Seldom could such a christening have taken place as that of which Christina’s bed-room was the scene—the mother scarcely able even to think of the holy sacrament for the horror of knowing that the one sponsor was already exulting in the speedy destruction of the other; and, poor little feeble thing, rallying the last remnants of her severely-tried powers to prevent the crime at the most terrible of risks.
The elder babe received from his grandmother the hereditary name of Eberhard, but Sir Kasimir looked at the mother inquiringly, ere he gave the other to the priest. Christina had well-nigh said, “Oubliette,” but, recalling herself in time, she feebly uttered the name she had longed after from the moment she had known that two sons had been her Easter gift, “Gottfried,” after her beloved uncle. But Kunigunde caught the sound, and exclaimed, “No son of Adlerstein shall bear abase craftsman’s name. Call him Rächer (the avenger);” and in the word there already rang a note of victory and revenge that made Christina’s blood run cold. Sir Kasimir marked her trouble. “The lady mother loves not the sound,” he said, kindly. “Lady, have you any other wish? Then will I call him Friedmund.”
Christina had almost smiled. To her the omen was of the best. Baron Friedmund had been the last common ancestor of the two branches of the family, the patron saint was so called, his wake was her wedding-day, the sound of the word imported peace, and the good Barons Ebbo and Friedel had ever been linked together lovingly by popular memory. And so the second little Baron received the name of Friedmund, and then the knight of Wildschloss, perceiving, with consideration rare in a warrior, that the mother looked worn out and feverish, at once prepared to kiss her hand and take leave.
“One more favour, Sir Knight,” she said, lifting up her head, while a burning spot rose on either cheek. “I beg of you to take my two babes down—yes, both, both, in your own arms, and show them to your men, owning them as your kinsmen and godsons.”
Sir Kasimir looked exceedingly amazed, as if he thought the lady’s senses taking leave of her, and Dame Kunigunde broke out into declarations that it was absurd, and she did not know what she was talking of; but she repeated almost with passion, “Take them, take them, you know not how much depends on it.” Ursel, with unusual readiness of wit, signed and whispered that the young mother must be humoured, for fear of consequences; till the knight, in a good-natured, confused way, submitted to receive the two little bundles in his arms, while he gave place to Kunigunde, who hastily stepped before him in a manner that made Christina trust that her precaution would be effectual.
The room was reeling round with her. The agony of those few minutes was beyond all things unspeakable. What had seemed just before like a certain way of saving the guest without real danger to her children, now appeared instead the most certain destruction to all, and herself the unnatural mother who had doomed her new-born babes for a stranger’s sake. She could not even pray; she would have shrieked to have them brought back, but her voice was dead within her, her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth, ringings in her ears hindered her even from listening to the descending steps. She lay as one dead, when ten minutes afterwards the cry of one of her babes struck on her ear, and the next moment Ursel stood beside her, laying them down close to her, and saying exultingly, “Safe! safe out at the gate, and down the hillside, and my old lady ready to gnaw off her hands for spite!”
Christina’smental and bodily constitution had much similarity—apparently most delicate, tender, and timid, yet capable of a vigour, health, and endurance that withstood shocks that might have been fatal to many apparently stronger persons. The events of that frightful Easter Monday morning did indeed almost kill her; but the effects, though severe, were not lasting; and by the time the last of Ermentrude’s snow-wreath had vanished, she was sunning her babes at the window, happier than she had ever thought to be—above all, in the possession of both the children. A nurse had been captured for the little Baron from the village on the hillside; but the woman had fretted, the child had pined, and had been given back to his mother to save his life; and ever since both had thriven perfectly under her sole care, so that there was very nearly joy in that room.
Outside it, there was more bitterness than ever. The grandmother had softened for a few moments at the birth of the children, with satisfaction at obtaining twice as much as she had hoped; but the frustration of her vengeance upon Kasimir of Adlerstein Wildschloss had renewed all her hatred, and she had no scruple in abusing “the burgher-woman” to the whole household for her artful desire to captivate another nobleman. She, no doubt, expected that degenerate fool of a Wildschlosser to come wooing after her; “if he did he should meet his deserts.” It was the favourite reproach whenever she chose to vent her fury on the mute, blushing, weeping young widow, whose glance at her babies was her only appeal against the cruel accusation.
