It is a common maxim that time destroys falsehood, and leaves truth intact. This may be true in the abstract; for truth, in its nature is indestructible; but as the mind of man is always more or less in a misty state, and his perception of no object very clear and distinct; even that which is true in the abstract he often renders false in application by various errors of his own, and by none more frequently than by using that in a figurative sense which is only just in a definite sense. No maxim has thus been more perverted than the one I have cited, that time destroys falsehood, but leaves truth intact. It has been used figuratively; it has had its signification extended; it has had its very terms altered; and we find it at last changed so as to assert that time destroys falsehood, but brings truth to light. In this form, however, it is altogether inadmissible. Time may destroy falsehood, as anything else that is perishable. It may sometimes bring truth to light; but it does neither always; and this is one of the vulgar maxims of the world, of which we have so many, intended to support morality, but, in fact, destroying it; for the key-stone of morals is truth. Society manufactures facts just as it builds houses and churches, forms rings, or swords, or bracelets. The real deeds, and thoughts, and feelings of men, and the false assertions concerning them--all, in short, that forms the great mass of history,--are cast down, broken, mutilated, and covered over with the mud and ashes of passing generations, as age follows age; but the truth lies buried as well as the falsehood; and the waves of time that overlay them with the refuse, and lumber, and dirt of a hundred centuries, from hour to hour, roll up the fragments to the feet of those who stand upon the dry strand of the present; or else man's busy and inquisitive hand digs them up; and--as we search amongst the ruins of a past city, for the gems and jewels, the sculpture and the painting of races now no more, casting from us what is worthless--so seek we amongst the records of the former times (if we are wise), preserving what is true and precious, and throwing away what is false. Yet how much useless lumber and unsubstantial trash is retained and valued in both cases. What history is not full of lies!--what cabinet uncrowded with fabrications!
Perhaps in no case whatever has time given us so little truth as in regard to many points relating to the religions institutions of the middle ages. The gross and horrible superstitions and corruptions of the Romish church, and the ambitious motives and eager thirst for domination that existed in her hierarchy, acted as a sort of deluge, overwhelming and hiding many excellent results--much that was fine--much that was holy--much that was pure. The subject is vast, and is receiving more attention now than it ever has done since the Reformation; but I have to do with only one point. The monasteries and nunneries of those days have been represented, generally, as places of mere idleness, or idleness and vice; and yet, at the periods when they were established, and for centuries after, they operated in many respects most beneficially. They were the countercheck to feudal power and tyranny; a refuge to the people in the time of oppression; a sure support in the hour of need. There were drawbacks, certainly; they were the manufactories of superstitions, the citadels of the enemy in a fierce war against the human mind. Still they did much good, in some directions, in their day. The lives of the recluses have been severely criticised; they have, upon the faith of some shocking instances, been represented as full of wickedness and corruption; and yet in general the people loved them. There cannot be a doubt of it,--especially the people of the country; for the new risen communes were generally inimical to them.
At all events, the peasantry round the convent of Heiligenstein were devotedly attached to the good sisters, who, living amongst them, witnessed their joys and sorrows, alleviated their sufferings, wherever it was possible, and sympathised with them whenever they had no other balm to give. Simple in their lives, kind in their dealings, liberal of their wealth, for which they had no other employment but charity, and spreading those human affections which were denied an individual object over the whole race, the nuns were pardoned easily a little spiritual pride, as the alloy of the finer qualities which they constantly displayed. The armed peasants, who had hurried to their rescue, would willingly have shed their blood in defence of their friends and benefactors; and a menacing movement took place amongst them as the soldiery of the Count of Ehrenstein withdrew. A message, sent in haste by the Abbess, stopped any hostile proceeding; but a loud shout of derision, harder to bear, perhaps, than actual assault, followed the Count, and worked up his anger almost to madness.
Count Rudolph of Schönborn, turned a quick and somewhat angry glance towards them, for although a kind and noble hearted man, he was not by any means without the prejudices of his class; and he felt the indignity offered to another noble as an insult to his whole order. He might, indeed, have added sharp words to his fierce look, but the voice of the Abbess, speaking from above, caught his ear, and he advanced, inquiring, "What says the Lady Adelaide?"
"I have not given her your message yet, my good lord," was the reply; "I stayed to see what would happen to that bad Count of Ehrenstein. But I have ordered the gates to be thrown open for you, my noble lord, and refreshment to be prepared for your men, in the village. You had better see the lady yourself, poor thing. Doubtless, her father's harsh, bad temper has driven her to fly from him. He killed her mother, who was as sweet a girl as ever lived, and my dear friend, in childhood."
"Killed her!" exclaimed Count Rudolph in surprise.
"Nay, she means but by unkindness, my lord Count," replied Father George. "There are murders which no law but that of God will reach; but I cannot but think, that to slay the innocent and good by daily torture, cold looks, harsh words, and deeds bitterer than blows, is as great or greater a crime than to end life quickly by the dagger or the phial. But see, my lord, the gates are open. Will you not enter? I shall beg leave to accompany you within, for my words may have more power with the lady than those of a stranger, however noble."
"We must not be long," answered Count Rudolph; and advancing to the gates, he entered the outer court of the convent where the Abbess stood ready to receive him, with all marks of gratitude and respect. She did not, indeed, lead him to the interior of the building, but took her way to the parlour of the lodge, where she ordered refreshments to be brought instantly, and then, at the request of the Count, sent for poor Adelaide of Ehrenstein. Father George she seemed to know well, and though they were too courteous to converse apart in Count Rudolph's presence, their looks held a mute conversation, till, at length, the door of the parlour again opened, and Adelaide appeared, clinging with unsubdued terror to the lady with whom she had found refuge, whose face also was grave and apprehensive. The sight of Father George, however, seemed to revive and encourage them both. Adelaide at once sprang towards him and kissed his hand, and the lady greeted him with a bright and well satisfied smile. To the one, his manner was kind and paternal; to the other, reverent and courteous; but Adelaide, ere she even looked round to Count Rudolph, whispered, "Ferdinand, Father? Ferdinand? I have not seen him."
