ovely part of the Rhine valley near the
Palatinate, avoided a place where such an unheard of crime had been
committed. Only an old man kept watch in the empty castle. But even he
was soon compelled to leave it. One night the high tower was struck by
lightning and the whole building burnt down. Nothing remained but
blackened ruins, looking mournfully on the gay landscape beneath.

* * * * *

Years went by after this crime. Nobody heard or saw anything of the
murderer. He seemed to have totally disappeared. Some people however
whispered that on the day of the black deed, a man was seen fleeing
from the forest of Godesberg. He was pale and ghastly looking, and
darted off, not caring which way he went. It was he who on the
previous day had fostered in his burning brain the longing desire to
take possession of his brother's heritage, and now he was a murderer,
and bore Cain's mark on his forehead.

The unfortunate youth had rashly contrived this hellish plan to rid
himself of his brother and to become lord of Godesberg. His plan was
to kill him while hunting, and then make the people believe that he
had aimed at a boar and hit his brother accidentally instead. But when
his victim sank down in agony, the knife dropped from his murderous
hand, his courage failed him, and he felt himself driven from the wood
as if chased by a demon.

After many years had come and gone, a tired wanderer once knocked at
the door of the cloister of Heisterbach, which had been erected by St.
Benedict's pious disciples in a remote valley of the Seven Mountains.
The man who desired admission looked more like a beggar than a
pilgrim. His garments hung torn and ragged round his thin body, and
his face was deeply furrowed by marks of long and cruel suffering.

"Have pity on me," said he in a trembling voice, "I come from the Holy
Sepulchre, my feet will bear me no further." The door-keeper was
moved, and retired to inform the Abbot of the poor man's request. He
received permission to bring him in. When the beggar appeared before
the Abbot, he fell on his knees and renewed his demand for food and
rest. For some moments the monk looked penetratingly at the man before
him, then a sign of recognition passed over his face, and he cried
out. "Good heavens! is it you Sir Knight?" The pilgrim trembled,
prostrated himself before the Abbot, and embraced his knees in
overwhelming grief. "Have mercy on me," exclaimed he, "it was