When The Mysterious Stranger first appeared in English in Chambers’s Repository for February 1854, it had no author credit and remained anonymous until 2013. The English translation is actually an abridged version of the original German novella Der Fremde by Karl von Wachsmann. Other changes were moving the setting to the “Carpathians Mountains”. In the original German it seems it was set in “the Carniolan mountains” in present-day Slovenia.

The story follows a group of travelers in Austria who take refuge from wolves in a haunted castle called Castle Klatka. They are rescued by a mysterious stranger named Azzo von Klatka who lives in the castle ruins. One of the travelers, Franziska, begins to fall ill with the same symptoms as vampire victims, suggesting Azzo may be a vampire. The story has been pointed to be one of the influences to Dracula.

The Mysterious Stranger (Der Fremde) by Karl von Wachsmann (1844)

Boreas, that fearful north-west wind, which in the spring and autumn stirs up the lowest depths of the wild Adriatic, and is then so dangerous to vessels, was howling through the woods, and tossing the branches of the old knotty oaks in the Carpathian Mountains, when a party of five riders, who surrounded a litter drawn by a pair of mules, turned into a forest-path, which offered some protection from the April weather, and allowed the travellers in some degree to recover their breath. It was already evening, and bitterly cold; the snow fell every now and then in large flakes. A tall old gentleman, of aristocratic appearance, rode at the head of the troop. This was the Knight of Fahnenberg, in Austria. He had inherited from a childless brother a considerable property, situated in the Carpathian Mountains; and he had set out to take possession of it, accompanied by his daughter Franziska, and a niece about twenty years of age, who had been brought up with her. Next to the knight rode a fine young man some twenty and odd years — the Baron Franz von Kronstein; he wore, like the former, the broad-brimmed hat with hanging feathers, the leather collar, the wide riding-boots — in short, the travelling-dress which was in fashion at the commencement of the seventeenth century. The features of the young man had much about them that was open and friendly, as well as some mind; but the expression was more that of dreamy and sensitive softness than of youthful daring, although no one could deny that he possessed much of youthful beauty. As the cavalcade turned into the oak wood the young man rode up to the litter, and chatted with the ladies who were seated therein. One of these — and to her his conversation was principally addressed — was of dazzling beauty. Her hair flowed in natural curls round the fine oval of her face, out of which beamed a pair of star-like eyes, full of genius, lively fancy, and a certain degree of archness. Franziska von Fahnenberg seemed to attend but carelessly to the speeches of her admirer, who made many kind inquiries as to how she felt herself during the journey, which had been attended with many difficulties: she always answered him very shortly; almost contemptuously; and at length remarked, that if it had not been for her father’s objections, she would long ago have requested the baron to take her place in their horrid cage of a litter, for, to judge by his remarks, he seemed incommoded by the weather; and she would so much rather be mounted on the spirited horse, and face wind and storm, than be mewed up there, dragged up the hills by those long-eared animals, and mope herself to death with ennui. The young lady’s words, and, still more, the half-contemptuous tone in which they were uttered, appeared to make the most painful impression on the young man: he made her no reply at the moment, but the absent air with which he attended to the kindly-intended remarks of the other young lady, showed how much he was disconcerted.

“It appears, dear Franziska,” said he at length in a kindly tone, “that the hardships of the road have affected you more than you will acknowledge. Generally so kind to others, you have been very often out of humour during the journey, and particularly with regard to your humble servant and cousin, who would gladly bear a double or treble share of the discomforts, if he could thereby save you from the smallest of them.”

Franziska showed by her look that she was about to reply with some bitter jibe, when the voice of the knight was heard calling for his nephew, who galloped off at the sound.

“I should like to scold you well, Franziska,” said her companion somewhat sharply, “for always plaguing your poor Cousin Franz in this shameful way; he who loves you so truly, and who, whatever you may say, will one day be your husband.”

“My husband!” replied the other angrily. “I must either completely alter my ideas, or he his whole self, before that takes place. No, Bertha! I know that this is my father’s darling wish, and I do not deny the good qualities Cousin Franz may have, or really has, since I see you are making a face; but to marry an effeminate man — never!”

“Effeminate! you do him great injustice,” replied her friend quickly. “Just because instead of going off to the Turkish war, where little honour was to be gained, he attended to your father’s advice, and stayed at home, to bring his neglected estate into order, which he accomplished with care and prudence; and because he does not represent this howling wind as a mild zephyr — for reasons such as these you are pleased to call him effeminate.”

“Say what you will, it is so,” cried Franziska obstinately. “Bold, aspiring, even despotic, must be the man who is to gain my heart; these soft, patient, and thoughtful natures are utterly distasteful to me. Is Franz capable of deep sympathy, either in joy or sorrow? He is always the same — always quiet, soft and tiresome.”

“He has a warm heart, and is not without genius,” said Bertha.

“A warm heart! that may be,” replied the other; “but I would rather be tyrannized over, and kept under a little by my future husband, than be loved in such a wearisome manner. You say he has genius, too. I will not exactly contradict you, since that would be unpolite, but it is not easily discovered. But even allowing you are right in both statements, still the man who does not bring these qualities into action is a despicable creature. A man may do many foolish things, he may even be a little wicked now and then, provided it is in nothing dishonourable; and one can forgive him, if he is only acting on some fixed theory for some special object. There is, for instance, your own faithful admirer, the Castellan of Glogau, Knight of Woislaw; he loves you most truly, and is now quite in a position to enable you to marry comfortably. The brave man has lost his right hand — reason enough for remaining seated behind the stove, or near the spinning-wheel of his Bertha; but what does he do? — He goes off to the war in Turkey; he fights for a noble thought —”

“And runs the chance of getting his other hand chopped off, and another great scar across his face,” put in her friend.

“Leaves his lady-love to weep and pine a little,” pursued Franziska, “but returns with fame, marries, and is all the more honoured and admired! This is done by a man of forty, a rough warrior, not bred at court, a soldier who has nothing but his cloak and sword. And Franz — rich, noble — but I will not go on. Not a word more on this detested point, if you love me, Bertha.”

Franziska leaned back in the corner of the litter with a dissatisfied air, and shut her eyes as though, overcome by fatigue, she wished to sleep.

“This awful wind is so powerful, you say, that we must make a detour to avoid its full force,” said the knight to an old man, dressed in a fur-cap and a cloak of rough skin, who seemed to be the guide of the party.

“Those who have never personally felt the Boreas storming over the country between Sessano and Triest, can have no conception of the reality,” replied the other. “As soon as it commences, the snow is blown in thick long columns along the ground. That is nothing to what follows. These columns become higher and higher, as the wind rises, and continue to do so until you see nothing but snow above, below, and on every side — unless, indeed, sometimes, when sand and gravel are mixed with the snow, and at length it is impossible to open your eyes at all. Your only plan for safety is to wrap your cloak around you, and lie down flat on the ground. If your home were but a few hundred yards off, you might lose your life in the attempt to reach it.”

“Well, then, we owe you thanks, old Kumpan,” said the knight, though it was with difficulty he made his words heard above the roaring of the storm; “we owe you thanks for taking us this round, as we shall thus be enabled to reach our destination without danger.”

“You may feel sure of that, noble sir,” said the old man. “By midnight we shall have arrived, and that without any danger by the way, if —” Suddenly the old man stopped, he drew his horse sharply up, and remained in an attitude of attentive listening.

“It appears to me we must be in the neighbourhood of some village,” said Franz von Kronstein; “for between the gusts of the storm I hear a dog howling.”

“It is no dog, it is no dog!” said the old man uneasily, and urging his horse to a rapid pace. “For miles around there is no human dwelling; and except in the castle of Klatka, which indeed lies in the neighbourhood, but has been deserted for more than a century, probably no one has lived here since the creation. — But there again,” he continued; “well, if I wasn’t sure of it from the first.”

“That howling seems to fidget you, old Kumpan,” said the knight, listening to a long-drawn fierce sound, which appeared nearer than before, and seemed to be answered from a distance.

“That howling comes from no dogs,” replied the old guide uneasily. “Those are reed-wolves; they may be on our track; and it would be as well if the gentlemen looked to their firearms.”

“Reed-wolves ? What do you mean?” inquired Franz in surprise.

“At the edge of this wood,” said Kumpan, “there lies a lake about a mile long, whose banks are covered with reeds. In these a number of wolves have taken up their quarters, and feed on wild birds, fish and such like. They are shy in the summer-time, and a boy of twelve might scare them; but when the birds migrate, and the fish ate frozen up, they. prowl about at night, and then they are dangerous. They are worst, however, when Boreas rages, for then it is just as if the fiend himself possessed them: they are so mad and fierce that man and beast become alike their victims; and a party of them have been known even to attack the ferocious bears of these mountains, and, what is more, to come off victorious.” The howl was now again repeated more distinctly, and from two opposite directions. The riders in alarm felt for their pistols, and the old man grasped the spear which hung at his saddle.

