Part 3

One day, when a glorious Easter-morning dawned, a day on which he had once been wont to see joyous throngs making pilgrimage to his castle, he felt so ashamed of his downfall that he had not even heart to go to church, and was perplexed how to pass the bright sunny feast-days. In vain his wife, with pearly tears and smiling lips, begged him not to vex himself, but come with her to church undismayed; he tore himself away crossly, and took himself off to hide in the woods until Easter were over.

Up hill and down dale he wandered, until he came to a primeval wilderness, where monstrous bearded firs surrounded a lake whose depths reflected the gloomy trees in all their length so that everything looked dismal and black. The ground about the lake was thickly carpeted with strange long-fringed moss, in which no footfall could be heard.

Here Gebizo sat himself down and complained to God of his wretched ill fortune, which no longer enabled him to still his own hunger sufficiently, his who had once gladly satisfied thousands, and, worst of all, which recompensed his efforts with the scorn and ingratitude of the world.

On a sudden he observed in the middle of the lake a skiff, and in it a man of lofty stature. As the lake was small and one could easily see across it, Gebizo could not comprehend where the boatman could have come from so suddenly, for he had not observed him anywhere before. Enough, he was now there, gave one stroke of his oar and immediately was on the shore beside the knight, and, before the latter could give a thought to the affair, had enquired of him why he turned such a rueful face to the world. In spite of his extremely handsome exterior, the stranger had an expression of deep-seated discontent about his mouth and eyes; yet this was the very thing which gained Gebizo's confidence, and without any reserve he poured out the tale of his misfortunes and grievances.

"You are a fool," the other responded, "for you possess a treasure greater than all that you have lost. If I had your wife, I should never give a thought to all the riches and churches and convents, nor to all the beggar-folk in the world."

"Give me back those things, and you are welcome to my wife in exchange!" retorted Gebizo with a bitter laugh, and the other exclaimed quick as lightning. "A bargain! Look under your wife's pillow; there you will find what will suffice for all your lifetime to build a convent every day, and feed a thousand people, though you should live to a hundred. In exchange, bring me your wife here to this spot without fail the evening before Walpurgis!"

With these words, such a fire spurted from his dark eyes that two reddish beams glanced over the Count's sleeve, and thence over moss and fir-trees. Then Gebizo saw whom he had before him, and accepted the man's offer. The latter plied his oar, and sailed back to the middle of the lake, where he and his boat sank into the water with a din which resembled the laughter of many brazen bells.

Gebizo, all in a goose-skin, hastened back by the nearest way to his castle, searched Bertrade's bed at once, and found under her pillow an old, shabby book which he could not decipher. But, as he turned over the leaves, one gold piece after another fell out. As soon as he observed this, he betook himself with the book to the deepest vault of a tower, and there, in the utmost secrecy, set to work and spent all the rest of Easter in turning out an ample heap of gold from the pages of this most interesting work.

Then he appeared in the world once again, redeemed all his possessions, summoned workmen who restored his castle more magnificently than ever, and dispensed benefactions on every hand like a prince who has been newly crowned. The principal of his works, however, was the foundation of a great abbey for five hundred capitulars of the utmost piety and distinction, a regular town of saints and scholars, in the centre of which his burial-place was one day to be. He considered this provision requisite for his eternal salvation. But, as his wife was otherwise provided for, no burial-place was prepared for her.

The midday before Walpurgis he gave the order to saddle, and bade his fair wife mount her white hunter, as she had a long journey to ride in his company. At the same time he forbade a single squire or servant to attend them. A great dread seized the poor woman; she trembled in every limb, and for the first time in her life she lied to her husband, pretending that she was unwell, and begging him to leave her at home. As she had been singing to herself only a little time before, Gebizo was incensed at the falsehood, and considered that he had now acquired a double right over her. She was forced therefore to mount her horse, dressed too in her best finery, and she rode away sadly with her husband, not knowing whither she was going.

When they had accomplished about half their journey, they came to a little church which Bertrade had happened to build in former days and had dedicated to the Mother of God. She had done it for the sake of a poor master-mason whom no one would employ, because he was so surly and disagreeable, that even Gebizo, whom others could not help approaching in a pleasant and respectful fashion, could not tolerate him, and sent him away empty-handed, for all the work which he had to give out. She had caused the little church to be built secretly, and in his gratitude the despised master-mason had with his own hands wrought a remarkably beautiful image of Mary in his spare time, and set it over the altar.

Bertrade now craved to enter this church for a moment and say her prayers, and Gebizo allowed her; for he thought she might have much need of them. So she dismounted from her horse, and, while her husband waited outside, went in, knelt before the altar, and commended herself to the protection of the Virgin Mary. Thereupon she fell into a deep sleep; the Virgin sprang down from the altar, assumed the form and garments of the sleeper, went gaily out by the door and mounted the horse, on which she continued the journey at Gebizo's side and in Bertrade's stead.

