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He solemnly promised to do as she asked him, and they returned to the
saloon, quite restored to comfort and peace. They met Bertalda,
followed by a few labourers whom she had sent for, and she said in a
tone of bitterness that had grown common with her of late, "So, now
your private consultation is over, and we may have the stone taken up.
Make haste, you people, and do it for me." But Huldbrand, incensed at
her arrogance, said shortly and decidedly, "The stone shall not be
touched," and he then reproved Bertalda for her rudeness to his wife;
upon which the labourers walked off, exulting secretly, while Bertalda
hurried away to her chamber, pale and disturbed.

The hour of supper came, and they waited in vain for Bertalda. A
message was sent to her; the servants found her room empty, and
brought back only a sealed letter directed to the Knight. He opened it
with trepidation and read, "I feel with shame that I am only a
fisherman's daughter. Having forgotten it a moment, I will expiate my
crime in the wretched hut of my parents. Live happy with your
beautiful wife!"

Undine was sincerely grieved; she entreated Huldbrand to pursue their
friend at once, and bring her back with him. Alas! there was little
need of entreaty. His passion for Bertalda returned with fresh
violence; he searched the castle all over, asking everyone if they
could tell him in what direction the fair one had fled. He could
discover nothing; and now he had mounted his horse in the court, and
stood ready to set forth, and try the route by which he had brought
Bertalda to the castle. A peasant boy just then came up, saying that
he had met the lady riding toward the Black Valley. Like a shot the
Knight darted through the gate, and took that direction, without
heeding Undine's anxious cries from a window: "To the Black Valley?
oh, not there! Huldbrand, not there! Or take me with you for God's
sake!" Finding it vain to cry, she had her white palfrey saddled in
all haste, and galloped after her husband, without allowing anyone to
attend her.

XIV.--HOW BERTALDA DROVE HOME WITH THE KNIGHT

The Black Valley lay among the deepest recesses of the mountains. What
it is called now none can tell. In those times it bore that name among
the countrymen, on account of the deep gloom shed over it by many high
trees, mostly pines. Even the brook which gushed down between the
cliffs was tinged with black, and never sparkled like the merry
streams from which nothing intercepts the blue of heaven. Now, in the
dusk of twilight, it looked darker still as it gurgled between the
rocks. The Knight spurred his horse along its banks, now fearing to
lose ground in his pursuit, and now again, that he might overlook the
fugitive in her hiding-place, if he hurried past too swiftly. He
presently found himself far advanced in the valley, and hoped he must
soon overtake her, if he were but in the right track. Then again, the
thought that it might be a wrong one roused the keenest anxiety in
his breast. Where was the tender Bertalda to lay her head, if he
missed her in this bleak, stormy night, which was setting in, black
and awful, upon the valley? And now he saw something white gleaming
through the boughs, on the slope of the mountain; he took it for
Bertalda's robe and made for it. But the horse started back, and
reared so obstinately that Huldbrand, impatient of delay, and having
already found him difficult to manage among the brambles of the
thicket, dismounted, and fastened the foaming steed to a tree; he then
felt his way through the bushes on foot. The boughs splashed his head
and cheeks roughly with cold wet dew; far off, he heard the growl of
thunder beyond the mountains, and the whole strange scene had such an
effect upon him, that he became afraid of approaching the white
figure, which he now saw lying on the ground at a short distance. And
yet he could distinguish it to be a woman, dressed in long white
garments like Bertalda's, asleep or in a swoon. He came close to her,
made the boughs rustle, and his sword ring--but she stirred not.
"Bertalda!" cried he; first gently, then louder and louder--in vain.
When at length he shouted the beloved name with the whole strength of
his lungs, a faint mocking echo returned it from the cavities of the
rocks--"Bertalda!" but the sleeper awoke not. He bent over her; but
the gloom of the valley and the shades of night prevented his
discerning her features. At length, though kept back by some boding
fears, he knelt down by her on the earth, and just then a flash of
lightning lighted up the valley. He saw a hideous distorted face close
to his own, and heard a hollow voice say, "Give me a kiss, thou sweet
shepherd!" With a cry of horror Huldbrand started up, and the monster
after him. "Go home!" it cried, "the bad spirits are abroad--go home!
or I have you!" and its long white arm nearly grasped him. "Spiteful
Kuehleborn," cried the Knight, taking courage, "what matters it, I know
thee, foul spirit! There is a kiss for thee!" And he raised his sword
furiously against the figure. But it dissolved, and a drenching shower
made it sufficiently clear to the Knight what enemy he had
encountered. "He would scare me away from Bertalda," said he aloud to
himself; "he thinks he can subdue me by his absurd tricks, and make me
leave the poor terrified maiden in his power, that he may wreak his
vengeance upon her. But _that_ he never shall--wretched goblin! What
power lies in a human breast when steeled by firm resolve, the
contemptible juggler has yet to learn." And he felt the truth of his
own words, and seemed to have nerved himself afresh by them. He
thought, too, that fortune now began to aid him, for before he had got
back to his horse again, he distinctly heard the piteous voice of
Bertalda as if near at hand, borne toward him on the winds as their
howling mingled with the thunder. Eagerly did he push on in that
direction, and he found the trembling damsel was just attempting to
climb the mountain's side, in order, at any risk, to get out of these
awful shades.