“We must keep dose to the litter; the wolves are very near us,” whispered the guide. The riders turned their horses, surrounded the litter, and the knight informed the ladies, in a few quieting words, of the cause of this movement.

“Then we shall have an adventure — some little variety!” cried Franziska with sparkling eyes.

“How can you talk so foolishly?” said Bertha in alarm.

“Are we not under manly protection? Is not Cousin Franz on our side?” said the other mockingly.

“See, there is a light gleaming among the twigs; and there is another,” cried Bertha. “there must be people close to us.”

“No, no,” cried the guide quickly. “Shut up the door, ladies. Keep close together, gentlemen. It is the eyes of wolves you see sparkling there.” The gentlemen looked towards the thick underwood, in which every now and then little bright spots appeared, such as in summer would have been taken for glow-worms; it was just the same greenish-yellow light, but less unsteady, and there were always two flames together. The horses began to be restive, they kicked and dragged at the rein; but the mules behaved tolerably well.

“I will fire on the beasts, and teach them to keep their distance,” said Franz, pointing to the spot where the lights were thickest.

“Hold, hold, Sir Baron!” cried Kumpan quickly, and seizing the young man’s arm. “You would bring such a host together by the report, that, encouraged by numbers, they would be sure to make the first assault. However, keep your arms in readiness, and if an old she-wolf springs out — for these always lead the attack — take good aim and kill her, for then there must be no further hesitation.” By this time the horses were almost unmanageable, and terror had also infected the mules. Just as Franz was turning towards the litter to say a word to his cousin, an animal, about the size of a large hound, sprang from the thicket and seized the foremost mule.

“Fire, baron! A wolf! ” shouted the guide.

The young man fired, and the wolf fell to the ground. A fearful howl rang through the wood.

“Now, forward! Forward without a moment’s delay!” cried Kumpan. “We have not above five minutes’ time. The beasts will tear their wounded comrade to pieces, and, if they are very hungry, partially devour her. We shall, in the meantime, gain a little start, and it is not more than an hour’s ride to the end of the forest. There — do you see — these are the towers of Klatka between the trees — out there where the moon is rising, and from that point the wood becomes less dense.”

The travellers endeavoured to increase their pace to the utmost, but the litter retarded their progress. Bertha was weeping with fear, and even Franziska’s courage had diminished, for she sat very still. Franz endeavoured to reassure them. They had not proceeded many moments when the howling recommenced, and approached nearer and nearer.

“There they are again and fiercer and more numerous than before,” cried the guide in alarm.

The lights were soon visible again, and certainly in greater numbers. The wood had already become less thick, and the snowstorm having ceased, the moonbeams discovered many a dusky form amongst the trees, keeping together like a pack of hounds, and advancing nearer and nearer till they were within twenty paces, and on the very path of the travellers. From time to time a fierce howl arose from their centre, which was answered by the whole pack, and was at length taken up by single voices in the distance.

The party now found themselves some few hundred yards from the ruined castle of which Kumpan had spoken. It was, or seemed by moonlight to be, of some magnitude. Near the tolerably preserved principal building lay the ruins of a church, which must have once been beautiful, placed on a little hillock, dotted with single oak-trees and bramble-bushes. Both castle and church were still partially roofed in; and a path led from the castle gate to an old oak-tree, where it joined at right angles the one along which the travellers were advancing. The old guide seemed in much perplexity.

“We are in great danger, noble sir,” said he. “The wolves will very soon make a general attack. There will then be only one way of escape: leaving the mules to their fate, and taking the young ladies on your horses.”

“That would be all very well, if I had not thought of a better plan,” replied the knight. “Here is the ruined castle; we can surely reach that, and then, blocking up the gates, we must just await the morning.”

“Here? In the ruins of Klatka? — Not for all the wolves in the world!” cried the old man. “Even by daylight no one likes to approach the place, and, now, by night! — The castle, Sir Knight, has a bad name.”

“On account of robbers?” asked Franz.

“No; it is haunted,” replied the other.

“Stuff and nonsense!” said the baron. “Forward to the ruins; there is not a moment to be lost.”

And this was indeed the case. The ferocious beasts were but a few steps behind the travellers. Every now and then they retired, and set up a ferocious howl. The party had just arrived at the old oak before mentioned, and were about to turn into the path to the ruins, when the animals, as though perceiving the risk they ran of losing their prey, came so near that a lance could easily have struck them. The knight and Franz faced sharply about, spurring their horses amidst the advancing crowds, when suddenly, from the shadow of the oak stepped forth a man, who in a few strides placed himself between the travellers and their pursuers. As far as one could see in the dusky light, the stranger was a man of a tall and well-built frame; he wore a sword by his side, and a broad-brimmed hat was on his head. If the party were astonished at his sudden appearance, they were still more so at what followed. As soon as the stranger appeared, the wolves gave over their pursuit, rumbled over each other, and set up a fearful howl. The stranger now raised his hand, appeared to wave it, and the wild animals crawled back into the thickets like a pack of beaten hounds.

Without casting a glance at the travellers, who were too much overcome by astonishment to speak, the stranger went up the path which led to the castle, and soon disappeared beneath the gateway.

“Heaven have mercy on us!” murmured old Kumpan in his beard, as he made the sign of the cross.

“Who was that strange man?” asked the knight with surprise, when he had watched the stranger as long as he was visible, and the party had resumed their way.

The old guide pretended not to understand, and, riding up to the mules, busied himself with arranging the harness, which had become disordered in their haste: more than a quarter of an hour elapsed before he rejoined them.

“Did you know the man who met us near the ruins, and who freed us from our four-footed pursuers in such a miraculous way?” asked Franz of the guide.

“Do I know him? No, noble sir; I never saw him before,” replied the guide hesitatingly. “He looked like a soldier, and was armed,” said the baron. “Is the castle, then, inhabited?”

“Not for the last hundred years,” replied the other. “It was dismantled because the possessor in those days had iniquitous dealings with some Turkish-Sclavonian hordes, who had advanced as far as this; or rather ” — he corrected himself hastily — “he is said to have had such, for he might have been as upright and good a man as ever ate cheese fried in butter.”

“And who is now the possessor of the ruins and of these woods?” inquired the knight.

“Who but yourself, noble sir?” replied Kumpan. “For more than two hours we have been on your estate, and we shall soon reach the end of the wood.”

“We hear and see nothing more of the wolves,” said the baron after a pause. “Even their howling has ceased. The adventure with the stranger still remains to me inexplicable, even if one were to suppose him a huntsman—”

“Yes, yes; that is most likely what he is,” interrupted the guide hastily, whilst he looked uneasily round him.

“The brave good man, who came so opportunely to our assistance, must have been a huntsman Oh, there are many powerful woodsmen in this neighbourhood! Heaven be praised!” he continued, taking a deep breath, “there is the end of the wood, and in a short hour we shall be safely housed.”

And so it happened. Before an hour had elapsed, the party passed through a well-built village, the principal spot on the estate, towards the venerable castle, the windows of which were brightly illuminated, and at the door stood the steward and other dependents, who, having received their new lord with every expression of respect, conducted the party to the splendidly furnished apartments.

Nearly four weeks passed before the travelling adventures again came on the tapis. The knight and Franz found such constant employment in looking over all the particulars of the large estate, and endeavouring to introduce various German improvements, that they were very little at home. At first, Franziska was charmed with everything in a neighbourhood so entirely new and unknown. It appeared to her so romantic, so very different from her German Fatherland, that she took the greatest interest in everything, and often drew comparisons between the countries, which generally ended unfavourably for Germany. Bertha was of exactly the contrary opinion: she laughed at her cousin, and said that her liking for novelty and strange sights must indeed have come to a pass, when she preferred hovels in which the smoke went out of the doors and windows instead of the chimney, walls covered with soot, and inhabitants not much cleaner, and of unmannerly habits, to the comfortable dwellings and polite people of Germany. However, Franziska persisted in her notions, and replied that everything in Austria was flat, ennuyant, and common; and that a wild peasant here, with his rough coat of skin, had ten times more interest for her than a quiet Austrian in his holiday suit, the mere sight of whom was enough to make one yawn.

As soon as the knight had got the first arrangements into some degree of order, the party found themselves more together again. Franz continued to show great attention to his cousin, which, however, she received with little gratitude, for she made him the butt of all her fanciful humours, that soon returned when after a longer sojourn she had become more accustomed to her new life. Many excursions into the neighbourhood were undertaken, but there was little variety in the scenery, and these soon ceased to amuse.

The party were one day assembled in the old-fashioned hall, dinner had just been removed, and they were arranging in which direction they should ride. “I have it,” cried Franziska suddenly, “I wonder we never thought before of going to view by day the spot where we fell in with our night-adventure with wolves and the Mysterious Stranger.”

“You mean a visit to the ruins — what were they called?” said the knight.

