"Look here," he said. It was a piece of grey mica-slate, containing the remains of a fish; the delicate outlines of which, were clearly visible. "That's what I have found at the foot of the Schiener mountain, when I went to look for the goat. That must come from the great flood, which Father Vincentius, once preached about; and this flood, the Lord of Heaven and Earth sent over the world, when he told Noah to build the big ship. Of all this, the woman of the wood knows nothing."

Hadumoth became thoughtful. "Then it must be her fault, that the stars did not fall into our lap. Let us go and complain of her, to the holy man."

So they went to Ekkehard, and told him all that they had beheld that night on the Hohenkrahen. He listened kindly to their tale, which he repeated to the d.u.c.h.ess in the evening. Dame Hadwig smiled.

"They have a peculiar taste, my faithful subjects," said she.

"Everywhere handsome churches have been erected, in which the Gospel is preached to them. Fine church-music, great festivals and processions through the waving corn-fields, with cross and flag at their head,--all this does not content them. So they must needs sit on their mountaintops in cold, chilly nights, not understanding what they're about, except that they drink beer. 'Tis really wonderful. What do you think of the matter, pious Master Ekkehard?"

"It is superst.i.tion," replied he, "which, the Evil One sows in weak and rebellions hearts. I have read in our books about the doings of the heathens, how they perform their idolatrous rites in dark woods; by lonely wells and even at the graves of their dead."

"But they are no longer heathens," said Dame Hadwig. "They are all baptized and belong to some parish-church. But nevertheless some of the old traditions still live among them; and though these have lost their meaning, they yet run through their thoughts and actions, as the Rhine does in winter, flowing noiselessly on, under the icy cover of the Bodensee. What would you do with them?"

"Annihilate them," said Ekkehard. "He who forsakes his christian faith and breaks the vows of his baptism, shall be eternally d.a.m.ned."

"Not so fast, my young zealot!" continued Dame Hadwig. "My good Hegau people are not to lose their heads, because they prefer sitting on the cold top of the Hohenkrahen, on the first night of November, to lying on their straw-mattresses. For all that, they do their duties well enough, and fought under Charlemagne against the heathenish Saxons, as if everyone of them had been a chosen combatant of the Church itself."

"With the Devil there can be no peace," cried Ekkehard hotly. "Are you going to be lukewarm in your faith, n.o.ble Mistress?"

"In reigning over a country," returned she with a slight sarcasm in her voice--"one learns a good deal that is not written down in books. Don't you know that a weak man is often more easily defeated by his own weakness, than by the sharpness of the sword? When the holy Gallus one day visited the ruins of Bregenz, he found the altar of St. Amelia destroyed, and in its place three metal idols erected; and around the great beer-kettle the men sat drinking; for this is a ceremony which is never omitted when our Suabians wish to show their piety in the old fashion. The holy Gallus did not hurt a single man amongst them; but he cut their idols to pieces, threw them into the green waves of the lake, and made a large hole into their beer-kettle. On this very spot he preached the Gospel to them, and when they saw that no fire fell down from the Heavens to destroy him, they were convinced that their G.o.ds were powerless, and so became converted. So you see that to be sensible is not to be lukewarm." ...

"That was in those times," began Ekkehard, but Dame Hadwig continued: "And now the Church has been established from the source of the Rhine to the North Sea, and far stronger than the ancient castles of the Romans, a chain of monasteries, fortresses of the christian faith, runs through the land. Even into the recesses of the Black-forest the Gospel has penetrated; so why should we wage war so fiercely against the miserable stragglers of the olden times?"

"Then you had better reward them," said Ekkehard bitterly.

"Reward them?" quoth the d.u.c.h.ess. "Between the one and the other, there is still many an expedient left. Perhaps it were better if we put a stop to these nightly trespa.s.ses. No realm can be powerful in which two different creeds exist, for that leads to internal warfare, which is rather dangerous, as long as there are plenty of outward enemies.

Besides, the laws of the land have forbidden them these follies, and they must find out, that our ordinances and prohibitions are not to be tampered with in that way."

