The Spectre Bridegroom

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The Spectre Bridegroom

A TRAVELLER'S TALE.*

He that supper for is dight,

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!

Yestreen to chamber I him led,

This night Gray-steel has made his bed!

SIR EGER, SIR GRAHAME, and SIR GRAY-STEEL.

ON the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and
romantic tract of Upper Germany that lies not far from the
confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood many, many
years since the castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now
quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees and
dark firs; above which, however, its old watch-tower may still be
seen struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to
carry a high head and look down upon the neighboring country.

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of
Katzenellenbogen,+ and inherited the relics of the property and
all the pride, of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition
of his predecessors had much impaired the family possessions, yet
the baron still endeavored to keep up some show of former state.
The times were peaceable, and the German nobles in general had
abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles'
nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient
residences in the valleys; still, the baron remained proudly
drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing with hereditary
inveteracy all the old family feuds, so that he was on ill terms
with some of his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that
had happened between their great-great-grandfathers.

* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will
perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old
Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have
taken place in Paris.

+ I.e., CAT'S ELBOW--the name of a family of those parts, and
very powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was
given in compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated
for a fine arm.

The baron had but one child, a daughter, but Nature, when she
grants but one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy;
and so it was with the daughter of the baron. All the nurses,
gossips, and country cousins assured her father that she had not
her equal for beauty in all Germany; and who should know better
than they? She had, moreover, been brought up with great care
under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some
years of their early life at one of the little German courts, and
were skilled in all branches of knowledge necessary to the
education of a fine lady. Under their instructions she became a
miracle of accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen she
could embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories of
the saints in tapestry with such strength of expression in their
countenances that they looked like so many souls in purgatory.
She could read without great difficulty, and had spelled her way
through several Church legends and almost all the chivalric
wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable
proficiency in writing; could sign her own name without missing a
letter, and so legibly that her aunts could read it without
spectacles. She excelled in making little elegant
good-for-nothing, lady-like knicknacks of all kinds, was versed
in the most abstruse dancing of the day, played a number of airs
on the harp and guitar, and knew all the tender ballads of the
Minnelieders by heart.

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their
younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians
and strict censors of the conduct of their niece; for there is no
duenna so rigidly prudent and inexorably decorous as a
superannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out of their
sight; never went beyond the domains of the castle unless well
attended, or rather well watched; had continual lectures read to
her about strict decorum and implicit obedience; and, as to the
men--pah!--she was taught to hold them at such a distance and in
such absolute distrust that, unless properly authorized, she
would not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the
world--no, not if he were even dying at her feet.

The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. The
young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While
others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world,
and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was
coyly blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood under the
protection of those immaculate spinsters, like a rosebud blushing
forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride
and exultation, and vaunted that, though all the other young
ladies in the world might go astray, yet thank Heaven, nothing of
the kind could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen.

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided
with children, his household was by no means a small one; for
Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor relations.
They, one and all, possessed the affectionate disposition common
to humble relatives--were wonderfully attached to the baron, and
took every possible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the
castle. All family festivals were commemorated by these good
people at the baron's expense; and when they were filled with
good cheer they would declare that there was nothing on earth so
delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of the heart.

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled
with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man
in the little world about him. He loved to tell long stories
about the stark old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down
from the walls around, and he found no listeners equal to those
who fed at his expense. He was much given to the marvellous and a
firm believer in all those supernatural tales with which every
mountain and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his guests
exceeded even his own: they listened to every tale of wonder with
open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be astonished, even
though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von
Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his
little territory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasion
that he was the wisest man of the age.

At the time of which my story treats there was a great family
gathering at the castle on an affair of the utmost importance: it
was to receive the destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. A
negotiation had been carried on between the father and an old
nobleman of Bavaria to unite the dignity of their houses by the
marriage of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted
with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed without
seeing each other, and the time was appointed for the marriage
ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from
the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the
baron's to receive his bride. Missives had even been received
from him from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained,
mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected to arrive.

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable
welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care.
The two aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarrelled the
whole morning about every article of her dress. The young lady
had taken advantage of their contest to follow the bent of her
own taste; and fortunately it was a good one. She looked as
lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire, and the flutter of
expectation heightened the lustre of her charms.

