“My friend,” he said warmly, “I know not how I may thank you for your brave loyalty.  The time has come when you must know whom you have served so faithfully.  Behold your unfortunate Emperor, overcome in battle, deprived of friends and followers and fortune!”

At these astounding words the young charcoal-burner sank on his knees before the Emperor.

“Sire,” he said, “you have yet one humble subject who will never forsake you while life remains to him.”

“I know,” replied the Emperor gently, raising him to his feet, “and therefore I ask of you one last service.  It is that you may lead me by some secret path to the place where the remnant of my followers await me.  Alas, that I, once so powerful, should be unable to offer you any token of a sovereign’s gratitude!”

“Sire,” ventured the youth, “methinks I may be privileged to render yet one more service to your Majesty.”  Straightway he told the story of his hidden treasure and with simple dignity placed it at the disposal of his sovereign, asking for nothing in return but the right to spend his strength in the Emperor’s service—­a right which was readily accorded him.

The gold, now withdrawn from its place of concealment, proved to be a goodly store, and with it the Emperor had no difficulty in raising another army.  Such was the courage and confidence of his new troops that the first battle they fought resulted in victory.  But the most valiant stand was made by the erstwhile charcoal-burner, who found on that field the opportunity of which he had long dreamt.  The Emperor showed his recognition of the gallant services by knighting the young man on the field of battle.  On the eminence whither the old hermit had led him the knight built a castle which was occupied by himself and his successors for many generations.

And thus did the charcoal-burner become the knight of Zaehringen, the friend of his Emperor, the first of a long line of illustrious knights, honoured and exalted beyond his wildest dreams.

Conclusion

With this legend we close on a brighter and more hopeful note than is usually associated with legends of the Rhine.  The reader may have observed in perusing these romances how closely they mirror their several environments.  For the most part those which are gay and buoyant in spirit have for the places of their birth slopes where is prisoned the sunshine which later sparkles in the wine-cup and inspires song and cheerfulness.  Those, again, which are sombre and tragic have as background the gloomy forest, the dark and windy promontory which overhangs the darker river, or the secluded nunnery.  In such surroundings is fostered the germ of tragedy, that feeling of the inevitable which is inherent in all great literature.  It is to a tragic imagination of a lofty type that we are indebted for the greatest of these legends, and he who cannot appreciate their background of gloomy grandeur will never come at the true spirit of that mighty literature of Germany, at once the joy and the despair of all who know it.