Ferdinand's teeth were set hard, and his hands clasped tight together as the jester's story ended, and for a moment or two he did not speak; but at length he inquired, "And how long was it ago that the good lord fell?"
"Oh, a long while," answered his companion, "long enough for young men to grow old, and for old men to wither and rot. Some twenty years ago or more. Lackaday how few twenties there are in life. Twenty and twenty are forty, and twenty are sixty: how few see the fourth twenty! Who sees the fifth? The first begins in the infant, with a passion for milk; all mouth and no wit; and ends in the youth with a love for sweet ankles and for cherry lips; all heart and no brains. The second starts on his course like a swallow catching insects, and ends like a slough-hound upon the track of a deer: ambition flies before and distances him still. Then begins another twenty, with the hard brain and the hard heart; your man of manifold experiences, who finds no pleasure in pippins, and is mailed against the darts of a dark eye. He must have solid goods, forsooth! and so chooses gold, which will not decay; but, good faith! it matters little whether it be the possession which decays, or the possessor, whether the gilded coin rots, or the fingers that clutch it: the two part company all the same. Then comes the fourth twenty, often begun and seldom ended; and we go creeping backward, as if we would fain run away from the other end of life; top please as, straws offend us; we stumble at the same mole-hills that tripped up our infancy. Time rubs off from the score of memory what experience had written; and when the sorrowful soft gums have eaten their second pap, death takes us sleepy up and puts us quietly to bed. It was twenty years ago, good youth,--ay, that it was,--and twenty years is one of those strange jumps that are more wisely taken backwards than forwards."
"Methinks," said Ferdinand, "that though the time is so long, I know something of this story, too--". But before he could add more, a slight sort of creaking noise was heard proceeding from the end of the hall, near the chair of state. Ferdinand, whose face was already in that direction, and the jester who suddenly turned round, saw the small door which has been so often mentioned open slowly, exposing the mouth of the passage beyond.
"Ah, who have we here?" cried the jester. "Some of our friends from over the sea, I suppose;" but no one appeared, and all was silent. Both the watchers rose, and gazed for a minute or two towards the door; Ferdinand grasping the cross of his sword, but the jester showing no sign either of alarm or surprise.
"By my faith!" he exclaimed, at length, "I will see what is beyond, there. Will you come with me youth, or shall I go alone?"
"I should think from the tale you have told," answered Ferdinand, "that you know your way right well without guidance. But I will go with you, whatever is there--I have been once, and will not be stopped from going again."
"Come along, then," answered the jester. "Let us each take a lamp, cousin, for the dead must lack lights, as they always choose to walk in darkness. Why is a ghost like a flagon of wine?"
"Nay, I know not," answered Ferdinand, "and to say truth, I am in no jesting mood just now."
"Because it comes out of the vault at midnight," answered the jester, "and where it enters there it scatters men's wits about. Happy he who has none to scatter. But come along, cousin, we'll soon see whether our spirits are equal to theirs--I feel rather queer, but a mole wouldn't mind it, for he's accustomed to holes in the earth."
Thus saying, he led the way to the door, and entered the long narrow passage, Ferdinand following, and each carrying a lamp. The jester's young companion, though busied with many other thoughts, watched his movements closely, in order to obtain a confirmation or refutation of the suspicions which his tale had excited.
Those suspicions, however, were strengthened by all that the young man remarked, "Damp, damp and chilly, as a rich man's heart," murmured the jester, as he advanced; and then, as if his knowledge of the passages which they were following was not of a few hours' growth, he laid his hand upon the door, at the farther end, and without hesitation drew it towards him, choosing at once the way which it really opened. He next passed on down the stone steps, without a moment's pause to consider, merely turning round and saying, "Take care of your lamp, cousin, for a light extinguished in this world is not easily lighted again, whether it be love's lamp or life's. A puff puts them out, but a puff won't bring them in again. By the mass! the stones are somewhat slippery, and as much out of repair as a fool's head or a spendthrift's purse. I must mind my way; for here, as on ambition's ladder, a small slip would make a great tumble."
"By my faith! you seem to know your way right well, Herr von Narren," said Ferdinand, "better than I do, methinks."
"Ay, ay, folly finds the straight road, while wisdom is looking for the short cut," answered the jester. "One can't well miss their way when there is but one. But there seem no ghosts here, except the spirit of Mistress Mildew, and she is very prevalent. We shall lose our time, and get no payment for chilling our bones, if we get no better apparition than this green slime. I would give a great deal to see a ghost. I never met with one in all my travels."
"Perhaps you may be gratified to-night," rejoined Ferdinand, "for here they wander, if anywhere."
"If anywhere!" exclaimed the jester, "did any one ever hear such heretical unbelief? We know that the church supports them, because, I suppose, the poor things are too thin and unsubstantial to stand of themselves. However, here we are at the bottom; praised be Heaven's mercy in not bringing us there sooner! And here is a door. Now, marry, you and other men of shrewd wits would doubtless be looking for another, but I take the one that stands before me, the sunshine of my darkness teaching me that that which is at hand is always nearer than that which is far off. Now let us see, it should be pulled this way, by the look of the lock and the hinges, but if it be locked, what then?" and he paused for a minute or two seeming to consider curiously the question before he proceeded to ascertain the fact.
