Klein-else.

The Passeier-Thal, which at the beginning of the present century

sent Hofer and his famous band of peasant heroes to the defence of

the fatherland, was in ancient times often involved in the wrangles

between its rulers and those of Bavaria. The men of the Passeier-Thal

were no less heroes then than now, but there were heroes in Bavaria

too, so that the success was as often on one side as the other.

Klein-Else [63] was the daughter of a bold baron whose castle was,

so to speak, one of the outposts of the valley; and as he had thus

more often than others to bear the brunt of the feud, his strength

became gradually diminished, and it was only by leaguing himself with

his neighbours that he was enabled to repel the frequent inroads of a

turbulent knight who had established himself on the other side of the

old frontier, but who cultivated a strong passion for annexation. The

Passeier-Thal baron did his best to strengthen his defences and

keep up a watchful look-out; and the moment his scouts perceived

the enemy advancing, their orders were not only to bring word of the

danger to their master, but to hasten at once to the other castles

of the surrounding heights, and summon their owners to his support;

and then the whole valley immediately bristled with valiant defenders

of their country.

But inasmuch as his adversary was reckless and determined, and much

better provided with men and means, he succeeded in laying his plans

so well at last, that he eluded all the vigilance of the baron's

scattered handful of look-out men, and, bursting in upon his domain

by surprise, carried all his defences, laid waste every thing before

him, and marched upon the castle itself.

The bold baron swore he would not remain to be killed like a reptile

in its hole, but sallied out with the few retainers who remained to

him, to sell his life and his possessions as dearly as he might. With

desperate courage he dealt the deadliest blows around which had

been paid out that day. But it was all in vain. Overcome by superior

numbers, he was brought back but a few hours later in piteous plight,

mortally wounded.

Klein-Else bent over her father with despairing cries; and her tears

fell as fast as the blood from the deep wounds she tried in vain

to staunch.

"Leave the bandage, Klein-Else, it boots not," said the baron,

in tones so slow and faint that she could only catch his words by

putting her ear to his lips; and, as she did so, his cold breath

filled her with horror.

"It boots not to staunch the blood, Klein-Else; my life is spent. But

as you have ever obeyed me, listen now to my word. The enemy is at

the door; you have but time to escape falling into his hands. Take

this key--it opens a gate of which no one knows the secret. Count

the tenth buttress in the wall, and where the ivy grows thickest,

there, behind it, feel for the lock and open it. Then creep beneath;

and, once on the other side, replace the branches, that no one may

see they have been disturbed. You will see before you three paths:

one leads down into the smiling plain, where you might think to

find refuge in the houses of our people; but another destiny is for

you. The second leads upwards to the thick pine forest, where you

might think to lie concealed till our friends have time to come and

rout out this vile usurper; but another destiny is for you. Take the

path straight before you, that winds round the mountain; though it

is open and exposed to view, fear not, for it leads to--to----"

And here his voice failed, so that she could no more make out what

he said; and though he continued to exert himself to complete his

directions, it was vain that she attempted to distinguish them. His

power of articulation was gone.

Klein-Else threw herself on his cold body, and clung to it with all

her might. But he who had been her guide and guardian, her will,

till now, was powerless and stark; and for all her beseeching he

could not answer.

The chaplain came and raised her up, and they carried the body to

the sanctuary; but Klein-Else, paralyzed with sadness and despair,

stood and gazed after it as though she knew not where she was.

Suddenly wild shouts broke on her ear, and the sound of many feet,

and the tumult of the servants and men-at-arms bidding her fly,

for the enemy had come.

"Fly, for the enemy is here!" The words recalled her father's counsel,

and mechanically she clasped the key, his last legacy. Scarcely taking

time to change her embroidered garments for a peasant's attire, she

crept along under the wall, counting ten buttresses, with a beating

heart. After the tenth, she put her hand through the thick ivy, and

felt, as her father had foretold, the iron bosses of the lock. It

required all her strength to turn the key; but this accomplished,

there was safety and rest behind the ivy's faithful veil.

It was but just in time; the rough soldiers were close behind.

