THE OLD SWORD'S MISTAKE
NCE upon a time there was a steel sword, whose blade was forged and tempered in a most excellent manner. The handle was of precious wood, with beautiful inlaid work of mother-of-pearl and gold. From his very birth the Sword was in the service of a gallant knight; and a sturdy, faithful sword he was. He fought for the sake of truth and of every fair lady, and against all oppressors of the weak. All who, even by word or glance, injured a lady dreaded the steel weapon: there was no man, no arms in the world, whom the steel warrior feared. But the valiant knight was killed in a hard fight, and the Sword remained lying on the battle-field. There the wind blew sand upon him, and leaves, fallen during the autumn from the neighbouring bushes, covered him. And many long years he lay there buried and unseen, until a peasant proposed to clear the ground, and his plough ran by chance against the Sword. The first thing that the ploughman did was to utter an oath, for his coulter, in striking against the stout weapon, received a notch. Then the Sword was dug out, taken to town, and sold to an old curiosity shop. The shopman hung the Sword on a nail.
From his lofty resting-place the old warrior, in glancing about the shop, saw in the corner of the hall a white lady of astonishing beauty. She was clad only in a loose-fitting garment about her fair form. Her neck, arms, and feet were bare; her hair was all combed back, then caught up by a diadem, from which it hung down in a shower of curls. She stood erect, and did not move. On her fair lips played an enigmatic smile, while her beautiful arms hung loose beside her, and her whole form seemed to breathe with free, powerful peace. One thing alone appeared to the steel warrior somewhat strange: the fair one was all white; her cheeks, eyes, hair; her hands and feet; her garments and diadem,—all were like fresh snow. But this seemed only to give a new charm to her beauty. The longer the old Sword gazed at the white unknown woman, the brighter grew his blade, the more merrily danced all the rainbow tints in his mother-of-pearl inlaid work, and the stronger grew his wish to fight as of old for truth's and a lady's sake—nay, for this very lady.
The steel warrior longed to speak to the white beauty, but he did not venture. 'I am so old,' he thought; 'so notched; even somewhat rusty ... while she is so fair!... No, no, it would not do. Methinks she would not even mind me or look at me.'...
Now the old Sword glanced at the lady in the corner, and she gazed at him, smiling enigmatically....
'Oh,' thought the sturdy warrior, 'if only I could do something for her!' But there seemed no chance of being of use to the fair creature. The Sword could no longer bear such suspense. He summoned up all his courage, and uttered in a faltering clang: 'Queen of my soul! tell me what you desire. Only tell me, and I will do it; at least I will attempt anything for you!' But the White Beauty remained speechless, and only smiled enigmatically as before.
'Why does she keep silence?' This was the question that tormented the old Sword, and he looked at the fair lady with anguish. Oh how much she might say if she would but speak! What power breathes through her apparent calm! And her smile! what a rich soul it hides! Nay, if this heavenly creature does not speak it is certainly only in consequence of some spell laid upon her! And the old fighter looked around, pondering over the question, Who could be the malicious sorcerer? It could not be the gigantic snake, stuffed with tow, that stood in an opposite corner, for its eyes were but glass, and though they say snakes fascinate birds and little animals, they need living eyes for the purpose. Nor could it be yonder ivory-headed cane near the shelf; it had the shape of an old man's head in a nightcap, with saucy, black goggle eyes. The insolent creature smiled, it is true, very mockingly, and was capable, as it seemed, of any rude trick; but he was so placed as not to be able even to see the White Lady. Somewhat higher than the Sword, hung on the same wall a red-nosed man, with a mass of tangled hair upon his head. He had a wine-glass in his hand, and he looked straight at the beauty with winking, roguish eyes. But that fellow could not have bewitched the lady either; he was too commonplace and good-natured for such a thing. The old Sword had seen scores of such fellows in old times, when his knight was banqueting in some wayside inn, or carousing in some friar's cellar, after the conquest of a town. Revellers of those days were clad differently, but they were evidently birds of the same feather. The Sword even felt some special interest in the old toper—he seemed to be a clever fellow.
'Look here, old boy,' said the old warrior in a whisper to his neighbour, 'who do you think has bewitched the lady in the corner?'
'And why do you imagine the girl to be bewitched?' retorted the red-nosed one, in a hoarse, loud bass voice, making no scruples about the matter, though his companion evidently wished to speak in an undertone.