"Come, come, Herr von Narren," said Ferdinand, "you know it opens this way well enough, and doubtless it is not locked, and if it be, I have a key that will open it."
"What! then you come hither often," said the jester, "no wonder you are less afraid of haunted places than the rest."
"I do not come here often," said Ferdinand, somewhat vexed at the incautious admission he had made, "I have been here but once in my life before, and even that I do not wish mentioned," and stretching forth his arm, he pulled back the door, before which his companion was apparently inclined to hold a long parley.
"Bless the lad's heart!" cried the jester, "he seems to think that his light words will stay in a fool's head for an hour. My brain is not bird-lime, boy, to catch your fluttering things, and put them in the trap. But now, what place is this?" and he took a step forward and looked round, holding up the lamp in his hand.
"This is the Serf's Burial-Vault," answered Ferdinand, in a low voice, remembering, with a sensation of awe that he could not overcome, the strange and fearful sights which he had there beheld.
"Hold up your lamp," said the jester, in a grave tone, "I wish to see around me."
But the darkness, as before, was too thick to be pierced for any distance by the feeble rays of the two lamps, and the next moment, to his surprise, the young man heard his companion demand aloud, "Where art thou, Walter?"
"Here!" answered a deep tone instantly; and following the sound, the jester advanced direct towards the column, to which the skeleton was bound by the chain. There he paused, and gazed upon it, as if that had been the object he sought; and the emotions which he experienced, whatever they were, seemed to overpower him, and make him forget for the time the presence of his companion. His eyes filled with tears, "Honest, and faithful, and true," he cried, "and was this the fate reserved for thee? All could be forgiven but this--This cannot, if there be justice on earth or in heaven," and bending down his head, he slightly raised the bony fingers in his own, and pressed his lips upon the mouldering joints.
There was a faint sound, as of sobbing loud, but Ferdinand's strange companion took no notice of it, and continued gazing upon the skeleton for several minutes, with a look of deep and intense thought in his eye, as it wandered up and down the fleshless limbs. Then suddenly turning away, he said, "Come on," and striding forward to the further side of the vault, he passed through the archway into the crypt or lower chapel. Taking no notice of several of the monuments on either side, and only giving a glance to the coffins, he went straight to the tomb of grey marble, on which was sculptured a lady in the attitude of prayer, and there kneeling for a few moments by the side, he seemed to busy himself in silent devotions. After which, rising he turned to Ferdinand, and said, in a mild but no sportive tone, "It is done. Go back to the hall, good youth, and wait for me there. I will not be long, and nothing will annoy you by the way."
Ferdinand might think it all strange, but yet the words of his companion seemed to have a power over him which he could not resist, and turning back he retrod his steps to the hall, where, after having closed the door, he seated himself before the fire to wait for the jester's return.
Light-hearted youth, that season of great powers and small experiences, may feel strong and deep emotions, but their influence, on the corporeal frame at least, is not very permanent. Weary with a long day's exertion, and having had little rest for the three or four nights preceding, Ferdinand's eyes felt heavy; and that pleasant languor which precedes sleep stole over his limbs. He wished to remain awake; but yet he leaned back for support against the stone-work of the wide chimney; and in a few minutes he nodded, woke up again, and then fell into sound slumber. He was awakened by a heavy hand grasping his shoulder; and looking round he saw the jester standing beside him, with the fire in its last embers, on the hearth, and the lamps burning dim.
"I must wake you, cousin," said his companion. "For we shall soon have Madam Morning winking at us with her old grey eye. Sleep is better than waking for some good reasons, but it must come to an end, coz!"
"Is it so late?" asked Ferdinand. "I thought that I had just closed my eyes!"
"Yes, that is the blessing of youth," said the jester; "he thinks not, either sleeping or waking. He dreams while he is waking, and forgets while he is sleeping, and therein has he the two best gifts that man can covet--to dream and to forget."
"I doubt not, from all I see," answered the young man, "that there are many things you would wish to forget, were it possible."
"Hark ye, cousin," said the jester; "one thing we had both better try to forget, to-wit, that we have been in those vaults together. I have a secret of yours, you have one of mine. We will each keep what we have got, and give it away to nobody, for that would be thriftless."
"Nay, I have nought to tell," answered Ferdinand; "though perhaps something to inquire, Herr von Narren. I may suspect, and I do; but I can do no more than suspect. But one thing I must ask; what you came here for? as I can know of no evil to my lord without preventing it, otherwise I am a traitor!"
"Why, what evil can I do?" asked the jester, with a smile; "what power have I? Is the fool's bauble equal to a baron's sword? Good faith! I will go to the wars, and turn out a great conqueror.--I intend your lord no harm, cousin."
"But you said there was something not to be forgiven," replied Ferdinand.
