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No sooner had the holy man read the Lord of Ringstetten's letter than
he set forth on his way thither, with far greater speed than the
messenger had used to reach him. If his straining haste took away his
breath, or he felt his aged limbs ache with fatigue, he would say to
himself: "I may be in time to prevent a wicked deed; sink not till
thou hast reached the goal, my withered frame!" And so he exerted
himself afresh, and pushed on, without flagging or halting, till late
one evening he entered the shady court of Ringstetten.

The lovers were sitting hand in hand under a tree, with the thoughtful
old man near them; as soon as they saw Father Heilmann, they rose
eagerly and advanced to meet him. But he, scarcely noticing their
civilities, begged the Knight to come with him into the castle. As he
stared at this request, and hesitated to comply, the pious old Priest
said, "Why, indeed, should I speak to you alone, my Lord of
Ringstetten? What I have to say equally concerns the Fisherman and
Bertalda; and as they must sooner or later know it, it had better be
said now. How can you be certain, Lord Huldbrand, that your own wife
is indeed dead? For myself, I can hardly think so. I will not venture
to speak of things relating to her wondrous nature; in truth I have
no clear knowledge about it. But a godly and faithful wife she proved
herself, beyond all about. And these fourteen nights has she come to
my bedside in dreams, wringing her poor hands in anguish, and sighing
out, 'Oh stop him, dear father! I am yet alive! Oh save his life! Oh
save his soul!' I understood not the meaning of the vision till your
messenger came; and I have now hastened hither, not to join but to
part those hands, which may not be united in holy wedlock. Part from
her, Huldbrand! Part from him, Bertalda! He belongs to another; see
you not how his cheek turns pale at the thought of his departed wife?
Those are not the looks of a bridegroom, and the spirit tells me this.
If thou leavest him not now, there is joy for thee no more." They all
three felt at the bottom of their hearts that Father Heilmann's words
were true but they would not yield to them. Even the old Fisherman was
so blinded as to think that what had been settled between them for so
many days, could not now be relinquished. So they resisted the
Priest's warnings, and urged the fulfilment of their wishes with
headlong, gloomy determination, till Father Heilmann departed with a
melancholy shake of the head, without accepting even for one night
their proffered hospitalities, or tasting any of the refreshments they
set before him. But Huldbrand persuaded himself that the old Priest
was a weak dotard; and early next morning he sent to a monk from the
nearest cloister, who readily promised to come and marry them in a few
days.

XVII.--THE KNIGHT'S DREAM

The morning twilight was beginning to dawn, and the Knight lay
half-awake on his couch. Whenever he dropped asleep he was scared by
mysterious terrors, and started up as if sleep were peopled by
phantoms. If he woke up in earnest, he felt himself fanned all around
by what seemed like swans' wings, and soothed by watery airs, which
lulled him back again into the half-unconscious, twilight state. At
length he did fall asleep and fancied himself lifted by swans on their
soft wings, and carried far away over lands and seas, all to the sound
of their sweetest melody. "Swans singing! swans singing!" thought he
continually; "is not that the strain of Death?" Presently he found
himself hovering above a vast sea. A swan warbled in his ear that it
was the Mediterranean; and as he looked down into the deep it became
like clear crystal, transparent to the bottom. This rejoiced him much,
for he could see Undine sitting in a brilliant hall of crystal.

She was shedding tears, indeed, and looked sadly changed since the
happy times which they had spent together at Ringstetten; happiest at
first, but happy also a short time since, just before the fatal sail
on the Danube. The contrast struck Huldbrand deeply; but Undine did
not seem to be aware of his presence. Kuehleborn soon came up to her,
and began rating her for weeping. She composed herself, and looked at
him with a firmness and dignity, before which he almost quailed.
"Though I am condemned to live under these deep waters," said she, "I
have brought my soul with me; therefore my tears cannot be understood
by thee. But to me they are blessings, like everything that belongs to
a loving soul." He shook his head incredulously, and said, after a
pause: "Nevertheless, niece, you are still subject to the laws of our
element; and you know you must execute sentence of death upon him as
soon as he marries again, and breaks faith with you."--"To this hour
he is a widower," said Undine, "and loves and mourns me truly."--"Ah,
but he will be bridegroom soon," said Kuehleborn with a sneer; "wait a
couple of days only; and the marriage blessing will have been given,
and you must go up and put the criminal to death."--"I cannot!"
answered the smiling Undine. "I have had the fountain sealed up,
against myself and my whole race." "But suppose he leaves his castle,"
said Kuehleborn, "or forgets himself so far as to let them set the
fountain 'free,' for he thinks mighty little of those matters."--"And
that is why," said Undine, still smiling through her tears, "that is
why his spirit hovers at this moment over the Mediterranean, and
listens to our conversation as in a dream. I have contrived it on
purpose, that he may take warning." On hearing this Kuehleborn looked
up angrily at the Knight, scowled at him, stamped, and then shot
upward through the waves like an arrow. His fury seemed to make him
expand into a whale. Again the swans began to warble, to wave their
wings, and to fly; the Knight felt himself borne high over alps and
rivers, till he was deposited in the Castle of Ringstetten, and awoke
in his bed.