On Midsummer eve, Heinz the Schneiderlein, who had all day been taking toll from the various attendants at the Friedmund Wake, came up and knocked at the door. He had a bundle over his shoulder and a bag in his hand, which last he offered to her.
“The toll! It is for the Lady Baroness.”
“You are my Lady Baroness. I levy toll for this my young lord.”
“Take it to her, good Heinz, she must have the charge, and needless strife I will not breed.”
The angry notes of Dame Kunigunde came up: “How now, knave Schneiderlein! Come down with the toll instantly. It shall not be tampered with! Down, I say, thou thief of a tailor.”
“Go; prithee go, vex her not,” entreated Christina.
“Coming, lady!” shouted Heinz, and, disregarding all further objurgations from beneath, he proceeded to deposit his bundle, and explain that it had been entrusted to him by a pedlar from Ulm, who would likewise take charge of anything she might have to send in return, and he then ran down just in time to prevent a domiciliary visit from the old lady.
From Ulm! The very sound was joy; and Christina with trembling hands unfastened the cords and stitches that secured the canvas covering, within which lay folds on folds of linen, and in the midst a rich silver goblet, long ago brought by her father from Italy, a few of her own possessions, and a letter from her uncle secured with black floss silk, with a black seal.
She kissed it with transport, but the contents were somewhat chilling by their grave formality. The opening address to the “honour-worthy Lady Baroness and love-worthy niece,” conveyed to her a doubt on good Master Gottfried’s part whether she were still truly worthy of love or honour. The slaughter at Jacob Müller’s had been already known to him, and he expressed himself as relieved, but greatly amazed, at the information he had received from the Baron of Adlerstein Wildschloss, who had visited him at Ulm, after having verified what had been alleged at Schloss Adlerstein by application to the friar at Offingen.
Freiherr von Adlerstein Wildschloss had further requested him to make known that, feud-briefs having regularly passed between Schlangenwald and Adlerstein, and the two Barons not having been within the peace of the empire, no justice could be exacted for their deaths; yet, in consideration of the tender age of the present heirs, the question of forfeiture or submission should be waived till they could act for themselves, and Schlangenwald should be withheld from injuring them so long as no molestation was offered to travellers. It was plain that Sir Kasimir had well and generously done his best to protect the helpless twins, and he sent respectful but cordial greetings to their mother. These however were far less heeded by her than the coldness of her uncle’s letter. She had drifted beyond the reckoning of her kindred, and they were sending her her property and bridal linen, as if they had done with her, and had lost their child in the robber-baron’s wife. Yet at the end there was a touch of old times in offering a blessing, should she still value it, and the hopes that heaven and the saints would comfort her; “for surely, thou poor child, thou must have suffered much, and, if thou wiliest still to write to thy city kin, thine aunt would rejoice to hear that thou and thy babes were in good health.”
Precise grammarian and scribe as was Uncle Gottfried, the lapse from the formalSieto the familiarDuwent to his niece’s heart. Whenever her little ones left her any leisure, she spent this her first wedding-day in writing so earnest and loving a letter as, in spite of mediæval formality, must assure the good burgomaster that, except in having suffered much and loved much, his little Christina was not changed since she had left him.
No answer could be looked for till another wake-day; but, when it came, it was full and loving, and therewith were sent a few more of her favourite books, a girdle, and a richly-scented pair of gloves, together with two ivory boxes of comfits, and two little purple silk, gold-edged, straight, narrow garments and tight round brimless lace caps, for the two little Barons. Nor did henceforth a wake-day pass by without bringing some such token, not only delightful as gratifying Christina’s affection by the kindness that suggested them, but supplying absolute wants in the dire stress of poverty at Schloss Adlerstein.
