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  • Cobb’s False Knight: 13. A Terrible Blow

    Cobb’s False Knight: 13. A Terrible Blow

    For some people living in western democracies, reading Cobb’s story with spies lurking in the woods may almost seem a bit too fictional to be taken seriously. Yes, some of us remember all the “reds under the beds” hysteria from not so long ago, but wasn’t that a bit different?

    Perhaps we are entering times of spies galore once again, but only a few years ago, all you had to do was get a day pass to visit East Berlin from West Berlin, and suddenly you entered something like a huge walk-through movie set from what could have been a James Bond spy film. Except, it was real.

    Maybe it was because the drab border checkpoints and East Berlin streets seemed familiar from such movies? Or maybe it was because you knew a bit more about Stasi, the East German security service, that was reputed to have up to ten percent of the population working for it as informants? They even had one in West German Chancellor Willy Brandt’s office, happily passing on NATO secrets (Guenther Guillaume).

    Still, imagining “spies lurking in the woods” is something quite different, isn’t it? I guess it might not seem so unusual for those of us who might be a bit more prone to paranoia than others when it comes to feeling observed to accept such a notion. But for the others? Is Frau Schmidt from the apartment building next door hoping to see what kind of furniture is being delivered from the van parked below? Perhaps, in the Middle Ages, “spies” may have been little more than inbred villagers paid to hang around an area and hope to get a reward for reporting something suspicious. Calling them “spies” may be all that had irked me at first. I really wondered exactly why Cobb’s mentioning of them at first seemed a bit too contrived for me.

    Mata Hari in 1906, photographer unknown. Source: Wiki Commons

    We have all heard of Mata Hari and those famous British traitors from Cambridge, like Philby. Less well known is Rudolf Roessler, an extremely successful anti-Nazi Soviet spy. But do we know the name of even a single spy from several hundred years ago? Hmmmm… There you go. Not one, I bet. Perhaps they were just too good at keeping a low profile back then? I’m just kidding. Or could it be that in an age of chivalry, when concepts such as “honour” and “fairness” still meant something, anyone lacking enough in either to become a spy in such times was soon best forgotten?

    An example of this could be Christian Andreas Kaesebier (the surname translates as “Cheesebeer”). Known as a thief and a scoundrel, Prussian King Frederick II had him released from prison in Stettin during the siege of Prague in 1757, on the condition that he should of enter the city and spy for Frederick. He did so on two consecutive nights, not returning from a third however. He disappeared and was never heard of again. It’s amazing we even still know of him.

    So of course Kings, Emperors and all sorts of nobles had spies, maybe even knights from smaller castles, surely also in the Middle Ages. Perhaps my reason for at first wanting to think of them as being too fictional was simply because I had never heard of any from that era. Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy? Forgotten bit part players in the intrigues of long ago, mere village inbreds, standing around suspiciously in the woods? Fitting then, that Cobb didn’t even name them.

    Just kidding. It seems that our perception of spies may have changed since a century or so, except those we revile for having worked for the other side. Too many Bond films?

    CHAPTER 13

    A TERRIBLE BLOW

    An hour and more Oberwald and his young friend spent with Thorbrand, finding him more easy and comfortable than he had been at any time since his sanguinary ordeal. For one thing, they found him up and partly dressed, sitting in a softly-cushioned chair, with a sword in his hand— a sword which his host had kindly lent him to hang up on the wall of his abode. He said he had been simply trying the strength and endurance of his arm. His nurse did not scold him, as he believed the exercise would be of benefit.

    As we have said, his visitors remained with him an hour and more, and when they left him he seemed better and stronger than when they had found him. They had told him all they thought it best to tell him, giving him to understand that the baroness and her daughter were for the present safe, but withholding the fact that they were so near him.

    When evening had come, Lady Bertha and Electra, with Captain von Linden, joined the hunter and his child in their comfortable living room. The heavy inside shutters had been put up against the windows, and there firmly bolted, and the doors carefully closed and secured.

    “Dear sister,” said the heiress of Deckendorf, looking suspiciously into Irene’s face, “what has happened to you? What is that wondrous light in your eyes? And why does your heart beat so strangely? I can hear its throbbing when I lay my head against your bosom. Ah! you have seen—”

    “Hush! No more now, if you love me!” And as Irene thus exclaimed in a tremulous whisper, she caught her companion’s hands and looked into her face imploringly. “At some other time I will tell you all about it. Don’t ask me any more now.”

    Electra gave her a curious glance, then a meaning smile broke over her beautiful features, and she turned the conversation upon another topic.

    Wolfgang had gone as he had come, promising that with the expiration of another week, if not before, he would come again, by which time he felt assured his chief would be entirely recovered; or, should an alarm of impending danger reach him, they might see him at any moment thereafter.

    The fourth day from the visit of Wolfgang was dull and drizzly—really stormy. The wind moaned through the sombre firs and around the broken faces of the mountain, and the driving moisture was penetrating. Early in the morning the hunter had been obliged to go to the village, taking the secret way. It was a business he dared not neglect. Before he went he looked in upon the baroness, to see if she had any orders or errands for him, at the same time being very particular to enjoin upon her the utmost caution during his absence. She promised him that both she and her daughter would be very, very careful and circumspect; and he went away content.

    Alas! Why did the woman break her promise? Was it that perversity of her kind that makes forbidden fruit so attractive? At any rate, good Martin Oberwald had not been gone an hour when the fancy seized the baroness that it was very gloomy and lonesome in that dismal cavern, and she tried to make herself believe that the rain was coming down through the roof. A full hour she dwelt upon the subject, telling herself repeatedly that she would certainly stay where she was, and then—then she persuaded Electra that they might, on such a wretched day, with entire safety spend a little time with Irene before her great fire. The girl, unfortunately, needed no urging. So many days of quiet rest without any alarm had made them bold.

    At the same time that Lady Bertha and her daughter were making their way out into the living-room of the cottage, something happened outside that is worthy of note.

    Two of Dunwolf’s spies, posted near the main path from the hunter’s cot, were surprised by the appearance of another of their squad, who had just come up the mountain. He had been climbing rapidly, and was breathing hard.

    “Martin Oberwald is in the village!” was the report. “I saw him at the foot: of the mountain, just striking into the path from a dense jungle of rock and tangled wildwood. Now let us strike at the game. We know where it is, and we may capture it if we are prompt and wary. What say you ?”

    They were both of his way of thinking, and they at once went to work to gather together sufficient of their comrades to strike a decisive blow.

    * * *

    “O! Irene, how comfortable you are here!”

    The words were spoken by the Baroness Deckendorf, as she and Electra came forth from their hiding place.

    The hunter’s daughter started so suddenly that she dropped a part of the work from her hands.

    “Now, don’t scold us. I cannot tell you how lonesome and cheerless it had become in that dark and dismal place,” said the baroness.

    “I could not scold you if I would, dear lady; yet I must tell you that you are running a risk. I know the cavern is chill and cheerless on such a day; but it is safe, nevertheless.”

    “And why shall we not be safe here?” asked the baroness, as she spread her hands over the blazing fire. “The shutters are all up at the lower windows, and if strangers should approach the dogs would give us warning.”

    “What makes your father so particularly anxious?” asked Electra, not offering to sit. ” I thought this morning, when he came to speak to us, that some new cause of alarm had arisen.”

    Young Couple (1850), Carl Wilhelm Hübner. Source: invaluable.com

    “You know, dear sister, that your staghound got out on the day before yesterday, and was away for a considerable time. Some of the spies must have seen him, and if they recognised him as yours, of course they would be certain that you are not far away.”

    “Really, mamma,” the daughter said, “I think we had better return to our safe retreat. We can have a good fire there, and be as comfortable as we please. Let us call Ernest to sit with us, and I am sure we shall pass the time away very pleasantly.”

    “Well, well,” the baroness returned, as she arose from her chair with a seeming effort, ” I will go back. But, certainly, I do not see how anybody can come upon us in here. How could they, with the lower shutters up, and everything so snug and close?”

    As she spoke, and before lrene could reply, the staghound, who had followed his mistress from the cave, gave a sudden start; then a low, sharp cry; and then away to the door, where he pressed his muzzle against the cracks, sniffing and growling with wonderful persistence.

    “Mamma! mamma! come! let us make haste. There is something at the door I am sure.”

    Electra had taken her mother’s hand, and had turned towards the place of exit, when a sound, as of a thunderclap, smote their ears, and on the next instant the outer door was burst from its fastenings, and flew wide open, a huge battering-ram—a log of wood as heavy as ten men could lift—being at the same time projected into the room; and in a moment more the place was filled with armed men!

    While the women screamed the staghound flew at the foremost of the intruders ferociously; but one of the men, with his wits about him, and evidently prepared for the work, adroitly slipped a noose over his head, and very quickly had him secured and placed beyond the power to do more harm.

    The baroness and her daughter were then seized, their arms bound behind them, their heads and shoulders protected from the weather by heavy coats which two of the soldiers threw off; and then, without further ceremony—without waiting for further raiment, they started off upon the run, the half paralyzed women being borne roughly along, a strong man at each arm, almost lifting them from their feet as they sped on their way. In their paroxysm of terror, the stricken captives could neither struggle nor cry out; one word, and one alone, fell from the lips of Electra—the name of her dear lover—”ERNEST!”

    So quickly had the whole thing been done, so prompt and sure had been every moment without mistake or mishap, that not more than one poor minute had elapsed after the invaders had burst open the door of the cot before they were out again, with their prisoners in charge,

    Upon Irene they had scarcely looked. Her great St. Bernard, accidently left shut up in another room, had been struggling for admittance, but she felt that in opening the way to him she would but admit him to his death. And further, he could have done no good. As for herself, she had not lost her presence of mind at any time during the startling scene. She had seen on the instant that anything like resistance would be worse than useless. As for help, there was none to call. If, for a single moment, she had allowed Electra’s pathetic call to lead her to think of arousing Ernest, the thought was quickly put away. She would have simply called him to share the fate of the others. There had been at least a full score of the ruffians, and they had been determined and desperate. Against them, the arm of the young captain, strong as it was, would have been but as an arm of straw. He would have been instantly captured, if not killed, and thus the loved ones would have been robbed of a valuable helper in the future. Aye, Ernest von Linden left behind in his safe retreat, could be of vastly more service to them than he could have been had he kept them company in captivity.

    The girl stood where she had stood from the first, and watched the departing troopers—saw them half carrying their captives in their arms—forcing them onward in brutal haste—watched them until they had gone from sight, and then went to close the door; but this she was unable to do. The heavy log, which had been used as a battering-ram, had been left across the threshold, and she had not the strength to lift it. With a strong lever, however, she at length succeeded in working it out of her way, after which she shut to the door, and secured it as best she could.

    Her next movement was to loosen poor Fritz, who was jumping against his leash, and howling most dismally. When the dog was free, he sprang to the door and tried to open it. Then he came back to Irene, and begged most piteously, fawning upon her and whining, his great brown eyes fairly brimming with tears. The agony of that poor, dumb friend made her heart ache more than had all that had gone before; and by and by the intelligent animal seemed to understand that he had her sympathy, and that that was all she could give him. He finally returned to the door, and there lay down, moaning in bitter grief and distress.

    The getting of the log from the threshold and disposing of the dog had consumed considerable time; so much, that Irene judged that the marauders had, reached the foot of the mountain, at least, and she would be safe in letting Ernest know what had happened. She had hesitated until now, because she had felt sure that he would, if he thought the ruffians within reach, dash madly after them; and she did not care to be a party to his self-destruction. But she was speedily saved further anxiety in the matter by the appearance of the man himself.

    She was standing looking at the dog, but thinking of Ernest, when she heard her name called, and on turning, she saw the face of the captain just peering through a narrow opening he had made by partially pulling back the door.

    “Irene, What was the noise I heard? Where are the baroness and Electra?” he asked, hurriedly and eagerly, as the girl came towards him. “How? Has anything happened?” he exclaimed, catching the scared look upon her face; and, at the same time forgetting the precautions of the hunter, he threw open the door and came out.

    But Irene pushed him back, herself following; and as she started to close the door behind her, the stag-hound came bounding through, and at once began to fawn upon the youth, and to implore him as he had to the maiden.

    By this time our hero knew that all was not right. He caught the girl by the wrist and besought her to speak.

    “Alas, dear sir, the worst— No, no not the worst,” she cried, correcting herself, “but something very painful has happened.”

    And then, as best she could, with his frequent and frantic interruptions, she went on and told the story.

    It was terrible—and for a little time the frenzied youth strode to and fro, wringing his hands in speechless agony. His first thought, when he could think at all, was of instant pursuit. He would arm himself with sword and pistols, and overtake the villains if he could.