He did awake in his bed, just as one of his squires entered the room,
and told him that Father Heilmann was still lingering near the castle;
for he had found him the evening before in the forest, living in a
shed he had made for himself with branches and moss. On being asked
what he was staying for since he had refused to bless the betrothed
couple? He answered, "It is not the wedded only who stand in need of
prayer, and though I came not for the bridal, there may yet be work
for me of another kind. We must be prepared for everything. Sometimes
marriage and mourning are not so far apart; and he who does not
wilfully close his eyes may perceive it." The Knight built all manner
of strange conjectures upon these words, and upon his dream. But if
once a man has formed a settled purpose, it is hard indeed to shake
it. The end of this was, that their plans remained unchanged.

XVIII.--OF THE KNIGHT HULDBRAND'S SECOND BRIDAL

Were I to tell you how the wedding-day at Ringstetten passed, you
might imagine yourself contemplating a glittering heap of gay objects,
with a black crape thrown over them, through which the splendid
pageant, instead of delighting the eye, would look like a mockery of
all earthly joys. Not that the festive meeting was disturbed by any
spectral apparitions: we have seen that the castle was safe from any
intrusion of the malicious water-sprites. But the Knight, the
Fisherman, and all the guests were haunted by a feeling that the chief
person, the soul of the feast, was missing; and who was she but the
gentle, beloved Undine? As often as they heard a door open, every eye
turned involuntarily toward it, and when nothing ensued but the
entrance of the steward with some more dishes, or of the cupbearer
with a fresh supply of rich wine, the guests would look sad and blank,
and the sparks of gayety kindled by the light jest or the cheerful
discourse, were quenched in the damp of melancholy recollections. The
bride was the most thoughtless, and consequently the most cheerful
person present; but even she, at moments, felt it unnatural to be
sitting at the head of the table, decked out in her wreath of green
and her embroidery of gold, while Undine's corpse was lying cold and
stiff in the bed of the Danube, or floating down its stream to the
ocean. For, ever since her father had used these words, they had been
ringing in her ears, and to-day especially they pursued her without
ceasing.

The party broke up before night had closed in; not, as usual,
dispersed by the eager impatience of the bridegroom to be alone with
his bride; but dropping off listlessly, as a general gloom spread over
the assembly; Bertalda was followed to her dressing-room by her women
only, and the Knight by his pages. At this gloomy feast, there was no
question of the gay and sportive train of bridesmaids and young men,
who usually attend the wedded pair.

Bertalda tried to call up brighter thoughts; she bade her women
display before her a splendid set of jewels, the gift of Huldbrand,
together with her richest robes and veils, that she might select the
gayest and handsomest dress for the morrow. Her maids seized the
opportunity of wishing their young mistress all manner of joy, nor did
they fail to extol the beauty of the bride to the skies. Bertalda,
however, glanced at herself in the glass, and sighed: "Ah, but look at
the freckles just here, on my throat!" They looked and found it was
indeed so, but called them beauty spots that would only enhance the
fairness of her delicate skin. Bertalda shook her head, and replied,
"Still it is a blemish, and I once might have cured it!" said she with
a deep sigh. "But the fountain in the court is stopped up--that
fountain which used to supply me with precious, beautifying water. If
I could but get one jugful to-day!"--"Is that all?" cried an
obsequious attendant, and slipped out of the room. "Why, she will not
be so mad," asked Bertalda in a tone of complacent surprise, "as to
make them raise the stone this very night?" And now she heard men's
footsteps crossing the court; and on looking down from her window, she
saw the officious handmaid conducting them straight to the fountain;
they carried levers and other tools upon their shoulders. "Well, it
is my will to be sure," said Bertalda, smiling, "provided they are not
too long about it." And, elated by the thought that a hint from her
could now effect what had once been denied to her entreaties, she
watched the progress of the work in the moonlit court below.