The wretch thought to continue to deceive his wife, and, the nearer they came to the journey's end, to lull her and hoodwink her by an increase of friendliness. Accordingly he talked with her of this and that, and the Virgin chatted pleasantly and gave him confiding answers, and behaved as if she had lost all her timidity. So they reached the gloomy wilderness about the lake, over which dun evening clouds hung; the ancient firs bloomed purple with buds, as only happens in the most luxuriant spring-tides; in the thicket a ghostly nightingale sang as loud as organ-pipes and cymbals; and out from among the fir-trees rode the man ye wot of, mounted on a black stallion, in rich knightly array, with a long sword at his side.

He approached very courteously, although he suddenly shot such a ferocious look at Gebizo that his flesh crept; still, the horses did not appear to scent anything dangerous, for they stood quiet. Trembling, Gebizo flung his wife's reins to the stranger and galloped off alone without so much as a glance back to her. But the stranger grasped the reins with a hasty hand, and away they went like a whirlwind through the firs, so that the fair rider's veil and garments fluttered and waved, away over mountain and valley, and over the flowing waters so that the horses' hoofs scarcely touched the foam of their waves. Hurried along by the boisterous storm, a rosy, fragrant cloud, which shone in the twilight, was wafted in front of the steeds; and the nightingale flew invisible before the pair, settling here and there upon a tree and singing until the air rang again.

At last all hills and all trees came to an end, and the two rode into an endless heath, in the midst of which, as if from afar off, the nightingale throbbed, although there was no sign of bush or bough on which it could have sat.

Suddenly the rider halted, sprang from his horse, and helped the lady out of the saddle with the manner of a perfect cavalier. Scarcely had her foot touched the heath, when round about the pair there sprang up a garden of rose-bushes as tall as a man, with a splendid fountain and seat, above which a starry firmament shone so brilliantly that one could have seen to read by its light. But the fountain consisted of a great round basin in which, like modern _tableaux vivants_, a number of devils formed, or represented, a seductive group of nymphs in white marble. They poured shimmering water from their hollowed hands--whence they got it, their lord and master only knew. The water made the most lovely harmony; for every jet gave out a different note, and the whole seemed in concert like string-music. It was, so to say, a water-harmonica, whose chords were thrilled through and through with all the deliciousness of that first night of May, and melted into unison with the charming forms of the group of nymphs; for the living picture did not stand still, but changed and turned imperceptibly.

Not without tender emotion, the strange cavalier conducted the lady to the seat and invited her to be seated; but then he gripped her hand with a violent tenderness, and said in a voice that pierced to the marrow, "I am the Eternally Forlorn who fell from Heaven! Nothing but the love of a good mortal woman on May-night can make me forget Paradise and give me strength to endure my eternal discomfiture. Be but my helpmeet, and I will make thee eternal, and grant thee the power of doing good and preventing evil to thy heart's content!"

He flung himself passionately on the bosom of the beauteous woman, who smilingly opened her arms. But at the same instant the Blessed Virgin assumed her Heavenly form, and enclosed the entrapped Deceiver in her radiant arms with all her might. In a twinkling, the garden had vanished with its fountain and nightingale; the cunning demons, who had formed the tableau, took flight in the form of evil spirits, uttering cries of anguish, and left their lord in the lurch; while he, never uttering a sound, wrestled with titanic strength to free himself from the torturing embrace.

But the Virgin held on bravely and did not let him go, though indeed she had to summon all her strength. She purposed nothing less than to bring the outmanoeuvred Devil before Heaven, and there expose him bound to a gate-post in all his wretchedness to the laughter of the blessed.

But the Evil One changed his tactics, kept still for a brief space, and assumed the beauty which he had once possessed as the fairest among the angels, so that he almost rivalled the celestial beauty of Mary. She exalted herself as much as possible; yet, if she was radiant as Venus the fair Evening-star, he shone like Lucifer the Son of the Morning, so that it began to be as bright on that dusky heath as if the heavens themselves had descended upon it.

When the Virgin perceived that she had undertaken too much, and that her strength was failing, she contented herself with releasing the Fiend on condition that he renounced the Count's wife, and the celestial and infernal beauties forthwith separated with great violence. The Virgin, somewhat wearied, betook herself back to her little church; the Evil One, incapable of any further disguise and mauled in every limb, crawled away over the sand in horrid, degraded form, the very embodiment of long-tailed sorrow. So badly had his purposed hour of dalliance turned out for him.

Meantime Gebizo, after abandoning his lovely wife, had gone astray in the darkening night, and horse and rider had fallen into a chasm, where his head was dashed against a stone so that he promptly departed this life.

