We seem to be quite out of the world on the banks of the Moselle. We wander along amid its ever-varying scenery with that delight which novelty always gives. At every turn new views break upon us; at every step something calls our attention; now it is a flower, then a rock, and again a castle, a group of old houses or trees, or perhaps a little gay boat adorned with boughs of trees, in which children, celebrating a holiday, are singing: so we wander on, and find at midday that, owing to the many detentions caused by these things, and the frequent sketches the beauty of the localities have compelled us to make, we have progressed but little on our road. But what does it matter? we cannot be in a paradise too long; and at every few miles we are sure of finding a little village inn, with a clean room in which we may eat or sleep.
Cloister-Machern is on the left bank of our river, a little further down the stream than Zeltingen. This cloister once contained a lovely nun, named
ERMESINDE.
Antioch had fallen before the Crusaders’ arms, and the Cross waved from her towers. The joyful tidings were brought to the banks of the Moselle, and bonfires celebrated the event. The pilgrim who had brought this news from over sea was feasted by Ermesinde’s father, and all gathered round him, eagerly catching his words.
He told of the deeds of valour performed by the Christian Knights; and as Ermesinde greedily listened, but feared to question the pilgrim, he mentioned the name of her lover, and highly extolled him, mournfully adding, “Such valour as this Knight showed forth was surpassed by none, but now the grave is closed over his glory.”
Hearing, poor Ermesinde fell as though dead, and lay motionless on the stone floor; then the pilgrim saw by the looks of those present that he had incautiously broken her heart. Further interrogating the pilgrim, Ermesinde’s father only gained a repetition of the first story told him, and other particulars seemed to confirm it.
The walls of Cloister-Machern received the poor broken reed, who offered to heaven a heart that was dead to the world.
Soon poor Ermesinde found that stone walls do not shut out wickedness, nor sombre dresses cover only morality; for in Cloister-Machern the nuns, one and all, led scandalous lives, and mocked her for not joining with them. She resisted their wiles, and sought refuge in prayer.
One evening a pilgrim arrived at the gate, and asked Ermesinde, who answered the bell, to give him refreshment. As a strain of music, once familiar and dear, the sounds smote on the nun’s ear, and with a bewildered look she gazed on the pilgrim’s face; the light fell on her pale features, and the pilgrim exclaimed, “Ermesinde!” One long look into each other’s eyes and time had vanished, care was forgotten, intervening years had rolled away, and Ermesinde and Rupert were in each other’s arms.