Legends of the Rhine

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What was to be done? Love is ingenious. After considering for some
time together, they both concluded that there was but one way to
prevent their being betrayed. The slender maiden took her lover on
her back and carried him across the courtyard, thus leaving behind
only her two small foot-prints.

It happened that Charles the Great had not yet sought the repose he
needed so much, as care banished sleep from his eyes. He sat at his
window and looked out into the silent night. In the courtyard below he
perceived a shadow crossing the pavement and, looking carefully, he
recognised his favourite daughter Emma carrying a man on her
back.--Yes! and this man was Eginhard, his great favourite. Pain and
anger struggled in his heart. He wanted to rush down and kill him--an
emperor's daughter and a mere secretary--but with a great effort he
restrained himself, mastered the violent agitation which this
unexpected sight caused him, and went back to his chamber to wait
wearily for dawn.

III.

The next day Charles assembled his councillors. They were all
horrified to see his ghastly look; his brow was dark, and sorrow was
depicted on every feature. Eginhard looked at his master apprehending
coming evil. Charlemagne stood up and spake:--

"What does a royal princess deserve, who receives the visit of a man
at night?" The councillors looked at each other speechless. Eginhard's
countenance became white as death. The councillors soon guessed the
name of the royal princess, and they consulted together for some time
not knowing what to say, but at last one councillor answered:--

"Your Majesty, we think that a weak woman must not be punished for
anything done out of love."

"And what does a favourite of the emperor deserve who creeps into a
royal princess' chamber at night?"

Charlemagne cast a dark look at his secretary, who trembled and became
even paler. "Alas! all is lost," murmured he to himself. Then, raising
his voice, he said, "Death, my Master and Emperor!"

Charles looked at the young man full of astonishment. The wrath in his
soul melted at this self-accusation and fervent repentance. Deep
silence followed this answer, and in a few minutes the emperor
dismissed his councillors, making a sign at the same time to Eginhard
to follow him.

Without a word Charles led him into his private chamber, where in
answer to his summons, Emma appeared.

Her heart misgave her as she saw the dark look on her father's face
and the troubled features of her beloved. She understood all at once,
and with a convulsive cry of pain threw herself at her father's feet.

"Mercy! mercy! my father, we love each other so dearly!" murmured she,
raising her large eyes imploringly. "Mercy!" murmured Eginhard too,
bending his knees.

The emperor remained silent. After a time he began to speak earnestly
and coldly at first, but his voice changed to a milder tone on hearing
the sobs of his favourite child.

"I shall not separate you who are bound to each other by love. A
priest shall unite you, and at dawn to-morrow you must both be gone
from the castle, never to return."

He left them, shutting the door behind him.

The beautiful maiden sank down on her knees, only half conscious in
her grief of what her father had said. But Eginhard's soft voice soon
whispered in her ear.

"Do not weep, Emma. By thrusting you from him, your father, my master,
has only bound us together for ever. Come," he continued in a
trembling voice, alarmed at her passionate tears, "we must go, but
love will be ever with us."

The next day two pilgrims left the castle of Ingelheim, and took the
road in the direction of Mayence.

IV.

Time wore on.

Charles the Great had made war on Saxony, had set the Roman crown upon
his own head, and had become famous throughout the whole world. But
all his fame had not prevented his hair from becoming grey, nor his
heart from being sad. A mournful picture had imprinted itself on his
mind, despite all his efforts to forget the past. In the evening when
the setting sun glittered on the marble pillars of the royal palace,
casting its golden rays into the chamber of the great emperor, it
would find him sitting motionless in his carved oak-chair, his grey
head buried in his hands, mournful dreams troubling his peace. He was
thinking of the days which were past, of the young man whose gentle
ways made him so different from the rough warriors of the court, how
he used to recite poetry and sing the songs of the old bards so
passionately, and the old legends which the emperor prized so much,
how he used to read to him from the old gray parchment which he,
Eginhard, had written so carefully, how his own favourite dark-eyed
daughter had so often been present, sitting at his feet listening
intently to the reader--all this came back to his memory, saddening
his heart, and filling his eyes with tears.

V.

Bugle-horns sounded through the forest, Charles and his followers were
at the chase. The old emperor, seeking to forget his grief, had seized
his spear and had gone out to hunt.

