All swarth and lusty, with fire poles trusty,
Burst on Sir Konrad's view.

His horse's rein he grasps amain
Into his selle to spring,

His gold-spurred heel his stirrup's steel
Has caught, his weapons ring.

His frightened steed with wildest speed
Careers with many a bound;

Sir Konrad's heel fast holds the steel,
His head is on the ground.

The peasants round lift from the ground
His form in woeful plight,

To convent-cell, for keeping well,
Bear back the robber knight.

"Our dear young lord, what may afford
A charcoal-burner's store

We freely spread, milk, honey, bread,
Our heated kiln before!"

IV.

Three mournful days the mother prays,
And weeps the children's fate;

The prince in vain has scoured the plain,-
A sound is at the gate.

The mother hears, her head she rears,
She lifts her eager finger,-
"Rejoice, rejoice, 'tis Albrecht's voice,
Open! O, wherefore linger?"

See, cap in hand the woodman stand,—
Mother, no more of weeping,—
His hound well tried is at his side,
Before him Albrecht, leaping,

Cries, "Father dear, my friend is here!
My mother! O, my mother!
The giant knight he put to flight,
The good dog tore the other."

Oh! who the joy that greets the boy,
Or who the thanks may tell,

Or how they hail the woodman's tale,
How he had "trilled* him well!"

Trillen, to shake; a word analogous to our trill, to shake the voice in singing.

"I trilled him well," he still will tel

In homely phrase his story,

To those who sought to know how wrought
An unarmed hand such glory.

That mother sad again is glad,
Her home no more bereft ;

For news is brought Ernst may be sought
Within the Devil's Cleft.

That cave within, these men of sin
Had learnt their leader's fall,
The prince to sell they proffered well
At price of grace to all.

Another day, and Ernest lay

Safe on his mother's breast:

Thus to her sorrow a gladsome morrow
Had brought her joy and rest.

The giant knight was judged aright,
Sentenced to death he lay ;

The Elector mild, since safe his child,
Sent forth the doom to stay.

But all too late, and o'er the gate
Of Freiburg's council hall

Sir Konrad's head, with features dread
The traitor's eyes appal.

The scullion Hans who wrought their plans,
And oped the window grate,

Whose faith was sold for Konrad's gold,
He met a traitor's fate.

V.

Behold how gay the wood to-day,
The little church how fair,

What banners wave, what tapestry brave,
Covers its carvings rare!

A goodly train,-the parents twain,
And here the princes two,

Here with his pole; George, stout of soul,
And all his comrades true.

High swells the chant, all jubilant,
And each boy bending low,
Humbly lays down the wrapping-gown
He wore the night of woe.

Beside them lay a smock of gray,
All grimed with blood and smoke;
A thankful sign to Heaven benign,
That spared the sapling oak.

"What prize wouldst hold, thou' Triller bold,'
Who trilled well for my son ?"
"Leave to cut wood, my lord, so good,
Near where the fight was won.

“Nay, Triller mine, the land be thine,
My trusty giant-killer,

A farm and house I and my spouse
Grant free to George the Triller i "

Years hundred four, and half a score,
Those robes have held their placed;
The Triller's deed has grateful meed
From Albrecht's royal race.

The child rescued by George the Triller's Golden Deed was the ancestor of the late Prince Consort, and thus of our future line of kings. He was the son of the Elector Friedrich the Mild of Saxony, and of Margarethe of Austria, whose dream presaged her children's danger. The Elector had incurred the vengeance of the robber baron, Sir Konrad of Kauffingen, who from his huge stature, was known as the Giant Ritter, by refusing to make up to him the sum of 4000 guilded which he had had to pay for his ransom after being made prisoner in the Elector's service. In reply to his threats, all the answer that the robber knight received was the proverbial one, "Do not try to burn the fish in the ponds, Kung."

Stung by the irony, Kunz bribed the Elector's scullion, by name Hans Schwabe, to admit him and nine chosen comrades into the castle of Altenburg on the night of the 7th of July, 1455, when the Elector was to be at Leipzig. Strange to say, this scullion was able to write, for a letter is extant from him to Sir Konrad, engaging to open the window immediately above the steep precipice, which on that side was deemed a sufficient protection to the castle, and to fasten a rope-ladder by which to ascend the crags. This window can still be traced, though thenceforth it was bricked up. It gave access to the children's apartments, and on his way to them, the robber drew the bolt of their mother's door, so that though, awakened by the noise, she rushed to her window, she was a captive in her own apartment, and could not give the alarm, nor do anything but join her vain entreaties to the cries of her helpless children. It was the little son of the Count von Bardi whom Wilhelm von Mosen brought down by mistake for young Albrecht, and Kunz, while hurrying up to exchange the children,

bade the rest of his band hasten on to secure the elder prince without waiting for him. He followed in a few seconds with Albrecht in his arms, and his servant Schweinitz riding after him, but he never overtook the main body. Their object was to reach Konrad's own castle of Isenburg on the frontiers of Bohemia, but they quickly heard the alarm-bells ringing, and beheld beacons lighted upon every hill. They were forced to betake themselves to the forests, and about half-way, Prince Ernst's captors, not daring to go any further, hid themselves and him in a cavern called the Devil's Cleft, on the right bank of the river Mulde.