"He is safe, my child," said the old monk, in a low tone; "fear not; the crisis is coming; and you will now find that the promises I made are fulfilled. You have still to play your part, my child; but look upon it as a blessing from Heaven, that you have the opportunity of playing that part, and I trust of saving those most dear to you."
"Have you told the lady?" asked Count Rudolph, interrupting the monk, as he was going on.
"No, my good lord," answered Father George, "I have not ventured to give your message in your own presence."
Count Rudolph advanced towards Adelaide, and with a graceful, though somewhat stately air, he said, "Your case, lady, has come before my lord the Emperor in two forms: first, by private information from a source in which he seems to have some confidence; and next, by an open statement, made this morning, a few minutes before I set out--and of which, by the way, I know nothing--by my reverend and very good friend here, Father George. His Imperial Majesty seems to have been greatly touched by the account given to him, and he despatched me in haste to request your presence at his court at Spires. To satisfy any doubts that you might have, he required me to assure you of the protection and motherly care of my good wife, the Countess Schönborn, which she will give you, I may say, willingly and frankly, as if you were a child of her own. The Emperor knew not, when he sent me, that you had taken sanctuary, and thus he spoke in the tone of command; but being well aware that no one has greater reverence for the church than he, I dare use nothing but entreaty now, assuring you, upon my knightly word and honour, that at your request, I will restore you to this place of refuge, and there defend you to the best of my power, should it be needful."
Adelaide paused, and made no reply for a moment, looking to Father George, as if for counsel. "Go, my child, go," he said. "Great things are on the eve of decision in the Emperor's court. It is needful that you should be present; for it often happens that a woman's voice, wisely employed, mitigates the severity of man's justice, and acts the sweetest part of Heaven on earth; go, my child, go. With this good lord's inviolable word to guard you, you are as safe at Spires as here."
Adelaide gently clasped her hands together, and looked down upon the ground for a moment or two, lost in deep thought. It was not that she hesitated, it was not that she asked herself, "Shall I, or shall I not, quit this place of sure and peaceful refuge, to mingle again with the strifes and confusion of the world?" for her mind was made up; and, thus far advanced, she was ready to go on. But it was that she saw many a painful hour before her, and she asked herself, "How shall I surmount all the anguish and the difficulty of the hour? Will my courage fail, will my bodily strength give way? Will God help me at my need, and strengthen me to do his appointed task?" As she thus thought, her hands pressed closer together, and her lips murmured, "Christ help me!" Then turning to Count Rudolph, she said, "I am ready to go, my lord, in obedience to the Emperor's command, and trusting to your word."
She did not venture to say more, and Count Rudolph showed some inclination to depart; but the Abbess besought him to pause awhile, till both he and the lady had partaken of some refreshment. To speak the truth, he was not averse to a supply of good meat and wine; for he had ridden far, and was at all times blessed with a good appetite. He made Adelaide his excuse, however; and while he courteously complimented her in somewhat formal speeches, according to the custom of the day, Father George spoke eagerly, but apart, to the lady who had been Adelaide's hostess, and then called the Abbess to their consultation. Like a hill-side under cloud and sunshine, the cheek of the lady glowed and turned pale by turns, as she listened to the words which the monk spoke. She gazed down upon the ground, she looked up to the sky, her eyes filled with tears, her limbs trembled; and ere she answered, she sat down upon a settle, as if overpowered by what was said.
"This is foolish and weak," she exclaimed, at length. "I will not shrink from the task, and why should I dread the peril? For him have I lived, for his sake have I endured the burden of existence, which otherwise would have long since crushed me. 'Tis but the habit of concealment and apprehension that engenders these foolish fears; and I will shake them off. Father, you tell me it is right to go, and I will go, if death should be my portion."
"Joy may be your portion, daughter," answered Father George, laying his right hand lightly, but impressively, upon her shoulder;--"joy, brighter, deeper, than you have known for years, perhaps than you have known in life--It may be so. I say not that it will; but surely, to see your son raised to the summit of your highest hopes, is sufficient motive even for a greater risk."
"It is--it is," answered the lady; "and I will go, good Father; but do not abandon me, do not leave me to meet a strange court, and scenes such as I have not seen for years, alone. I shall feel like some of the wild creatures of the woods, suddenly caught, and brought before a thousand gazing eyes."
"I will go with you, daughter," answered Father George, "for your sake, and for that dear child's; I will not leave you as long as there is aught doubtful in your fate. If wrong has been committed, it is mine; and I will abide the issue with you."
While this conversation had taken place between Father George and the lady, with the Abbess listening, and joining in from time to time, Count Rudolph had applied himself to soothe and encourage Adelaide, and he had made some progress in quieting her apprehension, when the refreshments which had been ordered were brought in. The worthy Count undoubtedly did more justice to the good fare than any of the other persons present; but he despatched his present task rapidly; and then, after pausing for a moment to see if his companions would take anything more, he rose, as a signal for departure.
Several little interludes had taken place, and all the by-play which must occur in such a scene. Lay-sisters had come in and gone out; two men had even appeared in the parlour, had received orders, and taken their departure; but the Count had paid little attention, and was somewhat surprised in the end to find that he was to have another companion besides the Lady Adelaide. He was too courteous to offer any objection, however; and in a short time the whole party were on their way to Spires.
We need not notice the incidents of the journey, which were few and of no importance. Refreshed by a night's rest, Adelaide was far less fatigued than Bertha had been the night before; but still, as they entered the city, then in its splendour and its pride, filled with a moving multitude, and displaying in its streets all the pageantry of commerce, of arms, and of royalty, with gay cavalcades at every corner, with marching troops, with sounding trumpets, with gaily decorated booths and shops, and with innumerable human beings, all occupied with themselves, or with thoughts totally alien to her feelings, situation, and anticipations, Adelaide felt lost and abandoned in the crowd, and her heart sank with a greater feeling of desolation than ever she had felt in the wildest scenes of her own hills.
