The Scots Magazine/Volume 94/November 1824/The Twelve Nights

by Karl Borromäus von Miltitz

THE TWELVE NIGHTS.

A Tale from the German of the Baron Carl Von Miltig.

“I can assure you, my dear master,” said John, as he went on with the story, “that infernal noise, which has been at rest now so long, has broke out again this year worse than ever—I myself last night—”

“Well, you saw something, I suppose,” said the chief master of the forests; “come, let’s hear all about it—what was it?”

“No, Sir, I did not see, to be sure, but then I heard it.”

“Oh! heard it—aye the old story—and when one asks what has been heard, it turns out to be some hollow knocking—or a rattling of chains, &c.—we know all about that already,—John, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“But, my dear master, when I heard it with my own ears—”

“Never mind your ears—they have played you false—eyes, ears, nose, every thing deserts a man when he is once fairly terrified—he hears, sees, and smells, exactly as his fright makes him. And now let us have done with this nonsense; you know I am sick of it—I could lay my life the whole turns out to be the work of some wretched cat, or a few martins. I remember my father (rest his soul!) was once annoyed with some of these noises. He put a pair of good hounds into the ghost’s room, and next day we had a whole family of martins lying on the floor. Some time after, a blockhead of a servant took it into his head to hear more noises—my father ordered him to receive twenty strokes with the cat-o’-nine-tails. I remember the whole hunt turned out to witness the execution. After that we heard no more of ghosts.”

“I daresay,” said John, grinning, “nobody would care to see any, after such a reception.” He saw, however, it was needless to contest the matter at the time: “besides,” thought John, “though it roar and bellow, what then? The wing is uninhabited, we need not disturb ourselves about the matter.” With this reflection, which he kept to himself, the old man left the room. He found several peasants waiting in the ante-chamber, who had business with Schirmwald, the head forest-master’s Secretary, and returned to announce them to his master.

“Send the Secretary here,” said he. “He is not in the office,” said John; “I saw him stepping across the court, with his music-books, to Miss Eleonora’s room, more than an hour ago. I daresay they are singing or playing together, for he was there the whole of yesterday afternoon. Shall I call him?” The Baron muttered to himself.

“The devil has certainly sent that cursed smooth-faced versemaker into my house. To think that this pale, moonshine-looking countenance of a fellow, without religion, and without conscience, should make its way into a girl’s heart, and such a girl as my Eleonora. And is it possible that, for him, the noble, excellent Saalburg should be forgotten? Oh, woman! woman!—But I will expose the fellow—I will open her eyes—or my name is not Neideck.”

The Baron, who had a bad custom of speaking before he thought, was promising more than he found it easy to perform. He was completely the slave of his daughter Eleonora, a beautiful girl, the image of his wife, with whom he had enjoyed eighteen years of uninterrupted happiness. Whatever Eleonora chose to command was done; he found it impossible to refuse her a single request, or to make use of a harsh word towards her. He saw the necessity, however, of exerting himself at present, and determined that Schirmwald should leave the house the moment that Saalburg, who had been fixed on, even from his childhood, as the husband of his daughter, should arrive. “Once let me see her Saalburg’s wife,” thought he, “and all will go well.”

The door opened. Tall and slender, with something of a sorrowful and solemn expression in her countenance, Eleonora Von Neideck entered the room. Her dignified air, her dark clustering locks, shadowing her pale countenance, and falling on her shoulders, gave her the appearance rather of a sybil than the daughter of a German nobleman. But in the midst of the grace which characterized her movements, an attentive observer might perceive something of a theatrical cast—an affected elevation of language and manner, which in some measure impaired the impression which the first glance was calculated to produce. She was dressed in a black velvet robe, fitted closely to her figure, and fastened round the waist by a rich gold band and clasp. Long white plumes trailed downwards from her dark hat, and in her hand she held a riding-switch.

“Whither so fast, my daughter?” said old Neideck, feeling his resolution melting away at the sight of this beautiful vision. “To the free air,” answered Eleonora; “I come to kiss your hand.” “Oh, you are going to ride,” said the father;—“quite alone?” “Schirmwald goes with me; you need be under no apprehensions.” “Really!” “He who once saved me,” continued Eleonora with dignity, raising her dark melancholy eyes to heaven, “who, at the peril of his own life preserved mine, may well be allowed to accompany me in a short ride.”

