# Popular stories of The spectre bridegroom and The mason of Granada

NEW AND IMPROVED SERIES. No. 29.
THE
POPULAR STORIES
OF THE
SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM
AND THE
MASON OF GRANADA.
GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS. 1850.
Price One Penny.
THE
SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM.
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 Maine 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 neighbouring 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 endeavoured 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 neighbours, on ​count of disputes that had happened between their great-great-grandfathers.
The baron had but one child, a danghter; 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 consins, 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 the 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 nicknacks 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 Minnielieders 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 niecc; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered ont of their sight; never wcnt beyond the domains of the ​castle, unlcss well attended, or rather well watched; had continual lectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit obedicnce; 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 glancc upon the handsomest cavalier in the world-no, not if he were even dying at her feet.
The good effccts of this systcm 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 asidc by every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovcly womanhood under the protection of thosc immaculate spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that though all the other young ladics 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; werc wonderfully attached to the baron, and took every possible occasion to come in swarms and cnliven the castle. All family festivals werc commemorated by these good people at the baron's expense; and when they wcrc filled with good chcer, they would dcclare that there was nothing on carth so delightful as ⟨these⟩ family meetings, thcse 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 oven 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 importanee; it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. A negotiation had been earried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their honses by the marriage of their ehildren. The preliminaries had been condueted with proper punetilio. The young people were bethrothed without seeing each other, and the time was appinted for the marriage eeremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the army for the purpose, and was aetually 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 tnmult of preparation to give him a suitable weleome. The fair bride had been decked ont with uneommon 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 his 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 lcss busied in preparation. IIo 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 meantime the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had rung with the clamour of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein; and even the great Heidelburg tun had been laid under contribution. Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guest with Saus and 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 advaneing 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 labour.
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 Altenburgh was tranquilly pursuing his route in that sober jog-trot way in which a man travels towards matrimony when his friends bave 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 reeognition, the young friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave the whole history of his intcnded nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whosc 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 thiekly-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 lordes of disbanded soldiers wandering, abont 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 overpowercd, when the eount'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 neighbouring 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 brenth 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 of no hesitation. Starkenfaust endcavoured 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 aeknowkedgment, but soon lapsed into delirium -raved about his bride-his engagements-his plighted word; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the eastle of Landshort; and expired in the faneied aet of vaulting into the saddle.
Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely fate of his eomrade; 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 eertain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so eautiously shut up from the world; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eeeentrieity and enterprise in his eharaeter that made him fond of all simple adventure.
Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with the holy fraternity of the eonvent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried in the eathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrions relatives; and the mourning retinue of the eount took eharge 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 wortlıy little baron, whom we left airing himself on the wateh-tower.
Night elosed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron deseended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour to hour, eould no longer be postponed. The meats were already overdone; the eook in an agony; and the whole household had the look of a garrison that had been redueed by famine. The baron was obliged reluetantly to give orders for thc feast without the presenee 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 eourts 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 countcnancc was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic cye, 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 hc 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 thc 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 attcmpted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain; so he bowed his head, and snffered it to flow on. By the time the baron had come to a pause, they had reachcd the inner court of the castle; and the stranger was again abont to speak. when he was once more interruptcd 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 gazc, and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispercd 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 dicd away; but there was a sweet smile playing abont 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 lcd the way to the untasted banquct.
It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls hung the hard-favoured portraits of the hcroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked corslets, splintered jousting spears, and tattcred banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare; the jaws of the wolf, and tho tnsks of the boar, grinned horribly among crossbows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branchcd immediately ovcr the head of the youthful bridegroom.
