University of Virginia Library

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM.

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald,
a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies
not far from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine,
there stood, many, many years since, the Castle of the
Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay,
and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs; above
which, however, its old watch-tower may still be seen
struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned,
to carry a high head and look down upon the neighbouring
country.

The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of
Katzenellenbogen,[1] and inherited the reliques of the property,
and all the pride of his ancestors. Though the
warlike disposition of his predecessors had much impaired
the family possessions, yet the Baron still endeavoured to
keep up some show of former state. The times were
peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, had abandoned
their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles'
nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient
residences in the valleys; still the Baron remained
proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing with
hereditary inveteracy, all the old family feuds; so that
he was on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbours,
on account of disputes that had happened between their
great great grandfathers.

The Baron had but one child, a daughter: but nature,
when she grants but one child, always compensates by
making it a prodigy; and so it was with the daughter of
the Baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins,
assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty
in all Germany; and who should know better than they?
She had, moreover, been brought up with great care under
the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had
spent some years of their early life at one of the little
German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of
knowledge necessary to the education of a fine lady. Under
their instructions, she became a miracle of accomplishments.

By the time she was eighteen, she could embroider
to admiration, and had worked whole histories of
the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression
in their countenances, that they looked like so many souls
in purgatory. She could read without great difficulty,
and had spelled her way through several church legends,
and almost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch.
She had even made considerable proficiency in writing;
could sign her own name without missing a letter, and
so legibly that her aunts could read it without spectacles.
She excelled in making little elegant good-for-nothing
lady-like knicknacks of all kinds; was versed in the most
abstruse dancing of the day; played a number of airs on
the harp and guitar; and knew all the tender ballads of
the Minnielieders by heart.

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes
in their younger days, were admirably calculated to be
vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of
their niece; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent and
inexorably decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She
was rarely suffered out of their sight; never went beyond
the domains of the castle, unless well attended, or
rather well watched; had continual lectures read to her
about strict decorum and implicit obedience; and, as to
the men—pah! she was taught to hold them at such
distance, and in such absolute distrust, that, unless properly
authorised she would not have cast a glance upon
the handsomest cavalier in the world—no, not if he were
even dying at her feet.

The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent.
The young lady was a pattern of docility and
correctness. While others were wasting their sweetness
in the glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and
thrown aside by every hand; she was coyly blooming into
fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of those
immaculate spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among
guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride
and exultation, and vaunted that though all the other
young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank
Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress
of Katzenellenbogen.

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might
be provided with children; his household was by no
means a small one; for Providence had enriched him
with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all,

possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble
relatives; were wonderfully attached to the Baron, and
took every possible occasion to come in swarms and enliven
the castle. All family festivals were commemorated
by these good people at the Baron's expense; and when
they were filled with good cheer, they would declare that
there was nothing on earth so delightful as these family
meetings, these jubilees of the heart.

The Baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and
it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being
the greatest man in the little world about him. He
loved to tell long stories about the stark old warriors
whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls
around, and he found no listeners equal to those who fed
at his expense. He was much given to the marvellous,
and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales with
which every mountain and valley in Germany abounds.
The faith of his guests exceeded even his own: they listened
to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth,
and never failed to be astonished, even though repeated
for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von
Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch
of his little territory, and happy, above all things, in the
persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age.

At the time of which my story treats there was a
great family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the
utmost importance. It was to receive the destined bridegroom
of the Baron's daughter. A negociation had been
carried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria,
to unite the dignity of the two houses by the marriage
of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted
with proper punctilio. The young people were
betrothed without seeing each other; and the time was
appointed for the marriage ceremony. The young Count
Von Altenburgh had been recalled from the army for
the purpose, and was actually on his way to the Baron's
to receive his bride. Missives had even been received
from him from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally
detained, mentioning the day and hour when he might
be expected to arrive.

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him
a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked
out with uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended
her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning
about every article of her dress. The young lady had taken

the advantage of their contest to follow the bent
of her own taste; and fortunately it was a good one. She
looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire; and
the flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of her
charms.

