path: root/58753-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58753 ***












THE ROSES OF SAINT ELIZABETH




  WORKS OF
  JANE SCOTT WOODRUFF

  The Little Christmas Shoe      $ .50

  The Roses of Saint Elizabeth    1.00

  L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
  New England Building
  Boston, Mass.




[Illustration: “_So trustful of their little mistress_”
(_See page 33_)]




  The Roses of Saint Elizabeth

  _BY_
  Jane Scott Woodruff

  _Author of_
  “_The Little Christmas Shoe_,” _etc._

  _ILLUSTRATED IN COLOURS BY_
  Adelaide Eberhart

  [Illustration]

  L. C. Page & Company
  Boston      Mcmvi




  _Copyright, 1905, by
  L. C. PAGE & COMPANY_
  (_Incorporated_)

  _All rights reserved_

  _Published August, 1905_

  [Illustration]

  _COLONIAL PRESS_
  _Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
  Boston, U.S.A._




  TO
  My husband




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[Illustration]

                                             PAGE

  “So trustful of their little mistress”
       (_See page 33_)             _Frontispiece_

  “It was the Ivy which had spoken”            29

  “The breath of roses all about her”          68

  “She beheld ... a wretched beggar,
       shivering with cold”                    75

  “Long they sat there by the Rose-bush”      146




THE ROSES OF SAINT ELIZABETH

I.


From a hill which overlooks the smiling little town of Eisenach, frowns
the grim old castle of the Wartburg. It is a gloomy-looking place, with
its vast chambers, and long, winding corridors of stone; and yet, that
it has held at least one bit of brightness, all would agree who had
ever seen the smile of Katrina, the caretaker’s little daughter.

It was Katrina’s chief delight to stand at her father’s side when he
unlocked the huge iron portals, and admitted visitors into the castle
court; while not a few of these would stop and say some pleasant word
to the child, or else stroke her golden hair in passing.

To many persons the life of this nine-year-old girl might perhaps seem
very dull; but in Katrina’s happy nature was the spirit of contentment.
However, she had one keen desire,--it was to see inside the ancient
castle. And sometimes, when there were visitors going in, she would beg
her father to take her with him, but he always shook his head, saying:

“No, my child, the chill air of the Wartburg is not for such a tender
plant as thou.”

So she would wait outside, she and the sunbeams together, until her
father’s rounds were finished.

It was a simple, wholesome life that Katrina led, even though it was
within the walls of one of the most noted of all the ancient castles.
Her parents, good, honest folk, were poor, and realized that their
child would have to face the sterner side of life. She was, they
said, already too dreamful and imaginative, so they taught her to be
practical, and, as far as possible, hid the romance of the castle from
her view.

But by degrees much that was weird, as well as romantic, began to weave
itself about the child’s more practical existence like bright threads
woven into gray. And little by little, through a means singularly
strange, she came to be familiar with many of the legends and historic
tales relating to this old Thuringian fortress.

Now, living, as she did, far up on this lonely hilltop, Katrina had few
companions. But there was one who had been her playmate always, and
that was Fritz Albrecht, of Eisenach, the toymaker’s son.

Fritz, to be sure, was five years older than Katrina, but this only
served to make the lad feel responsible as her protector. When a very
little boy, his mother had read to him tales of knighthood and valour;
and now, even though the mother he had loved so dearly had been taken
from him, the seeds of chivalry she had sown in his heart promised to
be fruitful.

It was a quaint little house in which Fritz and his father lived, and
where the latter had his workshop. But quainter still was the house
that faced them across the narrow street paved with cobblestones, and
on which Fritz was accustomed to look daily.

From his frequent visits to it, the boy knew every room in this old
house with its queer gables and red-tiled roof. But never would he
forget the day, not long before she died, when his mother had taken him
into a certain small room over the entrance, and, holding his chubby
hand in hers, had said, in her gentle fashion:

“My little Fritz, thou art in the room which sheltered the great
Martin Luther when he was a lad scarcely older than thyself. Ponder
well what I am telling thee, and when thou art older thou must learn
about the splendid work that Luther did. And there,” the mother added,
as she pointed to the portrait of a sweet-faced woman, “is the good
Widow Cotta. It was she who heard little Martin Luther singing in the
streets, and, out of the goodness of her mother-heart, for she had
children of her own, took him in and gave him a home here with her own
family.”

That was all his mother had told him about Martin Luther, but it
aroused in Fritz a desire to know more about the boy who had earned the
money to go to school by singing carols in these same streets where
he, Fritz, walked every day.

For many months, as he passed some of the more ancient-looking houses,
Fritz would often stop and gaze up at the windows with their tiny
panes, saying, as he did so:

“I wonder if the people who lived here long ago heard him singing, and
if they threw money to him out of these same windows.”

Very often he had talked about it to Katrina, and she never tired of
listening.

“Some day I’ll take thee there, Katrina, indeed I will, and show thee
the very bed little Martin Luther slept in.”

“Yes,” was Katrina’s answer, eagerness shining in her big blue eyes.
“I want to go and see it all, and,” she added, thoughtfully, “when I’m
grown to be a woman like my own, dear _mütterchen_, I’m going to give
money to every little boy I can. It might help them to be great, too,
some day. The people who gave little Martin Luther money didn’t know
what a great man he was going to be. But,” she added, after a moment’s
pause, “maybe it was the home the good Frau Cotta gave him more than
the money that helped to make him great.”

The two children, as they talked together, were seated on a bench in
the castle courtyard. It was a beautiful summer evening, and Fritz had
begged Katrina to come outside and see the splendid colours of the
sunset: for this boy of fourteen years was even then an artist in his
heart.

For a long while they had been sitting there, their faces toward the
western sky, when suddenly both gave a start, while into Katrina’s eyes
came a look of wonder. But Fritz laid a calming hand on hers.

“It’s the voice, Katrina, the same voice we heard that other evening!
Have no fear; dost thou not remember what it told us?”




II.


Katrina did remember what the voice had said. She recalled the grand,
majestic tones in which it had spoken of the Wartburg.

“How little can you children realize, as you play your youthful games
here in its very shadow, for how many ages this same castle has been
watching the play, not only of children, but of men and women grown!”

“Oh, won’t you tell us something about those men and women?” cried
the boy and girl together, and there was an eager look in both their
faces. All fear had vanished from Katrina, who whispered to her
playmate:

“Canst thou guess, dear Fritz, whose voice it is that speaks?”

The boy shook his head.

“No, and that is the mystery of it all. It seems as though the one who
spoke stood close beside me, and yet, I look all about, and can see no
human being but thyself. Art thou playing me some prank, little one?
But thou couldst not change thy sweet treble for deep bass.” And the
boy laughed gaily at such a notion.

“Yes, my children,” the voice continued, in those same melodious
accents like the notes of a distant organ, “I have seen many
generations come and go. Little has taken place here without my
knowledge.”

“If you’d only tell us some of the wonderful things you’ve seen, we’d
be so happy,” Katrina said.

“Where shall I begin?” and the voice took on a reminiscent tone.

“At the very beginning of it all,” and, as he spoke, Fritz drew nearer
to Katrina. They were filled with a curiosity to hear what the strange
voice might have to tell them.

“Then you would have me to relate how the Wartburg came into existence?
To do that, I must go back very far,--yes, even far beyond the time of
my own presence here. Well, if you will have it so, then follow the
directions that I give you. Go, both of you, and study carefully that
great stone pillar near the entrance yonder. Come back, and tell me
what you find carved upon its double capital.”

Hand in hand the children went. Then, after gazing long at the figure
carved on the crumbling pillar, they returned and said:

“It was the queerest-looking man with a long beard, and he seemed to be
springing from a rock.”

“Just so,” the voice replied. “The image you saw was that of the
founder of this castle, and his name was Ludwig the Leaper.”

“Ludwig the Leaper!” Fritz exclaimed. “How did anybody ever come to
have such a funny name as that?”

“It is exactly what I am about to tell you,” said the voice with some
impatience; “do not interrupt me. You shall hear it all in time. It was
in the year 1067,” the voice went on to say, “that Ludwig, while riding
through the country, came upon this beautiful hill. He saw that it was
a splendid site on which to build a castle, and with joy exclaimed:

“‘_Wart Berg, du sollst mir eine Berg werden._’[1]

  [1] “Wait Hill, thou shalt become my hold.”

“And very soon this stronghold was begun. A severe famine fell upon the
land during the time the castle was being built, and every stone meant
bread for the hungry poor who helped in its construction. Some brought
the rough stone from the quarry, while others cut it into blocks and
got it ready for the builders.

“After living here in happiness for several years, Ludwig committed a
crime for which he was put in prison, and all of two years lay pining
in an old fortress on the river Saale. But one day he made his escape
by a bold leap into the river.”

“Ah, so!” cried Fritz and Katrina, clapping their hands. “Now we know
why he was called Ludwig the Leaper.”

“Yes,” and, as the voice spoke, there was a low, rustling sound very
much like laughter. “So your curiosity has been appeased! But after
all, I must not chide you for being curious. Had it not been for my
desire to know things, I should not now possess the greatest of all
treasures.”

“The greatest of all treasures! I pray you tell us what the greatest
treasure is?”

But before the voice could answer Fritz’s query, some one called:

“Katrina, Katrina, come at once! I need thee, child, to help me.”

“Yes, _mütterchen_, I’ll come at once.”

Fritz went with Katrina to the postern-door, where Frau Hofer stood,
her white apron and a large iron spoon showing that she had been busy
with preparations for their supper.

“Come in, Fritz, and break the evening bread with us; thou art always
welcome at our little table.”

There was a caress in Frau Hofer’s voice; she felt warmly for this
motherless boy, the son of her girlhood’s dearest friend.