    Fortunately for Irene, and, perhaps, fortunately for the young man himself, at that moment the hunter made his appearance. In the two faces before him he saw the indications of terrible news, for never was more terror depicted in a human countenance. Before a word had been spoken he opened the door and looked into the front room. He saw the ponderous log of wood upon the floor, its smaller end just clear of the outer door, and his quick eye detected that the fastening had been broken away, in a moment he knew what had happened.

    “Irene! how came it to pass?”

    “Dear papa! It was all done in a moment, without warning of any kind.” And she went on, and told the story as it was; and this time she was permitted to tell it without interruption.

    When it was done, the strong man bowed his head upon his hand, and so remained for several seconds.

    “Alas! Alas!” he moaned, on looking up. “l ought not to blame her. Poor lady! she was very sad and lonesome, I have no doubt; and she did not think. Yet, if she had obeyed me— if she had kept the spirit of her promise to me—this would not have happened.”

    “But how did they happen to strike at the very time when you were away, dear papa?”

    “There was no happening in that. As I emerged from the cover of the far end of the mountain pass, I saw one of Dunwolf’s men not ten yards away; and I know that he saw and recognised me. But I feared nothing. Even should the rascals pluck up courage enough to break into my dwelling in my absence, they could find nothing, for my caverns are beyond human skill to discover. Had I thought that Bertha could have been so careless, after the caution I had given her, I should have come back at once. You remember the circumstance of the dog’s getting loose and wandering into the forest? The spies knew that the [check typo in copy] mistress must be hidden not far away.”

    To a question from Ernest, Oberwald explained that he had several times detected spies in the tall grass near the cot, from which position they could look into the sitting-room through the upper windows. In all probability enough had been seen to warrant them in making a bold dash. They made it, and the result we have now before us.

    Ernest groaned in bitterness of spirit. By-and-by, when he could speak coherently, he laid a hand upon the hunter’s shoulder and asked him what could be done.

    “If I thought I could find the grand duke,” he said, “I would take horse for Baden-Baden at once. He, l am sure, would set this matter right.”

    “There is the trouble,” returned Oberwald. “You are not sure of finding Leopold, if you go. I have not heard of his return to his palace since he went away. We must look to Thorbrand. Upon him our hopes must now rest.”

    “Let me see him,” pleaded the eager youth. “I can so set before him the character of Pascal Dunwolf—”

    The hunter put out his hand and commanded silence.

    “Thorbrand will not be seen until he is ready to act. Be sure, my dear Ernest, you can tell him nothing which he does not know. As for the character of Dunwolf he knows it thoroughly; and I may assure you that he can, when he will, strike him to the earth. There is one other, however, for whose coming we must wait. I think he will be here before this day’s light is gone.

    Irene looked up quickly, with a flush upon her face, and a wondrous sparkle in her eye.

    Her father nodded pleasantly. “Yes, dear child, it is he. With his arrival we shall be prepared to lay out the work. Meantime, you Ernest, must run a little risk. You must visit the castle—”

    “O!” the latter exclaimed, impetuously, “did you think I needed to be told that? Did you imagine that I would allow a night to pass with us in uncertainty regarding the fate of our beloved friends?”

    “Ah, my dear boy,” the hunter said, with a significant shake of the head, ” I think you need a little caution before you venture. You may be sure that Dunwolf will have an eye upon his fair captives, that they do not escape him again by any secret pass; for, of course, he must know that in that way alone could you have given him the slip, and taken the ladies with you. Now, mark me, Ernest, your only object in going to the castle must be to learn what is going on, and, if possible, what the rascal’s plans are. Evidently, he intends to force a marriage ceremony upon the heiress, and that we must prevent.”

    “Prevent it! By the heavens above me I would—”

    “Tut! tut! What would you do, singlehanded, against the host that man has at command? Be rational, boy, and listen. You will learn all you can learn, and bring back word as speedily as possible. And do you not, for a single moment, lose sight of this important fact: The power to overcome Pascal Dunwolf is here—at present within these walls.”

    “O! dear Oberwald, if I could know—”

    “Pshaw! Can you not believe me? Do you fear to trust me?”

    “Papa,” interposed Irene, with pleading look and tone, “remember how he has been tried. Think how his heart is aching.”

    “And I would heal it for him.—Dear boy,” the hunter added, with a kindly smile, laying a hand upon his shoulder, “there is no need of haste in this matter. You will not think of going to the castle until evening; so we have plenty of time for consideration. I might ask you, however, whom you will seek? To which part of the keep will you direct your steps?”

    The young man reflected for a brief space, and finally said that he should go to the old picture-gallery.

    “Leading out from that,” he explained, “is a small closet, for the stowing away of pictures not hung, in one of the walls of which is a sliding panel that opens the way into a branch of the secret pass. None of Dunwolf’s people will be in that neighbourhood. From that point I can direct my steps as I will. I must run some risk. I will see the baroness if I can. But, good Martin, I will be careful. I shall be cool and collected. Know that clanger, however great or sudden, never weakens or confuses me. I am never so strong, never so cool and calm as when in the face of mortal peril. I shall go well armed, and woe betide the man who shall place himself in my way.”

    Oberwald gazed upon the youth with a beaming look—a look of admiration and respect.

    “Ernest,” he said, extending his hand as he spoke, ” I did you wrong a little while ago. I failed to think how sorely you had been stricken, how your heart must have been wrung. I will trust you, dear boy. Aye, more, if Thorbrand thinks well of it, I will go with you. The pair of us might present a strong front in case of discovery and attack.”

    Von Linden uttered an exclamation of gladness.

    “O! that would be a joy for me,” he cried. “As we should go we could meet nothing that we could not overcome on the instant. Say you will go.”

    “I will speak with him I told you of, and by his judgment must I abide. You shall know in good time.”

    Just then poor old Gretchen came crying upon the scene. She had just missed her dear mistress, and feared some accident had befallen her.

    To Irene was left the work of comforting the faithful old servitor. She did it after a time, though she found it difficult to do.

    After this Martin put on his cloak and went out to take an observation. For half an hour he scoured the forest in every direction, over the ground, lately occupied by the spies from the castle, without finding one of them left behind. The capture of the two ladies had been all that had been particularly desired by their chief; for, though he had set a price upon Von
    Linden’s head, he was not at all anxious that he should be brought back to him.

    Having satisfied himself upon this point the hunter returned to his cot, where, for the next hour, with Ernest’s help, he worked on his front door. Luckily the door itself had been stronger than had been its fastening, in consequence of which only the latter had suffered.

    House in the Middle Black Forest (1910-11 autochrome, cropped). (Emmendingen district of Baden-Württemberg). Public Domain. Source: Wiki Commons

    Irene was just preparing the evening meal when a step was heard in the rear porch of the cot, and shortly afterwards the door of the living-room was unceremoniously opened, and the golden-haired, blue-eyed hero of our mountain maid’s love-dream appeared. He shook the dripping moisture from his plumed cap, and threw off his cloak before he spoke.

    Oberwald started to his feet, and took his hand.

    “Just in season, my dear Wolfgang—in season for supper, and for news,” said the hunter.

    Our hero gazed in speechless wonder upon this man, with the name of the most notorious of the famed robbers of the Schwarzwald, and whom yet the honest hunter took by the hand and addressed as a dear friend. But a greater surprise was in store. He saw the man turn from the father to the daughter, and never before had he seen that beautiful maiden look so charmingly beautiful as she did at that moment.

    Her azure eyes beamed and glowed with the light of a gladness that was of the heart; and when the man lifted her hand to his lips she did not quail, and if she trembled at all, it was not with either fear or offence.

    And for the man himself—Ernest was obliged to confess that he had never seen a handsomer— never a man whose face at sight he would sooner trust. This had he seen and thought when he stood with him face to face.

    “Captain von Linden, this is the Herr Wolfgang of whom you have heard. I present him to you as my very dear friend. And to you, my dear sir, I will say, Von Linden is worthy of your confidence and esteem.”

    It was all very strange to our hero, but he had no time then for speculation. He gave the man his hand, and in the grasp which he received there was a warmth and spirit that went to his heart. He met the earnest, honest gaze of those deep blue eyes—eyes that appeared a heavenly blue to Irene—and he was captive from that moment.

    After a time the men resumed their seats, and Irene, assisted by her maid, with good old Gretchen making herself as useful as she could, resumed her work of preparing supper.

    Then Oberwald told the new-comer the story of the abduction of the baroness and her daughter; and if Ernest had honored and respected Wolfgang before, he fairly loved him now; for the words which he spoke, the spirit which he manifested, and the power which he seemed to possess, gave him more of hope and courage than had come to him from any other source.

    When supper was ready, they all sat round the table, for the time putting off every anxious care, and turning their conversation upon subjects of interest and instruction.

    Later in the evening the hunter drew Ernest aside, and said :

    “Now, my dear boy, you must make yourself comfortable and sociable, if you can, for a time with Irene. Wolfgang and I are going to confer with him whom we both acknowledge our chief at present. I would ask you to go with us if I dared, but our master has forbidden it. Be not uneasy. The time is not far distant when we shall have no secrets from you.”

    In speechless amaze Ernest stood gazing in to the vacant space which the hunter had left, until the sweet voice of Irene recalled him to himself.

    Notes & FYI

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 9. The Trap is Sprung

    Cobb’s False Knight: 9. The Trap is Sprung

    The German word for “dungeon” is “Verlies“. An unusual word, originating in Low German and Dutch, meaning loss, or leaving. Verlies sounds like the past form of “verlassen“, which means to leave. A place where you leave people, to an awful fate? There were dungeons like that in Germany. A famous one you can visit today is in Penzlin Castle in Mecklenburg, where alleged witches were tortured to death. There were more recent places, which are just as terrible. Some we barely even know about…

    Alte Burg Penzlin – dungeon (so-called witch cellar). Photograph by Norbert Radtke

    In today’s Poland, there is a village on the former German state of Upper Silesia which is now called Ludwikowice-Milkow. A small, quiet place. Hardly worthy of visiting. The former German name was Ludwigsdorf-Moelke.

    A coal mining area, it was declared a military and exclusion area when it was given to Poland after the war in exchange for territory ceded to the Soviet Union. This lasted for more than ten years, while the probable reason for secrecy was investigated and then obliterated.

    There are many mine shafts in the area. But one was only excavated in the early 1940s. Strange, for it to have been dug, far from any known coal seams. A brand new pithead building appeared in an allied aerial surveillance photo. A tower with a lift to access area half a kilometre below. Why was it built? At a time when resources such as building materials had become scarce?

    Those who had been forced to work there, to excavate the tunnels, were inmates of the nearby concentration camp at Gross Rosen. Today, only a memorial marks their fate. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, were forced to dig tunnels in a project that some say was to provide Germany with purified uranium for an atomic bomb (see, for e.g., Tuft, ‘Secret Nazi Nuclear Bunker’).

    When allied forces approached, the SS blew up the tunnels. Many say, with the forced labourers still inside. After the war, the Soviet Union filled in the half kilometer deep new mine shafts and dismantled the pithead building. Strange, because all the surrounding pits remain open. Only this one has been filled in. Half a kilometre deep. Tiny ventilation shafts are the only remaining access. Remote controlled cameras have been tried, but nobody has even been able to access what is left of the tunnels below. Or those who were abandoned in them. Verlassen. As in a Verlies. Or dungeon.

    The horror of what forced labourers had to endure there is unimaginable, but it was very real. A museum now tries to capitalise on tourism, with the little that remains on the surface, like the bottom ring of an old cooling tower, added to the power station when electricity output was increased during the war. Some even claimed that this concrete “Stonehenge” was a landing facility for UFOs. A wrought iron slogan across the entrance reads “Museum Molke, Ludwigsdorf Riese“. It was only added recently and made to resemble the “Arbeit Macht Frei” slogan at the gates of Auschwitz.

    However, the Ludwigsdorf tunnels and the new mine shaft were not a part of nearby “Project Riese”. Some are still accessible, many are partly flooded, but those connected to that new mine shaft built in the early 1940s are completely sealed. Their purpose is still a mystery, however proximity to the upgraded power station lets you wonder if there was any truth to rumours of centrifuges having been used in chambers connected by the tunnels under the shaft to enrich uranium. Nazi Germany used Uranium mined at Leopoldshall in Saxony Anhalt. (See ‘Project Riese‘, Wikipedia)

    Sorry to diverge so much from our story and Ernest Von Linden’s plight in the castle dungeon. Let’s hope that at least he can escape…

    CHAPTER 9

    THE TRAP IS SPRUNG

    The sun was just sinking to rest as Ernest von Linden rode over the draw-bridge of the castle on his return from Baden-Baden. At the gate he was met by lieutenant Franz, who expressed a great deal of satisfaction at seeing him.

