Had the Count of Ehrenstein and old Karl von Mosbach spoken loud and distinctly when they visited the door of Ferdinand's prison, the captive must have heard the pleasant arrangements making for his transmission to another world; for although the door was stout and thick, so as to be itself impervious to any sound, yet the pavement had sunk away from it, or it had shrunk from the pavement, leaving a vacancy of at least two fingers-breadths. But the nature of their conversation was such as to subdue the voice, even though they thought that no one could overhear them, and all that caught Ferdinand's ear was the indistinct murmur of tones which were well known to him. They soon ceased, however, and he heard the sound of slowly retreating steps. After a pause, to insure that they were gone, he raised his voice, and inquired, "Is any friend near?" No reply was made, and though he repeated the question, all remained silent. "Well," he said to himself, "if any one comes to my deliverance, he will doubtless come at the right time; so I will even follow the counsel given, and eat and drink heartily."
The food, the wine and the hopes that had been given him, revived the spirits of the young captive, and his meditations, instead of being continued upon death, and the loss of all he loved and valued, were carried vaguely over a thousand circumstances connected with his situation; the strange events that so frequently interrupted the ordinary course of proceedings in the castle, the special care which seemed so mysteriously taken of himself, and the question of how and when it was all to end. Adelaide, too,--he thought of Adelaide often and deeply; and thrilling, painful apprehensions for her frequently crossed his mind; for though he felt sure that her father's anger would not fall so heavily upon her as upon him, yet he well knew that she would not be suffered to escape without some severity, and he thought that she was less able to bear it than he was. How would she act? he asked himself--what would she say when questioned? But these ideas raised up others, and they again mingled themselves with fresh associations; Adelaide's conduct in the past puzzled him even more than the question of what might be her conduct in the present or the future. What was it, he asked himself, which had caused so great and sudden a change in her demeanour, which had rendered her--so timid and apprehensive in the first dawning of their love--in a moment willing, eager, anxious to unite her fate with his, although no objection seemed removed, no danger lessened. It seemed very strange; and, connected with the sights he had seen, and the words he had heard from beings whose nature and properties were all a matter of doubt and mystery, it led to still deeper thoughts and inquiries--why should spirits thus be suffered to revisit the earth where their mortal career was terminated?--Or rather, was it not very natural, that if judgment did not immediately follow dissolution, and the souls of the dead were not instantly transferred to endless joy or endless sorrow, they should be allowed to haunt the scenes in which the sins of earth had been perpetrated by the wicked, or the virtues of the good had been exercised, and to witness, mingle with, and take part in the results of their own past deeds, as they affected living men?
Such thoughts whiled away some hours, and, in the mean time, the sounds in the castle ceased one by one, till all became still; but sleep had no power over Ferdinand's eyes, and he was still sitting rapt in meditation, with his back leaning against the stone wall, and his arms crossed upon his chest, when the same voice was heard again, making him instantly start up, "Ferdinand," said the voice, "it is time to go."
"But how can I go?" he demanded, "and where?"
"Hast thou not a key?" demanded the voice; "the master key of all these doors."
"Nay," answered Ferdinand; "I was obliged to give it to another to bear tidings of our fate to the priest."
"Take up the lamp, then," said the voice, "and approach the stone in the middle of the pavement."
The young man did as he was bidden, and beheld a large slab of slate-coloured stone, with some old characters engraved upon it. They were,
Beneath this stone lieth the body ofWolfgang of Spires,Who built this Castle from the Foundation to the third story ofthe Keep,In the space of three-and-twenty years,At the end of which he was called to a Mansion not built with hands.He rests in peace.
Ferdinand gazed upon it, holding down the lamp, and reading the rude letters with some difficulty, mentally inquiring, as he did so, "What has this to do with me?" But suddenly he thought some wind had made the flame of the lamp quiver, for the letters seemed to shake, and then the stone began to rise slowly in two-thirds of its length, the other third being depressed, as it moved upon a pivot. When at its full height, the wooden rounds of a ladder were perceived, and the voice said, "Descend."
A doubt flashed through Ferdinand's mind, as to whether this might not be a means of consigning him to a nameless and unrecorded death; but it instantly passed away, as all the events which had lately taken place crowded upon his memory; and, without showing any hesitation, he began the descent, carrying the lamp in his hand. As his foot touched the ground below, he gazed around, but all was vacant, and he found himself in a vault or monumental chapel, against the east side of which was placed a stone altar, with mouldering ornaments upon it, and to the north a marble tomb, surmounted by a recumbent figure in a burgomaster's gown, with the face turned to the altar, and the right hand holding a mason's rule. Opposite to the altar, on the west, was an old wooden door, partly open, and in a state of complete decay, and as the young gentleman turned towards it, the voice said, "Go forward." Still obeying implicitly, Ferdinand of Altenburg advanced, and pushed open the door. Before him was a long passage, and as he walked on he heard a sound of clanging steps, as of men walking over a stone pavement, in arms. There was no door to the right or left, and nothing to be seen but cold walls of rudely finished masonry, except as he approached the end, where a flight of stone steps led upwards as if into the castle again. Ferdinand hesitated for a moment at the foot; but then, as he had been told to advance, and there was no other way of doing so, he proceeded till he had numbered thirty steps, and then found himself at the end of a narrow passage, leading to the right. On his left hand was a row of small fretted arches, filled up with stone; but on the other hand, where the same decoration appeared, though the lower part was closed with masonry, the fanciful stonework in the point of each lancet arch was left clear, as if to give air to the sort of gallery in which he stood, and a faint light shone through the apertures from some chamber beyond. There was a sound, too, rose up, as if he was raised high above a chamber full of people, and approaching one of the arches, with natural curiosity, the young fugitive looked through. He then discovered that he was in a gallery at the end of the great old hall, but raised as high as the capitals of the columns, and below him a strange sight presented itself by the faint light which reigned in the hall. It was somewhat different from that which Adelaide beheld; for, although there was the same range of armed forms, stretching in line towards the great door at the other end, the chair of state was vacant. No motion was observed in the figures underneath: each stood in his arms like a statue, but yet there was a faint murmur, as if they spoke in low tones, and Ferdinand felt tempted almost to pause, and see what would follow. Ere he had done more than take one hasty glance around, however, a voice, seemingly close to his ear, said, "Enough! go on;" and obeying, as he had done before, he advanced along the gallery to the end. There was no possibility of mistaking his way; for, with a sharp turn to the left, the passage led to the top of another flight of stone steps, down which he went, and suddenly found himself close to the top of the well-staircase, which he had descended more than once before, but on the other side. His way was now clear before him, and entering the serfs' burial-vault, he hurried on, pausing not for a moment to look at the various ghastly objects it contained, till he reached the door leading to the crypt of the chapel. Going in amongst the wilderness of tombs and monuments within, he hastened forward towards the door at the other end, when a voice suddenly called to him,
"Ferdinand of Altenburg! gay bridegroom, whither away?" and a long, wild laugh rang through the pillared arches.