"Nor will it," said his companion, somewhat sternly; "if there be justice in Heaven; but to Heaven I leave it; and in its own good time I doubt not to see vengeance fall where it ought. What is it that you suspect?"
"That you were the follower of the late Count of Ehrenstein," answered Ferdinand, frankly; "the jester you mentioned in the tale you told; and that even now you seek to revenge the Count's death."
His companion laughed aloud. "How thy wits jump!" he said; "but in one way, like an ill-broken colt, they jump too far. I seek not to avenge that Count's death; and by all that I hold sacred, I myself will never attempt it; so let that satisfy thee, good youth."
"And yet, perhaps, I ought to inform the Count of who you are;" replied the young man, thoughtfully.
"That you cannot do," answered the jester; "and if you believe that the tale I told applies to your lord and his brother, you neither will nor ought. Vipers have viper's eggs--rogues serve rogues; and the blood in your veins would cry out against you, if you were to make your mind the bondsman of a felon. If you think my tale is true, quit this household in silence, for your own honour; if you do not believe the tale to be applicable here, remain in silence. But if you would needs speak, I will seal your lips with one word."
"Ay! what is that?" asked Ferdinand, in some surprise.
"Adelaide!" answered the jester, fixing his keen eyes upon him. "Is there nothing, good youth, that you seek to conceal as well as myself; nay, far more than I do? for I have nought to fear--you much. I care not; but that it would sadden merry meetings, and break off gay intercourse, if your good Count should know all that you know, and more.--Indeed, I promise you, that ere I depart from this neighbourhood, he shall hear the whole tale. He would less dare to wag a finger against me, protected as I am, than jump from the top of the keep; but I must choose my own time and my own way to speak, and it must not be now."
Ferdinand had coloured high when the name of Adelaide was pronounced, and now he remained silent while his companion went on in a tone so different from that which he generally used in his jester's capacity. An instant after, however, the other suddenly resumed his ordinary manner, and exclaimed, "So that is settled between the two fools who sat up all night watching for that which did not come.--Marry, had we liked it, cousin, we might have proved ourselves the wise men of the party; for with plenty of wine and good cheer, we had wherewithal to be merry and wise. Now, however, we are sorry fools; for we have neither emptied the flagons nor cleared the dishes, and vinegar will be cheap in the market if all that wine stands there much longer."
"It may serve as a bribe to bring some of the knaves in by daylight, to clear away the tables," answered Ferdinand. "There is more than one amongst them who would sell his own soul for a flagon of strong drink."
"Then is his soul dirt cheap, or a very bad one," answered the jester; "but, on my life, I believe the market price of men's souls is half a florin; for day by day we see them sold for less. The twinkle of a girl's eyes is current coin against such commodities; the pottle-pot drives a thriving trade in the mart of spirits; and two small pieces of ivory spotted with black, have nearly emptied the world's fold of its true sheep. But there comes the morning. See the panes of glass in the casement are looking grey, we shall soon have the sun up, red and blear-eyed like a drunkard who has sat up all night with the stoup. I'll hie me to bed, for my wit will want activity, and, good faith! it is getting somewhat weak in the knees."
"It must be a heavy task to be ever ready with a jest, even when the heart is sad," said Ferdinand.
"What! a heavy task to find light wit?" exclaimed the jester. "No, good youth; let a man but look at life as he ought, and the burden is easily borne. All things here are but jests; some sour, some sweet; some light, some heavy. If we cannot laugh with, we can laugh at; and but get your wit into a cantering habit, and he'll forget his grave paces and trip lightly along the road. Habit, habit, habit, cousin! everything is habit in this world. What is that makes the man eat what the child rejects? Custom. What makes us endure a load of clothes that Heaven never intended us to wear? Custom. Put a pair of tawny leather shoes upon a child's bare feet, and he will stumble over the rushes on the floor; yet, see how gaily the youth will trip along, as if he had been born into the world booted and spurred. The eye and the ear, the tongue and the nose, all have their habits. Go into a strange land, and you will split your sides at the odd dresses of the people. Stay there a year, and you will think your own countrymen as comical. The blast of the trumpet cracks a lady's ears; ask the knight and his war horse if ever they heard sweeter music. Good sooth! I do believe, if men ate dirt and ashes for a month, they would think them better than stewed ducks or a brawn's head; and thus with me, though jesting be a sorry trade enough when the heart is full or the stomach empty, yet, either from lack of continence, or discretion, I began early, and now the jest always gets the better of the lamentation, and finds vent first. But look at the red light on the floor. It is time for night fowls to roost. Give you good morning, cousin Ferdinand, I am away to my pallet."
The morning was dull and heavy, though fully risen, when Ferdinand of Altenburg was summoned to the Count's chamber; but by that time he could bear the tidings to his lord that all had been cleared away from the hall at the sacrifice of the wine which had been left there.
"Enough was left, indeed, to render the knaves half drunk," he added; "but it had the effect of making them swear, by all they held sacred, that they will never shun the hall again, if it were haunted by whole troops of goblins."
