The whole castle of Ehrenstein was still as the grave. There are times when distant murmurs of busy life, when the hum of insects in the air, when the scarce heard voice of the distant nightingale, when the whisper of a passing breeze, that speaks as if but to make the stillness felt, seem to increase the sensation of the silence. But there is a deeper, deader silence than that, when all is so profoundly tranquil that it seems as if no sound would ever wake again, when death itself seems powerful over all; and the absence of all activity makes us feel as if our own being was the only living principle left existent upon earth. But it brings with it no idea of annihilation. It seems but the utter exclusion of all mortal things, as if the animation of clay were over, and the noiseless reign of spirit were begun. The soul, no longer jostled by the life of flesh, seems to walk forth at large, and to have freer communication with things as immaterial as itself. The essence within us feels as if a thick and misty veil were withdrawn, and things unseen in the dull glare of the animal day were apparent to the kindred spirit in the hour of temporary death. But this is only felt when entire silence pervades all things; when there is no voice of bird or insect, no whispered breeze, no distant sound of those that watch at night; when all is still, and, to the ignorance of individual being, it seems that the one who feels is the only one who lives. Then is the hour of expectation; for if, according to the old philosophy, nature abhors a vacuum, the void she most abhors is the absence of all action. The heart of every living thing is ever asking, "What next?" and the deepest conviction implanted in the mind of man is, that want of activity is extinction. Even sleep itself has its sensation and its dream; and to him who wakes while all the rest are buried in forgetfulness, there is a constant looking for something assimilating in solemnity with the hour, and the darkness, and the silence, to break the unnatural lack of busy life that seems around. Oh! how fancy then wanders through the wide unoccupied extent, and seeks for something active like itself, and, debarred all communion with beings of earth, ventures into the unsubstantial world, and perchance finds a responding voice to answer her cry for companionship.
It would seem that there is almost a contradiction in terms under the philosophy that admits the existence of a world of spirits, and yet denies that there can be any means of communication between that world and the spirits still clothed in flesh; but, even in the most sceptical, there are misdoubtings of their own unbelief; and to every one who thinks, there come moments when there arise such questions as these: Where lies the barrier between us and those above us--between us and those who have gone before? Can we speak across the gulf? Is it bridged over by any path? Is there a gulf indeed?--or, in this instance, as in all others through the universal scheme, is the partition but thin and incomplete that separates us from the order next above?
Such are at least questions with all but the most purely worldly even in a most purely worldly age; but, in the times I write of, doubts on such subjects were precluded by faith and by tradition. Activity, indeed, and thought, occupied continually by matters the least spiritual, banished reflections upon such subjects during the great part of each man's time. But reflection was needless where conviction was ever present; and if speculation indulged itself in times of solitude and silence, it was only in regard to what our relations could be with the immaterial world, not whether there were any relations at all.
Everything was still and motionless as the grave when Ferdinand descended slowly from his chamber in the castle of Ehrenstein, and entered the broad corridor which stretched across the great mass of the building. It was very dark, for no moon was up; and, though the stars were bright and many in the sky, the light they afforded through the dim casements was but small. The night was still, too; for no wind moved the trees; not a cloud crossed the sky; and, as it was colder than it had been, the insects ceased for a time from their activity, too early begun, and the song of the minstrel of the night was not heard. Everyone in the castle itself seemed sound asleep; no doors creaked on the hinges, no voice of guest or serving-man was heard from below, the very sentinel was keeping guard still and silently, like the starry watchers in the sky overhead.
Ferdinand's heart beat quick, but it was not with the thought of all the strange and fearful sights he had seen in the place which he was now about to revisit--though he did think of them; it was not with that vague mysterious awe inspired by any near approach in mind to things beyond this world of warm and sunny life. He was going, for the first time, at night and in darkness, to the chamber of her he loved, to guide her through strange scenes, alone and unwatched for many an hour to come, upon an errand of which he knew nothing but that it was promised a happy end; and his whole frame thrilled with the emotions so sweet, so joyful, that are only known to early, pure, and ardent love.
With the unlighted lamp in his hand, he approached the door, and quietly raised the latch. All was silent in the little anteroom, but there was a light burning there, and Bertha sitting sleeping soundly in a chair, with some woman's work fallen at her feet. Ferdinand did not wake her; for Adelaide had told him to come when it was needful, even to her own chamber; and, approaching the door of that room, he opened it quietly, and went in. Adelaide slept not, for in her heart, too, were busy emotions that defy slumber. As she saw him, she sprang to meet him, with all the joy and confidence of love; but yet it was with a glow in her cheek, and a slight agitated trembling of her limbs, which she could not overcome, though she knew not why she shook, for she had no fears--she no longer had any doubts of her own acts.
"I am ready, Ferdinand," she whispered, after one dear caress; "let us go at once--nay, love, let us go."
He led her silently into the next room, where the lover lighted his lamp; and the lady gently woke her sleeping maid, and whispered her to watch for their return. Then onward through the corridor they went, and down the stairs, till they reached the door of the great hall.
