University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The light had nearly disappeared from the gorge,
in which the hamlet of Hartenburg lay, when
Berchthold descended from the castle, by a path
different from that by which he had entered it an
hour before, and crossing the rivulet by a bridge of
stone, he ascended the opposite bank into the street,
or rather the road. The young forester having
kennelled the hounds, had laid aside his leash and
fusee, but he still kept the horn suspended from his
shoulder. At his side, too, he carried a couteau-de-chasse,
a useful instrument of defence in that age
and country, as well as a weapon he was entitled
to carry, in virtue of his office under the Count of
Lienengen-Hartenburg, the master of the hold he
had just quitted, and the feudal lord of most of the
adjoining mountains, as well as of sundry villages
on the plain of the Palatinate. It would seem that
the cow-herd expected his associate, or perhaps we
might venture to call him friend, for such in truth
did he appear to be, by the easy terms on which
they met. Gottlob was in waiting near the cottage
of his mother, and when the two joined each other,
they communicated by a sign, and proceeded with
swift steps, leaving the cluster of houses.

Immediately on quitting the hamlet, the valley
expanded, and took that character of fertility and
cultivation, which has been described to the reader
in the Introduction; for all who have perused that
opening and necessary preface to our labors, will at
once recognize that the two youths introduced to
their acquaintance, were now in the mountain basin

which contained the Abbey of Limburg. But three
centuries, while they have effected little in altering
the permanent features of the place, have wrought
essential changes in those which were more perishable.

As the young men moved swiftly on, the first rays
of the moon touched the tops of the mountains, and
ere they had gone a mile, always holding the direction
of the pass which communicated with the valley
of the Rhine, the towers and roofs of the Abbey
itself were illuminated. The conventual buildings
were then perfect, resembling, by their number and
confusion, the grouping of some village, while a
strong and massive wall encircled the entire brow
of the isolated hill. The construction resembled
one of those warlike ecclesiastical princes of the
middle ages, who wore armor beneath the stole; for
while the towers and painted windows, the pious
memorials and votive monuments, denoted the objects
of the establishment, the defences betrayed
that as much dependence was placed on human as
on other means, for the protection of those who
composed the brotherhood.

“There is a moon for a monk as well as for a
cow-herd, it would seem,” observed Gottlob, speaking
however in a voice subdued nearly to a whisper.
“There comes the light upon the high tower
of the Abbey, and presently it will be glistening on
the bald head of every straggler of the convent,
who is abroad tasting the last vintage, or otherwise
prying into the affairs of some burgher of Deurckheim!”

“Thou hast not much reverence for the pious
fathers, honest Gottlob; for it is seldom thou lettest
opportunity pass to do them an ill turn, with tongue
or hungry beast.”

“Look you, Berchthold, we vassals are little
more than so much clear water in which our master

may see his own countenance, and at need his own
humors. Whenever Lord Emich has a sincere hatred
for man or horse, dog or cat, town or village,
monk or count, I know not why it is so, but I feel
my own choler rise, until I am both ready and willing
to strike when he striketh, to curse when he
curseth, and even to kill when he killeth.”

“'Tis a good temper for a servitor, but it is to be
hoped, for the sake of Christian credit, that the sympathy
does not end here, but that thy affections are
as social as thy dislikes.”

“More so, as there is faith in man! Count Emich
is a huge lover of a venison pasty of a morning,
and I feel a yearning for it the day long—Count
Emich will dispatch you a bottle of Deurckheim in
an hour, whereas two would scarce show my zeal
for his honor in the same time; and as for other
mortifications of this nature, I am not the man to
desert my master for want of zeal.”

“I believe thee, Gottlob,” said Berchthold laughing,
“and even more than thou canst find words to
say in thine own favor, on topics like these. But,
after all, the Benedictines are churchmen, and sworn
to their faith and duty, as well as any bishop in Germany;
and I do not see the cause of all the dislike
of either lord or vassal.”

“Ay, thou art in favor with some of the fraternity,
and it is rare that the week passes in which thou art
not kneeling before some of their altars; but with
me the case is different, for since the penance commanded
for that affair of dealing a little freely with
one of their herds, I have small digestion for their
spiritual food.”

