“You have opened up a silver mine in our domain,” said the earth-spirit, “and as you work it both morning and afternoon we have but little opportunity for repose. How, I ask you, can we slumber when your men keep knocking on the partitions of our house with their picks?”
“What, then, would you have, my worthy friend?” asked Kuno, scarcely able to suppress a smile at the wistful way in which the gnome made his complaint. “Tell me, I pray you, how I can oblige you.”
“By instructing your miners to work in the mine during the hours of morning only,” replied the gnome. “By so doing I and my brothers will obtain the rest we so much require.”
“It shall be as you say,” said Kuno; “you have my word for it, good friend.”
“In that case,” said the earth-spirit, “we shall assist you in turn. Go to the castle of Falkenstein after dawn to-morrow morning, and you shall witness the result of our friendship and gratitude.”
Next morning the sun had scarcely risen when Kuno saddled his steed and hied him to the heights of Falkenstein. The gnome had kept his word. There, above and in front of him, he beheld a wide and lofty roadway leading to the castle-gate from the thoroughfare below. With joy in his heart he set spurs to his horse and dashed up the steep but smooth acclivity. At the gate he encountered the old Lord of Falkenstein and his daughter, who had been apprised of the miracle that had happened and had come out to view the new roadway. The knight of Sayn related his adventure with the earth-spirit, upon which the Lord of Falkenstein told him how a terrible thunderstorm mingled with unearthly noises had raged throughout the night. Terrified, he and his daughter had spent the hours of darkness in prayer, until with the approach of dawn some of the servitors had plucked up courage and ventured forth, when the wonderful avenue up the side of the mountain met their startled gaze.
Kuno and his lady-love were duly united. Indeed, so terrified was the old lord by the supernatural manifestations of the dreadful night he had just passed through that he was incapable of further resistance to the wishes of the young people. The wonderful road is still to be seen, and is marvelled at by all who pass that way.
Osric the Lion
Other tales besides the foregoing have their scene laid in the castle of Falkenstein, notable among them being the legend of Osric the Lion, embodied in the following weird ballad from the pen of Monk Lewis:
Swift roll the Rhine’s billows, and water the plains,
Where Falkenstein Castle’s majestic remains
Their moss-covered turrets still rear:
Oft loves the gaunt wolf ’midst the ruins to prowl,
What time from the battlements pours the lone owl
Her plaints in the passenger’s ear.
No longer resound through the vaults of yon hall
The song of the minstrel, and mirth of the ball;
Those pleasures for ever are fled:
There now dwells the bat with her light-shunning brood,
There ravens and vultures now clamour for food,
And all is dark, silent, and dread!
Ha! dost thou not see, by the moon’s trembling light
Directing his steps, where advances a knight,
His eye big with vengeance and fate?
’Tis Osric the Lion his nephew who leads,
And swift up the crackling old staircase proceeds,
Gains the hall, and quick closes the gate.
Now round him young Carloman, casting his eyes,
Surveys the sad scene with dismay and surprise,
And fear steals the rose from his cheeks.
His spirits forsake him, his courage is flown;
The hand of Sir Osric he clasps in his own,
And while his voice falters he speaks.
“Dear uncle,” he murmurs, “why linger we here?
’Tis late, and these chambers are damp and are drear,
Keen blows through the ruins the blast!
Oh! let us away and our journey pursue:
Fair Blumenberg’s Castle will rise on our view,
Soon as Falkenstein forest be passed.
“Why roll thus your eyeballs? why glare they so wild?
Oh! chide not my weakness, nor frown, that a child
Should view these apartments with dread;
For know that full oft have I heard from my nurse,
There still on this castle has rested a curse,
Since innocent blood here was shed.
“She said, too, bad spirits, and ghosts all in white,
Here used to resort at the dead time of night,
Nor vanish till breaking of day;
And still at their coming is heard the deep tone
Of a bell loud and awful—hark! hark! ’twas a groan!
Good uncle, oh! let us away!”