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving
of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed
the soft tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts
were continually hovering around her, for maiden aunts are apt to
take great interest in affairs of this nature. They were giving
her a world of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say,
and in what manner to receive the expected lover.

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth,
nothing exactly to do; but he was naturally a fuming, bustling
little man, and could not remain passive when all the world was
in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of the castle with an
air of infinite anxiety; he continually called the servants from
their work to exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about every
hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a
blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day.

In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had
rung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded
with good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of
Rhein-wein and Ferre-wein; and even the great Heidelberg tun had
been laid under contribution. Everything was ready to receive the
distinguished guest with Saus und Braus in the true spirit of
German hospitality; but the guest delayed to make his appearance.
Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that had poured his downward
rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along
the summits of the mountains. The baron mounted the highest tower
and strained his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of the
count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them; the
sound of horns came floating from the valley, prolonged by the
mountain-echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below slowly
advancing along the road; but when they had nearly reached the
foot of the mountain they suddenly struck off in a different
direction. The last ray of sunshine departed, the bats began to
flit by in the twilight, the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the
view, and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and then a
peasant lagging homeward from his labor.

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity
a very interesting scene was transacting in a different part of
the Odenwald.

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his route
in that sober jog-trot way in which a man travels toward
matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble and
uncertainty of courtship off his hands and a bride is waiting for
him as certainly as a dinner at the end of his journey. He had
encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful companion-in-arms with whom
he had seen some service on the frontiers--Herman Von
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthiest hearts of
German chivalry--who was now returning from the army. His
father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress of
Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the families
hostile and strangers to each other.

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition the young friends
related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the count
gave the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady
whom he had never seen, but of whose charms he had received the
most enrapturing descriptions.

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they
agreed to perform the rest of their journey together, and that
they might do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an
early hour, the count having given directions for his retinue to
follow and overtake him.

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their
military scenes and adventures; but the count was apt to be a
little tedious now and then about the reputed charms of his bride
and the felicity that awaited him.

In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald,
and were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded
passes. It is well known that the forests of Germany have always
been as much infested by robbers as its castles by spectres; and
at this time the former were particularly numerous, from the
hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering about the country. It will
not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were
attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of the
forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly
overpowered when the count's retinue arrived to their assistance.
At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the count had
received a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed
back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a
neighboring convent who was famous for his skill in administering
to both soul and body; but half of his skill was superfluous; the
moments of the unfortunate count were numbered.

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly
to the castle of Landshort and explain the fatal cause of his not
keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not the most
ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, and
appeared earnestly solicitous that his mission should be speedily
and courteously executed. "Unless this is done," said he, "I
shall not sleep quietly in my grave." He repeated these last
words with peculiar solemnity. A request at a moment so
impressive admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to
soothe him to calmness, promised faithfully to execute his wish,
and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it
in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium--raved about his
bride, his engagements, his plighted word--ordered his horse,
that he might ride to the castle of Landshort, and expired in the
fancied act of vaulting into the saddle.

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely
fate of his comrade and then pondered on the awkward mission he
had undertaken. His heart was heavy and his head perplexed; for
he was to present himself an unbidden guest among hostile people,
and to damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes.
Still, there were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom
to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously
shut up from the world; for he was a passionate admirer of the
sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his
character that made him fond of all singular adventure.

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with the
holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his
friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg near
some of his illustrious relatives, and the mourning retinue of
the count took charge of his remains.

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family
of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and
still more for their dinner, and to the worthy little baron, whom
we left airing himself on the watch-tower.

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended
from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed
from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were
already overdone, the cook in an agony, and the whole household
had the look of a garrison, that had been reduced by famine. The
baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast
without the presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and
just on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn from
without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger.
Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its
echoes, and was answered by the warder from the walls. The baron
hastened to receive his future son-in-law.

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the
gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed.
His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye and
an air of stately melancholy. The baron was a little mortified
that he should have come in this simple, solitary style. His
dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to
consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion
and the important family with which he was to be connected. He
pacified himself, however, with the conclusion that it must have
been youthful impatience which had induced him thus to spur on
sooner than his attendants.

