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Title: The Strong Arm

Author: Robert Barr


Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8716]
This file was first posted on August 3, 2003
Last Updated: October 31, 2016

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THE STRONG ARM

By Robert Barr




CONTENTS


Chapter   I. THE BEAUTIFUL JAILER OF GUDENFELS
         II. THE REVENGE OF THE OUTLAW
        III. A CITY OF FEAR
         IV. THE PERIL OF THE EMPEROR
          V. THE NEEDLE DAGGER
         VI. THE HOLY FEHM


THE COUNT’S APOLOGY
CONVERTED
AN INVITATION
THE ARCHBISHOP’S GIFT
COUNT KONRAD’S COURTSHIP
THE LONG LADDER
“GENTLEMEN: THE KING!”
 THE HOUR-GLASS
THE WARRIOR MAID OF SAN CARLOS
THE AMBASSADOR’S PIGEONS




CHAPTER I

THE BEAUTIFUL JAILER OF GUDENFELS


The aged Emir Soldan sat in his tent and smiled; the crafty Oriental
smile of an experienced man, deeply grounded in the wisdom of this
world. He knew that there was incipient rebellion in his camp; that the
young commanders under him thought their leader was becoming too old
for the fray; caution overmastering courage. Here were these dogs of
unbelievers setting their unhallowed feet on the sacred soil of Syria,
and the Emir, instead of dashing against them, counselled coolness and
prudence. Therefore impatience disintegrated the camp and resentment
threatened discipline. When at last the murmurs could be no longer
ignored the Emir gathered his impetuous young men together in his tent,
and thus addressed them.

“It may well be that I am growing too old for the active field; it may
be that, having met before this German boar who leads his herd of swine,
I am fearful of risking my remnant of life against him, but I have ever
been an indulgent general, and am now loath to let my inaction stand
against your chance of distinction. Go you therefore forth against him,
and the man who brings me this boar’s head shall not lack his reward.”

The young men loudly cheered this decision and brandished their weapons
aloft, while the old man smiled upon them and added:

“When you are bringing confusion to the camp of the unbelievers, I shall
remain in my tent and meditate on the sayings of the Prophet, praying
him to keep you a good spear’s length from the German’s broad sword,
which he is the habit of wielding with his two hands.”

The young Saracens went forth with much shouting, a gay prancing of
the horses underneath them and a marvellous flourishing of spears above
them, but they learned more wisdom in their half hour’s communion with
the German than the Emir, in a long life of counselling, had been able
to bestow upon them. The two-handed sword they now met for the first
time, and the acquaintance brought little joy to them. Count Herbert,
the leader of the invaders, did no shouting, but reserved his breath for
other purposes. He spurred his horse among them, and his foes went
down around him as a thicket melts away before the well-swung axe of a
stalwart woodman. The Saracens had little fear of death, but mutilation
was another thing, for they knew that they would spend eternity in
Paradise, shaped as they had left this earth, and while a spear’s thrust
or a wound from an arrow, or even the gash left by a short sword may
be concealed by celestial robes, how is a man to comport himself in the
Land of the Blest who is compelled to carry his head under his arm, or
who is split from crown to midriff by an outlandish weapon that
falls irresistible as the wrath of Allah! Again and again they threw
themselves with disastrous bravery against the invading horde, and after
each encounter they came back with lessened ranks and a more chastened
spirit than when they had set forth. When at last, another counsel of
war was held, the young men kept silence and waited for the smiling Emir
to speak.

“If you are satisfied that there are other things to think of in war
than the giving and taking of blows I am prepared to meet this German,
not on his own terms but on my own. Perhaps, however, you wish to try
conclusions with him again?”

The deep silence which followed this inquiry seemed to indicate that
no such desire animated the Emir’s listeners, and the old man smiled
benignly upon his audience and went on.

“There must be no more disputing of my authority, either expressed or
by implication. I am now prepared to go forth against him taking with me
forty lancers.”

Instantly there was a protest against this; the number was inadequate,
they said.

“In his fortieth year our Prophet came to a momentous decision,”
 continued the Emir, unheeding the interruption, “and I take a spear with
me for every year of the Prophet’s life, trusting that Allah will add to
our number, at the prophet’s intervention, should such an augmentation
prove necessary. Get together then the forty _oldest_ men under my
command. Let them cumber themselves with nothing in the way of offence
except one tall spear each, and see that every man is provided with
water and dates for twenty days’ sustenance of horse and man in the
desert.”

The Emir smiled as he placed special emphasis on the word “oldest,” and
the young men departed abashed to obey his orders.

Next morning Count Herbert von Schonburg saw near his camp by the
water-holes a small group of horsemen standing motionless in the desert,
their lances erect, butt downward, resting on the sand, the little
company looking like an oasis of leafless poplars. The Count was
instantly astride his Arab charger, at the head of his men, ready to
meet whatever came, but on this occasion the enemy made no effort to
bring on a battle, but remained silent and stationary, differing greatly
from the hordes that had preceded it.

“Well,” cried the impatient Count, “if Mahomet will not come to the
mountain, the mountain for once will oblige him.”

He gave the word to charge, and put spurs to his horse, causing instant
animation in the band of Saracens, who fled before him as rapidly as the
Germans advanced. It is needless to dwell on the project of the Emir,
who simply followed the example of the desert mirages he had so often
witnessed in wonder. Never did the Germans come within touch of their
foes, always visible, but not to be overtaken. When at last Count
Herbert was convinced that his horses were no match for the fleet steeds
of his opponents he discovered that he and his band were hopelessly lost
in the arid and pathless desert, the spears of the seemingly phantom
host ever quivering before him in the tremulous heated air against the
cloudless horizon. Now all his energies were bent toward finding the way
that led to the camp by the water-holes, but sense of locality seemed to
have left him, and the ghostly company which hung so persistently on his
flanks gave no indication of direction, but merely followed as before
they had fled. One by one the Count’s soldiers succumbed, and when at
last the forty spears hedged him round the Emir approached a prisoner
incapable of action. The useless sword which hung from his saddle was
taken, and water was given to the exhausted man and his dying horse.

When the Emir Soldan and his forty followers rode into camp with their
prisoner there was a jubilant outcry, and the demand was made that the
foreign dog be instantly decapitated, but the Emir smiled and, holding
up his hand, said soothingly:

“Softly, softly, true followers of the only Prophet. Those who neglected
to remove his head while his good sword guarded it, shall not now
possess themselves of it, when that sword is in my hands.”

And against this there could be no protest, for the prisoner belonged to
the Emir alone, and was to be dealt with as the captor ordained.

When the Count had recovered speech, and was able to hold himself as a
man should, the Emir summoned him, and they had a conference together in
Soldan’s tent.

“Western barbarian,” said the Emir, speaking in that common tongue made
up of languages Asiatic and European, a strange mixture by means of
which invaders and invaded communicated with each other, “who are you
and from what benighted land do you come?”

“I am Count Herbert von Schonburg. My castle overlooks the Rhine in
Germany.”

“What is the Rhine? A province of which you are the ruler?”

“No, your Highness, it is a river; a lordly stream that never
diminishes, but flows unceasingly between green vine-clad hills; would
that I had some of the vintage therefore to cheer me in my captivity and
remove the taste of this brackish water!”

“In the name of the Prophet, then, why did you leave it?”

“Indeed, your Highness, I have often asked myself that question of late
and found but insufficient answer.”

“If I give you back your sword, which not I, but the demon Thirst
captured from you, will you pledge me your word that you will draw it no
more against those of my faith, but will return to your own land, safe
escort being afforded you to the great sea where you can take ship?”

“As I have fought for ten years, and have come no nearer Jerusalem than
where I now stand, I am content to give you my word in exchange for my
sword, and the escort you promise.”

And thus it came about that Count Herbert von Schonburg, although still
a young man, relinquished all thought of conquering the Holy Land, and
found himself one evening, after a long march, gazing on the placid
bosom of the broad Rhine, which he had not seen since he bade good-bye
to it, a boy of twenty-one, then as warlike and ambitious, as now, he
was peace loving and tired of strife. The very air of the Rhine valley
breathed rest and quiet, and Herbert, with a deep sigh, welcomed the
thought of a life passed in comforting uneventfulness.

“Conrad,” he said to his one follower, “I will encamp here for the
night. Ride on down the Rhine, I beg of you, and cross the river where
you may, that you may announce my coming some time before I arrive. My
father is an old man, and I am the last of the race, so I do not wish to
come unexpectedly on him; therefore break to him with caution the fact
that I am in the neighbourhood, for hearing nothing from me all these
years it is like to happen he believes me dead.”

Conrad rode down the path by the river and disappeared while his master,
after seeing to the welfare of his horse, threw himself down in a
thicket and slept the untroubled sleep of the seasoned soldier. It was
daylight when he was awakened by the tramp of horses. Starting to his
feet, he was confronted by a grizzled warrior with half a dozen men at
his back, and at first the Count thought himself again a prisoner, but
the friendliness of the officer soon set all doubts at rest.

“Are you Count Herbert von Schonburg?” asked the intruder.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I am Richart, custodian of Castle Gudenfels, and commander of the small
forces possessed by her Ladyship, Countess von Falkenstein. I have to
acquaint you with the fact that your servant and messenger has been
captured. Your castle of Schonburg is besieged, and Conrad, unaware,
rode straight into custody. This coming to the ears of my lady the
Countess, she directed me to intercept you if possible, so that
you might not share the fate of your servant, and offer to you the
hospitality of Gudenfels Castle until such time as you had determined
what to do in relation to the siege of your own.”

“I give my warmest thanks to the Countess for her thoughtfulness. Is her
husband the Count then dead?”

“It is the young Countess von Falkenstein whose orders I carry. Her
father and mother are both dead, and her Ladyship, their only child, now
holds Gudenfels.”

“What, that little girl? She was but a child when I left the Rhine.”

“Her Ladyship is a woman of nineteen now.”

“And how long has my father been besieged?”

“Alas! it grieves me to state that your father, Count von Schonburg, has
also passed away. He has been dead these two years.”

The young man bowed his head and crossed himself. For a long time he
rode in silence, meditating upon this unwelcome intelligence, grieved to
think that such a desolate home-coming awaited him.

“Who, then, holds my castle against the besiegers?”

“The custodian Heinrich has stubbornly stood siege since the Count, your
father, died, saying he carries out the orders of his lord until the
return of the son.”

“Ah! if Heinrich is in command then is the castle safe,” cried the young
man, with enthusiasm. “He is a born warrior and first taught me the use
of the broad-sword. Who besieges us? The Archbishop of Mayence? He was
ever a turbulent prelate and held spite against our house.”

Richart shifted uneasily in his saddle, and for the moment did not
answer. Then he said, with hesitation:

“I think the Archbishop regards the siege with favour, but I know
little of the matter. My Lady, the Countess, will possess you with full
information.”

Count Herbert looked with astonishment upon the custodian of Castle
Gudenfels. Here was a contest going on at his very doors, even if on
the opposite side of the river, and yet a veteran knew nothing of the
contest. But they were now at the frowning gates of Castle Gudenfels,
with its lofty square pinnacled tower, and the curiosity of the young
Count was dimmed by the admiration he felt for this great stronghold
as he gazed upward at it. An instant later he with his escort passed
through the gateway and stood in the courtyard of the castle. When he
had dismounted the Count said to Richart:

“I have travelled far, and am not in fit state to be presented to a
lady. Indeed, now that I am here, I dread the meeting. I have seen
nothing of women for ten years, and knew little of them before I left
the Rhine. Take me, I beg of you, to a room where I may make some
preparation other than the camp has heretofore afforded, and bring me,
if you can, a few garments with which to replenish this faded, torn and
dusty apparel.”

“My Lord, you will find everything you wish in the rooms allotted to
you. Surmising your needs, I gave orders to that effect before I left
the castle.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Richart, and I shall not forget it.”

The Custodian without replying led his guest up one stair and then
another. The two traversed a long passage until they came to an open
door. Richart standing aside, bowed low, and entreated his lordship to
enter. Count Herbert passed into a large room from which a doorway
led into a smaller apartment which the young man saw was fitted as a
bedroom. The rooms hung high over the Rhine, but the view of the river
was impeded by the numerous heavy iron bars which formed a formidable
lattice-work before the windows. The Count was about to thank his
conductor for providing so sumptuously for him, but, turning, he was
amazed to see Richart outside with breathless eagerness draw shut the
strong door that led to the passage from which he had entered, and a
moment later, Herbert heard the ominous sound of stout bolts being shot
into their sockets. He stood for a moment gazing blankly now at the
bolted door, now at the barred window, and then slowly there came to him
the knowledge which would have enlightened a more suspicious man long
before--that he was a prisoner in the grim fortress of Gudenfels.
Casting his mind backward over the events of the morning, he now saw a
dozen sinister warnings that had heretofore escaped him. If a friendly
invitation had been intended, what need of the numerous guard of armed
men sent to escort him? Why had Richart hesitated when certain questions
were asked him? Count Herbert paced up and down the long room, reviewing
with clouded brow the events of the past few hours, beginning with the
glorious freedom of the open hillside in the early dawn and ending with
these impregnable stone walls that now environed him. He was a man slow
to anger, but resentment once aroused, burned in his heart with a steady
fervour that was unquenchable. He stopped at last in his aimless pacing,
raised his clinched fist toward the timbered ceiling, and cursed the
Countess von Falkenstein. In his striding to and fro the silence had
been broken by the clank of his sword on the stone floor, and he now
smiled grimly as he realised that they had not dared to deprive him of
his formidable weapon; they had caged the lion from the distant desert
without having had the courage to clip his claws. The Count drew his
broadsword and swung it hissing through the air, measuring its reach
with reference to the walls on either hand, then, satisfying himself
that he had free play, he took up a position before the door and stood
there motionless as the statue of a war-god. “Now, by the Cross I fought
for,” he muttered to himself, “the first man who sets foot across this
threshold enters the chamber of death.”

He remained thus, leaning with folded arms on the hilt of his long
sword, whose point rested on the flags of the floor, and at last his
patience was rewarded. He heard the rattle of the bolts outside, and a
tense eagerness thrilled his stalwart frame. The door came cautiously
inward for a space of perhaps two feet and was then brought to a stand
by the tightening links of a stout chain, fastened one end to the door,
the other to the outer wall. Through the space that thus gave a view of
the wide outer passage the Count saw Richart stand with pale face, well
back at a safe distance in the centre of the hall. Two men-at-arms held
a position behind their master.

“My Lord,” began Richart in trembling voice, “her Ladyship, the
Countess, desires----”

“Open the door, you cringing Judas!” interrupted the stern command of
the count; “open the door and set me as free as your villainy found me.
I hold no parley with a traitor.”

“My Lord, I implore you to listen. No harm is intended you, and my Lady,
the Countess, asks of you a conference touching----”

The heavy sword swung in the air and came down upon the chain with a
force that made the stout oaken door shudder. Scattering sparks cast a
momentary glow of red on the whitened cheeks of the startled onlookers.
The edge of the sword clove the upper circumference of an iron link,
leaving the severed ends gleaming like burnished silver, but the chain
still held. Again and again the sword fell, but never twice in the same
spot, anger adding strength to the blows, but subtracting skill.

“My Lord! my Lord!” beseeched Richart, “restrain your fury. You cannot
escape from this strong castle even though you sever the chain.”

“I’ll trust my sword for that,” muttered the prisoner between his set
teeth.

There now rang out on the conflict a new voice; the voice of a woman,
clear and commanding, the tones instinct with that inborn quality of
imperious authority which expects and usually obtains instant obedience.

“Close the door, Richart,” cried the unseen lady. The servitor made a
motion to obey, but the swoop of the sword seemed to paralyse him where
he stood. He cast a beseeching look at his mistress, which said as
plainly as words: “You are ordering me to my death.” The Count, his
weapon high in mid-air, suddenly swerved it from its course, for there
appeared across the opening a woman’s hand and arm, white and shapely,
fleecy lace falling away in dainty folds from the rounded contour of the
arm. The small, firm hand grasped bravely the almost severed chain and
the next instant the door was drawn shut, the bolts clanking into their
places. Count Herbert, paused, leaning on his sword, gazing bewildered
at the closed door.

“Ye gods of war!” he cried; “never have I seen before such cool courage
as that!”

For a long time the Count walked up and down the spacious room, stopping
now and then at the window to peer through the iron grille at the rapid
current of the river far below, the noble stream as typical of freedom
as were the bars that crossed his vision, of captivity. It seemed that
the authorities of the castle had abandoned all thought of further
communication with their truculent prisoner. Finally he entered the
inner room and flung himself down, booted and spurred as he was, upon
the couch, and, his sword for a bedmate, slept. The day was far spent
when he awoke, and his first sensation was that of gnawing hunger,
for he was a healthy man. His next, that he had heard in his sleep
the cautious drawing of bolts, as if his enemies purposed to project
themselves surreptitiously in upon him, taking him at a disadvantage.
He sat upright, his sword ready for action, and listened intently. The
silence was profound, and as the Count sat breathless, the stillness
seemed to be emphasised rather than disturbed by a long-drawn sigh which
sent a thrill of superstitious fear through the stalwart frame of the
young man, for he well knew that the Rhine was infested with spirits
animated by evil intentions toward human beings, and against such
spirits his sword was but as a willow wand. He remembered with renewed
awe that this castle stood only a few leagues above the Lurlei rocks
where a nymph of unearthly beauty lured men to their destruction, and
the knight crossed himself as a protection against all such. Gathering
courage from this devout act, and abandoning his useless weapon, he
tiptoed to the door that led to the larger apartment, and there found
his worst anticipations realised. With her back against the closed outer
door stood a Siren of the Rhine, and, as if to show how futile is the
support of the Evil One in a crisis, her very lips were pallid with fear
and her blue eyes were wide with apprehension, as they met those of the
Count von Schonburg. Her hair, the colour of ripe yellow wheat, rose
from her smooth white forehead and descended in a thick braid that
almost reached to the floor. She was dressed in the humble garb of a
serving maiden, the square bit of lace on her crown of fair hair and the
apron she wore, as spotless as new fallen snow. In her hand she held
a tray which supported a loaf of bread and a huge flagon brimming with
wine. On seeing the Count, her quick breathing stopped for the moment
and she dropped a low courtesy.

“My Lord,” she said, but there came a catch in her throat, and she could
speak no further.

Seeing that he had to deal with no spirit, but with an inhabitant of the
world he knew and did not fear, there arose a strange exultation in the
heart of the Count as he looked upon this fair representative of his own
country. For ten years he had seen no woman, and now a sudden sense of
what he had lost overwhelmed him, his own breath coming quicker as the
realisation of this impressed itself upon him. He strode rapidly toward
her, and she seemed to shrink into the wall at his approach, wild fear
springing into her eyes, but he merely took the laden tray from her
trembling hands and placed it upon a bench. Then raising the flagon to
his lips, he drank a full half of its contents before withdrawing it. A
deep sigh of satisfaction followed, and he said, somewhat shamefacedly:

“Forgive my hurried greed, maiden, but the thirst of the desert seems to
be in my throat, and the good wine reminds me that I am a German.”

“It was brought for your use,” replied the girl, demurely, “and I am
gratified that it meets your commendation, my Lord.”

“And so also do you, my girl. What is your name and who are you?”

“I am called Beatrix, my Lord, a serving-maid of this castle, the
daughter of the woodman Wilhelm, and, alas! that it should be so, for
the present your jailer.”

“If I quarrelled as little with my detention, as I see I am like to do
with my keeper, I fear captivity would hold me long in thrall. Are the
men in the castle such cravens then that they bestow so unwelcome a task
upon a woman?”

“The men are no cravens, my Lord, but this castle is at war with yours,
and for each man there is a post. A woman would be less missed if so
brave a warrior as Count von Schonburg thought fit to war upon us.”

“But a woman makes war upon me, Beatrix. What am I to do? Surrender
humbly?”

“Brave men have done so before now and will again, my Lord, where women
are concerned. At least,” added Beatrix, blushing and casting down her
eyes, “I have been so informed.”

“And small blame to them,” cried the count, with enthusiasm. “I swear to
you, my girl, that if women warriors were like the woodman’s daughter, I
would cast away all arms except these with which to enclasp her.”

And he stretched out his hands, taking a step nearer, while she shrank
in alarm from him.

“My Lord, I am but an humble messenger, and I beg of you to listen to
what I am asked to say. My Lady, the Countess, has commissioned me to
tell you that--”

A startling malediction of the Countess that accorded ill with the
scarlet cross emblazoned on the young man’s breast, interrupted the
girl.

“I hold no traffic with the Countess,” he cried. “She has treacherously
laid me by the heels, coming as I did from battling for the Cross that
she doubtless professes to regard as sacred.”

“It was because she feared you, my Lord. These years back tales of your
valour in the Holy Land have come to the Rhine, and now you return to
find your house at war with hers. What was she to do? The chances stood
even with only your underling in command; judge then what her fate must
be with your strong sword thrown in the balance against her. All’s fair
in war, said those who counselled her. What would you have done in such
an extremity, my Lord?”

“What would I have done? I would have met my enemy sword in hand and
talked with him or fought with him as best suited his inclination.”

“But a lady cannot meet you, sword in hand, my Lord.”

The Count paused in the walk he had begun when the injustice of his
usage impressed itself once more upon him. He looked admiringly at the
girl.

“That is most true, Beatrix. I had forgotten. Still, I should not have
been met with cozenry. Here came I from starvation in the wilderness,
thirst in the desert, and from the stress of the battle-field, back to
mine own land with my heart full of yearning love for it and for all
within its boundaries. I came even from prison, captured in fair fight,
by an untaught heathen, whose men lay slain by my hand, yet with the
nobility of a true warrior, he asked neither ransom nor hostage, but
handed back my sword, saying, ‘Go in peace.’ That in a heathen land!
but no sooner does my foot rest on this Christian soil than I am met by
false smiles and lying tongues, and my welcome to a neighbour’s house is
the clank of the inthrust bolt.”

“Oh, it was a shameful act and not to be defended,” cried the girl, with
moist eyes and quivering lip, the sympathetic reverberation of her voice
again arresting the impatient steps of the young man, causing him to
pause and view her with a feeling that he could not understand, and
which he found some difficulty in controlling. Suddenly all desire for
restraint left him, he sprang forward, clasped the girl in his arms
and drew her into the middle of the room, where she could not give the
signal that might open the door.

“My Lord! my Lord!” she cried in terror, struggling without avail to
free herself.

“You said all’s fair in war and saying so, gave but half the proverb,
which adds, all’s fair in love as well, and maiden, nymph of the
woodland, so rapidly does a man learn that which he has never been
taught, I proclaim with confidence that I love thee.”

“A diffident and gentle lover you prove yourself!” she gasped with
rising indignation, holding him from her.

“Indeed, my girl, there was little of diffidence or gentleness in my
warring, and my wooing is like to have a touch of the same quality. It
is useless to struggle for I have thee firm, so take to yourself some of
that gentleness you recommend to me.”

He strove to kiss her, but Beatrix held her head far from him, her open
palm pressed against the red cross that glowed upon his breast, keeping
him thus at arm’s length.

“Count von Schonburg, what is the treachery of any other compared with
yours? You came heedlessly into this castle, suspecting as you say, no
danger: I came within this room to do you service, knowing my peril, but
trusting to the honour of a true soldier of the Cross, and this is
my reward! First tear from your breast this sacred emblem, valorous
assaulter of a defenceless woman, for it should be worn by none but
stainless gentlemen.”

Count Herbert’s arms relaxed, and his hands dropped listless to his
sides.

“By my sword,” he said, “they taught you invective in the forest. You
are free. Go.”

The girl made no motion to profit by her newly acquired liberty, but
stood there, glancing sideways at him who scowled menacingly at her.

When at last she spoke, she said, shyly: “I have not yet fulfilled my
mission.”

“Fulfil it then in the fiend’s name and begone.”

“Will you consent to see my Lady the Countess?”

“No.”

“Will you promise not to make war upon her if you are released?”

“No.”

“If, in spite of your boorishness, she sets you free, what will you do?”

“I will rally my followers to my banner, scatter the forces that
surround my castle, then demolish this prison trap.”

“Am I in truth to carry such answers to the Countess?”

“You are to do as best pleases you, now and forever.”

“I am but a simple serving-maid, and know nothing of high questions
of state, yet it seems to me such replies do not oil prison bolts, and
believe me, I grieve to see you thus detained.”

“I am grateful for your consideration. Is your embassy completed?”

The girl, her eyes on the stone floor, paused long before replying, then
said, giving no warning of a change of subject, and still not raising
her eyes to his:

“You took me by surprise; I am not used to being handled roughly; you
forget the distance between your station and mine, you being a noble
of the Empire, and I but a serving-maid; if, in my anger, I spoke in a
manner unbecoming one so humble, I do beseech that your Lordship pardon
me.”

“Now by the Cross to which you appealed, how long will you stand
chattering there? Think you I am made of adamant, and not of flesh and
blood? My garments are tattered at best, I would in woman’s company they
were finer, and this cross of Genoa red hangs to my tunic, but by a few
frail threads. Beware, therefore, that I tear it not from my breast as
you advised, and cast it from me.”

Beatrix lifted one frightened glance to the young man’s face and saw
standing on his brow great drops of sweat. His right hand grasped the
upper portion of the velvet cross, partly detached from his doublet, and
he looked loweringly upon her. Swiftly she smote the door twice with her
hand and instantly the portal opened as far as the chain would allow it.
Count Herbert noticed that in the interval, three other chains had been
added to the one that formerly had baffled his sword. The girl, like
a woodland pigeon, darted underneath the lower chain, and although the
prisoner took a rapid step forward, the door, with greater speed, closed
and was bolted.

The Count had requested the girl to be gone, and surely should have been
contented now that she had withdrawn herself, yet so shifty a thing is
human nature, that no sooner were his commands obeyed than he began
to bewail their fulfilment. He accused himself of being a double fool,
first, for not holding her when he had her; and secondly, having allowed
her to depart, he bemoaned the fact that he had acted rudely to her,
and thus had probably made her return impossible. His prison seemed
inexpressibly dreary lacking her presence. Once or twice he called out
her name, but the echoing empty walls alone replied.

For the first time in his life the heavy sleep of the camp deserted him,
and in his dreams he pursued a phantom woman, who continually dissolved
in his grasp, now laughingly, now in anger.

The morning found him deeply depressed, and he thought the unaccustomed
restraints of a prison were having their effect on the spirits of a man
heretofore free. He sat silently on the bench watching the door.

At last, to his great joy, he heard the rattle of bolts being withdrawn.
The door opened slowly to the small extent allowed by the chains, but no
one entered and the Count sat still, concealed from the view of whoever
stood without.

“My Lord Count,” came the sweet tones of the girl and the listener with
joy, fancied he detected in it a suggestion of apprehension, doubtless
caused by the fact that the room seemed deserted. “My Lord Count, I have
brought your breakfast; will you not come and receive it?”

Herbert rose slowly and came within range of his jailer’s vision. The
girl stood in the hall, a repast that would have tempted an epicure
arrayed on the wooden trencher she held in her hands.

“Beatrix, come in,” he said.

“I fear that in stooping, some portion of this burden may fall. Will you
not take the trencher?”

The young man stepped to the opening and, taking the tray from her,
placed it on the bench as he had previously done; then repeated his
invitation.

“You were displeased with my company before, my Lord, and I am loath
again to offend.”

“Beatrix, I beg you to enter. I have something to say to you.”

“Stout chains bar not words, my Lord. Speak and I shall listen.”

“What I have to say, is for your ear alone.”

“Then are the conditions perfect for such converse, my Lord. No guard
stands within this hall.”

The Count sighed deeply, turned and sat again on the bench, burying his
face in his hands. The maiden having given excellent reasons why she
should not enter, thus satisfying her sense of logic, now set logic at
defiance, slipped under the lowest chain and stood within the room,
and, so that there might be no accusation that she did things by halves,
closed the door leaning her back against it. The knight looked up at her
and saw that she too had rested but indifferently. Her lovely eyes half
veiled, showed traces of weeping, and there was a wistful expression
in her face that touched him tenderly, and made him long for her;
nevertheless he kept a rigid government upon himself, and sat there
regarding her, she flushing, slightly under his scrutiny, not daring to
return his ardent gaze.

“Beatrix,” he said slowly, “I have acted towards you like a boor and
a ruffian, as indeed I am; but let this plead for me, that I have ever
been used to the roughness of the camp, bereft of gentler influences. I
ask your forgiveness.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You are a noble of the Empire, and I but a
lowly serving-maid.”

“Nay, that cuts me to the heart, and is my bitterest condemnation.
A true man were courteous to high and low alike. Now, indeed, you
overwhelm me with shame, maiden of the woodlands.”

“Such was not my intention, my Lord. I hold you truly noble in nature as
well as in rank, otherwise I stood not here.”

“Beatrix, does any woodlander come from the forest to the castle walls
and there give signal intended for you alone?”

“Oh, no, my Lord.”

“Perhaps you have kindly preference for some one within this
stronghold?”

“You forget, my Lord, that the castle is ruled by a lady, and that the
preference you indicate would accord ill with her womanly government.”

“In truth I know little of woman’s rule, but given such, I suppose
the case would stand as you say. The Countess then frowns upon lovers’
meetings.”

“How could it be otherwise?”

“Have you told her of--of yesterday?”

“You mean of your refusal to come to terms with her? Yes, my Lord.”

“I mean nothing of the kind, Beatrix.”

“No one outside this room has been told aught to your disadvantage, my
Lord,” said the girl blushing rose-red.

“Then she suspects nothing?”

“Suspects nothing of what, my Lord?”

“That I love you, Beatrix.”

The girl caught her breath, and seemed about to fly, but gathering
courage, remained, and said speaking hurriedly and in some confusion:
“As I did not suspect it myself I see not how my Lady should have made
any such surmise, but indeed it may be so, for she chided me bitterly
for remaining so long with you, and made me weep with her keen censure;
yet am I here now against her express wish and command, but that is
because of my strong sympathy for you and my belief that the Countess
has wrongfully treated you.”

“I care nothing for the opinion of that harridan, except that it may
bring harsh usage to you; but Beatrix, I have told you bluntly of my
love for you, answer me as honestly.”

“My Lord, you spoke just now of a woodlander--”

“Ah, there is one then. Indeed, I feared as much, for there can be none
on all the Rhine as beautiful or as good as you.”

“There are many woodlanders, my Lord, and many women more beautiful than
I. What I was about to say was that I would rather be the wife of the
poorest forester, and lived in the roughest hut on the hillside, than
dwell otherwise in the grandest castle on the Rhine.”

“Surely, surely. But you shall dwell in my castle of Schonburg as my
most honoured wife, if you but will it so.”

“Then, my Lord, I must bid you beware of what you propose. Your wife
must be chosen from the highest in the land, and not from the lowliest.
It is not fitting that you should endeavour to raise a serving-maid to
the position of Countess von Schonburg. You would lose caste among your
equals, and bring unhappiness upon us both.”

Count Herbert grasped his sword and lifting it, cried angrily: “By the
Cross I serve, the man who refuses to greet my wife as he would greet
the Empress, shall feel the weight of this blade.”

“You cannot kill a whisper with a sword, my Lord.”

“I can kill the whisperer.”

“That can you not, my Lord, for the whisperer will be a woman.”

“Then out upon them, we will have no traffic with them. I have lived too
long away from the petty restrictions of civilisation to be bound down
by them now, for I come from a region where a man’s sword and not his
rank preserved his life.” As he spoke he again raised his huge weapon
aloft, but now held it by the blade so that it stood out against the
bright window like a black cross of iron, and his voice rang forth
defiantly: “With that blade I won my honour; by the symbol of its hilt I
hope to obtain my soul’s salvation, on both united I swear to be to you
a true lover and a loyal husband.”

With swift motion the girl covered her face with her hands and Herbert
saw the crystal drops trickle between her fingers. For long she could
not speak and then mastering her emotion, she said brokenly:

“I cannot accept, I cannot now accept. I can take no advantage of a
helpless prisoner. At midnight I shall come and set you free, thus my
act may atone for the great wrong of your imprisonment; atone partially
if not wholly. When you are at liberty, if you wish to forget your
words, which I can never do, then am I amply repaid that my poor
presence called them forth. If you remember them, and demand of the
Countess that I stand as hostage for peace, she is scarce likely to deny
you, for she loves not war. But know that nothing you have said is to be
held against you, for I would have you leave this castle as free as when
you entered it. And now, my Lord, farewell.”

Before the unready man could make motion to prevent her, she had opened
the door and was gone, leaving it open, thus compelling the prisoner
to be his own jailer and close it, for he had no wish now to leave the
castle alone when he had been promised such guidance.

The night seemed to Count Herbert the longest he had ever spent, as he
sat on the bench, listening for the withdrawing of the bolts; if indeed
they were in their sockets, which he doubted. At last the door was
pushed softly open, and bending under the chain, he stood in the outside
hall, peering through the darkness, to catch sight of his conductor. A
great window of stained glass occupied the southern end of the hall,
and against it fell the rays of the full moon now high in the heavens,
filling the dim and lofty apartment with a coloured radiance resembling
his visions of the half tones of fairyland. Like a shadow stood the
cloaked figure of the girl, who timidly placed her small hand in his
great palm, and that touch gave a thrill of reality to the mysticism
of the time and the place. He grasped it closely, fearing it might
fade away from him as it had done in his dream. She led him silently by
another way from that by which he had entered, and together they passed
through a small doorway that communicated with a narrow circular stair
which wound round and round downwards until they came to another door at
the bottom, which let them out in the moonlight at the foot of a turret.

“Beatrix,” whispered the young man, “I am not going to demand you of the
Countess. I shall not be indebted to her for my wife. You must come with
me now.”

“No, no,” cried the girl shrinking from him, “I cannot go with you thus
surreptitiously, and no one but you and me must ever learn that I led
you from the castle. You shall come for me as a lord should for his
lady, as if he thought her worthy of him.”

“Indeed, that do I. Worthy? It is I who am unworthy, but made more
worthy I hope in that you care for me.”

From where they stood the knight saw the moonlight fall on his own
castle of Schonburg, the rays seeming to transform the grey stone into
the whitest of marble, the four towers standing outlined against the
blue of the cloudless sky. The silver river of romance, flowed silently
at its feet reflecting again the snowy purity of the reality in an
inverted quivering watery vision. All the young man’s affection for the
home he had not seen for years seemed to blend with his love for the
girl standing there in the moonlight. Gently he drew her to him, and
kissed her unresisting lips.

“Woodland maiden,” he said tenderly, “here at the edge of the forest is
your rightful home and not in this grim castle, and here will I woo thee
again, being now a free man.”

“Indeed,” said the girl with a laugh in which a sob and a sigh
intermingled, “it is but scanty freedom I have brought to you; an
exchange of silken fetters for iron chains.”

His arms still around her, he unloosed the ribbon that held in thrall
the thick braid of golden hair, and parting the clustering strands
speedily encompassed her in a cloak of misty fragrance that seemed as
unsubstantial as the moonlight that glittered through its meshes. He
stood back the better to admire the picture he seemed to have created.

“My darling,” he cried, “you are no woodland woman, but the very spirit
of the forest herself. You are so beautiful, I dare not leave you here
to the mercies of this demon, who, finding me gone, may revenge herself
on you. If before she dared to censure you, what may she not do now that
you have set me free? Curse her that she stands for a moment between my
love and me.”

He raised his clenched fist and shook it at the tower above him, and
seemed about to break forth in new maledictions against the lady, when
Beatrix, clasping her hands cried in terror:

“No, no, Herbert, you have said enough. How can you pretend to love me
when implacable hatred lies so near to your affection. You must forgive
the Countess. Oh, Herbert, Herbert, what more could I do to atone? I
have withdrawn my forces from around your castle; I have set you free
and your path to Schonburg lies unobstructed. Even now your underling,
thinking himself victorious, is preparing an expedition against me, and
nothing but your word stands, between me and instant attack. Ponder, I
beseech of you, on my position. War, not of my seeking, was bequeathed
to me, and a woman who cannot fight must trust to her advisers, and thus
may do what her own heart revolts against. They told me that if I made
you prisoner I could stop the war, and thus I consented to that act of
treachery for which you so justly condemn me.”

“Beatrix,” cried her amazed lover, “what madness has come over you?”

“No madness touched me, Herbert, until I met you, and I sometimes think
that you have brought back with you the eastern sorcery of which I
have heard--at least such may perhaps make excuse for my unmaidenly
behaviour. Herbert, I am Beatrix of Gudenfels, Countess von Falkenstein,
who is and ever will be, if you refuse to pardon her, a most unhappy
woman.”

“No woodland maiden, but the Countess! The Countess von Falkenstein!”
 murmured her lover more to himself than to, his eager listener, the
lines on his perplexed brow showing that he was endeavouring to adjust
the real and the ideal in his slow brain.

“A Countess, Herbert, who will joyfully exchange the privileges of her
station for the dear preference shown to the serving-maid.”

A smile came to the lips of Von Schonburg as he held out his hands, in
which the Countess placed her own.

“My Lady Beatrix,” he said, “how can I refuse my pardon for the first
encroachment on my liberty, now that you have made me your prisoner for
life?”

“Indeed, my captured lord,” cried the girl, “you are but now coming to
a true sense of your predicament. I marvelled that you felt so resentful
about the first offence, when the second was so much more serious. Am I
then forgiven for both?”

It seemed that she was, and the Count insisted on returning to his
captivity, and coming forth the next day, freed by her commands,
whereupon, in the presence of all her vassals, he swore allegiance to
her with such deference that her advisers said to her that she must now
see they had been right in counselling his imprisonment. Prison, they
said, had a wonderfully quieting effect upon even the most truculent,
the Count being quickly subdued when he saw his sword-play had but
little effect on the chain. The Countess graciously acknowledged that
events had indeed proved the wisdom of their course, and said it was not
to be wondered at that men should know the disposition of a turbulent
man, better than an inexperienced woman could know it.

And thus was the feud between Gudenfels and Schonburg happily ended, and
Count Herbert came from the Crusades to find two castles waiting for
him instead of one as he had expected, with what he had reason to prize
above everything else, a wife as well.




CHAPTER II

THE REVENGE OF THE OUTLAW


The position of Count Herbert when, at the age of thirty-one he took
up his residence in the ancient castle of his line, was a most enviable
one. His marriage with Beatrix, Countess von Falkenstein, had added the
lustre of a ruling family to the prestige of his own, and the renown of
his valour in the East had lost nothing in transit from the shores of
the Mediterranean to the banks of the Rhine. The Counts of Schonburg had
ever been the most conservative in counsel and the most radical in the
fray, and thus Herbert on returning, found himself, without seeking
the honor, regarded by common consent as leader of the nobility whose
castles bordered the renowned river. The Emperor, as was usually
the case when these imperial figure-heads were elected by the three
archbishops and their four colleagues, was a nonentity, who made no
attempt to govern a turbulent land that so many were willing to govern
for him. His majesty left sword and sceptre to those who cared for
such baubles, and employed himself in banding together the most notable
company of meistersingers that Germany had ever listened to. But
although harmony reigned in Frankfort, the capital, there was much lack
of it along the Rhine, and the man with the swiftest and heaviest
sword, usually accumulated the greatest amount of property, movable and
otherwise.

Among the truculent nobles who terrorised the country side, none was
held In greater awe than Baron von Wiethoff, whose Schloss occupied a
promontory Some distance up the stream from Castle Schonburg, on the
same side of the river. Public opinion condemned the Baron, not because
he exacted tribute from the merchants who sailed down the Rhine, for
such collections were universally regarded as a legitimate source of
revenue, but because he was in the habit of killing the goose that laid
the golden egg, which action was looked upon with disfavour by those who
resided between Schloss Wiethoff and Cologne, as interfering with their
right to exist, for a merchant, although well-plucked, is still of
advantage to those in whose hands he falls, if life and some of his
goods are left to him. Whereas, when cleft from scalp to midriff by
the Baron’s long sword, he became of no value either to himself or to
others. While many nobles were satisfied with levying a scant five
or ten per cent on a voyager’s belongings, the Baron rarely rested
contented until he had acquired the full hundred, and, the merchant
objecting, von Wiethoff would usually order him hanged or decapitated,
although at times when he was in good humour he was wont to confer
honour upon the trading classes by despatching the grumbling seller
of goods with his own weapon, which created less joy in the commercial
community than the Baron seemed to expect. Thus navigation on the swift
current of the Rhine began to languish, for there was little profit in
the transit of goods from Mayence to Cologne if the whole consignment
stood in jeopardy and the owner’s life as well, so the merchants got
into the habit of carrying their gear overland on the backs of mules,
thus putting the nobility to great inconvenience in scouring the
forests, endeavouring to intercept the caravans. The nobility, with that
stern sense of justice which has ever characterised the higher classes,
placed the blame of this diversion of traffic from its natural channel
not upon the merchants but upon the Baron, where undoubtedly it rightly
belonged, and although, when they came upon an overland company which
was seeking to avoid them, they gathered in an extra percentage of the
goods to repay in a measure the greater difficulty they had in
their woodland search, they always informed the merchants with much
politeness, that, when river traffic was resumed, they would be pleased
to revert to the original exaction, which the traders, not without
reason pointed out was of little avail to them as long as Baron von
Wiethoff was permitted to confiscate the whole.

In their endeavours to resuscitate the navigation interests of the
Rhine, several expeditions had been formed against the Baron, but his
castle was strong, and there were so many conflicting interests among
those who attacked him that he had always come out victorious, and after
each onslaught the merchants suffered more severely than before.

Affairs were in this unsatisfactory condition when Count Herbert of
Schonburg returned from the Holy Land, the fame of his deeds upon him,
and married Beatrix of Gudenfels. Although the nobles of the Upper Rhine
held aloof from all contest with the savage Baron of Schloss Wiethoff,
his exactions not interfering with their incomes, many of those further
down the river offered their services to Count Herbert, if he would
consent to lead them against the Baron, but the Count pleaded that he
was still a stranger in his own country, having so recently returned
from his ten contentious years in Syria, therefore he begged time to
study the novel conditions confronting him before giving an answer to
their proposal.

The Count learned that the previous attacks made upon Schloss Wiethoff
had been conducted with but indifferent generalship, and that failure
had been richly earned by desertions from the attacking force, each
noble thinking himself justified in withdrawing himself and his men,
when offended, or when the conduct of affairs displeased him, so von
Schonburg informed the second deputation which waited on him, that he
was more accustomed to depend on himself than on the aid of others, and
that if any quarrel arose between Castle Schonburg and Schloss Wiethoff,
the Count would endeavour to settle the dispute with his own sword,
which reply greatly encouraged the Baron when he heard of it, for he
wished to try conclusions with the newcomer, and made no secret of
his disbelief in the latter’s Saracenic exploits, saying the Count had
returned when there was none left of the band he took with him, and had,
therefore, with much wisdom, left himself free from contradiction.

There was some disappointment up and down the Rhine when time passed and
the Count made no warlike move. It was well known that the Countess was
much averse to war, notwithstanding the fact that she was indebted to
war for her stalwart husband, and her peaceful nature was held to excuse
the non-combative life lived by the Count, although there were others
who gave it as their opinion that the Count was really afraid of the
Baron, who daily became more and more obnoxious as there seemed to be
less and less to fear. Such boldness did the Baron achieve that he even
organised a slight raid upon the estate of Gudenfels which belonged to
the Count’s wife, but still Herbert of Schonburg did not venture from
the security of his castle, greatly to the disappointment and the
disgust of his neighbours, for there are on earth no people who love a
fight more dearly than do those who reside along the banks of the placid
Rhine.

At last an heir was born to Castle Schonburg, and the rejoicings
throughout all the district governed by the Count were general and
enthusiastic. Bonfires were lit on the heights and the noble river
glowed red under the illumination at night. The boy who had arrived
at the castle was said to give promise of having all the beauty of
his mother and all the strength of his father, which was admitted by
everybody to be a desirable combination, although some shook their heads
and said they hoped that with strength there would come greater courage
than the Count appeared to possess. Nevertheless, the Count had still
some who believed in him, notwithstanding his long period of inaction,
and these said that on the night the boy was born, and word was brought
to him in the great hall that mother and child were well, the cloud
that had its habitual resting-place on the Count’s brow lifted and his
lordship took down from its place his great broadsword, rubbed from its
blade the dust and the rust that had collected, swung the huge weapon
hissing through the air, and heaved a deep sigh, as one who had come to
the end of a period of restraint.

The boy was just one month old on the night that there was a thunderous
knocking at the gate of Schloss Wiethoff. The Baron hastily buckled
on his armour and was soon at the head of his men eager to repel the
invader. In a marvellously short space of time there was a contest in
progress at the gates which would have delighted the heart of the most
quarrelsome noble from Mayence to Cologne. The attacking party which
appeared in large force before the gate, attempted to batter in the
oaken leaves of the portal, but the Baron was always prepared for such
visitors, and the heavy timbers that were heaved against the oak made
little impression, while von Wiethoff roared defiance from the top of
the wall that surrounded the castle and what was more to the purpose,
showered down stones and arrows on the besiegers, grievously thinning
their ranks. The Baron, with creditable ingenuity, had constructed above
the inside of the gate a scaffolding, on the top of which was piled a
mountain of huge stones. This scaffold was arranged in such a way that
a man pulling a lever caused it to collapse, thus piling the stones
instantly against the inside of the gate, rendering it impregnable
against assault by battering rams. The Baron was always jubilant when
his neighbours attempted to force the gate, for he was afforded much
amusement at small expense to himself, and he cared little for the
damage the front door received, as he had built his castle not for
ornament but for his own protection. He was a man with an amazing
vocabulary, and as he stood on the wall shaking his mailed fist at
the intruders he poured forth upon them invective more personal than
complimentary.

While thus engaged, rejoicing over the repulse of the besiegers, for the
attack was evidently losing its vigour, he was amazed to note a sudden
illumination of the forest-covered hill which he was facing. The
attacking party rallied with a yell when the light struck them, and
the Baron, looking hastily over his shoulder to learn the source of the
ruddy glow on the trees, saw with dismay that his castle was on fire and
that Count Herbert followed by his men had possession of the battlements
to the rear, while the courtyard swarmed with soldiers, who had
evidently scaled the low wall along the river front from rafts or boats.

“Surrender!” cried Count Herbert, advancing along the wall. “Your castle
is taken, and will be a heap of ruins within the hour.”

“Then may you be buried beneath them,” roared the Baron, springing to
the attack.

Although the Baron was a younger man than his antagonist, it was soon
proven that his sword play was not equal to that of the Count, and
the broadsword fight on the battlements in the light of the flaming
stronghold, was of short duration, watched breathlessly as it was by men
of both parties above and below. Twice the Baron’s guard was broken, and
the third time, such was the terrific impact of iron on iron, that the
Baron’s weapon was struck from his benumbed hands and fell glittering
through the air to the ground outside the walls. The Count paused in his
onslaught, refraining from striking a disarmed man, but again demanding
his submission. The Baron cast one glance at his burning house, saw that
it was doomed, then, with a movement as reckless as it was unexpected,
took the terrific leap from the wall top to the ground, alighting on his
feet near his fallen sword which he speedily recovered. For an instant
the Count hovered on the brink to follow him, but the swift thought of
his wife and child restrained him, and he feared a broken limb in
the fall, leaving him thus at the mercy of his enemy. The moment for
decision was short enough, but the years of regret for this hesitation
were many and long. There were a hundred men before the walls to
intercept the Baron, and it seemed useless to jeopardise life or limb
in taking the leap, so the Count contented himself by giving the loud
command: “Seize that man and bind him.”

It was an order easy to give and easy to obey had there been a dozen men
below as brave as their captain, or even one as brave, as stalwart and
as skilful; but the Baron struck sturdily around him and mowed his way
through the throng as effectually as a reaper with a sickle clears a
path for himself in the standing corn. Before Herbert realised what was
happening, the Baron was safe in the obscurity of the forest.

The Count of Schonburg was not a man to do things by halves, even though
upon the occasion of this attack he allowed the Baron to slip through
his fingers. When the ruins of the Schloss cooled, he caused them to be
removed and flung stone by stone into the river, leaving not a vestige
of the castle that had so long been a terror to the district, holding
that if the lair were destroyed the wolf would not return. In this the
Count proved but partly right. Baron von Wiethoff renounced his
order, and became an outlaw, gathering round him in the forest all the
turbulent characters, not in regular service elsewhere, publishing along
the Rhine by means of prisoners he took and then released that as the
nobility seemed to object to his preying upon the merchants, he would
endeavour to amend his ways and would harry instead such castles as fell
into his hands. Thus Baron von Wiethoff became known as the Outlaw of
the Hundsrück, and being as intrepid as he was merciless, soon made
the Rhenish nobility withdraw attention from other people’s quarrels in
order to bestow strict surveillance upon their own. It is possible
that if the dwellers along the river had realised at first the kind of
neighbour that had been produced by burning out the Baron, they might,
by combination have hunted him down in the widespread forests of the
Hundsrück, but as the years went on, the Outlaw acquired such knowledge
of the interminable mazes of this wilderness, that it is doubtful
whether all the troops in the Empire could have brought his band to bay.
The outlaws always fled before a superior force, and always massacred
an inferior one, and like the lightning, no man could predict where the
next stroke would fall. On one occasion he even threatened the walled
town of Coblentz, and the citizens compounded with him, saying they had
no quarrel with any but the surrounding nobles, which expression the
thrifty burghers regretted when Count Herbert marched his men through
their streets and for every coin they, had paid the Outlaw, exacted ten.

The boy of Castle Schonburg was three years old, when he was allowed
to play on the battlements, sporting with a wooden sword and imagining
himself as great a warrior as his father had ever been. He was a brave
little fellow whom nothing could frighten but the stories his nurse told
him of the gnomes and goblins who infested the Rhine, and he longed
for the time when he would be a man and wear a real sword. One day just
before he had completed his fourth year, a man came slinking out of
the forest to the foot of the wall, for the watch was now slack as the
Outlaw had not been heard of for months, and then was far away in
the direction of Mayence. The nurse was holding a most absorbing
conversation with the man-at-arms, who should, instead, have been pacing
up and down the terrace while she should have been watching her charge.
The man outside gave a low whistle which attracted the attention of the
child and then beckoned him to come further along the wall until he had
passed the west tower.

“Well, little coward,” said the man, “I did not think you would have the
courage to come so far away from the women.”

“I am not a coward,” answered the lad, stoutly, “and I do not care about
the women at all.”

“Your father was a coward.”

“He is not. He is the bravest man in the world.”

“He did not dare to jump off the wall after the Baron.”

“He will cut the Baron in pieces if he ever comes near our castle.”

“Yet he dared not jump as the Baron did.”

“The Baron was afraid of my father; that’s why he jumped.”

“Not so. It was your father who feared to follow him, though he had a
sword and the Baron had none. You are all cowards in Castle Schonburg.
I don’t believe you have the courage to jump even though I held out my
arms to catch you, but if you do I will give you the sword I wear.”

The little boy had climbed on the parapet, and now stood hovering on the
brink of the precipice, his childish heart palpitating through fear of
the chasm before him, yet beneath its beatings was an insistent command
to prove his impugned courage. For some moments there was deep silence,
the man below gazing aloft and holding up his hands. At last he lowered
his outstretched arms and said in a sneering tone:

“Good-bye, craven son of a craven race. You dare not jump.”

The lad, with a cry of despair, precipitated himself into the empty air
and came fluttering down like a wounded bird, to fall insensible into
the arms that for the moment saved him from death or mutilation. An
instant later there was a shriek from the negligent nurse, and the
man-at-arms ran along the battlements, a bolt on his cross-bow which he
feared to launch at the flying abductor, for in the speeding of it he
might slay the heir of Schonburg. By the time the castle was aroused and
the gates thrown open to pour forth searchers, the man had disappeared
into the forest, and in its depths all trace of young Wilhelm was lost.
Some days after, the Count von Schonburg came upon the deserted camp
of the outlaws, and found there evidences, not necessary to be here set
down, that his son had been murdered. Imposing secrecy on his followers,
so that the Countess might still retain her unshaken belief that not
even an outlaw would harm a little child, the Count returned to his
castle to make preparations for a complete and final campaign of
extinction against the scourge of the Hundsrück, but the Outlaw had
withdrawn his men far from the scene of his latest successful exploit
and the Count never came up with him.

Years passed on and the silver came quickly to Count Herbert’s hair,
he attributing the change to the hardships endured in the East, but all
knowing well the cause sprang from his belief in his son’s death. The
rapid procession of years made little impression on the beauty of the
Countess, who, although grieving for the absence of her boy, never
regarded him as lost but always looked for his return. “If he were
dead,” she often said to her husband, “I should know it in my heart; I
should know the day, the hour and the moment.”

This belief the Count strove to encourage, although none knew better
than he how baseless it was. Beatrix, with a mother’s fondness, kept
little Wilhelm’s room as it had been when he left it, his toys in their
places, and his bed prepared for him, allowing no one else to share the
task she had allotted to herself. She seemed to keep no count of the
years, nor to realise that if her son returned he would return as a
young man and not as a child. To the mind of Beatrix he seemed always
her boy of four.

When seventeen years had elapsed after the abduction of the heir of
Schonburg, there came a rumour that the Outlaw of Hundsrück was again at
his depredations in the neighbourhood of Coblentz. He was at this time
a man of forty-two, and if he imagined that the long interval had led to
any forgetting on the part of the Count von Schonburg, a most unpleasant
surprise awaited him. The Count divided his forces equally between his
two castles of Schonburg and Gudenfels situated on the west bank and
the east bank respectively. If either castle were attacked, arrangements
were made for getting word to the other, when the men in that other
would cross the Rhine and fall upon the rear of the invaders,
hemming them thus between two fires. The Count therefore awaited with
complacency whatever assault the Outlaw cared to deliver.

It was expected that the attack would be made in the night, which was
the usual time selected for these surprise parties that kept life
from stagnating along the Rhine, but to the amazement of the Count the
onslaught came in broad daylight, which seemed to indicate that the
Outlaw had gathered boldness with years. The Count from the battlements
scanned his opponents and saw that they were led, not by the Outlaw
in person, but by a young man who evidently held his life lightly, so
recklessly did he risk it. He was ever in the thick of the fray, dealing
sword strokes with a lavish generosity which soon kindled a deep respect
for him in the breasts of his adversaries. The Count had not waited for
the battering in of his gates but had sent out his men to meet the enemy
in the open, which was rash generalship, had he not known that the men
of Gudenfels were hurrying round to the rear of the outlaws. Crossbowmen
lined the battlements ready to cover the retreat of the defenders of
the castle, should they meet a reverse, but now they stood in silence,
holding their shafts, for in the mêslée there was a danger of destroying
friend as well as foe. But in spite of the superb leadership of the
young captain, the outlaws, seemingly panic-stricken, when there was no
particular reason, deserted their commander in a body and fled in
spite of his frantic efforts to rally them. The young man found himself
surrounded, and, after a brave defence, overpowered. When the Gudenfels
men came up, there was none to oppose them, the leader of the enemy
being within the gates of Schonburg, bound, bleeding and a prisoner. The
attacking outlaws were nowhere to be seen.

The youthful captive, unkempt as he was, appeared in the great hall
of the castle before its grey-headed commander, seated in his chair of
state.

“You are the leader of this unwarranted incursion?” said the Count,
sternly, as he looked upon the pinioned lad.

“Warranted or unwarranted, I was the leader.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Wilhelm, only son of the Outlaw of Hundsrück.”

