Originally published in The Keepsake for 1828 (Hurst, Chance, and Co.; Nov 1827).
If thou be hurt with hart,
It brings thee to thy bier;
But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal,
Thereof thou need'st not fear.
Old Rhyme.
The night was drawing on apace. The evening mist, as it arose from the ground, began to lose its thin white wreaths in the deep shadows of the woods. Kochenstein, separated from his companions of the chase, and weary with his unsuccessful efforts to rejoin them, became more and more desirous of discovering in what direction his route lay. But there was no track visible, at least by that uncertain and lessening light, the mazes of which could guide him to his home. He raised his silver-mouthed bugle to his lips, and winded a loud and sustained blast. A distant echo plaintively repeated the notes. The Baron listened for other answer with the attention his situation required, but in vain.
"This will never do," said he, casting the reins on his horse's neck: "see, good Reinzaum, if thy wit can help thy master at this pinch; it has done so before now." The animal seemed to understand and appreciate the confidence placed in him. Pricking up his before drooping ears, and uttering a wild neigh, he turned from the direction his rider had hitherto pursued, and commenced a new route at an animated trot. For a while the path promised well; the narrow defile, down which it lay between rows of gigantic larch and twisted oaks, seemed manifestly intended to conduct to some more extended opening. But on reaching its termination the horse suddenly stopped. The glimmering light that yet remained just enabled the Baron to perceive the impervious enclosure of thickly planted trees, that surrounded the little, natural amphitheatre at which he had arrived.
"This is worse and worse, Reinzaum," exclaimed the disappointed rider, as he cast a disconsolate glance upwards. There was not a single star visible, to diminish the deep gloom in which the woods were enveloped. "Guetiger himmel! that I should be lost in my own barony, and not a barelegged schelm to point out my road!"
Weary of remaining in one spot, he rode round the enclosure in which he found himself thus unpleasantly placed. He repeated the same exercise, gazing wistfully on every side, though the darkness was now almost too great to discover to him the massy trunks, under the branches of which he rode. At length he stopped suddenly.
"Is that a light," said he inwardly, "that glimmers through the--no, 'tis gone. Ach Gott! it comes again! If I could but reach it!"
Again he winded his horn, and followed the blast with a most potent halloo. His labour was in vain, the light remained stationary. The Baron began to swear. He had been educated at Wurtzburg, and for a Swabian swore in excellent German.
He was perplexed whether to remain where he was, with this provoking light before him, and the probable chance of remaining all night in the woods; or to abandon his steed, and endeavour to penetrate through the trees to the spot whence the light issued. Neither of these alternatives was precisely to his liking. In the former case he must abide the cold air and damp mist till morning; in the other he incurred the risk of losing his steed, should he not be able to retrace his way to the spot. Indecision however was not the fault of his character; and, after a minute's hesitation, he sprung from his horse, fastened him to a tree, and began to explore the wood in the direction of the light.
The difficulties he encountered were not few. The Baron was a portly personage, and occasionally found a difficulty in squeezing through interstices, where a worse fed man would have passed ungrazed. Briers and thorns were not wanting, and the marshy ground completed the catalogue of annoyances. The Baron toiled and toiled, extricating first one leg and then the other from the deep entanglement in which each was by turns plunged, while the object of his attention seemed as distant as ever. His patience was exhausted. Many and emphatic were the figures of his inward rhetoric. Of one fact he became convinced, that all the evil influences of the stars had this night conspired to concentrate their power on one unlucky wight, and that this wight was no other than the Baron Von Kochenstein.
But the Baron was not a man to be easily diverted from his purpose, and he laboured amain. His hands were bruised with the branches he had torn down when they impeded his course, and the heat drops on his brow, raised by his exertions, mixed with the chill and heavy night dew that fell around him. At length a desperate effort, almost accompanied with the loss of his boots, placed him free from the morass through which he had waded. He stamped and shook his feet when on dry land with the satisfaction that such a deliverance inspires. To add to his joy, he perceived, that the light he had so painfully sought was not more than fifty ells distant.
A moment or two brought him to the door of a low dwelling overshadowed by a beetling, penthouse-like roof. As far as he could discern, the building was of considerable antiquity. The portal was of stone, and the same material composed the frames of the windows, which were placed far from the ground, and from which proceeded the light he had sought.
Our huntsman lost little time in applying to the door, at first with a gentle knock, which being disregarded increased to a thundering reverberation of blows. The gentle and the rude knocks were of equal avail. He desisted from his occupation to listen awhile, but not a sound met his ear.
"This is strange, by the mass," said the Baron: "the house must be inhabited, else whence the light? And though they slept like the seven sleepers, my blows must have aroused them. Let us try another mode--the merry horn must awaken them, if aught can move their sluggish natures." And once more resorting to his bugle he sounded a réveillée. A jolly cheering note it would have been at another time, but in the middle of the dull night it seemed most unfit. A screech owl's note would have harmonized better.
