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Page 84
"Why! Master Bernard! what is the matter with you?"
But, without answering, he merely pointed to the figure huddled up in the
corner; it was an old woman, so very advanced in extreme old age, so
yellow and wrinkled, with such a hooked nose, fingers so skinny, and
lips so lean, that she looked like an old owl with all its feathers gone.
There were only a few hairs left on the back of her head; the rest of her
skull was as bare of covering as an egg. A threadbare ragged linen gown
covered her poor skeleton figure. She was sightless, and the expression
of her face was one of constant reverie.
Christian, noticing my uncle's inquiring look, turned his head and said
quietly--
"It's old Irmengarde, the old teller of legends. She is waiting to die
till the old tower falls into the torrent."
Uncle Bernard, stupefied, looked at the woodman; he did not seem inclined
to joke; on the contrary, he looked serious.
"Come, Christian," said the good man, "you mean to have your joke."
"Joke! no indeed, old and feeble as you see her, that old woman knows
everything; the spirit of the ruins is in her. She was living when the
old lords of the castle lived."
Now my old uncle was very nearly falling backwards at this astounding
disclosure.
"But what do you mean?" he cried; "the castle of Nideck has been down
these thousand years!"
"What if it was two thousand years?" said the woodman, making the sign of
the cross as a new flash lighted up the valley; "what does that prove?
The spirit of the ruins lives in her. A hundred and eight years
Irmengarde has lived with this spirit in her. Before her it was in old
Edith of Haslach; before Edith in some other--"
"Do you believe that?"
"Do I believe it! It is as sure, Master Bernard, as that the sun will be
back in three hours' time. Death is night, life is day. After night comes
day, then night again, and so on without end. The sun is the soul of the
sky, the great spirit that is in us all, and the souls of the saints are
like the stars which shine in the night, and which will never cease to
return."
Bernard Hertzog replied not another word, but having risen, he began
suspiciously to consider the aspect of that aged woman, who sat still in
a niche carved out of the rock. He noticed above the niche some rough
carving on the stone representing three trees with their branches
touching, and forming a sort of crown; lower down were three toads cut in
the granite. Three trees are the arms of the Tribocci (_dreien b�chen_),
three toads are the arms of the Merovingian kings.
What was the surprise of the old chronicler! Covetousness now took the
place of alarm.
"Here," thought he, "is the oldest monument of the Frankish race in Gaul.
That old woman reminds me of some fallen queen, left here a relic of ages
long gone by. But how am I to carry the niche away?"
He began to consider.
Then was heard far away in the woods the trampling of the hoofs of
many cattle and deep bellowing. The rain fell faster; the flashes of
lightning, like flights of frightened birds in the dark, touched each
other by the tips of their wings; one never waited for another to be
gone, and the rolling of the thunder became incessant and terrible.
Soon the storm reached the very gorge of Nideck and hung over it closely,
and swooped down with implacable fury; the explosions succeeded each
other without intermission. It seemed as if the very mountains were
falling.
At every fresh crash Uncle Bernard shrank, feeling as if the lightning
were coming down his back.
"The first Triboceus who built a hut to cover his head was no fool,"
thought he. "He was a sensible man, with some experience of atmospheric
changes. What would have become of us in this emergency had we not a roof
over our heads? We should be greatly to be pitied. The invention of that
Triboccus was quite as useful as that of the steam-engine; what a pity
his name is not known!"
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