"Hark!" whispered Adelaide, "did you not hear a sound?"
"We may hear many, dear one," answered the young gentleman in the same tone; "aye, and we may see strange and fearful sights too, but we will not let them daunt us, my beloved. I have trod these paths before, and they are familiar to me; but to you, love, they are new, and may be frightful. Look not around, then, dear girl; rest on my arm, keep your eyes on the ground, and give ear to no sound. I will guide you safely."
Thus saying, he opened the hall door carefully, and, with some feeling of relief, saw that all within was dark and silent. Closing it as soon as they had passed the threshold, he gazed around, but nothing was to be seen but the drooping branches with which they had ornamented the walls, hanging sickly and languid in the first process of decay, and the flowers with which they had chapleted the columns already withered and pale. Such are the ambitions and the joys of youth, and thus they pass away.
"It is quiet, dear Adelaide," whispered Ferdinand. "May our whole way be equally so. All evil spirits surely will keep aloof from an angel's presence."
"Hush!" she said; "I fear not, Ferdinand, for I feel as if I were engaged in a high duty, and till it is accomplished I am eager to go on. I can walk quicker now."
He led her on at a more rapid pace, unlocked the smaller door at the other end of the hall, and, keeping her arm in his, entered the dark and gloomy passage. Adelaide, notwithstanding his caution, looked up and said, "It is a foul and sad-looking place, Indeed;" but she neither paused nor slackened her steps, and in a few moments more they stood at the mouth of the well stairs.
"Put your hand on my shoulder, dearest," said Ferdinand; "and take heed to every step; for all are damp and slippery, and many of the stones decayed. Lean firmly upon me as I go down before you."
She did as he told her; but as they descended amidst mould and slimy damp, and heavy air, the whispering voices he had heard again sounded on the ear, and Adelaide's heart beat, though she resisted terror to the utmost. "Fear not, dear girl--fear not," he said; "we shall soon be in the free air of the wood."
She made no reply, but followed quickly, and at length they reached the door below. As he pushed it open, a voice seemed to say, "They come--they come. Hush, hush!" and he led her on into the serfs' burial-place.
"There is a light," whispered Adelaide. "Good heavens! there must be some one here."
"No one that will slay us," answered her lover. "It will soon be past, dear girl." As he spoke, however, he raised his eyes, and saw a faint light gleaming from the heavy column to which the skeleton-was chained; and as undaunted he advanced, he saw written on the green stone, as if in characters of flame, the word, "Vengeance!" and as he gazed, low voices repeated, "Vengeance--vengeance!"
He felt his fair companion tremble terribly; but now she bent down her eyes, as he had bidden her, for she feared that her courage would give way. The next instant, however, she started and paused, for she had well nigh put her foot upon a skull, the grinning white teeth of which, and rayless eye-holes, were raised towards her. "Ah, Ferdinand!" she exclaimed; but he hurried her past, and on towards the crypt of the chapel.
"Stay, stay," said Adelaide, as they passed through the low arch which led thither. "This is very terrible; I feel faint."
"Yet a few steps farther," answered Ferdinand; "the free air will soon revive you, and we shall be there in a moment."
As he spoke, there came suddenly, from the lower chapel vaults before them, a slow and solemn chant, as if several deep voices were singing a dirge, and Ferdinand and Adelaide paused and listened while they sang:--
DIRGE.Peace to the dead! They restCalm in the silent bed.They have tasted joy and sorrow;They have lived and grieved,Have loved and been blest;Nor thought of this dark to-morrow.Peace to the happy dead!Peace to the dead! No moreOn them shall earth's changes shedThe blight of all joy and pleasure.Their life is above,In the haven of love,And their heart is with its treasure.Peace to the happy dead!
Peace to the dead! They rest
Calm in the silent bed.
They have tasted joy and sorrow;
They have lived and grieved,Have loved and been blest;
Nor thought of this dark to-morrow.
Peace to the happy dead!
Peace to the dead! No more
On them shall earth's changes shed
The blight of all joy and pleasure.
Their life is above,In the haven of love,
And their heart is with its treasure.
Peace to the happy dead!
Though it was a sad and solemn air, and though the distinct words were of as serious a character as the lips of man can pronounce, yet they seemed rather to revive than to depress the spirits of Adelaide; and as the music ceased, and the falling sounds died away in the long aisles, she said,
"I can go on now, Ferdinand. It is true there is something else to live for than the life of this earth! and the very feeling that it is so, and the keeping of that always before one's mind, seem not only to hallow but to brighten the loves and joys of this being, when we remember that if they are what they ought to be, they may be protracted into eternity. I have been weak and cowardly, more than I thought to be; but I will be so no more. The thought of death makes me brave."
Ferdinand was silent, for he felt that his love, if not more mortal, was at least more human than hers; but he led her on, and now she gazed around her by the light of the lamp, marking the coffins that were piled up, and the monuments that were mingled with them,--now and then commenting, by a word or two, as the faint rays fell first upon one and then upon another, till at length they reached the door which gave them exit into the forest, where the free air seemed to revive her fully.