He started, and turned round. The sounds appeared to come from an old tomb, on which stood a figure in chain mail. The right hand extended, seemed pointing at him with its truncheon; and Ferdinand fancied that he saw it move; but though he advanced straight towards it, the figure remained still and motionless, and on touching it he felt that it was marble. Raising the lamp above his head, till the flame almost touched the arch that sprang from the short pillar at his side, he gazed forward into the gloom, but nothing was apparent; and the instant after, the flame was suddenly blown out, and he felt himself grasped by a strong hand on either side. He strove to free himself by a quick, sharp struggle; but in vain. The two hands held him as if the fingers had been of iron, and a superstitious awe, mingling with apprehensions of a more tangible character, perhaps, deprived him of some of his strength and agility. Not a word was spoken while he strove in that vice-like grasp, and even when he desisted from his useless efforts, all remained dull and silent. There seemed something very terrible to his fancy in being thus fixed, as it were by a power that he could not resist, to one spot, in darkness and in silence. "In the name of Heaven!" he exclaimed at length, "who are you?"
"We are friendly," said a voice, "to you, and to your race, if we are foes to all other earthly beings. Come, and come quietly, for we will guide you to safety;" and at the same time the hands that held him forced him gently forward, through parts of the vault he had never explored. They went slowly, and well they might, for everything before them was as dark as the pit of Acheron; but yet they seemed never to miss their way, and as they advanced, no halt, no stumble took place; no sound of footfall upon the damp earth of the vault was heard. It seemed long to Ferdinand, though perhaps the time that passed was really not more than five minutes, ere a sudden pause was made, and a door opened, for he could feel the free air blow upon his face, and a pale light began to shine under the arches where he stood. The next instant something like a large mantle was thrown over him, and the hood drawn far down upon his face; and then, still held fast by either arm, he was hurried forth into the open air. He thought he crossed a court of the castle, and then went through another arched passage, but he could not see, for the night was dark, and the cowl over his eyes. But then, again, he felt that he was passing through the wood, for the ground became rough and uneven, the wind rattled through the leaves, and every now and then a thin branch struck him as he passed. Rapidly down the side of the hill they went upon their way; and now he could hear the footfall of several others besides his own; at length, however, they stopped again, and a wild neigh just before them gave notice that a horse was near at hand. The voice which had before spoken, now said aloud, "Watch, and be ready," and all remained silent for nearly half an hour.
Ferdinand would fain have questioned those who held him in their hands, but at the first word he uttered, the voice replied, in a low, stern tone, "Peace, if you would live!" In two or three minutes after, a rapid step was heard; and then a voice, which seemed to Ferdinand very like the rough and inharmonious tongue of the Baron of Eppenfeld, exclaimed, "Ay, here's the horse. He has kept his word;" but then, again, the voice which had spoken before, exclaimed, "Now!" There was a sound of rushing through the trees, a brief struggle, a few smothered curses, and then the words. "Bring him along!"
Feeble and faint, with every nerve unstrung, with a swimming brain and a heavy heart, Adelaide of Ehrenstein unclosed her eyes after a long period of unconsciousness--how long she knew not; but it was evident that a considerable time most have passed since thought had left her, for she was now in a small room with an arched, stone roof, and a long pointed window. The sole furniture it contained was a stool, a table bearing a crucifix and a closed book, and the pallet on which she lay. "Where am I?" she asked herself, as her mind still wandered wildly over the past; and for an instant the impression was--for it cannot be called thought--that her father had executed his threat, and sent her to the convent of the Black Nuns at Würtzburg. The next moment, however, recollection returned more fully; her flight from the castle; her stay at the chapel; her journey through the wood, and then the horrible sight she had witnessed on the drawbridge, all flashed back upon memory, and with a sudden cry, as if of pain, she pressed her hand upon her eyes.
But Adelaide was not alone, as she thought; and the movement that she made showed those who watched her that she had revived. Instantly the well-known voice of Father George, low, but still rich and clear, said in her ear, "You are deluding yourself, my child. You are grieving without cause. He is safe and well, and far from the castle."
Adelaide started up and gazed at him with a look of doubt, mingled with reproach. Then shaking her head sadly, she burst into tears, saying, "I saw--I saw but too well! Why try to deceive me?"
"Nay daughter, I deceive you not," answered the monk, gravely; "'tis you deceive yourself. Think you that in these dark times the axe can fall on none other but him you love?"
