The travellers paused not till they had to turn their horses up the side of the hills; but then the beasts slackened their pace without the riders drawing the rein, for the ascent was steep, and the roads not so good as they are now. A wide wood covered the slopes; and the path wound in and out amongst the trees, while glimpses of the rising moon were seen through the brakes, where the leafy screen fell away; and often a straggling ray of moonlight was caught pouring over the bushes, even where the bright orb of night was invisible to the eye of the wanderer.
"I know not how to offer you my thanks, Franz," said Ferdinand of Altenburg, as he laid down the bridle on the beast's neck. "I know you would have no wordy gratitude; and I must not hope that you will ever be in circumstances which may enable me to return you the kindness you have shown me. Nevertheless I hope some occasion may come when I can prove to you how deeply I feel it."
"God send that Franz Creussen may ever want help as little as he needs it now," answered the stout smith; "and God send he may ever be as able and as willing to lend it to those who deserve it, Master Ferdinand. I know not which would be the greatest curse, to be unwilling though able, or to be willing and yet unable, to aid a good fellow-creature in his need. The first, methinks; for though in the latter case one might feel much pain, in the former one would have no pleasure. But it is not gratitude or service in return, one works for. One hammers iron for pay; but one does not do what is kind for recompense of any sort. On the contrary, I think one takes a greater pleasure in serving a person who can never repay it, especially when one has served him before. Now I have had a kindness for you from your boyhood. Do you remember when you used to come to me from the Abbey to give you fishing lines to catch the poor shining fellows out of the stream--the White fish and the May fish? A little curly-headed urchin you were then, as wild as a young roe deer, but not half so timid."
"I remember it well, Franz," replied Ferdinand, "those were happy days, and I shall never forget them. You were always very kind to me, and I believe used to spoil me, and do everything I asked you."
"Not a whit, not a whit," cried the smith. "I pitched you into the river once when you were over wilful, just to cool your fire; and then I pulled you out again, and laughed at you, which did you more good than the wetting.--But that was a long time ago--you were just six years old then."
"I recollect it well," answered the young gentleman, "and it served me right. I have never failed to think of it when I have felt inclined to give way to angry impatience. It was just by the mill pond."
"Ay, your memory is good," said the smith, "can you remember anything before that?"
"Oh, yes," replied Ferdinand, after a moment's thought; "I can recollect many things that happened at the Abbey. I can remember, when the Abbot Waldimer died, the great bell tolling, and how hard it was for Father George to teach me to read and write."
"Ay, but before that?" asked Franz Creussen. "Can you recall any other place, before you were at the Abbey?"
"Sometimes I think I do," was the young gentleman's reply. "You know, Franz, when one is riding along in the night, everything will seem dark and indistinct around one, with trees, and rocks, and houses, all faint, and scarcely to be distinguished one from the other, taking strange shapes and unnatural forms; and then, if one passes the open door of a cottage where there is a light burning, or a forge like yours, one suddenly sees a small space around, all clear and defined; and then the minute after everything is dark again. Now the past seems to me just like that. I see, when I turn my eyes to the days of my childhood, a number of strange vague things, of which I can make out the forms but faintly, and know not what they are; but here and there comes a spot of brightness, where all seems as if it were now before my eyes."
"Ay, that is curious," said the smith. "Can you tell me any of these matters that you recollect so clearly?"
Ferdinand paused a moment, and then answered, "I am sure I can trust you, Franz; but Father George warned me to tell no one at the castle anything I may be able to remember of my early days."
"I am not of the castle," answered Franz Creussen; "and besides, if I chose, I could tell you more of those days than you yourself could tell me."
"Indeed," answered Ferdinand; "I remember you, it is true, ever since my boyhood, but still, I do not see your figure in any of those visions which sometimes come back upon me."
"Ay, but I've held you in my arms when you were not a twelvemonth old," said his companion, "and carried you at my saddle-bow during six hours of a long night. It is true I did not see you for years after, till Franz Creussen became the Abbey smith, and you the ward of Father George. But tell me what you recollect, lad, for you may tell me safely. I can keep counsel, as you may see; but things are now coming to a close, and it is right we should all understand each other."
"The first thing I can recollect," said the young gentleman, "seems to me a fine house in a small town, with gardens and trees, and a beautiful lady I called mother,--that is a pleasant dream, Franz, full of happy things, sports of childhood, joys in flowers, and in birds' songs,--I am sure I remember it well, for nobody has talked to me about those things since, and it cannot be all fancy."
"No, no," answered Franz Creussen; "it is all true, quite true, and the lady was your mother! What more?"