“The only son,” murmured the Count, more to himself than to his
auditors, the lines hardening round his firm mouth. For some moments
there was a deep silence in the large room, then the Count spoke in a
voice that had no touch of mercy in it:

“You will be taken to a dungeon and your wounds cared for. Seven days
from now, at this hour, you will appear again before me, at which time
just sentence will be passed upon you, after I hear what you have to say
in your own defence.”

“You may hear that now, my Lord. I besieged your castle and would
perhaps have taken it, had I not a pack of cowardly dogs at my heels.
I am now in your power, and although you talk glibly of justice, I know
well what I may expect at your hands. Your delay of a week is the mere
pretence of a hypocrite, who wishes to give colour of legality to an
act already decided upon. I do not fear you now, and shall not fear you
then, so spare your physicians unnecessary trouble, and give the word to
your executioner.”

“Take him away, attend to his wounds, and guard him strictly. Seven days
from now when I call for him; see to it that you can produce him.”

Elsa, niece of the Outlaw, watched anxiously for the return of her
cousin from the long prepared for expedition. She had the utmost
confidence in his bravery and the most earnest belief in his success,
yet she watched for the home-coming of the warriors with an anxious
heart. Perhaps a messenger would arrive telling of the capture of the
castle; perhaps all would return with news of defeat, but for what
actually happened the girl was entirely unprepared. That the whole
company, practically unscathed, should march into camp with the
astounding news that their leader had been captured and that they
had retreated without striking a blow on his behalf, seemed to her so
monstrous, that her first thought was fear of the retribution which
would fall on the deserters when her uncle realised the full import of
the tidings. She looked with apprehension at his forbidding face and was
amazed to see something almost approaching a smile part his thin lips.

“The attack has failed, then. I fear I sent out a leader incompetent
and too young. We must make haste to remove our camp or the victorious
Count, emboldened by success, may carry the war into the forest.”
 With this amazing proclamation the Outlaw turned and walked to his hut
followed by his niece, bewildered as one entangled in the mazes of a
dream. When they were alone together, the girl spoke.

“Uncle, has madness overcome you?”

“I was never saner than now, nor happier, for years of waiting are
approaching their culmination.”

“Has, then, all valour left your heart?”

“Your question will be answered when next I lead my band.”

“When next you lead it? Where will you lead it?”

“Probably in the vicinity of Mayence, toward which place we are about to
journey.”

“Is it possible that you retreat from here without attempting the rescue
of your son, now in the hands of your lifelong enemy?”

“All things are possible in an existence like ours. The boy would
assault the castle; he has failed and has allowed himself to be taken.
It is the fortune of war and I shall not waste a man in attempting his
rescue.”

Elsa stood for a moment gazing in dismay at her uncle, whose shifty eyes
evaded all encounter with hers, then she strode to the wall, took down
a sword and turned without a word to the door. The Outlaw sprang between
her and the exit.

“What are you about to do?” he cried.

“I am about to rally all who are not cowards round me, then at their
head, I shall attack Castle Schonburg and set Wilhelm free or share his
fate.”

The Outlaw stood for a few moments, his back against the door of the
hut, gazing in sullen anger at the girl, seemingly at a loss to know
how she should be dealt with. At last his brow cleared and he spoke: “Is
your interest in Wilhelm due entirely to the fact that you are cousins?”

A quick flush overspread the girl’s fair cheeks with colour and her eyes
sought the floor of the hut. The point of the sword she held lowered
until it rested on the stone flags, and she swayed slightly, leaning
against its hilt, while the keen eyes of her uncle regarded her
critically. She said in a voice little above a whisper, contrasting
strongly with her determined tone of a moment before:

“My interest is due to our relationship alone.”

“Has no word of love passed between you?”

“Oh, no, no. Why do you ask me such a question?”

“Because on the answer given depends whether or not I shall entrust you
with knowledge regarding him. Swear to me by the Three Kings of Cologne
that you will tell to none what I will now impart to you.”

“I swear,” said Elsa, raising her right hand, and holding aloft the
sword with it.

“Wilhelm is not my son, nor is he kin to either of us, but is the heir
of the greatest enemy of our house, Count Herbert of Schonburg. I lured
him from his father’s home as a child and now send him back as a man.
Some time later I shall acquaint the Count with the fact that the young
man he captured is his only son.”

The girl looked at her uncle, her eyes wide with horror.

“It is your purpose then that the father shall execute his own son?”

The Outlaw shrugged his shoulders.

“The result lies not with me, but with the Count. He was once a crusader
and the teaching of his master is to the effect that the measure he
metes to others, the same shall be meted to him, if I remember aright
the tenets of his faith. Count Herbert wreaking vengeance upon my
supposed son, is really bringing destruction upon his own, which seems
but justice. If he show mercy to me and mine, he is bestowing the
blessed balm thereof on himself and his house. In this imperfect world,
few events are ordered with such admirable equity as the capture of
young Lord Wilhelm, by that haughty and bloodthirsty warrior, his
father. Let us then await with patience the outcome, taking care not to
interfere with the designs of Providence.”

“The design comes not from God but from the evil one himself.”

“It is within the power of the Deity to overturn even the best plans of
the fiend, if it be His will. Let us see to it that we do not intervene
between two such ghostly potentates, remembering that we are but puny
creatures, liable to err.”

“The plot is of your making, secretly held, all these years, with
unrelenting malignity. The devil himself is not wicked enough to send
an innocent, loyal lad to his doom in his own mother’s house, with his
father as his executioner. Oh, uncle, uncle, repent and make reparation
before it is too late.”

“Let the Count repent and make reparation. I have now nothing to do with
the matter. As I have said, if the Count is merciful, he is like to be
glad of it later in his life; if he is revengeful, visiting the sin
of the father on the son, innocent, I think you called him, then he
deserves what his own hand deals out to himself. But we have talked too
much already. I ask you to remember your oath, for I have told you this
so that you will not bring ridicule upon me by a womanish appeal to my
own men, who would but laugh at you in any case and think me a dotard in
allowing women overmuch to say in the camp. Get you back to your women,
for we move camp instantly. Even if I were to relent, as you term it,
the time is past, for Wilhelm is either dangling from the walls of
Castle Schonburg or he is pardoned, and all that we could do would be of
little avail. Prepare you then instantly for our journey.”

Elsa, with a sigh, went slowly to the women’s quarters, her oath, the
most terrible that may be taken on the Rhine, weighing heavily upon her.
Resolving not to break it, yet determined in some way to save Wilhelm,
the girl spent the first part of the journey in revolving plans of
escape, for she found as the cavalcade progressed that her uncle did not
trust entirely to the binding qualities of the oath she had taken, but
had her closely watched as well. As the expedition progressed farther
and farther south in the direction of Mayence, vigilance was relaxed,
and on the evening of the second day, when a camp had been selected for
the night, Elsa escaped and hurried eastward through the forest until
she came to the Rhine, which was to be her guide to the castle of
Schonburg. The windings of the river made the return longer than the
direct journey through the wilderness had been, and in addition to this,
Elsa was compelled to circumambulate the numerous castles, climbing the
hills to avoid them, fearing capture and delay, so it was not until the
sun was declining on the sixth day after the assault on the castle that
she stood, weary and tattered and unkempt, before the closed gates of
Schonburg, and beat feebly with her small hand against the oak, crying
for admittance. The guard of the gate, seeing through the small lattice
but a single dishevelled woman standing there, anticipating treachery,
refused to open the little door in the large leaf until his captain
was summoned, who, after some parley, allowed the girl to enter the
courtyard.

“What do you want?” asked the captain, curtly.

She asked instead of answered:

“Is your prisoner still alive?”

“The son of the Outlaw? Yes, but he would be a confident prophet who
would predict as much for him at this hour to-morrow.”

“Take me, I beg of you, to the Countess.”

“That is as it may be. Who are you and what is your business with her?”

“I shall reveal myself to her Ladyship, and to her will state the object
of my coming.”

“Your object is plain enough. You are some tatterdemalion of the forest
come to beg the life of your lover, who hangs to-morrow, or I am a
heathen Saracen.”

“I do beseech you, tell the Countess that a miserable woman craves
permission to speak with her.”

What success might have attended her petition is uncertain, but the
problem was solved by the appearance of the Countess herself on the
terrace above them, which ran the length of the castle on its western
side. The lady leaned over the parapet and watched with evident
curiosity the strange scene in the courtyard below, the captain and his
men in a ring around the maiden of the forest, who occupying the centre
of the circle, peered now in one face, now in another, as if searching
for some trace of sympathy in the stolid countenances of the warriors
all about her. Before the captain could reply, his lady addressed him.

“Whom have you there, Conrad?”

It seemed as if the unready captain would get no word said, for again
before he had made answer the girl spoke to the Countess.

“I do implore your Ladyship to grant me speech with you.”

The Countess looked down doubtfully upon the supplicant, evidently
prejudiced by her rags and wildly straying hair. The captain cleared his
throat and opened his mouth, but the girl eagerly forestalled him.

“Turn me not away, my Lady, because I come in unhandsome guise, for
I have travelled far through forest and over rock, climbing hills and
skirting the river’s brink to be where I am. The reluctant wilderness,
impeding me, has enviously torn my garments, leaving me thus ashamed
before you, but, dear Lady, let not that work to my despite. Grant my
petition and my prayer shall ever be that the dearest wish of your own
heart go not unsatisfied.”

“Alas!” said the Countess, with a deep sigh, “my dearest wish gives
little promise of fulfilment.”

Conrad, seeing that the lady thought of her lost son, frowned angrily,
and in low growling tones bade the girl have a care what she said, but
Elsa was not to be silenced and spoke impetuously.

“Oh, Countess, the good we do often returns to us tenfold; mercy calls
forth mercy. An acorn planted produces an oak; cruelty sown leaves us
cruelty to reap. It is not beyond imagination that the soothing of my
bruised heart may bring balm to your own.”

“Take the girl to the east room, Conrad, and let her await me there,”
 said the Countess.

“With a guard, your Ladyship?”

“Without a guard, Conrad.”

“Pardon me, my Lady, but I distrust her. She may have designs against
you.”

The Countess had little acquaintance with fear. She smiled at the
anxious captain and said:

“Her only desire is to reach my heart, Conrad.”

“God grant it may not be with a dagger,” grumbled the captain, as he
made haste to obey the commands of the lady.

When the Countess entered the room in which Elsa stood, her first
question was an inquiry regarding her visitor’s name and station, the
telling of which seemed but an indifferent introduction for the girl,
who could not help noting that the Countess shrank, involuntarily from
her when she heard the Outlaw mentioned.

“Our house has little cause to confer favour on any kin of the Outlaw of
Hundsrück,” the lady said at last.

“I do not ask for favour, my Lady. I have come to give your revenge
completeness, if it is revenge you seek. The young man now imprisoned in
Schonburg is so little esteemed by my uncle that not a single blow has
been struck on his behalf. If the Count thinks to hurt the Outlaw by
executing Wilhelm, he will be gravely in error, for my uncle and his men
regard the captive so lightly that they have gone beyond Mayence without
even making an effort toward his rescue. As for me, my uncle bestows
upon me such affection as he is capable of, and would be more grieved
should I die, than if any other of his kin were taken from him. Release
Wilhelm and I will gladly take his place, content to receive such
punishment as his Lordship, the Count, considers should be imposed on a
relative of the Outlaw.”

“What you ask is impossible. The innocent should not suffer for the
guilty.”

“My Lady, the innocent have suffered for others since the world began,
and will continue to do so till it ends. Our only hope of entering
Heaven comes through Him who was free from sin being condemned in our
stead. I do beseech your Ladyship to let me take the place of Wilhelm.”

“You love this young man,” said the Countess, seating herself, and
regarding the girl with the intent interest which women, whose own love
affair has prospered, feel when they are confronted with an incident
that reminds them of their youth.

“Not otherwise than as a friend and dear companion, my Lady,” replied
Elsa, blushing. “When he was a little boy and I a baby, he carried me
about in his arms, and since that time we have been comrades together.”

“Comradeship stands for much, my girl,” said the Countess, in kindly
manner, “but it rarely leads one friend willingly to accept death
for another. I have not seen this young man whom you would so gladly
liberate; the dealing with prisoners is a matter concerning my husband
alone; I never interfere, but if I should now break this rule because
you have travelled so far, and are so anxious touching the prisoner’s
welfare, would you be willing to accept my conditions?”

“Yes, my Lady, so that his life were saved.”

“He is a comely young man doubtless, and there are some beautiful women
within this castle; would it content you if he were married to one of my
women, and so escaped with life?”

A sudden pallor overspread the girl’s face, and she clasped her hands
nervously together. Tears welled into her eyes, and she stood thus for a
few moments unable to speak. At last she murmured, with some difficulty:

“Wilhelm can care nothing for any here, not having beheld them, and it
would be wrong to coerce a man in such extremity. I would rather die for
him, that he might owe his life to me.”

“But he would live to marry some one else.”

“If I were happy in heaven, why should I begrudge Wilhelm’s happiness on
earth?”

“Ah, why, indeed, Elsa? And yet you disclaim with a sigh. Be assured
that I shall do everything in my power to save your lover, and that not
at the expense of your own life or happiness. Now come with me, for I
would have you arrayed in garments more suited to your youth and your
beauty, that you may not be ashamed when you meet this most fascinating
prisoner, for such he must be, when you willingly risk so much for his
sake.”

The Countess, after conducting the girl to the women’s apartments,
sought her husband, but found to her dismay that he showed little sign
of concurrence with her sympathetic views regarding the fate of the
prisoner. It was soon evident to her that Count Herbert had determined
upon the young man’s destruction, and that there was some concealed
reason for this obdurate conclusion which the Count did not care to
disclose. Herbert von Schonburg was thoroughly convinced that his son
was dead, mutilated beyond recognition by the Outlaw of Hundsrück, yet
this he would not tell to Beatrix, his wife, who cherished the unshaken
belief that the boy still lived and would be restored to her before she
died. The Count for years had waited for his revenge, and even though
his wife now pleaded that he forego it, the Master of Schonburg was in
no mind to comply, though he said little in answer to her persuading.
The incoming of Elsa to the castle merely convinced him that some
trick was meditated on the part of the Outlaw, and the sentimental
consideration urged by the Countess had small weight with him. He gave
a curt order to his captain to double his guards around the stronghold,
and relax no vigilance until the case of the prisoner had been finally
dealt with. He refused permission for Elsa to see her cousin, even in
the presence of witnesses, as he was certain that her coming was for the
purpose of communicating to him some message from the Outlaw, the news
of whose alleged withdrawal he did not believe.

“With the country at peace, the Outlaw has instigated, and his son has
executed, an attack upon this castle. The penalty is death. To-morrow
I shall hear what he has to say in his defence, and shall deliver
judgment, I hope, justly. If his kinswoman wishes to see him, she may
come to his trial, and then will be in a position to testify to her
uncle that sentence has been pronounced in accordance with the law
that rules the Rhine provinces. If she has communication to make to
her cousin, let it be made in the Judgment Hall in the presence of all
therein.”

The Countess, with sinking heart, left her husband, having the tact
not to press upon him too strongly the claims of mercy as well as of
justice. She knew that his kind nature would come to the assistance of
her own suing, and deeply regretted that the time for milder influences
to prevail was so short. In a brief conference with Elsa, she
endeavoured to prepare the girl’s mind for a disastrous ending of her
hopes.

Some minutes before the hour set for Wilhelm’s trial, the Countess
Beatrix, followed by Elsa, entered the Judgment Hall to find the Count
seated moodily in the great chair at one end of the long room, in whose
ample inclosure many an important state conference had been held,
each of the forefathers of the present owner being seated in turn as
president of the assemblage. Some thought of this seemed to oppress the
Count’s mind, for seated here with set purpose to extinguish his enemy’s
line, the remembrance that his own race died with him was not likely to
be banished. The Countess brought Elsa forward and in a whisper urged
her to plead for her kinsman before his judge. The girl’s eloquence
brought tears to the eyes of Beatrix, but the Count’s impassive face
was sphinx-like in its settled gloom. Only once during the appeal did
he speak, and that was when Elsa offered herself as a sacrifice to his
revenge, then he said, curtly:

“We do not war against women. You are as free to go as you were to come,
but you must not return.”

A dull fear began to chill the girl’s heart and to check her earnest
pleading: She felt that her words were making no impression on the
silent man seated before her, and this knowledge brought weak hesitation
to her tongue and faltering to her speech. In despair she wrung her
hands and cried: “Oh, my Lord, my Lord, think of your own son held at
the mercy of an enemy. Think of him as a young man just the age of your
prisoner, at a time when life is sweetest to him! Think, think, I beg of
you----”

The Count roused himself like a lion who had been disturbed, and cried
in a voice that resounded hoarsely from the rafters of the arched roof,
startling the Countess with the unaccustomed fierceness of its tone:

“Yes, I will think of him--of my only son in the clutch of his bitter
foe, and I thank you for reminding me of him, little as I have for these
long years needed spur to my remembrance. Bring in the prisoner.”

When Wilhelm was brought in, heavy manacles on his wrists, walking
between the men who guarded him, Elsa looked from judge to culprit, and
her heart leaped with joy. Surely such blindness could not strike this
whole concourse that some one within that hall would not see that, here
confronted, stood father and son, on the face of one a frown of anger,
on the face of the other a frown of defiance, expressions almost
identical, the only difference being the thirty years that divided their
ages. For a few moments the young man did not distinguish Elsa in
the throng, then a glad cry of recognition escaped him, and the cloud
cleared from his face as if a burst of sunshine had penetrated the
sombre-coloured windows and had thrown its illuminating halo around his
head. He spoke impetuously, leaning forward:

“Elsa, Elsa, how came you here?” then, a shadow of concern crossing his
countenance, “you are not a prisoner, I trust?”

“No, no, Wilhelm, I am here to beseech the clemency of the Count--”

“Not for me!” exclaimed the prisoner, defiantly, drawing himself up
proudly: “not for me, Elsa. You must never ask favour from a robber
and a coward like, Count von Schonburg, brave only in his own Judgment
Hall.”

“Oh, Wilhelm, Wilhelm, have a care what you say, or you will break my
heart. And your proclamation is far from true. The Count is a brave man
who has time and again proved himself so, and my only hope is that
he will prove as merciful as he is undoubtedly courageous. Join your
prayers with mine, Wilhelm, and beg for mercy rather than justice.”

“I beg from no man, either mercy or justice. I am here, my Lord Count,
ready to receive whatever you care to bestow, and I ask you to make the
waiting brief for the sake of the women present, for I am I sure the
beautiful, white-haired lady there dislikes this traffic in men’s lives
as much as does my fair-haired cousin.”

“Oh, my lord Count, do not heed what he says; his words but show the
recklessness of youth; hold them not against him.”

“Indeed I mean each word I say, and had I iron in my hand instead of
round my wrists, his Lordship would not sit so calmly facing me.”

Elsa, seeing how little she had accomplished with either man began to
weep helplessly, and the Count, who had not interrupted the colloquy,
listening unmoved to the contumely heaped upon him by the prisoner, now
said to the girl:

“Have you finished your questioning?”

Receiving no answer, he said to the prisoner after a pause:

“Why did you move against this castle?”

“Because I hoped to take it, burn it, and hang or behead its owner.”

“Oh, Wilhelm, Wilhelm!” wailed the girl.

“And, having failed, what do you expect?”

“To be hanged, or beheaded, depending on whether your Lordship is the
more expert with a cord or with an axe.”

“You called me a coward, and I might have retorted that in doing so you
took advantage of your position as prisoner, but setting that aside, and
speaking as man to man, what ground have you for such an accusation?”

“We cannot speak as man to man, for I am bound and you are free, but
touching the question of your cowardice, I have heard it said by those
who took part in the defence of my father’s castle, when you attacked it
and destroyed it, commanding a vastly superior force, my father leaped
from the wall and dared you to follow him. For a moment, they told
me, it seemed that you would accept the challenge, but you contented
yourself with calling on others to do what you feared to do yourself,
and thus my father, meeting no opposition from a man of his own rank,
was compelled to destroy the unfortunate serfs who stood in his way and,
so cut out a path to safety. In refusing to accept the plunge he took,
you branded yourself a coward, and once a toward always a coward.”

“Oh, Wilhelm,” cried Elsa, in deep distress at the young man’s lack of
diplomacy, while she could not but admire his ill-timed boldness, “speak
not so to the Count, for I am sure what you say is not true.”

“Indeed,” growled Captain Conrad, “the young villain is more crafty than
we gave him credit for. Instead of a rope he will have a challenge from
the Count, and so die honourably like a man, in place of being strangled
like the dog he is.”

“Dear Wilhelm, for my sake, do not persist in this course, but throw
yourself on the mercy of the Count. Why retail here the irresponsible
gossip of a camp, which I am sure contains not a word of truth, so far
as the Count is concerned.”

Herbert of Schonburg held up his hand for silence, and made confession
with evident difficulty.

“What the young man says with harshness is true in semblance, if not
strictly so in action. For the moment, thinking of my wife and child,
I hesitated, and when the hesitation was gone the opportunity was gone
with it. My punishment has been severe; by that moment’s cowardice, I
am now a childless man, and therefore perhaps value my life less highly
than I held it at the time we speak of. Hear then, your sentence: You
will be taken to the top of the wall, the iron removed from your wrists,
and your sword placed in your hand. You will then leap from that wall,
and if you are unhurt, I will leap after you. Should your sword serve
you as well as your father’s served him, you will be free of the forest,
and this girl is at liberty to accompany you. I ask her now to betake
herself to the field outside the gate, there to await the result of our
contest.”

At this there was an outcry on the part of Countess Beatrix, who
protested against her husband placing himself in this unnecessary
jeopardy, but the Count was firm and would permit no interference with
his sentence. Elsa was in despair at the unaccountable blindness of all
concerned, not knowing that the Count was convinced his son was dead,
and that the Countess thought continually of her boy as a child of four,
taking no account of the years that had passed, although her reason, had
she applied reason to that which touched her affections only, would have
told her, he must now be a stalwart young man and not the little lad she
had last held in her arms. For a moment Elsa wavered in her allegiance
to the oath she had taken, but she saw against the wall the great
crucifix which had been placed there by the first crusader who had
returned to the castle from the holy wars and she breathed a prayer as
she passed it, that the heir of this stubborn house might not be cut off
in his youth through the sightless rancour that seemed to pervade it.

The Count tried to persuade his weeping wife not to accompany him to the
walls, but she would not be left behind, and so, telling Conrad to keep
close watch upon her, in case that in her despair she might attempt to
harm herself, his lordship led the way to the battlements.

Wilhelm, at first jubilant that he was allowed to take part in a sword
contest rather than an execution, paused for a moment as he came to the
courtyard, and looked about him in a dazed manner, once or twice drawing
his hand across his eyes, as if to perfect his vision. Some seeing him
thus stricken silent and thoughtful, surmised that the young man was
like to prove more courageous in word than in action; others imagined
that the sudden coming from the semi-gloom of the castle interior into
the bright light dazzled him. The party climbed the flight of stone
steps which led far upward to the platform edged by the parapet from
which the spring was to be made. The young man walked up and down the
promenade, unheeding those around him, seeming like one in a dream,
groping for something he failed to find. The onlookers watched him
curiously, wondering at his change of demeanour.

Suddenly he dropped his sword on the stones at his feet, held up his
hands and cried aloud:

“I have jumped from here before--when I was a lad--a baby almost--I
remember it all now--where am I--when was I here before--where is my
wooden sword--and where is Conrad, who made it--Conrad, where are you?”

The captain was the first to realise what had happened. He stepped
hurriedly forward, scrutinising his late prisoner, the light of
recognition, in his eyes.

“It is the young master,” he shouted. “My Lord Count, this is no kinsman
of the Outlaw, but your own son, a man grown.”

The Count stood amazed, as incapable of motion as a statue of stone; the
countess, gazing with dreamy eyes, seemed trying to adjust her inward
vision of the lad of four with the outward reality of the man of
twenty-one. In the silence rose the clear sweet voice of Elsa without
the walls, her face upturned like a painting of the Madonna, her hands
clasped in front of her.

“Dear Virgin Mother in Heaven, I thank thee that my prayer was not
unheard, and bear me witness that I have kept my oath--I have kept
my oath, and may Thy intervention show a proud and sinful people the
blackness of revenge.”

Count Herbert, rousing himself from his stupor, appealed loudly to the
girl.

“Woman, is this indeed my son, and, if so, why did you not speak before
we came to such extremity?”

“I cannot answer. I have sworn an oath. If you would learn who stands
beside you, send a messenger to the Outlaw, saying you have killed him,
as indeed you purposed doing,” then stretching out her arms, she said,
with faltering voice: “Wilhelm, farewell,” and turning, fled toward the
forest.

“Elsa, Elsa, come back!” the young man cried, foot on the parapet, but
the girl paid no heed to his commanding summons, merely waving her hand
without looking over her shoulder.

“Elsa!”

The name rang out so thrillingly strange that its reverberation
instantly arrested the flying footsteps of the girl. Instinctively she
knew it was the voice of a man falling rapidly through the air.
She turned in time to see Wilhelm strike the ground, the impetus
precipitating him prone on his face, where he lay motionless. The cry
of horror from the battlements was echoed by her own as she sped swiftly
toward him. The young man sprang to his feet as she approached and
caught her breathless in his arms.

“Ah, Elsa,” he said, tenderly, “forgive me the fright I gave you, but
I knew of old your fleetness of foot, and if the forest once encircled
you, how was I ever to find you?”

The girl made no effort to escape from her imprisonment, and showed
little desire to exchange the embrace she endured for that of the
forest.

“Though I should blush to say it, Wilhelm, I fear I am easily found,
when you are the searcher.”

“Then let old Schloss Schonburg claim you, Elsa, that the walls which
beheld a son go forth, may see a son and daughter return.”




CHAPTER III

A CITY OF FEAR


The Countess Beatrix von Schonburg warmly welcomed her lost son and her
newly-found daughter. The belief of Beatrix in Wilhelm’s ultimate return
had never wavered during all the long years of his absence, and although
she had to translate her dream of the child of four into a reality
that included a stalwart young man of twenty-one, the readjustment
was speedily accomplished. Before a week had passed it seemed to her
delighted heart that the boy had never left the castle. The Countess had
liked Elsa from the first moment when she saw her, ragged, unkempt and
forlorn, among the lowering, suspicious men-at-arms in the courtyard,
and now that she knew the dangers and the privations the girl had braved
for the sake of Wilhelm, the affectionate heart of Beatrix found ample
room for the motherless Elsa.

With the Count, the process of mental reconstruction was slower, not
only on account of his former conviction that his son was dead, but
also because of the deep distrust in which he held the Outlaw. He said
little, as was his custom, but often sat with brooding brows, intently
regarding his son, gloomy doubt casting a shadow over his stern
countenance. Might not this be a well-laid plot on the part of the
Outlaw to make revenge complete by placing a von Weithoff in the halls
of Schonburg as master of that ancient stronghold? The circumstances in
which identity was disclosed, although sufficient to convince every
one else in the castle, appeared at times to the Count but the stronger
evidence of the Outlaw’s craft and subtlety. If the young man were
actually the son of von Weithoff, then undoubtedly the Outlaw had run
great risk of having him hanged forthwith, but on the other hand, the
prize to be gained, comprising as it did two notable castles and two
wide domains, was a stake worth playing high for, and a stake which
appealed strongly to a houseless, landless man, with not even a
name worth leaving to his son. Thus, while the Countess lavished
her affection on young Wilhelm, noticing nothing of her husband’s
distraction in this excessive happiness, Count Herbert sat alone in the
lofty Knight’s Hall, his elbows resting on the table before him, his
head buried in his hands, ruminating on the strange transformation that
had taken place, endeavouring to weigh the evidence _pro_ and _con_
with the impartial mind of an outsider, becoming the more bewildered the
deeper he penetrated into the mystery.

It was in this despondent attitude that Elsa found him a few days
after the leap from the wall that had caused her return to Schonburg,
a willing captive. The Count did not look up when she entered, and the
girl stood for a few moments in silence near him. At last she spoke in
a low voice, hesitating slightly, nevertheless going with incisive
directness into the very heart of the problem that baffled Count
Herbert.

“My Lord, you do not believe that Wilhelm is indeed your son.”

The master of Schonburg raised his head slowly and looked searchingly
into the frank face of the girl, gloomy distrust reflected from his own
countenance.

“Were you sent by your uncle to allay my suspicion?

“No, my Lord. I thought that a hint of the truth being given, Nature
would come to the assistance of mutual recognition. Such has been
the case between my lady and her son, but I see that you are still
unconvinced.”

“For my sins, I know something of the wickedness of this world, a
knowledge from which her purity has protected the Countess. You believe
that Wilhelm is my son?”

“I have never said so, my Lord.”

“What you did say was that you had taken an oath. You are too young and
doubtless too innocent to be a party to any plot, but you may have been
the tool of an unscrupulous man, who knew the oath would be broken when
the strain of a strong affection was brought to bear upon it.”

“Yet, my Lord, I kept my oath, although I saw my--my--”

The girl hesitated and blushed, but finally spoke up bravely:

“I saw my lover led to his destruction. If Wilhelm is my cousin, then
did his father take a desperate chance in trusting first, to my escape
from the camp, and second to my perjury. You endow him with more than
human foresight, my Lord.”

“He builded on your love for Wilhelm, which he had seen growing under
his eye before either you or the lad had suspicion of its existence. I
know the man, and he is a match for Satan, his master.”

“But Satan has been discomfited ere now by the angels of light, and
even by holy men, if legend tells truly. I have little knowledge of the
world, as you have said, but the case appears to me one of the simplest.
If my uncle wished the bitterest revenge on you, what could be more
terrible than cause you to be the executioner of your own son? The
vengeance, however, to be complete, depends on his being able to place
before you incontrovertible proof that you were the father of the
victim. Send, therefore, a messenger to him, one from Gudenfels, who
knows nothing of what has happened in this castle of Schonburg, and who
is therefore unable to disclose, even if forced to confess, that Wilhelm
is alive. Let the messenger inform my uncle that his son is no more,
which is true enough, and then await the Outlaw’s reply. And meanwhile
let me venture to warn you, my Lord, that it would be well to conceal
your disbelief from Wilhelm, for he is high-spirited, and if he gets
but an inkling that you distrust him, he will depart; for not all your
possessions will hold your son if he once learns that you doubt him,
so you are like to find yourself childless again, if your present mood
masters you much longer.”

The Count drew a deep sigh, then roused himself and seemed to shake off
the influence that enchained him.

“Thank you, my girl,” he cried, with something of the old ring in his
voice, “I shall do as you advise, and if this embassy results as you
say, you will ever find your staunchest friend in me.”

He held out his hand to Elsa, and departed to his other castle of
Gudenfels on the opposite side of the Rhine. From thence he sent a
messenger who had no knowledge of what was happening in Schonburg.

When at last the messenger returned from the Outlaw’s camp, he brought
with him a wailing woman and grim tidings that he feared to deliver.
Thrice his lordship demanded his account, the last time with such
sternness that the messenger quailed before him.

“My Lord,” he stammered at last, “a frightful thing has taken
place--would that I had died before it was told to me. The young man
your lordship hanged was no other than----’

“Well, why do you pause? You were going to say he was my own son. What
proof does the Outlaw offer that such was indeed the case?”

“Alas! my Lord, the proof seems clear enough. Here with me is young Lord
Wilhelm’s nurse, whose first neglect led to his abduction, and who fled
to the forest after him, and was never found. She followed him to the
Outlaw’s camp, and was there kept prisoner by him until she was at last
given charge of the lad, under oath that she would teach him to forget
who he was, the fierce Outlaw threatening death to both woman and child
were his orders disobeyed. She has come willingly with me hoping to
suffer death now that one she loved more than son has died through her
first fault.”

Then to the amazement of the pallid messenger the Count laughed aloud
and called for Wilhelm, who, when he was brought, clasped the trembling
old woman in his arms, overjoyed to see her again and eager to learn
news of the camp. How was the stout Gottlieb? Had the messenger seen
Captain Heinrich? and so on.

“Indeed, my young Lord,” answered the overjoyed woman “there was such
turmoil in the camp that I was glad to be quit of it with unbroken
bones. When the Outlaw proclaimed that you were hanged, there was
instant rebellion among his followers, who thought that your capture was
merely a trick to be speedily amended, being intended to form a laughing
matter to your discomfiture when you returned. They swore they would
have torn down Schonburg with their bare hands rather than have left you
in jeopardy, had they known their retreat imperilled your life.”

“The brave lads!” cried the young man in a glow of enthusiasm, “and here
have I been maligning them for cowards! What was the outcome?”

“That I do not know, my Lord, being glad to escape from the ruffians
with unfractured head.”

The result of the embassy was speedily apparent at Schonburg. Two days
later, in the early morning, the custodians at the gate were startled
by the shrill Outlaw yell, which had on so many occasions carried terror
with it into the hearts of Rhine strongholds.

“Come out, Hangman of Schonburg!” they shouted, “come out, murderer of
a defenceless prisoner. Come out, before we drag you forth, for the rope
is waiting for your neck and the gallows tree is waiting for the rope.”

Count Herbert was first on the battlements, and curtly he commanded his
men not to launch bolt at the invaders, knowing the outlaws mistakenly
supposed him to be the executioner of their former comrade. A moment
later young Wilhelm himself appeared on the wall above the gate, and,
lifting his arms above his head raised a great shout of joy at seeing
there collected his old companions, calling this one or that by name
as he recognised them among the seething, excited throng. There was an
instant’s cessation of the clamour, then the outlaws sent forth a cheer
that echoed from all the hills around. They brandished their weapons
aloft, and cheered again and again, the garrison of the castle, now
bristling along the battlements, joining in the tumult with strident
voices. Gottlieb advanced some distance toward the gate, and holding up
his hand for silence addressed Wilhelm.

“Young master,” he cried, “we have deposed von Weithoff, and would have
hanged him, but that he escaped during the night, fled to Mayence and
besought protection of the Archbishop. If you will be our leader we will
sack Mayence and hang the Archbishop from his own cathedral tower.”

“That can I hardly do, Gottlieb, as a messenger has been sent to the
Archbishop asking him to come to Schonburg and marry Elsa to me. He
might take our invasion as an unfriendly act and refuse to perform the
ceremony.”

Gottlieb scratched his head as one in perplexity, seeing before him a
question of etiquette that he found difficult to solve. At last he said:

“What need of Archbishop? You and Elsa have been brought up among us,
therefore confer honour on our free company by being married by our own
Monk who has tied many a knot tight enough to hold the most wayward
of our band. The aisles of the mighty oaks are more grand than the
cathedral at Mayence or the great hall of Schonburg.”

“Indeed I am agreed, if Elsa is willing. We will be married first in the
forest and then by the Archbishop in the great hall of Schonburg.”

“In such case there will be delay, for now that I bethink me, his
Lordship of Mayence has taken himself to Frankfort, where he is to meet
the Archbishops of Treves and Cologne who will presently journey to the
capital We were thinking of falling upon his reverence of Cologne as he
passed up the river, unless he comes with an escort too numerous for us,
which, alas! is most likely, so suspicious has the world grown.”

“You will be wise not to meddle with the princes of the Church, be their
escorts large or small.”

“Then, Master Wilhelm, be our leader, for we are likely to get into
trouble unless a man of quality is at our head.”

Wilhelm breathed a deep sigh and glanced sideways at his father, who
stood some distance off, leaning on his two-handed sword, a silent
spectator of the meeting.

“The free life of the forest is no more for me, Gottlieb. My duty is
here in the castle of my forefathers, much though I grieve to part with
you.”

This decision seemed to have a depressing effect on the outlaws within
hearing. Gottlieb retired, and the band consulted together for a time,
then their spokesman again advanced.

“Some while since,” he began in dolorous tone, “we appealed to the
Emperor to pardon us, promising in such case to quit our life of
outlawry and take honest service with those nobles who needed stout
blades, but his Majesty sent reply that if we came unarmed to the
capital and tendered submission, he would be graciously pleased to hang
a round dozen of us to be selected by him, scourge the rest through the
streets of Frankfort and so bestow his clemency on such as survived.
This imperial tender we did not accept, as there was some uncertainty
regarding whose neck should feel the rope and whose back the scourge.
While all were willing to admit that more than a dozen of us sorely
needed hanging, yet each man seemed loath to claim precedence over
his neighbour in wickedness, and desired, in some sort, a voice in the
selection of the victims. But if you will accept our following, Master
Wilhelm, we will repair at once to Frankfort and make submission to his
Majesty the Emperor. The remnant being well scourged, will then return
to Schonburg to place themselves under your command.”

“Are you willing then to hang for me, Gottlieb?”

“I hanker not after the hanging, but if hang we must, there is no man
I would rather hang for than Wilhelm, formerly of the forest, but now,
alas! of Schonburg. And so say they all without dissent, therefore the
unanimity must needs include the eleven other danglers.”

“Then draw nigh, all of you, to the walls and hear my decision.”

Gottlieb waving his arms, hailed the outlaws trooping to the walls, and,
his upraised hand bringing silence, Wilhelm spoke:

“Such sacrifice as you propose, I cannot accept, yet I dearly wish to
lead a band of men like you. Elsa and I shall be married by our ancient
woodland father in the forest and then by the Abbot of St. Werner in the
hall of Schonburg. We will make our wedding journey to Frankfort, and
you shall be our escort and our protectors.”

There was for some moments such cheering at this that the young man was
compelled to pause in his address, and then as the outcry was again and
again renewed, he looked about for the cause and saw that Elsa and his
mother had taken places on the balcony which overlooked the animated
scene. The beautiful girl had been recognised by the rebels and she
waved her hand in response to their shouting.

“We will part company,” resumed Wilhelm, “as near Frankfort as it is
safe for you to go, and my wife and I, accompanied by a score of men
from this castle, will enter the capital. I will beg your complete
pardon from his Majesty and if at first it is refused, I think Elsa
will have better success with the Empress, who may incline her imperial
husband toward clemency. All this I promise, providing I receive the
consent and support of my father, and I am not likely to be refused,
for he already knows the persuasive power of my dear betrothed when she
pleads for mercy.”

“My consent and support I most willingly bestow,” said the Count, with a
fervour that left no doubt of his sincerity.

The double marriage was duly solemnised, and Wilhelm, with his
newly-made wife, completed their journey to Frankfort, escorted until
almost within sight of the capital by five hundred and twenty men, but
they entered the gates of the city accompanied by only the score of
Schonburg men, the remaining five hundred concealing themselves in the
rough country, as they well knew how to do.

Neither Wilhelm nor Elsa had ever seen a large city before, and silence
fell upon them as they approached the western gate, for they were coming
upon a world strange to them, and Wilhelm felt an unaccustomed elation
stir within his breast, as if he were on the edge of some adventure
that might have an important bearing on his future. Instead of passing
peaceably through the gate as he had expected, the cavalcade was
halted after the two had ridden under the gloomy stone archway, and
the portcullis was dropped with a sudden clang, shutting out the twenty
riders who followed. One of several officers who sat on a stone bench
that fronted the guard-house within the walls, rose and came forward.

“What is your name and quality?” he demanded, gruffly.

“I am Wilhelm, son of Count von Schonberg.”

“What is your business here in Frankfort?”

“My business relates to the emperor, and is not to be delivered to the
first underling who has the impudence to make inquiry,” replied
Wilhelm in a haughty tone, which could scarcely be regarded, in the
circumstances, as diplomatic.

Nevertheless, the answer did not seem to be resented, but rather
appeared to have a subduing effect on the questioner, who turned, as if
for further instruction, to another officer, evidently his superior in
rank. The latter now rose, came forward, doffing his cap, and said:

“I understand your answer better than he to whom it was given, my Lord.”

“I am glad there is one man of sense at a gate of the capital,” said
Wilhelm, with no relaxation of his dignity, but nevertheless bewildered
at the turn the talk had taken, seeing there was something underneath
all this which he did not comprehend, yet resolved to carry matters with
a high hand until greater clearness came to the situation.

“Will you order the portcullis raised and permit my men to follow me?”

“They are but temporarily detained until we decide where to quarter
them, my Lord. You know,” he added, lowering his voice, “the necessity
for caution. Are you for the Archbishop of Treves, of Cologne, or of
Mayence?”

“I am from the district of Mayence, of course.”

“And are you for the archbishop?”

“For the archbishop certainly. He would have honoured me by performing
our marriage ceremony had he not been called by important affairs of
state to the capital, as you may easily learn by asking him, now that he
is within these walls.”

The officer bowed low with great obsequiousness and said:

“Your reply is more than sufficient, my Lord, and I trust you will
pardon the delay we have caused you. The men of Mayence are quartered in
the Leinwandhaus, where room will doubtless be made for your followers.

“It is not necessary for me to draw upon the hospitality of the good
Archbishop, as I lodge in my father’s town house near the palace, and
there is room within for the small escort I bring.”

Again the officer bowed to the ground, and the portcullis being by this
time raised, the twenty horsemen came clattering under the archway,
and thus, without further molestation, they arrived at the house of the
Count von Schonburg.

“Elsa,” said Wilhelm, when they were alone in their room, “there is
something wrong in this city. Men look with fear one upon another, and
pass on hurriedly, as if to avoid question. Others stand in groups at
the street corners and speak in whispers, glancing furtively over their
shoulders.”

“Perhaps that is the custom in cities,” replied Elsa.

“I doubt it. I have heard that townsmen are eager for traffic, inviting
all comers to buy, but here most of the shops are barred, and no
customers are solicited. They seem to me like people under a cloud of
fear. What can it be?”

“We are more used to the forest path than to city streets, Wilhelm. They
will all become familiar to us in a day or two, yet I feel as if I could
not get a full breath in these narrow streets and I long for the trees
already, but perhaps content will come with waiting.”

“‘Tis deeper than that. There is something ominous in the air. Noted
you not the questioning at the gate and its purport? They asked me if
I favoured Treves, or Cologne, or Mayence, but none inquired if I stood
loyal to the Emperor, yet I was entering his capital city of Frankfort.”

“Perhaps you will learn all from the Emperor when you see him,” ventured
Elsa.

“Perhaps,” said Wilhelm.

The chamberlain of the von Schonburg household, who had supervised the
arrangements for the reception of the young couple, waited upon his
master in the evening and informed him that the Emperor would not be
visible for some days to come.

“He has gone into retreat, in the cloisters attached to the cathedral,
and it is the imperial will that none disturb him on worldly affairs.
Each day at the hour when the court assembles at the palace, the Emperor
hears exhortation from the pious fathers in the Wahlkapelle of the
cathedral; the chapel in which emperors are elected; these exhortations
pertaining to the ruling of the land, which his majesty desires to
govern justly and well.

“An excellent intention,” commented the young man, with suspicion of
impatience in his tone, “but meanwhile, how are the temporal affairs of
the country conducted?”

“The Empress Brunhilda is for the moment the actual head of the state.
Whatever act of the ministers receives her approval, is sent by a monk
to the Emperor, who signs any document so submitted to him.”

“Were her majesty an ambitious woman, such transference of power might
prove dangerous.”

“She is an ambitious woman, but devoted to her husband, who, it perhaps
may be whispered, is more monk than king,” replied the chamberlain
under his breath. “Her majesty has heard of your lordship’s romantic
adventures and has been graciously pleased to command that you and her
ladyship, your wife, be presented to her to-morrow in presence of the
court.”

“This is a command which it will be a delight to obey. But tell me, what
is wrong in this great town? There is a sinister feeling in the air;
uneasiness is abroad, or I am no judge of my fellow-creatures.”

“Indeed, my Lord, you have most accurately described the situation.
No man knows what is about to happen. The gathering of the Electors is
regarded with the gravest apprehension. The Archbishop of Mayence, who
but a short time since crowned the Emperor at the great altar of the
cathedral, is herewith a thousand men at his back. The Count Palatine
of the Rhine is also within these walls with a lesser entourage. It is
rumoured that his haughty lordship, the Archbishop of Treves, will reach
Frankfort to-morrow, to be speedily followed by that eminent Prince of
the Church, the Archbishop of Cologne. Thus there will be gathered in
the capital four Electors, a majority of the college, a conjunction
that has not occurred for centuries, except on the death of an emperor,
necessitating the nomination and election of his successor.”

“But as the Emperor lives and there is no need of choosing another,
wherein lies the danger?

“The danger lies in the fact that the college has the power to depose as
well as to elect.”

“Ah! And do the Electors threaten to depose?”

“No. Treves is much too crafty for any straight-forward statement of
policy. He is the brains of the combination, and has put forward Mayence
and the Count Palatine as the moving spirits, although it is well known
that the former is but his tool and the latter is moved by ambition to
have his imbecile son selected emperor.”

“Even if the worst befall, it seems but the substitution of a
weak-minded man for one who neglects the affairs of state, although I
should think the princes of the Church would prefer a monarch who is so
much under the influence of the monks.”

“The trouble is deeper than my imperfect sketch of the situation would
lead you to suppose, my Lord. The Emperor periodically emerges from his
retirement, promulgates some startling decree, unheeding the counsel of
any adviser, then disappears again, no man knowing what is coming
next. Of such a nature was his recent edict prohibiting the harrying of
merchants going down the Rhine and the Moselle, which, however just in
theory, is impracticable, for how are the nobles to reap revenue if such
practices are made unlawful? This edict has offended all the magnates
of both rivers, and the archbishops, with the Count Palatine, claim
that their prerogatives have been infringed, so they come to Frankfort
ostensibly to protest, while the Emperor in his cloister refuses to meet
them. The other three Electors hold aloof, as the edict touches them
not, but they form a minority which is powerless, even if friendly to
the Emperor. Meanwhile his majesty cannot be aroused to an appreciation
of the crisis, but says calmly that if it is the Lord’s will he remain
emperor, emperor he will remain.”

“Then at its limit, chamberlain, all we have to expect is a peaceful
deposition and election?”

“Not so, my lord. The merchants of Frankfort are fervently loyal, to the
Emperor, who, they say, is the first monarch to give forth a just law
for their protection. At present the subtlety of Treves has nullified
all combined action on their part, for he has given out that he comes
merely to petition his over-lord, which privilege is well within his
right, and many citizens actually believe him, but others see that a
majority of the college will be within these walls before many days are
past, and that the present Emperor may be legally deposed and another
legally chosen. Then if the citizens object, they are rebels, while at
this moment if they fight for the Emperor they are patriots, so you see
the position is not without its perplexities, for the citizens well know
that if they were to man the walls and keep out Treves and Cologne, the
Emperor himself would most likely disclaim their interference, trusting
as he does so entirely in Providence that a short time since he actually
disbanded the imperial troops, much to the delight of the archbishops,
who warmly commended his action. And now, my Lord, if I may venture to
tender advice unasked, I would strongly counsel you to quit Frankfort as
soon as your business here is concluded, for I am certain that a
change of government is intended. All will be done promptly, and the
transaction will be consummated before the people are aware that such a
step is about to be taken. The Electors will meet in the Wahlzimmer
or election room of the Romer and depose the Emperor, then they will
instantly select his successor, adjourn to the Wahlkapelle and elect
him. The Palatine’s son is here with his father, and will be crowned at
the high altar by the Archbishop of Mayence. The new Emperor will dine
with the Electors in the Kaisersaal and immediately after show
himself on the balcony to the people assembled in the Romerberg below.
Proclamation of his election will then be made, and all this need not
occupy more than two hours. The Archbishop of Mayence already controls
the city gates, which since the disbanding of the imperial troops have
been unguarded, and none can get in or out of the city without that
potentate’s permission. The men of Mayence are quartered in the centre
of the town, the Count Palatine’s troops are near the gate. Treves and
Cologne will doubtless command other positions, and thus between
them they will control the city. Numerous as the merchants and their
dependents are, they will have no chance against the disciplined force
of the Electors, and the streets of Frankfort are like to run with
blood, for the nobles are but too eager to see a sharp check given to
the rising pretensions of the mercantile classes, who having heretofore
led peaceful lives, will come out badly in combat, despite their
numbers; therefore I beg of you, my Lord, to withdraw with her Ladyship
before this hell’s caldron is uncovered.”

“Your advice is good, chamberlain, in so far as it concerns my wife, and
I will beg of her to retire to Schonburg, although I doubt if she
will obey, but, by the bones of Saint Werner which floated against the
current of the Rhine in this direction, if there must be a fray, I will
be in the thick of it.”

“Remember, my Lord, that your house has always stood by the Archbishop
of Mayence.”

“It has stood by the Emperor as well, chamberlain.”

The Lady Elsa was amazed by the magnificence of the Emperor’s court,
when, accompanied by her husband, she walked the length of the great
room to make obeisance before the throne. At first entrance she shrank
timidly, closer to the side of Wilhelm, trembling at the ordeal of
passing, simply costumed as she now felt herself to be, between two
assemblages of haughty knights and high-born dames, resplendent in
dress, with the proud bearing that pertained to their position in
the Empire. Her breath came and went quickly, and she feared that all
courage would desert her before she traversed the seemingly endless
lane, flanked by the nobility of Germany, which led to the royal
presence. Wilhelm, unabashed, holding himself the equal of any there,
was not to be cowed by patronising glance, or scornful gaze. The thought
flashed through his mind:

“How can the throne fall, surrounded as it is by so many supporters?”

But when the approaching two saw the Empress, all remembrance of others
faded from their minds. Brunhilda was a woman of superb stature. She
stood alone upon the dais which supported the vacant throne, one hand
resting upon its carven arm. A cloak of imperial ermine fell gracefully
from her shapely shoulders and her slightly-elevated position on the
platform added height to her goddess-like tallness, giving her the
appearance of towering above every other person in the room, man or
woman. The excessive pallor of her complexion was emphasised by the
raven blackness of her wealth of hair, and the sombre midnight of her
eyes; eyes with slumbering fire in them, qualified by a haunted look
which veiled their burning intensity. Her brow was too broad and her
chin too firm for a painter’s ideal of beauty; her commanding presence
giving the effect of majesty rather than of loveliness. Deep lines of
care marred the marble of her forehead, and Wilhelm said to himself:

“Here is a woman going to her doom; knowing it; yet determined to show
no sign of fear and utter no cry for mercy.”

Every other woman there had eyes of varying shades of blue and gray, and
hair ranging from brown to golden yellow; thus the Empress stood before
them like a creature from another world.

Elsa was about to sink in lowly courtesy before the queenly woman when
the Empress came forward impetuously and kissed the girl on either
cheek, taking her by the hand.

“Oh, wild bird of the forest,” she cried, “why have you left the pure
air of the woods, to beat your innocent wings in this atmosphere of
deceit! And you, my young Lord, what brings you to Frankfort in these
troublous times? Have you an insufficiency of lands or of honours that
you come to ask augmentation of either?”

“I come to ask nothing for myself, your Majesty.”

“But to ask, nevertheless,” said Brunhilda, with a frown.

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“I hope I may live to see one man, like a knight of old, approach the
foot of the throne without a request on his lips. I thought you might
prove an exception, but as it is not so, propound your question?”

“I came to ask if my sword, supplemented by the weapons of five hundred
followers, can be of service to your Majesty.”

The Empress seemed taken aback by the young man’s unexpected reply, and
for some moments she gazed at him searchingly in silence.

At last she said:

“Your followers are the men of Schonburg and Gudenfels, doubtless?”

“No, your Majesty. Those you mention, acknowledge my father as their
leader. My men were known as the Outlaws of the Hundsrück, who have
deposed von Weithoff, chosen me as their chief, and now desire to lead
honest lives.”

The dark eyes of the Empress blazed again.

“I see, my Lord, that you have quickly learned the courtier’s language.
Under proffer of service you are really demanding pardon for a band of
marauders.”

Wilhelm met unflinchingly the angry look of this imperious woman, and
was so little a courtier that he allowed a frown to add sternness to his
brow.

“Your Majesty puts it harshly,” he said, “I merely petition for a stroke
of the pen which will add half a thousand loyal men to the ranks of the
Emperor’s supporters.”

Brunhilda pondered on this, then suddenly seemed to arrive at a
decision. Calling one of the ministers of state to her side, she said,
peremptorily:

“Prepare a pardon for the Outlaws of the Hundsrück. Send the document
at once to the Emperor for signature, and then bring it to me in the Red
Room.”

The minister replied with some hesitation:

“I should have each man’s name to inscribe on the roll, otherwise every
scoundrel in the Empire will claim protection under the edict.”

“I can give you every man’s name,” put in Wilhelm, eagerly.

“It is not necessary,” said the Empress.

“Your Majesty perhaps forgets,” persisted the minister, “that pardon
has already been proffered by the Emperor under certain conditions that
commended themselves to his imperial wisdom, and that the clemency so
graciously tendered was contemptuously refused.”

At this veiled opposition all the suspicion in Brunhilda’s nature turned
from Wilhelm to the high official, and she spoke to him in the tones of
one accustomed to prompt obedience.

“Prepare an unconditional pardon, and send it immediately to the Emperor
without further comment, either to him or to me.”

The minister bowed low and retired. The Empress dismissed the court,
detaining Elsa, and said to Wilhelm:

“Seek us half an hour later in the Red Room. Your wife I shall take with
me, that I may learn from her own lips the adventures which led to your
recognition as the heir of Schonburg, something of which I have already
heard. And as for your outlaws, send them word if you think they are
impatient to lead virtuous lives, which I take leave to doubt, that
before another day passes they need fear no penalty for past misdeed,
providing their future conduct escapes censure.”

“They are one and all eager to retrieve themselves in your Majesty’s
eyes!”

“Promise not too much, my young Lord, for they may be called upon to
perform sooner than they expect,” said Brunhilda, with a significant
glance at Wilhelm.

The young man left the imperial presence, overjoyed to know that his
mission had been successful.




CHAPTER IV

THE PERIL OF THE EMPEROR


Wilhelm awaited with impatience the passing of the half hour the Empress
had fixed as the period of his probation, for he was anxious to have
the signed pardon for the outlaws actually in his hand, fearing
the intrigues of the court might at the last moment bring about its
withdrawal.

When the time had elapsed he presented himself at the door of the Red
Room and was admitted by the guard. He found the Empress alone, and she
advanced toward him with a smile on her face, which banished the former
hardness of expression.

“Forgive me,” she said, “my seeming discourtesy in the Great Hall. I
am surrounded by spies, and doubtless Mayence already knows that your
outlaws have been pardoned, but that will merely make him more easy
about the safety of his cathedral town, especially as he holds Baron
von Weithoff their former leader. I was anxious that it should also be
reported to him that I had received you somewhat ungraciously. Your wife
is to take up her abode in the palace, as she refuses to leave Frankfort
if you remain here. She tells me the outlaws are brave men.”

“The bravest in the world, your Majesty.”

“And that they will follow you unquestioningly.”

“They would follow me to the gates of--” He paused, and added as if in
afterthought--“to the gates of Heaven.”

The lady smiled again.

“From what I have heard of them,” she said, “I feared their route lay in
another direction, but I have need of reckless men, and although I hand
you their pardon freely, it is not without a hope that they will see fit
to earn it.”

“Strong bodies and loyal souls, we belong to your Majesty. Command and
we will obey, while life is left us.”

“Do you know the present situation of the Imperial Crown, my Lord?”

“I understand it is in jeopardy through the act of the Electors, who, it
is thought, will depose the Emperor and elect a tool of their own. I am
also aware that the Imperial troops have been disbanded, and that there
will be four thousand armed and trained men belonging to the Electors
within the walls of Frankfort before many days are past.”

“Yes. What can five hundred do against four thousand?”

“We could capture the gates and prevent the entry of Treves and
Cologne.”