The chief keeper of his Majesty’s forests bit his lips. “Saalburg,” said he, “will be here immediately.” “You told me so yesterday.” “He loves you, Eleonora.” “You told me that too.” “And what will you say to him if it is so?” “I will tell him the truth.” “Of course—but what is that—yes or no?” “No, father.” “No! by Heaven!” He stopped for a moment. “You do not love Saalburg?” “Not at all.” “You love,—you love,—what the devil is the use of going about the bush—you love this Schirmwald. Is it not so?” “It is so,” said Eleonora, casting her eyes down.

“No, girl! It is not, it shall not be so—I shall bear it no longer. You forget your own honour and mine. It is the talk of the whole house: you sit, and sing, and harp, and make verses together continually. At first, I was pleased at your intercourse, for I thought it might be a means of improving your taste for music: I allowed the man who had been your preserver to be the companion of your amusements and your walks; but I could not have suspected that your infatuation could ever have proceeded to this length, and I feared to warn you, lest the warning itself might increase the danger;—and thus it is that you reward my delicacy and my confidence! Leonora, you know I love you more than I can express—you know I hate all compulsion, all unnecessary exertion of authority; but make up your mind, dismiss Schirmwald—marry Saalburg.”

“Never, father,—my heart, my whole existence, are Schirmwald’s.”

“He is a miserable, deceitful wretch.” “Calumny—calumny—it is the lot of the great and the good.” “I have proofs, my daughter.” “Forgeries, framed by the malice of his enemies.” “But when you read the papers—” “I shall not believe them.”

There was a moment’s pause. The Baron resumed—“Promise me, at least, that Saalburg—” “O see, father,” said Eleonora, interrupting the request, “see how impatiently my pony arches his delicate neck, and beats with his hoofs on the ground to call me! And this clear, sparkling sun, and this blue heaven, and every thing so smiling, I can stay no longer.”

She was gone. In a few moments the Baron saw her flying through the gate, with Schirmwald by her side. “There they go,” cried the old man, “and I am left alone.” A tear gathered in his eye. “Accursed delusion, that thus expels from the heart its best, and purest, and dearest feelings!”

He continued in deep thought, till the sound of a carriage awakened him from his reverie. He looked down into the court. A cavalier sprung out. “Saalburg!” cried the old man, in an extacy of delight; “it is he himself!” and he ran down stairs like lightning.

“Welcome, my dear, excellent young friend—welcome! Whom have you brought with you?” “Frau von Rehfield, most excellent forest-master?” “Is it possible? What! my sister, and Miss Rose, and Miss Lise, and all of them!” “Dear brother,” “Dear uncle,” resounded from all sides. “Paul, Christian, John,” bawled Neideck; “where are all the fellows?”

The whole household soon surrounded the carriage, and found ample employment in unloading its contents. Besides the human inhabitants of the ponderous vehicle, a cat, two lap-dogs, a canary bird in a cage, and a whole pile of trunks and band-boxes, were dug out. At last, At last, however, the whole party were safely landed.

“Where is Leonora—where is our dear cousin?” cried all of them, speaking at once. Her father was just commencing an apology, when she galloped up to the door. She welcomed her visitors, and while she thus gave way to the natural ease of disposition, she was enchanting. Saalburg could not withdraw his eyes from her beauty. She, too, seemed at first a little surprised to see the raw, wild stripling changed into a handsome man; but that emotion seemed to disappear, and she took no further notice of him. The father seemed only to admire him the more. His graceful figure, his countenance, in which sweetness was blended with firmness, his good humour and strong feeling, tempered by a knowledge of the world, enchanted the old man. He was determined that no other person should be the husband of Eleonora, and felt almost distracted with anxiety, till he should find an opportunity of tellling him how matters stood. He had not long to wait, for the young man was as impatient as himself. But what were Saalburg’s feelings, when the Baron informed him, that all the old ties of youth between him and Eleonora were dissolved, and that another now possessed her affections! Pride and anger contended in his heart, when he learned who it was that Leonora thus preferred to him. But Saalburg was prudent, as well as noble and honourable. Before deciding on his plans, he wished to know from the Baron whether there was any thing to be hoped for. Neideck told him, that, during the disturbances occasioned by the war, Leonora had been sent to reside with a relation in town, the young wife of old Count Horst; that, during her residence there, the round of idle amusements in which she mingled, the flatteries to which she was constantly exposed, and the influence of fashionable example, had entirely altered the native artlessness and modesty of her character. The tenderness of her feelings had disappeared,—she had become cold and affected,—the country wearied her,—the affection of her father she seemed to receive almost with indifference; she was also at that critical period when the heart must have employment.