"I am sorry," said the stranger, "to break in upon you thus
unseasonably----"

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compliments and
greetings, for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his
courtesy and eloquence. The stranger attempted once or twice to
stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so he bowed his head and
suffered it to flow on. By the time the baron had come to a pause
they had reached the inner court of the castle, and the stranger
was again about to speak, when he was once more interrupted by
the appearance of the female part of the family, leading forth
the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as
one entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the
gaze and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts
whispered something in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her
moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry
on the stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The words died
away, but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a
soft dimpling of the cheek that showed her glance had not been
unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of
eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be
pleased with so gallant a cavalier.

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for
parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular
conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted
banquet.

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the
walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house
of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in
the field, and in the chase. Hacked corselets, splintered
jousting-spears, and tattered banners were mingled with the
spoils of sylvan warfare: the jaws of the wolf and the tusks of
the boar grinned horribly among crossbows and battle-axes, and a
huge pair of antlers branched immediately over the head of the
youthful bridegroom.

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed
absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone
that could not be overheard, for the language of love is never
loud; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch
the softest whisper of the lover? There was a mingled tenderness
and gravity in his manner that appeared to have a powerful effect
upon the young lady. Her color came and went as she listened with
deep attention. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and
when his eye was turned away she would steal a sidelong glance at
his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender
happiness. It was evident that the young couple were completely
enamored. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries of
the heart, declared that they had fallen in love with each other
at first sight.

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests
were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light
purses and mountain air. The baron told his best and longest
stories, and never had he told them so well or with such great
effect. If there was anything marvellous, his auditors were lost
in astonishment; and if anything facetious, they were sure to
laugh exactly in the right place. The baron, it is true, like
most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke but a dull
one; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent
Hockheimer, and even a dull joke at one's own table, served up
with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said
by poorer and keener wits that would not bear repeating, except
on similar occasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears
that almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a song
or two roared out by a poor but merry and broad-faced cousin of
the baron that absolutely made the maiden aunts hold up their
fans.

Amidst all this revelry the stranger guest maintained a most
singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a
deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced, and, strange as
it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed only to render him
the more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at
times there was a perturbed and restless wandering of the eye
that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the
bride became more and more earnest and mysterious. Lowering
clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and
tremors to run through her tender frame.

All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety
was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; their
spirits were infected; whispers and glances were interchanged,
accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the head. The song
and the laugh grew less and less frequent: there were dreary
pauses in the conversation, which were at length succeeded by
wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismal story produced
another still more dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some
of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin
horseman that carried away the fair Leonora--a dreadful story
which has since been put into excellent verse, and is read and
believed by all the world.

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He
kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew
to a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller
and taller, until in the baron's entranced eye he seemed almost
to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished he heaved
a deep sigh and took a solemn farewell of the company. They were
all amazement. The baron was perfectly thunderstruck.

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything was
prepared for his reception; a chamber was ready for him if he
wished to retire."

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously: "I must
lay my head in a different chamber to-night."

There was something in this reply and the tone in which it was
uttered that made the baron's heart misgive him; but he rallied
his forces and repeated his hospitable entreaties.

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every
offer, and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly
out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified; the
bride hung her head and a tear stole to her eye.

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle,
where the black charger stood pawing the earth and snorting with
impatience. When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway
was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and
addressed the baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted
roof rendered still more sepulchral.

"Now that we are a lone," said he, "I will impart to you the
reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable
engagement----"

"Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in your place?"

"It admits of no substitute--I must attend it in person; I must
away to Wurtzburg cathedral----"

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until
to-morrow--to-morrow you shall take your bride there."

"No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, "my
engagement is with no bride--the worms! the worms expect me! I am
a dead man--I have been slain by robbers--my body lies at
Wurtzburg--at midnight I am to be buried--the grave is waiting
for me--I must keep my appointment!"

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and
the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of
the night blast.