"We shall not need to try them, Ferdinand," replied the Count. "We must change our plan, good youth. We must not have our food poisoned by doubts and fears."
The Count spoke thoughtfully, pausing when he had done; and Ferdinand replied, "I am glad you have taken such a resolution; my good lord. It is true, I fear these things not; but still it is high time that something should be done to inquire into this matter, or to remove it. You have yourself now heard, and I have seen strange things, of which, I trust, some holy man, some priest of a good and saintly life, may be able to free us."
"No, no," replied the Lord of Ehrenstein, "we will have no priests, lad, nor monks either. They can do nought in this or aught else, but in crafty policy, where the hundred-headed and perpetual monster sets all her everlasting wits to work. I know their ways right well, for I was bred to be one of them.--No, no! We will have no priests to meddle and to babble here, and tell the broad world that I was plagued with spirits at my very hearth. That were an old woman's remedy, and I will not submit myself to such were there none other in the world. Not so, not so will we set to work; but for the future we will take our meals in separate parties: some in the lesser hall, some in the two rooms on either side--but what makes you look so dull, as if your mind were roaming to other things?--You were not disturbed, you say?"
"Oh no, my lord, this last night I saw nothing," answered Ferdinand; "but I am weary and feel heavy eyed, having slept but little for several nights."
"Well, hie thee to bed then for a while," replied the Count; but he was not yet satisfied; for there were signs rather of thought than of slumber in the young man's face; and with suspicions, aroused of he knew not well what, he resolved to watch him more carefully.
The day passed nearly without events. The whole party seemed relieved, when they found that the haunted hall was no more to be visited. The Count and his noble guest walked for a great part of the morning on the battlements, in earnest conversation; the knights and soldiers amused themselves with the sports and games of the day in the courts and chambers, and the hour of noon brought with it the usual meal. During the whole morning, Adelaide and Ferdinand did not meet; and even at dinner, by the Count's arrangement, the young man was sent to superintend another room, where a table was spread for some of the chief officers of both households. One glance as he passed through the hall was all that he obtained, and he thought that Adelaide's eyes looked anxious. Count Frederick was standing on one side of the lady, and his young follower, Martin of Dillberg, on the other, as the lover crossed the hall; and on the face of Dillberg there were smiles and sweet looks, which made Ferdinand's breast feel warm with sensations he had never before experienced. Doubt or suspicion, in regard to Adelaide herself, he could not entertain; but yet jealousy has many stages, and Ferdinand hated Count Frederick's follower heartily from that moment. He felt--or fancied that they were rivals, and perhaps, in the whole range of bitter emotions, there is none more painful than that which we endure, when we know that even for a time a rival has the ear of her we love. At the meal, he tried to be cheerful as well as courteous, and though it cost him a great effort to conceal his uneasiness, yet his manner was so pleasing to all, that he rose high in the opinion of Count Frederick's train, and even at the table, almost within his own hearing, comparisons were made between him and Martin of Dillberg not very favourable to the latter.
"I love him not," said one; "I never have; and the more I see of him the less I like him. Were he like this young squire, one could understand our lord's favour for him."
"Ay," answered an elder man to whom he had been speaking, "our lord will rue that favour one of these days. He is cunning and false, ever making his own tale good, and seeking to injure others. I never saw one yet, who was so artful and malicious when he was young, that did not commit some treachery before he was old."
"Ay, the Count is beginning to know him, I believe," rejoined the first, "saw you not how he chid him for the falsehood he told of Sigismond. He would have done better to send him away at once; but he bears with him because his father was a good soldier and an honest man."
"Ay, and his mother a devil incarnate," answered the other. "She broke his father's heart, betrayed his honour, and ruined him; and this youth is her very image."
In such comments, more than one at the table indulged very freely; but Ferdinand heard them not, for he was conversing somewhat eagerly with one of Count Frederick's younger knights, though the subject was of no greater interest than the history of the jester. Ferdinand sought for information to confirm or remove the suspicions he entertained, but he could obtain little, and indeed his companion did not seem disposed to communicate much. "I was with a different band," he said, in answer to one of the young man's questions, "when this man joined the Count."
"Then he did join him in the Holy Land?" asked Ferdinand.
"I believe so," was the reply, "but I know nought as certain. He might have known the Count before."
"I have heard he saved your leader's life," said the young man.
"Yes, so they say," rejoined the knight. "I was not present, and know nothing of it."
All further questions were equally fruitless, and Ferdinand turning the conversation to the subject which the others had been discussing, inquired, "Who is Martin of Dillberg, whom your lord seems also to love right well?"
"Nay, that is a mistake," answered the knight. "He shows him favour, it is true; but I have twice seen the question hang in the balance whether my lord would not strike his head off, once for taking a jewel off a dead man's hand, and once for betraying counsel. But he is as cunning as a fox, and raised a doubt, by one means or another, as to whether he did not intend to carry the ring to the widow. The other fault was forgiven on the score of youth, but with a warning, that if he so offended again, death would be his doom without reprieve."