Christina durst not tell her mother-in-law of the terms on which they were unmolested, trusting to the scantiness of the retinue, and to her own influence with the Schneiderlein to hinder any serious violence. Indeed, while the Count of Schlangenwald was in the neighbourhood, his followers took care to secure all that could be captured at the Debateable Ford, and the broken forces of Adlerstein would have been insane had they attempted to contend with such superior numbers. That the castle remained unattacked was attributed by the elder Baroness to its own merits; nor did Christina undeceive her. They had no intercourse with the outer world, except that once a pursuivant arrived with a formal intimation from their kinsman, the Baron of Adlerstein Wildschloss, of his marriage with the noble Fräulein, Countess Valeska von Trautbach, and a present of a gay dagger for each of his godsons. Frau Kunigunde triumphed a good deal over the notion of Christina’s supposed disappointment; but the tidings were most welcome to the younger lady, who trusted they would put an end to all future taunts about Wildschloss. Alas! the handle for abuse was too valuable to be relinquished.
The last silver cup the castle had possessed had to be given as a reward to the pursuivant, and mayhap Frau Kunigunde reckoned this as another offence of her daughter-in-law, since, had Sir Kasimir been safe in the oubliette, the twins might have shared his broad lands on the Danube, instead of contributing to the fees of his pursuivant. The cup could indeed be ill spared. The cattle and swine, the dues of the serfs, and the yearly toll at the wake were the sole resources of the household; and though there was no lack of meat, milk, and black bread, sufficient garments could scarce be come by, with all the spinning of the household, woven by the village webster, of whose time the baronial household, by prescriptive right, owned the lion’s share.
These matters little troubled the two beings in whom Christina’s heart was wrapped up. Though running about barefooted and bareheaded, they were healthy, handsome, straight-limbed, noble-looking creatures, so exactly alike, and so inseparable, that no one except herself could tell one from the other save by the medal of Our Lady worn by the elder, and the little cross carved by the mother for the younger; indeed, at one time, the urchins themselves would feel for cross or medal, ere naming themselves “Ebbo,” or “Friedel.” They were tall for their age, but with the slender make of their foreign ancestry; and, though their fair rosy complexions were brightened by mountain mists and winds, their rapidly darkening hair, and large liquid brown eyes, told of their Italian blood. Their grandmother looked on their colouring as a taint, and Christina herself had hoped to see their father’s simple, kindly blue eyes revive in his boys; but she could hardly have desired anything different from the dancing, kindling, or earnest glances that used to flash from under their long black lashes when they were nestling in her lap, or playing by her knee, making music with their prattle, or listening to her answers with faces alive with intelligence. They scarcely left her time for sorrow or regret.
They were never quarrelsome. Either from the influence of her gentleness, or from their absolute union, they could do and enjoy nothing apart, and would as soon have thought of their right and left hands falling out as of Ebbo and Friedel disputing. Ebbo however was always the right hand.TheFreiherr, as he had been called from the first, had, from the time he could sit at the table at all, been put into the baronial chair with the eagle carved at the back; every member of the household, from his grandmother downwards, placed him foremost, and Friedel followed their example, at the less loss to himself, as his hand was always in Ebbo’s, and all their doings were in common. Sometimes however the mother doubted whether there would have been this perfect absence of all contest had the medal of the firstborn chanced to hang round Friedmund’s neck instead of Eberhard’s. At first they were entirely left to her. Their grandmother heeded them little as long as they were healthy, and evidently regarded them more as heirs of Adlerstein than as grandchildren; but, as they grew older, she showed anxiety lest their mother should interfere with the fierce, lawless spirit proper to their line.
One winter day, when they were nearly six years old, Christina, spinning at her window, had been watching them snowballing in the castle court, smiling and applauding every large handful held up to her, every laughing combat, every well-aimed hit, as the hardy little fellows scattered the snow in showers round them, raising their merry fur-capped faces to the bright eyes that “rained influence and judged the prize.”