“I doubt that, for there are already two thousand troops obeying Mayence
and the Count Palatine now in Frankfort. I fear we must meet strength
by craft. The first step is to get your five hundred secretly into this
city. The empty barracks stand against the city wall; if you quartered
your score of Schonburg men there, they could easily assist your five
hundred to scale the wall at night, and thus your force would be at hand
concealed in the barracks without knowledge of the archbishops. Treves
and his men will be here to-morrow, before it would be possible for
you to capture the gates, even if such a design were practicable. I am
anxious above all things to avoid bloodshed, and any plan you have to
propose must be drafted with that end in view.”

“I will ride to the place where my outlaws are encamped on the
Rhine, having first quartered the Schonburg men in the barracks with
instructions regarding our reception. If the tales which the spies tell
the Archbishop of Mayence concerning my arrival and reception at court
lead his lordship to distrust me, he will command the guards at the
gate not to re-admit me. By to-morrow morning, or the morning after at
latest, I expect to occupy the barracks with five hundred and twenty
men, making arrangement meanwhile for the quiet provisioning of the
place. When I have consulted Gottlieb, who is as crafty as Satan
himself, I shall have a plan to lay before your Majesty.”

Wilhelm took leave of the Empress, gave the necessary directions to the
men he left behind him, and rode through the western gate unmolested and
unquestioned. The outlaws hailed him that evening with acclamations
that re-echoed from the hills which surrounded them, and their cheers
redoubled when Wilhelm presented them with the parchment which made them
once more free citizens of the Empire. That night they marched in, five
companies, each containing a hundred men, and the cat’s task of climbing
the walls of Frankfort in the darkness before the dawn, merely gave a
pleasant fillip to the long tramp. Daylight, found them sound asleep,
sprawling on the floors of the huge barracks.

When Wilhelm explained the situation to Gottlieb the latter made light
of the difficulty, as his master expected he would.

“‘Tis the easiest thing in the world,” he said.

“There are the Mayence men quartered in the Leinwandhaus. The men of
Treves are here, let us say, and the men of Cologne there. Very well,
we divide our company into four parties, as there is also the Count
Palatine to reckon with. We tie ropes round the houses containing these
sleeping men, set fire to the buildings all at the same time, and, pouf!
burn the vermin where they lie. The hanging of the four Electors after,
will be merely a job for a dozen of our men, and need not occupy longer
than while one counts five score.”

Wilhelm laughed.

“Your plan has the merit of simplicity, Gottlieb, but it does not fall
in with the scheme of the Empress, who is anxious that everything be
accomplished legally and without bloodshed. But if we can burn them, we
can capture them, imprisonment being probably more to the taste of the
vermin, as you call them, than cremation, and equally satisfactory to
us. Frankfort prison is empty, the Emperor having recently liberated all
within it. The place will amply accommodate four thousand men. Treves
has arrived to-day with much pomp, and Cologne will be here to-morrow.
To-morrow night the Electors hold their first meeting in the election
chamber of the Romer. While they are deliberating, do you think you and
your five hundred could lay four thousand men by the heels and leave
each bound and gagged in the city prison with good strong bolts shot in
on them?”

“Look on it as already done, my Lord. It is a task that requires speed,
stealth and silence, rather than strength. The main point is to see that
no alarm is prematurely given, and that no fugitive from one company
escape to give warning to the others. We fall upon sleeping men, and if
some haste is used, all are tied and gagged before they are full awake.”

“Very well. Make what preparations are necessary, as this venture may be
wrecked through lack of a cord or a gag, so see that you have everything
at hand, for we cannot afford to lose a single trick. The stake, if we
fail, is our heads.”

Wilhelm sought the Empress to let her know that he had got his men
safely housed in Frankfort, and also to lay before her his plan for
depositing the Electors’ followers in prison.

Brunhilda listened to his enthusiastic recital in silence, then shook
her head slowly.

“How can five hundred men hope to pinion four thousand?” she asked. “It
needs but one to make an outcry from an upper window, and, such is the
state of tension in Frankfort at the present moment that the whole city
will be about your ears instantly, thus bringing forth with the rest the
comrades of those you seek to imprison.”

“My outlaws are tigers, your Majesty. The Electors’ men will welcome
prison, once the Hundsrückers are let loose on them.”

“Your outlaws may understand the ways of the forest, but not those of a
city.”

“Well, your Majesty, they have sacked Coblentz, if that is any
recommendation for them.”

The reply of the Empress seemed irrelevant.

“Have you ever seen the hall in which the Emperors are nominated--or
deposed?” she asked.

“No, your Majesty.”

“Then follow me.”

The lady led him along a passage that seemed interminable, then down a
narrow winding stair, through a vaulted tunnel, the dank air of
which struck so cold and damp that the young man felt sure it was
subterranean; lastly up a second winding stair, at the top of which,
pushing aside some hanging tapestry, they stood within the noble
chamber known as the Wahlzimmer. The red walls were concealed by hanging
tapestry, the rich tunnel groining of the roof was dim in its lofty
obscurity. A long table occupied the centre of the room, with three
heavily-carved chairs on either side, and one, as ponderous as a throne,
at the head.

“There,” said the Empress, waving her hand, “sit the seven Electors when
a monarch of this realm is to be chosen. There, to-morrow night will sit
a majority of the Electoral College. In honour of this assemblage I have
caused these embroidered webs to be hung round the walls, so you see,
I, too, have a plan. Through this secret door which the Electors know
nothing of, I propose to admit a hundred of your men to be concealed
behind the tapestry. My plan differs from yours in that I determine to
imprison four men, while you would attempt to capture four thousand; I
consider therefore that my chances of success, compared with yours, are
as a thousand to one. I strike at the head; you strike at the body. If I
paralyse the head, the body is powerless.”

Wilhelm knit his brows, looked around the room, but made no reply.

“Well,” cried the Empress, impatiently, “I have criticised your plan;
criticise mine if you find a flaw in it.”

“Is it your Majesty’s intention to have the men take their places behind
the hangings before the archbishops assemble?”

“Assuredly.”

“Then you will precipitate a conflict before all the Electors are here,
for it is certain that the first prince to arrive will have the place
thoroughly searched for spies. So momentous a meeting will never be held
until all fear of eavesdroppers is allayed.”

“That is true, Wilhelm,” said the Empress with a sigh, “then there is
nothing left but your project; which I fear will result in a mêlée and
frightful slaughter.”

“I propose, your Majesty, that we combine the two plans. We will
imprison as many as may be of the archbishops’ followers and then by
means of the secret stairway surround their lordships.”

“But they will, in the silence of the room, instantly detect the
incoming of your men.”

“Not so, if the panel which conceals the stair, work smoothly. My men
are like cats, and their entrance and placement will not cause the most
timid mouse to cease nibbling.”

“The panel is silent enough, and it may be that your men will reach
their places without betraying their presence to the archbishops, but
it would be well to instruct your leaders that in case of discovery they
are to rush forward, without waiting for your arrival or mine, hold the
door of the Wahlzimmer at all hazards, and see that no Elector escapes.
I am firm in my belief that once the persons of the archbishops are
secured, this veiled rebellion ends, whether you imprison your four
thousand or not, for I swear by my faith that if their followers raise
a hand against me, I will have the archbishops slain before their eyes,
even though I go down in disaster the moment after.”

The stern determination of the Empress would have inspired a less
devoted enthusiast than Wilhelm. He placed his hand on the hilt of his
sword.

“There will be no disaster to the Empress,” he said, fervently.

They retired into the palace by the way they came, carefully closing the
concealed panel behind them.

As Wilhelm passed through the front gates of the Palace to seek Gottlieb
at the barracks, he pondered over the situation and could not conceal
from himself the fact that the task he had undertaken was almost
impossible of accomplishment. It was an unheard of thing that five
hundred men should overcome eight times their number and that without
raising a disturbance in so closely packed a city as Frankfort, where,
as the Empress had said, the state of tension was already extreme.
But although he found that the pessimism of the Empress regarding his
project was affecting his own belief in it, he set his teeth resolutely
and swore that if it failed it would not be through lack of taking any
precaution that occurred to him.

At the barracks he found Gottlieb in high feather. The sight of his
cheerful, confident face revived the drooping spirits of the young man.

“Well, master,” he cried, the freedom of outlawry still in the
abruptness of his speech, “I have returned from a close inspection of
the city.”

“A dangerous excursion,” said Wilhelm. “I trust no one else left the
barracks.”

“Not another man, much as they dislike being housed, but it was
necessary some one should know where our enemies are placed. The
Archbishop of Treves, with an assurance that might have been expected of
him, has stalled his men in the cathedral, no less, but a most excellent
place for our purposes. A guard at each door, and there you are.

“Ah, he has selected the cathedral not because of his assurance, but to
intercept any communication with the Emperor, who is in the cloisters
attached to it, and doubtless his lordship purposes to crown the new
emperor before daybreak at the high altar. The design of the archbishop
is deeper than appears on the surface, Gottlieb. His men in the
cathedral gives him possession of the Wahlkapelle where emperors are
elected, after having been nominated in the Wahlzimmer. His lordship has
a taste for doing things legally. Where are the men of Cologne?”

“In a church also; the church of St. Leonhard on the banks of the Main.
That is as easily surrounded and is as conveniently situated as if I
had selected it myself. The Count Palatine’s men are in a house near the
northern gate, a house which has no back exit, and therefore calls but
for the closing of a street. Nothing could be better.”

“But the Drapers’ Hall which holds the Mayence troops, almost adjoins
the cathedral. Is there not a danger in this circumstance that a turmoil
in the one may be heard in the other?”

“No, because we have most able allies.”

“What? the townsmen? You have surely taken none into your confidence,
Gottlieb?”

“Oh, no, my Lord. Our good copartners are none other than the
archbishops themselves. It is evident they expect trouble to-morrow, but
none to-night. Orders have been given that all their followers are to
get a good night’s rest, each man to be housed and asleep by sunset.
The men of both Treves and Cologne are tired with their long and hurried
march and will sleep like the dead. We will first attack the men of
Mayence surrounding the Leinwandhaus, and I warrant you that no matter
what noise there is, the Treves people will not hear. Then being on the
spot, we will, when the Mayence soldiers are well bound, tie up those
in the cathedral. I purpose if your lordship agrees to leave our bound
captives where they are, guarded by a sufficient number of outlaws, in
case one attempts to help the other, until we have pinioned those
of Cologne and the Count Palatine. When this is off our minds we can
transport all our prisoners to the fortress at our leisure.”

Thus it was arranged, and when night fell on the meeting of the
Electors, so well did Gottlieb and his men apply themselves to the task
that before an hour had passed the minions of the Electors lay packed in
heaps in the aisles and the rooms where they lodged, to be transported
to the prison at the convenience of their captors.

Many conditions favoured the success of the seemingly impossible feat.
Since the arrival of the soldiery there had been so many night brawls
in the streets that one more or less attracted little attention, either
from the military or from the civilians. The very boldness and magnitude
of the scheme was an assistance to it. Then the stern cry of “_In the
name of the Emperor!_” with which the assaulters once inside cathedral,
church or house, fell upon their victims, deadened opposition, for the
common soldiers, whether enlisted by Treves, Cologne, or Mayence, knew
that the Emperor was over all, and they had no inkling of the designs
of their immediate masters. Then, as Gottlieb had surmised, the extreme
fatigue of the followers of Treves and Cologne, after their toilsome
march from their respective cities, so overcame them that many went to
sleep when being conveyed from church and cathedral to prison. There
was some resistance on the part of officers, speedily quelled by the
victorious woodlanders, but aside from this there were few heads
broken, and the wish of the Empress for a bloodless conquest was amply
fulfilled.

Two hours after darkness set in, Gottlieb, somewhat breathless, saluted
his master at the steps of the palace and announced that the followers
of the archbishops and the Count Palatine were behind bars in the
Frankfort prison, with a strong guard over them to discourage any
attempt at jailbreaking. When Wilhelm led his victorious soldiery
silently up the narrow secret stair, pushed back, with much
circumspection and caution, the sliding panel, listened for a moment to
the low murmur of their lordships’ voices, waited until each of his men
had gone stealthily behind the tapestry, listened again and still heard
the drone of speech, he returned as he came, and accompanied by a guard
of two score, escorted the Empress to the broad public stairway that led
up one flight to the door of the Wahlzimmer. The two sentinels at the
foot of the stairs crossed their pikes to bar the entrance of Brunhilda,
but they were overpowered and gagged so quickly and silently that their
two comrades at the top had no suspicion of what was going forward until
they had met a similar fate. The guards at the closed door, more alert,
ran forward, only to be carried away with their fellow-sentinels.
Wilhelm, his sword drawn, pushed open the door and cried, in a loud
voice:

“My Lords, I am commanded to announce to you that her Majesty the
Empress honours you with her presence.”

It would have been difficult at that moment to find four men in all
Germany more astonished than were the Electors. They saw the young man
who held open the door, bow low, then the stately lady so sonorously
announced come slowly up the hall and stand silently before them.
Wilhelm closed the door and set his back against it, his naked sword
still in his right hand. Three of the Electors were about to rise to
their feet, but a motion of the hand by the old man of Treves, who sat
the head of the table, checked them.

“I have come,” said the Empress in a low voice, but distinctly heard
in the stillness of the room, “to learn why you are gathered here in
Frankfort and in the Wahlzimmer, where no meeting has taken place for
three hundred years, except on the death of an emperor.”

“Madame,” said the Elector of Treves, leaning back in his chair and
placing the tips of his fingers together before him, “all present have
the right to assemble in this hall unquestioned, with the exception of
yourself and the young man who erroneously styled you Empress, with such
unnecessary flourish, as you entered. You are the wife of our present
Emperor, but under the Salic law no woman can occupy the German throne.
If flatterers have misled you by bestowing a title to which you have no
claim, and if the awe inspired by that spurious appellation has won your
admission past ignorant guards who should have prevented your approach,
I ask that you will now withdraw, and permit us to resume deliberations
that should not have been interrupted.”

“What is the nature of those deliberations, my Lord?”

“The question is one improper for you to ask. To answer it would be to
surrender our rights as Electors of the Empire. It is enough for you
to be assured, madame, that we are lawfully assembled, and that our
purposes are strictly legal.”

“You rest strongly on the law, my Lord, so strongly indeed that were I
a suspicious person I might surmise that your acts deserved strict
scrutiny. I will appeal to you, then, in the name of the law. Is it the
law of this realm that he who directly or indirectly conspires against
the peace and comfort of his emperor is adjudged a traitor, his act
being punishable by death?”

“The law stands substantially as you have cited it, madame, but its
bearing upon your presence in this room is, I confess, hidden from me.”

“I shall endeavour to enlighten you, my Lord. Are you convened here to
further the peace and comfort of his Majesty the Emperor?”

“We devoutly trust so, madame. His Majesty is so eminently fitted for a
cloister, rather than for domestic bliss or the cares of state, that
we hope to pleasure him by removing all barriers in his way to a
monastery.”

“Then until his Majesty is deposed you are, by your own confession,
traitors.”

“Pardon me, madame, but the law regarding traitors which you quoted with
quite womanly inaccuracy, and therefore pardonable, does not apply to
eight persons within this Empire, namely, the seven Electors and the
Emperor himself.”

“I have been unable to detect the omission you state, my Lord. There are
no exceptions, as I read the law.”

“The exceptions are implied, madame, if not expressly set down, for it
would be absurd to clothe Electors with a power in the exercise of which
they would constitute themselves traitors. But this discussion is as
painful as it is futile, and therefore it must cease. In the name of
the Electoral College here in session assembled, I ask you to withdraw,
madame.”

“Before obeying your command, my Lord Archbishop, there is another point
which I wish to submit to your honourable body, so learned in the law.
I see three vacant chairs before me, and I am advised that it is illegal
to depose an emperor unless all the members of the college are present
and unanimous.”

“Again you have been misinformed. A majority of the college elects; a
majority can depose, and in retiring to private life, madame, you
have the consolation of knowing that your intervention prolonged your
husband’s term of office by several minutes. For the third time I
request you to leave this room, and if you again refuse I shall be
reluctantly compelled to place you under arrest. Young man, open the
door and allow this woman to pass through.”

“I would have you know, my Lord,” said Wilhelm, “that I am appointed
commander of the imperial forces, and that I obey none but his Majesty
the Emperor.”

“I understood that the Emperor depended upon the Heavenly Hosts,” said
the Archbishop, with the suspicion of a smile on his grim lips.

“It does not become a prince of the Church to sneer at Heaven or its
power,” said the Empress, severely.

“Nothing was further from my intention, madame, but you must excuse me
if I did not expect to see the Heavenly Hosts commanded by a young man
so palpably German. Still all this is aside from the point. Will you
retire, or must I reluctantly use force?”

“I advise your lordship not to appeal to force.”

The old man of Treves rose slowly to his feet, an ominous glitter in his
eyes. He stood for some minutes regarding angrily the woman before him,
as if to give her time to reconsider her stubborn resolve to hold her
ground. Then raising his voice the Elector cried:

“Men of Treves! enter!”

While one might count ten, dense silence followed this outcry, the
seated Electors for the first time glancing at their leader with looks
of apprehension.

“Treves! Treves! Treves!”

That potent name reverberated from the lips of its master, who had never
known its magic to fail in calling round him stout defenders, and who
could not yet believe that its power should desert him at this juncture.
Again there was no response.

“As did the prophet of old, ye call on false gods.”

The low vibrant voice of the Empress swelled like the tones of a rich
organ as the firm command she had held over herself seemed about to
depart.

“Lord Wilhelm, give them a name, that carries authority in its sound.”

Wilhelm strode forward from the door, raised his glittering sword high
above his head and shouted:

“THE EMPEROR! Cheer, ye woodland wolves!”

With a downward sweep of his sword, he cut the two silken cords which,
tied to a ring near the door, held up the tapestry. The hangings fell
instantly like the drop curtain of a theatre, its rustle overwhelmed in
the vociferous yell that rang to the echoing roof.

“Forward! Close up your ranks!”

With simultaneous movement the men stepped over the folds on the floor
and stood shoulder to shoulder, an endless oval line of living warriors,
surrounding the startled group in the centre of the great hall.

“Aloft, rope-men.”

Four men, with ropes wound round their bodies, detached themselves from
the circle, and darting to the four corners of the room, climbed like
squirrels until they reached the tunnelled roofing, where, making their
way to the centre with a dexterity that was marvellous, they threw
their ropes over the timbers and came spinning down to the floor, like
gigantic spiders, each suspended on his own line. The four men, looped
nooses in hand, took up positions behind the four Electors, all of whom
were now on their feet. Wilhelm saluted the Empress, bringing the hilt
of his sword to his forehead, and stepped back.

The lady spoke:

“My Lords, learned in the law, you will perhaps claim with truth that
there is no precedent for hanging an Electoral College, but neither
is there precedent for deposing an Emperor. It is an interesting legal
point on which we shall have definite opinion pronounced in the inquiry
which will follow the death of men so distinguished as yourselves, and
if it should be held that I have exceeded my righteous authority in thus
pronouncing sentence upon you as traitors, I shall be nothing loath to
make ample apology to the state.”

“Such reparation will be small consolation to us, your Majesty,” said
the Archbishop of Cologne, speaking for the first time. “My preference
is for an ante-mortem rather than a post-mortem adjustment of the law.
My colleague of Treves, in the interests of a better understanding, I
ask you to destroy the document of deposition, which you hold in your
hand, and which I beg to assure her Majesty, is still unsigned.”

The trembling fingers of the Archbishop of Treves proved powerless
to tear the tough parchment, so he held it for a moment until it was
consumed in the flame of a taper which stood on the table.

“And now, your Majesty, speaking entirely for myself, I give you my word
as a prince of the Church and a gentlemen of the Empire, that my vote as
an Elector will always be against the deposition of the Emperor, for I
am convinced that imperial power is held in firm and capable hands.”

The great prelate of Cologne spoke as one making graceful concession
to a lady, entirely uninfluenced by the situation in which he so
unexpectedly found himself. A smile lit up the face of the Empress as
she returned his deferential bow.

“I accept your word with pleasure, my Lord, fully assured that, once
given, it will never be tarnished by any mental reservation.”

“I most cordially associate myself with my brother of Cologne and take
the same pledge,” spoke up his Lordship of Mayence.

The Count Palatine of the Rhine moistened his dry lips and said:

“I was misled by ambition, your Majesty, and thus in addition to giving
you my word, I crave your imperial pardon as well.”

The Archbishop of Treves sat in his chair like a man collapsed. He
had made no movement since the burning of the parchment. All eyes
were turned upon him in the painful stillness. With visible effort he
enunciated in deep voice the two words: “And I.”

The face of the Empress took on a radiance that had long been absent
from it.

“It seems, my Lords, that there has been merely a slight
misunderstanding, which a few quiet words and some legal instruction has
entirely dissipated. To seal our compact, I ask you all to dine with me
to-morrow night, when I am sure it will afford intense gratification
to prelates so pious as yourselves to send a message to his Majesty
the Emperor, informing him that his trust in Providence has not been
misplaced.”




CHAPTER V

THE NEEDLE DAGGER


Wilhelm Von Schonburg, Commander of the Imperial Forces at Frankfort,
applied himself to the task of building up an army round his nucleus of
five hundred with all the energy and enthusiasm of youth. He first
put parties of trusty men at the various city gates so that he might
control, at least in a measure, the human intake and output of the city.
The power which possession of the gates gave him he knew to be more
apparent than real, for Frankfort was a commercial city, owing its
prosperity to traffic, and any material interference with the ebb or
flow of travel had a depressing influence on trade. If the Archbishops
meant to keep their words given to the Empress, all would be well,
but of their good faith Wilhelm had the gravest doubts. It would be
impossible to keep secret the defeat of their Lordships, when several
thousands of their men lay immured in the city prison. The whole world
would thus learn sooner or later that the great Princes of the Church
had come to shear and had departed shorn; and this blow to their pride
was one not easily forgiven by men so haughty and so powerful as the
prelates of Treves, Mayence and Cologne. Young as he was, Wilhelm’s free
life in the forest, among those little accustomed to control the raw
passions of humanity, had made him somewhat a judge of character, and he
had formed the belief that the Archbishop of Cologne, was a gentleman,
and would keep his word, that the Archbishop of Treves would have no
scruple in breaking his, while the Archbishop of Mayence would follow
the lead of Treves. This suspicion he imparted to the Empress Brunhilda,
but she did not agree with him, believing that all three, with the Count
Palatine, would hereafter save their heads by attending strictly to
their ecclesiastical business, leaving the rule of the Empire in the
hands which now held it.

“Cologne will not break the pledge he has given me,” she said; “of that
I am sure. Mayence is too great an opportunist to follow an unsuccessful
leader; and the Count Palatine is too great a coward to enter upon such
a dangerous business as the deposing of an emperor who is _my_ husband.
Besides, I have given the Count Palatine a post at Court which requires
his constant presence in Frankfort, and so I have him in some measure
a prisoner. The Electors are powerless if even one of their number is
a defaulter, so what can Treves do, no matter how deeply his pride is
injured, or how bitterly he thirsts for revenge? His only resource is
boldly to raise the flag of rebellion and march his troops on Frankfort.
He is too crafty a man to take such risk or to do anything so open. For
this purpose he must set about the collection of an army secretly, while
we may augment the Imperial troops in the light of day. So, unless he
strikes speedily, we will have a force that will forever keep him in
awe.”

This seemed a reasonable view, but it only partly allayed the
apprehensions of Wilhelm. He had caught more than one fierce look
of hatred directed toward him by the Archbishop of Treves, since the
meeting in the Wahlzimmer, and the regard of his Lordship of Mayence
had been anything but benign. These two dignitaries had left Frankfort
together, their way lying for some distance in the same direction.
Wilhelm liberated their officers, and thus the two potentates had scant
escort to their respective cities. Their men he refused to release,
which refusal both Treves and Mayence accepted with bad grace, saying
the withholding cast an aspersion on their honour. This example was
not followed by the suave Archbishop of Cologne, who departed some days
after his colleagues. He laughed when Wilhelm informed him that his
troops would remain in Frankfort, and said he would be at the less
expense in his journey down the Rhine, as his men were gross feeders.

Being thus quit of the three Archbishops, the question was what to do
with their three thousand men. It was finally resolved to release them
by detachments, drafting into the Imperial army such as were willing so
to serve and take a special oath of allegiance to the Emperor, allowing
those who declined to enlist to depart from the city in whatever
direction pleased them, so that they went away in small parties. It
was found, however, that the men cared little for whom they fought,
providing the pay was good and reasonably well assured. Thus the
Imperial army received many recruits and the country round Frankfort few
vagrants.

The departed Archbishops made no sign, the Count Palatine seemed
engrossed with his duties about the Court, the army increased daily and
life went on so smoothly that Wilhelm began to cease all questioning of
the future, coming at last to believe that the Empress was right in her
estimate of the situation. He was in this pleasing state of mind when
an incident occurred which would have caused him greater anxiety than
it did had he been better acquainted with the governing forces of his
country. On arising one morning he found on the table of his room a
parchment, held in place by a long thin dagger of peculiar construction.
His first attention was given to the weapon and not to the scroll. The
blade was extremely thin and sharp at the point, and seemed at first
sight to be so exceedingly frail as to be of little service in actual
combat, but a closer examination proved that it was practically
unbreakable, and of a temper so fine that nothing made an impression
on its keen edge. Held at certain angles, the thin blade seemed to
disappear altogether and leave the empty hilt in the hand. The hilt had
been treated as if it were a crucifix, and in slightly raised relief
there was a figure of Christ, His outstretched arms extending along the
transverse guard. On the opposite side of the handle were the sunken
letters “S. S. G. G.”

Wilhelm fingered this dainty piece of mechanism curiously, wondering
where it was made. He guessed Milan as the place of its origin, knowing
enough of cutlery to admire the skill and knowledge of metallurgy that
had gone to its construction, and convinced as he laid it down that it
was foreign. He was well aware that no smith in Germany could fashion
a lancet so exquisitely tempered. He then turned his attention to
the document which had been fastened to the table by this needle-like
stiletto. At the top of the parchment were the same letters that had
been cut in the handle of the dagger.


_S. S. G. G._

_First warning. Wear this dagger thrust into your doublet over the
heart, and allow him who accosts you, fearing nothing if your heart be
true and loyal. In strict silence safety lies_.


Wilhelm laughed.

“It is some lover’s nonsense of Elsa’s,” he said to himself. “‘If your
heart be true and loyal,’ that is a woman’s phrase and nothing else.”

Calling his wife, he held out the weapon to her and said:

“Where did you get this, Elsa? I would be glad to know who your armourer
is, for I should dearly love to provide my men with weapons of such
temper.”

Elsa looked alternately at the dagger and at her husband, bewildered.

“I never saw it before, nor anything like it,” she replied. “Where did
you find it? It is so frail it must be for ornament merely.”

“Its frailness is deceptive. It is a most wonderful instrument, and I
should like to know where it comes from. I thought you had bought it
from some armourer and intended me to wear it as a badge of my office.
Perhaps it was sent by the Empress. The word ‘loyalty’ seems to indicate
that, though how it got into this room and on this table unknown to me
is a mystery.”

Elsa shook her head as she studied the weapon and the message
critically.

“Her Majesty is more direct than this would indicate. If she had aught
to say to you she would say it without ambiguity. Do you intend to wear
the dagger as the scroll commands?”

“If I thought it came from the Empress I should, not otherwise.”

“You may be assured some one else has sent it. Perhaps it is intended
for me,” and saying this Elsa thrust the blade of the dagger through the
thick coil of her hair and turned coquettishly so that her husband might
judge of the effect.

“Are you ambitious to set a new fashion to the Court, Elsa?” asked
Wilhelm, smiling.

“No; I shall not wear it in public, but I will keep the dagger if I
may.”

Thus the incident passed, and Wilhelm gave no more thought to the
mysterious warning. His duties left him little time for meditation
during the day, but as he returned at night from the barracks his mind
reverted once more to the dagger, and he wondered how it came without
his knowledge into his private room. His latent suspicion of the
Archbishops became aroused again, and he pondered on the possibility of
an emissary of theirs placing the document on his table. He had given
strict instructions that if any one supposed to be an agent of their
lordships presented himself at the gates he was to be permitted to enter
the city without hindrance, but instant knowledge of such advent was
to be sent to the Commander, which reminded him that he had not seen
Gottlieb that day, this able lieutenant having general charge of all
the ports. So he resolved to return to the barracks and question his
underling regarding the recent admittances. Acting instantly on this
determination, he turned quickly and saw before him a man whom he
thought he recognised by his outline in the darkness as von Brent, one
of the officers of Treves whom he had released, and who had accompanied
the Archbishop on his return to that city. The figure, however, gave
him no time for a closer inspection, and, although evidently taken by
surprise, reversed his direction, making off with speed down the street.
Wilhelm, plucking sword from scabbard, pursued no less fleetly.
The scanty lighting of the city thoroughfares gave advantage to the
fugitive, but Wilhelm’s knowledge of the town was now astonishingly
intimate, considering the short time he had been a resident, and his
woodlore, applied to the maze of tortuous narrow alleys made him a
hunter not easily baffled. He saw the flutter of a cloak as its wearer
turned down a narrow lane, and a rapid mental picture of the labyrinth
illuminating his mind, Wilhelm took a dozen long strides to a corner
and there stood waiting. A few moments later a panting man with cloak
streaming behind him came near to transfixing himself on the point of
the Commander’s sword. The runner pulled himself up with a gasp and
stood breathless and speechless.

“I tender you good-evening, sir,” said Wilhelm, civilly, “and were I
not sure of your friendliness, I should take it that you were trying to
avoid giving me salutation.”

“I did not recognise you, my Lord, in the darkness.”

The man breathed heavily, which might have been accounted for by his
unaccustomed exertion.

“‘Tis strange, then, that I should have recognised you, turning
unexpectedly as I did, while you seemingly had me in your eye for some
time before.”

“Indeed, my Lord, and that I had not. I but just emerged from this
crooked lane, and seeing you turn so suddenly, feared molestation, and
so took to my heels, which a warrior should be shamed to confess, but I
had no wish to be embroiled in a street brawl.”

“Your caution does you credit, and should commend you to so
peacefully-minded a master as his Lordship of Treves, who, I sincerely
trust, arrived safely in his ancient city.”

“He did, my Lord.”

“I am deeply gratified to hear it, and putting my knowledge of his
lordship’s methods in conjunction with your evident desire for secrecy,
I should be loath to inquire into the nature of the mission that brings
you to the capital so soon after your departure from it.”

“Well, my Lord,” said von Brent, with an attempt at a laugh, “I must
admit that it was my purpose to visit Frankfort with as little publicity
as possible. You are mistaken, however, in surmising that I am entrusted
with any commands from my lord, the Archbishop, who, at this moment, is
devoting himself with energy to his ecclesiastical duties and therefore
has small need for a soldier. This being the case, I sought and obtained
leave of absence, and came to Frankfort on private affairs of my own.
To speak truth, as between one young man and another, not to be further
gossiped about, while, stationed here some days ago, I became acquainted
with a girl whom I dearly wish to meet again, and this traffic, as you
know, yearns not for either bray of trumpet or rattle of drum.”

“The gentle power of love,” said Wilhelm in his most affable tone, “is
a force few of us can resist. Indeed, I am myself not unacquainted with
its strength, and I must further congratulate you on your celerity of
conquest, for you came to Frankfort in the morning, and were my guest in
the fortress in the evening, so you certainly made good use of the brief
interval. By what gate did you enter Frankfort?”

“By the western gate, my Lord.”

“This morning?”

“No, my Lord. I entered but a short time since, just before the gates
were closed for the night.”

“Ah! that accounts for my hearing no report of your arrival, for it is
my wish, when distinguished visitors honour us with their presence, that
I may be able to offer them every courtesy.”

Von Brent laughed, this time with a more genuine ring to his mirth.

“Seeing that your previous hospitality included lodging in the city
prison, my Lord, as you, a moment ago, reminded me, you can scarcely be
surprised that I had no desire to invite a repetition of such courtesy,
if you will pardon the frank speaking of a soldier.”

“Most assuredly. And to meet frankness with its like, I may add that the
city prison still stands intact. But I must no longer delay an impatient
lover, and so, as I began, I give you a very good evening, sir.”

Von Brent returned the salutation, bowing low, and Wilhelm watched
him retrace his steps and disappear in the darkness. The Commander,
returning his blade to its scabbard, sought Gottlieb at the barracks.

“Do you remember von Brent, of Treves’ staff?”

“That hangdog-looking officer? Yes, master. I had the pleasure of
knocking him down in the Cathedral before pinioning him.”

“He is in Frankfort to-night, and said he entered by the western gate
just before it was closed.”

“Then he is a liar,” commented Gottlieb, with his usual bluntness.

“Such I strongly suspect him to be. Nevertheless, here he is, and the
question I wish answered is, how did he get in?”

“He must have come over the wall, which can hardly be prevented if an
incomer has a friend who will throw him a rope.”

“It may be prevented if the walls are efficiently patrolled. See
instantly to that, Gottlieb, and set none but our own woodlanders on
watch.”

Several days passed, and Wilhelm kept a sharp lookout for von Brent, or
any other of the Archbishop’s men, but he saw none such, nor could he
learn that the lieutenant had left the city. He came almost to believe
that the officer had spoken the truth, when distrust again assailed him
on finding in the barracks a second document almost identical with the
first, except that it contained the words, “Second warning,” and the
dirk had been driven half its length into the lid of the desk. At first
he thought it was the same parchment and dagger, but the different
wording showed him that at least the former was not the same. He called
Gottlieb, and demanded to know who had been allowed to pass the guards
and enter that room. The honest warrior was dismayed to find such
a thing could have happened, and although he was unable to read the
lettering, he turned the missive over and over in his hand as if he
expected close scrutiny to unravel the skein. He then departed and
questioned the guards closely, but was assured that no one had entered
except the Commander.

“I cannot fathom it,” he said on returning to his master, “and, to tell
truth, I wish we were well back in the forest again, for I like not this
mysterious city and its ways. We have kept this town as close sealed
as a wine butt, yet I dare swear that I have caught glimpses of the
Archbishop’s men, flitting here and there like bats as soon as darkness
gathers. I have tried to catch one or two of them to make sure, but I
seem to have lost all speed of foot on these slippery stones, and those
I follow disappear as if the earth swallowed them.”

“Have you seen von Brent since I spoke to you about him?”

“I thought so, Master Wilhelm, but I am like a man dazed in the mazes of
an evil dream, who can be certain of nothing. I am afraid of no man who
will stand boldly up to me, sword in hand, with a fair light on both of
us, but this chasing of shadows with nothing for a pike to pierce makes
a coward of me.”

“Well, the next shadow that follows me will get my blade in its vitals,
for I think my foot is lighter than yours, Gottlieb. There is no shadow
in this town that is not cast by a substance, and that substance will
feel a sword thrust if one can but get within striking distance. Keep
strict watch and we will make a discovery before long, never fear. Do
you think the men we have enlisted from the Archbishop’s company are
trying to play tricks with us? Are they to be trusted?”

“Oh, they are stout rascals with not enough brains among them all
to plan this dagger and parchment business, giving little thought to
anything beyond eating and drinking, and having no skill of lettering.”

“Then we must look elsewhere for the explanation. It may be that your
elusive shadows will furnish a clue.”

On reaching his own house Wilhelm said carelessly to his wife, whom he
did not wish to alarm unnecessarily:

“Have you still in your possession that dagger which I found on my
table?”

“Yes, it is here. Have you found an owner for it or learned how it came
there?”

“No. I merely wished to look at it again.”

She gave it to him, and he saw at once that it was a duplicate of
the one he had hidden under his doublet. The mystery was as far from
solution as ever, and the closest examination of the weapon gave no
hint pertaining to the purport of the message. Yet it is probable that
Wilhelm was the only noble in the German Empire who was ignorant of the
significance of the four letters, and doubtless the senders were amazed
at his temerity in nonchalantly ignoring the repeated warnings, which
would have brought pallor to the cheeks of the highest in the land.
Wilhelm had been always so dependent on the advice of Gottlieb that it
never occurred to him to seek explanation from any one else, yet in
this instance Gottlieb, from the same cause of woodland training, was as
ignorant as his master.

It is possible that the two warnings might have made a greater
impression on the mind of the young man were it not that he was troubled
about his own status in the Empire. There had been much envy in the
Court at the elevation of a young man practically unknown, to the
position of commander-in-chief of the German army, and high officials
had gone so far as to protest against what they said was regarded as a
piece of unaccountable favouritism. The Empress, however, was firm, and
for a time comment seemed to cease, but it was well known that Wilhelm
had no real standing, unless his appointment was confirmed by the
Emperor, and his commission made legal by the royal signature. It became
known, or, at least, was rumoured that twice the Empress had sent this
document to her husband and twice it had been returned unsigned. The
Emperor went so far as to refuse to see his wife, declining to have any
discussion about the matter, and Wilhelm well knew that every step he
took in the fulfilment of his office was an illegal step, and if a
hint of this got to the ears of the Archbishops they would be more than
justified in calling him to account, for every act he performed relating
to the army after he knew that his monarch had refused to sanction his
nomination was an act of rebellion and usurpation punishable by death.
The Empress was well aware of the jeopardy in which her _attaché_ stood,
but she implored him not to give up the position, although helpless to
make his appointment regular. She hoped her husband’s religious fervour
would abate and that he would deign to bestow some attention upon
earthly things, allowing himself to be persuaded of the necessity of
keeping up a standing army, commanded by one entirely faithful to him.
Wilhelm himself often doubted the wisdom of his interference, which had
allowed the throne to be held by a man who so neglected all its duties
that intrigues and unrest were honeycombing the whole fabric of society,
beginning at the top and working its way down until now even the
merchants were in a state of uncertainty, losing faith in the stability
of the government. The determined attitude of Wilhelm, the general
knowledge that he came from a family of fighters, and the wholesome fear
of the wild outlaws, under his command, did more than anything else
to keep down open rebellion in Court and to make the position of
the Empress possible. It was believed that Wilhelm would have little
hesitation in obliterating half the nobility of the Court, or the whole
of it for that matter, if but reasonable excuse were given him for doing
so, and every one was certain that his cut-throats, as they were called,
would obey any command he liked to give, and would delight in whatever
slaughter ensued. The Commander held aloof from the Court, although,
because of his position, he had a room in the palace which no one but
the monarch and the chief officer of the army might enter, yet he rarely
occupied this apartment, using, instead, the suite at the barracks.

Some days after the second episode of the dagger he received a summons
from the Empress commanding his instant presence at the palace. On
arriving at the Court, he found Brunhilda attended by a group of nobles,
who fell back as the young commander approached. The Empress smiled as
he bent his knee and kissed her hand, but Wilhelm saw by the anxiety
in her eye that something untoward had happened, guessing that his
commission was returned for the third time unsigned from the Emperor,
and being correct in his surmise.

“Await me in the Administration Room of the Army,” said the Empress. “I
will see you presently. You have somewhat neglected that room of late,
my Lord.”

“I found I could more adequately fulfil your Majesty’s command and
keep in closer touch with the army by occupying my apartments at the
barracks.”

“I trust, then, that you will have a good report to present to me
regarding the progress of my soldiers,” replied the Empress, dismissing
him with a slight inclination of her head.

Wilhelm left the audience chamber and proceeded along the corridor with
which his room was connected. The soldier at the entrance saluted him,
and Wilhelm entered the Administration Chamber. It was a large room and
in the centre of it stood a large table. After closing the door Wilhelm
paused in his advance, for there in the centre of the table, buried to
its very hilt through the planks, was a duplicate of the dagger he had
concealed inside his doublet. It required some exertion of Wilhelm’s
great strength before he dislodged the weapon from the timber into which
it had been so fiercely driven. The scroll it affixed differed from each
of the other two. It began with the words, “Final warning,” and ended
with “To Wilhelm of Schonburg, so-called Commander of the Imperial
forces,” as if from a desire on the part of the writer that there should
be no mistake regarding the destination of the missive. The young man
placed the knife on the parchment and stood looking at them both until
the Empress was announced. He strode forward to meet her and conducted
her to a chair, where she seated herself, he remaining on his feet.

“I am in deep trouble,” she began, “the commission authorising you
to command the Imperial troops has been returned for the third time
unsigned; not only that, but the act authorising the reconstruction of
the army, comes back also without the Emperor’s signature.”

Wilhelm remained silent, for he well knew that the weakness of their
position was the conduct of the Emperor, and this was an evil which he
did not know how to remedy.

“When he returned both documents the first time,” continued the Empress,
“I sent to him a request for an interview that I might explain the
urgency and necessity of the matter. This request was refused, and
although I know of course that my husband might perhaps be called
eccentric, still he had never before forbade my presence. This aroused
my suspicion.”

“Suspicion of what, your Majesty?” inquired Wilhelm.

“My suspicion that the messages I sent him have been intercepted.”

“Who would dare do such a thing, your Majesty?” cried Wilhelm in
amazement.

“Where large stakes are played for, large risks must be taken,” went on
the lady. “I said nothing at the time, but yesterday I sent to him two
acts which he himself had previously sanctioned, but never carried out;
these were returned to me to-day unsigned, and now I fear one of three
things. The Emperor is ill, is a prisoner, or is dead.”

“If it is your Majesty’s wish,” said Wilhelm, “I will put myself at the
head of a body of men, surround the cathedral, search the cloisters, and
speedily ascertain whether the Emperor is there or no.”

“I have thought of such action,” declared the Empress, “but I dislike to
take it. It would bring me in conflict with the Church, and then there
is always the chance that the Emperor is indeed within the cloisters,
and that, of his own free will, he refuses to sign the documents I
have sent to him. In such case what excuse could we give for our
interference? It might precipitate the very crisis we are so anxious to
avoid.”

The Empress had been sitting by the table with her arm resting upon it,
her fingers toying unconsciously with the knife while she spoke, and now
as her remarks reached their conclusion her eyes fell upon its hilt
and slender blade. With an exclamation almost resembling a scream the
Empress sprang to her feet and allowed the dagger to fall clattering on
the floor.

“Where did that come from?” she cried. “Is it intended for me?” and she
shook her trembling hands as if they had touched a poisonous scorpion.

“Where it comes from I do not know, but it is not intended for your
Majesty, as this scroll will inform you.”

Brunhilda took the parchment he offered and held it at arm’s length from
her, reading its few words with dilated eyes, and Wilhelm was amazed to
see in them the fear which they failed to show when she faced the three
powerful Archbishops. Finally the scroll fluttered from her nerveless
fingers to the floor and the Empress sank back in her chair.

“You have received two other warnings then?” she said in a low voice.

“Yes, your Majesty. What is their meaning?”

“They are the death warrants of the Fehmgerichte, a dread and secret
tribunal before which even emperors quail. If you obey this mandate you
will never be seen on earth again; if you disobey you will be secretly
assassinated by one of these daggers, for after ignoring the third
warning a hundred thousand such blades are lying in wait for your heart,
and ultimately one of them will reach it, no matter in what quarter of
Germany you hide yourself.”

“And who are the members of this mysterious association, your Majesty?

“That, you can tell as well as I, better perhaps, for you may be a
member while I cannot be. Perhaps the soldier outside this door belongs
to the Fehmgerichte, or your own Chamberlain, or perhaps your most
devoted lieutenant, the lusty Gottlieb.”

“That, your Majesty, I’ll swear he is not, for he was as amazed as I
when he saw the dagger at the barracks.”

Brunhilda shook her head.

“You cannot judge from pretended ignorance,” she said, “because a member
is sworn to keep all secrets of the holy Fehm from wife and child,
father and mother, sister and brother, fire and wind; from all that the
sun shines on and the rain wets, and from every being between heaven and
earth. Those are the words of the oath.”

Wilhelm found himself wondering how his informant knew so much about
the secret court if all those rules were strictly kept, but he
naturally shrank from any inquiry regarding the source of her knowledge.
Nevertheless her next reply gave him an inkling of the truth.

“Who is the head of this tribunal?” he asked.

“The Emperor is the nominal head, but my husband never approved of the
Fehmgerichte; originally organised to redress the wrongs of tyranny,
it has become a gigantic instrument of oppression. The Archbishop of
Cologne is the actual president of the order, not in his capacity as an
elector, nor as archbishop, but because he is Duke of Westphalia, where
this tragic court had its origin.”

“Your Majesty imagines then, that this summons comes from the Archbishop
of Cologne?”

“Oh, no. I doubt if he has any knowledge of it. Each district has
a freigraf, or presiding judge, assisted by seven assessors, or
freischoffen, who sit in so called judgment with him, but literally they
merely record the sentence, for condemnation is a foregone conclusion.”

“Is the sentence always death?”

“Always, at this secret tribunal; a sentence of death immediately
carried out. In the open Fehmic court, banishment, prison, or other
penalty may be inflicted, but you are summoned to appear before the
secret tribunal.”

“Does your Majesty know the meaning of these cabalistic letters on the
dagger’s hilt and on the parchment?”

“The letters ‘S. S. G. G.’ stand for Strick, Stein, Gras, Grün: Strick
meaning, it is said, the rope which hangs you; Stein, the stone at the
head of your grave, and Gras, Grün, the green grass covering it.”

“Well, your Majesty,” said Wilhelm, picking up the parchment from the
floor and tearing it in small pieces, “if I have to choose between the
rope and the dagger, I freely give my preference to the latter. I shall
not attend this secret conclave, and if any of its members think to
strike a dagger through my heart, he will have to come within the radius
of my sword to do so.”

“God watch over you,” said the Empress fervently, “for this is a case
in which the protection of an earthly throne is of little avail. And
remember, Lord Wilhelm, trust not even your most intimate friend within
arm’s length of you. The only persons who may not become members of
this dread order are a Jew, an outlaw, an infidel, a woman, a servant, a
priest, or a person excommunicated.”

Wilhelm escorted the Empress to the door of the red room, and there took
leave of her; he being unable to suggest anything that might assuage her
anxiety regarding her husband, she being unable to protect him from the
new danger that threatened. Wilhelm was as brave as any man need be, and
in a fair fight was content to take whatever odds came, but now he was
confronted by a subtle invisible peril, against which ordinary courage
was futile. An unaccustomed shiver chilled him as the palace sentinel,
in the gathering gloom of the corridor, raised his hand swiftly to his
helmet in salute. He passed slowly down the steps of the palace into
the almost deserted square in front of it, for the citizens of Frankfort
found it expedient to get early indoors when darkness fell. The young
man found himself glancing furtively from right to left, starting at
every shadow and scrutinising every passerby who was innocently hurrying
to his own home. The name “Fehmgerichte” kept repeating itself in
his brain like an incantation. He took the middle of the square and
hesitated when he came to the narrow street down which his way lay. At
the street corner he paused, laid his hand on the hilt of his sword and
drew a deep breath.

“Is it possible,” he muttered to himself, “that I am afraid? Am I at
heart a coward? By the cross which is my protection,” he cried, “if they
wish to try their poniarding, they shall have an opportunity!”

And drawing his sword he plunged into the dark and narrow street, his
footsteps ringing defiantly in the silence on the stone beneath him as
he strode resolutely along. He passed rapidly through the city until he
came to the northern gate. Here accosting his warders and being assured
that all was well, he took the street which, bending like a bow,
followed the wall until it came to the river. Once or twice he stopped,
thinking himself followed, but the darkness was now so impenetrable that
even if a pursuer had been behind him he was safe from detection if he
kept step with his victim and paused when he did. The street widened as
it approached the river, and Wilhelm became convinced that some one was
treading in his footsteps. Clasping his sword hilt more firmly in
his hand he wheeled about with unexpectedness that evidently took his
follower by surprise, for he dashed across the street and sped fleetly
towards the river. The glimpse Wilhelm got of him in the open space
between the houses made him sure that he was once more on the track
of von Brent, the emissary of Treves. The tables were now turned, the
pursuer being the pursued, and Wilhelm set his teeth, resolved to put a
sudden end to this continued espionage. Von Brent evidently remembered
his former interception, and now kept a straight course. Trusting to the
swiftness of his heels, he uttered no cry, but directed all his energies
toward flight, and Wilhelm, equally silent, followed as rapidly.

Coming to the river, von Brent turned to the east, keeping in the middle
of the thoroughfare. On the left hand side was a row of houses, on the
right flowed the rapid Main. Some hundreds of yards further up there
were houses on both sides of the street, and as the water of the river
flowed against the walls of the houses to the right, Wilhelm knew there
could be no escape that way. Surmising that his victim kept the middle
of the street in order to baffle the man at his heels, puzzling him as
to which direction the fugitive intended to bolt, Wilhelm, not to be
deluded by such a device, ran close to the houses on the left, knowing
that if von Brent turned to the right he would be speedily stopped by
the Main. The race promised to reach a sudden conclusion, for Wilhelm
was perceptibly gaining on his adversary, when coming to the first house
by the river the latter swerved suddenly, jumped to a door, pushed it
open and was inside in the twinkling of an eye, but only barely in time
to miss the sword thrust that followed him. Quick as thought Wilhelm
placed his foot in such a position that the door could not be closed.
Then setting his shoulder to the panels, he forced it open in spite
of the resistance behind it. Opposition thus overborne by superior
strength, Wilhelm heard the clatter of von Brent’s footsteps down the
dark passage, and next instant the door was closed with a bang, and it
seemed to the young man that the house had collapsed upon him. He heard
his sword snap and felt it break beneath him, and he was gagged and
bound before he could raise a hand to help himself. Then when it was too
late, he realised that he had allowed the heat and fervour of pursuit to
overwhelm his judgment, and had jumped straight into the trap prepared
for him. Von Brent returned with a lantern in his hand and a smile on
his face, breathing quickly after his exertions. Wilhelm, huddled in a
corner, saw a dozen stalwart ruffians grouped around him, most of them
masked, but two or three with faces bare, their coverings having come
off in the struggle. These slipped quickly out of sight, behind the
others, as if not wishing to give clue for future recognition.

“Well, my Lord,” said von Brent, smiling, “you see that gagging and
binding is a game that two may play at.”

There was no reply to this, first, because Wilhelm was temporarily in a
speechless condition, and, second, because the proposition was not one
to be contradicted.

“Take him to the Commitment Room,” commanded von Brent.

Four of the onlookers lifted Wilhelm and carried him down a long
stairway, across a landing and to the foot of a second flight of steps,
where he was thrown into a dark cell, the dimensions of which he could
not estimate. When the door was closed the prisoner lay with his head
leaning against it, and for a time the silence was intense. By and by
he found that by turning his head so that his ear was placed against the
panel of the door, he heard distinctly the footfalls outside, and even
a shuffling sound near him, which seemed to indicate that a man was on
guard at the other side of the oak. Presently some one approached, and
in spite of the low tones used, Wilhelm not only heard what was being
said, but recognised the voice of von Brent, who evidently was his
jailer.

“You have him safely then?”

“Gagged and bound, my Lord.”

“Is he disarmed?”

“His sword was broken under him, my Lord, when we fell upon him.”

“Very well. Remove the gag and place him with No. 13. Bar them in and
listen to their conversation. I think they have never met, but I want to
be sure of it.”

“Is there not a chance that No. 13 may make himself known, my Lord?”

“No matter if he does. In fact, it is my object to have No. 13 and No.
14 known to each other, and yet be not aware that we have suspicion of
their knowledge.”

When the door of the cell was opened four guards came in. It was
manifest they were not going to allow Wilhelm any chance to escape, and
were prepared to overpower him should he attempt flight or resistance.
The gag was taken from his mouth and the thongs which bound his legs
were untied, and thus he was permitted to stand on his feet. Once
outside his cell he saw that the subterranean region in which he found
himself was of vast extent, resembling the crypt of a cathedral, the low
roof being supported by pillars of tremendous circumference. From the
direction in which he had been carried from the foot of the stairs he
surmised, and quite accurately, that this cavern was under the bed of
the river. Those who escorted him and those whom he met were masked.
No torches illuminated the gloom of this sepulchral hall, but each
individual carried, attached in some way to his belt, a small horn
lantern, which gave for a little space around a dim uncertain light,
casting weird shadows against the pillars of the cavern. Once or twice
they met a man clothed in an apparently seamless cloak of black cloth,
that covered the head and extended to the feet. Two holes in front of
the face allowed a momentary glimpse of a pair of flashing eyes as
the yellow light from the lanterns smote them. These grim figures were
presumably persons of importance, for the guards stopped, and saluted,
as each one approached, not going forward until he had silently passed
them. When finally the door of the cell they sought was reached, the
guards drew back the bolts, threw it open, and pushed Wilhelm into the
apartment that had been designated for him. Before closing the door,
however, one of the guards placed a lantern on the floor so that the
fellow-prisoners might have a chance of seeing each other. Wilhelm
beheld, seated on a pallet of straw, a man well past middle-age, his
face smooth-shaven and of serious cast, yet having, nevertheless,
a trace of irresolution in his weak chin. His costume was that of
a mendicant monk, and his face seemed indicative of the severity of
monastic rule. There was, however, a serenity of courage in his eye
which seemed to betoken that he was a man ready to die for his opinions,
if once his wavering chin allowed him to form them. Wilhelm remembering
that priests were not allowed to join the order of the Fehmgerichte
reflected that here was a man who probably, from his fearless
denunciations of the order, had brought down upon himself the hatred of
the secret tribunal, whose only penalty was that of death. The older man
was the first to speak.

“So you also are a victim of the Fehmgerichte?”

“I have for some minutes suspected as much,” replied von Schonburg.

“Were you arrested and brought here, or did you come here willingly?”

“Oh, I came here willingly enough. I ran half a league in my eagerness
to reach this spot and fairly jumped into it,” replied Wilhelm, with a
bitter laugh.

“You were in such haste to reach this spot?” said the old man, sombrely,
“what is your crime?”

“That I do not know, but I shall probably soon learn when I come before
the court.”

“Are you a member of the order, then?”

“No, I am not.”

“In that case, it will require the oaths of twenty-one members to clear
you, therefore, if you have not that many friends in the order I look
upon you as doomed.”

“Thank you. That is as God wills.”

“Assuredly, assuredly. We are all in His hands,” and the good man
devoutedly crossed himself.

“I have answered your questions,” said Wilhelm, “answer you some of
mine. Who are you?”

“I am a seeker after light.”

“Well, there it is,” said Wilhelm, touching the lantern with his foot as
he paced up and down the limits of the cell.

“Earthly light is but dim at best, it is the light of Heaven I search
after.”

“Well, I hope you may be successful in finding it. I know of no place
where it is needed so much as here.”

“You speak like a scoffer. I thought from what you said of God’s will,
that you were a religious man.”

“I am a religious man, I hope, and I regret if my words seem lightly
spoken.

“What action of man, think you then, is most pleasing to God?”

“That is a question which you, to judge by your garb, are more able to
answer than I.”

“Nay, nay, I want your opinion.”

“Then in my opinion, the man most pleasing to God is he who does his
duty here on earth.”

“Ah! right, quite right,” cried the older man, eagerly. “But there lies
the core of the whole problem. What _is_ duty; that is what I have spent
my life trying to learn.”

“Then at a venture I should say your life has been a useless one. Duty
is as plain as the lighted lantern there before us. If you are a priest,
fulfil your priestly office well; comfort the sick, console the dying,
bury the dead. Tell your flock not to speculate too much on duty, but to
try and accomplish the work in hand.”

“But I am not a priest,” faltered the other, rising slowly to his feet.

“Then if you are a soldier, strike hard for your King. Kill the man
immediately before you, and if, instead, he kills you, be assured that
the Lord will look after your soul when it departs through the rent thus
made in your body.”

