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<h2> THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. </h2>
<h3> A TRAVELLER'S TALE.* </h3>
<p>He that supper for is dight,<br/>
He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!<br/>
Yestreen to chamber I him led,<br/>
This night Gray-steel has made his bed!<br/>
SIR EGER, SIR GRAHAME, and SIR GRAY-STEEL.<br/></p>
<p>ON the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and romantic
tract of Upper Germany that lies not far from the confluence of the Main
and the Rhine, there stood many, many years since the castle of the Baron
Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among
beech trees and dark firs; above which, however, its old watch-tower may
still be seen struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to
carry a high head and look down upon the neighboring country.</p>
<p>The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen,+ and
inherited the relics of the property and all the pride, of his ancestors.
Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors had much impaired the
family possessions, yet the baron still endeavored to keep up some show of
former state. The times were peaceable, and the German nobles in general
had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' nests
among the mountains, and had built more convenient residences in the
valleys; still, the baron remained proudly drawn up in his little
fortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy all the old family feuds,
so that he was on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on account
of disputes that had happened between their great-great-grandfathers.</p>
<p>* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore,<br/>
will perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested<br/>
to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance<br/>
said to have taken place in Paris.<br/>
<br/>
+ I.e., CAT'S ELBOW—the name of a family of those parts,<br/>
and very powerful in former times. The appellation, we are<br/>
told, was given in compliment to a peerless dame of the<br/>
family, celebrated for a fine arm.<br/></p>
<p>The baron had but one child, a daughter, but Nature, when she grants but
one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy; and so it was with
the daughter of the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins
assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany;
and who should know better than they? She had, moreover, been brought up
with great care under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had
spent some years of their early life at one of the little German courts,
and were skilled in all branches of knowledge necessary to the education
of a fine lady. Under their instructions she became a miracle of
accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen she could embroider to
admiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry with
such strength of expression in their countenances that they looked like so
many souls in purgatory. She could read without great difficulty, and had
spelled her way through several Church legends and almost all the
chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable
proficiency in writing; could sign her own name without missing a letter,
and so legibly that her aunts could read it without spectacles. She
excelled in making little elegant good-for-nothing, lady-like knicknacks
of all kinds, was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day, played a
number of airs on the harp and guitar, and knew all the tender ballads of
the Minnelieders by heart.</p>
<p>Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their younger
days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians and strict
censors of the conduct of their niece; for there is no duenna so rigidly
prudent and inexorably decorous as a superannuated coquette. She was
rarely suffered out of their sight; never went beyond the domains of the
castle unless well attended, or rather well watched; had continual
lectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience; and, as
to the men—pah!—she was taught to hold them at such a distance
and in such absolute distrust that, unless properly authorized, she would
not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world—no,
not if he were even dying at her feet.</p>
<p>The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. The young lady
was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others were wasting their
sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and thrown
aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovely
womanhood under the protection of those immaculate spinsters, like a
rosebud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her
with pride and exultation, and vaunted that, though all the other young
ladies in the world might go astray, yet thank Heaven, nothing of the kind
could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen.</p>
<p>But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided with
children, his household was by no means a small one; for Providence had
enriched him with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all,
possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble relatives—were
wonderfully attached to the baron, and took every possible occasion to
come in swarms and enliven the castle. All family festivals were
commemorated by these good people at the baron's expense; and when they
were filled with good cheer they would declare that there was nothing on
earth so delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of the heart.</p>
<p>The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled with
satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man in the little
world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the stark old
warriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls around, and he
found no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. He was much
given to the marvellous and a firm believer in all those supernatural
tales with which every mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The faith
of his guests exceeded even his own: they listened to every tale of wonder
with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be astonished, even though
repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the
oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, and
happy, above all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of
the age.</p>
<p>At the time of which my story treats there was a great family gathering at
the castle on an affair of the utmost importance: it was to receive the
destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. A negotiation had been
carried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria to unite the
dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The
preliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The young people
were betrothed without seeing each other, and the time was appointed for
the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled
from the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the baron's
to receive his bride. Missives had even been received from him from
Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the day and hour
when he might be expected to arrive.</p>
<p>The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable welcome.