"I hear them now," said he of the bugle, "praised be the saints." On this as on other occasions, however, the saints got more thanks than their due. An old raven disturbed by the Baron's notes, flapping her wings in flight, had deceived his ears. She was unseen in the congenial darkness, but her hoarse croakings filled the air as she flew.
Irritated at the delay, the Baron made a formal declaration of war. In as loud a voice as he could he demanded entrance, and threatened in default of accordance to break open the door. A loud laugh as from a dozen revellers was the immediate reply.
A piece of the trunk of a young tree lay near the Baron; he took it up and dashed it with all his strength against the door. It was a mighty blow, but, though the very building shook before it, the strong gate yielded not.
Before Kochenstein could repeat the attack, a hoarse voice, seemingly proceeding from one of the windows, greeted his ears.
"Begone with thy noise," it said, "else I will loose the dog on thee."
"I will break the hound's neck, and diminish his caitiff master by the head, if thou open not the door this instant. What! is this the way to treat a benighted traveller? Open, I say, and quickly."
It seemed that the inmate was about to put his threat in execution, for the low deep growl of a wolf-dog was the only answer to the Baron's remonstrance. He drew his short hunting sword and planted himself firmly before the door. He waited awhile, but all was silent.
He had again recourse to his battering ram. The door resisted marvellously, but it became evident, that it could not long withstand such a siege. As the strong oak cracked and groaned, the Baron redoubled his efforts. At length the voice he had before heard again accosted him.
"Come in, then, if thou wilt. Fool! to draw down thy fate on thee." The bolts were undrawn. "Lift up the latch."
The Baron troubled not himself to inquire the meaning of the ominous words of the speaker, but obeyed the direction given, and entered. He found himself in a spacious apartment that appeared to comprise the whole tenement. He looked around for the foes he expected to meet, and started back with astonishment.
The only occupant of the apartment was a lady, the rich elegance of whose dress would have attracted admiration, had not that feeling been engrossed by her personal loveliness. Her white silken garment clung to a form modelled to perfection, and was fastened at her waist by a diamond clasp of singular shape, for it represented a couchant stag. A similar ornament confined the long tresses of her hair, the jetty blackness of which was as perfect as the opposite hue of the brow they shaded. Her face was somewhat pale, and her features melancholy, but of exquisitely tender beauty.
She arose, as the Baron entered, from the velvet couch on which she was seated, and with a slight but courteous smile motioned him to a seat opposite to her own. A table was ready spread by its side, laden with refreshments. He explained the cause of his coming, and apologized with great fervency for his rude mode of demanding admission.
"You are welcome," said the lady again, pointing to the vacant seat. Nothing could be more ordinary than these three words, but the sound of her voice thrilled through the hearer's sense into his soul. She resumed her seat, and Kochenstein took the place offered him. He gazed around, and was convinced, to his amazement, that they were alone. Whence then the voice, with which he had held converse? and whence the uproarious laugh, which had first assailed his hearing? There could not, he felt certain, be another chamber under that roof capable of containing such a number of laughers. The dog too, whose savage growl had put him on his guard, where was he?--
The Baron was however too genuine a huntsman, to suffer either surprise or admiration to prevent him from doing justice to the excellent meal before him, and to which his hostess invited him, declining however to partake with her guest. He ate and drank therefore, postponing his meditations, except an anxious thought on the situation of his steed. "Poor Reinzaum,” thought he, "thou wilt suffer for my refreshment. A warm stable were fitter by far for thee than the midnight damps that chill thee." And the Baron looked with infinite satisfaction on the blazing hearth, the ruddy gleams of which almost eclipsed the softer light of the brilliant lamp that hung from the ceiling.
As his appetite became satisfied, his curiosity revived. Once or twice as he raised his eyes he met the bright black ones of his entertainer. They were beautiful; yet, without knowing why, the Baron shrunk from their glance. They had not the pensive softness of her features. The expression was one he could not divine, but would not admit that he feared.
He filled his goblet, and in the most courteous terms drank the lady's health. She bowed her head in acknowledgment, and held to him a small golden cup richly chased. The Baron filled it, she drank to him, though but wetting her lip with the liquor. She replaced the cup and rose from her seat.
"This room," she said, "must be your lodging for the night. Other I cannot offer you.--Farewell."—
The Baron was about to speak. She interrupted him. "I know what you would say--Yes, we shall meet again. Take this flower," she added, breaking a rose from a wreath that twined among her hair in full bloom, though September had commenced, and the flowers of the gardens and the fields were long since dead, "take this flower. On the day that it fades you see me once more." She opened a small door in the wainscoting, hitherto unseen by the Baron, and closed it after her before he could utter a word.
The Baron felt no disposition to sleep, and paced about the room revolving the events of the evening. The silence of the hour was favourable to such an employment, and the soft carpets that covered the floor prevented even his own footsteps from being heard.
Wearied with his fruitless ruminations, he was beginning to relieve himself from his lonely want of occupation, by taking note more minutely than before of the handsome though antique furniture of the apartment, when his attention was claimed by the sounds of a harp. A few bars only had been played, when the music was sweetened by a voice the softest he had ever heard. The words of the song applied too strikingly to himself to escape his ear.