As for Bertrade, she remained in her sleep until the sun rose on the first of May; then she awoke, and was surprised to see how the time had flown. Still, she quickly said her Ave Maria, and, when she came out of the church hale and hearty, her horse was standing before the door as she had left it. She did not wait long for her husband, but rode home blithely and quickly, for she guessed that she had escaped from some great peril.

Soon the Count's body was found and brought home. Bertrade had it entombed with all honour, and founded innumerable masses for him. But all love for him was in some inexplicable way eradicated from her heart, although it remained as kind and tender as ever. Accordingly, her exalted patroness in Heaven looked about for another husband for her, who should be more worthy of such gracious love than the deceased Gebizo had been. How this business came about is written in the next legend.

THE VIRGIN AS KNIGHT

Mary is named a Throne, the Lord's own Tabernacle, An Ark, Keep, Tower, House, a Spring, Tree, Garden, Mirror, A Sea, a Star, the Moon, a Hill, the Blush of Morning. All these how can she be? She is another world!

Angelus Silesius, _Cherub. Wandersmann_, Book iv. 42.

Gebizo had acquired so much wealth over and above his former possessions that Bertrade found herself mistress of a noble earldom, and became famous throughout the Empire for her wealth as well as her beauty. As, withal, she was very unassuming and friendly with every one, the jewel of her person appeared an easy conquest to all the nobility, shy and enterprising, bold and timid, great and small alike, and every one who had seen her a few times was surprised that he did not already have her in his possession. Yet more than a year passed, and no one knew of any who had acquired real grounds for hope.

Even the Emperor heard of her, and, as he was desirous that such a splendid fief should pass into the hands of a suitable husband, he determined to pay the celebrated widow a visit in the course of a journey, and signified his intention to her in a most gracious and friendly letter. This he entrusted to a young knight Zendelwald, whose road lay that way. He was favourably received by Bertrade, and entertained handsomely, as was every one who resorted to her castle. He beheld with admiration the lordly halls, battlements and gardens, and incidentally fell violently in love with their mistress. Still, he did not linger an hour longer in the castle on that account; but, when he had delivered his message and seen all that there was to see, he took a brief farewell of the lady and rode away, the only one of all those who had ever been there who did not think himself competent to win that prize.

The fact was that he was sluggish in word and deed. Even when his mind and heart had mastered any matter, which they always did with thoroughness and fire, Zendelwald could never bring himself to take the first step to a realization, for the thing seemed to him as good as finished when once he saw his way clearly to it in his mind. Although he was ready enough to talk when there was nothing to be gained by doing so, he never uttered the opportune word which would have brought him fortune. Not only his tongue, but his hand too, was so far behind his thought that in battle he was often all but overcome by his opponent, because, seeing in his mind's eye his enemy already at his feet, he delayed giving the decisive stroke. Thus his manner of fighting excited surprise at every tournament; for he always began by scarcely exerting himself, and it was not until he was in the utmost extremity that he gained the victory by some masterly stroke.

His mind in full play on the subject of the fair Bertrade, our Zendelwald now rode home to his little castle, which lay in a lonely mountain forest. A few charcoal-burners and woodmen were all his subjects, and so his mother always awaited his return in bitter impatience to know whether he had at last brought home fortune.

Zendelwald's mother was as handy and determined as he was indolent, though not any more successful; for on her side she had carried her qualities to excess, and they had twined into fussiness. In her youth she had been eager to find a husband as soon as possible, and had overpressed several opportunities so hastily and eagerly that in her haste she had made the very worst possible choice in the shape of a disreputable, foolhardy fellow, who ran through all his inheritance, came to a premature end, and left her nothing but a long widowhood, poverty and one son who would not take the trouble to bestir himself to grasp at fortune.

The little household's only fare consisted of the milk of some goats, forest-fruits, and game. Zendelwald's mother was an accomplished sportswoman, and shot wild pigeons and grouse with the cross-bow as she pleased. She also caught trout in the brooks, and with her own hands repaired the little castle with stone and lime where it became decayed. At that moment she had just returned home with a hare which she had knocked over, and, as she hung the animal from the window of her high-perched kitchen, she gave another look out into the valley and saw her son riding along the road. She let down the drawbridge with joy, for he had been absent for months.

She at once began to enquire whether he had got hold of any tuft or feather of luck to bring home and make the most of, and, as he recounted the usual unprofitable experiences of his most recent campaign, she shook her head in wrath. But, when he came to tell her all about his mission to the rich and captivating Bertrade, and lauded her kindness and beauty, she scolded him for a lazy-bones and a faint-heart to run away so basely. She was not long in perceiving that Zendelwald could think of nothing else than the far-off lady, and she began to be downright impatient with him to think that with such a praiseworthy passion in his heart he failed utterly to make anything of it, since in his case to be so head and ears over in love was a hindrance rather than an incentive to action.

