Nevertheless, it was no myth; the treasure still lay beneath the waters. Not a crown, not a bracelet was lost; not a diamond had fallen from the brilliant setting; for, as if held together by magic hand, the jewels had remained firmly united; but wave after wave had rolled on unceasingly, day and night, from year's end to year's end, and softly and gradually the treasure had been pressed on further into the bed of the river. The Wonnegau lay behind it; there the waves foamed, whirling over the hidden reefs beneath, and further on towards the sea they roared loudly against the walls of the Pfalzburg, then flowed caressingly past the blooming vines which wound their clustered garlands round the white cottages of the vine-dressers.
The treasure of the Nibelungen had been carried in safety, though without any guiding hand, past all these different scenes, and the waves had borne it further and further into the shadow of the bank, bit by bit, until, after many years, it lay at the foot of a rock that rose high and bold above the waves. The moonbeams wove a silver garland round its granite brow, and for centuries tradition echoed round its jagged peak; but a row of crags surrounded the foot of the rock, and the foaming rage of the waves kept away even the boldest. There into that deep rocky bed the waves bore the treasure, and now it rested safely hidden at the foot of the Loreley rock.
But treasures which have once gleamed in the sunlight, and been grasped by human hands, can never rest in darkness; they strive to reach again the light of day and the warm living hand of man. Slowly they rise from year to year, till at last they glow in the light of the sun, and await a pure hand to set them free, to do good with their riches, and so to expiate the guilt which was attached to them. It was thus that the treasure of the Nibelungen pressed upwards. It rose slowly, slowly, for sighs and blood and tears hung more heavily on it than on other sunken hoards. But at last, about a thousand years after that night when Haco threw the treasure into the stream, it had made its way up through the water.
It was just such a delightful spring night as that memorable one long ago; work had long since ended in the blooming vineyards, rest and peace lay all around. The night-wind came softly from the mountains and bore the fragrance of the vines across the Rhine; the moon stood high in heaven, its light glided trembling down on the ledges of the Loreley and kissed the feet of the rock, which until now had lain in deep shadow. There in magic radiance floated the jewels of the Nibelungen treasure, so that the Rhine shone brightly as its waves played round the golden hoard. The night-wind blew more strongly, bearing on its wings something like a spirit, which sank in a veil of mist round the point of the rock, and then stood in that majestic beauty which had in days long past touched Haco's proud heart and won the love of the hero Siegfried. It was Kriemhild, once Siegfried's sorrowing widow, and afterwards King Etzel's queen in the distant land of the Huns. As Queen of Hungary, she invited the Burgundian heroes to her kingdom, that she might demand the stolen treasure from Haco, or take revenge on him for Siegfried's murder and the robbery of her gold. But the vengeance which should only have overtaken one fell upon all, even on her own little son. Kriemhild's proud heart was softened by the blow, and with a pang of keen repentance she thought of those other mothers whom her mad revenge had rendered childless. One way only was left her of giving happiness instead of sorrow. With a desire that rose to heaven like a prayer, she thought of her lost treasure. If she could but get it now, what troubled hearts would be soothed by her who had heretofore brought misery to happy ones! But the swift sword sent her to the grave with her longings unsatisfied. The same slaughter that had freed her from her enemies had robbed her of her child and of her life.
Her spirit hovered often round the scenes of her youthful happiness, seeking the hidden treasure in the river-bed. That night, when it rose to the surface, and its golden radiance was seen bright and clear, Kriemhild came, thinking to set it free. Her eyes gazed longingly on the floating gold, and her arms, light and transparent as the moonbeams, were outstretched over the rock as if she would fain grasp the moving treasure. Then she glided with spirit tread down over the jagged moonlit rock by paths which no human foot could follow, and soon she stood on the narrow ledge over which the Rhine river flowed in gleaming ripples. Her white foot was covered by the water, but she heeded it not; her eye gazed fixedly on the treasure for which she had longed unceasingly in life, and which now hovered close to her feet in the dancing waves. Her lips moved softly, her hands were clasped as if in earnest desire, and she stooped to reach the golden crown which now knocked with a metallic sound against the rock and almost touched her foot; but when she stretched out her transparent hand, and thought she had touched the point of the diamond cross, the crown shrank from her fingers, sank into the stream, and was borne away out of her reach by the mighty waters. Kriemhild sank on her knees; the waves wet her long flowing locks, and the hem of her purple robe—but she felt them not. Only one thought, one feeling, lived in her heart—the longing to recover the treasure. She bent forward once more; her white hands clutched again and again at the jewels which shone around her in tempting nearness, and yet always shrank from her touch. Other treasures floated towards her, the bars of gold came close to her feet, then started back when the white hands grasped at them, and gradually all disappeared in the middle of the stream.
Kriemhild's cold lips trembled, her transparent hands ceased their useless toil, and were clasped again in prayer. Then there was a louder rushing in the river, and a majestic shadow floated down the stream. Kriemhild's eye watched its onward movement; nearer and nearer it came, till it passed through the foaming gold stream, and approached the rock where the Queen now stood erect and majestic.
CHARLEMAGNE MEETS WITH KRIEMHILD.
F. C., p. 108.
It was Charlemagne, once Germany's beloved and mighty ruler, who every year leaves his tomb at Aachen, glides along the Rhine to bless the vineyards on its banks, and then lies down again in the golden coffin until the fragrance of a new spring awakes him to another beneficent progress. Now he stood before her on the river, clad in his purple mantle and his golden crown, with the sword which formerly decided the fate of nations in his cold right hand. His foot rested on the shield of Roland, his beloved nephew, which they had laid beside him in the tomb, and which now bore him like a trusty boat. The water rippled over the golden edge, and washed the grave-dust from the flashing emerald which the hero of Ronceval once won from the giant and fastened as an ornament on his shield.