"It is true, indeed, lady," said the voice of Bertha. "It was not your husband. It was Martin of Dillberg whom they put to death. I spoke with the lay brother, myself, who brought the news."
Adelaide clasped her hands together, and looked up to heaven, with reviving hope in her eyes; but then, bending down her head again, she murmured to herself, "Now, God forgive me that I should so rejoice. There must have been some who loved him, too,--some whose heart must now be as cold as mine was."
"But few," answered the monk; "he perished well meriting his fate; and we may reasonably rejoice that the innocent have not suffered instead of the guilty. Take heart, then, my child; for this illness of yours has already been most unfortunate, and I must go to see how the evil can be remedied."
"But is it true, is it quite true, Father?" said Adelaide, grasping his robe. "He is safe? Oh, assure me of it! Nay, look not stern, good Father: you know not how the heart that loves as mine does doubts all things, fears all things, when there is danger to the beloved. I know what you would say; but when I am ready to suspect the evidence of my own senses, to think that my eyes and ears deceive me, you must have some compassion if I hardly can believe the voice of one whom I venerate."
"I make allowance, my child," said the monk; "but yet you do not reason well of these things. Were he not safe, mine would be another task--to console and to mourn with you. Be assured, then. But now I must leave you; for though he is safe, you are not; and for your safety I must provide."
Thus saying, he left her; and Adelaide again and again questioned Bertha as to the fate of Ferdinand; but all she could learn amounted only to the fact, that a lay brother of the abbey had gone up to Ehrenstein at dawn, and, mingling with the people of the castle, had witnessed the execution of Martin of Dillberg on the drawbridge. But of all sceptics, fear is the foremost; and no sooner was the lady fully convinced that the terrible scene she had witnessed had no reference to her young husband, than immediately new terrors arose. She fancied that the execution of Ferdinand might merely be delayed; that her father might still perpetrate the deed he had threatened; that at that very moment the axe might be raised to smite him; and she argued that her own flight would only render the Count more relentless, if her lover remained behind. As she thus lay and thought, the sound of horses' feet was heard as they passed at no great distance from the cell; and, raising her head, she listened, saying to herself, "Perhaps they bring tidings;" but the sounds continued some time, till at length they died away from the ear. It was evident that horses were going away from, not arriving at, the abbey. Then came the blast of a trumpet from no great distance, and then the murmur of voices, rising and falling, as of people speaking vehemently, but far off. Shortly after, Father George returned, and with him the abbot, whom Adelaide had often seen before; a man far advanced in life, but of a stiff, unbending character.
"How goes it with you, now, daughter?" he said, seating himself on the stool by her side. "I have ordered some poor refreshments to be brought you, that you may pursue your journey with more strength; for I am sorry to say, this is no place of sure refuge. Your father's men are seeking you already, and have been even now at the gates. Luckily, the brother who answered them knew not that you were here, and answered, boldly, 'No;'--for which he shall have absolution; but if it be discovered that you are within our walls, we cannot refuse to give you up at the Count's demand; for, although his haughty tone and frequent offences against the church would well warrant, in my poor judgment, a flat refusal, yet we poor monks meet with but little protection; and though we can, thank God! defend ourselves well, in case of need, yet the Imperial Court would leave us with our loss and damage, if we gave even a pretext for his aggression. I have heard his haughty words, however, and his threats to burn the abbey; but he may find its stones a stumbling-block at which he may fall down."
"I am ready to go, when you will, Father," answered Adelaide, turning an anxious look to Father George; "but, if they be searching for me, whither shall I fly?"
"You must wait a while, my child," replied the monk, to whom the words were really addressed, rather than to the abbot. "It is not the intention of our noble and reverend father, the lord abbot here, to send you forth without all care for your security."
"But my good brother," said the abbot, "if these men return--"
"We will send them back with such answer as they deserve," replied the monk, boldly; for although mild and gentle in manner, and by no means so stern and rigid as the abbot himself, there was, in times of need and danger, that vigour and decision in the character of Father George which always rules weaker and less resolute spirits. At first the abbot, transferred from a distant priory, had struggled against his influence; and Father George had made no apparent effort to maintain it; but gradually, as years went by, and difficulties arose, the superior yielded more and more to one who seemed to yield most to him, and the rule of the mere monk over the present abbot had become more powerful than it had even been with Abbot Waldimer.
After a brief discussion, then, it was agreed that Adelaide should remain at the abbey till the hour of noon, when, with a shrewd calculation of the habits of his countrymen, Father George judged that lord and vassal, leader and follower, would all have occupations of a kind they would not willingly forego. He thought it possible, indeed, that ere that hour a new demand might be made at their gate for the restoration of the lady to her father's power; but he was firm in his purposes, and doubted not so to use his authority in the abbey, as to commit the abbot to a decided refusal, from which, once given, he knew that the old man would not depart. Neither did he fear the result; for the sound of horses' feet, which Adelaide had heard, was but an indication of preparations for defence against any sudden attack; and vassals and retainers were already flocking in to support, with the strong hand, if need should be, a community who were generally kind and gentle masters, if not always safe and pleasant neighbours.
Father George also reckoned a good deal upon the presence of Count Frederick of Leiningen at Ehrenstein, to ward off any immediate collision between the castle and the abbey; for that prince, though vigorous and decided in character, was reverential towards the church, and adverse at all times to violence; and, in the mean time, he took care that from one of those high towers of the building which I have alluded to, as being seen over the trees from the walls of Ehrenstein, a keen watch should be kept upon the gate of the castle, that the brethren might not be attacked unawares. Every five minutes, a messenger came down from the clear-sighted watcher, to convey to the abbot and Father George tidings of all that had been observed; and thus party after party of the followers of the Count of Ehrenstein were reported to have returned to the stronghold, and passed the drawbridge. Father George mused and calculated, till at length, turning suddenly to the abbot, as the clock struck ten, he said, "There cannot now be more than five of the men of Ehrenstein out. It were as well the lady departed at once; she can be guarded by those who brought her hither, and, passing unseen through the woods, will run no risk."
