We must now return to other personages in the castle of Ehrenstein; for the ways of life are like the roads through a country, where, though many of them may be close together, events of great importance may be passing on each, totally unknown to those who are travelling along the others, although very probably they may be deeply interested in the occurrences which are taking place so near at hand.
In gay and gallant array, with arms gleaming and trumpets sounding, but at a much quicker pace than he had employed on his first visit to the castle, Count Frederick of Leiningen swept up towards the drawbridge, after having seen the stronghold of the Baron of Eppenfeld irreparably destroyed. His face was somewhat graver than it had been on the former occasion, and his followers remarked that he mused more than was his wont. No one was by his side but his jester, and with him he conversed from time to time; but their conversation seemed to those who watched them, much more sad and serious than might be expected in a brave soldier who had just added new laurels to his wreath, when talking with so merry a companion. Behind them same several of the Count's knights and attendants, and with them Martin of Dillberg, who had encountered them by the way, and, after speaking a few words with his lord, had ridden on to take his usual place in the train. The young man did not seem at all at his ease, however, though nothing of any very great moment had occurred, since his meeting with the Count, to bring gloom upon his brow. His lord had heard what he had to say without comment. He had neither smiled nor frowned upon him, but simply told him to go and take his station. His companions in the train had said little beyond what might give him an account of the fall of Eppenfeld in answer to his questions. But there are slight signs of manner more strongly indicative of the thoughts within than even spoken words; and there was a dryness in the answers of the soldiery, a keeping aloof from him, a want of free communication, which instantly struck Martin of Dillberg as symptoms by no means pleasant. What conclusions he drew thence does not much signify to inquire; but after he had ridden along with the rest for about half a mile, he reined in his horse, and was turning it towards the rear, when one of the old knights exclaimed, "Holla, youth; keep your place. Whither away so fast?"
"I was but going to have a look at the prisoners," said Martin of Dillberg.
"There are no prisoners," answered the old knight. "They were all sent on with the Count of Ehrenstein; so keep your rank."
Martin of Dillberg was well aware that he was no great favourite amongst his lord's retainers; but there was something marked about their demeanour towards him, on the present occasion, which made him feel that uneasiness which a guilty heart always experiences at the prospect of discovery. He saw, too, that there were keen eyes upon him, and consequently that there was no chance of escape; and thus he was forced to ride on till they reached the gates of Ehrenstein, meditating, with a quick and subtle wit, the plan of his future conduct.
The drawbridge was down; and old Karl von Mosbach, with a number of men-at-arms, ready to receive Count Frederick, stood under the gateway. But the Count of Ehrenstein was not himself present; and his noble guest had dismounted from his horse, and given some orders to his attendants, before the lord of the castle appeared. He apologised in courteous terms, but with a somewhat absent air, on the plea of having been engaged in important business; and his eye, while he was speaking, ran over the followers of his friend, till it rested upon Martin of Dillberg. Just as it did so, one of the soldiers of Count Frederick took the youth by the arm, and whispered something in his ear, which instantly made his face turn deadly pale. "What have I done?" he said, aloud; looking to the Count of Ehrenstein. "I have but given true and just information against a false traitor."
"Nay, my lord," said the Count, addressing his friend; "this good youth has rendered me a service, I pray you, deal not harshly with him."
"He shall be dealt with, noble lord, according to his merits," replied Count Frederick, laying his hand familiarly and good-humouredly upon the other's shoulder, but not in the least betraying any wavering or want of firmness in his tone. "Take him away; and do as I have ordered. We will discuss his affairs more at leisure."
"What a sweet thing it is," said the jester, "to hear the lamb interceding for the wolf; the dove pleading for the kite. One would think that the Lord of Ehrenstein had no value for golden ducats, that he would deal so tenderly with him who well nigh prevented them from reaching his hands; but tender-heartedness is the virtue of great men of all classes; and Heaven, which made me a great fool, made me tender-hearted also. Faith! I could weep to think of so pretty a lad being whipped for just teaching other boys to steal the apples which he had not wit or strength to steal himself."
"What means he, my good lord?" asked the Count of Ehrenstein, turning from the jester to Count Frederick.
"Now, Heaven save me from being a man of wit and letters!" cried the jester; "they have ever so many meanings in their own heads, that they can never tell what another man means."
"He would say, Ehrenstein," answered Count Frederick, "that over that youth, whom they are now leading away, hangs the heaviest of charges; the last of many that have been brought against him. He has had full warning thrice before, and thrice has he had forgiveness. Now he shall have fair hearing, and speedy justice. But, for the present, let us speak of gayer things. We will sit and hear his cause some quiet hour this evening. Eppenfeld will hold no more plunderers. The great tower is down; the walls blasted and riven; and if any wolves henceforth inhabit it, they must walk on four legs, and wear hairy coats. How goes it with your fair daughter? Faith! her summer smile has well nigh warmed my wintry heart into a flame."
"She is ill," replied the Count, abstractedly; and then, after a pause of silent thought, he murmured to himself, "There may be malice in the telling, yet truth in the tale; but what need I more? She has confessed it herself."
"Come, come, my noble friend," said Count Frederick, "do not grieve or be apprehensive; this is some light illness of your fair daughter's; it will soon pass away."
"I fear not," answered the Count. "But come, we will to the hall, and after supper we will have discussion of other things; for I, too, have a cause to try, and a prisoner to judge; and, if I comprehend the words of our friend here rightly, one axe may serve for two."
These were grave and somewhat bitter words; and, in our days of softness and refinement, we cannot well comprehend how such sanguinary thoughts as they expressed could mingle with revelry and merriment; but in those times the case was very different; and if men had suffered themselves to be made sad by dark and cruel purposes, there would have been few cheerful hours in life. We must remember that bloodshed formed a part of their sports. War was not only a profession, but an amusement. The sight of violent death, the habit of encountering it themselves, and the little security that existed against its occurrence at any moment, hardened them to inflict it lightly upon others; and the Count of Ehrenstein strove to throw off the gloom which anger and a thirst for vengeance, rather than awe at his own sanguinary intentions, had brought upon him, and resumed a gay and cheerful air, as he led Count Frederick to the lesser hall. He spoke of supping speedily, and was giving orders to that effect; but his guest exclaimed, "Nay, though I be hungry enough, in sooth, I must first wash this gunpowder from my face and hands. I have a letter, too, that I would fain write; so that, if it will not spoil your meal, I would deny my hungry stomach for a couple of hours."