By powerful recommendations, Schirmwald had contrived to get admittance into her father’s house. He had heard of her beauty and her fortune, and was resolved to hazard every thing to make the lady his own.

Neideck had received more than one anonymous intimation of his views, but he had paid little attention to them, partly because he believed it almost impossible that Eleonora could forget Saalburg, or give pain to her father by any opposition to his choice, and partly because he thought it still more improbable that any danger was to be apprehended from such a man as Schirmwald. And yet this Schirmwald, vain, ignorant, selfish, and (as he had more lately had occasion to discover) unprincipled, had succeeded, by an affectation of peculiar softness of manner, and a pompous display of fine feeling, in captivating the unsuspecting heart of Leonora.

It happened, also, towards the end of autumn, that Schirmwald, during one of his walks near the castle, had the good fortune to rescue Eleonora from the attack of a marauding ruffian, who had assaulted her in the wood. From this moment, the heart of Eleonora seemed to glow with the fire of affection. She seemed to think that even the warmest love towards her deliverer could scarcely repay the service she had received. She would no longer hear of her marriage with Saalburg. She admitted the goodness of his disposition,—but he wanted mind, and mind alone could make her happy.

“My dear Saalburg,” said the Baron, as he concluded his recital, “so stands the case. You see you have little to hope. Eleonora’s character, and the strength of this passion, make me fear that opposition—” “Would be in vain,” cried Saalburg; “you know, my dear father, that passion was never cured by contradiction. If it is possible to win back Eleonora’s heart, it can only be by taking care that not the smallest symptom of my design should appear. Promise me then not to allude in any way to our union. My relationship will account for my staying here a month or two. In that time, I shall be able to ascertain what I have to expect.”

The Baron promised the strictest silence on the point, and after agreeing to communicate to each other any thing that should happen, they separated.

At Neideck, every one was master of his time. The Baron went about his ordinary employments, without concerning himself about the movements of his guests, to whom an excellent library, a billiard-room, and every convenience for walking, riding, or hunting, offered a constant fund of amusement. From breakfast-time, when they all met together, every one might employ himself as he pleased until two, when the sound of the hunting-horn summoned them to table. They enjoyed equal liberty during the afternoon, till they met again at eight o’clock to tea.

Saalburg saw Eleonora daily, and met her with an air of composure and indifference. During their rides, in which he occasionally accompanied her, he was attentive, but not officious; and he seemed to pay no attention to the marked distinction with which she treated Schirmwald. Thus the connection between them seemed to have subsided into the calm, easy intercourse of mere acquaintance and politeness. The aunt and the young ladies, however, were not disposed to take the matter so coolly, and Saalburg found considerable difficulty in prevailing on them to be silent, as to the long-proposed union, and to leave him quietly to mature his plans.

One evening, he observed that Eleonora had evidently been weeping. Her eyes appeared inflamed, and during the whole evening it was impossible to draw her into conversation.

He soon ascertained the cause from Neideck. The Baron, he found, had taken Schirmwald soundly to task, and had told him decidedly that he might look for another situation. Ill humour, and scarcely-concealed indignation, sat upon the Secretary’s brow when he appeared at table, and Eleonora seemed to share his feelings. Saalburg gave up every thing for lost.