His days were not of the happiest. His mother was sulky with him, and in her irritation sought to divert herself by mending the damaged roof of the tower, so that the good Zendelwald was in fear and trembling as he saw her clambering about aloft. In her ill temper she would pitch down broken tiles, and wellnigh knocked out the brains of a stranger knight as he was about to enter the door to request a night's lodging.

The latter, however, managed to win the ungracious lady's friendship during supper, as he related many pleasant things, and in particular that the Emperor was then staying at the pretty widow's great castle where one feast was followed by another, and the fortunate lady was unceasingly besieged by the Emperor and his lords to choose a husband from among them. She, however, had found a way of evasion by convoking a great tournament and promising her hand to the victor, in the firm belief that her patron the Blessed Virgin would intervene and direct the arm of the right man, who was destined for her, to victory.

"Now, that would be something for you to try," the guest concluded, turning to Zendelwald; "such a handsome young knight ought to go straight for it and try to win the best fortune of these days, according to worldly estimation. Besides, it is commonly said that the lady hopes that in this way some unknown luck may turn up, perchance some poor but honest hero, whom she can kiss and coll, and that she has an aversion to all the great and famous counts and idle wooers."

When the stranger had ridden away, Zendelwald's mother said, "Now, I'll wager that no less a person than Bertrade herself sent that messenger to put you on the right track, my dear Zendelwald! It's as clear as daylight; what other business had the fellow, who has drunk our last flagon of wine, to bring him travelling in this forest?"

Her son began to laugh mightily at her words, and went on laughing more and more heartily, partly at the manifest impossibility of his mother's fancies, partly because he found those said fancies rather agreeable. The mere thought that Bertrade could possibly wish to take possession of him kept him laughing uncontrollably. But his mother, who thought that he was laughing in derision of her, flew into a rage, and cried, "Listen! My curse be upon you if you do not obey me and set out on your way at once to win that fortune. Do not come back without it, else I never wish to see you again! Or, if you do come back, I'll take my bow and arrows and go out to seek a grave where I can have peace from your stupidity!"

So now Zendelwald had no choice; for the sake of peace and quietness, he furbished his weapons, sighing the while, and rode as Heaven might guide him in the direction of Bertrade's dwelling, without being convinced that he should really go there. Nevertheless he stuck pretty close to the road, and the nearer he came to his destination, the more clearly the thought took shape that, after all, he might undertake the adventure as well as another, and that, when he had settled matters with his rivals, it would not cost him his head to try conclusions with the fair lady. The adventure now developed stage by stage in his mind, and came to the happiest issue; indeed, all day long, as he rode through the green summer landscape, he held sweet dialogues with his beloved, in which he told her most beautiful conceits, so that her face became rosy for gratification and joy--all this in his imagination.

As he was in the act of inwardly depicting one more happy event, he saw in good earnest, on a distant blue ridge, the towers and battlements of the castle shining in the morning sun, with its gilded balustrades gleaming from afar, and was so startled at the sight that all the fabric of his dreams was dissolved, and left nothing but a faint, irresolute heart behind.

Involuntarily he reined in his horse and looked around, as laggards will, for a place of refuge. Whereupon he became aware of a pretty little church, the same which Bertrade had once built to the Mother of God, and in which she had slept that sleep. He at once resolved to go in and collect his thoughts somewhat before the altar, the more so as it was the day on which the tournament was to be held.

The priest was in the act of singing Mass, which was attended only by two or three poor people, so that the knight contributed no small ornament to the little congregation. When all was over, and priest and sacristan had left the church, Zendelwald felt so comfortable in those quarters that he fell sound asleep, and forgot tournament and beloved one, unless indeed he dreamt about them.

Thereupon the Virgin Mary stepped down once again from her altar, assumed his form and accoutrements, mounted his horse, and rode with closed visor, a bold Brunhilda, all the way to the castle in Zendelwald's stead.

When she had ridden a while, she came across a heap of dried rubbish and withered brushwood lying by the wayside. It seemed suspicious to the watchful Virgin, and she noticed something like the tail-end of a serpent peeping out of the confusion. She saw then that it was the Devil, who, still as enamoured as ever, was also prowling about the neighbourhood of the castle, and had hurriedly hid himself from the Virgin in the rubbish. She rode past without appearing to notice him, but cleverly made her horse spring to the side, so that he came down with his hind hoofs on the suspicious tail-end. With a hiss the Evil One made out and away, and never more showed himself again in this connection.

Amused by the little adventure, she rode, full of good humour, to Bertrade's castle, where she arrived just when only the two stoutest jousters remained to fight the deciding contest.

Slowly and carelessly, for all the world like Zendelwald, she rode into the lists, and appeared undecided whether she should take part in the contest or not.

"Here comes lazy Zendelwald," the word went round, and the two stout champions said, "What does he want with us? Just a minute, and let us get him out of the way before we settle matters between ourselves."