The Danes Sketched by Themselves Volume Iii Part 16

Now, all at once a terrible secret was clearly disclosed to me, and almost staggering, I left the worthy old man, who, astonished at my unusual behaviour, seemed to doubt whether I were in my right senses.

And he was right, if he did so, for at this moment I was hovering on the brink of insanity. I thank G.o.d that I did not really become insane.

Like a spirit of vengeance I flew back to Theodore; I found him sitting on the sofa, and occupied in reading. He rose and came to meet me, with his usual smiling manner. With terrible calmness, and an inward joy, such as a fiend might experience when he is about to crush his victim, I drew forth the goblet, and fixing a look upon Theodore, as if I could annihilate him, I demanded of him with suppressed anger,

'Do you know this?'

He turned pale.

'Confess!' I continued; 'confess, Demon! that my sister received her death by means of this goblet!'

Theodore's usual self-possession entirely forsook him, and he stood there, as if he had fallen from a cloud, and 'Yes!' the only word audible to my excited nerves, convinced me of his crime.

'G.o.d!' I cried, shaking the trembling sinner--'Do you know that there is a G.o.d? _He_, not I, will punish you!'

I left him and became as tranquil again as if nothing had happened.

As I drove past the church, on my journey home, I cast a sad glance through the lattice window, into the family vault; I could distinguish the coffin of my sister; 'Emilie, I have revenged you!' I cried, as if the deceased could hear me, and in almost a happy state of mind I continued my journey.

Not long after this, Theodore put an end to his existence, in a fit of gloomy despair. May G.o.d be merciful to his soul!

The family goblet could never more be found. Probably Theodore had destroyed that mute witness of his crime. Thus the last possessor had, in fulfilment of the prophecy, received speedy happiness from it--and that happiness was--Death!

THE DEATH SHIP.

BY B. S. INGEMANN.

Upon the deck fair Gunhild stands And gazes on the billows blue; She sees reflected there beneath, The moon and the bright stars too.

She sees the moon and the lovely stars On the clear calm sea--the while Her steady bark glides gently on To Britain's distant isle.

'Twas long since her betrothed love Had sought, alas! that foreign strand; And bitterly had Gunhild wept When he left his native land.

He promised tidings oft to send-- He promised soon to come again; But never tidings reached her ear-- She looked for him in vain!

Fair Gunhild could no longer bear Such anxious, sad suspense; One gloomy night from her parents' home, She fled,--and hied her thence.

Mounting yon vessel's lofty side, To seek her love she swore-- Whether he lay in ocean's depths, Or slept on a foreign sh.o.r.e.

Three days had she been toss'd upon Wild ocean's heaving wave, When the sea became at the midnight hour As still as the solemn grave.

On the high deck the maiden stood, Gazing upon the deep so blue; She saw reflected there beneath, The moon and the bright stars too.

The crew were wrapt in hush'd repose, The very helmsman slept, While the maiden clad in robes of white, Her midnight vigil kept.

'Twas strange!--at that still hour--behold!

A vessel from the deep ascends-- It flutters like a shadow there, Then near, its course it bends.

No sail was spread to catch the breeze; Its masts lay shattered on the deck; And it did not steer one steady course, But drifted like a wreck.

Hush'd--hush'd was all on board that bark, But flitting by--now here--now there-- Seem'd dim, uncertain, shadowy forms, Through the misty moonlit air.

And now the floating wreck draws near, Yet in the ship 'tis tranquil all; That maiden stands on the deck alone To gaze on the stars so small.

'Fair Gunhild;' faintly sighs a voice, Thou seek'st thine own betrothed love-- But his home is not on the stranger's land, No--nor on earth above.

''Tis deep beneath the dark, cold sea, Oh! there 'tis sad to bide; Yet he all lonely there must dwell, Far from his destined bride!'

'Right well, right well thy voice I know, Thou wand'rer from the deep wide sea; No longer lonesome shalt thou dwell Far, far away from me.'

'No, Gunhild, no--thou art so young, So fair--thou must not come; And I will grieve no more if thou Art glad in thy dear home.

'The faith that thou to me didst swear, To thee again I freely give; I'm rocking on the billows' lap, Seek happier ties and live.'

'The faith I vow'd I still will hold, I swear it here anew-- Oh! say if in thy cold abode There is not room for two?'

'Room in the sea might many find, But all below is cheerless gloom; When the sun's rays are beaming bright, We sleep as in the tomb.

'Tis only at the midnight hour When the pale moon shines out, That we from ocean's depths may rise, To drift on the wreck about.'

'Let the sun brightly beam above, So I within thine arms repose!

Oh! I shall slumber softly there, Forgetting earthly woes!

'Then hasten--hasten--reach thy hand!

And take thy bride with thee; With thee, oh, gladly will she dwell, Deep, deep beneath the sea!

'And we will oft at midnight's hour Upon the lonely wreck arise, And gaze upon the pale soft moon And the stars in yonder skies.'

Then reach'd the dead his icy hand-- 'Fair Gunhild! fear not thou-- The dawn of rosy morn is near, We may not linger now!'

Upon the wreck the maiden springs, It drifts away again; The crew of her bark--awaking--see The _Death-ship_ on the main!

The startled men crowd on the deck With horror on each brow; They pray to G.o.d in heaven above-- And the wreck has vanish'd now!

THE BROTHERS;

OR, A GOOD CONSCIENCE.

FROM THE DANISH.

It was a fresh, cool summer morning; the birds appeared to have exhausted themselves with singing; but the breeze was not exhausted, for, if it seemed lulled for a moment under the cl.u.s.tering leaves of the trees, it was but suddenly to shake them about, and mingle its sighs with their rustling sound; there waved to and fro the heavy heads of the ears of corn in the fields, and the more lowly clover scattered its fragrance around. On the summit of yon green eminence, under the swaying branches of those oak-trees, stands a young peasant, a robust, vigorous youth. Shading his eyes with his hand, he is gazing across the fields, where the public road winds along, separated from the luxuriant corn by rows of young trees, and deep narrow ditches, whose edges are bordered by wild flowers.