Ekkehard did not seem to be satisfied yet; a shadow of displeasure being still visible on his countenance.

"Tell me," continued the d.u.c.h.ess, "what is your opinion of witchcraft in general?"

"Witchcraft," said Ekkehard seriously, taking a deep breath, which seemed to denote the intention of indulging in a longer speech than usual--"witchcraft is a d.a.m.nable art, by which human beings make treaties with the demons inhabiting the elements, whose workings in nature are everywhere traceable; rendering them subservient by these compacts. Even in lifeless things there are latent living powers, which we neither hear nor see, but which often tempt careless and unguarded minds, to wish to know more and to attain greater power, than is granted to a faithful servant of the Lord. That is the old sorcery of the serpent; and he, who holds communion with the powers of darkness, may obtain part of their power, but he reigns over the Devils by Beelzebub himself, and becomes his property, when his time is at an end. Therefore witchcraft is as old as sin itself, and instead of the one true faith, the belief in the Trinity reigning paramount, fortune-tellers and interpreters of dreams, wandering actors and expounders of riddles, still infest the world; and their partisans are to be found above all among the daughters of Eve."

"You are really getting polite!" exclaimed Dame Hadwig.

"For the minds of women," continued Ekkehard, "have in all times been curious and eager to attain forbidden knowledge. As we shall proceed with our reading of Virgil, you will see the excess of witchcraft embodied in a woman, called Circe, who pa.s.sed her days, singing, on a rocky headland. Burning chips, of sweet-scented cedar-wood, lighten up her dark chambers, where she is industriously throwing the shuttle, and weaving beautiful tapestry; but outside in the yard, is heard the melancholy roaring of lions and tigers, as well as the grunting of swine, which were formerly men, whom by administering to them her potent magic philters, she has changed into brutes."

"I declare, you are talking like a book," said the d.u.c.h.ess pointedly.

"You really ought to extend your study of witchcraft. To-morrow you shall ride over to the Hohenkrahen and examine, whether the woman of the wood is a Circe also. We give you full authority to act in our name, and are truly curious to ascertain what your wisdom will decree."

"It is not for me to reign over a people and to settle the affairs of this world," replied he evasively.

"That will be seen," said d.u.c.h.ess Hadwig. "I do not think that the power of commanding has ever embarra.s.sed anyone, least of all a son of the Church."

So Ekkehard submitted; the more readily, as the commission was a proof of confidence on her part. Early on the next morning he rode over to the Hohenkrahen on horseback, taking Audifax with him, to show him the way.

"A happy journey, Sir Chancellor!" called out a laughing voice behind him. It was the voice of Praxedis.

They soon reached the old hag's dwelling, which was a stone hut, built on a projecting part of the high rock, about half way up. Mighty oaks and beech-trees spread their boughs over it, hiding the summit of the Hohenkrahen. Three high stone steps led into the inside, which was a dark, but airy chamber. On the floor, there lay heaps of dried herbs, giving out a strong fragrance. Three bleached horses' skulls grinned down fantastically from the walls; whilst beneath them hung the huge antlers of a stag. In the door-post was cut a double, intricate triangle; and on the floor, a tame wood-p.e.c.k.e.r, and a raven with cropped wings, were hopping about.

The inhabitant of this abode, was seated beside the flickering fire on the hearth; sewing some garment. By her side stood a high, roughly hewn weather-beaten stone. From time to time, she bent down to the hearth, and held out her meagre hand over the coals; for the cold of November was beginning to be felt, especially on the mountains. The boughs of an old beech-tree came almost into the room through the window. A faint breeze was stirring them; and the leaves being withered and sere, trembled and fell off; a few of them falling right into the chamber.

The woman of the wood was old and lonely; and suffering probably from the cold.