Grieved to the heart at the consequences of the Baron’s impatience, he left the room. It was the close of a winter afternoon, as he directed his steps towards the waste and dreary park that surrounded the castle. The snow crisped and crackled under his feet, in the clear frosty air. The winter wind rustled through the bare boughs of the willows, where the ice-flakes now hung in place of the vanished leaves. The deep, melancholy stillness of Nature harmonized with his dejection. In this thoughtful mood he continued to saunter on till he reached a grove of dark pines, under whose boughs, still green amidst the surrounding desolation, a little hermitage had been erected, in which a figure, dressed like a hermit, and moved by some machinery in the floor, had been placed by the Baron. Saalburg entered. Scarcely had he set his foot in the little chapel, when the figure rose from its knees, nodded its head, and opened the large book which was lying before it. Aware as he was of the deception, Saalburg stepped back involuntarily. At that moment his eye rested on a folded paper placed between the leaves of the book. He opened it. “A secret correspondence” was the first idea that occurred to him. But what was his astonishment when he recognised Eleonora’s hand, and read the contents of the paper! “The idea of availing yourself of the common superstition of the Twelve Nights is excellent. You Fust, and I the Lady Venus! The terror in which the whole family will be placed will render it unnecessary for us to employ any other disguise than a white mantle. We shall take the road which tradition ascribes to the ghostly visitors. Let it be your care to provide horses. On new-year’s night at twelve I shall leave my chamber. The charge of imitating the uproar of the spirits I leave to you.

Saalburg stood for a moment to consider. The letter he saw must be allowed to reach its destination. Schirmwald, he had no doubt, would call for the paper, and he determined to continue in ambush till he should make his appearance. He pulled a withered branch from a tree, climbed up into one of the tall pines that overhung the hermitage, and effaced the traces of his footsteps behind him. It was twilight before any thing occurred to break the silence around him. At last a footfall was heard, but it sounded heavily, like that of some labourer or servant. “The devil himself,” cried a coarse, rough voice from below, “the devil himself only could find his letters in this dark hole; and after all, that rascal of a Secretary, perhaps, will never pay the postage. Prepare a horse indeed,—it is an easy matter for him to talk. He rides off, and leaves me to settle accounts behind him. But I am not such a fool as that, neither.”

Lightly and slowly Saalburg glided down the trunk of the fir-tree. The fellow had already pressed the spring on the floor, and the hermit had opened his book. At that instant Saalburg seized him by the throat, pressing him with a giant’s strength. “Silence, villain, or I will bury this dagger in your breast. You are lost, if I give you up to justice. I am the Baron Saalburg. Be candid; tell me every thing; conceal nothing, and I promise you twenty ducats.”

“O God! yes,—noble Baron,” whined out the poor wretch, “I will confess every thing,—I am the poor woodman in the village,—for God’s sake let me go,—you squeeze my breath out.”

“Not a step till I know every thing,” said Saalburg, throwing the struggling villain to the ground, and placing his dagger’s point against his breast; “speak this instant; and if you dare to betray me to the Secretary, by my soul I will strike you dead like a dog, and accommodate your wife and children with lodgings for life in the town prison.”

The man then confessed he had been employed by the Secretary to bring him the billet, and had been ordered, next night, at twelve o’clock, to have a horse saddled, and waiting behind the great oak in the park. As soon as the Secretary should come up to him with a lady veiled, and should give the word—“Give me the casket,” he was to rush out, throw a mantle over her head, and carry her into a neighbouring thicket, where he was to leave her. He was then to meet the Secretary next day in Kirchberg, across the borders, and receive his reward.

“And how came the Secretary to entrust you with this commission?” inquired Saalburg.

“Oh! because I was engaged in the former business.” “What was that?”

“About half-a-year ago, he made me purchase a uniform, and place myself, according to his directions, in the thicket near the Ellerbacher road. When Miss Eleonora came past the thicket, during her evening walk, I sallied out, and ran up to her, exclaiming, “Gold! gold!” Immediately Schirmwald, as had been arranged, came flying up, and attacked me; I took to flight. Eleonora called him her preserver, her good angel. The Secretary obtained the whole credit of having saved her. He got all he wanted. I got nothing. When I demanded my pay, he told me I was a year’s rent in arrear to my lord, and that if I held my tongue, he would give me credit for it in the reckoning,—if not, he would have me thrown into prison. What could I do? For the sake of my wife and children I was compelled to be silent.”

“You are a pair of precious rascals,” said Saalburg; “confound me if I know which most deserves the gallows. “Who is the lady whom the Secretary is to bring along with him to-morrow night?” “God knows,’ said the woodman; “some mistress or other; he has as many as there are sands on the sea shore.”