"Ha! who went there?" she heard a hoarse voice say, as she noiselessly

closed the door. "Saw you not the ivy move? Press through and see

who passed."

"It was but a frightened hare--I saw it run," said another, with a

less terrible voice.

"Nothing taller ever passed that branch," said another; and the

speakers passed out of hearing.

There lay the three paths: the one straight on before--but so open,

so exposed, any one who happened to be passing for miles round might

have seen and pursued her, while either of the others offered instant

cover and security. Klein-Else was sorely tempted to try one of them.

"If I had heard all his instructions," she reasoned, "it would have

been different: I would then have done all he told me, whithersoever

it might have led; but now I know not what he meant. I may go a little

way along this path--and then what shall I do? Maybe, I shall fall

into a greater danger than that from which he would have saved me!"

And she turned to seek the shelter of the friendly cottages in the

valley beneath. But the words seemed to live in the air around her,--

"Another destiny is for you!"

Trembling and confused, she would have plunged into the hiding-place

of the pine-forest above; but the wind that moaned through their

lofty branches seemed charged with the words,--

"Another destiny is for you!"

She was thus impelled forward into the open path; and, creeping close

to the mountain-side, she now pursued her way along it. It was with

no small relief that she noticed the sun was nearly sinking behind

the opposite heights, so that soon she might hope to be safe from

the gaze of men.

And yet, as darkness fell around, it became but the source of other

fears. And the sense of her loneliness and abandonment took away her

courage to proceed any farther.

She leant against the rock for support, and her tears fell fast and

warm upon its stony side--piteously enough, you might have thought,

to move and melt it.

And so it was! for see! the hard rock yielded and made way before the

noble form of a knight in armour, who said, with compassionate voice,--

"Maiden, wherefore these tears?"

"Because my father is dead, and his enemies have taken his castle,

and I have no shelter and nothing to eat!" sobbed Klein-Else.

"If that is all," answered the noble knight, "it is easily made

straight." And with that he turned to the rock, and said,--

"Open, hoary rock!"

And the hoary rock opened, and disclosed a treasure of every imaginable

kind of riches stored around--jewels and coin, and shining armour,

and dazzling dresses.

"All this is yours, Klein-Else," said the knight; "you have but to take

what you will, when you will. It will never grow less. You have only

to say, 'Open, hoary rock!' and these treasures will always appear

at your bidding. Dispose of them as you like; only make a good use

of them, for on that depends all your future happiness. I will come

and see you again in seven years, and I shall see what use you have

made of my gift; but you must remember my name, or woe will be to

you." So he whispered his name in her ear, and disappeared.

Klein-Else was so dazzled and startled that she hardly knew what to

think, or whether what had happened was a dream or reality. To make

sure, she said to the rock, "Open, hoary rock!" and the rock opened at

her bidding as quickly as at the knight's, and disclosed its glittering

treasure. But it was still hard to decide all at once what to take of

it; and knowing that it was in a secure store-house, and that it was

dangerous to burden herself with much riches when travelling alone

in the dark night, she only took a few pieces of money--enough to

pay for food and lodging--and passed on with a lightened heart. The

rock closed up as she went farther--but she took a note of the spot,

so that she might be sure to know it again; and then made for the

lights which appeared with friendly radiance at no great distance

through the trees which now fringed the road, repeating the name of the

knight to herself, as she went along, that she might never forget it.

Klein-Else hasted on, but was rather dismayed to find that the lights

were the lights of a great castle where her money would be of no

use. She could not ask for a lodging and supper for money there, and

there was no other habitation near. So she put by her money again,

and, with the humility befitting her wayworn aspect and lowly attire,

begged the great man's servants to give her some poor employment by

which she might earn a place among them.

"What can a little, dirty, ragged girl like you do?" said the cook,

who was just occupied in fixing the spit through a young chamois that

looked so succulent and tender, one as hungry as Klein-Else might

have eaten it as it was.

"I can do whatever you please to tell me," answered Klein-Else,

timidly.

"A proper answer," replied the cook. "Let's see if you can watch

the poultry-house, then. You must be up by daybreak and go late

to bed, and lie in the straw over the poultry-loft, and keep half

awake all night to scare away the foxes, if any come; and if one

smallest chicken is lost, woe betide you! you will be whipped and

sent away. Here is a piece of dry bread for your supper. Now go,

and don't stand idling about."