“Castle Klatka,” cried Franziska gaily. “Oh, we really must ride there! It will be so charming to go over again by daylight, and in safety, the ground where we had such a dreadful fright.”

“Bring round the horses,” said the knight to a servant “and tell the steward to come to me immediately.” The latter, an old man, soon after entered the room.

“We intend taking a ride to Klatka,” said the knight: “we had an adventure there on our road.”

“So old Kumpan told me,” interrupted the steward.

“And what do you say about it?” asked the knight.

“I really don’t know what to say,” replied the old man, shaking his head. “I was a youth of twenty when I first came to this castle, and now my hair is grey; half a century has elapsed during that time. Hundreds of times my duty has called me into the neighbourhood of those ruins, but never have I seen the Fiend of Klatka.”

“What do you say? Whom do you call by that name?” inquired Franziska, whose love of adventure and romance was strongly awakened.

“Why, people call by that name the ghost or spirit who is supposed to haunt the ruins,” replied the steward. “They say he only shows himself on moonlight nights —”

“That is quite natural,” interrupted Franz smiling. “Ghosts can never bear the light of day; and if the moon did not shine, how could the ghost be seen? for it is not supposed that any one for a mere freak would visit the ruins by torch-light.”

“There are some credulous people who pretend to have seen this ghost,” continued the steward. “Huntsmen and wood-cutters say they have met him by the large oak on the cross-path. That, noble sir, is supposed to be the spot he inclines most to haunt, for the tree was planted in remembrance of the man who fell there.”

“And who was he?” asked Franziska with increasing curiosity.

“The last owner of the castle, which at that time was a sort of robber’s den, and the headquarters of all depredators in the neighbourhood,” answered the old man. “They say this man was of superhuman strength, and was feared not only on account of his passionate temper, but of his treaties with the Turkish hordes. Any young woman, too, in the neighbourhood to whom he took a fancy, was carried off to his tower and never heard of more. When the measure of his iniquity was full, the whole neighbourhood rose in a mass, besieged his stronghold, and at length he was slain on the spot where the huge oak-tree now stands.”

“I wonder they did not burn the whole castle, so as to erase the very memory of it,” said the knight.

“It was a dependency of the church, and that saved it,” replied the other. “Your great-grandfather afterwards took possession of it, for it had fine lands attached. As the Knight of Klatka was of good family, a monument was erected to him in the church, which now lies as much in ruin as the castle itself.”

“Oh, let us set off at once! Nothing shall prevent my visiting so interesting a spot,” said Franziska eagerly. “The imprisoned damsels who never reappeared, the storming of the tower, the death of the knight, the nightly wanderings of his spirit round the old oak, and, lastly, our own adventure, all draw me thither with an indescribable curiosity.”

When a servant announced that the horses were at the door, the young girls tripped laughingly down the steps which led to the coach-yard. Franz, the knight, and a servant well acquainted with the country, followed; and in a few minutes the party were on their road to the forest.

The sun was still high in the heavens when they saw the towers of Klatka rising above the trees. Everything in the wood was still, except the cheerful twitterings of the birds as they hopped about amongst the bursting buds and leaves, and announced that spring had arrived.

The party soon found themselves near the old oak at the bottom of the hill on which stood the towers, still imposing in their ruin. Ivy and bramble bushes had wound themselves over the walls, and forced deep roots so firmly between the stones that they in a great measure held these together. On the top of the highest spot, a small bush in its young fresh verdure swayed lightly in the breeze.

The gentlemen assisted their companions to alight, and leaving the horses to the care of the servant, ascended the hill to the castle. After having explored this in every nook and cranny, and spent much time in a vain search for some trace of the extraordinary stranger, whom Franziska declared she was determined to discover, they proceeded to an inspection of the adjoining church. This they found to have better withstood the ravages of time and weather; the nave, indeed, was in complete dilapidation, but the chancel and altar were still under roof, as well as a sort of chapel which appeared to have been a place of honour for the families of the old knights of the castle. Few traces remained, however, of the magnificent painted glass which must once have adorned the windows, and the wind entered at pleasure through the open spaces.

The party were occupied for some time in deciphering the inscriptions on a number of tombstones, and on the walls, principally within the chancel. They were generally memorials of the ancient lords, with figures of men in armour, and women and children of all ages. A flying raven and various other devices were placed at the corners. One gravestone, which stood close to the entrance of the chancel, differed widely from the others: there was no figure sculptured on it, and the inscription, which, on all besides, was a mere mass of flattering eulogies, was here simple and unadorned; it contained only these words: “Ezzelin von Klatka fell like a knight at the storming of the castle” — on such a day and year.

“That must be the monument of the knight whose ghost is said to haunt these ruins,” cried Franziska eagerly.

“What a pity he is not represented in the same way as the others — I should so like to have known what he was like!”

“Oh, there is the family vault, with steps leading down to it, and the sun is lighting it up through a crevice, said Franz, stepping from the adjoining vestry.

The whole party followed him down the eight or nine steps which led to a tolerably airy chamber, where were placed a number of coffins of all sizes, some of them crumbling into dust. Here, again, one close to the door was distinguished from the others by the simplicity of its design, the freshness of its appearance, and the brief inscription: “Ezzelinus de Klatka, Eques.”

As not the slightest effluvium was perceptible, they lingered some time in the vault; and when they reascended to the church, they had a long talk over the old possessors, of whom the knight now remembered he had heard his parents speak. The sun had disappeared, and the moon was just rising as the explorers turned to leave the ruins. Bertha had made a step into the nave, when she uttered a slight exclamation of fear and surprise. Her eyes fell on a man who wore a hat with drooping feathers, a sword at his side, and a short cloak of somewhat old-fashioned cut over his shoulders. The stranger leaned carelessly on a broken column at the entrance; he did not appear to take any notice of the party; and the moon shone full on his pale face.

The party advanced towards the stranger.

“If I am not mistaken,” commenced the knight; “we have met before.”

Not a word from the unknown.

“You released us in an almost miraculous manner,” said Franziska, “from the power of those dreadful wolves. Am I wrong in supposing it is to you we are indebted for that great service?”

“The beasts are afraid of me,” replied the stranger in a deep fierce tone, while he fastened his sunken eyes on the girl, without taking any notice of the others.

“Then you are probably a huntsman,” said Franz, “and wage war against the fierce brutes.”

“Who is not either the pursuer or the pursued? All persecute or are persecuted, and Fate persecutes all,” replied the stranger without looking at him.

“Do you live in these ruins?” asked the knight hesitatingly.

“Yes; but not to the destruction of your game, as you may fear, Knight of Fahnenberg,” said the unknown contemptuously. “Be quite assured of your property shall remain untouched —”

“Oh! my father did not mean that,” interrupted Franziska, who appeared to take the liveliest interest in the stranger. “Unfortunate events and sad experiences have, no doubt, induced you to take up your abode in these ruins, of which my father would by no means dispossess you.”

“Your father is very good, if that is what he meant,” said the stranger in his former tone; and it seemed as though his dark features were drawn into a slight smile; “but people of my sort are rather difficult to turn out.”

“You must live very uncomfortably here,” said Franziska, half vexed, for she thought her polite speech had deserved a better reply.

“My dwelling is not exactly uncomfortable, only somewhat small, still quite suitable for quiet people,” said the unknown with a kind of sneer. “I am not, however, always quiet; I sometimes pine to quit the narrow space, and then I dash away through forest and field, over hill and dale; and the time when I must return to my little dwelling always comes too soon for me.”

“As you now and then leave your dwelling,” said the knight, “I would invite you to visit us, if I knew —”

“That I was in a station to admit of your doing so,” interrupted the other; and the knight started slightly, for the stranger had exactly expressed the half-formed thought. “I lament,” he continued coldly, “that I am not able to give you particulars on this point — some difficulties stand in the way: be assured, however, that I am a knight, and of at least as ancient a family as yourself.”

“Then you must not refuse our request,” cried Franziska, highly interested in the strange manners of the unknown. “You must come and visit us.”

“I am no boon-companion, and on that account few have invited me of late,” replied the other with his peculiar smile; “besides, I generally remain at home during the day; that is my time for rest. I belong, you must know, to that class of persons who turn day into night, and night into day, and who love everything uncommon and peculiar.”

“Really? So do I! And for that reason, you must visit us,” cried Franziska. “Now,” she continued smiling, “I suppose you have just risen, and you are taking your morning airing. Well, since the moon is your sun, pray pay a frequent visit to our castle by the light of its rays. I think we shall agree very well, and that it will be very nice for us to be acquainted.”

“You wish it? — You press the invitation?” asked the stranger earnestly and decidedly.

“To be sure, for otherwise you will not come,” replied the young lady shortly.

“Well, then, come I will!’, said the other, again fixing his gaze on her. ” If my company does not please you at any time, you will have yourself to blame for an acquaintance with one who seldom forces himself, but is difficult to shake off.”