The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The two aunts had
superintended her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning about every
article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage of their contest
to follow the bent of her own taste; and fortunately it was a good one.
She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire, and the flutter
of expectation heightened the lustre of her charms.</p>
<p>The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving of the
bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult
that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were continually hovering
around her, for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of
this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel how to deport
herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive the expected lover.</p>
<p>The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth, nothing
exactly to do; but he was naturally a fuming, bustling little man, and
could not remain passive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried
from top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; he
continually called the servants from their work to exhort them to be
diligent; and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and
importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day.</p>
<p>In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had rung
with the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer;
the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferre-wein; and
even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under contribution. Everything
was ready to receive the distinguished guest with Saus und Braus in the
true spirit of German hospitality; but the guest delayed to make his
appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that had poured his downward
rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the
summits of the mountains. The baron mounted the highest tower and strained
his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of the count and his
attendants. Once he thought he beheld them; the sound of horns came
floating from the valley, prolonged by the mountain-echoes. A number of
horsemen were seen far below slowly advancing along the road; but when
they had nearly reached the foot of the mountain they suddenly struck off
in a different direction. The last ray of sunshine departed, the bats
began to flit by in the twilight, the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the
view, and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and then a peasant
lagging homeward from his labor.</p>
<p>While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity a very
interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the Odenwald.</p>
<p>The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his route in that
sober jog-trot way in which a man travels toward matrimony when his
friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his
hands and a bride is waiting for him as certainly as a dinner at the end
of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful
companion-in-arms with whom he had seen some service on the frontiers—Herman
Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthiest hearts of German
chivalry—who was now returning from the army. His father's castle
was not far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, although an
hereditary feud rendered the families hostile and strangers to each other.</p>
<p>In the warm-hearted moment of recognition the young friends related all
their past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave the whole history
of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of
whose charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions.</p>
<p>As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed to
perform the rest of their journey together, and that they might do it the
more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the count having
given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him.</p>
<p>They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military scenes
and adventures; but the count was apt to be a little tedious now and then
about the reputed charms of his bride and the felicity that awaited him.</p>
<p>In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, and were
traversing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It is well
known that the forests of Germany have always been as much infested by
robbers as its castles by spectres; and at this time the former were
particularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering
about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the
cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of the
forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered
when the count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the
robbers fled, but not until the count had received a mortal wound. He was
slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar
summoned from a neighboring convent who was famous for his skill in
administering to both soul and body; but half of his skill was
superfluous; the moments of the unfortunate count were numbered.</p>
<p>With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to the
castle of Landshort and explain the fatal cause of his not keeping his
appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was
one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that
his mission should be speedily and courteously executed. "Unless this is
done," said he, "I shall not sleep quietly in my grave." He repeated these
last words with peculiar solemnity. A request at a moment so impressive
admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to calmness,
promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in solemn
pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into
delirium—raved about his bride, his engagements, his plighted word—ordered
his horse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort, and expired in
the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle.</p>
<p>Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely fate of
his comrade and then pondered on the awkward mission he had undertaken.
His heart was heavy and his head perplexed; for he was to present himself
an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp their festivity with
tidings fatal to their hopes. Still, there were certain whisperings of
curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen,
so cautiously shut up from the world; for he was a passionate admirer of
the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his
character that made him fond of all singular adventure.</p>
<p>Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with the holy
fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who
was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg near some of his
illustrious relatives, and the mourning retinue of the count took charge
of his remains.</p>
<p>It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of
Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more for
their dinner, and to the worthy little baron, whom we left airing himself
on the watch-tower.</p>
<p>Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended from the
tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour to hour,
could no longer be postponed. The meats were already overdone, the cook in
an agony, and the whole household had the look of a garrison, that had
been reduced by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders
for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were seated at table,
and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without
the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast
filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by
the warder from the walls. The baron hastened to receive his future
son-in-law.</p>
<p>The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the gate. He
was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His countenance was
pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye and an air of stately melancholy.
