PATTER, patter,—the rain had beaten all day on the brown roofs of Eisenach. The wind swept in raw gusts across the rippling ocean of pines and beeches which crowded upon the little town from many a swelling hill. Under the grey battlements the Horsel brawled angrily. At the Marien Gate, Andreas the warder dozed in his box, wrapping his great cloak tighter. He had searched few incoming wagons for toll that day. It was very cold, as often chances even in summer in tree-carpeted Thuringia. Andreas was sinking into another day-dream, when Joram, his shaggy dog, having opened one eye, opened the other, then started his master with a bark. "Hoch! hold!" cried Andreas, rubbing his eyes. "Who passes?" "Johann of the 'Crown and Bells.'" And the warder saw the tow-thatched stripling of the innkeeper tugging a great basket, whilst his buff coat dripped with rain. "And whither away?" quoth Andreas, settling back, as Joram ceased growling. "The 'Saint' in the Dragon's Dale needs his basket, rain or no rain—curse him!" And Johann's broad mouth drew into no merry smile. Andreas crossed himself as became a pious Christian. "Do not blaspheme the Saint. Ask his prayers rather. This is a noble time for the gnomes and pixies to go hunting in the Marienthal for just such blithe rascals as you. So pray hard and run harder." Small need of this. Gnomes and pixies had been much in Johann's mind since goodwife Kathe, his mother, had thrust the basket on his reluctant arm, and haled him by an ear to the inn door. It was nigh as bad as wandering by night, to thread the forest on a day like this. As he quitted the gate, from east, west, south, was pressing the green Thuringerwald,—avenue on avenue of stately beeches, lofty as church spires, graceful as the piers of some tall cathedral. He could see their serried, black trunks running away into distance, till his eye wearied of wandering amid their mazes. A clearing next, fresh chips, young weeds, a carpet of dank leaves—but the wood-cutters were gone. Then the path opened enough to give one glimpse to the westward and southward, toward the leafy peak of the Hainstein; and beyond and higher, to a proudly built castle,—with a scarlet banner trailing through the rain,—the Wartburg, one-time fortress of the Landgraf of Thuringia, now the hold of Baron Ulrich, boldest and wickedest of all the "ritters" who watched the roads in these evil days which had fallen upon Germany.