When the unknown had concluded these words, he made a slight motion with his hand, as though to take leave of them, and passing under the doorway, disappeared among the ruins. The party soon after mounted their horses, and took the road home.

It was the evening of the following day, and all were again seated in the hall of the castle. Bertha had that day received good news. The knight Woislaw had written from Hungary, that the war with the Turks would be brought to a conclusion during the year, and that although he had intended returning to Silesia, hearing of the knight of Fahnenberg having gone to take possession of his new estates, he should follow the family there, not doubting that Bertha had accompanied her friend. He hinted that he stood so high in the opinion of his duke on account of his valuable services, that in future his duties would be even more important and extensive; but before settling down to them, he should come and claim Bertha’s promise to become his wife. He had been much enriched by his master, as well as by booty taken from the Turks. Having formerly lost his right hand in the duke’s service, he had essayed to fight with his left; but this did not succeed very admirably, and so he had an iron one made by a very clever artist. This hand performed many of the functions of a natural one, but there had been still much wanting; now, however, his master had presented him with one of gold, an extraordinary work of art, produced by a celebrated Italian mechanic. The knight described it as something marvellous, especially as to the superhuman strength with which it enabled him to use the sword and lance. Franziska naturally rejoiced in the happiness of her friend, who had had no news of her betrothed for a long time before. She launched out every now and then, partly to plague Franz, and partly to express her own feelings, in the highest praise and admiration of the bravery and enterprise of the knight, whose adventurous qualities she lauded to the skies. Even the scar on his face, and his want of a right hand, were reckoned as virtues; and Franziska at last saucily declared that a rather ugly man was infinitely more attractive to her than a handsome one, for as a general rule handsome men were conceited and effeminate. Thus, she added, no one could term their acquaintance of the night before handsome, but attractive and interesting he certainly was. Franz and Bertha simultaneously denied this. His gloomy appearance, the deadly hue of his complexion, the tone of his voice, were each in turn depreciated by Bertha, while Franz found fault with the contempt and arrogance obvious in his speech. The knight stood between the two parties. He thought there was something in his bearing that spoke of good family, though much could not be said for his politeness; however, the man might have had trials enough in his life to make him misanthropical. Whilst they were conversing in this way, the door suddenly opened, and the subject of their remarks himself walked in.

“Pardon me, Sir Knight,” he said coldly, “that I come, if not uninvited, at least unannounced; there was no one in the ante-chamber to do me that service.”

The brilliantly lighted chamber gave a full view of the stranger. He was a man about forty, tall, and extremely thin. His features could not be termed uninteresting — there lay in them something bold and daring; but the expression was on the whole anything but benevolent. There was contempt and sarcasm in the cold grey eyes, whose glance, however, was at times so piercing, that no one could endure it long. His complexion was even more peculiar than the features: it could neither be called pale nor yellow; it was a sort of grey, or, so to speak, dirty white, like that of an Indian who has been suffering long from fever; and was rendered still more remarkable by the intense blackness of his beard and short cropped hair. The dress of the unknown was knightly, but old-fashioned and neglected; there were great spots of rust on the collar and breastplate of his armour;

and his dagger and the hilt of his finely-worked sword were marked in some places with mildew. As the party were just going to supper, it was only natural to invite the stranger to partake of it; he complied, however, only in so far that he seated himself at the table, for he ate no morsel. The knight, with surprise, inquired the reason.

“For a long time past, I have accustomed myself never to eat at night,” he replied with a strange smile. “My digestion is quite unused to solids, and indeed would scarcely confront them. I live entirely on liquids.”

“Oh, then, we can empty a bumper of Rhine-wine together,” cried the host.

“Thanks; but I neither drink wine nor any cold beverage,” replied the other; and his tone was full of mockery. It appeared as if there was some amusing association connected with the idea.

“Then I will order you a cup of hippocras” — a warm drink composed of herbs — “it shall be ready immediately,” said Franziska.

“Many thanks, fair lady; not at present,” replied the other. “But if I refuse the beverage you offer me now, you may be assured that as soon as I require it — perhaps very soon — I will request that, or some other of you.”

Bertha and Franz thought the man had something inexpressibly repulsive in his whole manner, and they had no inclination to engage him in conversation; but the baron, thinking that perhaps politeness required him to say something, turned towards the guest, and commenced in a friendly tone: “It is now many weeks since we first became acquainted with you; we then had to thank you for a signal service —”

“And I have not yet told you my name, although you would gladly know it,” interrupted the other dryly. “I am called Azzo; and as” — this he said again with his ironical smile — “with the permission of the Knight of Fahnenberg, I live at the castle of Klatka, you can in future call me Azzo von Klatka.”

“I only wonder you do not feel lonely and uncomfortable amongst those old walls,” began Bertha. “I cannot understand —”

“What my business is there? Oh, about that I will willingly give you some information, since you and the young gentleman there takes such a kindly interest in my person,” replied the unknown in his tone of sarcasm.

Franz and Bertha both started, for he had revealed their thoughts as though he could read their souls. “You see, lady,” he continued, “there are a variety of strange whims in the world. As I have already said, I love what is peculiar and uncommon, at least what would appear so to you. It is wrong in the main to be astonished at anything, for, viewed in one light, all things are alike; even life and death, this side of the grave and the other, have more resemblance than you would imagine. You perhaps consider me rather touched a little in my mind, for taking up my abode with the bat and the owl; but if so, why not consider every hermit and recluse insane? You will tell me that those are holy men. I certainly have no pretension that way; but as they find pleasure in praying and singing psalms, so I amuse myself with hunting. Oh, you can have no idea of the intense pleasure of dashing away in the pale moonlight, on a horse that never tires, over hill and dale, through forest and woodland! I rush among the wolves, which fly at my approach, as you yourself perceived, as though they were puppies fearful of the lash.”

“But still it must be lonely, very lonely for you,” remarked Bertha.

“So it would by day; but I am then asleep,” replied the stranger dryly; “at night I am merry enough.”

“You hunt in an extraordinary way,” remarked Franz hesitatingly.

“Yes; but, nevertheless, I have no communication with robbers, as you seem to imagine,” replied Azzo coldly.

Franz again started — that very thought had just crossed his mind. “Oh, I beg your pardon; I do not know —” he stammered.

“What to make of me,” interrupted the other. “You would, therefore, do well to believe just what I tell you, or at least to avoid making conjectures of your own, which will lead to nothing.”

“I understand you: I know how to value your ideas, if no one else does,” cried Franziska eagerly. “The humdrum, everyday life of the generality of men is repulsive to you; you have tasted the joys and pleasures of life, at least what are so called, and you have found them tame and hollow. How soon one tires of the things one sees all around! Life consists in change. Only in what is new, uncommon, and peculiar, do the flowers of the spirit bloom and give forth scent. Even pain may become a pleasure if it saves one from the shallow monotony of everyday life — a thing I shall hate till the hour of my death.”

“Right, fair lady — quite right! Remain in this mind: this was always my opinion, and the one from which I have derived the highest reward,” cried Azzo; and his fierce eyes sparkled more intensely than ever. “I am doubly pleased to have found in you a person who shares my ideas. Oh, if you were a man, you would make me a splendid companion; but even a woman may have fine experiences when once these opinions take root in her, and bring forth action!”

As Azzo spoke these words in a cold tone of politeness, he turned from the subject, and for the rest of his visit only gave the knight monosyllabic replies to his inquiries, taking leave before the table was cleared. To an invitation from the knight, backed by a still more pressing one from Franziska to repeat his visit, he replied that he would take advantage of their kindness, and come sometimes.

When the stranger had departed, many were the remarks made on his appearance and general deportment. Franz declared his most decided dislike to him. Whether it was as usual to vex her cousin, or whether Azzo had really made an impression on her, Franziska took his part vehemently. As Franz contradicted her more eagerly than usual, the young lady launched out into still stronger expressions; and there is no knowing what hard words her cousin might have received had not a servant entered the room.

The following morning Franziska lay longer than usual in bed. When her friend went to her room, fearful lest she should be ill, she found her pale and exhausted. Franziska complained she had passed a very bad night; she thought the dispute with Franz about the stranger must have excited her greatly, for she felt quite feverish and exhausted, and a strange dream, too, had worried her, which was evidently a consequence of the evening’s conversation. Bertha, as usual, took the young man’s part, and added, that a common dispute about a man whom no one knew, and about whom any one might form his own opinion, could not possibly have thrown her into her present state. “At least,” she continued, “you can let me hear this wonderful dream.”

To her surprise; Franziska for a length of time refused to do so.

“Come, tell me,” inquired Bertha, “what can possibly prevent you from relating a dream — a mere dream? I might almost think it credible, if the idea were not too horrid, that poor Franz is not very far wrong when he says that the thin, corpse-like, dried-up, old-fashioned stranger has made a greater impression on you than you will allow.”