The baron was a little mortified that he should have come in this simple,
solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed
to consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion and the
important family with which he was to be connected. He pacified himself,
however, with the conclusion that it must have been youthful impatience
which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants.</p>
<p>"I am sorry," said the stranger, "to break in upon you thus unseasonably——"</p>
<p>Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compliments and greetings,
for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy and eloquence.
The stranger attempted once or twice to stem the torrent of words, but in
vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time the
baron had come to a pause they had reached the inner court of the castle,
and the stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more
interrupted by the appearance of the female part of the family, leading
forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as
one entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze and
rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered something
in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her moist blue eye was timidly
raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was cast again
to the ground. The words died away, but there was a sweet smile playing
about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek that showed her glance
had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond age
of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased
with so gallant a cavalier.</p>
<p>The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for parley. The
baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conversation until the
morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet.</p>
<p>It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls hung
the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen,
and the trophies which they had gained in the field, and in the chase.
Hacked corselets, splintered jousting-spears, and tattered banners were
mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare: the jaws of the wolf and the
tusks of the boar grinned horribly among crossbows and battle-axes, and a
huge pair of antlers branched immediately over the head of the youthful
bridegroom.</p>
<p>The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the entertainment.
He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his
bride. He conversed in a low tone that could not be overheard, for the
language of love is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull that
it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover? There was a mingled
tenderness and gravity in his manner that appeared to have a powerful
effect upon the young lady. Her color came and went as she listened with
deep attention. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his
eye was turned away she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident
that the young couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were deeply
versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in
love with each other at first sight.</p>
<p>The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were all
blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses and
mountain air. The baron told his best and longest stories, and never had
he told them so well or with such great effect. If there was anything
marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; and if anything
facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The baron,
it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a
dull one; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent
Hockheimer, and even a dull joke at one's own table, served up with jolly
old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer and keener
wits that would not bear repeating, except on similar occasions; many sly
speeches whispered in ladies' ears that almost convulsed them with
suppressed laughter; and a song or two roared out by a poor but merry and
broad-faced cousin of the baron that absolutely made the maiden aunts hold
up their fans.</p>
<p>Amidst all this revelry the stranger guest maintained a most singular and
unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast of dejection
as the evening advanced, and, strange as it may appear, even the baron's
jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At times he was lost
in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and restless wandering of
the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the
bride became more and more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began
to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through
her tender frame.</p>
<p>All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety was
chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; their spirits were
infected; whispers and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs
and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and less
frequent: there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which were at
length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismal story
produced another still more dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some
of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin horseman that
carried away the fair Leonora—a dreadful story which has since been
put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world.</p>
<p>The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He kept his
eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close, began
gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until in the
baron's entranced eye he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment
the tale was finished he heaved a deep sigh and took a solemn farewell of
the company. They were all amazement. The baron was perfectly
thunderstruck.</p>
<p>"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything was prepared
for his reception; a chamber was ready for him if he wished to retire."</p>
<p>The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously: "I must lay my
head in a different chamber to-night."</p>
<p>There was something in this reply and the tone in which it was uttered
that made the baron's heart misgive him; but he rallied his forces and
repeated his hospitable entreaties.</p>
<p>The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every offer, and,
waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall. The
maiden aunts were absolutely petrified; the bride hung her head and a tear
stole to her eye.</p>
<p>The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where
the black charger stood pawing the earth and snorting with impatience.
When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by
a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow tone
of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral.</p>
<p>"Now that we are a lone," said he, "I will impart to you the reason of my
going. I have a solemn, an indispensable engagement——"</p>
<p>"Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in your place?"</p>
<p>"It admits of no substitute—I must attend it in person; I must away
to Wurtzburg cathedral——"</p>
<p>"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until to-morrow—to-morrow
you shall take your bride there."</p>
<p>"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, "my engagement is
with no bride—the worms! the worms expect me! I am a dead man—I
have been slain by robbers—my body lies at Wurtzburg—at
midnight I am to be buried—the grave is waiting for me—I must
keep my appointment!"</p>
<p>He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and the
clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night
blast.</p>
<p>The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and related
what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others sickened at the idea
of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of some that this
might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Some talked of
mountain-sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings with
which the good people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since
time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it
might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very
gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage.