It was arranged according to his wish; and, retiring to his apartments, he remained there, less, it would seem, in writing than in conversation. The jester and one of his knights accompanied him. His chaplain was sent for, and then two more of his retainers; and though at the close of the time he had stated, a messenger with a sealed packet was sent off to Hardenberg, yet, sooth to say, the words that the letter contained were but few.
Not long after, he joined his entertainer in the hall, and found him walking up and down between Mosbach and Seckendorf. The latter seemed not well pleased with what was passing; and, as the door opened for Count Frederick, and the old knight saw that his further conversation with his lord would soon be interrupted, he replied hastily to something which had gone before, "Well my lord, well, it is very true what you say; but if you would take my advice, you would wait, and get cool. You may think better of it yet. He is brave and stout-hearted, cool and skilful, and will make as good a man-at-arms as ever lived. He is noble, too; and, with God's blessing and good luck, there is no telling what he may reach to."
"He has reached too high already," answered the Count, gloomily. "We will make his arm shorter;" and he turned to welcome his guest to the hall.
The meal passed in the usual course; and though hungry men will be silent till the first keen edge of appetite is taken off, yet, when sad havoc had been made amongst the huge joints of meat, the capons, the geese, the ducks, which loaded the table, laughter and merriment soon began to spread around; the wine-cup circulated freely; the wine was good, and every one seemed to vie with his fellow in doing justice to it.
"Drink fast, drink fast," said the jester to an old knight who sat near, for the sport is yet to come. "My good lords, I pray you tell me," he continued, "what is the use of taking young men's heads off?"
"To prevent them doing mischief with them, Herr von Narren," answered Count Frederick.
"A bad reason, uncle, a bad reason," answered the jester, "as I will show you upon three propositions. First, because it is not true, as you never think of taking their heads off till the mischief is done; next, because, if you always used that precaution, you would not be able to execute it, as, if all the young men's heads were taken off, there would be no old ones to take them off; next, because it defeats its own object, as, if you take their heads off, they are sure to fall into corruption, and to fall into corruption, the church tells us, is a grievous sin. Marry! we should have fine shaving of our shoulders if the practice was generally carried out. I doubt me much, if it had begun earlier, that most of those sitting here would be nine inches shorter, and much less mischief would have been done in the world. I can understand right well the taking of a cork out of a flask of wine, or the head off a barrel of pickled herrings; but why men should chop off the top story of the soul's house, as the cook does the root of a turnip, I could never divine. Marry! it puzzles me, and I have never yet heard the problem explained."
"Faith! jester," said the Count of Ehrenstein, "it is not in every barrel of pickled herrings that one finds such a fish as thou art."
"Truly not," answered the other; "many things in life come from places whence they are least expected."
His words seemed to throw the Count into deep thought; but the jester, who seemed, after the manner of his class, to have cast a random bolt which had hit hard without his knowing or intending it, rambled on to other subjects, jesting rather sharply with old Seckendorf, who seemed in no humour to be pleased with merriment. In the mean time, Count Frederick addressed some words to his host, which roused the other from his reverie, and they spoke together for several minutes in low tones, till at length the rising of the Count of Ehrenstein gave notice that the banquet was over. The boards were speedily cleared, the tables carried away, and while some sauntered forth to walk upon the battlements, or in the court-yards, in the fresh night air, others were preparing themselves for the usual pastimes of the castle hall. As soon, however, as all vestiges of the meal had been removed, the voice of the Count of Ehrenstein was heard, saying aloud, "Let all men, but knights, leave the hall. This good lord and I have business of moment to transact."
"And jesters, I suppose you mean, noble lords; for they are well fitted to take part in solemn business of high import. What is finer food for them than to see grave men doing foolish things?"
"No, my good friend," answered the Count sternly; "your company is very pleasant, but just now your absence will be pleasanter than your presence." The jester laughed, whispered what seemed a jest to Count Frederick, and left the hall with the rest. While they were trooping out, the Count of Ehrenstein spoke something quickly to his friend, who answered immediately, "No, no, the other case first. See upon whose evidence the charge rests before you judge him."
"I need no evidence but what I have," replied the Count; "but be it as you will, Leiningen."
Count Frederick nodded; and looking round the hall, in which six gentlemen, bearing knightly rank, were left, besides Mosbach and Seckendorf, and the two lords, he raised his voice, and addressed one of his followers, saying, "Tell them to bring Martin of Dillberg before us, and gather those men together whose names I gave you."
The knights hastened to obey, the two noblemen seated themselves at the higher end of the hall, the others ranged themselves around, and all waited in gloomy silence for the events that were to follow.
With a pale countenance and feeble limbs, Martin of Dillberg was brought into the presence of the two lords. Imprisonment, even for the short period which he had endured it, had taken from him all the bold confidence which he usually displayed, and which had served not a little, on many occasions, to deliver him from difficult and dangerous circumstances, into which a perverse heart and a subtle and unscrupulous mind had led him. No sooner did he appear, than a dark and terrible change came over the face of Count Frederick of Leiningen. His frank, open, and cheerful countenance had become grave some minutes before; but now a heavy frown gathered on his brow, and a stern, indignant quivering of the upper lip seemed to show that it was with difficulty he refrained from heaping reproaches on the youth's head, rather than treating him as a prisoner before his judge. The young man's courage, already low, sank still farther when he saw the expression of his lord's face, and he turned an eager and imploring look to the Count of Ehrenstein, but found no comfort there.
"Martin of Dillberg, stand forward," said Count Frederick, in a loud tone, "and answer for yourself before the witnesses against you enter. Did you, or did you not, linger behind at Saarbrück, on the pretence that your horse had fallen with you, and injured you severely?"