In his eagerness to follow a magnificent stag he had become separated
from his escort. The sun was already low in the west; the animal, now
seeing no way of escape, as his pursuer was close behind him, dashed
into a river and swam to the other side. The emperor, in hot pursuit
and much exhausted, arrived at the water's edge, and for the first
time noticed that he was alone, and in a part of the country quite
unknown to him.

The river lay before him and the forest behind, but the latter seemed
to be quite impenetrable. It was already night, and Charles sought in
vain to find some path or track.

As he was looking round him, he perceived a light in the distance.
Greatly pleased he started off in that direction, and found a little
hut close to the river, but on looking through the window Charlemagne
saw the room was a very poor one.

"Perhaps this is the hermitage of some pious man," thought he, and
knocked at the door, whereupon a fair-haired man appeared on the
threshold.

Without mentioning his name, the emperor informed him of what had
happened, and begged shelter for the night.

At the sound of this loved voice, the man trembled, but controlling
himself, he invited the emperor to enter. A young woman was sitting on
a stool rocking a baby in her arms. She started, became very pale at
the sight of the emperor, and then hurried into the next room to hide
her emotion; Charles sat down, and refusing refreshment from his host
leaned his head wearily on his hands.

Minutes passed, and still he sat there lost in thought, dreaming of
those happy by-gone days.

At last the sweet prattle of a child roused him, and looking up he saw
a little girl about five years old at his side, stretching out her
arms to him, bidding him good-night. Charles looked closely at the
little angel-like creature, his heart throbbing within him. "What is
your name, little one?" asked he. "Emma," answered the child.

"Emma," repeated Charles with tears in his eyes, and drawing the child
closer to him he pressed a kiss on its forehead.

In a moment the man and his young wife were at the emperor's feet
imploring pardon. "Emma! Eginhard!" cried he with great emotion,
embracing them both. "Blessed be the place where I have found you
again!"

Emma and Eginhard returned in great pomp to the emperor's court. The
latter gave them his beautiful palace at Ingelheim, and only felt
himself happy when he was with them.

He caused a cloister to be built on the spot where he had found them
again, which to the present day is called "Seligenstadt," "town of the
happy."

In the church belonging to this little town the tomb of Eginhard and
Emma is still shown, for according to their wishes, their bones were
interred in the same coffin.

RUeDESHEIM

The Broemserburg

In the lofty cathedral of Spires stood a great assemblage of knights,
and on the throne near the altar sat Conrad der Staufe with his hands
resting on the hilt of his sword. All were listening intently to the
burning words of Bernard of Clairvaux who was describing the ruthless
manner in which the holy places of Palestine had been laid waste. As
the saintly preacher ended with a thrilling appeal to the religious
feelings of his audience, a great shout, "On, to Jerusalem!" rang
through the sacred edifice. Most of the knights offered to bring as
many followers as possible to aid their pious Emperor. Among those
present was Hans Broemser, the lord of the Niederburg at Ruedesheim.
This noble knight, the last of his race, was not detained at home by
family cares. His wife had early been taken from him by death, and
Mechtildis, the only offspring of their marriage, was left under the
protection of the neighbouring Falkenstein family.

So the pious warriors marched by devious and dangerous routes to that
land where Our Lord lived and suffered. In fierce battle with the
Saracens many a noble knight closed his eyes forever. Many met a
harder fate--a living death in the noisome prisons of the unbelievers.
After a lost battle Sir Broemser fell into the hands of the Turks, and
in a dungeon had to suffer shameful imprisonment. Sometimes they would
force their knightly foe to turn a millstone, while the crowd jeered.
Then, in the hour of deepest misery the knight made a vow to God.
"Give me my freedom again, and I vow that my child Mechtildis shall
devote her life to the Church." And he repeated the solemn words
again, and yet a third time.

Then happened what none of his companions-in-arms had ever hoped for.
The brave crusaders stormed this Turkish stronghold in the Syrian
desert, and liberated their fellow-crusaders from captivity. Full of
gratitude to God, Hans Broemser again fought valiantly in the holy
cause.

Meanwhile at home in the hospitable keep above the Rhine a maiden
awaited with anxiety the return of her father. Often in the silent
hours, with sweetness and sunshine around her, without and within, she
stood on the castle-wall and she saw in reverie that blue Eastern
land, whilst she listened to the wild throbbing of her young heart in
which the blossoms of first love were bursting.