"Perchance he is valiant in arms," said Ferdinand; "I have ever heard that Count Frederick will forgive much to gallant men."
His companion smiled and shook his head, saying, "He is no great seeker of renown, this youth. Yet he is brave after a certain fashion too. There are some men, and he is one of them, who would risk ten times the danger of a battle-field, to accomplish a small matter cunningly. He seems to enjoy his own art so much, that if it costs his life he must practise it, especially if it be to the injury of others."
"A pleasant comrade in a band like yours," rejoined Ferdinand; and there the conversation dropped.
The meal was drawing near its conclusion, when some noise was heard in the adjoining hall, of a different kind from that which had preceded, though in those days, as often at present, the hour of dinner was a noisy one. The Count of Ehrenstein's voice could be distinguished asking questions with angry vehemence, and every now and then another answering, while the tones of Count Frederick joined in from time to time even more sharply.
"What is the matter in there, Henry?" asked Ferdinand, as one of the sewers passed through, bearing some dishes.
"A party of Venetian traders, Sir, have been stopped, and plundered beyond Anweiler," replied the man, "and it seems they had gold with them belonging to Count Frederick; so they have sent up to seek redress and help. One of them has been killed, they say."
"Who has done it?" asked the young gentleman. "I thought such bands had been put down."
"Oh, it is the Baron of Eppenfeld," said the sewer; "he will never give up that trade; and his place is so strong, it will be difficult to force him."
Thus saying, he went on, and the thoughts of all present turned to the results that were likely to ensue from the event that had just occurred. "Count Frederick will not be long out of the saddle," observed one of his attendants; "it is not well to pull the beard of an old lion."
"I doubt we shall have enough here to right the affair," rejoined an old soldier; "it is unlucky that one-half of the band marched on."
"But the Count of Ehrenstein will not suffer his friend to go unaided," answered Ferdinand. "He can call out two hundred men at arms."
"That would indeed be serviceable," said the knight, "and doubtless he will do it; for I have heard that this gold belonged to the late Count, and was found safely treasured in a castle of the Knights' Hospitallers on the coast."
Ferdinand was about to answer, when old Seckendorf put in his head, exclaiming, "Here, here, Ferdinand, the Count would speak with you;" and instantly rising, the young man followed into the neighbouring hall. He found the two Counts apparently much excited, speaking together eagerly, and a tall grave looking elderly man in foreign garments standing beside them, occasionally joining in their conversation, which went on for some time after Ferdinand of Altenburg had entered.
At length the Count of Ehrenstein turned towards him, saying, "Here is an occasion for you, Ferdinand. The Baron of Eppenfeld has waylaid these merchants on their way hither,--from good information of their coming it would seem, but how obtained, Heaven knows. He has seized all their baggage, and in it treasure belonging to me. It is judged but courteous to suppose that he is ignorant, that I am interested, and therefore, instead of going in arms to demand reparation at once, I send to claim that all be instantly restored to these noble merchants, and that compensation be given for the death of one of their valets and the wounds of another: that compensation to be awarded by myself and Count Frederick here. You shall be my messenger; take with you ten men at your choice, and depart at once, so that you be back before morning. If Eppenfeld will restore all and make compensation, well; if not, defy him in my name and in that of Count Frederick. The task is one of honour, though of some danger; but I know it will not be less pleasant to you on that account."
"Thank you, my good lord," replied Ferdinand; "but let me know my errand fully. If the Baron seeks to delay his reply, how am to act? It is now one of the clock, ride as hard as I will, I shall not reach his castle gates till five; and he may say that he will give me an answer in the morning."
"Stay not an hour," replied the Count. "I would not have you, or any of your troop, either break bread or taste wine within his gates, till the answer is given. If he says Yes, you may refresh yourselves and the horses. If he says No, return at once, and rest at Anweiler. If he seeks delay, give him half an hour, and tell him such are our express commands. Now away, good youth, to make ready. You must all go armed."
"I will do your will to the best, my lord," answered Ferdinand, and with a glance to the pale cheek of Adelaide, he was turning to leave the hall, when Count Frederick called him back, and drawing him to the window, said, in a low voice, "I would fain have you, my dear lad, discover, if possible, how this worthy knight obtained intelligence of the merchants' journey. I must leave the means to yourself; but I have my reasons for the inquiry--I fear this may be a dangerous expedition for you," he added.
"More full of danger than honour, my good lord," answered Ferdinand. "Small chance of fair fighting: much of being caught like a rat in a trap. But I will do my best, and have nought but to obey."
Thus saying, he left the hall, not daring to turn his eyes to Adelaide again; and the party he left soon broke up, Count Frederick saying he had a vow to perform at the chapel of the Virgin, and that he would ride out to fulfil it between that hour and supper time.
Choosing his men from those on whom he could best depend, Ferdinand descended for a moment to the court, gave orders for the horses to be saddled, and all prepared without a moment's delay, and then mounted to his own chamber to arm himself in haste. He had nearly done, and heard gay voices speaking on the battlements far below, when someone knocked gently at his door.
