“Ha,” retorted Walthar, laughing grimly, “thou wilt have to greet the troops of heroes with a side glance.  When thou gettest thee home, make thee a larded broth of milk and flour, which will both nourish and cure thee.”

Then they placed on horseback the king, who was in sore pain.  Hagen bore him back to Worms, whilst Walthar and Hildegund pursued their way to Aquitaine, and, on arrival, magnificently celebrated their wedding.

For thirty years did Walthar rule his people after his father’s death.  “What wars after this, what triumphs he ever had, behold, my blunted pen refuses to mark.  Thou whosoever readest this, forgive a chirping cricket.  Weigh not a yet rough voice but the age, since as yet she hath not left the nest for the air.  This is the poem of Walthar.  Save us, Jesus Christ.”

CHAPTER VII—­HEIDELBERG TO SAeCKINGEN

Heidelberg is known all over the world as one of Germany’s great university towns, as the site of an unrivalled if ruined schloss, and of a view at the junction of the Rhine with the Neckar which is one of the most famous in the world.  It lies between lofty hills covered with vineyards and forests, flanked by handsome villas and gardens, and is crowned by its castle, which has suffered equally from siege and the elements, being partially blown up by the French in 1609, and struck by lightning in 1704.

The Wolf’s Spring

The name of Jette, a beautiful prophetess of the ancient goddess Herthe, is linked with the neighbourhood of Heidelberg by the following tragic tale.

When the old heathen gods and goddesses were still worshipped in the Rhine country, a certain priestess of Herthe took up her abode in an ancient grove, where she practised her occult arts so successfully that the fame of her divinations spread far and wide, and men came from all parts of Europe to learn from her what the future had in store for them.  Frequently a warrior left her abode with a consuming fire kindled in his breast which would rob him of sleep for many a long night, yet none dared to declare his love to her, for, lovely though she was, there was an air of austerity, an atmosphere of mysticism about her which commanded awe and reverence, and forbade even the smallest familiarity.

One evening there came to the grove of Herthe a youth from a far distant land, seeking to know his destiny.  All day he had journeyed thitherward, and the dusk had already fallen ere he reached the sacred spot.  Jette sat on the glimmering altar-steps, clad in a flowing white robe, while on the altar itself burned a faint and fitful flame.  The tall, slender trees, showing fantastic and ghostly in the fading light, made a fitting background for the gleaming shrine; and the elusive, unearthly beauty of the priestess was quite in keeping with the magic scene.  Her mantle of austerity had fallen from her; she had forgotten that she was a prophetess; for the moment she was but a woman, full of grace and charm.  The youth paused as though held by a spell.