The abbot rubbed his hands slowly together, and then replied, "Good, good, brother George. Far from me to refuse the lady Adelaide refuge and hospitality; but when once she is beyond the walls, then let her proud father bluster if he dare."
"He will not be proud long, my noble lord," replied Father George; "there are reverses preparing for him which he dreams not of; and you may ere long see him humbled at your feet."
"Then will I receive him with fatherly tenderness," said the old man, with a look full of, what he thought, humility; but in which, perhaps, a clearer eye might have discovered no small pride.
Father George, however, hastened at once to the cell in what was called the stranger's lodging, where Adelaide still remained with Bertha; but on his entrance the maid held up her hand, and pointed to her mistress, who, worn out with watching, anxiety, and grief, had fallen into a brief slumber. The beautiful eyes were closed; the long, dark, silken lashes rested on the fair cheek, now pale with weariness and sleep; the head fell gracefully on the shoulder, and the soft white hand dropped over the side of the pallet. It was a lovely sight to look upon; and for a moment Father George paused and gazed, with strange emotions. His heart, bound down by icy chains to a solitary, unsocial life, yearned for a child like that. He asked himself--Is it well for man in any class, in any state, to live alone?--to cut himself off from the dearest, the highest, the holiest associations of our nature? Can he really feel and sympathize with human beings?--Can he retain all the perceptions, all the qualities of the heart and mind with which God first endowed him,--to bless, and to be blessed? Is he, in the full sense of the word, a man, if he do not exercise the rights, and fulfil, the duties, of a man? To extinguish hope and aspiration, to shut out love and affection, to separate ourselves from joy and sorrow, to put an icy bar between our bosoms and every warm feeling of our fellows--is this to live?
But the monk indulged hardly a moment in such thoughts. They flashed across his mind, and were then banished; but they made him feel that he was not a monk at heart; and gently and tenderly waking Adelaide from her slumber, he told her what was proposed for her; adding, in a low tone, "I have certain intelligence that he is safe and free."
The lady rose joyfully, exclaiming, "And shall I see him, then, soon?"
"His steps and thine, my child, are bent in the same path," answered Father George; "and doubtless he will reach the bourne before thee. But we must be speedy. Are you refreshed and ready?"
"Quite, quite," answered Adelaide; "those tidings, dear Father, are better than wine or medicine either. Let us go. Come, Bertha, are you ready?"
"Ay, good lack!" answered the gay girl, who had now somewhat recovered her light spirits; "I am ready, since it must be so; but yet I am never very willing to exchange a comfortable roof and good provision for the bare road and acorn woods; but let us go, lady. It is as well to do what is to be done with a good grace; and now Heaven send us forty miles from Ehrenstein ere night."
No long time was required to prepare; the nuns' gowns, which had been laid aside on account of the warmth of the day, were soon resumed; the hoods were drawn over the heads of the two girls, and, led by Father George, they went out into the great court of the abbey, where not only a number of monks were walking to and fro, some in meditation, some in busy talk, but a large party of armed men also were seated under an arcade that ran along one side, busily eating and drinking, and laughing with merriment somewhat dissonant to the grave solemnity of the scene.
Father George spoke to none; but walking rapidly across, opened a door under the cloister, and held it wide till Adelaide and Bertha had passed through. Then locking it behind him, he crossed a lesser court, and thence led the two girls into what seemed a wing of the abbey. That there were high towers of Gothic stone-work rising above them, they clearly saw; but after passing along a narrow, vaulted passage, with rich tracery upon the roof and in the windows which flanked it on the left, their guide paused at a low door, covered with iron plates and large-headed nails, or bosses. By the side of the door stood a stone bench or coffer, and on it lay several tapers, not yet lighted, and a lamp already burning. Father George, before he proceeded farther, lighted three of the candles at the lamp, and giving one to each of his companions, he took a key from his girdle, and put it in the lock. He was, as we have described him, a hale, strong old man, but to move that door required the exertion of all his powers; and when at length it was thrown back, it exposed to view the entrance of a dark cavern or passage in the rock, which rose gradually from the back of the building.
"Be not afraid," said the monk to Adelaide; "the horses and men are waiting for you in the wood at the end of this hollow. I feared that from the watch-tower of the castle they might see women's garments flutter, if you went out by any of the gates, and that would instantly raise suspicion. By this road you may pass unseen for miles, till you are beyond all pursuit."
"I fear not, I fear not, holy Father," answered Adelaide; and while Bertha murmured to herself, "But I do, mightily," they went on upon their way.
The cavern--which, though perhaps a part was nature's handiwork, displayed evidently the traces of man's labour also--extended for perhaps three or four hundred yards, and then terminated at another door, beyond which they found the dark woods sweeping round, and a spur of the mountain hiding the spot completely from the valley above which Ehrenstein was situated. Immediately beneath the door by which they issued forth was a slight descent, where broken fragments of rock, tumbled about in all directions, concealed from all but very curious eyes the entrance of the passage to the abbey; and below that again, was a small green area, surrounded by tall trees, in which was collected a number of men and horses.
Adelaide and Bertha were soon mounted, the armed men sprang into the saddle, Father George bestowed his blessing upon the young heiress of Ehrenstein, and the word was given to depart, when Bertha, turning her head, exclaimed, "At least tell us whither we are going to, Father, as you go not with us."
