Part 8

It struck him Walters had not taken leave of him with, as much heartiness as he naturally would have done after being admitted into such a piece of confidence. When once a man has admitted a feeling of suspicion into his breast, every trifle becomes a confirmation of it. Then for a moment he would feel ashamed of so ungenerous a distrust of his noble-hearted friend; and yet he could not fling it off; all night long these feelings kept swaying to and fro through his breast. He slept but little.

The next morning Bertha was unwell, and could not appear at breakfast. Walters did not seem much to distress himself about it, and of the knight also he took leave with apparent unconcern. Egbert could not well make it out; he went to his wife's room, she was in a violent fever; she said she supposed telling her story the preceding night must have over-excited her.

After that evening Walters came seldom to his friend's castle; and when he did he never stayed, but went away again almost immediately with a few unmeaning words. Egbert was excessively distressed at this behaviour: he never said any thing about it, either to his wife or to Walters; but they must both have seen that there was something which made him uneasy. Bertha's illness too was another subject of distress to him. The physician became alarmed; the colour faded from her cheeks, and her eyes grew of an unnatural brightness. One morning she called her husband to her bedside, and sent the servants out of the room.

"My dear husband," she began, seriously, "I have something to tell you, which, however unmeaning and trifling it may seem to you, has been the cause of all my illness, and has almost driven me out of my senses. You know that whenever I have spoken of the events of my childhood, in spite of all the trouble I have taken, I have never been able to think of the name of the little dog that was so long with me. The other evening as Walters took leave of me, he said, suddenly, 'I fancy I see you feeding the little Strohmian.' Can it be accident that he hit upon the name? or does he know the dog, and said what he did on purpose? In what mysterious way is this man bound up with my destiny? At times I try to persuade myself that it is all fancy; but no, it is certainly true, too true. I cannot tell you how it has terrified me to be so helped out with my recollection by a perfect stranger: what do you say, Egbert?"

Egbert regarded his suffering wife with the deepest emotion. For some time he could not speak, but stood lost in his own reflections. At last he muttered a few words of consolation, and left her. He retired to a remote apartment, and paced up and down in indescribable uneasiness. Walters had for many years been his only companion; and now was this man the only one in the world whose existence was a pain and grief to him. Could this one being be removed out of his path, all, he thought, would then be well with him. To dissipate his unpleasant reflections, he took his cross-bow and went out into the mountains to hunt.

It was a rough stormy winter's day; the snow lay deep upon the hill-side, and the heavy branches of the pine-trees bent under their burden. He scrambled rapidly on; the sweat stood upon his brow; but he could not light on any game, and that increased his ill-humour. Suddenly he saw a figure moving at some distance from him: it was Walters, who was gathering moss from the trunks of the trees. Hardly knowing what he did, he levelled his cross-bow at him; Walters looked round, and raised his hand with a menacing gesture; but the bolt was sped to its mark, and he fell to the earth.

Egbert now felt relieved from a heavy burden. Yet a feeling of terror drove him hastily back to his castle. He had a long way to go; for he had wandered far away into the forests. When he reached it, Bertha was already dead: on her deathbed she had spoken incessantly of Walters and the old woman.

Egbert now lived for a long time entirely alone. He had always been dark and gloomy enough; for his wife's strange history troubled him, and he was continually afraid some terrible misfortune would befall them. His own conscience made him uneasy also. His friend's murder was for ever before his eyes, and his life was an eternal self-upbraiding.

As some relief to his feelings, he went from time to time to the next great town, where he could find society and forget himself in feasting and dissipation. He longed to find a friend to fill up the dreary chasm in his soul; and then again when he thought of Walters, he shrunk in terror from it, as he felt convinced that any friend must only be a source of new misery to him. So many years he had lived with Bertha in their sweet seclusion, Walters' friendship had so long been his greatest delight; and now both were suddenly snatched away from him. There were many moments when it all seemed to him like a strange, wild romance, and that he only dreamt that he was alive.

A young knight, Hugo, attached himself to the silent, gloomy Egbert, and seemed to be inspired with a real deep affection for him. Egbert was very much surprised, and came forward to meet this new offer of friendship the more readily because it was so entirely unexpected. The two were now continually together. The stranger shewed Egbert every possible attention. Neither ever rode out without the other; in short, wherever they were, they appeared inseparable.

Yet it was only for a very brief interval that Egbert allowed himself to feel happy; for he was too sure that Hugo only loved him because he did not know his history. His friend was in an error respecting him; and he felt the same impulse as he had done before to unbosom himself to him, that he might be assured whether he was indeed his friend or not. Then, again, caution kept him back, and the fear of becoming an object of abhorrence to Hugo; there were times when he was so terribly oppressed with a sense of his unworthiness that he could not believe any one who was not an utter stranger to him could entertain the slightest regard for him. For all that, however, he could not contain himself; and one day as they were walking by themselves, he told his whole history, and then asked whether he could still love a murderer. Hugo was touched, and tried to comfort him; and Egbert returned with a lighter heart to the town.

