look, turned his head and said quietly—
“It’s old Irmengarde, the old teller of legends. She is waiting to die till the old tower falls into the torrent.”
Uncle Bernard, stupefied, looked at the woodman; he did not seem inclined to joke; on the contrary, he looked serious.
“Come, Christian,” said the good man, “you mean to have your joke.”
“Joke! no indeed, old and feeble as you see her, that old woman knows everything; the spirit of the ruins is in her. She was living when the old lords of the castle lived.”
Now my old uncle was very nearly falling backwards at this astounding disclosure.
“But what do you mean?” he cried; “the castle of Nideck has been down these thousand years!”
“What if it was two thousand years?” said the woodman, making the sign of the cross as a new flash lighted up the valley; “what does that prove? The spirit of the ruins lives in her. A hundred and eight years Irmengarde has lived with this spirit in her. Before her it was in old Edith of Haslach; before Edith in some other—”
“Do you believe that?”
“Do I believe it! It is as sure, Master Bernard, as that the sun will be back in three hours’ time. Death is night, life is day. After night comes day, then night again, and so on without end. The sun is the soul of the sky, the great spirit that is in us all, and the souls of the saints are like the stars which shine in the night, and which will never cease to return.”
Bernard Hertzog replied not another word, but having risen, he began suspiciously to consider the aspect of that aged woman, who sat still in a niche carved out of the rock. He noticed above the niche some rough carving on the stone representing three trees with their branches touching, and forming a sort of crown; lower down were three toads cut in the granite. Three trees are the arms of the Tribocci (dreien büchen), three toads are the arms of the Merovingian kings.
What was the surprise of the old chronicler! Covetousness now took the place of alarm.
“Here,” thought he, “is the oldest monument of the Frankish race in Gaul. That old woman reminds me of some fallen queen, left here a relic of ages long gone by. But how am I to carry the niche away?”
He began to consider.
Then was heard far away in the woods the trampling of the hoofs of many cattle and deep bellowing. The rain fell faster; the flashes of lightning, like flights of frightened birds in the dark, touched each other by the tips of their wings; one never waited for another to be gone, and the rolling of the thunder became incessant and terrible.
Soon the storm reached the very gorge of Nideck and hung over it closely, and swooped down with implacable fury; the explosions succeeded each other without intermission. It seemed as if the very mountains were falling.
At every fresh crash Uncle Bernard shrank, feeling as if the lightning were coming down his back.
“The first Triboceus who built a hut to cover his head was no fool,” thought he. “He was a sensible man, with some experience of atmospheric changes. What would have become of us in this emergency had we not a roof over our heads? We should be greatly to be pitied. The invention of that Triboccus was quite as useful as that of the steam-engine; what a pity his name is not known!”
The worthy man had scarcely concluded his reflections when a young maiden of sixteen, wearing a very wide-brimmed straw hat, her white skirts dripping with rain and her little bare feet covered with sand, advanced to the doorstep, and said—
“The Lord bless you!”
“Amen,” answered Christian solemnly.
This young girl was of the purest Scandinavian type, with cheeks of rose pink upon a face of pure whiteness, and long waving tresses, so fair and so silky that the finest wheat straw would hardly bear comparison with it. Her figure was tall and slender, and her blue eyes beamed with inexpressible sweetness.
Maître Bernard stood a few moments in rapt admiration, and the woodman, kindly addressing the young girl, said—
“I am glad to see you, Fuldrade. Irmengarde is still asleep. What a storm it is! Is it coming to an end yet?”
“Yes, the wind is driving it down to the plain. It will be over before daylight.”
Then, without looking at Maître Bernard, she went to sit before the old woman, who now seemed to revive.
“Fuldrade,” she murmured, “is the great tower yet standing?”
“Yes.”
The aged woman bowed her head, and her lips moved.
After the last thunderclaps the rain fell in torrents. All down the valley was heard an incessant loud beating of falling sheets of rain, and the rushing of the swollen stream, then, at intervals, after a brief cessation of rain, again the heavier dashing of repeated and more violent showers.
Between the heavy showers the tinkling which Uncle Bernard had distinguished in the distance when he awoke gradually became more distinct, and at last arrived under the window of the hut, and almost immediately five long-horned head of beautiful cows, spotted equally with white and black, appeared at the door.
“Why! here’s Waldine!” cried Christian, laughing; “she is looking for you, Fuldrade.”
The gentle creature calmly and quietly came straight in, and seemed to examine old Irmengarde.
“Go away!” cried Fuldrade; “go along with the others!”
And the obedient heifer turned back to the cabin door.
But the falling floods seemed to give her matter for reflection, for she stood quietly there, contemplating the deluge, and slowly swinging her beautiful head, lowing in a deep, subdued tone.
The fresh air was now penetrating the hut and bringing with it the sweet perfumes of honeysuckle and wild roses, excited by the freshening rain. All the birds in the woods—redbreasts, thrushes, and blackbirds—formed a concert under the trees; the air was filled with the little love-tales of the happy birds and the fluttering of their eager wings.
Then Maître Bernard, recovering from his reverie, took a few paces outside, raised his eyes, and contemplated the white and fleecy clouds hastily crossing the still troubled sky. On the hill opposite he could see the whole herd of cattle, all lying sheltered beneath the overhanging rocks, some lazily extended, their knees bent beneath them, with sleepy eyes; others, with neck outstretched, lowing solemnly. A few young animals were gazing at the hanging festoons of honeysuckle, and seemed to enjoy the balmy air that wafted from them.
All these diverse forms and attitudes stood clearly out upon the reddish background of the rock; and the immense expanded vault of the cavern, with its setting of oak and pine whose twisted roots appeared where they had pierced through the rock, gave a majestic air of grandeur to the spectacle.
“Well, Maître Bernard,” cried Christian, “it is broad daylight; had we not better start?”
Then, speaking to Fuldrade, who seemed buried in thought—
“Fuldrade, this old