By and by they stood still; Ebbo—she knew him by the tossed head and commanding air—was proposing what Friedel seemed to disapprove; but, after a short discussion, Ebbo flung away from him, and went towards a shed where was kept a wolf-cub, recently presented to the young Barons by old Ulrich’s son. The whelp was so young as to be quite harmless, but it was far from amiable; Friedel never willingly approached it, and the snarling and whining replies to all advances had begun to weary and irritate Ebbo. He dragged it out by its chain, and, tethering it to a post, made it a mark for his snowballs, which, kneaded hard, and delivered with hearty good-will by his sturdy arms, made the poor little beast yelp with pain and terror, till the more tender-hearted Friedel threw himself on his brother to withhold him, while Mätz stood by laughing and applauding the Baron. Seeing Ebbo shake Friedel off with unusual petulance, and pitying the tormented animal, Christina flung a cloak round her head and hastened down stairs, entering the court just as the terrified whelp had made a snap at the boy, which was returned by angry, vindictive pelting, not merely with snow, but with stones. Friedel sprang to her crying, and her call to Ebbo made him turn, though with fury in his face, shouting, “He would bite me! the evil beast!”
“Come with me, Ebbo,” she said.
“He shall suffer for it, the spiteful, ungrateful brute! Let me alone, mother!” cried Ebbo, stamping on the snow, but still from habit yielding to her hand on his shoulder.
“What now?” demanded the old Baroness, appearing on the scene. “Who is thwarting the Baron?”
“She; she will not let me deal with yonder savage whelp,” cried the boy.
“She! Take thy way, child,” said the old lady. “Visit him well for his malice. None shall withstand thee here. At thy peril!” she added, turning on Christina. “What, art not content to have brought base mechanical blood into a noble house? Wouldst make slaves and cowards of its sons?”
“I would teach them true courage, not cruelty,” she tried to say.
“What should such as thou know of courage? Look here, girl: another word to daunt the spirit of my grandsons, and I’ll have thee scourged down the mountain-side! On! At him, Ebbo! That’s my gallant young knight! Out of the way, girl, with thy whining looks! What, Friedel, be a man, and aid thy brother! Has she made thee a puling woman already?” And Kunigunde laid an ungentle grasp upon Friedmund, who was clinging to his mother, hiding his face in her gown. He struggled against the clutch, and would not look up or be detached.
“Fie, poor little coward!” taunted the old lady; “never heed him, Ebbo, my brave Baron!”
Cut to the heart, Christina took refuge in her room, and gathered her Friedel to her bosom, as he sobbed out, “Oh, mother, the poor little wolf! Oh, mother, are you weeping too? The grandmother should not so speak to the sweetest, dearest motherling,” he added, throwing his arms round her neck.
“Alas, Friedel, that Ebbo should learn that it is brave to hurt the weak!”
“It is not like Walther of Vögelwiede,” said Friedel, whose mind had been much impressed by the Minnesinger’s bequest to the birds.
“Nor like any true Christian knight. Alas, my poor boys, must you be taught foul cruelty and I too weak and cowardly to save you?”
“That never will be,” said Friedel, lifting his head from her shoulder. “Hark! what a howl was that!”
“Listen not, dear child; it does but pain thee.”
“But Ebbo is not shouting. Oh, mother, he is vexed—he is hurt!” cried Friedel, springing from her lap; but, ere either could reach the window, Ebbo had vanished from the scene. They only saw the young wolf stretched dead on the snow, and the same moment in burst Ebbo, and flung himself on the floor in a passion of weeping. Stimulated by the applause of his grandmother and of Mätz, he had furiously pelted the poor animal with all missiles that came to hand, till a blow, either from him or Mätz, had produced such a howl and struggle of agony, and then such terrible stillness, as had gone to the young Baron’s very heart, a heart as soft as that of his father had been by nature. Indeed, his sobs were so piteous that his mother was relieved to hear only, “The wolf! the poor wolf!” and to find that he himself was unhurt; and she was scarcely satisfied of this when Dame Kunigunde came up also alarmed, and thus turned his grief to wrath. “As if I would cry in that way for a bite!” he said. “Go, grandame; you made me do it, the poor beast!” with a fresh sob.