"Thank God!" she said, when they once more stood upon the side of the hill. "How delightful it is to feel the wind upon one's cheek! After all, this earth is full of pleasant things; and though the contemplation of death and its presence may be salutary, yet they are heavy upon the heart from their very solemnity. How shall we ever get down this steep part of the rock?"
"Stay," said Ferdinand, who had been shading the light with his cloak; "I will put the lamp within the door, and leave it burning; we shall need it when we return. The way is not so steep as it seems, dearest, and I will help and guide you."
After securing the light, the young man returned to her side, as she stood upon the little jutting pinnacle of crag, and aided her down the descent; nor was the task aught but a very sweet one, for still her hand rested in his, and often, perhaps without much need, his arm glided round her waist to support her as she descended, and words of love that they could now speak, fearless of overhearing ears, were uttered at every pause upon their way. A gayer and a happier spirit, too, seemed to come upon the fair girl after they had left the crypt; sometimes, indeed, strangely mingled with a tone of sadness, but still full of hope and tenderness. She even somewhat jested with her lover on his passion, and asked in playful words, if he was sure, very sure, of his own heart?--if their situations were altogether changed by some of the strange turns of fate, and she but a poor dowerless maiden, without station or great name, and he a prince of high degree, whether his love would be the same?--whether he would still seek her for his bride as ardently as then?
I need not, surely, tell how Ferdinand answered her;--I need not say what professions he made,--or how he once revenged himself for her assumed doubts of a passion as true as her own. She made him promise a thousand things too--things that to him seemed strange and wild: that he would never willingly do aught that might break her heart,--that, if ever they were married, he would for one month--for one short, sweet month--do everything that she required. She made him promise--nay, she made him vow it; and he was inclined to engage largely for such sweet hopes as she held out; so that had a universe been at his command, and all the splendours of destiny within his reach, he would have given all, and more, for the bright vision that her words called up; and yet he somewhat laughed at her exactions, and gave his promise as playfully as she seemed to speak. But she would have it seriously, she said, and made him vow it over and over again.
Thus went they on, descending the hill, and spending more time by the way, in truth, than was altogether needful, till they came within sight of the little chapel in the wood; and there a new mood seemed to come over Ferdinand's fair companion. She stopped suddenly, and gazing, by the faint light of the stars, upon the countenance which memory served to show her more than her eyes, she asked, "And do you really love me, Ferdinand? and will you ever love me as now?"
"I do--I will for ever, Adelaide," he answered, drawing her nearer to him,--"ever, ever!"
But she, of her own accord, cast her arms around his neck, and leaning her head upon his shoulder, seemed to him to weep. He pressed her to his heart, he whispered all those words that he thought might soothe and reassure her, but still she remained the same, till the door of the chapel, which was about a hundred yards before them, opened, and by the light which streamed out, Ferdinand saw the form of Father George, looking forth as if anxious for their coming.
"He is looking for us, dearest," he said; "let us go on."
"I am ready--I am ready," replied Adelaide; and, wiping away what were certainly drops from her eyes, she followed at once.
"I have been anxious for you, my children," said Father George, as they entered his little chamber by the side of the chapel. "What, weeping, Adelaide! Are you not happy? Have you a doubt?"
"None, none," she answered, holding out her hand to Ferdinand. "I know not why you sent for us, Father, but I am sure that whatever you counsel is right, and I feel that my fate is linked to his, as my heart is to his heart, and his to mine, I do believe; but there are other tears than sad ones, good Father, and though mine are not sad, they might well be so, considering all the objects on the path hither."
"Say, solemn, rather, my child," answered Father George; "but for the rest: if you can love and do love, as I believe, there is happiness before you. Are you prepared, Adelaide, to bind yourself to him you love by bonds that cannot be broken?"
She looked down, and the blood mounting into her cheek, then left it as pale as alabaster; but her lips moved, and in a lone tone, she said, "I am."
"And you, Ferdinand," continued the priest, "are you prepared, at all risks, to wed this fair lady--not with the vehement and ardent fire of youth, though that I know you feel, but with the steadfast purpose and desire to make her reasonable happiness, your great end and object of existence; to seek it by all means, and at all times; to do her right in every word, and thought, and deed; to be to her what God intended man to be to woman, her support and strength, her protection and her comfort, more than a friend, more than a brother, more than a lover--one with herself in every good wish and purpose? Answer me thoughtfully, my son, for I take a great responsibility upon me. I counsel her to give her hand to you against every worldly custom and all human policy; and if you ever make her regret that deed, the sorrow and the shame will rest on me."
"I am ready, Father," answered Ferdinand, "to take her hand as the best gift that Heaven could give me, on the conditions and in the terms you say. We are not like many others, Father, we have known each other from youth's early days, when childhood has no concealments, and the heart is without disguise. Deep affection and sincere regard have ripened, on my part at least, into love that never can change, for one whose heart I know too well to doubt that it can alter either. Whatever dangers may beset our way--and I see many--there will be none from changed affection.--But I beseech you play not with my hopes. I know not much of such things, it is true, but I have heard that there are difficulties often insuperable in the way of those who, at our age and in our circumstances, would unite their fate together."
