CHAPTER V.

How the old Knight of Trautwangen heard news of Sir Otto.

Courteous reader, hast thou never longed to cast one look on the lonely and neglected old knight, Sir Hugh von Trautwangen? The grey-headed warrior now sits joyless in his castle! All the gay colours that once brightened his life have faded away, so that he is more like one of the dead than a living man; for of his only son he has heard no tidings, or of Bertha, nor of Heerdegen. Were it not that the old minstrel, Walter, sometimes visits him, the once active warrior would become a mere hermit, and his ancient fortress a silent cell for penance and mortification. Sometimes, when he is sitting all alone in his great hall, he seems to forget the changes around him, and calls aloud for Otto and for Bertha. Then he is answered only by the melancholy echo of his own voice, through the long vaulted rooms and corridors, so that the old knight recollects himself again, shakes his head, and smiles mournfully at his own forgetfulness.

One evening, however, he was sitting with Walter, the minstrel, at the great round table, on which the silver-embossed goblets full of old Johannisberg stood betwixt them, while out of doors there was an April shower, pouring and rattling with such vehemence, as if it would never have an end. “Pour on, pour on!” cried Sir Hugh, looking kindly towards the window. “By this means I am assured that my friend Walter will for this night not desert me. So then, long may the wind blow and the rain beat around us!” The minstrel took up his goblet of Rhenish, and joined in this toast with his noble entertainer, glad to find that he for a moment seemed cheerful, as a traveller, who has lost his way on the cloud-covered mountains, rejoices when the sunbeams once more break out around him. “In truth,” resumed the old knight, “I know not how I could bear with the weary load of time, were it not for your songs and your pleasant discourse. Both of us are old, but the white locks on my head are methinks like the withered moss that waves in winter on some old tottering monument; while to you they are like a snow-white wreath, with which the hands of courteous ladies have adorned your head, as a reward for the many pleasant songs that you have sung to them. Come oftener then, I pray you, and stay longer, that the sternness of my grief may be soothed, and that my thoughts may not vainly dwell on those past joys which will never return.”

Hereupon the two old men shook hands across their wine-cups, and the minstrel was about to speak, when, lo! a squire came hastily into the hall, and announced that there was a pilgrim without, who, on account of the violent rain and approaching darkness, might not proceed farther on his way, but had begged for shelter and refreshment. “He comes at an unfitting time!” muttered Sir Hugh, “I wish not now for stranger guests. However, let him be brought into the castle. As to this, you needed not to ask my permission in such weather. Place another chair also at the table; bring more wine, with some food, and a silver goblet, for our visitor. Has he announced from what country he has come hither?” “He is a native of France,” answered the squire, and withdrew. “Now, mark you,” said the old minstrel, “since we were to be disturbed, it is at least fortunate that the stranger should prove a Frenchman; for he may perhaps bring us good tidings of the young Sir Otto von Trautwangen.” “I pray you, speak not thus,” said the old knight. “He who longs anxiously for tidings of friends at a distance, is either disappointed altogether, or hears that by which his heart will only be rendered more unquiet. Therefore, grant me your promise, that you will not act the foolish part of asking questions, but wait patiently for whatever intelligence this guest of his own accord may impart to us.” “Right willingly,” said the minstrel, “do I promise what you demand of me; for a stranger, especially one who comes during a tempest like this, must ever be looked on as a friend; and among friends, methinks it is but a foolish and discourteous habit, evermore to ask after the first greeting what news are abroad; for----.” The minstrel paused as the pilgrim now entered the hall.

He was a man of middle age, neither very grave nor very merry, though, according to the custom of all Frenchmen, he spoke much and rapidly, giving them to understand that he was by birth an independent nobleman; and that a solemn vow, which his father had imposed on him, rendered it his duty to make a pilgrimage into the Holy Land. This duty he thought to perform with most convenience and safety under the protecting banners of King Richard, otherwise he would scarcely ever have turned a pilgrim, and so forth. From this shallow stream of words the old Sir Hugh von Trautwangen had immediately turned away. He sat looking fixedly on the ground, and drinking his wine, while the gleam, which was now and then visible in his eyes, proved that his thoughts were busied with the past; it seemed, indeed, as if, along with his wine, he drank up cherished recollections; and so he had been accustomed to sit through many a long evening, with the minstrel, Walter, beside him, who struck now and then a few deep chords on his harp. But meanwhile the stranger continued to talk, also to eat and drink, without the slightest discomposure, praising, however, the viands and Johannisberg which were before him, with the hospitality and courtesy of his entertainer.

But at length it so happened, that the pilgrim mentioned a name, by which the knight and the minstrel were both roused, as if they had been struck by a flash of lightning. He spoke of the renowned Chevalier de Montfaucon; and his hearers did not fail to remember how nearly this was connected with the fortunes of Sir Otto von Trautwangen.

“Last autumn, (so the stranger narrated,) the brave Knight of Montfaucon had, on account of a far-famed magic ring, entered the lists with a young German knight, and in that combat was, in a manner quite inexplicable, overcome and defeated. The fame of this battle had run like wild-fire over all France, and all the world now spoke of the victorious youth, who was named Otto; but as for his surname, he (the narrator) being a Frenchman, knew not well how to pronounce it.” Then he described minutely all circumstances of the battle between Sir Otto and the Knight of Montfaucon, while the minstrel struck thereto his harp chords in a vehement and cheering war-melody; but the old Sir Hugh looked thoughtful and melancholy, as if he heard but the mournful echo of Walter’s notes, but took no pleasure in their music. At length the stranger happened to say, “People have insisted that the young German has won his victory by incantations and witchcraft.” Thereupon the minstrel’s harp was silent; Sir Hugh’s dark eyebrows were more and more contracted, and he nodded to his friend with a mysterious expression, as if he would have said, “Ay, ay, I thought as much!”

“But,” resumed the pilgrim, “no one any longer believes that calumny. On the word of Sir Folko himself, and of another renowned hero, the most distinguished knights in all France now throw the gauntlet of defiance at every one who ventures to maintain that ever the German knight had to do with witchcraft or necromancy!”

With these welcome words the stranger concluded his intelligence; and not long after, offering many apologies on the score of fatigue from his long journey, he retired, accompanied by one of Sir Hugh’s confidential squires, to his chamber.

No sooner had he departed, than the minstrel began a ballad in praise of Sir Otto, and in contempt of the base slanderers who had accused him of dealings with the devil; but Sir Hugh made him a sign that he should be silent. “It is not yet time for your triumphant songs,” said he; “no one knows better than I do, that Otto is a champion more powerful in the lists than Sir Folko de Montfaucon; for in their early youth I watched over both, and even then could tell what strength or weakness they would shew in after years. But a long dark shadow stretches along the path which Otto has to pursue; though that evil omen, perhaps, is but the work of my foreboding fantasy. Yet, alas! I cannot but remember his first combat, and first victory that took place at that mournful meeting, with Sir Heerdegen. Ask me no questions, good Walter, for in truth I am very sad, but let us now retire to bed, and, if possible, to sleep.”