“And yet thou hast paid Peter's pence, said thy
prayers, and confessed thy sins to Father Arnolph,
and all within the month!”

“What wouldst thou have of a sinner? I gave the
money on the promise of having it back with usury;

I prayed on account of an accursed tooth that torments
me, at times, in a manner worse than a
damned soul is harrowed; and as to confession, ever
since my uncommon candor, concerning the herd,
got me into that penance, I confess under favor of a
proper discretion. To tell the truth, Master Berchthold,
the church is something like a two-year old
wife; pleasant enough when allowed her own way,
but a devil of a vixen when folded against her will.”

The young forester was thoughtful and silent, and
as they were now in the vicinity of the hamlet which
belonged to the friars of Limburg, his loquacious
and prurient companion saw fit to imitate his reserve,
from a motive of prudence. The little artificial
lake mentioned in the Introduction was in existence,
at the time of our tale; but the inn, with the ambitious
sign of the anchor, is the fruit of far more
modern enterprise. When the young men reached
a ravine, that opened into the mountain near the
present site of this tavern, they turned aside from
the high road, first taking care to observe that no
curious eye watched their movements.

Here commenced a long and somewhat painful
ascent, by means of a rough path, that was only
lighted in spots by the rising moon. The vigorous
limbs of the forester and the cow-herd, however,
soon carried them to the summit of the most advanced
spur of the adjoining mountain, where they
arrived upon an open health-like plain. Although
the discourse between them had been maintained
during the ascent, it was in more subdued tones even
than when beneath the walls of Limburg, the spirits
of Gottlob appearing to ooze away the higher he
mounted.

“This is a dreary and a courage-killing waste,
Berchthold,” whispered the cow-herd, as his foot
touched the level ground; “and it is even more disheartening
to enter on it by the aid of the moon,

than in the dark. Hast ever been nearer to the
Teufelstein, at this hour?”

“I came upon it once at midnight; for it was
there I made acquaintance with him that we are now
about to visit—Did I never relate the manner of
that meeting?”

“What a habit hast thou of taxing a memory!
Perhaps if thou wert to repeat it, I might recall the
facts by the time thou wert ended; and to speak
truth, thy voice is comfortable on this sprite's common.”

The young forester smiled, but without derision,
for he saw that his companion, spite of his indifference
to all grave subjects, was, as is generally the
case, the most affected of the two when put to a
serious trial, and perhaps he also remembered the
difference that education had made in their powers
of thinking. That he did not treat the subject as
one of light import himself, was also apparent by the
regulated and cautious manner in which he delivered
the following account.

“I had been on the chases of Lord Emich since
the rising of the sun,” commenced Berchthold, “for
there was need of more than common vigilance to
watch the neighboring boors. The search had led
me far into the hills, and the night came, not as it is
now seen, but so pitchy dark, that, accustomed as I
was from childhood to the forest, it was not possible
to tell the direction of even a star, much less that
of the Castle. For hours I wandered, hoping at
each moment to reach the opening of the valley,
when I found myself of a sudden in a field that appeared
endless and uninhabited.”

“Ay—That was this devil's ball-room!—thou
meanest untenanted by man.”

“Hast thou ever known the helplessness of being
lost in the forest, Gottlob?”

“In my own person, never, Master Berchthold;

but in that of my herd, it is a misfortune that often
befalls me, sinner that I am!”

“I know not that sympathy with thy cows can
teach thee the humiliation and depression that come
over the mind, when we stand on this goodly earth,
cut off from all communication with our fellows, in
a desert, though surrounded by living men, deprived
of the senses of sight and hearing for useful ends,
and with all the signs of God before the eyes, and yet
with none of the common means of enjoying his
bounty, from having lost the clue to his intentions.”

“Must the teeth, of necessity, be idle, or the throat
dry, Master Forester, because the path is hid?”

“At such a moment the appetites are quieted, in
the grand desire to return to our usual communication
with the earth. It is like being restored to the
helplessness of infancy, with all the wants and habits
of manhood besetting the character and wishes.”