“There is a ring of truth in that, but it sounds worldly. How can we
tell that such action is pleasing to God? May it not be better to depend
entirely on the Lord, and let Him strike your blows for you?”

“Never! What does He give you arms for but to protect your own head, and
what does He give you swift limbs for if not to take your body out of
reach when you are threatened with being overmatched? God must despise
such a man as you speak of, and rightly so. I am myself a commander of
soldiers, and if I had a lieutenant who trusted all to me and refused to
strike a sturdy blow on his own behalf I should tear his badge from him
and have him scourged from out the ranks.”

“But may we not, by misdirected efforts, thwart the will of God?”

“Oh! the depths of human vanity! Thwart the will of God? What, a puny
worm like you? You amaze me, sir, with your conceit, and I lose the
respect for you which at first your garb engendered in my mind. Do your
work manfully, and flatter not yourself that your most strenuous efforts
are able to cross the design of the Almighty. My own poor belief is that
He has patience with any but a coward and a loiterer.”

The elder prisoner staggered into the centre of the room and raised his
hands above his head.

“Oh, Lord, have mercy upon me,” he cried. “Thou who hast brought light
to me in this foul dungeon which was refused to me in the radiance
of Thy Cathedral. Have mercy on me, oh, Lord, the meanest of Thy
servants--a craven Emperor.”

“The Emperor!” gasped Wilhelm, the more amazed because he had
his Majesty in mind when he spoke so bitterly of neglected duty,
unconsciously blaming his sovereign rather than his own rashness for the
extreme predicament in which he found himself.

Before either could again speak the door suddenly opened wide, and a
deep voice solemnly enunciated the words:

“Wilhelm of Schonburg, pretended Commander of his Majesty’s forces, you
are summoned to appear instantly before the court of the Holy Fehm, now
in session and awaiting you.”




CHAPTER VI

THE HOLY FEHM


When the spokesman of the Fehmgerichte had finished his ominous summons,
his attendants crowded round Wilhelm swiftly and silently as if to
forestall any attempt at resistance either on his part or on the part of
the Emperor. They hurried their victim immediately out of the cell and
instantly barred the door on the remaining prisoner. First they crossed
the low-roofed, thickly-pillared great hall, passing through a doorway
at which two armed men stood guard, masked, as were all the others. The
Judgment Hall of the dread Fehmgerichte was a room of about ten times
the extent of the cell Wilhelm had just left, but still hardly of a size
that would justify the term large. The walls and vaulted roof were of
rough stone, and on the side opposite the entrance had been cut deeply
the large letters S. S. G. G. A few feet distant from this lettered wall
stood a long table, and between the wall and the table sat seven men.
The Freigraf, as Wilhelm surmised him to be, occupied in the centre of
this line a chair slightly more elevated than those of the three who sat
on either hand. Seven staples had been driven into the interstices of
the stones above the heads of the Court and from each staple hung a
lighted lantern, which with those at the belts of the guard standing
round, illuminated the dismal chamber fairly well. To the left of the
Court was a block draped in black and beside it stood the executioner
with his arms resting on the handle of his axe. In the ceiling above his
head was an iron ring and from this ring depended a rope, the noose of
which dangled at the shoulder of the headsman, for it was the benevolent
custom of the Court to allow its victim a choice in the manner of his
death. It was also a habit of the judges of this Court to sit until the
sentence they had pronounced was carried out, and thus there could be no
chance of mistake or rescue. No feature of any judge was visible except
the eyes through the holes pierced for the purposes of vision in the
long black cloaks which completely enveloped their persons.

As Wilhelm was brought to a stand before this assemblage, the Freigraf
nodded his head and the guards in silence undid the thongs which
pinioned together wrists and elbows, leaving the prisoner absolutely
unfettered.--This done, the guard retreated backwards to the opposite
wall, and Wilhelm stood alone before the seven sinister doomsmen. He
expected that his examination, if the Court indulged in any such, would
be begun by the Freigraf, but this was not the case. The last man to the
left in the row had a small bundle of documents on the table before him.
He rose to his feet, bowed low to his brother judges, and then with
less deference to the prisoner. He spoke in a voice lacking any trace
of loudness, but distinctly heard in every corner of the room because of
the intense stillness. There was a sweet persuasiveness in the accents
he used, and his sentences resembled those of a lady anxious not to give
offence to the person addressed.

“Am I right in supposing you to be Wilhelm, lately of Schonburg, but now
of Frankfort?”

“You are right.”

“May I ask if you are a member of the Fehmgerichte?”

“I am not. I never heard of it until this afternoon.”

“Who was then your informant regarding the order?”

“I refuse to answer.”

The examiner inclined his head gracefully as if, while regretting the
decision of the witness, he nevertheless bowed to it.

“Do you acknowledge his lordship the Archbishop of Mayence as your over
lord?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Have you ever been guilty of an act of rebellion or insubordination
against his lordship?”

“My over-lord, the Archbishop of Mayence, has never preferred a request
to me which I have refused.”

“Pardon me, I fear I have not stated my proposition with sufficient
clearness, and so you may have misunderstood the question. I had in my
mind a specific act, and so will enter into further detail. Is it true
that in the Wahlzimmer you entered the presence of your over-lord with a
drawn sword in your hand, commanding a body of armed men lately outlaws
of the Empire, thus intimidating your over-lord in the just exercise of
his privileges and rights as an Elector?”

“My understanding of the Feudal law,” said Wilhelm, “is that the
commands of an over-lord are to be obeyed only in so far as they do not
run counter to orders from a still higher authority.”

“Your exposition of the law is admirable, and its interpretation stands
exactly as you have stated it. Are we to understand then that you were
obeying the orders of some person in authority who is empowered to
exercise a jurisdiction over his lordship the Archbishop, similar to
that which the latter in his turn claims over you?”

“That is precisely what I was about to state.”

“Whose wishes were you therefore carrying out?

“Those of his Majesty the Emperor.”

The examiner bowed with the utmost deference when the august name was
mentioned.

“I have to thank you in the name of the Court,” he went on, “for your
prompt and comprehensive replies, which have thus so speedily enabled
us to come to a just and honourable verdict, and it gives me pleasure
to inform you that the defence you have made is one that cannot be
gainsaid, and, therefore, with the exception of one slight formality,
there is nothing more for us to do but to set you at liberty and ask
pardon for the constraint we regret having put upon you, and further to
request that you take oath that neither to wife nor child, father nor
mother, sister nor brother, fire nor wind, will you reveal anything
that has happened to you; that you will conceal it from all that the sun
shines on and from all that the rain wets, and from every being between
heaven and earth. And now before our doors are thus opened I have to
beg that you will favour the Court with the privilege of examining the
commission that his Majesty the Emperor has signed.”

“You cannot expect me to carry my commission about on my person,
more especially as I had no idea I should be called upon to undergo
examination upon it.”

“Such an expectation would certainly be doomed to disappointment, but
you are doubtless able to tell us where the document lies, and I can
assure you that, wherever it is placed, an emissary of this order will
speedily fetch it, whether, it is concealed in palace or in hut. Allow
me to ask you then, where this commission is?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Do you mean you cannot, or you will not?”

“Take it whichever way you please, it is a matter of indifference to
me.”

The examiner folded his arms under his black cloak and stood for some
moments in silence, looking reproachfully at the prisoner. At last he
spoke in a tone which seemed to indicate that he was pained at the young
man’s attitude:

“I sincerely trust I am mistaken in supposing that you refuse absolutely
to assist this Court in the securing of a document which not only stands
between you and your liberty, but also between you and your death.”

“Oh, a truce to this childish and feigned regret,” cried Wilhelm with
rude impatience. “I pray you end the farce with less of verbiage and
of pretended justice. You have his Majesty here a prisoner. You have,
through my own folly, my neck at the mercy of your axe or your rope.
There stands the executioner eager for his gruesome work. Finish that
which you have already decided upon, and as sure as there is a God in
heaven there will be quick retribution for the crimes committed in this
loathsome dungeon.”

The examiner deplored the introduction of heat into a discussion that
required the most temperate judgment.

“But be assured,” he said, “that the hurling of unfounded accusations
against this honourable body will not in the least prejudice their
members in dealing with your case.”

“I know it,” said Wilhelm with a sneering laugh.

“We have been informed that no such commission exists, that the document
empowering you to take instant command of the Imperial troops rests in
the hands of the wife of his Majesty the Emperor and is unsigned.”

“If you know that, then why do you ask me so many questions about it?”

“In the sincere hope that by the production of the document itself, you
may be able to repudiate so serious an accusation. You admit then that
you have acted without the shelter of a commission from his Majesty?”

“I admit nothing.”

The examiner looked up and down the row of silent figures as much as to
say, “I have done my best; shall any further questions be put?” There
being no response to this the examiner said, still without raising his
voice:

“There is a witness in this case, and I ask him to stand forward.”

A hooded and cloaked figure approached the table.

“Are you a member of the Fehmgerichte?”

“I am.”

“In good and honourable standing?”

“In good and honourable standing.”

“You swear by the order to which you belong that the evidence you give
shall be truth without equivocation and without mental reservation?”

“I swear it.”

“Has the prisoner a commission signed by the Emperor empowering him to
command the Imperial troops?”

“He has not, and never has had such a commission. A document was made
out and sent three times to his Majesty for signature; to-day it was
returned for the third time unsigned.”

“Prisoner, do you deny that statement?”

“I neither deny nor affirm.”

Wilhelm was well aware that his fate was decided upon. Even if he had
appeared before a regularly constituted court of the Empire instead
of at the bar of an underground secret association, the verdict must
inevitably have gone against him, so long as the Emperor’s signature was
not appended to the document which would have legalised his position.

“It would appear then,” went on the examiner, “that in the action you
took against your immediate over-lord, the Archbishop of Mayence,
you were unprotected by the mandate of the Emperor. Freigraf and
Freischoffen have heard question and answer. With extreme reluctance
I am compelled to announce to this honourable body, that nothing now
remains except to pronounce the verdict.”

With this the examiner sat down, and for a few moments there was
silence, then the Freigraf enunciated in a low voice the single word:

“Condemned.”

And beginning at the right hand, each member of the Court pronounced the
word “Condemned.”

Wilhelm listened eagerly to the word, expecting each moment to hear
the voice of one or other of the Archbishops, but in this he was
disappointed. The low tone universally used by each speaker gave a
certain monotony of sound which made it almost impossible to distinguish
one voice from another. This evident desire for concealment raised a
suspicion in the young man’s mind that probably each member of the Court
did not know who his neighbours were. When the examiner at the extreme
left had uttered the word “Condemned” the Freigraf again spoke:

“Is there any reason why the sentence just pronounced be not immediately
carried out?”

The examiner again rose to his feet and said quietly, but with great
respect:

“My Lord, I ask that this young man be not executed immediately, but on
the contrary, be taken to his cell, there to be held during the pleasure
of the Court.”

There seemed to be a murmured dissent to this, but a whispered
explanation passed along the line and the few that had at first
objected, nodded their heads in assent.

“Our rule cannot be set aside,” said the Freigraf, “unless with
unanimous consent. Does any member demur?”

No protests being made the Freigraf ordered Wilhelm to be taken to a
cell, which was accordingly done.

The young man left alone in the darkness felt a pleasure in being able
to stretch his arms once more, and he paced up and down the narrow
limits of his cell, wondering what the next move would be in this
mysterious drama. In the Judgment Chamber he had abandoned all hope, and
had determined that when the order was given to seize him he would pluck
the dagger of the order from the inside of his doublet, and springing
over the table, kill one or more of these illegal judges before he was
overpowered. The sudden change in tactics persuaded him that something
else was required of him rather than the death which seemed so imminent.
It was palpable that several members of the Court at least were
unacquainted with the designs of the master mind which was paramount
in his prosecution. They had evinced surprise when the examiner had
demanded postponement of the execution. There was something behind all
this that betrayed the crafty hand of the Archbishop of Treves. He was
not long left in doubt. The door of the cell opened slowly and the pale
rays of a lantern illuminated the blackness which surrounded him. The
young man stopped in his walk and awaited developments. There entered
to him one of the cloak-enveloped figures, who might, or might not, be
a member of the Holy Court. Wilhelm thought that perhaps his visitor
was the examiner, but the moment the silence was broken, in spite of the
fact that the speaker endeavoured to modulate his tones as the others
had done, the young man knew the incomer was not the person who had
questioned him.

“We are somewhat loth,” the intruder began, “to cut short the career of
one so young as you are, and one who gives promise of becoming a notable
captain.”

“What have you seen of me,” inquired Wilhelm, “that leads you to suppose
I have the qualities of a capable officer in me?”

The other did not reply for a moment or two; then he said slowly:

“I do not say that I have seen anything to justify such a conclusion,
but I have heard of your action in the Wahlzimmer, and by the account
given, I judge you to be a young man of resource.”

“I am indebted to you for the good opinion you express. It is quite in
your power to set me free, and then the qualities you are kind enough to
commend, may have an opportunity for development.”

“Alas!” said the visitor, “it is not in my power to release you; that
lies entirely with yourself.”

“You bring comforting news. What is the price?”

“You are asked to become a member of the Fehmgerichte.”

“I should suppose that to be easily accomplished, as I am now a partaker
of its hospitality. What else?”

“The remaining proviso is that you take service, with his lordship, the
Archbishop of Treves, and swear entire allegiance to him.”

“I am already in the service of the Emperor.”

“It has just been proven that you are not.”

“How could the Archbishop expect faithful service from me, if I prove
traitor to the one I deem my master?”

“The Archbishop will probably be content to take the risk of that.”

“Are you commissioned to speak for the Archbishop?”

“I am.”

“Are you one of the Archbishop’s men?”

“My disposition towards him is friendly; I cannot say that I am one of
his men.”

“Granting, then, that I took service with the Archbishop to save my
life, what would he expect me to do?”

“To obey him in all things.”

“Ah, be more explicit, as the examiner said. I am not a man to enter
into a bargain blindly. I must know exactly what is required of me.”

“It is probable that your first order would be to march your army from
Frankfort to Treves. Would the men follow you, do you think?”

“Undoubtedly. The men will follow wherever I choose to lead them.
Another question. What becomes of the Emperor in case I make this
bargain?”

“That question it is impossible at the present moment, to answer. The
Court of the Holy Fehm is now awaiting my return, and when I take my
place on the bench the Emperor will be called upon to answer for his
neglect of duty.”

“Nevertheless you may hazard a guess regarding his fate.”

“I hazard this guess then, that his fate will depend largely upon
himself, just as your fate depends upon yourself.”

“I must see clearly where I am going, therefore I request you to be more
explicit. What will the Court demand of the Emperor that he may save his
life?”

“You are questioning me touching the action of others; therefore, all
I can do is merely to surmise. My supposition is that if the Emperor
promises to abdicate he will be permitted to pass unscathed from the
halls of the Fehmgerichte.”

“And should he refuse?”

“Sir, I am already at the end of my patience through your numerous
questions,” and as the voice rose in something approaching anger,
Wilhelm seemed to recognise its ring. “I came here, not to answer your
questions, but to have you answer mine. What is your decision?”

“My decision is that you are a confessed traitor; die the death of
such!”

Wilhelm sprang forward and buried the dagger of the Fehmgerichte into
the heart of the man before him. His action was so unexpected that the
victim could make no motion to defend himself. So truly was the fierce
blow dealt that the doomed man, without a cry or even a groan, sank in
his death collapse at the young man’s feet in a heap on the floor.

Wilhelm, who thought little of taking any man’s life in a fair fight,
shuddered as he gazed at the helpless bundle at his feet; a moment
before, this uncouth heap stood erect, a man like himself, conversing
with him, then the swift blow and the resulting huddle of clay.

“Oh, God above me, Over-lord of all, I struck for my King, yet I feel
myself an assassin. If I am, indeed, a murderer in Thy sight, wither me
where I stand, and crush me to the ground, companion to this dead body.”

For a few moments Wilhelm stood rigid, his face uplifted, listening to
the pulsations in his own throat and the strident beatings of his own
heart. No bolt from heaven came to answer his supplication. Stooping,
he, with some difficulty, drew the poniard from its resting-place. The
malignant ingenuity of its construction had caused its needle point to
penetrate the chain armour, while its keen double edge cut link after
link of the hard steel as it sunk into the victim’s breast. The severed
ends of the links now clutched the blade as if to prevent its removal.
Not a drop of blood followed its exit, although it had passed directly
through the citadel of life itself. Again concealing the weapon within
his doublet, a sudden realisation of the necessity for speed overcame
the assaulter. He saw before him a means of escape. He had but to don
the all-concealing cloak and walk out of this subterranean charnel
house by the way he had entered it, if he could but find the foot of the
stairs, down which they had carried him. Straightening out the body
he pulled the cloak free from it, thus exposing the face to the yellow
light of the lantern. His heart stood still as he saw that the man he
had killed was no other than that exalted Prince of the Church, the
venerable Archbishop of Treves. He drew the body to the pallet of straw
in the corner of the cell, and there, lying on its face, he left it.
A moment later he was costumed as a high priest of the order of the
Fehmgerichte. Taking the lantern in his hand he paused before the closed
door. He could not remember whether or not he had heard the bolts
shot after the Archbishop had entered. Conning rapidly in his mind the
startling change in the situation, he stood there until he had recovered
command of himself, resolved that if possible no mistake on his part
should now mar his chances of escape, and in this there was no thought
of saving his own life, but merely a determination to get once more
into the streets of Frankfort, rally his men, penetrate into these
subterranean regions, and rescue the Emperor alive. He pushed with all
his might against the door, and to his great relief the heavy barrier
swung slowly round on its hinges. Once outside he pushed it shut again,
and was startled by two guards springing to his assistance, one of them
saying:

“Shall we thrust in the bolts, my Lord?”

“Yes,” answered Wilhelm in the low tone which all, costumed as he
was, had used. He turned away but was dismayed to find before him
two brethren of the order arrayed in like manner to himself, who had
evidently been waiting for him.

“What is the result of the conference? Does he consent?”

Rapidly Wilhelm had to readjust events in his own mind to meet this
unexpected emergency.

“No,” he replied slowly, “he does not consent, at least, not just at the
moment. He has some scruples regarding his loyalty to the Emperor.”

“Those scruples will be speedily removed then, when we remove his
Majesty. The other members of the Court are but now awaiting us in the
Judgment Chamber. Let us hasten there, and make a quick disposal of the
Emperor.”

Wilhelm saw that there was no possibility of retreat. Any attempt at
flight would cause instant alarm and the closing of the exits, then both
the Emperor and himself would be caught like rats in a trap, yet there
was almost equal danger in entering the Council Chamber. He had not the
remotest idea which seat at the table he should occupy, and he knew that
a mistake in placing himself would probably lead to discovery. He lagged
behind, but the others persistently gave him precedence, which seemed to
indicate that they knew the real quality of the man they supposed him to
be. He surmised that his seat was probably that of the Freigraf in the
centre, but on crossing the threshold past the saluting guards, he saw
that the Freigraf occupied the elevated seat, having at his left three
Freischoffen, while the remaining seats at his right were unoccupied. It
was a space of extreme anxiety when his two companions stopped to allow
him to go first. He dared not take the risk of placing himself wrongly
at the board. There was scant time for consideration, and Wilhelm
speedily came to a decision. It was merely one risk to take where
several were presented, and he chose that which seemed to be the safest.
Leaning towards his companions he said quietly:

“I beg of you, be seated. I have a few words to address to the Holy
Court.”

The two inclined their heads in return, and one of them in passing him
murmured the scriptural words, “The first shall be last,” which remark
still further assisted in reversing Wilhelm’s former opinion and
convinced him that the identity of the Archbishop was known to them.
When they were seated, the chair at the extreme right was the only one
vacant, and Wilhelm breathed easier, having nothing further to fear from
that source, if he could but come forth scatheless from his speech.

“I have to acquaint the Court of the Holy Fehm,” he said, speaking
audibly, but no more, “that my mission to the cell of the prisoner who
has just left us, resulted partly in failure and partly in success. The
young man has some hesitation in placing himself in open opposition to
the Emperor. I therefore suggest that we go on with our deliberations,
leaving the final decision of his case until a later period.”

To this the Court unanimously murmured the word: “Agreed,” and Wilhelm
took his place at the table.

“Bring in prisoner No. 13,” said the Freigraf, and a few moments later
the Emperor of Germany stood before the table.

He regarded the dread tribunal with a glance of haughty scorn while
countenance and demeanour exhibited a dignity which Wilhelm had fancied
was lacking during their interview in the cell.

The examiner rose to his feet and in the same suave tones he had used in
questioning Wilhelm, propounded the usual formal interrogatory regarding
name and quality. When he was asked:

“Are you a member of the Holy Order of the Fehmgerichte?” the Emperor’s
reply seemed to cause some consternation among the judges.

“I am not only a member of the Fehmgerichte, but by its constitution,
I am the head of it, and I warn you that any action taken by this Court
without my sanction, is, by the statutes of the order, illegal.”

The examiner paused in his questioning apparently taken aback by this
assertion, and looked towards the Freigraf as if awaiting a decision
before proceeding further.

“We acknowledge freely,” said the Freigraf, “that you are the
figure-head of the order, and that in all matters pertaining to a change
of constitution your consent would probably be necessary, but stretching
your authority to its utmost limit, it does not reach to the Courts of
the Holy Fehm, which have before now sat in judgment on the highest in
the land. For more than a century the position of the Emperor as head
of the Fehmgerichte has been purely nominal, and I know of no precedent
where the ruler of the land has interfered with the proceedings of the
secret Court. We avow allegiance to the actual head of the order, who is
the Duke of Westphalia.”

“Is the Duke of Westphalia here present?”

“That is a question improper for you to ask.”

“If the Duke of Westphalia is one of the members of this Court, I
command him by the oath which he took at his installation, to descend
from his place and render his seat to me, the head of this order.”

“The nominal head,” corrected the Freigraf.

“The actual head,” persisted the prisoner. “The position remained
nominal only because the various occupants did not choose to exercise
the authority vested in them. It is my pleasure to resume the function
which has too long remained in abeyance, thus allowing inferior
officers to pretend to a power which is practical usurpation, and which,
according to the constitution of our order, is not to be tolerated.
Disobey at your peril. I ask the Archbishop of Cologne, Duke of
Westphalia, as the one, high vassal of the Empire, as the other, my
subordinate in the Fehmgerichte, to stand forth and salute his chief.”

Wilhelm’s heart beat rapidly underneath his black cloak as he saw this
spectacle of helpless prisoner defying a power, which, in its sphere
of action, was almost omnipotent. It was manifest that the Emperor’s
trenchant sentences had disturbed more than one member of the
convention, and even the Freigraf glanced in perplexity towards the
supposed Archbishop of Treves as if for a hint anent the answer that
should be given. As if in response to the silent appeal, Wilhelm rose
slowly to his feet, while the examiner seated himself.

“It is my privilege,” he began, “on behalf of my fellow members, to
inform the prisoner that the Court of the Holy Fehm has ever based its
action on the broad principles of eternal justice.”

A sarcastic smile wreathed the lips of the Emperor at this. Wilhelm went
on unheeding.

“A point of law has been raised by the prisoner, which, I think, at
least merits our earnest consideration, having regard for the future
welfare of this organisation, and being anxious not to allow any
precedent to creep in, which may work to the disadvantage of those
who follow us. In order that our deliberations may have that calm
impartiality which has ever distinguished them, I ask unanimous consent
to my suggestion that the prisoner be taken back to his cell until we
come to a decision regarding the matter in dispute.”

This proposition being agreed to without a dissenting voice, the
prisoner was removed from the room and the eyes of all the judges were
turned towards Wilhelm. The Freigraf was the first to break the silence.

“Although I have agreed to the removal of the prisoner,” he said, “yet
I see not the use of wasting so many words on him. While there is
undoubted wisdom in winning to our side the man who controls the army,
there seems to me little to gain in prolonging discussion with the
Emperor, who is a nonentity at best, and has no following. The path to
the throne must be cleared, and there is but one way of doing it.”

“Two, I think,” murmured Wilhelm.

“What other than by this prisoner’s death?”

“His abdication would suffice.”

“But, as you know, he has already refused to abdicate.”

“Ah, that was before he saw the executioner standing here. I think he is
now in a condition to reconsider his determination. Thus we will avoid
discussion of the knotty points which he raised, and which I, for one,
would prefer to see remain where they are. The moment he consents to
abdicate, the commander of the forces is willing to swear allegiance to
us. It must not be forgotten that even if we execute these two men we
have still the troops who hold the city of Frankfort to reckon with,
and although their leader may have disappeared, the young man has some
sturdy lieutenants who will give us trouble.”

“What do you propose?” asked the Freigraf.

“If the colleague at my left will accompany me, we will visit the
prisoner and may have some proposals to submit to you on our return.”

This being acceded to, the two left the Judgment Chamber and proceeded
slowly to the cell of No. 13. On the way thither Wilhelm said to his
companion:

“As the prisoner may be on his guard if we enter together, I prefer to
sound him first alone, and at the proper moment, if you stay outside the
door of the cell, I shall summon you to enter.”

This meeting the sanction of Wilhelm’s companion, the young man entered
the cell alone, carefully closing the door behind him.

“Your Majesty,” he whispered, “the situation is extremely critical, and
I entreat you to maintain silence while I make explanation to you. I am
Wilhelm, the loyal commander of the Imperial forces, your Majesty’s most
devoted servant.”

“Are you then,” said the amazed monarch, “also a member of the
Fehmgerichte? I thought you came here as a prisoner, and, like myself, a
victim.”

Wilhelm drew off over his head the cloak which enveloped him, leaving
his limbs free, standing thus in his own proper person before the
Emperor.

“I was, indeed, a prisoner, and was visited in my cell by the Archbishop
of Treves. It was in his robe that I emerged from my cell undetected,
hoping to escape and bring rescue to your Majesty, but other brethren
were awaiting me outside, and I found myself compelled to sit in the
Court before which you made such an able defence.”

“It was you, then, who proposed that I should be taken back to my cell?”

“Yes, your Majesty. And now a colleague remains outside this door, who
waits, expecting a summons to enter, but first I came to give warning to
your Majesty that you may make no outcry, if you should see what appears
to be two brothers of the order struggling together.”

“I shall keep strict silence. Is the Archbishop of Treves then a
prisoner in your cell?”

“He is, I assure you, a fast prisoner.”

“You propose that I should don the cloak of the incomer, and that thus
we make our escape together. We must be in haste, then, for if the
Archbishop releases himself from his bonds, he may produce such an
uproar in his cell that suspicion will be aroused.”

“The bonds in which I left the Archbishop of Treves will hold him firm
until we are outside this nest of vipers. And now, your Majesty, I beg
you to put on this cloak which I have been wearing, which will leave me
free speedily to overpower our visitor.”

The Emperor arrayed himself and stood, as he was fully entitled to do,
a fully costumed member of the Fehmgerichte. Wilhelm opened the door and
said softly:

“Enter, brother, that I may learn if the arrangements just made are
confirmed by your wisdom.”

The light within had been placed at the further end of the cell, and the
visitor’s own lantern gave but scant illumination. The moment the door
was firmly closed Wilhelm sprang upon him and bore him to the ground.
If the assaulted man attempted to make any sound, it was muffled by the
folds of his own cloak. A moment later, however, Wilhelm got a firm grip
on his bare throat, and holding him thus, pulled away his disguise from
him, revealing the pallid face of the Archbishop of Mayence. The young
man plucked the dagger from the inside of his doublet and placed it at
the breast of the prostrate man.

“If you make the slightest sound,” he whispered, “I shall bury this
dagger in your heart. It is the weapon of the Fehmgerichte and you know
it will penetrate chain armour.”

It was evident that the stricken Archbishop was much too frightened
to do anything to help himself, and Wilhelm unbuckling his own empty
sword-belt, proceeded to tie his trembling limbs. The Emperor whispered:

“The cords which bound me are still here, as well as the gag which
silenced me.”

Wilhelm put those instruments of tyranny to immediate use, and shortly
the Archbishop was a helpless silent heap in the further corner of
the room. Wilhelm and the Emperor each with a lantern, and each
indistinguishable from other members of the secret organisation, pushed
open the door and emerged from the cell. Closing the door again, Wilhelm
said to the guard:

“Bolt this portal firmly and allow no one to enter who does not give you
this password.”

The young man stooped and whispered into the ear of the guard the word
“Elsa.” The two fugitives then walked slowly along the great hall, the
young man peering anxiously to his right for any sign of the stairway by
which he had descended. They passed numerous doors, all closed, and at
last Wilhelm began to wonder if one of these covered the exit which he
sought. Finally they came to the end of the large hall without seeing
trace of any outlet, and Wilhelm became conscious of the fact that
getting free from this labyrinth was like to prove more difficult than
the entering had been. Standing puzzled, not knowing where next to turn,
aware that precious time was being wasted fruitlessly, Wilhelm saw a man
masked and accoutred as a guard approach them.

“Is there anything in which I can pleasure your Lordships?” he asked
deferentially.

“Yes,” said Wilhelm, “we desire to have a breath of fresh air; where is
the exit?”

“If your Lordship has the password, you may go out by the entrance in
the city. If you have not the word, then must you use the exit without
the wall, which is a long walk from here.”

“That does not matter,” replied Wilhelm, “it is the country air we wish
to breathe.”

“I cannot leave my post, but I shall get one who will guide you.”

So saying, the man left them for several anxious minutes, going into a
room that apparently was used as guard-house, and reappearing with a man
who rubbed his eyes sleepily, as if newly awakened. Then the first guard
drew bolts from a stout door and pulled it open, revealing a dark chasm
like the entrance to a cell. Both Wilhelm and the Emperor viewed this
black enigma with deep suspicion, but their guide with his lantern
plunged into it and they followed, after which the door was closed and
barred behind them.

It was, indeed, as the first man had said, a long walk, as Wilhelm
knew it must be if it extended under the western gate and out into the
country. The passage was so narrow that two could not walk abreast, and
frequently the arched ceiling was so low that the guide ahead warned
them to stoop as they came on. At last he reached the foot of a
stairway, and was about to mount when Wilhelm said to him:

“Stand here till we return. Allow no one to pass who does not give you
this word,” and again he whispered the word “Elsa” in the man’s ear.

To the dismay of Wilhelm, the Emperor addressed the guard:

“Are there many prisoners within?”

“There are two only,” replied the man, “numbers 13 and 14. I helped to
carry No. 14 down the stair, and am glad his sword broke beneath him as
he fell, for, indeed, we had trouble enough with him as it was.”

Here Wilhelm took the liberty of touching the Emperor on the arm as if
to warn him that such discourse was untimely and dangerous. With beating
heart the young man led the way up the stairs, and at the top of the
second flight, came into what seemed to be the vestibule of a house, in
which, on benches round the wall, there sat four men seemingly on
guard, who immediately sprang to their feet when they saw the ghostly
apparitions before them.

“Unbar the door,” said Wilhelm, quietly, in the tone of one whose
authority is not to be disputed. “Close it after us and allow none to
enter or emerge who does not give you the word ‘Elsa.’”

This command was so promptly obeyed that Wilhelm could scarcely believe
they had won so easily to the outer air. The house stood alone on the
bank of the river at the end of a long garden which extended to the
road. Facing the thoroughfare and partly concealing the house from any
chance straggler was a low building which Wilhelm remembered was used as
a wayside drinking-place, in which wine, mostly of a poor quality, was
served to thirsty travellers. The gate to the street appeared deserted,
but as the two approached by the walk leading from the house, a guard
stood out from the shadow of the wall, scrutinised for a moment their
appearance, then saluting, held the gate open for them.

Once on the road, the two turned towards the city, whose black wall
barred their way some distance ahead, and whose towers and spires stood
out dimly against the starlit sky. A great silence, broken only by
the soothing murmur of the river, lay on the landscape. Wilhelm cast a
glance aloft at the star-sprinkled dome of heaven, and said:

“I judge it to be about an hour after midnight.”

“It may be so,” answered the Emperor, “I have lost all count of time.

“Has your Majesty been long in prison?”

“That I do not know. I may have lain there two days or a dozen. I had no
means of measuring the length of my imprisonment.”

“May I ask your Majesty in what manner you were lured into the halls of
the Fehmgerichte?”

“It was no lure. While I lay asleep at night in the cloisters by the
Cathedral I was bound and gagged, carried through the dark streets
helpless on a litter and finally flung into the cell in which you found
me.”

“May I further inquire what your Majesty’s intentions are regarding the
fulfilment of the duties imposed upon you by your high office?”

There was a long pause before the Emperor replied, then he said:

“Why do you ask?”

“Because, your Majesty, I have on several occasions imperilled my
life for an Emperor who does not rule, who has refused even to sign my
commission as officer of his troops.”

“Your commission was never sent to me.”

“I beg your Majesty’s pardon, but it was sent three times to you in the
cloisters of the Cathedral, and returned three times unsigned.”

“Then it is as I suspected,” returned the Emperor, “the monks must have
connived at my capture. I have pleasure in confirming your appointment.
I am sure that the command could not be in more capable hands. And in
further reply to your question, if God permits me to see the light of
day, I shall be an emperor who rules.”

“It delights my heart to hear you say so. And now I ask, as a favour,
that you allow me to deal untrammelled with the Fehmgerichte.”

“I grant that most willingly.”

By this time they were almost under the shadow of the great wall of the
city, and Wilhelm, stopping, said to the Emperor:

“I think it well that we now divest ourselves of these disguises.”

They had scarcely thrown their cloaks behind the bushes at the side of
the road when they were accosted by the guard at the top of the wall.

“Halt! Who approaches the gate?”

Wilhelm strode forward.

“Is Gottlieb at the guard-house or at the barracks?” he asked.

“He is at the guard-house,” replied the sentinel, recognising the
questioner.

“Then arouse him immediately, and open the gates.”

“Gottlieb,” said Wilhelm, when once within the walls, “take a score of
men with you and surround the first house on the margin of the river up
this street. I shall accompany you so that there may be no mistake.
Send another score under a trusty leader to the house which stands alone
outside of the gates also on the margin of the stream. Give orders that
the men are to seize any person who attempts to enter or to come out;
kill if necessary, but let none escape you. Let a dozen men escort me to
the Palace.”

Having seen the Emperor safely housed in the Palace, Wilhelm returned
quickly to the place where Gottlieb and his score held guard over the
town entrance of the cellars he had quitted.

“Gottlieb, are you fully awake?” asked Wilhelm.

“Oh, yes, master; awake and ready for any emergency.”

“Then send for some of your most stalwart sappers with tools to break
through a stone wall, and tell them to bring a piece of timber to batter
in this door.”

When the men arrived three blows from the oaken log sent the door
shattering from its hinges. Wilhelm sprang at once over the prostrate
portal, but not in time to prevent the flight of the guard down the
stairway. Calling the sappers to the first landing, and pointing to the
stone wall on the right:

“Break through that for me,” he cried.

“Master,” expostulated Gottlieb, “if you break through that wall I warn
you that the river will flow in.”

“Such is my intention, Gottlieb, and a gold piece to each man who works
as he has never wrought before.”

For a few moments there was nothing heard but the steady ring of iron on
stone as one by one the squares were extracted, the water beginning to
ooze in as the energetic sappers reached the outer course. At last the
remaining stones gave way, carried in with a rush by the torrent.

“Save yourselves!” cried Wilhelm, standing knee deep in the flood and
not stepping out until each man had passed him. There was a straining
crash of rending timber, and Gottlieb, dashing down, seized his master
by the arm, crying:

“My Lord, my Lord, the house is about to fall!”

With slight loss of time commander and lieutenant stood together in the
street and found that the latter’s panic was unwarranted, for the house,
although it trembled dangerously and leaned perceptibly toward the
river, was stoutly built of hewn stone. Grey daylight now began to
spread over the city, but still Wilhelm stood there listening to the
inrush of the water.

“By the great wine tub of Hundsrück!” exclaimed Gottlieb in amazement,
“that cellar is a large one. It seems to thirst for the whole flood of
the Main.”

“Send a messenger,” cried Wilhelm, “to the house you are guarding
outside the gates and discover for me whether your men have captured any
prisoners.”

It was broad daylight when the messenger returned, and the torrent down
the stair had become a rippling surface of water at the level of the
river, showing that all the cavern beneath was flooded.

“Well, messenger, what is your report?” demanded his commander.

“My Lord, the officer in charge says that a short time ago the door of
the house was blown open as if by a strong wind; four men rushed out and
another was captured in the garden; all were pinioned and gagged, as you
commanded.”

“Are the prisoners men of quality or common soldiers?”

“Common soldiers, my Lord.”

“Very well; let them be taken to the prison. I will visit them later in
the day.”

As Wilhelm, thoroughly fatigued after a night so exciting, walked the
streets of Frankfort toward his home the bells of the city suddenly
began to ring a merry peal, and, as if Frankfort had become awakened
by the musical clangor, windows were raised and doors opened, while
citizens inquired of each other the meaning of the clangor, a question
which no one seemed prepared to answer.

Reaching his own house, Wilhelm found Elsa awaiting him with less of
anxiety on her face than he had expected.

“Oh, Wilhelm!” she cried, “what a fright you gave me, and not until I
knew where you were, did any peace come to my heart.”

“You knew where I was?” said Wilhelm in amazement. “Where was I, then?”

“You were with the Emperor, of course. That is why the bells are
ringing; the Emperor has returned, as you know, and is resolved to take
his proper place at the head of the state, much to the delight of the
Empress, I can assure you. But what an anxious time we spent until
shortly after midnight, when the Emperor arrived and told us you had
been with him.”

“How came you to be at the Palace?”

“It happened in this way. You had hardly left the court last night when
his lordship the Archbishop of Cologne came and seemed anxious about the
welfare of the Emperor.”

“The Archbishop of Cologne! Is he still there or did he go elsewhere?”

“He is still there, and was there when the Emperor came in. Why do you
ask so eagerly? Is there anything wrong?”

“Not so far as the Archbishop is concerned, apparently. He has kept his
word and so there is one less high office vacant. Well, what did the
Archbishop say?”

“He wished to see you, and so the Empress sent for you, but search as
we would, you were nowhere to be found. On hearing this I became alarmed
and went at once to the Palace. The Archbishop seemed in deep trouble,
but he refused to tell the Empress the cause of it, and so increased our
anxiety. However, all was right when the Emperor came, and now they are
ringing the bells, for he is to appear before the people on the balcony
of the Romer, as if he were newly crowned. We must make haste if we are
to see him.”

Wilhelm escorted his wife to the square before the Romer, but so dense
was the cheering crowd that it was impossible for him to force a way
through. They were in time to see the Emperor appear on the balcony,
and Wilhelm, raising his sword aloft, shouted louder than any in that
throng, Elsa herself waving a scarf above her head in the enthusiasm of
the moment.




THE COUNT’S APOLOGY


The fifteen nobles, who formed the Council of State for the Moselle
Valley, stood in little groups in the Rittersaal of Winneburg’s Castle,
situated on a hill-top in the Ender Valley, a league or so from the
waters of the Moselle. The nobles spoke in low tones together, for
a greater than they were present, no other than their over-lord, the
Archbishop of Treves, who, in his stately robes of office, paced up and
down the long room, glancing now and then through the narrow windows
which gave a view down the Ender Valley.

There was a trace of impatience in his Lordship’s bearing, and well
there might be, for here was the Council of State in assemblage, yet
their chairman was absent, and the nobles stood there helplessly, like a
flock of sheep whose shepherd is missing. The chairman was the Count
of Winneburg, in whose castle they were now collected, and his lack of
punctuality was thus a double discourtesy, for he was host as well as
president.

Each in turn had tried to soothe the anger of the Archbishop, for all
liked the Count of Winneburg, a bluff and generous-hearted giant, who
would stand by his friends against all comers, was the quarrel his
own or no. In truth little cared the stalwart Count of Winneburg whose
quarrel it was so long as his arm got opportunity of wielding a blow in
it. His Lordship of Treves had not taken this championship of the
absent man with good grace, and now strode apart from the group, holding
himself haughtily; muttering, perhaps prayers, perhaps something else.

When one by one the nobles had arrived at Winneburg’s Castle, they were
informed that its master had gone hunting that morning, saying he would
return in time for the mid-day meal, but nothing had been heard of him
since, although mounted messengers had been sent forth, and the great
bell in the southern tower had been set ringing when the Archbishop
arrived. It was the general opinion that Count Winneburg, becoming
interested in the chase, had forgotten all about the Council, for it was
well known that the Count’s body was better suited for athletic sports
or warfare than was his mind for the consideration of questions of
State, and the nobles, themselves of similar calibre, probably liked him
none the less on that account.

Presently the Archbishop stopped in his walk and faced the assemblage.
“My Lords,” he said, “we have already waited longer than the utmost
stretch of courtesy demands. The esteem in which Count Winneburg holds
our deliberations is indicated by his inexcusable neglect of a duty
conferred upon him by you, and voluntarily accepted by him. I shall
therefore take my place in his chair, and I call upon you to seat
yourselves at the Council table.”

Saying which the Archbishop strode to the vacant chair, and seated
himself in it at the head of the board. The nobles looked one at the
other with some dismay, for it was never their intention that the
Archbishop should preside over their meeting, the object of which was
rather to curb that high prelate’s ambition, than to confirm still
further the power he already held over them.

When, a year before, these Councils of State had been inaugurated, the
Archbishop had opposed them, but, finding that the Emperor was inclined
to defer to the wishes of his nobles, the Lord of Treves had insisted
upon his right to be present during the deliberations, and this right
the Emperor had conceded. He further proposed that the meeting should be
held at his own castle of Cochem, as being conveniently situated midway
between Coblentz and Treves, but to this the nobles had, with fervent
unanimity, objected. Cochem Castle, they remembered, possessed strong
walls and deep dungeons, and they had no desire to trust themselves
within the lion’s jaws, having little faith in his Lordship’s benevolent
intentions towards them.

The Emperor seemed favourable to the selection of Cochem as a convenient
place of meeting, and the nobles were nonplussed, because they could
not give their real reason for wishing to avoid it, and the Archbishop
continued to press the claims of Cochem as being of equal advantage to
all.

“It is not as though I asked them to come to Treves,” said the
Archbishop, “for that would entail a long journey upon those living
near the Rhine, and in going to Cochem I shall myself be called upon to
travel as far as those who come from Coblentz.”

The Emperor said:

“It seems a most reasonable selection, and, unless some strong objection
be urged, I shall confirm the choice of Cochem.”

The nobles were all struck with apprehension at these words, and knew
not what to say, when suddenly, to their great delight, up spoke the
stalwart Count of Winneburg.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “my Castle stands but a short league from
Cochem, and has a Rittersaal as large as that in the pinnacled palace
owned by the Archbishop. It is equally convenient for all concerned, and
every gentleman is right welcome to its hospitality. My cellars are well
filled with good wine, and my larders are stocked with an abundance of
food. All that can be urged in favour of Cochem applies with equal truth
to the Schloss Winneburg. If, therefore, the members of the Council will
accept of my roof, it is theirs.”

The nobles with universal enthusiasm cried:

“Yes, yes; Winneburg is the spot.”

The Emperor smiled, for he well knew that his Lordship of Treves was
somewhat miserly in the dispensing of his hospitality. He preferred to
see his guests drink the wine of a poor vintage rather than tap the cask
which contained the yield of a good year. His Majesty smiled, because
he imagined his nobles thought of the replenishing of their stomachs,
whereas they were concerned for the safety of their necks; but seeing
them unanimous in their choice, he nominated Schloss Winneburg as the
place of meeting, and so it remained.

When, therefore, the Archbishop of Treves set himself down in the ample
chair, to which those present had, without a dissenting vote, elected
Count Winneburg, distrust at once took hold of them, for they were ever
jealous of the encroachments of their over-lord. The Archbishop glared
angrily around him, but no man moved from where he stood.

“I ask you to be seated. The Council is called to order.”

Baron Beilstein cleared his throat and spoke, seemingly with some
hesitation, but nevertheless with a touch of obstinacy in his voice:

“May we beg a little more time for Count Winneburg? He has doubtless
gone farther afield than he intended when he set out. I myself know
something of the fascination of the chase, and can easily understand
that it wipes out all remembrance of lesser things.”

“Call you this Council a lesser thing?” demanded the Archbishop. “We
have waited an hour already, and I shall not give the laggard a moment
more.”

“Indeed, my Lord, then I am sorry to hear it. I would not willingly be
the man who sits in Winneburg’s chair, should he come suddenly upon us.”

“Is that a threat?” asked the Archbishop, frowning.

“It is not a threat, but rather a warning. I am a neighbour of the
Count, and know him well, and whatever his virtues may be, calm patience
is not one of them. If time hangs heavily, may I venture to suggest that
your Lordship remove the prohibition you proclaimed when the Count’s
servants offered us wine, and allow me to act temporarily as host,
ordering the flagons to be filled, which I think will please Winneburg
better when he comes, than finding another in his chair.”

“This is no drunken revel, but a Council of State,” said the Archbishop
sternly; “and I drink no wine when the host is not here to proffer it.

“Indeed, my Lord,” said Beilstein, with a shrug of the shoulders, “some
of us are so thirsty that we care not who makes the offer, so long as
the wine be sound.”

What reply the Archbishop would have made can only be conjectured, for
at that moment the door burst open and in came Count Winneburg, a head
and shoulders above any man in that room, and huge in proportion.

“My Lords, my Lords,” he cried, his loud voice booming to the rafters,
“how can I ask you to excuse such a breach of hospitality. What! Not
a single flagon of wine in the room? This makes my deep regret almost
unbearable. Surely, Beilstein, you might have amended that, if only for
the sake of an old and constant comrade. Truth, gentlemen, until I heard
the bell of the castle toll, I had no thought that this was the day of
our meeting, and then, to my despair, I found myself an hour away, and
have ridden hard to be among you.”

Then, noticing there was something ominous in the air, and an
unaccustomed silence to greet his words, he looked from one to the
other, and his eye, travelling up the table, finally rested upon the
Archbishop in his chair. Count Winneburg drew himself up, his ruddy face
colouring like fire. Then, before any person could reach out hand to
check him, or move lip in counsel, the Count, with a fierce oath, strode
to the usurper, grasped him by the shoulders, whirled his heels high
above his head, and flung him like a sack of corn to the smooth floor,
where the unfortunate Archbishop, huddled in a helpless heap, slid along
the polished surface as if he were on ice. The fifteen nobles stood
stock-still, appalled at this unexpected outrage upon their over-lord.
Winneburg seated himself in the chair with an emphasis that made even
the solid table rattle, and bringing down his huge fist crashing on the
board before him, shouted:

“Let no man occupy my chair, unless he has weight enough to remain
there.”

Baron Beilstein, and one or two others, hurried to the prostrate
Archbishop and assisted him to his feet.

“Count Winneburg,” said Beilstein, “you can expect no sympathy from us
for such an act of violence in your own hall.”

“I want none of your sympathy,” roared the angry Count. “Bestow it on
the man now in your hands who needs it. If you want the Archbishop of
Treves to act as your chairman, elect him to that position and welcome.
I shall have no usurpation in my Castle. While I am president I sit in
the chair, and none other.”

There was a murmur of approval at this, for one and all were deeply
suspicious of the Archbishop’s continued encroachments.

His Lordship of Treves once more on his feet, his lips pallid, and
his face colourless, looked with undisguised hatred at his assailant.
“Winneburg,” he said slowly, “you shall apologise abjectly for this
insult, and that in presence of the nobles of this Empire, or I will see
to it that not one stone of this castle remains upon another.”

“Indeed,” said the Count nonchalantly, “I shall apologise to you, my
Lord, when you have apologised to me for taking my place. As to the
castle, it is said that the devil assisted in the building of it, and it
is quite likely that through friendship for you, he may preside over its
destruction.”

The Archbishop made no reply, but, bowing haughtily to the rest of the
company, who looked glum enough, well knowing that the episode they had
witnessed meant, in all probability, red war let loose down the smiling
valley of the Moselle, left the Rittersaal.

“Now that the Council is duly convened in regular order,” said Count
Winneburg, when the others had seated themselves round his table, “what
questions of state come up for discussion?”

For a moment there was no answer to this query, the delegates looking
at one another speechless. But at last Baron Beilstein shrugging his
shoulder, said drily:

“Indeed, my Lord Count, I think the time for talk is past, and I suggest
that we all look closely to the strengthening of our walls, which are
likely to be tested before long by the Lion of Treves. It was perhaps
unwise, Winneburg, to have used the Archbishop so roughly, he being
unaccustomed to athletic exercise; but, let the consequences be what
they may, I, for one, will stand by you.”

“And I; and I; and I; and I,” cried the others, with the exception
of the Knight of Ehrenburg, who, living as he did near the town of
Coblentz, was learned in the law, and not so ready as some of his
comrades to speak first and think afterwards.

“My good friends,” cried their presiding officer, deeply moved by this
token of their fealty, “what I have done I have done, be it wise or the
reverse, and the results must fall on my head alone. No words of mine
can remove the dust of the floor from the Archbishop’s cloak, so if he
comes, let him come. I will give him as hearty a welcome as it is in my
power to render. All I ask is fair play, and those who stand aside
shall see a good fight. It is not right that a hasty act of mine should
embroil the peaceful country side, so if Treves comes on I shall meet
him alone here in my castle. But, nevertheless, I thank you all for
your offers of help; that is all, except the Knight of Ehrenburg, whose
tender of assistance, if made, has escaped my ear.”

The Knight of Ehrenburg had, up to that moment, been studying the
texture of the oaken table on which his flagon sat. Now he looked up and
spoke slowly.

“I made no proffer of help,” he said, “because none will be needed, I
believe, so far as the Archbishop of Treves is concerned. The Count a
moment ago said that all he wanted was fair play, but that is just what
he has no right to expect from his present antagonist. The Archbishop
will make no attempt on this castle; he will act much more subtly
than that. The Archbishop will lay the redress of his quarrel upon the
shoulders of the Emperor, and it is the oncoming of the Imperial troops
you have to fear, and not an invasion from Treves. Against the forces of
the Emperor we are powerless, united or divided. Indeed, his Majesty
may call upon us to invest this castle, whereupon, if we refuse, we are
rebels who have broken our oaths.”

“What then is there left for me to do?” asked the Count, dismayed at the
coil in which he had involved himself.

“Nothing,” advised the Knight of Ehrenburg, “except to apologise
abjectly to the Archbishop, and that not too soon, for his Lordship may
refuse to accept it. But when he formally demands it, I should render
it to him on his own terms, and think myself well out of an awkward
position.”

The Count of Winneburg rose from his seat, and lifting his clinched fist
high above his head, shook it at the timbers of the roof.

“That,” he cried, “will I never do, while one stone of Winneburg stands
upon another.”

At this, those present, always with the exception of the Knight of
Ehrenburg, sprang to their feet, shouting:

“Imperial troops or no, we stand by the Count of Winneburg!”

Some one flashed forth a sword, and instantly a glitter of blades was
in the air, while cheer after cheer rang to the rafters. When the uproar
had somewhat subsided, the Knight of Ehrenburg said calmly:

“My castle stands nearest to the capital, and will be the first to fall,
but, nevertheless, hoping to do my shouting when the war is ended, I
join my forces with those of the rest of you.”

And amidst this unanimity, and much emptying of flagons, the assemblage
dissolved, each man with his escort taking his way to his own
stronghold, perhaps to con more soberly, next day, the problem that
confronted him. They were fighters all, and would not flinch when the
pinch came, whatever the outcome.

Day followed day with no sign from Treves. Winneburg employed the time
in setting his house in order to be ready for whatever chanced, and just
as the Count was beginning to congratulate himself that his deed was to
be without consequences, there rode up to his castle gates a horseman,
accompanied by two lancers, and on the newcomer’s breast were emblazoned
the Imperial arms. Giving voice to his horn, the gates were at once
thrown open to him, and, entering, he demanded instant speech with the
Count.

“My Lord, Count Winneburg,” he said, when that giant had presented
himself, “His Majesty the Emperor commands me to summon you to the court
at Frankfort.”

“Do you take me as prisoner, then?” asked the Count.

“Nothing was said to me of arrest. I was merely commissioned to deliver
to you the message of the Emperor.”

“What are your orders if I refuse to go?”

A hundred armed men stood behind the Count, a thousand more were
within call of the castle bell; two lances only were at the back of the
messenger; but the strength of the broadcast empire was betokened by the
symbol on his breast.

“My orders are to take back your answer to his Imperial Majesty,”
 replied the messenger calmly.

The Count, though hot-headed, was no fool, and he stood for a moment
pondering on the words which the Knight of Ehrenburg had spoken on
taking his leave:

“Let not the crafty Archbishop embroil you with the Emperor.”

This warning had been the cautious warrior’s parting advice to him.

“If you will honour my humble roof,” said the Count slowly, “by taking
refreshment beneath it, I shall be glad of your company afterwards to
Frankfort, in obedience to his Majesty’s commands.”

The messenger bowed low, accepted the hospitality, and together they
made way across the Moselle, and along the Roman road to the capital.

Within the walls of Frankfort the Count was lodged in rooms near the
palace, to which his conductor guided him, and, although it was still
held that he was not a prisoner, an armed man paced to and fro before
his door all night. The day following his arrival, Count Winneburg was
summoned to the Court, and in a large ante-room found himself one of
a numerous throng, conspicuous among them all by reason of his great
height and bulk.

The huge hall was hung with tapestry, and at the further end were heavy
curtains, at each edge of which stood half-a-dozen armoured men,
the detachments being under command of two gaily-uniformed officers.
Occasionally the curtains were parted by menials who stood there to
perform that duty, and high nobles entered, or came out, singly and in
groups. Down the sides of the hall were packed some hundreds of people,
chattering together for the most part, and gazing at those who passed up
and down the open space in the centre.

The Count surmised that the Emperor held his Court in whatever apartment
was behind the crimson curtains. He felt the eyes of the multitude
upon him, and shifted uneasily from one foot to another, cursing his
ungainliness, ashamed of the tingling of the blood in his cheeks. He
was out of plaice in this laughing, talking crowd, experiencing the
sensations of an uncouth rustic suddenly thrust into the turmoil of a
metropolis, resenting bitterly the supposed sneers that were flung at
him. He suspected that the whispering and the giggling were directed
towards himself, and burned to draw his sword and let these popinjays
know for once what a man could do. As a matter of fact it was a buzz of
admiration at his stature which went up when he entered, but the Count
had so little of self-conceit in his soul that he never even guessed the
truth.

Two nobles passing near him, he heard one of them say distinctly:

“That is the fellow who threw the Archbishop over his head,” while the
other, glancing at him, said:

“By the Coat, he seems capable of upsetting the three of them, and I,
for one, wish more power to his muscle should he attempt it.”

The Count shrank against the tapestried walls, hot with anger, wishing
himself a dwarf that he might escape the gaze of so many inquiring eyes.
Just as the scrutiny was becoming unbearable, his companion touched him
on the elbow, and said in a low voice:

“Count Winneburg, follow me.”

He held aside the tapestry at the back of the Count, and that noble,
nothing loth, disappeared from view behind it.

Entering a narrow passage-way, they traversed it until they came to a
closed door, at each lintel of which stood a pikeman, fronted with a
shining breastplate of metal. The Count’s conductor knocked gently at
the closed door, then opened it, holding it so that the Count could pass
in, and when he had done so, the door closed softly behind him. To his
amazement, Winneburg saw before him, standing at the further end of the
small room, the Emperor Rudolph, entirely alone. The Count was about to
kneel awkwardly, when his liege strode forward and prevented him.

