“But is there no ghost, no haunted chamber in the old castle?” asked Flemming, after casting a hasty glance at the picture.

“Oh, certainly,” replied the Baron; “there are two.  There is the ghost of the Virgin Mary in Ruprecht’s Tower, and the Devil in the Dungeon.”

“Ha! that is grand!” exclaimed Flemming, with evident delight.  “Tell me the whole story, quickly!  I am as curious as a child.”

“It is a tale of the times of Louis the Debonnaire,” said the Baron, with a smile; “a mouldy tradition of a credulous age.  His brother Frederick lived here in the castle with him, and had a flirtation with Leonore von Luzelstein, a lady of the court, whom he afterwards despised, and was consequently most cordially hated by her.  Frompolitical motives he was equally hateful to certain petty German tyrants, who, in order to effect his ruin, accused him of heresy.  But his brother Louis would not deliver him up to their fury, and they resolved to effect by stratagem, what they could not by intrigue.  Accordingly, Leonore von Luzelstein, disguised as the Virgin Mary, and the father confessor of the Elector, in the costume of Satan, made their appearance in the Elector’s bed-chamber at midnight, and frightened him so horribly, that he consented to deliver up his brother into the hands of two Black Knights, who pretended to be ambassadors from the Vehm-Gericht.  They proceeded together to Frederick’s chamber; where luckily old Gemmingen, a brave soldier, kept guard behind the arras.  The monk went foremost in his Satanic garb; but, no sooner had he set foot in the prince’s bed-chamber, than the brave Gemmingen drew his sword, and said quaintly, `Die, wretch!’ and so he died.  The rest took to their heels, and were heard of no more.  And now the souls of Leonore and the monk haunt the scene of their midnight crime.  You will find the story in Grainberg’s book, worked up with a kind of red-morocco and burnt-cork sublimity, and great melo-dramatic clanking of chains, and hooting of owls, and other fallow deer!”

“After breakfast,” said Flemming, “we will go up to the castle.  I must get acquainted with this mirror of owls, this modern Till Eulenspiegel.  See what a glorious morning we have!  It is truly a wondrous winter! what summer sunshine; what soft Venetian fogs!  How the wanton, treacherous air coquets with the old gray-beard trees!  Such weather makes the grass and our beards grow apace!  But we have an old saying in English, that winter never rots in the sky.  So he will come down at last in his old-fashioned, mealy coat.  We shall have snow in spring; and the blossoms will be all snow-flakes.  And afterwards a summer, which will be no summer, but, as Jean Paul says, only a winter painted green.  Is it not so?”

“Unless I am much deceived in the climate of Heidelberg,” replied the Baron, “we shall not have to wait long for snow.  We have sudden changes here, and I should not marvel much if it snowed before night.”