Saalburg breathed more freely, as he felt that the exposure of this wretch was now so near. “Take this letter,” said he, “to the Secretary, and tell him every thing is arranged. To show you that I intend to keep my word, take this purse. If you betray me, you know what you and yours have to expect. If you are honest, you shall receive your stipulated reward from me, the day after new-year’s-day, at the castle.”

Saalburg then let the man go, who departed with strong protestations of his honest intentions. He himself returned, slowly and pensively, to the castle, digesting in his own mind his plan of operations.

During tea, he kept his attention fixed on Eleonora, whose evident agitation did not escape his notice. The conversation, this evening, happened to turn on the great antiquity of the castle, and the strange-looking colossal statue of Fust von Neideck, over the entrance, which looked as if it had been set up there to frighten away all visitors. “Oh! my dear uncle,” cried Rosalie, “is it really true that Sir Fust and the Lady Venus walk about the castle? We have entered already on the twelve holy nights, and every evening I am in an agony.” “Stuff—nonsense—confounded lies,” muttered old Neideck. “But, uncle,” resumed the obstinate young lady, “my aunt’s maid—” “Aye, no doubt, she knows a great deal more of what takes place in my castle than I do.” Rosalie was silent for a moment. Her uncle resumed, in a milder key, “Well, tell us what she saw; I see you are dying to be out with it.” “Nothing, uncle, but she heard—” “Ho, ho! heard; the old story exactly. I wish to God I could hear no more of it!”

“But, brother,” cried Frau von Rehfield, who had been longing for some time to take a part in the discussion, “if there is really nothing in it, why put yourself in such a passion? People will think some family secret is concealed under it. The servants merely say, that there are noises and alarms in the house, during the twelve nights, and surely there can be no harm in saying so.”

“Aye but there is, good sister—I have no wish that the affairs of my house should form the subject of conversation in every alehouse. If this folly is not put an end to, the blockheads will go on frightening one another to death with their confounded ghost stories. Besides, I find that they make a handle of this to excuse a thousand faults and disorders.”

“My dear Baron,” said Saalburg, smiling, “I have little or no belief in stories of the kind. But that we may know at least what tradition really says about the matter, I think you had better tell us the story—Perhaps it will tend to remove Rosalie’s fright.”

“Be attentive, then, all of you,” said the Baron von Neideck, “and listen to the wonderful history of the Knight Fust and the Lady Venus, which took place, according to the best authorities, about the year 1109.

“Fust von Neideck was a wild huntsman, an approved sword and buckler man, and withal a most potent drinker. He became such a virtuoso in this last accomplishment, that his fame spread far and wide; and the consequence was, that in his thirtieth year, he could scarcely stand so steadily on two feet as other people on one.

“His unmarried sister, who lived with him, witnessed his progress in the art with great dismay, and often tormented him with her importunity to choose a wife from among the young ladies of the neighbourhood. She indulged the idea that the ties of love and parental affection would tend to weaken, in some measure, the influence of Bacchus. The Knight, however, was impregnable. He swore positively, that if the devil’s dam herself should make her appearance, or Lady Venus of the mountain were to offer him her hand, on the condition that he should reduce his establishment by a single cup of wine, he would hunt them from the castle.

“His sister was silent. The Knight, however, had his weak moments, like other men, and his sister her own share of cunning, like other women. She contrived that a young lady, a distant relation of the family, whose father had died shortly before, should pay a visit to the castle. Weeks and months rolled away, and still she was an inhabitant of Neideck Castle. In short, whether the beautiful Herminia had really captivated the old toper, or that his sister had plied him with love-potions instead of Rhenish, so it was, that in the course of half-a-year, Herminia was lady of Neideck, without Fust’s being ever able exactly to comprehend how the matter had taken place.

“The beauty of the fair bride must have been very powerful, or the love-philtres very strong, for Fust von Neideck actually continued sober for three days after the wedding. He thought himself entitled, however, to make up for this incredible abstinence, and, accordingly, on the fourth day, he caressed his pitcher more affectionately than ever. Herminia became indisposed—ill-humoured; the Knight waxed more outrageous and disagreeable. His sister made the last attempt upon his feelings, by presenting to him the infant daughter which his wife had brought him: she conjured him to treat Herminia with more mildness, and at all events to continue sober one day in seven. It was all in vain. He repulsed his sister as if it had been her fault that Herminia had not brought him a son, and swore by all that was holy, that he would console himself for the misfortune of having a wife and daughter by an incessant round of hunting and drinking.