“Count Winneburg,” he said, “from what I hear of you, your elbow-joints
are more supple than those of your knees, therefore let us be thankful
that on this occasion there is no need to use either. I see you are
under the mistaken impression that the Emperor is present. Put that
thought from your mind, and regard me simply as Lord Rudolph--one
gentleman wishing to have some little conversation with another.”

“Your Majesty--” stammered the Count.

“I have but this moment suggested that you forget that title, my Lord.
But, leaving aside all question of salutation, let us get to the heart
of the matter, for I think we are both direct men. You are summoned
to Frankfort because that high and mighty Prince of the Church, the
Archbishop of Treves, has made complaint to the Emperor against you
alleging what seems to be an unpardonable indignity suffered by him at
your hands.”

“Your Majesty--my Lord, I mean,” faltered the Count. “The indignity was
of his own seeking; he sat down in my chair, where he had no right to
place himself, and I--I--persuaded him to relinquish his position.”

“So I am informed--that is to say, so his Majesty has been informed,”
 replied Rudolph, a slight smile hovering round his finely chiselled
lips. “We are not here to comment upon any of the Archbishop’s
delinquencies, but, granting, for the sake of argument, that he had
encroached upon your rights, nevertheless, he was under your roof, and
honestly, I fail to see that you were justified in cracking his heels
against the same.”

“Well, your Majesty--again I beg your Majesty’s pardon--”

“Oh, no matter,” said the Emperor, “call me what you like; names signify
little.”

“If then the Emperor,” continued the Count, “found an intruder sitting
on his throne, would he like it, think you?”

“His feeling, perhaps, would be one of astonishment, my Lord Count, but
speaking for the Emperor, I am certain that he would never lay hands on
the usurper, or treat him like a sack of corn in a yeoman’s barn.”

The Count laughed heartily at this, and was relieved to find that
this quitted him of the tension which the great presence had at first
inspired.

“Truth to tell, your Majesty, I am sorry I touched him. I should have
requested him to withdraw, but my arm has always been more prompt in
action than my tongue, as you can readily see since I came into this
room.”

“Indeed, Count, your tongue does you very good service,” continued the
Emperor, “and I am glad to have from you an expression of regret. I
hope, therefore, that you will have no hesitation in repeating that
declaration to the Archbishop of Treves.”

“Does your Majesty mean that I am to apologise to him?”

“Yes,” answered the Emperor.

There was a moment’s pause, then the Count said slowly:

“I will surrender to your Majesty my person, my sword, my castle, and my
lands. I will, at your word, prostrate myself at your feet, and humbly
beg pardon for any offence I have committed against you, but to tell
the Archbishop I am sorry when I am not, and to cringe before him and
supplicate his grace, well, your Majesty, as between man and man, I’ll
see him damned first.”

Again the Emperor had some difficulty in preserving that rigidity of
expression which he had evidently resolved to maintain.

“Have you ever met a ghost, my Lord Count?” he asked.

Winneburg crossed himself devoutly, a sudden pallor sweeping over his
face.

“Indeed, your Majesty, I have seen strange things, and things for which
there was no accounting; but it has been usually after a contest with
the wine flagon, and at the time my head was none of the clearest, so I
could not venture to say whether they were ghosts or no.”

“Imagine, then, that in one of the corridors of your castle at midnight
you met a white-robed transparent figure, through whose form your sword
passed scathlessly. What would you do, my Lord?”

“Indeed, your Majesty, I would take to my heels, and bestow myself
elsewhere as speedily as possible.”

“Most wisely spoken and you, who are no coward, who fear not to face
willingly in combat anything natural, would, in certain circumstances,
trust to swift flight for your protection. Very well, my Lord, you
are now confronted with something against which your stout arm is as
unavailing as it would be if an apparition stood in your path. There is
before you the spectre of subtlety. Use arm instead of brain, and you
are a lost man.

“The Archbishop expects no apology. He looks for a stalwart, stubborn
man, defying himself and the Empire combined. You think, perhaps, that
the Imperial troops will surround your castle, and that you may stand a
siege. Now the Emperor would rather have you fight with him than against
him, but in truth there will be no contest. Hold to your refusal, and
you will be arrested before you leave the precincts of this palace. You
will be thrown into a dungeon, your castle and your lands sequestered;
and I call your attention to the fact that your estate adjoins the
possessions of the Archbishop at Cochem, and Heaven fend me for
hinting that his Lordship casts covetous eyes over his boundary; yet,
nevertheless, he will probably not refuse to accept your possessions
in reparation for the insult bestowed upon him. Put it this way if
you like. Would you rather pleasure me or pleasure the Archbishop of
Treves?”

“There is no question as to that,” answered the Count.

“Then it will please me well if you promise to apologise to his Lordship
the Archbishop of Treves. That his Lordship will be equally pleased, I
very much doubt.”

“Will your Majesty command me in open Court to apologise?”

“I shall request you to do so. I must uphold the Feudal law.”

“Then I beseech your Majesty to command me, for I am a loyal subject,
and will obey.”

“God give me many such,” said the Emperor fervently, “and bestow upon me
the wisdom to deserve them!”

He extended his hand to the Count, then touched a bell on the table
beside him. The officer who had conducted Winneburg entered silently,
and acted as his guide back to the thronged apartment they had left. The
Count saw that the great crimson curtains were now looped up, giving
a view of the noble interior of the room beyond, thronged with the
notables of the Empire. The hall leading to it was almost deserted, and
the Count, under convoy of two lancemen, himself nearly as tall as their
weapons, passed in to the Throne Room, and found all eyes turned upon
him.

He was brought to a stand before an elevated dais, the centre of which
was occupied by a lofty throne, which, at the moment, was empty. Near
it, on the elevation, stood the three Archbishops of Treves, Cologne,
and Mayence, on the other side the Count Palatine of the Rhine with
the remaining three Electors. The nobles of the realm occupied places
according to their degree.

As the stalwart Count came in, a buzz of conversation swept over the
hall like a breeze among the leaves of a forest. A malignant scowl
darkened the countenance of the Archbishop of Treves, but the faces of
Cologne and Mayence expressed a certain Christian resignation regarding
the contumely which had been endured by their colleague. The Count stood
stolidly where he was placed, and gazed at the vacant throne, turning
his eyes neither to the right nor the left.

Suddenly there was a fanfare of trumpets, and instant silence smote the
assembly. First came officers of the Imperial Guard in shining armour,
then the immediate advisers and councillors of his Majesty, and last
of all, the Emperor himself, a robe of great richness clasped at his
throat, and trailing behind him; the crown of the Empire upon his head.
His face was pale and stern, and he looked what he was, a monarch, and a
man. The Count rubbed his eyes, and could scarcely believe that he stood
now in the presence of one who had chatted amiably with him but a few
moments before.

The Emperor sat on his throne and one of his councillors whispered for
some moments to him; then the Emperor said, in a low, clear voice, that
penetrated to the farthest corner of the vast apartment:

“Is the Count of Winneburg here?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Let him stand forward.”

The Count strode two long steps to the front, and stood there, red-faced
and abashed. The officer at his side whispered:

“Kneel, you fool, kneel.”

And the Count got himself somewhat clumsily down upon his knees, like
an elephant preparing to receive his burden. The face of the Emperor
remained impassive, and he said harshly:

“Stand up.”

The Count, once more upon his feet, breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction
at finding himself again in an upright posture.

“Count of Winneburg,” said the Emperor slowly, “it is alleged that upon
the occasion of the last meeting of the Council of State for the Moselle
valley, you, in presence of the nobles there assembled, cast a slight
upon your over-lord, the Archbishop of Treves. Do you question the
statement?”

The Count cleared his throat several times, which in the stillness of
that vaulted room sounded like the distant booming of cannon.

“If to cast the Archbishop half the distance of this room is to cast a
slight upon him, I did so, your Majesty.”

There was a simultaneous ripple of laughter at this, instantly
suppressed when the searching eye of the Emperor swept the room.

“Sir Count,” said the Emperor severely, “the particulars of your outrage
are not required of you; only your admission thereof. Hear, then, my
commands. Betake yourself to your castle of Winneburg, and hold yourself
there in readiness to proceed to Treves on a day appointed by his
Lordship the Archbishop, an Elector of this Empire, there to humble
yourself before him, and crave his pardon for the offence you have
committed. Disobey at your peril.”

Once or twice the Count moistened his dry lips, then he said:

“Your Majesty, I will obey any command you place upon me.”

“In that case,” continued the Emperor, his severity visibly relaxing, “I
can promise that your over-lord will not hold this incident against
you. Such, I understand, is your intention, my Lord Archbishop?” and the
Emperor turned toward the Prince of Treves.

The Archbishop bowed low, and thus veiled the malignant hatred in his
eyes. “Yes, your Majesty,” he replied, “providing the apology is given
as publicly as was the insult, in presence of those who were witnesses
of the Count’s foolishness.”

“That is but a just condition,” said the Emperor. “It is my pleasure
that the Council be summoned to Treves to hear the Count’s apology. And
now, Count of Winneburg, you are at liberty to withdraw.”

The Count drew his mammoth hand across his brow, and scattered to the
floor the moisture that had collected there. He tried to speak, but
apparently could not, then turned and walked resolutely towards the
door. There was instant outcry at this, the Chamberlain of the Court
standing in stupefied amazement at a breach of etiquette which exhibited
any man’s back to the Emperor; but a smile relaxed the Emperor’s lips,
and he held up his hand.

“Do not molest him,” he said, as the Count disappeared. “He is unused
to the artificial manners of a Court. In truth, I take it as a friendly
act, for I am sure the valiant Count never turned his back upon a
foe,” which Imperial witticism was well received, for the sayings of an
Emperor rarely lack applause.

The Count, wending his long way home by the route he had come, spent the
first half of the journey in cursing the Archbishop, and the latter half
in thinking over the situation. By the time he had reached his castle he
had formulated a plan, and this plan he proceeded to put into execution
on receiving the summons of the Archbishop to come to Treves on the
first day of the following month and make his apology, the Archbishop,
with characteristic penuriousness, leaving the inviting of the fifteen
nobles, who formed the Council, to Winneburg, and thus his Lordship of
Treves was saved the expense of sending special messengers to each. In
case Winneburg neglected to summon the whole Council, the Archbishop
added to his message, the statement that he would refuse to receive the
apology if any of the nobles were absent.

Winneburg sent messengers, first to Beilstein, asking him to attend at
Treves on the second day of the month, and bring with him an escort of
at least a thousand men. Another he asked for the third, another for
the fourth, another for the fifth, and so on, resolved that before a
complete quorum was present, half of the month would be gone, and with
it most of the Archbishop’s provender, for his Lordship, according to
the laws of hospitality, was bound to entertain free of all charge to
themselves the various nobles and their followings.

On the first day of the month Winneburg entered the northern gate of
Treves, accompanied by two hundred horsemen and eight hundred foot
soldiers. At first, the officers of the Archbishop thought that an
invasion was contemplated, but Winneburg suavely explained that if a
thing was worth doing at all, it was worth doing well, and he was
not going to make any hole-and-corner affair of his apology. Next day
Beilstein came along accompanied by five hundred cavalry, and five
hundred foot soldiers.

The Chamberlain of the Archbishop was in despair at having to find
quarters for so many, but he did the best he could, while the Archbishop
was enraged to observe that the nobles did not assemble in greater
haste, but each as he came had a plausible excuse for his delay. Some
had to build bridges, sickness had broken out in another camp, while a
third expedition had lost its way and wandered in the forest.

The streets of Treves each night resounded with songs of revelry, varied
by the clash of swords, when a party of the newcomers fell foul of a
squad of the town soldiers, and the officers on either side had much
ado to keep the peace among their men. The Archbishop’s wine cups
were running dry, and the price of provisions had risen, the whole
surrounding country being placed under contribution for provender and
drink. When a week had elapsed the Archbishop relaxed his dignity and
sent for Count Winneburg.

“We will not wait for the others,” he said. “I have no desire to
humiliate you unnecessarily. Those who are here shall bear witness that
you have apologised, and so I shall not insist on the presence of the
laggards, but will receive your apology to-morrow at high noon in the
great council chamber.”

“Ah, there speaks a noble heart, ever thinking generously of those who
despitefully use you, my Lord Archbishop,” said Count Winneburg. “But
no, no, I cannot accept such a sacrifice. The Emperor showed me plainly
the enormity of my offence. In the presence of all I insulted you,
wretch that I am, and in the presence of all shall I abase myself.”

“But I do not seek your abasement,” protested the Archbishop, frowning.

“The more honour, then, to your benevolent nature,” answered the Count,
“and the more shameful would it be of me to take advantage of it. As
I stood a short time since on the walls, I saw coming up the river the
banners of the Knight of Ehrenburg. His castle is the furthest removed
from Treves, and so the others cannot surely delay long. We will wait,
my Lord Archbishop, until all are here. But I thank you just as much for
your generosity as if I were craven enough to shield myself behind it.”

The Knight of Ehrenburg in due time arrived, and behind him his thousand
men, many of whom were compelled to sleep in the public buildings, for
all the rooms in Treves were occupied. Next day the Archbishop summoned
the assembled nobles and said he would hear the apology in their
presence. If the others missed it, it was their own fault--they should
have been in time.

“I cannot apologise;” said the Count, “until all are here. It was the
Emperor’s order, and who am I to disobey my Emperor? We must await their
coming with patience, and, indeed, Treves is a goodly town, in which all
of us find ourselves fully satisfied.”

“Then, my blessing on you all,” said the Archbishop in a sour tone most
unsuited to the benediction he was bestowing. “Return, I beg of you,
instantly, to your castles. I forego the apology.”

“But I insist on tendering it,” cried the Count, his mournful voice
giving some indication of the sorrow he felt at his offence if it went
unrequited. “It is my duty, not only to you, my Lord Archbishop, but
also to his Majesty the Emperor.”

“Then, in Heaven’s name get on with it and depart. I am willing to
accept it on your own terms, as I have said before.”

“No, not on my own terms, but on yours. What matters the delay of a week
or two? The hunting season does not begin for a fortnight, and we are
all as well at Treves as at home. Besides, how could I ever face my
Emperor again, knowing I had disobeyed his commands?”

“I will make it right with the Emperor,” said the Archbishop.

The Knight of Ehrenburg now spoke up, calmly, as was his custom:

“‘Tis a serious matter,” he said, “for a man to take another’s word
touching action of his Majesty the Emperor. You have clerks here with
you; perhaps then you will bid them indite a document to be signed by
yourself absolving my friend, the Count of Winneburg, from all
necessity of apologising, so that should the Emperor take offence at his
disobedience, the parchment may hold him scathless.”

“I will do anything to be quit of you,” muttered the Archbishop more to
himself than to the others.

And so the document was written and signed. With this parchment in his
saddle-bags the Count and his comrades quitted the town, drinking in
half flagons the health of the Archbishop, because there was not left in
Treves enough wine to fill the measures to the brim.




CONVERTED


In the ample stone-paved courtyard of the Schloss Grunewald, with its
mysterious bubbling spring in the centre, stood the Black Baron beside
his restive horse, both equally eager to be away. Round the Baron were
grouped his sixteen knights and their saddled chargers, all waiting the
word to mount. The warder was slowly opening the huge gates that hung
between the two round entrance towers of the castle, for it was the
Baron’s custom never to ride out at the head of his men until the
great leaves of the strong gate fell full apart, and showed the green
landscape beyond. The Baron did not propose to ride unthinkingly out,
and straightway fall into an ambush.

He and his sixteen knights were the terror of the country-side, and many
there were who would have been glad to venture a bow shot at him had
they dared. There seemed to be some delay about the opening of the
gates, and a great chattering of underlings at the entrance, as if
something unusual had occurred, whereupon the rough voice of the Baron
roared out to know the cause that kept him waiting, and every one
scattered, each to his own affair, leaving only the warder, who
approached his master with fear in his face.

“My Lord,” he began, when the Baron had shouted what the devil ailed
him, “there has been nailed against the outer gate; sometime in the
night, a parchment with characters written thereon.”

“Then tear it down and bring it to me,” cried the Baron. “What’s all
this to-do about a bit of parchment?”

The warder had been loath to meddle with it, in terror of that
witchcraft which he knew pertained to all written characters; but
he feared the Black Baron’s frown even more than the fiends who had
undoubtedly nailed the documents on the gate, for he knew no man in all
that well-cowed district would have the daring to approach the castle
even in the night, much less meddle with the gate or any other belonging
of the Baron von Grunewald; so, breathing a request to his patron saint
(his neglect of whom he now remembered with remorse) for protection, he
tore the document from its fastening and brought it, trembling, to the
Baron. The knights crowded round as von Grunewald held the parchment in
his hand, bending his dark brows upon it, for it conveyed no meaning to
him. Neither the Baron nor his knights could read.

“What foolery, think you, is this?” he said, turning to the knight
nearest him. “A Defiance?”

The knight shook his head. “I am no clerk,” he answered.

For a moment the Baron was puzzled; then he quickly bethought himself of
the one person in the castle who could read.

“Bring hither old Father Gottlieb,” he commanded, and two of those
waiting ran in haste towards the scullery of the place, from which they
presently emerged dragging after them an old man partly in the habit
of a monk and partly in that of a scullion, who wiped his hands on the
coarse apron, that was tied around his waist, as he was hurried forward.

“Here, good father, excellent cook and humble servitor, I trust your
residence with us has not led you to forget the learning you put to such
poor advantage in the Monastery of Monnonstein. Canst thou construe this
for us? Is it in good honest German or bastard Latin?”

“It is in Latin,” said the captive monk, on glancing at the document in
the other’s hand.

“Then translate it for us, and quickly.”

Father Gottlieb took the parchment handed him by the Baron, and as his
eyes scanned it more closely, he bowed his head and made the sign of the
cross upon his breast.

“Cease that mummery,” roared the Baron, “and read without more waiting
or the rod’s upon thy back again. Who sends us this?”

“It is from our Holy Father the Pope,” said the monk, forgetting his
menial position for the moment, and becoming once more the scholar of
the monastery. The sense of his captivity faded from him as he realised
that the long arm of the Church had extended within the impregnable
walls of that tyrannical castle.

“Good. And what has our Holy Father the Pope to say to us? Demands he
the release of our excellent scullion, Father Gottlieb?”

The bent shoulders of the old monk straightened, his dim eye brightened,
and his voice rang clear within the echoing walls of the castle
courtyard.

“It is a ban of excommunication against thee, Lord Baron von Grunewald,
and against all within these walls, excepting only those unlawfully
withheld from freedom.”

“Which means thyself, worthy Father. Read on, good clerk, and let us
hear it to the end.”

As the monk read out the awful words of the message, piling curse on
curse with sonorous voice, the Baron saw his trembling servitors turn
pale, and even his sixteen knights, companions in robbery and rapine,
fall away from him. Dark red anger mounted to his temples; he raised his
mailed hand and smote the reading monk flat across the mouth, felling
the old man prone upon the stones of the court.

“That is my answer to our Holy Father the Pope, and when thou swearest
to deliver it to him as I have given it to thee, the gates are open and
the way clear for thy pilgrimage to Rome.”

But the monk lay where he fell and made no reply.

“Take him away,” commanded the Baron impatiently, whereupon several
of the menials laid hands on the fallen monk and dragged him into the
scullery he had left.

Turning to his men-at-arms, the Baron roared: “Well, my gentle wolves,
have a few words in Latin on a bit of sheep-skin turned you all to
sheep?”

“I have always said,” spoke up the knight Segfried, “that no good came
of captured monks, or meddling with the Church. Besides, we are noble
all, and do not hold with the raising of a mailed hand against an
unarmed man.”

There was a low murmur of approval among the knights at Segfried’s
boldness.

“Close the gates,” shouted the maddened Baron. Every one flew at the
word of command, and the great oaken hinges studded with iron, slowly
came together, shutting out the bit of landscape their opening had
discovered. The Baron flung the reins on his charger’s neck, and smote
the animal on the flank, causing it to trot at once to its stable.

“There will be no riding to-day,” he said, his voice ominously lowering.
The stablemen of the castle came forward and led away the horses. The
sixteen knights stood in a group together with Segfried at their head,
waiting with some anxiety on their brows for the next move in the game.
The Baron, his sword drawn in his hand, strode up and down before them,
his brow bent on the ground, evidently struggling to get the master hand
over his own anger. If it came to blows the odds were against him and he
was too shrewd a man to engage himself single-handed in such a contest.

At length the Baron stopped in his walk and looked at the group. He
said, after a pause, in a quiet tone of voice: “Segfried, if you doubt
my courage because I strike to the ground a rascally monk, step forth,
draw thine own good sword, our comrades will see that all is fair
betwixt us, and in this manner you may learn that I fear neither mailed
nor unmailed hand.”

But the knight made no motion to lay his hand upon his sword, nor did
he move from his place. “No one doubts your courage, my Lord,” he said,
“neither is it any reflection on mine that in answer to your challenge
my sword remains in its scabbard. You are our overlord and it is not
meet that our weapons should be raised against you.”

“I am glad that point is firmly fixed in your minds. I thought a moment
since that I would be compelled to uphold the feudal law at the peril
of my own body. But if that comes not in question, no more need be said.
Touching the unarmed, Segfried, if I remember aright you showed no such
squeamishness at our sacking of the Convent of St. Agnes.”

“A woman is a different matter, my Lord,” said Segfried uneasily.

The Baron laughed and so did some of the knights, openly relieved to
find the tension of the situation relaxing.

“Comrades!” cried the Baron, his face aglow with enthusiasm, all traces
of his former temper vanishing from his brow. “You are excellent in a
mêlée, but useless at the council board. You see no further ahead of
you than your good right arms can strike. Look round you at these stout
walls; no engine that man has yet devised can batter a breach in them.
In our vaults are ten years’ supply of stolen grain. Our cellars are
full of rich red wine, not of our vintage, but for our drinking. Here in
our court bubbles forever this good spring, excellent to drink when
wine gives out, and medicinal in the morning when too much wine has been
taken in.” He waved his hand towards the overflowing well, charged with
carbonic acid gas, one of the many that have since made this region of
the Rhine famous. “Now I ask you, can this Castle of Grunewald ever be
taken--excommunication or no excommunication?”

A simultaneous shout of “No! Never!” arose from the knights.

The Baron stood looking grimly at them for several moments. Then he said
in a quiet voice, “Yes, the Castle of Grunewald _can_ be taken. Not from
without but from within. If any crafty enemy sows dissension among us;
turns the sword of comrade against comrade; then falls the Castle of
Grunewald! To-day we have seen how nearly that has been done. We have
against us in the monastery of Monnonstein no fat-headed Abbot, but one
who was a warrior before he turned a monk. ‘Tis but a few years since,
that the Abbot Ambrose stood at the right hand of the Emperor as Baron
von Stern, and it is known that the Abbot’s robes are but a thin veneer
over the iron knight within. His hand, grasping the cross, still
itches for the sword. The fighting Archbishop of Treves has sent him to
Monnonstein for no other purpose than to leave behind him the ruins of
Grunewald, and his first bolt was shot straight into our courtyard, and
for a moment I stood alone, without a single man-at-arms to second me.”

The knights looked at one another in silence, then cast their eyes to
the stone-paved court, all too shamed-faced to attempt reply to what all
knew was the truth. The Baron, a deep frown on his brow, gazed sternly
at the chap-fallen group.... “Such was the effect of the first shaft
shot by good Abbot Ambrose, what will be the result of the second?”

“There will be no second,” said Segfried stepping forward. “We must
sack the Monastery, and hang the Abbot and his craven monks in their own
cords.”

“Good,” cried the Baron, nodding his head in approval, “the worthy
Abbot, however, trusts not only in God, but in walls three cloth
yards thick. The monastery stands by the river and partly over it. The
besieged monks will therefore not suffer from thirst. Their larder is
as amply provided as are the vaults of this castle. The militant Abbot
understands both defence and sortie. He is a master of siege-craft
inside or outside stone walls. How then do you propose to sack and hang,
good Segfried?”

The knights were silent. They knew the Monastery was as impregnable as
the castle, in fact it was the only spot for miles round that had never
owned the sway of Baron von Grunewald, and none of them were well enough
provided with brains to venture a plan for its successful reduction. A
cynical smile played round the lips of their over-lord, as he saw the
problem had overmatched them. At last he spoke.

“We must meet craft with craft. If the Pope’s Ban cast such terror among
my good knights, steeped to the gauntlets in blood, what effect, think
you, will it have over the minds of devout believers in the Church and
its power? The trustful monks know that it has been launched against us,
therefore are they doubtless waiting for us to come to the monastery,
and lay our necks under the feet of their Abbot, begging his clemency.
They are ready to believe any story we care to tell touching the
influence of such scribbling over us. You Segfried, owe me some
reparation for this morning’s temporary defection, and to you,
therefore, do I trust the carrying out of my plans. There was always
something of the monk about you, Segfried, and you will yet end your
days sanctimoniously in a monastery, unless you are first hanged at
Treves or knocked on the head during an assault.

“Draw, then, your longest face, and think of the time when you will be
a monk, as Ambrose is, who, in his day, shed as much blood as ever you
have done. Go to the Monastery of Monnonstein in most dejected fashion,
and unarmed. Ask in faltering tones, speech of the Abbot, and say to
him, as if he knew nought of it, that the Pope’s Ban is on us. Say that
at first I defied it, and smote down the good father who was reading it,
but add that as the pious man fell, a sickness like unto a pestilence
came over me and over my men, from which you only are free, caused, you
suspect, by your loudly protesting against the felling of the monk. Say
that we lie at death’s door, grieving for our sins, and groaning for
absolution. Say that we are ready to deliver up the castle and all its
contents to the care of the holy Church, so that the Abbot but sees our
tortured souls safely directed towards the gates of Paradise. Insist
that all the monks come, explaining that you fear we have but few
moments to live, and that the Abbot alone would be as helpless as one
surgeon on a battle-field. Taunt them with fear of the pestilence if
they hesitate, and that will bring them.”

Segfried accepted the commission, and the knights warmly expressed their
admiration of their master’s genius. As the great red sun began to sink
behind the westward hills that border the Rhine, Segfried departed on
horseback through the castle gates, and journeyed toward the monastery
with bowed head and dejected mien. The gates remained open, and as
darkness fell, a lighted torch was thrust in a wrought iron receptacle
near the entrance at the outside, throwing a fitful, flickering glare
under the archway and into the deserted court. Within, all was silent as
the ruined castle is to-day, save only the tinkling sound of the clear
waters of the effervescing spring as it flowed over the stones and
trickled down to disappear under the walls at one corner of the
courtyard.

The Baron and his sturdy knights sat in the darkness, with growing
impatience, in the great Rittersaal listening for any audible token of
the return of Segfried and his ghostly company. At last in the still
night air there came faintly across the plain a monkish chant growing
louder and louder, until finally the steel-shod hoofs of Segfried’s
charger rang on the stones of the causeway leading to the castle gates.
Pressed behind the two heavy open leaves of the gates stood the warder
and his assistants, scarcely breathing, ready to close the gates sharply
the moment the last monk had entered.

Still chanting, led by the Abbot in his robes of office, the monks
slowly marched into the deserted courtyard, while Segfried reined his
horse close inside the entrance. “Peace be upon this house and all
within,” said the deep voice of the Abbot, and in unison the monks
murmured “Amen,” the word echoing back to them in the stillness from the
four grey walls.

Then the silence was rudely broken by the ponderous clang of the closing
gates and the ominous rattle of bolts being thrust into their places
with the jingle of heavy chains. Down the wide stairs from the
Rittersaal came the clank of armour and rude shouts of laughter. Newly
lighted torches flared up here and there, illuminating the courtyard,
and showing, dangling against the northern wall a score of ropes with
nooses at the end of each. Into the courtyard clattered the Baron and
his followers. The Abbot stood with arms folded, pressing a gilded cross
across his breast. He was a head taller than any of his frightened,
cowering brethren, and his noble emaciated face was thin with fasting
caused by his never-ending conflict with the world that was within
himself. His pale countenance betokened his office and the Church; but
the angry eagle flash of his piercing eye spoke of the world alone and
the field of conflict.

The Baron bowed low to the Abbot, and said: “Welcome, my Lord Abbot, to
my humble domicile! It has long been the wish of my enemies to stand
within its walls, and this pleasure is now granted you. There is little
to be made of it from without.”

“Baron Grunewald,” said the Abbot, “I and my brethren are come hither on
an errand of mercy, and under the protection of your knightly word.”

The Baron raised his eyebrows in surprise at this, and, turning to
Segfried, he said in angry tones: “Is it so? Pledged you my word for the
safety of these men?”

“The reverend Abbot is mistaken,” replied the knight, who had not yet
descended from his horse. “There was no word of safe conduct between
us.”

“Safe conduct is implied when an officer of the Church is summoned to
administer its consolations to the dying,” said the Abbot.

“All trades,” remarked the Baron suavely, “have their dangers--yours
among the rest, as well as ours. If my follower had pledged my word
regarding your safety, I would now open the gates and let you free.
As he has not done so, I shall choose a manner for your exit more in
keeping with your lofty aspirations.”

Saying this, he gave some rapid orders; his servitors fell upon the
unresisting monks and bound them hand and foot. They were then conducted
to the northern wall, and the nooses there adjusted round the neck of
each. When this was done, the Baron stood back from the pinioned victims
and addressed them:

“It is not my intention that you should die without having time to
repent of the many wicked deeds you have doubtless done during your
lives. Your sentence is that ye be hanged at cockcrow to-morrow, which
was the hour when, if your teachings cling to my memory, the first of
your craft turned traitor to his master. If, however, you tire of your
all-night vigil, you can at once obtain release by crying at the top of
your voices ‘So die all Christians.’ Thus you will hang yourselves, and
so remove some responsibility from my perhaps overladen conscience. The
hanging is a device of my own, of which I am perhaps pardonably
proud, and it pleases me that it is to be first tried on so worthy an
assemblage. With much labour we have elevated to the battlements
an oaken tree, lopped of its branches, which will not burn the less
brightly next winter in that it has helped to commit some of you to
hotter flames, if all ye say be true. The ropes are tied to this log,
and at the cry ‘So die all Christians,’ I have some stout knaves in
waiting up above with levers, who will straightway fling the log over
the battlements on which it is now poised, and the instant after your
broken necks will impinge against the inner coping of the northern wall.
And now good-night, my Lord Abbot, and a happy release for you all in
the morning.”

“Baron von Grunewald, I ask of you that you will release one of us who
may thus administer the rites of the Church to his brethren and receive
in turn the same from me.”

“Now, out upon me for a careless knave!” cried the Baron. “I had
forgotten that; it is so long since I have been to mass and such like
ceremonies myself. Your request is surely most reasonable, and I like
you the better that you keep up the farce of your calling to the very
end. But think not that I am so inhospitable, as to force one guest to
wait upon another, even in matters spiritual. Not so. We keep with us a
ghostly father for such occasions, and use him between times to wait
on us with wine and other necessaries. As soon as he has filled our
flagons, I will ask good Father Gottlieb to wait upon you, and I doubt
not he will shrive with any in the land, although he has been this while
back somewhat out of practice. His habit is rather tattered and stained
with the drippings of his new vocation, but I warrant you, you will know
the sheep, even though his fleece be torn. And now, again, good-night,
my Lord.”

The Baron and his knights returned up the broad stairway that led to the
Rittersaal. Most of the torches were carried with them. The defences of
the castle were so strong that no particular pains were taken to make
all secure, further than the stationing of an armed man at the gate. A
solitary torch burnt under the archway, and here a guard paced back and
forth. The courtyard was in darkness, but the top of the highest turrets
were silvered by the rising moon. The doomed men stood with the halters
about their necks, as silent as a row of spectres.

The tall windows of the Rittersaal, being of coloured glass, threw
little light into the square, although they glowed with a rainbow
splendour from the torches within. Into the silence of the square broke
the sound of song and the clash of flagons upon the oaken table.

At last there came down the broad stair and out into the court a figure
in the habit of a monk, who hurried shufflingly across the stones to the
grim row of brown-robed men. He threw himself sobbing at the feet of the
tall Abbot.

“Rise, my son, and embrace me,” said his superior. When Father Gottlieb
did so, the other whispered in his ear: “There is a time to weep and a
time for action. Now is the time for action. Unloosen quickly the bonds
around me, and slip this noose from my neck.”

Father Gottlieb acquitted himself of his task as well as his agitation
and trembling hands would let him.

“Perform a like service for each of the others,” whispered the Abbot
curtly. “Tell each in a low voice to remain standing just as if he were
still bound. Then return to me.”

When the monk had done what he was told, he returned to his superior.

“Have you access to the wine cellar?” asked the Abbot.

“Yes, Father.”

“What are the strongest wines?”

“Those of the district are strong. Then there is a barrel or two of the
red wine of Assmannshausen.”

“Decant a half of each in your flagons. Is there brandy?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then mix with the two wines as much brandy as you think their already
drunken palates will not detect. Make the potation stronger with brandy
as the night wears on. When they drop off into their sodden sleep, bring
a flagon to the guard at the gate, and tell him the Baron sends it to
him.”

“Will you absolve me, Father, for the--”

“It is no falsehood, Gottlieb. I, the Baron, send it. I came hither the
Abbot Ambrose: I am now Baron von Stern, and if I have any influence
with our mother Church the Abbot’s robe shall fall on thy shoulders, if
you but do well what I ask of you to-night. It will be some compensation
for what, I fear, thou hast already suffered.”

Gottlieb hurried away, as the knights were already clamouring for
more wine. As the night wore on and the moon rose higher the sounds of
revelry increased, and once there was a clash of arms and much uproar,
which subsided under the over-mastering voice of the Black Baron. At
last the Abbot, standing there with the rope dangling behind him, saw
Gottlieb bring a huge beaker of liquor to the sentinel, who at once sat
down on the stone bench under the arch to enjoy it.

Finally, all riot died away in the hall except one thin voice singing,
waveringly, a drinking song, and when that ceased silence reigned
supreme, and the moon shone full upon the bubbling spring.

Gottlieb stole stealthily out and told the Abbot that all the knights
were stretched upon the floor, and the Baron had his head on the table,
beside his overturned flagon. The sentinel snored upon the stone bench.

“I can now unbar the gate,” said Father Gottlieb, “and we may all
escape.”

“Not so,” replied the Abbot. “We came to convert these men to
Christianity, and our task is still to do.”

The monks all seemed frightened at this, and wished themselves once
more within the monastery, able to say all’s well that ends so, but none
ventured to offer counsel to the gaunt man who led them. He bade each
bring with him the cords that had bound him, and without a word they
followed him into the Rittersaal, and there tied up the knights and
their master as they themselves had been tied.

“Carry them out,” commanded the Abbot, “and lay them in a row, their
feet towards the spring and their heads under the ropes. And go you,
Gottlieb, who know the ways of the castle, and fasten the doors of all
the apartments where the servitors are sleeping.”

When this was done, and they gathered once more in the moonlit
courtyard, the Abbot took off his robes of office and handed them
to Father Gottlieb, saying significantly: “The lowest among you that
suffers and is true shall be exalted.” Turning to his own flock, he
commanded them to go in and obtain some rest after such a disquieting
night; then to Gottlieb, when the monks had obediently departed: “Bring
me, an’ ye know where to find such, the apparel of a fighting man and a
sword.”

Thus arrayed, he dismissed the old man, and alone in the silence, with
the row of figures like effigies on a tomb beside him, paced up and down
through the night, as the moon dropped lower and lower, in the heavens.
There was a period of dark before the dawn, and at last the upper walls
began to whiten with the coming day, and the Black Baron moaned uneasily
in his drunken sleep. The Abbot paused in his walk and looked down upon
them, and Gottlieb stole out from the shadow of the door and asked if
he could be of service. He had evidently not slept, but had watched his
chief, until he paused in his march.

“Tell our brothers to come out and see the justice of the Lord.”

When the monks trooped out, haggard and wan, in the pure light of the
dawn, the Abbot asked Gottlieb to get a flagon and dash water from the
spring in the faces of the sleepers.

The Black Baron was the first to come to his senses and realise dimly,
at first, but afterwards more acutely, the changed condition of affairs.
His eye wandered apprehensively to the empty noose swaying slightly in
the morning breeze above him. He then saw that the tall, ascetic man
before him had doffed the Abbot’s robes and wore a sword by his side,
and from this he augured ill. At the command of the Abbot the monks
raised each prostrate man and placed him against the north wall.

“Gottlieb,” said, the Abbot slowly, “the last office that will be
required of you. You took from our necks the nooses last night. Place
them, I pray you, on the necks of the Baron and his followers.”

The old man, trembling, adjusted the ropes.

“My Lord Abbot----” began the Baron.

“Baron von Grunewald,” interrupted the person addressed, “the Abbot
Ambrose is dead. He was foully assassinated last night. In his place
stands Conrad von Stern, who answers for his deeds to the Emperor, and
after him, to God.”

“Is it your purpose to hang me, Baron?”

“Was it your purpose to have hanged us, my Lord?”

“I swear to heaven, it was not. ‘Twas but an ill-timed pleasantry. Had I
wished to hang you I would have done so last night.”

“That seems plausible.”

The knights all swore, with many rounded oaths, that their over-lord
spoke the truth, and nothing was further from their intention than an
execution.

“Well, then, whether you hang or no shall depend upon yourselves.”

“By God, then,” cried the Baron, “an’ I have aught to say on that point,
I shall hang some other day.”

“Will you then, Baron, beg admittance to Mother Church, whose kindly
tenets you have so long outraged?”

“We will, we do,” cried the Baron fervently, whispering through his
clenched teeth to Segfried, who stood next him: “Wait till I have the
upper hand again.” Fortunately the Abbot did not hear the whisper. The
knights all echoed aloud the Baron’s pious first remark, and, perhaps,
in their hearts said “Amen” to his second.

The Abbot spoke a word or two to the monks, and they advanced to the
pinioned men and there performed the rites sacred to their office and to
the serious situation of the penitents. As the good brothers stood back,
they begged the Abbot for mercy to be extended towards the new converts,
but the sphinx-like face of their leader gave no indication as to their
fate, and the good men began to fear that it was the Abbot’s intention
to hang the Baron and his knights.

“Now--brothers,” said the Abbot, with a long pause before he spoke the
second word, whereupon each of the prisoners heaved a sigh of relief, “I
said your fate would depend on yourselves and on your good intent.”

They all vociferously proclaimed that their intentions were and had been
of the most honourable kind.

“I trust that is true, and that you shall live long enough to show your
faith by your works. It is written that a man digged a pit for his enemy
and fell himself therein. It is also written that as a man sows, so
shall he reap. If you meant us no harm then your signal shouted to the
battlements will do you no harm.”

“For God’s sake, my Lord....” screamed the Baron. The Abbot, unheeding,
raised his face towards the northern wall and shouted at the top of his
voice:

“So die SUCH Christians!” varying the phrase by one word. A simultaneous
scream rose from the doomed men, cut short as by a knife, as the huge
log was hurled over the outer parapet, and the seventeen victims were
jerked into the air and throttled at the coping around the inner wall.

Thus did the Abbot Ambrose save the souls of Baron von Grunewald and his
men, at some expense to their necks.




AN INVITATION


The proud and warlike Archbishop Baldwin of Treves was well mounted,
and, although the road by the margin of the river was in places bad, the
august horseman nevertheless made good progress along it, for he had
a long distance to travel before the sun went down. The way had been
rudely constructed by that great maker of roads--the army--and the
troops who had built it did not know, when they laboured at it, that
they were preparing a path for their own retreat should disaster
overtake them. The grim and silent horseman had been the brains, where
the troops were the limbs; this thoroughfare had been of his planning,
and over it, back into Treves, had returned a victorious, not a
defeated, army. The iron hand of the Archbishop had come down on every
truculent noble in the land, and every castle gate that had not opened
to him through fear, had been battered in by force. Peace now spread her
white wings over all the country, and where opposition to his Lordship’s
stubborn will had been the strongest, there was silence as well, with,
perhaps, a thin wreath of blue smoke hovering over the blackened walls.
The provinces on each bank of the Moselle from Treves to the Rhine now
acknowledged Baldwin their over-lord--a suzerainty technically claimed
by his Lordship’s predecessors--but the iron Archbishop had changed the
nominal into the actual, and it had taken some hard knocks to do it. His
present journey was well earned, for he was betaking himself from his
more formal and exacting Court at Treves to his summer palace at Cochem,
there to rest from the fatigues of a campaign in which he had used not
only his brain, but his good right arm as well.

The palace which was to be the end of his journey was in some respects
admirably suited to its master, for, standing on an eminence high above
Cochem, with its score of pinnacles glittering in the sun, it seemed, to
one below, a light and airy structure; but it was in reality a fortress
almost impregnable, and three hundred years later it sent into a less
turbulent sphere the souls of one thousand six hundred Frenchmen before
its flag was lowered to the enemy.

The personal appearance of the Archbishop and the smallness of his
escort were practical illustrations of the fact that the land was at
peace, and that he was master of it. His attire was neither clerical
nor warlike, but rather that of a nobleman riding abroad where no
enemy could possibly lurk. He was to all appearance unarmed, and had
no protection save a light chain mail jacket of bright steel, which was
worn over his vesture, and not concealed as was the custom. This jacket
sparkled in the sun as if it were woven of fine threads strung with
small and innumerable diamonds. It might ward off a dagger thrust,
or turn aside a half-spent arrow, but it was too light to be of much
service against sword or pike. The Archbishop was well mounted on a
powerful black charger that had carried him through many a hot contest,
and it now made little of the difficulties of the ill-constructed road,
putting the other horses on their mettle to equal the pace set to them.

The escort consisted of twelve men, all lightly armed, for Gottlieb, the
monk, who rode sometimes by the Archbishop’s side, but more often
behind him, could hardly be counted as a combatant should defence
become necessary. When the Archbishop left Treves his oldest general had
advised his taking an escort of a thousand men at least, putting it on
the ground that such a number was necessary to uphold the dignity of
his office; but Baldwin smiled darkly, and said that where _he_ rode the
dignity of the Electorship would be safe, even though none rode beside
or behind him. Few dared offer advice to the Elector, but the bluff
general persisted, and spoke of danger in riding down the Moselle valley
with so small a following.

“Who is there left to molest me?” asked the Archbishop; and the general
was forced to admit that there was none.

An army builds a road along the line of the least resistance; and often,
when a promontory thrust its rocky nose into the river, the way led up
the hill through the forest, getting back into the valley again as best
it could. During these inland excursions, the monk, evidently unused to
equestrianism, fell behind, and sometimes the whole troop was halted
by command of its chief, until Gottlieb, clinging to his horse’s mane,
emerged from the thicket, the Archbishop curbing the impatience of his
charger and watching, with a cynical smile curling his stern lips, the
reappearance of the good father.

After one of the most laborious ascents and descents they had
encountered that day, the Archbishop waited for the monk; and when he
came up with his leader, panting and somewhat dishevelled, the latter
said, “There appears to be a lesson in your tribulations which hereafter
you may retail with profit to your flock, relating how a good man
leaving the right and beaten path and following his own devices in the
wilderness may bring discomfiture upon himself.”

“The lesson it conveys to me, my Lord,” said the monk, drily, “is that
a man is but a fool to leave the stability of good stout sandals with
which he is accustomed, to venture his body on a horse that pays little
heed to his wishes.”

“This is our last detour,” replied the Elector; “there are now many
miles of winding but level road before us, and you have thus a chance to
retrieve your reputation as a horseman in the eyes of our troop.”

“In truth, my Lord, I never boasted of it,” returned the monk, “but I
am right glad to learn that the way will be less mountainous. To what
district have we penetrated?”

“Above us, but unseen from this bank of the river, is the castle of the
Widow Starkenburg. Her days of widowhood, however, are nearly passed,
for I intend to marry her to one of my victorious knights, who will hold
the castle for me.”

“The Countess of Starkenburg,” said the monk, “must surely now be at an
age when the thoughts turn toward Heaven rather than toward matrimony.”

“I have yet to meet the woman,” replied the Archbishop, gazing upward,
“who pleads old age as an excuse for turning away from a suitable lover.
It is thy misfortune, Gottlieb, that in choosing a woollen cowl rather
than an iron head-piece, thou should’st thus have lost a chance of
advancement. The castle, I am told, has well-filled wine vaults, and
old age in wine is doubtless more to thy taste than the same quality in
woman. ‘Tis a pity thou art not a knight, Gottlieb.”

“The fault is not beyond the power of our Holy Father to remedy by
special dispensation,” replied the monk, with a chuckle.

The Elector laughed silently, and looked down on his comrade in kindly
fashion, shaking his head.

“The wines of Castle Starkenburg are not for thy appreciative palate,
ghostly father. I have already selected a mate for the widow.”

“And what if thy selection jumps not with her approval. They tell me the
countess has a will of her own.”

“It matters little to me, and I give her the choice merely because I am
loth to war with a woman. The castle commands the river and holds the
district. The widow may give it up peaceably at the altar, or forcibly
at the point of the sword, whichever method most commends itself to her
ladyship. The castle must be in the command of one whom I can trust.”

The conversation here met a startling interruption. The Archbishop and
his guard were trotting rapidly round a promontory and following a
bend of the river, the nature of the country being such that it was
impossible to see many hundred feet ahead of them. Suddenly, they came
upon a troop of armed and mounted men, standing like statues before
them. The troop numbered an even score, and completely filled the way
between the precipice on their left and the stream on their right.
Although armed, every sword was in its scabbard, with the exception
of the long two-handed weapon of the leader, who stood a few paces in
advance of his men, with the point of his sword resting on the ground.
The black horse, old in campaigns, recognised danger ahead, and stopped
instantly, without waiting for the drawing of the rein, planting his two
forefeet firmly in front, with a suddenness of action that would have
unhorsed a less alert rider. Before the archbishop could question the
silent host that barred his way, their leader raised his long sword
until it was poised perpendicularly in the air above his head, and, with
a loud voice, in measured tones, as one repeats a lesson he has learned
by rote, he cried, “My Lord Archbishop of Treves, the Countess Laurette
von Starkenburg invites you to sup with her.”

In the silence that followed, the leader’s sword still remained uplifted
untrembling in the air. Across the narrow gorge, from the wooded sides
of the opposite mountains, came, with mocking cadence, the echo of the
last words of the invitation, clear and distinct, as if spoken again by
some one concealed in the further forest. A deep frown darkened the brow
of the fighting archbishop.

“The Countess is most kind,” he said, slowly. “Convey to her my
respectful admiration, and express my deep regret that I am unable to
accept her hospitality, as I ride to-night to my Castle at Cochem.”

The leader of the opposing host suddenly lowered his upraised sword,
as if in salute, but the motion seemed to be a preconcerted signal, for
every man behind him instantly whipped blade from scabbard, and stood
there with naked weapon displayed. The leader, raising his sword once
more to its former position, repeated in the same loud and monotonous
voice, as if the archbishop had not spoken. “My Lord Archbishop of
Treves, the Countess Laurette von Starkenburg invites you to sup with
her.”

The intelligent war-horse, who had regarded the obstructing force with
head held high, retreated slowly step by step, until now a considerable
distance separated the two companies. The captain of the guard had seen
from the first that attack or defence was equally useless, and, with
his men, had also given way gradually as the strange colloquy went on.
Whether any of the opposing force noticed this or not, they made no
attempt to recover the ground thus almost imperceptibly stolen from
them, but stood as if each horse were rooted to the spot.

Baldwin the Fighter, whose compressed lips showed how loth he was to
turn his back upon any foe, nevertheless saw the futility of resistance,
and in a quick, clear whisper, he said, hastily, “Back! Back! If we
cannot fight them, we can at least out-race them.”

The good monk had taken advantage of his privilege as a non-combatant
to retreat well to the rear while the invitation was being given and
declined, and in the succeeding flight found himself leading the van.
The captain of the guard threw himself between the Starkenburg men and
the prince of the Church, but the former made no effort at pursuit,
standing motionless as they had done from the first until the rounding
promontory hid them from view. Suddenly, the horse on which the monk
rode stood stock still, and its worthy rider, with a cry of alarm,
clinging to the animal’s mane, shot over its head and came heavily to
the ground. The whole flying troop came to a sudden halt, for there
ahead of them was a band exactly similar in numbers and appearance to
that from which they were galloping. It seemed as if the same company
had been transported by magic over the promontory and placed across the
way. The sun shone on the uplifted blade of the leader, reminding the
archbishop of the flaming sword that barred the entrance of our first
parents to Paradise.

The leader, with ringing voice, that had a touch of menace in it, cried:

“My Lord Archbishop of Treves, the Countess Laurette von Starkenburg
invites you to sup with her.”

“Trapped, by God!” muttered the Elector between his clinched teeth. His
eyes sparkled with anger, and the sinister light that shot from them
had before now made the Emperor quail. He spurred his horse toward
the leader, who lowered his sword and bowed to the great dignitary
approaching him.

“The Countess of Starkenburg is my vassal,” cried the Archbishop. “You
are her servant; and in much greater degree, therefore, are you mine. I
command you to let us pass unmolested on our way; refuse at your peril.”

“A servant,” said the man, slowly, “obeys the one directly above him,
and leaves that one to account to any superior authority. My men obey
me; I take my orders from my lady the countess. If you, my Lord, wish to
direct the authority which commands me, my lady the countess awaits your
pleasure at her castle of Starkenburg.”

“What are your orders, fellow?” asked the Archbishop, in a calmer tone.

“To convey your Lordship without scathe to the gates of Starkenburg.”

“And if you meet resistance, what then?”

“The orders stand, my Lord.”

“You will, I trust, allow this mendicant monk to pass peaceably on his
way to Treves.”

“In no castle on the Moselle does even the humblest servant of the
Church receive a warmer welcome than at Starkenburg. My lady would hold
me to blame were she prevented from offering her hospitality to the
mendicant.”

“Does the same generous impulse extend to each of my followers?”

“It includes them all, my Lord.”

“Very well. We will do ourselves the honour of waiting upon this most
bountiful hostess.”

By this time the troop which had first stopped the Archbishop’s
progress came slowly up, and the little body-guard of the Elector found
themselves hemmed in with twenty men in the front and twenty at the
rear, while the rocky precipice rose on one hand and the rapid river
flowed on the other.

The _cortège_ reformed and trotted gently down the road until it came
to a by-way leading up the hill. Into this by-way the leaders turned,
reducing their trot to a walk because of the steepness of the
ascent. The Archbishop and his men followed, with the second troop of
Starkenburg bringing up the rear. His Lordship rode at first in sullen
silence, then with a quick glance of his eye he summoned the captain to
his side. He slipped the ring of office from his finger and passed it
unperceived into the officer’s hand.

“There will be some confusion at the gate,” he said, in a low voice.
“Escape then if you can. Ride for Treves as you never rode before. Stop
not to fight with any; everything depends on outstripping pursuit.
Take what horses you need wherever you find them, and kill them all if
necessary, but stop for nothing. This ring will be warrant for whatever
you do. Tell my general to invest this castle instantly with ten
thousand men and press forward the siege regardless of my fate. Tell him
to leave not one stone standing upon another, and to hang the widow of
Starkenburg from her own blazing timbers. Succeed, and a knighthood and
the command of a thousand men awaits you.”

“I will succeed or die, my Lord.”

“Succeed and live,” said the Archbishop, shortly.

As the horses slowly laboured up the zigzagging road, the view along the
silvery Moselle widened and extended, and at last the strong grey walls
of the castle came into sight, with the ample gates wide open. The
horsemen in front drew up in two lines on each side of the gates without
entering, and thus the Archbishop, at the head of his little band,
slowly rode first under the archway into the courtyard of the castle.

On the stone steps that led to the principal entrance of the castle
stood a tall, graceful lady, with her women behind her. She was robed in
black, and the headdress of her snow-white hair gave her the appearance
of a dignified abbess at her convent door. Her serene and placid face
had undoubtedly once been beautiful; and age, which had left her form as
straight and slender as one of her own forest pines, forgetting to
place its customary burden upon her graceful shoulders, had touched her
countenance with a loving hand. With all her womanliness, there was,
nevertheless, a certain firmness in the finely-moulded chin that gave
evidence of a line of ancestry that had never been too deferential to
those in authority.

The stern Archbishop reined in his black charger when he reached the
middle of the courtyard, but made no motion to dismount. The lady came
slowly down the broad stone steps, followed by her feminine train, and,
approaching the Elector, placed her white hand upon his stirrup, in mute
acknowledgment of her vassalage.

“Welcome, prince of the Church and protector of our Faith,” she said.
“It is a hundred years since my poor house has sheltered so august a
guest.”

The tones were smooth and soothing as the scarcely audible plash of a
distant fountain; but the incident she cited struck ominously on the
Archbishop’s recollection, rousing memory and causing him to dart a
quick glance at the countess, in which was blended sharp enquiry and
awakened foreboding; but the lady, unconscious of his scrutiny, stood
with drooping head and downcast eyes, her shapely hand still on his
stirrup-iron.

“If I remember rightly, madame, my august predecessor slept well beneath
this roof.”

“Alas, yes!” murmured the lady, sadly. “We have ever accounted it the
greatest misfortune of our line, that he should have died mysteriously
here. Peace be to his soul!”

“Not so mysteriously, madame, but that there were some shrewd guesses
concerning his malady.”

“That is true, my Lord,” replied the countess, simply. “It was supposed
that in his camp upon the lowlands by the river he contracted a fever
from which he died.”

“My journey by the Moselle has been of the briefest. I trust, therefore,
I have not within me the seeds of his fatal distemper.”

“I most devoutly echo that trust, my Lord, and pray that God, who
watches over us all, may guard your health while sojourning here.”

“Forgive me, madame, if, within the shadow of these walls, I say ‘Amen’
to your prayer with some emphasis.”

The Countess Laurette contented herself with bowing low and humbly
crossing herself, making no verbal reply to his Lordship’s remark. She
then beseeched the Archbishop to dismount, saying something of his need
of rest and refreshment, begging him to allow her to be his guide to the
Rittersaal.

When the Archbishop reached the topmost step that led to the castle
door, he cast an eye, not devoid of anxiety, over the court-yard, to see
how his following had fared. The gates were now fast closed, and forty
horses were ranged with their tails to the wall, the silent riders in
their saddles. Rapid as was his glance, it showed him his guard huddled
together in the centre of the court, his own black charger, with empty
saddle, the only living thing among them that showed no sign of dismay.
Between two of the hostile horsemen stood his captain, with doublet torn
and headgear awry, evidently a discomfited prisoner.

The Archbishop entered the gloomy castle with a sense of defeat tugging
down his heart to a lower level than he had ever known it to reach
before; for in days gone by, when fate had seemed to press against
him, he had been in the thick of battle, and had felt an exultation in
rallying his half-discouraged followers, who had never failed to respond
to the call of a born leader of men. But here he had to encounter
silence, with semi-darkness over his head, cold stone under foot, and
round him the unaccustomed hiss of women’s skirts.

The Countess conducted her guest through the lofty Knight’s Hall, in
which his Lordship saw preparations for a banquet going forward. An
arched passage led them to a small room that seemed to be within a
turret hanging over a precipice, as if it were an eagle’s nest. This
room gave an admirable and extended view over the winding Moselle and
much of the surrounding country. On a table were flagons of wine and
empty cups, together with some light refection, upon all of which the
Archbishop looked with suspicious eye. He did not forget the rumoured
poisoning of his predecessor in office. The countess asked him, with
deference, to seat himself; then pouring out a cup of wine, she bowed to
him and drank it. Turning to rinse the cup in a basin of water which a
serving-woman held, she was interrupted by her guest, who now, for the
first time, showed a trace of gallantry.