He met her affectionately and however proudly she might before have
determined to hold out, she could not but rejoice at being rescued by
her much-loved Huldbrand from the fearful solitude, and warmly invited
to return to his cheerful home in the castle. She accompanied him with
scarcely a word of reluctance, but was so exhausted, that the Knight
felt much relieved when they had reached the horse in safety; he
hastened to loose him, and would have placed his tender charge upon
him, and walked by her side to guide her carefully through the
dangerous shades. But Kuehleborn's mad pranks had driven the horse
quite wild. Hardly could the Knight himself have sprung upon the
terrified plunging creature's back: to place the trembling Bertalda
upon him was quite impossible; so they made up their minds to walk
home. With his horse's bridle over one arm, Huldbrand supported his
half-fainting companion on the other. Bertalda mustered what strength
she could, in order the sooner to get beyond this dreaded valley, but
fatigue weighed her down like lead, and every limb shook under her;
partly from the recollection of all she had already suffered from
Kuehleborn's spite, and partly from terror at the continued crashing of
the tempest through the mountain forests.

At length she slid down from her protector's arm, and sinking on the
moss, she said: "Leave me to die here, noble Huldbrand; I reap the
punishment of my folly, and must sink under this load of fatigue and
anguish."--"Never, my precious friend, never will I forsake you,"
cried Huldbrand, vainly striving to curb his raging steed, who was now
beginning to start and plunge worse than ever: the Knight contrived to
keep him at some distance from the exhausted maiden, so as to save her
the terror of seeing him near her. But no sooner had he withdrawn
himself and the wild animal a few steps, than she began to call him
back in the most piteous manner, thinking he was indeed going to
desert her in this horrible wilderness. He was quite at a loss what to
do: gladly would he have let the horse gallop away in the darkness and
expend his wild fury, but that he feared he might rush down upon the
very spot where Bertalda lay.

In this extremity of distress, it gave him unspeakable comfort to
descry a wagon slowly descending the stony road behind him. He called
out for help: a man's voice replied telling him to have patience, but
promising to come to his aid; soon two white horses became visible
through the thicket, and next the white smock-frock of the wagoner,
and a large sheet of white linen that covered his goods inside. "Ho,
stop!" cried the man, and the obedient horses stood still. "I see well
enough," said he, "what ails the beast. When first I came through
these parts my horses were just as troublesome; because there is a
wicked water-sprite living hard by, who takes delight in making them
play tricks. But I know a charm for this; if you will give me leave to
whisper it in your horse's ear, you will see him as quiet as mine
yonder in a moment."--"Try your charm, if it will do any good!" said
the impatient Knight. The driver pulled the unruly horse's head toward
him, and whispered a couple of words in his ear. At once the animal
stood still, tamed and pacified, and showed no remains of his former
fury but by panting and snorting, as if he still chafed inwardly. This
was no time for Huldbrand to inquire how it had been done. He agreed
with the wagoner that Bertalda should be taken into the wagon, which
by his account was loaded with bales of soft cotton, and conveyed to
the Castle of Ringstetten, while the Knight followed on horseback. But
his horse seemed too much spent by his former violence to be able to
carry his master so far, and the man persuaded Huldbrand to get into
the wagon with Bertalda. The horse was to be fastened behind. "We
shall go down hill," said the man, "and that is light work for my
horses." The Knight placed himself by Bertalda, his horse quietly
followed them, and the driver walked by steadily and carefully.