“If thou callest such a condition a restoration,
friend Berchthold, I shall make interest with St.
Benedict that I may remain deposed to the end of
my days.”

“I weigh not the meaning of every word I utter,
with the recollection of that helpless moment so
fresh. But it was when the desolate feeling was
strongest, that I roved out of the chase upon this
mountain heath; there appeared something before
my sight, that seemed a house, and by a bright light
that glittered, as I fancied, at a window, I felt again
restored to intercourse with my kind.”

“Thou usest thy terms with more discretion now,”
said the cow-herd, fetching a heavy breath, like one
who was glad the difficulty had found a termination.
“I hope it was the abode of some substantial tenant
of Lord Emich, who was not without the means of
comforting a soul in distress.”

“Gottlob, the dwelling was no other than the

Teufelstein, and the light was a twinkling star, that
chance had brought in a line with the rock.”

“I take it for granted, Master Berchthold, thou
didst not knock twice for admission at that door!”

“I am not much governed by the vulgar legends
and womanish superstitions of our hills, but—”

“Softly—softly—friend forester; what thou callest
by names so irreverent, are the opinions of all
who dwell in or about Deurckheim; knight or monk
—burgher or count, has equally a respect for our
venerable traditions. Tausand Sechs und Zwanziges!
what would become of us, if we had not a
gory tale, or some alarming and reverend spectacle
of this sort, to set up against the penances, and
prayers, and masses of the Friars of Limburg!—As
much wisdom and philosophy as thou wilt, foster-brother
of mine, but leave us our Devil, if it be
only to make battle against the Abbot!”

“Notwithstanding thy big words, I well know that
none among us has, at heart, a greater dread of this
very hill than thyself, Gottlob! I have seen thee
sweat cold drops from thy forehead, in crossing the
heath after night-fall.”

“Art quite sure 'twas not the dew? We have
heavy falls of that moisture in these hills, when the
earth is parched!”

“Let it then be the dew.”

“To oblige thee, Berchthold, I would willingly
swear it was a water-spout. But what didst thou
make of the rock and the star?”

“I could change the nature of neither. I pretend
not to thy indifference to the mysterious power that
rules the earth, but thou well knowest that fear
never yet kept me from this hill. When a near approach
showed me my error, I was about to turn
away, not without crossing myself and repeating
an Ave, as I am ready to acknowledge; but a

glance upward convinced me that the stone was occupied—”

“Occupied?—I have always known that it was
possessed, but never before did I think it was occupied!”

“There was one seated on its uppermost projection,
as plainly to be seen as the rock itself.”

“Whereupon thou madest manifest that good
speed which has gained thee the favor of the Count,
and thy post of forester.”

“I hope the nerve to put the duties of my office
in practice, had their weight with Lord Emich,” rejoined
Berchthold, a little quickly. “I did not run,
Gottlob, but I spoke to the being who had chosen a
seat so remarkable, and at that late hour.”

Spite of his spirits and affected humor, the cowherd
unconsciously drew nearer to his companion,
casting at the same time an oblique glance in the direction
of the suspected rock.

“Thou seemest troubled, Gottlob.”

“Dost thou think I am without bowels? What,
shall a friend of mine be in this strait, and I not
troubled! Heaven save thee, Berchthold, were the
best cow in my herd off her stomach, I could not
be in greater concern. Hadst any answer?”

“I had—and the result has gone to show me,”
returned the forester, musing as he spoke, like one
who was obtaining glimpses of long-concealed truth,
“that our fears oftentimes prevent us from seeing
things as they are, and are the means of nourishing
our mistakes. I got an answer, and certainly, contrary
to what most in Deurckheim would have believed,
it was given in a human voice.”

“That was encouraging, though it were hoarser
than the roaring of a bull!”

“It spoke mildly and in reason, Gottlob, as thou
wilt readily believe, when I tell thee it was no
other than the voice of the Anchorite of the Cedars.

Our acquaintance then and there commenced, since
which time, as thou knowest well, it hath not flagged
for want of frequent visits to his abode, on my part.”

