University of Virginia Library

1. THE HEIDENMAUER.
CHAPTER. I.

The reader must imagine a narrow and secluded
valley, for the opening scene of this tale. The time
was that in which the day loses its power, casting
a light on objects most exposed, that resembles
colors seen through glass slightly stained; a peculiarity
of the atmosphere, which, though almost of
daily occurrence in summer and autumn, is the
source of constant enjoyment to the real lover of
nature. The hue meant is not a sickly yellow, but
rather a soft and melancholy glory, that lends to
the hill-side and copse, to tree and tower, to stream
and lawn, those tinges of surpassing loveliness that
impart to the close of day its proverbial and
soothing charm. The setting sun touched with
oblique rays a bit of shaven meadow, that lay in a
dell so deep as to owe this parting smile of nature
to an accidental formation of the neighboring eminences,
a distant mountain crest, that a flock had
cropped and fertilized, a rippling current that glided
in the bottom, a narrow beaten path, more worn by
hoof than wheel, and a vast range of forest, that
swelled and receded from the view, covering leagues
of a hill-chase, that even tradition had never peopled.
The spot was seemingly as retired as if it had been
chosen in one of our own solitudes of the wilderness;

while it was, in fact, near the centre of Europe, and
in the sixteenth century. But, notwithstanding the
absence of dwellings, and all the other signs of the
immediate presence of man, together with the
wooded character of the scene, an American eye
would not have been slow to detect its distinguishing
features, from those which mark the wilds of
this country. The trees, though preserved with
care, and flourishing, wanted the moss of ages, the
high and rocking summit, the variety and natural
wildness of the western forest. No mouldering
trunk lay where it had fallen, no branch had been
twisted by the gale and forgotten, nor did any upturned
root betray the indifference of man to the
decay of this important part of vegetation. Here
and there, a species of broom, such as is seen occasionally
on the mast-heads of ships, was erected
above some tall member of the woods that stood on
an elevated point; land-marks which divided the
rights of those who were entitled to cut and clip;
the certain evidence that man had long before extended
his sway over these sombre hills, and that,
retired as they seemed, they were actually subject
to all the divisions, and restraints, and vexations,
which, in peopled regions, accompany the rights of
property.

For an hour preceding the opening of our tale,
not a sound of any nature, beyond that of a murmuring
brook, had disturbed the quiet of the silent
little valley, if a gorge so narrow, and in truth so
wild, deserved the name. There was not even a
bird fluttering among the trees, nor a hawk soaring
above the heights. Once, and for a minute only,
did a roebuck venture from its cover, and descend
to the rivulet to drink. The animal had not altogether
the elastic bound, the timid and irresolute
movement, nor the wandering eye of our own deer,
but it was clearly an inhabitant of a forest; for

while it in some degree confided in the protection,
it also distrusted the power of man. No sooner was
its thirst assuaged, than listening with the keenness
of an instinct that no circumstances of accidental
condition could destroy, it went up the acclivity
again, and sought its cover with troubled steps. At
the same instant, a grayhound leaped from among
the trees, on the opposite side of the gorge, into the
path, and began bounding back and forth, in the
well-known manner of that species of dog, when
exercising in restlessness, rather than engaged in
the hot strife of the chase. A whistle called the
hound back from its gambols, and its master entered
the path.

A cap of green velvet, bearing a hunting-horn
above the shade, a coarse but neat frock of similar
color, equally ornamented with the same badge of
office, together with the instrument itself suspended
from a shoulder, and the arms usual to one of that
class, denoted a forester, or an individual charged
with the care of the chase, and otherwise intrusted
with a jurisdiction in the forest; functions that
would be much degraded by the use of the abused
and familiar term of gamekeeper.

The forester was young, active, and, notwithstanding
the rudeness of his attire, of a winning exterior.
Laying his fusee against the root of a tree,
he whistled in the dog, and renewing the call, by
means of a shrill instrument that was carried for
that purpose, he soon succeeded in bringing its fellow
to his side. Coupling the grayhounds in a leash,
which he attached to his own person, he threw the
horn from its noose, and blew a lively and short
strain, that rolled up the valley in mellow and melodious
notes. When the instrument was removed
from his lips, the youth listened till the last of the
distant echoes was done, as if expecting some reply.
He was not disappointed. Presently an answering

blast came down the gorge, ringing among the
woods, and causing the hearts of many of its tenants
to beat quick and fearfully. The sounds of the
unseen instrument were far more shrill and wild
than those of the hunting horn, while they wanted
not for melancholy sweetness. They appeared both
familiar and intelligible to the young forester, who
no sooner heard them, than he slung the horn in its
usual turn of the cord, resumed the fusee, and stood
in an attitude of expectation.