"And so he did, my noble lord," said the youth, taking a step forward, with his heart somewhat lightened by the first question. "You yourself saw that he fell, and hurt me."
"That he fell, I saw," answered the Count; "that he hurt you, depended only upon your own testimony. But answer again, Whence went you from Saarbrück?"
"To Zweibrücken," answered Martin of Dillberg.
"At what hour did you set out?" demanded his lord.
"Early in the morning, my lord, the day after you went," replied the young man; "and I reached Zweibrücken towards evening."
"A long journey for a hurt man," said Count Frederick. "But let that pass. I must have been in Zweibrücken when you were there; why did you not join me?"
"I knew not of your being there, noble lord," replied the youth. "I lodged at the first little inn I found; and I have heard since you were at the abbey."
"Good," answered the Count. "Whence did you go from Zweibrücken?"
The young man paused and hesitated, but at length he answered, "To Anweiler, my lord."
"In one day?" asked Count Frederick,--"a longer journey still."
"I was stronger that day, Sir," answered Martin of Dillberg; "and bore it well enough."
"Doubtless," said Count Frederick, drily; "but why was it you went to Anweiler at all, leaving the straight road hither?"
"Because I was alone, my lord," answered the youth; "and knew not the way over the hills. They told me, too, that it was dangerous, and I thought the high road less so."
"Then, when left you Anweiler?" inquired Count Frederick. "On the following morning early," was the reply.
"Then, had you made as much speed as before," replied his lord, "you must have reached Ehrenstein before me, for I passed nearly two days at Zweibrücken."
"My horse cast a shoe," said Martin of Dillberg, with a varying countenance; but then a light seemed suddenly to come over it, and he added, "and I lost my way amongst the hills, and could not find it for some time, so that I was obliged to return to Anweiler."
"Where you passed a second night," said Count Frederick. "An excellently well told tale, but it will not serve your purpose, youth. Bring in the witnesses.--First, the good host from Anweiler."
Martin of Dillberg's countenance fell; and a great, burly, grey-haired man was brought in, and placed by his side.
"Now, mine host," said Count Frederick, "repeat what you told me about this good youth, the questions that he asked you, and the way that he took."
"Why, my good lords and noble gentlemen," replied the innkeeper, after looking a moment at Martin of Dillberg, as if to identify him, "there was no great harm in what he said, or in what I said, either. We were talking that night, when he first arrived, over a bottle of good Zeller wine, about the state of the country round, and I said, we should do very well, and be happy enough, and be well contented, for we had a number of good lords round who were kind to us, if it were not for that devil of a Baron of Eppenfeld, who robbed and pillaged wherever he thought fit, and plundered all the merchants that travelled our roads without a safe conduct from him; and then he said,--that is to say, the youth here,--that he should like to see this Baron of Eppenfeld much. I told him he had better not, for he might get himself skinned alive; but he only laughed, and asked the way to the castle--that's Eppenfeld, I mean."
"That was, that I might keep out of the way of the Baron," exclaimed Martin of Dillberg.
"May be," said the host; "but the next morning, before I went away, I left my woman to take the reckoning, and ambled off upon my ass to see how the vines were looking on the hill; and as I was going along the little path amongst the vineyards, just above the road, you know, where you look to Creuzberg, who should I see trotting along below me, at a quick pace, but this good youth here. I don't mean to say he was doing any harm; I know nothing about that; but I know he turned off the road, up the valley towards Eppenfeld. We call it Hell's Mouth, for few go in there that come back again; and if they do, it's in the form of devils."
"It was there I lost my way," cried Martin of Dillberg.
"As to that, I know nothing," said the host; "but you came back that night, and slept at my house, and you were not near so chatty as the night before."
"Enough, enough," said Count Frederick; "we have traced him on the road to Eppenfeld; we shall soon find him at the castle gates, and hear what he did there."
Martin of Dillberg's two hands clasped together, straining tightly upon each other, but he said nothing; and his lord, whose eye was fixed upon him, at length, demanded, "Now, youth, will you confess your crime?"
"I have committed none," said the young man, sullenly.
"Bring in the man we took in the watch-tower," said Count Frederick; and looking to the host, he added, "you may go for the present."
A man was instantly brought in, of a fierce and sullen countenance, who gazed round him as if in some alarm; but Count Frederick soon calmed the sort of savage fear he seemed to feel, saying, "Do not be afraid, no harm is intended you. Now answer truly, did you ever see that youth before?"
"To be sure, I have," answered the man; "I opened the gates for him, some days ago, at Eppenfeld."
"But did not! come to ask the way?" exclaimed Martin of Dillberg. "I adjure you, tell the truth. It can do you no good to ruin me--did I not ask the way?"
"You asked the way to my lord's presence," answered the man gruffly; "that's all you asked; and I showed it to you, as I always did single travellers; for he knew best how to deal with them;" and the man ended with a laugh.
"It is malice," said Martin of Dillberg; "it is malice."
"We shall soon see where the malice lay," said Count Frederick. "My good lord of Ehrenstein, there were men of yours who were present with the youth, your squire, Ferdinand of Altenburg, who heard the message which the Baron of Eppenfeld sent me back. They were freed from the dungeon into which they were thrust, and I pray you let them be called to bear witness of the Baron's words."
The face of the Count of Ehrenstein seemed somewhat discomposed; but a moment's thought reassured him. "Were it not better," he said, "to bring down the Baron himself, as he is in the castle; he sent a rash message to me also, which he has since formally retracted in writing. Perhaps It may be the same in this case."
Martin of Dillberg looked up with hope; but Count Frederick answered, "No, my good friend, the Baron is my prisoner, and may be supposed to act under my influence. Let Ferdinand of Altenburg be called, if you will, he will speak the truth, and though it seems he is in disfavour with yourself; yet that cannot affect this question."
"He is my enemy," exclaimed Martin of Dillberg. "He will say aught he can to injure me."
"We will see if what he says accords with the evidence of others," answered the Count of Leiningen. "He has had no means of knowing what others say; I pray you have him brought, my lord. But, first, I would have those men examined who were with him, touching the reply the Baron sent to me."
