PART IV.

THE RETURN.

Wilt thou begone?

SHAKSPEARE.

ONE night when the conversation particularly turned upon the exploits of the ancestors of Ildegarda, Sleipner, who possessed a natural love of noble actions, inquired of the boar whether king Uffon was constant in his attendance upon the nightly festival of the hall of Odin? “He is so, frequently,” replied Serimnor; “but he takes more delight in the combat of the morning—from that he is never absent:—but what an extraordinary history is his!” continued the boar; “it is necessary that he should be in Asgard, for its inhabitants to believe it.” Ildegarda’s attention was aroused; she had never heard of her ancestor, and she entreated Brandomann to indulge her curiosity. He took up his harp immediately—for he appeared to have no occupation so delightful as to obey her slightest wish—and thus related to her the legend of Uffon the Merciful:—

LEGEND OF UFFON.

I.

There was a halo round The golden crown which shone on Vermund’s brow, The light of many noble deeds— Some deathless flowers From heaven’s immortal tree, (The abode of changeless destiny,) Were wreathed Around his conquering sword: But years rolled on, and age Silvered his golden locks— And then a darkness fell Heavily on him, Veiling the beauty of his later day— For Lok in hate, Or envy, breathed on him a withering curse— And he grew blind!

II.

He was a childless man, And to the gods he prayed That his own royal diadem might fall Upon a kindred brow. He asked a son— And Odin granted to his agony The son he craved. Again the evil one Blighted the bud of joy— He laid his dark hand on the infant’s head, And left its evil shadow on his brain— He grew an idiot boy!

III.

The Saxon king, A wild, fierce warrior, heard of Vermund’s grief, And he did rage to snatch, with greedy hand, The sceptre of the blind. Madly he poured His thousands o’er the land; The red steel clashed— The curling fire ran— The ravens fed On beauty, and the eagles gorged on strength. The blind prince trembling heard His people’s dying groan!

IV.

The Saxon king Rode, like the thunderbolt, his mighty steed To the sad Danish camp. He mocked the king— And to his peers, with haughty action, said, “Doth it become The noble sons of Odin thus to bend The knee before a blind man, and a fool?”

V.

“Out on thee, wretch!” The sightless prince exclaimed; “It more becomes the warrior to protect Than scorn the weak and aged!— Mighty!—to thee— Thee! whom we fear to name— Thee! strongest pillar of great Odin’s throne— Thee! dark, but terrible!—whose woe I bear— Thee! whose most awful name The reckless echo dares not repeat, and we Shudder as we pronounce! HODER!—I call on thee!— Be thou the judge Between this wretch and me!”

VI.

The Saxon heard And shrunk at that dread name— The nobles groaned— The father wept, and clasped, To his chilled heart, his dumb and idiot boy. When, lo! a wonder!— His sacred tears fell on the youthful brow Like holy rain upon the scorched up earth, And upward to the sun of glory sprung The buried seeds of intellect— He spoke!—

VII.

“Ha! scoffer!” said the boy, “didst thou not know The blind and weak are sacred?”— His eye shone With a miraculous light— “Hark! Saxon churl! I summon thee unto the field of death— _I_, the dumb idiot—_I_ will meet thee there, And on thy craven bosom write a truth, That Vermund hath a son—Denmark a prince, Who _will_ protect their glories!”

VIII.

The day came— And Uffon’s fiery chariot bore him forth Unto the battle field— Less bright—less beautiful Is Balder when, from Lidscialf’s diamond steps, He rises to illuminate the worlds Which wheel caressingly around him—and Gallantly rode the Saxon. But the king— The blind—the father—where is he? He sits On yonder rock, high o’er the foaming sea, There to await the battle. Should _he_ fall— His own—his only one— Ocean will catch his form, And hide his griefs for ever.

IX.

It was a deadly fight Between the Saxon and the Dane; And once There was a scream, as if the inspired boy Was lost, for he had sunk upon his knee— But he beheld his father’s sightless eye Upturned in agony— And he arose—and then Another sound was heard—a mighty shout— The scorner of the blind was slain!

X.

The son—he flew, A bounding reindeer, to his father’s arms— He paused— _They_ were upraised, In attitude of thankfulness; His lips Were pale, and still, and smiling— But—his heart Had broke in that fierce struggle— He was gone— Heimdaller’s wings were shadowing him, as o’er The wondrous bridge he trod; Valkyries bore His spirit to the foot of Odin’s throne, To tell of Uffon’s glory.