"To Heiligenstein," answered the monk. "There you will find a place prepared for you;" and, approaching Adelaide's side, he added, "I forgot, in all the hurry of this day to tell you, my dear daughter, that till you hear more from me, for your own security and that of him you love, conceal carefully your name and rank; your young husband has been cautioned, but you must not forget to be careful."
"I will not," answered Adelaide; "and indeed it will be joyful to me to repose for a time even as a poor country maiden."
"A maiden!" said Father George with a smile; "nay, you must not forget you are a wife."
The colour rose warm in Adelaide's cheek; and, without reply, she rode on, musing.
The glorious sun and the free air of heaven, the blue arch above, the green fresh world around, the face of man, the sweet human voice, greeted the senses of Martin of Dillberg for the last time. The chaplain of Count Frederick had been with him for some hours; but his voice had made no impression. He would neither confess that he had offended, nor acknowledge the justice of his sentence. Sullen and dogged, though evidently terrified and cowed, he remained either obstinately silent, or murmured low curses to himself, till he was brought out from his place of imprisonment, and led towards the drawbridge. Glaring round, with eyes at once fearful and fierce, he soon perceived the retainers of Ehrenstein guarding the gates, and the soldiers of Leiningen in possession of the drawbridge; while on the right, at a little distance, stood Count Frederick, with his arms sternly folded on his chest, and surrounded by several of his knights. In front was a large beam of wood, with a tall, powerful man, bare armed, leaning on an axe. The youth shuddered; but with the bitter and malicious spirit still strong in his bosom, which had been his bane through life, he looked round for Ferdinand of Altenburg, who, he doubted not, was to share his fate. He saw him nowhere; but he remarked that the chaplain went up to Count Frederick, on a sign, and that his lord spoke eagerly a few words which he could not hear. They were, "Has he shown contrition? Has he confessed and repented?"
"Alas! no, my good lord," replied the chaplain; "yet it is a pity that one so young--"
"It is," said the Count, musing; "were there a hope--but this is now the third time, and hope is gone. Nevertheless--"
But ere he could conclude the sentence, the voice of Martin of Dillberg was heard exclaiming, bitterly, "I see not the man who is more guilty than I am. Where is that Ferdinand of Altenburg? Let me see him die first; or will you spare him, and murder me?"
An expression of high scorn and indignation came over the face of Count Frederick as he heard those words, and pointing to the criminal, he said, "To the block with him--there is no hope!"
The trumpet sounded; they drew him on, and bade him kneel; but when he saw the axe and the bare-armed executioner, his heart failed him, and he drew back and trembled violently.
"Down, coward!" said an old soldier behind him; but yet even that contemptuous word had not power to goad him to assume a daring that was not really in his breast; and still he held back, and gazed wildly at the instrument of his death. The priest advanced to his side, and whispered some words in his ear--they were words of hope and promise for a world to come; but all the unhappy youth's thoughts were fixed on this life, even at the moment he was quitting it; and he murmured, "I will confess--I will pray for pardon!"
"It is in vain," said the chaplain; "your own words but now, have destroyed you. The Count is gone, and you must die."
Martin of Dillberg looked round; but Count Frederick was no longer there; and at the same moment the hands of some of those who had been his companions, but not his friends--he had no friend amongst them--seized him, and bent him down to the block. Then all withdrew for a few steps, except the priest, who still stood by his side, addressing to his dull unlistening ear the words of holy exhortation. There was a movement in the youth's limbs, as if he would fain have risen again; but then the trumpet sounded again, the heavy axe fell hard upon his neck, and at that one blow, the head, smote off, rolled upon the drawbridge.
The men around were used to sights of blood, to daily peril, and to the image of death; but still there were various feelings amongst them. None murmured, it is true,--all admitted that his fate was just, and that he had been pardoned but too often. Some sternly said, it was a good deed done, and turned away contented; but others felt a sensation of awe, and even of pain, at witnessing the violent death of one so young, though brought about by acts of craft and wickedness beyond his years. Count Frederick remained in his own chamber for some time alone, and in deep meditation; and when at length he came forth, his cheek was pale, and his whole air sad.
He had but taken three steps in the corridor, however, when he was roused from the reverie in which he seemed plunged, by the agitation and bustle which might be observed in the castle. Persons were passing up and down the great stairs; doors were opening and closing; there was a sound of trampling horses in the court-yard, and many voices speaking; but above all rose the tones of the Count of Ehrenstein, apparently in anger. Further on, towards the other end of the wide passage, Count Frederick beheld his own page apparently listening to the mingled din; and so occupied was the boy that he did not perceive his lord had quitted his chamber, till the Count called him to him.
"What is the matter, Albert of Landeck?" asked the nobleman, as the page ran up at his call; "there seems a strange confusion here."
"'Tis, my good lord, that the Lady Adelaide has escaped from the chamber where her father had imprisoned her," answered the boy; "and no one knows how or whither she has gone. The door was still locked, they say, and not a trace of her to be found."
"'Tis a strange place, this castle of Ehrenstein," said Count Frederick, with a smile; "has my noble friend no suspicion of who has aided her flight?"
"I heard him vow but now, that it was the monks from the abbey," answered the boy; "he sent down, an hour ago, it seems, to one Father George, at the chapel we passed yesterday in the wood, requiring his presence to shrive Ferdinand of Altenburg; but no monk was to be found there; and so he thinks it must have been he who has spirited the lady away."
"I will go down and speak with him," said Count Frederick; and, descending the stairs, he found his host, with heated look, and fiery words, urging his horsemen, who were mounting as rapidly as possible, to more speed.