    “Captain, you have arrived just in season. There is a terrible fright in the village on account of the famed robber, Thorbrand, and a deputation of the villagers are at this present moment with the governor. They came inquiring for you. Her ladyship, the baroness, is anxious that they should have protection. We were told by one of your men that you were coming up the hill, and I was sent to ask you to come in. I think there is no doubt that Thorbrand is lurking somewhere in the neighborhood. You are acquainted with the various defiles and fastnesses, and your council is needed.”

    “Who sent for me?” was the youth’s first question.

    Had the man hesitated Ernest would have taken the alarm; but he did not. He answered promptly and with every appearance of truth:

    “Sir Pascal sent me, sir; but it was the lady who suggested it, when she was told that you had been seen at the foot of the hill.”

    The lieutenant was so earnest and wore such a look of truth in his face that the young captain could not disbelieve him. For a moment the thought of treachery occurred to him; but he did not fear. It was vastly different in the castle from his situation in the forest; and, further, he was well armed, and should be on his guard.

    “You say the villagers are still in the castle?”

    “Yes, six or seven of them; and the old inn-keeper heads the deputation.”

    With that Ernest slipped from his saddle; and having taken off his saddle-bags and thrown them over his left arm, he gave up his horse to an orderly who stood at hand ready to take him, and then signified his readiness to follow his guide.

    Lieutenant Franz was an accomplished liar. On the way across the broad court he asked Ernest concerning matters in Baden-Baden, speaking as to a trusted friend, and blandly smiling while he spoke. He kept up the chat until the vestibule was reached, where he politely opened the door, allowing the other to pass in first. As he followed and closed the door behind him, he said smiling still:

    “We shall find them this way, sir, and very glad they will be to see you.”

    A single moment at this point our hero hesitated. His guide was smiling altogether too much, he thought; and the last smile he fancied, had something sinister in it. But why should he fear? Surely no harm could come to him while he had his wits and his strength. Yet, when he had made up his mind to go forward he felt in his bosom to make sure that his double-barrelled pistol was within easy reach.

    The lieutenant had turned to the left towards a room which he—Ernest—had been wont to use as a study and a private sitting room; and upon reaching the door, which opened inward, he pushed it open, and, as before, stepped aside for his companion to pass in first. Von Linden did not stop to think, but went quickly on, nor did he fully realize the situation until the door had been closed behind him, and his conductor had come to his side.

    ”Why, where are the villagers? Where is the baroness?” cried Franz, by way of giving his chief the cue.

    “Tut! tut!” exclaimed Sir Pascal, as the entrapped youth put his hand into his bosom and exposed the butt of his pistol. “What in the world are you thinking of? Do you fancy we mean to do you harm?”

    Ernest had already taken a survey of the apartment, and discovered that the lieutenant was at his side, the knight before him, and not another soul, that he could see, was present.

    ”Sir Pascal Dunwolf, what does this mean? Why have I been brought hither? Answer me, or I will force you to speak at the muzzle of the—”

    He had snatched the pistol from his bosom and cocked both hammers, and was raising it to an aim as he spoke; but before he could finish his sentence he heard a rushing sound behind him, and on the next instant a pair of strong hands had caught his arms from behind and held them, while a second pair, equally strong, proceeded to bind them fast. Ernest was very strong—much stronger than the average of even strong men—but, he could do nothing towards overcoming a power thus unexpectedly and unfairly brought into operation against him.

    Dunwolf’s two ruffians had been hidden away behind a tall case of books directly back of where the youth had stood, and at a signal from their master they had acted—had acted so entirely in concert, and so adroitly that no human being, though he had been a giant, could have overcome their combined efforts towards capture. At the very first onset they had their victim at their mercy, he not having had a thought in that direction.

    As soon as Ernest realized that further struggling would be worse than useless, he gave over his efforts, and proudly lifted his head. His wrists had been tightly bound behind him, but he had not been gagged; he saw, however, as one of the ruffians stepped into sight, that means for closing his mouth had been prepared. From this he turned his gaze upon the treacherous knight, who stood directly before him. Dunwolf was the first to speak.

    “Well, young gentleman, I trust your mission to the grand duke was a success.”

    Bitter, burning words were crowding upon the victim’s lips for utterance, but a moment’s reflection told him that he would only lower himself by giving way to his passion. Doubtless his enemy could beat him in the exchange of vile epithets. In the end he spoke more simply and calmly than he could have believed possible a few seconds before.

    “Sir Pascal Dunwolf,” he said, looking the man straight in the eye, and without a quiver of either voice or person, “will you kindly inform me what, this means? What object have you in view in thus entrapping me?”

    “My object, young sir, is to prevent you from doing any more mischief. You have already put to death two of my best men.”

    “Pshaw! Be a gentleman, if you can; and remember that one of the chief qualifications for that character is truth.”

    “Eh! what do you mean by that?”

    “You know very well what I mean. When you say that 1 put to death two of your best men, you are speaking the worst kind of falsehood known— the twisting of stern truth into a contemptible lie.”

    “How! Do you call me a liar?”

    “I call you nothing. I tell you what you do; and you kuow that I speak truly.”

    “Enough! You have sealed your own fate. Oho! You were determined to go and see the grand duke. Did you see him?”

    The knight did not wait for an answer, but as he spoke he made a sign to his two executioners, and on the instant they proceeded to the work that had been given them to do. A thick scarf—a kind of Turkish shawl—was thrown over the prisoner’s head, brought down over his mouth and nose, and then securely and tightly knotted at the back of his neck. Then his sword was taken from him—his pistol he had dropped—after which the ruffians took him by the arms, one on each side, and awaited further orders.

    By this time the sun had been for quite a time below the horizon, and in order to see plainly it was necessary to light candles. This the lieutenant did with flint and steel; and when he had done it his chief sent him out to see that the way was clear. He was gone several minutes, but his report was favourable when he came back.

    “Go on,” said Dunwolf to his two brutal familiars. “Look to your hold upon him. He may be stronger and quicker than you think.”

    If the prisoner was strong at that moment, he was not likely to remain so a great while, for the compress over his mouth and nostrils was so nearly air-tight that he could scarcely breathe. By a mighty effort—an effort that exhausted the last atom of muscular power—he managed to draw enough into this lungs to keep up a sluggish circulation, but he felt that he could not live a great while so. They must have been simple brutes who could thus wantonly put him to useless torture; their ignorance could not excuse them.

    As Dunwolf spoke the grips of the ruffians closed more tightly upon Ernest’s arms; and they looked and acted as though they found pleasure in giving pain to another. They pulled him roughly around, and followed the lieutenant from the room out into the passage beyond, where, when their chief had come out and taken the lead, they turned to the right, very soon arriving at the head of a flight of descending stairs, down which they went, reaching a point that would have been utter darkness but for Franz’s candle.

    Here a better light was procured—a large torch, or flambeau—which was lighted by the candle, and which the knight then took into his own hand, bidding the others follow carefully as he should lead. He had been over the way he was to go within a few hours, so knew it well.

    And Ernest knew it. He knew he was being conducted down into the dungeons beneath the great tower. They were deep, dark, noisome crypts, partly hewn from the native rock, with walls so massive and brazen doors so thick and so strong, with triple plates and many bolts, that no human might or skill could prevail against them. As boy he had gazed into their dismal depths with horror; as man he had thought how dreadful imprisonment therein must be, little dreaming that he should ever be doomed to the terrible fate.

    “Look out!” cried the guide, as he came to a pass where the vaulted roof was so low that he was forced to stoop.

    In a moment more a double accident happened. One of the ruffians—he who held the prisoner’s right arm—found his head in contact with the low-hanging rock, and as a terrible imprecation broke from his lips, Ernest felt his own head brought up against the same obstruction. He uttered a quick, smothered groan, then bowed his head and was led on. The accident had proved a blessing—perhaps it had saved his life; for the thick, heavy muffler had caught against a projecting point of rock, lifting it so as to partially uncover his mouth. He was careful to make no sound, fearing that the gag would be replaced if he did. O, how grateful that breath of air was Until that moment it had seemed to him that he must give up. He could feel that his face was swollen, that his eyes were starting from their sockets, and that the last atom of strength was gone. Now, however, he filled his lungs to their utmost, and very soon felt his vitality returning.

    The next flight of stairs—a descent of rough rock, broken out from the native ledge on which the keep was built—after passing the low arch where the heads had been bumped, was the last. At the bottom they found themselves in a sort of well, or circular hallway, from which ran two narrow, vaulted passages, in opposite directions. Dunwolf turned to the right, and as the others followed, only one of the familiars could walk by the prisoner’s side, but the other came close behind, with a hand upon his shoulder, ready for action in case of need.

    Would they go to the utter extremity? the captive asked himself. He knew well the dungeon that lay at the end of that passage—one of the darkest and strongest of the strong places beneath the castle—a dungeon mostly hewn from the foundation rock, with only a single wall—that in front—of masonry. He knew it well. He had looked into it many times, but with never a thought of abiding therein.

    Yes,—to that dungeon the knight made his way. The door was open, and our hero could see that it had been opened very recently, as he saw the finger-marks on the moist surface. Here the knight stopped, standing aside so that the man Walbeck could pass in with the prisoner.

    The dungeon was very nearly square, not far from ten feet on a side—making it of fair size; the roof arching, and of heavy masonry. As has been already stated, the walls on three sides were of the native rock, the place having been hewn out from the solid ledge—only that side on which was the door was masonry. The door was of bronze, very thick, and firmly riveted, and armed on the outside with ponderous cross-bars and massive bolts. In the wall opposite the door had been cut an alcove, the bottom of which was about knee-high from the floor, and broad enough for a bed—also long enough; but that was all; there was no bed save the hard rock. There was nothing of wood in the place. Two seats were of stone—one a narrow shelf projecting from one of the other walls; the second, a moveable block that had been left from the debris of the builders.

    The Prophet, Emil Nolde, 1912 (cropped). Art Institute of Chicago. Public Domain (Wikiart).

    At a sign from Dunwolf the muffler was taken from the prisoner’s head; after which the false knight said:

    “Look ye, Meinherr—I am about to leave you in this snug, cosy place, where you will have an opportunity to reflect upon the past and make resolves for the future. I have no desire to give you unnecessary suffering. Your liberty is the only thing that I will take from you. In due time, you shall have food and drink brought to you; and a bed of good, clean straw; together with such other articles as may be needful for your comfort. And now I have one caution for you; your life I do not want; but if you make the first sign of a movement against any person sent to wait upon you, you will be shot down on the instant; or, if the man by you attacked chooses to defend himself and overcome you, the heaviest irons I can find shall be placed upon your limbs, and you be chained to yonder bolt, which I fancy was put there for that especial purpose. Are you ready, on those terms, to have the bond taken from your arms?”

    The youth answered simply in the affirmative, whereupon, at a sign from their chief, the familiars cast off the lashing from his wrists, thus freeing his limbs from restraint. His hands had become numb and swollen from the tightness of the cord, but the sense was one of great relief, nevertheless.

    “If I might ask a single favor at your hands, sir, I should be glad,” the prisoner said, respectfully.

    “Ask it,” returned the knight, evidently, impressed by the youth’s humble bearing.

    “I have never been subjected to the ordeal, sir; but I can fancy that the most terrible infliction of solitary confinement must be a never-ending darkness. If you would let me have one poor candle, and replace it when it is consumed, I will ask no more. Or, I will leave you to supply what else you will.”

    “You shall have the candle, Captain. I will send one down when I send your supper and your bed; and you shall have a flint and steel, and punk-wood.

    With that the ruffians left the dungeon, after which the door was shut and the ponderous fastenings made secure. Then came the dull echo of falling feet, growing less and less in the distance, until in the end, the prisoner was left alone with his thoughts, listening only to his own breathing, and the beating of his burdened heart. The darkness was utter. Truly, its continuance for a long time would be dreadful. It was too dark even for sleep. With his eyes tightly closed he could feel it like a pall, chilling him to the marrow. But he knew it was not for long, and he did not worry.

    He remembered where the seats were, and having found the wall, he felt his way to one of them, and sat down. His first thought thereafter was of his wrists. Already the pain had become less, and after a little rubbing and laying them for a time against the chill, damp rock, the numbness was gone, and his hands were free and well.