Such sensations were increased when they approached the palace, and beheld a multitude of guards and attendants, armed and on horseback, surrounding a small open space, in the midst of which was seen a magnificent charger, held by two grooms; while, with one knee bent to the ground, a man of lordly aspect, held a gilded stirrup, to which another, of the middle age, robed in royal splendour, placed his foot, and then vaulted into the saddle.
Count Rudolph reined in his horse, and the whole party halted, while the Emperor putting himself at the head of his train, rode past, merely noticing his friend and companion by an inclination of the head. As soon as the Imperial troop had marched by, Lady Adelaide was conducted to the palace, and led, by nearly the same course which Bertha had followed the night before, to two rooms which had been prepared for her. Father George followed, but paused at the door, saying, "I must seek myself lodging in the priory; but before I go, dear lady, let me tell you, I find, from the words of the Emperor this morning, that your maid Bertha is here. I learned late last night, that your party had been intercepted by one of the three men who fled; and I set off two hours before daybreak, to inquire into the fate of all. You will need your maid to attend upon you, and I will ask one of the pages to send her. Moreover," he added, in a low voice, "it is needful to know what she has said to the Emperor; not that I wish you to have any concealment from him; for he may know all; indeed, he does know all, as far as I can tell it; and it will be well for you to show him the motives on which you have acted, and to plead at once for that lenity, of which some who have offended may have great need. Now, for the present, farewell, my child, and farewell too, dear lady; I shall see you both again ere night."
Thus saying, Father George left his fair companions, and in a moment or two after, Bertha ran into the room, and threw her arms round her fair mistress, kissing her tenderly, but gazing upon the stranger who was with her in some surprise.
"Oh! dearest lady," she cried, in her usual gay tone, "I have been in sad terror about you, and about myself too, ever since we parted. I knew you were little fit to take care of yourself where you were; and I soon found I was little fit to take care of myself where I was; for Bertha in a court was quite as much lost as Adelaide in a wood; but Heaven took care of us both it seems. Yet I must hear all that, has happened to you; for by no stretch of imagination can I conceive how one so little experienced in the tangled ways of life, could get out of that forest in the night time--unless indeed, Father George came to your help; for that wild boy of a page tells me, a monk sent him to call me to you--pray, let me hear all."
"You will hear in good time, maiden," said the elder lady, somewhat gravely; "but at present, it is needful that you should tell your mistress all that has taken place between yourself and the Emperor; for we know not when he may return and call for her; and it is right that she should hear what has been said."
"Oh, I will tell what I said to him, in a minute," answered Bertha, laughing; "but I must not tell all he said to me, for that would be betraying Majesty's confidence--though it would serve him right too; for great men in furs and velvets should not try to make fools of poor girls."
"I seek not, my good Bertha," replied Adelaide, "to hear aught that he said to you. That does not concern me; but Father George seems to think that you told him much respecting me, and--"
"I told him all I knew, dear lady, and all I guessed," answered Bertha; "but it was not till he had promised me, upon his royal word, pardon for myself, and help for you, in case of need. But to my story, such as it is--first, I told him that you were lost in the wood, which I described as well as I could; and, moreover, that if you were out of it, you would be as much puzzled to find your way either through the mazes of the country or the mazes of your fate, as if you remained in. Then he asked me a great number of questions, to which I could only answer by guess--such as Whether you were really married to Ferdinand of Altenburg? and I told him, I felt very sure of it, though I did not see the ring put on with my own eyes."
Adelaide's cheek grew somewhat crimson, but the lady who was with her asked, "Well, what more?"
"Why then, Madam, he inquired," continued Bertha, "Who Ferdinand of Altenburg really was? and I told him that I fancied he was of higher rank than he seemed, and of better hopes and fortunes too."
"I think you must have omitted something, dear Bertha," said Adelaide; "for how came he to ask if I were married to Ferdinand of Altenburg, if you told him nothing of poor Ferdinand before?"
"That puzzled me as much as it does you, lady," replied Bertha; "but there were a thousand things besides that, which made me feel sure that he had got nearly as good information as I could give, from some one else. I went to him in the nun's gown, and he took me for you at first; but when he found out the mistake, he questioned me closely, I can assure you. Amongst other things, I told him that it was high time for both you and Ferdinand to run away, inasmuch as I believed, if you had staid, my good and merciful lord, your father, would have chopped both your heads off. Then he asked if you were very handsome, and I said Not particularly; for it seemed to me that this mighty Kaiser had a great faculty of falling in love, and that if I told him how beautiful you really are, you might find it unpleasant."
"Hush! hush! Bertha," said Adelaide; "there is no fear of the Emperor falling in love with either of us. You must not mistake mere courtly words for lover's professions."
"Well, I wish I were safe out of the place," answered Bertha; "for, on my life! these courtly words are very warm ones; and as summer is hard by, the air is hot enough without them. But to my tale again I told him, in short, that I thought you were married; that I knew you had long loved; that I believed you knew who Ferdinand of Altenburg really is, as well or better than he does himself, and that I was quite sure you acted for the best in giving him your hand without your father's knowledge. On that he questioned me a long while, as to whether love would not make a woman do anything, and whether you had not listened to love instead of duty. I said No; that love would do great things, but not all, and that, whatever his Majesty might think, there were some women who would not do what they knew to be wrong, even for love."
"You said well, Bertha;--you said well," answered Adelaide, casting down her eyes thoughtfully, and questioning her own heart as to how far love had made her lend a willing ear to persuasions that took the voice of duty. But the elder lady bent her head approvingly towards the maid, and gave her a well pleased smile.
Bertha's tale was soon concluded, and for a while both the ladies mused over her account. The elder seemed not dissatisfied with what she stated had taken place, but there were parts of the maid's narrative which created some uneasy feeling in Adelaide's breast.--She had previously shrunk from meeting a monarch to whom she might be obliged to speak of feelings and actions which she would fain have left in silence for ever, although the feelings might be pure and noble, and the actions just and right; but she gathered from Bertha's words that there had been a lightness of tone in the Emperor's conversation which might well increase her apprehensions and make the timid modesty of her nature almost deviate into terror. Her cheek turned pale as she thus thought, and the watchful eye of her elder companion saw the change.
