The two women slowly crept out into the darkness, and wandering along the dewy meadows saw the night gradually make way before the first gleams of silvery light. Then they beheld the mountain tops change from blue to silver gray, then turn dazzling white, and suddenly blush and glow beneath the first rays of the rising sun.
The larks rose straight up into the blue, singing their triumphant morning hymn; the bees and butterflies hovered around them, but all the lovely sights and sounds of early morn could not beguile the old lady to take even a moment’s rest, and she hobbled bravely on. The peasants, rising from their hard beds to partake of frugal fare before beginning a long day’s work, stared in speechless amazement at their aged mistress, already well on her way, and gazed anxiously at the feeble form, wondering how long her strength and energy would last.
All through the bright morning hours, Wilhelmine plodded on without a pause; and it was only when the sun stood directly overhead, that she stopped for a moment under a tree to partake of food and of strengthening drink. Then, while the peasants stretched out in the cool shade to enjoy their midday rest, the old lady again stepped out into the quivering sunshine to continue her task. All through the glowing heat of afternoon, and long after the sun had set and the shades of evening had fallen, Wilhelmine crept on with faltering steps and ebbing strength, but with undiminished energy and determination. Darkness had long set in when she finally reached the village once more, and entering a hut where burned a small rushlight, and where the people had assembled by her order, she cried in weak but joyful accents,—
“My children, I have walked around a thousand acres! Five hundred of these belong to you, free from all taxes from this time forth. Do not blame me if your share is somewhat small, for I have done all I could to help you, but alas! although my spirit is willing, my aged feet could carry me no farther.”
Having said these words, old Wilhelmine tottered back to her own house, where she lay down so exhausted that she never found the strength to rise from her bed again. But the people whom she had benefited never ceased to be grateful to her; and when she died, in 1543, six years after this wonderful walk, they mournfully followed her to her last resting-place, shedding abundant tears while softly reminding each other of the many steps taken in their behalf by her weary old feet.
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Until the end of the eighteenth century, the city of Neuchâtel boasted a ghost whose apparition was the invariable precursor of a conflagration in town. Shortly before any signs of fire were perceptible, this spectral old woman passed swiftly along the streets, frantically wringing a cloth all dripping with blood until she vanished in a lurid mist in the direction of the lake.
No one now living remembers ever having seen this ghost, but old people in Neuchâtel solemnly aver that the woman was frequently seen by their ancestors, and that a fire always broke out shortly after her visit. They add that the ghost was the unfortunate widow of Walter, Count of Rochefort, publicly accused of forgery, and beheaded, in 1412, on the shores of the lake, on the very spot where the wraith always melted away in a crimson cloud. It is said that the Count’s widow, having secured his blood-stained shirt, constantly exhibited it to her sons, urging them to avenge their father, who, according to her assertions, had been wrongfully accused, and condemned without sufficient proof of guilt.
The implacable widow finally prevailed upon these young men to take a fearful revenge by secretly setting fire to the city; and it is a fact that Neuchâtel was almost destroyed by what is known as the great conflagration of 1450. Since then, either through remorse or to parade her spite, the old woman’s spectre heralded every conflagration, until, weary of destruction, or frightened away by effective modern methods of fighting fires, she ceased to haunt the city and frighten the inhabitants.
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