“Thank thee, Tante Frieda, I can’t come in this time. It’s hard,
though, to resist that odour of gingerbread,” Fritz added with a smile;
“but the father will come home to-night, and I must be there to greet
him.”

“Thy father will be tired from his journey, so thou must have something
hot for him when he comes.”

“Yes, old Gesta promised to make one of her famous stews for him, and
I’ll get out a bottle of his favourite wine.”

“Did he sell all of his toys in Nüremberg?” Frau Hofer asked.

“Yes, and he has orders for all that he can make between now and
Christmas.”

“Then that means thou wilt have to turn toymaker in earnest now, and
help him. Thou hast already had some training in the work. It would be
good to walk along the street and see a sign that read ‘Conrad Albrecht
and Son, Toymakers.’”

Fritz made a wry face and shook his head.

“My tools and these fingers would never be at peace. They were not
intended for each other. Look at my hands, _tante_; can’t you see that
they are far too clumsy for such work?”

And saying this, the boy held up his broad little palms and stretched
his fingers wide apart.

“But,” he added with a smile, “if my work-bench were only a ship, I’d
sail away to distant lands; then, if there were mountains in the way,
I’d tunnel through them, and over the rivers I’d throw great bridges.
And, maybe, when tired of all this,” he added, looking knowingly at
Katrina, “I’d get into my ship again, and sail away and away in search
of the greatest of all treasures.”

Frau Hofer raised a mocking forefinger and smiled:

“We’ll have to put an anchor on thy work-bench and hold thee, lad, or
one of these fine days thou wilt really sail away and leave us.”

“Not while the father lives,” and Fritz’s dark eyes took on a serious
look. “But come!” he suddenly exclaimed; “I’m keeping you both out
here, when there are many duties waiting for you in the home.”

Then, with one of his frank smiles, the boy lifted his cap gallantly
and turned away.




III.


Before Fritz left the courtyard, he stopped beside the bench where
he and Katrina had been sitting. The hope was strong in him that he
might hear the voice again; for there was one question he wished to
ask. And while he stood there, hoping to realize his wish, he watched
the shadows as they crept over the mountains, then into the valley far
below. Only faintly now could he discern the white pathway that wound
over the nearest hill, then down into the Marienthal.

Suddenly, Fritz gave a start of pleasure; the voice was speaking in
those same rich accents.

“So you are looking down there at the Singers’ Way. That is the name of
the white path you see, glistening against the dark green background in
the valley yonder.”

“Yes, I know it well,” said Fritz. “My father has taken Katrina and me
to walk there very often. When we felt tired we’d rest on the Singers’
bench far away at the end, and father would tell us of the minstrels
who used to sing at the castle long ago,--how, when weary with the
journey, they, too, would stop and rest on that same seat.”

“But have you never seen the splendid Minstrels’ Hall, where the bards
who visited the Wartburg in the olden days would sing and play their
harps?”

“No, I have never been inside the castle. Katrina hasn’t been allowed
to go, and I am waiting until we can visit it together.”

“Ah, then you have yet to see the great hall where they held the famous
minstrel contest, which has passed into song and story.”

“I’d like truly to have you tell me about this contest,” was Fritz’s
answer. “Then when we visit the Minstrels’ Hall I can repeat the story
to Katrina.”

“Very well,” the voice responded. “When you and your little friend
enter the great room, you will see a slightly raised platform. This is
called the ‘bower,’ and it was here that the singers performed their
parts when they came before the landgraves and their distinguished
company. Now the famous contest of which I am about to tell you took
place in the time of the good Landgrave Herman.

“At Herman’s court were a company of poets of good birth, the chief of
whom were Wolfram of Eschenbach and Henry of Ofterdingen. This Henry
of Ofterdingen has figured in many a romantic story, and some have
confused him with Tannhäuser, another bard, who lived at a later date.

“Once upon a time,” the voice went on, “when the good Herman and his
wife Sophia, with all their court, were gathered in the Minstrels’
Hall, the singers, one by one, recited the deeds of the Landgrave
Herman. But when it came to the turn of Henry of Ofterdingen he sang
praises to the Duke of Austria, and compared him with the shining
sun. Thus begun, the contest waxed so fierce that it was agreed the
conquered should be put to death. Only by foul play could the other
minstrels worst Henry of Ofterdingen. He, seeing their intentions,
appealed to the Landgravine Sophia for protection. Out of pity the
noble princess shielded him, but gave him his freedom on one condition
only. He must go to Austria, and, in a year’s time, return, bringing
with him as arbitrator the world-renowned master of song, Klingsor of
Hungary.

“Ofterdingen, glad to escape, hastened away to Austria, and sought
the duke whom he had lauded in his songs. The latter received him
graciously, and, besides enriching him with costly gifts, gave him a
letter to Klingsor, who dwelt in his splendid, but solitary, castle in
the Seven Hills.

“To the surprise of every one, Henry of Ofterdingen, accompanied by
Klingsor, appeared before the Wartburg at the appointed time. Now
this Klingsor was an astrologer, who professed to foretell events by
reading them in the stars. And on the first night of his coming to the
Wartburg, he was found seated outside the castle, gazing attentively
at the starry sky. On being asked why he sat looking at the heavens,
Klingsor replied:

“‘Ye must know that this night a daughter is born to my master, King
Andrew of Hungary. She will be called Elizabeth, and lead a saintly
life; furthermore, she is to be wedded to the young prince Ludwig, son
of the Landgrave Herman; and the whole world, but especially Thuringia,
will be blessed with her goodness.’

“The Landgrave Herman, to whom the news was carried, was filled with
joy, and ordered that a great banquet be held in Klingsor’s honour.
Then the contest, the trial of skill, with Klingsor in the lead,
began in earnest. It was not long until he succeeded in overcoming
all the opponents of Ofterdingen with the exception of Wolfram of
Eschenbach,--him he could not conquer.”

At this point the voice ceased speaking, and Fritz waited for several
moments, hoping it would resume the theme, but was disappointed.

“Why,” he asked at last, “could not the mighty Klingsor conquer Wolfram
of Eschenbach?”

Still there was no answer. But after a time the voice went on to say:

“As I told you and your companion, I have watched many generations come
and go. In fact, little has taken place here without my knowledge. I
possess, as I have said before, the greatest of all treasures.”

[Illustration: “_It was the Ivy which had spoken_”]

Then, all of a sudden, something seemed to rivet Fritz’s gaze upon
the rustling leaves of an old vine, which for centuries had hung upon
the castle like a rich, green mantle, and, to his bewilderment, Fritz
realized that it was the Ivy which had spoken.

But what it meant by saying that it possessed the greatest treasure
Fritz did not learn; for when he asked the question, the only sound he
heard was one that came up to him from out of the Marienthal--an echo
of his own words, “the greatest treasure.”




IV.


Katrina had followed her mother into the great, vaultlike hall on the
ground floor of the castle. Then they crossed a narrow passage, where a
door stood open, and out of which came the odour of baking gingerbread
that had tickled Fritz’s nostrils.

Down here in one corner of the castle, on the side where the
morning sun shone brightly, three rooms had been set apart as the
dwelling-place of Rudolf Hofer, caretaker of the castle, his wife, and
their only child. To them the home was very dear, and these three
rooms had for Rudolf many a sweet and sacred memory. It was there
that his parents and grandparents, in fact, many generations of his
ancestors, had dwelt; for, as far back as he could trace it, Rudolf
found that a Hofer had kept the castle keys.

It was to his good wife Frieda, with her refined taste, as well as
thrift, that Rudolf gave full credit for the present cheerfulness of
what might have been a very cold, forbidding habitation. But, instead
of dull lifelessness, every window-ledge was gay with potted plants,
which gave out their treasured blossoms to the sunshine. While it was
to Frieda’s, and even Katrina’s little hands, that the bright rows of
tin and copper vessels, arranged along the kitchen walls, owed their
glint and sparkle, when the firelight shone upon them.

From her mother, Dame Frieda had inherited the domestic virtues of her
class, and now, in her own turn, she desired to cultivate in Katrina,
child though she was, a love for the household arts; for, as she would
say:

“Thou’lt be a wife thyself, one day, my _mädchen_, and it behoves thee
to be a good one.”

So Katrina had her regular daily tasks. In the morning she gave
attention to her flowers and fed her flock of pigeons housed in
the old South Tower. They would come down into the courtyard, when
Katrina appeared with her pan of grain for their breakfast; while
some were even so trustful of their little mistress as to perch upon
her shoulders, and eat the grain from her hand. Then, those tasks
finished, Katrina would go into her own room, with its pretty but
simple furnishings, its dainty white drapery, and set things in order
there. Other duties followed this; sometimes it was to help her mother
in the kitchen, or else she would take her knitting and sit out in the
sunshine of the castle court.

As soon as they came into the kitchen after leaving Fritz, Katrina’s
mother began to busy herself with her baking.

“Rudolf will be pleased with the gingerbread,” she murmured, as she
opened the oven door whence came the savoury odours; “he is very fond
of it, and it has been a long while since he has eaten any. Now,”
continued Frieda aloud, as she turned and looked over her shoulder,
“thou, Katrina, canst set the table. The father will be coming soon; he
has had a busy day, and I know he will be very tired.”

“Yes, little mother, there were many visitors to-day. I was at the
gates when most of them came in. One of the ladies who stopped and
spoke to me said something about my living in the same castle where
the good Saint Elizabeth had lived. Did a saint ever live here,
_mütterchen_?”

“Yes,” Frau Hofer answered, “we might say in truth that two saints
have lived here at the Wartburg; for surely Martin Luther also was a
saint!”

“Oh, did he, did Martin Luther live here?” Katrina cried. “I thought he
lived in the Widow Cotta’s house at Eisenach.”