“Did Franz say so?” asked Franziska. “Then you can tell him he is not mistaken. Yes, the thin, corpse-like, dried-up, whimsical stranger is far more interesting to me than the rosy-checked, well-dressed, polite, and prosy cousin.”

Strange,” cried Bertha. “I cannot at all comprehend the almost magic influence which this man, so repulsive, exercises over you.”

“Perhaps the very reason I take his part, may be that you are all so prejudiced against him,” remarked Franziska pettishly. “Yes, it must be so; for that his appearance should please my eyes, is what no one in his senses could imagine. But,” she continued, smiling and holding out her hand to Bertha, “is it not laughable that I should get out of temper even with you about this stranger? — I can more easily understand it with Franz — and that this unknown should spoil my morning, as he has already spoiled my evening and my night’s rest?”

“By that dream, you mean?” said Bertha, easily appeased, as she put her arm round her cousin’s neck and kissed her. “Now, do tell it to me. You know how I delight in hearing anything of the kind.”

“Well, I will, as a sort of compensation for my peevishness towards you,” said the other, clasping her friend’s hands. “Now, listen! I had walked up and down my room for a long time; I was excited — out of spirits — I do not know exactly what. It was almost

midnight ere I lay down, but I could not sleep. I tossed about, and at length it was only from sheer exhaustion that I dropped off. But what a sleep it was! An inward fear ran through me perpetually. I saw a number of pictures before me, as I used to do in childish sicknesses. I do not know whether I was asleep or half awake. Then I dreamed, but as dearly as if I had been wide awake, that a sort of mist filled the room, and out of it stepped the knight Azzo. He gazed at me for a time, and then letting himself slowly down on one knee, imprinted a kiss on my throat. Long did his lips rest there; and I felt a slight pain, which always went on increasing, until I could bear it no more. With all my strength I tried to force the vision from me, but succeeded only after a long struggle. No doubt I uttered a scream, for that awoke me from my trance. when I came a little to my senses, I felt a sort of superstitious fear creeping over me — how great you may imagine when I tell you that, with my eyes open and awake, it appeared to me as if Azzo’s figure were still by my bed, and then disappearing gradually into the mist, vanished at the door!”

“You must have dreamed very heavily, my poor friend,” began Bertha, but suddenly paused. She gazed with surprise at Franziska’s throat. “Why, what is that?” she cried. ” Just look: how extraordinary — a red streak on your throat!”

Franziska raised herself, and went to a little glass that stood in the window. She really saw a small red line about an inch long on her neck, which began to smart when she touched it with her finger.

“I must have hurt myself by some means in my sleep,” she said after a pause; “and that in some measure will account for my dream.”

The friends continued chatting for some time about this singular coincidence — the dream and the stranger; and at length it was all turned into a joke by Bertha.

Several weeks passed. The knight had found the estate and affairs in greater disorder than he at first imagined; and instead of remaining three or four weeks, as was originally intended, their departure was deferred to an indefinite period. This postponement was likewise in some measure occasioned by Franziska’s continued indisposition. She who had formerly bloomed like a rose in its young fresh beauty, was becoming daily thinner, more sickly and exhausted, and at the same time so pale, that in the space of a month not a tinge of red was perceptible on the once glowing cheek. The knight’s anxiety about her was extreme, and the best advice was procured which the age and country afforded; but all to no purpose. Franziska complained from time to time that the horrible dream with which her illness commenced was repeated, and that always on the day following she felt an increased and indescribable weakness. Bertha naturally set this down to the effect of fever, but the ravages of that fever on the usually dear reason of her friend filled her with alarm.

The knight Azzo repeated his visits every now and then. He always came in the evening, and when the moon shone brightly. His manner was always the same. He spoke in monosyllables, and was coldly polite to the knight; to Franz and Bertha, particularly to the former, contemptuous and haughty; but to Franziska, friendliness itself. Often when, after a short visit, he again left the house, his peculiarities became the subject of conversation. Besides his old way of speaking, in which Bertha said there lay a deep hatred, a cold detestation of all mankind with the exception of Franziska, two other singularities were observable. During none of his visits, which often took place at supper-time, had he been prevailed upon to eat or drink anything, and that without giving any good reason for his abstinence. A remarkable alteration, too, had taken place in his appearance; he seemed an entirely different creature. The skin, before so shrivelled and stretched, seemed smooth and soft, while a slight tinge of red appeared in his cheeks, which began to look round and plump. Bertha, who could not at all conceal her ill-will towards him, said often, that much as she hated his face before, when it was more like a death’s-head than a human being’s, it was now more than ever repulsive; she always felt a shudder run through her veins whenever his sharp piercing eyes rested on her. Perhaps it was owing to Franziska’s partiality, or to the knight Azzo’s own contemptuous way of replying to Franz, or to his haughty way of treating him in general, that made the young man dislike him more and more. It was quite observable, that whenever Franz made a remark to his cousin in the presence of Azzo, the latter would immediately throw some ill-natured light on it, or distort it to a totally different meaning. This increased from day to day, and at last Franz declared to Bertha, that he would stand such conduct no longer, and that it was only out of consideration for Franziska that he had not already called him to account.

At this time the party at the castle was increased by the arrival of Bertha’s long-expected guest. He came just as they were sitting down to supper one evening, and all jumped up to greet their old friend. The knight Woislaw was a true model of the soldier, hardened and strengthened by war with men and elements. His face would not have been termed ugly, if a Turkish sabre had not left a mark running from the right eye to the left cheek, and standing out bright red from the sunburned skin. The frame of the Castellan of Glogau might almost be termed colossal. Few would have been able to carry his armour, and still fewer move with his lightness and ease under its weight. He did not think little of this same armour, for it had been a present from the palatine of Hungary on his leaving the camp. The blue wrought-steel was ornamented all over with patterns in gold; and he had put it on to do honour to his bride-elect, together with the wonderful gold hand, the gift of the duke. Woislaw was questioned by the knight and Franz on all the concerns of the campaign; and he entered into the most minute particulars relating to the battles, which, with regard to plunder, had been more successful than ever. He spoke much of the strength of the Turks in a hand-to-hand fight, and remarked that he owed the duke many thanks for his splendid gift, for in consequence of its strength many of the enemy regarded him as something superhuman. The sickliness and deathlike paleness of Franziska was too perceptible not to be immediately noticed by Woislaw; accustomed to see her so fresh and cheerful, he hastened to inquire into the cause of the change. Bertha related all that had happened, and Woislaw listened with the greatest interest. This increased to the utmost at the account of the often-repeated dream, and Franziska had to give him the most minute particulars of it; it appeared as though he had met with a similar case before, or at least had heard of one. When the young lady added, that it was very remarkable that the wound on her throat which she had at first felt had never healed, and still pained her, the knight Woislaw looked at Bertha as much as to say, that this last fact had greatly strengthened his idea as to the cause of Franziska’s illness.

It was only natural that the discourse should next turn to the knight Azzo, about whom every one began to talk eagerly. Woislaw inquired as minutely as he had done with regard to Franziska’s illness, about what concerned this stranger, from the first evening of their acquaintance down to his last visit, without, however, giving any opinion on the subject. The party were still in earnest conversation, when the door opened, and Azzo entered. Woislaw’s eyes remained fixed on him, as he, without taking any particular notice of the new arrival, walked up to the table, and seating himself, directed most of the conversation to Franziska and her father, and now and then made some sarcastic remark when Franz began to speak. The Turkish war again came on the tapis, and though Azzo only put in an occasional remark, Woislaw had much to say on the subject. Thus they had advanced late into the night, and Franz said smiling to Woislaw: “I should not wonder if day had surprised us, whilst listening to your entertaining adventures.”

“I admire the young gentleman’s taste,” said Azzo, with an ironical curl of the lip. “Stories of storm and shipwreck are, indeed, best heard on terra firma, and those of battle and death at a hospitable table or in the chimney-corner. One had then the comfortable feeling of keeping a whole skin, and being in no danger, not even of taking cold.” With the last words, he gave a hoarse laugh, and turning his back on Franz, rose, bowed to the rest of the company, and left the room. The knight, who always accompanied Azzo to the door, now expressed himself fatigued, and bade his friends good night.

“That Azzo’s impertinence is unbearable,” cried Bertha when he was gone. “He becomes daily more rough, unpolite, and presuming. If only on account of Franziska’s dream, though of course he cannot help that, I detest him. Now, tonight, not one civil word has he spoken to any one but Franziska, except, perhaps, some casual remark to my uncle.”

“I cannot deny that you are right, Bertha,” said her cousin. “One may forgive much to a man whom fate had probably made somewhat misanthropical; but he should not overstep the bounds of common politeness. But where on earth is Franz?” added Franziska, as she looked uneasily round. — The young man had quietly left the room whilst Bertha was speaking.

“He cannot have followed the knight Azzo to challenge him?” cried Bertha in alarm.

“It were better he entered a lion’s den to pull his mane!” said Woislaw vehemently. “I must follow him instantly,” he added, as he rushed from the room.