"There are, my son," answered Father George; "but in your case I have removed them. Here, under my hand," he continued, laying it as he spoke upon a roll of parchment on the table, "I have a dispensation from our Holy Father, the Pope, for your immediate marriage; and for weighty reasons which I have stated to him by the mouth of his Legate, he gives me full authority and power to celebrate it whenever occasion shall serve. No moment could be more favourable than the present--no moment when it is more needful. Dangers, my son, there may be; but they are not such as you anticipate; and watchful eyes are upon you to ward off anything that may menace; but fail not either of you, if you see the slightest cause for alarm, to give me warning by some means; and now, my children, come with me; for the night wears, and you must not be long absent."
Ferdinand took Adelaide's hand in his, and followed the priest into the chapel, by the small door, in the side of his little room, which led almost direct to the altar. He gazed at her fondly as he went, and joy, the deepest he had ever felt in life, was certainly in his heart; but there was something in the hour and the circumstances which softened and solemnized without decreasing that joy. Adelaide turned but one momentary glance on him, and it was almost sad, yet full of love. There was anxiety in it--ay, and fear over and above the timid emotion with which woman must always take that step which decides her fate for happiness or unhappiness through life. She seemed less surprised indeed at all that had taken place with the good priest than her lover. The object for which Father George had sent for them did not appear so unexpected to her as it did to him. It seemed as if she had had a presentiment or a knowledge of what was to come; and Ferdinand now understood the agitation which she had displayed just before they entered Father George's cell. She went on, however, without hesitation--ay, and without reluctance, and in a moment after they stood together before the altar. The candles thereon were already lighted, and a small gold ring lay upon the book. All seemed prepared beforehand, but ere Father George commenced the ceremony, he bade Ferdinand unlock the chapel door and leave it ajar. As soon as the lover had returned to Adelaide's side, the words which were to bind them together for weal or woe, through life, began. She answered firmly, though in a low tone; and when the ring was at length on her finger, Ferdinand heard, or thought he heard, a voice without murmur, "It is done!"
The fair girl marked it not; but, as if overcome by all the emotions of that hour, stretched out her arms to her young husband, and leaned upon his breast. She wept not, but she hid her eyes, saying in an earnest but trembling tone, "Oh, dear Ferdinand, remember, remember all you have promised."
"I will, love, I will," he answered. "You are my own, sweet bride; and I will ever cherish you as the better part of my own life. Shall I now lead her back, Father?"
"Nay," said the priest, "there is more yet to be done. The church's part is over, and the bond irrevocable; but yet the laws of the land require something more, and every form must be fulfilled. But all is prepared. Come with me once more, and sign the contract. Then, after a moment's rest, you may go back--Yes," he added, after some thought and apparent hesitation, "you had better go back for this night at least. But I will not trust you to stay there long. You are both too young, too inexperienced, and too fond, to conceal from the eyes of others the bond that is between you. Keep yourselves ready, however, and I will arrange the means for your flight, and a safe asylum."
"Could we not go at once," asked Ferdinand, as they followed to the priest's chamber, "to the house of good Franz Creussen? He seems to know much of my fate, and to love me well."
"Not to-night, not to-night," answered Father George; "you forget who may be met on the way thither. Nay, return for this night, and be cautious where you are. Ere to-morrow you shall hear more; but in the mean time, in case of need, no arm will be found stronger to aid, no heart more ready to serve you, than that of good Franz Creussen. You may trust to him in any case, for he does love you well, and has proved his love to you and yours, ere now." The contract was signed; and, when all was complete, the priest opened the door, saying, "Keep the key I have given you carefully, Ferdinand, it may serve you in many ways; but to-morrow you shall either see or hear from me. And now, farewell, my children, God's benison and the holy church's be upon you!"
With this blessing they departed; and Adelaide and Ferdinand returned to the castle more slowly even than they had come thence. It often happens in life that one emotion drowns another; and although they could not but know that there were dangers of many kinds before them, and though the gloomy scenes which they had so lately passed through still lay on their road back, yet the rapturous joy of the moment, the knowledge that they were united beyond the power of fate, as they thought, to sever them, swallowed up apprehension and awe, and left nought but one of those wild visions of happiness which occasionally break upon the night of life.
As on the occasion of Ferdinand's former visit, neither sights nor sounds that could create alarm awaited them on their return. The untrimmed lamp stood burning faintly where they had left it, and passing quickly through the vaults, they soon reached the hall above. There they lingered for some time, and then extinguishing the light, found their way through the other passages, and up the stairs; but the grey eye of morning was faintly opening on the world when the young husband returned to his own chamber. Casting himself on his bed, he strove to sleep; but for nearly an hour the wild emotions of his heart kept him waking, and then for a short time he slept with heavy and profound slumber. What it was that woke him he knew not, but he raised himself with a sudden start, and looked round as if some one had called. He saw that the sun had climbed higher than he had imagined, and rising, he dressed himself hastily, but with care, then gazed for a single instant in sweet thought out of the window, and breaking of his reverie, suddenly turned to the door. He fancied he must be still dreaming when he found that it would not yield to his hand. He shook it vehemently, but it did not give way. He strove to burst it open, but it resisted all his efforts.