The cow-herd walked on in silence, for more than
a minute, and then stopping short, he abruptly addressed
his companion:—

“And this then hath been thy secret, Berchthold,
concerning the manner of commencing on thy new
friendship.”

“There is no other. I well knew how much thou
wert fettered by the opinions of the country, and
was afraid of losing thy company in these visits,
were I, without caution, to tell all the circumstances
of our interview. But now thou hast become known
to the anchorite, I do not fear thy desertion.”

“Never count upon too many sacrifices from thy
friends, Master Berchthold! The mind of man is
borne upon by so many fancies, is ruled by so many
vagaries, and tormented by so many doubts, when
there is question concerning the safety of the body,
to say nothing of the soul, that I know no more rash
confidence, than to count too securely on the sacrifices
of a friend.”

“Thou knowest the path, and can return by thyself,
to the hamlet, if thou wilt,” said the forester
peevishly, and not without severity.

“There are situations in which it is as difficult to
go back as to go forward,” observed Gottlob; “else,
Berchthold, I might take thee at thy word, and go
back to my careful mother, a good supper, and a
bed that stands between a picture of the Virgin, one
of St. Benedict, and one of my Lord the Count.
But for my concern for thee, I would not go another
foot towards the camp.”

“Do as thou wilt,” said the forester, who appeared,
however, to know the apprehension his companion
felt of being left alone in that solitary and suspected
spot, and who turned his advantage to good

account, by quickening his pace in such a manner as
would soon have left Gottlob to his own thick-coming
fancies, had he not diligently imitated his gait.
“Thou canst tell the people of Lord Emich, that
thou abandoned me on this hill.”

“Nay,” returned Gottlob, making a merit of necessity,
“if I do that, or say that, may they make a
Benedictine of me, and the Abbot of Limburg to
boot!”

As the cow-herd, who felt all his master's antipathies
against their religious neighbors, expressed
this determination in a voice strong as his resolution,
confidence was restored between the friends, who
continued their progress with swift paces. The
place was, sooth to say, one every way likely to
quicken any dormant seeds of superstition that education,
or tradition, or local opinions had implanted
in the human breast.

By this time our adventurers had approached a
wood of low cedars, which, apparently encircled in
a round wall that was composed of a confused but
vast pile of fallen stones, grew upon the advanced
spur of the hills. Behind them lay the heath-like
plain, while the bald rock which the moon-beams
had just lighted, raising its head from out of the
earth, resembled some gloomy monument placed in
the centre of the waste, to mark and to render obvious,
by comparison, the dreary solitude of the
naked fields. The back-ground was the dark slopes
and ridges of the forest of the Haart mountains.
On their right was the glen, or valley, from which
they had just ascended; and on their front, looking
a little obliquely from the grove, the plain of the
Palatinate, which lay in misty obscurity, like a dim
sea of cultivation, hundreds of feet beneath their
elevated stand.

It was rare, indeed, that any immediate dependant
of the Count Emich, and more especially any of

those who dwelt in or about his castle, and who
were likely to be called into his service at an unexpected
moment, ventured so far from the fortress,
and in the direction of the hostile Abbey, without
providing himself with the means of offence and defence.
Berchthold wore, as wont, his hunting-knife,
or the short straight sword, which to this day is
carried by that description of European dependant
called a chasseur, and who is seen, degraded to the
menial offices of a footman, standing behind the
carriages of ambassadors and princes, reminding
the observant spectator of the regular and certain
decadency of the usages of feudal times. Neither
had Gottlob been neglectful of his personal security,
as respects human foes; for on the subject of resisting
all such attacks, his manhood was above reproach,
as had been proved in more than one of
those bloody frays, which in that age were of frequent
occurrence between the vassals of the minor
German princes. The cow-herd had provided himself
with a heavy weapon that his father had often
wielded in battle, and which needed all the vigor of
the muscular arm of the son, to flourish with a due
observance of the required positions and attitudes.
Fire-arms were of too much value and of too imperfect
use to be resorted to on every light occasion,
like that which had now drawn the foster-brothers,
for such supported by long habit was the secret of
the intimacy between the forester and the cow-herd,
from their hamlet to the hill of Deurckheim.

