“You are free, uncle, you are free! Imma and I have come to save you!”
Once more Imma flushed crimson at the revelation of her sex. The astonished knight glanced with a new interest at her beautiful face, with its rosy colour and downcast eyes. Turning to the Dean, he greeted him cordially.
“You are free,” he said. “Your nephews have promised to remain with me as hostages till you have provided a ransom,” Then, turning humorously to Imma, he added: “Wilt thou be a soldier in my employ, youth? Or wouldst have a place in my household?”
Imma vouchsafed no other reply than a deepening of her colour. She must, however, have found words to utter when, later, the gallant knight begged her seriously to remain at Windeck as his wife—for ere nightfall the old Dean, grumbling and somewhat reluctant, was called upon to consent to his niece’s betrothal. This he did at length, when Imma had joined her entreaties to those of her lover.
That night the grey hen was placed as the witch had advised, and it was as she had said. With the dawn the Strassburgers arrived before the castle, to find a newly made trench filled with the castle troopers. When they learned that the Dean was free they called for a truce, and it was not blood, but wine, which flowed that day, for all were invited to share the wedding-feast of Imma and the knight of Windeck.
The Klingelkapelle
On the road between Gernsbach and Eberstein there once stood an ancient, moss-grown cell. It had been occupied by a beautiful pagan priestess, a devotee of Herthe, but when the preaching of the white monks had begun to spread Christianity among the people she left the neighbourhood. In passing by that way a Christian monk noticed the deserted retreat and took possession of it, issuing at intervals to preach to the inhabitants of the surrounding country.
One stormy night as he sat within his cell he fancied he heard a pleading voice mingling with the roar of wind and waters. Going to the door, he beheld a young girl who seemed to be half dead with cold and fatigue. The good monk, who was never indifferent to human suffering, drew her quickly inside, bade her seat herself by the fire, and set food and wine before her. When she had recovered a little from the effects of the storm the hermit questioned her with regard to her presence in such a lonely spot and at such an unseasonable hour. The maid replied that she had once dwelt in just such a pleasant and peaceful cell as that in which she now reposed, but that cruel persecution had driven her from her retreat.
“Then you, too, are a hermit?” said the young monk inquiringly, looking down at his fair guest. The wine had brought some colour to her pale cheeks and he could see that she was beautiful, with a beauty beyond that of any maiden he had ever seen.
“Yes,” she replied, “I am a priestess of Herthe. This cell in which I beg for shelter was once my own. It was those of your religion who drove me from it.”