"You are somewhat faint and weary, my dear child," she said; "I wonder that the Countess of Schönborn has not yet appeared. She would doubtless procure you some refreshment."
"I can do that as well, Madam," answered Bertha, turning gaily to the door. "In the Emperor's absence, I command the buttery, and the cellar, and am humbly served, I can tell you.--Here, slave," she continued, opening the door and speaking to some one in the passage; "bring these ladies some food and wine; and be quick, if you would merit favour."
Adelaide smiled, inquiring, "Who have you there, giddy girl?"
"Oh, one who has vowed humble service this morning," answered Bertha; "and as I hope and trust his bondage will not be long, I may as well use my reign imperiously."
In a few minutes, the page whom we have seen before came in with an inferior servant bearing refreshments; but ere Adelaide and her companions had tasted much, Count Rudolph of Schönborn and his Countess were announced, and ushered in with more of the pomp and state of high station than had yet been seen in the Retscher. To the surprise of both Adelaide and her companion, it was to the latter that the Countess of Schönborn first addressed herself, and that with an air of deep deference and respect.
"Although it was to this young lady--whom I take to be the Lady Adelaide of Ehrenstein," the Countess said,--"that my husband promised my protection and support, yet, Madam, as my good friend, Father George of Altenburg, has made me acquainted with much concerning you, let me first offer you any courtesy or attention I can show."
"I may doubtless yet much need your favour, Madam," replied the lady; "and will seek it frankly, with many thanks that it is frankly offered; but, for the time, this dear child requires countenance and help, such as I ought to have power myself to give her, were it not for the wrong I suffer."
The Countess's next address was to Adelaide; but it gave the poor girl but small comfort or support; for though she wished to be kind and considerate, Count Rudolph's worthy dame knew not rightly how. Stately and ceremonious, she was not fitted to console under misfortune, or inspire confidence in difficulty. She was one of those people who are ever ready to do a real service or confer an important favour, but who make even bounty burdensome by the manner in which it is exercised. Oh, how poor and unequal is the exchange thus sought, of deference for regard! Strange, strange must be the constitution of those minds who prefer reverence to affection. Words of course, formal courtesies, were all that passed between the Lady Adelaide and her visitor, and although Heaven knows the poor girl had little pride in her nature, and her heart was as gentle as the summer air, yet such was the influence of the Countess's manner upon her that she became cold and almost haughty in demeanour. Perhaps it might do her good, however; for deeply depressed as she was, ignorant of the fate of those she loved best, anxious and apprehensive in regard to the event of each coming hour, she required something to rouse her from her despondency, and recall her thoughts from the dreary looking forward to the future.
The Countess of Schönborn staid long, and only retired when the sound of trumpets announced the Emperor's return; but, strange as it may seem, though her demeanour had certainly not much pleased Adelaide, yet Adelaide had much pleased her. Her cold stateliness had generated the same; she herself had been reflected from Adelaide's mind as from a glass; and as she valued herself highly, she was well satisfied with the image.
"She is a dignified and high-minded young woman," said the Countess to her husband, as they went away; "and I am quite sure that, whatever men may say, she would never do aught unworthy of her rank and station."
Count Rudolph knew more of human nature than his wife; he understood the process by which the fair girl had become so different a creature in the Emperor's palace from what she had been at the convent and by the way; and he smiled, but without reply.
When they were gone, Adelaide's heart sank again; she expected each minute to be called to the presence of the monarch, and all her fears and apprehensions returned. Bertha, who knew her well, easily divined what was passing in her heart, and strove to console and cheer her, saying, "Indeed, dear lady, you, who fear no ghosts, need not fear any emperors. They are a much tamer sort of cattle than we have any notion of till we come near them--somewhat frolicsome, but no way frightful."
"Alas! my poor Bertha," answered the lady, "we have all our own particular objects of fear; and that which might reassure you, would terrify me. I am in no sportive humour myself, and I could easier bear a reproof just now than a jest."
Still no summons came: hour after hour passed by, and Adelaide began to think she was forgotten. A short visit from Father George tended in some degree to break the heavy tedium of expectation; but he remained not more than ten minutes, and during that time he was engrossed in eager and private conversation with the lady of the cottage. He was evidently hurried, and Adelaide thought she saw more agitation in his manner than she had ever before witnessed. Her fears increased; she asked herself if aught had gone wrong; if his plans, like so many other well-devised schemes, had failed; but the calm demeanour of her fair companion when he was gone, reassured her in a degree; and at length just as the light that streamed through the long windows was growing somewhat fainter, the expected summons came, and she rose to obey it.
"I would fain go with you, my dear child," said the elder lady, in her low, musical voice; "but I fear I must not on this occasion."
"I know it--I know it," answered Adelaide, "but, strange to say, I fear less now than I did a moment ago. Expectation is fear."
Thus saying, she departed, and, preceded by two officers of the palace, was conducted to the room where the Emperor awaited her. He fixed his eyes steadfastly upon her for a moment as she entered--then advanced, as she would have knelt, prevented her from doing so, and led her to a seat.
Physiognomy is generally looked upon as an idle science, not, indeed, deserving of the name. All must admit that it is an uncertain one; but yet there is something in the human countenance, whether it be in feature or in expression, or in both combined, which has its effect upon every one. We judge by it, even when we know not that we are judging; we act in consequence of its indications without being aware that we are influenced by it. The monarch, while he imagined that the girl Bertha was the daughter of the Count of Ehrenstein, had demeaned himself towards her in a very different manner from that which he now displayed towards Adelaide. It was that her appearance had produced a very different impression. There is an alchemy in a high heart, which transmutes other things to its own quality. He was calm and grave, but mild and kind; and, as he saw that his fair visitor was somewhat agitated, he soothed her tenderly, more in the tone of a father than a sovereign.
"Do not be alarmed, my dear young lady," he said: "I am neither going to speak harsh words nor ask idle questions. Your whole tale has been told to me by lips that could not lie; therefore all discussion of the past is useless. It remains but for me to do the best I can to render you happy, to right what has been done wrong, and, if a fair opportunity be given me, to temper justice, as far as possible, with mercy. With such purposes and such wishes, all I have to ask of you is, will you trust me?--will you place full confidence in me, and not act in any shape till I let you know the time is come?"
