The Rose Garden:  A Tale of Dietrich of Bern

Dietrich of Bern is the King Arthur of German story.  Like his prototype of Britain, he has become the central figure of innumerable medieval tales and epics, a model of chivalry and martial prowess, distinguished everywhere by high deeds and mighty feats of arms, and in not a few cases displacing the rightful hero of still older myths, which thus became grafted on to the Dietrich legends.  Originally he was a bona-fide historical personage, Theodoric the Ostrogoth, and as such gained a widespread popularity among his people.  His historical character, however, was soon lost in the maze of legendary lore which surrounded his name, and which, as time went on, ascribed to him feats ever more wildly heroic.  Among the various traditions there is one relating to the Rhenish town of Worms which calls for inclusion here as much on account of its intrinsic merit as because of its undoubted popularity.  The legend of the Rose Garden of Worms is a quaint and fanciful tale, and even the circumstance that it ends with the death of several good knights and true does not rob it of a certain humorous quality it possesses.

By the time Dietrich had reached the prime of his adventurous life—­so runs the story—­he had gathered a considerable company of doughty paladins at his court—­he formed, in fact, a kind of Round Table—­and the knights who composed it were as eager as their lord to seek fresh fields wherein to display their prowess, and were second only to him in skill and valour.  Among them were numbered such illustrious warriors as Herbrand, his son Hildebrand, Eckehart, Wolfhart, and Amelung.

On one occasion, as Dietrich was seated at table with his followers, he vowed that no court in Christendom could boast of such warriors as he could muster.  The assembled knights greeted the assertion with hearty acclamations—­all, that is, save the old warrior Herbrand, and he was silent.  Dietrich looked at him in surprise.

“Hast thou nothing to say, Herbrand?” he asked.

“Thinkest thou to find better knights than these?”—­indicating his followers with a wave of his hand.

Herbrand seemed somewhat reluctant to uphold his tacit objection to Dietrich’s claim.  “Ay,” he said at length, “there are such warriors to be found.”

“And where may we seek such paragons?” inquired the king, none too well pleased.

“In the town of Worms,” replied the old knight, “there lies a wondrous rose garden, of great extent, where the queen and her ladies take their pleasure.  None save these may enter its precincts unless the queen give him leave, and that the sacred boundaries may not be overstepped twelve warriors are set to guard the garth.  Such is their strength and courage that none has ever succeeded in passing them, whatever his skill and renown.”

“But wherefore should one seek to pass the guard?” asked a young knight.  “Is there a prize to be won, then?”