XI.

Nameless one! This justice was thy deed— We worship thee, Although we love thee not!

“No, truly,” said Serimnor, on the conclusion of the legend; “that would be quite impossible either for heaven or earth: but glory to the good Uffon—few warriors in Valhalla are more esteemed than he. The skull of the impious Saxon is now his drinking cup; and his father, restored to sight, beholds the pledge of victory with undying felicity: and, in the combats and martial sports of the morning, the battle between his noble son and the Saxon is daily renewed, to gladden him with the sound of conquest and triumph over his shadowy foe.” “Look, Serimnor,” said the horse of Odin, interrupting him impatiently, as a bright flash of lightning darted into the hall and played against his head for a moment; “Look, we are again outstaying our time—the son of Rinda is shooting his brilliant arrows, and one has already touched you: let us obey the summons, and not provoke him to make his fatal shafts unerring.” “Away, then!” cried Heidruna. The ravens flapped their wings—Brandomann rose—and the hall was cleared in a moment.

Ildegarda had hitherto been happy in the reports of the magic mirror, and satisfied with its assurances of her father’s safety. On the first of the tenth month of her residence on the island, she again withdrew the curtain,—but a different spectacle awaited her; Haquin was lying wounded upon his couch, pale and insensible, while his attendants were anxiously endeavouring to stanch the blood which flowed from his injured side. The princess became wild with apprehension; instantly she sought her faithful Brandomann, to pour into his bosom the grief which distracted hers. He listened with tender sympathy. “There has been a battle between your father and Frotho, no doubt,” he replied; “but though I am not informed of all the particulars, I know that Haquin will not die of this wound: take comfort from this assurance, for when did I ever deceive you?” But Ildegarda refused all consolation, and persisted in thinking and making herself the most miserable of all human beings. Her father was ill—wounded—in need of her assistance—and she herself uncertain of his fate for a whole month at least. Her anxiety hourly increased, and her grief, too powerful to be concealed from Brandomann, affected him no less painfully than herself. It was in vain he exerted his talents to divert her anguish; she was grateful for his kindness, but did not shed one tear the less: his conversation had lost its charms, his tales and songs their interest. Brandomann discovered this, and, after a terrible struggle, his generous nature overmastered every selfish and interested feeling. “I cannot,” said he at length to the weeping princess; “I cannot bear to witness your sorrow, and know that I am the cause. For your sake I will again disobey the command of Odin, which had decreed your captivity to be perpetual; you shall go to your father: promise me that you will return hither, and you shall be swiftly conveyed to his tent—and remain with him seven days; at the close of that period you must return, or my life will pay the forfeit of my fault, and be demanded to appease the anger of Odin. Go, then, beloved princess,—but sometimes think of Brandomann, and what he will suffer for your sake.” The princess could scarcely believe what she heard: in a rapture of joy she accepted the offer, and was most fervent in her promises to return at the expiration of the seven days. Brandomann sighed heavily, but made no reply to her frequent protestations of their soon meeting again. “You shall be with your father to-morrow morning,” said he: “merely take this ring—put it upon your finger when you go to rest to-night, and do the same thing when you wish to return to me; but do not wear it at any other time.” The princess joyfully accepted the gift—took an affectionate leave of her admired monster—and retired to rest full of hope and expectation—expectations which were fully realised on her awaking in the morning; for she found her couch in her father’s tent, and he himself gazing upon her with tender anxiety and wonder.