Then one night her father returned to the Rhineland.

In the moss-covered courtyard of the castle Mechtildis embraced her
father long and silently. Beside the maiden, now in her seventeenth
year, stood the young lord of Falkenstein. The youth bowed deeply to
the lord of the Broemserburg, and greeted him kindly with the words,
"Welcome home, father!" Then the vow made in the Syrian prison rose
like a spectre to pall the joy of the crusader's return.

In the banqueting-hall of the castle a large company had assembled to
celebrate the happy return of Hans Broemser and his faithful
companions. The praise of the crusaders resounded and many stories
were told of the dangers the heroes had encountered. With stirring
words the knight related to his listening guests how he himself had
fought in the sacred cause, and how he had suffered imprisonment among
the heathen. Then in a lower tone, and with solemn words, he told his
friends of the vow he had made in his hour of deep despair in the
Syrian dungeon.

The painful silence which followed was broken by a stifled cry, and
the knight's daughter, pale as the covering on the festive board, sank
unconscious to the floor. With burning cheek and flashing eye the
young lord of Falkenstein rose, and with a firm voice exclaimed,
"Mechtildis belongs to me; she has solemnly given herself to me
forever." The murmur soon subsided before the stern countenance of the
lord of the castle. "Mechtildis has been dedicated to heaven, not to
you, boy. The last of the Broemser race has sworn it, and abides by
it." The knight said this with suppressed fury, and soon his guests
departed in silence.

Mechtildis lay in her chamber in wild grief. The flickering lamp
beside the crucifix threw an unsteady light on the extended form of
the maiden who was measuring the tedious night hours in the
love-anguish of her young heart. To the distracted maid her chamber
seemed to be transformed to an oppressive dungeon. Seizing the lamp
with a trembling hand she hurried up the narrow winding stair on to
the roof of the castle, and there committed her great grief to the
listening ear of night. Leaning on the wall, she looked away towards
the castle where lived the noble young lord to whom she had dedicated
her life. "I am thine, my beloved," she sobbed. No star was visible in
the sky. A wild autumn wind shrieked and swirled round the keep in
accompaniment to the storm in the maiden's breast. A short piercing
cry echoed in the darkness. Was it the bride of the winds or a human
cry? The night swallowed it. From the parapet of the Broemserburg a
female form had been hurled down into the dark floods of the Rhine
below.

A bright harvest morning followed a stormy night. In the Broemserburg
they were searching everywhere in vain for their lord's daughter. Soon
however a mournful procession approached bearing the mortal remains of
Mechtildis. In the early dawn a young woman had rescued the body from
the waters of the river. Now the walls of the Broemserburg echoed with
sounds of woe over the early death of this last fair young flower of
the Broemser race. Hans Broemser threw himself on the body and buried
his stern features in the snowy linen. Not a tear bedewed his eyelids.

As a propitiatory offering for the rest of the soul of the maiden who
had thus avoided the monastic life, the knight in his deep sorrow
vowed to build a chapel on the hill opposite his castle. Then Hans
Broemser shut himself up in his chamber, and passed the following days
in silent grief, while the grave closed over his wretched child.

Many months passed, but still not a stone of the promised chapel had
been set up. In the bitterness of his sorrow the grief-stricken father
had separated himself more and more from the world, and now brooded in
gloomy isolation. One day a servant came before him with a likeness of
the Mother of God which an ox had scraped up while ploughing a field
on the hill opposite the castle, and three times the servant declared
he had heard the "Not Gottes" (Suffering of God) called out. Then Hans
Broemser remembered his vow, and the chapel for the peace of the soul
of Mechtildis was erected. "Not Gottes" it is called to this day.

BINGEN

The Mouse-Tower

Below Bingen in the middle of the Rhine there is a lonely island on
which a stronghold is to be seen. This tower is called "the
Mouse-Tower." For many centuries a very gloomy tale has been told
about it in connection with Hatto, Archbishop of Mayence, whose evil
deeds were well-known throughout the country.

Hatto is said to have been ambitious, heartless, and perfidious, as
well as cruel towards the poor. He extorted taxes from his people,
tolls were imposed, and new burdens invented only to gratify his
haughty pride and his love of display. On a little island between
Bingen and Ruedesheim he caused a tower to be built, so that all
passing ships could be stopped in the narrow passage, where they were
obliged to pay toll.