The men began straining themselves to lift the huge stone;
occasionally a sigh was heard, as someone recollected that they were
now reversing their dear lady's commands. But the task proved lighter
than they had expected. Some power from beneath seemed to second their
efforts, and help the stone upward. "Why!" said the astonished workmen
to each other, "it feels as if the spring below had turned into a
waterspout." More and more did the stone heave, till, without any
impulse from the men it rolled heavily along the pavement with a
hollow sound. But, from the mouth of the spring arose, slowly and
solemnly, what looked like a column of water; at first they thought
so, but presently saw that it was no waterspout, but the figure of a
pale woman, veiled in white. She was weeping abundantly, wringing her
hands and clasping them over her head, while she proceeded with slow
and measured step toward the castle. The crowd of servants fell back
from the spot; while, pale and aghast, the bride and her women looked
on from the window.

When the figure had arrived just under that window, she raised her
tearful face for a moment, and Bertalda thought she recognised
Undine's pale features through the veil. The shadowy form moved on
slowly and reluctantly, like one sent to execution. Bertalda screamed
out that the Knight must be called; no one durst stir a foot, and the
bride herself kept silence, frightened at the sound of her own voice.

While these remained at the window, as if rooted to the spot, the
mysterious visitor had entered the castle, and passed up the
well-known stairs, and through the familiar rooms, still weeping
silently. Alas! how differently had she trodden those floors in days
gone by!

The Knight had now dismissed his train; half-undressed, and in a
dejected mood, he was standing near a large mirror, by the light of a
dim taper. He heard the door tapped by a soft, soft touch. It was thus
Undine had been wont to knock, when she meant to steal upon him
playfully. "It is all fancy!" thought he. "The bridal bed awaits
me."--"Yes, but it is a cold one," said a weeping voice from without;
and the mirror then showed him the door opening slowly, and the white
form coming in, and closing the door gently behind her. "They have
opened the mouth of the spring," murmured she; "and now I am come, and
now must thou die." His beating heart told him this was indeed true;
but he pressed his hands over his eyes, and said: "Do not bewilder me
with terror in my last moments. If thy veil conceals the features of a
spectre, hide them from me still, and let me die in peace."--"Alas!"
rejoined the forlorn one, "wilt thou not look upon me once again? I am
fair, as when thou didst woo me on the promontory."--"Oh, could that
be true!" sighed Huldbrand, "and if I might die in thy embrace!"--"Be
it so, my dearest," said she. And she raised her veil, and the
heavenly radiance of her sweet countenance beamed upon him.

Trembling, at once with love and awe, the Knight approached her; she
received him with a tender embrace; but instead of relaxing her hold,
she pressed him more closely to her heart, and wept as if her soul
would pour itself out. Drowned in her tears and his own, Huldbrand
felt his heart sink within him, and at last he fell lifeless from the
fond arms of Undine upon his pillow.

"I have wept him to death!" said she to the pages, whom she passed in
the ante-chamber; and she glided slowly through the crowd, and went
back to the fountain.

XIX.--HOW THE KNIGHT HULDBRAND WAS INTERRED

Father Heilmann had returned to the castle, as soon as he heard of the
Lord of Ringstetten's death, and he appeared there just after the
monk, who had married the hapless pair, had fled full of alarm and
horror. "It is well," answered Heilmann, when told this: "now is the
time for my office; I want no assistant." He addressed spiritual
exhortations to the widowed bride, but little impression could be made
on so worldly and thoughtless a mind. The old Fisherman, although
grieved to the heart, resigned himself more readily to the awful
dispensation; and when Bertalda kept calling Undine a witch and a
murderer, the old man calmly answered: "The stroke could not be turned
away. For my part, I see only the hand of God therein; and none
grieved more deeply over Huldbrand's sentence, than she who was doomed
to inflict it, the poor forsaken Undine!" And he helped to arrange the
funeral ceremonies in a manner suitable to the high rank of the dead.
He was to be buried in a neighbouring hamlet, whose churchyard
contained the graves of all his ancestors, and which he had himself
enriched with many noble gifts. His helmet and coat of arms lay upon
the coffin, about to be lowered into earth with his mortal remains;
for Lord Huldbrand of Ringstetten was the last of his race.