Yet it seemed to be his curse that a feeling of suspicion must arise even in the hour of confidence; for hardly were they returned to their room, and the glare of the candle was thrown upon his friend's face, than he found something there which displeased him. He fancied he could trace a malicious laugh. It struck him too that Hugo did not seem so ready to talk to him as usual, and that his attention was almost entirely given to the other persons present. There was an old knight in the party who had never been a friend of Egbert, and used to ask unpleasant questions about his wife, and where he got his money from.... To this person Hugo attached himself, and the two held a long mysterious conversation together, while their looks were from time to time directed towards himself. Here he saw all his suspicions at once confirmed. He believed he was betrayed, and his fierce and gloomy temper now got complete mastery over him. As he stood with his eyes fixed on them as they talked, suddenly he saw Walters' face, his air, his gesture--the whole figure so familiar to him. He looked again; and now he was convinced that it was no one but Walters that was speaking with the old knight.... In unutterable terror, almost beside himself, he rushed out of the room, and that night left the city, and returned as fast as possible to his castle.

He wandered restlessly from chamber to chamber; not a thought could he find to soothe him; sleep fled from his eyes, and from one terrible imagination he could only fall into another yet more terrible. He thought he must be mad, and that what he had seen was but a crazed dream; but Walters' features had been too vivid, and all was again a riddle. He resolved to leave the castle, and set out upon his travels, to bring his mind again into order: every thought of friendship, every wish for society, he had now given up for ever.

He set out without having made up his mind which way he would go; indeed he thought little of the country through which he passed. One day he had been riding for some time at a rapid pace among the mountains, when he found himself suddenly involved in a labyrinth of rocks, from which he could not discover any way of escape. At last he fell in with an old countryman, who shewed him a path leading past a waterfall. He offered the old man some money as a reward, but he declined to accept it.

"What is the matter with me?" said Egbert to himself; "I could have fancied this was Walters again." He looked round, and Walters it certainly was. Egbert spurred his horse on at its utmost speed; he flew away over rocks and through woods and meadows, until at length it sunk exhausted under him to the earth. He did not pause to think of this, but continued to hurry on on foot.

In a kind of half-dream, he climbed a little hill; he fancied he heard the lively barking of a dog somewhere near him. Tall chestnuts rustled in the wind, and he caught the strange wild strains of a song:

"In my forest-home Again sing I, Where pain hath no life; No envy and strife. Oh, am I not happy In my forest home?"

Egbert was completely stupified, his senses reeled; all seemed a dark painful riddle to him. He could not tell whether he was dreaming now, or whether he had not dreamt of a Bertha as his wife. The common and the wonderful were so strangely mingled together; the world round him was enchanted.... His thoughts and recollections swam confusedly before his mind.

A crooked hump-backed old woman came panting up the hill with a crutch.

"Are you come to bring me my bird? my pearls? my dog?" she screamed to him; "see how wickedness is its own punisher! I was your friend Walters--I was Hugo."

"God in heaven," muttered Egbert to himself, "to what dreadful place have I wandered? Where am I?"

"And Bertha was your sister."

Egbert fell to the ground.

"What made her run away from me in that way? the time of trial was almost over, and thus all had ended well. She was the daughter of a knight; he sent her to the herdsman to be brought up. She was your father's daughter."

"Oh, why, why have I ever had this dreadful foreboding?" cried Egbert.

"Because when you were young you once heard your father speak of it. He could not let her stay with him, for he was afraid of his wife; she was the child of an earlier marriage."

Egbert's heartstrings burst; he lay gasping out his life upon the ground; faintly and more faintly he heard the old woman speak, the dog bark, and the bird chant on his unwearying song.

THE FAITHFUL ECKART.

That noble duke, the great Of Burgundy's proud land, Felt all his foemen's hate, And, vanquish'd, bit the sand.

He spoke: "I'm struck! I bleed! Where is my valour fled? Friends fail me at my need, My knights are flown or dead;

I cannot hold the field-- I faint! My strength, my pride, Has left me here to yield-- True Eckart's from my side.

It was not thus of old, When war raged fierce and strong-- The last to have it told, He loved his home too long.

Now, see they trooping come-- Not long my sword is mine: Flight's made for the base groom-- I'll die as died my line."

With that he raised his sword, And would have smote his breast; When, truer than his word, Good Eckart forward prest.

