Greifenstein | Page 4

ignorant of the story, should be
willing to share the solitude of the Black Forest without a murmur, and
her submission in itself suggested that she, too, might have some good
cause for preferring a retired life. But if he had been satisfied with what
he knew of her five and twenty years ago, he was not the man to allow
himself any dissatisfaction now that Clara was the mother of that
stalwart young fellow who was heir to all the Greifenstein property.
In the month of July Greif was to come home from the University, and
immediately afterwards Hilda and her mother were to come over for
their half-yearly visit. The ancient place where this family meeting was
convened was so unlike most castles as to deserve a word of
description.
The Swabian Black Forest is literally black, save when the winter snow
is heavy on the branches of the huge trees and lies in drifts beneath

them, covering the soft carpet of fir needles to the depth of many feet.
The landscape is extremely melancholy and in many parts is absolutely
monotonous. At intervals of several miles the rock juts suddenly out of
the forest, generally at places where the Nagold, more a torrent than a
river, makes a sharp bend. Many of these steep and stony promontories
are crowned by ancient strongholds, chiefly in ruins, though a very few
are still in repair and are inhabited by their owners. The name of
Greifenstein will not be found on any map of the district, but those who
know that wild and unfrequented country will recognise the spot. The
tumbling stream turns upon itself at a sharp angle, swirling round the
base of a precipitous and wedge-like cliff. So steep are the sides that
they who chose the summit for a fortress saw no need of building any
protection, save one gigantic wall which bestrides the wedge of rock,
thus cutting off a triangular platform, between the massive bulwark and
the two precipices that meet at the apex of the figure. This single
fortification is a solid piece of masonry, enormously thick and of great
height; its two extremities being surmounted by pointed towers,
connected by a covered walk along the top of the wall, which, even at
that height, is fully six feet wide and nearly a hundred in length. This
was the rampart behind which the Greifensteins had dwelt in security
through many generations, in the stormy days of the robber barons. So
sure were they of their safety, that they had built their dwelling-place
on the other side of the bulwark in a manner that offered no suggestion
of war or danger. The house was Gothic in style, full of windows and
ornamented with spacious balconies and much fine stonework. The
three-cornered platform was converted into a flower-garden,
surrounded by a parapet. Protected on the north side by the huge wall,
and fully exposed to the southern sun, the plants throve in an almost
artificial spring, and in the summer jets of water played in the marble
basins and cooled the hot, pine-scented air.
One narrow gate, barely wide enough for two persons to pass abreast,
gave access to this paradise through the grey, window-less mass of
masonry by which it was separated from the melancholy forest without.
One small building only was visible on the side of the woods, scarcely
fifty yards from the gate. This was a small, square, stone tower, half
overgrown with brush and creepers, and evidently abandoned to decay.

It was known in the family and neighbourhood as the 'Hunger- Thurm,'
or Hunger Tower, as having been used as a place for starving prisoners
to death, in the fine old days when the lords of Greifenstein did as they
judged good in their own eyes. Frau von Sigmundskron used to look
curiously at the grey building when she was staying with her relations.
She could have described the sufferings of the poor wretches who had
perished there as well as any one of themselves or better. Not twenty
miles from all the luxury that dwelt behind that lofty bulwark, she had
been starving herself for years in order that her only child might live.
And yet the well-fed woodmen touched their caps and their rosy wives
and daughters curtsied to the 'Lady Baroness' who, as they told each
other, spent her life in the towers of Sigmundskron hoarding untold
wealth which would one day belong to the golden-haired Lady Hilda.
They knew, for the knowledge could not be kept from them and their
kind, how very few were the silver pieces which were ever seen in the
hands of old Berbel, when she came down to the village market to buy
food, and they naturally concluded that the baroness was a miser even