Oh! shun them, ye pilgrims! though late be the hour,
     Though loud howl the tempest, and fast fall the shower;
     From Falkenstein Castle begone! 
     There still their sad banquet hell’s denizens share;
     There Osric the Lion still raves in despair: 
     Breathe a prayer for his soul, and pass on!

The Conference of the Dead

A legend of later date than most of the Rhineland tales, but still of sufficient interest to merit inclusion among these, is that which attaches to the palace of Biberich.  Biberich lies on the right bank of the river, not very far from Mainz, and its palace was built at the beginning of the eighteenth century by George Augustus, Duke of Nassau.

The legend states that not long after the erection of the palace a Duchess of Nassau died there, and lay in state as befitted her rank in a room hung with black velvet and lighted with the glimmer of many tapers.

Outside in the great hall a captain and forty-nine men of the Duke’s bodyguard kept watch over the chamber of death.

It was midnight.  The captain of the guard, weary with his vigil, had gone to the door of the palace for a breath of air.  Just as the last stroke of the hour died away he beheld the approach of a chariot, drawn by six magnificent coal-black horses, which, to his amazement, drew up before the palace.  A lady, veiled and clad in white, alighted and made as though she would enter the building.  But the captain barred the way and challenged the bold intruder.

“Who are you,” he said sternly, “who seek to enter the palace at this hour?  My orders are to let none pass.”

“I was first lady of the bedchamber to our late Duchess,” replied the lady in cold, imperious tones; “therefore I demand the right of entrance.”

As she spoke she flung aside her veil, and the captain, instantly recognizing her, permitted her to enter the palace without further hindrance.

“What can she want here at this time of night?” he said to his lieutenant, when the lady had passed into the death-chamber.

“Who can say?” replied the lieutenant.  “Unless, perchance,” he mused, “we were to look.”

The captain took the hint, crept softly to the keyhole, and applied his eye thereto.  “Ha!” he said, shrinking back in amazement and terror, and beckoning to his lieutenant.  “In Satan’s name what have we here?”

The lieutenant hastened to the chamber door, full of alarm and curiosity.  Putting his eye to the keyhole, he also ejaculated, turned pale, and trembled.  One by one the soldiers of the guard followed their officers’ example, like them to retreat with exclamations of horror.  And little wonder; for they perceived the dead Duchess sitting up in bed, moving her pale lips as though in conversation, while by her side stood the lady of the bedchamber, pale as she, and clad in grave-clothes.  For a time the ghastly conversation continued, no words being