“Yes, he lived in both places for awhile. It was as a little schoolboy
that he spent some time in Frau Cotta’s home. Here at the Wartburg, as
a man, he dwelt in concealment for about a year, under the protection
of the Elector Frederick. He was supposed to be a prisoner,” Frieda
added, “but he had the freedom of a guest. In his disguise as
‘Squire George’ he would roam about the country, sometimes gathering
strawberries on the hill, sometimes visiting the neighbouring
monasteries, but he never went far unattended.”

“But why was he a prisoner, little mother? Thou hast just said the
Elector was his friend.”

“It was necessary to conceal him from his enemies,” the mother
answered. “But wait, my child, until thou art a little older and canst
understand; then I will explain the cause of his being made a prisoner.
Here at the Wartburg,” she added, after a moment’s pause, “he did a
great work for mankind. It was in his room over there in the Knight’s
House, that Luther made his translation of the Bible.”

Katrina’s eyes were wide with interest, but before she could ask other
questions about Luther or Saint Elizabeth, the door opened, and her
father came into the room. He kissed his wife and took Katrina in his
strong arms, where, from a tiny child, she had loved to nestle.

“I’ll not let thee hold me long, father, only just a minute. Thou must
surely be very tired; thou hast shown so many through the castle.
Dost thou remember the lady who stopped and spoke to me about Saint
Elizabeth? Such a beautiful light seemed to be shining from her face.”

“Yes, I remember her very well,” Rudolf answered. “She and the friends
with her were Americans. I was told that she is the head of some noble
order in her country; but what it is, I couldn’t understand.”

Katrina, in the meantime, had finished setting the table, which, though
simple with its service of quaint blue china, was made attractive by a
vase filled with crimson roses. She had gathered them that afternoon
from a bush growing near the castle gates. So now, after Frieda had
placed the dainty meal upon the table, they all stood for a moment,
their heads bowed, while Rudolf asked a blessing on the food.




V.


As the three sat at table, Rudolf talked to his wife and Katrina about
some of the happenings of the day. It was his custom to say little in
regard to the castle, or the visitors who came there. For, as has been
said before, both he and Frieda thought it better that their child
should know the more practical things of life, so the romance of the
castle was hidden from her.

This evening seemed to be an exception, though, and Rudolf talked more
freely than he had ever done before, while Katrina asked him many
questions. She wanted to hear more about the beautiful lady who had
stopped and spoken to her of Saint Elizabeth.

“The very first place the lady wished to see,” her father said, in
answer to her eager questions, “was the Elizabethan Gallery, and she
spent a long time gazing at the pictures. But,” he continued in a low
tone, while it was evident that his feelings were greatly stirred, “it
was when she stood before the painting in which the holy Elizabeth
gives bread to the hungry poor that I noticed the same thing you spoke
of, little daughter,--a strange, beautiful light seemed to be shining
from the lady’s face.”

Rudolf paused as the scene in the Elizabethan Gallery rose again
before him; then as he was about to resume his story, all three were
startled by some one knocking at the door. In answer to the summons to
enter, Fritz, all white and trembling, came into the room.

“What is it, my boy?” Frieda and Rudolf both exclaimed; for they saw
instantly that he was the bearer of bad tidings.

“There’s been an awful wreck between here and Nüremberg. I heard the
news as soon as I got down to Eisenach. The town is all excitement,
for they say many have been killed or badly injured. Oh, my poor, poor
father!”

With that Fritz could say no more, but sank into a chair. Frieda
poured out a glass of water and held it to his lips; then wetting
her handkerchief, she gently bathed his aching temples, while little
Katrina walked over to where he sat, and took her playmate by the hand.

“But,” said Rudolf, reassuringly, “thou art by no means certain thy
father has been injured; so take courage! Still, even if thou shouldst
find that he has suffered with the others, thou must be very brave and
help him bear it. But come, _bübchen_, let us not tarry. I’ll go down
with thee right away.”

As the two hurried down the mountain road they could see the city
lights far below them. The houses themselves were invisible, having
melted into the gray of the long German twilight.

On drawing near the town, Fritz, spurred by his great anxiety, broke
into a run, and Rudolf had not the heart to check him. In the streets
they found much confusion; people were hurrying to and fro. The most of
them, however, were making their way to the station, and it was there
that Fritz, followed by Rudolf, turned his steps. Suddenly he caught
sight of one of his young friends and called to him.

“Do you know who was hurt, Heinrich?”

The boy stopped for a moment and stared at Fritz.

“Why, haven’t you heard that Count von Scholtz and his Excellency the
Mayor have been badly knocked up, maybe killed? There have been other,
too, they say.”

“Who were the others?” Fritz exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” Heinrich answered. “Those were the most important ones;
I haven’t heard who the others were.”

But already Fritz had hurried on; and it was but a moment now, until he
and Rudolf had reached the station, where a crowd had gathered.

To Fritz the moments of their waiting seemed hours long. But at last
some one gave the signal that the train was coming, and all listened
with keen attention, while they crowded even closer to the gates.

Presently a succession of low whistles could be plainly heard; then
a few moments later the relief train, with its weight of human
suffering, steamed slowly into view. Fritz felt his breath coming in
quick gasps. Those were anxious moments that he had to wait.

“Take heart, my boy,” Rudolf whispered.

By this time the injured were being lifted carefully from the different
coaches, and laid upon the waiting cots. But in the uncertain light
shed by the station lamps, it was hard to distinguish any one, the
lights flickered so and cast long shadows across the ground.

Suddenly, a murmur went up from the crowd as a stretcher, borne by four
men, was carried by.

“There’s Count von Scholtz!” many persons were heard to say. But Fritz
gave no heed to this. He was gazing at a tall figure just behind the
cot on which lay the injured nobleman, and with a cry of “Father!”
would have broken through the line of guards, who stood ready to check
the surging crowd, but they held him back. So he and Rudolf could only
wait.

Now the cot bearing the Count von Scholtz was lifted to an ambulance;
but before the doors were closed, one of the attendants, wearing the
Geneva cross upon his arm, turned and whispered something to Conrad
Albrecht. The toymaker, in response, went and stood upon the iron step
while the injured man evidently spoke to him, for Fritz saw that his
father made some reply. Then the ambulance doors were shut, and the
wheels began to grate slowly on the road.

Conrad Albrecht began to make his way through the crowd, and as he came
forward it could now be plainly seen that both hands were wrapped in
linen bandages,--those useful hands, which for many years had furnished
happiness to little children far and near; for few were so skilled as
he in making toys. And to see those helpless hands smote Fritz and
Rudolf to the heart.




VI.


The next morning Katrina, in a blue cotton frock, her golden hair
curled prettily, stood at the entrance to the castle. She was waiting
there to see the lady who had spoken to her of Saint Elizabeth. Her
father said the lady had told him she would come. In the child’s hands
was a bunch of crimson roses gathered from the bush just outside the
gates.

Katrina had not been there long when she heard the sound of wheels,
and, looking down, she saw a carriage in which were two ladies and a
gentleman, being driven slowly up the Wartburg hill. One of the ladies
was she for whom Katrina had stood waiting, and the little girl felt
her heart beat faster and faster, as she saw the three visitors step
from the carriage and make their way up toward the castle.

“Ah, you are here again, my dear,” the lady said, as she came upon
Katrina standing at the gate. “I am very glad to see you, but we shall
not be satisfied to-day to leave you outside; you must come into the
castle with us.”

But at that moment Katrina’s thoughts were upon her roses, and the
purpose for which they had been gathered.

“These are for you, _gnadige frau_,” Katrina said, her voice trembling
with a sudden childish fear, and she held out her lovely crimson
offering toward the lady.

“The roses of Saint Elizabeth!” the lady murmured, as she took them in
her hand. “How beautiful they are, and how good you are, my child, to
give them to me.”

Again Katrina caught the name “Saint Elizabeth”; but why the lady
should have called them “the roses of Saint Elizabeth” Katrina did not
understand.

“You must come with me to the Elizabethan Gallery,” the lady went on to
say. “I want to show you the pictures there. You will see these same
beautiful crimson roses and learn a lesson from them.”

“Won’t you please tell me what the lesson is?” asked Katrina, very
softly.

The lady looked into the great searching eyes and answered: “They will
teach you that under the power of love, or goodness, even the simplest,
homeliest thing may be transformed, that is to say changed, into a
thing of beauty. This picture of which I speak represents Elizabeth
on her errands of mercy. She is carrying a basket of food to the poor
of Eisenach when her husband meets her on the way. He wishes to know
what she carries in her basket, and lifts the top to see. On looking
in he beholds, not bread, with which she had started on her way, but
exquisite and fragrant crimson roses,--such roses, my dear, as these.”

With this the speaker stooped and kissed Katrina on the forehead; while
at the same moment the child caught sight of a small, silver Maltese
cross shining on the lady’s breast.

“Now, Katrina, we must not keep the others waiting. Come with me;
I want my good friends over here to know such a dear little castle
maiden.” Whereupon the lady led the way to where her two companions
stood. Both Mrs. Shaler and her son, when Katrina was introduced, and
made them a quaint and pretty curtsy, showed much pleasure; while
the former whispered something about the dear, old-fashioned child.
To the little girl’s delight, she found that all three of her new
acquaintances spoke her own language well. They had spent several
years in Germany, and Mr. Robert Shaler had only lately taken a degree
at Leipsic.

“You will go with us, won’t you, dear? Your father will be willing, I
am sure.” The lady, as she spoke, looked questioningly toward Rudolf,
who, with a bunch of keys swinging in his hand, had just come out to
meet them and show them through the castle.

“But Fritz!” the child protested as her father, having given his
consent, selected one of the keys, with which he unlocked the iron
gates.

“Who is Fritz?” the lady asked.

“He’s my comrade,” replied Katrina; “and he has waited a long, long
time to see the castle. He’s had so many chances; but he said he
wouldn’t go inside until I could see it with him. What would he think
if I should go without him!”