The mourners began their dismal procession, and the sound of their
solemn dirge rose into the calm blue depths of heaven. Heilmann walked
first, bearing on high a crucifix, and the bereaved Bertalda followed
leaning on her aged father. Suddenly, amid the crowd of mourners who
composed the widow's train, appeared a snow-white figure, deeply
veiled, with hands uplifted in an attitude of intense grief. Those
that stood near her felt a shudder creep over them; they shrank back,
and thus increased the alarm of those whom the stranger next
approached, so that confusion gradually spread itself through the
whole train. Here and there was to be found a soldier bold enough to
address the figure, and attempt to drive her away; but she always
eluded their grasp, and the next moment reappeared among the rest,
moving along with slow and solemn step. At length, when the attendants
had all fallen back, she found herself close behind Bertalda, and now
slackened her pace to the very slowest measure, so that the widow was
not aware of her presence. No one disturbed her again, while she
meekly and reverently glided on behind her.

So they advanced till they reached the churchyard, when the whole
procession formed a circle round the open grave. Bertalda then
discovered the unbidden guest, and half-angry, half-frightened, she
forbade her to come near the Knight's resting-place. But the veiled
form gently shook her head, and extended her hands in humble entreaty;
this gesture reminded Bertalda of poor Undine, when she gave her the
coral necklace on the Danube, and she could not but weep. Father
Heilmann enjoined silence; for they had begun to heap earth over the
grave, and were about to offer up solemn prayers around it. Bertalda
knelt down in silence, and all her followers did the same. When they
rose, lo, the white form had vanished! and on the spot where she had
knelt, a bright silvery brook now gushed out of the turf, and flowed
round the Knight's tomb, till it had almost wholly encircled it; then
it ran further on, and emptied itself into a shady pool which bounded
one side of the churchyard. From that time forth, the villagers are
said to have shown travellers this clear spring, and they still
believe it to be the poor forsaken Undine, who continues thus to twine
her arms round her beloved lord.

V

THE STORY OF RUTH

It came to pass, in the days when the judges ruled, that there was a
famine in the land. And a certain man of Bethlehem-judah went to
sojourn in the country of Moab--he and his wife and his two sons. And
the name of the man was Elimelech, and the name of his wife Naomi, and
the names of his two sons Mahlon and Chilion, Ephrathites of
Bethlehem-judah. And they came into the country of Moab, and continued
there.

And Elimelech, Naomi's husband, died; and she was left and her two
sons. And they took them wives of the women of Moab: the name of the
one was Orpah, and the name of the other was Ruth. And they dwelled
there about ten years.

And Mahlon and Chilion died also, both of them; and the woman was left
of her two sons and her husband. Then she arose with her
daughters-in-law, that she might return from the country of Moab; for
she had heard in the country of Moab how that the Lord had visited his
people in giving them bread. Wherefore she went forth out of the place
where she was, and her two daughters-in-law with her; and they went on
the way to return unto the land of Judah.

And Naomi said unto her two daughters-in-law, "Go, return each to her
mother's house. The Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with
the dead and with me. The Lord grant you that ye may find rest, each
of you in this house of her husband." Then she kissed them.

And they lifted up their voice and wept; and they said unto her,
"Surely, we will return with thee unto thy people."

And Naomi said, "Turn again, my daughters; why will ye go with me?
Turn again, my daughters, go your way."

And they lifted up their voice and wept again. And Orpah kissed her
mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her.

And she said, "Behold, thy sister-in-law is gone back unto her people
and unto her gods! Return thou after thy sister-in-law."

And Ruth said, "Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from
following after thee. For whither thou goest I will go, and where thou
lodgest I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my
God: where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried. The Lord
do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me."

When Naomi saw that Ruth was steadfastly minded to go with her, then
she left speaking unto her. So they two went until they came to
Bethlehem.

And it came to pass, when they were come to Bethlehem, that all the
city was moved about them, and they said, "Is this Naomi?"

And she said unto them, "Call me not Naomi [pleasant], call me Mara
[bitter]; for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me. I went
out full, and the Lord hath brought me home again empty. Why then call
ye me Naomi, seeing that the Lord hath testified against me, and the
Almighty hath afflicted me?"