Never was a vow better kept. Early next morning he got so deeply absorbed in meditation on the excellence of a flask of Rhenish, that his esquires found him speechless on the green before the door, in consequence of intense thought, which these irreverent knaves were impudent enough to call getting intoxicated with his subject. The instant the Knight awoke from his vinous reverie, he called for his bugle-horn and hunting spear, rode out into the wood—galloped about all day—and returned at night to renew his addresses to the flaggon; and so the time ran on.

One clear winter day he had wearied himself with fruitless pursuit of a bear, in the thickest part of the wood. Squires and dogs were equally at fault, and the overwearied horse of the Knight, who had separated from his party, would move no farther. It was mid-day. Grumbling at his bad fortune, the Knight dismounted, and led his horse by the bridle towards a spot which gleamed out greenly through the withered trees, the sun having melted the snow that covered it. As he came nearer, he heard the murmur of a small stream, which, purling along, under the shade of water-plants and hardy evergreens, dropped into a rocky basin, and whose lovely sparkling waters formed a striking contrast to the dead wintry stillness of the surrounding desolation.

Fust resolved to let his horse rest here for some time, and throw himself on the wet moss to enjoy a similar refreshment. But a burning thirst would not allow him to sleep. Wine was not to be had, and unexampled as such an incident in the Knight’s history, he was at last compelled to adopt the resolution of slaking his thirst with the pure element. But as he approached the brow of the small rock that overhung the basin, he saw beneath him, to his great surprise, a female figure, who seemed not to be aware of the presence of the intruder, for at the moment Fust approached, she had just dipped her delicate foot into the water, and evidently commenced her preparations for a cold bath. The beauty of the lady, and the strange time of the year she had chosen for that amusement, made the knight pause upon the brink. She turned her eyes towards him, and Fust felt as if blinded by her beauty. He had never beheld such dazzling loveliness. A sort of exclamation, which he found it impossible to repress, drew the attention of the lady upon him; but the boundless amazement which was visible in his gaping countenance did not appear to be displeasing to her. She seemed in no way disconcerted by the gaze of the Knight, whose intellectual powers, never very clear, seemed to be totally clouded by the suddeness and strangeness of the occurrence. His whole soul was concentrated in his eyes. ‘I know thee well,’ said the beautiful bather, with the most silvery tones; ‘thou art Fust von Neideck, the bravest Knight in the whole province. Shame on thee—eternal shame, that thou darest not follow me!’ ‘And why not?’ cried the enchanted toper. ‘Because thou art married,’ answered the lady, while her bosom heaved with a deep sigh. It never could have entered into the brain of Fust to conceive that his marriage could possibly stand in the way of any thing he chose to do; and he lost no time in assuring the lady that he was hers for life and death, and firmly resolved never to set his foot in Neideck again, if she should think it necessary. As a proof of his sincerity, he leaped down from the rock and offered her his glove. ‘Well, then,’ said the lady, ‘I receive thee for my knight. Ever-flowing cups, successful huntings, and the open arms of ever-blooming maidens, await thee! Know that I am the Lady Venus.

‘There in the forest my castle lies,
And swifter my steed than the night-wind flies.’

“She clasped hold of him, and mounted, along with him, a gigantic horse, with bat’s wings, and a head like a cat, which was pawing the ground beside them. Swift as a tempest, they flew across the park towards the mountain, which opened and closed upon the steed and its riders. One of Fust’s huntsmen, who had come up, and overheard at some distance the conversation between that temperate Knight and the Lady, brought the melancholy news to the castle. His sister, after having a colossal statue of her brother formed and placed above the entrance, died of grief. The fate of the lady and her infant daughter is not known. The older branches of the family of Neideck being extinct, by the death or disappearance of Fust, the estates came into the possession of the younger, from which I am descended. Once in every year, however, during the twelve holy nights, do the Knight and the Lady revisit the spot where they first met, and sometimes they even extend their call to the castle. And so ends the story.”

