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Updated: May 22, 2025
Something stirred in her heart at the ardent glance, the thrilling tones, and her wonted composure deserted her. Youth, she faltered at length, thou comest at a time when my prophetic skill hath failed me. Ere I tell thee thy fate I must offer sacrifice to Herthe. If thou wilt come to-morrow at this hour I will tell thee what the stars say concerning thy destiny.
Then you, too, are a hermit? said the young monk inquiringly, looking down at his fair guest. The wine had brought some colour to her pale cheeks and he could see that she was beautiful, with a beauty beyond that of any maiden he had ever seen. Yes, she replied, I am a priestess of Herthe. This cell in which I beg for shelter was once my own.
The name of Jette, a beautiful prophetess of the ancient goddess Herthe, is linked with the neighbourhood of Heidelberg by the following tragic tale.
When the old heathen gods and goddesses were still worshipped in the Rhine country, a certain priestess of Herthe took up her abode in an ancient grove, where she practised her occult arts so successfully that the fame of her divinations spread far and wide, and men came from all parts of Europe to learn from her what the future had in store for them.
The lovers then parted, each full of impatience for the return of the hour of meeting. Next evening, when the dusk had fallen on the sacred grove of Herthe, Jette made her way to the rendezvous. The appointed time had not yet arrived, but scarcely had she reached the spot ere she fancied she heard a step among the undergrowth, and turned with a glad smile, prepared to greet her lover.
The monster wolf stood over the lifeless body of his beloved, and though in his despairing fury the youth slew the huge brute, the retribution of Herthe was complete. Henceforth the scene of the tragedy was called the Wolfs Spring, and the legend is enshrined there to this day. The Jester of Heidelberg
It had been occupied by a beautiful pagan priestess, a devotee of Herthe, but when the preaching of the white monks had begun to spread Christianity among the people she left the neighbourhood. In passing by that way a Christian monk noticed the deserted retreat and took possession of it, issuing at intervals to preach to the inhabitants of the surrounding country.
Dost thou love me, Jette? cried the young man joyfully. Wilt thou be my bride? The maidens blushing cheeks and downcast glance were sufficient answer. And wilt thou come with me to my tower? pursued the youth eagerly. Jette started back in affright. Nay, that I cannot, she cried. A priestess of Herthe is doomed an she marry. If I wed thee we must meet in secret and at night.
But I will take thee to Walhalla, and Freya shall appease Herthe with her offerings. Jette shook her head. Nay, said she; it is impossible. The vengeance of Herthe is swift and awful. I will show thee a spring where we may meet. She led him to a place where the stream branched off in five separate rivulets, and bade him meet her there on the following night at a certain hour.
One evening there came to the grove of Herthe a youth from a far distant land, seeking to know his destiny. All day he had journeyed thitherward, and the dusk had already fallen ere he reached the sacred spot. Jette sat on the glimmering altar-steps, clad in a flowing white robe, while on the altar itself burned a faint and fitful flame.
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