He hastened over the threshold, out of the castle, and through the court, before he came up to them. Here a narrow bridge with a slight balustrade passed over the moat by which the castle was surrounded. It appeared that Franz had only just addressed Azzo in a few hot words, for as Woislaw, unperceived by either, advanced under the shadow of the wall, Azzo said gloomily: “Leave me, foolish boy — leave me; for by that sun” — and he pointed to the full moon above them — “you will see those rays no more if you linger another moment on my path.”

“And I tell you, wretch, that you either give me satisfaction for your repeated insolence, or you die,” cried Franz, drawing his sword.

Azzo stretched forth his hand, and grasping the sword in the middle, it snapped like a broken reed. “I warn you for the last time,” he said in a voice of thunder, as he threw the pieces into the moat. “Now, away — away, boy, from my path, or, by those below us, you are lost!”

“You or I! you or I!” cried Franz madly, as he made a rush at the sword of his antagonist, and strove to draw it from his side. Azzo replied not; only a bitter laugh half escaped from his lips; then seizing Franz by the chest, he lifted him up like an infant, and was in the act of throwing him over the bridge, when Woislaw stepped to his side. With a grasp of his wonderful hand, into the springs of which he threw all his strength, he seized Azzo’s arm, pulled it down, and obliged him to drop his victim. Azzo seemed in the highest degree astonished. Without concerning himself further about Franz, he gazed in amazement on Woislaw.

“Who are thou who darest to rob me of my prey?” he asked hesitatingly. “Is it possible? Can you be —”

“Ask not, thou bloody one! Go, seek thy nourishment! Soon comes thy hour!” replied Woislaw in a calm but firm tone.

“Ha, now I know!” cried Azzo eagerly. “Welcome, blood-brother! I give up to you this worm, and for your sake will not crush him. Farewell; our paths will soon meet again.”

“Soon, very soon; farewell!” cried Woislaw, drawing Franz towards him. Azzo rushed away, and disappeared.

Franz had remained for some moments in a state of stupefaction, but suddenly started as from a dream. “I am dishonoured, dishonoured for ever!” he cried, as he pressed his clenched hands to his forehead.

“Calm yourself; you could not have conquered,” said Woislaw.

“But I will conquer, or perish!” cried Franz incensed. “I will seek this adventurer in his den, and he or I must fall.”

“You could not hurt him,” said Woislaw. “You would infallibly be the victim.”

“Then show me a way to bring the wretch to judgment,” cried Franz, seizing Woislaw’s hands, while tears of anger sprang to his eyes. “Disgraced as I am, I cannot live.”

“You shall be revenged, and that within twenty-four hours, I hope; but only on two conditions —”

“I agree to them! I will do anything —” began the young man eagerly.

“The first is, that you do nothing, but leave everything in my hands,” interrupted Woislaw. “The second, that you will assist me in persuading Franziska to do what I shall represent to her as absolutely necessary. That young lady’s life is in more danger from Azzo than your own!”

“How? What?” cried Franz fiercely. “Franziska’s life in danger! and from that man? Tell me, Woislaw, who is this fiend?”

“Not a word will I tell either the young lady or you, until the danger is passed,” said Woislaw firmly. “The smallest indiscretion would ruin everything. No one can act here but Franziska herself, and if she refuses to do so she is irretrievably lost.”

“Speak, and I will help you. I will do all you wish, but I must know —”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” replied Woislaw. “I must have both you and Franziska yield to me unconditionally. Come now, come to her. You are to be mute on what has passed, and use every effort to induce her to accede to my proposal.”

Woislaw spoke firmly, and it was impossible for Franz to make any further objection; in a few moments they both entered the hall, where they found the young girls still anxiously awaiting them.

“Oh, I have been so frightened,” said Franziska, even paler than usual, as she held out her hand to Franz. “I trust all has ended peaceably.”

“Everything is arranged; a couple of words were sufficient to settle the whole affair,” said Woislaw cheerfully.

“But Master Franz was less concerned in it than yourself, fair lady.”

“I! How do you mean? ” said Franziska in surprise.

“I allude to your illness,” replied the other.

“And you spoke of that to Azzo? Does he, then, know a remedy which he could not tell me himself?” she inquired, smiling painfully.

“The knight Azzo must take part in your cure; but speak to you about it he cannot, unless the remedy is to lose all its efficacy,” replied Woislaw quietly.

“So it is some secret elixir, as the learned doctors say, who have so long attended me, and through whose means I only grow worse,” said Franziska mournfully.

“It is certainly a secret, but is as certainly a cure,” replied Woislaw.

“So said all, but none has succeeded,” said the young lady peevishly.

“You might at least try it,” began Bertha.

“Because your friend proposes it,” said the other smiling. “I have no doubt that you, with nothing ailing you, would take all manner of drugs to please your knight; but with me the inducement is wanting, and therefore also the faith.”

“I did not speak of any medicine,” said Woislaw.

“Oh! a magical remedy! I am to be cured — what was it the quack who was here the other day called it? — ‘ by sympathy.’ Yes, that was it.”

“I do not object to your calling it so, if you like,” said Woislaw smiling; “but you must know, dear lady, that the measures I shall propose must be attended to literally, and according to the strictest directions.”

“And you trust this to me?” asked Franziska.

“Certainly,” said Woislaw hesitating; “but —”

“Well, why do you not proceed? Can you think that I shall fail in courage?” she asked.

“Courage is certainly necessary for the success of my plan,” said Woislaw gravely; “and it is because I give you credit for a large share of that virtue, I venture to propose it at all, although for the real harmlessness of the remedy I will answer with my life, provided you follow my directions exactly.”

“Well, tell me the plan, and then I can decide,” said the young lady.

“I can only tell you that when we commence our operations,” replied Woislaw.

“Do you think I am a child to be sent here, there, and everywhere, without a reason?” asked Franziska, with something of her old pettishness.

“You did me great injustice, dear lady, if you thought for a moment I would propose anything disagreeable to you, unless demanded by the sternest necessity,” said Woislaw; “and yet I can only repeat my former words.”

“Then I will not do it,” cried Franziska. “I have already tried so much, and all ineffectually.”

“I give you my honour as a knight, that your cure is certain, but — you must pledge yourself solemnly and unconditionally to do implicitly what I shall direct,” said Woislaw earnestly.

“Oh, I implore you to consent, Franziska. Our friend would not propose anything unnecessary,” said Bertha, taking both her cousin’s hands.

“And let me join my entreaties to Bertha’s,” said Franz.

“How strange you all are!” exclaimed Franziska, shaking her head; “you make such a secret of that which I must know if I am to accomplish it, and then you declare so positively that I shall recover, when my own feelings tell me it is quite hopeless.”

“I repeat, that I will answer for the result,” said Woislaw, “on the condition I mentioned before, and that you have courage to carry out what you commence.”

“Ha! now I understand; this, after all, is the only thing which appears doubtful to you,” cried Franziska. “Well, to show you that our sex are neither wanting in the will nor in the power to accomplish deeds of daring, I give my consent.”

With the last words, she offered Woislaw her hand.

“Our compact is thus sealed,” she pursued smiling. “Now say, Sir Knight, how am I to commence this mysterious cure?”

“It commenced when you gave your consent,” said Woislaw gravely. “Now, I have only to request that you will ask no more questions, but hold yourself in readiness to take a ride with me tomorrow an hour before sunset. I also request that you will not mention to your father a word of what has passed.”

“Strange!” said Franziska.

“You have made the compact; you are not wanting in resolution; and I will answer for everything else,” said Woislaw encouragingly.

“Well, so let it be. I will follow your directions,” said the lady, although she still looked incredulous.

“On our return you shall know everything; before that, it is quite impossible,” said Woislaw in conclusion. “Now go, dear lady, and take some rest; you will need strength for to-morrow.”

It was on the morning of the following day, the sun had not risen above an hour, and the dew still lay like a veil of pearls on the grass, or dripped from the petals of the flowers, swaying in the early breeze, when the knight Woislaw hastened over the fields towards the forest, and turned into a gloomy path, which by the direction, one could perceive, led towards the towers of Klatka. When he arrived at the old oak-tree we have before had occasion to mention, he sought carefully along the road for traces of human footsteps, but only a deer had passed that way; and seemingly satisfied with his search, he proceeded on his way, though not before he had half drawn his dagger from its sheath, as though to assure himself that it was ready for service in time of need.