The Count of Ehrenstein had been meditating somewhat deeply; but he saw that if there were danger of suspicions being excited against him by anything that Ferdinand might say, it was a danger that must be encountered sooner or later, and that the recantation of the charge which had been made by the Baron of Eppenfeld was his best security. He would fain have avoided the risk, however, and a knowledge of Ferdinand's character taught him to believe, that whatever peril he might stand in himself, he would confine his replies entirely to the questions addressed to him, which might not be the case with the common soldiers. "Let Ferdinand of Altenburg be brought hither, Mosbach," he said. "His evidence will be sufficient for that link in the chain. But, my good lord, if we are to decide this cause, we must have better proof than what the Baron of Eppenfeld said in a moment of rage. That is quite valueless; he accused me, he accused you, he brought charges against every one; but you have testimony at hand which can be rendered available. I found you in the castle hall, after the fall of Eppenfeld, putting questions to a man, named Fritz of Sambach, I believe, who, I have been told, acted as this great marauder's lieutenant. He brought the charge you are aiming to make good against one of your train, though he could not tell his name. He is here in a chamber hard by, let him be brought in, and see if he identifies the prisoner; and, lest any one should suspect that he is influenced by his captivity, give him his liberty before he speaks; there can be no great object in detaining him, and we cannot be too careful that every point be proved, in a case of this kind."
"So be it," answered Count Frederick. "Let him be brought in, if he is well enough."
"Oh, he can come," answered Seckendorf; "I saw him drink a stoup of wine, an hour or two ago, which would hold any three flasks in the cellar. I will bring him in a minute; but let the youth be seated amongst the rest, that he may have fair play."
"True, true," answered Count Frederick; "thank you, good knight, for that honest thought.--Sit there, Martin of Dillberg. This time you shall have plain justice to the full in every way. See that the guilt on your countenance does not testify too plainly against you."
The young man seated himself as he was told, and in a few minutes Fritz of Sambach was supported into the room by two stout soldiers of the Count of Ehrenstein.
"Well, lords, what is it you want?" said the plunderer, in his usual ready tone. "Here I am, for you to do what you like with me."
"First," said the Lord of Ehrenstein, "we have sent to announce to you that you are free; there is no use of keeping the minor offenders when their chief is in our hands."
"Well, that's civil enough," answered Fritz; "but as you have taken all I had in the world, and scarified my skin pretty handsomely, I trust that, before you send me away, you will cure my wound, fill my belly, and give me a broad piece or two in my purse."
"Nay, nay," said Count Frederick; "your wounds shall be cured, you shall have food enough, too; but as for broad pieces you must get them where you can; you will have none here. And now, being a free man, I have one more question to ask you. You said, before many witnesses, that you got the tidings which led you to plunder the Italian merchants, from one of my people. It was a serious charge, and should not have been advanced lightly."
"Lightly!" cried Fritz; "I said it quite seriously; and it is as true as that I stand here. He came and told the Baron all about their route, and said they had great store of gold with them. He drove his own bargain, too, and then he went and betrayed us, I suspect. But I can tell him, if ever I get well of these cursed wounds, I will cut his throat for him; though he does sit there amongst knights and nobles, as if he had no hand in the affair for which we have all suffered."
"Then do you see him present?" demanded Count Frederick. "If so, advance and touch him."
The man walked somewhat feebly forward, and laid his hand heavily on Martin of Dillberg's shoulder, saying, at the same time, "Here he sits. Ay, do not finger your dagger; I have strength enough left to strangle twenty such as you."
"Enough," said Count Frederick, "enough. Let him go free, have his wounds tended, and when they are better, let him pass the castle gates at his will. Now, Martin of Dillberg, convicted traitor, stand forth again. My good lord Count, and noble knights here present, you have heard the evidence,--is any more required? Is this young man guilty of base treason to his lord, of the blood that has been shed in this affair, and of taking an active part in the plundering of honest merchants, travelling hither upon the warrant of our safe conduct? Pronounce if he guilty or not, and name the punishment which according to our customs and laws, is awarded to such deeds."
"He is Guilty," said the Count of Ehrenstein; and each voice around repeated the word "Guilty."
"Death is the punishment," said old Seckendorf; "and well does he deserve it. By the cord, if he be a boor; by the axe, if he be noble." Each knight present pronounced the same judgment; and while the awful sounds of his condemnation rang in his ear, Martin of Dillberg stood silent and pale in the midst, with his eyes bent down upon the ground; but when a momentary silence followed, he raised his face, and gazed wildly at the Count of Ehrenstein, exclaiming, "Oh! my lord, will you not save me to prove--"
The Count turned from him, merely replying, "Traitor!" and then, springing forward, the wretched youth cast himself at Count Frederick's feet, crying, "Oh, my lord, my lord, spare me for my father's sake!"
"Thrice have I spared you for your father's sake," said Count Frederick, sternly; "and I will spare you no more. I trusted that mercy might win you to better things, and that kindness and confidence might render you true and honest, but I have discovered nought in you but malice, and falsehood, and treachery; and even for your father's memory it is well that you should die. You have heard your doom. Go hence, and prepare for death."
"Then I will do something worthy of it," cried the young man, starting up quickly, drawing his dagger from the sheath, and aiming a blow at Count Frederick's breast with the quickness of lightning. The Count, however, had time to turn it aside, receiving merely a slight wound in the arm; and the youth was immediately seized by two of the knights, and thrown back upon the pavement. His dagger was then wrenched from him, and he was dragged out of the hall, struggling fiercely with those who held him, just as Ferdinand of Altenburg was brought in from without.
The manner and appearance of Ferdinand of Altenburg afforded a striking and favourable contrast to those of Martin of Dillberg. There were traces of mental suffering indeed, on his face, and there was some anxiety in his eye, as it ran slowly round the circle of those present; but there was nothing like fear. There was no trembling apprehension; neither any appearance of stubbornness; but with an upright head, a straightforward look, and a firm though serious aspect, he confronted those who he knew were to be his judges, and him who was about to be his accuser. The Count of Ehrenstein fixed his eyes sternly upon him; but the young man's countenance did not fall; and his lord remained for some moments in silence, as if considering how he should proceed. At length, however, the Count addressed him directly saying, "Young man, do you confess your crime against your lord? To you I need not explain your fault. It is a high and grievous one, as you are right well aware; and as I know you fearless, and believe you to speak truth, I call upon you to answer, on your honour, whether you be Guilty or Not."