It might have been a minute before another youth
appeared in the path, higher in the gorge, and advancing
slowly towards the forester. His dress
was rustic, and altogether that of a peasant, while
in his hand he held a long, straight, narrow tube of
cherry wood, firmly wrapped with bark, having a
mouth-piece and a small bell at the opposite end,
resembling those of a trumpet. As he came forward,
his face was not without an expression of ill humor,
though it was rather rendered comic than grave, by
a large felt hat, the front rim of which fell in an
enormous shade above his eyes, rendering the trim
cock in the rear, ludicrously pretending. His legs,
like those of the forester, were encased in a sort of
leathern hose, that left the limbs naked and free
below the knee, while the garment above set so
loosely and unbuttoned above that important joint,
as to offer no restraint to his movements.

“Thou art behind thy time, Gottlob,” said the
young forester, as the boor approached, “and the
good hermit will not give us better welcome for
keeping him from prayer. What has become of
thy herd?”

“That may the holy man of the Heidenmauer
declare, for it is more than I could answer were
Lord Emich himself to put the question, and say, in
the manner he is wont to use to the Abbot of Limburg—what
hath become of thy herd, Gottlob?”

“Nay, this is no trifling matter, if thou hast, in
sooth, let the cattle stray! Where hadst thou the
beasts last in sight?”

“Here in the forest of Hartenburg, Master
Berchthold, on the honor of an humble servitor of
the Count.”

“Thou wilt yet lose this service, Gottlob, by thy
carelessness!”

“It would be a thousand pities were thy words
to be true, for in that case Lord Emich would lose
the honestest cow-herd in Germany, and it would
go near to break my heart were the friars of Limburg
to get him! But the beasts cannot be far, and
I will try the virtue of the horn once more, before I
go home to a broken head and a discharge. Dost
thou know, Master Berchthold, that the disgrace of
which thou speakest never yet befell any of my
family, and we have been keepers of cattle longer
than the Friedrichs have been electors!”

The forester made an impatient gesture, patted
his hounds, and waited for the effects of the new
blast, that his companion was by this time preparing
to sound. The manner of Gottlob was that of entire
confidence in his own knowledge of his calling,
for notwithstanding his words, his countenance at
no time betrayed uneasiness for the fate of his trust.
The valley was soon ringing with the wild and
plaintive tones of the cherry-wood horn, the hind
taking care to give the strains those intonations,
which, by a mute convention, had from time immemorial
been understood as the signal for collecting
a lost herd. His skill and faith were soon rewarded,
for cow after cow came leaping out of the
forest, as he blew his air, and ere long the necessary
number of animals were in the path, the younger
beasts frisking along the way, with elevated tails
and awkward bounds, while the more staid contributors
of the dairy hurried on, with business-like air,

but grave steps, as better became their years and
their characters in the hamlet. In a few minutes
they were all collected around the person of the
keeper, who having counted his charge, shouldered
his horn, and disposed himself to proceed towards
the lower extremity of the gorge.

“Thou art lucky to have gotten the beasts together,
with so little trouble, Gottlob,” resumed the
forester, as they followed in the train of the herd.

“Say dexterous, Master Berchthold, and do not
fear to make me vain-glorious. In the way of understanding
my own merits there is little danger of
doing me harm. Thou shouldest never discourage
modesty, by an over-scrupulous discretion. It would
be a village miracle, were a herd so nurtured in the
ways of the church to forget its duty!”

The forester laughed, but he looked aside, like
one who would not see that to which he wished to
be blind.

“At thy old tricks, friend Gottlob! Thou hast
let the beasts roam upon the range of the friars!”

“I have paid Peter's pence, been to the chapel of
St. Benedict for prayer, confessed to Father Arnolph
himself, and all within the month: what more need
a man do, to be in favor with the Brothers?”

“I could wish to know if thou ever entertainest
Father Arnolph with the history of thy visits to the
pastures of the convent, with Lord Emich's herd,
honest Gottlob.”