"Come in," cried the young man; and Bertha appeared, with a face half frightened, half playful.
"Your lady wishes to speak with you for a moment before you go, Sir Scapegrace," said the girl in a low tone. "She is in the corridor below, and all the rest are out of the way for a minute or two, so make haste;" and without more words she hastened away, leaving the door ajar.
Ferdinand lost no time; but, as ever is the case when one attempts to abridge a necessary process, one thing went wrong, and then another, so that he was longer than he would have been had he been less in haste. At length, however, all was complete; and hurrying down, he found Adelaide waiting anxiously near the door of her own apartments, with Bertha at a little distance towards the top of the great stairs. As soon as she saw him, the lovely girl sprang towards him.
"Oh, Ferdinand," she said, "I have longed to speak with you all the morning; but the castle has been so full, that it would have been madness to attempt it; and now you are going whence you may, perchance, never return. At all events, you cannot be back in time to do what is required."
"Fear not for me, dear one," answered Ferdinand, "neither imagine that I will linger for a moment by the way, if Adelaide has aught to command me."
"Nay, it is not I who command," replied his beautiful companion with a faint blush, "it is Father George who requires that you and I together shall be at the chapel to-night, some time between midnight and dawn."
"Indeed!" said Ferdinand, "does he explain for what object?"
"No. Three or four words written in a billet, closely sealed, were all the intimation I have had," answered Adelaide.
"And would you go if it were possible, dear girl?" inquired her lover.
"I will do whatever he directs," replied the lady.
"Then, if there be a means of any kind, I will be back;" said Ferdinand. "Do not retire to rest till all hope of my coming is over for the night; but, as perchance, I might be detained, it were better to send down Bertha to the good priest to let him know, that if not there to-night, we will come to-morrow night without fail, if I be alive and free."
As he spoke, Bertha raised her hand suddenly as a warning, and Adelaide was drawing back to her own apartments; but Ferdinand detained her, saying, "Do not seem alarmed--'tis our own hearts make us fear. I may well bid you adieu as I should any other lady;" and bending his head over her hand, he kissed it, saying aloud, "Farewell, lady--God shield you ever!"
"Farewell, Ferdinand," said Adelaide, in a tone that somewhat wavered; and, at the same moment, Bertha drew nearer, and Martin of Dillberg entered the corridor from the great stairs. His eyes were turned instantly towards the two lovers, and although Bertha was by this time close to them with waitingmaid-like propriety, yet the youth's lip curled with a smile, of not the most benevolent aspect.
"Farewell, pretty Bertha," said Ferdinand, as soon as he saw Count Frederick's follower; and then, passing him with very slight salutation, he hurried away, while Adelaide retired at once to her own chamber. The men and horses were not yet prepared; and as Ferdinand was standing armed in the court waiting for their appearance, the Count, with his guest, the priest, and the jester, passed by. The Count's eye rested on him, but he did not address him; and as the party walked on, the young man heard the Lord of Ehrenstein reply to some question of Count Frederick's: "Yes, he is always prompt and ready--brave as a lion, too, fearing nothing, living or dead; but there has come over him to-day a sort of dull gloom which I do not understand."
Ferdinand heard no more; and in five minutes after he was in the saddle, and at the head of his troop, wending onward on his expedition. Crossing the valley, he followed the course of the opposite hills, as if he were journeying to Dürkheim, till he had passed the Abbey about two miles, where a small village, commanding a beautiful view of the basin of the Rhine, presented itself; and turning through it to the right, he was pursuing his way, when a loud voice from a blacksmith's forge called him by name; and he checked his horse for a moment.
"Whither away, Sir? whither away?" asked Franz Creussen, coming forth with his enormous arms bare to the shoulders.
"To Eppenfeld," answered Ferdinand, "the Baron has waylaid some merchants bringing gold to the Count; and I am sent to ask him to give it up,--I cannot stay to tell you more, Franz, but doubt I may stay longer where I am going, and perchance need arms as strong as yours to get me out."
"Likely enough," replied the giant; "when come you back, if they will let you?"
"As fast as my horse can carry me," answered the young man, and galloped on, along one of the narrow hill paths that led towards Anweiler, with an unrivalled view of the whole Palatinate below him on the left, and, on the right, the mountains of the Haard, with their innumerable castles, abbeys, and monasteries, crowning every peak, and barring every gorge. When he reached the road from Landau to Zweibrücken, near Anweiler, instead of following it far, he turned away again before he had gone on a quarter of a mile, in the direction of Weissenburg, and entered a dark and gloomy looking valley, where rocks and trees were far more plentiful than churches or human habitations. Closing in on either side, the high hills left but a narrow space for the dell as it wound on, till at length, at a spot where the basin extended a little, a tall rock rose up in the centre, covered with wood wherever the roots could find earth to bear them, and crowned with walls and towers above. Ferdinand gave his horse the spur, and in a few minutes more stood before the gates of Eppenfeld.