"My lord the Count," replied Ferdinand, "I know no cause why a man should be made to condemn himself; and, on the other hand, if I say that I am not guilty, my saying so will not be considered by you or any one as proof that I am innocent. That you have some charge against me, I know, from your having imprisoned me for some hours; but what that charge is, you have not told me; and it is but fair that I should hear it. Nay, more; it is but just that you yourself should prove my guilt, if I be guilty; that you should bring forward witnesses of any act in which I have offended; that you should confront them with me, me with them; ay, and let me bring forward witnesses, too, to prove my innocence after I am told my crime. I do not know much of the law and custom of the land; but I do know that this is justice."
"It is so," said Count Frederick, with a look of grave approbation.
But the Count of Ehrenstein replied at once, "I have power of executing justice in my own court, according to its customs; and I have but called this noble lord and these good knights to aid me with their counsel, that the law of the case may be sure. There are cases in which the relations of social life are invaded, and of which, to publish the whole facts to the wide world, would be doubling the injury inflicted. I hold high justice in my own lands; and in my own court will I judge you. But will merely put one simple question to these knights here present; it is this: If the sworn retainer of a baron of the land presumes, in secret and without lawful consent, to marry the daughter of his lord, what is the punishment our customary law awards for that offence?"
"My lord the Count," replied Ferdinand, "this, then, is the charge against me; founded, I suppose, on the testimony of the base youth who has just been taken hence; but as it seems you do not intend to try me now, as to whether I have been guilty of that offence or not, I will keep what I have to say on that score till another time, when I can call witnesses to prove what has been my conduct, and why. As to your question, however, I must say two words before it is answered. First, I am not your vassal, nor your serf, nor what is called your customary man. By birth, I am your peer, as I will prove when need be, and as you well know. Then, as to the only oath I ever took, it was to serve and defend you in your life and goods, at the peril of my head, and I have done so. There is no other oath between us."
"That statement makes a great difference, my good lord," said Count Frederick; "and you must amend your question, I think, unless you can claim this young gentlemanas your vassal, in which case you can only confiscate his fief; oras your customary manor serf, when his head is forfeit."
"I claim him as my customary man by oath, and by bread and wine," said the Count of Ehrenstein, "as the laws of the good king Louis stated; and by the same law it is provided that I shall execute justice upon him in my court, if I have right of high justice in my own lands. The question is, therefore, simply as I stated it,--What is the punishment our customs award to a sworn retainer who marries his lord's daughter without his consent?"
"Undoubtedly, death," replied Count Frederick; "but--"
"Take him away," exclaimed the Count of Ehrenstein, waving his hand to the two soldiers who stood by Ferdinand of Altenburg; and the young man was immediately removed from the hall.
"You must hear me, my good friend," said Count Frederick firmly; "by the words I have uttered, I mean not in any degree to give sentence in this case, or to pronounce upon it in any shape, and I am sure in thus saying all here will go with me. If the oath he took be such as he has stated, he is not your customary man, and you cannot touch his life. A thousand things may affect the question, of which we have no proof, even supposing that he has really done those things with which you seem to charge him. What has been said, therefore, is not by any means a sentence, but merely an answer to a question."
"That question answered," said the Count of Ehrenstein, with a bitter smile, "I will decide all the rest."
"Well," cried old Seckendorf, "I say with Count Frederick. I give no judgment in the matter. We all know--at least, we've all been told--that Ferdinand of Altenburg is of noble birth, and is even now looking up for knighthood. Doubtless, my lord might have married his daughter better; for the youth, I fancy, is as poor as any of us, but that does not make his offence so heinous. As to the law, I know little or nothing; but this I will say, that I do not think he has done anything worthy of death."
The Count of Ehrenstein merely nodded his head in grave but meaning silence; and then, turning to Count Frederick, without answering any of the observations which had been made, he led the conversation to other subjects, asking in a light way, whether he would like to visit his prisoner, the Baron of Eppenfeld, that night, or would wait till the following morning.
With a somewhat mortified air, his friend replied, that they had had sufficient of painful tasks for one evening, and turned away to speak to some of his own retainers, while the Count of Ehrenstein whispered a few words to old Karl von Mosbach.
The expression of the old ritter's face, however, was somewhat doubtful and hesitating. He had no great love for Ferdinand of Altenburg, nor indeed for any other young man; for he was one of those who, after having enjoyed selfishly and grossly the pleasures of youth, look back upon them when they have passed away, with that sort of covetous regret, which engenders jealousy of those who have succeeded to joys they can no longer taste, regarding them much as the rich miser regards his heir. He was a prudent and a cautious man, however; and while Seckendorf was disinclined to countenance his lord's vengeance, from better feelings and a more generous heart, Mosbach, without pity or remorse, was restrained by doubts and apprehensions. Whatever it was that the Count said to him, he replied, shrugging his shoulders, "Well, my good lord, you know best; but they are all against it, that's clear, and Count Frederick's a powerful prince, likely to have weight in the Imperial Court."
The Count smiled with his usual bitter expression, and then replied, in the same low tone to which their conversation had been restrained, saying, "I will give way to his vengeance on his follower, Mosbach; and in an hour after, he must give way to mine, for rightly viewed--though he sees it not--his case is no better than my own. But I tell you, Mosbach," he continued, grasping his arm, and shutting his teeth close, "this youth shall not escape me, if I live and rule in Ehrenstein for two days longer."