Back spurn'd the vaunting foe, And dashed into the throng; Nor was his bold son slow To bring his knights along.

The bold duke saw the sign, And cried, "Now, God be praised! Now tremble, foemen mine, My drooping hopes be raised!"

Again he charged and cheer'd, True Eckart wins the fight; "But where's his boy?" he heard; "No more he sees the light."

When now the foe was fled, Out spoke the duke aloud; "Well hath it with me sped, Yet Eckart's head is bow'd.

Though many thou hast slain, For country and for life; Thy son lies on the plain, No more to join the strife."

Then Eckart's tears flow'd fast, Low stoop'd the warrior down; Embraced and kiss'd his last, And sadly made his moan.

"Sweet Heins, how died'st so young, Ere yet thou wert a man? What boots it that I'm strong, And thou so still and wan?

Yet thou hast saved thy prince From his dread foeman's scorn! Thou art his--accept him, since He never will return!"

Bold Burgundy then mourn'd To see a father's grief; His heart within him burn'd, But could not bring relief.

He mingles tears with tears; He clasps him to his breast; The hero he reveres, And speaks his deep distress:--

"Most faithful hast thou been, When fail'd me all beside; Henceforth we will be seen Like brothers, side by side.

Throughout all Burgundy, Be lord of me and mine; And could more honour be, I'd freely make it thine."

He journey'd through the land, Each liege-man hail'd him home; To each he gave command, True Eckart to welcome.

* * * * *

It was the voice of an old mountaineer that sung this song, resounding far among the rocks, where the faithful Eckart was sitting upon a declivity, weeping aloud. His youngest boy stood near his father, and said, "Why do you cry so bitterly, my dear father? Why are you so much better and stronger than other men, if you are afraid--can you be afraid of them?"

Meanwhile the duke, at the head of a hunting-party, was leisurely proceeding homewards; Burgundy himself was mounted upon a stately, richly caparisoned steed. His princely gold and silver trappings sparkled in the evening sun; insomuch that the young Conrad could not sufficiently admire the fine procession as it passed. Faithful Eckart raised his eyes, and looked darkly and sorrowfully towards the place; while his tender Conrad began to sing, as he lost sight of the princely cavalcade in the distance:--

"If you'd wield Sword and shield, And have good steed With spear at need And harquebuss,--what must you do? You must feel Your nerves like steel, Strong in heart and spirit;-- Manhood good In your blood To bear you stoutly through with merit."

The old warrior pressed his son to his heart, and looked earnestly at his large clear blue eyes. He then said, "Did you hear the song of the good mountaineer, my boy?"

"Did I?" repeated the boy: "surely he sang loud enough. And are you, then, still that faithful Eckart whom I was glad to hear so praised?"

"That same duke is now my enemy: he holds my second son in durance,--yea, hath already laid him low, if I must believe all that the people of the country say."

"Then take your great sword, father, and bear it no longer," exclaimed his brave boy: "they will tremble when they see you; the good people will uphold you all the country round, for they say you are their greatest hero."

"No, I must not do that, my boy; for then I should prove my enemies' worst words true. I must not be unfaithful to my native prince. I will not break my fealty and the peace of the country, to keep which I have sworn."

"But what does he want to do with us?" inquired Conrad, impatiently.

Eckart had risen, but he again seated himself, and said, "Dear boy, the whole of that history would sound too harsh and strange in thy young ears. Enough to know that great people always bear their worst enemy in their own heart, and live in fear night and day. The duke now thinks he has trusted me too much, and been all along only cherishing a viper in his bosom. Yet in the country they call me the prince's sword--the strong sword that restored him life and land;--all the people call me Faithful Eckart, and the wretched and oppressed cry unto me for help in the hearing of the court. This the duke cannot bear. His envy hath turned to rage, and they who might help, set him against me, and have turned his heart from love to hatred."

The aged hero then related how the duke had spoken evil words, and banished him from before his face for ever; and how they now became quite strange, like enemies, because envious men had said that he was going to deprive the duke of his dominions. More sadly did he proceed to tell, as he passed his hand across his eyes, how the duke had seized upon himself and his son, and accused them of wanting to take his land and life; "Yea, 'tis said he hath even doomed my son to die."

Young Conrad spoke not to his father, seeing he wept. At length he said, "Father, let me go to the court, and I will talk to the duke, that he may be brought to understand you, and treat you better. Should he have hurt a hair of my brother's head, he is so bad a man that you shall punish him; yet it can scarce be that he hath so soon forgotten all your services."

"Alas! don't you remember the old proverb, poor boy?--

'When the mighty want your hand, They'll promise you both gifts and land; When the evil day hath pass'd, Their friendship flieth too as fast.'