    Of sleep he had not thought at all; yet, when the pain was gone, a sense of fatigue gradually overpowered him. He had slept but very little during the previous night, spent at the inn at Baden-Baden; he had been early on the road, and had ridden during the long day, and no wonder that his lids were now heavy. He was thinking of Electra—of the baroness—of the outrage of which he was now the victim; and anon his thoughts became confused—sadly mixed—and—with his head pillowed against the hard rock, he fell asleep.

    And as he slept he dreamed. He dreamed that he was again on the road, on his homeward way from Baden-Baden. As he approached the castle, he saw the many windows and embrasures and loopholes brilliantly lighted. It had been until that scene, broad daylight; but now it was night, and the grim old castle lifted its walls and turrets into the surrounding darkness like a huge monster, with a thousand eyes of bright flame. Anon the pound of music came to his ears, and the voice of song. He spurred on his jaded steed, and when he had gained the court he asked the first whom he met what was the occasion of the revel.

    He was told that it was a wedding. Then, as he would have pushed on in hot haste, two ugly looking men, with heads like wolves, appeared in his path and barred his passage. On the instant he drew a pistol, and aimed at the nearest. He pulled the trigger, but only a flash in the pan followed. Upon that the monsters set up a loud, horrible laugh, at which he drew his sword and attacked them; and a wonderful thing followed. At the first sweep of his blade, both the wolves’ heads fell, cut off at one and the same stroke, after which he spurred on.

    He did not stop to leave his saddle; but as the uproar increased, and the song grew louder, he spurred on up the broad stone steps into the vestibule, his faithful beast obeying his slightest touch. And so he rode on until he had gained the open doorway of the great hall; and there he saw the wedding party. It was his darling being married to Sir Pascal Dunwolf. A short, fat, bacchanal priest had just pronounced the final words, and the new-made wife fell to the floor like one dead. As he would have plunged forward, with his reeking sword still in his hand, he felt a tremendous blow on the back of his head; a thunderbolt seemed to burst above him, and—

    He awoke. A bright light was in the dungeon, and the two ruffianly troopers who had captured and bound him and led him to his prison, one of whom stood before him, and the other was putting straw into the niche in the wall.

    “Mercy on me! how you sleep, Meinherr! That door made noise enough to wake a dead man. There’s your supper—bread and meat, and three eggs; likewise a bottle of wine and a jug of water; and there’s other things. I guess you’ll make out.”

    “The candle—have you—”

    “O! we didn’t forgot; there’s three of em in that bucket, and a candlestick to hold em up. How’s that?”

    The prisoner asked no questions. He simply thanked the men for their kindness, and having lighted one of his candles, he intimated to them that they might go.

    “Upon my life, you take it sort of easy, Meinherr.”

    “Why should l do otherwise? I am out of harm’s way here, with no watch to stand, and nobody to trouble me. If I can have enough to eat and drink, what more can I ask?”

    “By the great Jericho! there’s something in that!” the follow muttered. His intellect was just fit to grasp it, and he could appreciate it. ‘

    Yes, the youth did take it easy. After the soldiers were gone, and bolted and barred the door behind them, he went to the corner of the dungeon at the foot of the niche, where he went down upon his knees, holding the candle close to the floor, apparently in search of something which he was very eager to find. Whatever it was, he quickly found it, as was evident from the exclamation of satisfaction that escaped him.

    Then he returned to the little stone ledge, where he had laid his supper, and proceeded to eat a hearty meal, vastly better satisfied with the situation, if appearances were to be relied upon, than was the man who had brought it about.

    Notes and Reference

    • defiles: noun, from ‘defilade’, which is a protection (in this case, in terms of the castle’s fortifications) against ‘enfilading fire’, or particular directions of artillery attack. See Wikia Military
    • noisome: disgusting, ill-smelling (Century Dictionary.
    • familiar: close to the sense, “a person attached to the household of a high official” (finedictionary.com)
    • punk-wood: ‘punk’ apparently reduced from ‘spunk’, same L. root as ‘sponge’ (spongia), a kind of tinder made from a fungus, or by timber affected by a fungus, so as to become light and porous, thus easily lit (Century Dictionary).
    • pall: from L. pallium: robe, mantle, cloak.
    • anon: soon.
    • embrasure: In fortification: “An aperture with slant sides in a wall or parapet, through which cannon are pointed and discharged; a crenelle” (finedictionary.com).
    • loophole: hole in a fortified wall for observation or firing (finedictionary.com).
    • reeking: generally means strongly smelling, of course. However, derives from German, Icelandic, Danish words for vapour, smoke, steam, etc., so perhaps better read here as an unreal, metaphorical sense, along the lines of ‘steaming’.
    • By the great Jericho!: 2 Sam. X. 4,5: ‘Wherefore David took Hanun’s servants, and shaved off the one half of their beards,… and sent them away… And the king said, Tarry at Jericho until your beards be grown, and then return.’ Thus, a place of tarrying, hence ironical reference to a prison or to a place far away (such as Jericho).

    Ben Tuft, ‘Secret Nazi nuclear bunker discovered in Austria by filmmaker‘, Independent, 2014.

    NIGHTSHIFT byTony Reck © 2025

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 6. Waylaid

    Cobb’s False Knight: 6. Waylaid

    Trying to get a desperate message through to possibly avoid a looming disaster, a dangerous journey through a dark expanse. Where had I heard that before? It was also in Germany, but not in the Black Forest.

    This particular journey started from an airfield just outside Munich. The dark expanse was the North Sea, the destination Dungavel Castle in Scotland, strangely reminiscent of Dunwolf, but purely coincidentally. It was the Duke of Hamilton the desperate messenger had tried to reach, a fellow aviator, and one he had hoped could pass his message on to Churchill. Avoiding being shot down, he had to parachute into a field, unable to find his intended destination.

    The messenger was a man I had never met or had any interest whatsoever in meeting, but whose presence I had been aware of while living in West Berlin. He was the sole occupant of an entire prison built to incarcerate six hundred, kept there incommunicado, lest he told of what his errand had really been about. In later years, when his son was finally allowed to visit, guards were always present and he was not permitted to discuss anything in relation to his mission. Don’t you wonder why?

    Spandau Prison was less than twenty kilometres from where I lived, but normally, nobody was allowed to enter. An absurdly expensive, huge place to house the desperate messenger, already pushing ninety in the early 1980s, kept there under the jurisdiction of the Allied Command. These days they say it was the Soviets who held him, but when I was in West Berlin, we knew it was the British who blocked any attempts for release, even by someone as influential and definitely acting out of compassion and not because of any pro-Nazi sentiments, as former Mayor of West Berlin and Chancellor of Germany, Willy Brandt. But why?

    It was because of what Rudolf Hess knew about his mission, which was still highly embarrassing to the British. Had there been an intelligence sting to convince Hitler that Great Britain had been seeking a way out of the war? Or was Hess simply a madman? Berliners need knew of the old man, held alone in that huge and foreboding prison. Did he deserve to be there? At one time, probably. He had been Hitler’s deputy, had signed into law terrible policies that harmed and killed so many. Not an innocent, by any means.

    Why on Earth had he tried to get a message to Churchill? Because he knew that madman Hitler was about to invade the Soviet Union and thereby open a second front making the war unwinnable for Nazi Germany? Or had he been acting on the direct orders of Hitler, in response to secret British overtures? The murky world of intelligence services conceals many such plots. We will never know the details of this one, but we can be thankful that his desperate mission to find peace with the UK and avoid the defeat Nazi Germany did not succeed, whatever the circumstances.

    Hess allegedly hanged himself in 1987, at the age of 93. A messenger, whose to some still immensely embarrassing message finally “had to be stopped” from being told, because more moves were afoot to finally release the old man? Will Ernest von Linden succeed in getting his message through to King Leopold, or will he too be incarcerated or even killed?

    CHAPTER 6

    WAYLAID

    The baroness and Electra were ready to sit with Ernest at the breakfast table, so that no time might be lost in consultation. The distance to Baden-Baden was fifty miles — the road exceedingly mountainous and rough. If he could make the journey in a day he would do well. At all events, the chances were that he would be obliged to be gone three days, as he could not expect to find time for business on the day of his journeying.

    His business, however, was easily understood, most of it being left to his own judgment. Since Sir Pascal Dunwolf had made his appearance at the castle the baroness could not believe that the grand duke would insist upon his marriage with her daughter when the facts of the case had been presented to him. She knew how eager the dukes were that the great estates of the grand duchy should be possessed by their chief henchmen. She knew that during the reign of Leopold’s father three orphan daughters of wealthy baronies, representing their respective families, had been forced to wed with husbands of his choosing; and one of them, at least, she well knew had at the time a lover in the lower order of society to whom she was devotedly attached.

    Portrait of a Woman of 57 (1539), Hans Mielich. (MNAC, Barcelona). More information.

    Still, her case, she felt, was different. Her daughter had been long affianced — allianced, too, by a father who had given his life to the state — to a youth of noble lineage and owner of a large estate. As she arrived at this point in her statement Ernest interrupted her, saying:

    “And for that very reason, I am informed the grand duke said, he objected to our union; perhaps not in so many words, but such was doubtless his meaning. He regards the Barony of Deckendorf as already powerful enough. Let the earldom of Linden be combined therewith, as would be the case in my marriage with my darling, and Leopold thinks the lordship might, in time, over-shadow his own proud station.”

    “O! what a fool!” exclaimed Electa, impatiently. ”When Ernest and I would be to him two of the very best and truest of friends.”

    “That is what I shall try to make him understand, my own precious love,” said Ernest, as he moved back his chair from the table. There was further conversation on the all-important subject, but, as the result will be seen in the end, there is no need that we should follow it further.

    The question of companionship on the journey had been discussed, and the brave youth had decided that he would go unattended. He was not afraid of robbers, for he took with him nothing for them to steal. As for money, all he could want was in the hands of the baroness’s banker in Baden-Baden, and a simple cheque would command it. A companion of his own turn of mind and thought, one intelligent and educated, would have been pleasant; but none such was within call; so, after due consideration, he had resolved to go alone. Thus he could speed on his way as he pleased, and enjoy his own thoughts and fancies.

    The baroness had given her last words of direction and caution; both she and Electra had given him their blessing, and their parting kiss; after which he sent a servant to order his horse, while he went to his chamber to get his portmanteau and his pistols.

    The pistols, of the very latest pattern, procured of the manufacturer, at Heidelberg, less than a year ago, were the best weapons of their class to be found anywhere. The spring jaws for the flint, with the steel for the stroke directly over, and closing the pan, had been introduced; and the stock had been brought to a graceful, compact, and convenient form. In short, the pistols which our hero then handled were as nearly perfect as was possible with the flint lock.

    Those for the holsters were large and strong, carrying an ounce ball, the handles, or buts, being heavily bound with cast brass, to fit them for clubbing purposes in case of need. The smaller pistol, for the pocket, was highly ornamented. There were two barrels and two locks; the bores little more than half the diameter of the former; its sandalwood stock being richly bound and inlaid with silver and gold.

    As he took them up he instinctively opened the pans to see that the priming had not been accidently disturbed, and having found them intact, he put the smaller one into his pocket; took the others under his arm; then picked up his portmanteau and went out. In the passage he found a servant to whom he gave his key, bidding her to keep it until his return.

    As he passed through the lower hall he looked round for any friendly face that might appear; but no one did he see. He had not expected that Electra would come down; he had bidden her not to do so; but she might have sent word. None came, however, and he went his way out through the vestibule, down the broad steps, to the inner court, where he found his horse, and near by it standing Sir Pascal Dunwolf.

    For the moment his heart quickened its beatings, and his hands closed more tightly upon his luggage; but the knight gave him a smile, and offered his hand, which the youth took as soon as he had landed his portmanteau.

    “You have my letters?”

    “Yes Meinherr; and I will promptly deliver them.”

    “Thanks! I was not sure that my page had given them to you. The graceless rascal is such a liar that I know not when to believe him. But he is faithful, nevertheless, and serves me well, when it comes convenient for him to do so. I wish you a pleasant journey, Captain; and I beg you to forget our little passage of yesterday.”

    “It is already forgotten, Sir Pascal.”

    “Thanks again; and once more — success to you.” And with this the knight bowed, at the same time, raising his plumed cap, and then turned away.

    Ernest secured his portmanteau in its place, and put the pistols into the holsters; then vaulted to his saddle, and rode away. Not until he had crossed the draw-bridge, and began the descent of the deep ditch beyond, did he think of the last look he had seen upon the face of Sir Pascal Dunwolf. At that moment his thoughts chancing to turn back to his interview with the dark-browed knight, the look glared upon him. He saw it as though the face was there before him, and he could read its full diabolism. What did it mean? There had been malevolence in it, and such intense spite; but why should he have worn an expression of triumph? — for such it had surely been. Had he more promise from the grand duke than they had thought? Had he ground for the assurance that the youth’s mission would be fruitless? If not, whence his feeling of triumph? — for, the more he thought of it, the more deeply was he convinced that he had not been mistaken in his estimate of the knight’s look.