"This is strange, indeed!" he said to himself, with his thoughts all whirling and confused, in agitation, anger, and apprehension; for where there is aught to be concealed, fear has always some share in the sensations which any event unaccounted for produces. After a moment's thought, however, he calmed himself, and walking to the casement, looked down upon the wall below. The height was considerable, and no sentinel was underneath at the moment; but the measured tread of a heavy foot was heard round the angle of the tower; and the young gentleman waited calmly till the man paced round, and came under the spot where he stood. "Ho! Rudolph," he said, "some one, in sport, I suppose, has locked my door; go in and bid them open it."
The man obeyed, but returned in a minute or two after with another, who looked up to the window, saying, as soon as he saw the young gentleman's face, "It is that young fellow, Martin of Dillberg, Sir, who has locked it; and he will not give up the keys declaring he has a charge to make against you when our lord returns, and that he will keep you there till he does."
Ferdinand's heart beat a good deal with very mixed sensations, but he answered instantly,--"Who commands in this castle when the Count and his knights are away?"
"Why you, Sir, certainly," answered Rudolph; "but I can't see how we can help you, as the lock is on your side of the door, and we dare not venture to lay hands on Count Frederick's man. Can you not contrive to push back the bolt with your dagger?"
"I have tried while you were away," answered Ferdinand. "Hie you to the stable, Rudolph, bring me one of the strong ropes you will find there, fix it on the end of your lance, and stretch the end up to me. I will soon teach this Martin of Dillberg who has the gravest charge to make against the other."
The two men hastened to obey; and Ferdinand remained at the casement, anxiously looking for their return. Ere they appeared, however, he heard their voices speaking apparently to another person; and one of the soldiers exclaimed aloud,--"Get you gone, Sir! You have no command here. If you attempt to take hold of it I will break your pate; and if Master Ferdinand, when he gets out, bids us shut you up for your pains, we will do it."
"Rudolph! Herman!" shouted Ferdinand from the window, "make sure of his person. He is a traitor and a knave!"
The men did not hear him, but came on, carrying between them a heavy coil of rope, the end of which was speedily stretched out upon the point of the lance, to such a height that he could reach it. Then fastening it rapidly to the iron bar which separated the casement into two, Ferdinand took the rope between his hands and feet, and slid down upon the platform.
"Now follow me, quick," he cried. "Where is this treacherous hound? By Heaven! I have a mind to cleave his skull for him."
"He was just now at the steps going down to the court," replied the man Herman; "but you had better not use him roughly, Sir. Shut him up till our lord returns."
"Come on then, come on," cried Ferdinand, still hurrying forward; "we shall lose our hold of him. He dare not stay and face me."
It was as he thought, for by the time he reached the court, Martin of Dillberg was mounted and passing the drawbridge. A sneering smile of triumph and malice curled his lip as Ferdinand advanced under the arch, and turning his horse for an instant, he exclaimed, "I go to give news of you to your friends, good Sir. Pray where were you at midnight? You, my good men, if you will follow my advice, will keep that youth within the castle walls, for he is a traitor to his lord and yours, as I will prove upon him at my return."
Thus saying, he wheeled his horse and spurred away; and Ferdinand, with as light a look as he could assume, turned back into the castle. The two men paused for a minute to converse together, and Ferdinand, hurrying on, passed twice through the corridor with a heavy step, in the hope that Bertha might hear him and come forth. She did not appear, however, and then going out to the battlements, he passed by the window where she usually sat and worked. She was there, and alone, and making a sign towards the corridor, he returned thither without delay. In a few minutes the gay girl joined him, but she instantly saw from his look that something had gone amiss, and her warm cheek turned somewhat pale in anticipation of his tidings.
"Hie you to Father George with all speed, Bertha," said Ferdinand; "tell him that I fear that young hound, Martin of Dillberg, has tracked me and your lady to the chapel last night, or else saw me come forth from her chamber. Bid him hasten to help us, or we are lost, for the young villain is gone to bear the news to the Count. Hark!--there are trumpets!" and springing to the window, he looked out.
"The Count, upon my life!" he exclaimed. "Away, Bertha, away!"
"But I shall meet them!" exclaimed the girl, wildly; "and I shake so, I am ready to drop."
"Here, take this key," cried Ferdinand; "it opens the small door out of the great hall; then straight on along the passage, down the well stairs, and through the vaults--straight as you can go. You cannot miss your way. If you would save me, your lady, and yourself, you must shake off all idle terrors. You have now full daylight, and it streams into the vaults as clear as it does here. Leave the door unlocked behind you."
