Ere long he was roused from his swoon by the awe-inspiring tones of the alarm-bell and the sound of a multitude of voices.  A moment later he recalled his terrible struggle with the lion, and uttered a devout thanksgiving for his escape from death.

Meanwhile the people, growing anxious at his prolonged absence, and fearing that some ill had befallen him, had hastened to the monastery.  The two canons, seeing the approaching crowd, ran out to meet them, wringing their hands and exclaiming that the Burgomaster had strayed into the lion’s den and there met his death.  The angry crowd, in nowise deceived by their pretences, demanded to be shown the lion’s den.  Arrived there, they broke down the door and, to their great joy, found Grein alive, though wounded and much shaken.  They bore him triumphantly through the town, first crowning his hastily improvised litter with flowers and laurels.

As for the monks, their priestly garb could not protect their persons from the wrath of the mob, and they were hanged at the gate of the monastery, which thereafter became known as the ‘Priests’ Gate.’

The White Horses

The year 1440 was a memorable one throughout Germany, for the great plague raged with fearful violence, leaving blanks in many families hitherto unvisited by death.  Among the victims was Richmodis, the beloved wife of Sir Aducht of Cologne, who deeply mourned her loss.  The lady was buried with a valuable ring—­her husband’s gift—­upon her finger; this excited the cupidity of the sextons, who, resolved to obtain possession of it, opened the tomb in the night and wrenched off the coffin-lid.  Their difficulties, however, were not at an end, for when they tried to possess themselves of the ring it resolutely adhered to the finger of the corpse.

Suddenly, to their horror, the dead body gently raised itself, with a deep sigh, as though the soul of Richmodis regarded this symbol of wifely duty as sacred, and would resist the efforts of the thieves to take it from her.

The dark and hollow eyes opened and met those of the desecrators, and a threatening light seemed to come from them.  At this ghastly sight the terrified sextons fled in abject panic.

Richmodis recovered by degrees, and gradually realizing where she was, she concluded that she must have been buried while alive.  In her terror she cried aloud for help.  But nobody could hear her; it was the lone hour of midnight, when all nature reposes.

Summoning strength, she resolved to make an effort to go to the husband who had placed the ring upon her finger, and getting out of the coffin, she made her way shivering toward their home.

The wind moaned dismally through the trees, and their foliage cast dark, spectral shadows that swayed fitfully to and fro in the weird light of the waning moon as Richmodis staggered along feebly, absorbed in the melancholy thoughts which her terrible experience suggested.