    “Bah! — I am a fool!” he told himself, after a deal of perplexing study. “The man is a natural braggart, and his look of triumph was a reflection of the wish of his heart. The grand duke will never enforce the marriage of Electra von Deckendorf with that monster! I will make him understand that he will find a safer friend in me than any man can find in Sir Pascal Dunwolf.” And he resolved that he would think no more about it.

    The sun was two hours high as Ernest crossed the stream in the valley, and shortly afterwards he began the ascent of the Schwarzwolf Mountain — or rather, of a spur thereof. It was a wild, rugged pass, but the path was clear, and he went on without difficulty, but rather slowly. At the summit of the spur the road lay through a dense growth of mountain fir — the black fir, whence the forest (wald) takes its name — and here, under the shadow of a precipitous cliff which arose on his left hand, he saw a large wolf sitting. His horse stopped suddenly and tried to turn, but the rider held him to his place; he could not hope to force him by the place, however, while the beast remained at his post; and he certainly exhibited no signs of moving out of the way.

    Photo by Mario Klingermann (CC BY-NC 4.0)

    The captain knew that sometimes an old wolf, in his mountain fastness, would be very bold and fearless, though he did not believe the animal would attack him. He considered a few moments, and then drew one of the large pistols, meaning to give the beast a shot between the eyes, the mark being direct to his aim. At the cocking and aiming of the piece the wolf raised himself to an erect posture, but nothing more. With a sure aim our rider pulled the trigger. A flash of the powder in the pan followed, and that was all. He waited a few seconds, to make sure that the fire had hot held only temporarily, and then knew that his pistol had missed fire entirely — something he had never before known with those weapons. Never before a burning of the priming without communicating fire to the charge.

    The bright flash and the tiny wave of smoke that curled up from the pan caused the wolf to take himself off, but that mattered little to the owner of the pistol at that particular moment. He cared more to know what was the matter with his powder.

    As soon as he had made sure that the wolf had disappeared, he slipped from his saddle, and having thrown the rein over the broken stub of a stout branch, he gave his attention to his pistol. First, however, before going further, he thought he would try the other. He took it from its holster, cocked it, took aim at a small sapling fifteen to twenty yards away, and pulled the trigger. Whew! The result was as before. His next movement was to draw the double-barrelled weapon from his pocket, and try first one hammer, and then the other; and, as the reader doubtless imagines, with the same result.

    And now for the bottom facts. There must be mischief somewhere. Ernest sat down upon a stone by the wayside, and exposed the screw upon the tail of the rammer of one of the holster pistols, with which he easily drew forth the wadding of the first one he took in hand; but he quickly determined that it was not the wadding he had himself put there. It was a wad of paper, which he recognised to be a part of a leaf from one of the books that lay in his room. He went on, and drew forth another wad, but no bullet. Then another — and yet another — piece from the same book, until the barrel was empty and the vent-hole clear.

    The second holster pistol, and likewise both the barrels of the smaller pistol, were found to have been deprived of their proper charges of powder and ball, and filled with nothing but paper from his devoted book! He sat for a time and looked at the three pistols.

    And the light burst upon him. He now could translate the look he had seen upon Dunwolf’s dark visage. And he understood, also, the secret of the early visit of the hunchback page. And, of course, there was more to come, which would doubtless present itself in due time.

    Fortunately he had plenty of ammunition in his saddle-bags. He opened them, and proceeded to load his weapons with extra care. He measured the powder critically; saw that the communication with the priming was free; he fitted a tallowed patch about the bullet so that it should drive home snugly; and when the work was done, and the flints had been made sure of striking plenty of fire, he put the pistols back into their places of rest, and resumed his journey.

    At a short distance from where he had stopped he reached the brow of the spur, and looked down into the valley below. It was a vast concavity of the forest, black as night, with here and there a giant oak or pine towering above the levels of the firs, and anon a cliff of gray rock lifted its bare peak into sight. The path was lost to view not far away, but the traveller knew where it lay, and was well acquainted with its many windings and its numerous branches. It was the branching of diverging tracks that made the desolate portion of the Schwarzwald dangerous to strangers. Many a man has been lost in those endless, intricate wilds; the sun and stars shut out by the mountain mists: his instinct leading him onward — ever onward — in a fatal circle, which he pursues until fatigue and famine conquer, and he finally sinks, perhaps not an hour’s journey from the point of his departure!

    But Ernest von Linden knew every turn and every branch, and he pushed surely on. A few hours’ more would bring him to the town of Wolfach, beyond which the road was broad and mostly good.

    He had reached the foot of the mountain spur, and was striking into a broader and better path, when he distinctly heard the footfall of a horse other than his own, not far away on his left hand, and on looking in that direction, he detected an opening in the thick wood, which he soon discovered to be another path, joining that which he was following at a short distance ahead. He looked to it that the pistols were loose in their holsters, and a few moments later two horsemen appeared to view directly before him, and not more than a dozen yards away.

    As he drew rein and brought his horse to a halt, the two men turned and faced him, and he recognised at sight two of the stout men-at-arms of Sir Pascal Dunwolf’s troop. They had not taken the trouble to disguise themselves.

    “Ha, Captain! Is it really you? I’faith, you must have given Sir Pascal the slip. He declared in our hearing that you would not leave the castle. Do you journey to Baden-Baden?”

    “Such is my intention.”

    “Good! We shall have company. In these times, with Thorbrand’s infants running at will through the forest, it is just as well to travel in goodly company. But I am surprised that you should have come alone.”

    “I have traversed this section many times,” the young man returned, and have yet to encounter an enemy. Still, as you suggest, we know not when one may appear.”

    “That is even so; but against the three of us it would require a strong force to prevail.”

    While this coloquy had been going on our hero had been making a study of the two men before him, and he had been content to quietly answer them that he might gain the opportunity.

    They were men of powerful frames, with VILLAIN indelibly stamped upon both their faces. Those faces were coarse-featured and battered; heavy-lipped and low-browed; with as wicked a complement of eyes as ever looked from a human head. They wore the uniform of their troop, heavy swords hung at their sides, daggers in their girdles, and evidently pistols in their holsters.

    Ernest knew that they must have left the castle during the night, for he remembered distinctly having seen them at parade on the preceding evening. And if they had left the castle during the night, of course their chief had sent them; for they could not have passed the sentinels otherwise. And for what had they been sent? Ah! it remained for them — clumsy loons! to blunder out the truth.

    “Captain,” said the second man of the twain, with an exceedingly cunning look, “did the chief send any letters by you?”

    What did this mean? Why was the question asked? The youth determined to pursue the matter to a solution.

    “He did,” he answered, after only an instant’s hesitation.

    “Oho! Then you saw him. I s’pose he gave the letters to you with his own hands.”

    Ernest began to gain a glimmering of light.

    “No,” he said. “They were given to me by another.”

    “I wouldn’t have believed it. Generally he doesn’t trust his letters in the hands of his underlings. I s’pose he sent ’em by Lieutenant Franz?”

    “No.”

    “Eh? Who could it have been?”

    “They were brought by a humpbacked dwarf, who brought them to me in my chamber before I had completed my toilet.”

    “Well, is it possible? What d’you think of that, Roger?”

    The man thus appealed to declared, most soberly, that he wouldn’t have believed it.

    The rascals had now learned all they could hope to discover by questioning. They believed that the captain’s pistols were innocent of powder and ball; and he knew that they so believed. Further, he knew that Sir Pascal had sent them out to intercept — to waylay — him, and that he had promised them that their victim’s weapons should be rendered harmless.

    At this point Ernest gathered in his slack rein and sat erect.

    “Look, you, sirrah!” to the man who had first addressed him. “If I heard
    correctly, your name is Roger. Now, sir” — to the other — “by what name may I call you?”

    “My name is Otto, sir,” the fellow replied without hesitation

    “Will you now tell me whither you are bound?”

    “Why,” answered Roger, “we are going right along with you.”

    “To Baden-Baden?”

    “Certainly.”

    “For what purpose?”

    “Why — bless you — the governor sent us, of course.”

    “Aye, but upon what business? He did not send you without a purpose.”

    “No, certainly not. He sent us — Eh, Otto?”

    “Why — he sent us,” said Otto, “to hunt up the trail of the robbers; and that was why we started off on that side path.”

    “And now,” suggested Ernest, “you will look for them in Baden-Baden?”

    “Yes; if we take a notion so to do. We are acting on our own judgment, and we’ll have you to know that we are not responsible to you.”

    “Certainly not. I should be exceedingly sorry if you were. And now, Roger and Otto, you will turn your horses’ heads to the front, and ride on. I propose to ride in the rear.”

    At that moment the assassins were evidently not prepared to act in concert; so without hesitation, save for the simple exchanging of a glance, they turned, as they had been ordered, and rode on. For a little time they sped on at a gallop, gaining a considerable distance in advance. At length they came to an open glade through which ran a brooklet of clear, sparkling water, where they reined up and allowed their horses to drink. Their heads were close together in earnest consultation, and our hero saw one of them point over his shoulder towards himself, at the same time laying the other hand upon the hilt of his sword.

    Evidently the time of trial was at hand; but the brave youth did not shrink, nor did he fear. He felt that he had the advantage, and with a watchful, wary eye upon their every movement, he rode slowly on.

    Notes and Reference

    • barony: a baron’s domain.
    • Schwarzwolf Mountain: fictional.
    • fastness: stronghold; fortified place.
    • rammer: in a muzzle-loaded firearm, an attachment to help load the bullet.
    • tallowed: v.t. constructed from n. “tallow”: solid oil or fat of ruminant animals (Encyc. Brit. qtd. Century Dictionary).
    • anon: soon.

    Handwerk, Brian. “Will We Ever Know Why Nazi Leader Rudolf Hess Flew to Scotland in the Middle of World War II?” Smithsonian Magazine (May 2016).

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    This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 4. A Brief, Sweet Dream

    Cobb’s False Knight: 4. A Brief, Sweet Dream

    A bit of a coincidence, more names. And Cobb even explains their origins in detail. How do we respond to and interpret them? Now we hear of Irene and Wolfgang. In English, we pronounce Irene as in “serene”, with an emphasis on the second syllable. In German, it sounds quite different, despite emphasis on the same syllable. The letter “e” is pronounced as “eh”, in addition to a bounce on the second “eh”, making the same lovely name sound much more harsh. Not instantly a beguiling Irish maiden, but perhaps a bit of a standoffish Valkyrie?

    It’s perhaps little wonder that the only German song about an Irene is “Leb Wohl, Irene” (Goodbye, Irene), the Nazi German song of the German flak unit drivers.

    Or should I have not mentioned the war, after the BBC tried to ban the Fawlty Towers episode “The Germans” this year? (See “Fawlty Towers ‘Don’t Mention the War’ Episode Removed from UKTV” Guardian, 12 Jun, 2020.)

    The German language is preferred by almost all lion and big cat tamers. Because these predators will more likely listen to you if you yell at them in German. The language even changes the way names are interpreted by us. Wolfgang sounds more foreboding in English, by contrast. The wolf and a sinister sounding gang? Which in German means only something like “gait” or “passage”. Goethe’s middle name, but still a popular one, even today. Mozart’s first, shortened to a cute little “Wolfie” in Amadeus, as his wife Constance is being chased by him around a table.

    Portrait of Mr. Van Amburgh, As He Appeared with His Animals at the London Theatres (1846-7). Sir Edwin Henry Landseer.

    On the subject of playing with names, will the evil Dunwolf finally be done in by a wolf? Cobb gives him the name “Sir Pascal Dunwolf”. Because that might sound sinister the first time you hear it? Could it be the first name Pascal that causes this? Not that I had anything against Blaise Pascal, although I abhorred having to calculate hectopascals. An instant villain?

    Or is it just me? Knights, in the many kingdoms, duchies and principalities of what later became Germany, were, in German, not given a title denoting knighthood, like “Sir”. They were of course noblemen, usually a von or a van something-or-other, but the fact that they might have been knights was bestowed by being a member of the “Deutscher Ritter Orden“, the German (or Teutonic) Order of Knights, with no extra title added to the name.

    CHAPTER 4

    A BRIEF, SWEET DREAM

    Towards the middle of the forenoon of the day following that on which the funeral at the castle had taken place, Irene Oberwald sat at the door of her father’s cot with a magnificent St. Bernard dog lying at her feet. Her distaff was before her and she was warbling a pretty little love-song as she spun her flaxen thread. Her father had gone down to the village in quest of medicine for his strange patient, and she had been left in charge.