“Then, if you and Fritz have agreed to go together, you must surely
carry out your promise; so we will take him with us.”

“But Fritz isn’t here,” and there was a look of distress in the child’s
usually sunny face. “He lives down there in Eisenach.”

At this point Robert Shaler offered a suggestion; he would go in the
carriage and bring Fritz back with him.

“If it wouldn’t put you to any inconvenience,” Rudolf said, “I might
drive down and get the lad myself. I would like to ask how his father
is; he was injured yesterday in a wreck. Here, Hans, take my place,”
and Rudolf, the visitors having assented readily to his wish, handed
the bunch of keys to a young assistant who had come in answer to his
signal.

“But,” said Katrina’s friend, “we prefer to wait until you return with
Fritz; for we must all go in together. Katrina shall have her wish.”

“We can entertain ourselves out here in the courtyard,” Mrs. Shaler
said, after Rudolf had driven off; “there is almost as much to interest
one outside as inside these ancient strongholds.”

Then after looking at the old drawbridge, and other relics of that
feudal past, they all sat down upon the outer wall to enjoy the
beautiful panorama far below them.




VII.


Robert Shaler was the first to break the silence.

“There is but one request I have to make,” he said, as he knocked the
ashes from his cigar.

“What is it, Robert? One request is very moderate indeed; isn’t that
so, Emily?”

As she spoke Katrina’s friend turned to Mrs. Shaler with a smile.

“It is that you and mother will promise not to spend the whole time in
the Elizabethan Gallery, but will allow me to see just one other room.”
In the young man’s gray eyes was the suspicion of a twinkle, even in
spite of the earnestness of his wish.

“And what room do you want to see, my son?”

“I want to see the one in which Martin Luther stayed.”

At this Katrina gave a little start. She recalled what her mother
had told her only the night before about Martin Luther having been a
prisoner at the Wartburg. How much she, too, would love to see that
room!

“Yes, Robert, we must surely see it,” said Katrina’s friend. “No
pilgrim to the Wartburg would ever be satisfied to go away without a
visit to that room where the great Reformer accomplished some of his
grandest work for mankind.” And as she spoke, the lady, under some
sudden impulse, laid her white hand upon the little silver cross she
wore.

“There is a question I have sometimes asked myself,” said Robert
Shaler, “and have never been able to answer to my satisfaction; so I
will put it to you and mother. Which of all the influences brought to
bear on Luther’s life seems to you to have been the strongest? In other
words, which did the most in directing him toward the path he chose?”

“I should say,” Mrs. Shaler answered, “that it was the fact of his
being born of such good and honest parents as were Hans and Margaret
Luther. No,” she added, after a moment of reflection, “it must have
been when his dear friend Alexis, as they walked one day in the woods
together, and were overtaken by a storm, was struck by a bolt of
lightning and fell dead beside him. It was a bitter grief to Martin
Luther, and the event is said by some to have changed the whole current
of his life.”

“It seems to me,” said Katrina’s friend in her gentle, yet forceful
way, and again her hand sought the little silver cross,--“it seems to
me that it might be traced to the day when, in searching through the
library of his university, Luther found a Bible, opened it, and, for
the first time, read the Book of Samuel. In those days, my dear,” she
said in explanation to Katrina, “even students were permitted to read
only certain portions of the Scriptures. This story of how the boy
Samuel had been taken to the Temple by his mother, and dedicated to the
service of the Lord, impressed him very deeply. Then there took root
within his own ardent nature a purpose that was steadfast--to know the
way of life from God’s sacred Word itself. And was not this, after all,
the message that he left us?”

Katrina had been listening with keen attention; she remembered what
Fritz had told her about the Cotta house at Eisenach. As their talk
of the previous evening all came back to her--how she had wondered if
it had not been the Widow Cotta’s kindness that had helped to make
Luther great, Katrina made up her mind to ask the question now. But
even though her heart beat faster at the very thought of speaking, the
little girl was about to do so when the lady took up the thread again
and continued in her same sweet tone.

“To be sure, outside influences must affect one very deeply, but it
seems to me that the true greatness of a soul must come from within
that soul itself.”

As she spoke the lady looked down at Katrina, and saw the puzzled look
in the childish face.

“Take this flower, for example,” and, saying this, she held up one of
the fragrant crimson roses. “It is true beyond all question that the
plant which bore this needed moisture, air, and sunshine, as well as
the soil in which it grew--each at its very best,--but even back of all
this does there not stand the fact that this exquisite flowering of the
plant is the fulfilment of its own deep inner nature? Have you ever
thought that it is through no outside influence that the rose becomes
the rose, and the lily becomes the lily? Under such help a rose may be
a better rose, or a lily a better lily; but each develops out of its
own peculiar inner nature.”

Katrina tried hard to understand all that the lady said; and even
though she could not then grasp it fully, she was later to come into a
complete possession of its meaning. At that moment there was the sound
of footsteps, and, looking down, Katrina saw her father coming toward
them.

“Fritz could not come;” was Rudolf’s answer to her eager question.

“My friend,” he said, in explanation to the others, and with evident
distress, “was found to have been more seriously injured than the
doctors thought at first. He is suffering intensely, and Fritz will not
leave his father’s bedside.”

“But you must come, anyway, Katrina,” said Mrs. Shaler, after they had
all expressed their sympathy. “Another time you and Fritz can have your
visit to the castle.”

“No,” Katrina said, “I told Fritz I would go with him, and I must keep
my promise.”

“You are right, my child,” said Katrina’s friend, stooping to kiss her
brow, before she turned toward the entrance with the others. “A promise
is a very sacred thing.”




VIII.


Katrina watched the little party as they went in at the great door
leading to the entrance hall. And her friend, just before she
disappeared from view, having turned, had seen Katrina standing out
there in the sunshine of the court and had waved a farewell to the
child. Then the door closed with a heavy sound and the little one
realized she was all alone. A strange lump rose in her throat and her
blue eyes filled with tears; but she knew that to have kept her promise
was the right thing to have done, so, throwing back her head, she
laughed away the desire to cry.

Some impulse seemed to turn her steps down toward the castle gates.
She walked across the court, past the bench where she and Fritz had
sat together, on beyond the Knight’s House with its memories of Martin
Luther, until she reached the rosebush--the same bush from which she
had gathered the crimson blossoms for the lady.

In her disappointment--for it was indeed a disappointment not to
see, after all, the castle of her dreams--Katrina felt a longing for
friendly sympathy, and something seemed to tell her that she would find
it here. So, after choosing a shady spot, the child sat down in the
soft grass, the breath of roses all about her, and some of the velvet
petals touching her cheek like a gentle caress.

“I’ll love you more than I ever did before,” Katrina whispered, as
she bent even closer to the blossoms. “The lady called you ‘the roses
of Saint Elizabeth,’ and she told me that in the castle I would see a
picture of Saint Elizabeth carrying roses just like you to the poor,
sick people. My dear _mütterchen_ told me about her, too; she said she
was so beautiful and good, and that she lived in this same castle where
we are living now. Oh,” Katrina added with a sigh, “if I only knew more
about her I’d be so glad!”

[Illustration: “_The breath of roses all about her_”]

“Little friend,” whispered a low, sweet voice close to Katrina’s ear,
“I can tell you a great deal about Elizabeth, and I am glad that you
wish to know her story.”

Katrina, startled and surprised, looked all about her; but not a person
could she see.

“Oh,” she said as the thought came to her, “it must be the same voice
that spoke to Fritz and me last evening.”

Yet, even as she said it, Katrina could not but feel that they were not
the same. That voice had been deep and full and rich; this was as soft
and as sweet as the tenderest notes of a harp.

“You do not know, my little friend, that it is the Breath, or Spirit
of the Rose that is speaking to you. Now hearken, and I will tell you
something about Saint Elizabeth, and her life of loving service.

“Once upon a time,” the Rose began, “there lived here at the Wartburg
a Landgrave by the name of Herman. Now Herman, who was a good man,
ruled his people well, and they loved him very dearly. Known far and
wide as a patron of learning and the arts, especially of music, wise
men, poets, and musicians were frequent visitors at his court. It was
from some of these he had learned that to King Andrew of Hungary and
his wife, Queen Gertrude, had been given a little daughter, and her
birth had brought great blessings in its train. For, as was told of
her, in the year she was born, wars in her country had ceased, the
harvests were never so bountiful, and all evil seemed in great measure
to disappear from the land. Not only was she good, but so unusual was
her beauty that all rejoiced at sight of her.

“On hearing these things about the little girl it is said that Herman
exclaimed: ‘Would to God that this fair child might become the wife of
my son Ludwig!’

“In a short time,” the Rose continued, “Herman sent ambassadors to the
King of Hungary to ask for the little princess for his son, and it is
said that King Andrew received them royally. All were laden with gifts,
and when they returned, bringing the little princess, it required over
a dozen wagons to convey the priceless treasures which King Andrew
sent to the Landgrave and his wife Sophia. There were beautiful jewels
and richly embroidered stuffs from the Orient, besides many other
things of value. On the tiny Elizabeth her father had bestowed a cradle
and a bath of pure silver, most strangely and beautifully wrought; also
robes of finest texture exquisitely embroidered in gold, and several
noble women of the court to serve as her attendants.

“On her arrival at the Wartburg, the little princess met with great
rejoicing, and on the following day was betrothed to Prince Ludwig
with solemn ceremony. From the first moment the two children seemed to
love each other, and every one predicted for them a happy and blessed
marriage. Even as a tiny child Elizabeth gave strong evidence of her
goodness, charity, and compassion for the suffering. To the little
children round about, she gave away food and clothes and toys--the poor
of Eisenach soon became her special care.