Berchthold loosened his couteau-de-chasse, as he
turned by an ancient gate-way, whose position was
known merely by an interruption of the ditch that
had protected this face of the wall, and an opening
in the wall itself, to enter the inclosure, which the
reader will at once recognize as the Pagan's Camp
of the Introduction. At the same moment Gottlob
cast his heavy weapon from his shoulder, and

grasped its handle in a more scientific manner.
There was certainly no enemy visible to justify
these movements, but the increasing solitude of the
place, and that impression of danger which besets
the faculties, when we find ourselves in situations
favorable to deeds of violence, probably induced the
double and common caution. The light of the
moon, which was not yet full, had not sufficient
power to penetrate the thick branches of the cedars;
and when the youths were fairly beneath the gloomy
foliage, although not left in the ordinary darkness
of a clouded night, they were perhaps in that very
species of dull and misty illumination, which, by
leaving objects uncertain while visible, is the best
adapted to undermine the confidence of a distrustful
spirit. There was little wind, but the sighs of the
night air were plaintively audible, while the adventurers
picked their way among the fragments of the
place.

It has been elsewhere said, that the Heidenmauer
was originally a Roman camp. The warlike and
extraordinary people who had erected these advanced
works on the remotest frontier of their wide
empire, had, of course, neglected none of the means
that were necessary, under the circumstances,
either for their security or for their comfort. The
first had been sufficiently obtained by the nearly
isolated position of the hill, protected, as it was, by
walls so massive and so high as those must have
been, which had consumed the quantity of materials
still visible in the large circuit that remained; while
the interior furnished abundant proofs that the latter
had not been neglected, in its intersecting remains,
over which Gottlob more than once stumbled, as
he advanced into the shadows of the place. Here
and there, a ruined habitation, more or less dilapidated,
was still standing, furnishing, like the memorable
remains of Pompeii and Herculaneum, interesting

and infallible evidence of the usages of those
who have so long since departed to their eternal
rest. It would seem, by the rude repairs which
rather injured than embellished these touching,
though simple monuments of what the interior of the
camp had been in its day of power and pride, that
modern adventurers had endeavored to turn them
to account, by converting the falling huts into habitations
appropriated to their own temporary uses.
All, however, appeared to have been long before
finally abandoned; for as Berchthold and his companion
stole cautiously among the crumbling stones,
the gaping rents and roofless walls denoted hopeless
decay. At length the youths paused, and fastened
their looks in a common direction, as if apprized
that they were near the goal of their expedition.

In a part of the grove, where the cedars grew
more dense and luxuriant than on most of that
stony and broken soil, stood a single low building,
which, of all there, had the air of being still habitable.
Like the others, it either had been originally
constructed by the masters of the world, or restored
on the foundations of some Roman construction by
the followers of Attila, who, it will be remembered,
had passed a winter in this camp; and it was now
rendered weather-proof by the usual devices of the
poor and laborious. There was a single window, a
door, and a rude chimney, which the climate and
the elevated situation of the place rendered nearly
indispensable. The light of a dim torch shone
through the former, the only sign that the hut was
tenanted; for on the exterior, with the exception of
the rough repairs just mentioned, all around it lay
in the neglected and eloquent stillness of ruin. The
reader will not imagine, in this description, any of
that massive grandeur which so insensibly attaches
itself to most that is connected with the Roman
name; for while, in the nature of things, the most

ponderous and the most imposing of the public
works of that people are precisely those which are
the most likely to have descended to our own times,
the traveller often meets with memorials of their
power, that are so frail and perishable in their construction,
as to owe their preservation, in a great
measure, to an accidental combination of circumstances
favorable to such a result. Still, the Roman
was ordinarily as much greater in little things, if
connected with a public object, as he excelled all
who have succeeded him, in those which were of
more importance. The Ringmauer, or Heidenmauer,
is a strong proof of what we say. There is
not an arch, nor a tomb, nor a gate, nor a paved
road of any description in the vicinity of Deurckheim,
to show that the post was more than a temporary
military position; and yet the presence of its
former occupants is established by more evidence
than would probably be found, a century hence,
were half of the present cities of Christendom to be
suddenly abandoned. But these evidences are rude,
and suited to the objects which had brought them
into existence.