    Thus she sat, busily spinning, and thus she sang, when a warning growl from her guardian gave token that something was approaching — something that might be dangerous, or Lion would not have uttered that particular note of alarm. She quickly set her distaff aside and arose to her feet, and as she did so the dog growled more deeply than before, and assumed an attitude of defiance. In another moment she heard the sound of a footfall behind her, and on turning she beheld the cause of her guardian’s disquiet. She had been looking in the direction of the village, supposing that any visitor would come that way, but the intruder had come from the opposite point. This is what she saw as she stood with her hand upon the head of the dog to hold him at her side; but her precaution was needless. The intelligent brute, having given one fair look into the new face, gave token of entire satisfaction.

    A man in a garb almost a duplicate of the garb worn by the man who now lay so sorely wounded near at hand; but a man very, very, very different. The girl’s first thought on seeing him was: “How like these robbers are; and what handsome men!” — for it was very evident at sight that he now before her was comrade with the other. Another thing passed through her mind, and was silently spoken: “How can men leading such a life wear such honest, truthful faces?”

    For the man before her she thought the handsomest, and the noblest, and the most truly loveable, she had ever seen. He was not more than five-and-twenty years of age, with a face the very picture of manly beauty and elegance. A mass of bright golden curls swept away from a full, open brow; his eyes, large and lustrous, were of a blue like the sapphire; his only beard being a prettily waving moustache upon the upper lip. The collar of his frock was open low in front, exposing a neck and the upper part of a bosom as fair as alabaster; and when he smiled his teeth gleamed like pearls. His cap, or bonnet, of purple velvet, bearing a rich, white ostrich feather, he held in his hand. He wore a sword of goodly size, with a hilt of gold, and a brace of pistols, also mounted with gold, were in his girdle. He was of medium height; of perfect form; compact and powerful.

    “I think I have found the dwelling of Martin Oberwald,” he said, in tones that sounded wonderfully melodious in the ears of the hunter’s daughter. Irene trembled, for her first thought was of the wounded man to whom they had given shelter; but her fear was only for the moment. “Surely,” she said to herself, “this man cannot be a traitor nor an enemy.” He marked her hesitation, and presently added, with a smile that banished the maiden’s last scruple:

    “Do not fear, fair lady. I would be the last to bring trouble upon your father’s abode. I will be frank with you, and I ask you to trust me. I am in search of a friend, and I think he has found blessed shelter beneath your roof. Am I wrong?”

    “If you would tell me the name of your friend, good sir—or,” she added, after a momentary pause, “perhaps l ought not to ask it.” Another pause, and she went on, with an answering smile—the smile came of its own accord:

    “I will be as frank as you have promised to be, fair sir. A stranger, sorely wounded, is at this moment beneath our roof. His name I do not know.”

    “Your father doubtless knows it.”

    “I think so; I am not sure.”

    “Let us call him — What shall it be?” the stranger said, with a smile that had a tinge of merriment in it. “What name should you give him?”

    “I would not dare to name him, sir.”

    “But, of course, you have given him a name in your thoughts. Will you speak it? No harm can come from that, I give you my solemn promise.”

    That was enough. The last remnant of doubt was swept away, and she resolved that she would trust the man fully.

    “I would call him,” she said, almost in a whisper, — “THORBRAND.”

    “Bless you for an angel of mercy and goodness!” the stranger exclaimed, from the fulness of his heart. “In that answer I read more than you think; I can see that a kind Providence must have led my poor friend in this direction. But tell me — how fares he? Was he very severely wounded?”

    “He was most terribly wounded. Had we not found him as we did he could not have lived many minutes. His life was running swiftly away from a deep wound in his bosom.”

    “You and your father found him?”

    “Nay, sir, my companion was Electra von Deckendorf.”

    “Who?” quickly demanded the stranger, with a palpable start as the name struck his ear.

    “Electra, daughter of the noble Baroness von Deckendorf.”

    “She it was?”

    “Yes, sir; and she it was who saved his life. I should not have known what to do; but she had studied chirurgery. She knew exactly what to do. O!” with a little cry of terror in memory of the scene — “how she had the courage to plunge her finger into the deep wound! I could not have done it if the wound had been on my dog.”

    “Bless the dear lady! We must find some fitting recompense for her most noble deed.”

    “Ah, sir!” cried Irene, without stopping to think, “if you could save her from a fate that threatens to make wreck and ruin of her joy forever, you would do a blessed thing indeed.”

    “Ha! What now! Who has dared? — But perhaps you will allow me to take a seat.”

    “Pardon me, good sir; I did not think,” and she pointed to the seat in which we first saw the young lady of the castle. As he sat down he said, with a smile that was captivating:

    “Now, fair lady, if you will add to your kindness by telling me your name I shall be grateful.”

    “That is hardly fair, sir. You know already who I am, while of yourself I know absolutely nothing.”

    The stranger laughed a light, merry laugh, and presently said:

    “Since you have my dearest friend a prisoner beneath your roof, I certainly should not fear to speak my name in your hearing but I would prefer that you should keep it to yourself, only, of course, telling your father, in case I do not see him.”

    “You may trust me, sir.”

    “I know it, sweet lady. Those lips of yours could no more conceal a lying tongue than Heaven itself could prove false. You may call me WOLFGANG. “

    “I am called Irene,” was the maiden’s response, scarcely above a whisper.

    Something in her bosom — it seemed near her heart — oppressed her. She knew not what it was — she did not try to think; she only knew that never before had such a feeling been hers. She had just bent her head, with her eyes cast upon the ground, when the tones of her companion, more musical, if possible, than before, caused her to look up.

    “Do you know the signification of that name — IRENE?”

    “No, sir,” she replied, wondering.

    “Shall I tell you?”

    “Certainly.”

    Portrait of Henry Casimir I, Count of Nassau-Dietz (c. 1632). Wybrand de Geest.

    “Then, listen.” He looked directly into her eyes with an expression upon his eloquent features that thrilled her through and through. ”The ancient heathens had a deity whom they worshipped as the personification of the Spirit of Peace. The Greeks called her Eirene. After the Romans had adopted Christianity, they gave that name to certain women whom they wished particularly to honor, calling it, as it has. been called ever since, IRENE. Several of the Greek empresses bore the name, and it was never given to one of humble station except for the purpose of rendering especial honor to her. So, do you see, you should be proud that your parents conferred it upon you.”

    “And now, Meinherr,” said the hunter’s daughter, after a little silence, ”can you tell me if your name has a signification?”

    “Ah! that is cruel; but I forgive you. Yes, the name has a signification, and you can read it in the name itself: WOLF-GANG — the Wolf’s course, the Wolf’s track; but perhaps it might be more properly given as the Wolf’s progress. Let me hope that the name will not frighten you.”

    “Indeed, no, sir; for I cannot believe that you could in any way resemble the wolf.”

    “And now,” said the visitor, seeing that the maiden was beginning to be troubled, “we were speaking of the young lady of the castle — Electra. What is the character of the danger that threatens her?”

    As she seemed to hesitate, he presently added:

    “I wish you would trust me, not only for the lady’s own sake, but for the sake of the man whom she so gallantly served. You may not know — I doubt if you have any idea — of that man’s power. And perhaps I can render her aid. Strange things sometimes happen in this world of ours.”

    Irene caught at the promise of help eagerly. Her heart had been aching ever since she had seen the dark, sinister face of Sir Pascal Dunwolf at the castle; and now had come a beam of hope. If she could in any way secure help to her beloved sister she had no right to neglect the opportunity. She bent her head for a brief; space in thought, and finally looked up and spoke. Her eyes were clear and steady in their beaming eloquence, and she looked straight into her listener’s face as she told him the story.

    She told of Electra’s childhood; of Ernest von Linden, and his adoption by the baron; of the love and the betrothment of the children; how they had gone on loving more and more, to the present time. She told of Sir Arthur; of his sickness and death; and then of the unfortunate whim of the grand duke; the suffering which it had occasioned; and finally, of the coming of Sir Pascal Dunwolf, just as the mortal remains of Sir Arthur von Morin had been laid at rest in the family vault.

    Irene had spoken more eloquently than she knew. Had her own heart been the scene of the suffering of which she told she could not have given to the story more feeling. Wolfgang had listened in rapt silence, his eyes fixed upon the face of the speaker as though by a spell. When she had concluded, he spoke, without premeditation, the words seeming to issue from his lips of their own volition, as though he had been dreaming, and spoke before being wholly awake.

    “Ah!” he said, a shadow resting upon his fresh, handsome face, “it is plainly to be seen that you know what true love is.”

    “Yes,” she responded, with simple honesty, her thoughts given so entirely to the story she had been telling that she did not catch the deeper significance of his words; “yes; I love my good father; and I could not love Electra more if she were my own sister.”

    “And another! Is there not another, at the sound of whose voice your pulses quicken, and your heart leaps with a wondrous emotion?”

    There was something in the man’s look — in his tone and bearing—that would not let her take offence. There was a slight tremor, quickly overcome; then a beaming smile, as she answered:

    “You mistake, sir. The emotion of which you speak was never mine.”

    It was strange how quickly the cloud passed away from Wolfgang’s face, and what a glorious light came into his blue eyes. Really, it seemed a transfiguration.

    “I beg your pardon,” he said. “And I ought perhaps to beg your pardon for having kept you so long in conversation, though I am free to confess that I have enjoyed it. I thank you for having trusted me in the matter of the young lady of Deckendorf. I think I must have an eye upon the dark-visaged knight.”

    “O, Sir! Do you think you can help the dear lady?”

    “I can certainly try.”

    “But if he has the authority of the grand duke to uphold him?”

    “The grand duke must be seen. Let the true lover go to Baden-Baden, where I believe Leopold at present has his headquarters.”

    “He is going, sir. He would have gone ere this had it not been for the death and funeral of the aged knight — Sir Arthur.”

    “Very well. Let Ernest von Linden look to the grand duke, and I will look to Sir Pascal. If I am not much mistaken, there is an unsettled account between us. Rest you easy, sweet lady, for I think I may promise you that your friend shall be saved from the fate she so much dreads. And now, if you do not forbid, and if you will kindly show me the way, I will go and see my friend and frater, Thorbrand.”

    “One word, good sir!” said Irene, with marked eagerness, as her visitor rose to his feet.” Because I gave you that name so readily, you will not think I would have carelessly exposed it.”

    “Bless you!” he cried with a kindling glance. “I thought you were wondrously careful in your keeping of the secret. No, no; I understand the matter much better than you can explain. You trusted me because you believed me trustworthy — following your own good judgment; as I will do always.”

    “The girl thanked him with a smiling look, and then led the way to the rear of the cot; and when they had come in sight of the door of the room in which the wounded man lay, she pointed it out and bade him enter. He went to the door and gently opened it and passed in. He closed it without noise, and in a moment more she heard a glad exclamation in the deep tones of the Schwarzwald chieftain followed by the musical notes of the voice of the visitor.

    Once more in her seat at the outer door, Irene drew up her distaff, and took a mass of the flossy flax in her hand, but she did not resume her spinning. An emotion new and strange was in her heart — a feeling never before experienced — a something that reached to every fibre of her being, thrilling her through and through. For a little time she sat as in a trance, without thought of any kind, her eyes half closed, her hands pressed on her bosom. And by and by she murmured, like one dreaming aloud:

    “Surely he must be a good man. He cannot be a robber. If he is — if such a thing were possible — there must, be some wonderful story in his life; some upheaval, wreck, ruin; some terrible treachery of professing friends, that drove him to the free life of the mountains. I wish I dared to ask him. Whatever he told me I should certainly believe.”

    She laid aside her distaff and arose, and began to pace slowly to and fro before the door. She was asking herself a solemn question: Had anything akin to love been awakened in her bosom towards the youthful mountaineer? Surely there was in her heart a feeling never known before. But — pshaw! how wild and foolish it was to speculate upon the subject! She would probably never see the man again, and yet, as she told herself so, a sense of desolation came upon her; a bright star seemed suddenly blotched out from the heaven of her life.

    She was thus slowly walking and deeply meditating, when a glad cry from her dog recalled her to herself, and on turning, she beheld her father close upon her.

    “Papa! O! I am glad you have come. We have had a visitor. — There! There! Be not alarmed. The wounded man, I am very sure, was anxiously expecting him.”

    “Ha! — is it — Did he give you his name?”

    “Yes.”

    “Was it — Wolfgang?”

    “Yes, papa!” she cried, seizing him by the wrist us she spoke. “He told me his name without fear. Do you know him?”