"Oh! Sire," exclaimed Adelaide, in a tone of deep gratitude, "you are too kind and too noble for me to doubt you for an instant. Command, and I will obey."
"Well, then," replied the Emperor; "be prepared in an hour's time to set out on a journey of some length. A litter shall be ready for you, as you have already had much fatigue;--and fear not," he added, seeing that she cast down her eyes thoughtfully: "you will be surrounded by friends, and guarded against all danger."
"There is a lady here with me, Sire," replied Adelaide, "whose fate, I feel, is in some way connected with mine."
"I know, I know," replied the Emperor, with a smile: "she will go with you; her presence is as necessary as your own, as doubtless you are well aware. And now, farewell. I will not keep you longer. Be ready, and fear nothing."
The sky was as black as ink; not a star was to be seen through the dark veil of clouds; no moon had yet risen to shed even a faint glimmer through the heavy vapours that over spread the heaven. Woods and hills were around, and all was darkness over the scene, except where from a tall and extensive building, with six long pointed windows on either side, streamed forth a red and somewhat sombre blaze, lighting some of the larger objects in the immediate neighbourhood: the large masses of an oak, a tall projecting rock, and a crucifix of stone mounted on six steps. It was the chapel between Hardenberg and Mosbach, and the hour of midnight was nearly come. On either side of the door of the chapel stood a man-at-arms of the house of Leiningen, with a broad battle-axe on his shoulder; and the large door itself was thrown back, emitting the light, as well as the windows. Within, the scene was somewhat striking. For many years the old building had not beheld such a light, for the abbey to which it had been formerly attached, had been suppressed about thirty years before, on account of gross irregularities, and the revenues attributed, part to the Bishop of Spires, and part to the Abbey of Limburg. Doubtless it was the intention of the authorities who performed this act of severity, that the chapel, which had been a great convenience to the neighbouring peasantry, should be kept up, and service performed therein; but, as in the act of suppression, it was not distinctly specified who was to bear the expenses of its maintenance, neither of the parties who benefited by the confiscation had thought fit to undertake the task: the service ceased; the building was neglected; and ruin and dilapidation was fast taking hold of it.
Now, however, between each pair of the twelve tall columns that supported the broken roof, stood a man with a torch in his hand, the red glare of which poured over the grey stone-work, and showed even the green stains that damp winter had left upon the masonry. Just within the door stood a trumpeter with his trumpet in his hand; and at the farther end of the chapel, with one or two of his friends and attendants round him, his head somewhat bent, and his face thoughtful, stood Count Frederick of Leiningen. A little farther down, gathered together in a small knot under one of the arches, appeared four gentlemen wrapped in long, dark mantles, but bearing on their heels the gilded spurs of knighthood; and in various parts of the building, two or three other figures were seen, some with their countenances turned towards the light, some gazing forth from the windows. A number of seats were placed in a semicircle a few yards in advance of the spot where the altar had stood, and a small table with a lamp, some writing materials, and an hour-glass, appeared in front of the settles. On either hand, behind Count Frederick of Leiningen, was a small arched doorway, leading probably into the rooms where the priest's vestments used formerly to be kept, and above the altar was a round window, the stained glass of which was still perfect.
As if somewhat impatient, Count Frederick twice advanced to the table, and looked at the hour-glass, and then, turning to one of those who were with him, he observed, "It is nearly out. Think you he will not come?"
"I hear the sound of horses, my lord," said one of the persons who had been standing near the window; "he is coming now. They seem a goodly troop, by the noise they make."
Count Frederick smiled; and in a few minutes, the Count of Ehrenstein, followed by a considerable number of armed men, entered the chapel.
His face was less gloomy than it had lately been; and whatever he might feel, he greeted Count Frederick in friendly terms, but at the same time shaded his eyes with his hand, as if the glare affected them.
"Why, what a blaze!" he exclaimed; "do you not think, Leiningen, that we had better extinguish some of these torches? The Emperor, I find, is at Spires; his men are all about; and this may call attention to us and our proceedings."
"Be it as you will," replied Count Frederick; "but I have taken good care, my friend, to guard against all surprise. I have three hundred men, scattered in parties round, within the call of a trumpet."
The Count of Ehrenstein's face evidently fell, and he replied in a tone of some surprise, looking to his companions as he spoke, "Indeed!"
The Count took no notice of his exclamation, but ordered all the torches except two to be extinguished, and then, turning to the Count of Ehrenstein, inquired, "Had we not better bid the trumpeter call upon Ferdinand of Altenburg to appear? It is now midnight; you see the sand is run out."
"Let us first take our places," said the Count of Ehrenstein, thoughtfully. "These four gentlemen, I presume, are those whom you have selected?"
"They are," replied Count Frederick; "you have Mosbach I see with you, but where is my old friend Seckendorf?"
"I left him to guard the castle," replied the Count; "but here are three others, knights, and of good degree."
"Well, then, let us take our seats," said Count Frederick, "and to the judgment of these noble gentlemen refer the free decision of all that may be brought before them. You and I, my friend, taking our places with them to witness and execute their judgment, but having no voice in their decision."
Thus saying, Count Frederick moved towards one of the two seats placed in the midst of the others, courteously waving the Count of Ehrenstein to the one next to him on the right hand. It was the place of honour, but the latter would fain have declined it; for, by the position in which the several parties stood, it placed Count Frederick between himself and his followers, so that no private communication could be held by him with those whose judgment he might wish to influence. His old companion, however, courteously insisted on retaining his seat to the left, and the knights having taken their places, after some little debate on this point, Count Frederick said aloud:--
"To you, noble gentlemen, as men impartial and of true honour, we defer the cause which you will hear, calling upon you, however, most solemnly to remember your knightly oath, and to cast from your mind all prejudice, but judging solely according to your consciences in the sight of God. Now let the trumpeter go out, and call before us Ferdinand of Altenburg, according to his written word and promise. Let him be called three times; and if he appear not, let judgment go against him."