This, however, drew on him, the indignation of the whole company, and
especially of the baron, who looked upon him as little better than an
infidel; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible
and come into the faith of the true believers.</p>
<p>But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were completely
put to an end by the arrival next day of regular missives confirming the
intelligence of the young count's murder and his interment in Wurtzburg
cathedral.</p>
<p>The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron shut himself up
in his chamber. The guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could not
think of abandoning him in his distress. They wandered about the courts or
collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their
shoulders at the troubles of so good a man, and sat longer than ever at
table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up
their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was the most
pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even embraced him—and
such a husband! If the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what
must have been the living man? She filled the house with lamentations.</p>
<p>On the night of the second day of her widowhood she had retired to her
chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with
her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost-stories in all
Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen
asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote and overlooked a
small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising
moon as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree before the lattice.
The castle clock had just tolled midnight when a soft strain of music
stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed and stepped
lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees.
As it raised its head a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance.
Heaven and earth! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that
moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the
music and had followed her silently to the window, fell into her arms.
When she looked again the spectre had disappeared.</p>
<p>Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for she was
perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady, there was
something even in the spectre of her lover that seemed endearing. There
was still the semblance of manly beauty, and, though the shadow of a man
is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a lovesick girl, yet
where the substance is not to be had even that is consoling. The aunt
declared she would never sleep in that chamber again; the niece, for once,
was refractory, and declared as strongly that she would sleep in no other
in the castle: the consequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone; but
she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre,
lest she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth—that
of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover kept
its nightly vigils.</p>
<p>How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is uncertain,
for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, and there is a triumph in
being the first to tell a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in
the neighborhood as a memorable instance of female secrecy that she kept
it to herself for a whole week, when she was suddenly absolved from all
further restraint by intelligence brought to the breakfast-table one
morning that the young lady was not to be found. Her room was empty—the
bed had not been slept in—the window was open and the bird had
flown!</p>
<p>The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was received can
only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agitation which the
mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations
paused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher, when
the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands and
shrieked out, "The goblin! the goblin! she's carried away by the goblin!"</p>
<p>In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and concluded
that the spectre must have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics
corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of a horse's
hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the
spectre on his black charger bearing her away to the tomb. All present
were struck with the direful probability for events of the kind are
extremely common in Germany, as many well-authenticated histories bear
witness.</p>
<p>What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron! What a
heartrending dilemma for a fond father and a member of the great family of
Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt away to the
grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and perchance a
troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and
all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse and scour
every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself had just
drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his
steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause
by a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle mounted on a
palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate,
sprang from her horse, and, falling at the baron's feet, embraced his
knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companion—the Spectre
Bridegroom! The baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at
the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The latter,
too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance since his visit to the
world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of
manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine countenance
was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye.</p>
<p>The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in truth, as you must
have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir
Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with the young count. He
told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings,
but that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in every attempt
to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had completely captivated him
and that to pass a few hours near her he had tacitly suffered the mistake
to continue. How he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent
retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric
exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his
visits by stealth—had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's
window—had wooed—had won—had borne away in triumph—and,
in a word, had wedded the fair.</p>
<p>Under any other circumstances the baron would have been inflexible, for he
was tenacious of paternal authority and devoutly obstinate in all family
feuds; but he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced
to find her still alive; and, though her husband was of a hostile house,
yet, thank Heaven! he was not a goblin. There was something, it must be
acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict
veracity in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a dead
man; but several old friends present, who had served in the wars, assured
him that every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was
entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper.</p>
<p>Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned the young
couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The poor
relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving-kindness;
he was so gallant, so generous—and so rich. The aunts, it is true,
were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict seclusion and
passive obedience should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all to
their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them was
particularly mortified at having her marvellous story marred, and that the
only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit; but the
niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and
blood. And so the story ends.</p>
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