While this conversation had been taking place between those who were left in the hall, Ferdinand of Altenburg had been taken back to the place of his confinement, by the two soldiers into whose charge he had been given. They led him on civilly and kindly enough, for he was a universal favourite in the castle; and one of the men could not refrain from expressing his sorrow at the situation in which he was placed. "Ah! Herr Ferdinand," he said, "this is a bad business! Would to Heaven you had not been so rash! Love between a young gentleman and lady is all well enough--it's a thing that can't be helped, and is quite natural; but to marry her secretly was as mad a trick as ever I heard."
"It is not proved, my good friend, that I did," replied Ferdinand. "I have had no trial yet."
"Ay, ay, but our lord's trials are short enough, and soon over," answered the soldier. "You remember when he caught William Schæffer in sparing the goods of the fat boor by Simburg, because he was in love with his little daughter--was not he detected, tried, and hanged in less than an hour and a quarter? It's a bad business, I say. However, what we can do to comfort you we will, and will bring you some wine and meat, for you must want it, unless your friends the ghosts have fed you."
"I fear," answered Ferdinand, "they do not deal in such substantial things, my friend. So I shall be glad of any provision you can bring me. But do not you run any risks on my account. It is bad enough to be in such an evil plight one's self, without bringing one's friends into trouble.--But who is that standing at the door of the cell?"
One of the men, who held a lamp, raised it to throw the light farther, and at the same moment Count Frederick's jester came forward, exclaiming in his usual tone, "Ah! friend rat, have you come back so soon? I have been looking at your cage; it is wonderful what a number of rat-traps there are in this world, and what sweet baits the devil uses to lure men in--gold, and arms, and silk, and velvet, and pretty women. Good faith! your bait was one that might well tempt a young rat like you to nibble. I've seen a kingly crown before now in that same devil's trap, and a goodly bait it proved, for it caught three before it was carried off by a more cunning royal rat than the rest; but after all, woman, woman is the most killing bait, and the most common; for which reason our great enemy has strewed them about all over the earth, as men scatter poison to destroy vermin. Poor youth, poor youth!--to be trapped so early. I am sorry for your lack of wit."
"Faith! Herr von Narren," answered Ferdinand, "I have neither wit, will, nor spirit, at present to jest with you. I have to think of death, I fancy, and to prepare for it as best I may."
"Well, Heaven speed you!" said the jester; "and yet that's a sorry wish, too. I should rather say, Heaven delay you! as you are not very willing for the journey, I should think;" and as the young man passed him to enter the cell, he added in a low voice, "I will go and tell your friends the ghosts of your sad case; perhaps they may give you spiritual help."
These words, however, from the lips that spoke them, gave no comfort to Ferdinand of Altenburg, and entering his cell, he asked one of the soldiers to bring him any food that was to be allowed him as speedily as possible, and if he could obtain permission to let him have a light.
"You shall have both, Herr Ferdinand, without permission," answered the man. "I shall ask no questions about it; and as I have no orders, either one way or the other, they can but blame me for a mistake."
For about ten minutes, Ferdinand remained in darkness, after the soldiers left him; but at length his friend reappeared, bringing him a flask of wine, some meat, bread, and a lamp. "I must be quick," he said, as he set them down; "for they've all parted in the hall in bad humour, and old Mosbach is walking about like a she-wolf on a winter's night."
Before he touched the provisions, and as soon as the door was closed, Ferdinand took the lamp, and examined the chamber carefully, to see whence the voice he had heard could have proceeded. It was a large, low-roofed room, directly underneath the lower hall, and supported by two short, strong, stone pillars; but though he walked round every side, looking keenly for any break or flaw in the walls, he could find no doorway but that by which he had entered, no aperture but the loophole which gave it light by day. The voice had seemed, however, to come from the other side of the chamber, and there all was blank stone. Could he have deceived himself? he inquired. Could the strange sights and scenes he had lately witnessed have so far excited his imagination, that a wild fancy could assume all the signs of reality? "No, no," he thought, "that cannot be;" and seating himself on the bench, which served for table also, he drank a cupful of the wine, and ate a small portion of the food. As he did so, the same voice spoke again, saying, "Eat and drink heartily: you will need it."
"Who are you, and what are you?" exclaimed Ferdinand, starting up, and gazing forward towards the corner from which the sounds seemed to come. But at that moment some one tried the door, as if to ascertain that it was fastened securely; and then he could hear voices speaking without, in which he thought he recognised the tones of old Karl von Mosbach and the Count of Ehrenstein.
In about a quarter of an hour after Ferdinand of Altenburg had been removed from the hall, Count Frederick of Leiningen retired to his own chamber, and remained there in consultation with several of his retainers, for some time. The Count of Ehrenstein did not continue long in the hall after he was gone. None of the vassals or soldiery ventured to return to the chamber they had been told to quit some time before, and only Karl von Mosbach and old Seckendorf remained with their lord. Towards the latter, however, the Count showed all those signs of angry impatience which he was accustomed to display when any one ventured to cross him in his purposes: not, indeed, by words, for he spoke not to him; but by sidelong glances from under the heavy brow, and every now and then a curled and quivering lip, when his eye fell upon him. At length, after having walked once or twice up and down the hall, he said, "Come with me, Mosbach," and led the way towards the place of Ferdinand's confinement. He there shook the door, to see that it was secure, and then, turning to his companion, he said, "Ere noon to-morrow, Mosbach, he must die."
"It will be better, then, my good lord," replied Mosbach, "to do it quietly where he is, rather than to make a public execution of it."
"Perhaps it may," answered the Count; "and I shall look to you to have it done."
"I must have your order, my noble lord," said Mosbach; "your order under your own hand. Then it shall be done speedily, and no one need know but myself and those who do it, that he is not still living."
"Come to me in an hour," said the Count, "and we will consider how this order is to be given--Whether it were better to call a court of all the vassals, and judge him there, or by my right, as a high justicer--they would condemn him, surely.--Well, we will see;--yet there were times of old when good friends would to their lord a service, and rid him of an offender without such formalities, well knowing that he has the right, and secure not only of his protection, but of his favour and rewards.--Ay, those old times are passing away, I fear.--Well, come to me in an hour;" and wending his way up the staircase, and through the corridor, he proceeded past the apartment of Count Frederick of Leiningen to the small tower in which the Baron of Eppenfeld was confined. Without pausing to think, for his mind was already made up, and his plans arranged, he unlocked the door and went in.