"The next thing I remember," continued the young man; "is a less happy day. It seems as if I had been playing at my mother's knee in that same house--it was not a castle, but like the dwelling of some rich burgher,--and then suddenly came in a messenger, with what seemed evil tidings; for the lady wept, and in a few minutes all was bustle and confusion, packing up clothes and other things in haste; and then people spurring away at fiery speed, till I was weary, and fell asleep."
"Ay, ay, who carried you, then?" said the smith; "who but Franz Creussen? What do you recollect next?"
"There must have been a long interval," replied Ferdinand; "for I was a bigger boy then; and of the intervening time I re-member little or nothing; but shortly after that it seems as if I was very lonely and sad, and seldom saw my mother, till one night I was called into a room where she lay upon a bed propped up with pillows, and there were priests in the room, and men in black gowns, and the girl called Caroline, who used to nurse me; but my mother's face was sadly changed then,--it was thin and sharp, and pale, and the lips seemed bloodless, but her eyes were exceedingly bright, and her teeth as white as driven snow. She had a crucifix lying before her,--I recollect it well--a black cross with an ivory figure on it,--and she put her arms round my neck, and kissed me often, and prayed God to bless me, and make me happier and more fortunate than my father and herself.--That was not long before I went to the Abbey, I think; but I never saw her after."
Franz Creussen was silent for a moment or two, apparently from some emotion of the mind, but at length he answered, in a low tone, "She died that night, Ferdinand. You remember more than I thought, and I doubt not a few words would make you remember much more still. But here we are upon the top of the hill, and if Father George requires you to-night, it will be well for you to ride on quickly, for the day will be dawning ere long."
"I had better go to the castle first," replied Ferdinand; "for if the Count be not on his way to Eppenfeld, he may blame me for delay."
"No need, no need," answered the smith; "he is on the way, I am sure; but we shall find some of the men at the forge, who will tell us. There lies the village, not a hundred yards in advance."
The tidings they received at the blacksmith's dwelling showed, as he had expected, that the Count of Ehrenstein had passed nearly an hour before, and that, having met, farther on, and questioned some of the party to whom Ferdinand owed his deliverance, he had sent back a message by them, commanding his young follower not to join him at Eppenfeld, but to remain at the Castle of Ehrenstein till his return.
Bidding adieu to the smith, with hearty thanks, Ferdinand spurred on alone, but paused for a moment at the chapel in the wood, and knocked at the door of the good priest. At first no answer was returned, but a second summons soon roused Father George from his slumbers, and brought him to the door.
The grey dawn was now beginning to break, and as soon as the priest beheld the face of his young ward, he exclaimed, "Not to-night, Ferdinand, not to-night.--Night do I call it? Heaven help us! it is morning. See you not the sun coming up there? To-morrow night, my boy, as soon as all in the castle are asleep, come down, and bring the lady with you. I pray this Baron of Eppenfeld may keep the Counts before his tower for a day or two."
"I doubt that such will be the case, good Father," answered Ferdinand, "for there is a postern open, and they have tidings of it."
"That is unlucky," said the priest, "but speed you on to the castle, and hide well your purpose from every eye. Let no one see you thoughtful or agitated, and go early to rest, as if you were tired with the labours of the days past. Away, Ferdinand, away."
The young man waved his hand and rode on, and in a few minutes his horse was in front of the great gates. Beckoning to one of the sentinels on the walls, he told him to go down and wake the warder to let him in. But the man came down himself, and unbarred the gates, while Ferdinand, dismounting, led his horse across the draw-bridge.
"Ha! God's benison on you, Master Ferdinand!" said the soldier. "You have luck to get out of the castle of Eppenfeld. How did you manage that?"
"I will tell you all another time, Henry," replied the young gentleman. "I am tired now, and hungry, to say sooth. Who is in the castle?"
"Why, the Count went forth some time ago," replied the man, "and left nought but a guard of twenty men, with the women, and Count Frederick's priest, and him they call Martin of Dillberg."
Ferdinand muttered something to himself which the soldier did not hear, and then led on his horse towards the stable. None of the grooms were up; but every young gentleman in those days was well accustomed to tend his own horse, and, though it must be confessed, the escaped captive did what was necessary for his poor charger as rapidly as possible, yet he did not neglect him. As soon as this duty was accomplished, he hurried back into the castle; and had any one been watching him, it might have been observed that his step became more light and noiseless as he ascended the great stairs, and passed along the corridor, which stretched across one entire side of the principal mass of the building. At the door next but one to that of the Count of Ehrenstein, he paused for several moments, and looked up with an anxious and hesitating look, as if he doubted whether he should go in. But the morning light was by this time shining clear through the casements; he heard the sound of persons moving below, and for Adelaide's sake he forbore, and walked on towards the narrow staircase which led to his own chamber. Ere he had taken ten steps, however, a sound, as slight as the whisper of the summer wind, caused him to stop and turn his head; and he saw the face of Bertha looking out from her mistress's apartments. Instantly going back as noiselessly as possible, he whispered, "Is your lady waking? Can I come in?"