The joy of Haquin, at again folding his beloved child to his bosom, was considerably damped by the narrative of her adventures, and the promise which she had given to Brandomann to return. As he did not deem it possible that she intended to keep her word, he was not a little astonished at her declaration, when she assured him she could remain with him only during the seven days. He argued strongly against her intention; and she at present, unwilling to distress him, ceased to oppose his opinions, and occupied herself entirely with the care of his health, knowing that it would always be in her power to return whenever she felt the inclination. Her tender attention was fully appreciated by Haquin, but she herself was far from being at ease in the midst of a tumultuous camp, where her wishes were not anticipated with the swift and delighted obedience of her island attendants: she had no change of dress either; a circumstance peculiarly vexatious, as she was daily surrounded by admiring warriors, who constantly paid homage to her charms,—and among whom prince Harold was not the least fervent in his expressions of devotion to her beauty. Awakening one morning after many regrets upon this subject to herself overnight, she was surprised to see the chest which ornamented her chamber at Moskoe, and which contained her superb wardrobe, standing by the side of her couch: she opened it hastily: “Kind, generous Brandomann, always alike solicitous for my happiness and pleasure,” she exclaimed; “how much do I not owe thee!” She immediately decorated her lovely person and returned to her father, who, cheered by her presence and renovated by her care, was quickly recovering from the effects of his wound: he now informed her that Haldane was universally said to have been murdered by his uncle; and that, in consequence of their disgust at this act of cruelty, many noble Danes had resorted to the standard of Harold, whom they had unanimously called to the throne, though they held not the gentle boy in the same estimation as his more valiant brother. To this he added, that as the young king had declared a passion for Ildegarda, he had determined to unite them despite of the wrath of Frotho, and thus repay her long captivity by placing her upon a throne. His daughter had many objections to this arrangement, but her father’s heart appeared to joy so deeply in its contemplation that Ildegarda had not the courage to undeceive him: the tenderness of Haquin, the novelty of again seeing human faces, and the pleasure of listening to the gallant praises of the noble Danes, at length rendered Ildegarda forgetful of her promise, and not only seven days, but twice that number slipped away, ere she called to mind the probable anxiety of Brandomann. She now determined to repair her fault and hasten back to the island, but when, upon retiring to rest, she sought her ring to place it upon her finger, the talisman was no where to be found. In great distress she hastened to her father, expecting him perhaps to sympathise in her misfortune, but, unlike the gentle monster of the Maelstrom, he laughed at her anxiety, and congratulated her upon her loss; he bade her be under no apprehension respecting her ring, since it was safe in his possession—he had stolen it on being informed of its virtue, in order to secure her company,—“which,” he continued, “it appears, without this precaution I should have lost.” He observed that he could not permit such a preposterous union between beauty and a beast, who, instead of being a descendant of Odin, was doubtless a member of the infernal royal family of Lok, and consequently some diabolical sorcerer, who had thus bought her, body and soul, of Frotho: he would give her, he remarked, a husband better suited to her rank and beauty, and commanded her to prepare to espouse her royal cousin Harold, within at least ten days. Ildegarda was much startled by this conversation; and she who in the desolate island had mourned over the idea of perpetual captivity, now wept with more bitterness her recovered liberty, and the prospect of never more returning to her prison; she thought of the tender obedience of Brandomann to her lightest wish, and his generous self-denial upon all occasions respecting her. She lamented the kind-hearted Serimnor, the chivalrous horse, the affectionate goat, and even the ravens and rein-deer received the tribute of her tears; but the idea of the probable suffering of Brandomann for his devotion to her, and disobedience in her favour, filled her heart with the most poignant regret; she hated Harold, and she esteemed her Maelstrom friend, and not a day passed without the severest search for the ring that was to convey her back to his territories. At length Rinda, in pity, heard her prayers. In her father’s bosom, during his sleep, she found her glittering ring, which she hastily secured as her dearest treasure, and instantly retired to rest; and when morning again looked upon her, it was in her chamber of the desolate isle.