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and
related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others
sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was
the opinion of some that this might be the wild huntsman, famous
in German legend. Some talked of mountain-sprites, of
wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings with which the good
people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since time
immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it
might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that
the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so
melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him, the
indignation of the whole company, and especially of the baron,
who looked upon him as little better than an infidel; so that he
was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible and come
into the faith of the true believers.

But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were
completely put to an end by the arrival next day of regular
missives confirming the intelligence of the young count's murder
and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral.

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron shut
himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come to rejoice
with him, could not think of abandoning him in his distress. They
wandered about the courts or collected in groups in the hall,
shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders at the troubles
of so good a man, and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and
drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits.
But the situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To
have lost a husband before she had even embraced him--and such a
husband! If the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what
must have been the living man? She filled the house with
lamentations.

On the night of the second day of her widowhood she had retired
to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on
sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of
ghost-stories in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her
longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The
chamber was remote and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay
pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon as they trembled
on the leaves of an aspen tree before the lattice. The castle
clock had just tolled midnight when a soft strain of music stole
up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed and stepped
lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of
the trees. As it raised its head a beam of moonlight fell upon
the countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld the Spectre
Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and
her aunt, who had been awakened by the music and had followed her
silently to the window, fell into her arms. When she looked again
the spectre had disappeared.

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for
she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young
lady, there was something even in the spectre of her lover that
seemed endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty,
and, though the shadow of a man is but little calculated to
satisfy the affections of a lovesick girl, yet where the
substance is not to be had even that is consoling. The aunt
declared she would never sleep in that chamber again; the niece,
for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that she would
sleep in no other in the castle: the consequence was, that she
had to sleep in it alone; but she drew a promise from her aunt
not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she should be denied
the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth--that of
inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover
kept its nightly vigils.

How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is
uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, and
there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story;
it is, howover, still quoted in the neighborhood as a memorable
instance of female secrecy that she kept it to herself for a
whole week, when she was suddenly absolved from all further
restraint by intelligence brought to the breakfast-table one
morning that the young lady was not to be found. Her room was
empty--the bed had not been slept in--the window was open and the
bird had flown!

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was
received can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the
agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his
friends. Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the
indefatigable labors of the trencher, when the aunt, who had at
first been struck speechless, wrung her hands and shrieked out,
"The goblin" the goblin! she's carried away by the goblin!"

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and
concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. Two
of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the
clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight,
and had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger
bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the
direful probability for events of the kind are extremely common
in Germany, as many well-authenticated histories bear witness.

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron! What a
heartrending dilemma for a fond father and a member of the great
family of Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either been
rapt away to the grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a
son-in-law, and perchance a troop of goblin grandchildren. As
usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an
uproar. The men were ordered to take horse and scour every road
and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself had just
drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to
mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was
brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen
approaching the castle mounted on a palfrey, attended by a
cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang from
her horse, and, falling at the baron's feet, embraced his knees.
It was his lost daughter, and her companion--the Spectre
Bridegroom! The baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter,
then at the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his
senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his
appearance since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was
splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no
longer pale and melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with
the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye.

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in truth, as
you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced
himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure
with the young count. He told how he had hastened to the castle
to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the
baron had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How
the sight of the bride had completely captivated him and that to
pass a few hours near her he had tacitly suffered the mistake to
continue. How he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a
decent retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had suggested
his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the
family, he had repeated his visits by stealth--had haunted the
garden beneath the young lady's window--had wooed--had won--had
borne away in triumph--and, in a word, had wedded the fair.

Under any other circumstances the baron would have been
inflexible, for be was tenacious of paternal authority and
devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but be loved his
daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her
still alive; and, though her husband was of a hostile house, yet,
thank Heaven! he was not a goblin. There was something, it must
he acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his notions of
strict veracity in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his
being a dead man; but several old friends present, who had served
in the wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable in
love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege,
having lately served as a trooper.

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned the
young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed.
The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with
loving-kindness; he was so gallant, so generous--and so rich. The
aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of
strict seclusion and passive obedience should be so badly
exemplified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not
having the windows grated. One of them was particularly mortified
at having her marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre
she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit; but the niece
seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and
blood. And so the story ends.

Washington Irving's short story: The Spectre Bridegroom

_

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