“Peace, serpent!” thus Osric the Lion replies,
While rage and malignity gleam in his eyes;
“Thy journey and life here must close:
Thy castle’s proud turrets no more shalt thou see;
No more betwixt Blumenberg’s lordship and me
Shalt thou stand, and my greatness oppose.
“My brother lies breathless on Palestine’s plains,
And thou once removed, to his noble domains
My right can no rival deny:
Then, stripling, prepare on my dagger to bleed;
No succour is near, and thy fate is decreed,
Commend thee to Jesus and die!”
Thus saying, he seizes the boy by the arm,
Whose grief rends the vaulted hall’s roof, while alarm
His heart of all fortitude robs;
His limbs sink beneath him; distracted with fears,
He falls at his uncle’s feet, bathes them with tears,
And “Spare me! oh, spare me!” he sobs.
But vainly the miscreant he tries to appease;
And vainly he clings in despair round his knees,
And sues in soft accents for life;
Unmoved by his sorrow, unmoved by his prayer,
Fierce Osric has twisted his hand in his hair,
And aims at his bosom a knife.
But ere the steel blushes with blood, strange to tell!
Self-struck, does the tongue of the hollow-toned bell
The presence of midnight declare:
And while with amazement his hair bristles high,
Hears Osric a voice, loud and terrible, cry,
In sounds heart-appalling, “Forbear!”
Straight curses and shrieks through the chamber resound,
Shrieks mingled with laughter; the walls shake around;
The groaning roof threatens to fall;
Loud bellows the thunder, blue lightnings still flash;
The casements they clatter; chains rattle; doors clash,
And flames spread their waves through the hall.
The clamour increases, the portals expand!
O’er the pavement’s black marble now rushes a band
Of demons, all dropping with gore,
In visage so grim, and so monstrous in height,
That Carloman screams, as they burst on his sight,
And sinks without sense on the floor.
Not so his fell uncle:—he sees that the throng
Impels, wildly shrieking, a female along,
And well the sad spectre he knows!
The demons with curses her steps onwards urge;
Her shoulders, with whips formed of serpents, they scourge,
And fast from her wounds the blood flows.
“Oh! welcome!” she cried, and her voice spoke despair;
“Oh! welcome, Sir Osric, the torments to share,
Of which thou hast made me the prey.
Twelve years have I languished thy coming to see;
Ulrilda, who perished dishonoured by thee
Now calls thee to anguish away!
“Thy passion once sated, thy love became hate;
Thy hand gave the draught which consigned me to fate,
Nor thought I death lurked in the bowl:
Unfit for the grave, stained with lust, swelled with pride,
Unblessed, unabsolved, unrepenting, I died,
And demons straight seized on my soul.
“Thou com’st, and with transport I feel my breast swell:
Full long have I suffered the torments of hell,
And now shall its pleasures be mine!
See, see, how the fiends are athirst for thy blood!
Twelve years has my panting heart furnished their food.
Come, wretch, let them feast upon thine!”
She said, and the demons their prey flocked around;
They dashed him, with horrible yell, on the ground,
And blood down his limbs trickled fast;
His eyes from their sockets with fury they tore;
They fed on his entrails, all reeking with gore,
And his heart was Ulrilda’s repast.
But now the grey cock told the coming of day!
The fiends with their victim straight vanished away,
And Carloman’s heart throbbed again;
With terror recalling the deeds of the night,
He rose, and from Falkenstein speeding his flight,
Soon reached his paternal domain.
Since then, all with horror the ruins behold;
No shepherd, though strayed be a lamb from his fold,
No mother, though lost be her child,
The fugitive dares in these chambers to seek,
Where fiends nightly revel, and guilty ghosts shriek
In accents most fearful and wild!
Oh! shun them, ye pilgrims! though late be the hour,
Though loud howl the tempest, and fast fall the shower;
From Falkenstein Castle begone!
There still their sad banquet hell’s denizens share;
There Osric the Lion still raves in despair:
Breathe a prayer for his soul, and pass on!