Klein-Else was so hungry that she gladly took the piece of dry black

bread, and went to try to sleep on the straw in the poultry-loft. She

had to get up at daybreak, when the cock crew; and she had to keep

her eye on the brood all day; and late at night she had a piece of

dry black bread for supper, and was sent to sleep in the straw of

the poultry-loft. Her only pastime was to recall the memory of her

treasure in the rock, and repeat over and over again the knight's name,

that she might be sure never to forget it.

"But of what use is all my fine treasure," she mused, "if I am never

to be any thing but a wretched Hennenpfösl [64]? And what can I

do? if I come out with handfuls of gold and fine clothes, they will

take me for a thief or a witch, and I shall be worse off than now;

and if I show them the treasure, who knows but they will take it from

me? The knight said my happiness depended on the use I made of it,

yet I can make no use of it!"

So she sat and counted the hens and chickens, and repeated the

knight's name, and ate her dry black bread, and slept in the straw

in the poultry-loft.

At last Sunday came, and the glad church bells rang merrily, flinging

their joyous notes all abroad; and the servants of the castle put

on their best clothes to go to church. But how could Klein-Else be

seen among them, all in their snow-white linen and bright-coloured

ribbons--Klein-Else, the Hennenpfösl, with her poor rags?

"Now, at last, I can use my treasury," she said to herself; "I can

at least get some of the pretty clothes that hang there, and go to

church." So she washed herself in the mountain-torrent, and braided

her dishevelled hair in massive golden braids, and crept round to

the rock, and bid it open, saying,--

"Open, hoary rock!"

Of all the treasures it instantly disclosed, she saw none but one

beautiful garment all woven out of sunbeams and glittering with jewels

of morning dew. Having put this on, and once more looking like a

baron's daughter, she made haste to reach the church.

The holy office had already begun, and the church was crowded right

out into the porch. But when the people saw such a dazzling sight,

they all made way for the lady in the shining apparel, none dreaming of

Klein-Else. Now the only part of the church where there was any room

was at the baron's bench. For he was a young lord, and had neither

mother, sister, nor wife; and all the places reserved for his family

were vacant. Klein-Else, moving on till she could find where to kneel,

had thus to come and kneel by him.

The young baron was as much dazzled at the sight as Klein-Else

herself had been at the treasures in the rock, and at every pause in

the service he could do nothing but fix his gaze on her. As soon as

it was over, however, Klein-Else glided out softly, and hasting back

to the rock, hung the sunbeam-dress up again; and once more assuming

her rags, hid herself in the poultry-loft, almost frightened at what

she had done.

All the next week she had new subjects of thought. She felt sure

the young baron had looked at her and admired her; and wasn't it

more meet that she, a baron's daughter, should be kneeling by the

side of the young baron than sleeping in the poultry-loft, a mere

Hennenpfösl? Ah, if that came true--if the young baron married her;

then she would have some one to tell her good fortune to--some one

to defend her treasure. Then she could make the good use of it the

knight had manifestly intended. She could wipe away the tears of all

those who went without shelter, as she had once; every desolate orphan

who had none to defend her; every poor Hennenpfösl, the drudge of the

menials. "How strange," she said to herself, "there should be people

blessed with friends, and riches, and enjoyments, who live full of

their own happiness, and who have no thought for the forsaken and the

outcast! She would never be like them, not she! her happiness should

be in making others happy."

But, in the meantime, was she sure the baron had looked at her

otherwise than out of curiosity? Was he really interested in her? and

if he was, would he continue to care for her when he found she was

only a Hennenpfösl? She must put him to the test; and she sat and

thought how to arrange this. This was subject enough for thought;

and this week was at an end only too soon.

The next Sunday came; and when the church bells rang, Klein-Else ran

to her rock, took out of her store this time a garment woven out of

moonbeams, and having arranged her luxuriant hair in massive tresses,

once more proceeded to the church. But with all the haste she had

made, she could not arrive before the holy office had begun, and the

church was once more full. The people fell back again, in awe of her

shining garments, and made way for her to kneel beside the baron,

who could scarcely suppress a gesture of delight at beholding her

once again. Nor did his joy escape Klein-Else's observation; and many

a blushing glance they exchanged.