Before the small chapel in the wood, below the castle of Ehrenstein, there was, as I have said, an open space of about half an acre. The trees encroached upon it here and there, rendering the boundary-line broken and irregular, detracting nought from the sylvan beauty of the scene. On the contrary, the variety was pleasant to the eye; and the old oaks and beeches, which, starting out before their fellows, obtruded on the soft dry turf, rendered the sight more agreeable by depriving it of all formality. It looked like a space for fairy revels; and in truth, though the fathers, if they had seen any of the little good people present, might have sent them roughly to some other quarters, took no slight pleasure, as was commonly the case with the monks, in the charms of the spot where they had fixed one of their buildings, and would rather have forfeited a great deal than have cut down one of the trees which formed the great ornament of the place. The varied colours of the spring, the summer, and the autumn, afforded much delight to the good old men. The sunshine, streaming through the green leaves, was like the return of the summer of life to the winter of their age; and it was the boast of the Lord Abbot--though he was not otherwise than fond of venison--that neither stag, nor roe, nor fallow-deer, had ever been slaughtered in those woods by his command. Thus the wild creatures of the forest, who have more sense than we give them credit for, looked upon the wood, within two or three hundred yards of the chapel, as a place of refuge, a sort of sanctuary; and the open space between the trees and the building as a play-ground for their evening hours. The beams of the full day, however, were pouring over the blades of grass, and tinging with bright yellow the beech leaves above, when Count Frederick of Leiningen, with a small party behind him, drew in his rein at the chapel door. A groom sprang to his stirrup, and, dismounting more lightly than from his age one would have judged possible, he entered the chapel and bent his knee for some moments before the altar, in prayer; then rising, he advanced towards the door of the little wing inhabited by Father George, and, after knocking at it with his knuckles, opened it and entered, beckoning the jester to follow. The good priest was seated at a table reading, but he rose, when, by air and manner, more than even by dress, he perceived the high rank of his visitor. For a moment or two neither of the three spoke, and the eye of the monk ran from the face of Count Frederick to that of the jester, resting upon the latter long and steadfastly, with a sort of inquiring look, as if he recognised features which he had seen in times of old, and yet had some difficulty in assuring himself that they were the same which he had beheld before the scorching blast of time had passed over them.
Count Frederick was the first who spoke, saying, "You do not remember me, good father, though we have met often in early days, and more than once some ten years ago; but I can easily forgive your forgetfulness, for, good faith, the suns of Syria and Africa are not the greatest beautifiers of man's person, and the change must be somewhat rueful. You are little altered, since last I saw you; more silver than sable in your hair now, it is true, but still the features are the same."
"I remember you well, my good lord," replied the priest; "though you are greatly changed, I own. Yet here is one I should remember better, methinks; for, if my eyes deceive me not strangely, we have met more often;" and as he spoke he laid his hand upon the jester's arm.
"I know not which is the greatest deceiver," cried the jester, with a laugh; "a man's eyes or his ears; the one cheats him more often, the other more deeply; but, by my faith! I know not why my lord called me here. If you be old friends you will have old tales to tell, and I never yet could listen patiently to an ancient story, or to the wit and mirth of sixty years and upwards. My own jests are sufficient for me, so, I pray you, jolly priest, don't flout me."
Father George bent down his eyes thoughtfully on the ground, and then shook his head somewhat mournfully, but looking up suddenly at length, he said, addressing Count Frederick, "Well, my good lord, I am glad at all events to see you safe returned. Have you any commands for me?"
"None, good father, none," replied Count Frederick. "I come but to ask a question or two.--I have found at the castle a youth named Ferdinand of Altenburg, who is he?"
"Methinks, noble lord," replied Father George; "that the name is enough to show you that he is of a noble race and kin; not so rich as he might be, perhaps, but still with the hope of rising in the world. He was my ward, and is now in the train of the Count of Ehrenstein, serving him well I trust, for he was always well disposed and honourable."
"So is a cat," replied the jester, "rather thievishly disposed towards mice, but still an honourable beast, as the world goes, with a mighty soft tread, and a sleek skin well smoothed."
"But he is thievishly disposed to no one," answered Father George.
"By my faith! that is saying much for any man under ninety," rejoined the jester; "for there are many kinds of thievishness, which assault us at different stages of this world's journey; and I have seldom met with the male thing of twenty, or thereabouts, that would not steal a smile from beauty, or a heart if he could get it, in a very roguish manner."
"That is lawful robbery," said the priest, with a smile, "against which there is no commandment."
"Ay, if the church have its dues," cried the jester, "then things are easily managed; but Heaven help me! I blame not the youth, nor call him a cat either; I but said that Grimalkin is as honest as he."
"But not so bold, so brave, and so true," answered Father George, "else he belies his teaching."
"He seems brave enough, in truth," answered Count Frederick, "for he is even now gone to put his head into a lion's mouth."
"Ah! how is that?" exclaimed Father George, in evident surprise and alarm; "I knew not that he was going anywhere."
"He has gone to beard the Baron of Eppenfeld in his hold," answered the Count; "you can judge better, my good friend, what reception he is likely to meet with than I can."