"Not unless you are mad," answered Bertha. "She has been up all night, and I too, God wot--though I have slept comfortably in the corner. But thank Heaven you are safe and well, for her little foolish heart would break easy enough if anything were to happen to your unworthiness. But what news? When did you return?"
"I am but this instant back," answered the lover, "I have been captive at Eppenfeld, and only freed by good Franz Creussen. Tell her that I have seen Father George, however, and that he says--mark well, Bertha--to-morrow night, as soon as all is quiet in the castle. She will soon understand."
"Oh, I understand, too," answered Bertha, "for I have seen Father George as well as you--forced to go down to do your errands. Well, poor souls, as there is no other to help you, I must. But now tell me how is all this to be arranged?"
"I will come, I will come," replied Ferdinand, "as soon as every one is asleep."
"Well, on my word, you gain courage quickly," exclaimed Bertha. "You will come! What, here?"
"Ay, anywhere," rejoined Ferdinand; "if it cost me life, pretty Bertha, I would come--but hark, there are people stirring above--Tell your lady--adieu."
"Be cautious, be cautious, rash young man," said the girl, and instantly drawing back, closed the door.
On the stairs Ferdinand encountered Martin of Dillberg, who would fain have stopped him to speak of his adventures; but the former passed on, after a brief answer to the youth's inquiry regarding his escape; and Martin of Dillberg proceeded on his way, with his lip curling for a moment in a sneering smile, which faded away quickly, and gave place to a look of deep and anxious thought.
Ferdinand sought no great length of repose; but was speedily down again in the halls of the castle, on the battlements, in the corridors, in the hope of somewhere meeting her he loved. Nor was he disappointed; for some hours before noon, Adelaide came forth, with hopes and wishes like his own, to walk upon the walls.--But hardly had she and Ferdinand met--not ten words had been spoken between them--when Martin of Dillberg was at the lady's side; and thus during the whole day were they deprived of all means of direct communication. As if he divined their object, and was resolved to frustrate it, the youth was always on the watch, ever near, never abashed, although the effect of his presence on their conversation was only too visible. Thus passed by hour after hour, till towards evening, tidings arrived that the two Counts were still beneath the walls of Eppenfeld, and that but little progress had been made in the siege. Ferdinand questioned the messenger as to whether the postern by which he had escaped had been attempted; but upon that point the man could give him no information; and the young gentleman thought it his duty to send the soldier back to his lord with intelligence in case the news which had been formerly sent had been misunderstood or not received--and with a request that he might be permitted to join the attacking force on the following day.
For one brief moment, soon after the messenger had departed, Adelaide and her lover were alone together; and ere their tormentor was upon them again, she had time to say, "Bertha has told me all, dear Ferdinand, I shall be ready."
Not long after, she retired to her own apartments for the night; and her lover remained in the hall with Martin of Dillberg and Count Frederick's chaplain, trying to weary them out, till nearly eleven o'clock at night. Then declaring that he was tired with all that he had done during the preceding day,--which was true enough,--he withdrew to his own chamber, and there sat meditating over the happiness of the coming hour. The moments seemed sadly long; it appeared as if the sounds of voices speaking and closing doors would never end; but at length the noises ceased, one after the other; and after waiting half an hour without hearing anything stir within the walls, with a beating but happy heart, Ferdinand approached his door, opened it, and listened.
The whole castle of Eppenfeld slept as tranquilly for several hours after Ferdinand of Altenburg had left it, as if no danger had threatened its lord, and no troops were marching to attack it; and it is very probable that the evasion of the young captive, and the means of entrance which he had left open for the enemy, would not have been discovered till chance or humanity led some one in the place to send him food, had it not been for an accidental event which happened during the night. We have seen that one of the motives for preventing the young gentleman's return to his lord, was to afford time for storing the castle with provisions; and various parties had been sent out to scour the country for that purpose. Some of the leaders went nearly drunk, and returned sober, and some went sober and returned nearly drunk. Amongst the latter was a personage who, accompanied by two companions, found his way to a village where they enjoyed themselves for a couple of hours; and then, finding it late, and no progress made in their foray, they rode on to the side of a hill, where the villagers were accustomed to feed their swine, and possessing themselves of the unruly beasts, commenced the far more difficult enterprise of driving them to the castle. Now the distance could scarcely be less than ten miles; and if any one considers what it is for three men, not very sober, to drive sixty swine such a distance, he will not be surprised that the task occupied many hours. Nevertheless, on approaching the castle, which they did by the lesser entrance at the back, the marauders found their flock shorn of its fair proportions, and not more than forty of the beasts which never chew the cud could be mustered, notwithstanding all the counting which the three soldiers could accomplish. One of the hogs had run one way, another another. One had committed suicide by throwing itself into a stream, rather than follow the course on which fate and circumstances were driving it; another had been run through the body by one of the soldiers, somewhat too eager in pursuit; others had rushed back between the horses, and had effected their escape; while others again lay down upon the road, and refused to move even when the lance galled their sturdy chines.
