Ekkehard: A Tale of the Tenth Century. Vol. 2 (of 2)

by Joseph Victor von Scheffel

So the men fetched their spades and hoes, and dug two wide graves. On one side of the field there was an abandoned gravel-pit, which they widened into a spacious resting-place. This last was destined for the dead Huns. Arms and harnesses were taken off and collected; forming a considerable heap in all. Then the corpses were thrown down; one after the other, as they were brought. It was a mass of torn members, repulsive to the eye; men and horses in wild confusion; a throng, as when the rebellious host of angels fell down into hell.

The pit was filled. One of the grave-diggers came and brought a solitary head with cleft forehead and fierce expression. "Most likely that belongs also to the heathens, and may look for its trunk below," quoth he, throwing it down into the pit.

When the whole field had been searched, without their discovering any more Hunnic bodies, they covered up the huge grave. It was a burial without solemnity;--sundry curses, instead of blessings were called down, and ravens and other birds of prey, hoarsely screeching, fluttered about in great numbers. Those who inhabited the rocks on the Hohenkrähen, and the dark pine-wood beneath, had all come, Moengal's hawk among them; and they were evidently protesting by their cries, against thus losing their rightful prey. With a hollow sound the clods of earth and pebbles fell into the wide grave. Then the deacon of Singen came, with the vase of consecrated water, with which he sprinkled the mound, in order to banish the demons, and keep down the dead who rested in the stranger earth. A weatherbeaten piece of rock, which had some time since fallen down from the Hohentwiel, was finally rolled on to the Hunnic grave, and then they went away shivering, to get ready the second tomb, which was to receive their own dead. All those who had belonged to the ecclesiastical state, were to be buried in the cloister-church at Reichenau.

At the same hour in which the battle had begun the day before, a solemn procession descended from the Hohentwiel. These were the men who had won the battle. They advanced in the same order as on the day before, but their gait was slow, and their standard was muffled in black crape. On the watchtower of the castle, the black flag had likewise been hoisted. The Duchess herself, rode also with the train, dressed in dark sober-coloured garments, which gave an unusually serious and severe expression to her face. The dead monks were carried on biers, to the brink of the great tomb, so that they should participate in the last homage rendered to their fellow-champions. When the last notes of the litany had died away, Abbot Wazmann approached the open grave, pronouncing the farewell greeting and offering up the thanks of the survivors to the ninety six who lay there so pale and still, side by side.

"Blessed be their memory, and may their remains rest in peace, until the day of resurrection! May their names descend unto posterity, and may the glory of the holy champions, bring down a blessing on their children!" Thus he spoke in the words of the Preacher, throwing down when he had ended the first handful of earth; the Duchess, as well as the others following his example one by one. After this, there ensued a solemn silence, as all those who had fought together on the day before, were to separate again after the funeral; and many a hard-featured face waxed soft; and many a kiss and hearty shake of the hand were exchanged at parting.

Those of the Reichenau, were the first who set out for their monastery. The biers with the dead were carried along; the brothers walking by their sides, bearing lighted tapers, and chanting psalms. The corpse of the old man from the Heidenhöhlen, long weary of life, they had also taken along with them. With bent-down head, the war-horse of the unknown warrior, covered with a black cloth, walked by its side. It was a gloomy and sad spectacle withal, to see the long funeral train slowly enter the pinewood, and then disappear amid the gloom.

The next to take leave of the Duchess, were the remaining arrier-ban men. The gaunt Friedinger, with his arm in a sling, rode down the valley at the head of a troop. Only the Knight of Randegg, with a few select soldiers, was to be garrisoned on the Hohentwiel.

With unfeigned emotion, Dame Hadwig, followed the departing ones with her eyes and then slowly rode over the battle-field. The day before she had stood on the tower, anxiously watching the turn the battle was taking.

Master Spazzo, was now called upon to explain a good many things, and although he evidently did not shrink from exaggerating a little here and there, the Duchess seemed well satisfied. She did not speak to Ekkehard.

When she too had returned home, the plain became silent and forsaken again, as if nothing at all had happened there. Only the trampled grass, the wet, reddish earth, and the two huge tombs, bore witness to the harvest which Death had held there, but the day before. It was not long, before the blood was dried up, and the grass had grown afresh. The mounds under which the dead rested, were covered with moss and creepers. Wind, and birds had carried seeds there; and bushes and trees had sprung up in rich luxuriance,--for plants thrive well, where the dead are buried. But the tale of the battle with the Huns, is still living in the memory of the present generation. The piece of rock which had been rolled upon the grave, is called the "Heidenbock" (Heathenbuck), by the inhabitants of the Hegau, and in the night of Good-Friday, there is nobody who would like to pass the valley. In that night, earth and air belong to the dead, who are then supposed to arise from their graves. Then the small, swift-footed horses dart about again; the dark columns of the christian champions on foot, eagerly press forward; the armour glittering from under the decayed habits of the monks. The clatter of arms and wild war-cries, rise, louder than the tempest; and fiercely rages the battle of the spirits in the air, when suddenly from yonder island in the lake, a knight in shining gilt armour, on a black steed comes hurrying along, and drives them all back into their cool resting-places. Vainly the Hunnic chieftain tries to resist him, angrily lifting his crooked sword; but at that moment, the heavy battle-axe descends on his head,--and he must go down like the rest ... and everything is silent as before; only the young leaves of the tender birch-tree, are trembling in the wind ...