"Thousand Schweren!" exclaimed the Baron; "you are keeping me here a long while, Herr Count. I hope you are not going to play me false. Why, it must be past midnight, and I have had no supper."
"Past midnight!" answered the Count, with a smile; "no, Baron, no; it is not yet eleven, and all the people of the castle are up and stirring. They must sleep sound first, before you can escape; but it is of that I came to speak. Count Frederick is fierce against you, on account of some message you sent him; and he vows he will not rest satisfied till he has you before the Imperial Chamber."
"Why, the dog!" exclaimed the Baron, laughing, "the message I sent was all true. I only told him one of his people had put me like a hound on the track of these merchants; and he did too--a brown-faced, smooth spoken youth, who told me his name was Martin of Dillberg--but that might be a lie. However, if you will keep your word, old Leiningen may fret about the Imperial Chamber, if he will. I shall be far enough before he can catch me--the Imperial Chamber, good lack! that would never do. But how is my flight to be effected? Have you arranged that?"
"It must be without my knowledge or connivance," answered the Count, drily.
The Baron gazed at him for a moment with renewed doubts; but then he answered with a laugh, "Oh, I understand--you are not to be seen in the matter, of course; but you can easily remove the men from the bottom of the stairs, and leave the door unlocked."
"Nothing of the kind, I can assure you," replied the Count. "Count Frederick's men have relieved mine from the guard, and the staircase is impassable."
The Baron swore a huge and heavy German oath, too long and ponderous for any English page, and then, with a bewildered look, asked how he was to get away.
There is a bitter pleasure in giving pain, at least in some men; and perhaps the Count would have prolonged his amusement, had he not been somewhat in haste. "There lies your only chance, Baron," he said, pointing to the window. "You are not too broad in the shoulders to get out."
"Why, you would have me break my neck!" exclaimed the captive; "it is full twenty feet down, and I fall heavy."
"Not if you have a rope to hold by, I suppose," was his companion's reply. "Now, mark me, my good friend, for I have not much time to spare:--an hour hence, if the castle be then quite quiet, you will find a strong rope let down from the window above,--it has borne one man's weight to-day, and may well bear yours. You have nought to do but fix it tightly to the bar, and then let yourself down. You will find no one on the battlement below; then take the traverse that leads direct to the outer wall, where, if you turn someway to the right, you will find steps that bring you to a little postern; the way thence is level, but narrow, till you reach the angle of the castle chapel. Avoid giddiness, or too much wine, for they are the only enemies you are likely to meet by the way. When you reach the chapel, take the first path down the hill, and there you will find a strong horse tied to a tree, with saddle and bridle. He is a gift, so you may freely take him. There is another gift, which use discreetly till you see better times," and as he spoke he laid down a purse upon the table, which seemed well loaded.
The Baron, with his usual greedy haste, clutched it almost ere it had quitted the Count's grasp, tossed it lightly up, and then caught it in his hand, "Ay, that chinks," he cried; "and as for the rest, I shall be ready at the hour. No fear of my brain turning giddy. I have been accustomed to walk on slippery places. Nevertheless, I should like some supper, for that is a very needful preparation to a long ride. Let me have some better wine, too, than that last; it was as thin and as sour as the juice of an unripe pippin. I don't believe the generous grape had any share in its composition."
"Well, you shall have supper, and good wine," answered the Count; "but be moderate in your meal, and think of the future, my good friend. And so this youth, Martin of Dillberg, came to you, and betrayed the good Italian merchants?"
"Ay, that he did," answered the Baron; "I should never have known aught about it, but for him. Let us not talk, however; time wears, and I am hungry. You shall find me grateful, Count, in the way that may best serve you."
"I reckon on it," said the Count of Ehrenstein; "and so good night, my friend."
Thus saying, he turned and left him, and gave orders at the foot of the stairs that a frugal supper, and one bottle of good wine should be taken to the captive.
As the Count was walking onward towards his own apartments, he was met by the chaplain of Count Frederick of Leiningen, who said, "They are seeking for you, my noble lord. Count Frederick wishes to see you before he retires to rest."
"I will go to him immediately," replied the Count; and with a slow and thoughtful step he sought Count Frederick's room. He found him surrounded by several of those who had been his companions in his expedition in aid of the Knights of St. John, and as soon as the Count of Ehrenstein appeared, his guest rose and advanced to meet him, saying, "Ehrenstein, my noble friend, I wish to make it as clear as possible, that we here present think no just cause has been shown for putting to death your young follower, Ferdinand of Altenburg; and without at all meddling with your right to judge your own people in your own court, which I respect as much as I would my own, I do beseech you not to proceed against him in any way without a fair and open trial; for I do think you may find cause to alter your views regarding him, and to pardon his offence."
"Would I could say the same," replied the Count, "in regard to your follower, Martin of Dillberg; but sorry I am to say that the charge against him is fully confirmed by our prisoner of Eppenfeld."
"He dies at dawn to-morrow," answered Count Frederick; "that is determined. But this case is very different, as you must see. That youth has been thrice pardoned for very grievous offences, and it is now clearly proved, to the satisfaction of every one, that he is a base, deceitful traitor."
"The cases are very different," answered the Count, in a thoughtful and placable tone. "Well, I will consider of what you say. I am not a harsh man, Heaven knows."
"Then, have I your word," asked Count Frederick, "that for this night, at least, he is quite safe?"
"Safety depends upon Heaven's will," answered the Count, with a smile; "but as for my neither saying nor doing aught that can injure him, he shall be safe, since you ask it; but, nevertheless, I beg you to remember, that this shall not prevent me from proceeding against him as I may think fit to-morrow, after I have considered, and spoken with you farther."
"That is all I could desire," answered Count Frederick. "Very many thanks, my friend, and peace be with you for the night."
No sooner had the Count retired, than Count Frederick turned towards the jester and the priest, who stood near, saying, "All is safe, then; and we may make our minds easy for this night."
