He several times, on account of the uncertain light, lost his track. At length he emerged into the rocky scenery of the mountain side, and an indistinct light in the distance served to guide his steps. He now entered between two rocks of great height; till a magnificent waterfall almost blocked up the way. The Baron stepped cautiously forward, and after apparently passing through a cavern, the scene opened and displayed (for, to his surprise, the light was greatly increased,) a wild view, in which nature had piled rock, cavern, and mountain together, till the whole seemed lost and blended in one general chaos. At the foot, and a short distance before him, were seen a number of persons of venerable aspect, grouped on the turf around the vast amphitheatre of rocks, and a noise as of many hammers, greeted his ears. Attracted onwards by the now distinct glittering light, the Baron proceeded boldly to the mouth of what seemed a natural grotto. He loudly demanded admittance, the entrance being blocked up with a large stone. He was at first answered by a scornful laugh; indeed, as he afterwards found, he had entered by the wrong path, and observed a scene, perhaps, never displayed to mortal eyes. The stone was at last removed, and in the interior he found the object of his search:—

He, like the tenant Of some night haunted ruin, bore an aspect Of horrors, worn to habitude.

What passed will appear in the sequel, and the Baron returned just at nightfall; while his ghastly demeanour and unquiet eye betokened the nature of his visit. It is said many a wild and unearthly peal of laughter resounded that night through the mountains.

In three months from that time the lady Agatha became his wife. She had suddenly disappeared from her grounds a short time before, and to the amazement and wonder of all, returned with the Baron Wurtzheim, to whom she was united the same evening. Rumour was busy upon this occasion, but the mystery which enveloped it was never dispersed. The lady Agatha, however, seemed oppressed with a ceaseless gloom; in a short time she devoted herself entirely to seclusion, and in a year after her marriage, expired in giving birth to a son. The demeanour of Rudolf was most strange on this occasion. He had apparently a weight on his mind, which seemed to increase with dissipation, when he devoted his time to hunting and nightly revels, with a band of choice friends and dependents. Time, however, which blunts the edge of the keenest misfortunes, seemed to restore him to his former self.

Years passed away. Some time before the commencement of this legend, the Baron lost his path whilst hunting, and was benighted in the forest. After much fatigue, he was attracted by a light amongst trees which he found to proceed from a low building. It was in a state of extreme dilapidation, though a sort of wing appeared to have been recently tenanted. His knocks for admittance not having been answered, he lifted up the latch and boldly entered. Nothing greeted his sight save the almost extinguished remains of a fire. The apartment was lone and destitute of furniture. Having bestowed Hans as well as he could, he laid himself on the floor; while he felt an extreme chillness of spirits, which he endeavoured in vain to shake off; he was soon buried in sleep.

He was awakened by a noise resembling the strokes of many hammers. He conceived his senses must be wandering, for he found that he was at the entrance of the amphitheatre of rocks near the dwelling of the solitaire. The same group of figures appeared, and it was not long before a voice, which he knew to be that of Heidelberger, slowly repeated the following chant:—

Woe to him who dares intrude Upon our midnight solitude! Woe to him whose faith is broken— Better he had never spoken. 'Ere twelve moons shall pass away, Thou wilt he beneath our sway. Drear the doom, and dark the fate Of him who rashly dares our hate! Deceive me once, I tell thee never Shall thy soul and body sever! Under the greenwood wilt thou lie, Nor shall thou there unheeded die. Mortal, thou my vengeance brave, Thou had'st better seen thy grave. Drear the doom, and dark the fate Of him who rashly dares our hate!

Meanwhile the Baron had sunk into a state of insensibility. When he awoke from his trance it was broad daylight, and the birds were singing merrily around the ruin.

After this adventure, the Baron resumed many of his old habits; and sought by deeper dissipation to dispel the visions of the past. His son was now grown up a sickly youth, and his father's inquietude about him was so great that he would not suffer him for a moment to be out of the sight of his attendants.

The year rolled on without any harm befalling the Baron, and his spirits lightened as the time advanced. He had almost forgotten the circumstance, when on the day preceding that of the anniversary of the adventure just related, a grand hunting party was proposed, it being the birth-day of his son. We now return to the situation in which we left the Baron at the beginning of this legend.

The forest seemed to the exhausted Rudolf, almost interminable, and this provoking horn perplexed him sadly. On this night the dreaded twelve-months expired. The bare thought made him redouble his speed. The darkness seemed increasing, and the flapping of the bats and hoarse croaking of the night birds, disturbed by his progress through the branches, did not add to his comfort; when to his great joy, he felt a strong current of air, and found that he had at last apparently emerged from the thickest of the forest. The moon was now beginning to cast her "peerless light" over the scene, and Rudolf perceived he was in an extensive amphitheatre or opening of the trees, which he could not recollect ever having seen before, bounded at a short distance by what seemed a small lake, near the centre of which grew a large and solitary pine.

The moon had now fully risen. Hans who had been flagging for some time, fell suddenly lame. From this fresh misfortune the Baron was aroused by the well known baying of his gallant stag-hounds. "Aiglette and Caspar are not baying after nothing," thought he. He was not long in suspense. To his extreme amazement, the identical boar which had caused all his trouble and fatigue, appeared closely followed by both the dogs.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 338, November 1, 1828

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