Soon after the building of this custom-house there was a very bad
harvest in the country round Mayence. Drought had parched the fields,
and the little seed remaining had been destroyed by hail. The scarcity
was felt all the more, because the bishop had bought up all the stores
of corn that were left from the year before, and had stored them up
safely in his granaries.

A terrible famine now threatened the land, spreading misery among the
poor. The unhappy people implored the cruel bishop to lower the price
of the corn in his store-house, which he wished to sell at such
exorbitant prices that his subjects could not buy it. All their
petitions were in vain. His advisers besought him to have pity on the
deplorable condition of the poor, but Hatto remained unmoved. When
cries of distress and the murmuring voices of the exasperated folk
were raised against their hard-hearted master, the bishop gave free
vent to the wicked thoughts of his soul.

One day a troop of hungry beggars came crowding to the episcopal
palace crying for food. Hatto and his guests were just sitting down to
a luxurious banquet. The bishop had been talking to his companions of
these wretched people, and had expressed his opinion that it would be
a good thing to do away with them altogether in some drastic way.

As the ragged mob of men, women and children, with hollow cheeks and
pale faces threw themselves at his feet crying for bread, a still more
fiendish plan suggested itself. Beckoning to them with hypocritical
kindness he promised them corn, and caused them to be led outside the
town to a barn, where each one was to receive as much corn as he
wished. The unhappy folk hurried forth, their hearts full of
gratitude; but when they were all in the barn, Hatto ordered the doors
to be locked and the barn to be set on fire.

The screams of the poor wretches were heart-rending, and could be
heard even in the bishop's palace.

But cruel Hatto called out scornfully to his advisers, "Listen! how
the mice are squeaking among the corn. This eternal begging is at an
end at last. May the mice bite me if it is not true!"

But the punishment which Heaven sent him was terrible. Thousands of
mice came out of the burning barn, made their way to the palace,
filled every chamber and corner, and at last attacked the bishop
himself. His servants killed them by hundreds, but their numbers
seemed only to increase, as did their ferocity also. The bishop was
seized with horror and, anticipating God's punishment, he fled from
the town and went on board a boat hoping to defend himself from his
terrible pursuers. But the innumerable horde swam in legions after
him, and when he reached his tower on the island thinking at least he
would be safe there, the mice followed him, gnawing the tower and
tearing for themselves an entrance with their sharp teeth, till at
last they reached him whom they sought. The cruel man was devoured by
the mice, which attacked him by scores. In his despair he offered his
soul to the Evil One, if he would release his body from such awful
agony. The Evil Spirit came, freed his body, but took his soul away
for himself.

Thus runs the legend. History however speaks less severely of Hatto,
the imperious prelate.

* * * * *

His great ambition was his desire of power. He was the founder of the
temporal power which the seat of Mayence obtained, and which later on
made it the first bishopric of the kingdom, but he was always hated by
the citizens, who suffered much owing to his proud, despotic
character.

It is true that he was the founder of the toll which ships in olden
times were obliged to pay on the Rhine, so that this fact and many
other cruel exactions of his, have helped to evolve the terrible
legend of the Mouse-Tower.

THE VALLEY OF THE NAHE

KREUZNACH

A mighty draught

Once upon a time in the high castle called Rheingrafenstein near
Kreuznach, the flower of the knights belonging to the Rhine country
were assembled.

They were powerful warriors, these nobles of ancient rank, but the
most prominent among them was the host himself, the proud Rhine Count.
Many a cup had he already emptied to the health of his distinguished
guests, and rising up once more from his richly carved chair he cast a
look over the brilliant assembly and said in a boastful tone:

"I have got a knight's high boot here, my noble lords. A courier left
it behind him once. Now I promise on the honour of my house that
whoever will drink it empty at one draught, to him I will give the
village of Hueffelsheim yonder."

The count, smiling at the novelty of the challenge, took the boot from
his attendant's hand, caused it to be filled to the brim, and held up
this novel cup to his guests. "Tis a fair challenge! Come on whoever
will dare!" said he.