“So! Dost thou fancy, Master Berchthold, that,
at a moment when there is every necessity to possess
a calm and contemplative spirit, I should strive
to put the pious monk in a passion, by relating all
the antics of some ill-bred cow, or of a heifer, who
is as little to be trusted without a keeper, as your
jung-frau before she reaches the years of caution is
to be trusted at a fair without her mother, or a
sharp-sighted old aunt, at the very least!”

“Well, have a care, Gottlob, for Lord Emich,
though loving the friars so little, will be apt to order
thee into a dungeon, on bread and water for a
week, or to make thy back acquainted with the lash,
should he come to hear that one of his hinds has
taken this liberty with the rights of a neighbor.”

“Let Lord Emich then expel the brotherhood
from the richest pasturage near the Jaegerthal.
Flesh and blood cannot bear to see the beasts of a
noble digging into the earth with their teeth, after
a few bitter herbs, while the carrion of a convent
are rolling the finest and sweetest grasses over their
tongues. Look you, Master Berchthold, these friars
of Limburg eat the fattest venison, drink the warmest
wine, and say the shortest prayers of any monks
in Christendom! Potz-Tausend! There are some
who accuse them, too, of shriving the prettiest
girls! As for bread and water, and a dungeon, I
know from experience that neither of the remedies
agrees with a melancholy constitution, and I defy
the Emperor, or even the Holy Father himself, to
work such a miracle, as to make back of mine
acquainted with the lash.”

“Simply because the introduction hath long since
had place.”

“That is thy interpretation of the matter, Master
Berchthold, and I wish thee joy of a quick wit.
But we are getting beyond the limits of the forest,
and we will dismiss the question to another conversation.
The beasts are full, and will not disappoint
the dairy girls, and little matters it whence the
nourishment comes—Lord Emich's pastures or a
churchly miracle. Thou hast hunted the dogs
lightly to-day, Berchthold?”

“I have had them on the mountains for air and
movement. They got away on the heels of a roebuck,
for a short run, but as all the game in this

chase belongs to our master, I did not see fit to let
them go faster than there was need.”

“I rejoice to hear thee say, it, for I count upon
thy company in climbing the mountain when our
work is ended; thy legs will only be the fresher for
the toil.”

“Thou hast my word, and I will not fail thee; in
order that no time be lost, we will part here to meet
again in the hamlet.”

The forester and the cow-herd made signs of
leave-taking, and separated. The former quitted
the public road, turning short to the right by a private
way, which led him across narrow meadows,
and the little river that glided among them, towards
the foot of the opposite mountain. Gottlob held on
his course to a hamlet that was now visible, and
which completely filled a narrow pass in the valley,
at a point where the latter made a turn, nearly at a
right angle with its general direction.

The path of the former led him to an habitation
very different from the rude dwellings towards
which the steps of the cow-herd tended. A massive
castle occupied a projecting point of the mountain,
overhanging the cluster of houses in the gorge, and
frowning upon all that attempted the pass. The
structure was a vast but irregular pile. The more
modern parts were circular salient towers, that were
built upon the uttermost verge of the rock, from
whose battlements it would not have been difficult
to cast a stone into the road, and which denoted
great attention to strength in their masonry, while
beauty of form and of workmanship, as they were
understood at the period of which we write, were
not entirely neglected. These towers, though large,
were mere appendages to the main building, which,
seen from the position now before the mind of the
reader, presented a confused maze of walls, chimneys,
and roofs. In some places, the former rose

from the greensward which covered the hill-side;
while in others, advantage had been taken of the
living rock, which was frequently so blended with
the pile it supported, both being of the same reddish
free-stone, that it was not easy at the first glance to
say, what had been done by nature and what by art.

The path of the forester led from the valley up
the mountain, by a gradual and lateral ascent to a
huge gate, that opened beneath a high arch, communicating
with a court within. On this side of the
castle there was neither ditch, nor bridge, nor any
other of the usual defences, beyond a portcullis, for
the position of the hold rendered these precautions
in a measure unnecessary. Still great care had
been taken to prevent a surprise, and it would have
required a sure foot, a steady head, and vigorous
limbs, to have effected an entrance into the edifice,
by any other passage than its gate.

When Berchthold reached the little terrace that
lay before the portal, he loosened his horn, and,
standing on the verge of the precipice, blew a hunting
strain, apparently in glee. The music echoed
among the hills as suited the spot, and more than
one crone of the hamlet suspended her toil, in dull
admiration, to listen to its wild effect. Replacing
the instrument, the youth spoke to his hounds and
passed beneath the portcullis, which happened to be
raised at the moment.