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the
gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost
in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on
in her little heart. The aunts were continually hovering
around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take great
interest in affairs of this nature. They were giving her
a world of staid council how to deport herself, what to
say, and in what manner to receive the expected lover.

The Baron was no less buried in preparations. He
had, in truth nothing exactly to do; but he was naturally
a fuming bustling little man, and could not remain
passive when all the world was in a hurry. He
worried from top to bottom of the castle with an air of
infinite anxiety; he continually called the servants from
their work to exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about
every hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate
as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day.

In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed, the
forests had rung with the clamour of the huntsman; the
kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had
yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wine and Ferne-wein;
and even the great Heidelburg tun had been laid under
contribution. Every thing was ready to receive the distinguished
guests with Saus und Braus in the true spirit
of German hospitality—but the guest delayed to make
his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun that
poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the
Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of the
mountains. The Baron mounted the highest tower, and
strained his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of
the Count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld
them; the sound of horns came floating from the
valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A number
of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along
the road; but when they had nearly reached the foot of
the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction.
The last ray of sunshine departed—the bats
began to flit by in the twilight—the road grew dimmer
and dimmer to the view; and nothing appeared stirring

in it, but now and then a peasant lagging homeward from
his labour.

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a
different part of the Odenwald.

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing
his route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a
man travels towards matrimony when his friends have
taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his
hands, and a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a
dinner at the end of his journey. He had encountered
at Wurtzburg, a youthful companion in arms, with whom
he had seen some service on the frontiers; Hermon Von
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest
hearts, of German chivalry, who was now returning from
the army. His father's castle was not far distant from
the old fortress of Landshort, although an hereditary
feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers to each
other.

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and
the Count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials
with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose
charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions.

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction,
they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together;
and that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from
Wurtzburg, at an early hour, the Count having given directions
for his retinue to follow and overtake him.

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of
their military scenes and adventures; but the Count was
apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed
charms of his bride, and the felicity that awaited
him.

In this way they had entered among the mountains of
the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely
and thickly wooded passes. It is well known that
the forests of Germany have always been as much infested
by robbers as its castles by spectres; and at this
time, the former were particularly numerous, from the
hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering about the country.
It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that
the Cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers,
in the depth of the forest. They defended themselves

with bravery, but were nearly overpowered, when the
Count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of
them the robbers fled, but not until the Count had received
a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully
conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned
from a neighbouring convent, who was famous
for his skill in administering to both soul and body:
but half of his skill was superfluous; the moments of
the unfortunate Count were numbered.

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair
instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the
fatal cause of his not keeping his appointment with his
bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was
one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly
solicitous that this mission should be speedily and courteously
executed. “Unless this is done,” said he, “I
shall not sleep quietly in my grave!” He repeated these
last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a
moment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust
endeavoured to soothe him to calmness; promised
faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his
hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment,
but soon lapsed into delirium—raved about
his bride—his engagements—his plighted word;
ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of
Landshort; and expired in the fancied act of vaulting
into the saddle.

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh, and a soldier's tear, on
the untimely fate of his comrade; and then pondered on
the awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was
heavy, and his head perplexed; for he was to present
himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to
damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes.
Still there were certain whisperings of curiosity in his
bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen,
so cautiously shut up from the world; for he was a passionate
admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity
and enterprise in his character that made him
fond of all singular adventures.

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements
with the holy fraternity of the convent for the
funeral solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried
in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious
relatives; and the mourning retinue of the Count
took charge of his remains.

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient
family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient
for their guest, and still more for their dinner; and to
the worthy little Baron, whom they left airing himself on
the watch-tower.

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet,
which had been delayed from hour to hour, could no
longer be postponed. The meats were already overdone;
the cook in agony; and the whole household had the
look of a garrison that had been reduced by famine.
The Baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the
feast without the presence of the guest. All were seated
at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the
sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the
approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old
court of the castle with its echoes, and were answered by
the warder from the walls. The Baron hastened to receive
his future son-in-law.

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger
was before the gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier,
mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale,
but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately
melancholy. The Baron was a little mortified that
he should have come in this simple, solitary style. His
dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to
consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion,
and the important family with which he was to
be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the
conclusion that it must have been youthful impatience
which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his
attendants.