“Two years after Ludwig was created a knight down there in St. George’s
Church, he and Elizabeth were married. Three days of feasting followed
their wedding, then the young couple went to make a visit at the court
of Elizabeth’s father in Hungary. Ludwig was then in his twentieth
year and Elizabeth was just fifteen. He was tall and fair; while she
possessed the richer, darker beauty of her race and country.

“Her life, even then, was one of pure unselfishness, and she seemed to
have no fancy for the glitter of the court. She preferred to live in
the simplest manner possible, and, often exchanging her apparel for
that of the plainest sort, would go on her errands of mercy among the
sick and the poor.

“One day, however, when Ludwig was entertaining some royal guests, he
requested Elizabeth to attire herself ‘as became his wife and the lady
of his love.’ So she, obedient to his wish, called her maids about
her, and let them clothe her in her royal robes--‘her tunic of green
and gold tissue, her tiara confining her dark tresses, and over her
shoulders her embroidered mantle lined with ermine.’

[Illustration: “_She beheld ... a wretched beggar, shivering with
cold_”]

“Arrayed in this rich apparel, Elizabeth was about to cross one of
the open courts when she beheld prostrate on the pavement a wretched
beggar, shivering with cold and weakened by disease and hunger. She
paused, and, obedient to her divine impulse which had ever gone out to
the suffering, she removed from her shoulders her royal mantle and laid
it upon the shivering beggar. Then she retired to her own apartment,
wondering how she could excuse herself to her husband. At that moment
Ludwig himself came in, and throwing herself into his arms, Elizabeth
confessed what she had done.

“While her husband stood irresolute,” the Rose went on to say, “for
he did not know whether to praise or blame her for the deed, her maid
Gunta came into the chamber, the royal mantle on her arm.

“‘Madam,’ she said, ‘in passing the wardrobe I found this hanging in
its place. Why has your Highness disarrayed yourself?’ And once more
she clasped the royal mantle on the shoulders of her mistress.

“Then Ludwig and Elizabeth went forth, their hearts overflowing with
gratitude and wonder. And when Elizabeth appeared before the guests,
they arose and stood amazed at her beauty, which had never been so
dazzling, ‘for a glory that was more than human seemed to play around
her form and the jewels on her mantle sparkled with a celestial light.’

“Again, one day,” the sweet voice continued, “when Elizabeth was
ministering to her poor at Eisenach, she found a little child cast out
by the rest because he was a leper, and for this reason none would
touch him or even come into his presence. She, moved with pity, took
the loathsome little body in her arms, carried him up the steep hill
to the castle, and laid him on her bed. All who were in the apartment
hurried away, and reproaches were heaped upon her. Ludwig was absent
at the time; but soon his horn was heard outside these gates, and
hastening to him, his mother, the Princess Sophia, told him what
Elizabeth had done. The husband, impatient on hearing that his wife
had taken in her bed a little, leprous child, rushed into the room and
snatched away the coverlid. ‘But behold, instead of the leper there lay
a radiant infant with the features of the new-born Babe in Bethlehem;
and while they stood amazed, the vision smiled and vanished from their
sight.’

“This miracle,” the soft, harplike voice went on to say, “is one of
the most beautiful of the many legends of Saint Elizabeth, and recalls
those sacred words: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these
my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”

With the breath of roses all about her, and the velvet petals so near
that she could touch them, the child had listened eagerly to these
stories of Saint Elizabeth. Then when the Rose fell silent there came
to Katrina’s mind those words which the lady had spoken but a little
while before. She recalled how, holding up a blossom, her friend had
said that it was beautiful because deep down in its own inner nature
there was a beauty which the flower but obeyed. And now, as this
thought wove itself like a thread of gold through those stories of
Elizabeth and her life of love, Katrina began to understand what her
friend had meant.




IX.


Although Conrad Albrecht’s hands had been painfully and even seriously
burned, they had at first given promise of healing; but as the days,
then the weeks, went by, the doctor began to look very grave. Another
physician was called in consultation, and he too was serious; it was a
case of blood poison, they said.

When his father had to remain in bed, Fritz would not leave the room.
He was always ready to attend his father’s slightest wish. Neighbours
came in every day and offered to help the boy; he did not lack
friendly sympathy or service. Rudolf, Frieda, and Katrina came down
from the castle daily, and on every visit Katrina brought a bunch of
her crimson roses. For hours at a time the sick man’s eyes would rest
tenderly upon the blossoms, and they were always placed near enough for
him to enjoy their fragrance. It came about, as the days went by, that
he began to look eagerly for Katrina and her roses; this was the one
bright spot amid dark, suffering hours.

At other times his eyes would wander wistfully to the adjoining
room--his workshop. Here, hanging upon the walls, and scattered upon
his work-bench, were unfinished toys, waiting for the hands which had
begun to fashion them with such loving care. For Conrad Albrecht was
one to whom his work was a constant source of happiness; he rejoiced
in the creations of his hands. The machine had not come in to rob
him of his own individual skill and take away his joy in working.
His imagination, too, had had full play. While his hands were busily
employed, sometimes with a girl’s dainty doll, sometimes with a boy’s
small steam-engine, perfect in every detail, he would picture the
homes and the lives of the children who would one day have the toys in
their possession, often tracing their lives to womanhood and manhood.
So Conrad Albrecht’s days had passed happily enough, and he had been
enriched by the blessing of contentment.

One morning as he lay on his bed of pain, Fritz’s father had turned his
eyes from Katrina’s roses, and for a long while they had rested sadly
on his work-bench with the half-finished toys lying on it. As he lay
there looking into that other room, he was thinking how much comfort it
would give him if Fritz would one day finish those uncompleted toys;
he had come to realize that the task had been taken out of his own
hands for ever. Fritz, sitting at the bedside, noticed the look in his
father’s eyes, and half-guessed its meaning; but before either could
speak, there came a rap on the outer door.

Fritz went at once to answer it, and, to his surprise, he saw the
tall, imposing figure of Count von Scholtz standing on the threshold.
The boy’s amazement made him speechless for a moment. Only a month
or so before he had seen the nobleman, badly injured, borne upon a
stretcher.

“Are you the son of Conrad Albrecht?” the visitor asked on seeing Fritz.

“Yes, your Honour, Fritz Albrecht is my name.”

“I am glad to know you, my boy, glad to know Conrad Albrecht’s son. Is
it possible for me to see your father? I have something of importance
that I wish to say to him.”

“My father is very ill, your Honour, and suffering great pain.”

“I know that, my lad, and it grieves me deeply; but,” he continued, as
he laid his hand on Fritz’s shoulder, “I want especially to see him.
This is my first appearance outside the house, and my doctors objected
to my coming. I told them, though, that I would make this visit to
Conrad Albrecht, cost me what it might.”

By this time they had reached the door of the sick-room, and Fritz went
in first to prepare his father for the unexpected visitor.

“Ah, Albrecht, I am distressed to see you like this; they tell me you
have suffered horribly.” And as he spoke, the nobleman seated himself
in a chair which Fritz placed for him beside the bed.

“Yes, your Honour, I’ve had much pain. At first I thought all would be
right with me in time; but now I realize that the end is near; for the
doctors can give me little hope.”

“Too bad, too bad;” the count shook his head sadly, and Fritz saw
that his eyes were full of tears. “I would give anything I possess,
Albrecht, if it could only save you; and to think that I was the cause
of this!”

Fritz, who had been a silent witness of the scene, was dismayed. How
could Count von Scholtz have caused his father’s accident? At that
moment, as though reading the question in Fritz’s mind, the count
turned and said:

“My lad, do you know that your father saved my life?”

“No, your Honour,” Fritz replied; “my father didn’t tell me.”

“Well, then, I will tell you. In the wreck, the compartment I was
occupying had taken fire, and when I found myself wedged in between
some burning timbers, and escape seemed a thing impossible, I resigned
myself to die. Then it was that your father, himself badly shaken by
the accident, saw me pinned under the pile of débris; and, without one
thought for his own safety, tore away the heavy timbers already in a
blaze. By this time others, seeing the situation, came to our relief;
but it was not until your father’s hands had been badly burned.”

“I was glad, your Honour, to be able to assist you,” said Conrad
Albrecht, feebly.

“Yes, my friend, but to save my life you gave your own; that is
heaven’s own great gift. But, Albrecht, I wish to do the best I can to
prove my gratitude. I have no son, and have come here to ask if you
will let me take your place to Fritz when you are gone. I couldn’t be
to him what you have been, but grant me this wish, and I will try and
fill a father’s place. By adoption he shall be my son. Can you, will
you, say yes to this, Albrecht?”

The look which had come into the face of the stricken man reflected
the conflict in his heart. Two paths were open for his boy, and he,
the father, must decide upon the one for him to take. Here, at the
work-bench, where he had spent many contented years, he saw the quiet,
shaded path of that more tranquil life. Out there was the glare, the
white light of the world,--would his boy be happy in it? Would it bring
him peace, such peace as he, himself, had known and loved? Yet, here
was a great, even a wonderful, opportunity; one day his Fritz’s name
might be known throughout all the Fatherland!

This thought brought a radiant look to the father’s eyes, and with all
the strength at his command he said:

“Yes, your Honour, Fritz shall be your son.”




X.


“Turn the key, Gesta, and let the workshop stay just as my father left
it.”

The old woman wiped her eyes on a corner of her apron.

“And so it’s sure, then, Master Fritz, that you’re going to leave here;
what will the house seem like when you are gone?”

With this the faithful creature broke into a sob.

“But,” said the boy, soothingly, “I’ll come back every little while and
see that you want for nothing. Because I’m going to live in a great
house and have lots of money given to me doesn’t mean that I am going
to forget you. I am my mother’s son, Gesta; you carried my mother in
your arms when she was a little baby. She loved you, and so do I.”

“You’ve always been good to me, Master Fritz. Even when you were a very
little boy you never gave me any trouble; and that makes it all the
harder to see you go. Is it to-morrow, Master Fritz, that Count von
Scholtz is going to send for you?”