“Ulrich shall get thee another cub, my child.”
“No, no; I never will have another cub! Why did you let me kill it?”
“For shame, Ebbo! Weep for a spiteful brute! That’s no better than thy mother or Friedel.”
“I love my mother! I love Friedel! They would have withheld me. Go, go; I hate you!”
“Peace, peace, Ebbo,” exclaimed his mother; “you know not what you say. Ask your grandmother’s pardon.”
“Peace, thou fool!” screamed the old lady. “The Baron speaks as he will in his own castle. He is not to be checked here, and thwarted there, and taught to mince his words like a cap-in-hand pedlar. Pardon! When did an Adlerstein seek pardon? Come with me, my Baron; I have still some honey-cakes.”
“Not I,” replied Ebbo; “honey-cakes will not cure the wolf whelp. Go: I want my mother and Friedel.”
Alone with them his pride and passion were gone; but alas! what augury for the future of her boys was left with the mother!
“Itfell about the Lammas tide,When moor men win their hay,”
“Itfell about the Lammas tide,When moor men win their hay,”
that all the serfs of Adlerstein were collected to collect their lady’s hay to be stored for the winter’s fodder of the goats, and of poor Sir Eberhard’s old white mare, the only steed as yet ridden by the young Barons.
The boys were fourteen years old. So monotonous was their mother’s life that it was chiefly their growth that marked the length of her residence in the castle. Otherwise there had been no change, except that the elder Baroness was more feeble in her limbs, and still more irritable and excitable in temper. There were no events, save a few hunting adventures of the boys, or the yearly correspondence with Ulm; and the same life continued, of shrinking in dread from the old lady’s tyrannous dislike, and of the constant endeavour to infuse better principles into the boys, without the open opposition for which there was neither power nor strength.
The boys’ love was entirely given to their mother. Far from diminishing with their dependence on her, it increased with the sense of protection; and, now that they were taller than herself, she seemed to be cherished by them more than ever. Moreover, she was their oracle. Quick-witted and active-minded, loving books the more because their grandmother thought signing a feud-letter the utmost literary effort becoming to a noble, they never rested till they had acquired all that their mother could teach them; or, rather, they then became more restless than ever. Long ago had her whole store of tales and ballads become so familiar, by repetition, that the boys could correct her in the smallest variation; reading and writing were mastered as for pleasure; and the Nuremberg Chronicle, with its wonderful woodcuts, excited such a passion of curiosity that they must needs conquer its Latin and read it for themselves. ThisWorld History, withAlexander and the Nine Worthies, the cities and landscapes, and the oft-repeated portraits, was Eberhard’s study; but Friedmund continued—constant to Walther of Vögelweide. Eberhard cared for no character in the Vulgate so much as for Judas the Maccabee; but Friedmund’s heart was all for King David; and to both lads, shut up from companionship as they were, every acquaintance in their books was a living being whose like they fancied might be met beyond their mountain. And, when they should go forth, like Dietrich of Berne, in search of adventures, doughty deeds were chiefly to fall to the lot of Ebbo’s lance; while Friedel was to be their Minnesinger; and indeed certain verses, that he had murmured in his brother’s ear, had left no doubt in Ebbo’s mind that the exploits would be worthily sung.