The trumpeter went forth as he was ordered, and immediately after, there was heard a loud, shrill blast, and a voice pronouncing some words which could not be distinguished within. A short space of time then elapsed, and again the trumpet sounded, and the proclamation was repeated.
No one appeared, however, and the Count of Ehrenstein muttered between his teeth, "He comes not--I knew he would not."
"Patience, patience, my good friend," said Count Frederick; "many things come when we least expect them. Let the trumpet sound again, and we shall see."
Almost as he spoke the blast was repeated, and to the surprise of all, it was instantly echoed by another trumpet.
"He has got a herald with him, the mighty prince;" said Count Frederick's jester, who was standing behind.
Little attention, however, was bestowed upon his words, for all eyes were eagerly bent forward upon the doorway of the chapel, and every ear turned to hear whether any one was approaching. The moment after, the sound of horses' feet beating the sandy road at a rapid rate, could be distinguished. They came quickly on, without pause till they reached the chapel, then halted, apparently opposite the crucifix, and a brief interval followed. Then approaching steps were heard, and the figures of several men were seen through the long aisle making straight towards the door. The first that entered, with bonnet on his bead, and sword and dagger by his side, was Ferdinand of Altenburg. His look was calm and firm, his bearing was high and almost stern, and he walked on up the aisle without pause or hesitation, gazing over the faces of those before him with a steadfast and unwavering eye. Close upon his steps came four men completely armed, all except the head, which was covered only by the common velvet cap of the time; but the persons assembled round the table remarked that each in his bonnet bore three long feathers, usually the sign of knightly rank; and as the eye dropped to the heel of each armed figure, the gilded spurs buckled to the broad strap across the instep, showed that the honours of chivalry had indeed been received. Most of them were men well advanced in life; and on the faces of two were sundry scars, as if from ancient wounds; but on those two countenances the eye of the Count of Ehrenstein fixed with an eager and inquiring look, and his cheek grew pale as they came nearer and more near.
"Surely," he exclaimed at length, "I have seen you before."
Whether the two knights did not perceive that his words were addressed to them, or whether they were unwilling to reply, they spoke not; and Ferdinand of Altenburg, taking another step forward, laid his hand upon the table, saying, in a firm, clear tone, "My lords and noble knights, I am here according to my word, to answer aught that may be brought against me, and to pray your judgment in all causes between me and this good lord here present, he and I having both pledged ourselves to abide by your decision, in whatever the one may have against the other."
"Stay, stay, bold boy!" exclaimed the Count of Ehrenstein; "the cause we have here to try, is solely my charge against you, for treason against your sworn lord."
"Not so, noble Sir," replied Ferdinand, calmly and respectfully; "such was not the tenor of my letter; therein I said that I would bow without appeal to the decree of this court in all matters between you and me, provided you would pledge yourself to do the same. To that pledge Count Frederick assented in your name, and to him appeal as witness if I speak the truth."
"You do assuredly, young gentleman," replied Count Frederick; "such were the terms of the compact."
"I have been deceived," muttered the Count of Ehrenstein, bitterly, gnawing his lower lip.
"Bird-lime! bird-lime!" said the jester, from behind.
"Well," cried the Count, after an angry pause, "it matters not. Let it go forward: you can have no cause of complaint against me; and first, as in due order, I will call for judgment upon you. What you will deny and what you will admit, I know not; but I am armed with full proof of your base treachery, should your impudence fail you here, and you deny your guilt."
"My lord, I am here," replied Ferdinand of Altenburg, "to acknowledge and to justify every act that I have done. I refuse you, however, for my judge, as you are my accuser; and I call upon these noble gentlemen to pronounce a just sentence upon me, being ready to answer every question they may ask, truly and freely, as if I were before the throne of Heaven."
"What is the charge, my lord?" said one of Count Frederick's knights, turning to the Count of Ehrenstein; "we must have it clearly stated, if you please."
"I have written it down here," said the Count of Ehrenstein: "it is this:" and he proceeded to read as follows:--"that he, Ferdinand of Altenburg, being my sworn retainer and customary man, eating my bread, and drinking my wine, and I--having the power of high and low justice in my own domains,--did, contrary to the laws and customs of the land, seduce the affections of my only daughter, Adelaide of Ehrenstein; and did with her, secretly and privately, and contrary to my knowledge and consent, contract marriage on the night of the fourteenth of this month, in the chapel of our Lady of Strangers, on the hill of Ehrenstein; and, moreover, that he, being imprisoned for judgment in my castle of Ehrenstein, did break forth thence, and fly from the award of my court; and that he did persuade and induce my daughter aforesaid to fly with him, or to follow after, to the great wrong and detriment of his sworn lord. That is the charge. I can prove it fully; and I claim judgment of death against him, according to the law."
As he spoke, he laid the paper on the table, and the knight, on his right, took it up and read it over again in silence.
"You hear the charge, Ferdinand of Altenburg," said the gentleman when he had done perusing it, "and you have expressed a determination to confess freely all that you have done. It will save us much time and trouble, if, as I read these charges over to you once again, you separately state which of them you acknowledge to be true, and which of them you deny. After you have done so, we will examine the proofs of all that you declare to be false, and then, upon the whole, hear your defence. Is there any one who can write here?"
The knights around were silent; but Count Frederick's chaplain came forward, saying, "I can, noble Sir."
"Then let me ask you, Father, to take down this young gentleman's replies," said the knight who had before spoken; and as soon as the chaplain was seated, he continued, addressing Ferdinand of Altenburg, "Do you acknowledge that you are the sworn retainer and customary man of the noble Count of Ehrenstein?"
"No, I am not," answered Ferdinand of Altenburg, in a firm and decided tone.
The Count of Ehrenstein looked round to Karl von Mosbach with a laugh, saying, "We will soon prove that."
But the knight who had spoken waved his hand impatiently, saying, "The proofs hereafter.--Do you acknowledge, Ferdinand of Altenburg, that you did seduce the affections of the Lady Adelaide of Ehrenstein, and contract marriage with her in secret, on the night of the fourteenth of this month, in the chapel of our Lady of Strangers, on the hill of Ehrenstein?"