Wo to him, whose footsteps rude
Break my fairy solitude;
Wo to him, whose fated grasp
Dares undo my portal clasp;
Wo to him, whose rash advance
Dooms him to my blighting glance:
In the greenwood shall he lie,
On the bloody heather die.
The voice and music ceased together, leaving the Baron oppressed with unwonted fears. "And I must see her again! would this rose would bloom for ever." He seated himself, and ere long fell into a troubled sleep.
When he awoke, the ashes on the hearth were sparkless, and the morning, casting away her gray mantle, was beginning to dart her gayer beams through the narrow windows. He perceived, with surprise, that the door through which his hostess had retired was ajar, yet she was not in the apartment, and from the situation in which he had sat she could not have passed through the door by which he had entered. He arose, and walked about with as much noise as he could make, with the object of apprising the lady of the dwelling, that the wainscot door was open. After continuing this for a length of time his curiosity increased. He ventured to look through the doorway. It opened only into a small closet, which was entirely empty.
He had already witnessed too much to feel any great additional astonishment at this discovery. "Besides," said he to himself, "her words spoke but of a meeting at a future day. Why therefore should I expect her now?"--
He opened the entrance door, and found his horse, which he had left tied in the wood, ready for departure, and apparently in excellent condition. "Woman or witch," he exclaimed, "I owe her a good turn for this--Now, Reinzaum, keep up thy credit." And springing on his horse's back he pursued a track, that seemed to lead in the direction he wished; and without aid of whip or spur was at Kochenstein in an hour.
His first act was to place the rose in a vase of water. Day by day he visited it, and found its bloom unabated. Three months passed away without any visible alteration in the beauty of the flower. The Baron became less sensible of the remembrances connected with it, and gazed on it with indifference. He even displayed it to the inmates of his castle, and among others, to his only daughter, the death of whose mother had left Kochenstein a widower. Frederica was in her seventh year, and within a few days of its completion. To her earnest intreaties for the flower, her father promised it should be hers on her birthday. The child was overjoyed at the idea of a present, to which much importance was attached in her eyes, for the ever-blooming rose was the talk of the whole castle; and every human creature in it, except its lord, offered many conjectures respecting the flower, all very ingenious, and all very absurd.
On the morning of his daughter's birthday the rose was dead. The Baron Von Kochenstein, though a man of courage and thirty-two quarterings, changed colour when he beheld the faded flower. Without speaking a word he mounted Reinzaum, and galloped off at the rate of four German miles an hour.
He had ridden some half hour, when he saw before him a stag, the finest he had ever beheld. It was prancing on the frosty ground, and throwing aloft its many-tined antlers in proud disdain of the meaner brutes of the earth. At the approach of the Baron, it fled. In pure distraction of spirits, and in that dread of his own thoughts, which prompts a man to any thing to avoid himself, Kochenstein pursued, though unattended by a single hound. The stag seemed wind-footed. Reinzaum followed like a noble horse as he was.
Through glade and copse, over hill and plain, the Baron chased the lordly stag. At length it abated its speed near the side of a transparent pool, in the midst of which a fountain threw up its beautiful column of waters. The stag halted, and turned to gaze on its pursuer. For the first time Kochenstein applied his spur to the quivering flank of his steed, and grasped his hunting sword. A moment brought him to the side of the quarry: ere another had elapsed, a stroke from its branching antlers brought him to the ground. The steed fled in dismay. In vain did Kochenstein endeavour to avert his impending fate. With all the strength of terror he grasped the left horn of the stag, as it bended against its prostrate victim. The struggle was but for an instant, and a branch of the other antler pierced the Baron's side.
No sooner was the stroke inflicted, than the rage which had possessed the stag seemed wholly abated. It offered not to trample on the defenceless man, or to repeat the blow. Gazing awhile on its work it turned away, plunged into the waters of the fountain, and was lost from sight in the overwhelming flood.
Enfeebled as he was, for the blood gushed in torrents from his side, the Baron half raised himself up to look on the closing waters. Something in the stag's gaze awoke associations, that carried his mind back to the events of a few months ago. While he gazed on the fountain, the column of its jet divided, then sunk, and ceased to play. A figure appeared from the midst. It glided across the pool and approached the Baron. A lady stood beside him. She was clad in robes of white, and her head was girt with a wreath of faded flowers. Her left brow was spotted with recent blood. The Baron shuddered at her glance, still more at her voice, for he knew too well the soft tone in which she sang these lines:
To my plighted promise true,
Once again I meet thy view;
Now my garland's roses fade,
And thy rashness' debt is paid.
Sad the fate, and dark the doom,
That led thee to my secret home:
In the greenwood thou art lying,
On the bloody heather dying!
The last sounds mingled with the rush of the fountain as it rose again, when, retreating on the waters, the songstress sank into their embrace. Her last notes had fallen on the ears of the Baron. The rush of the waters was unheard by him; for when the song ceased, he was no more.