gamekeeper is no coward. Many a dark night have I passed alone in the mountain woods, in spite of old Rübezahl and his imps, and the Wild Huntsman to boot; but in this tower I would not sleep alone, for all my lady’s broad lands.”
“What, Caspar!” I exclaimed, “an old woodsman, like you, afraid to sleep where my aunt and cousins slept every night last summer?”
“Ay, ay, Major!” muttered the old man, “the castle was quiet enough then; but since the death of my Lady Cecilia, strange sights and sounds have been heard here; and you may take my word for it, that the Lady Leah, who murdered her child, is not yet quiet in her grave.”
The old man then lighted my tapers with his lantern, commended me cordially to the protection of Heaven, and departed, leaving me considerably less pleased with my quarters than when I had seen them by the rich and cheering light of sunset. The consciousness of utter solitude, at such an hour, and in such a place, began to infect me with the superstitious fears of old Caspar, and the solemn stillness of the lofty and dimly lighted Gothic room, interrupted only by an occasional and distant roll of thunder, made me feel something very like repentance, that I had exchanged the modern mansion of my aunt for this old robber’s nest on a mountain crag. During the struggle which released Germany from the iron grasp of Napoleon, I had stared death in the face too often to fear any danger from human agency, and a liberal education in Prussia had raised me above any apprehension of supernatural sounds and appearances; but as I sat alone near midnight, in this old tower, and recollected my immediate vicinity to the sepulchre, and the baron’s hall, the grim picture of the dying Bruno, and the still more appalling portrait of the pallid nun and her bleeding infant, I felt the necessity of banishing from my thoughts a crowd of images which would inevitably murder sleep; and, exchanging my tight uniform for a light dressing-gown, I bolted the door, snuffed my candles, and looked around for a book, with which to beguile an hour, and induce a more tranquil train of thought. In a small recess between the windows I discovered a few books, one of which I eagerly opened, and found a collection of hymns, treating upon death and eternity. I closed it, and opened another entitled, “An Essay on Death.” A third was, “The Solace of Old Age and Infirmity.” This was a most unpalatable collection for a reader in quest of worldly associations; but at length I discovered a small volume, curiously bound in black velvet, and containing more mundane matter. It was an historical detail of the Order of Knights Templars, printed in ancient black letter; and, according to the title-page, from a rare and curious manuscript of the thirteenth century. Having been always prone to the study of history, this little book would have been a prize under any circumstances; but as the solace of a sleepless night, in this lonely tower, it was above all price, and I sat down with eager impatience, to peruse it. Opening it accidentally at the chapter describing the ceremonies of the order, I recognised with surprise and delight the name of a valiant ancestor of my own, whose deeds shine brightly in the history of Germany’s middle ages. I knew not, however, that he had in middle life become a knight of this order, until I here discovered a detailed account of an imposing funeral service, performed over his remains at Prague in the year 1190. To be reminded of this great man’s death, and to read of his funeral at such an hour, and in a place fraught with sepulchral associations, were somewhat singular coincidences, and with strong and growing excitement, I read as follows.
“The temple walls were covered with black cloth, and on a trestle in the centre of the church was placed the coffin, containing the mortal remains of the departed knight. Nine skeletons stood near the coffin, each bearing a lamp, which threw a dim religious light over the lower part of the spacious edifice, leaving the higher portion in deep shadow. Upon the upper end of the coffin lid, lay a chaplet of white roses, below which were the insignia of the order, and the sword of the deceased Templar; and upon a table near the coffin was a skull surrounded by seven large candle-sticks, moulded like sphinxes, but bearing no lights. The Grand Master, followed by seven Knights Preceptors, seven Knights Companions,