In the deep stillness of night, while the storm growled more and more
distant, and in the consciousness of safety and easy progress,
Huldbrand and Bertalda insensibly got into confidential discourse. He
tenderly reproached her for having so hastily fled; she excused
herself with bashful emotions, and through all she said it appeared
most clearly that her heart was all his own. Huldbrand was too much
engrossed by the expression of her words to attend to their apparent
meaning, and he only replied to the former. Upon this, the wagoner
cried out in a voice that rent the air, "Now my horses, up with you;
show us what you are made of, my fine fellows." The Knight put out his
head and saw the horses treading or rather swimming through the
foaming waters, while the wheels whirled loudly and rapidly like those
of a water-mill, and the wagoner was standing upon the top of his
wagon, overlooking the floods. "Why, what road is this? It will take
us into the middle of the stream," cried Huldbrand. "No, sir," cried
the driver laughing; "it is just the other way. The stream is coming
into the middle of the road. Look round, and see how it is all
flooded."

In fact, the whole valley was now heaving with waves, that had swollen
rapidly to a great height. "This must be Kuehleborn, the wicked sprite,
trying to drown us!" cried the Knight. "Have you no charm to keep him
off, friend?"--"I do know of one," said the driver, "but I can't and
won't make use of it, till you know who I am."--"Is this a time for
riddles?" shouted the Knight; "the flood is rising every moment, and
what care I to know who you are?"--"It rather concerns you, however,
to know," said the driver, "for I am Kuehleborn." And he grinned
hideously into the wagon--which was now a wagon no longer, nor were
the horses horses; but all dissolved into foaming waves; the wagoner
himself shot up into a giant Waterspout, bore down the struggling
horse into the flood, and, towering over the heads of the hapless
pair, till he had swelled into a watery fountain, he would have
swallowed them up the next moment.

But now the sweet voice of Undine was heard above the wild uproar;
the moon shone out between the clouds, and at the same instant Undine
came into sight, upon the high grounds above them. She addressed
Kuehleborn in a commanding tone, the huge wave laid itself down,
muttering and murmuring; the waters rippled gently away in the moon's
soft light, and Undine alighted like a white dove from her airy
height, and led them to a soft green spot on the hillside, where she
refreshed their jaded spirits with choice food. She then helped
Bertalda to mount her own white palfrey, and at length they all three
reached the Castle of Ringstetten in safety.

XV.--THE TRIP TO VIENNA

For some time after this adventure they led a quiet and peaceful life
in the castle. The Knight was deeply touched by his wife's angelic
goodness, so signally displayed by her pursuing and saving them in the
Black Valley, where their lives were threatened by Kuehleborn. Undine
herself was happy in the peace of an approving conscience; besides
that, many a gleam of hope now brightened her path, as her husband's
love and confidence seemed to revive; Bertalda meanwhile was grateful,
modest, and timid, without claiming any merit for being so. If either
of her companions alluded to the sealing up of the fountain, or the
adventures in the Black Valley, she would implore them to spare her on
those subjects, because she could not think of the fountain without a
blush, nor the valley without a shudder. She was therefore told
nothing further; indeed, what would have been the use of enlightening
her? Nothing could add to the peace and happiness which had taken up
their abode in the Castle of Ringstetten; they enjoyed the present in
full security, and the future lay before them, all blooming with fair
fruits and flowers.

The winter had gone by without any interruption to their social
comfort; and spring, with her young green shoots and bright blue
skies, began to smile upon men; their hearts felt light, like the
young season, and from its returning birds of passage, they caught a
fancy to travel. One day as they were walking together near the
sources of the Danube, Huldbrand fell into talk about the glories of
that noble river, how proudly he flowed on, through fruitful lands, to
the spot where the majestic city of Vienna crowned his banks, and how
every mile of his course was marked by fresh grandeur and beauty. "How
delightful it would be to follow his course down to Vienna!" cried
Bertalda; but instantly relapsing into her timid, chastened manner,
she blushed and was silent. This touched Undine, and in her eagerness
to give her friend pleasure, she said: "And why should we not take the
trip?" Bertalda jumped for joy, and their fancy began to paint this
pleasant recreation in the brightest colours. Huldbrand encouraged
them cheerfully, but whispered once to Undine: "But, should not we get
within Kuehleborn's power again, down there?"--"Let him come," said
she, laughing; "I shall be with you, and in my presence he durst not
attempt any mischief."