“No, the count said he knew I would want to see my friends, and make
some preparations, so it’s not till Thursday that I leave for Grünwald.
But it isn’t so far away, you know, Gesta, that I can’t come back
from time to time to see you and the dear old home. For even if they
do say I’ll walk on velvet carpets, and have beautiful paintings and
marble statuary to look at everywhere I turn my eyes, more books than
I can read, and music whenever I wish, I’ll never love it as I love
this home. They may change my name, too, but I’ll always be the son of
Conrad Albrecht, the toymaker. The count may be ever so good to me, but
he can never take my father’s place!”

Yet, even as he spoke, Fritz was conscious of a strange sensation. He
had felt it only once before, and that was the evening he had remained
outside the castle, after Katrina had gone in, and listened to the Ivy.

Now there came to him the desire to hear that voice again, and, as
twilight was just setting in, he would go alone, and beg the Ivy to
tell him other stories of the castle. So after urging the watchful
Gesta not to be uneasy if he should return a little late, Fritz started
off in the direction of the Wartburg.

It was not very long before he reached the courtyard, where all was
still, and, stealing within the shadow of the wall, Fritz seated
himself upon the same bench on which he had sat that other evening when
the voice had spoken to him of the “greatest treasure.”

One might suppose that the Ivy had been waiting for him, so soon did
it begin to speak to Fritz in those same rich, majestic tones. And
now it told him many things about the men and women who lived in the
castle long ago--about the early landgraves; but more particularly did
it dwell upon the good Herman and his time. Among other stories it told
how Elizabeth had, by accident, found on her husband the crusader’s
cross, and at sight of it had fainted, since it meant that he would
leave her.

“But,” the Ivy said, “when Ludwig explained to her the purpose of the
crusades, Elizabeth not only consented to his going, but went with him
a part way on his journey. However, Ludwig never reached the Holy Land,
but died of a fever just as he was to set sail from Italy.”

This was the only allusion which the Ivy made to Saint Elizabeth; but
it told Fritz of much that happened during the times in which she
lived. It mentioned, for instance, how a knowledge of the arts and
crafts had been brought by the crusaders from the East.

“There were no glass windows in the Wartburg,” the Ivy said, “until the
time of the Landgrave Herman. He had glass panes put into the windows
of the banquet-hall; but in the other windows the panes were all of
mica; for glass, the art of making which was brought by the crusaders
from the Orient, was very rare and costly.

“Now, while speaking of the East,” the Ivy went on to say, “I must tell
you something about a certain great room in the Wartburg called the
Armory. There you will find some rare specimens of old plate armour and
suits of mail--these latter dating as far back as the crusades. One who
gives it any thought can trace from these a gradual unfoldment in the
history of armour. For instance, that of the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries was crude and very simple. The fifteenth century brought an
increase in the use of plates; but it was in the sixteenth century, by
a well-devised fitting together, that the highest development in armour
was attained.”

Fritz found himself listening with keen interest to all that the Ivy
told him; and, after a pause, it went on speaking of the armour and
its history.

“Persons usually have a wrong conception of the armour worn in
the twelfth and thirteenth centuries,” the voice continued. “They
picture the knight as going forth in a glittering mail shirt woven
out of steel; while in reality his coat and hose, as well as his
head-covering, were of leather with iron rings sewn on. Only in the
East did they then understand the art of weaving the steel mail shirt
out of rings. But as every separate ring had to be made by hand, such
equipment was very costly; for wire drawing was not discovered until
the fourteenth century.

“I wonder,” said the Ivy, after a moment’s silence, and so suddenly
that Fritz was startled, “I wonder if you can tell me why the use of
armour began to decline in the seventeenth century?”

“I am sorry to say that I haven’t the slightest idea,” was Fritz’s
answer.

“It was because in that century firearms came into general use,
gunpowder having been invented; so there was no longer any need for
armour.”

But, interested as he was in hearing all of this, it was not what Fritz
had come to the castle for that evening. He had come to put to the Ivy
one single question which for weeks had been revolving in his mind.

“I am going away from here next Thursday,” as he spoke Fritz drew
nearer to the Ivy, “and I want to ask one question before I go. It is
that you will tell me what you meant when you said to me one evening
that you possess the greatest of all treasures.”

Several moments passed before the Ivy answered; but at last it said:

“I know your desire is a sincere one, and I intend to grant it. But
first promise me that you will search far and wide, until you, too,
come into possession of this mighty treasure--the greatest in all the
world.”

“I promise you,” said Fritz.

“Well, then,” and the Ivy spoke in tones more melodious than any Fritz
had ever heard before, but so low that he alone could hear the name.

The boy caught his breath with eagerness, and clenched his hands until
the flesh showed the imprint of his nails.

“Yes,” he declared, his face all aglow with determination, “I’ll go to
the very ends of the earth to find it!”

Then all at once Fritz seemed to see, as though it were a picture
stretching out before him, that new life he was about to enter with its
promise of riches, the opportunity to gratify all ambition--while the
name of what the Ivy declared to be the greatest treasure kept ringing
like music in his ears.




XI.


The following morning Fritz went early to the Wartburg. This, his last
day, he would spend with his little playmate. Some time before he
reached the castle, as he was walking up the hill, he caught sight of
Katrina standing in the courtyard.

She made a lovely picture dressed in white, with her pigeons all about
her; while in the background was the old, ivy-covered wall. Back
and forth her pets were swarming; some ate the grain she had just
scattered on the ground, while others preened themselves upon the brink
of the now dilapidated fountain.

But as Fritz drew near, and his footsteps sounded on the gravel, there
was a scurry and a rustle of wings; while very soon the birds were lost
to sight in their lofty retreat in the tower. Katrina, however, the
moment she spied Fritz coming, gave a little cry of pleasure, and ran
to the gates to meet him.

“I was sure that thou wouldst come,” she said, “and dost thou know,
Fritz, I could declare I heard thee walking here last evening, I know
thy step so well. But,” the little girl added, as she took her playmate
by the hand, “_mütterchen_ said it was only fancy, that of course you
wouldn’t be here at the castle without coming in to see us. I knew that
too, Fritz; so though I thought I heard thee passing the window twice,
I laughed at the very thought of thy going by just as if thou wert a
ghost.”

To this Fritz said not a word. For some reason he felt that he wished
to keep as a secret that which the Ivy told him; so, in consequence,
would say nothing about his twilight visit to the Wartburg.

“Fritz, Fritz!” Katrina suddenly exclaimed, and it seemed as though
a cloud had passed suddenly across the sun, so quick was the change
in Katrina’s face. “Is it true that thou art really going to leave
to-morrow?”

“Yes, Katrina, the count has written that he will send for me Thursday
morning. Thou knowest the promise my father made him. But at first the
count was too ill to send for me; in fact it was only the other day he
was told of my father’s death.”

There were tears in Katrina’s eyes.

“What am I going to do, Fritz? I sha’n’t have any one at all to play
with. Dost thou really want to go away and leave me?”

“No, no, little sister; but sometimes it falls to our lot to do things
that we don’t quite wish to do. Thou knowest what duty is, Katrina?”

“Yes,” replied the little girl, “_mütterchen_ has told me that I must
always do my duty, no matter how disagreeable the task may be.”

As she spoke, there came into the sweet childish face the promise of a
nobility that would know so well how to translate duty into happiness;
while, as for Fritz, he was one day to learn that ambition sometimes
appears at our gates disguised as duty, and in our blindness we bid him
enter.

“Is thy father here, Katrina?” Fritz asked a moment later. “Ah, yes,”
he added before Katrina had time to answer, “there he is, over near the
belfry; he and Hans are talking.”

“So thou hast come, Fritz, to claim the promise I made thee yesterday
in Eisenach;” and, as he spoke, Rudolf came over to where the children
stood. “I told thee, I remember, that as thou art going away so soon, I
would give thee and the _mädchen_ here a glimpse into the castle.”

Both Fritz and Katrina were delighted, and the latter, catching one of
her father’s hands, kissed it rapturously.

“It will have to be only a little visit, though, as I’ll be very busy
later in the morning, so where shall we begin?”

“This is to be your treat, Herr Rudolf,” Fritz replied; “so we’ll leave
the choice to you.”

“Well, then, suppose we begin out here with the rooms where Martin
Luther stayed when he was a prisoner at the Wartburg.”

“Yes, yes, show us Luther’s rooms!” and the two children took Rudolf by
either hand.

He led them across the courtyard, past the old stables now converted
into a brewery; on beyond the barbican, the south tower, and the
belfry, until they reached the Knight’s House, sacred with its memories
and traditions of Martin Luther.




XII.


“It was here,” Rudolf explained, when they had reached the entrance to
the Knight’s House, “that the great Reformer was kept in captivity for
a year.”

“Yes,” Katrina interposed, “_mütterchen_ told me this, and so did the
lady with the silver cross; but they didn’t tell me why he was made a
prisoner.”

“That was because he opposed certain teachings of his time, and,” her
father added, forcefully, “had the courage to be steadfast to what he
believed to be the truth.”

“It would be good, Herr Rudolf,” suggested Fritz, “if you would tell
Katrina and me the story of Martin Luther before we go inside the
castle. Then when we do go in, we’d understand and enjoy it all the
more.”

“Yes, Fritz, thou art right; some knowledge of him would make thee
have a more intelligent appreciation of what thou art about to see.
So, suppose we sit out here while I tell thee both about a few of the
incidents in Luther’s life.”

Whereupon, Rudolf and the two children seated themselves on a stone
bench close by the door of entrance. Now just above this same door was
a device cut in stone, that was not only quaint and curious, but was
also strangely suggestive of the giant power of the man who had once
been a prisoner there. It represented Samson in the act of quelling the
lion. And had not he, Martin Luther, slain mankind’s deadly foe,--blind
superstition?

