awaking the distant, far-off echoes amongst the mountains, that has in it a poetic element that stirs up the depths of the soul.
Leaning upon my elbow in my bear-skin I lay listening to the plaintive sound, which suggested something of the feudal ages. The contemplation of my chamber, the ancient den of the Wolf of Nideck, with its low, dark arch, threatening almost to come down to crush the occupant; and further on that small leaden window, just touching the ceiling, more wide than high, and deeply recessed in the wall, added to the reality of the impression.
I arose quickly and ran to open the window wide.
Then presented itself to my astonished eyes such a wondrous spectacle as no mortal tongue, no pen of man, can describe—the wide prospect that the eagle, the denizen of the high Alps, sweeps with his far reaching ken every morning at the rising of the deep purple veil that overhung the horizon by night mountains farther off! mountains far away! and yet again in the blue distance—mountains still, blending with the grey mists of the morning in the shadowy horizon!—motionless billows that sink into peace and stillness in the blue distance of the plains of Lorraine. Such is a faint idea of the mighty scenery of the Vosges, boundless forests, silver lakes, dazzling crests, ridges, and peaks projecting their clear outlines upon the steel-blue of the valleys clothed in snow. Beyond this, infinite space!
Could any enthusiasm of poet or skill of painter attain the sublime elevation of such a scene as that?
I stood mute with admiration. At every moment the details stood out more clearly in the advancing light of morning; hamlets, farm-houses, villages, seemed to rise and peep out of every undulation of the land. A little more attention brought more and more numerous objects into view.
I had leaned out of my window rapt in contemplation for more than a quarter of an hour when a hand was laid lightly upon my shoulder; I turned round startled, when the calm figure and quiet smile of Gideon saluted me with—
“Guten Tag, Fritz! Good morning!”
Then he also rested his arms on the window, smoking his short pipe. He extended his hand and said—
“Look, Fritz, and admire! You are a son of the Black Forest, and you must admire all that. Look there below; there is Roche Creuse. Do you see it? Don’t you remember Gertrude? How far off those times seem now!”
Sperver brushed away a tear. What could I say?
We sat long contemplating and meditating over this grand spectacle. From time to time the old poacher, noticing me with my eyes fixed upon some distant object, would explain—
“That is the Wald Horn; this is the Tiefenthal; there’s the fall of the Steinbach; it has stopped running now; it is hanging down in great fringed sheets, like the curtains over the shoulder of the Harberg—a cold winter’s cloak! Down there is a path that leads to Fribourg; in a fortnight’s time it will be difficult to trace it.”
Thus our time passed away.
I could not tear myself away from so beautiful a prospect. A few birds of prey, with wings hollowed into a graceful curve sharp-pointed at each end, the fan-shaped tail spread out, were silently sweeping round the rock-hewn tower; herons flew unscathed above them, owing their safety from the grasp of the sharp claws and the tearing beak to the elevation of their flight.
Not a cloud marred the beauty of the blue sky; all the snow had fallen to earth; once more the huntsman’s horn awoke the echoes.
“That is my friend Sébalt lamenting down there,” said Sperver. “He knows everything about horses and dogs, and he sounds the hunter’s horn better than any man in Germany. Listen, Fritz, how soft and mellow the notes are! Poor Sébalt! he is pining away over monseigneur’s illness; he cannot hunt as he used to do. His only comfort is to get up every morning at sunrise on to the Altenberg and play the count’s favourite airs. He thinks he shall be able to cure him that way!”
Sperver, with the good taste of a man who appreciates beautiful scenery, had offered no interruption to my contemplations; but when, my eyes dazzled and swimming with so much light, I turned round to the darkness of the tower, he said to me—
“Fritz, it’s all right; the count has had no fresh attack.”
These words brought me back to a sense of the realities of life.
“Ah, I am very glad!”
“It is all owing to you, Fritz.”
“What do you mean? I have not prescribed yet.”
“What signifies? You were there; that was enough.”
“You are only joking, Gideon! What is the use of my being present if I don’t prescribe?”
“Why, you bring him good luck!”
I looked straight at him, but he was not even smiling!
“Yes, Fritz, you are just a messenger of good; the last two years the lord had another attack the next day after the first, then a third and a fourth. You have put an end to that. What can be clearer?”
“Well, to me it is not so very clear; on the contrary, it is very obscure.”
“We are never too old to learn,” the good man went on. “Fritz, there are messengers of evil and there are messengers of good. Now that rascal Knapwurst, he is a sure messenger of ill. If ever I meet him as I am going out hunting I am sure of some misadventure; my gun misses fire, or I sprain my ankle, or a dog gets ripped up!—all sorts of mischief come. So, being quite aware of this, I always try and set off at early daybreak, before that author of mischief, who sleeps like a dormouse, has opened his eyes; or else I slip out by a back way by the postern gate. Don’t you see?”
“I understand you very well, but your ideas seem to me very strange, Gideon.”
“You, Fritz,” he went on, without noticing my interruption, “you are a most excellent lad; Heaven has covered your head with innumerable blessings; just one glance at your jolly countenance, your frank, clear eyes, your good-natured smile, is enough to make any one happy. You positively bring good luck with you. I have always said so, and now would you like to have a proof?”
“Yes, indeed I should. It would be worth while to know how much there is in me without my having any knowledge of it.”
“Well,” said he, grasping my wrist, “look down there!”
He pointed to a hillock at a couple of gunshots from the castle.
“Do you see there a rock half-buried in the snow, with a ragged bush by its side?”
“Quite well.”
“Do you see anything near?”
“No.”
“Well, there is a reason for that. You have driven away the Black Plague! Every year at the second attack there she was holding her feet between her hands. By night she lighted a fire; she warmed herself and boiled roots. She bore a curse with her. This morning the very first thing which I did was to get up here. I climbed up the beacon tower; I looked well all round; the old hag was nowhere to be seen. I shaded my eyes with my hand. I looked up and down, right and left, and everywhere; not a sign of the creature anywhere. She had scented you evidently.”
And