So the only possible objection seemed removed and they prepared for
departure, and were soon sailing along, full of spirit and of gay
hopes. But, O Man! it is not for thee to wonder when the course of
events differs widely from the paintings of thy fancy. The treacherous
foe, that lures us to our ruin, lulls his victim to rest with sweet
music and golden dreams. Our guardian angel, on the contrary, will
often rouse us by a sharp and awakening blow.

The first days they spent on the Danube were days of extraordinary
enjoyment. The further they floated down the proud stream the nobler
and fairer grew the prospect. But, just as they had reached a most
lovely district, the first sight of which had promised them great
delight, the unruly Kuehleborn began openly to give signs of his
presence and power. At first they were only sportive tricks, because,
whenever he ruffled the stream and raised the wind, Undine repressed
him by a word or two, and made him again subside at once; but his
attempts soon began again, and again, Undine was obliged to warn him
off; so that the pleasure of the little party was grievously
disturbed. To make things worse, the watermen would mutter many a dark
surmise into each other's ears, and cast strange looks at the three
gentlefolks, whose very servants began to feel suspicion, and to show
distrust of their lord. Huldbrand said to himself more than once,
"This comes of uniting with other than one's like: a son of earth may
not marry a wondrous maid of ocean." To justify himself (as we all
love to do) he would add, "But I did not know she was a maid of ocean.
If I am to be pursued and fettered wherever I go by the mad freaks of
her relations, mine is the misfortune, not the fault." Such
reflections somewhat checked his self-reproaches; but they made him
the more disposed to accuse, nay, even to hate Undine. Already he
began to scowl upon her, and the poor wife understood but too well his
meaning. Exhausted by this, and by her constant exertions against
Kuehleborn, she sank back one evening in the boat, and was lulled by
its gentle motion into a deep sleep.

But no sooner were her eyes closed, than everyone in the boat thought
he saw, just opposite his own eyes, a terrific human head rising above
the water; not like the head of a swimmer, but planted upright on the
surface of the river, and keeping pace with the boat. Each turned to
his neighbour to show him the cause of his terror, and found him
looking equally frightened, but pointing in a different direction,
where the half-laughing, half-scowling goblin met his eyes. When at
length they tried to explain the matter to each other, crying out,
"Look there; no, there!" each of them suddenly perceived the other's
phantom, and the water round the boat appeared all alive with ghastly
monsters. The cry which burst from every mouth awakened Undine. Before
the light of her beaming eyes the horde of misshapen faces vanished.
But Huldbrand was quite exasperated by these fiendish tricks and would
have burst into loud imprecations, had not Undine whispered in the
most beseeching manner, "For God's sake, my own lord, be patient now;
remember we are on the water." The Knight kept down his anger, and
soon sank into thought. Presently Undine whispered to him: "My love,
had not we better give up the foolish journey, and go home to
Ringstetten in comfort?" But Huldbrand muttered angrily, "Then I am to
be kept a prisoner in my own castle? and even there I may not breathe
freely unless the fountain is sealed up? Would to Heaven the absurd
connection"--But Undine pressed her soft hand gently upon his lips.
And he held his peace, and mused upon all she had previously told him.

In the meantime, Bertalda had yielded herself up to many and strange
reflections. She knew something of Undine's origin, but not all! and
Kuehleborn in particular was only a fearful but vague image in her
mind; she had not even once heard his name. And as she pondered these
wonderful subjects, she half unconsciously took off a golden necklace
which Huldbrand had bought for her of a travelling jeweller a few days
before; she held it close to the surface of the river playing with
it, and dreamily watching the golden gleam that it shed on the glassy
water. Suddenly a large hand came up out of the Danube, snatched the
necklace, and ducked under with it. Bertalda screamed aloud, and was
answered by a laugh of scorn from the depths below. And now the Knight
could contain himself no longer. Starting up, he gave loose to his
fury, loading with imprecations those who chose to break into his
family and private life, and challenging them--were they goblins or
sirens--to meet his good sword. Bertalda continued to weep over the
loss of her beloved jewel, and her tears were as oil to the flames of
his wrath, while Undine kept her hand dipped into the water with a
ceaseless low murmur, only once or twice interrupting her mysterious
whispers to say to her husband in tones of entreaty, "Dearest love,
speak not roughly to me here; say whatever you will, only spare me
here; you know why!" and he still restrained his tongue (which
stammered with passion) from saying a word directly against her. She
soon drew her hand from under the water, bringing up a beautiful coral
necklace whose glitter dazzled them all. "Take it," said she, offering
it kindly to Bertalda; "I have sent for this, instead of the one you
lost; do not grieve any more, my poor child." But Huldbrand darted
forward, snatched the shining gift from Undine's hand, hurled it again
into the water, and roared furiously, "So you still have intercourse
with them? In the name of sorcery, go back to them with all your
baubles, and leave us men in peace, witch as you are!" With eyes
aghast, yet streaming with tears, poor Undine gazed at him, still
holding out the hand which had so lovingly presented to Bertalda the
bright jewel. Then she wept more and more, like a sorely injured,
innocent child. And at length she said faintly, "Farewell, my dearest;
farewell! They shall not lay a finger on thee; only be true to me,
that I may still guard thee from them. But I, alas! I must be gone;
all this bright morning of life is over. Woe, woe is me! what hast
thou done? woe, woe!" And she slipped out of the boat and passed away.
Whether she went down into the river, or flowed away with it, none
could tell; it was like both and yet like neither. She soon mingled
with the waters of the Danube, and nothing was to be heard but the
sobbing whispers of the stream as it washed against the boat, seeming
to say distinctly, "Woe, woe! Oh be true to me! woe, woe!"