"What a noble cavalier!" thought Klein-Else; "and just such a one as

my father always told me my husband should be."

"What a lovely maiden!" mused the young baron; "where can she have

sprung from? Is she of earth or heaven?"

All that last week, while Klein-Else was thinking of him, he had

been thinking still more of her; and had ordered his waiting-men to

surround her as she came out of church, and beg her to come to him

at the castle. But Klein-Else had no idea of suffering herself to

be so easy a prize; so she fled so fast the baron's men could hardly

approach her. And when at last she found they were gaining upon her,

and that her fleet step availed her not, she threw down the pieces of

money which she took the first night from the rock; and while they

stopped to pick them up, pursued her way unperceived, and let the

rock close on her till they had lost the trace. Then, assuming her

poor rags once more, she returned silently to her poultry-loft.

Her thoughts had food enough now; but it was less with the poor

orphans she was to console, than with the young baron, and how to

test his love, that they were occupied.

Next Sunday she chose a garment blue like the sky, and all sparkling,

as with living stars. She presented herself at the church, and

found herself again placed beside the young baron. At the end of the

service she went out quickly, as before, only this time he contrived,

as she rose to leave, to seize her hand, and slip a gold ring on

her finger. Nevertheless, Klein-Else slipped out through the midst

of the congregation, and though the serving-men had had stringent

orders to follow her, she had prudently provided herself with gold

pieces enough to disperse the whole lot of them while she escaped.

The young baron sat alone in his castle, as he had sat this fortnight

past, taking no notice of any one, but as if his whole soul was

wrapt up in the fair apparition, and he was in despair, since her

hiding-place could not be traced. He sat nursing his grief, and could

neither be distracted from it, nor comforted. His friends sent for the

most famous physicians of the country to attend him, but none of them

could do any thing for his case; and daily he grew paler and gloomier,

and none could help him. At last the Gräfin Jaufenstein, his aunt,

came and insisted that some amusement must be found to divert him;

but the young baron refused every proposal, till at last she begged

him to give a great banquet, to which every one from far and near

should be invited, every kind of game and every kind of costly

diet should be afforded, and nothing spared to make it the most

magnificent banquet ever given. To the great surprise and delight

of all, he consented to this; but it was because it occurred to him

that inviting the whole country, the chances were that the beautiful

maiden of his choice, who yet hid herself so persistently from him,

might once more mysteriously appear before him too: so he gave his

aunt the Countess Jaufenstein free leave to give what orders she

liked, and go to what expense she liked, only providing that she

should have the invitations publicly published, so that there might

be every chance of their reaching the ears of the mysterious maiden.

At last the day of the banquet came, and there was a running hither

and thither in the baron's castle, with the preparations, such as can

be better imagined than described. The guests swarmed in the halls,

and the servants in the kitchen; and Klein-Else, creeping up from her

poultry-loft, could hardly make her way up to the fire where the cook

was preparing all manner of deliciously scented dishes.

"I don't know what ails the things!" cried the cook; "these pancakes

are the only thing the baron will eat, and, as fate will have

it, I cannot turn one of them to-night! Three and thirty years

I have made pancakes in this castle, and never did I fail before

to-night--to-night, when it is most important of all!" and she poured

another into the pan. But as she did so, with a hand trembling with

anxiety, the oil ran over the side of the pan, and the great heat

of the stove set it on fire, so that a great flame curled over the

pancake--and there was nothing left of it but a black, misshapen mass.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?" cried the cook; "there is not

one of the whole lot fit to send up, and if this dish is not the best,

I had just as lief I had prepared no dish at all!"

"May I have a try, friend cook?" said Klein-Else, coaxingly.