Within a mile of Eppenfeld, however, the leader fancied that he had got the remainder of the herd in security, for the road was narrow, and led straight up to the lesser gate of the castle. Unfortunately, however, the small foot-path communicating with the postern, branched off on the right hand of the road about a hundred yards' distance from the walls. Though it was night, and the whole party, horse and foot, was tired, a brisk young porker, who seemed to set fatigue at defiance, instantly perceived the way to the postern, and as it was evidently a path which his drivers did not wish to pursue, he darted towards it, with a sort of caracole, and a grunt of intimation to his companions. The hint was not lost upon them, and with one universal whine of delight, the whole herd were instantly running along the path, and thence pursuing their way by the narrow ledge of rock under the wall of the castle.
To follow on horseback was out of the question, but two of the men instantly sprang to the ground, with a multitude of curious and high-sounding German oaths, and rushed after the bristly fugitives. Even then the open postern might have escaped observation, had not pigs been fond of strange places; but exactly at the spot where the small door stood open, a halt took place amongst the herd, and a tremendous pressure from behind was the consequence. Five or six were pitched over the edge of the rock, fracturing their skulls as they fell, and the rest, finding that hesitation was destruction, parted into two bodies, the one pursuing its way straightforward towards the opposite road through the valley, the others rushing, jostling, and squeaking, into the castle, as if it had been a great sty, for which, indeed, they might very well mistake it.
The pursuit of the first troop was evidently useless, and the two men, turning after the second division, proceeded to close the door to secure their prey, and then, for the first time, perceived that a large portion of woodwork, between the iron bands which secured the door, had been sawn away. To have found the postern open would have been nothing very marvellous in their eyes, considering the state of discipline in which they lived; but the work of the saw was convincing proof to them that somebody had been sawing; and driving the pigs before them into the court-yard, they at once proceeded to inquire who the sawyer was.
The whole castle was speedily roused and in an uproar; and what between the capture of the pigs, as they galloped about the wide court-yard, the instant putting of them to death, in not the most scientific manner, for want of food to keep them in a living and unsalted state, and the various operations for rendering the postern even more defensible than before, the active labours of the whole garrison were not over when daylight broke upon the castle, and the spears and pennons of the forces of Ehrenstein and Leiningen were seen coming up the valley.
The Baron laughed loud and long, as he watched the approach of the enemy. "Not a hundred and fifty men," he exclaimed; "on my life! I have a great mind to go out and meet them; why we have eighty here within the walls, and methinks the reiters of Eppenfeld are at least worth double those of Ehrenstein--but we will let them waste themselves upon the postern, for doubtless that young coistrel will direct them thither."
"I rather think they will strive to take us by famine, my valiant lord," replied Fritz, who was standing by him; "for depend upon it they have made such speed in order to prevent us from providing against a siege."
"Then we will give the lie to their expectations," cried the Baron of Eppenfeld. "Ho! bring us some good stout beams here. We will hang out a new sort of banner, such as they have never seen. Plant one firmly in every tower, and then bring up the carcasses of the pigs and oxen."
Under his directions the slaughtered cattle were pulled up aloft, and hung out from the battlements, like the banners of those days; and for some minutes the approaching force could not make out the meaning of this strange display.
"By Heaven! I believe he has hanged the poor fellows who went with our young friend Ferdinand," exclaimed Count Frederick, as the pigs, being the lightest, were first swung up to the top of the beams.
"Nay, nay, my good lord," cried Seckendorf, "they seem to me like swine. Ay, and there goes an ox, too, depend upon it he intends to allow us that he can hold out for a month or two."
"Let us to the postern with all speed," said old Karl of Mosbach; "he may find us in the donjon ere dinner time to help him eat his pork."
"Let it be well reconnoitred first," said the Count of Ehrenstein; "there is no use of our throwing away men's lives upon a useless attempt. It is evident that he is prepared to receive us. He has probably divined that we would come so soon, from the discovery of the lad's escape; and if so, depend upon it, the postern has been strengthened."