"I will go," said Bertha, "if all the ghosts in the church-yard were there. But I must first warn my lady;" and away she sped.
With blast of trumpet, and an air of triumph, the small force of the Count of Ehrenstein marched up towards the gates of the castle. Each individual soldier, long deprived of the means of winning any renown in those "piping times of peace," felt an individual pride in having fought and conquered; though, to say sooth, the two knights, and older warriors were not very well contented that so small and inglorious a part of the short siege of Eppenfeld had fallen to their share. The youths might boast, they thought, and plume themselves upon so poor an exploit, and some little honour might attach to those who had taken a share in the first operations; but the days had been when the men of Ehrenstein would not have remained inactive, watching to catch the runaways, while the retainers of a friendly prince assailed the castle itself, and underwent all the danger and fatigue of the assault. The Count was brave and politic, they admitted, and policy has always something in it which commands a sort of mysterious respect. We admire what is successful, though we do not understand the principles upon which success has been achieved; but yet, until discipline has reached a high pitch, we do not conceive that there can be as much glory in performing well a passive part, as in taking a share in operations where peril and energetic action are the means of victory. Thus many of the best soldiers in the Count's band were somewhat discontented, and inclined to grumble, while he himself rode on in silence, communicating to no one his feelings in regard to the result of their undertaking, or to the plan upon which the enterprise had been conducted. He had prisoners and treasure with him; and that, old Seckendorf thought, would be enough to satisfy the Count; but the good ritter himself was dissatisfied that he had not an opportunity of striking a strong stroke, and longed for a more energetic and less politic leader, although he owned that but little was to be done in those days of art and negotiation, compared with the times when he himself was young, and the sword decided all.
Very different is the operation of every passion upon the individual on whom it acts. As the relative forces of agent and object always modify the effect of every cause, the character of the person who feels changes entirely the result of the emotions which act upon him. Some men are elated by success; some almost depressed in spirit. With some men the heart seems to expand under the sunshine of fair fortune, with some to contract; as particular flowers open in the shade, while others spread their breasts abroad to the bright day. The Count of Ehrenstein was one on whom the light seemed to have no enlarging influence; and while his men, especially the younger, laughed and talked, he rode on from Eppenfeld towards his own stronghold, in gloomy silence and deep thought. Hardly one word proffered he to any one by the way, and ever and anon he looked back to the body of prisoners with the Baron at their head, who followed, strongly guarded, in the rear of his troop. Then, and only then, what may be called a feeble look came over his countenance--a look of doubt and hesitation, as if he were trying some question with his own heart, which he found it difficult to solve.
At a short distance from the castle he was met by Martin of Dillberg, who stopped and spoke to him for a few minutes in a low voice. Those who were near saw an expression of sudden anger spread over the face of their lord; his pale cheek flushed, his brow grew black as night, his hands grasped the reins tight, and he replied in quick and hurried tones. But after a time the young man rode on towards Eppenfeld, and the troop, which had halted, recommenced its march. The fierce look of the Count, however, speedily passed away; he turned his eyes again to the Baron, and once more fell into gloomy thought.
At the end of about half an hour, the cavalcade approached the gates of Ehrenstein, and the Count passed over the drawbridge, and under the arch of the gateway, where Ferdinand of Altenburg stood, with some of the soldiery, to receive him. If, as I have said, the operations of passions are very different upon different individuals, the fact was never more strikingly displayed than in the case of Ferdinand. He knew that a moment of great peril had arrived, he felt that the purchase of a few hours of joy might now have to be paid in his blood; he feared also for her he loved more than for himself; but the emotions of such a situation called forth in his mind powers of which he had been ignorant: and although at first he had been agitated and almost bewildered, he now stood calm and collected, marking well the heavy frown upon the Count's brow, and a look of sudden fierceness that came into his face when their eyes first met, but prepared for whatever might follow and ready to endure it firmly.
The Count of Ehrenstein dismounted slowly, and, without addressing a word to his young follower, called Seckendorf and Mosbach to him, giving them directions for lodging the prisoners securely, and especially for placing the Baron of Eppenfeld in a chamber apart, in one of the high towers. He then spoke a word or two in a low tone to Karl von Mosbach, which seemed somewhat to surprise him; but the Count repeated aloud and emphatically, "Not for one moment! You will soon know the reason." Then turning to Ferdinand he said, "Has all gone quietly in the castle?"
"No, my good lord," replied the young gentleman, boldly. "That youth, Martin of Dillberg, who came hither with Count Frederick, dared to lock me in my chamber, and has since fled on horseback. I should have pursued him and brought him back, but I had no horses saddled."
"He will come back very soon," said the Count, in a marked tone.
"I doubt it, my good lord," answered Ferdinand; "he knows that I have a charge to bring against him which may cost his life; and which, if I had been permitted to join you before Eppenfeld, I should have made ere now."
"Indeed," said the Count musing; "it may be so."