"I did win her love," replied Ferdinand, boldly, "and I did contract marriage with her at the place and on the night you have mentioned; but neither contrary to law, nor without right, but fully justified in all I did."
"Bold, on my life!" said the Count, setting his teeth hard. "Would I had you for an hour within the walls of Ehrenstein!"
Ferdinand made no reply, and the knight, after looking over the priest till he had finished writing the answer, turned again to the paper containing the charges, and went on to inquire:--
"Did you, Ferdinand of Altenburg, being imprisoned, and awaiting judgment of the court of the Count of Ehrenstein, break forth and fly to escape the award of the said court?"
"No," answered Ferdinand, again; "I left the castle of Ehrenstein as I would leave my own house, with full right and power to do so. I was not imprisoned to await the judgment of any lawful court, but was held by very empty bonds, that I might be done to death privately, as yon knight, Karl von Mosbach, knows right well."
The old soldier looked down with an embarrassed air, and played somewhat nervously with the hilt of his dagger; but Ferdinand, after having eyed him for a moment, went on, "I may as well answer the last charge at once, to save further trouble. I did not induce the Lady Adelaide to fly with me, though, as her husband and her rightful lord, I was fully entitled to take her whither I pleased; but I held no communication with her, and indeed I could not."
"What does he mean," cried Karl von Mosbach, anxious to escape from the immediate question of what was the Count's object in placing the young gentleman in confinement--"what does he mean by his not being a sworn retainer and customary man of my good lord the Count? Why, a dozen of us heard him take the oath."
"Let us proceed in order," said the other knight; and taking up the paper which the priest had written, he continued.--"Thus, then, stands the case: Ferdinand of Altenburg acknowledges that he did, as he is charged, contract marriage secretly with the Lady Adelaide of Ehrenstein; but he denies that he was then the sworn retainer and customary man of the Lord of Ehrenstein. Perhaps we had better keep this part of the charge separate from the rest, as his guilt or innocence, both in regard to the act which he acknowledges, and to all the other charges, must depend upon whether he was or was not, at the time of this marriage, what is here stated, namely, the sworn retainer and customary man of him whose daughter he secretly married. What is your proof, my Lord of Ehrenstein, that he is that which you have stated?"
"It shall be quite sufficient," answered the Count; "there are three or four men here present who have heard the oath taken by him, Ferdinand of Altenburg, when admitted to serve in arms. Here, Albert, come forward. Were you, or were you not present when that youth took the usual oath?"
A stout soldier stepped forward with some degree of reluctance apparent in his countenance and manner; but the question being repeated, he replied, "I was: we all take it."
"Repeat the precise words of the oath," said the knight.
The man rubbed his head, as if to awaken memory, and then answered, "As far as I can recollect, it was to serve my lord, in arms, well and truly, and to defend him in life and goods at the peril of his head."
Count Frederick's knights looked at each other, and the one who had been the only spokesman said, "This renders him an armed retainer in military service, but not a customary man. Where is the proof of that?"
"It is a fact of common notoriety," answered the Count of Ehrenstein, "that he for years has taken my bread and wine, and that, together with this oath, makes him my customary man."
"Nay," replied the knight; "he might be your guest, my noble lord. There is more required to show him your customary man than that. Have you given him wages or hire, fee or reward?"
"Wages or hire he has not had," answered the Count of Ehrenstein; "for he had ever money of his own; but he has had arms and horses of me."
"Fine fee or reward that," cried the jester from behind; "the means of getting his skull cracked, or breaking his neck."
"This is something in the shape of recompense, assuredly," said Count Frederick's knight, musing.
"You seem learned in the law, Sir," said the Count of Ehrenstein, with a sneer.
"I am, my good lord," answered the knight, with cold calmness. "I have studied the laws and customs of knighthood and nobility since first I buckled on my spurs, now five-and-twenty years ago; and I have often found the knowledge serviceable to myself and others, as here also it is likely to prove. But let us proceed: you have given this young gentleman arms and horses, you say, as recompense and wages for the services he has sworn to perform. It is a somewhat doubtful point whether this will render him your man; but I think it will, if--"
"Ha!" cried the Count, "what is theif? The case is as clear as light. He is my man; and I claim him as such. Where is there anif?"
"I was about to show you," said the knight; "for there are several conditions which would bar your claim. He must have received them and acknowledged them as payment, not as a free gift, not as a loan to serve you with in war. He must be of inferior degree."
"I thank you, noble Sir," said Ferdinand of Altenburg, interposing, "for your strictness in seeing justice done me; but I will avail myself of no doubtful points of law to shield what I have done. The Lady Adelaide's love I have won, the Lady Adelaide's hand I have gained. I have done it boldly, and boldly will I justify it; denying all power in her father to judge me as his man, or to do aught but treat me as noble to noble. He has no law that can touch me; he has no authority that can bind me. I here proclaim, and by this I will abide, that by no possibility could I ever become his man, though he might become mine. Nay more, I say that his bread I have never eaten; that his wine I have never drunk; that his horses or arms have I never received; that to the Count of Ehrenstein have I taken no oath."
"The youth is mad," exclaimed the Count; and all present looked from one to the other with surprise, as boldly and even vehemently Ferdinand of Altenburg poured forth such startling assertions.
"Ay, he is mad enough," said old Karl von Mosbach; "that is clear."
"Pray, good youth," said the Count, with a look of contemptuous pity, "by what title have you fed in my castle, ridden with my band, or used my arms, and in what position do you stand as to the oath between us?"
