the warrior Samson, nicknamed “The Black,” because of his coal-black hair and beard. He was always the first in battle, and had even been known to disperse whole battalions with his single arm. He was terrible to look upon. His dark eyes flashed under heavy beetling brows. His bull-neck and powerful limbs bore witness to his remarkable strength. No one could withstand him in battle. He hewed men down, whether armed or unarmed, with as great ease as if they were made of touchwood. In private life, on the other hand, he was gentle and kindly, unless contradicted; then, indeed, he would keep silence, but would none the less carry out his own will, regardless of the cost to others. As can be readily imagined, few people ventured to oppose him without reason.

One day the yarl, who had just been made king, was sitting at a feast in celebration of a great victory. His warriors were round him sharing in his joy, Samson in their midst. Suddenly he rose, and, taking a cup of wine in his hand, offered it to the king, and said, with all courtesy:

“Sire, many a victory have I helped to gain for you, and now I come to offer you this cup and to ask you to grant me a boon.”

“Speak on, brave hero,” answered the king, “and tell me what you desire. Hitherto you have asked no reward for your great deeds of valour. What you already have was given of my good will, unasked by you. So demand what you like, I can deny you nothing.”

“Good, my lord,” said Samson. “I do not want any more castles or lands, I am rich enough; but I am very solitary at home, now that my mother has grown old and cross. Your daughter Hildeswid is a sweet little thing, and I should much like to make her my wife. Now you know how you can pleasure me by granting this request.”

Rodgeier was so astonished at this address that he nearly let the cup fall.

“You are a famous warrior,” he said; “but the maiden is of royal birth, and only a king can lead her home. You are in her service as well as mine. So take this plate of sweetmeats and bear it to her in the women’s house. Then come back here, and drown all memory of your strange request in a bowl of good wine.”

Samson took up the sweetmeats silently, and bore them to the princess, who was busy embroidering with her maids. He placed the dish before her, saying,—

“Eat, sweet one, for I bring you good news. You are to follow me to my home, and live there as my good wife. Dress now, and bid one of your maidens come with you.”

On seeing the girl’s hesitation, he added,—

“If you do not go willingly, you will force me to kill the yarl, and burn the palace, with all that are in it.”

He looked so fierce and grim as he spoke, that Hildeswid trembled with fear, and obeyed him without a word.

He took her by the hand and led her down to the court, where a groom was holding his horse in readiness. In the clear light of day, and in the presence of many watchmen, none of whom dared remonstrate, Samson placed the princess before him on the saddle, and rode away with her into the wood and towards his home. When he reached his dwelling the door was locked, and he knocked so thunderously that the sound was heard to a great distance. No answer. He knocked again and again. A hoarse voice at last was heard from within, proclaiming that the door should not be opened whilst the owner of the house was from home.

“Mother,” cried Samson, “pull back the bolts, for it is I—your son—I have brought you a princess to be your daughter, and to tend you in your old age.”

The door opened, creaking and groaning, as though unaccustomed to move on its hinges, and a thin old woman came out on the threshold, dressed in rags.

“What?” she cried. “Do you bring guests with you? That woman in her grand clothes, her maid, and an idle groom. How could you do it, son? You know how poor we are;” and she looked up at her tall son with a cunning leer.

“But, mother,” said the warrior, “where is the gold I sent you? Where are the servants I gave you? And what have you done with the gorgeous raiment I sent to clothe you?”

“I hid the gold away in my chest,” answered the old woman; “for one never knows whether one may not become a pauper in one’s old age. I dismissed the servants you gave me very soon, for I thought they would have eaten me out of house and home; and as for the clothes, I have laid them aside to wait for better times.”

“Ah well, mother,” said Samson, “if that sort of thing makes you happy, you can do as you like with your own; but now open the door and let us in. We are tired after our long ride, and would fain have a good dinner.”

They went into the house and sat down. The old woman placed before them a hunch of rye bread and a jar of water. Samson would have made but a poor meal, had his groom not brought out a cut of venison and some wine, with which he had taken care to provide himself before leaving the palace. After he had stilled his hunger, Samson begged his lady’s permission to go out and see if he could not find a stag to store the larder. The groom went down to the cellar, where he was fortunate enough to find a cask of ale; and the old mother withdrew to her own apartments, leaving the princess alone with her maid.