“A thousand thanks, my dear uncle,” cried Lisette, “a thousand thanks for your story; now I shall sleep more quietly—wild as Fust was, I am glad to hear he was not a murderous old ruffian, as I had heard. I thought every night I should see the door open, and some horrible figure come stalking in, with its face all over blood, and so on.” “Oh no—no!” cried Rosalie; “I had no fear of that, for you know the maid said the spirit goes always directly to Eleonora’s chamber, which it once inhabited.” “Excellent,” said old Neideck; “very authentic indeed, and from the correctness of this part of the story I think we may form a tolerable idea of the rest. Now, I tell you, that, according to the old tradition, the spectre goes directly to the old chamber in the second story, where the geneological tree hangs; from thence, through the door in the tapestry, down the concealed stair, into the vaulted passage that branches out under the park, and opens opposite to the Venus Mountain. As for Eleonora’s chamber, and all that part of the house, it is not easy to see how the ghost could have inhabited them, since they were only built about a century and a half ago. Good-night, my dear children—sleep quietly.” The old Baron took his pipe, rung for John, and marched off towards his bed-room.

The party broke up, leaving Saalburg highly pleased with his success. Without requiring to lead the conversation to the point, he had gained the information he wished. But in order to make sure of the localities, he resolved to reconnoitre the spot. As soon as midnight came, and the inhabitants of the castle were secure, some soundly sleeping, and others not daring to move, through terror, he set out, provided with his sword and a dark-lantern, towards the spot. He had scarcely traversed the passages which led to the place, and reached the chamber, when his attention was attracted by a hollow-sounding noise, sometimes broken by louder sounds, resembling the roaring of a tempest. Saalburg guessed at once that Schirmwald was taking this opportunity of practising his part against the following night. The noise came nearer. Sometimes it sounded like the tread of many heavy feet along the passage; then it would die away, and shortly again it recommenced, as if a whole body of cavalry had been reviewed in the room below. At last it seemed to enter the room. Saalburg extinguished his lantern, and bent down in a corner till the impostor should pass. The figure, such as he could distinguish it by the dim glimmer of the snow-light from without, was Schermwald’s. The figure passed, and in a few minutes all was quiet. Saalburg rose from his hiding-place, and moved lightly and cautiously back to his room. As he passed the window of the staircase, to enter his room, he saw a light in the Secretary’s apartment, opposite. “Aye,” said he to himself, “we have both got home at the same moment.”

The next morning was new-year’s-day. With a feeling of deep anxiety and impatience for the issue, Saalburg rose. The morning slipped away in friendly meetings and congratulations.

Eleonora was indisposed, and did not appear at dinner. Schirmwald recited, with much emphasis, a poem of his own composition, in which he wished his patron, the Baron, and his whole family, all possible good fortune! Saalburg stood in astonishment at the composure of the traitor. The old Baron took the matter seriously—seemed much affected by the Secretary’s effusion, and wished the whole party, Schirmwald included, many happy years, true friends, a good conscience, and every progress in the way of honour and good fortune. The nearer the important moment arrived, the heart of Saalburg beat more vehemently. They were summoned to tea, which was announced in Eleonora’s chamber. She was reclining on a sopha, with considerable traces of indisposition in her countenance. No one, however, but Saalburg, seemed to mark her agitated appearance. The dark locks descending upon a face deadly pale, the dark silk dress fastened to the throat, as if for travelling, the thick shawl thrown negligently over her shoulders, convinced him that every thing was prepared for flight. “It is the last night in her father’s house!” said he to himself, and it was fortunate that the imperfect light in the chamber concealed his agitation from Eleonora. He composed himself shortly, however, and approached, like the rest, to offer her his congratulations and good wishes. “I thank you, I thank you,” answered she with a faltering voice; “my heart tells me I shall need them all.”

The party separated early, to allow Eleonora to repose, after her illness. Saalburg flew to his chamber, buckled on his sword, took his lantern in his hand, and stepped gently towards the concealed staircase, determined to be first at his post.