The forester and the cow-herd stood long regarding
the solitary hut, which had arrested their looks,
like men hesitating to proceed.

“I had more humor for the company of the honest
anchorite, Master Berchthold,” said the latter,
“before thou madest me acquainted with his fondness
for taking the night air on the Teufelstein.”

“Thou hast not fear, Gottlob? Thou, who bearest
so good a name for courage among our youths!”

“I shall be the last to accuse myself of cowardice,
or of any other discreditable quality, friend forester;
but prudence is a virtue in a youth, as the Abbot of
Limburg himself would swear, were he here—”

“He is not present in his own reverend and respected
person,” said a voice so nigh the ear of

Gottlob, as to cause him to jump nimbly aside; “but
one who may humbly represent some portion of his
sanctity, is not wanting to affirm the truth of what
thou sayest, son.”

The startled young men saw that a monk of the
opposite mountain had unexpectedly appeared between
them. They were on the lands of the Abbey,
or rather on ground in dispute between the burghers
of Deurckheim and the convent, but actually in possession
of the latter; and they felt the insecurity of
their situation as the dependants of the count of
Hartenburg. Neither spoke, therefore, for each
was striving to invent some plausible pretext for his
appearance in a place so unfrequented, and which,
in general, was held in so little favor by the neighboring
peasantry.

“You are youths of Deurckheim?” asked the
monk, endeavoring to observe their features by the
imperfect light that penetrated the foliage of the
dark cedars. Gottlob, whose besetting infirmity was
a too exuberant fluency of tongue, took on himself
the task of answering.

“We are youths, reverend father,” he said, “as
thy quick and sagacious sight hath so well seen. I
will not deny my years, and if I would, the devil,
who besets all between fifteen and five-and-twenty
in the shape of some giddy infirmity, would soon
betray the imposture.”

“Of Deurckheim, son?”

“As there is question between the Abbey and the
town concerning these hills, we might not stand any
better in thy favor, holy Benedictine, sere we to
say yes.”

“In that suspicion, thou dost little justice to the
Abbey, son: we may defend the rights of the
Church, confided in their temporalities as they are
to an unworthy and sinful brotherhood, without feeling
any uncharitableness against those who believe

they have claims better than our own. The love
of mammon is feeble in bosoms that are devoted to
self-denying and repentant lives. Say then boldly
that you are a Deurckheim, and dread not my displeasure.”

“Since it is thy good pleasure, benevolent monk,
I will say boldly that we are of Deurckheim.”

“And you come to consult the holy Anchorite of
the Cedars?”

“It is not necessary that I should tell one of thy
knowledge of human nature, reverend Benedictine,
that the failing of all dwellers in small towns, is an
itching to look into the affairs of their neighbors.
Himmel! If our worthy burgomasters would spare
a little time from the affairs of other people to look
into their own, we should all be greatly gainers;
they in their property, and we in our comfort!”

The Benedictine laughed, and he motioned for the
youths to follow, advancing himself towards the hut.

“Since you have given yourselves this trouble, no
doubt with a praiseworthy and pious intention, my
sons,” he said, “let not respect for my presence
change your purpose. We will go into the cell of
the holy hermit, in company; and if there should be
advantage from his blessing, or discourse, believe
me I will not be so unjust as to envy either of you a
share.”

“The manner in which the friars of Limburg
deny themselves advantages, in order to do profit to
their fellow-christians, is in the mouths of all, far and
near; and this generosity of thine, reverend monk,
is quite of a piece with the well-earned reputation
of the whole brotherhood.”

As Gottlob spoke gravely, and bowed with sufficient
reverence, the Benedictine was in a slight degree
his dupe; though, as he passed beneath the low
portal of the hut, he could not prevent a lurking suspicion
of the truth.