The cavalier took but little notice of the company, or thc entcrtainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but scemed 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 thc female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softcst whisper of the lover? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner, that appearcd to have a powerful effect upon the yonng lady. Hcr colour came and went as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away, sho would steal a sidclong glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a gcntle sigh of tcnder happiness. It was evident that the young couple were completely ​enamoured. 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 faeetious, 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 bnt 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 oeeasions; 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 east of dejection as the evening advaneed; 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 beeame more and more earnest and mysterious. Lowering elouds 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 gaiety was ehilled by the unaeeountable gloom of the bridegroom; their spirits were ​infected; whispers and glanees 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 sueceeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. Onc dismal story produced another still more dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysteries 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 lose, 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. Thcy were all amazement. The baron was perfectly thnnderstruck.
"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, cverything 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 arehway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow tone of voiee, which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral.
"Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to yon the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable engagement———"
"Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in yonr 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 aeeord with so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation of the wholc ​company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon hin 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 conld be so graecious and noble, what must have been the living man? She filled the house with lamentations.
Ou 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 neice lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves of au 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 tree. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the ​contenance. 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 speetre of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still the semblanee of manly beauty; and though the shadow of a man is but little ealeulated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substanee is not to be had, even that is eonsoling. The aunt deelared she never would sleep in that ehamber again; the nieee, for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the eastle: the eonsequenee was, that she had to sleep in it alone: but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the speetre, lest she should be denied the only melaneholy pleasure left her on earth—that of inhabiting the chamber over whieh 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, however, still quoted in the neighbourhood, as a memorable instance of female seerecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week; when she was suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligenee brought to the breakfast-table one morning that the young lady was not to be fonnd. Her room was empty—the bed had not been slept in—the window was open, and the bird had flown!
The astonishment and eoneern with whieh the intelligenee was received, ean 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 labours 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 eoncluded 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 speetre on his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful probability; for cvents of the kind are cxremely common in Germany, as many well-authenticated historics bear witncss.
What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron! What a heart-rending dolcmma 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-dcmon for a son-in-law, and perehance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horsc, 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 eastle, mounted on a palfrey, attended by a eavalicr 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 speetre, and almost doubted the evideneo of his ​senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearancc sinee 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 eountenance 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 eount. He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquenee 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 bcen sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentrie exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stcalth—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 he was tcnaeious of paternal authority, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but he 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 somcthing, it must be 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 eavalier 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 mcmber of the family with loving-kindness; he was so gallant, so generons—and so rich. The annts, it is truc, were somewhat scandalized that their systcm of strict seclusion and passive obcdience should be so badly cxemplified, but attributed it all to their negligenee in not having the windows grated. One of them was particularly mortificd at having her marvellous story marred, and that the only spcctre shc had ever seen should turn out a conntcrfcit; but the niecc seemcd perfcctly happy at having found him substantial flesh and blood—and so the story cnds.
END OF THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM.
THE MASON OF GRANADA.
There was onee upon a time a poor mason, or bricklayer, in Granada, who kept all the saints' days and holidays, and Saint Monday into the bargain, and yet, with all his devotion, he grew poorer and poorer, and could searcely earn bread for his numerous family. One night he was roused from his first sleep by a knocking at his door. He opened it and was aeeosted by a tall, meagre, eadaverous-looking priest.
"Hark ye, honest friend!" said the stranger, "I have observed that you are a good Christian, and one to be trusted; will you undertake a job this very night?"
"With all my heart, Señor Padre, on condition that I am paid aeeordingly."
"That you shall be; but you must suffer yourself to be blindfolded."
To this the mason made no objeetion; so, being hoodwinked, he was led by the priest through various rough lanes and winding passages, until they stopped before the portal of a house. The priest then applied a key, turned a ereaking lock, and opened what sounded like a ponderous door. They entered, the door was closed and bolted, and the mason was eonducted through an echoing corridor, and a spacious hall, to an interior part of the building. Here the bandage was removed from his eyes, and he found himself in a patio, or eourt, dimly lighted by a single lamp. In the eentre was the dry basin of an old Moorish fountain, under whieh the priest requested him to form a small vault, bricks and mortar being at hand for the purpose. He aeeording worked all night, but without finishing the job. Just before day-break, the ​priest put a piece of gold into his hand, and having again blindfolded him, conducted him baek to his dwelling.
