“How is that?” said the Count.
“That will I also relate,” said the old man. “Many years ago there came a young man here, in knightly garb, who had a young woman with him, beautiful and delicate, but, apparently from their long journey, worn out. Pale were her cheeks, and her head, covered with beautiful golden locks, hung upon her conductor’s shoulder. Timidly he looked round—for, from some reason, he appeared to fear all men, yet, in compassion for his feeble companion, he wished to conduct her to some secure hut, where her tender feet might repose. There, under that ivy-grown tower, stands a lonely house, belonging to the old lord of the castle; thither staggered the unhappy man with his dear burden, but scarcely had he entered the dwelling, than he was seized by the Prince, with whose niece he was clandestinely eloping. Then was the noble youth brought bound, and where this plane-tree now spreads its roots flowed his young blood! The maiden went into a convent; but before she disappeared, she had this plane-tree planted on the spot where the blood of her lover flowed: since then it is as if a spirit life were in the tree that cannot die, and no one likes a little twig to cut off, or pluck a cluster of blossom, because he fears it would bleed.”
“God’s will be done!” exclaimed suddenly the old Count, and departed.
“That is an odd man,” said the most venerable of the peasants, eyeing the stranger who was hastening away; “he must have something that heavily oppresses his soul, for he speaks not, and hastens away; but, neighbours, the evening draws on apace, and the evenings in spring are not warm; I think in the white clouds yonder, towards the Rhine, are still concealed some snow-storms—let us come to the warm hearth.”
The neighbours went their way, while the aged Count, in deep thought, passed up through the village, at the end of which he found himself before the churchyard. Terrific black crosses looked upon the traveller—the graves were netted over with brambles and wild roses—no foot tore asunder the entwinement. On the right hand of the road there stands a crucifix, hewn with rude art. From a recess in its pedestal a flame rises towards the bloody feet of the image, from a lamp nourished by the hand of devotion.
“Man of sorrow,” thus ascended the prayer of the traveller, “give me my son again—by thy wounds and sufferings give me peace—peace!”
He spoke, and turning round towards the mountain, he followed a narrow path which conducted him to a brook, close under the flinty, pebbly grape hill. The soft murmurs of its waves rippling here and there over clear, bright stones harmonized with his deep devotion. Here the Count found a boy and a girl, who, having picked flowers, were watching them carried away as they threw them into the current.
When these children saw the pilgrim’s reverend attire, they arose—looked up—seized the old man’s hand, and kissed it. “God bless thee, children!” said the pilgrim, whom the touch of their little hands pleased. Seating himself on the ground, he said, “Children, give me to drink out of your pitcher.”
“You will find it taste good out of it, stranger-man,” said the little girl; “it is our father’s pitcher in which we carry him to drink upon the vine-hill. Look, yonder, he works upon the burning rocks—alas! ever since the break of day; our mother often takes out food to him.”
“Is that your father,” said the Count, “who with the heavy pickaxe is tearing up the ground so manfully, as if he would crush the rocks beneath?”