"Comfortable lodging and good food," replied the jester, "if nothing worse; but clean straw, and bread and water may serve a man's turn very well, if it be not on compulsion. Compulsion is the salad of bitter herbs, that makes all a man's meat have a hard flavour."
"And when does he propose to come back?" asked the monk, without noting Herr von Narren's words.
"As soon as he can ride thither and return," said Count Frederick in reply; "he may be back by nine, I should think."
"He must have help in case of need," replied Father George, thoughtfully.
"That he shall have beyond all doubt," answered the nobleman; "depend upon it, no wrong shall befall him without vengeance from my hand."
"Ay, that is the way with all these great lords," exclaimed the jester; "vengeance is a part of their creed. Now a fool or a serf would think it better to stop evil deeds than to punish them: if I were to kill your horse, uncle, the beast would not be a bit better off for knowing that my head would pay the penalty. I say, let those who can, stop the doing of that which is amiss, and then there will be no occasion for avenging it afterwards."
He spoke with a good deal of emphasis, and then turned round to the lattice-window and looked out, while the priest and his noble visitor conversed for some few minutes apart.
From time to time the eye of Count Frederick's strange companion wandered from the space immediately opposite the chapel, and from the group of attendants and men-at-arms it contained, up towards the castle, with a marking and significant glance. Whether by accident or design, I know not, but the chapel had been so built, that the window of that room, although it could not command the whole extent of the road, caught glimpses of it, even after the trees crossed it, at every fifty or sixty yards along the whole extent, and after gazing forth for two or three minutes, something seemed to catch and arrest the man's attention; for he suddenly smiled, laid his finger on his temple, and then, after having watched for a moment or two more, turned quickly round, exclaiming, "Give you good day," uncle Frederick; "I am away for a pot of honey, I see there;" and out of the door he strode without awaiting an answer. Hurrying up the hill, without mounting his horse, he had just passed the first turning in the wood, when he suddenly came upon the pretty maid Bertha, tripping down with a rapid step, and a cheek somewhat flushed.
"A fair afternoon to you, sweet lady," said the jester, taking her hand; "whither away so fast?"
"I am going to tell my beads at the chapel," said Bertha, evidently discomposed.
"A pious undertaking," cried the jester, "and easily performed, too, if there were none but pigeons in this world; but doves will meet with hawks, pretty mistress, when they fly out alone; and if I mistake not, something has ruffled your feathers."
Bertha laughed, blushing, and replied: "You saw him, then, Sir?"
"I saw some one lay hold of you roughly," answered the jester; "but, in truth, my eyes are somewhat dim; for the passing of years will scratch the horn lantern, and though I came out to help you in case of need, I could not distinguish who it was."
"One of your good lord's followers," answered Bertha; "but it is no matter, I trust he will be less saucy henceforth, for I threatened to tell of him."
"If you threatened to tell and don't tell, pretty maid, be you sure that he will read the riddle to his own advantage. Otherwise, he will be as great a fool as I am, and I will leave him my cap and bauble for a legacy."
Just as the jester was uttering these words, the youth Martin of Dillberg appeared coming down with a stealthy step; and Bertha's companion exclaimed, "Ha! ha! Here we have him, and no tale told. For this he shall be punished enough."
"Nay, I beseech you," cried Bertha, "do him no harm! He is a saucy boy; but he will not offend again."
"He has offended often enough already," answered the jester, "but fear not, pretty maid; I will not deal roughly. I will but set the dwarf upon him, and for the next three days he will lead the life of a strange fowl in a farm-yard--but see! as soon as his eye lights upon me, he creeps away amongst the trees. That youth will fall upon some evil thing before he is done. Now hie thee on to the chapel, and tell thy beads in peace; though, Heaven help us! if all the love tales were counted that lie under a rosary, they would drown the paters and aves, I fear."
"I am going to tell no love tale," answered Bertha, colouring and walking on. "I wish I had a love tale to tell."
The jester laughed, and followed towards the chapel, saying, "It must be a luckless place this castle of Ehrenstein, not to furnish a pretty maiden with such a bosom-friend. Perhaps your sweet mistress cannot say the same."
"I never pry into my mistress's affairs," cried Bertha, "I know nothing of them."
But the jester's keen eye was upon her as she spoke, and he exclaimed with a provoking smile, "Ha! ha! thy warm cheek is as red as thy warm lip, fair maid; and, on my troth, I can forgive Martin of Dillberg for tasting both. Why, you tell-tale, if you guard your face no better, it is useless putting a bridle on your tongue."
"It is because you tease me," answered Bertha, petulantly; "I declare, Martin of Dillberg was better than you are, so I shall hurry on, and do without your company."
The jester followed, but not very rapidly; and when Bertha saw the horsemen standing at the chapel gate, she paused, and seemed to hesitate; but then taking heart of grace, she hastened forward again, and, without looking to the right or left, approached the shrine.
Her orisons were somewhat long, for the Count, and the jester, who had again entered the good priest's cell, remained there for half an hour, and when they came forth and rode on towards the Abbey, Bertha was still at prayer.