"As safe as a chain of words can make it, uncle," answered the jester; "but I never yet did find that the padlock of a promise was not easily picked, even by the weakest straw of an excuse. Go to, uncle; you do not know the unreclaimed hawk you are dealing with. Dungeons are very safe places for transacting secret business, and I should not be very much disposed to trust a callow doveling to the paternal care of a vulture."
"What can be done, then?" asked Count Frederick, "I fear for the fate of both these poor things; and I have promised the lady, too, to befriend her, in case of need."
"As for the girl," replied the jester, "you have an easy task; send down to good Father George of Altenburg, and tell him what has happened; let him know that she is in danger and in durance, and as he has got her into the scrape, let him get her out. As for the youth, I'll tell you what can be done;" and bending down his head, he whispered a word or two in Count Frederick's ear.
"Do as you like, do as you like," exclaimed that Prince; after listening with an eager eye and a knitted brow. "I must have no share in that, my good friend; for I feel myself somewhat bound by the words we have lately spoken. I will do as you suggest, regarding the lady; and, moreover, will watch well. You must act in the other case, as seems best, without my knowledge."
"So be it," answered the jester, laughing and quitting the room; and Count Frederick immediately turned to one of the eldest of his knights, saying, "Speed away down to the priest's, Gierheim; tell him all the story; and say, not a moment is to be lost. Take care to pass the gates quietly, however, and bid the warder-watch to let you in without noise. Here is my signet, as a warrant to him, and you may add a gold crown besides."
The knight took the ring, and hurried away without reply; and the chaplain then addressed his lord, inquiring "What is to be done with this Baron of Eppenfeld, my noble lord? He little thought that I was aught but the chaplain of the Count of Ehrenstein, or he would not have told me all that had passed between them; and if, from any farther conversation, he finds out that he was mistaken, they may change their plans and foil you still."
"All that is provided for already," answered Count Frederick; "he will find his undertaking not so easy as he expects. We must force him to recognise these papers, however; though I should judge that your word would be sufficient."
Some further conversation followed on the same subject; but we must now turn to pursue the course of the nobleman who had quitted them a short time before.
As the Count of Ehrenstein turned away, after bidding his friend adieu, he murmured to himself, "Now, may good luck send that old Karl von Mosbach takes the hint I gave him; but whether he do or not, it shall make no difference. If Frederick of Leiningen holds his resolution, and puts his shrewd follower to death, the same axe shall serve for Ferdinand of Altenburg."
When he reached his chamber, however, he found old Karl von Mosbach waiting for the promised order, and dismissing him with disappointed petulance, the Count paused, and thought for several minutes, and then visited his daughter's chamber, as we have seen. The interview moved him more than he suffered to appear, though it did not shake his resolution; and when he returned to his own chamber, he dismissed the servants who were waiting, and sat down by the table to think. "What is it," he said to himself, "that makes me feel thus regarding this youth? What is it that has always made me feel so strangely? Loving and hating him at the same time, trusting and doubting him, relying upon him yet fearing him. It seems as if nature warned me to beware lest he should work me some great evil. He has done so, and he shall die; then he can do no more; but yet it is marvellous what a reluctance I have to shed his blood--and yet I seem to thirst for it. Am I growing weak and womanly, that my just purposes should thus shake me? It shall be so no more. He dies, and then there is an end of doubts. I will hie me to bed, and not think of it."
Undressing himself in haste, he extinguished the light, and cast himself upon his bed; but his head had scarcely pressed the pillow, when a voice repeated three times, "William of Ehrenstein!"
"What is it? Who calls?" cried the Count, starting up.
"One of the dead," answered the voice. "Know you not the tongue?"
"I do," replied the Count. "It is amongst the sounds of my boyhood. Why call you me?"
"I summon you to judgment," answered the voice. "As you judge, so shall you be judged. In the great hall of the castle, before my chair of state, under the banners of our fathers, in the presence of knights and holy men who shed their blood for the deliverance of Christ's sepulchre, I call you to your judgment. See that you be there, or sentence shall pass against you, which there is no power on the earth, or under the earth, to revoke. Make your peace with Heaven; for you have had your time, and it is passing away."
The large drops of perspiration rolled from the forehead of the Count, and grasping the side of the bed firmly with his hand, as if to give him strength, he asked, "Who shall intercede for me?"
"In Heaven, we have all an Intercessor," answered the voice; "on earth, intercession is vain. Appear at the judgment-seat as you are called, receive your doom, send for the priest, and prepare."
"Stay, stay, and hear me," cried the Count; but the voice made no answer, and though he spoke again more than once, all remained silent.
Tossing to and fro, the Count of Ehrenstein remained sleepless and agitated throughout the night; at one time he thought he would rise and obey the awful summons he had received, either alone or accompanied by all whom he could gather together, but then again his heart failed him, and the hour passed by without his regaining sufficient courage to dare the result. At length, much to his relief, the glimmering light of dawn began to shine through the window; and, rising, he roused his attendants, and gazed moodily from the casement for several minutes.
"Let two men go down to the chapel in the wood," he said, "and bring up the priest, Father George, instantly. He may be alarmed, so give him every assurance of safety; but bring him by force, if he do not come willingly. These monks," he continued, speaking to himself, as the men went to obey his mandate, "how they encroach upon all their neighbours! Here, not content with lording it over every one around, they must needs plant this chapel within the very lands of Ehrenstein, like an outpost thrown forward by an invading army into an enemy's territory. What fools our ancestors must have been to suffer such things! It is prescription makes them strong--ay, and our own weak hearts.--Judgment! Could it be a dream? How often slumber will cheat us with visions so like reality, that even when they are past, we know not whether they be true or false--and yet I have not slept since."
"My lord, one of the pages of Count Frederick has brought this note," said a servant entering. The Count took it, cut the silk, and read; then calling the boy in, he said, "Be it where Count Frederick pleases; bid him use this castle as if it were his own. Why, boy, how white thy cheek looks. Remember, none need fear but those who betray their lord. So go and give my message to your master.--Ferdinand of Altenburg," he continued, murmuring to himself, "your hour is coming!"