"You, indeed!" screamed the cook, indignation and envy added to her

former despair; "and a little, dirty, ragged, misbegotten starveling--a

vagabond--a Hennenpfösl like you, who never saw a kitchen, or a stove,

or a frying-pan, or any thing else! to suppose that you can turn a

pancake, when I, who have turned pancakes in this castle for three and

thirty years, have failed! A likely matter indeed! What is the world

coming to? Begone, with your impudence, and mind your hens! Ah! now

I think of it, I believe it is you that have bewitched the eggs, and

that's why the pancakes won't turn! Begone, I say, out of my kitchen,

and out of the poultry-house too--I'll have no more of your tricks

with my eggs!" and she turned, with a menacing gesture at Klein-Else,

to try her luck once more.

But at the sight of the black mass in the frying-pan, she grew fairly

discouraged, and throwing herself down in a chair, wrapt her face in

her apron, and wept like a child.

Meantime Klein-Else advanced with light step to the stove, took up

the frying-pan, and cleaned it out in a trice, then poured fresh oil

into it, and held it over the stove till it boiled; then, while it

spluttered cheerily, she deftly poured in the batter, gliding into it

the ring which the baron had stealthily put on her hand at church,

and along with it, one with a magnificent diamond, which she had

taken from her treasury in the rock.

The boiling oil danced and chirped merrily round the cake, the batter

rose as batter never rose before; and when Klein-Else shifted it

lightly on to the dish, it wore a bright, golden hue, matched only

by her own radiant hair.

The cook, waking from her stupor, was in a transport of delight at

beholding the effect of her skill, and sent the dish at once to the

baron's table, while Klein-Else took her place in an out-of-the-way

corner to hear what should befall.

Nor had she long to wait. The dish had not been gone ten minutes,

when the baron's body-servant came solemnly into the kitchen, with

the announcement that the baron demanded the immediate attendance

of the cook. "It's because I kept him waiting for the pancakes, and

because the one of that little hussey's making is not so good as those

I have made for him all his life, and his father before him;" and,

all trembling and afraid, she rose to follow his messenger. Espying

Klein-Else watching anxiously behind a pillar as she passed along,

she could not forbear calling out to her, "Ah, wretched child, it is

you have got me into this scrape! But you shall pay for it! Why did I

let you touch the frying-pan! Why did I let you enter the castle! You

had better not come under my sight any more, or I'll soon show you

where the builder made the hole in the wall [65]!" and she dragged

herself along slowly, in great fear of the apprehended displeasure

of the baron, but comforting herself with the determination to let

him know the whole fault lay with the Hennenpfösl.

Great was her surprise, however, to find that it was with no intention

of chiding that the baron had summoned her. On the contrary, the

gloomy cloud his brow had lately worn had disappeared; he not only

looked gay and joyous as of old, but a special radiance of pleasurable

expectation lit up his countenance.

"Why, cook," he said, "you have made me good pancakes all my life,

but never one like this! Now tell me honestly who made this one?"

"Nay, but if it is so, I may as well have the credit of it," thought

the cook; "and, after all, I did make the batter, and that's the

chief part of the work."

"Oh, I made it myself, baron, upon my soul! no one but myself makes

any thing for the high table."

The baron's countenance fell. He began to look gloomy and disappointed

once more--was the clue to escape him after all? He roused himself

again, as with one flash of hope.

"Did no one help you to make it?"

("If I tell that she had any part in it, it is obvious, from the tone

he takes, he will give the whole merit to her. No, I'll not mention

her; and besides, she didn't help me to make it.")

"Oh, baron, it don't want two people to make a pancake! I've always

made pancakes for this castle these three and thirty years without

help;" and she tried to talk as if she felt hurt, and thus bring the

conversation to an end.

The baron passed his hand roughly across his forehead, and stamped

his foot in despair.

Once more a hopeful thought flashed across his mind.

"These rings! tell me, how did they get into the pancake, if you made

it?" he exclaimed, in peremptory accents.

"Those rings? I never saw those rings before," stammered the cook,

beginning to get a little confused.

"And what did you mutter as you passed the Hennenpfösl coming

along, about it's being all her fault, and making her suffer for

it?" interposed the body-servant.

"Ha! said she so?" cried the baron. "Speak, woman, what meant you by

those words? Beware, and speak the truth this time, for it is matter

of terrible consequence!"

