Many days the good Bishop languished in his damp cell. At length four ruffians entered and carried him forth to the top of the rock; there binding his limbs, they addressed him as follows: “We have brought you here to see whether you are, indeed, elected of God; as if so, no harm will befall you.” Thus jeering, they threw him down into the valley; but the Bishop sustaining no hurt, they twice repeated their deed.
Finding he was not thus to be slain, they ended by killing him with their swords, and cut off his head.
The good Bishop was laid in a tomb, and many miracles were there performed. These coming to the ears of the Count Theodorich, his conscience smote him, and he took the cross and proceeded to the Holy Land. The vessel, unable to uphold his guilty weight, sank down, and the waters now shroud the remains of this wicked Count.
Rounding the promontory on which the Wolf’s Cloister is buried in trees, our river’s course turns for awhile in the direction of its source, so much does it wind. The Wolf Cloister is only a ruin, of which but little remains.
At a small chapel near here the Pastor of Traben used to perform a service on each Tuesday after Pentecost, and here gathered crowds from all parts to attend at the ceremony. All were covered with flowers, and the young of both sexes pelted each other with bouquets, and dancing and merriment occupied all. But now, says the narrator (Storck), the convent and the sanctuary are no more; their place is filled with vineyards. The present age respects nothing but gold; popular fêtes, sanctuaries, souvenirs of antiquity, and rustic simplicity, are alike swallowed up, and all is sacrificed for money.
A wonderful story is told of a young lady of these parts. One fine day in summer, a very beautiful girl of the family of Meesen was sitting at her open window, engaged in knitting. She was so occupied with her work or her thoughts, that she did not perceive the fearful storm that was rising over the mountains, until suddenly there came a clap of thunder that shook the whole house. Arising in haste, the “fräulein” endeavoured to shut to the window; but before she could accomplish her object a thunderbolt fell, and striking the metal-work which adorned the laces that fastened her bodice, it passed through her garments, softening the metal clasps of her garters, and partially melting her shoe-buckles; then, without having harmed the fair fräulein, it burst its way out by the floor.[1]
Very high hills are surrounding us as we approach Trarbach, a beautifully wooded slope, and rich cliffs announce a site of more than ordinary beauty; but before we take our evening’s rest in Trarbach we must, landing at Riesbach, climb to the top of Mount Royal.
This fortress was made by Vauban for Louis XIV. It cost an immense sum of money, and people from all parts were collected and forced to work at its ramparts; but sixteen years after its completion it was dismantled in compliance with treaties, and only a few mounds and walls now mark the site.
Splendid views are seen from it on all sides. The river, starting from our feet, appears gliding in all directions; and the evening shadows are filling the valleys and climbing the hills, while the glory of the departing sun hangs yet upon the corn-fields.