The soft dreamy eye was becoming Friedel’s characteristic, as fire and keenness distinguished his brother’s glance. When at rest, the twins could be known apart by their expression, though in all other respects they were as alike as ever; and let Ebbo look thoughtful or Friedel eager and they were again undistinguishable; and indeed they were constantly changing looks. Had not Friedel been beside him, Ebbo would have been deemed a wondrous student for his years; had not Ebbo been the standard of comparison, Friedel would have been in high repute for spirit and enterprise and skill as a cragsman, with the crossbow, and in all feats of arms that the Schneiderlein could impart. They shared all occupations; and it was by the merest shade that Ebbo excelled with the weapon, and Friedel with the book or tool. For the artist nature was in them, not intentionally excited by their mother, but far too strong to be easily discouraged. They had long daily gazed at Ulm in the distance, hoping to behold the spire completed; and the illustrations in their mother’s books excited a strong desire to imitate them. The floor had often been covered with charcoal outlines even before Christina was persuaded to impart the rules she had learnt from her uncle; and her carving-tools were soon seized upon. At first they were used only upon knobs of sticks; but one day when the boys, roaming on the mountain, had lost their way, and coming to the convent had been there hospitably welcomed by Father Norbert, they came home wild to make carvings like what they had seen in the chapel. Jobst the Kohler was continually importuned for soft wood; the fair was ransacked for knives; and even the old Baroness could not find great fault with the occupation, base and mechanical though it were, which disposed of the two restless spirits during the many hours when winter storms confined them to the castle. Rude as was their work, the constant observation and choice of subjects were an unsuspected training and softening. It was not in vain that they lived in the glorious mountain fastness, and saw the sun descend in his majesty, dyeing the masses of rock with purple and crimson; not in vain that they beheld peak and ravine clothed in purest snow, flushed with rosy light at morn and eve, or contrasted with the purple blue of the sky; or that they stood marvelling at ice caverns with gigantic crystal pendants shining with the most magical pure depths of sapphire and emerald, “as if,” said Friedel, “winter kept in his service all the jewel-forging dwarfs of the motherling’s tales.” And, when the snow melted and the buds returned, the ivy spray, the smiling saxifrage, the purple gentian bell, the feathery rowan leaf, the symmetrical lady’s mantle, were hailed and loved first as models, then for themselves.
One regret their mother had, almost amounting to shame. Every virtuous person believed in the efficacy of the rod, and, maugre her own docility, she had been chastised with it almost as a religious duty; but her sons had never felt the weight of a blow, except once when their grandmother caught them carving a border of eagles and doves round the hall table, and then Ebbo had returned the blow with all his might. As to herself, if she ever worked herself up to attempt chastisement, the Baroness was sure to fall upon her for insulting the noble birth of her sons, and thus gave them a triumph far worse for them than impunity. In truth, the boys had their own way, or rather the Baron had his way, and his way was Baron Friedmund’s. Poor, bare, and scanty as were all the surroundings of their life, everything was done to feed their arrogance, with only one influence to counteract their education in pride and violence—a mother’s influence, indeed, but her authority was studiously taken from her, and her position set at naught, with no power save what she might derive from their love and involuntary honour, and the sight of the pain caused her by their wrong-doings.
And so the summer’s hay-harvest was come. Peasants clambered into the green nooks between the rocks to cut down with hook or knife the flowery grass, for there was no space for the sweep of a scythe. The best crop was on the bank of the Braunwasser, by the Debateable Ford, but this was cut and carried on the backs of the serfs, much earlier than the mountain grass, and never without much vigilance against the Schlangenwaldern; but this year the Count was absent at his Styrian castle, and little had been seen or heard of his people.
The full muster of serfs appeared, for Frau Kunigunde admitted of no excuses, and the sole absentee was a widow who lived on the ledge of the mountain next above that on which the castle stood. Her son reported her to be very ill, and with tears in his eyes entreated Baron Friedel to obtain leave for him to return to her, since she was quite alone in her solitary hut, with no one even to give her a drink of water. Friedel rushed with the entreaty to his grandmother, but she laughed it to scorn. Lazy Koppel only wanted an excuse, or, if not, the woman was old and useless, and men could not be spared.
“Ah! good grandame,” said Friedel, “his father died with ours.”
“The more honour for him! The more he is bound to work for us. Off, junker, make no loiterers.”
Grieved and discomfited, Friedel betook himself to his mother and brother.
“Foolish lad not to have come to me!” said the young Baron. “Where is he? I’ll send him at once.”
But Christina interposed an offer to go and take Koppel’s place beside his mother, and her skill was so much prized over all the mountain-side, that the alternative was gratefully accepted, and she was escorted up the steep path by her two boys to the hovel, where she spent the day in attendance on the sick woman.