When he entered the room, he looked eagerly around for the tapestry door leading to the stair, which he had unfortunately forgotten the day before to ascertain. His search was vain; the door was not to be found; and he found it would be necessary to wait till the door should be opened by the fugitives themselves. The first stroke of twelve sounded, and Saalburg, couching down in his ambush, concealed the lantern behind him. In a few minutes the uproar of the preceding night recommenced, and a congregation of horrible noises announced the approach of the modern ghost. A pale feeble light shone dimly on two figures clothed in white. Saalburg took a pistol from his bosom, and cocked it. They passed across the room. Schirmwald pressed a spring in the wall, and a door flew open. At that instant Saalburg stretched out his arm to seize him. The slight noise occasioned by this movement alarmed the Secretary, who started back a few steps, and perceived Saalburg. “We are betrayed!” cried he, and fired his pistol at the Baron. Saalburg felt himself wounded, but without hesitating an instant, returned the fire. With a loud groan, the Secretary dropped, and a large quantity of gold pieces was scattered on the floor. Overcome by loss of blood, and the agitation of his feelings, the Baron also sunk senseless on the ground.

He came to himself in a short time. Schirmwald’s lamp was burning by his side. His first glance was in search of Eleonora, who still lay immoveable on the ground. He raised her in his arms, without bestowing a thought on Schirmwald, and taking the lantern in his hand, he carried her to her chamber. The door was open. Her maids were fortunately still asleep. She soon recovered her senses. Saalburg would willingly have declined answering the questions she was disposed to put to him at that time.

“For Heaven’s sake, Baron Saalburg,” cried she, “one word only! Where is Schirmwald? What has happened to him?” “He fell by my hand,” answered the Baron, reluctantly. “Impossible! it cannot be! you are mistaken! Did you not see the spectre that met us at the entrance of the tapestry door?” “I saw nobody.” “The figure which drove me to a side, and as your ball whistled past my ear, seized on Schirmwald, dashed him down, and—” “My dear Eleonora, nothing of all this have I seen. Your overheated imagination has deceived you. Your pulse beats like lightning,—your senses wander. Be calm, I beseech you.” “Saalburg, say then at once, what do you know of the unfortunate Schirmwald?” “Only that he is a villain—an accomplished villain, whom I will unmask tomorrow.”

With these words, he left the room, and flew towards John’s chamber, whom he found awake. “In God’s name, Baron, what is the matter? You bleed. I heard a noise, but I did not dare to waken my master.” “Quick, my good friend, quick! Bind my arm, and then awaken the Baron.” Both commissions were executed immediately. “Ask no questions, my dear Neideck,” cried the Baron to the old man; “my wound is nothing; time is precious, follow me quick. John, light us to the chamber in the second story. I will tell you all as we go.”

The astonishment of the Baron, when he heard of Eleonora’s preservation, and the Secretary’s villany, was inexpressible. They came to the spot, but Schirmwald was gone. No traces of blood appeared, notwithstanding the dangerous wound, which, from his groans, Saalburg concluded he had received. Nothing was to be seen but Eleonora’s casket, which lay on the ground, and the gold which was scattered about the room. The door they could not find. Saalburg knew not what to think of the matter. One thing, however, was clear, that he had not to answer for the Secretary’s death.

Early next morning, Heubach the woodman appeared to claim his reward. He received the stipulated sum, after confessing, in the presence of the Baron and old John, the whole of his connection with the Secretary.

On looking over the forest-accounts, the sum which had been found scattered about the room the night before was ascertained to be wanting.

Neideck went to his daughter’s apartment, determined for once to tell her, without hesitation or disguise, the extent of her error; but he found it unnecessary. Full of shame and repentance, she threw herself at her father’s feet, and begged that he would allow her to retire into a convent. Neideck endeavoured to calm the enthusiast, and then proceed to acquaint her with Heubach’s disclosures, from which Schirmwald appeared in his true colours. Her confusion and remorse were indescribable. With tears of the deepest anguish, she threw herself on her father’s neck, who thanked God that his daughter was now again restored to him. Saalburg’s wound, and the delicacy which had induced him for some time to leave the castle, affected her deeply.

About three months afterwards, she requested her father to summon Saalburg to the castle. He flew thither immediately, on the wings of hope. Eleonora had laid aside all her affectation. “Saalburg,” said she, with a gentle blush, as he entered, “you know that I have loved; but I have expelled from my heart the traitor who robbed me of those feelings which ought to have been yours. If my heart has still any value in your eyes, take it with this hand, and with it my warmest esteem—my tenderest affection!”

Saalburg kissed the offered hand with delight. “Eleonora,” said he, “Fortune has lowered on me once; now I can bid defiance to her frowns.” And he pressed her to his heart.

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