The Klingelkapelle

On the road between Gernsbach and Eberstein there once stood an ancient, moss-grown cell.  It had been occupied by a beautiful pagan priestess, a devotee of Herthe, but when the preaching of the white monks had begun to spread Christianity among the people she left the neighbourhood.  In passing by that way a Christian monk noticed the deserted retreat and took possession of it, issuing at intervals to preach to the inhabitants of the surrounding country.

One stormy night as he sat within his cell he fancied he heard a pleading voice mingling with the roar of wind and waters.  Going to the door, he beheld a young girl who seemed to be half dead with cold and fatigue.  The good monk, who was never indifferent to human suffering, drew her quickly inside, bade her seat herself by the fire, and set food and wine before her.  When she had recovered a little from the effects of the storm the hermit questioned her with regard to her presence in such a lonely spot and at such an unseasonable hour.  The maid replied that she had once dwelt in just such a pleasant and peaceful cell as that in which she now reposed, but that cruel persecution had driven her from her retreat.

“Then you, too, are a hermit?” said the young monk inquiringly, looking down at his fair guest.  The wine had brought some colour to her pale cheeks and he could see that she was beautiful, with a beauty beyond that of any maiden he had ever seen.

“Yes,” she replied, “I am a priestess of Herthe.  This cell in which I beg for shelter was once my own.  It was those of your religion who drove me from it.”

“You are not a Christian?” asked the monk, startled in spite of himself by the passionate tones in which she spoke.

The maiden laughed.

“Am I not as beautiful as your Christian maids?” said she.  “Am I not human even as they are?” She moved about the cell as she spoke, and picked up a piece of embroidery.  “See, this is my handiwork; is it less beautiful because it is not the work of a Christian?  Why should we suffer persecution at your hands?”

The young monk endeavoured to show that she was unjust in her estimate of his religion.  Gravely he told her the story of Christianity, but his thoughts were of her weird beauty and he spake less earnestly than was usual.  And the maid, with an appearance of child-like innocence, waited until he had finished his recital.  She saw that she had him completely in her power and pressed her advantage to the uttermost.  She drew closer to him, raised his hand, and pressed it to her lips.  The monk surrendered himself to her caresses, and when at length she begged him to break the symbol of his religion he was too much fascinated to refuse.  He raised the cross and would have dashed it to the ground, but at that very moment he heard high above the storm the sound of a bell.  Contrite and ashamed, he fell on his knees and prayed for pardon.  When he looked up again the girl had disappeared.