A party was accordingly detached to examine carefully the approach to the proposed point of attack, and advanced some way up the path leading from the valley. The walls of the castle were fully manned; and hand guns not having been yet invented, bows and crossbows were bent against the enemy: but not an arrow was discharged or a quarrel let fly, till the men of Ehrenstein having advanced considerably within range, discovered that the postern was blocked up in such a manner as would render any attack upon it hopeless with so small a force. No sooner did they commence their retreat, however, than a flight of missiles assailed them from the walls, greatly hastening their speed, and wounding several.
"Ah, ha!" cried the Baron, "they have had enough of the postern, and they will soon have had enough of the castle. It is too hard a stone for the teeth of these two poor Counts!"
But the worthy lord greatly miscalculated the character of one at least of his adversaries. The Count of Ehrenstein, indeed, would very willingly have accepted the liberation of his men as compensation for all offences; but the Baron did not even think fit to give the slightest sign of making that reparation; and Count Frederick was not a man to suffer any difficulties to divert him in his efforts to wipe out what he considered as both an insult and an injury. Shortly after the return of the reconnoitring party to their companions, various movements were observed amongst the assailants which somewhat puzzled the people on the walls, and discouraged the more wary and experienced. Three or four horsemen rode off in different directions at full speed; and the rest of the forces, dividing into two parties, posted themselves on the roads on either side of the castle, while the two Counts, with some ten or twelve picked men, took up their position under the shade of a large clump of beech trees, on the side of the hill opposite to the postern, whence both of the principal gates of Eppenfeld could be seen, and succour afforded to either of the bodies of assailants in case a sortie should be made from the walls. There dismounting from their horses, the two noblemen and their followers stretched themselves on the grass, and seemed calmly waiting for the result of the steps they had taken.
"Depend upon it, my good lord, they have sent to Neustadt for a party of those dogged citizens," said Fritz, "or perhaps to Landau for cannon."
"Nonsense and folly!" exclaimed the Baron, "they can never drag cannon up here. Why, the great pierrier of Landau weighs a couple of ton, and the little one a ton. They may bring a falconet, but that will do no good; and as to the pigs of Neustadt, we will slaughter them as they come, and send them home pickled to their fat wives."
Still it was evident that the worthy lord was by no means comfortable; and his uneasiness increased when he saw the men of Leiningen begin to cut down and shape some stout trees. He had so frequently beheld persons of power and courage, whom he had injured or offended, turn away, hopeless of redress, after a short demonstration against his stronghold, that he had calculated boldly upon such being the case in the present instance, and the signs of resolution and perseverance displayed by the two Counts, showed him plainly that the far more serious and discouraging affair of a siege was likely to follow. With dogged resolution, however, he held to resistance, and the only effect upon his mind was to make him take immediate measures for still further strengthening the defences of his castle. Great beams were placed across the gates, and the lower part of each was piled up with rubbish, which was very abundant within the building. The stones of the court-yard were taken up and carried to the battlements, to cast down upon the heads of any of the assailants who might venture to approach the walls; and several of the men, more dexterous than the rest, were set to provide stores of arrows and bolts, lest the provision already made should be exhausted. At the same time considerable quantities of wine were distributed amongst the men, to keep up their spirits; and as a warning to the rest, one of the soldiers, who ventured to hint that it might be better for the Baron to accommodate matters with the two Counts, had the lobes of his ears slit with a short dagger: his lord declaring that he was only fit to wear earrings.
Nevertheless, there was something in the calm immobility of the enemy, which created very unpleasant sensations in the bosom of the Baron of Eppenfeld. It was evident that they were waiting for farther assistance, and the perfect tranquillity of their aspect led him to believe that they felt confident that assistance would be complete and overpowering. Though not a very imaginative man, he tortured his fancy during the whole day, to divine whence and of what kind the expected succour would be. But about half an hour before nightfall, all doubts upon the subject were brought to an end, by the appearance, first, of a large body of pikemen on foot, in whom he instantly recognised, by their banners, the commons of several neighbouring towns, who had suffered by his spirit of appropriation, and, secondly, of a considerable force of horse bearing the cognizance of the House of Hardenberg. Worse than all, however, were seen, in the midst, two long wagons, dragged slowly forward by eight or ten bullocks, each displaying a large, clumsy-looking implement, somewhat like the lopped trunk of a tree, which he had little doubt were neither more nor less than the two great cannon of Landau, against which, if once brought to bear upon the gates, the castle could not stand an hour. His only hope was, that their bulk and weight would render them unserviceable; but Count Frederick of Leiningen was seen to ride down instantly to meet his advancing allies, and by the time that night fell, two of the wheels had been detached from the wagons, together with the axle, and the larger cannon had been swung between them so dexterously, and with such an even balance, that it was moved without difficulty at least two or three hundred yards on the road to Eppenfeld.