Kunz himself rode on till the sun had risen, and he was within so few miles of his castle that the terror of his name was likely to be a sufficient protection. Himself and his horse were, however, spent by the wild midnight ride, and on the border of the wood of Eterlein, near the monastery of Grunheim, he halted, and finding the poor child grievously exhausted and feverish, he lifted him down, gave him water, and went himself in search of wood-strawberries for his refreshment, leaving the two horses in the charge of Schweinitz. The servant dozed in his saddle, and meanwhile the charcoal-burner, George Schmidt, attracted by the sounds, came out of the wood, where all night he had been attending to the kiln, hollowed in the earth, and heaped with earth and roots of trees, where a continual charring of wood was going on. Little Albrecht no sooner saw this man than he sprang to him, and telling his name and rank, entreated to be rescued from these cruel men. The servant awaking, leapt down and struck a deadly blow at the boy's head with his pole-axe, but it was parried by the charcoal-burner, who, interposing with one hand the strong wooden pole he used for stirring his kiln, dragged the little prince aside with the other, and at the same time set his great dog upon the scrvant. Sir Konrad at once hurried back, but the valiant charcoalburner still held his ground, dangerous as the fight was between the peasant unarmed except for the long pole, and the fully accoutred knight of gigantic size and strength. However, a whistle from George soon brought a gang of his comrades to his aid, and Kunz, finding himself surrounded, tried to leap into his saddle, and break through the throng by weight of man and horse, but his spur became entangled, the horse ran away, and he was dragged along with his head on the ground till he was taken up by the peasants and carried to the convent of Grunheim, whence he was sent to Zwickau, and was thence transported heavily ironed to Freiburg, where he was beheaded on the 14th of July, only a week after his act of violence. The Elector, in his joy at the recovery of even one child, was generous enough to send a pardon, but the messenger reached Freiburg too late, and a stone in the market-place still marks the place

of doom, while the grim effigy of Sir Konrad's head grins over the door of the Rathhaus. It was a pity Friedrich's mildness did not extend to sparing torture as well as death to his treacherous scullion, but perhaps a servant's power of injuring his master was thought a reason for surrounding such instances of betrayal with special horrors.

The party hidden in the Devil's Cleft overheard the peasants in the wood talking of the fall of the Giant of Kauffingen, and, becoming alarmed for themselves, they sent to the governor of the neighboring castle of Hartenstein to offer to restore Prince Ernst, provided they were promised a full pardon. The boy had been given up as dead, and intense were the rejoicings of the parents at his restoration. The Devil's Cleft changed its name to the Prince's Cleft, and the tree where Albrecht had lain was called the Prince's Oak, and still remains as a witness to the story, as do the moth-eaten garments of the princely children, and the smock of the charcoal-burner, which they offered up in token of thanksgiving at the little forest church of Ebersdorff, near the scene of the rescue.

"I trillirt the knaves right well," was honest George's way of telling the story of his exploit, not only a brave one, but amounting even to self-devotion when we remember that the robber baron was his near neighbor, and a terror to all around. The word Triller took the place of his surname, and when the sole reward he asked was leave freely to cut wood in the forest, the Elector gave him a piece of land of his own in the parish of Ebersbach. In 1855 there was a grand celebration of the rescue of the Saxon princes on the 9th of July, the four hundredth anniversary, with a great procession of foresters and charcoalburners to the "Triller's Brewery," which stands where George's hut and kiln were once placed. Three of his descendants then figured in the procession, but since that time all have died, and the family of the Trillers is now extinct.

W

SIR THOMAS MORE'S DAUGHTER.

1535.

E have seen how dim and doubtful was the belief that upbore the grave and beautiful Antigone in her selfsacrifice; but there have been women who have been as brave and devoted in their care for the mortal remains of their friends,-not from the heathen fancy that the weal of the dead depended on such rites, but from their earnest love, and with a fuller trust beyond.

Such was the spirit of Beatrix, a noble maiden of Rome,