"Who ever would have thought such a fuss would come of turning a

pancake!" thought the cook to herself; but she said out aloud, "Well,

it is true, the Hennenpfösl did hold the frying-pan while it was on

the stove; I didn't know it was worth while to mention that. But what

could she have to do with the beautiful rings?"

"True," replied the servant, "that can have nothing to do with it,

as you say."

"Nay," replied the baron, "I'm not so clear of that. Let the

Hennenpfösl, as you call her, be brought here, and let's see what

account she has to give of it."

"But it's impossible; she isn't even a servant of the house. She is

a little whining beggar brat, that I took in scarce three weeks ago

and put in the poultry-loft, to keep her from starving."

"Three weeks!" exclaimed the baron; "said you three weeks? Let her

be brought to me instantly."

"But she isn't fit to come into your presence; she's grimed with dirt,

and covered in rags."

"Reason not, but send her hither," said the baron, his energy returning

as his hopes kindled.

"If she is the maiden to whom I gave the ring, she is of no low birth:

there is some mystery which I must penetrate. If she were nothing

but a 'Hennenpfösl,' whence could she have had this brilliant ring,

which puts mine to shame?" he mused within himself, as he waited

impatiently for the maiden of his dreams to appear.

Klein-Else, meantime, had made no doubt that since the baron had

sent for the cook, his wisdom would enable him to discover that she

must be sent for next, and had accordingly repaired to her treasury

in the rock, and had taken thence a resplendent attire. It was no

longer now the simple gifts of nature which furnished her wardrobe;

she was decked as became a baron's daughter, with all the resources of

the milliner and the jeweller's art. Cavaliers and ladies-in-waiting

walked beside her, and twenty pages dressed in pink and white satin,

with plumed bonnets, carried her train behind, while men in rich

liveries, bearing torches, ran by the side of the procession.

Gräfin Jaufenstein was at the head of the hall welcoming the guests,

and doing the honours of the castle, to supply what the moody humour

of its lord left lacking in courtesy. But while she courtesied to

noble lords and ladies with queenly grace, and, with imperceptible

asides, at the same time gave directions that every one should have

his due place, and that every thing should proceed with the due order

of etiquette, it never for a moment escaped her practised eye that

something unusual was going on in the neighbourhood of the young

baron. That he should summon the cook to his presence, probably to

chide her justly for some breach of the rules of her art, if such

had befallen, was indeed no unreasonable distraction for the baron's

melancholy, and she hailed it as a token of returning interest in the

ordinary affairs of life, which had occupied him so little of late;

but when she heard him order the Hennenpfösl to be brought there in

the midst of his guests, she thought it time to interfere--it became

a matter of eccentricity passing all bounds. Dexterously excusing her

momentary absence from her guests, she accordingly made her way up to

her nephew, preparing to wrap up her remonstrance in her most honeyed

language, so as better to convince without provoking him. Before she

could reach his chair, there was a movement of astonishment in the

vast assembly, and a cry of admiration, while the heralds proclaimed,--

"Place for the most noble baron's daughter!" And then, surrounded

by her shining crowd of attendants, and glittering in her jewelled

robes, Klein-Else made her way with modest, but at the same time

noble carriage towards the young baron.

The young baron recognized her the moment the tapestry was raised

for her to pass, and instantly went forth to meet her with courteous

gestures, and led her up to the seat next his own at the banquet.

The stately countess looked on a little perplexed, for the first time

in her life, but with admirable serenity and self-possession inquired

the name of the fair guest who did their poor banquet the honour of

attending it in so great state.

"I am the poor Hennenpfösl, madame, whom your noble nephew has done

the honour to summon to his presence; and I hope you will not think

I disgrace his command," replied Klein-Else, with a reverence at once

lowly and full of accomplished dignity.

"The Hennenpfösl!" repeated the countess, returning the salute

mechanically. "But surely there is some mistake--some----"

"Yes, dearest countess, some mystery there is," interposed her nephew;

"but we will not seek to penetrate it till it shall please the lady

herself to reveal it. Why she should have chosen to pass some time as

the Hennenpfösl, I know not; but this is not the first time we have

met, and I am sufficiently satisfied of her grace and discretion to

know that for whatever reason she chose it, she chose aright. I have

further determined this very night to lay myself and my fortune at

her feet!"