Evening came on, the patient was better, but Koppel did not return, nor did the young Barons come to fetch their mother home. The last sunbeams were dying off the mountain-tops, and, beginning to suspect something amiss, she at length set off, and half way down met Koppel, who replied to her question, “Ah, then, the gracious lady has not heard of our luck. Excellent booty, and two prisoners! The young Baron has been a hero indeed, and has won himself a knightly steed.” And, on her further interrogation, he added, that an unusually rich but small company had been reported by Jobst the Kohler to be on the way to the ford, where he had skilfully prepared a stumbling-block. The gracious Baroness had caused Hatto to jodel all the hay-makers together, and they had fallen on the travellers by the straight path down the crag. “Ach! did not the young Baron spring like a young gemsbock? And in midstream down came their pack-horses and their wares! Some of them took to flight, but, pfui, there were enough for my young lord to show his mettle upon. Such a prize the saints have not sent since the old Baron’s time.”
Christina pursued her walk in dismay at this new beginning of freebooting in its worst form, overthrowing all her hopes. The best thing that could happen would be the immediate interference of the Swabian League, while her sons were too young to be personally held guilty. Yet this might involve ruin and confiscation; and, apart from all consequences, she bitterly grieved that the stain of robbery should have fallen on her hitherto innocent sons.
Every peasant she met greeted her with praises of their young lord, and, when she mounted the hall-steps, she found the floor strewn with bales of goods.
“Mother,” cried Ebbo, flying up to her, “have you heard? I have a horse! a spirited bay, a knightly charger, and Friedel is to ride him by turns with me. Where is Friedel? And, mother, Heinz said I struck as good a stroke as any of them, and I have a sword for Friedel now. Why does he not come? And, motherling, this is for you, a gown of velvet, a real black velvet, that will make you fairer than our Lady at the Convent. Come to the window and see it, mother dear.”
The boy was so joyously excited that she could hardly withstand his delight, but she did not move.
“Don’t you like the velvet?” he continued. “We always said that, the first prize we won, the motherling should wear velvet. Do but look at it.”
“Woe is me, my Ebbo!” she sighed, bending to kiss his brow.
He understood her at once, coloured, and spoke hastily and in defiance. “It was in the river, mother, the horses fell; it is our right.”
“Fairly, Ebbo?” she asked in a low voice.
“Nay, mother, if Jobstdidhide a branch in midstream, it was no doing of mine; and the horses fell. The Schlangenwaldern don’t even wait to let them fall. We cannot live, if we are to be so nice and dainty.”
“Ah! my son, I thought not to hear you call mercy and honesty mere niceness.”
“What do I hear?” exclaimed Frau Kunigunde, entering from the storeroom, where she had been disposing of some spices, a much esteemed commodity. “Are you chiding and daunting this boy, as you have done with the other?”
“My mother may speak to me!” cried Ebbo, hotly, turning round.
“And quench thy spirit with whining fooleries! Take the Baron’s bounty, woman, and vex him not after his first knightly exploit.”
“Heaven knows, and Ebbo knows,” said the trembling Christina, “that, were it a knightly exploit, I were the first to exult.”
“Thou! thou craftsman’s girl! dost presume to call in question the knightly deeds of a noble house! There!” cried the furious Baroness, striking her face. “Now! dare to be insolent again.” Her hand was uplifted for another blow, when it was grasped by Eberhard, and, the next moment, he likewise held the other hand, with youthful strength far exceeding hers. She had often struck his mother before, but not in his presence, and the greatness of the shock seemed to make him cool and absolutely dignified.
“Be still, grandame,” he said. “No, mother, I am not hurting her,” and indeed the surprise seemed to have taken away her rage and volubility, and unresistingly she allowed him to seat her in a chair. Still holding her arm, he made his clear boyish voice resound through the hall, saying, “Retainers all, know that, as I am your lord and master, so is my honoured mother lady of the castle, and she is never to be gainsay’ed, let her say or do what she will.”