“Well, to begin with,” said Rudolf, when the children had settled
themselves to listen, and sat watching him with expectant eyes, “Martin
Luther’s father, whose name was Hans Luther, was a miner at Möra, a
small town which now belongs to the Duchy of Saxe-Meiningen. Not very
long after his marriage, however, Hans and his wife, Margaret, went
to live at Eisleben, and it was here, on the 10th of November, 1483,
that a son was born to them. This day being the anniversary of Martin,
Bishop of Tours, they gave the name ‘Martin’ to their boy in memory of
the saint.

“It was soon after this that Luther’s parents removed to Mansfield, and
Hans, the father, became a member of the council. Their great desire
was that Martin should follow one of the learned professions, and from
the first his education was very strict. He attended the school of the
Franciscan monks at Magdeburg; but when about fifteen years old, he
came to Eisenach and earned money as a Current-Schuler by singing from
door to door.”

“Yes, yes, dear father,” Katrina interrupted, “we know how the good
Frau Cotta, hearing him sing in the streets, took him in and gave him a
home.”

“Did he like being a Current-Schuler?” asked Fritz, to whose spirit of
adventure the idea made a strong appeal.

“It is said,” responded Rudolf, “that the practice of singing for
charity was at first very distasteful to him, but that in time he came
to like it, so great was his love for music. Thou, my little Katrina,
art familiar with some of Martin Luther’s hymns. He wrote a number of
hymns after he grew to manhood; and thou, Fritz, hast sung with us many
an evening that grand old anthem of his, ‘Ein feste Burg ist unser
Gott.’”[2]

  [2] “A Mighty Stronghold Is Our God.”

“I wonder, Herr Rudolf,” Fritz exclaimed, as the light of the sudden
thought flashed into his face, “I wonder if Luther wrote that hymn here
at the Wartburg! Don’t you think he must have done so?”

For a moment Rudolf was silent. This was a question which had not
presented itself to his mind before.

“I really do not know it to be a certainty,” he answered after thinking
deeply; “but it does seem to me, Fritz, that he must have had his
inspiration here within these walls which sheltered him in a time when
his life was being threatened. But now,” Rudolf continued, “let us
turn back to the youthful Luther and follow him as he progresses in
his school life. In the year 1501 he entered the University of Erfurt,
where he studied Logic, Physics, and Ethics; but it was in Philosophy
and the ancient classics that he afterward found his greatest
satisfaction. In the year 1503 Luther received his degree of B. A., and
it was then that he complied with his father’s wish and began to study
the law. This, however, as he soon found, was not to his taste, and in
time it became a burden to him. In these days of doubt he felt strongly
drawn toward a monastic life, and finally, in spite of the opposition
of his family and friends, he determined to take the vows and become a
monk.

“But even after this step had been taken, he found that his conscience
was not wholly at ease. His zealous mind seemed to be ever searching
for the truth. And, my children,” Rudolf continued, “it was in the year
1517 that Martin Luther first wrote his name indelibly on the pages of
history.”




XIII.


“Yes,” Rudolf repeated, “it was in the year 1517 that Luther cut his
way through the darkness of superstition, and let in a light which has
illumined the world. For by showing how false were the teachings that
forgiveness of sin could be bought with a bit of money, instead of
through repentance and reform, he set, not only a responsibility, but a
noble value upon each individual life. It was his mighty voice, ringing
through all the land, and whose echo can be heard down the ages, which
urged man to realize that he was a child of God, and through that
sonship alone an inheritor of the kingdom.

“These teachings of Martin Luther met with harsh opposition; but he
was firm in his belief. So firm was he that he nailed to the door of
the church in Wittenberg his ninety-five theses, or articles of faith.
These were read by people of every rank in life, and the fame of them
spread far and wide. While his friends flocked to him, those who
opposed Luther became more and more bitter, until finally they even
sought his life.”

“It was then, wasn’t it,” cried Fritz, with eager interest, “that the
Elector showed that he was his friend?”

“Yes,” said Rudolf in reply, “it was when his life became endangered
that the Elector Frederick, under pretext of taking him a prisoner,
had him brought here to the Wartburg, where he could give him his
protection. And now since we have reached the experience in Luther’s
life which is so closely associated with this place, suppose we make
our visit to the rooms he occupied.”

Rudolf, as he spoke, rose from the bench, and, bidding the children to
follow, opened the door into a little hall, and from this they ascended
a narrow staircase.

“Here, my children,” said Rudolf, as he now led the way into a small
room at the head of the stairway, “this was Luther’s sanctuary.”

A sort of awe fell upon Fritz and Katrina at the thought of being in
the same apartment where that great, good man had spent the months of
his captivity.

“This,” Rudolf explained, as he pointed toward a table, “is not the one
at which Luther sat when he made his translation of the Bible; that
was carried away years ago by relic hunters, who gradually cut it into
chips. The one here now was once in his father’s house at Möra, and
Luther sat at it when a little boy.”

Fritz and Katrina, full of interest, gazed up at the portraits of
Luther and his parents hanging on the wall above the table, while
Rudolf explained that they were the work of Cranach, one of the
greatest painters of his time. He also called their attention to one
of Luther’s letters which had been framed, and was hanging near the
Cranach portraits. Then the children were told to look at a curious
mining-lamp once used by Luther’s father. But it was when Rudolf showed
them the money box carried about by the little Current-Schuler down in
Eisenach that their enthusiasm seemed to have no bounds.

“Just let us touch it, father, dear!” Katrina cried.

And they both laid their hands lovingly on the treasured relic.

“Just think,” said Fritz, as he held it for a moment in his hand, “it
was in this very box that he got the money for his schooling.”

“Now,” said Rudolf, as he moved over to a large chest underneath the
window, “if you will both come close, I’ll open this and show you
a collection of the first editions of the Bible according to the
translation made by Luther. Here, my children,” and as he spoke, Rudolf
put a volume into the hands of each, “hold this sacred book, and as you
do so, realize that it is your privilege to have had within your clasp
one of the greatest gifts ever bestowed upon mankind. For before Luther
made his translation, which even the simplest peasant could read, as it
was written in the language of the people, the Bible was as a locked
treasure-house to which only the few had a key.”

“How thankful we should be to him!” Katrina said.

“Yes, my _liebchen_,” replied her father, tenderly, “only think what it
means to be able to go each day to this sacred Book and learn from it
the way of life.”

Fritz had been silent for several moments; it was evident that he was
turning some thought over in his mind.

“Wasn’t Martin Luther’s wisdom very great, Herr Rudolf?” he asked at
last.

“That it was, Fritz; but why dost thou ask the question?”

“I was just thinking that it must be a great thing to be very wise, in
fact the greatest thing in the world. I’m going to study and learn all
that I possible can; then some day people will point to me and say:
‘What a wise man Fritz Albrecht is!’”

As the three stood looking out of one of the quaint windows with its
round, leaded panes, at the beautiful landscape below, it seemed to
Fritz that he heard the Ivy’s rich voice saying to him: “Search,
search, for the greatest of all treasures!” But suddenly it was as
though the whole room were filled with the breath of roses; and
Katrina’s heart responded to a soft voice down by the castle gates
which said almost in a whisper:

“Luther possessed something that was even greater than his wisdom;
Saint Elizabeth possessed it, too.”

And there also seemed to rise before Katrina’s vision an image of the
lady with the little silver cross.




XIV.


Fifteen years have now gone by since Fritz and Katrina paid their visit
to the Wartburg and heard among others the story of Martin Luther. To
Fritz, especially, they had been restless years.

From the day when he bade farewell to his old home and the friends
up at the castle to go and live at Grünwald, Fritz had been able to
gratify every wish. In fact, with a fortune at his command, he had
in full measure the privileges of a rich man’s son. The count, being
ambitious for him, had, until his death, been always ready to satisfy
Fritz’s every want; but it was with a peculiar fervour that the
nobleman urged Fritz toward the satisfaction of that one great craving
of his life--the desire for wisdom. It was a desire which never gave
Fritz any rest, and seemed only to increase in keenness as it was fed.

After having gone to a preparatory school, Fritz entered the
university, from which he bore away distinguished honours; and the
years that followed were spent in travel. To the very ends of the
earth he went in search of that treasure which from his boyhood he had
determined to discover. Sometimes reports would reach his friends at
Eisenach of wonderful researches made by him in Egypt and the Holy
Land among the buried relics of an ancient grandeur. As a traveller
and a scholar, his fame soon spread abroad, and, even surpassing his
father’s cherished wish, the name of Fritz Albrecht came to be known
far beyond the fatherland.

In the first years after he went to live at Grünwald, Fritz had come
back very often to see his friends at the Wartburg. On these occasions
he would stop at Eisenach and have Gesta to open the old home that he
might see how things were going there. Then when he went away, he would
always press a gold piece into Gesta’s withered palm, and beg her to
deny herself no comfort. Unable to speak, the good creature could
only sob her gratitude. But as the years went by, and his life took on
other and larger possibilities, those simpler interests receded to the
background; until, finally, Katrina realized that her old playmate had
passed on and away from her.

In comparison with Fritz’s life Katrina’s life may have seemed even
commonplace. There was the same daily round of simple duties within the
home; but they were duties lovingly performed. To Katrina’s education,
though, as she went through the years of girlhood, much care was
given, and in this, her friend with the silver cross had no little
part. For not only had letters come often from over the sea to the
“castlemaiden,” as the lady called her still, but from time to time
there had also come boxes containing books for her to read and ponder.
And from these books, as well as from the letters, Katrina had gleaned
many an inspiration for her life.