Klein-Else started, with a little cry of satisfied expectation,

then coloured modestly and looked down.

"But the lady will at least favour us with her name?" urged the

countess, but half satisfied. Klein-Else turned to her chamberlain

with dignity, and whispered an order; and then the chamberlain stood

forward and proclaimed aloud the names and titles of the deceased

baron of the Passeier-Thal, her father.

"Oh!" said the lady, in a tone of disparagement, "methinks his was

a fortune which could scarcely be united with that of my nephew!"

"Countess!" exclaimed the young baron, furious at the suggestion;

but before he could proceed the chamberlain once more intervened.

"There need be no difficulty on that score," he said; and he made a

sign to the attendants who were behind. They came up in brave order,

two and two, each pair bearing a casket in which was a thousand

crowns. "A thousand such caskets contain the dowry of the baron's

daughter; and she has priceless jewels without number."

"A million crowns!" echoed the whole assembly, in chorus; "was there

ever such a fortune known?"

The countess was absolutely speechless, and turned to participate in

the astonishment of her guests.

The young baron and Klein-Else, thus left to each other's conversation,

were not slow in confessing their mutual love.

"And now all our friends are gathered round us," he exclaimed, at last,

"what better time to proclaim our happiness? My friends! I present

you the fair lady who has consented to become my bride!"

There was a general sound of jubilation and praise. All gathered

round to felicitate the baron, and the minstrels sang the charms of

the bride.

The baron begged them all to stay with him ten days, to celebrate the

nuptials. And for ten days there was revelry and rapture, singing

and merry-making; and when at last the guests returned home, every

one carried back to his own neighbourhood the tale of the surpassing

beauty, riches, and grace of Klein-Else. Every body had been won by

her, there was no dissentient opinion; and even Gräfin Jaufenstein

acknowledged that her nephew could not have made a nobler or better

choice.

When they were left alone, the days seemed hardly long enough to

tell their love. Never was there happiness equal to theirs. Before

the guests left, the baron had invited them all to come back every

year on the anniversary; and every year, as they gathered round,

they found them more and more wrapt in each other's love.

On the second anniversary they found that their happiness had been

increased by the birth of an heir; and the next year there was a little

daughter too, the delight of her parents. Year by year the children

grew in beauty, and grace, and intelligence, and others were added

to their numbers. And every one envied the unequalled happiness of

the baron and baroness.

Meantime the years were passing away, though Klein-Else had taken

no account of them. To her it was one continual round of enjoyment,

uncrossed by any care; each season had its own joys, and she revelled

in the fresh variety of each, but counted them not as they passed.

One day they sat together under a shady grove: the baron was weaving

a chaplet of roses, Klein-Else was fondling her latest-born upon her

knee; round them sported their little ones, bringing fresh baskets

of roses for the chaplet the baron was weaving for Klein-Else; while

Otto the heir, a noble boy who promised to reproduce his father's

stately figure and handsome lineaments, rejoiced them by his prowess

with his bow and arrow.

"How the time has sped, Klein-Else!" whispered the baron; "it seems

but yesterday that you first came and knelt beside me in your sunbeam

garment. Then, just as now, it was happiness to feel you beside me. I

knew not who was there, but as I heard the flutter of your drapery a

glow of joy seemed to come from its shining folds, and I, who had never

loved any one else, loved you from that moment as I love you now!"

"How well you say it, love!" responded Klein-Else. "Yes; where is

the difference between to-day and yesterday, and last year and the

year before that? Ever since that first day it has been one long love,

nothing else! Yes; well I remember that day. I was poor, and despised,

and had no one to talk to, and never thought any one would ever look

at me again--except to scold me. And then I went into the church and

knelt by you; and I felt as the new ivy twig must feel when it has

crept and tossed about in vain, and then at last finds, close under

its grasp, the strong, immovable oak, and clasps it--clasps it never

to loose its hold again, never! but grows up clasping it ever closer

and closer, till it grows quite one with it, and no one can separate

them any more for ever!"