“I am sorry,” said the stranger, “to break in upon
you thus unseasonably—”

Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of compliments
and greetings; for to tell the truth, he prided himself
upon his courtesy and his eloquence. The stranger
attempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words,
but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow
on. By the time the Baron had come to a pause, they
had reached the inner court of the castle; and the stranger
was again about to speak, when he was once more
interrupted by the appearance of the female part of the
family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride.
He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced; it seemed

as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and
rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts
whispered something in her ear; she made an effort to
speak; her moist blue eye was timidly raised; gave a shy
glance of inquiry on the stranger; and was cast gain on
the ground. The words died away; but there was a
sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling
of the cheek that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory.
It was impossible for a girl at the fond age
of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony,
not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier.

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no
time for parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred
all particular conversation until the morning, and
led the way to the untasted banquet.

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around
the walls hung the hard favoured portraits of the
heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen and the trophies
which they had gained in the field and in the chase.
Hacked corslets, splintered jousting spears, and tattered
banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare;
the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned
horribly among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge
pair of antlers branched accidentally over the head of the
youthful bridegroom.

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or
the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but
seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed
in a low tone that could not be overheard—for
the language of love is never loud; but where is the female
ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whisper
of the lover? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity
in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful effect
upon the young lady. Her colour came and went
as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she
made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned
away, she would steal a side-long glance at his romantic
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness.
It was evident that the young couple were completely
enamoured. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the
mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in
love with each at first sight.

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the
guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend
upon light purses and mountain air. The Baron

told his best and longest stories, and never had he told
them so well, or with such great effect. If there was
any thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment;
and if any thing facetious, they were sure to
laugh exactly in the right place. The Baron, it is true,
like most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke
but a dull one; it was always enforced, however, by a
bumper of excellent hocheimer; and even a dull joke, at
one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible.
Many good things were said by poorer and keener
wits, that would not bear repeating, except on similar
occasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that
almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a
song or two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced
cousin of the Baron, that absolutely made the maiden
aunts hold up their fans.

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained
a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance
assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening
advanced; and, strange as it may appear, even the Baron's
jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy.
At times he was lost in thought, and at times
there was a perturbed and restless wandering of the eye
that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations
with the bride became more and more earnest and mysterious.
Louring clouds began to steal over the fair serenity
of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender
frame.

All this could not escape the notice of the company.
Their gaiety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of
the bridegroom; their spirits were infected; whispers
and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs
and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the
laugh grew less and less frequent; there were dreary
pauses in the conversation, which were at length succeeded
by wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismal
story produced another more dismal, and the Baron nearly
frightened some of the ladies into hystericks with the history
of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair
Leonora; a dreadful but true story, which has since been
put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by all
the world.

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention.
He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Baron,
and as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise

from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the Baron's
entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a
giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a
deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company.
They were all amazement. The Baron was perfectly
thunderstruck.

“What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why,
every thing was prepared for his reception; a chamber
was ready for him if he wished to retire.”

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously;
“I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night!”

There was something in this reply, and the tone in
which it was uttered, that made the Baron's heart misgive
him; but he rallied his forces and repeated his hospitable
entreaties.

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at
every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company,
stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were
absolutely petrified—the bride hung her head, and a tear
stole to her eye.

The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of
the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth,
and snorting with impatience.—When they had reached
the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a
cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the Baron in
a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered
still more sepulchral.

“Now that we are alone,” said he, “I will impart to
you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable
engagement—”

“Why,” said the Baron, “cannot you send some one in
your place?”

“It admits of no substitute—I must attend it in person—
I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral—”

“Ay,” said the Baron, plucking up spirit, “but not
until to-morrow—to-morrow you shall take your bride
there.”

“No! no!” replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity,
“my engagement is with no bride—the worms!
the worms expect me! I am a dead man—I have been
slain by robbers—my body lies at Wurtzburg—at midnight
I am to be buried—the grave is waiting for me—I
must keep my appointment!”

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge,

and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in
the whistling of the night blast.