"Nay, noble Sir, it is," replied the young gentleman, thinking the Count's words were an answer to what he had said, rather than to what was passing in his own mind; "I am ready to state the whole now, if you have time; for as I see the Baron of Eppenfeld is a prisoner in your hands, you have the means of testing the truth at once."
"Not now," rejoined the Count; "not now,--I have other matters to think of. I will hear you in an hour."
As he spoke, the Baron was led past, and the Lord of Ehrenstein immediately followed. Ferdinand remained musing in the court, not daring to seek any means of communicating with his young bride, and doubtful what course to follow.
As he thus stood, Seckendorf came up, and drawing him aside, demanded, "What is this, Ferdinand? Mosbach, tells me he has orders not to suffer you to pass the gates, or to take a step beyond the walls, the little hall, or the tower in which you sleep. What have you been doing, you graceless young dog? Is your affair with Bertha come to light?"
Ferdinand saw that his apprehensions were but too just, but he replied calmly, "I know not what our lord suspects, Seckendorf: he mentioned no charge against me to myself; but doubtless, whatever it is, it springs from the malice of Martin of Dillberg, who is right well aware that when this affair of the plunder of the Italian merchants is inquired into, his treason to his lord will be apparent."
"Ay, ay; is it so?" cried Seckendorf. "I saw him stop the Count and speak with him just now. What! I suppose he has been dealing with the Baron, and was to have shared the booty?"
"Something like it, I believe," answered Ferdinand; "but as the Baron is here, he can prove the truth of what he told me."
"So then the tale came from him," said Seckendorf; "I fear it is not to be trusted."
"It was spoken in the presence of many of his people and of some of ours," answered Ferdinand. "However, it is my duty to repeat what he told me; and if he has not had some communication with Martin of Dillberg, I see not how his tongue could be so glibe with his name, as the youth has but lately returned with Count Frederick from the East."
"Right, right," answered Seckendorf; "thou art as shrewd as a blood-hound, Ferdinand. Doubtless the lad is afraid of thy tale, and has brought some charge against thee to cover his own treachery."
"It may be so,--it may not," answered Ferdinand. "However, Mosbach must obey our lord's behest, so I will even take myself to the battlements, which are within the limits you have mentioned."
Thus saying, he turned away, and walked up to the wall, gazing anxiously towards Father George's cell, yet taking care to pace up and down with as unconcerned an air as possible, that no eye watching him from the main building or its manifold towers might see the anxious expectation of his heart, or judge in what direction his thoughts turned. It were vain to deny that he revolved, with eager rapid emotions, all the circumstances of his fate, and strove to discover some cause of hope; some clue to escape from the dangers that menaced him on every side. At one time it seemed impossible that anything but the most fatal result could ensue. He knew the Count too well to think that he would be merciful--he knew the customs, if not the laws, of the land too well, not to feel certain that his death would be deemed only a reasonable atonement for the deed he had ventured to do. But then, again, he asked himself, would the good priest who had been as a father to him from his infancy, sanction, counsel, aid him in an enterprise so perilous to all concerned in it, unless he had the most positive assurance that he could guide the course he had pointed out to a happy termination, and shield those from peril who, in following the dictates of their own inclination, had also followed his advice and exhortation. But still apprehension predominated; and though, at each turn he took, his eyes were directed to the little chapel in the wood, his hopes were destined to be disappointed. The door of the priest's cell he could not see, but he caught several glimpses of the road, and the second time he reached the point where he had the best view, he saw a female figure--which he instantly concluded to be that of Bertha--approach the chapel, and disappear behind the angle of the building. It scarcely was obscured a moment ere it reappeared again, and then was lost in the wood, "She has not found him," said Ferdinand to himself; "he is absent--was ever anything so unfortunate?" and he turned again upon the battlements lost in thought.
In the mean while, the Count of Ehrenstein had followed close upon the steps of those who led the Baron of Eppenfeld to the place of his imprisonment; and the door was not yet fully bolted and barred when he caused it to be opened again, and entered, directing the three soldiers who had conveyed the captive thither to wait at the foot of the stairs till he came out. Then, closing the door behind him, he confronted the prisoner with a stern brow, and teeth close shut. The Baron gave him back look for look; and a smile, slight but sarcastic, curled his lip.
"Well, Baron of Eppenfeld," said the Count; and then paused.
"Well, Count of Ehrenstein," replied the Baron; and he also stopped in the midst, for the other to go on.
"You sent me a message, last night," said the Count; "and you were fool enough, in your drunken sleepiness, not to take advantage of the opportunity given you, and to suffer the hot-headed Count of Leiningen to blow your gates open, when you might have escaped two hours before."
"Very unlucky for you, Count," replied the Baron of Eppenfeld, in a tone of provoking coolness. "You should have sent me some answer to my message, and then I should have known how to act."
"I could not; I had no time; I had no opportunity," answered the Count of Ehrenstein. "All I could do, after I received that message, was to withdraw my men to the east, and leave you room to escape with all your treasure."