"Quick, fool, quick!" he cried to one; "will you have never done that buckling of the girth? Away, by the upper road, to Anweiler. They cannot be far. Take the road to the left, as soon as you top the hill, and sweep round through the woods, meeting Mosbach by the blacksmith's forge. You, Seckendorf, with four or five more, to the abbey at once, and demand the lady of the abbot, in her father's name. Tell him, as sure as the sun shines in heaven, I will burn his monkery about his ears, if he conceals her. You, Adolph, track along the stream, letting some of the men dismount and look for the prints of horses' feet. If you can find any, follow them. Quick to the saddle to the saddle; a minute, more or less, may save or ruin all. Ha! my noble friend. This is a sad and terrible thing; my daughter fled, and no clue or tidings of her!"
"And the youth?" inquired Count Frederick; "can he give you no information? He, most likely, has some knowledge of her means of escape. Doubtless, the probable necessity of such a step was calculated on beforehand."
"Ha! in my anxiety I forgot him," cried the Count; "true, true--I will have it from his heart--I will put him to the torture. Go, bring Ferdinand of Altenburg hither to the great hall. We will have him in the great hall, Count Frederick. He feared it not in old times; now he shall have cause to fear."
Thus saying, he led the way, while his friend followed, the party being swelled by the jester, the chaplain, and one or two of Count Frederick's attendants, as they went. What it was that Herr von Narren said to those who followed, the two noblemen did not hear; but just as they reached the door of the great hall, and while the man, to whom the Count had given his orders respecting Ferdinand, was drawing back the bolts on the other side of the vestibule, a loud laugh, in which even the priest joined, though not so vociferously as the rest, struck harshly on the Count of Ehrenstein's ear; and flinging back the door of the hall, he took three steps in. Then, however, he stopped suddenly, and gazed with haggard eyes before, around, above him. Count Frederick also looked with an expression of wonder round the walls; and, in truth, it was a strange sight that presented itself. The banners were all gone; the green bows and chaplets of flowers, wreaths, and coronets, were no longer seen; but on every banner-pole hung a mouldy shroud, and each thick column was covered with a pall.
"In Heaven's name! what is this?" exclaimed Count Frederick; "'tis a strange way of tricking out your hall, Ehrenstein."
"'Tis for the bridal! 'tis for the bridal, uncle!" cried the jester.
"What bridal, fool?" cried the Count of Ehrenstein, fiercely, remembering only the hated union between his daughter and Ferdinand of Altenburg.
"Why, the bridal between the worm and the corpse," answered the jester; "there are few more merry weddings; but what is that on the chair of state? It looks marvellous like a pillow after a man's nose has bled in the night."
Count Frederick advanced with a quick step, and his host followed with a pale cheek. The object which had attracted the jester's notice proved to be a blood-stained coat of arms, cut and torn in many places, and on it lay a strip of parchment inscribed with the words, "Wilhelm, Count of Ehrenstein--summoned--judged--condemned.--Death."
"What is all this, my friend?" asked Count Frederick; "you seem to decorate your hall somewhat strangely."
But as he spoke, there was a hurried step upon the pavement behind; and the man who had been sent to bring Ferdinand before his lord, approached, exclaiming, "He is not there, my lord. The door was fast locked--not a bolt drawn; but he is gone. Food and wine are there, as if he had fared well before he went, but not a trace of him can I find."
"Wise young man," cried the jester, "he walks after supper. 'Tis a wholesome practice, and in his case peculiarly preservative of health. He must have a good physician."
The Count of Ehrenstein folded his arms upon his chest; and gazing on the bystanders, murmured, "I am betrayed." Then turning to the chair again, he fixed his eyes upon the soiled coat of arms, raised the slip of parchment, read it, and threw it down again, turning to his guest and saying, "Who can have done all this? I know nought of it. I deck not my hall with shrouds, nor set free my own prisoners. Who can have done this?"
"Nay, it is very strange!" answered Count Frederick. "It would take a man hours to spread these out. Good faith! I love not the neighbourhood of such dark mysteries,--and the youth gone, too! I wonder if our friend of Eppenfeld is safe; for in truth, my noble friend, your doors seem not the most secure."
"We will send and see," replied the Count of Ehrenstein; but the reader is already aware of what must have been the result of the search. The Baron of Eppenfeld was not to be found; and with a somewhat heavy brow Count Frederick exclaimed, "He must be taken! Alone, on foot, and without money, he cannot go far--he must be taken, Ehrenstein."
"Good faith! my noble friend, I would willingly help you," answered his host; "but I have, as you well know, matters on hand that touch me nearer far; and all the men I can spare must be absent, seeking for this undutiful girl and her perfidious paramour. Doubtless these monks are the movers in all this; and I will burn their abbey about their ears, unless I find her speedily."
"No, no; oh, no!" cried the Count of Leiningen. "No such rash violence, Ehrenstein. You may suspect much, but can prove nought against them."
"I can prove that one of them wedded my daughter to my sworn follower," cried the Count, "secretly, by stealth, and at an unlawful hour. He knew right well what he was doing, and he shall pay the penalty."
"Take counsel, take counsel," exclaimed the jester, "and I will show you a far better way to punish this meddling priest. Force him to marry a wife himself; and he will repent in sack-cloth, I will warrant."
"You have no proof of the fact, as far as I have heard," said Count Frederick, "and you may bring yourself into great danger. But 'tis no affair of mine. I will attach myself to find this Baron of Eppenfeld; and he will lie closer than a hind beside her fawn, or I will find him."