So Naomi returned, and Ruth the Moabitess, her daughter-in-law, with
her, which returned out of the country of Moab; and they came to
Bethlehem in the beginning of barley-harvest.

And Naomi had a kinsman of her husband's, a mighty man of wealth, of
the family of Elimelech, and his name was Boaz.

And Ruth said unto Naomi: "Let me now go to the field and glean ears
of corn after him in whose sight I shall find grace."

And Naomi said unto her, "Go, my daughter."

And she went, and came, and gleaned in the field after the reapers;
and her hap was to light on a part of the field belonging unto Boaz,
who was of the kindred of Elimelech.

And, behold, Boaz came from Bethlehem and said unto the reapers, "The
Lord be with you!"

And they answered him, "The Lord bless thee!"

Then said Boaz unto his servant that was set over the reapers, "Whose
damsel is this?"

And the servant that was set over the reapers answered and said, "It
is the Moabitish damsel that came back with Naomi out of the country
of Moab. And she said, 'I pray you, let me glean and gather after the
reapers among the sheaves.' So she came, and hath continued even from
the morning until now, that she tarried a little in the house."

Then said Boaz unto Ruth, "Hearest thou not, my daughter? Go not to
glean in another field, neither go from hence, but abide here fast by
my maidens; let thine eyes be on the field that they do reap, and go
thou after them. Have I not charged the young men that they shall not
touch thee? And when thou art a thirst, go unto the vessels, and drink
of that which the young men have drawn."

Then she fell on her face, and bowed herself to the ground, and said
unto him, "Why have I found grace in thine eyes, that thou shouldest
take knowledge of me, seeing I am a stranger?"

And Boaz answered and said unto her, "It hath fully been showed me,
all that thou hast done unto thy mother-in-law, since the death of
thine husband; and how thou hast left thy father and thy mother and
the land of thy nativity, and art come unto a people which thou
knewest not heretofore. The Lord recompense thy work, and a full
reward be given thee of the Lord God of Israel, under whose wings thou
art come to trust."

Then she said, "Let me find favour in thy sight, my lord; for that
thou hast comforted me, and for that thou hast spoken friendly unto
thine handmaid, though I be not like unto one of thine handmaidens."

And Boaz said unto her at meal-time, "Come thou hither, and eat of the
bread and dip thy morsel in the vinegar."

And she sat beside the reapers, and he reached her parched corn; and
she did eat, and was sufficed, and left.

And when she was risen up to glean, Boaz commanded his young men,
saying, "Let her glean even among the sheaves, and reproach her not;
and let fall also some of the handfuls of purpose for her, and leave
them that she may glean them, and rebuke her not."

So she gleaned in the field until even, and beat out that she had
gleaned, and it was about an ephah of barley. And she took it up and
went into the city; and her mother-in-law saw what she had gleaned,
and she brought forth and gave to her that she had reserved after she
was sufficed.

And her mother-in-law said unto her, "Where hast thou gleaned to-day,
and where wroughtest thou? Blessed be he that did take knowledge of
thee!"

And she showed her mother-in-law with whom she had wrought, and said,
"The man's name with whom I wrought to-day is Boaz."

And Naomi said unto her daughter-in-law, "Blessed be he of the Lord,
who hath not left off his kindness to the living and to the dead. The
man is near of kin unto us; one of our next kinsmen."

And Ruth the Moabitess said, "He said unto me also, 'Thou shalt keep
fast by my young men until they have ended all my harvest.'"

And Naomi said unto Ruth her daughter-in-law, "It is good, my
daughter, that thou go out with his maidens, that they meet thee not
in any other field."

So she kept fast by the maidens of Boaz to glean unto the end of
barley-harvest and of wheat-harvest, and dwelt with her mother-in-law.

Then Naomi her mother-in-law said unto her, "My daughter, shall I not
seek rest for thee, that it may be well with thee? And now is not Boaz
of our kindred, with whose maidens thou wast? Behold, he winnoweth
barley to-night in the threshing-floor. Wash thyself, therefore, and
anoint thee, and put thy raiment upon thee, and get thee down to the
floor; but make not thyself known unto the man, until he shall have
done eating and drinking. And it shall be, when he lieth down, that
thou shalt mark the place where he shall lie; and thou shalt go in and
uncover his feet and lay thee down; and he will tell thee what thou
shalt do."

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