Slowly he ascended the path; it was evident he carried something beneath his cloak. Arrived in the court, he left the ruins of the castle to the left, and entered the old chapel. In the chancel, he looked eagerly and earnestly around. A deathlike stillness reigned in the deserted sanctuary, only broken by the whispering of the wind in an old thorn-tree which grew outside. Woislaw had looked round him ere he perceived the door leading down to the vault; he hurried towards it, and descended. The sun’s position enabled its rays to penetrate the crevices, and made the subterranean chamber so light, that one could read easily the inscriptions at the head and feet of the coffins. The knight first laid on the ground the packet he had hitherto carried under his cloak, and then going from coffin to coffin, at last remained stationary before the oldest of them. He read the inscription carefully, drew his dagger thoughtfully from its case, and endeavoured to raise the lid with its point. This was no difficult matter, for the rusty iron nails kept but a slight hold of the rotten wood. On looking in, only a heap of ashes, some remnants of dress, and a skull were the contents. He quickly closed it again, and went on to the next, passing over those of a woman and two children. Here things had much the same appearance, except that the corpse held together till the lid was raised, and then fell into dust, a few linen rags and bones being alone perceptible In the third, fourth, and nearly the next half-dozen, the bodies were in better preservation: in some, they looked a sort of yellow brown mummy; whilst in others, a skinless skull covered with hair grinned from the coverings of velvet, silk, or mildewed embroideries; all, however, were touched with the loathsome marks of decay. Only one more coffin now remained to be inspected; Woislaw approached it, and read the inscription. It was the same that had before attracted the Knight of Fahnenberg: Ezzelin von Klatka, the last possessor of the tower, was described as lying therein. Woislaw found it more difficult to raise the lid here; and it was only by the exertion of much strength he at length succeeded in extracting the nails. He did all, however, as quietly as if afraid of rousing some sleeper within; he then raised the cover, and cast a glance on the corpse. An involuntary “Ha!” burst from his lips as he stepped back a pace. If he had less expected the sight that met his eyes, he would have been far more overcome. In the coffin lay Azzo as he lived and breathed, and as Woislaw had seen him at the supper-table only the evening before. His appearance, dress and all were the same; besides, he had more the semblance of sleep than of death — no trace of decay was visible — there was even a rosy tint on his cheeks. Only the circumstance that the breast did not heave, distinguished him from one who slept. For a few moments Woislaw did not move; he could only stare into the coffin. With a hastiness in his movements not usual with him, he suddenly seized the lid, which had fallen from his hands, and laying it on the coffin, knocked the nails into their places. As soon as he had completed this work, he fetched the packet he had left at the entrance, and laying it on the top of the coffin, hastily ascended the steps, and quitted the church and the ruins.

The day passed. Before evening, Franziska requested her father to allow her to take a ride with Woislaw, under pretence of showing him the country. He, only too happy to think this a sign of amendment in his daughter, readily gave his consent; so followed by a single servant, they mounted and left the castle. Woislaw was unusually silent and serious. When Franziska began to rally him about his gravity, and the approaching sympathetic care, he replied that what was before her was no laughing matter; and that although the result would be certainly a cure, still it would leave an impression on her whole future life. In such discourse they reached the wood, and at length the oak, where they left their horses. Woislaw gave Franziska his arm, and they ascended the hill slowly and silently. They had just reached one of the half-dilapidated outworks where they could catch a glimpse of the open country, when Woislaw, speaking more to himself than to his companion, said: “In a quarter of an hour, the sun will set, and in another hour the moon will have risen; then all must be accomplished. It will soon be time to commence the work.”

“Then, I should think it was time to entrust me with some idea of what it is,” said Franziska, looking at him.

“Well, lady,” he replied, turning towards her, and his voice was very solemn, “I entreat you, Franziska von Fahnenberg, for your own good, and as you love the father who clings to you with his whole soul, that you will weigh well my words, and that you will not interrupt me with questions which I cannot answer until the work is completed. Your life is in the greatest danger from the illness under which you are labouring; indeed, you are irrecoverably lost if you do not fully carry out what I shall now impart to you. Now, promise me to do implicitly as I shall tell you; I pledge you my knightly word it is nothing against Heaven, or the honour of your house; and, besides, it is the sole means for saving you.” With these words, he held out his right hand to his companion, while he raised the other to heaven in confirmation of his oath.

“I promise you,” said Franziska, visibly moved by Woislaw’s solemn tone, as she laid her little white and wasted hand in his.

“Then, come; it is time,” was his reply, as he led her towards the church. The last rays of the sun were just pouring through the broken windows. They entered the chancel, the best preserved part of the whole building; here there were still some old kneeling-stools, placed before the high-altar, although nothing remained of that but the stonework and a few steps; the pictures and decorations had all vanished.

“Say an Ave; you will have need of it,” said Woislaw, as he himself fell on his knees.

Franziska knelt beside him, and repeated a short prayer. After a few moments, both rose. “The moment has arrived! The sun sinks, and before the moon rises, all must be over,” said Woislaw quickly.

“What am I to do?” asked Franziska cheerfully.

“You see there that open vault!” replied the knight Woislaw, pointing to the door and flight of steps: “You must descend. You must go alone; I may not accompany you. When you have reached the vault you will find, close to the entrance, a coffin, on which is placed a small packet. Open this packet, and you will find three long iron nails and a hammer. Then pause for a moment; but when I begin to repeat the Credo in a loud voice, knock with all your might, first one nail, then a second, and then a third, into the lid of the coffin, right up to their heads.”

Franziska stood thunderstruck; her whole body trembled, and she could not utter a word. Woislaw perceived it.

“Take courage, dear lady!” said he. “Think that you are in the hands of Heaven, and that without the will of your Creator, not a hair can fall from your head. Besides, I repeat, there is no danger.”

“Well, then, I will do it,” cried Franziska, in some measure regaining courage.

“Whatever you may hear, whatever takes place inside the coffin,” continued Woislaw, “must have no effect upon you. Drive the nails well in, without flinching: your work must be finished before my prayer comes to an end.”

Franziska shuddered, but again recovered herself. “I will do it; Heaven will send me strength,” she murmured softly.

“There is one thing more,” said Woislaw hesitatingly; “perhaps it is the hardest of all I have proposed, but without it your cure will not be complete. When you have done as I have told you, a sort of” — he hesitated — “a sort of liquid will flow from the coffin; in this dip your finger, and besmear the scratch on your throat.”

“Horrible!” cried Franziska. “This liquid is blood. A human being lies in the coffin.”

“An unearthly one lies therein! That blood is your own, but it flows in other veins,” said Woislaw gloomily. “Ask no more; the sand is running out.”

Franziska summoned up all her powers of mind and body, went towards the steps which led to the vault, and Woislaw sank on his knees before the altar in quiet prayer. When the lady had descended, she found herself before the coffin on which lay the packet before mentioned. A sort of twilight reigned in the vault, and everything around was so still and peaceful, that she felt more calm, and going up to the coffin, opened the packet. She had hardly seen that a hammer and three long nails were its contents when suddenly Woislaw’s voice rang through the church, and broke the stillness of the aisles. Franziska started, but recognized the appointed prayer. She seized one of the nails, and with one stroke of the hammer drove it at least an inch into the cover. All was still; nothing was heard but the echo of the stroke. Taking heart, the maiden grasped the hammer with both hands, and struck the nail twice with all her might, right up to the head into the wood. At this moment commenced a rustling noise; it seemed as though something in the interior began to move and to struggle. Franziska drew back in alarm. She was already on the point of throwing away the hammer, and flying up the steps, when Woislaw raised his voice so powerfully, and it sounded so entreatingly, that in a sort of excitement, such as

would induce one to rush into a lion’s den, she returned to the coffin, determined to bring things to a conclusion. Hardly knowing what she did, she placed a second nail in the centre of the lid, and after some strokes, this was likewise buried to its head. The struggle now increased fearfully, as if some living creature were striving to burst the coffin. This was so shaken by it, that it cracked and split on all sides. Half distracted, Franziska seized the third nail; she thought no more of her ailments, she only knew herself to be in terrible danger, of what kind she could not guess: in an agony that threatened to rob her of her senses, and in the midst of the turning and cracking of the coffin, in which low groans were flow heard, she struck the third nail in equally tight. At this moment, she began to lose consciousness. She wished to hasten away, but staggered; and mechanically grasping at something to save herself by, she seized the corner of the coffin, and sank fainting beside it on the ground.

A quarter of an hour might have elapsed, when she again opened her eyes. She looked around her. Above was the starry sky, and the moon, which shed her cold light on the ruins and on the tops of the old oak-trees. Franziska was lying outside the church walls, Woislaw on his knees beside her, holding her hand in his.

“Heaven be praised that you live!” he cried, with a sigh of relief. “I was beginning to doubt whether the remedy had not been too severe, and yet it was the only thing to save you.”

Franziska recovered her full consciousness very gradually. The past seemed to her like a dreadful dream. Only a few moments before, that fearful scene; and now this quiet all around her. She hardly dared at first to raise her eyes, and shuddered when she found herself only a few paces removed from the spot where she had undergone such terrible agony. She listened half unconsciously, now to the pacifying words Woislaw addressed to her, now to the whistling of the servant, who stood by the horses, and who, to wile away his time, was imitating the evening-song of a belated cow-herd.