Among the illustrious company present there was one, John of
Sponheim, a knight well-known in the country for his enormous drinking
powers; but he remained unmoved at these defiant words, only looking
inquiringly at his neighbour, Knight Weinhart of Dhaun, who in great
perplexity, was striving to hide his head behind a large goblet. Old
Floersheimer, another knight whose thirst usually seemed unquenchable,
stroked his gray beard doubtfully, while Kunz of Stromberg, a tall
thin man, shook his head at the thought of the after-effects which
such a draught would bring. Even the chaplain of the castle, who
attributed his effective intoning of high-mass to the virtues of the
Rhenish wine which he indulged in so freely, looked longingly at the
boot, but had not the courage to attempt such a rash act.

Suddenly a knight, Boos of Waldeck by name rose. He was a muscular man
with the strength of a bear. In a voice of thunder he banged his
mighty fist upon the table and said scornfully, "Bring me that little
boot!"

The distinguished company stared at him in great astonishment, but
Boos of Waldeck, taking the boot in his sturdy fist, cried out. "Your
health, my lords!"

Then flourishing it in the air, he emptied the boot at one draught.

When this act was accomplished, Boos threw himself heavily into his
chair, and addressing the master of the ceremonies, said with a
humorous twinkle in his eye:

"Did the courier not leave the other boot too? I might possibly win a
second bet, and thus acquire the village of Roxheim into the bargain."

The count looked much abashed, but the noble guests only laughed
heartily at the joke.

Thus stout Boos of Waldeck became lord of the village of Hueffelsheim.

The Foundation of Castle Sponheim

The following legend tells us about the origin of Castle Sponheim in
the valley of the Nahe. Once a Knight of Ravensberg was eagerly wooing
the beautiful young Countess of Heimburg, but there was a serious
obstacle in his path to success. Some years before a Ravensberg had
killed a Heimburg in a quarrel, and since that time a bitter feud had
divided the two houses. The brave knight felt this bitterly, but in
spite of it he did not leave off his wooing. The young countess was
much touched by his constancy, and one day she spoke thus to her
impetuous suitor:

"My lord, if you will dare to go to the Holy Land there to expiate the
sins of your fathers, and bring me back a relic from the sepulchre of
our Redeemer, in that same hour your suit will be heard."

The knight in great joy kissed the maiden's slender hand and departed,
carrying the memory of her sweet smile away in his heart.

Just at this time the call of the Emperor Barbarossa, now an old man,
sounded throughout the land, and the Knight of Ravensberg did not
neglect the opportunity, but hastened forth to join the imperial army.

The expedition was a long and terrible one, and the troops wearily
made their way across the desert plains of Palestine.

The knight, though a brave man, had no special love for warlike
adventures, and during these exhausting marches he thought sorrowfully
of his quiet castle on the Nahe; of how he used to lie down there in
peace and safety at night without being in fear of the Saracens who,
under cover of darkness would break in waving their scimitars in air,
an event which was a nightly occurrence on this expedition.

Ravensberg however fought bravely in many a battle, and after the
deaths of Barbarossa and his son, he joined the army of Richard the
Lion-hearted.

Through all this anxious time he never forgot his dear one at home,
and his longing for her became stronger every day, till it seemed to
get beyond endurance.

King Richard was called back to England on some urgent state-affairs,
and the Knight of Ravensberg was among the few companions-in-arms who
embarked with him. The brave knight was very happy, and while the
king's ship was sailing along the coast of Greece and up the blue
Adriatic Sea, he would often stand on deck and weave bright dreams of
the future; sometimes when no one was near, he would pull out a little
black ebony box set with precious stones, on which a woman's name was
written in golden letters; the interior was beautifully lined with
costly silk; and a small splinter of wood lay within which the knight
would kiss most reverently. He had paid a large sum of money for it
in the Holy Land, where he had bought it from a Jewish merchant. This
man had sworn to him that this fragment was from the cross to which
the Son of God had been nailed.

The knight was very happy during this long homeward journey, but a
great misfortune awaited him. Just as the crusaders came in sight of
Italy their vessel was wrecked. The King of England, the Knight of
Ravensberg, and a few others were saved with great difficulty, and
brought to land. But our poor knight was inconsolable; he had held the
precious little box high above him in the water, but a mighty wave had
torn it from him, and on opening his eyes he found himself on shore.
The holy relic had saved him, but he had lost his treasure, and now
all hope of his promised happiness was gone.

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