The fall of night prevented it from being used immediately; but there it remained just before the gates, at the distance of perhaps two bowshots, haunting the imagination of the Baron with the thought of its fire on the succeeding day. Still he strove to make the evening meal pass cheerfully, and plenty of his best wine was poured forth to raise the courage of the soldiery; but, alas, without effect. The great gun of Landau was a sort of nightmare, which sat upon the stomachs of the stout men-at-arms; and a better means could not have been devised of sparing the provisions of the garrison, than by bringing it before the gates.
Some of the garrison drank deep indeed, either from pure recklessness, or a keen sense of danger, which they wished to get rid of by the pleasantest process at hand; but the wine seemed all to be poured into the great gun of Landau; for it certainly produced no greater effect upon those who imbibed it than it would have done upon that huge mass of wood and iron. The watch fires that were now seen blazing around the castle on every side, showed that the Leaguer was strict, and that no path of escape was unguarded; and though the Baron affected to be jovial, and to laugh at the Counts and their men, who were forced to sleep under the canopy of heaven, yet there was a wandering and uncertain look in his eye, and an anxious glance every now and then to the countenance of his friend Fritz, which told that the mind within was anything but easy.
At length, as if he could bear it no longer, the Baron rose, and beckoned his lieutenant into a little chamber in the neighbouring tower, where the propriety of a surrender, on conditions, was formally discussed, without any consideration of the ears that had been slit a few hours before.
"You had better send some one out, my lord," said Fritz, "to say that you will give up the prisoners and the treasure. I would not offer more at first; for, depend upon it, they'll demand more, and you can but grant at last."
"But who can I send?" said the Baron. "If I choose one of our own men, he will either get drunk amongst the enemy, or go over to their party."
"That's very likely," answered Fritz; "shall I go?"
"Humph! I can't spare you," said the Baron.
"Well, then, send one of the prisoners," rejoined Fritz. "If he stays, it can't be helped; and we can offer him reward if he comes back. We had better not let the men know anything about it."
This course was accordingly adopted. One of the men of Ehrenstein, who seemed the most sagacious of the party, was led by Fritz to a postern opposite to that which had been blocked up, and despatched with a message to the two Counts. Fritz remained to watch for his return upon the battlements above; and the Baron himself went back to the flask, to console expectation as well as he could.
"He will be here in a couple of hours, I dare say," said the Baron; but his enemies did not make him wait so long. At the end of an hour, Fritz appeared with the messenger, who bore a scrap of written paper in his hand.
"What the devil is this?" said the Baron, looking at it askance, as the man handed it to him. "Does he think we've clerks and shavelings here in Eppenfeld? Could he not speak plain German, and send message for message?"
Fritz gazed at it with the same hopeless look; but the messenger relieved them from their difficulty by saying, "He read it over to me twice; so I can tell you what it means. Let me look at the marks, however, to bring it in my mind. Thus it runs: 'Count Frederick of Leiningen,'--ay, that's his name there 'and the Count of Ehrenstein to the Baron of Eppenfeld.' He requires the immediate surrender of the castle, the restoration of the treasure taken from the Venetian merchants, compensation from the goods of the Baron for the wrong done and the trouble given. 'Upon these conditions his life shall be spared; but the castle shall be levelled with the ground, and never rebuilt.'"
The man paused; and the Baron of Eppenfeld swore an oath, such as probably no mouth but that of one of the robber chivalry of those days ever contained or gave vent to. It terminated, however, with a vow, that he would die under the ruins of his stronghold, sooner than submit to such conditions; and his worthy lieutenant was quite sure he would keep his word. Neither, it must be confessed, did Fritz himself greatly differ in opinion from his lord. The castle of Eppenfeld was, in fact, his principal means of subsistence; and, although he might perhaps have found some other, if it were taken away, yet there was none on the face of the earth that he thought worth living for; and a gallant defence and death, sword in hand, were things too frequently in the contemplation of persons in his station, to cause him much emotion at the prospect of their being realized.
Fritz, however, was somewhat shrewder in his observations than the Baron; and as soon as the latter had done blaspheming, the lieutenant inquired, addressing their messenger, "Whom did you see, fellow? You bring a letter from both the Counts; yet, when you speak of them, you say always, 'He,' as if only one had had a hand in it."