"There you are lying now, despised and faded and dead," she said to the leaves--"and I am like you." A peculiar expression now came to her old wrinkled face. She was thinking of former times, when she also had been young and blooming, and had had a sweetheart of her own. But his fate had driven him far away from his native fir-woods. Plundering Normans, coming up the Rhine, robbing and burning wherever they came, had carried him off as a prisoner, like so many others; and he had staid with them more than a year, and had become a seaman, and in the rough sea-air he had got to be rough and hard also. When at last they gave him his liberty, and he returned to his Suabian woods, he still carried with him the longing for the North-Sea, and pined for his wild sailor life. The home-faces were no longer pleasant to his eyes; those of the monks and priests least of all; and as misfortune would have it, in the heat of pa.s.sion he slew a monk who had upbraided him, so that he could no longer remain in his home.

The thoughts of the old woman were constantly recurring that day, to the hour when he had parted from her for ever. Then, the servants of the judge led him to his cottage in the wood of Weiterdingen, and exacted six hundred shillings from him, as a fine for the man he had slain. Then he had to swear a great oath, that beside his cottage and acre, he had nothing left, either above or underground.

After that he went into his house, took a handful of earth, and threw it with his left hand over his shoulder, at his father's brother, in sign that his debt was thus to pa.s.s on to this his only remaining relation by blood. This done, he seized his staff, and dressed in his linen shirt, without shoes or girdle, he jumped over the fence of his acre, for such was the custom of the "_Chrene Chruda_,"[9] and thus he became a homeless wanderer, free to go out into the wilderness. So he went back to Denmark to his own Northmen and never returned any more.

All that had ever reached her, was a dark rumour that he had gone over with them to Seeland, where the brave sea-kings, refusing to adopt the christian faith with its new laws, had founded a new home for themselves.

All this had happened long, long ago; but the old woman remembered it all, as if it were but yesterday, that she had seen her Friduhelm going away from her for ever. Then she had hung up a garland of vervain at the little chapel of Weiterdingen, shedding many tears over it; and never had another lover been able to efface his image from her heart.

The cold dreary November weather, reminded her of an old Norman song, which he had once taught her and which she now hummed to herself:

"The evening comes, and winter is near, The h.o.a.r-frost on fir-trees is lying; Oh book, and cross and prayers of monk-- How soon shall we all be a dying.

Our homes are getting so dusky and old And the holy wells desecrated, Thou G.o.d-inhabited, beautiful wood, Wilt thou, even thou be prostrated?

And silent we go, a defeated tribe, Whose stars are all dying and sinking, Oh Iceland, thou icy rock in the sea, With thee, our fates we'll be linking.

Arise and receive our wandering race, Which is coming to thee, and bringing The ancient G.o.ds, and the ancient rights, To which our hearts are still clinging.

Where the fiery hill is shedding its light, And the breakers are sh.o.r.ewards sweeping, On thee thou defiant end of the world!

Our last long watch, we'll be keeping."

Ekkehard meanwhile had got down from the saddle, and tied his horse to a neighbouring fir-tree. He now stepped over the threshold, shyly followed by Audifax.

The woman of the wood threw the garment she had been working at, over the stone, folded her hands on her lap, and looked fixedly at the intruder in his monk's habit, but did not get up.

"Praised be Jesus Christ," said Ekkehard, by way of greeting, and also to avert any possible spell. Instinctively he drew in the thumb of his right hand, doubling his fingers over it, being afraid of the evil eye and its powers. Audifax had told him how people said, that with one look she could wither up a whole meadow. She did not return his greeting.

"What are you doing there," began Ekkehard.

"I am mending an old garment that is getting worn," was the answer.

"You have been also gathering herbs?"

"So I have. Are you an herb-gatherer? Here are many of them, if you wish for any. Hawk-weed and snail-clover, goats-beard and mouse-ear, as well as dried wood-ruff."

"I am no herb-gatherer," said Ekkehard. "What use do you make of those herbs?"

"Need you be asking what is the use of herbs?" said the old woman.

"Such as you, know that well enough. It would fare ill with sick people and sick hearts, and with our protection against nightly sprites, as well as the stilling of lover's longings, if there were no herbs to be had!"

"And have you been baptized?" continued Ekkehard.

"Aye, they will have baptized me, likely enough." ...