"Yes," replied the baron; "nothing can separate them any more--nothing

can separate us now! We have grown together for years, and have only

grown the closer. It is now--let me see--five, six, seven years,

and we have only grown the closer to each other! To think it is

seven years! no, it wants a few weeks; but it will soon be seven

years. Seven--" he turned to look at her, for he perceived that as

he spoke she had loosened her hold of him, and now he saw she was

pale and trembling.

"But what ails you, Elschen [66]? Elschen dear! speak to me,

Elschen!" he added, with anxiety, for she sank back almost unconscious

against the bank.

"I shall be better presently," stammered the baroness. "I think the

scent of the flowers is too powerful. I don't feel quite well--take

me down by the side of the water; I shall be better presently." An

attendant took the babe from her arms--and the baron remembered

afterwards, that as she parted from it she embraced it with a

passionate flood of tears; then he led her to the side of the stream,

and bathed her burning forehead in the cooling flood.

Suddenly voices in angry altercation were heard through the trees,

and the servants summoned the baron with excited gesticulations,

saying there was a strange knight, all in armour, who claimed to see

the baroness.

Klein-Else was near fainting again when she heard them say that.

"Claims to see the baroness, say you?" replied their lord, with

menacing gesture. "Where is he? Let him say that to me!" and he darted

off to meet him, without listening to the faint words Klein-Else

strove to utter.

Now she was left alone by the side of the stream where, as the

Hennenpfösl, she had first washed away the stains of servitude and

dressed herself to meet him who was to teach her to love. It was

beside that stream she had sat, and her tears had mingled with it,

as she had vowed that if ever such joy was hers as now she owned,

her treasure should be for those who were outcast and suffering as

she had been, and her happiness should be in making others happy!

How had she fulfilled her vow? From that time to this it had passed

out of her mind. Filled with her own gratification, she had left

the orphan in her bereavement, the suffering in their misery, nor

stretched out a helping hand.

The seven years were spent, and there was no doubt the knight was come

to seek an account of the treasure he had entrusted to her. She had

not only to meet him with shame for its misuse, but even his name she

had forgotten! And he had said, "Woe be to you, if you have forgotten

that name!"

But she had forgotten it. She pressed her hands against her throbbing

temples as if to force it from her brain, and swept away the mantling

hair--if but the cool breeze might waft it back to her! But the

forgotten name came not.

Suddenly the knight stood before her, and terrible he was to look at

in his shining armour! As she saw him she screamed and swooned away.

But he touched her, and bade her rise, then beckoned her to follow him;

and she could not choose but obey. He led her over the stream and along

the path in the mountain-side where the trees fringed the way; and when

they reached the rock she knew so well, with its treasury whence all

her means of happiness had been derived, he said in solemn accents,--

"Open, hoary rock!"

But to her he said,--

"Look!"

Then she could not choose but look. But oh, horror! in place of the

coin and jewels, armour and apparel, it was filled with wasted forms

bowed with misery and distress! the tear-worn orphan, the neglected

sick. Here she saw lying a youth, wan and emaciated, struck down in

all the promise of boyhood, and his mother tore her hair in agony by

his side. And there stood a father, gaunt and grey, vainly grappling

with Hunger, who was stealing away his children one by one from before

his face. Here----

But she could bear no more. She sank upon the ground, and hid her

face for very shame.

"The ransom of these, it is, you have spent upon yourself!" thundered

the pitiless knight; and every word was a death-knell....

The baron and his servants continued their search for the unknown

knight, but for long they found him not; one said he had seen him go

this way, and another that. Till at last an artless peasant maiden

told them she had seen him take the path of the mountain, across

the stream, and the baroness following behind with weak and unsteady

steps. The baron hasted his steps to pursue the way she pointed.

But he only found the lifeless body of Klein-Else kneeling against

the hoary rock!

[63] Little Elizabeth.

[64] A local word in the Passeier-Thal for a poultry-maid.

[65] "Ich zeige Sie wo der Zimmermann das Loch gemacht hat." A Tirolese

saying for, "I'll soon show you the way to the door."

[66] Another form of Klein-Else: Else, with the diminutive, chen.