“I beg of you, madame,” said the Archbishop, rising; and, taking the
unwashed cup from her hand, he filled it with wine, drinking prosperity
to herself and her home. Then, motioning her to a chair, he said seating
himself: “Countess von Starkenburg, I am a man more used to the uncouth
rigour of a camp than the dainty etiquette of a lady’s boudoir. Forgive
me, then, if I ask you plainly, as a plain man may, why you hold me
prisoner in your castle.”

“Prisoner, my lord?” echoed the lady, with eyebrows raised in amazement.
“How poorly are we served by our underlings, if such a thought has been
conveyed to your lordship’s mind. I asked them to invite you hither
with such deference as a vassal should hold toward an over-lord. I
am grievously distressed to learn that my commands have been so ill
obeyed.”

“Your commands were faithfully followed, madame, and I have made no
complaint regarding lack of deference, but when two-score armed men
carry a respectful invitation to one having a bare dozen at his back,
then all option vanishes, and compulsion takes its place.”

“My lord, a handful of men were fit enough escort for a neighbouring
baron should he visit us, but, for a prince of the Church, all my
retainers are but scanty acknowledgment of a vassal’s regard. I would
they had been twenty thousand, to do you seemly honour.”

“I am easily satisfied, madame, and had they been fewer I might have
missed this charming outlook. I am to understand, then, that you have no
demands to make of me; and that I am free to depart, accompanied by your
good wishes.”

“With my good wishes now and always, surely, my Lord. I have no demands
to make--the word ill befits the lips of a humble vassal; but, being
here----”

“Ah! But, being here----” interrupted the Archbishop, glancing keenly at
her.

“I have a favour to beg of you. I wish to ask permission to build a
castle on the heights above Trarbach, for my son.”

“The Count Johann, third of the name?”

“The same, my Lord, who is honoured by your Lordship’s remembrance of
him.”

“And you wish to place this stronghold between your castle of
Starkenburg and my town of Treves? Were I a suspicious man, I might
imagine you had some distrust of me.”

“Not so, my lord. The Count Johann will hold the castle in your
defence.”

“I have ever been accustomed to look to my own defence,” said the
Archbishop, drily; adding, as if it were an afterthought, “with the
blessing of God upon my poor efforts.”

The faintest suspicion of a smile hovered for an instant on the lips of
the countess, that might have been likened to the momentary passing of a
gleam of sunshine over the placid waters of the river far below; for
she well knew, as did all others, that it was the habit of the fighting
Archbishop to smite sturdily first, and ask whatever blessing might be
needed on the blow afterwards.

“The permission being given, what follows?”

“That you will promise not to molest me during the building.”

“A natural corollary. ‘Twould be little worth to give permission and
then bring up ten thousand men to disturb the builders. That granted,
remains there anything more?”

“I fear I trespass on your Lordship’s patience but this is now the
end. A strong house is never built with a weak purse. I do entreat your
lordship to cause to be sent to me from your treasury in Treves thousand
pieces of gold, that the castle may be a worthy addition to your
province.”

The Archbishop arose with a scowl on his face, and paced the narrow
limits of the room like a caged lion. The hot anger mounted to his brow
and reddened it, but he strode up and down until he regained control of
himself, then spoke with a touch of hardness in his voice:

“A good fighter, madame, holds his strongest reserves to the last. You
have called me a prince of the Church, and such I am. But you flatter
me, madame; you rate me too high. The founder of our Church, when
betrayed, was sold for silver, and for a lesser number of pieces than
you ask in gold.”

The lady, now standing, answered nothing to this taunt, but the colour
flushed her pale cheeks.

“I am, then, a prisoner, and you hold me for ransom, but it will avail
you little. You may close your gates and prevent my poor dozen of
followers from escaping, but news of this outrage will reach Treves, and
then, by God, your walls shall smoke for it. There will be none of the
Starkenburgs left, either to kidnap or to murder future archbishops.”

Still the lady stood silent and motionless as a marble statue. The
Elector paced up and down for a time, muttering to himself, then smote
his open palm against a pillar of the balcony, and stood gazing on the
fair landscape of river and rounded hill spread below and around him.
Suddenly he turned and looked at the Countess, meeting her clear,
fearless grey eyes, noticing, for the first time, the resolute contour
of her finely-moulded chin.

“Madame,” he said, with admiration in his tone, “you are a brave woman.”

“I am not so brave as you think me, my Lord,” she answered, coldly.
“There is one thing I dare not do. I am not brave enough to allow your
Lordship to go free, if you refuse what I ask.”

“And should I not relent at first, there are dungeons in Starkenburg
where this proud spirit, with which my enemies say I am cursed, will
doubtless be humbled.”

“Not so, my Lord. You will be treated with that consideration which
should be shown to one of your exalted station.”

“Indeed! And melted thus by kindness, how long, think you, will the
process take?”

“It will be of the shortest, my Lord, for if, as you surmise rumour
should get abroad and falsely proclaim that the Archbishop lodges here
against his will, there’s not a flying baron or beggared knight in all
the land but would turn in his tracks and cry to Starkenburg, ‘In God’s
name, hold him, widow, till we get our own again!’ Willingly would they
make the sum I beg of you an annual tribute, so they might be certain
your Lordship were well housed in this castle.”

“Widow, there is truth in what you say, even if a woman hath spoken it,”
 replied the Archbishop, with a grim smile on his lips and undisguised
admiration gleaming from his dark eye. “This cowardly world is given
to taking advantage of a man when opportunity offers. But there is
one point you have not reckoned upon: What of my stout army lying at
Treves?”

“What of the arch when the keystone is withdrawn? What of the sheep
when the shepherd disappears? My Lord, you do yourself and your great
military gifts a wrong. Through my deep regard for you I gave strict
command that not even the meanest of your train should be allowed to
wander till all were safe within these gates, for I well knew that, did
but a whisper of my humble invitation and your gracious acceptance
of the same reach Treves, it might be misconstrued; and although some
sturdy fellows would be true, and beat their stupid heads against these
walls, the rest would scatter like a sheaf of arrows suddenly unloosed,
and seek the strongest arm upraised in the mêlée sure to follow. Against
your army, leaderless, I would myself march out at the head of my
two-score men without a tremor at my heart; before that leader, alone
and armyless, I bow my head with something more akin to fear than I have
ever known before, and crave his generous pardon for my bold request.”

The Archbishop took her unresisting hand, and, bending, raised it to his
lips with that dignified courtesy which, despite his disclaimer, he knew
well how, upon occasion, to display.

“Madame,” he said, “I ask you to believe that your request was granted
even before you marshalled such unanswerable arguments to stand, like
armoured men, around it. There is a tern and stringent law of our great
Church which forbids its servants suing for a lady’s hand. Countess, I
never felt the grasp of that iron fetter until now.”

Thus came the strong castle above Trarbach to be builded, and that not
at the expense of its owners.




THE ARCHBISHOP’S GIFT


Arras, blacksmith and armourer, stood at the door of his hut in the
valley of the Alf, a league or so from the Moselle, one summer evening.
He was the most powerful man in all the Alf-thal, and few could lift the
iron sledge-hammer he wielded as though it were a toy. Arras had twelve
sons scarce less stalwart than himself, some of whom helped him in
his occupation of blacksmith and armourer, while the others tilled the
ground near by, earning from the rich soil of the valley such sustenance
as the whole family required.

The blacksmith thus standing at his door, heard, coming up the valley of
the Alf, the hoof-beats of a horse, and his quick, experienced ear told
him, though the animal was yet afar, that one of its shoes was loose.
As the hurrying rider came within call, the blacksmith shouted to him in
stentorian tones:

“Friend, pause a moment, until I fasten again the shoe on your horse’s
foot.”

“I cannot stop,” was the brief answer.

“Then your animal will go lame,” rejoined the blacksmith.

“Better lose a horse than an empire,” replied the rider, hurrying by.

“Now what does that mean?” said the blacksmith to himself as he watched
the disappearing rider, while the click-clack of the loosened shoe
became fainter and fainter in the distance.

Could the blacksmith have followed the rider into Castle Bertrich, a
short distance further up the valley, he would speedily have learned the
meaning of the hasty phrase the horseman had flung behind him as he rode
past. Ascending the winding road that led to the gates of the castle as
hurriedly as the jaded condition of his beast would permit, the horseman
paused, unloosed the horn from his belt, and blew a blast that echoed
from the wooded hills around. Presently an officer appeared above the
gateway, accompanied by two or three armed men, and demanded who the
stranger was and why he asked admission. The horseman, amazed at the
officer’s ignorance of heraldry that caused him to inquire as to his
quality, answered with some haughtiness:

“Messenger of the Archbishop of Treves, I demand instant audience with
Count Bertrich.”

The officer, without reply, disappeared from the castle wall, and
presently the great leaves of the gate were thrown open, whereupon the
horseman rode his tired animal into the courtyard and flung himself off.

“My horse’s shoe is loose,” he said to the Captain. “I ask you to have
your armourer immediately attend to it.”

“In truth,” replied the officer, shrugging his shoulders, “there is
more drinking than fighting in Castle Bertrich; consequently we do not
possess an armourer. If you want blacksmithing done you must betake
yourself to armourer Arras in the valley, who will put either horse or
armour right for you.”

With this the messenger was forced to be content; and, begging the
attendants who took charge of his horse to remember that it had
travelled far and had still, when rested, a long journey before it, he
followed the Captain into the great Rittersaal of the castle, where, on
entering, after having been announced, he found the Count of Bertrich
sitting at the head of a long table, holding in his hand a gigantic wine
flagon which he was industriously emptying. Extending down each side of
the table were many nobles, knights, and warriors, who, to judge by the
hasty glance bestowed upon them by the Archbishop’s messenger, seemed
to be energetically following the example set them by their over-lord
at the head. Count Bertrich’s hair was unkempt, his face a purplish
red, his eye bloodshot; and his corselet, open at the throat, showed the
great bull-neck of the man, on whose gigantic frame constant dissipation
seemed to have merely temporary effect.

“Well!” roared the nobleman, in a voice that made the rafters ring.
“What would you with Count Bertrich?”

“I bear an urgent despatch to you from my Lord the Archbishop of
Treves,” replied the messenger.

“Then down on your knees and present it,” cried the Count, beating the
table with his flagon.

“I am Envoy of his Lordship of Treves,” said the messenger, sternly.

“You told us that before,” shouted the Count; “and now you stand in the
hall of Bertrich. Kneel, therefore, to its master.”

“I represent the Archbishop,” reiterated the messenger, “and I kneel to
none but God and the Emperor.”

Count Bertrich rose somewhat uncertainly to his feet, his whole frame
trembling with anger, and volleyed forth oaths upon threats. The tall
nobleman at his right hand also rose, as did many of the others who sat
at the table, and, placing his hand on the arm of his furious host, said
warningly:

“My Lord Count, the man is right. It is against the feudal law that he
should kneel, or that you should demand it. The Archbishop of Treves is
your overlord, as well as ours, and it is not fitting that his messenger
should kneel before us.”

“That is truth--the feudal law,” muttered others down each side of the
table.

The enraged Count glared upon them one after another, partially subdued
by their breaking away from him.

The Envoy stood calm and collected, awaiting the outcome of the tumult.
The Count, cursing the absent Archbishop and his present guests with
equal impartiality, sat slowly down again, and flinging his empty
flagon at an attendant, demanded that it should be refilled. The others
likewise resumed their seats; and the Count cried out, but with less of
truculence in his tone:

“What message sent the Archbishop to Castle Bertrich?”

“My Lord, the Archbishop of Treves requires me to inform Count Bertrich
and the assembled nobles that the Hungarians have forced passage across
the Rhine, and are now about to make their way through the defiles
of the Eifel into this valley, intending to march thence upon Treves,
laying that ancient city in ruin and carrying havoc over the surrounding
country. His Lordship commands you, Count Bertrich, to rally your men
about you and to hold the infidels in check in the defiles of the Eifel
until the Archbishop comes, at the bead of his army, to your relief from
Treves.”

There was deep silence in the vast hall after this startling
announcement. Then the Count replied:

“Tell the Archbishop of Treves that if the Lords of the Rhine cannot
keep back the Hungarians, it is hardly likely that we, less powerful,
near the Moselle, can do it.”

“His Lordship urges instant compliance with his request, and I am to say
that you refuse at your peril. A few hundred men can hold the Hungarians
in check while they are passing through the narrow ravines of the Eifel,
while as many thousands might not be successful against them should they
once reach the open valleys of the Alf and the Moselle. His Lordship
would also have you know that this campaign is as much in your own
interest as in his, for the Hungarians, in their devastating march,
spare neither high nor low.”

“Tell his Lordship,” hiccoughed the Count, “that I sit safely in my
Castle of Bertrich, and that I defy all the Hungarians who were ever let
loose to disturb me therein. If the Archbishop keeps Treves as tightly
as I shall hold Castle Bertrich, there is little to fear from the
invaders.”

“Am I to return to Treves then with your refusal?” asked the Envoy.

“You may return to Treves as best pleases you, so that you rid us of
your presence here, where you mar good company.”

The Envoy, without further speech, bowed to Count Bertrich and also
to the assembled nobles, passed silently out of the hall, once more
reaching the courtyard of the castle, where he demanded that his horse
be brought to him.

“The animal has had but scant time for feeding and rest,” said the
Captain.

“‘Twill be sufficient to carry us to the blacksmith’s hut,” answered the
Envoy, as he put his foot in stirrup.

The blacksmith, still standing at the door of his smithy, heard, coming
from the castle, the click of the broken shoe, but this time the rider
drew up before him and said:

“The offer of help which you tendered me a little ago I shall now be
glad to accept. Do your work well, smith, and know that in performing
it, you are obliging an envoy of the Archbishop of Treves.”

The armourer raised his cap at the mention of the august name, and
invoked a blessing upon the head of that renowned and warlike prelate.

“You said something,” spoke up the smith, “of loss of empire, as you
rode by. I trust there is no disquieting news from Treves?”

“Disquieting enough,” replied the messenger. “The Hungarians have
crossed the Rhine, and are now making their way towards the defiles of
the Eifel. There a hundred men could hold the infidels in check; but
you breed a scurvy set of nobles in the Alf-thal, for Count Bertrich
disdains the command of his over-lord to rise at the head of his men and
stay the progress of the invader until the Archbishop can come to his
assistance.”

“Now, out upon the drunken Count for a base coward!” cried the armourer
in anger. “May his castle be sacked and himself hanged on the highest
turret, for refusing aid to his over-lord in time of need. I and my
twelve sons know every rock and cave in the Eifel. Would the Archbishop,
think you, accept the aid of such underlings as we, whose only
commendation is that our hearts are stout as our sinews?”

“What better warranty could the Archbishop ask than that?” replied the
Envoy. “If you can hold back the Hungarians for four or five days, then
I doubt not that whatever you ask of the Archbishop will speedily be
granted.”

“We shall ask nothing,” cried the blacksmith, “but his blessing, and be
deeply honoured in receiving it.”

Whereupon the blacksmith, seizing his hammer, went to the door of his
hut, where hung part of a suit of armour, that served at the same time
as a sign of his profession and as a tocsin. He smote the hanging iron
with his sledge until the clangorous reverberation sounded through the
valley, and presently there came hurrying to him eight of his stalwart
sons, who had been occupied in tilling the fields.

“Scatter ye,” cried the blacksmith, “over the land. Rouse the people,
and tell them the Hungarians are upon us. Urge all to collect here at
midnight, with whatever of arms or weapons they may possess. Those who
have no arms, let them bring poles, and meanwhile your brothers and
myself will make pike-heads for them. Tell them they are called to,
action by a Lord from the Archbishop of Treves himself, and that I shall
lead them. Tell them they fight for their homes, their wives, and their
children. And now away.”

The eight young men at once dispersed in various directions. The smith
himself shod the Envoy’s horse, and begged him to inform the Archbishop
that they would defend the passes of the Eifel while a man of them
remained alive.

Long before midnight the peasants came straggling to the smithy from all
quarters, and by daylight the blacksmith had led them over the volcanic
hills to the lip of the tremendous pass through which the Hungarians
must come. The sides of this chasm were precipitous and hundreds of feet
in height. Even the peasants themselves, knowing the rocks as they did,
could not have climbed from the bottom of the pass to the height they
now occupied. They had, therefore, no fear that the Hungarians could
scale the walls and decimate their scanty band.

When the invaders appeared the blacksmith and his men rolled great
stones and rocks down upon them, practically annihilating the advance
guard and throwing the whole army into confusion. The week’s struggle
that followed forms one of the most exciting episodes in German history.
Again and again the Hungarians attempted the pass, but nothing could
withstand the avalanche of stones and rocks wherewith they were
overwhelmed. Still, the devoted little band did not have everything
its own way. They were so few--and they had to keep watch night and
day--that ere the week was out many turned longing eyes towards the
direction whence the Archbishop’s army was expected to appear. It was
not until the seventh day that help arrived, and then the Archbishop’s
forces speedily put to flight the now demoralised Hungarians, and chased
them once more across the Rhine.

“There is nothing now left for us to do,” said the tired blacksmith to
his little following; “so I will get back to my forge and you to your
farms.”

And this without more ado they did, the cheering and inspiring ring of
iron on anvil awakening the echoes of the Alf-thal once again.

The blacksmith and his twelve sons were at their noon-day meal when an
imposing cavalcade rode up to the smithy. At the head was no other
than the Archbishop himself, and the blacksmith and his dozen sons
were covered with confusion to think that they had such a distinguished
visitor without the means of receiving him in accordance with his
station. But the Archbishop said:

“Blacksmith Arras, you and your sons would not wait for me to thank you;
so I am now come to you that in presence of all these followers of mine
I may pay fitting tribute to your loyalty and your bravery.”

Then, indeed, did the modest blacksmith consider he had received more
than ample compensation for what he had done, which, after all, as he
told his neighbours, was merely his duty. So why should a man be thanked
for it?

“Blacksmith,” said the Archbishop, as he mounted his horse to return to
Treves, “thanks cost little and are easily bestowed. I hope, however, to
have a present for you that will show the whole country round how much I
esteem true valour.”

At the mouth of the Alf-thal, somewhat back from the small village of
Alf and overlooking the Moselle, stands a conical hill that completely
commands the valley. The Archbishop of Treves, having had a lesson
regarding the dangers of an incursion through the volcanic region of
the Eifel, put some hundreds of men at work on this conical hill, and
erected on the top a strong castle, which was the wonder of the country.
The year was nearing its end when this great stronghold was completed,
and it began to be known throughout the land that the Archbishop
intended to hold high revel there, and had invited to the castle all
the nobles in the country, while the chief guest was no other than the
Emperor himself. Then the neighbours of the blacksmith learned that a
gift was about to be bestowed upon that stalwart man. He and his twelve
sons received notification to attend at the castle, and to enjoy the
whole week’s festivity. He was commanded to come in his leathern apron,
and to bring with him his huge sledge-hammer, which, the Archbishop
said, had now become a weapon as honourable as the two-handed sword
itself.

Never before had such an honour been bestowed upon a common man, and
though the peasants were jubilant that one of their caste should be thus
singled out to receive the favour of the famous Archbishop, and meet not
only great nobles, but even the Emperor himself, still, it was gossiped
that the Barons grumbled at this distinction being placed upon a serf
like the blacksmith Arras, and none were so loud in their complaints
as Count Bertrich, who had remained drinking in the castle while the
blacksmith fought for the land. Nevertheless, all the nobility accepted
the invitation of the powerful Archbishop of Treves, and assembled in
the great room of the new castle, each equipped in all the gorgeous
panoply of full armour. It had been rumoured among the nobles that the
Emperor would not permit the Archbishop to sully the caste of knighthood
by asking the Barons to recognise or hold converse with one in humble
station of life. Indeed, had it been otherwise, Count Bertrich, with the
Barons to back him, were resolved to speak out boldly to the Emperor,
upholding the privileges of their class, and protesting against insult
to it in presence of the blacksmith and his sons.

When all assembled in the great hall they found at the centre of the
long side wall a magnificent throne erected, with a daïs in front of it,
and on this throne sat, the Emperor in state, while at his right hand
stood the lordly Archbishop of Treves. But what was more disquieting,
they beheld also the blacksmith standing before the daïs, some distance
in front of the Emperor, clad in his leathern apron, with his big brawny
hands folded over the top of the handle of his huge sledge-hammer.
Behind him were ranged his twelve sons. There were deep frowns on
the brows of the nobles when they saw this, and, after kneeling and
protesting their loyalty to the Emperor, they stood aloof and apart,
leaving a clear space between themselves and the plebeian blacksmith on
whom they cast lowering looks. When the salutations of the Emperor had
been given, the Archbishop took a step forward on the daïs and spoke in
a clear voice that could be heard to the furthermost corner of the room.

“My Lords,” he said, “I have invited you hither that you may have
the privilege of doing honour to a brave man. I ask you to salute the
blacksmith Arras, who, when his country was in danger, crushed the
invaders as effectually as ever his right arm, wielding sledge, crushed
hot iron.”

A red flush of confusion overspread the face of the blacksmith, but loud
murmurs broke out among the nobility, and none stepped forward to salute
him. One, indeed, stepped forward, but it was to appeal to the Emperor.

“Your Majesty,” exclaimed Count Bertrich, “this is an unwarranted breach
of our privileges. It is not meet that we, holding noble names, should
be asked to consort with an untitled blacksmith. I appeal to your
Majesty against the Archbishop under the feudal law.”

All eyes turned upon the Emperor, who, after a pause, said:

“Count Bertrich is right, and I sustain his appeal.”

An expression of triumph came into the red bibulous face of Count
Bertrich, and the nobles shouted joyously:

“The Emperor, the Emperor!”

The Archbishop, however, seemed in no way non-plussed by his defeat,
but, addressing the armourer, said:

“Advance, blacksmith, and do homage to your Emperor and mine.”

When the blacksmith knelt before the throne, the Emperor, taking his
jewelled sword from his side, smote the kneeling man lightly on his
broad shoulders, saying:

“Arise, Count Arras, noble of the German Empire, and first Lord of the
Alf-thal.”

The blacksmith rose slowly to his feet, bowed lowly to the Emperor, and
backed to the place where he had formerly stood, again resting his hands
on the handle of his sledge-hammer. The look of exultation faded from
the face of Count Bertrich, and was replaced by an expression of dismay,
for he had been until that moment, himself first Lord of the Alf-thal,
with none second.

“My Lords,” once more spoke up the Archbishop, “I ask you to salute
Count Arras, first Lord of the Alf-thal.”

No noble moved, and again Count Bertrich appealed to the Emperor.

“Are we to receive on terms of equality,” he said, “a landless man; the
count of a blacksmith’s hut; a first lord of a forge? For the second
time I appeal to your Majesty against such an outrage.”

The Emperor replied calmly:

“Again I support the appeal of Count Bertrich.”

There was this time no applause from the surrounding nobles, for many
of them had some smattering idea of what was next to happen, though the
muddled brain of Count Bertrich gave him no intimation of it.

“Count Arras,” said the Archbishop, “I promised you a gift when last
I left you at your smithy door. I now bestow upon you and your heirs
forever this castle of Burg Arras, and the lands adjoining it. I ask
you to hold it for me well and faithfully, as you held the pass of the
Eifel. My Lords,” continued the Archbishop, turning to the nobles, with
a ring of menace in his voice, “I ask you to salute Count Arras, your
equal in title, your equal in possessions, and the superior of any one
of you in patriotism and bravery. If any noble question his courage, let
him neglect to give Count of Burg Arras his title and salutation as he
passes before him.”

“Indeed, and that will not I,” said the tall noble who had sat at
Bertrich’s right hand in his castle, “for, my Lords, if we hesitate
longer, this doughty blacksmith will be Emperor before we know it.”
 Then, advancing towards the ex-armourer, he said: “My Lord, Count of
Burg Arras, it gives me pleasure to salute you, and to hope that when
Emperor or Archbishop are to be fought for, your arm will be no less
powerful in a coat of mail than it was when you wore a leathern apron.”

One by one the nobles passed and saluted as their leader had done. Count
Bertrich hung back until the last, and then, as he passed the new Count
of Burg Arras, he hissed at him, with a look of rage, the single word,
“_Blacksmith!_”

The Count of Burg Arras, stirred to sudden anger, and forgetting in
whose presence he stood, swung his huge sledge-hammer round his head,
and brought it down on the armoured back of Count Bertrich, roaring the
word “ANVIL!”

The armour splintered like crushed ice, and Count Bertrich fell prone on
his face and lay there. There was instant cry of “Treason! Treason!” and
shouts of “No man may draw arms in the Emperor’s presence.”

“My Lord Emperor,” cried the Count of Burg Arras, “I crave pardon if
I have done amiss. A man does not forget the tricks of his old calling
when he takes on new honours. Your Majesty has said that I am a Count.
This man, having heard your Majesty’s word, proclaims me blacksmith, and
so gave the lie to his Emperor. For this I struck him, and would again,
even though he stood before the throne in a palace, or the altar in a
cathedral. If that be treason, take from me your honours, and let me
back to my forge, where this same hammer will mend the armour it has
broken, or beat him out a new back-piece.”

“You have broken no tenet of the feudal law,” said the Emperor. “You
have broken nothing, I trust, but the Count’s armour, for, as I see, he
is arousing himself, doubtless no bones are broken as well. The feudal
law does not regard a blacksmith’s hammer as a weapon. And as for
treason, Count of Burg Arras, may my throne always be surrounded by such
treason as yours.”

And for centuries after, the descendants of the blacksmith were Counts
of Burg Arras, and held the castle of that name, whose ruins to-day
attest the excellence of the Archbishop’s building.




COUNT KONRAD’S COURTSHIP


It was nearly midnight when Count Konrad von Hochstaden reached his
castle on the Rhine, with a score of very tired and hungry men behind
him. The warder at the gate of Schloss Hochstaden, after some
cautious parley with the newcomers, joyously threw apart the two great
iron-studded oaken leaves of the portal when he was convinced that it
was indeed his young master who had arrived after some tumultuous years
at the crusades, and Count Konrad with his followers rode clattering
under the stone arch, into the ample courtyard. It is recorded that,
in the great hall of the castle, the Count and his twenty bronzed
and scarred knights ate such a meal as had never before been seen to
disappear in Hochstaden, and that after drinking with great cheer to the
downfall of the Saracene and the triumph of the true cross, they all lay
on the floor of the Rittersaal and slept the remainder of the night,
the whole of next day, and did not awaken until the dawn of the second
morning. They had had years of hard fighting in the east, and on the way
home they had been compelled to work their passage through the domains
of turbulent nobles by good stout broadsword play, the only argument
their opposers could understand, and thus they had come through to the
Rhine without contributing aught to their opponents except fierce blows,
which were not commodities as marketable as yellow gold, yet with this
sole exchange did the twenty-one win their way from Palestine to the
Palatinate, and thus were they so long on the road that those in Schloss
Hochstaden had given up all expectation of their coming.

Count Konrad found that his father, whose serious illness was the cause
of his return, had been dead for months past, and the young man wandered
about the castle which, during the past few years, he had beheld only
in dreams by night and in the desert mirages by day, saddened because of
his loss. He would return to the Holy Land, he said to himself, and
let the castle be looked after by its custodian until the war with the
heathen was ended.

The young Count walked back and forth on the stone paved terrace which
commanded from its height such a splendid view of the winding river, but
he paid small attention to the landscape, striding along with his hands
clasped behind him; his head bent, deep in thought. He was awakened from
his reverie by the coming of the ancient custodian of the castle, who
shuffled up to him and saluted him with reverential respect, for the
Count was now the last of his race; a fighting line, whose members
rarely came to die peaceably in their beds as Konrad’s father had done.

The Count, looking up, swept his eye around the horizon and then to
his astonishment saw the red battle flag flying grimly from the high
northern tower of Castle Bernstein perched on the summit of the next
hill to the south. In the valley were the white tents of an encampment,
and fluttering over it was a flag whose device, at that distance, the
Count could not discern.

“Why is the battle flag flying on Bernstein, Gottlieb, and what means
those tents in the valley?” asked Konrad.

The old man looked in the direction of the encampment, as if the sight
were new to him, but Konrad speedily saw that the opposite was the case.
The tents had been there so long that they now seemed a permanent part
of the scenery.

“The Archbishop of Cologne, my Lord, is engaged in the besiegement of
Schloss Bernstein, and seems like to have a long job of it. He has been
there for nearly a year now.”

“Then the stout Baron is making a brave defence; good luck to him!”

“Alas, my Lord, I am grieved to state that the Baron went to his rest
on the first day of the assault. He foolishly sallied out at the head of
his men and fell hotly on the Archbishop’s troops, who were surrounding
the castle. There was some matter in dispute between the Baron and the
Archbishop, and to aid the settlement thereof, his mighty Lordship of
Cologne sent a thousand armed men up the river, and it is said that all
he wished was to have parley with Baron Bernstein, and to overawe him in
the discussion, but the Baron came out at the head of his men and
fell upon the Cologne troops so mightily that he nearly put the whole
battalion to flight, but the officers rallied their panic-stricken host,
seeing how few were opposed to them, and the order was given that the
Baron should be taken prisoner, but the old man would not have it so,
and fought so sturdily with his long sword, that he nearly entrenched
himself with a wall of dead. At last the old man was cut down and died
gloriously, with scarcely a square inch unwounded on his whole body. The
officers of the Archbishop then tried to carry the castle by assault,
but the Lady of Bernstein closed and barred the gate, ran, up the battle
flag on the northern tower and bid defiance to the Archbishop and all
his men.”

“The Lady of Bernstein? I thought the Baron was a widower. Whom, then,
did he again marry?”

“‘Twas not his wife, but his daughter.”

“His daughter? Not Brunhilda? She’s but a child of ten.”

“She was when you went away, my Lord, but now she is a woman of
eighteen, with all the beauty of her mother and all the bravery of her
father.”

“Burning Cross of the East, Gottlieb! Do you mean to say that for a year
a prince of the Church has been warring with a girl, and her brother,
knowing nothing of this cowardly assault, fighting the battles for his
faith on the sands of the desert? Let the bugle sound! Call up my men
and arouse those who are still sleeping.”

“My Lord, my Lord, I beg of you to have caution in this matter.”

“Caution? God’s patience! Has caution rotted the honour out of the bones
of all Rhine men, that this outrage should pass unmolested before their
eyes! The father murdered; the daughter beleaguered; while those who
call themselves men sleep sound in their safe castles! Out of my way,
old man! Throw open the gates!”

But the ancient custodian stood firmly before his over-lord, whose red
angry face seemed like that of the sun rising so ruddily behind him.

“My Lord, if you insist on engaging in this enterprise it must be gone
about sanely. You need the old head as well as the young arm. You have
a score of well-seasoned warriors, and we can gather into the castle
another hundred. But the Archbishop has a thousand men around Bernstein.
Your score would but meet the fate of the old Baron and would not better
the case of those within the castle. The Archbishop has not assaulted
Bernstein since the Baron’s death, but has drawn a tight line around
it and so has cut off all supplies, daily summoning the maiden to
surrender. What they now need in Bernstein is not iron, but food.
Through long waiting they keep slack watch about the castle, and it
is possible that, with care taken at midnight, you might reprovision
Bernstein so that she could hold out until her brother comes, whom it is
said she has summoned from the Holy Land.”

“Thou art wise, old Gottlieb,” said the Count slowly, pausing in his
wrath as the difficulties of the situation were thus placed in array
before him; “wise and cautious, as all men seem to be who now keep ward
on the Rhine. What said my father regarding this contest?”

“My Lord, your honoured father was in his bed stricken with the long
illness that came to be his undoing at the last, and we never let him
know that the Baron was dead or the siege in progress.”

“Again wise and cautious, Gottlieb, for had he known it, he would have
risen from his deathbed, taken down his two-handed sword from the wall,
and struck his last blow in defence of the right against tyranny.”

“Indeed, my Lord, under danger of your censure, I venture to say that
you do not yet know the cause of the quarrel into which you design to
precipitate yourself. It may not be tyranny on the part of the overlord,
but disobedience on the part of the vassal, which causes the environment
of Bernstein. And the Archbishop is a prince of our holy Church.”

“I leave those nice distinctions to philosophers like thee, Gottlieb.
It is enough for me to know that a thousand men are trying to starve one
woman, and as for being a prince of the Church, I shall give his devout
Lordship a taste of religion hot from its birthplace, and show him
how we uphold the cause in the East, for in this matter the Archbishop
grasps not the cross but the sword, and by the sword shall he be met.
And now go, Gottlieb, set ablaze the fires on all our ovens and put the
bakers at work. Call in your hundred men as speedily as possible, and
bid each man bring with him a sack of wheat. Spend the day at the baking
and fill the cellars with grain and wine. It will be reason enough, if
any make inquiry, to say that the young Lord has returned and intends to
hold feasts in his castle. Send hither my Captain to me.”

Old Gottlieb hobbled away, and there presently came upon the terrace
a stalwart, grizzled man, somewhat past middle age, whose brown face
showed more seams of scars than remnants of beauty. He saluted his chief
and stood erect in silence.

The Count waved his hand toward the broad valley and said grimly:

“There sits the Archbishop of Cologne, besieging the Castle of
Bernstein.”

The Captain bowed low and crossed himself.

“God prosper his Lordship,” he said piously.

“You may think that scarcely the phrase to use, Captain, when I tell you
that you will lead an assault on his Lordship to-night.”

“Then God prosper us, my Lord,” replied the Captain cheerfully, for he
was ever a man who delighted more in fighting than in inquiring keenly
into the cause thereof.

“You may see from here that a ridge runs round from this castle, bending
back from the river, which it again approaches, touching thus Schloss
Bernstein. There is a path along the summit of the ridge which I have
often trodden as a boy, so I shall be your guide. It is scarce likely
that this path is guarded, but if it is we will have to throw its
keepers over the precipice; those that we do not slay outright, when we
come upon them.”

“Excellent, my Lord, most excellent,” replied the Captain, gleefully
rubbing his huge hands one over the other.

“But it is not entirely to fight that we go. You are to act as convoy
to those who carry bread to Castle Bernstein. We shall leave here at the
darkest hour after midnight and you must return before daybreak so that
the Archbishop cannot estimate our numbers. Then get out all the old
armour there is in the castle and masquerade the peasants in it. Arrange
them along the battlements so that they will appear as numerous as
possible while I stay in Castle Bernstein and make terms with the
Archbishop, for it seems he out-mans us, so we must resort, in some
measure, to strategy. On the night assault let each man yell as if he
were ten and lay about him mightily. Are the knaves astir yet?”

“Most of them, my Lord, and drinking steadily the better to endure the
dryness of the desert when we go eastward again.”

“Well, see to it that they do not drink so much as to interfere with
clean sword-play against to-night’s business.”

“Indeed, my Lord, I have a doubt if there is Rhine wine enough in the
castle’s vaults to do that, and the men yell better when they have a few
gallons within them.”

At the appointed hour Count Konrad and his company went silently forth,
escorting a score more who carried sacks of the newly baked bread on
their backs, or leathern receptacles filled with wine, as well as a
stout cask of the same seductive fluid. Near the Schloss Bernstein the
rescuing party came upon the Archbishop’s outpost, who raised the alarm
before the good sword of the Captain cut through the cry. There were
bugle calls throughout the camp and the sound of men hurrying to their
weapons, but all the noise of preparation among the besiegers was as
nothing to the demoniac din sent up by the Crusaders, who rushed to the
onslaught with a zest sharpened by their previous rest and inactivity.
The wild barbaric nature of their yells, such as never before were
heard on the borders of the placid Rhine, struck consternation into
the opposition camp, because some of the Archbishop’s troops had fought
against the heathen in the East, and they now recognised the clamour
which had before, on many an occasion, routed them, and they thought
that the Saracenes had turned the tables and invaded Germany; indeed
from the deafening clamour it seemed likely that all Asia was let loose
upon them. The alarm spread quickly to Castle Bernstein itself, and
torches began to glimmer on its battlements. With a roar the Crusaders
rushed up to the foot of the wall, as a wave dashes against a rock,
sweeping the frightened bread-carriers with them. By the light of the
torches Konrad saw standing on the wall a fair young girl clad in chain
armour whose sparkling links glistened like countless diamonds in the
rays of the burning pitch. She leaned on the cross-bar of her father’s
sword and, with wide-open, eager eyes peered into the darkness beyond,
questioning the gloom for reason of the terrifying tumult. When Konrad
strode within the radius of the torches, the girl drew back slightly and
cried:

“So the Archbishop has at last summoned courage to attack, after all
this patient waiting.”

“My Lady,” shouted the Count, “these are my forces and not the
Archbishop’s. I am Konrad, Count of Hochstaden.”

“The more shame, then, that you, who have fought bravely with men,
should now turn your weapons against a woman, and she your neighbour and
the sister of your friend.”

“Indeed, Lady Brunhilda, you misjudge me. I am come to your rescue
and not to your disadvantage.. The Archbishop’s men were put to some
inconvenience by our unexpected arrival, and to gather from the sounds
far down the valley they have not ceased running yet. We come with
bread, and use the sword but as a spit to deliver it.”

“Your words are welcome were I but sure of their truth,” said the
lady with deep distrust in her tone, for she had had experience of
the Archbishop’s craft on many occasions, and the untimely hour of the
succour led her to fear a ruse. “I open my gates neither to friend nor
to foe in the darkness,” she added.

“Tis a rule that may well be commended to others of your bewitching
sex,” replied the Count, “but we ask not the opening of the gates,
although you might warn those within your courtyard to beware what comes
upon them presently.”

So saying, he gave the word, and each two of his servitors seized a sack
of bread by the ends and, heaving it, flung it over the wall. Some
of the sacks fell short, but the second effort sent them into the
courtyard, where many of them burst, scattering the round loaves along
the cobble-stoned pavement, to be eagerly pounced upon by the starving
servitors and such men-at-arms as had escaped from the encounter with
the Archbishop’s troops when the Baron was slain. The cries of joy
that rang up from within the castle delighted the ear of the Count and
softened the suspicion of the lady on the wall.

“Now,” cried Konrad to his Captain, “back to Schloss Hochstaden before
the dawn approaches too closely, and let there be no mistake in the
Archbishop’s camp that you are on the way.”

They all departed in a series of earsplitting, heart-appalling whoops
that shattered the still night air and made a vocal pandemonium of that
portion of the fair Rhine valley. The colour left the cheeks of the Lady
of Bernstein as she listened in palpable terror to the fiendish outcry
which seemed to scream for blood and that instantly, looking down she
saw the Knight of Hochstaden still there at the foot of her wall gazing
up at her.

“My Lord,” she said with concern, “if you stay thus behind your noisy
troop you will certainly be captured when it comes day.”

“My Lady of Bernstein, I am already a captive, and all the Archbishop’s
men could not hold me more in thrall did they surround me at this
moment.”

“I do not understand you, sir,” said Brunhilda coldly, drawing herself
up with a dignity that well became her, “your language seems to partake
of an exaggeration that doubtless you have learned in the tropical East,
and which we have small patience with on the more temperate banks of the
Rhine.”

“The language that I use, fair Brunhilda, knows neither east nor west;
north nor south, but is common to every land, and if it be a stranger to
the Rhine, the Saints be witness ‘tis full time ‘twere introduced here,
and I hold myself as competent to be its spokesman, as those screeching
scoundrels of mine hold themselves the equal in battle to all the
archbishops who ever wore the robes of that high office.”

“My Lord,” cried Brunhilda, a note of serious warning in her voice,
“my gates are closed and they remain so. I hold myself your debtor for
unasked aid, and would fain see you in a place of safety.”

“My reverenced Lady, that friendly wish shall presently be gratified,”
 and saying this, the Count unwound from his waist a thin rope woven of
horse-hair, having a long loop at the end of it. This he whirled round
his head and with an art learned in the scaling of eastern walls flung
the loop so that it surrounded one of the machicolations of the bastion,
and, with his feet travelling against the stone work, he walked up
the wall by aid of this cord and was over the parapet before any could
hinder his ascent. The Maid of the Schloss, her brows drawn down
in anger, stood with sword ready to strike, but whether it was the
unwieldiness of the clumsy weapon, or whether it was the great celerity
with which the young man put his nimbleness to the test, or whether it
was that she recognised him as perhaps her one friend on earth, who can
tell; be that as it may, she did not strike in time, and a moment, later
the Count dropped on one knee and before she knew it raised one of her
hands to his bending lips.

“Lovely Warder of Bernstein,” cried Count Konrad, with a tremor of
emotion in his voice that thrilled the girl in spite of herself, “I lay
my devotion and my life at your feet, to use them as you will.”

“My Lord,” she said quaveringly, with tears nearer the surface than she
would have cared to admit, “I like not this scaling of the walls; my
permission unasked.”

“God’s truth, my Lady, and you are not the first to so object, but the
others were men, and I may say, without boasting, that I bent not the
knee to them when I reached their level, but I have been told that
custom will enable a maid to look more forgivingly on such escapades if
her feeling is friendly toward the invader, and I am bold enough to hope
that the friendship with which your brother has ever regarded me in
the distant wars, may be extended to my unworthy self by his sister at
home.”

Count Konrad rose to his feet and the girl gazed at him in silence,
seeing how bronzed and manly he looked in his light well-polished
eastern armour, which had not the cumbrous massiveness of western mail,
but, while amply protecting the body, bestowed upon it lithe freedom
for quick action; and unconsciously she compared him, not to his
disadvantage, with the cravens on the Rhine, who, while sympathising
with her, dared not raise weapon on her behalf against so powerful an
over-lord as the warlike Archbishop. The scarlet cross of the Crusader
on his broad breast seemed to her swimming eyes to blaze with lambent
flame in the yellow torchlight. She dared not trust her voice to answer
him, fearing its faintness might disown the courage with which she had
held her castle for so long, and he, seeing that she struggled to hold
control of herself, standing there like a superb Goddess of the Rhine,
pretended to notice nothing and spoke jauntily with a wave of his hand:
“My villains have brought to the foot of the walls a cask of our best
wine which we dared not adventure to cast into the courtyard with that
freedom which forwarded the loaves; there is also a packet of dainties
more suited to your Ladyship’s consideration than the coarse bread from
our ovens. Give command, I beg of you, that the gates be opened and that
your men bring the wine and food to safety within the courtyard, and
bestow on me the privilege of guarding the open gate while this is being
done.”

Then gently, with insistent deference, the young man took from her the
sword of her father which she yielded to him with visible reluctance,
but nevertheless yielded, standing there disarmed before him. Together
in silence they went down the stone steps that led from the battlements
to the courtyard, followed by the torch-bearers, whom the lightening
east threatened soon to render unnecessary. A cheer went up, the first
heard for many days within those walls, and the feasters, flinging their
caps in the air, cried “Hochstaden! Hochstaden!” The Count turned to his
fair companion and said, with a smile:

“The garrison is with me, my Lady.”

She smiled also, and sighed, but made no other reply, keeping her eyes
steadfast on the stone steps beneath her. Once descended, she gave the
order in a low voice, and quickly the gates were thrown wide, creaking
grumblingly on their hinges, long unused. Konrad stood before the
opening with the sword of Bernstein in his hands, swinging it this way
and that to get the hang of it, and looking on it with the admiration
which a warrior ever feels for a well hung, trusty blade, while the
men-at-arms nodded to one another and said: “There stands a man who
knows the use of a weapon. I would that he had the crafty Archbishop
before him to practise on.”

When the barrel was trundled in, the Lady of Bernstein had it broached
at once, and with her own hand served to each of her men a flagon of the
golden wine. Each took his portion, bowing low to the lady, then doffing
cap, drank first to the Emperor, and after with an enthusiasm absent
from the Imperial toast, to the young war lord whom the night had flung
thus unexpectedly among them. When the last man had refreshed himself,
the Count stepped forward and begged a flagon full that he might drink
in such good company, and it seemed that Brunhilda had anticipated such
a request, for she turned to one of her women and held out her hand,
receiving a huge silver goblet marvellously engraved that had belonged
to her forefathers, and plenishing it, she gave it to the Count, who,
holding it aloft, cried, “The Lady of Bernstein,” whereupon there arose
such a shout that the troubled Archbishop heard it in his distant tent.

“And yet further of your hospitality must I crave,” said Konrad, “for
the morning air is keen, and gives me an appetite for food of which I am
deeply ashamed, but which nevertheless clamours for an early breakfast.”

The lady, after giving instruction to the maids who waited upon her,
led the way into the castle, where Konrad following, they arrived in the
long Rittersaal, at the end of which, facing the brightening east, was
placed a huge window of stained glass, whose great breadth was gradually
lightening as if an unseen painter with magic brush was tinting the
glass with transparent colour, from the lofty timbered ceiling to the
smoothly polished floor. At the end of the table, with her back to the
window, Brunhilda sat, while the Count took a place near her, by
the side, turning so that he faced her, the ever-increasing radiance
illumining his scintillating armour. The girl ate sparingly, saying
little and glancing often at her guest. He fell to like the good
trencherman he was, and talked unceasingly of the wars in the East, and
the brave deeds done there, and as he talked the girl forgot all else,
rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, regarding him
intently, for he spoke not of himself but of her brother, and of how,
when grievously pressed, he had borne himself so nobly that more than
once, seemingly certain defeat was changed into glorious victory. Now
and then when Konrad gazed upon Brunhilda, his eloquent tongue faltered
for a moment and he lost the thread of his narrative, for all trace of
the warrior maid had departed, and there, outlined against the glowing
window of dazzling colours, she seemed indeed a saint with her halo of
golden hair, a fit companion to the angels that the marvellous skill of
the artificer had placed in that gorgeous collection of pictured panes,
lead-lined and cut in various shapes, answering the needs of their
gifted designer, as a paint-brush follows the will of the artist. From
where the young man sat, the girl against the window seemed a member
of that radiant company, and thus he paused stricken speechless by her
beauty.

She spoke at last, the smile on her lips saddened by the down turning
of their corners, her voice the voice of one hovering uncertain between
laughter and tears.

“And you,” she said, “you seem to have had no part in all this stirring
recital. It was my brother and my brother and my brother, and to hear
you one would think you were all the while hunting peacefully in your
Rhine forests. Yet still I do believe the Count of Hochstaden gave the
heathen to know he was somewhat further to the east of Germany.”

“Oh, of me,” stammered the Count. “Yes, I was there, it is true, and
sometimes--well, I have a fool of a captain, headstrong and reckless,
who swept me now and then into a melee, before I could bring cool
investigation to bear upon his mad projects, and once in the fray of
course I had to plead with my sword to protect my head, otherwise my
bones would now be on the desert sands, so I selfishly lay about me and
did what I could to get once more out of the turmoil.”

The rising sun now struck living colour into the great window of stained
glass, splashing the floor and the further wall with crimson and blue
and gold. Count Konrad sprang to his feet. “The day is here,” he cried,
standing in the glory of it, while the girl rose more slowly. “Let us
have in your bugler and see if he has forgotten the battle call of the
Bernsteins. Often have I heard it in the desert. ‘Give us the battle
call,’ young Heinrich would cry and then to its music all his followers
would shout ‘Bernstein! Bernstein!’ until it seemed the far-off horizon
must have heard.”

The trumpeter came, and being now well fed, blew valiantly, giving to
the echoing roof the war cry of the generations of fighting men it had
sheltered.

“That is it,” cried the Count, “and it has a double significance. A
challenge on the field, and a summons to parley when heard from the
walls. We shall now learn whether or no the Archbishop has forgotten it,
and I crave your permission to act as spokesman with his Lordship.”

“That I most gratefully grant,” said the Lady of the Castle.

Once more on the battlements, the Lord of Hochstaden commanded the
trumpeter to sound the call The martial music rang out in the still
morning air and was echoed mockingly by the hills on the other side of
the river. After that, all was deep silence.

“Once again,” said Konrad.

For a second time the battle blast filled the valley, and for a second
time returned faintly back from the hills. Then from near the great tent
of the Archbishop, by the margin of the stream, came the answering call,
accepting the demand for a parley.

When at last the Archbishop, mounted on a black charger, came slowly up
the winding path which led to the castle, attended by only two of
his officers, he found the Count of Hochstaden awaiting him on the
battlements above the gate. The latter’s hopes arose when he saw that
Cologne himself had come, and had not entrusted the business to an
envoy, and it was also encouraging to note that he came so poorly
attended, for when a man has made up his mind to succumb he wishes as
few witnesses as possible, while if he intends further hostilities, he
comes in all the pomp of his station.

“With whom am I to hold converse?” began the Archbishop, “I am here at
the behest of the Bernstein call to parley, but I see none, of that name
on the wall to greet me.”

“Heinrich, Baron Bernstein, is now on his way to his castle from the
Holy Land, and were he here it were useless for me to summon a parley,
for he would answer you with the sword and not with the tongue when he
learned his father was dead at your hand.”

“That is no reply to my question. With whom do I hold converse?”

“I am Konrad, Count of Hochstaden, and your Lordship’s vassal.”

“I am glad to learn of your humility and pleased to know that I need not
call your vassalage to your memory, but I fear that in the darkness you
have less regard for either than you now pretend in the light of day.”

“In truth, my Lord, you grievously mistake me, for in the darkness I
stood your friend. I assure you I had less than a thousand rascals at my
back last night, and yet nothing would appease them but that they must
fling themselves upon your whole force, had I not held them in check. I
told them you probably outnumbered us ten to one, but they held that
one man who had gone through an eastern campaign was worth ten honest
burghers from Cologne, which indeed I verily believe, and for the fact
that you were not swept into the Rhine early this morning you have me
and my peaceful nature to thank, my Lord. Perhaps you heard the rogues
discussing the matter with me before dawn, and going angrily home when I
so ordered them.”

“A man had need to be dead and exceedingly deep in his grave not to have
heard them,” growled the Archbishop.

“And there they stand at this moment, my Lord, doubtless grumbling among
themselves that I am so long giving the signal they expect, which will
permit them to finish this morning’s work. The men I can generally
control, but my captains are a set of impious cut-throats who would
sooner sack an Archbishop’s palace than listen to the niceties of the
feudal law which protects over-lords from such pleasantries.”

The Archbishop turned on his horse and gazed on the huge bulk of Schloss
Hochstaden, and there a wonderful sight met his eye. The walls bristled
with armed men, the sun glistening on their polished breastplates like
the shimmer of summer lightning. The Archbishop turned toward the gate
again, as though the sight he beheld brought small comfort to him.

“What is your desire?” he said with less of truculence in his tone than
there had been at the beginning.

“I hold it a scandal,” said the Count gravely, “that a prince of the
Church should assault Christian walls while their owner is absent in the
East venturing his life in the uplifting of the true faith. You can
now retreat without loss of prestige; six hours hence that may be
impossible. I ask you then to give your assurance to the Lady of
Bernstein, pledging your knightly word that she will be no longer
threatened by you, and I ask you to withdraw your forces immediately
to Cologne where it is likely they will find something to do if Baron
Heinrich, as I strongly suspect, marches directly on that city.”

“I shall follow the advice of my humble vassal, for the strength of a
prince is in the sage counsel of his war lords. Will you escort the lady
to the battlements?”

Then did Count Konrad von Hochstaden see that his cause was won, and
descending he came up again, leading the Lady Brunhilda by the hand.

“I have to acquaint you, madame,” said the Archbishop, “that the
siege is ended, and I give you my assurance that you will not again be
beleaguered by my forces.”

The Lady of Bernstein bowed, but made no answer. She blushed deeply that
the Count still held her hand, but she did not withdraw it.

“And now, my Lord Archbishop, that this long-held contention is amicably
adjusted,” began Von Hochstaden, “I crave that you bestow on us two your
gracious blessing, potentate of the Church, for this lady is to be my
wife.”

“What!” cried Brunhilda in sudden anger, snatching her hand from his,
“do you think you can carry me by storm as you did my castle, without
even asking my consent?”

“Lady of my heart,” said Konrad tenderly, “I did ask your consent. My
eyes questioned in the Rittersaal and yours gave kindly answer. Is there
then no language but that which is spoken? I offer you here before the
world my open hand; is it to remain empty?”

He stood before her with outstretched palm, and she gazed steadfastly at
him, breathing quickly. At length a smile dissolved the sternness of her
charming lips, she glanced at his extended hand and said:

“‘Twere a pity so firm and generous a hand should remain tenantless,”
 and with that she placed her palm in his.

The Archbishop smiled grimly at this lovers’ by-play, then solemnly,
with upraised hands, invoked God’s blessing upon them.




THE LONG LADDER


Every fortress has one traitor within its walls; the Schloss Eltz had
two. In this, curiously enough, lay its salvation; for as some Eastern
poisons when mixed neutralise each other and form combined a harmless
fluid, so did the two traitors unwittingly react, the one upon the
other, to the lasting glory of Schloss Eltz, which has never been
captured to this day.

It would be difficult to picture the amazement of Heinrich von
Richenbach when he sat mute upon his horse at the brow of the wooded
heights and, for the first time, beheld the imposing pile which had been
erected by the Count von Eltz. It is startling enough to come suddenly
upon a castle where no castle should be; but to find across one’s path
an erection that could hardly have been the product of other agency than
the lamp of Aladdin was stupefying, and Heinrich drew the sunburned back
of his hand across his eyes, fearing that they were playing him a trick;
then seeing the wondrous vision still before him, he hastily crossed
himself, an action performed somewhat clumsily through lack of practice,
so that he might ward off enchantment, if, as seemed likely, that
mountain of pinnacles was the work of the devil, and not placed there,
stone on stone, by the hand of man. But in spite of crossing and the
clearing of his eyes, Eltz Castle remained firmly seated on its stool
of rock, and, when his first astonishment had somewhat abated, Von
Richenbach, who was a most practical man, began to realise that here,
purely by a piece of unbelievable good luck, the very secret he had
been sent to unravel had been stumbled upon, the solving of which he
had given up in despair, returning empty-handed to his grim master, the
redoubtable Archbishop Baldwin of Treves.

It was now almost two months since the Archbishop had sent him on the
mission to the Rhine from which he was returning as wise as he went,
well knowing that a void budget would procure him scant welcome from his
imperious ruler. Here, at least, was important matter for the warlike
Elector’s stern consideration--an apparently impregnable fortress
secretly built in the very centre of the Archbishop’s domain; and
knowing that the Count von Eltz claimed at least partial jurisdiction
over this district, more especially that portion known as the Eltz-thal,
in the middle of which this mysterious citadel had been erected.
Heinrich rightly surmised that its construction had been the work of
this ancient enemy of the Archbishop.

Two months before, or nearly so, Heinrich von Richenbach had been
summoned into the presence of the Lion of Treves at his palace in that
venerable city. When Baldwin had dismissed all within the room save only
Von Richenbach, the august prelate said:

“It is my pleasure that you take horse at once and proceed to my city of
Mayence on the Rhine, where I am governor. You will inspect the garrison
there and report to me.”

Heinrich bowed, but said nothing.

“You will then go down the Rhine to Elfield, where my new castle is
built, and I shall be pleased to have an opinion regarding it.”

The Archbishop paused, and again his vassal bowed and remained silent.

“It is my wish that you go without escort, attracting as little
attention as possible, and perhaps it may be advisable to return by the
northern side of the Moselle, but some distance back from the river,
as there are barons on the banks who might inquire your business, and
regret their curiosity when they found they questioned a messenger of
mine. We should strive, during our brief sojourn on this inquisitive
earth, to put our fellow creatures to as little discomfort as possible.”