"I saw Count Frederick of Leiningen," answered the messenger; "but he said he had power to write for both, as my own lord was sleeping: and now I pray you send me back as you promised. It may go worse with you, if you do not."
"You shall go--you shall go," replied Fritz, "for you will have a message to take back;" and then drawing the Baron aside for a moment or two, he spoke to him eagerly in a whisper.
"By the eleven thousand virgins thou art right," cried the Lord of Eppenfeld at length; "so shall it be. Go back, rascal," he continued, addressing the messenger, "and tell Count Frederick that he shall rot before Eppenfeld, and I will eat the stones thereof, before I take such conditions. Tell him I care not for his bombards; the walls are proof against them, and he will find this hold a harder morsel than he thinks. That for Count Frederick!--But now mark me--seek out your own lord privately, and say to him that I love him better than his comrade, that I served him well in former times, and that if he will withdraw his people, and leave me to deal with Count Frederick alone, he shall have the treasure; but if not, I will send a message by nine of the clock to-morrow morning to him and his friend, just to remind him of how I did serve him many years ago. Mark me well, say every word just as I say it;" and he repeated the whole with great accuracy.
The man promised to obey, and, again conducted by Fritz, was led out of the castle.
"That will diminish them by one-half," said the Baron, as soon as his lieutenant returned to him, "and then for one bold stroke and victory."
Numerous discussions subsequently took place between the Lord of Eppenfeld and his friend, in regard to preparations for the morrow; numerous precautions were also taken; strict watch was enjoined; but then, alas! the Baron and Fritz also returned to the flask, and many others in the castle followed their example. The lieutenant, at a late hour, betook himself to the walls, where he found all in order, and paced up and down some time in a sort of dreamy state, where thought and wine contended for the mastery; but the hour of three found him sound asleep upon the battlements, with his head pillowed on a stone.
How long he remained thus Fritz did not know; but the first thing that woke him was a tremendous explosion just below. The whole castle shook; some of the loose stones fell from the watch-tower above, and well it was for Fritz, at that moment, that he had his steel morion on his head. He was hardly roused, however, his whole senses were in confusion and disarray, when loud shouts and cries from the court rose up, and conveyed him better intelligence of the event which had taken place than even the explosion; there were sounds of blows, and clashing steel, and of heavy axes falling upon wood-work, and exclamations of "Place taken! Place taken! Yield or die!" with many a similar speech, which showed clearly enough that the garrison was not alone in Eppenfeld.
The want of brute courage, however, was not the defect of Fritz's character, and the next instant he dashed down, sword in hand, to the court, collecting one or two of his comrades as he went, and exclaiming, "It is now for life! they will give no quarter! fight like devils! we may yet drive them back!" But the scene that presented itself in the court might have proved to any one willing to be convinced, that, fight how they would, the garrison of Eppenfeld had no chance of successful resistance. The gate had been partly blown in by the bombard, which had been quietly drawn close up to the walls, and was every moment presenting a wider aperture under the blows of the axe; an overpowering number of adverse soldiery was already in the court; others were rushing in through the gap in the gate; torches could be seen coming up the slope, and displaying a stream of human heads cased in iron pouring on. Everything proved that defence was hopeless, but the Baron of Eppenfeld was already below, and with fierce efforts, aided by some thirty of his men, was striving to drive back the assailants and recover possession of the gateway. Fritz and those who were with him hurried on to his assistance, and soon were hand to hand with the enemy. Their arrival gave some new vigour to the resistance, and the men of Leiningen and the citizens who were joined with them, gave way a little; but fresh numbers poured in behind; the Baron went down with a thundering blow upon his steel cap; and Fritz received a wound in the throat which covered his cuirass with gore.
With great difficulty the Lord of Eppenfeld was raised in the press, and borne somewhat back; but as soon as he could stand he rushed upon the enemy again, and aimed his blows around with the fury of despair. His men gradually gave way, however, a number fell never to rise again; but beaten back, step by step, they were, at length, forced against the wall of the donjon, with nothing but the narrow doorway behind them left as a means of escape. The man who was nearest it felt his courage yield, turned, and ran towards the postern on the east. Some cried, "I yield, I yield! good quarter, good quarter!" Others fled after the first, and the Baron of Eppenfeld, seeing that all was lost, looked round with glaring eyes, doubtful whether he should seek safety in flight by the postern into the open country, or die in arms where he stood.
At that very moment, however, a loud voice cried, "Take him alive! take him alive! The man with the wivern on his head!" and half a dozen of the soldiers of Leiningen rushed towards him. One instantly went down under a blow of his sword, but before it could fall again upon the head of another, the rest were upon him, and the weapon was wrenched from his grasp.