Ildegarda scarce waited fully to throw off the fetters of sleep ere she descended to the marble hall, and instantly gave the signal which used to summon Brandomann to her presence, and which he had never neglected; now it was unheeded. Alarmed, she repeated it more strongly—Brandomann replied not to the call; half-distracted she hurried through the palace, and harrowed her own feelings by recalling to mind his mournful prediction of the fate which awaited him, should she exceed her allotted time. She shuddered to reflect how long that time had elapsed. From the palace she traversed the gardens, running wildly with an aching heart and burning brow to every quarter, and asking every object she met for tidings of her lamented Brandomann: the birds and the echoes alone replied to her mournful queries, and disconsolate and despairing she threw herself upon the sod to give vent to the bitterness of her sorrow, and lament undisturbed her affliction. “Brandomann!” she exclaimed; “Brandomann! where art thou? friend of my soul, art thou yet in existence, or hath my ingratitude destroyed thee? Oh, if thou hearest, if thou beholdest these tears, have pity on thy wretched Ildegarda, and hasten to relieve her agony, and pardon her involuntary crime.” She started up in a sudden ecstasy, for a low groan at no great distance from her seemed to be an answer to her question; she rushed forward in that direction, and soon beheld the hapless Brandomann stretched upon the earth, and apparently in the agonies of death; but her beloved voice, the touch of her gentle hand, the glance of her worshipped eye, either of these would have recalled him to life, and now all were lavishly employed to restore him: he looked up for a moment. Mournfully he said, “Beloved, thou art come to see me die!” and then relapsed into stupor and forgetfulness. Ildegarda wept in agony—she was hanging over him in listless sorrow, when her thoughts were aroused by the appearance of Heidruna. “Brandomann is dying,” said the white goat, “and from grief at your neglect; but you have returned, and, in compassion to your sufferings, I am permitted to restore him to you: take the bowl you see yonder, draw forth a portion of my milk, and give it to his lips; the hydromel of heaven will call him back to life.” Ildegarda obeyed—she gave the miraculous draught to Brandomann, who as instantly recovered his reason and his strength; with tears of joy she expressed her gratitude to Heidruna; and the Moskoe chief observing her delight, and too happy once more to behold her, readily forgave her all he had suffered in her absence. There was much happiness that night in the marble palace; Sleipner bowed down his arched neck to receive a pat from her snowy hand; Serimnor grinned till his huge tusks were completely visible; the ravens presented her the tips of their wings, and flew screaming about, as if _they_ had been drinking the hydromel of Valhalla. Ildegarda was happy, and Brandomann dared not trust his feelings to words. Sunny walks and moonlight musings were now the pursuits of the imprisoned pair; for instead of retiring to rest, as formerly, when the Valhalla people went to their party, they roamed over the island, contemplating the stars, and talking tenderly of course, for when were love and moonshine separated? It is true, in this instance, the tenderness was all on one side; for though Ildegarda permitted it, since she saw the happiness it gave to Brandomann, she yet could not prevail upon herself to return it, or say the words he wished to hear from her lips. One evening, as thus, in the tranquil moonlight, they sat alone in the summery isle, Ildegarda was astonished, by the appearance of a wonder she had never yet remarked in the island; the moon was suddenly eclipsed by a light so glorious, yet so soft, that every object around her was visible in the brightness of beaming gold, yet without giving pain to the sense. Brandomann remarked her admiration. “This beauteous light,” said he, “is a mark of the approbation of the father of the gods, at some virtuous action of a favourite of heaven; it is Odin’s fire, dear Ildegarda, the light of his glorious smile; and shining now as it does upon thee, and our lonely isle, it comes to tell thee he is satisfied with thy past conduct, and approves thy present.” Scarcely was this explanation given, ere the beauteous light died away from the mountains and the palace, and night wore again her solemn robe of darkness. As they prepared to return, the star-studded sky, the jewel-paved floor of the palaces of Asgard, sparkling with its unnumbered lights, and shining in its soft blue glory, struck on their souls with delight; and, while they were gazing in rapture, a large and brilliant star shot from its place in the heaven and vanished rapidly from their sight. “Some noble warrior or virtuous sage has closed his eyes upon this mortal scene,” said Brandomann, tenderly: “that was the star of his destiny; it fell from its seat in the heaven when he quitted his on the earth: this is the sign that tells to the survivors his fate, if it is fulfilled in the night; by day it is the vision of the rainbow bridge, the sacred arch that connects this earth with heaven, and over which the spirits of the just must pass.” “I have heard that it is only visible to mortal sight, when the peculiarly brave and virtuous ascend its brilliant road,” said Ildegarda. “And you have heard aright, dearest,” replied Brandomann; “it is only then that the guardian spirit of the bridge, Heimdaller of the radiant brow, descends from his abode on its top to meet and welcome the traveller; then it is, that the light from his rushing wings, and the gems which compose his jewelled crown, shine so strongly on the arch, as to render it visible to mortal sight, clad in the reflected glories of its guardian’s diadem.”

On the morrow Brandomann relieved her anxiety, which had been awakened by the sight of the falling star, lest her father’s should no more have a seat in the heavens, nor himself a name on the earth. “A mild and gracious being hath left us,” said he, “for the happier scenes of Asgard; Sevald is dead—the virtuous son of the abandoned Frotho is no more—he fell, as became his race, in the battle-field, contending against your victorious father and his kinsman Harold, against whom the tyrant rages and vows destruction, as now the only rival he has to fear.” The princess was satisfied by this explanation, the more especially as the first day of the month again presented the person of her father, though surrounded by the bustle of war.