Von Richenbach saw that he was being sent on a secret and possibly
dangerous mission, and he had been long enough in the service of the
crafty Archbishop to know that the reasons ostensibly given for his
journey were probably not those which were the cause of it, so he
contented himself with inclining his head for the third time and holding
his peace. The Archbishop regarded him keenly for a few moments, a
derisive smile parting his firm lips; then said, as if his words were an
afterthought:

“Our faithful vassal, the Count von Eltz, is, if I mistake not, a
neighbor of ours at Elfield?”

The sentence took, through its inflection, the nature of a query, and
for the first time Heinrich von Richenbach ventured reply.

“He is, my Lord.”

The Archbishop raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling, and seemed for a
time lost in thought, saying, at last, apparently in soliloquy, rather
than by direct address:

“Count von Eltz has been suspiciously quiet of late for a man so
impetuous by nature. It might be profitable to know what interests him
during this unwonted seclusion. It behooves us to acquaint ourselves
with the motives that actuate a neighbour, so that, opportunity arising,
we may aid him with counsel or encouragement. If, therefore, it should
so chance that, in the intervals of your inspection of governorship or
castle, aught regarding the present occupation of the noble count comes
to your ears, the information thus received may perhaps remain in your
memory until you return to Treves.”

The Archbishop withdrew his eyes from the ceiling, the lids lowering
over them, and flashed a keen, rapier-like glance at the man who stood
before him.

Heinrich von Richenbach made low obeisance and replied:

“Whatever else fades from my memory, my Lord, news of Count von Eltz
shall remain there.”

“See that you carry nothing upon you, save your commission as inspector,
which my secretary will presently give to you. If you are captured
it will be enough to proclaim yourself my emissary and exhibit your
commission in proof of the peaceful nature of your embassy. And now to
horse and away.”

Thus Von Richenbach, well mounted, with his commission legibly engrossed
in clerkly hand on parchment, departed on the Roman road for Mayence,
but neither there nor at Elfield could he learn more of Count von Eltz
than was already known at Treves, which was to the effect that this
nobleman, repenting him, it was said, of his stubborn opposition to
the Archbishop, had betaken himself to the Crusades in expiation of
his wrong in shouldering arms against one who was both his temporal and
spiritual over-lord; and this rumour coming to the ears of Baldwin, had
the immediate effect of causing that prince of the Church to despatch
Von Richenbach with the purpose of learning accurately what his old
enemy was actually about; for Baldwin, being an astute man, placed
little faith in sudden conversion.

When Heinrich von Richenbach returned to Treves he was immediately
ushered into the presence of his master.

“You have been long away,” said the Archbishop, a frown on his brow.
“I trust the tidings you bring offer some slight compensation for the
delay.” Then was Heinrich indeed glad that fate, rather than his own
perspicacity, had led his horse to the heights above Schloss Eltz.

“The tidings I bring, my Lord, are so astounding that I could not
return to Treves without verifying them. This led me far afield, for my
information was of the scantiest; but I am now enabled to vouch for the
truth of my well-nigh incredible intelligence.”

“Have the good deeds of the Count then translated him bodily to heaven,
as was the case with Elijah? Unloose your packet, man, and waste not so
much time in the vaunting of your wares.”

“The Count von Eltz, my Lord, has built a castle that is part palace,
part fortress, and in its latter office well-nigh impregnable.”

“Yes? And where?”

“In the Eltz-thal, my Lord, a league and a quarter from the Moselle.”

“Impossible!” cried Baldwin, bringing his clenched fist down on the
table before him. “Impossible! You have been misled, Von Richenbach.”

“Indeed, my Lord, I had every reason to believe so until I viewed the
structure with my own eyes.”

“This, then, is the fruit of Von Eltz’s contrition! To build a castle
without permission within my jurisdiction, and defy me in my own domain.
By the Coat, he shall repent his temerity and wish himself twice over a
captive of the Saracen ere I have done with him. I will despatch at once
an army to the Eltz-thal, and there shall not be left one stone upon
another when it returns.”

“My Lord, I beseech you not to move with haste in this matter. If twenty
thousand men marched up to the Eltz-thal they could not take the castle.
No such schloss was ever built before, and none to equal it will ever be
built again, unless, as I suspect to be the case in this instance, the
devil lends his aid.”

“Oh, I doubt not that Satan built it, but he took the form and name
of Count von Eltz while doing so,” replied the Archbishop, his natural
anger at this bold defiance of his power giving way to his habitual
caution, which, united with his resources and intrepidity, had much to
do with his success. “You hold the castle, then, to be unassailable. Is
its garrison so powerful, or its position so strong?”

“The strength of its garrison, my Lord, is in its weakness; I doubt if
there are a score of men in the castle, but that is all the better, as
there are fewer mouths to feed in case of siege, and the Count has some
four years’ supplies in his vaults. The schloss is situated on a lofty,
unscalable rock that stands in the centre of a valley, as if it were
a fortress itself. Then the walls of the building are of unbelievable
height, with none of the round or square towers which castles usually
possess, but having in plenty conical turrets, steep roofs, and
the like, which give it the appearance of a fairy palace in a wide,
enchanted amphitheatre of green wooded hills, making the Schloss Eltz,
all in all, a most miraculous sight, such as a man may not behold in
many years’ travel.”

“In truth, Von Richenbach,” said the Archbishop, with a twinkle in his
eye, “we should have made you one of our scrivening monks rather than a
warrior, so marvellously do you describe the entrancing handiwork of our
beloved vassal, the Count von Eltz. Perhaps you think it pity to destroy
so fascinating a creation.”

“Not so, my Lord. I have examined the castle well, and I think were I
entrusted with the commission I could reduce it.”

“Ah, now we have modesty indeed! You can take the stronghold where I
should fail.”

“I did not say that you would fail, my Lord. I said that twenty thousand
men marching up the valley would fail, unless they were content to sit
around the castle for four years or more.”

“Answered like a courtier, Heinrich. What, then, is your method of
attack?”

“On the height to the east, which is the nearest elevation to the
castle, a strong fortress might be built, that would in a measure
command the Schloss Eltz, although I fear the distance would be too
great for any catapult to fling stones within its courtyard. Still, we
might thus have complete power over the entrance to the schloss, and no
more provender could be taken in.”

“You mean, then, to wear Von Eltz out? That would be as slow a method as
besiegement.”

“To besiege would require an army, my Lord, and would have this
disadvantage, that, besides withdrawing from other use so many of your
men, rumour would spread abroad that the Count held you in check. The
building of a fortress on the height would merely be doing what the
Count has already done, and it could be well garrisoned by twoscore men
at the most, vigilant night and day to take advantage of any movement of
fancied security to force way into the castle. There need be no formal
declaration of hostilities, but a fortress built in all amicableness, to
which the Count could hardly object, as you would be but following his
own example.”

“I understand. We build a house near his for neighbourliness. There is
indeed much in your plan that commends itself to me, but I confess a
liking for the underlying part of a scheme. Remains there anything else
which you have not unfolded to me?”

“Placing in command of the new fortress a stout warrior who was at the
same time a subtle man----”

“In other words, thyself, Heinrich--well, what then?”

“There is every chance that such a general may learn much of the castle
from one or other of its inmates. It might be possible that, through
neglect or inadvertence, the drawbridge would be left down some night
and the portcullis raised. In other words, the castle, impervious to
direct assault, may fall by strategy.”

“Excellent, excellent, my worthy warrior! I should dearly love to have
captain of mine pay such an informal visit to his estimable Countship.
We shall build the fortress you suggest, and call it Baldwineltz. You
shall be its commander, and I now bestow upon you Schloss Eltz, the only
proviso being that you are to enter into possession of it by whatever
means you choose to use.”

Thus the square, long castle of Baldwineltz came to be builded, and
thus Heinrich von Richenbach, brave, ingenious, and unscrupulous, was
installed captain of it, with twoscore men to keep him company, together
with a plentiful supply of gold to bribe whomsoever he thought worth
suborning.

Time went on without much to show for its passing, and Heinrich began to
grow impatient, for his attempt at corrupting the garrison showed that
negotiations were not without their dangers. Stout Baumstein, captain
of the gate, was the man whom Heinrich most desired to purchase, for
Baumstein could lessen the discipline at the portal of Schloss Eltz
without attracting undue attention. But he was an irascible German,
whose strong right arm was readier than his tongue; and when Heinrich’s
emissary got speech with him, under a flag of truce, whispering that
much gold might be had for a casual raising of the portcullis and
lowering of the drawbridge, Baumstein at first could not understand his
purport, for he was somewhat thick in the skull; but when the meaning of
the message at last broke in upon him, he wasted no time in talk, but,
raising his ever-ready battle-axe, clove the Envoy to the midriff. The
Count von Eltz himself, coming on the scene at this moment, was amazed
at the deed, and sternly demanded of his gate-captain why he had
violated the terms of a parley. Baumstein’s slowness of speech came
near to being the undoing of him, for at first he merely said that such
creatures as the messenger should not be allowed to live and that an
honest soldier was insulted by holding converse with him; whereupon the
Count, having nice notions, picked up in polite countries, regarding the
sacredness of a flag of truce, was about to hang Baumstein, scant though
the garrison was, and even then it was but by chance that the true state
of affairs became known to the Count. He was on the point of sending
back the body of the Envoy to Von Richenbach with suitable apology for
his destruction and offer of recompense, stating that the assailant
would be seen hanging outside the gate, when Baumstein said that while
he had no objection to being hanged if it so pleased the Count, he
begged to suggest that the gold which the Envoy brought with him to
bribe the garrison should be taken from the body before it was returned,
and divided equally among the guard at the gate. As Baumstein said this,
he was taking off his helmet and unbuckling his corselet, thus freeing
his neck for the greater convenience of the castle hangman. When the
Count learned that the stout stroke of the battle-axe was caused by the
proffer of a bribe for the betraying of the castle, he, to the amazement
of all present, begged the pardon of Baumstein; for such a thing was
never before known under the feudal law that a noble should apologise
to a common man, and Baumstein himself muttered that he wot not what the
world was coming to if a mighty Lord might not hang an underling if it
so pleased him, cause or no cause.

The Count commanded the body to be searched, and finding thereon
some five bags of gold, distributed the coin among his men, as a good
commander should, sending back the body to Von Richenbach, with a most
polite message to the effect that as the Archbishop evidently intended
the money to be given to the garrison, the Count had endeavoured to
carry out his Lordship’s wishes, as was the duty of an obedient vassal.
But Heinrich, instead of being pleased with the courtesy of the message,
broke into violent oaths, and spread abroad in the land the false saying
that Count von Eltz had violated a flag of truce.

But there was one man in the castle who did not enjoy a share of the
gold, because he was not a warrior, but a servant of the Countess. This
was a Spaniard named Rego, marvellously skilled in the concocting of
various dishes of pastry and other niceties such as high-born ladies
have a fondness for. Rego was disliked by the Count, and, in fact, by
all the stout Germans who formed the garrison, not only because it is
the fashion for men of one country justly to abhor those of another,
foreigners being in all lands regarded as benighted creatures whom we
marvel that the Lord allows to live when he might so easily have peopled
the whole world with men like unto ourselves; but, aside from this, Rego
had a cat-like tread, and a furtive eye that never met another honestly
as an eye should. The count, however, endured the presence of this
Spaniard, because the Countess admired his skill in confections, then
unknown in Germany, and thus Rego remained under her orders.

The Spaniard’s eye glittered when he saw the yellow lustre of the gold,
and his heart was bitter that he did not have a share of it. He soon
learned where it came from, and rightly surmised that there was more
in the same treasury, ready to be bestowed for similar service to that
which the unready Baumstein had so emphatically rejected; so Rego,
watching his opportunity, stole away secretly to Von Richenbach
and offered his aid in the capture of the castle, should suitable
compensation be tendered him. Heinrich questioned him closely regarding
the interior arrangements of the castle, and asked him if he could find
any means of letting down the drawbridge and raising the portcullis in
the night. This, Rego said quite truly, was impossible, as the guard
at the gate, vigilant enough before, had become much more so since the
attempted bribery of the Captain. There was, however, one way by
which the castle might be entered, and that entailed a most perilous
adventure. There was a platform between two of the lofty, steep roofs,
so elevated that it gave a view over all the valley. On this platform
a sentinel was stationed night and day, whose duty was that of outlook,
like a man on the cross-trees of a ship. From this platform a stair,
narrow at the top, but widening as it descended to the lower stories,
gave access to the whole castle. If, then, a besieger constructed a
ladder of enormous length, it might be placed at night on the narrow
ledge of rock far below this platform, standing almost perpendicular,
and by this means man after man would be enabled to reach the roof of
the castle, and, under the guidance of Rego, gain admittance to the
lower rooms unsuspected.

“But the sentinel?” objected Von Richenbach.

“The sentinel I will myself slay. I will steal up behind him in the
night when you make your assault, and running my knife into his neck,
fling him over the castle wall; then I shall be ready to guide you down
into the courtyard.”

Von Richenbach, remembering the sheer precipice of rock at the foot of
the castle walls and the dizzy height of the castle roof above the rock,
could scarcely forbear a shudder at the thought of climbing so high on a
shaky ladder, even if such a ladder could be made, of which he had some
doubts. The scheme did not seem so feasible as the Spaniard appeared to
imagine.

“Could you not let down a rope ladder from the platform when you had
slain the sentinel, and thus allow us to climb by that?”

“It would be impossible for me to construct and conceal a contrivance
strong enough to carry more than one man at a time, even if I had the
materials,” said the wily Spaniard, whose thoughtfulness and ingenuity
Heinrich could not but admire, while despising him as an oily foreigner.
“If you made the rope ladder there would be no method of getting it into
Schloss Eltz; besides, it would need to be double the length of a wooden
ladder, for you can place your ladder at the foot of the ledge, then
climb to the top of the rock, and, standing there, pull the ladder up,
letting the higher end scrape against the castle wall until the lower
end stands firm on the ledge of rock. Your whole troop could then climb,
one following another, so that there would be no delay.”

Thus it was arranged, and then began and was completed the construction
of the longest and most wonderful ladder ever made in Germany or
anywhere else, so far as history records. It was composed of numerous
small ladders, spliced and hooped with iron bands by the castle
armourer. At a second visit, which Rego paid to Baldwineltz when the
ladder was completed, all arrangements were made and the necessary
signals agreed upon.

It was the pious custom of those in the fortress of Baldwineltz to
ring the great bell on Saints’ days and other festivals that called
for special observance, because Von Richenbach conducted war on the
strictest principles, as a man knowing his duty both spiritual and
temporal. It was agreed that on the night of the assault, when it was
necessary that Rego should assassinate the sentinel, the great bell of
the fortress should be rung, whereupon the Spaniard was to hie himself
up the stair and send the watchman into another sphere of duty by means
of his dagger. The bell-ringing seems a perfectly justifiable device,
and one that will be approved by all conspirators, for the sounding of
the bell, plainly heard in Schloss Eltz, would cause no alarm, as it was
wont to sound at uncertain intervals, night and day, and was known
to give tongue only during moments allotted by the Church to devout
thoughts. But the good monk Ambrose, in setting down on parchment the
chronicles of this time, gives it as his opinion that no prosperity
could have been expected in thus suddenly changing the functions of the
bell from sacred duty to the furtherance of a secular object. Still,
Ambrose was known to be a sympathiser with the house of Eltz, and, aside
from this, a monk in his cell cannot be expected to take the same
view of military necessity that would commend itself to a warrior on a
bastion; therefore, much as we may admire Ambrose as an historian, we
are not compelled to accept his opinions on military ethics.

On the important night, which was of great darkness, made the more
intense by the black environment of densely-wooded hills which
surrounded Schloss Eltz, the swarthy Spaniard became almost pale with
anxiety as he listened for the solemn peal that was to be his signal.
At last it tolled forth, and he, with knife to hand in his girdle, crept
softly along the narrow halls to his fatal task. The interior of Schloss
Eltz is full of intricate passages, unexpected turnings, here a few
steps up, there a few steps down, for all the world like a maze, in
which even one knowing the castle might well go astray. At one of the
turnings Rego came suddenly upon the Countess, who screamed at sight of
him, and then recognising him said, half laughing, half crying, being a
nervous woman:

“Ah, Rego, thank heaven it is you! I am so distraught with the doleful
ringing of that bell that I am frightened at the sound of my own
footsteps. Why rings it so, Rego?”

“‘Tis some Church festival, my Lady, which they, fighting for the
Archbishop, are more familiar with than I,” answered the trembling
Spaniard, as frightened as the lady herself at the unexpected meeting.
But the Countess was a most religious woman, well skilled in the
observances of her Church, and she replied:

“No, Rego. There is no cause for its dolorous music, and to-night there
seems to me something ominous and menacing in its tone, as if disaster
impended.”

“It may be the birthday of the Archbishop, my Lady, or of the Pope
himself.”

“Our Holy Father was born in May, and the Archbishop in November. Ah,
I would that this horrid strife were done with! But our safety lies in
Heaven, and if our duty be accomplished here on earth, we should have
naught to fear; yet I tremble as if great danger lay before me. Come,
Rego, to the chapel, and light the candles at the altar.”

The Countess passed him, and for one fateful moment Rego’s hand hovered
over his dagger, thinking to strike the lady dead at his feet; but the
risk was too great, for there might at any time pass along the corridor
one of the servants, who would instantly raise the alarm and bring
disaster upon him. He dare not disobey. So grinding his teeth in
impotent rage and fear, he followed his mistress to the chapel, and,
as quickly as he could, lit one candle after another, until the usual
number burned before the sacred image. The Countess was upon her knees
as he tried to steal softly from the room. “Nay, Rego,” she said,
raising her bended head, “light them all to-night. Hearken! That raven
bell has ceased even as you lighted the last candle.”

The Countess, as has been said was a devout lady, and there stood an
unusual number of candles before the altar, several of which burned
constantly, but only on notable occasions were all the candles lighted.
As Rego hesitated, not knowing what to do in this crisis, the lady
repeated: “Light _all_ the candles to-night, Rego.”

“You said yourself, my Lady,” murmured the agonised man, cold sweat
breaking out on his forehead, “that this was not a Saint’s day.”

“Nevertheless, Rego,” persisted the Countess, surprised that even a
favourite servant should thus attempt to thwart her will, “I ask you to
light each candle. Do so at once.”

She bowed her head as one who had spoken the final word, and again her
fate trembled in the balance; but Rego heard the footsteps of the Count
entering the gallery above him, that ran across the end of the chapel,
and he at once resumed the lighting of the candles, making less speed in
his eagerness than if he had gone about his task with more care.

The monk Ambrose draws a moral from this episode, which is sufficiently
obvious when after-events have confirmed it, but which we need not here
pause to consider, when an episode of the most thrilling nature is going
forward on the lofty platform on the roof of Eltz Castle.

The sentinel paced back and forward within his narrow limit, listening
to the depressing and monotonous tolling of the bell and cursing it, for
the platform was a lonely place and the night of inky darkness. At last
the bell ceased, and he stood resting on his long pike, enjoying the
stillness, and peering into the blackness surrounding him, when suddenly
he became aware of a grating, rasping sound below, as if some one were
attempting to climb the precipitous beetling cliff of castle wall and
slipping against the stones. His heart stood still with fear, for he
knew it could be nothing human. An instant later something appeared
over the parapet that could be seen only because it was blacker than the
distant dark sky against which it was outlined. It rose and rose until
the sentinel saw it was the top of a ladder, which was even more amazing
than if the fiend himself had scrambled over the stone coping, for we
know the devil can go anywhere, while a ladder cannot. But the soldier
was a common-sense man, and, dark as was the night, he knew that, tall
as such a ladder must be, there seemed a likelihood that human power was
pushing it upward. He touched it with his hands and convinced himself
that there was nothing supernatural about it. The ladder rose inch by
inch, slowly, for it must have been no easy task for even twoscore men
to raise it thus with ropes or other devices, especially when the bottom
of it neared the top of the ledge. The soldier knew he should at
once give the alarm: but he was the second traitor in the stronghold,
corrupted by the sight of the glittering gold he had shared, and only
prevented from selling himself because the rigours of military rule did
not give him opportunity of going to Baldwineltz as the less exacting
civilian duties had allowed the Spaniard to do and thus market his ware.
So the sentry made no outcry, but silently prepared a method by which he
could negotiate with advantage to himself when the first head appeared
above the parapet. He fixed the point of his lance against a round
of the ladder, and when the leading warrior, who was none other than
Heinrich von Richenbach, himself came slowly and cautiously to the top
of the wall, the sentinel, exerting all his strength, pushed the lance
outward, and the top of the ladder with it, until it stood nearly
perpendicular some two yards back from the wall.

“In God’s name, what are you about? Is that you, Rego?”

The soldier replied, calmly:

“Order your men not to move, and do not move yourself, until I have some
converse with you. Have no fear if you are prepared to accept my terms;
otherwise you will have ample time to say your prayers before you reach
the ground, for the distance is great.”

Von Richenbach, who now leaned over the top round, suspended thus
between heaven and earth, grasped the lance with both hands, so that the
ladder might not be thrust beyond the perpendicular. In quivering voice
he passed down the word that no man was to shift foot or hand until he
had made bargain with the sentinel who held them in such extreme peril.

“What terms do you propose to me, soldier?” he asked, breathlessly.

“I will conduct you down to the courtyard, and when you have surprised
and taken the castle you will grant me safe conduct and give me five
bags of gold equal in weight to those offered to our captain.”

“All that will I do and double the treasure. Faithfully and truly do I
promise it.”

“You pledge me your knightly word, and swear also by the holy coat of
Treves?”

“I pledge and swear. And pray you be careful; incline the ladder yet a
little more toward the wall.”

“I trust to your honour,” said the traitor, for traitors love to prate
of honour, “and will now admit you to the castle; but until we are in
the courtyard there must be silence.”

“Incline the ladder gently, for it is so weighted that if it come
suddenly against the wall, it may break in the middle.”

At this supreme moment, as the sentinel was preparing to bring them
cautiously to the wall, when all was deep silence, there crept swiftly
and noiselessly through the trap-door the belated Spaniard. His catlike
eyes beheld the shadowy form of the sentinel bending apparently over
the parapet, but they showed him nothing beyond. With the speed and
precipitation of a springing panther, the Spaniard leaped forward and
drove his dagger deep into the neck of his comrade, who, with a gurgling
cry, plunged headlong forward, and down the precipice, thrusting his
lance as he fell. The Spaniard’s dagger went with the doomed sentinel,
sticking fast in his throat, and its presence there passed a fatal
noose around the neck of Rego later, for they wrongly thought the false
sentinel had saved the castle and that the Spaniard had murdered a
faithful watchman.

Rego leaned panting over the stone coping, listening for the thud of the
body. Then was he frozen with horror when the still night air was split
with the most appalling shriek of combined human voice in an agony
of fear that ever tortured the ear of man. The shriek ended in a
terrorising crash far below, and silence again filled the valley.




“GENTLEMEN: THE KING!”


The room was large, but with a low ceiling, and at one end of the
lengthy, broad apartment stood a gigantic fireplace, in which was
heaped a pile of blazing logs, whose light, rather than that of several
lanterns hanging from nails along the timbered walls, illuminated the
faces of the twenty men who sat within. Heavy timbers, blackened with
age and smoke, formed the ceiling. The long, low, diamond-paned window
in the middle of the wall opposite the door, had been shuttered as
completely as possible, but less care than usual was taken to prevent
the light from penetrating into the darkness beyond, for the night was a
stormy and tempestuous one, the rain lashing wildly against the hunting
châlet, which, in its time, had seen many a merry hunting party gathered
under its ample roof.

Every now and then a blast of wind shook the wooden edifice from garret
to foundation, causing a puff of smoke to come down the chimney, and
the white ashes to scatter in little whirlwinds over the hearth. On the
opposite side from the shuttered window was the door, heavily barred.
A long, oaken table occupied the centre of the room, and round this in
groups, seated and standing, were a score of men, all with swords at
their sides; bearing, many of them, that air of careless hauteur which
is supposed to be a characteristic of noble birth.

Flagons were scattered upon the table, and a barrel of wine stood in a
corner of the room farthest from the fireplace, but it was evident that
this was no ordinary drinking party, and that the assemblage was brought
about by some high purport, of a nature so serious that it stamped
anxiety on every brow. No servants were present, and each man who wished
a fresh flagon of wine had to take his measure to the barrel in the
corner and fill for himself.

The hunting châlet stood in a wilderness, near the confines of the
kingdom of Alluria, twelve leagues from the capital, and was the
property of Count Staumn, whose tall, gaunt form stood erect at the
head of the table as he silently listened to the discussion which every
moment was becoming more and more heated, the principal speaking parts
being taken by the obstinate, rough-spoken Baron Brunfels, on the one
hand, and the crafty, fox-like ex-Chancellor Steinmetz on the other.

“I tell you,” thundered Baron Brunfels, bringing his fist down on the
table, “I will not have the King killed. Such a proposal goes beyond
what was intended when we banded ourselves together. The King is a fool,
so let him escape like a fool. I am a conspirator, but not an assassin.”

“It is justice rather than assassination,” said the ex-Chancellor
suavely, as if his tones were oil and the Baron’s boisterous talk were
troubled waters.

“Justice!” cried the Baron, with great contempt. “You have learned that
cant word in the Cabinet of the King himself, before he thrust you out.
He eternally prates of justice, yet, much as I loathe him, I have
no wish to compass his death, either directly or through gabbling of
justice.”

“Will you permit me to point out the reason that induces me to believe
his continued exemption, and State policy, will not run together?”
 replied the advocate of the King’s death. “If Rudolph escape, he will
take up his abode in a neighbouring territory, and there will inevitably
follow plots and counter-plots for his restoration--thus Alluria will be
kept in a state of constant turmoil. There will doubtless grow up within
the kingdom itself a party sworn to his restoration. We shall thus be
involved in difficulties at home and abroad, and all for what? Merely to
save the life of a man who is an enemy to each of us. We place thousands
of lives in jeopardy, render our own positions insecure, bring continual
disquiet upon the State, when all might be avoided by the slitting of
one throat, even though that throat belong to the King.”

It was evident that the lawyer’s persuasive tone brought many to his
side, and the conspirators seemed about evenly divided upon the question
of life or death to the King. The Baron was about to break out again
with some strenuousness in favour of his own view of the matter, when
Count Staumn made a proposition that was eagerly accepted by all save
Brunfels himself.

“Argument,” said Count Staumn, “is ever the enemy of good comradeship.
Let us settle the point at once and finally, with the dice-box. Baron
Brunfels, you are too seasoned a gambler to object to such a mode
of terminating a discussion. Steinmetz, the law, of which you are so
distinguished a representative, is often compared to a lottery, so you
cannot look with disfavour upon a method that is conclusive, and as
reasonably fair as the average decision of a judge. Let us throw,
therefore, for the life of the King. I, as chairman of this meeting,
will be umpire. Single throws, and the highest number wins. Baron
Brunfels, you will act for the King, and, if you win, may bestow upon
the monarch his life. Chancellor Steinmetz stands for the State. If he
wins, then is the King’s life forfeit. Gentlemen, are you agreed?”

“Agreed, agreed,” cried the conspirators, with practically unanimous
voice.

Baron Brunfels grumbled somewhat, but when the dice-horn was brought,
and he heard the rattle of the bones within the leathern cylinder, the
light of a gambler’s love shone in his eyes, and he made no further
protest.

The ex-Chancellor took the dice-box in his hand, and was about to shake,
when there came suddenly upon them three stout raps against the door,
given apparently with the hilt of a sword. Many not already standing,
started to their feet, and nearly all looked one upon another with deep
dismay in their glances. The full company of conspirators was present;
exactly a score of men knew of the rendezvous, and now the twenty-first
man outside was beating the oaken panels. The knocking was repeated, but
now accompanied by the words:

“Open, I beg of you.”

Count Staumn left the table and, stealthily as a cat, approached the
door.

“Who is there?” he asked.

“A wayfarer, weary and wet, who seeks shelter from the storm.”

“My house is already filled,” spoke up the Count. “I have no room for
another.”

“Open the door peacefully,” cried the outlander, “and do not put me to
the necessity of forcing it.”

There was a ring of decision in the voice which sent quick pallor to
more than one cheek. Ex-Chancellor Steinmetz rose to his feet with
chattering teeth, and terror in his eyes; he seemed to recognise the
tones of the invisible speaker. Count Staumn looked over his shoulder at
the assemblage with an expression that plainly said: “What am I to do?”

“In the fiend’s name,” hissed Baron Brunfels, taking the precaution,
however, to speak scarce above his breath, “if you are so frightened
when it comes to a knock at the door, what will it be when the real
knocks are upon you. Open, Count, and let the insistent stranger in.
Whether he leave the place alive or no, there are twenty men here to
answer.”

The Count undid the fastenings and threw back the door. There entered
a tall man completely enveloped in a dark cloak that was dripping
wet. Drawn over his eyes was a hunter’s hat of felt, with a drooping
bedraggled feather on it.

The door was immediately closed and barred behind him, and the stranger,
pausing a moment when confronted by so many inquiring eyes, flung off
his cloak, throwing it over the back of a chair; then he removed his
hat with a sweep, sending the raindrops flying. The intriguants gazed
at him, speechless, with varying emotions. They saw before them His
Majesty, Rudolph, King of Alluria.

If the King had any suspicion of his danger, he gave no token of it. On
his smooth, lofty forehead there was no trace of frown, and no sign
of fear. His was a manly figure, rather over, than under, six feet in
height; not slim and gaunt, like Count Staumn, nor yet stout to excess,
like Baron Brunfels. The finger of Time had touched with frost the hair
at his temples, and there were threads of white in his pointed beard,
but his sweeping moustache was still as black as the night from which he
came.

His frank, clear, honest eyes swept the company, resting momentarily on
each, then he said in a firm voice, without the suspicion of a tremor in
it: “Gentlemen, I give you good evening, and although the hospitality of
Count Staumn has needed spurring, I lay that not up against him, because
I am well aware his apparent reluctance arose through the unexpectedness
of my visit; and, if the Count will act as cup-bearer, we will drown all
remembrance of a barred door in a flagon of wine, for, to tell truth,
gentlemen, I have ridden hard in order to have the pleasure of drinking
with you.”

As the King spoke these ominous words, he cast a glance of piercing
intensity upon the company, and more than one quailed under it. He
strode to the fireplace, spurs jingling as he went, and stood with his
back to the fire, spreading out his hands to the blaze. Count Staumn
left the bolted door, took an empty flagon from the shelf, filled it at
the barrel in the corner, and, with a low bow, presented the brimming
measure to the King.

Rudolph held aloft his beaker of Burgundy, and, as he did so, spoke in a
loud voice that rang to the beams of the ceiling:

“Gentlemen, I give you a suitable toast. May none here gathered
encounter a more pitiless storm than that which is raging without!”

With this he drank off the wine, and, inclining his head slightly to the
Count, returned the flagon. No one, save the King, had spoken since he
entered. Every word he had uttered seemed charged with double meaning
and brought to the suspicious minds of his hearers visions of a trysting
place surrounded by troops, and the King standing there, playing with
them, as a tiger plays with its victims. His easy confidence appalled
them.

When first he came in, several who were seated remained so, but one
by one they rose to their feet, with the exception of Baron Brunfels,
although he, when the King gave the toast, also stood. It was clear
enough their glances of fear were not directed towards the King, but
towards Baron Brunfels. Several pairs of eyes beseeched him in silent
supplication, but the Baron met none of these glances, for his gaze was
fixed upon the King.

Every man present knew the Baron to be reckless of consequences; frankly
outspoken, thoroughly a man of the sword, and a despiser of diplomacy.
They feared that at any moment he might blurt out the purport of the
meeting, and more than one was thankful for the crafty ex-Chancellor’s
planning, who throughout had insisted there should be no documentary
evidence of their designs, either in their houses or on their persons.
Some startling rumour must have reached the King’s ear to bring him thus
unexpectedly upon them.

The anxiety of all was that some one should persuade the King they were
merely a storm-besieged hunting party. They trembled in anticipation of
Brunfels’ open candor, and dreaded the revealing of the real cause of
their conference. There was now no chance to warn the Baron; a man who
spoke his mind; who never looked an inch beyond his nose, even though
his head should roll off in consequence, and if a man does not value
his own head, how can he be expected to care for the heads of his
neighbours?

“I ask you to be seated,” said the King, with a wave of the hand.

Now, what should that stubborn fool of a Baron do but remain standing,
when all but Rudolph and himself had seated themselves, thus drawing His
Majesty’s attention directly towards him, and making a colloquy between
them well-nigh inevitable. Those next the ex-Chancellor were nudging
him, in God’s name, to stand also, and open whatever discussion there
must ensue between themselves and His Majesty, so that it might be
smoothly carried on, but the Chancellor was ashen grey with fear, and
his hand trembled on the table.

“My Lord of Brunfels,” said the King, a smile hovering about his lips,
“I see that I have interrupted you at your old pleasure of dicing; while
requesting you to continue your game as though I had not joined you, may
I venture to hope the stakes you play for are not high?”

Every one held his breath, awaiting with deepest concern the reply of
the frowning Baron, and when it came growling forth, there was little in
it to ease their disquiet.

“Your Majesty,” said Baron Brunfels, “the stakes are the highest that a
gambler may play for.”

“You tempt me, Baron, to guess that the hazard is a man’s soul, but
I see that your adversary is my worthy ex-Chancellor, and as I should
hesitate to impute to him the character of the devil, I am led,
therefore, to the conclusion that you play for a human life. Whose life
is in the cast, my Lord of Brunfels?”

Before the Baron could reply, ex-Chancellor Steinmetz arose, with some
indecision, to his feet. He began in a trembling voice:

“I beg your gracious permission to explain the reason of our
gathering--”

“Herr Steinmetz,” cried the King sternly, “when I desire your
interference I shall call for it; and remember this, Herr Steinmetz; the
man who begins a game must play it to the end, even though he finds luck
running against him.”

The ex-Chancellor sat down again, and drew his hand across his damp
forehead.

“Your Majesty,” spoke up the Baron, a ring of defiance in his voice, “I
speak not for my comrades, but for myself. I begin no game that I fear
to finish. We were about dice in order to discover whether Your Majesty
should live or die.”

A simultaneous moan seemed to rise from the assembled traitors. The
smile returned to the King’s lips.

“Baron,” he said, “I have ever chided myself for loving you, for you
were always a bad example to weak and impressionable natures. Even when
your overbearing, obstinate intolerance compelled me to dismiss you from
the command of my army, I could not but admire your sturdy honesty. Had
I been able to graft your love of truth upon some of my councillors,
what a valuable group of advisers might I have gathered round me. But
we have had enough of comedy and now tragedy sets in. Those who are
traitors to their ruler must not be surprised if a double traitor is one
of their number. Why am I here? Why do two hundred mounted and armed men
surround this doomed châlet? Miserable wretches, what have you to say
that judgment be not instantly passed upon you?”

“I have this to say,” roared Baron Brunfels, drawing his sword, “that
whatever may befall this assemblage, you, at least, shall not live to
boast of it.”

The King stood unmoved as Baron Brunfels was about to rush upon him,
but Count Staumn and others threw themselves between the Baron and his
victim, seeing in the King’s words some intimation of mercy to be held
out to them, could but actual assault upon his person be prevented.

“My Lord of Brunfels,” said the King, calmly, “sheath your sword. Your
ancestors have often drawn it, but always for, and never against the
occupant of the Throne. Now, gentlemen, hear my decision, and abide
faithfully by it. Seat yourselves at the table, ten on each side, the
dice-box between you. You shall not be disappointed, but shall play out
the game of life and death. Each dices with his opposite. He who throws
the higher number escapes. He who throws the lower places his weapons on
the empty chair, and stands against yonder wall to be executed for the
traitor that he is. Thus half of your company shall live, and the other
half seek death with such courage as may be granted them. Do you agree,
or shall I give the signal?”

With unanimous voice they agreed, all excepting Baron Brunfels, who
spoke not.

“Come, Baron, you and my devoted ex-Chancellor were about to play when I
came in. Begin the game.”

“Very well,” replied the Baron nonchalantly. “Steinmetz, the dice-box is
near your hand: throw.”

Some one placed the cubes in the leathern cup and handed it to the
ex-Chancellor, whose shivering fingers relieved him of the necessity of
shaking the box. The dice rolled out on the table; a three, a four, and
a one. Those nearest reported the total.

“Eight!” cried the King. “Now, Baron.”

Baron Brunfels carelessly threw the dice into their receptacle, and a
moment after the spotted bones clattered on the table.

“Three sixes!” cried the Baron. “Lord, if I only had such luck when I
played for money!”

The ex-Chancellor’s eyes were starting from his head, wild with fear.

“We have three throws,” he screamed.

“Not so,” said the King.

“I swear I understood that we were to have three chances,” shrieked
Steinmetz, springing from his chair. “But it is all illegal, and not to
be borne. I will not have my life diced away to please either King or
commons.”

He drew his sword and placed himself in an attitude of defence.

“Seize him; disarm him, and bind him,” commanded the King. “There are
enough gentlemen in this company to see that the rules of the game are
adhered to.”

Steinmetz, struggling and pleading for mercy, was speedily overpowered
and bound; then his captors placed him against the wall, and resumed
their seats at the table. The next man to be doomed was Count Staumn.
The Count arose from his chair, bowed first to the King and then to the
assembled company; drew forth his sword, broke it over his knee, and
walked to the wall of the condemned.

The remainder of the fearful contest was carried on in silence, but with
great celerity, and before a quarter of an hour was past, ten men had
their backs to the wall, while the remaining ten were seated at the
table, some on one side, and some on the other.

The men ranged against the wall were downcast, for however bravely a
soldier may meet death in hostile encounter, it is a different matter to
face it bound and helpless at the hands of an executioner.

A shade of sadness seemed to overspread the countenance of the King,
who still occupied the position he had taken at the first, with his back
towards the fire.

Baron Brunfels shifted uneasily in his seat, and glanced now and then
with compassion at his sentenced comrades. He was first to break the
silence.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I am always loath to see a coward die. The
whimpering of your former Chancellor annoys me; therefore, will I gladly
take his place, and give to him the life and liberty you perhaps design
for me, if, in exchange, I have the privilege of speaking my mind
regarding you and your precious Kingship.”

“Unbind the valiant Steinmetz,” said the King. “Speak your mind freely,
Baron Brunfels.”

The Baron rose, drew sword from scabbard, and placed it on the table.

“Your Majesty, backed by brute force,” he began, “has condemned to death
ten of your subjects. You have branded us as traitors, and such we are,
and so find no fault with your sentence; merely recognising that you
represent, for the time being, the upper hand. You have reminded me that
my ancestors fought for yours, and that they never turned their swords
against their sovereign. Why, then, have our blades been pointed towards
your breast? Because, King Rudolph, you are yourself a traitor. You
belong to the ruling class and have turned your back upon your order.
You, a King, have made yourself a brother to the demagogue at the street
corner; yearning for the cheap applause of the serf. You have shorn
nobility of its privileges, and for what?”

“And for what?” echoed the King with rising voice. “For this; that the
ploughman on the plain may reap what he has sown; that the shepherd
on the hillside may enjoy the increase which comes to his flock; that
taxation may be light; that my nobles shall deal honestly with the
people, and not use their position for thievery and depredation; that
those whom the State honours by appointing to positions of trust shall
content themselves with the recompense lawfully given, and refrain from
peculation; that peace and security shall rest on the land; and that
bloodthirsty swashbucklers shall not go up and down inciting the people
to carnage and rapine under the name of patriotism. This is the task I
set myself when I came to the Throne. What fault have you to find with
the programme, my Lord Baron?”

“The simple fault that it is the programme of a fool,” replied the Baron
calmly. “In following it you have gained the resentment of your nobles,
and have not even received the thanks of those pitiable hinds,
the ploughman in the valley or the shepherd on the hills. You have
impoverished us so that the clowns may have a few more coins with which
to muddle in drink their already stupid brains. You are hated in cot and
castle alike. You would not stand in your place for a moment, were
not an army behind you. Being a fool, you think the common people love
honesty, whereas, they only curse that they have not a share in the
thieving.”

“The people,” said the King soberly, “have been misled. Their ear
has been abused by calumny and falsehood. Had it been possible for me
personally to explain to them the good that must ultimately accrue to
a land where honesty rules, I am confident I would have had their
undivided support, even though my nobles deserted me.”

“Not so, Your Majesty; they would listen to you and cheer you, but when
the next orator came among them, promising to divide the moon, and give
a share to each, they would gather round his banner and hoot you from
the kingdom. What care they for rectitude of government? They see no
farther than the shining florin that glitters on their palm. When your
nobles were rich, they came to their castles among the people, and
scattered their gold with a lavish hand. Little recked the peasants how
it was got, so long as they shared it. ‘There,’ they said, ‘the coin
comes to us that we have not worked for.’

“But now, with castles deserted, and retainers dismissed, the people
have to sweat to wring from traders the reluctant silver, and they cry:
‘Thus it was not in times of old, and this King is the cause of it,’
and so they spit upon your name, and shrug their shoulders, when your
honesty is mentioned. And now, Rudolph of Alluria, I have done, and I
go the more jauntily to my death that I have had fair speech with you
before the end.”

The King looked at the company, his eyes veiled with moisture. “I
thought,” he said slowly, “until to-night, that I had possessed some
qualities at least of a ruler of men. I came here alone among you, and
although there are brave men in this assembly, yet I had the ordering of
events as I chose to order them, notwithstanding that odds stood a score
to one against me. I still venture to think that whatever failures have
attended my eight years’ rule in Alluria arose from faults of my own,
and not through imperfections in the plan, or want of appreciation in
the people.

“I have now to inform you that if it is disastrous for a King to act
without the co-operation of his nobles, it is equally disastrous for
them to plot against their leader. I beg to acquaint you with the fact
that the insurrection so carefully prepared has broken out prematurely.
My capital is in possession of the factions, who are industriously
cutting each other’s throats to settle which one of two smooth-tongued
rascals shall be their President. While you were dicing to settle the
fate of an already deposed King, and I was sentencing you to a mythical
death, we were all alike being involved in common ruin.

“I have seen to-night more property in flames than all my savings during
the last eight years would pay for. I have no horsemen at my back, and
have stumbled here blindly, a much bedraggled fugitive, having lost my
way in every sense of the phrase. And so I beg of the hospitality of
Count Staumn another flagon of wine, and either a place of shelter for
my patient horse, who has been left too long in the storm without, or
else direction towards the frontier, whereupon my horse and I will set
out to find it.”

“Not towards the frontier!” cried Baron Brunfels, grasping again his
sword and holding it aloft, “but towards the capital. We will surround
you, and hew for you a way through that fickle mob back to the throne of
your ancestors.”

Each man sprang to his weapon and brandished it above his head, while a
ringing cheer echoed to the timbered ceiling.

“The King! The King!” they cried.

Rudolph smiled and shook his head.

“Not so,” he said. “I leave a thankless throne with a joy I find it
impossible to express. As I sat on horseback, half-way up the hill
above the burning city, and heard the clash of arms, I was filled with
amazement to think that men would actually fight for the position of
ruler of the people. Whether the insurrection has brought freedom
to themselves or not, the future alone can tell, but it has at least
brought freedom to me. I now belong to myself. No man may question
either my motives or my acts. Gentlemen, drink with me to the new
President of Alluria, whoever he may be.”

But the King drank alone, none other raising flagon to lip. Then Baron
Brunfels cried aloud:

“_Gentlemen: the King!_”

And never in the history of Alluria was a toast so heartily honoured.




THE HOUR-GLASS


Bertram Eastford had intended to pass the shop of his old friend, the
curiosity dealer, into whose pockets so much of his money had gone
for trinkets gathered from all quarters of the globe. He knew it was
weakness on his part, to select that street when he might have taken
another, but he thought it would do no harm to treat himself to one
glance at the seductive window of the old curiosity shop, where the
dealer was in the habit of displaying his latest acquisitions. The
window was never quite the same, and it had a continued fascination for
Bertram Eastford; but this time, he said to himself resolutely, he would
not enter, having, as he assured himself, the strength of mind to forego
this temptation. However, he reckoned without his window, for in it
there was an old object newly displayed which caught his attention as
effectually as a half-driven nail arrests the hem of a cloak. On the
central shelf of the window stood an hour-glass, its framework of some
wood as black as ebony. He stood gazing at it for a moment, then turned
to the door and went inside, greeting the ancient shopman, whom he knew
so well.

“I want to look at the hour-glass you have in the window,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” replied the curiosity dealer; “the cheap watch has driven the
hour-glass out of the commercial market, and we rarely pick up a thing
like that nowadays.” He took the hour-glass from the shelf in the
window, reversed it, and placed it on a table. The ruddy sand began to
pour through into the lower receptacle in a thin, constant stream, as
if it were blood that had been dried and powdered. Eastford watched the
ever-increasing heap at the bottom, rising conically, changing its
shape every moment, as little avalanches of the sand fell away from its
heightening sides.

“There is no need for you to extol its antiquity,” said Eastford, with a
smile. “I knew the moment I looked at it that such glasses are rare, and
you are not going to find me a cheapening customer.”

“So far from over-praising it,” protested the shopman, “I was about to
call your attention to a defect. It is useless as a measurer of time.”

“It doesn’t record the exact hour, then?” asked Eastford.

“Well, I suppose the truth is, they were not very particular in the old
days, and time was not money, as it is now. It measures the hour with
great accuracy,” the curio dealer went on--“that is, if you watch
it; but, strangely enough, after it has run for half an hour, or
thereabouts, it stops, because of some defect in the neck of the glass,
or in the pulverising of the sand, and will not go again until the glass
is shaken.”

The hour-glass at that moment verified what the old man said. The tiny
stream of sand suddenly ceased, but resumed its flow the moment
its owner jarred the frame, and continued pouring without further
interruption.

“That is very singular,” said Eastford. “How do you account for it?”

“I imagine it is caused by some inequality in the grains of sand;
probably a few atoms larger than the others come together at the neck,
and so stop the percolation. It always does this, and, of course, I
cannot remedy the matter because the glass is hermetically sealed.”

“Well, I don’t want it as a timekeeper, so we will not allow that defect
to interfere with the sale. How much do you ask for it?”

The dealer named his price, and Eastford paid the amount.

“I shall send it to you this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” said the customer, taking his leave.

That night in his room Bertram Eastford wrote busily until a late hour.
When his work was concluded, he pushed away his manuscript with a sigh
of that deep contentment which comes to a man who has not wasted his
day. He replenished the open fire, drew his most comfortable arm-chair
in front of it, took the green shade from his lamp, thus filling the
luxurious apartment with a light that was reflected from armour and from
ancient weapons standing in corners and hung along the walls. He lifted
the paper-covered package, cut the string that bound it, and placed the
ancient hour-glass on his table, watching the thin stream of sand which
his action had set running. The constant, unceasing, steady downfall
seemed to hypnotise him. Its descent was as silent as the footsteps of
time itself. Suddenly it stopped, as it had done in the shop, and its
abrupt ceasing jarred on his tingling nerves like an unexpected break in
the stillness. He could almost imagine an unseen hand clasping the
thin cylinder of the glass and throttling it. He shook the bygone
time-measurer and breathed again more steadily when the sand resumed its
motion. Presently he took the glass from the table and examined it with
some attention.

He thought at first its frame was ebony, but further inspection
convinced him it was oak, blackened with age. On one round end was
carved rudely two hearts overlapping, and twined about them a pair of
serpents.

“Now, I wonder what that’s for?” murmured Eastford to himself. “An
attempt at a coat of arms, perhaps.”

There was no clue to the meaning of the hieroglyphics, and Eastford,
with the glass balanced on his knee, watched the sand still running, the
crimson thread sparkling in the lamplight. He fancied he saw distorted
reflections of faces in the convex glass, although his reason told him
they were but caricatures of his own. The great bell in the tower near
by, with slow solemnity, tolled twelve. He counted its measured strokes
one by one, and then was startled by a decisive knock at his door. One
section of his brain considered this visit untimely, another looked on
it as perfectly usual, and while the two were arguing the matter out, he
heard his own voice cry: “Come in.”

The door opened, and the discussion between the government and the
opposition in his mind ceased to consider the untimeliness of the visit,
for here, in the visitor himself, stood another problem. He was a young
man in military costume, his uniform being that of an officer. Eastford
remembered seeing something like it on the stage, and knowing little of
military affairs, thought perhaps the costume of the visitor before him
indicated an officer in the Napoleonic war.

“Good evening!” said the incomer. “May I introduce myself? I am
Lieutenant Sentore, of the regular army.”

“You are very welcome,” returned his host. “Will you be seated?”

“Thank you, no. I have but a few moments to stay. I have come for my
hour-glass, if you will be good enough to let me have it.”

“_Your_ hour-glass?” ejaculated Eastford, in surprise. “I think you
labour under a misapprehension. The glass belongs to me; I bought it
to-day at the old curiosity shop in Finchmore Street.”

“Rightful possession of the glass would appear to rest with you,
technically; but taking you to be a gentleman, I venture to believe that
a mere statement of my priority of claim will appeal to you, even though
it might have no effect on the minds of a jury of our countrymen.”

“You mean to say that the glass has been stolen from you and has been
sold?”

“It has been sold undoubtedly over and over again, but never stolen, so
far as I have been able to trace its history.”

“If, then, the glass has been honestly purchased by its different
owners, I fail to see how you can possibly establish any claim to it.”

“I have already admitted that my claim is moral rather than legal,”
 continued the visitor. “It is a long story; have I your permission to
tell it?”

“I shall be delighted to listen,” replied Eastford, “but before doing
so I beg to renew my invitation, and ask you to occupy this easy-chair
before the fire.”

The officer bowed in silence, crossed the room behind Eastford, and sat
down in the arm-chair, placing his sword across his knees. The stranger
spread his hands before the fire, and seemed to enjoy the comforting
warmth. He remained for a few moments buried in deep reflection, quite
ignoring the presence of his host, who, glancing upon the hour-glass in
dispute upon his knees, seeing that the sands had all run out silently
reversed it and set them flowing again. This action caught the corner
of the stranger’s eye, and brought him to a realisation of why he was
there. Drawing a heavy sigh, he began his story.

      *      *      *      *      *

“In the year 1706 I held the post of lieutenant in that part of the
British Army commanded by General Trelawny, the supreme command, of
course, being in the hands of the great Marlborough.”

Eastford listened to this announcement with a feeling that there was
something wrong about the statement. The man sitting there was calmly
talking of a time one hundred and ninety-two years past, and yet he
himself could not be a day more than twenty-five years old. Somewhere
entangled in this were the elements of absurdity. Eastford found himself
unable to unravel them, but the more he thought of the matter, the more
reasonable it began to appear, and so, hoping his visitor had not noted
the look of surprise on his face, he said, quietly, casting his mind
back over the history of England, and remembering what he had learned at
school:--

“That was during the war of the Spanish Succession?”

“Yes: the war had then been in progress four years, and many brilliant
victories had been won, the greatest of which was probably the Battle of
Blenheim.”

“Quite so,” murmured Eastford.



                     “It was the English,” Casper cried,
                       “That put the French to rout;
                     “But what they killed each other for,
                       “I never could make out.”


The officer looked up in astonishment.

“I never heard anything like that said about the war. The reason for
it was perfectly plain. We had to fight or acknowledge France to be the
dictator of Europe. Still, politics have nothing to do with my story.
General Trelawny and his forces were in Brabant, and were under orders
to join the Duke of Marlborough’s army. We were to go through the
country as speedily as possible, for a great battle was expected.
Trelawny’s instructions were to capture certain towns and cities
that lay in our way, to dismantle the fortresses, and to parole their
garrisons. We could not encumber ourselves with prisoners, and so
marched the garrisons out, paroled them, destroyed their arms, and bade
them disperse. But, great as was our hurry, strict orders had been given
to leave no strongholds in our rear untaken.

“Everything went well until we came to the town of Elsengore, which we
captured without the loss of a man. The capture of the town, however,
was of little avail, for in the centre of it stood a strong citadel,
which we tried to take by assault, but could not. General Trelawny, a
very irascible, hotheaded man, but, on the whole, a just and capable
officer, impatient at this unexpected delay, offered the garrison almost
any terms they desired to evacuate the castle. But, having had warning
of our coming, they had provisioned the place, were well supplied with
ammunition, and their commander refused to make terms with General
Trelawny.

“‘If you want the place,’ said the Frenchman, ‘come and take it.’

“General Trelawny, angered at this contemptuous treatment, flung his
men again and again at the citadel, but without making the slightest
impression on it.

“We were in no wise prepared for a long siege, nor had we expected
stubborn resistance. Marching quickly, as was our custom heretofore,
we possessed no heavy artillery, and so were at a disadvantage when
attacking a fortress as strong as that of Elsengore. Meanwhile, General
Trelawny sent mounted messengers by different roads to his chief giving
an account of what had happened, explaining his delay in joining the
main army, and asking for definite instructions. He expected that one or
two, at least, of the mounted messengers sent away would reach his chief
and be enabled to return. And that is exactly what happened, for one day
a dusty horseman came to General Trelawny’s headquarters with a brief
note from Marlborough. The Commander-in-Chief said:--

“‘I think the Frenchman’s advice is good. We want the place; therefore,
take it.’

“But he sent no heavy artillery to aid us in this task, for he could not
spare his big guns, expecting, as he did, an important battle.
General Trelawny having his work thus cut out for him, settled down to
accomplish it as best he might. He quartered officers and men in various
parts of the town, the more thoroughly to keep watch on the citizens, of
whose good intentions, if the siege were prolonged, we were by no means
sure.

“It fell to my lot to be lodged in the house of Burgomaster Seidelmier,
of whose conduct I have no reason to complain, for he treated me well. I
was given two rooms, one a large, low apartment on the first floor,
and communicating directly with the outside, by means of a hall and a
separate stairway. The room was lighted by a long, many-paned window,
leaded and filled with diamond-shaped glass. Beyond this large
drawing-room was my bedroom. I must say that I enjoyed my stay in
Burgomaster Seidelmier’s house none the less because he had an only
daughter, a most charming girl. Our acquaintance ripened into deep
friendship, and afterwards into----but that has nothing to do with
what I have to tell you. My story is of war, and not of love. Gretlich
Seidelmier presented me with the hour-glass you have in your hand, and
on it I carved the joined hearts entwined with our similar initials.”

“So they are initials, are they?” said Eastford, glancing down at what
he had mistaken for twining serpents.

“Yes,” said the officer; “I was more accustomed to a sword than to an
etching tool, and the letters are but rudely drawn. One evening, after
dark, Gretlich and I were whispering together in the hall, when we
heard the heavy tread of the general coming up the stair. The girl fled
precipitately, and I, holding open the door, waited the approach of my
chief. He entered and curtly asked me to close the door.

“‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘it is my intention to capture the citadel
to-night. Get together twenty-five of your men, and have them ready
under the shadow of this house, but give no one a hint of what you
intend to do with them. In one hour’s time leave this place with your
men as quietly as possible, and make an attack on the western entrance
of the citadel. Your attack is to be but a feint and to draw off their
forces to that point. Still, if any of your men succeed in gaining
entrance to the fort they shall not lack reward and promotion. Have you
a watch?’

“‘Not one that will go, general; but I have an hourglass here.’

“‘Very well, set it running. Collect your men, and exactly at the hour
lead them to the west front; it is but five minutes’ quick march from
here. An hour and five minutes from this moment I expect you to begin
the attack, and the instant you are before the western gate make as much
noise as your twenty-five men are capable of, so as to lead the enemy to
believe that the attack is a serious one.’

“Saying this, the general turned and made his way, heavy-footed, through
the hall and down the stairway.