Yes, and all my long and painful life has gone for nothing. Wherefore did he raise me high above my peers, only to plunge me into the lowest ignominy? The love of princes is like a fatal poison, which they ought to reserve only for their enemies, and which finally often proves the ruin of its heedless possessor: so it hath ever been."

"I will hasten to him," said Conrad; "I will plainly remind him of all you have done and suffered for him; and then he will treat you as well as he did before."

"You forget," replied Eckart, "that they have pronounced us traitors: we had better seek refuge together quickly in some foreign land, where we shall, perhaps, be more fortunate than here."

"What, father, in your old age!--and will you turn your back upon our sweet home? Let us rather try any way but this," said Conrad. "I will see the Duke of Burgundy; I will appease and make him friendly to us; for what harm can he do _me_, though he does hate and fear you?"

"I do not like to let you go," replied Eckart; "for my mind misgives me sadly; yet I should like to be reconciled to him, for he was once my kind friend, and for the sake of your poor brother, who is lingering in prison, or perhaps dead."

The sun was now casting its last wild beams upon the green earth; and Eckart sat down, absorbed in deep thought, leaning against the root of a tree. He looked at Conrad earnestly a long while, and at length said, "If you will go, my son, then go now, before the night gathers in: the lights are already up, you see, in the windows of the duke's castle. I can hear the trumpets sounding at a distance for the festival;--perhaps his son's bride is arrived, and he may feel more friendly disposed towards us."

His son was instantly on his way; yet he parted with him unwillingly, for he no longer put any faith in his own good fortune or the duke's gratitude. Young Conrad was bold and hopeful; doubting nothing but that he should touch the duke's heart, who had heretofore caressed him on his knees.

"Art thou sure thou wilt come back to me, my sweetest child?" cried the old man; "for were I to lose thee, I have seen thee for the last time--the last of thy race." His young son then kissed and comforted him, promising that he would be with him very soon; and they separated.

Conrad knocked at the castle-gate, and was admitted. The aged Eckart remained seated where he was, exposed to the night-winds, all alone. "And I have lost him too; I am sure I have lost him." He cried bitterly in his solitude, "These eyes will never rest upon his dear face again." While thus lamenting, he saw an old wayfaring man leaning upon his crutch, and trying, at great hazard, to make his way down the mountain. A precipice yawned beneath him; and Eckart, aware of his danger, went and took him by the hand. "Whither are you going?" he inquired, as he assisted him down to the place where he had himself sat.

The old man sat down, and wept till the tears ran over his furrowed cheeks. Eckart sought to comfort him with gentle advice; but the other seemed too much afflicted to pay attention to him.

"What terrible calamity can it be that thus overpowers you?" inquired Eckart. "Only try to speak."

"Alas, my children!" exclaimed the aged man.

Then Eckart again thought of Conrad, of Heins, and Dietrich, and became himself inconsolable.

"I say nothing," he added, "if your children are all dead; for then your grief is, indeed, great."

"Oh, worse than dead!" exclaimed the other. "No, they are not dead," he repeated in a still more bitter voice; "but they are lost to me for ever! Yea, would to Heaven that they were only dead!"

The good old hero almost shrieked at hearing these words, and besought the unhappy father to explain so horrible a mystery: to which the latter replied, "We live in a wonderful world; and these are strange times. Surely the last dreaded day cannot be far from hand; for alarming signs and omens are daily abroad, threatening the world more and more. All evil things seem to have broken loose beyond their ancient boundaries, and rage and destroy on every side. The fear of God restrains us not--there is no foundation for any thing good; evil spirits walk in the broad day, and boldly scare the good away from us, or celebrate their nightly orgies in their unholy retreats. O my dear sir, we are grown grey in the world, but not old enough for such prodigious things. Doubtless you have seen the great comet--Heaven's portentous lightning in the sky, which glares so prophetically down upon us. Every one forebodes disasters; but none think of reforming their lives in order to escape the threatened evil. As if this, too, were not enough, the ancient earth discovers her trouble, and casts up her mysterious secrets from the deep, while that portentous light serves to reveal them from above. And, hark! have you never heard of the strange mountain which the people round call Venus-berg?"

"No, never," said Eckart, "though I have travelled far and wide here around the hills."

"At that I wonder much," replied the old man; "for the dreadful thing is now become as well known as it is true: for that, good sir, is the very mountain whither the devils fled for refuge in the centre of the earth, when the holy Christian faith began to wax strong, and pressed hard upon the heathen idols. There, they now say, that fatal goddess Venus holds her unblest orgies; whither the infernal powers of worldly lust and ambition, and all forbidden wishes, come trooping in myriads for their prey; so that the whole mountain hath become forsaken and accursed from time immemorial."

"On what side lies the mountain?" inquired Eckart.