"Are you willing," said he, "to return and complete your work?"
"Gladly, Señor Padre, provided I am so well paid."
"Well, then, to-morrow at mid-night I will call again."
He did so, and the vanlt was completed.
"Now," said the priest, "you must help me to bring forth the bodies that arc to be buried in this vault."
The poor mason's hair rose on his head at these words: he followed the priest, with trembling steps, into a retired chamber of the mansion, expecting to behold some ghastly spectaelc of death, but was relieved on perceiving thrce or four portly jars standing in one corner. They wcre evidcntly full of money, and it was with great labour that he and the priest earried them forth and eonsigned them to their tomb. The vault was thcn closed, the pavement replaccd, aud all traees of the work obliterated. The mason was again hoodwinked and led forth by a route different from that by which he had come. After they had wandered for a long time through a perplexed maze of lancs and allcys, they halted. The priest then put two picees of gold into his hand: "Wait here," said he, "until you hear the cathedral bell toll for matins. If you presume to uncover your eyes before that time, evil will befall you:"so saying, hc departed. The mason waited faithfully, amusing himself by weighing the gold pieces in his hand, and clinking thcm against each other. The momeut the cathedral bell rang its matin peal, he uneovered his eyes, and found himself on the banks of the Xenil, from whence he made the best of his way home, and revelled with his family for a whole fortnight on the ​profits of his two nights' work; after whieh he was as poor as ever.
He eontinued to work a little, and pray a good deal, and keep saints' days and holidays, from year to year, while his family grew up as gaunt and ragged as a erew of gypsies. As he was seated one evening at the door of his hovel, he was aeeosted by a rieh old eurmudgeon, who was noted for owning many houses, and being a griping landlord. The mau of money eyed him for a moment from beneath a pair of anxious shagged eyebrows.
"I am told, my friend, that you are very poor."
"There is no denying the fact, Señor—it speaks for itself."
"I presnme, then, that you will be glad of a job, and will work eheap."
"As eheap, my master, as any mason in Granada."
"That's what I want. I have an old house fallen into deeay, that eosts me more money than it is worth to keep it in repair, for nobody will live in it; so I must eontrive to patch it up and keep it together at as small expense as possible."
The mason was aeeordingly eonducted to a large deserted house that seemed going to ruin. Passing through several empty halls and ehambers, he entered an inner eourt, where his eye was eaught by an old Moorish fountain. He paused for a moment, for a dreaming recolleetion of the plaee came over him.
"Pray," said he, "who oceupied this house formerly?"
"A pest upon him!" eried the landlord, "it was an old miserly priest, who eared for nobody but himself. He was said to be immensely rieh, and, having no relations, it was supposed would leave all his treasures to the Chureh. He died suddenly, and the priests and friars thronged to take possession of his wealth; but nothing eould they find but a few duecats in a leathern purse. The worst luck ​has fallen on me, for, since his death, the old fellow continues to occnpy my house without paying rent, and there's no taking the law of a dead man. The people pretend to hear the clinking of gold all night in the chamber where the old priest slept, as if he were eounting over his money, and sometimes a groaning and moaning about the court. Whether true or false, these stories have brought a bad name on my house, and not a tenant will remain in it"
"Enough," said the mason sturdily; "let me live in your house rent-free until some better tenant present, and I will engage to put it in repair, and to quiet the tronbled spirit that disturbs it. I am good Christian and a poor man, and am not to be daunted by the Devil himself, even though he should come in the shape of a big bag of money!"
The offer of the honest mason was gladly accepted; he moved with his family into the house, and fulfilled all his engagements. By little and little he restored it to its former state; the clinking of gold was no more heard at night in the chamber of the defunct priest, but began to be heard by day in the pocket of the living mason. In a word, he incrcased rapidly in wealth, to the admiration of all his neighbours, and bccame one of the richest men in Granada: he gave large sums to the Church, by way, no doubt, of satisfying his conscience, and never rcvealed the secret of the vault until on his death-bed, to his son and heir.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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