“I set the hour-glass running, and went at once to call my men,
stationing them where I had been ordered to place them. I returned
to have a word with Gretlich before I departed on what I knew was a
dangerous mission. Glancing at the hour-glass, I saw that not more than
a quarter of the sand had run down during my absence. I remained in the
doorway, where I could keep an eye on the hour-glass, while the
girl stood leaning her arm against the angle of the dark passageway,
supporting her fair cheek on her open palm; and, standing thus in the
darkness, she talked to me in whispers. We talked and talked, engaged in
that sweet, endless conversation that murmurs in subdued tone round
the world, being duplicated that moment at who knows how many
places. Absorbed as I was in listening, at last there crept into
my consciousness the fact that the sand in the upper bulb was not
diminishing as fast as it should. This knowledge was fully in my mind
for some time before I realised its fearful significance. Suddenly
the dim knowledge took on actuality. I sprang from the door-lintel,
saying:--

“‘Good heavens, the sand in the hour-glass has stopped running!’

“I remained there motionless, all action struck from my rigid limbs,
gazing at the hour-glass on the table.

“Gretlich, peering in at the doorway, looking at the hour-glass and not
at me, having no suspicion of the ruin involved in the stoppage of that
miniature sandstorm, said, presently:--

“‘Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you it does that now and then, and so you
must shake the glass.’

“She bent forward as if to do this when the leaden windows shuddered,
and the house itself trembled with the sharp crash of our light cannon,
followed almost immediately by the deeper detonation of the heavier guns
from the citadel. The red sand in the glass began to fall again, and its
liberation seemed to unfetter my paralysed limbs. Bareheaded as I was,
I rushed like one frantic along the passage and down the stairs. The
air was resonant with the quick-following reports of the cannon, and
the long, narrow street was fitfully lit up as if by sudden flashes of
summer lightning. My men were still standing where I had placed them.
Giving a sharp word of command, I marched them down the street and
out into the square, where I met General Trelawny coming back from his
futile assault. Like myself, he was bareheaded. His military countenance
was begrimed with powder-smoke, but he spoke to me with no trace of
anger in his voice.

“‘Lieutenant Sentore,’ he said, ‘disperse your men.’

“I gave the word to disband my men, and then stood at attention before
him.

“‘Lieutenant Sentore,’ he said, in the same level voice, ‘return to your
quarters and consider yourself under arrest. Await my coming there.’

“I turned and obeyed his orders. It seemed incredible that the sand
should still be running in the hour-glass, for ages appeared to have
passed over my head since last I was in that room. I paced up and down,
awaiting the coming of my chief, feeling neither fear nor regret, but
rather dumb despair. In a few minutes his heavy tread was on the stair,
followed by the measured tramp of a file of men. He came into the room,
and with him were a sergeant and four soldiers, fully armed. The general
was trembling with rage, but held strong control over himself, as was
his habit on serious occasions.

“‘Lieutenant Sentore,’ he said, ‘why were you not at your post?”

“‘The running sand in the hour-glass’ (I hardly recognised my own voice
on hearing it) ‘stopped when but half exhausted. I did not notice its
interruption until it was too late.’

“The general glanced grimly at the hour-glass. The last sands were
falling through to the lower bulb. I saw that he did not believe my
explanation.

“‘It seems now to be in perfect working order,’ he said, at last.

“He strode up to it and reversed it, watching the sand pour for a few
moments, then he spoke abruptly:--

“‘Lieutenant Sentore, your sword.’

“I handed my weapon to him without a word. Turning to the sergeant,
he said: ‘Lieutenant Sentore is sentenced to death. He has an hour for
whatever preparations he cares to make. Allow him to dispose of that
hour as he chooses, so long as he remains within this room and holds
converse with no one whatever. When the last sands of this hour-glass
are run, Lieutenant Sentore will stand at the other end of this room
and meet the death merited by traitors, laggards, or cowards. Do you
understand your duty, sergeant?’

“‘Yes, general.’

“General Trelawny abruptly left the room, and we heard his heavy steps
echoing throughout the silent house, and later, more faintly on the
cobble-stones of the street. When they had died away a deep stillness
set in, I standing alone at one end of the room, my eyes fixed on the
hour-glass, and the sergeant with his four men, like statues at the
other, also gazing at the same sinister object. The sergeant was the
first to break the silence.

“‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘do you wish to write anything----?’

“He stopped short, being an unready man, rarely venturing far beyond
‘Yes’ and ‘No.’

“‘I should like to communicate with one in this household,’ I said, ‘but
the general has forbidden it, so all I ask is that you shall have
my body conveyed from this room as speedily as possible after the
execution.’

“‘Very good, lieutenant,’ answered the sergeant.

“After that, for a long time no word was spoken. I watched my life run
redly through the wasp waist of the transparent glass, then suddenly the
sand ceased to flow, half in the upper bulb, half in the lower.

“‘It has stopped,’ said the sergeant; ‘I must shake the glass.’

“‘Stand where you are!’ I commanded, sharply. ‘Your orders do not run to
that.’

“The habit of obedience rooted the sergeant to the spot.

“‘Send one of your men to General Trelawny,’ I said, as if I had
still the right to be obeyed. ‘Tell him what has happened, and ask for
instructions. Let your man tread lightly as he leaves the room.’

“The sergeant did not hesitate a moment, but gave the order I required
of him. The soldier nearest the door tip-toed out of the house. As we
all stood there the silence seeming the deeper because of the stopping
of the sand, we heard the hour toll in the nearest steeple. The sergeant
was visibly perturbed, and finally he said:--

“‘Lieutenant, I must obey the general’s orders. An hour has passed since
he left here, for that clock struck as he was going down the stair.
Soldiers, make ready. _Present_.’

“The men, like impassive machines levelled their muskets at my breast. I
held up my hand.

“‘Sergeant,’ I said as calmly as I could, ‘you are now about to exceed
your instructions. Give another command at your peril. The exact words
of the general were, ‘When the last sands of this hour-glass are run.’
I call your attention to the fact that the conditions are not fulfilled.
Half of the sand remains in the upper bulb.’

“The sergeant scratched his head in perplexity, but he had no desire to
kill me, and was only actuated by a soldier’s wish to adhere strictly to
the letter of his instructions, be the victim friend or foe. After a few
moments he muttered, ‘It is true,’ then gave a command that put his men
into their former position.

“Probably more than half an hour passed, during which time no man moved;
the sergeant and his three remaining soldiers seemed afraid to breathe;
then we heard the step of the general himself on the stair. I feared
that this would give the needed impetus to the sand in the glass, but,
when Trelawny entered, the _status quo_ remained. The general stood
looking at the suspended sand, without speaking.

“’ That is what happened before, general, and that is why I was not
at my place. I have committed the crime of neglect, and have thus
deservedly earned my death; but I shall die the happier if my general
believes I am neither a traitor nor a coward.’

“The general, still without a word, advanced to the table, slightly
shook the hour-glass, and the sand began to pour again. Then he picked
the glass up in his hand, examining it minutely, as if it were some
strange kind of toy, turning it over and over. He glanced up at me and
said, quite in his usual tone, as if nothing in particular had come
between us:--

“‘Remarkable thing that, Sentore, isn’t it?’

“‘Very,’ I answered, grimly.

“He put the glass down.

“‘Sergeant, take your men to quarters. Lieutenant Sentore, I return to
you your sword; you can perhaps make better use of it alive than dead;
I am not a man to be disobeyed, reason or no reason. Remember that, and
now go to bed.’

“He left me without further word, and buckling on my sword, I proceeded
straightway to disobey again.

“I had a great liking for General Trelawny. Knowing how he fumed and
raged at being thus held helpless by an apparently impregnable fortress
in the unimportant town of Elsengore, I had myself studied the citadel
from all points, and had come to the conclusion that it might be
successfully attempted, not by the great gates that opened on the
square of the town, nor by the inferior west gates, but by scaling the
seemingly unclimbable cliffs at the north side. The wall at the top of
this precipice was low, and owing to the height of the beetling
cliff, was inefficiently watched by one lone sentinel, who paced the
battlements from corner tower to corner tower. I had made my plans,
intending to ask the general’s permission to risk this venture, but
now I resolved to try it without his knowledge or consent, and thus
retrieve, if I could, my failure of the foregoing part of the night.

“Taking with me a long, thin rope which I had in my room, anticipating
such a trial for it, I roused five of my picked men, and silently we
made our way to the foot of the northern cliff. Here, with the rope
around my waist, I worked my way diagonally up along a cleft in
the rock, which, like others parallel to it, marked the face of the
precipice. A slip would be fatal. The loosening of a stone would give
warning to the sentinel, whose slow steps I heard on the wall above me,
but at last I reached a narrow ledge without accident, and standing up
in the darkness, my chin was level with the top of the wall on which the
sentry paced. The shelf between the bottom of the wall and the top of
the cliff was perhaps three feet in width, and gave ample room for a
man careful of his footing. Aided by the rope, the others, less expert
climbers than myself, made their way to my side one by one, and the
six of us stood on the ledge under the low wall. We were all in our
stockinged feet, some of the men, in fact, not even having stockings on.
As the sentinel passed, we crouching in the darkness under the wall, the
most agile of our party sprang up behind him. The soldier had taken off
his jacket, and tip-toeing behind the sentinel, he threw the garment
over his head, tightening it with a twist that almost strangled the man.
Then seizing his gun so that it would not clatter on the stones, held
him thus helpless while we five climbed up beside him. Feeling under the
jacket, I put my right hand firmly on the sentinel’s throat, and nearly
choking the breath out of him, said:--

“‘Your life depends on your actions now. Will you utter a sound if I let
go your throat?’

“The man shook his head vehemently, and I released my clutch.

“‘Now,’ I said to him, ‘where is the powder stored? Answer in a whisper,
and speak truly.’

“‘The bulk of the powder,’ he answered, ‘is in the vault below the
citadel.’

“‘Where is the rest of it?’ I whispered.

“‘In the lower room of the round tower by the gate.’

“‘Nonsense,’ I said: ‘they would never store it in a place so liable to
attack.’

“‘There was nowhere else to put it,’ replied the sentinel, ‘unless they
left it in the open courtyard, which would be quite as unsafe.’

“‘Is the door to the lower room in the tower bolted?’

“‘There is no door,’ replied the sentry, ‘but a low archway. This
archway has not been closed, because no cannon-balls ever come from the
northern side.’

“‘How much powder is there in this room?’

“‘I do not know; nine or ten barrels, I think.’

“It was evident to me that the fellow, in his fear, spoke the truth.
Now, the question was, how to get down from the wall into the courtyard
and across that to the archway at the southern side? Cautioning the
sentinel again, that if he made the slightest attempt to escape or give
the alarm, instant death would be meted to him, I told him to guide us
to the archway, which he did, down the stone steps that led from the
northern wall into the courtyard. They seemed to keep loose watch
inside, the only sentinels in the place being those on the upper walls.
But the man we had captured not appearing at his corner in time, his
comrade on the western side became alarmed, spoke to him, and obtaining
no answer, shouted for him, then discharged his gun. Instantly the
place was in an uproar. Lights flashed, and from different guard-rooms
soldiers poured out. I saw across the courtyard the archway the sentinel
had spoken of, and calling my men made a dash for it. The besieged
garrison, not expecting an enemy within, had been rushing up the stone
steps at each side to the outer wall to man the cannon they had so
recently quitted, and it was some minutes before a knowledge of the real
state of things came to them. These few minutes were all we needed, but
I saw there was no chance for a slow match, while if we fired the mine
we probably would die under the tottering tower.

“By the time we reached the archway and discovered the powder barrels,
the besieged, finding everything silent outside, came to a realisation
of the true condition of affairs. We faced them with bayonets fixed,
while Sept, the man who had captured the sentinel, took the hatchet he
had brought with him at his girdle, flung over one of the barrels on its
side, knocked in the head of it, allowing the dull black powder to pour
on the cobblestones. Then filling his hat with the explosive, he came
out towards us, leaving a thick trail behind him. By this time we were
sorely beset, and one of our men had gone down under the fire of the
enemy, who shot wildly, being baffled by the darkness, otherwise all of
us had been slaughtered. I seized a musket from a comrade and shouted to
the rest:--

“‘Save yourselves’, and to the garrison, in French, I gave the same
warning; then I fired the musket into the train of powder, and the next
instant found myself half stunned and bleeding at the farther end of the
courtyard. The roar of the explosion and the crash of the falling tower
were deafening. All Elsengore was groused by the earthquake shock, I
called to my men when I could find my voice, and Sept answered from
one side, and two more from another. Together we tottered across the
_débris_-strewn courtyard. Some woodwork inside the citadel had taken
fire and was burning fiercely, and this lit up the ruins and made
visible the great gap in the wall at the fallen gate. Into the square
below we saw the whole town pouring, soldiers and civilians alike coming
from the narrow streets into the open quadrangle. I made my way, leaning
on Sept, over the broken gate and down the causeway into the square, and
there, foremost of all, met my general, with a cloak thrown round him,
to make up for his want of coat.

“‘There, general,’ I gasped, ‘there is your citadel, and through this
gap can we march to meet Marlborough.’

“‘Pray, sir, who the deuce are you?’ cried the general, for my face was
like that of a blackamoor.

“‘I am the lieutenant who has once more disobeyed your orders, general,
in the hope of retrieving a former mistake.’

“‘Sentore!’ he cried, rapping out an oath. ‘I shall have you
court-martialled, sir.’

“‘I think, general,’ I said, ‘that I am court-martialled already,’ for I
thought then that the hand of death was upon me, which shows the
effect of imagination, for my wounds were not serious, yet I sank down
unconscious at the general’s feet. He raised me in his arms as if I had
been his own son, and thus carried me to my rooms. Seven years later,
when the war ended, I got leave of absence and came back to Elsengore
for Gretlich Seidelmier and the hour-glass.”

As the lieutenant ceased speaking, Eastford thought he heard again the
explosion under the tower, and started to his feet in nervous alarm,
then looked at the lieutenant and laughed, while he said:--

“Lieutenant, I was startled by that noise just now, and imagined for
the moment that I was in Brabant. You have made good your claim to the
hour-glass, and you are welcome to it.”

But as Eastford spoke, he turned his eyes towards the chair in which the
lieutenant had been seated, and found it vacant. Gazing round the room,
in half somnolent dismay, he saw that he was indeed alone. At his
feet was the shattered hour-glass, which had fallen from his knee, its
blood-red sand mingling with the colours on the carpet. Eastford said,
with an air of surprise:--

“By Jove!”




THE WARRIOR MAID OF SAN CARLOS

The young naval officer came into this world with two eyes and two arms;
he left it with but one of each--nevertheless the remaining eye was ever
quick to see, and the remaining arm ever strong to seize. Even his blind
eye became useful on one historic occasion. But the loss of eye or arm
was as nothing to the continual loss of his heart, which often led
him far afield in the finding of it. Vanquished when he met the women;
invincible when he met the men; in truth, a most human hero, and so
we all love Jack--the we, in this instant, as the old joke has it,
embracing the women.

In the year 1780 Britain ordered Colonel Polson to invade Nicaragua.
The task imposed on the gallant Colonel was not an onerous one, for the
Nicaraguans never cared to secure for themselves the military reputation
of Sparta. In fact, some years after this, a single American, Walker,
with a few Californian rifles under his command, conquered the whole
nation and made himself President of it, and perhaps would have been
Dictator of Nicaragua to-day if his own country had not laid him by the
heels. It is no violation of history to state that the entire British
fleet was not engaged in subduing Nicaragua, and that Colonel Polson
felt himself amply provided for the necessities of the crisis by sailing
into the harbour of San Juan del Norte with one small ship. There were
numerous fortifications at the mouth of the river, and in about an hour
after landing, the Colonel was in possession of them all.

The flight of time, brief as it was, could not be compared in celerity
with the flight of the Nicaraguans, who betook themselves to the
backwoods with an impetuosity seldom seen outside of a race-course.
There was no loss of life so far as the British were concerned, and the
only casualties resulting to the Nicaraguans were colds caught through
the overheating of themselves in their feverish desire to explore
immediately the interior of their beloved country. “He who bolts
and runs away will live to bolt another day,” was the motto of the
Nicaraguans. So far, so good, or so bad, as the case may be.

The victorious Colonel now got together a flotilla of some half a score
of boats, and the flotilla was placed under the command of the young
naval officer, the hero of this story. The expedition proceeded
cautiously up the river San Juan, which runs for eighty miles, or
thereabouts, from Lake Nicaragua to the salt water. The voyage was
a sort of marine picnic. Luxurious vegetation on either side, and no
opposition to speak of, even from the current of the river; for Lake
Nicaragua itself is but a hundred and twenty feet above the sea level,
and a hundred and twenty feet gives little rapidity to a river eighty
miles long.

As the flotilla approached the entrance to the lake caution increased,
for it was not known how strong Fort San Carlos might prove. This fort,
perhaps the only one in the country strongly built, stood at once on
the shore of the lake and bank of the stream. There was one chance in
a thousand that the speedy retreat of the Nicaraguans had been merely
a device to lure the British into the centre of the country, where
the little expedition of two hundred sailors and marines might be
annihilated. In these circumstances Colonel Poison thought it well,
before coming in sight of the fort, to draw up his boats along the
northern bank of the San Juan River, sending out scouts to bring in
necessary information regarding the stronghold.

The young naval officer all through his life was noted for his energetic
and reckless courage, so it was not to be wondered at that the age of
twenty-two found him impatient with the delay, loth to lie inactive in
his boat until the scouts returned; so he resolved upon an action that
would have justly brought a court-martial upon his head had a knowledge
of it come to his superior officer. He plunged alone into the tropical
thicket, armed only with two pistols and a cutlass, determined to force
his way through the rank vegetation along the bank of the river, and
reconnoitre Fort San Carlos for himself. If he had given any thought to
the matter, which it is more than likely he did not, he must have known
that he ran every risk of capture and death, for the native of South
America, then as now, has rarely shown any hesitation about shooting
prisoners of war. Our young friend, therefore, had slight chance for
his life if cut off from his comrades, and, in the circumstances, even a
civilised nation would have been perfectly within its right in executing
him as a spy.

After leaving the lake the river San Juan bends south, and then north
again. The scouts had taken the direct route to the fort across the
land, but the young officer’s theory was that, if the Nicaraguans meant
to fight, they would place an ambush in the dense jungle along the
river, and from this place of concealment harass the flotilla before it
got within gunshot of the fort. This ambuscade could easily fall back
upon the fort if directly attacked and defeated. This, the young man
argued was what he himself would have done had he been in command of the
Nicaraguan forces, so it naturally occurred to him to discover whether
the same idea had suggested itself to the commandant at San Carlos.

Expecting every moment to come upon this ambuscade, the boy proceeded,
pistol in hand, with the utmost care, crouching under the luxuriant
tropical foliage, tunnelling his way, as one might say, along the dark
alleys of vegetation, roofed in by the broad leaves overhead. Through
cross-alleys he caught glimpses now and then of the broad river, of
which he was desirous to keep within touch. Stealthily crossing one of
these riverward alleys the young fellow came upon his ambuscade, and
was struck motionless with amazement at the form it took. Silhouetted
against the shining water beyond was a young girl. She knelt at the
very verge of the low, crumbling cliff above the water; her left hand,
outspread, was on the ground, her right rested against the rough trunk
of a palm-tree, and counter-balanced the weight of her body, which
leaned far forward over the brink. Her face was turned sideways towards
him, and her lustrous eyes peered intently down the river at the British
flotilla stranded along the river’s bank. So intent was her gaze, so
confident was she that she was alone, that the leopard-like approach of
her enemy gave her no hint of attack. Her perfect profile being towards
him, he saw her cherry-red lips move silently as if she were counting
the boats and impressing their number upon her memory.

A woman in appearance, she was at this date but sixteen years old, and
the breathless young man who stood like a statue regarding her thought
he had never seen a vision of such entrancing beauty, and, as I have
before intimated, he was a judge of feminine loveliness. Pulling himself
together, and drawing a deep but silent breath, he went forward with
soft tread, and the next instant there was a grip of steel on the wrist
of the young girl that rested on the earth. With a cry of dismay she
sprang to her feet and confronted her assailant, nearly toppling over
the brink as she did so; but he grasped her firmly, and drew her a step
or two up the arcade. As he held her left wrist there was in the air the
flash of a stiletto, and the naval officer’s distinguished career would
have ended on that spot had he not been a little quicker than his fair
opponent. His disengaged hand gripped the descending wrist and held her
powerless.

“Ruffian!” she hissed, in Spanish.

The young man had a workable knowledge of the language, and he thanked
his stars now that it was so. He smiled at her futile struggles to free
herself, then said:--

“When they gave me my commission, I had no hope that I should meet so
charming an enemy. Drop the knife, señorita, and I will release your
hand.”

The girl did not comply at first. She tried to wrench herself free,
pulling this way and that with more strength than might have been
expected from one so slight. But finding herself helpless in those rigid
bonds, she slowly relaxed the fingers of her right hand, and let the
dagger drop point downward into the loose soil, where it stood and
quivered.

“Now let me go,” she said, panting. “You promised.”

The young man relinquished his hold, and the girl, with the quick
movement of a humming-bird, dived into the foliage, and would have
disappeared, had he not with equal celerity intercepted her, again
imprisoning her wrist.

“You liar!” she cried, her magnificent eyes ablaze with anger.
“Faithless minion of a faithless race, you promised to let me go.”

“And I kept my promise,” said the young man, still with a smile. “I said
I would release your hand, and I did so; but as for yourself, that is a
different matter. You see, señorita, to speak plainly, you are a spy.
I have caught you almost within our lines, counting our boats, and,
perhaps, our men. There is war between our countries, and I arrest you
as a spy.”

“A brave country, yours,” she cried, “to war upon women!”

“Well,” said the young man, with a laugh, “what are we to do? The men
won’t stay and fight us.”

She gave him a dark, indignant glance at this, which but heightened her
swarthy beauty.

“And what are you,” she said, “but a spy?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “If you had found me peering at the fort, then,
perhaps, I should be compelled to plead guilty. But as it is, you are
the only spy here at present, señorita. Do you know what the fate of a
spy is?”

The girl stood there for a few moments, her face downcast, the living
gyves still encircling her wrists. When she looked up it was with a
smile so radiant that the young man gasped for breath, and his heart
beat faster than ever it had done in warfare.

“But you will not give me up?” she murmured, softly.

“Then would I be in truth a faithless minion,” cried the young man,
fervently; “not, indeed, to my country, but to your fascinating sex,
which I never adored so much as now.”

“You mean that you would be faithless to your country, but not to me?”

“Well,” said the young man, with some natural hesitation, “I shouldn’t
care to have to choose between my allegiance to one or the other.
England can survive without warring upon women, as you have said; so I
hope that if we talk the matter amicably over, we may find that my duty
need not clash with my inclination.”

“I am afraid that is impossible,” she answered, quickly. “I hate your
country.”

“But not the individual members of it, I hope.”

“I know nothing of its individual members, nor do I wish to, as you
shall soon see, if you will but let go my wrist.”

“Ah, señorita,” exclaimed the young man, “you are using an argument now
that will make me hold you forever.”

“In that case,” said the girl, “I shall change my argument, and give
instead a promise. If you release me I shall not endeavour to escape--I
may even be so bold as to expect your escort to the fort, where, if I
understand you aright, you were but just now going.”

“I accept your promise, and shall be delighted if you will accept my
escort. Meanwhile, in the interest of our better acquaintance, can I
persuade you to sit down, and allow me to cast myself at your feet?”

The girl, with a clear, mellow laugh, sat down, and the young man
reclined in the position he had indicated, gazing up at her with intense
admiration in his eyes.

“If this be war,” he said to himself, “long may I remain a soldier.”
 Infatuated as he certainly was, his natural alertness could not but
notice that her glance wandered to the stiletto, the perpendicular
shining blade of which looked like the crest of a glittering, dangerous
serpent, whose body was hidden in the leaves. She had seated herself
as close to the weapon as possible, and now, on one pretext or another,
edged nearer and nearer to it. At last the young man laughed aloud,
and, sweeping his foot round, knocked down the weapon, then indolently
stretching out his arm, he took it.

“Señorita,” he said, examining its keen edge, “will you give me this
dagger as a memento of our meeting?”

“It is unlucky,” she murmured, “to make presents of stilettos.”

“I think,” said the young man, glancing up at her with a smile on his
lips, “it will be more lucky for me if I place it here in my belt than
if I allow it to reach the possession of another.”

“Do you intend to steal it, señor?”

“Oh, no. If you refuse to let me have it, I will give it back to you
when our interview ends; but I should be glad to possess it, if you
allow me to keep it.”

“It is unlucky, as I have said; to make a present of it, but I will
exchange. If you will give me one of your loaded pistols, you may have
the stiletto.”

“A fair exchange,” he laughed, but he made no motion to fulfil his
part to the barter. “May I have the happiness of knowing your name,
señorita?” he asked.

“I am called Donna Rafaela Mora,” answered the girl, simply. “I am
daughter of the Commandant of Fort San Carlos. I am no Nicaraguan, but a
Spaniard And, señor, what is your name?”

“Horatio Nelson, an humble captain in His Majesty’s naval forces, to be
heard from later, I hope, unless Donna Rafaela cuts short my thread of
life with her stiletto.”

“And does a captain in His Majesty’s forces condescend to play the part
of a spy?” asked the girl, proudly.

“He is delighted to do so when it brings him the acquaintance of another
spy so charming as Donna Rafaela. My spying, and I imagine yours
also, is but amateurish, and will probably be of little value to our
respective forces. Our real spies are now gathered round your fort, and
will bring to us all the information we need. Thus, I can recline at
your feet, Donna Rafaela, with an easy conscience, well aware that my
failure as a spy will in no way retard our expedition.”

“How many men do you command, Señor Captain?” asked the girl, with
ill-concealed eagerness.

“Oh, sometimes twenty-five, sometimes fifty, or a hundred or two
hundred, or more, as the case may be,” answered the young man,
carelessly.

“But how many are there in your expedition now?”

“Didn’t you count them, Donna? To answer truly, I must not, to answer
falsely, I will not, Donna.”

“Why?” asked the girl, impetuously. “There is no such secrecy about our
forces; we do not care who knows the number in our garrison.”

“No? Then how many are there, Donna?”

“Three hundred and forty,” answered the girl.

“Men, or young ladies like yourself, Donna? Be careful how you answer,
for if the latter, I warn you that nothing will keep the British out
of Fort San Carlos. We shall be with you, even if we have to go as
prisoners. In saying this, I feel that I am speaking for our entire
company.”

The girl tossed her head scornfully.

“There are three hundred and forty men,” she said, “as you shall find to
your cost, if you dare attack the fort.”

“In that case,” replied Nelson, “you are nearly two to one, and I
venture to think that we have not come up the river for nothing.”

“What braggarts you English are!”

“Is it bragging to welcome a stirring fight? Are you well provided with
cannon?”

“You will learn that for yourself when you come within sight of the
fort. Have you any more questions to ask, Señor Sailor?”

“Yes; one. The number in the fort, which you give, corresponds with what
I have already heard. I have heard also that you were well supplied with
cannon, but I have been told that you have no cannonballs in Fort San
Carlos.”

“That is not true; we have plenty.

“Incredible as it may seem, I was told that the cannon-balls were made
of clay. When I said you had none, I meant that you had none of iron.”

“That also is quite true,” answered the girl. “Do you mean to say
that you are going to shoot baked clay at us? It will be like heaving
bricks,” and the young man threw back his head and laughed.

“Oh, you may laugh,” cried the girl, “but I doubt if you will be so
merry when you come to attack the fort. The clay cannon-balls were made
under the superintendence of my father, and they are filled with links
of chain, spikes, and other scraps of iron.”

“By Jove!” cried young Nelson, “that’s an original idea. I wonder how it
will work?”

“You will have every opportunity of finding out, if you are foolish
enough to attack the fort.”

“You advise us then to retreat?”

“I most certainly do.”

“And why, Donna, if you hate our country, are you so anxious that we
shall not be cut to pieces by your scrap-iron?”

The girl shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“It doesn’t matter in the least to me what you do,” she said, rising to
her feet. “Am I your prisoner, Señor Nelson?”

“No,” cried the young man, also springing up; “I am yours, and have been
ever since you looked at me.”

Again the girl shrugged her shoulders. She seemed to be in no humour for
light compliments, and betrayed an eagerness to be gone.

“I have your permission, then, to depart? Do you intend to keep your
word?”

“If you will keep yours, Donna.”

“I gave you no promise, except that I would not run away, and I have not
done so. I now ask your permission to depart.”

“You said that I might accompany you to the fort.”

“Oh, if you have the courage, yes,” replied the girl, carelessly.

They walked on together through the dense alleys of vegetation, and
finally came to an opening which showed them a sandy plain, and across
it the strong white stone walls of the fort, facing the wide river, and
behind it the blue background of Lake Nicaragua.

Not a human form was visible either on the walls or on the plain. Fort
San Carlos, in spite of the fact that it bristled with cannon, seemed
like an abandoned castle. The two stood silent for a moment at the
margin of the jungle, the young officer running his eye rapidly over
the landscape, always bringing back his gaze to the seemingly deserted
stronghold.

“Your three hundred and forty men keep themselves well hidden,” he said
at last.

“Yes,” replied the girl, nonchalantly, “they fear that if they show
themselves you may hesitate to attack a fortress that is impregnable.”

“Well, you may disabuse their minds of that error when you return.”

“Are you going to keep my stiletto?” asked the girl, suddenly changing
the subject.

“Yes, with your permission.”

“Then keep your word, and give me your pistol in return.”

“Did I actually promise it?”

“You promised, Señor.”

“Then in that case, the pistol is yours.”

“Please hand it to me.”

Her eagerness to obtain the weapon was but partially hidden, and the
young man laughed as he weighed the fire-arm in his hand, holding it by
the muzzle.

“It is too heavy for a slim girl like you to handle,” he said, at last.
“It can hardly be called a lady’s toy.”

“You intend, then, to break your word,” said the girl, with quick
intuition, guessing with unerring instinct his vulnerable point.

“Oh, no,” he cried, “but I am going to send the pistol half-way home for
you,” and with that, holding it still by the barrel, he flung it far out
on the sandy plain, where it fell, raising a little cloud of dust. The
girl was about to speed to the fort, when, for the third time, the young
man grasped her wrist. She looked at him with indignant surprise.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but in case you should wish to fire the weapon,
you must have some priming. Let me pour a quantity of this gunpowder
into your hand.”

“Thank you,” she said, veiling her eyes, to hide their hatred.

He raised the tiny hand to his lips, without opposition, and then into
her satin palm, from his powderhorn, he poured a little heap of the
black grains.

“Good-bye, señor,” she said, hurrying away. She went directly to where
the pistol had fallen, stooped and picked it up. He saw her pour the
powder from her hand on its broad, unshapely pan. She knelt on the sand,
studied the clumsy implement, resting her elbow on her knee. The young
man stood there motionless, bareheaded, his cap in his hand. There was
a flash and a loud report; and the bullet cut the foliage behind him,
a little nearer than he expected. He bowed low to her, and she, rising
with an angry gesture, flung the weapon from her.

“Donna Rafaela,” he shouted, “thank you for firing the pistol. Its
report brings no one to the walls of San Carlos. Your fortress is
deserted, Donna. Tomorrow may I have the pleasure of showing you how to
shoot?”

The girl made no answer, but turning, ran as fast as she could towards
the fort.

The young man walked toward the fort, picked up his despised weapon,
thrust it in his belt, and went back to the camp. The scouts were
returning, and reported that, as far as they could learn, the three
hundred and forty Nicaraguans had, in a body, abandoned Fort San Carlos.

“It is some trick,” said the Colonel. “We must approach the fortress
cautiously, as if the three hundred and forty were there.”

The flotilla neared the fort in a long line. Each boat was filled with
men, and in each prow was levelled a small cannon--a man with a lighted
match beside it--ready to fire the moment word was given. Nelson himself
stood up in his boat, and watched the silent fort. Suddenly the silence
was broken by a crash of thunder, and Nelson’s boat (and the one nearest
to it) was wrecked, many of the men being killed, and himself severely
wounded.

“Back, back!” cried the commander. “Row out of range, for your lives!”
 The second cannon spoke, and the whole line of boats was thrown into
inextricable confusion. Cannon after cannon rang out, and of the two
hundred men who sailed up the river San Juan only ten reached the ship
alive.

The Commandant of the fort lay ill in his bed, unable to move, but his
brave daughter fired the cannon that destroyed the flotilla. Here Nelson
lost his eye, and so on a celebrated occasion was unable to see the
signals that called upon him to retreat. Thus victory ultimately rose
out of disaster.

The King of Spain decorated Donna Rafaela Mora, made her a colonel, and
gave her a pension for life. So recently as 1857, her grandson, General
Martinez, was appointed President of Nicaragua solely because he was a
descendant of the girl who defeated Horatio Nelson.




THE AMBASSADOR’S PIGEONS


Haziddin, the ambassador, stood at the door of his tent and gazed down
upon the famous city of Baalbek, seeing it now for the first time. The
night before, he had encamped on the heights to the south of Baalbek,
and had sent forward to that city, messengers to the Prince, carrying
greetings and acquainting him with the fact that an embassy from the
Governor of Damascus awaited permission to enter the gates. The sun
had not yet risen, but the splendour in the East, lighting the sky with
wondrous colourings of gold and crimson and green, announced the speedy
coming of that god which many of the inhabitants of Baalbek still
worshipped. The temples and palaces of the city took their tints from
the flaming sky, and Haziddin, the ambassador, thought he had never seen
anything so beautiful, notwithstanding the eulogy Mahomet himself had
pronounced upon his own metropolis of Damascus.

The great city lay in silence, but the moment the rim of the sun
appeared above the horizon the silence was broken by a faint sound of
chanting from that ornate temple, seemingly of carven ivory, which had
bestowed upon the city its Greek name of Heliopolis. The Temple of the
Sun towered overall other buildings in the place, and, as if the day-god
claimed his own, the rising sun shot his first rays upon this edifice,
striking from it instantly all colour, leaving its rows of pillars a
dazzling white as if they were fashioned from the pure snows of distant
Lebanon. The sun seemed a mainspring of activity, as well as an object
of adoration, for before it had been many minutes above the horizon the
ambassador saw emerging from the newly opened gate the mounted convoy
that was to act as his escort into the city; so, turning, he gave
a quick command which speedily levelled the tents, and brought his
retinue; into line to receive their hosts.

The officer, sent by the Prince of Baalbek to welcome the ambassador
and conduct him into the city, greeted the visitor with that deferential
ceremony so beloved of the Eastern people, and together they journeyed
down the hill to the gates, the followers of the one mingling
fraternally with the followers of the other. As if the deities of the
wonderful temples they were approaching wished to show the futility of
man’s foresight, a thoughtless remark made by one of the least in
the ambassador’s retinue to one of the least who followed the Baalbek
general, wrought ruin to one empire, and saved another from disaster.

A mule-driver from Baalbek said to one of his lowly a profession from
Damascus that the animals of the northern city seemed of superior
breed to those of the southern. Then the Damascus man, his civic pride
disturbed by the slighting remark, replied haughtily that if the mules
of Baalbek had endured such hardships as those of Damascus, journeying
for a month without rest through a rugged mountain country, they would
perhaps look in no better condition than those the speaker then drove.

“Our mules were as sleek as yours a month ago, when we left Damascus.”

As Baalbek is but thirty-one miles north of Damascus, the muleteer of
the former place marvelled that so long a time had been spent on
the journey, and he asked his fellow why they had wandered among the
mountains. The other could but answer that so it was, and he knew no
reason for it, and with this the man of Baalbek had to content himself.
And so the tale went from mouth to ear of the Baalbek men until it
reached the general himself. He thought little of it for the moment,
but, turning to the ambassador, said, having nothing else to say:

“How long has it taken you from Damascus to Baalbek?”

Then the ambassador answered:

“We have done the journey in three days; it might have taken us but two,
or perhaps it could have been accomplished in one, but there being no
necessity for speed we travelled leisurely.”

Then the general, remaining silent, said to himself:

“Which has lied, rumour or the ambassador?”

He cast his eyes over the animals the ambassador had brought with
him, and saw that they indeed showed signs of fatigue, and perhaps of
irregular and improper food.

Prince Ismael himself received Haziddin, ambassador of Omar, Governor
of Damascus, at the gates of Baalbek, and the pomp and splendour of
that reception was worthy of him who gave it, but the general found
opportunity to whisper in the ear of the Prince:

“The ambassador says he was but three days coming, while a follower of
his told a follower of mine that they have been a month on the road,
wandering among the mountains.”

Suspicion is ever latent in the Eastern mind, and the Prince was quick
to see a possible meaning for this sojourn among the mountains. It might
well be that the party were seeking a route at once easy and unknown by
which warriors from Damascus might fall upon Baalbek; yet, if this were
the case, why did not the explorers return directly to Damascus rather
than venture within the walls of Baalbek? It seemed to Prince Ismael
that this would have been the more crafty method to pursue, for, as it
was, unless messengers had returned to Damascus to report the result of
their mountain excursion, he had the whole party practically prisoners
within the walls of his city, and he could easily waylay any envoy sent
by the ambassador to his chief in Damascus. The Prince, however, showed
nothing in his manner of what was passing through his mind, but at the
last moment he changed the programme he had laid out for the reception
of the ambassador. Preparation had been made for a great public
breakfast, for Haziddin was famed throughout the East, not only as a
diplomatist, but also as physician and a man of science. The Prince
now gave orders that his officers were to entertain the retinue of
the ambassador at the public breakfast, while he bestowed upon the
ambassador the exceptional honour of asking him to his private table,
thus giving Haziddin of Damascus no opportunity to confer with his
followers after they had entered the gates of Baalbek.

It was impossible for Haziddin to demur, so he could but bow low and
accept the hospitality which might at that moment be most unwelcome, as
indeed it was. The Prince’s manner was so genial and friendly that, the
physician, Haziddin, soon saw he had an easy man to deal with, and he
suspected no sinister motive beneath the cordiality of the Prince.

The red wine of Lebanon is strong, and his Highness, Ismael, pressed it
upon his guest, urging that his three days’ journey had been fatiguing.
The ambassador had asked that his own servant might wait upon him, but
the Prince would not hear of it, and said that none should serve him who
were not themselves among the first nobles in Baalbek.

“You represent Omar, Governor of Damascus, son of King Ayoub, and as
such I receive you on terms of equality with myself.”

The ambassador, at first nonplussed with a lavishness that was most
unusual, gradually overcame his diffidence, became warm with the wine,
and so failed to notice that the Prince himself remained cool, and
drank sparingly. At last the head of Haziddin sank on his breast, and he
reclined at full length on the couch he occupied, falling into a drunken
stupor, for indeed he was deeply fatigued, and had spent the night
before sleepless. As his cloak fell away from him it left exposed a
small wicker cage attached to his girdle containing four pigeons closely
huddled, for the cage was barely large enough to hold them, and here the
Prince saw the ambassador’s swift messengers to Damascus. Let loose from
the walls of Baalbek, and flying direct, the tidings would, in a few
hours, be in the hands of the Governor of Damascus. Haziddin then was
spy as well as ambassador. The Prince also possessed carrier pigeons,
and used them as a means of communication between his armies at Tripoli
and at Antioch, so he was not ignorant of their consequence. The fact
that the ambassador himself carried this small cage under his cloak
attached to his girdle showed the great importance that was attached to
these winged messengers, otherwise Haziddin would have entrusted them to
one of his subordinates.

“Bring me,” whispered the Prince to his general, “four of my own
pigeons. Do not disturb the thongs attached to the girdle when you open
the cage, but take the ambassador’s pigeons out and substitute four of
my own. Keep these pigeons of Damascus separate from ours; we may yet
have use for them in communicating with the Governor.”

The general, quick to see the scheme which was in the Prince’s mind,
brought four Baalbek pigeons, identical with the others in size and
colour. He brought with him also a cage into which the Damascus pigeons
were put, and thus the transfer was made without the knowledge of the
slumbering ambassador. His cloak was arranged about him so that it
concealed the cage attached to the girdle, then the ambassador’s own
servants were sent for, and he was confided to their care.

When Haziddin awoke he found himself in a sumptuous room of the palace.
He had but a hazy remembrance of the latter part of the meal with the
Prince, and his first thought went with a thrill of fear towards the
cage under his cloak; finding, however, that this was intact, he was
much relieved in his mind, and could but hope that in his cups he had
not babbled anything of his mission which might arouse suspicion in the
mind of the Prince. His first meeting with the ruler of Baalbek after
the breakfast they had had together, set all doubts finally at
rest, because the Prince received him with a friendship which was
unmistakable. The physician apologised for being overcome by the potency
of the wine, and pleaded that he had hitherto been unused to liquor
of such strength. The Prince waved away all reference to the subject,
saying that he himself had succumbed on the same occasion, and had but
slight recollection of what had passed between them.

Ismael assigned to the ambassador one of the palaces near the Pantheon,
and Haziddin found himself free to come and go as he pleased without
espionage or restriction. He speedily learned that one of the armies
of Baalbek was at the north, near Antioch, the other to the west at
Tripoli, leaving the great city practically unprotected, and this
unprecedented state of affairs jumped so coincident with the designs of
his master, that he hastened to communicate the intelligence. He wrote:

“If Baalbek is immediately attacked, it cannot be protected. Half of the
army is on the shore of the Mediterranean, near Tripoli, the other half
is north, at Antioch. The Prince has no suspicion. If you conceal the
main body of your army behind the hills to the south of Baalbek, and
come on yourself with a small: retinue, sending notice to the Prince of
your arrival, he will likely himself come out to the gates to meet you,
and having secured his person, while I, with my followers, hold the open
gates, you can march into Baalbek unmolested. Once with a force inside
the walls of Baalbek, the city is as nearly as possible impregnable, and
holding the Prince prisoner, you may make with him your own terms. The
city is indescribably rich, and probably never before in the history of
the world has there been opportunity of accumulating so much treasure
with so little risk.”

This writing Haziddin attached to the leg of a pigeon, and throwing the
bird aloft from the walls, it promptly disappeared over the housetops,
and a few moments later was in the hands of its master, the Prince
of Baalbek, who read the treacherous message with amazement. Then,
imitating the ambassador’s writing, he penned a note, saying that this
was not the time to invade Baalbek, but as there were rumours that the
armies were about to leave the city, one going to the north and the
other to the west, the ambassador would send by another pigeon news of
the proper moment to strike.

This communication the Prince attached to the leg of one of the Damascus
pigeons, and throwing it into the air, saw with satisfaction that the
bird flew straight across the hills towards the south.

Ismael that night sent messengers mounted on swift Arabian horses to
Tripoli and to Antioch recalling his armies, directing his generals to
avoid Baalbek and to join forces in the mountains to the south of that
city and out of sight of it. This done, the Prince attended in state
a banquet tendered to him by the ambassador from Damascus, where he
charmed all present by his genial urbanity, speaking touchingly on the
blessings of peace, and drinking to a thorough understanding between the
two great cities of the East, Damascus and Baalbek, sentiments which,
were cordially reciprocated by the ambassador.

Next morning the second pigeon came to the palace of the Prince.

“Ismael is still unsuspicious,” the document ran. “He will fall an easy
prey if action be prompt. In case of a failure to surprise, it would be
well to impress upon your generals the necessity of surrounding the city
instantly so that messengers cannot be sent to the two armies. It will
then be advisable to cut off the water-supply by diverting the course
of the small river which flows into Baalbek. The walls of the city are
incredibly strong, and a few men can defend them successfully against a
host, once the gates are shut. Thirst, however, will soon compel them,
to surrender. Strike quickly, and Baalbek is yours.”

The Prince sent a note of another tenor to Damascus, and the calm
days passed serenely on, the ambassador watching anxiously from his
house-top, his eyes turned to the south, while the Prince watched as
anxiously from the roof of his palace, his gaze turning now westward now
northward.

The third night after the second message had been sent, the ambassador
paced the long level promenade of his roof, ever questioning the south.
A full moon shone down on the silent city, and in that clear air the
plain outside the walls and the nearer hills were as distinctly visible
as if it were daylight. There was no sign of an approaching army.
Baalbek lay like a city of the dead, the splendid architecture of its
countless temples gleaming ghostlike, cold, white and unreal in the pure
refulgence of the moon. Occasionally the ambassador paused in his walk
and leaned on the parapet. He had become vaguely uneasy, wondering why
Damascus delayed, and there crept over him that sensation of dumb fear
which comes to a man in the middle of the night and leaves him with
the breaking of day. He realised keenly the extreme peril of his own
position--imprisoned and at the mercy of his enemy should his treachery
be discovered. And now as he leaned over the parapet in the breathless
stillness, his alert ear missed an accustomed murmur of the night.
Baalbek was lulled to sleep by the ever-present tinkle of running water,
the most delicious sound that can soothe an Eastern ear, accustomed as
it is to the echoless silence of the arid rainless desert.

The little river which entered Baalbek first flowed past the palace of
the Prince, then to the homes of the nobles and the priests, meandering
through every street and lane until it came to the baths left by the
Romans, whence it flowed through the poorer quarters, and at last
disappeared under the outer wall. It might be termed a liquid guide to
Baalbek, for the stranger, leaving the palace and following its current,
would be led past every temple and residence in the city. It was the
limpid thread of life running through the veins of the town, and without
it Baalbek could not have existed. As the ambassador leaned over the
parapet wondering whether it was his imagination which made this night
seem more still than all that had gone before since he came to the city,
he suddenly became aware that what he missed was the purling trickle of
the water. Peering over the wall of his house, and gazing downward on
the moonlit street, he saw no reflecting glitter of the current, and
realised, with a leap of the heart, that the stream had run dry.

The ambassador was quick to understand the meaning of this sudden drying
of the stream. Notwithstanding his vigilance, the soldiers of Damascus
had stolen upon the city unperceived by him, and had already diverted
the water-course. Instantly his thoughts turned toward his own escape.
In the morning the fact of the invasion would be revealed, and his life
would lie at the mercy of an exasperated ruler. To flee from Baalbek in
the night he knew to be no easy task; all the gates were closed, and
not one of them would be opened before daybreak, except through the
intervention of the Prince himself. To spring from even the lowest part
of the wall would mean instant death. In this extremity the natural
ingenuity of the man came to his rescue. That which gave him warning
would also provide an avenue of safety.

The stream, conveyed to the city by a lofty aqueduct, penetrated the
thick walls through a tunnel cut in the solid stone, just large enough
to receive its volume. The tunnel being thus left dry, a man could crawl
on his hands and knees through it, and once outside, walk upright on the
top of the viaduct, along the empty bed of the river, until he reached
the spot where the water had been diverted, and there find his
comrades. Wasting not a thought on the jeopardy in which he left his own
followers, thus helplessly imprisoned in Baalbek, but bent only on his
own safety, he left his house silently, and hurried, deep in the shadow,
along the obscure side of the street. He knew he must avoid the guards
of the palace, and that done, his path to the invading army was clear.
But before he reached the palace of the Prince there remained for him
another stupefying surprise.

Coming to a broad thoroughfare leading to the square in which stood the
Temple of Life, he was amazed to see at his feet, flowing rapidly, the
full tide of the stream, shattering into dancing discs of light the
reflection of the full moon on its surface, gurgling swiftly towards the
square. The fugitive stood motionless and panic-stricken at the margin
of this transparent flood. He knew that his retreat had been cut
off. What had happened? Perhaps the strong current had swept away the
impediment placed against it by the invaders, and thus had resumed its
course into the city. Perhaps--but there was little use in surmising,
and the ambassador, recovering in a measure his self-possession,
resolved to see whether or not it would lead him to his own palace.

Crossing the wide thoroughfare into the shadow beyond, he followed it
towards the square, keeping his eye on the stream that rippled in the
moonlight. The rivulet flowed directly across the square to the Temple
of Life; there, sweeping a semicircle half round the huge building, it
resumed its straight course. The ambassador hesitated before crossing
the moonlit square, but a moment’s reflection showed him that no
suspicion could possibly attach to his movements in this direction,
for the Temple of Life was the only sacred edifice in the city for ever
open.

The Temple of Life consisted of a huge dome, which was supported by
a double circle of pillars, and beneath this dome had been erected
a gigantic marble statue, representing the God of Life, who stood
motionless with outstretched arms, as if invoking a blessing upon the
city. A circular opening at the top of the dome allowed the rays of the
moon to penetrate and illuminate the head of the statue. Against the
white polished surface of the broad marble slab, which lay at the foot
of the statue, the ambassador saw the dark forms of several prostrate
figures, and knew that each was there to beg of the sightless statue,
life for some friend, lying at that moment somewhere on a bed of
illness. For this reason the Temple of Life was always open, and
supplicants prostrated themselves within it at any hour of the night or
day. Remembering this, and knowing that it was the resort of high
and low alike, for Death respects not rank, Haziddin, with gathering
confidence, entered the moonlit square. At the edge of the great
circular temple he paused, meeting there his third surprise. He saw that
the stream was not deflected round the lower rim of the edifice, but
that a stone had been swung at right angles with the lower step, cutting
off the flow of the stream to the left, and allowing its waters to pour
underneath the temple. Listening, the ambassador heard the low muffled
roar of pouring water, and instantly his quick mind jumped at an
accurate conclusion. Underneath the Temple was a gigantic tank for the
storage of water, and it was being filled during the night. Did the
authorities of Baalbek expect a siege, and were they thus preparing
for it? Or was the filling of the tank an ordinary function performed
periodically to keep the water sweet? The ambassador would have given
much for an accurate answer to these questions, but he knew not whom to
ask.

Entering the Temple he prostrated himself on the marble slab, and
remained there for a few moments, hoping that, if his presence had been
observed, this action would provide excuse for his nocturnal wanderings.
Rising, he crossed again the broad square, and hurried up the street
by which he had entered it. This street led to the northern gate, whose
dark arch he saw at the end of it, and just as he was about to turn
down a lane which led to his palace, he found himself confronted with a
fourth problem. One leaf of the ponderous gate swung inward, and through
the opening he caught a glimpse of the moonlit country beyond. Knowing
that the gates were never opened at night, except through the direct
order of the Prince, he paused for a moment, and then saw a man on
horseback enter, fling himself hurriedly from his steed, leaving it in
care of those in charge of the gates, and disappear down the street that
led directly to the Prince’s palace. In a most perturbed state of mind
the ambassador sought his own house, and there wrote his final despatch
to Damascus. He told of his discovery of the water-tank, and said that
his former advice regarding the diverting of the stream was no longer
of practical value. He said he would investigate further the reservoir
under the Temple of Life, and discover, if possible, how the water was
discharged. If he succeeded in his quest he would endeavour, in case of
a long siege, to set free Baalbek’s store of water; but he reiterated
his belief that it was better to attempt the capture of the city by
surprise and fierce assault. The message that actually went to Damascus,
carried by the third pigeon, was again different in tenor.

“Come at once,” it said. “Baalbek is unprotected, and the Prince has
gone on a hunting expedition. March through the Pass of El-Zaid, which
is unprotected, because it is the longer route. The armies of Baalbek
are at Tripoli and at Antioch, and the city is without even a garrison.
The southern gate will be open awaiting your coming.”

Days passed, and the ambassador paced the roof of his house, looking in
vain towards the south. The streamed flowed as usual through the city.
Anxiety at the lack of all tidings from Damascus began to plough furrows
in his brow. He looked careworn and haggard. To the kindly inquiries
of the Prince regarding his health, he replied that there was nothing
amiss.

One evening, an urgent message came from the palace requesting his
attendance there. The Prince met him with concern on his brow.

“Have you had word from your master, Omar, Governor of Damascus, since
you parted with him?” asked Ismael.

“I have had no tidings,” replied the ambassador.

“A messenger has just come in from Damascus, who says that Omar is in
deadly peril. I thought you should know this speedily, and so I sent for
you.”

“Of what nature is this peril?” asked the ambassador, turning pale.

“The messenger said something of his falling a prisoner, sorely wounded,
in the hands of his enemies.”

“Of his enemies,” echoed the ambassador. “He has many. Which one has
been victorious?”

“I have had no particulars and perhaps the news may not be true,”
 answered the Prince, soothingly.

“May I question your messenger?”

“Assuredly. He has gone to the Temple of Life, to pray for some of his
own kin, who are in danger. Let us go there together and find him.”

But the messenger had already left the Temple before the arrival of his
master, and the two found the great place entirely empty. Standing near
the edge of the slab before the mammoth statue, the Prince said:

“Stand upon that slab facing the statue, and it will tell you more
faithfully than any messenger whether your master shall live or die, and
when.”

“I am a Moslem,” answered Haziddin, “and pray to none but Allah.”

“In Baalbek,” said the Prince, carelessly, “all religions are tolerated.
Here we have temples for the worship of the Roman and the Greek gods and
mosques for the Moslems. Here Christian, or Jew, Sun-worshipper or Pagan
implore their several gods unmolested, and thus is Baalbek prosperous. I
confess a liking for this Temple of Life, and come here often. I should,
however, warn you that it is the general belief of those who frequent
this place that he who steps upon the marble slab facing the god courts
disaster, unless his heart is as free, from treachery and guile as this
stone beneath him is free from flaw. Perhaps you have heard the rumour,
and therefore hesitate.”

“I have not heard it heretofore, but having heard it, do not hesitate.”
 Saying which, the ambassador stepped upon the stone. Instantly, the
marble turned under him, and falling, he clutched its polished surface
in vain, dropping helplessly into the reservoir beneath. The air under
his cloak bore him up and kept him from sinking. The reservoir into
which he had fallen proved to be as large as the Temple itself, circular
in form, as was the edifice above it. Steps rose from the water in
unbroken rings around it, but even if he could have reached the edge
of the huge tank in which he found himself, ascent by the steps was
impossible, for upon the first three burned vigorously some chemical
substance, which luridly illuminated the surface of this subterranean
lake. He was surrounded immediately by water, and beyond that by rising
rings of flame, and he rightly surmised that this substance was Greek
fire, for where it dripped into the water it still burned, floating
on the surface. A moment later the Prince appeared on the upper steps,
outside the flaming circumference.

“Ambassador,” he cried, “I told you that if you stepped on the marble
slab, you would be informed truly of the fate of your master. I now
announce to you that he dies to-night, being a prisoner in my hands. His
army was annihilated in the Pass of El-Zaid, while he was on his way to
capture this city through your treachery. In your last communication to
him you said that you would investigate our water storage, and learn how
it was discharged. This secret I shall proceed to put you in possession
of, but before doing so, I beg to tell you that Damascus has fallen
and is in my possession. The reservoir, you will observe, is emptied
by pulling this lever, which releases a trap-door at the centre of the
bottom of the tank.”

The Prince, with both hands on the lever, exerted his strength and
depressed it. Instantly the ambassador felt the result. First, a small
whirlpool became indented in the placid surface of the water, exactly in
the centre of the disc: enlarging its influence, it grew and grew until
it reached the outer edges of the reservoir, bringing lines of fire
round with it. The ambassador found himself floating with increased
rapidity, dizzily round and round. He cried out in a voice that rang
against the stone ceiling:

“An ambassador’s life is sacred, Prince of Baalbek. It is contrary to
the law of nations to do me injury, much less to encompass my death.”

“An ambassador is sacred,” replied the Prince, “but not a spy. Aside
from that, it is the duty of an ambassador to precede his master, and
that you are about to do. Tell him, when you meet him, the secret of the
reservoir of Baalbek.”

This reservoir, now a whirling maelstrom, hurled its shrieking victim
into its vortex, and then drowned shriek and man together.









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