With courtly air the Black Knight approached the Queen, knelt before her, and begged that she would deign to be his partner in the dance.  The charm of his voice and the modest yet dignified manner in which he proffered his request so touched the Queen that she stepped down from the dais and joined in the waltz.  Never had she known a dancer with a lighter step or a more delightful gift of conversation.  When that dance was over she granted him another and yet another, till the company became very curious to know who the gallant knight might be on whom the Queen bestowed her favours with such a lavish hand.  At last the time came for the guests to unmask, and the dancers made themselves known to each other—­with one exception, that is, for the Black Knight refused to lift his visor.  The King and Queen, however, shared to the full the curiosity of their guests as to the identity of their strange guest, and they commanded him to uncover his face, whereupon the knight raised his visor, though with some reluctance.  Neither the royal hosts nor any of the noble guests recognized him, but a moment later two officials of the Court advanced and to the astonishment and indignation of the company declared that the stranger was no other than the executioner of Bergen!  The King’s wrath knew no bounds.  He commanded that the knave should be seized and put to death immediately.  To think that he had allowed the Queen to dance with a common executioner!  The bare idea was intolerable!

The knave fell humbly on his knees before his irate sovereign.

“I acknowledge my crime, sire,” he said, “but your Majesty must be aware that even my death would not be sufficient to wipe out my disgrace, and the disgrace of her Majesty, who has danced with an executioner.  There is one other way to efface my guilt and to wipe out the humiliation of your Majesty’s gracious consort.  You must make a knight of me, sire, and I will challenge to mortal combat any who dares to speak ill of my King!”

The King was astounded by this bold proposition, but the very audacity of it caught his fancy.  He struck the executioner gently with his sword.

“Rise, Sir Knight,” he said, adding, as the Black Knight rose to his feet:  “You have acted like a knave this night.  Henceforth you shall be called the Knave of Bergen.”

Darmstadt:  The Proxy

In the days of chivalry there dwelt in Birbach a knight named Walther, no less renowned for his piety than for his skill in arms, and the Virgin, according to the following legend, was not unmindful of her humble worshipper.  A great tournament—­so runs the tale—­was to take place in Darmstadt, and Sir Walther, who was about to enter the lists for the first time, was not feeling confident as to the issue.  He knew that there were to be present many knights whose strength and skill far exceeded his own, and, brave though he was, he could not but recognize that his chances of victory were small.