    “No. I never saw him.”

    The bright countenance fell in a moment, but presently it lighted up.

    “You know who he is, dear papa. You know something about him.”

    “Child, why are you so anxious! What can the man be to you? Look ye: Has he been talking tender nonsense to you?”

    “O, papa!”

    “Pooh! I was but jesting, my darling. And, moreover, I do not think Wolfgang — if it is really he —is at all such a man.

    ”Indeed, he is not. I never heard a man talk so wisely and so well.”

    “Oho! Then you have had a good bit of a chat, eh? And what sort of a man is he? Describe him to me, for be assured I have a deep interest in knowing all about him.”

    Without hesitation — from the fulness of an overflowing heart — the girl honestly and sincerely spoke:

    “He is the handsomest man I ever saw; and one of the grandest looking. I know he is brave; and I know he is true. A face like his could not belong to a man in whom there was a single grain of falsehood or deceit. And then, he is educated. He talked to me of things that I never knew before — talked like one whose understanding was deep and profound. If he is a robber — but I do not like to think of him as such. At heart I know he is not evil.”

    “An elderly man, I take it.”

    “Elderly! What are you thinking of? Why, he is not much older than — I won’t say that. But he is very young, not more than three or four-and-twenty.”

    The stout hunter gazed upon his daughter curiously. The smile which had at first broken over his kindly face faded away, and a look of deep concern took its place. After a little time he laid his hand tenderly upon the sunny head, and gently said:

    “My blessed child, beware of that heart of yours! I plainly see that this man has made a deep impression upon you. I simply ask you to keep a strong hand upon your affections, and especially upon your fancy. I think Wolfgang is an honest man, and true; but be sure, he will never seek a mate in these mountains.”

    “Oh! papa!”

    “Tush! That is all. Now go about your work, and I will go in and see our visitor. I suppose he is still with — his chief.”

    “Yes. He is in the —”

    The hunter did not wait for her to finish the sentence, but turned away at once towards the rear of the cot.

    Irene watched him until he had disappeared from her sight, and then she sank upon a seat, buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. For a time her heart seemed well nigh to breaking; but at length she started up, and dashed away her tears, and told herself that she was a fool. And the more she thought of it the more foolish the whole thing appeared. It had been a brief, wild dream, with her whole heart involved; but she had happily awakened, and she told herself that that was the end.

    Then she went to the little well-room and laved her face in the crystal water of the spring, after which she returned to her distaff, and set resolutely about her spinning; and as she watched the tiny thread lengthening and gleaming in the slanting sunbeams, she thought of the handsome stranger, and repeated the sweet words he had spoken.

    So she spun, and so she thought, resolving all the while that she would think no more.

    Notes

    • Leb Wohl, Irene: See Addendum below for English translation of lyrics.
    • Portrait of Mr. Van Amburgh: Isaac van Amburgh (1808-1865). Dutch-American lion tamer. See also, “Isaac van Amburgh and his Animals,” Royal Collection Trust, UK.
    • distaff: A stick or spindle on to which wool or flax is wound for spinning. (Lexico.com)
    • frater: Comrade
    • kindling glance: Not so much the sense of kind as kindling something. See, for example, “Terpsichore” in Poems by Oliver Wendell Holmes: “And there is mischief in thy kindling glance” (in Making of America, U of Michigan Library).
    • laved: Washed
    Addendum

    English translation of lyrics of “Leb Wohl, Irene” (Goodbye, Irene) (Das Flak Lied) (Source: “Axis History” and Google Translate.)

    1. We go back and forth
we drive all over the place.
Throughout the country
we are known
by every girl with taste
as a driver of the flak.

Chorus:
Farewell, Irene!
Love me, Sophie!
Be good, Marlene!
Are you staying true to me, Marie?
You are so lovely, so beautiful, so cheerful,
but unfortunately I have to go on again.

Farewell, Irene!
Love me, Sophie!
Be good, Marlene!
Are you staying true to me, Marie?
I will always love you.
I love you new in every new place!

2. We go back and forth
we drive all over the place.
Somehow sits
A battery
in one spot in the thick dirt,
there we take them away.

Chorus

3. We go back and forth
we drive all over the place.
And it turns out
the war is over,
let's go home on the last day
the flak with sack and pack.

Chorus

    This work CC BY-SA 4.0

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 2. Secret in the Hunter’s Cot

    Cobb’s False Knight: 2. Secret in the Hunter’s Cot

    Arme Ritter (“Poor Knights”) is a fourteenth century recipe for pan fried French toast served with sweets which is still very popular in Germany today. Watch this video to see how you can fry your own Sir Lancelot. We don’t know for sure how the name Arme Ritter came about. Maybe because so many impoverished knights ended up being burned at the stake for all their robberies? Many were “broken by wheel” instead.

    That mysterious wounded man treated by our beautiful heroine… Would such “early nursing” by a beautiful young woman have been likely at all? Medicine was studied in cloisters and monasteries throughout the Middle Ages, by both men and women. Electra may well have studied Chirurgie (the German word for surgery) in one.

    Cobb’s choice of the name Electra for the beautiful young daughter of a knight at first seemed rather odd to me, so I tried to find out more about name choices in the Middle Ages. Robber knight Eppelein von Gailingen, who ended up “broken by wheel” for his crimes, lived from about 1320 to 1381. Some almost think of him as a German Robin Hood. Was he really one? He was most famous for how he escaped execution for multiple robberies in Nuremberg Castle. He had allegedly asked to be allowed to die on horseback.

    Once in the saddle, he galloped to the castle wall and jumped with his horse into the moat. The hoof-prints can supposedly still be seen on the wall, although it was rebuilt and the moat widened some fifty years after the famous leap. Many generations of school children who have since toured the castle however scoured out those hoof-prints on the wall with whatever implements they had. They seemed to like the tales of him being a hero.

    Eppelein von Gailingen. Source: Die Gartenlaube – Illustriertes Familienblatt (The Garden Arbor – Illustrated Family Journal)

    Eppelein had three sons and five daughters. To give you an idea of typical girl’s names of the time, we know that he named them Kathrin, Anna, Margret Elsbeth and Soffey (Soffey being a Middle Ages version of Sophie). All quite modern sounding names. What about Electra? The name is from ancient Greece, she was the daughter of King Agamemnon. Strauss composed an opera of the same name, a brutal and disturbing tale of murder and insanity. Yet even today, five out of 100,000 girls are still named Electra, although I’d bet most of them prefer “Ellie”.

    Could Cobb’s choice of that name be alluding to darker aspects of the story which are yet to come? In comparison to many names given to daughters by modern day Germans, naming your daughter after a deranged, ancient Greek murderess might not be as strange a thing to do as I first thought. Every German Standesamt, (Registry Office) has a current list of names which German parents, as decided by courts, may not give their sons and daughters, which is a good thing if you look at some of the ones that have been refused.

    They include an awfully revengeful “Pillula“, which several German parents thought was appropriate for the result of forgotten contraceptives, all the way to neo-Nazi favourites “Hitlerike” and “Goebbelin“, the latter being a contrived female first name version of that awful and infamous Reich’s Propaganda Minister, Dr Josef Goebbels, believe it or not. People actually wanted to give a daughter that name?

    “Thanatos“, ancient Greek for death, was also knocked back. An obviously more religiously inclined parent had tried to register the name “Frieden mit Gott allein durch Jesus Christus“, (Peace with God only though Jesus Christ), which, thankfully for the unfortunate child doomed to be brought up by those awful parents, was also ruled against by a court.

    While such verbotene blossoms of German parent name ideas were prevented, some of the names NOT taken to court and actually allowed by registry offices are just as bad or even worse: “Schneewittchen” (Snow White), Cinderella-Melody (cringe…), Bluecherine (an attempt to make a female name out of “Bluecher”, the Prussian general who led the decisive blow against Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo), Verleihnix (Don’t lend anything), Popo (German slang for bottom or backside), Pepsi-Carola (wouldn’t you almost like to thump those parents responsible for such names for child cruelty?), Champagna, Galaxina, Gucci and Bierstuebl (a small beer room).

    I think I’d prefer mad, ancient Greek murderess Elektra any day … While the name Deckendorf is fictitious, it is at least similar to Deggendorf, a town on the Danube in Bavaria, adjacent to the Bavarian Forest. There was a knight and a castle there too, once belonging to Heinrich III of Natternberg, who, coincidentally, died there in 1333 at the age of only 21 of an improperly treated wound to his leg. If only he had met Electra, who knows what might have been… Natternberg is a suburb of Deggendorf, with a hill on which the castle was built, the hill’s name in German meaning “Snake Mountain”.

    CHAPTER TWO

    A SECRET IN THE HUNTER’S COT

    Once on the way, after they had reached a point in the dense wood where the tangled undergrowth began to trouble them, the girls stopped as by mutual consent. The dog, seeing his mistress thus hesitate, became urgent in the extreme. He took hold of her skirt with his teeth; as though to lead her on; then he lifted his eyes to her face with a pitiful whine, and then, once more, set forward.

    “Let us go,” said Electra, resolutely. ” It must be a case of need, or Fritz would not —”

    She was interrupted by a voice, not far away, imploring help. It was a deep, solemn voice, mellow and heartful.

    “Help! help! For the love of Heaven! Whoever you are, come quickly, I pray!”

    Without further thought of tangle or bramble, the girls hastened forward, Electra in advance. At the distance of not more than a dozen yards from where they had stopped they found a clear space of considerable extent, near the centre of which was a rock — it might be called a boulder — and against it a man was reclining, retaining a sitting posture with evident difficulty. He was a man of powerful frame, full six feet tall, from five-and-forty to fifty years of age, with strongly marked features — decidedly a handsome man; his large, shapely head covered by a flowing mass of nutbrown curls, with here and there a trace of silver; his eyes large and full, of a dark, solemn grey, the lower part of the face being entirely covered by a full beard of the same colour as the hair, saving only that there were no threads of silver in it. He was clad in a mountaineer’s garb of finely dressed deerskin, with a leathern baldric over his shoulder, to which was attached a large empty scabbard. His head-covering was gone, and upon the ground by his side lay the hilt, with a portion of the broken blade, of a heavy sword.

    The man was sorely wounded, and his life seemed ebbing fast away. There were cuts upon his shoulders, and the blood trickled from a wound on the side of the head; but that from which his life was flowing out was a wound in the breast, over which, with what little strength was left him, he pressed a closely folded kerchief.

    “Ladies, kind Heaven hath surely sent you. Stand not upon ceremony, I pray, I may yet live, if you can stanch the flow of blood from this ugly hole in my breast. I — I —beg and pray —”

    “He had spoken with difficulty, and at this point his strength seemed to fail him. It was plainly to be seen that he was losing strength rapidly. Electra saw, and as soon as she had recovered from the first shock occasioned by the ghastly scene her every sense came to her aid; her wits were clear and quick; her understanding sure; and her only thought was of help to the sufferer, and how she best could render it. One swift review of the case, and she said to her companion:

    “Irene, do you hasten to the cot and bring back with you an old sheet for bandaging, and a flask of brandy; also two or three napkins. I will manage alone till you come back. I know you will borrow the wings of the wind if you can.”

    As soon as her companion had gone — and she had obeyed the order without a question or a murmur — Electra hastened to the sufferer’s side and knelt down.

    “Have no fear, good sir,” she said, at the same time gently lifting his weakening hand away from the wounded bosom. “I am a soldier’s daughter, and have been taught very much of the art of surgery. You may trust me.”

    “Heaven bless you, whoever you may be! Your face is like the face of an angel; your voice like celestial music. It was a sword-thrust — deep,” he added, as the gentle hands began to remove the clothing from over the region of the wound.

    “Please, sir, do not speak at present,” Electra said, seeing that the effort caused the blood to flow in greater volume.

    “Let your head rest there — so! — That will do.”

    With a small pocket-knife, which she always carried with her, she cut away such clothing as she could not otherwise remove, and having arrived at the wound she found it to be a clean cut, little more than an inch in length, very near the sternum, on the right side, and between the second and third ribs. Feeling that she must know quickly the direction and depth of the wound, she hesitated not an instant in probing it with her finger.

    The Wounded Knight (1853). William Gale. Source: Tate

    “If I hurt you, you must not wince. I will be as careful as I can.”

    If there was pain the patient did not show it so much as by the twitching of a nerve; and presently a glad look came to his weather-beaten face as the fair surgeon exclaimed, out of the fullness of her heart:

    “Good! Thank Heaven for that! O! had this wound been direct, or had it turned one poor finger’s breath the other way, life would have gone out at once!”

