🧚 Legends and Tales., part 10 · page 2

The crashing of his sword, as it rent helmet of oak and coat of mail resounded above the wild cry of the combatants and the clashing of shields.58

Unceasing was his way through the ranks, and dying and maimed marked his path.59 At last he reached the spot where the commander stood surrounded by his braves, and here his progress was arrested.60

Stubborn is the conflict, surrounded and shut in, his position seems terrible, and the onlooking Huns cry out, "Shall we hasten to his aid?"61

And others answer, "No, no, he would be enraged if we deprived him of the glory of being the sole conqueror.62 But see! see! the enemy grows weak; now he totters, our king wields more quickly more mightily his arm!63 They sink!64 They fly!65 Victory!66 Victory!67 Great is the glory of our tribe, and of our mighty champion."68

They raise the song of triumph and march to meet the royal conqueror, who leans upon his spear, and looks upon his advancing army without going forward to receive it.69

He gives them a sign; they raise his helmet and loosen the coat of mail; and the hero sinks lifeless on his bloody shield.70

Strong and deep is the sorrow of his people, and loud are the lamentations of woe.71

At length one of the elders of the tribe exclaims, "Why do we lament the fallen?72 Is not death the destiny of all, and is there a more glorious death than that of the conqueror in the hour of victory?73 Let us make a grave for our king on the field of his victory, a grave that shall not only receive his ashes, but proclaim his victory to the most distant centuries."74

And they did so.75 They made a funeral pile, and laid the victor, borne upon his shield, upon it, and the Huns formed a circle around the burning wood and sang the death-song, led by the bards.76

"The people shall see their king no more.77 And the halls of his palace must remain for ever desolate.78 Never again shall the people hear his voice, but in their hearts he shall dwell for ever."79

The flames grow less, the death-song ceases.80 In silence they gather the ashes in the sacred urn, lay the shield on the ground, the urn upon it, and his armour above it.81

Many lay upon the sacred heap what is held most dear, hunting spear or battle-axe.82 And now the whole tribe sets hand to the work.83

"We will build," they said, "a grave which neither man can destroy nor storms and tempests wash away."84

And they heaped rock on rock, and levelled whole hills to the plain to pile up the giant grave to a giant king, and called it the Hero's Grave.85

And that is the _Sargberg_, or Coffin mountain.86

The White Lady.87

The Blankenburg family ghost is called the White Lady.88 A portrait bearing this name hangs in the castle, said to be a likeness of a Countess of Orlamünde.89 The legend is as follows:90

The Earl Otto von Orlamünde died in 1340--several dates are given--and left a young and beautiful widow, Agnes by name, a duchess by birth, and the mother of two little children, a son of three, and a daughter of two years.91

The widow lived alone in the Plassenburg, and thought often it were better to marry again.92

One day a remark of the Earl, Albert the Handsome von Nurnberg was repeated to her: "I would willingly espouse the fair Countess Agnes, but for the four eyes."93

The Countess fancied he meant her two children.94 Seeing they stood in the way of her marriage, she resolved to free herself of them, and engaged a man named Hager, with promises of rich gifts, to murder them.95

The murderer is said to have confessed his crime on the rack.96 According to another tale, the Countess murdered them herself by sticking pins in their skulls.97

Her guilty spirit cannot rest, but wanders in Orlamunde and Blankenburg.98 Her appearance always betokens death in the family.99

Frau Berta is also called the White Lady.100 She haunts the imperial royal palaces, and also Darmstadt and Carlsruhe.101

As family ghost she harms no one, greets every one she meets, never speaks, and always wears a white veil and carries a bunch of keys in her girdle.102

The Chapel of Roses.103

It was a stormy, dismal winter night, when a teamster drove with a heavy load of wine along the almost impassable road near the little mountain church of Elend, at the foot of the Brocken.104

The disc of the moon blinked only seldom through the dark clouds, which, restless, and ever succeeded by new ones, chased each other across the heavens.105

A sharp north wind shook the bare branches of the trees that grew thick on both sides of the way, blew the snow in the ravines, and heaped it to huge snow-drifts, which threatened the traveller unacquainted with the locality with danger.106

The wind grew every moment more sharp and cutting, the snow deeper, and the difficulty greater for the tired horses to draw their weary load.107

Often the teamster stood and listened, and gazed into the darkness in search of some shelter, and called for help, and heard the echoes of his own voice ring deep in the snowy wood, but all remained desolate, dumb, and awful.108

No bark of a dog that so rejoices the nightly wanderer, no lowing or neighing of friendly stall.109

The silence of death reigned; only now and then the dark wings of some nocturnal bird of prey fluttered over his head, and a ghostly rustling was heard among the dry underbrush; the stars seemed like silent, cold eyes looking down on the weary man and horses, the clouds scudded silently past, and the snow, too, was silent as a spirit.110

The lonely traveller grew more terrified, and urging on his horses, the waggon suddenly sank in a deep place, and no efforts of the tired animals could move it from the spot.111 Loud cried the deserted man for help.112 No one heard.113 In despair he wrung his hands and besought the Virgin to aid him in his distress.114

Suddenly he heard a rustling in the thicket, and a female form, like the silver moon when she appears above the peaks of the mountains, glided out of the darkness into view, slender as the fir-tree of the Harz, rosy as the early dawn, fresh as meadow-dew, beautiful as eternal youth.115

A lustre like a sunset in spring, or an Alpine glow on the eternal snow, floated around the heavenly form, and breathed on the rigid snow masses a soft glimmer like a fairy light.116

Terrified, the teamster gazed at the radiant Virgin, who with an enchanting, heavenly smile approached the sunken waggon, and with a single touch drew waggon and horses out of the deep place.117

Surprised by the mysterious vision, and cheered by the unexpected aid, the teamster endeavoured to thank his helper and deliverer, and expressed his regret that he had neither cup nor goblet in which to offer her a draught of wine.118

At these words the strange apparition touched a shrub that stretched forth its dried, thorny branches, when instantly leaves and buds burst forth, and soon the whole shrub was loaded with most beautiful roses, that breathed forth a wondrous and unwonted perfume.119