"Perchance, in seeking him, you may find what would be to me a far more precious thing," replied the Count of Ehrenstein; "and I am sure that, in honour and good fellowship, if you should meet with either my rebellious child, or he who has seduced her from obedience to her father, you will send them back to me at once."
Count Frederick mused for an instant without reply, and then said, "Nay, not at once, Ehrenstein. Should they fall into my hands, I would fain give you time to let your wrath subside, and judge the case of Ferdinand of Altenburg more calmly."
"He or I shall die," answered the Count, sternly, interrupting his guest.
"But not without fair and free trial, if I have him in my custody," replied Count Frederick, firmly; "that, at least, I will secure to him. We are all the slaves of our passions, Ehrenstein; and when we find an angry spirit stirring within us, we should take sureties against ourselves. For that reason was it that, in judging the guilty youth who died this morning, I called to my aid as many free and impartial voices as I could find. You do so too. At all events, if I take the youth, you shall have no cause to complain that justice is not done upon him. You shall have every means and every aid to prove the charge, and then to deal with him according to the laws and customs of the land."
"Good faith!" said the jester, "then shall he have hard measure and short time; for the laws are bitter enough, and the customs are expeditious. Thank Heaven! we nobles and jesters are above the laws."
"Not so," answered Count Frederick, while his host stood gloomy beside him, not very well contented with the restricted promise he had received; "there are laws for nobles and even for jesters, Herr von Narren."
"Doubtless, doubtless, uncle," said the other; "I said not that there were not laws for all: I only said that we are above them; and that is true, as I can prove. First, the noble is so high above the law, that, long as is the arm of justice, it can never reach him. Secondly, so far is the law beneath the noble, that every day he tramples it under his feet."
"Too true, I fear," answered his lord. "But hark, Ehrenstein! I hear some of your people returning. Let us see what success they have had. Perchance they have caught the fugitives."
It was soon found, however, that no success had been obtained. The persons whom Count Frederick had heard passing the drawbridge were not of those who had been sent in pursuit of Adelaide; but ere an hour was over, two or three who had visited the abbey came back with the tidings that the monks denied the lady had taken refuge there, but threatened loudly in regard to some violence shown by the Count's men to the windows of the chapel in the wood. The messenger added, that they seemed angry enough about something; for he saw vassals and tenants coming in armed, and horsemen sent out as if to call for further assistance. Other parties returned soon after, but yet no intelligence arrived Of the fair fugitive; and the Count of Ehrenstein mused in silence, perhaps not quite so well contented as he would have wished to appear, that he could not take his measures unnoticed by the eyes of one whose frank and generous spirit, and calmer and more elevated mind, acted as a check upon him. Count Frederick, however, did not, or would not, see that his presence was in any degree a burden. He remained with his host, sometimes musing as he mused, sometimes counselling, sometimes discussing; or busied himself in ordering preparations for the pursuit of the Baron of Eppenfeld, by parties of his own band.
In the mean while, the jester kept close to the side of his lord and the Count of Ehrenstein; but he too seemed buried in deep reveries; and at length the last-named nobleman, as if in a fit of impatience, turned round, exclaiming, "Well, Herr von Narren, what do you meditate so profoundly? It is to find that one wilful girl can baffle so many experienced men?"
"No, good lord," replied the jester, "it is rather to find that so many experienced men have not wit to take the means at hand for catching one truant girl."
"What would you?" cried the Count. "What means have I left untried?"
"There was once an old woman who lost a piece of money," said the jester, "and she looked all day for it in every part of her house, except her own pocket. Now the Lord of Ehrenstein is just like the old woman, for he looks for the lady in every part of the country except his own castle, which is just as good a place for hiding a rich thing as the old woman's pocket."
"By my honour! he says true," exclaimed Count Frederick; "all these three missing ones may even now be within a few yards of us, as far as I have seen any search made."
"I have had all the rooms above stairs well examined," replied the Count of Ehrenstein, thoughtfully; "except, indeed, your own, my noble friend; and there I did not dream that any one could be concealed. The mystery is, how these doors have been opened, the fugitives brought forth, and all made fast again. That there is treachery somewhere, no one can doubt; and those who released them from confinement would doubtless assist them in flight."
"That might not be so easy," replied Count Frederick; "but at all events let us search. There seem chambers and passages enough, here below, to hide a baron's train. It is quite possible they might find their way forth from the chambers where they were confined, and yet not be able to escape from the castle."
"That is a tempting door," said the jester, pointing to that which appeared at the end of the hall near the chair of state. "The youth Ferdinand, when we were sitting here together watching the cold pies, lest the mice should make houses of them, talked familiarly of that door, and of the place beyond."
"Ha!" cried the Count of Ehrenstein, "said he that he had ever been there?"
"Nay, not so," replied the jester, "but he told me that it led to vaults, and to the serfs' burial-place,--very awful vaults, indeed, my noble lord, where nobody would venture; and he hinted how terrible deeds had been done there, which had begotten many ghosts. I am not sure he did not speak of devils too; but he was marvellous conversant with all that the place contained; and his was a bold heart, just fit to trust himself with spirits, good or bad."
"Come," cried the Count hastily, "we will search;" but he led the way from the door which had been the theme of the jester's conversation, and, followed by several attendants, examined carefully every part of the building which had not been searched before, till he came to the door of the great hall again; but there he paused, and seemed unwilling to go farther.
"Let us on, Ehrenstein," said Count Frederick, "and make the work complete by looking through these vaults."
"They are not there," answered the Count, in a hesitating tone; "I feel sure they would not venture."
"What, not Ferdinand of Altenburg!" exclaimed Count Frederick; "I would gage a county against a flask of Ingelheim, that he would venture into an open grave sooner than any man should say he was afraid. I am some judge of men's courage; and few things would daunt that lad. If he knew that other men feared to tread those vaults, 'tis the very reason he would seek refuge there."