The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation,
and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted
outright, others sickened at the idea of having banqueted
with a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that
this might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend.
Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons,
and of other supernatural beings, with which the good people
of Germany have been so grievously harassed since
time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured
to suggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the
young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice
seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage.
This, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole
company, and especially of the Baron, who looked upon
him as little better than an infidel; so that he was fain
to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into
the faith of the true believers.

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained,
they were completely put an end to by the arrival, next
day, of regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the
young Count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg
cathedral.

The dismay at the castle may be well imagined. The
Baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests,
who had come to rejoice with him, could not think of
abandoning him in his distress. They wandered about
the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking
their heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles
of so good a man; and sat longer than ever at table, and
ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping
up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride
was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before
she had even embraced him—and such a husband! if
the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what
must have been the living man? She filled the house with
lamentations.

On the night of the second day of her widowhood she
had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her
aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt,
who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all
Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest,
and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber
was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The

niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising
moon as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree before
the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled midnight,
when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden.
She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly
to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows
of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight
fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld
the Spectre Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that moment
burst upon her ear, and her aunt who had been awakened
by the music, and had followed her silently to the window,
fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre
had disappeared.

Of the two females, the aunt required the most soothing,
for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As
to the young lady, there was something, even in the spectre
of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still
the semblance of manly beauty; and though the shadow
of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of
a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had,
even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would
never sleep in that chamber again; the niece, for once
was refractory, and declared as strongly, that she would
sleep in no other in the castle: the consequence was, that
she had to sleep in it alone; but she drew a promise from
her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she
should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on
earth—that of inhabiting the chamber over which the
guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils.

How long the good old lady would have observed this
promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the
marvellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to
tell a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the
neighbourhood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy,
that she kept it to herself for a whole week; when she was
suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence
brought to the breakfast table one morning that
the young lady was not to be found. Her room was
empty—the bed had not been slept in—the window was
open, and the bird had flown!

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence
was received, can only be imagined by those who
have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great
man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations
paused for a moment from the indefatigable labours of the

trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been struck
speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, “The
goblin! the goblin! she's carried away by the goblin!”

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the
garden, and concluded that the spectre must have carried
off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the
opinion, for they heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs
down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt
that it was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her
away to the tomb. All present were struck with the
direful probability; for events of the kind are extremely
common in Germany, as many well authenticated histories
bear witness.

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron!
What a heart-rending dilemna for a fond father,
and a member of the great family of Katzenellenbogen!
His only daughter had either been wrapt away to the
grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law,
and, perchance, a troop of goblin grand children!
As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle
in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse,
and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald.
The Baron himself had just drawn on his jackboots,
girded on his sword, and was about to mount his
steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was
brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was
seen approaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended
by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to
the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the Baron's
feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter,
and her companion—the Spectre Bridegroom! The
Baron was astonished. He looked at his daughter, then
at the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his
senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in
his appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits.
His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly
symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy.
His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth,
and joy rioted in his large dark eye.

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier, (for
in truth, as you must have known all the while, he was
no goblin,) announced himself as Sir Hermon Von Starkenfaust.
He related his adventure with the young
Count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to
deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of

the Baron had interrupted him in every attempt to tell
his tale. How the sight of the bride had completely
captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her,
he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How
he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent
retreat, until the Baron's goblin stories had suggested
his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility
of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth—had
haunted the garden beneath the young lady's window—
had wooed—had won—had borne away in triumph—
and, in a word, had wedded the fair.

Under any other circumstances, the Baron would
have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal
authority, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but
he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he
rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband
was of a hostile house, yet, thank heaven, he was not a
goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged,
that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity,
in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his
being a dead man; but several old friends present, who
had served in the wars, assured him that every stratagem
was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to
especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper.

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at
the castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed
this new member of the family with loving-kindness; he
was so gallant, so generous—and so rich. The aunts, it
is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of
strict seclusion, and passive obedience, should be so badly
exemplified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not
having the windows grated. One of them was particularly
mortified at having her marvellous story marred, and
that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a
counterfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having
found him substantial flesh and blood—and so the story
ends.