But it was from yet another source that Katrina gained ideals which
were even nobler and better still--and that was from the Rose-bush
growing near the castle gates. Here she would bring her work, or a
book, and sit during many a cherished hour, while she listened to the
stories of noble men and women or felt its silent sympathy. And when
at times vain longings would fill her heart for a life that was less
narrow, or more glittering, than her own, she would also come to seek
comfort from the Rose-bush, and it always soothed her.

Then how often, too, as the days went by, could Katrina, her hands
filled with the fragrant crimson blossoms, be seen on her way down to
Eisenach to some one who was ill or in distress. In fact, so many were
her deeds of loving-kindness that the people there in the shadow, as
it were, of the old castle which had once known the saintly presence
had come to call her their Saint Elizabeth. At the very sight of her,
every one felt a sense of joy; for not only did they realize the beauty
of her character, but in face and form as well she seemed to grow more
beautiful every day.

“Our Katrina will not stay in the home nest very long, I fear,” said
Frieda one evening, as she and Rudolf talked together.

But the years went by, and Katrina showed no disposition to encourage
any who would have rejoiced to be her suitor. Her every thought seemed
to be for others rather than herself, and each day was marked by some
unselfish service.

In all that she accomplished there was one purpose which seemed ever
uppermost with Katrina,--it was to awaken in the dreary or sordid
toiler the heart of joy. Many a time after she had left the shop of
some humble craftsman, with a few appreciative or buoyant words, he
might be heard singing as he worked with lighter heart and swifter
hands. So when a fair, or exhibition, of the different industries
became an annual feature in the little town, Katrina was one of the
most zealous workers for its success. In order to arouse an interest,
prizes were offered for the best results in the different lines, and
the competition was always keen; while it brought together a wonderful
array of effort.

People came from a distance of many miles to visit the fair, or
market, as they called it. A value had been set upon even the humblest
hand-work, and that was an incentive to better things.

It was in the month of June that the building which had been erected in
the market-place began to take on an air of bustle and activity. Never
had there been so many visitors in Eisenach, and never had the little
town seemed half so prosperous. The fair was at the height of its
success, when one day there came in for exhibition a case of toys, such
toys as few of the present generation had ever seen in Eisenach. Many
had gathered about the booth to see this new exhibit, when a lady, who
had just been handed from a stately coach by an attendant, was heard to
say:

“They must have been the work of Conrad Albrecht. I am glad to find
them here. Whenever I made a visit to the Fatherland, years ago, I
used to buy his toys and take them to my children; but until now I
had supposed he did not make them any more. These will delight my
grandchildren.”

And saying this, the speaker selected a number of the playthings, which
were taken to her carriage; while those standing near looked on with
interest. They recognized this benevolent-looking woman, so simple,
yet impressing her dignity on all within her presence, as no less a
personage than England’s Queen. Though far removed, Victoria still
loved her Fatherland, often returning to the old home not many miles
from Eisenach, and it was in those visits that she had come to know the
work of Conrad Albrecht’s hands.

All who had seen them declared that these toys which gave evidence of
unusual skill were plainly entitled to the prize, whereupon search was
made for the one who sent them. Only three of the five judges were made
aware of the name of the exhibitor to whom the prize was given, and
they were bound to secrecy.

“Who was the maker of these toys?”

This was the question asked on every side, and the answer came that
they must be the work of some one elsewhere; for Eisenach, they said,
had known only one who could have made such toys, and he, Conrad
Albrecht, had been dead for fifteen years.




XV.


“Dost thou know the news, Katrina? ’Tis said that Fritz has returned to
Grünwald.”

Katrina, who was engaged with some bit of sewing, looked up suddenly as
her father spoke, and said:

“He was far away, I know, when Count von Scholtz, his foster-father,
died, and it must have taken him a long while to make the journey.”

“Yes,” was Rudolf’s answer, “it is said that he was somewhere in the
very heart of Asia and was obliged to make a long overland journey
before he could reach a railroad, to say nothing of the time he spent
upon the sea.”

“Has Fritz ever given his discoveries to the world? that is, has he put
them to any use, so that others might be benefited by his knowledge?”
asked the thrifty Frieda, who had become even more practical with the
passing years.

“That I have never heard,” responded Rudolf. “But it is said that as a
scholar his name is widely known; for one so young, his reputation for
wisdom is without a parallel.”

“A reservoir without an outlet is not a very useful thing,” was
Frieda’s only comment.

“Ah, _mütterchen_, speak not so of Fritz; thou knowest not what may
have been the motive that impelled him!” and as Katrina spoke a faint
flush mounted in her cheeks.

“I do not speak unlovingly,” was Frieda’s answer. “I still have a
tender feeling for the son of Lizette and Conrad Albrecht, even though
it would seem that as a man he has forgotten us.”

Katrina had no more to say. She felt the truth of her mother’s words.
Through the years as they passed, she had often experienced a sense
of pain in the thought that her old playmate had seemingly lost all
remembrance of their happy and united childhood.

It was late in the same afternoon that Katrina sat in her beloved
haunt by the Rose-bush. She had been reading, but as the sun began to
set amid a splendid radiance, Katrina closed her book and fell into a
reverie. Something, perhaps the soft yet vivid colours of the sunset,
recalled to her mind an evening long ago, when she and Fritz had sat
upon the bench there in the courtyard, and listened to the strange,
melodious voice which had told them stories of the castle. And even
as her thoughts dwelt upon these memories of their youthful days, she
heard a sound of footsteps coming up the Wartburg hill.

Katrina’s heart beat fast, but she did not stir. How often as a child
had she run gladly forth at the sound of steps so strangely like these
coming now. But that had been the light, impatient step of a boy;
while this was the heavier and firmer tread of a man.

Yes, even at the sight of a tall, manly figure, Katrina, who now lifted
her blue eyes timidly, showed no surprise. He had drawn quite near, so
near that he must surely see her.

In another moment he was there in the grass beside her, the breath of
roses all around. For a time both of them seemed strangely silent;
there was too much to say after the interval of years.




XVI.


At last he spoke, and she made no protest against his using the “thou”
of their childhood days. It seemed but yesterday since they had talked
together.

“Thou art little changed, Katrina, save that thou hast grown to be a
woman.”

“I have lived such a quiet life,” she answered, “too quiet to have left
its traces.”

“Thou hast lived a beautiful life,” he said. “Have I not heard how it
has gone out in gracious, loving deeds until hundreds adore thy very
name!”

A deep flush mounted in Katrina’s cheeks.

“But thou, Fritz, hast done and seen wonderful things. Even in our
seclusion word has reached us of thy vast knowledge. It must be
splendid to be known far and near as one who possesses such great
wisdom.”

“Ah, Katrina, what have I not sacrificed in that search! Home, friends,
those I held closest to my heart,--all were put aside in my eagerness
to find the greatest treasure. But thou dost not know, Katrina, what
was the impulse that sent me forth.”

At this Katrina shook her head.

“Dost thou not remember the ‘voice’ which used to tell us stories of
the castle?”

“Yes;” and as she answered, the woman’s face glowed with the memories
of childhood.

“Well,” said Fritz, his eyes meeting her astonished gaze, “I never
told thee this; it was a secret I carried with me. One evening I came
alone, and sat here in the courtyard, for I wished to try and discover
something.”

“I know, I know,” she interposed, “it was one evening when I felt sure
I heard thy footstep on the gravel.”

“Yes,” Fritz answered smiling, “and thou didst say next morning that
it must have been a ghost. Not only did I wish to hear the voice
again, but I felt a keen desire to ask what it meant by the greatest
of all treasures. And it was then that I discovered it to be the Ivy
speaking,--yes, that old vine yonder on the wall. In answer to my
query, it assured me that of all the treasures of the world knowledge
is the greatest. From that moment I was consumed with one overwhelming
purpose,--the determination to search until I found _the greatest
treasure_.”

“And thou hast had thy wish fulfilled,” Katrina said.

“Yea, but as I have said, at what a sacrifice! Its possession has not
brought me happiness, and I have come back a disappointed, discouraged
man. Thou wilt doubtless be surprised, Katrina, when I tell thee that
the only real happiness I have known in many years was only lately
when, out of love for my father’s memory, I completed some of the toys
which his hands had left unfinished. On reaching Grünwald I learned
that a fair was soon to take place at Eisenach, and I knew what pride
he would have felt to have his toys displayed; so I came to the old
home, and for many, many days I hardly left his work-bench.”

“So,” exclaimed Katrina with amazement, “it was thou who sent that
anonymous exhibit to the fair!”

“Yes,” Fritz answered, smiling, “and thou canst not guess, Katrina,
what became of the money won in prizes?”

Katrina, puzzled, shook her head.

“It is the nucleus of a fund with which I intend to endow a school
where poor but ambitious boys can be provided, not only with an
education, but also with a home, and it shall be dedicated to the
memory of Martin Luther.”

As Fritz looked into Katrina’s face he saw a beauty that seemed not of
earth. He drew her hand close within his own, and long, long they sat
there by the Rose-bush.

“Yea, Katrina, I have searched in all the wide world for the greatest
treasure.”

“And yet thou sayest thou hast not found it, Fritz?”

As he answered Fritz’s face seemed full of light, “I have found it, my
own Katrina; but not out there in the world. Vain were my searchings
there. It is here, within; so close, so close.”

[Illustration: “_Long they sat there by the Rose-bush_”]

The castle had almost faded now, and the ivy looked strange and ghostly
in the gathering gloom. A soft mist crept up from the valley, then
the moon came to its throne in the sky. Still Fritz and Katrina sat
there, hand clasped in hand; while over and about them, as though in
benediction, there came a wonderful delicate fragrance--the breath,
as it were, of a beautiful, living soul. Then they heard the Roses of
Saint Elizabeth saying gently: “But the greatest of these is Love.”


THE END.




Transcriber’s Note:

Spelling has been preserved as printed in the original publication.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Roses of Saint Elizabeth, by 
Jane Scott Woodruff

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58753 ***