The Count of Ehrenstein mused for a moment. There was truth in what his friend said; and he remembered, too, how little dread his daughter had seemed to feel in trusting herself where others were afraid to stay for even a few minutes. There, too, in that very hall, she had been alone for some hours with Ferdinand of Altenburg; and the hope of finding them together in the gloomy asylum beyond, and punishing one at least upon the spot, filled him with a fierce kind of pleasure; but yet he hesitated. "I know not," he said, "but I doubt much, my noble friend, that we shall find anyone to aid the search. All men here dread that place. Even this hall they hold in terror, from their superstitious fancies. Did you not see how, when the messenger came to tell me the answer of these daring monks, he flurried away like lightning as soon as his errand was told?"
"Nay, what matters it how many there be?" asked his guest. "Here are you and I, and our friend Herr von Narren, who, I will answer for it, fears as little as we do."
"Oh, I am quite ready, uncle," cried the jester, "though I fear horribly; but fools are privileged against ghosts; and as your band has no lack of fools, I think I can get three or four others to bear us company, though, doubtless, we shall have rare trembling and shaking as we walk along. There's Henry of Geisen, and his inseparable Fritz Munter; they will go. Here, lads, here! we want men who love knocking their heads against stone walls. Here is an enterprise worthy of you."
Henry of Geisen was ready to go wherever his lord went, and Fritz Munter would go wherever Henry of Geisen turned his steps. Two or three more were collected, who, though it cannot be said they showed no fear--for every one looked somewhat dull when the vaults were mentioned--did not hang back; and torches being procured, the Count of Ehrenstein, with a heavy brow and teeth hard set, approached the little door on the left of the dais. It was fixed as firm, however, as a piece of the wall, and did not seem to have been opened for years.
"Stay," said the Count, who, having made his mind up to the examination, would not now be disappointed; "I will bring the keys."
When he returned, Count Frederick, who had been looking steadfastly at the pile of dust which time had accumulated before the door, pointed to the ground, saying, "There is a footmark."
"That is mine," cried the jester, setting his broad square cut shoe upon it. "I defy you to match that for a neat, tiny, little foot, in all the castle."
But the very fact of a footmark being so near the door confirmed the Count in his resolution of going on; and after some trouble, for the key was rusty with neglect, the door was opened, and a torch held up to light the way. On the whole party went, along the stone passage, down the well stairs, and then into the vault; but here it seemed as if all the noxious beasts of the place had leagued together to oppose their passage. Hundreds of bats flapped through the air, and, dazzled by the torches, swept close past the faces of the intruders; enormous toads, bloated and slow, crept across the ground; two or three large snakes darted away, hissing and showing their forked tongues; long earth-worms, and hideous orange slugs, wriggled or crawled along the path; and a large mole cricket dashed itself in the eyes of one of the men, making him start back in terror.
Not a word passed the lips of the Count of Ehrenstein; but, instead of going straight forward, he led the way to the left, and made, by a circuitous course, for the side of the crypt under the chapel. Through it, too, he passed rapidly, till he reached the door leading out upon the hill, which he tried, and found fast locked and bolted.
"Now," he cried, "if they are here, we have them safe;" and he then applied himself to make his companions spread out and sweep the whole width of the vaults on the way back, so that the torches might light every part of the space--he himself keeping on the extreme right. But this he found difficult to accomplish: the men loved not to be separated; and only Count Frederick and the jester would take the places assigned to them,--the others keeping close together, and following one or other of the three. The torch-light, too, lost itself in the old darkness of the place, as soon as, having quitted the crypt, where the windows afforded some light, however dim, they entered the wider vaults where the serfs were buried; and often one person stopped, or another, as they went along, examining the various objects that met their eyes. The Count of Ehrenstein himself paused at a door on his right, and looked to ascertain that it was fastened; but he soon resumed his advance again, and had nearly reached the other side, when a voice, loud and commanding, suddenly cried, "Stand!"
Every one started, and there was a dead silence for an instant.
"Who spoke there?" demanded the Count of Ehrenstein. "Leiningen, was it you?"
"Not I," exclaimed Count Frederick. "It seemed to come from your side."
"I heard it on both sides," said the jester; "but that is natural, having two ears."
"Who spoke?" again asked the Count of Ehrenstein, raising his voice; but no one answered, and Count Frederick took a step forward. The next moment he exclaimed, "What, in Heaven's name, is this? Ehrenstein, Ehrenstein, come hither! What is this?"
The men crowded up to the spot where the nobleman stood. The Count of Ehrenstein came more slowly; but when he did come, he found his friend gazing at the skeleton chained to the stone column. That, however, was not the only object that met his eyes; for in the bony hand was a long strip of vellum, falling almost to the ground, and upon it in large characters, written apparently in blood, was the word "Vengeance!"
The Count paused, and gazed with his eyes straining from their sockets, his mouth half open, and his nostrils expanded; while beside him stood Count Frederick, and behind, the jester, with his eyes bent upon his lord's entertainer, his lip quivering, and his brow knit into a dark and ominous frown. All kept silent for some time, and no one moved, unless indeed it was the jester, whose hand opened and shut more than once upon the hilt of his dagger. At length Count Frederick broke the terrible silence, and inquired, "What is this, Ehrenstein?"
The Count made no reply; and in an instant after he fell back, senseless, one of the soldiers catching him just as his head was about to strike the ground.
"Take him up, and carry him to his chamber," cried Count Frederick; "we have had enough of this;" and two of the men, raising the body of the Count, who sighed heavily, bore him on, while his friend followed, conversing in a low tone with the jester.