[126] It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on a castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and partake of hospitality. So in the romance of “Perceforest,” “ils fasoient mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un _heaulme_, en signe que tous les gentils hommes et gentilles femmes entrassent hardiment en leur hostel comme en leur propre.” [127] Popular tradition has made several mountains in Germany the haunt of the _wild Jager_, or supernatural huntsman. The superstitious tales relating to the Unterburg are recorded in Eustace’s _Classical Tour_; and it is still believed in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that the knight of Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces the approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy armament to the opposite castle of Schnellerts.--See the “_Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin_,” and “_Autumn on the Rhine_.” THE TROUBADOUR’S SONG. “Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,” The Soldan cried to the captive knight, “And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met To gaze on the fearful sight. “But be our faith by thy lips profess’d, The faith of Mecca’s shrine, Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest, And life shall yet be thine.” “I have seen the flow of my bosom’s blood, And gazed with undaunted eye; I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood, And think’st thou I fear to die? “I have stood where thousands, by Salem’s towers, Have fall’n for the name Divine; And the faith that cheer’d _their_ closing hours Shall be the light of mine.” “Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health, And the glow of youth’s fresh bloom? Thou art offer’d life, and pomp, and wealth, Or torture and the tomb.” “I have been where the crown of thorns was twined For a dying Saviour’s brow; _He_ spurn’d the treasures that lure mankind, And I reject them now!” “Art thou the son of a noble line In a land that is fair and blest? And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine Again on its shores to rest? “Thine own is the choice to hail once more The soil of thy father’s birth, Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o’er, Forgotten in foreign earth.” “Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise In the country of my love; But yet, though cloudless my native skies, There’s a brighter clime above!” The bard hath paused--for another tone Blends with the music of his own; And his heart beats high with hope again, As a well-known voice prolongs the strain. “Are there none within thy father’s hall, Far o’er the wide blue main, Young Christian! left to deplore thy fall, With sorrow deep and vain?”