A scene of wild confusion followed, which cannot be adequately described. There was chasing through passages and chambers, hunting out fugitives in remote places, driving them along the walls, seeking them in vaults and towers; and many a deep groan and shrill cry of the death agony attested that all the barbarous cruelties of a storming were perpetrated in the halls of Eppenfeld. Some were taken alive, but a greater number escaped by the postern into the country. There, however, they were almost instantly captured; for the bands of the Count of Ehrenstein had been left to keep guard without, and only two or three of the fugitives found their way to the woods.
In the mean time Count Frederick as soon as all resistance was over, strode on to the hall, with a small number of his attendants who had never left his side. There seating himself in the Baron's great chair, he ordered the room to be cleared of all persons but two, while a party remained to guard the door. His selection of his two councillors was somewhat strange, for, though one was indeed a person in whom he might be supposed to place confidence, being an old and faithful knight who had accompanied him through all his wars while serving with the knights of St. John, the other was no greater a personage than the jester, who, however, took his seat beside the Count with great gravity.
The next moment, according to orders previously given, the Baron of Eppenfeld was brought in between two men, with all his offensive arms taken from him, and his head uncovered. The two soldiers who guarded him there were instantly ordered to withdraw, and what followed between the victor and the vanquished was only known to the four who remained. The conversation was not long, however, for in less than five minutes the soldiers were recalled, and ordered to remove the Baron to his own chamber, treating him with courtesy.
The man named Fritz was next called for, and while the Count's followers were seeking for him, one of Count Frederick's knights brought him the keys of the treasure room, and a roll of papers. Several minutes elapsed before Fritz could be found, and just as he was discovered at length, lying severely wounded amongst the dead in the court, the Count of Ehrenstein, entered the castle with some of his attendants, and after inquiring where Count Frederick was, made his way to the hall, which he seemed to know well.
"Is the Baron living or dead?" he asked, as soon as he entered.
"Living, living, my noble friend," replied Count Frederick, in his usual gay tone. "Caught like a badger; dug out of his hole, and biting at all who came near him."
"He might as well have died," said the Count of Ehrenstein, with a cloudy brow; "we shall be troubled to know what to do with him."
"Nay, if he would not be killed, we cannot help it," cried Count Frederick; "though he seems a venomous snake indeed.--Ah! here comes his worthy comrade, Herr Fritz!--Cannot he stand? He seems badly hurt.--Well, noble Sir, I shall not trouble you with many questions, You, it seems, led the party who plundered our Italian merchants; whence got you tidings of their coming?"
"From one of your own people; Count," replied the wounded man. "I know not his name; but the Baron can tell you."
"Where is the Baron?" demanded the Count of Ehrenstein. "I will go and ask him."
"Nay, he is caged,--he is caged," answered Count Frederick. "We shall have time enough to question him hereafter."
His noble companion did not seem very well satisfied with his answer, but bent his eyes moodily on the ground; while the man Fritz took up the conversation, in a sullen tone, saying, "I hope you will not question me farther, my lord the Count; for I am faint from loss of blood, and it is high time that you should either have me tended, or end me at once."
"Nay, Heaven forfend, Herr Fritz!" exclaimed Count Frederick; "we shall want you hereafter, since you say it was one of my men who helped you to your rich booty. Take him away, and try and stanch the bleeding of his wounds. Give him some wine, if they have not drunk it all; and then bring me water, that I may wash my hands. Nay, why so grave, my noble fellow-soldier?" he continued, turning to the Count of Ehrenstein; "but it is true you have lived long in peace, and are not so much accustomed as myself to see scenes of slaughter and destruction; and yet we must leave no part of the work here undone. I will not quit Eppenfeld while there is one beam of timber spanning from wall to wall. Nevertheless, it is not needful that you should stay."
"Oh, I will bear you company," said he of Ehrenstein. "It is true I love not to see such things, yet still--"
"Nay, but it is needless," interrupted Count Frederick. "You shall guard the prisoners and the treasure back to Ehrenstein; while I will remain and see the nest of plunderers destroyed."
"And the Baron?" asked his friend, with a hesitating look. "He goes with you, of course," replied Count Frederick; "only keep him safe, for he is a wily fox."
"Oh, that I will," replied the other, with a countenance which suddenly brightened; "yet if I could aid you here, I am quite willing to stay."
"No need,--no need," answered Count Frederick. "I have men and means enough."
"Well, then, I will go and prepare for departure," said the Count of Ehrenstein, "and will give you a victor's banquet when you arrive."
Thus saying, he moved towards the door; and as he quitted the hall, Count Frederick of Leiningen gave a meaning glance, half sad, half sarcastic, first to the jester, and then to the old knight.