Huldbrand lay flat in the boat, drowned in tears, till a deep swoon
came to the unhappy man's relief, and steeped him in oblivion.

XVI.--OF WHAT BEFELL HULDBRAND AFTERWARDS

Shall we say, Alas, or thank God, that our grief is so often
transient? I speak of such grief as has its source in the wellsprings
of life itself, and seems so identified with our lost friend, as
almost to fill up the void he has left; and his hallowed image seems
fixed within the sanctuary of our soul, until the signal of our
release comes, and sets us free to join him! In truth, a good man will
not suffer this sanctuary to be disturbed; yet even with him, it is
not the first, the all-engrossing sorrow which abides. New objects
will intermingle, and we are compelled to draw from our grief itself a
fresh proof of the perishableness of earthly things: alas, then, that
our grief is transient!

So it was with the Lord of Ringstetten; whether for his weal or woe,
the sequel of this story will show us. At first, he could do nothing
but weep abundantly, as his poor kind Undine had wept when he snatched
from her the beautiful gift, which she thought would have comforted
and pleased them so much. He would then stretch out his hand as she
had done, and burst into tears afresh, like her. He secretly hoped
that he might end by altogether dissolving in tears: and are there not
many whose minds have been visited by the same painfully pleasing
thought, at some season of great sorrow? Bertalda wept with him, and
they lived quietly together at Ringstetten a long while, cherishing
the memory of Undine, and seeming to have forgotten their own previous
attachment. Moreover, the gentle Undine often appeared to Huldbrand in
his dreams; she would caress him meekly and fondly, and depart again
with tearful resignation, so that when he awoke, he doubted whose
tears they were that bedewed his face--were they hers, or only his
own?

But as time went on these visions became less frequent, and the
Knight's grief milder; still he might perhaps have spent the rest of
his days contentedly, devoting himself to the memory of Undine, and
keeping it alive by talking of her, had not the old Fisherman
unexpectedly made his appearance, and laid his serious commands upon
Bertalda, his daughter, to return home with him. The news of Undine's
disappearance had reached him, and he would no longer suffer Bertalda
to remain in the castle alone with its lord. "I do not ask whether my
daughter cares for me or not," said he; "her character is at stake,
and where that is the case, nothing else is worth considering."

This summons from the old man, and the prospect of utter loneliness
amid the halls and long galleries of the castle after Bertalda's
departure, revived in Huldbrand's heart the feeling that had lain
dormant, and as it were buried under his mourning for Undine, namely,
his love for the fair Bertalda. The Fisherman had many objections to
their marriage; Undine had been very dear to the old man and he
thought it hardly certain yet that his lost darling was really dead.
But, if her corpse were indeed lying stiff and cold in the bed of the
Danube, or floating down its stream to the distant ocean, then
Bertalda ought to reproach herself for her death, and it ill became
her to take the place of her poor victim. However, the Fisherman was
very fond of Huldbrand also; the entreaties of his daughter, who was
now grown much more gentle and submissive, had their effect, and it
seems that he did yield his consent at last; for he remained peaceably
at the castle, and an express was sent for Father Heilmann, who in
earlier, happier days had blessed Undine's and Huldbrand's union, that
he might officiate at the Knight's second marriage.

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