“Let us go,” whispered Franziska, as she strove to raise herself “But what is this? My shoulder is wet, my throat, my hand —”

“It is probably the evening dew on the grass,” said Woislaw gently.

“No; it is blood!” she cried, springing up with horror in her tone. “See, my hand is full of blood!”

“Oh, you are mistaken — surely mistaken,” said Woislaw stammering. “Or perhaps the wound on your neck may have opened! Pray, feel whether this is the case.” He seized her hand, and directed it to the spot.

“I do not perceive anything; I feel no pain,” she said at length, somewhat angrily.

“Then, perhaps, when you fainted, you may have struck a corner of the coffin, or have torn yourself with the point of one of the nails,” suggested Woislaw.

“Oh, of what do you remind me!” cried Franziska shuddering. “Let us away — away! I entreat you, come! I will not remain a moment longer near this dreadful, dreadful place.”

They descended the path much quicker than they came. Woislaw placed his companion on her horse, and they were soon on their way home.

When they approached the castle, Franziska began to inundate her protector with questions about the preceding adventure; but he declared that her present state of excitement must make him defer all explanations till the morning, when her curiosity should be satisfied. On their arrival, he conducted her at once to her room, and told the knight his daughter was too much fatigued with her ride to appear at the supper-table. On the following morning, Franziska rose earlier than she had done for a long time. She assured her friend it was the first time since her illness commenced that she had been really refreshed by her sleep, and, what was still more remarkable, she had not been troubled by her old terrible dream. Her improved looks were not only remarked Bertha, but by Franz and the knight; and with Woislaw’s permission, she related the adventures of the previous evening. No sooner bad she concluded, than Woislaw was completely stormed with questions about such a strange occurrence.

“Have you” said the latter, turning towards his host, “ever heard of Vampires?”

“Often,” replied he; “but I have never believed in them.”

“Nor did I,” said Woislaw; “but I have been assured of their existence by experience.”

“Oh, tell us what occurred,” cried Bertha eagerly, as a light seemed to dawn on her.

“It was during my first campaign in Hungary,” began Woislaw, “when I was rendered helpless for some time by this sword-cut of a janizary across my face, and another on my shoulder. I had been taken into the house of a respectable family in a small town. It consisted of the father and mother, and a daughter about twenty years of age. They obtained their living by selling the very good wine of the country, and the taproom was always full of visitors. Although the family were well to do in the world, there seemed to brood over them a continual melancholy, caused by the constant illness of the only daughter, a very pretty and excellent girl. She had always bloomed like a rose, but for some months she had been getting so thin and wasted, and that without any satisfactory reason: they tried every means to restore her, but in vain. As the army had encamped quite in the neighbourhood, of course a number of people of all countries assembled in the tavern. Amongst these there was one man who came every evening, when the moon shone, who struck everybody by the peculiarity of his manners and appearance; he looked dried up and deathlike, and hardly spoke at all; but what he did say was bitter and sarcastic. Most attention was excited towards him by the circumstance, that although he always ordered a cup of the best wine, and now and then raised it to his lips, the cup was always as full after his departure as at first.”

“This all agrees wonderfully with the appearance of Azzo,” said Bertha, deeply interested.

“The daughter of the house,” continued Woislaw, “became daily worse, despite the aid not only of Christian doctors, but of many amongst the heathen prisoners, who were consulted in the hope that they might have some magical remedy to propose. It was singular that the girl always complained of a dream, in which the unknown guest worried and plagued her.”

“Just the same as your dream, Franziska,” cried Bertha.

“One evening,” resumed Woislaw, “an old Sclavonian — who had made many voyages to Turkey and Greece, and had even seen the New World — and I were sitting over our wine, and sat down at the table. The bottle passed quickly between my friend and me, whilst we talked of all manner of things, of our adventures, and of passages in our lives, both horrible and amusing. We went on chatting thus for about an hour, and drank a tolerable quantity of wine. The unknown had remained perfectly silent the whole time, only smiling contemptuously every now and then. He now paid his money, and was going away. All this had quietly worried me — perhaps the wine had got a little into my head —so I said to the stranger: ‘Hold, you stony stranger; you have hitherto done nothing but listen, and have not even emptied your cup. Now you shall take your turn in telling us something amusing, and if you do not drink up your wine, it shall produce a quarrel between us.’ ‘Yes,’ said the Sclavonian, ‘you must remain; you shall chat and drink, too;’ and he grasped — for although no longer young, he was big and very strong — the stranger by the shoulder, to pull him down to his seat again: the latter, however, although as thin as a skeleton, with one movement of his hand flung the Sclavonian to the middle of the room, and half stunned him for a moment. I now approached to hold the stranger back. I caught him by the arm; and although the springs of my iron hand were less powerful than those I have at present, I must have gripped him rather hard in my anger, for after looking grimly at me for a moment, he bent towards me and whispered in my ear: ‘Let me go from the gripe of your fist, I see you are my brother, therefore do not hinder me from seeking my bloody nourishment. I am hungry!’ Surprised by such words, I let him loose, and almost before I was aware he had left the room. As soon as I had in some degree recovered from my astonishment, I told the Sclavonian what I had heard. He started, evidently alarmed. I asked him to tell me the cause of his fears, and pressed him for an explanation of those extraordinary words. On our way to his lodging, he complied with my request. ‘The stranger,’ said he, ‘is a Vampire!’

“How?” cried the knight, Franziska, and Bertha simultaneously, in a voice of horror. “So this Azzo was —”

“Nothing less. He also was a Vampire!” replied Woislaw. “But at all events his hellish thirst is quenched for ever; he will never return. — But I have not finished. As in my country vampires had never been heard of, I questioned the Sclavonian minutely. He said that in Hungary, Croatia, Dalmatia, and Bosnia, these hellish guests were not uncommon. They were deceased persons, who had either once served as nourishment to vampires, or who had died in deadly sin, or under excommunication; and that whenever the moon shone, they rose from their graves, and sucked the blood of the living.”

“Horrible! ” cried Franziska. “If you had told me all this beforehand, I should never have accomplished the work.”

“So I thought; and yet it must be executed by the sufferers themselves, while some one else performs the devotions,” replied Woislaw. “The Sclavonian,” he continued after a short pause, “added many other facts with regard to these unearthly visitants. He said that whilst their victim wasted, they themselves improved in appearance, and that a vampire possessed enormous strength —”

“Now I can understand the change your false hand produced on Azzo,” interrupted Franz.

“Yes, that was it,” replied Woislaw. “Azzo, as well as the other vampire, mistook its great power for that of a natural one, and concluded I was one of his own species. — You may now imagine, dear lady,” he continued, turning to Franziska, “how alarmed I was at your appearance when I arrived: all you and Bertha told me increased my anxiety; and when I saw Azzo, I could doubt no longer that he was a vampire. As I learned from your account that a grave with the name Ezzelin von Klatka lay in the neighbourhood, I had no doubt that you might be saved if I could only induce you to assist me. It did not appear to me advisable to impart the whole facts of the case, for your bodily powers were so impaired, that an idea of the horrors before you might have quite unfitted you for the exertion; for this reason, I arranged everything in the manner in which it has taken place.”

“You did wisely,” replied Franziska shuddering. “I can never be grateful enough to you. Had I known what was required of me, I never could have undertaken the deed.”

“That was what I feared,” said Woislaw; “but fortune has favoured us all through.”

“And what became of the unfortunate girl in Hungary? ” inquired Bertha.

“I know not,” replied Woislaw. “That very evening there was an alarm of Turks, and we were ordered off. I never beard anything more of her.”

The conversation upon these strange occurrences continued for some time longer. The knight determined to have the vault at Klatka walled up for ever. This took place on the following day; the knight alleging as a reason that he did not wish the dead to be disturbed by irreverent hands.

Franziska recovered gradually. Her health had been so severely shaken, that it was long ere her strength was so much restored as to allow of her being considered out of danger. The young lady’s character underwent a great change in the interval. Its former strength was, perhaps, in some degree diminished, but in place of that, she had acquired a benevolent softness, which brought out all her best qualities. Franz continued his attentions to his cousin; but, perhaps, owing to a hint from Bertha, he was less assiduous in his exhibition of them. His inclinations did not lead him to the battle, the camp, or the attainment of honours; his great aim was to increase the good condition and happiness of his tenants, and to this he contributed the whole energy of his mind. Franziska could not withstand the unobtrusive signs of the young man’s continued attachment; and it was not long ere the credit she was obliged to yield to his noble efforts for the welfare of his fellow-creatures, changed into a liking, which went on increasing, until at length it assumed the character of love. As Woislaw insisted on making Bertha his wife before he returned to Silesia, it was arranged that the marriage should take place at their present abode. How joyful was the surprise of the knight of Fahnenberg, when his daughter and Franz likewise entreated his blessing, and expressed their desire of being united on the same day! That day soon came round, and it saw the bright looks of two happy couples.

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