The wide hall was dark and eerie, and full of strange flickering shadows, that grew more mysterious and ghost-like as the evening closed in, and the owls might be heard hooting in the pine-trees near. Hildeswid could bear it no longer. She sent her maid to ask the old woman to come back to the hall; but she did not, nor did the maid return. The poor child’s terror was so great that she determined to go in search of her mother-in-law.

She wandered through one empty, dreary, dusty room after another, till at last she entered a large vaulted chamber, and there she saw the old woman crouching over a great chest full of gold and precious stones, muttering to herself. Approaching her, Hildeswid heard her gloating over her treasures, and saying how much they would be increased when she added the princess’s ornaments to the number, which could so easily be done by strangling the girl. Hildeswid uttered a low cry of terror, and the old woman looked round. Then, with a shriek of “thief, robber, wretch!” she threw herself upon the unhappy child, and tried to throttle her; but at that moment Samson came in and stopped her.

“Mother,” he said, “you cannot remain here. I will take you and your treasure to my other house on the edge of the wood. There you can live in peace.”

Meanwhile King Rodgeier had discovered that his daughter had been carried off. He sent out one body of his men-at-arms after another to fetch her home; but they all failed, and he prepared to go himself.

Riding along towards Samson’s grange, he and his men saw a little house by the side of a great wood. They entered, and asked the old woman they met in the house to tell them where Samson lived. She denied that she had ever heard of such a man; but when the king offered her a handful of gold, she at once pointed out the path that led to his grange, and even went a bit of the way to see that they made no mistake.

The king and his fifteen companions had not gone very far when they met the hero. His helmet and armour were coal black, like his beard and hair; his steed was also black, but on his shield was emblazoned a lion on a golden field. There was a sharp, short fight in which Samson came off conqueror.

When the battle was over, he set out for his mother’s house. On entering the hall he found her there busily counting the gold the king had given her.

“Mother,” he said, “for the sake of that gold you betrayed your own son, and you richly deserve to die; but as you are my mother, I cannot punish your treachery.”

The old woman went on counting her hoard as calmly as before.

“Mother,” he began again, “you betrayed your son for gold, and you should die by my dagger; but you are my mother, and I cannot slay you. Now listen to me: take your gold and leave this place, lest harm befall you.”

The old woman poured her treasures into a huge sack, and answered,—

“This should all have been yours, if you had not brought that little fool into the house. I will go, and take my wealth to the king.”

“I have slain him and his men,” said Samson quietly; but he looked so stern that his mother changed colour, and muttered,—

“Very well then, I will go and seek an heir who will give both me and my treasures house-room.”

Three times Samson’s hand sought sword and dagger, but he mastered his anger, and rode away through the dark pine forest to his home.

When he got there, he found Hildeswid hard at work with her maidens.

“Wife,” he said, going up to her, “my mother betrayed me for love of gold—my sword and dagger both thirsted for her blood—but I would not, could not slay her. If you are false to me—then—they must do their work.”

He looked terrible in his wrath, but she took off his helmet and coat of mail, kissed him and led him to his seat. And he at once grew gentle, and told her that he wanted to win glory and honour for her sake, and that he hoped soon to see her acknowledged queen of her father’s realm.

When the death of Rodgeier was made known in Salern by the only one of his men who had escaped to tell the tale, a Thing was summoned in order that a new ruler might be chosen. The votes were all in favour of Brunstein, brother of the late king, a man of great wisdom in counsel, and a lover of justice. There would now have been peace in the realm, had it not been for Samson, who made raids into the land and carried off cattle and supplies. So Brunstein called together all the bravest warriors of his own and other lands, and made them lay their hands in his and swear to take Samson alive or dead, or themselves die in the attempt. Then, led by the king, they set out and rode over mountains and plains and through the dark forest, and all without finding the object of their search. One evening they reached a strong fortress, and being very tired, rested there for the night. After supper they went to bed and slept. Every one slept, even the guards, when they had carefully locked and bolted the great gates.

That night Samson came. Finding he could not break the gates, he set fire to them, and while they were still burning, pulled them down, and leaped into the place. The watchmen awoke and blew their horns; but as there were many thatched roofs within the walls, all of which caught fire, the king and his men naturally thought a large army had broken in upon them, and were filled with terror. The gigantic figure of Black Samson appearing now here, now there, amongst the flames, added to their fear, and all that were left of them took refuge in flight.

