CHAPTER I.

How the young Squire Otto and his pretty Cousin discoursed together, on the banks of the Danube, during a fine evening in May.

In the happy land of Suabia, close to the river Danube, there lies a fine level meadow, where once on a time (it was in the month of May, just as the declining sunbeams were taking leave of the flowers) a young squire, by name Otto von Trautwangen, was enjoying his evening recreation. At this beautiful season, it was Otto’s custom frequently to leave his father’s castle in the neighbouring mountains, and repair to the pleasant banks of the river. Here he amused himself alternately with angling in the streams, or in shooting with a cross-bow at marks, which he had contrived in many strange shapes, such as dragons, hobgoblins, witches, &c. and painted in glaring colours. On the wide level meadow he ran no risk of wounding any one with his arrows. This evening, however, his bow and quiver lay beside him on the grass, and he held his fishing-rod, watching as it seemed the play of his line in the water; but he was lost in reverie, and forgot that he had not even baited his hook.

Then Bertha von Lichtenried came walking towards him, his father’s niece, along with whom he had from his childhood been educated at the castle. She took her place beside him on the grass, and half mocking, half anxiously questioned him on what he was meditating so deeply? He himself knew not well what to say, and now so much the less, when he saw his cousin’s pretty face smiling on him reflected in the water. She looked even _too_ beautiful in his estimation, and perhaps she thought the same of him, as she smiled on her companion so kindly. It was delightful to see how the two young people thus carried on a silent conversation together in the living mirror of the Danube! When Otto had considered for a while, it occurred to him that he had remarked a pilgrim, in a red-cross mantle, passing on the opposite side of the river, after which he had fallen into a mood of deep thought. He told Bertha of this, and described to her how solemn was the impression left on his mind; how the pilgrim had always looked steadfastly on the road before him, without turning in the least to the right or left, so that one could not precisely say whether it was old age, humility, or an ardent longing after the sacred object of his journey, that bent his head forwards, and harmonized every gesture. To this the young man added his own reflections, how admirable it must be to travel across kingdoms, seas, and rivers, to distant unknown lands! Nothing in his opinion could be pleasanter than such a pilgrimage, and it would never be the fatigue of travelling, but only the tedium of repose afterwards, that would prove oppressive.

“You do not mean to turn a pilgrim then?” said Bertha with a confident smile. “The Saints forbid!” said the young man; “these woods and meadows here hold me like a magic spell within their circle. Take care then that you never desert them, my pretty cousin!” At these words, Bertha blushed so deeply and suddenly, that it seemed as if twin rosebuds had sprung up in the water, and said, “As you are so certainly to remain here, then we may jest a little on the supposed possibility of your going. Let us try for once that farewell ditty, in two parts, which Master Walter has so finely indited. As in winter, one likes to hear the snow-storm, when sitting warm by the fireside, so we may now venture to sing these verses, which, in their proper place, we should have no heart to repeat.” Otto then began,

“Sweet home, so long beloved, That I no more shall view,” &c.

But after the first two stanzas they gave over their music, for on the other side of the river there came a great procession of pilgrims, among whom appeared such variety of characters, that the young people found their attention irresistibly attracted. In the midst of the assemblage were graceful figures of young women, mounted on mules, richly caparisoned, and attended for their protection by warriors on foot, with long halberts in their hands. Then there were certain pilgrims, of whom, notwithstanding their grey mantles and oddly-shaped caps, it was easy to determine that they must be courtiers, and persons of high dignity, especially as their demeanour contrasted so powerfully with that of a great number of country people, who moved about irregularly enough in the procession. One could distinguish too, many respectable citizens of middle rank, painters also, and musicians, who bore with them the instruments of their respective arts, which they hoped to exercise in distant lands for the honour and glory of our holy religion. At last there came a troop of warlike knights, mounted on fine chargers, in bright-gleaming armour, who could be known as pilgrims only by the red cross on their shoulders. Just as the procession came opposite to Bertha and Otto, the ladies, mounted on their stately mules, and attended by their halberdiers, began to sing a grand choral hymn in praise of the eastern lands, whither they were thus pursuing their way.

The effect of their voices during the stillness of the evening was magical. Accidentally the sun, just then verging on the hills, broke through a cloud with new and unexpected refulgence, as if, instead of setting, he had been about to rise again, in order to reward and inspire those pious votaries. When the last notes had died solemnly and slowly away, the mail-coated knights struck in with a bold and martial chorus, in which they were joined by the halberdiers, while a powerful flourish of trumpets filled up the pause betwixt every stanza. Their song expressed contempt of the Saracens, and admiration of the English King Richard the Lion Heart, whose forces had just then gone forth like a thunder-storm, destructive and yet beneficial, into the Holy Land:

“Who falls there, he is glorious, And he who lives, victorious.”

Such were the concluding words of their chaunt; and when the long train had passed by, both the young people remained for some time thoughtful and silent. At length, “It is very true,” said Otto, “King Richard of England, who, for his bravery and magnanimity, is called _Cœur de Lion_, has vowed to make a crusade against the Saracens. My father and Master Walter spoke of this all last night at the castle. Good Heaven, what grand exploits will be performed there!” On saying this, the youth’s cheeks glowed and his eyes sparkled. Bertha sighed as she answered, “If you talk with such pleasure of wars and foreign travels, whenever any one in the guise of a pilgrim happens to come hither, then I shall no longer have courage to sing that farewell-ballad which we had begun.” “Nay, nay, be not afraid,” said Otto smiling, “we shall not speak more of any such adventures. Only attend now to your voice, and keep up the octave. You know we are to sing the next stanza together.”

It seemed destined, however, that they were not to finish their ballad to-day; for just as they had commenced again, they were disturbed by a noise as of many horses from the meadow behind them, and on turning their eyes thitherward, they perceived--what we shall describe in the next chapter.