"As your sovereign lord," replied Ferdinand of Altenburg, in a clear distinct voice. "As the head of your house, the chief of your name; and you as my poor kinsman without wealth, or land, or station. The bread I ate, the wine I drank, was mine, from my own fields and vineyards; the horses, arms, are all my own. The castle in which you held me was mine, and Ferdinand of Ehrenstein is not come here so much to answer your vain charge, as to claim his own. Whisper not to Mosbach, my good uncle, with so pale a cheek. The troops with which you so carefully surrounded me here this night, thinking--if those noble knights acquitted me--to secure your prey in violation of your word, are prisoners and disarmed; and Mosbach can do nothing of all that you would wish him. Ay, noble Count Frederick, you may well gaze at him with surprise; for though you doubted some foul play, as I judged by the precautions you had taken, you know not the extent of the treachery, and that every vassal from the lands of Ehrenstein, far outnumbering your parties, have been drawn round us, like a net to catch the deer. But his craft has fallen upon his own head; and the castle, which he thought secure when he left it, is now beyond his power. He stripped it of all that could defend it, and now it is safe enough; but in other hands."
At this last intimation the Count of Ehrenstein startled up and laid his hand upon his sword, with his eyes flashing fire, and exclaiming, "Liar and villain! do you come here with such an idle tale, trumped up by your crafty uncle, to thrust his brother's bastard into the patrimony of a noble house. I can prove that you are the child of Charles of Altenburg. Out upon it! Listen not to him, noble knights; but proceed to judgment on this foul calumniator. Count Frederick, my noble friend, you will not doubt me, I am sure. I brought with me but what force was needful to guard me in these troublous times, and if that youth has dared with any bands--perchance the remnants of Eppenfeld's force--to--"
"I will confound you in a moment!" cried Ferdinand of Altenburg, in a loud voice. "Ho! without there! Bring in the Baron of Eppenfeld. Now, Sir, if, in your heart, there be secrets connected with this man that you would have concealed; if you have plotted, colleagued, deceived with him; if, for dark and secret purposes, you obtained him as your prisoner from your noble friend there, and then, having driven your bargain with him, set him free to commit fresh crimes--tremble, I say; for every long-hidden act is about to be made manifest. Deep, deep, did you think them covered by the blackest shade of night; but, thanks to the care and foresight of the eyes that were upon you, they have all been gathered and recorded so as to leave you no escape. Every foul crime of the last twenty years shall now be blazoned to the eyes of the world; and your charge against your brother's son, shall be the spell that dissolves even the silence of the tomb."
"Stay, stay," exclaimed Count Frederick of Leiningen, as the Count of Ehrenstein sank back, pale and quivering, against the column behind him. "These are bold assertions, young gentleman; and should be proved calmly and deliberately; perhaps were better proved more privately and temperately."
"What! shall I be temperate when my father's blood cries out for vengeance," exclaimed Ferdinand; "shall I be temperate when my mother's voice rises from the depth of the waters, and demands punishment on her murderer? Proved! my Lord Count; I call upon you as knight, and noble, true, and loyal--and such I hold you to be, if ever yet man was so--to say here, in presence of all, if, in the castle of Eppenfeld, you did not find, if even now you do not hold in your hands, the proofs of this man's treachery towards his brother's wife and child?"
"Thus adjured, I must not deny it," answered Count Frederick, in a firm but sad tone. "I did find proofs indubitable, that the late Count of Ehrenstein, left behind him a widow, an Italian lady of high rank, and one boy--who might now be of the age of this young man; and, moreover, that practices most terrible had been used against their lives."
"Still we shall need evidence to show that this young gentleman is the child so left," said the knight who had chiefly conducted the proceedings of the court, on the charges against Ferdinand of Altenburg. "If he can bring forth proof of that fact, of course the accusation against him falls to the ground."
"And I can bring such proof," replied Ferdinand. "Here are my witnesses beside me."
As he spoke, two of the armed men who had accompanied him, advanced, and the elder laid a paper on the table saying, "I tender a copy of proofs of marriage between Ferdinand Charles, Count of Ehrenstein, and the Lady Eleanore Sforza, laid before the Imperial chamber, and registered after examination; and also of the birth of one son, baptized by the name of Ferdinand, issuing from the same marriage."
"And I tender proofs," said the other knight, "of the arrival of the same lady and her child at Nuremberg, in the month of August, 14--."
"We are witnesses to the marriage, to the baptism of the child, and to the passing of the same lady and her son, as far as Augsburg, in the month of September, in the year preceding," said one of the two elder knights, who had not yet spoken; "and that at that time she went under the assumed name of Meissen."
"I will now call farther witnesses," said Ferdinand, in a lower tone than he had yet used, and gazing with feelings difficult to define upon the bowed figure of the Count, as he sat, apparently almost crushed to the earth with the torrent of discovery and disgrace which had poured upon him, "and God is my witness that I do all this with deep regret. But though the task is a bitter one, yet it must be accomplished. First, I will call the Baron of Eppenfeld to show--"
"Stay," cried the Count, rousing himself by a great effort; "young man, you play your part boldly, so boldly that I--even I am inclined to believe, you credit the tale you tell. I know you well, Ferdinand of Altenburg, and am aware that you are not by nature a good dissembler. Either you must have faith in what you say, or you must have learned the great trade of the world quickly."
"Grace after meat is a good rule," cried the jester, "but I never yet did hear of so much grace after a bad supper."
"Nevertheless," continued the Count of Ehrenstein, without heeding the interruption, "this cause cannot be judged by this court. Long and close examination, thorough scrutiny of every proof, and the presence of men well versed in the law, is ever required to convey rich lands and lordships from a possessor of well nigh twenty years to a new upstart claimant, first heard of but yesterday."
"It required fewer formalities, it seemed," said the jester, "to convey his head from his shoulders, though, after all, to my thinking, a man's head is his best possession, for without it he will want the chief of his title-deeds."
"Pshaw!" cried the Count, "this is no jesting matter. I boldly pronounce this claim to be false and fabricated, and I appeal to the court of the Emperor."
He spoke in a loud and resolute tone; and instantly a voice from the farther part of the chapel answered, "So be it!"
The view down the nave had been obstructed by the forms of Ferdinand and his four companions; and since he had entered, a number of persons, retainers of the two Counts and others, had gathered round to hear the proceedings; but at the sound of that voice every one turned his head, and then drew somewhat back. A lane was formed--the light of the two torches farther down streamed through--and a tall figure was seen advancing with slow and stately steps towards the place where the judges sat.