The king, followed by six faithful attendants, made his way into the forest, and after riding a long time came in sight of a goodly grange. He entered, and found that the mistress of the house was his niece Hildeswid. He asked after Samson, but she said he was out. He then begged her to leave her husband and go with him; but she refused, advising him to go away as quickly as he could, lest he should fall into his enemy’s hands.

Brunstein confessed that she was right, and took his departure, but it was even then too late. Samson had returned, and, seeing them, at once set out in pursuit. No courage or strength, however great, could avail against his terrible arm. Brunstein and five of his warriors fell never to rise again, while the sixth got away with great difficulty and not without severe wounds. Samson started in pursuit. When he got out of the wood, he saw thirty horsemen galloping towards him. On their banner, a lion was displayed on a golden field.

“So, ho,” cried the hero, “you are Amelungs. Welcome, Uncle Dietmar. I rejoice to see you and your men.”

When they had rested and refreshed themselves in Samson’s grange, Dietmar explained, that having heard that his nephew was outlawed and in need of help, he had come to visit him and see whether he could be of any use. Samson was much pleased, and announced his intention of taking the open field now that he was no longer alone in the world. So he and his companions set out next morning. No one ventured to oppose him, and he soon had so large a district under his command that he was able to take up the powers and dignity of duke. After that he made his way towards Salern, and sent on messengers to desire the citizens to elect him king, under pain of having their town and possessions burnt about their ears.

After much conferring together, the burghers came to the conclusion that they could not do better than obey; for while Samson had been their friend, their town had been more flourishing than at any other time. So they sent to beg him to come and rule over them.

When the hero found that all was going as he wished, he sent for his wife, and, side by side, they rode into Salern, where they were received with acclamation.

The new ruler governed with a strong hand, and administered justice equally to all, both high and low. He showed a grateful remembrance of every kindness he had met with in his adversity, and kept peace on his borders. He grew old in the punctual fulfilment of these duties; and when he felt that he was no longer strong enough to do the work alone, he appointed his eldest son to be his assistant and successor. But he did not like it to be supposed that he was too old and weak to be of use; and so when his second son asked him what share he was to have in the royal heritage, he answered him nothing, but called together the whole army and made them an address.

He told them that when he was young every one had sought to do great deeds, but now people had grown lazy. The long peace, that had brought material blessing on the realm, had also brought the curse of a love of ease and pleasure; and for fear this evil should increase, and the country become an easy prey to some greedy neighbour, he summoned every warrior to appear before him in three months’ time, each accompanied by his men, and bearing a courageous heart within his breast, for he was going to lead them against a powerful foe.

The same day that Samson made this announcement to his army, he wrote a letter to the proud yarl Elsung of Bern (Verona), a man of about his own age, and with an equal love of great and heroic deeds. In this letter he demanded that Elsung should pay him tribute as his liege lord, and should give his daughter, Odilia, to his second son. All this he demanded as a right, due from a vassal to his king.

When the yarl read the letter, he was very angry, and made immediate preparations for war. He began by ordering five of Samson’s ambassadors to be hung on the spot, and the sixth to be sent back to his master with his tongue cut out.

No sooner were the three months over than King Samson started for Bern at the head of his men.

The armies met, and there was a great battle. The slaughter on either side was hideous. At length Samson’s wondrous strength enabled him to slay the yarl, and gain the victory. The Bernese, seeing that their ruler was dead, thought it most prudent to choose Samson for their king, and thus put an end to all ill-feeling between the two nations.

When this business was settled, the victor sent for the yarl’s daughter, Odilia, and told her that he intended her to be the wife of his second son, to whom he was going to make over her father’s realm. The maiden wept, and said that she could not marry so soon after her father’s death; but Samson’s rage at meeting with contradiction was so terrible, that the girl in mortal fear consented to wed the prince. His berserker wrath appeased by her obedience, the king at once regained his usual genial manner, kissed her, and assured her of his protection.

The marriage arranged, Samson set out on his return to his own land, accompanied by his eldest son. Before he had gone very far, he felt his wounds painful. They would not heal, and caused him so much suffering that he had to halt at a little town on the way, and there he died, naming his youngest son ruler of the Rhineland, with Fritilaburg as his residence.

DIETWART DEFENDS THE PRINCESS.