"But why answered you not the first," asked the Baron; "the message that I sent you by young Ferdinand of Altenburg?--I thought better of it after a time, it is true, and judged that a short repose in Eppenfeld would do him good; but when he got out, he must have told you what I said, which was just the same thing; and instead of a friendly reply or friendly comment, your first act was to march against me."
"And you told Ferdinand of Altenburg?" said the Count, with a moody look. "Pray, what was it you told him?"
"The same, as near as may be," answered the Baron, "that I told the other."
"The other is dead," replied the Count; "and Ferdinand of Altenburg is in peril. You shall judge, by the way in which I treat him, how I deal with those who possess perilous secrets."
Thus saying, he opened the door, called one of the soldiers from the bottom of the stairs, and, when he reached the room, bade him hasten to Karl von Mosbach, and direct him to arrest Ferdinand of Altenburg, and place him in confinement in the dark cell below the lesser hall. "Now, Baron," he said, as soon as the man was gone, "What think you, now?"
"That you are a hard-hearted villain," answered the Baron, "and ten times worse than myself, bad as men call me. The youth served you well and boldly; he risked his life, I can tell you, to do your bidding, and this is the way you repay him. But I don't believe it; you will not injure him for any words he has heard from me."
"If I live till noon to-morrow," answered the Count, in a cold, deliberate tone, "he shall lose his head by the axe, upon those battlements."
"Then, there will be rare chopping," answered the Baron, with a laugh; "for eight or nine of your men heard the message I sent--the words were addressed to him, but they were spoken in the hearing of many."
"This is no jesting matter, Baron," said the Count; "let me tell you that your own life or death is the question. I shall give this youth time to prepare, for he is my own sworn follower, and no one can see or tamper with him. But your case is different; and all the time I can allow you is one hour, for the questions between us must be despatched before the return of those who are now destroying the wolf's den."
Even this stern announcement seemed to have but a small effect upon the captive. "All which that shows," he answered, with a shrug of the shoulders, "is, that you take little time to deliberate upon murdering a prisoner. You cannot frighten me, Count of Ehrenstein! I have confronted death many a time a month, during twenty years or more; and if in all this talking you have some object in view, you had better speak it plainly at once, and not strive to reach it by threats."
"Should I not be a fool to trust you living," asked the Count, "when you can use such threats to me?"
"Oh, dear! no," answered his prisoner; "whatever I have done, I have never broken an oath in my life; and I am quite ready to relieve you from all fears, upon certain conditions."
"Ha!" said the Count, "what may they be?"
"First, that you will give me the means of escape," answered the Baron.
"At the present moment that is impossible," replied the Count; "but to-night it may be done. What more?"
"Secondly, I must have some small sum of gold to get me together a band in some distant country. If I were to go wandering about here without my stone walls around me, I should soon be caught, and I have no mind to find myself embroiled with the Imperial Court. I will be content with a small amount; and the third condition is, that you deal not harshly with that youth Ferdinand. On my life! I believe he neither knows nor suspects anything from what I said. He seemed not to heed it, as if he thought you to be too honest a man to do aught that was wrong. He paid much more attention to what I said concerning Count Frederick, and Martin of Dillberg--he marked that right well."
"Ay, and what was that?" asked the Count.
"Why, I told him how that same Martin came to me, and, upon promise of a share of the booty, warned me of the passage of those Italian merchants. Faith! they came sooner than he expected; for he said, some three weeks hence. But I kept a sharp watch, for fear of accidents, and an unlucky watch it has turned out: for Count Frederick has got all the money, and the castle to boot."
The Count mused for a few moments, with his arms crossed upon his chest, and then replied, "Well, we shall see. Leave the youth to me; I promise that he shall suffer nothing on your account. The money you shall have, and freedom too, if you can give me such a pledge as I can depend upon."
"I can give you nought else than my oath, Sir Count," answered the Baron, stoutly, "You have taken all else from me. The pig has nothing but the pig's skin."
"Well, you shall swear," answered the other; "but yet I would fain have some other bond than air."
"Give me your dagger," said the Baron. "I will swear on the cross thereof."
But the Count of Ehrenstein was too wary to trust a weapon in the hand of a foe. "No," he said, "I will have you swear on a holy relic I have in the chapel, and by the mass.--But you can write, I think?"
"I can make something which they tell me is my name," answered the Baron of Eppenfeld, who, like an eager chapman, grew in impatience to possess the object of his desire, as he who could grant it seemed to hesitate.
"Well then, you shall sign a paper stating that all the aspersions of my name which, in the heat of passion, you uttered to my retainer, Ferdinand of Altenburg, are false and groundless," said the Count; "that will satisfy me."
"How shall I know what the paper is?" asked the Baron; but immediately afterwards he added, "Well, well, it matters not. You swear that I shall have my liberty, and I will sign."
"I swear it," answered the Count, kissing the cross of his dagger. "Wait, and I will write the paper, which shall be read to you word by word."
"I must needs wait when I cannot get away," replied the prisoner; and when the Count had quitted the chamber, he murmured, "Accursed dog! I will be a match for thee still."