    She had found it to be deeper than her finger would reach; but that mattered not, as the point of the sword had been turned so far to the right — towards the side — as to escape the heart and the deeper arteries. Several large vessels had been cut, but the colour of the blood was almost entirely venous.

    At this point, as Electra had determined the course of the wound, Irene made her appearance, with the articles she had been asked to bring; and she had been thoughtful, further, of a jug of water. Meantime the dog had not been idle. He had with his tongue thoroughly cleansed the wound on the head, and when his mistress laid bare the shoulder, he applied himself to that.

    A draught of the brandy gave the sufferer new life at once; but a deeper draught of the water was required to restore something of the circulating medium he had lost. Then the two girls went to work, Electra giving directions, and very soon the flow of blood was stopped, and the wounds all successfully cared for.

    “There, sir; I have done the best in my power,” the heiress said, when she had secured the last bandage; “and if there is nothing worse than I think, you need not die from these hurts, bad as they are. If you could walk a short distance, or, if you could rest comfortably here until a strong man can come to help you —”

    The patient interrupted her with a motion of the hand. He asked for another draught of brandy, and when he had slowly swallowed it, he said he thought he could walk.

    “If,” he added, “you two blessed angels will allow me to lean somewhat upon you. I will not bear heavily. I think the cot of Martin Oberwald should not be far from this spot.”

    As the man thus spoke Irene glanced quickly at his face with a startled look, and seemed, for a moment, half inclined to shrink away from him; but her native goodness of heart came to her aid, and she joined cheerfully with Electra in giving him the aid he required.

    “The cot is only a short distance away, good sir,” his fair physician answered him, without observing the strange emotion of her companion, “and if you will be very careful, and lean upon us with thought only of your own good, I think you will be able to reach it safely.”

    As Electra thus spoke the man looked upon her with a great yearning in his eyes, as though he would have taken her to his bosom had he dared. It was a holy look, soulful and solemn, and full of blessing. A moment so, and then, with a deep sigh, as if in acknowledgment of his own unworthiness, he bowed his head, and signified his readiness to make the proposed attempt.

    Very tenderly the girls lifted him to his feet, and after one or two false movements and a little stumbling, he went on quite comfortably.

    “Dear sir,” said Electra, when she was assured that the sufferer was putting forth more strength than he ought, “we are stronger than you think. Indeed you will please me if you will let me bear more of your weight.”

    She was forced to speak again before he would obey; but he did it at length, and all went well after that. They reached the cot with but little difficulty, and there, in a comfortably furnished apartment, upon an easy bed, the wounded man found rest. Whether it was the brandy, or only weakness and fatigue, could not be told; but, whatever the cause, scarcely had the girls seen that the bandages were all right, and with care arranged the clothing of the bed, before their patient was sleeping soundly. And so they left him, leaving the door of the apartment ajar, so that they might have warning should he awake and require assistance.

    “Irene!” cried the maiden of the castle, when the twain had reached the front room of the cot —removed a considerable distance from the dormitory in the rear, where the unfortunate guest had been placed, — “what ails you? What makes you act so strangely? Surely you are not afraid of that wounded man?”

    The hunter’s daughter returned a wondering look, with a shade of unmistakable fear but did not speak.

    “Why,” continued Electra, with ardent feeling, “he is one of the grandest looking men I ever saw. Did you look at his eyes? They are truth itself. He has been waylaid by some of the dreadful mountain robbers and very likely robbed of everything he possessed.”

    “Electra! Electra!” burst forth Irene as though unable to contain herself longer, “have you not eyes? Can you not guess who that man is?”

    “Why! what do you mean?” cried the heiress, frightened by her companion’s wild and excited manner. “One would think, to look at you, that we had taken in the very king of the Schwarzwald robbers.”

    “And have we not?” was Irene’s response in a heavy whisper.

    Electra caught her by the arm, and looked eagerly into her face. The truth was dawning upon her. A moment so; then she moved back and sank into a scat.

    “Irene, — speak! Tell me what you mean. You think that man is —”

    “THORBRAND!”

    A sharp cry broke from Electra’s lips. In all that region of country no name was more terrible. Nurses spoke it to frighten refractory children, and stout men trembled when they heard it in wild and forsaken places. At first she could not believe it; but when she had reflected — when she had called to mind several strange movements on the part of the mountaineer while in the firwood — it became more reasonable. She could now understand why, when he had gazed upon her so yearningly, as though he would take her in his arms, and bless her, his countenance had fallen, and a sigh had escaped him. He had felt himself unworthy to lay his hand upon her in friendship. But even that should tell them that he was to be trusted. If his sense of honor was so fine, surely they had nothing to fear.

    “Do you not see?” said Irene, after a prolonged silence, during which both had been deeply thoughtful. “Think how we found him, — sorely wounded, and his sword broken, alone in a part of the forest which he seldom, if ever, visits.”

    “He must have visited it at some time,” suggested Electra. “Don’t you remember, — he knew that your cot was somewhere near him.”

    “Yes, he has probably passed this way before.”

    “But why should he be alone when he has so many men at his beck and call?”

    “Very likely,” said Irene, after a little thought, “he became separated from his companions while being pursued by the soldiers of the grand duke. I heard papa say, only two or three days ago, that a strong force of well-armed cavalry was to be sent after Thorbrand and his host. Very likely they have met, and there has been severe lighting. The robber chief was forced to flee for his life, and was able to make his way to the place where we found him. O! I wish he had not come this way.”

    “Dear Irene, how can you wish that? Be he robber, or not, he is a human being, whom we found in sore distress — a man, in the image of his Maker. For my part, I am glad we have been able to do him good. Who shall say what the result may be? Suppose the event should prove the turning point of his life? He is yet in the prime of his manhood, and may have many years to live.”

    “Electra!” cried the hunter’s daughter, with a wondering look, “I do really believe you have fallen in love with the man.”

    “No, no, Irene, — not that,” returned the heiress soberly; “but I am free to confess that he has inspired me with a good deal of interest. In my heart I feel glad that we have saved him; for he would certainly have died if we had not found him as we did.”

    “So am I glad that we have saved him,” repeated the other; “but I wish we had not been obliged to bring him hither to my father’s cot.”

    “Why so?”

    “Can you not see? How long can such a man as Thorbrand — hunted by monarchs, with the price of a king’s ransom set upon his head; the terror of the State and the enemy of every honest traveller, — how long can he remain beneath my father’s roof without its becoming known? — and what will be said of him who has given shelter and hiding to the Robber Chieftain of the Schwarzwald?”

    Before Electra could make a reply a glad cry from the stag-hound gave notice that a friend was approaching, and in n few moments more the hunter himself appeared.

    Martin Oberwald was near fifty years of age; a powerfully built man, of medium height; with broad shoulders; a deep, full chest; limbs muscular and finely proportioned; features strongly marked and full of character — honest and reliable — a man that one would never fear to trust under any and every circumstance; his head covered by a mass of yellow, curling hair; eyes blue and frank, with a light that, seldom, if ever, wavered; and when he smiled, which was very often, he displayed a set of teeth like pearls. He was clad in a mountain garb — a doublet and breeches of tanned leather; a vest of dark blue velvet; and a bonnet of the same material upon his head; or, rather, in his hand, for he had removed it on entering the cot.

    He greeted the baron’s daughter as though she had been a loved one of his own family; and having taken Irene in his arms and kissed her, he started to take a chair, when his eye chanced to fall upon a strip of white cloth bespattered with blood.

    “Dear papa,” cried Irene, seeing his glance, and his sudden start of surprise, “sit right down, and I will tell you all about it.”

    He did as she bade him, and then standing a part of the time before him, and a part of the time sitting upon his knee, she told him the story — told it minutely, from the moment when they heard the first call of distress to the placing of the wounded man upon the bed in the guest’s room.

    “Papa you must not blame us. We could not do otherwise. The man was —”

    “Why bless thee, child!” broke in her father, “what art thou craving about? Blame thee for helping Electra to save a human life.”

    “Ah! — but, papa, you don’t dream who it is that we have taken beneath your roof.”

    The stout hunter started.

    “Aye!” he exclaimed, putting his daughter from his knee, and rising to his feet. “I can guess who it is. I have heard that he has been seen in the neighbourhood; but I did not think the soldiers had come out yet. Did he tell you who he was?”

    “No, but it is not difficult to guess.”

    Oberwald took several turns to and fro across the apartment, evidently ill at ease, At length he stopped, and pressed his hand over his brow. So he stood for a little time, and then said:

    “Stay you here girls and keep watch, while I go in and see our guest. That wound in his breast I had better look at.”

    So saying the hunter turned and left the room. The dog would have followed him if his mistress had not called him back.

    Martin was gone a long time — so long that the girls became anxious, wondering if anything could have happened. Irene would have feared for her father’s safety had she not known how strong and brave he was, and how weak and helpless the robber must be.

    Electra, on the contrary, could conceive nothing of the kind. To her the man whom she had saved was still a hero. She had given him back his life, and with his heart in his look he had blessed her. If the soldiers had appeared at that moment, demanding their legal prey, she would have saved him had the power been hers. Still she was anxious. She wished the hunter would come and tell them if the patient would live. And further, she would be assured of his identity. She was not yet quite satisfied that he was truly the terrible robber chief.

    Full half an hour passed before Oberwald returned. He came and sat down without speaking, evidently in a state of deep and painful agitation. Irene was the first to speak.

    “Papa — how did you find him? Was he awake? Did he know you? ”

    “I found him far more comfortable than I had expected.” Then to Electra he added:

    “To you, dear lady, he owes his life. I do not think a physician will be needed, for which I am very thankful. Your treatment of the ugly wound was more than skilful, — it was eminently successful. He told me how you probed into his bosom with your finger and how prompt and firm you were, and how quickly you decided upon the necessary treatment. If no accident happens I think he will do very well. I can find a safe man to nurse him.”

    “Papa,” broke in the eager daughter, “did he really confess who he was? Did he —”

    The hunter put out his hand to stop her.

    “Let not his name be spoken here, my child. Remember — he is a suffering fellow creature cast for a time on our hands; and we are bound to care for him as best we can. Electra, — may I ask you, when you go from us, to forget the man to whose need you have so kindly administered? That is — you will not speak of him to any person whatever. Will you give me your promise?”

    “Most cheerfully,” she promptly answered.

    “I have given that man my personal pledge that he shall remain here in safety. Whether I have done right or not in this, leave with the Searcher of hearts. For myself I feel that I am in right. At all events, I am perfectly willing to assume the responsibility.”

    Once more Electra gave her promise to remain silent, and then she turned her thoughts homeward. The sun was very near to its setting, and she would have just about time enough to reach the castle before dark. The hunter would have gone with her at least part of the way, but her noble dog was amply sufficient for her protection, and she would not take the good man away from his cot under existing circumstances.

    “If I do not come tomorrow,” she said as she stood in the doorway, “I shall certainly come on the day after, to see my patient. Since his life is mine, you can give him no name that will frighten me. With the new life, who shall say that there may not come forth a new and a better man?”

    “Amen! So may it be!” fervently pronounced the hunter.

    And with that the lady of the castle went her way, her faithful dog holding his place close by her side.

    Something seemed to whisper to her, as the entered upon the deep forest path — an unseen, solemn voice from out the vast solitude — that a new page in her life was opening. The feeling thrilled her to the uttermost depths of her being, and silently she prayed that the All-father would be merciful unto her.

    Notes and References

    • Die Gartenlaube – Illustriertes Familienblatt: “The Garden Arbor – Illustrated Family Journal”. Founded in 1854, “the most successful and most popular German family magazine of the second half of the nineteenth century; it is referred to as the first periodic mass press publication.” Paletschek 41.
    • baldric: “an often ornamented belt worn over one shoulder to support a sword or bugle” (Merriam-Webster).
    • stanch: staunch
    • Searcher of hearts: “O righteous God, who searches minds and hearts, bring to an end the violence of the wicked and make the righteous secure.” Psalm 7:9 (New International Version).

    Paletschek, Sylvia. “Popular Presentations of History in the Nineteenth Century: The Example of Die Gartenlaube,” in Paletschek, ed., Popular Historiographies in the 19th and 20th Centuries: Cultural Meanings, Social Practices (Oxford: Berghahn, 2011), 34-53.

    Severin, Carolina. “Verbotene Namen: So dürfen Babys in Deutschland nicht heißen” (Forbidden Baby Names in Germany).

    Wallis, Faith, ed. “Chapter Ten: Who Can Help? Physicians, ‘Empirics,’ and the Spectrum of Practitioners Medieval Medicine,” in Medieval Medicine: A Reader (Toronto: U Toronto P, 2010).

    This work CC BY-SA 4.0