“You are right, Herr Freiherr,” said Heinz. “The Frau Christina is our gracious and beloved dame. Long live the Freiherrinn Christina!” And the voices of almost all the serfs present mingled in the cry.
“And hear you all,” continued Eberhard, “she shall rule all, and never be trampled on more. Grandame, you understand?”
The old woman seemed confounded, and cowered in her chair without speaking. Christina, almost dismayed by this silence, would have suggested to Ebbo to say something kind or consoling; but at that moment she was struck with alarm by his renewed inquiry for his brother.
“Friedel! Was not he with thee?”
“No; I never saw him!”
Ebbo flew up the stairs, and shouted for his brother; then, coming down, gave orders for the men to go out on the mountain-side, and search and jodel. He was hurrying with them, but his mother caught his arm. “O Ebbo, how can I let you go? It is dark, and the crags are so perilous!”
“Mother, I cannot stay!” and the boy flung his arms round her neck, and whispered in her ear, “Friedel said it would be a treacherous attack, and I called him a craven. Oh, mother, we never parted thus before! He went up the hillside. Oh, where is he?”
Infected by the boy’s despairing voice, yet relieved that Friedel at least had withstood the temptation, Christina still held Ebbo’s hand, and descended the steps with him. The clear blue sky was fast showing the stars, and into the evening stillness echoed the loud wide jodeln, cast back from the other side of the ravine. Ebbo tried to raise his voice, but broke down in the shout, and, choked with agitation, said, “Let me go, mother. None know his haunts as I do!”
“Hark!” she said, only grasping him tighter.
Thinner, shriller, clearer came a far-away cry from the heights, and Ebbo thrilled from head to foot, then sent up another pealing mountain shout, responded to by a jodel so pitched as to be plainly not an echo. “Towards the Red Eyrie,” said Hans.
“He will have been to the Ptarmigan’s Pool,” said Ebbo, sending up his voice again, in hopes that the answer would sound less distant; but, instead of this, its intonations conveyed, to these adepts in mountain language, that Friedel stood in need of help.
“Depend upon it,” said the startled Ebbo, “that he has got up amongst those rocks where the dead chamois rolled down last summer;” then, as Christina uttered a faint cry of terror, Heinz added, “Fear not, lady, those are not the jodeln of one who has met with a hurt. Baron Friedel has the sense to be patient rather than risk his bones if he cannot move safely in the dark.”
“Up after him!” said Ebbo, emitting a variety of shouts intimating speedy aid, and receiving a halloo in reply that reassured even his mother. Equipped with a rope and sundry torches of pinewood, Heinz and two of the serfs were speedily ready, and Christina implored her son to let her come so far as where she should not impede the others. He gave her his arm, and Heinz held his torch so as to guide her up a winding path, not in itself very steep, but which she could never have climbed had daylight shown her what it overhung. Guided by the constant exchange of jodeln, they reached a height where the wind blew cold and wild, and Ebbo pointed to an intensely black shadow overhung by a peak rising like the gable of a house into the sky. “Yonder lies the tarn,” he said. “Don’t stir. This way lies the cliff. Fried-mund!” exchanging the jodel for the name.
“Here!—this way! Under the Red Eyrie,” called back the wanderer; and steering their course round the rocks above the pool, the rescuers made their way towards the base of the peak, which was in fact the summit of the mountain, the top of the Eagle’s Ladder, the highest step of which they had attained. The peak towered over them, and beneath, the castle lights seemed as if it would be easy to let a stone fall straight down on them.
Friedel’s cry seemed to come from under their feet. “I am here! I am safe; only it grew so dark that I durst not climb up or down.”
The Schneiderlein explained that he would lower down a rope, which, when fastened round Friedel’s waist, would enable him to climb safely up; and, after a breathless space, the torchlight shone upon the longed-for face, and Friedel springing on the path, cried, “The mother!—and here!”—
“Oh, Friedel, where have you been? What is this in your arms?”
He showed them the innocent face of a little white kid.
“Whence is it, Friedel?”
He pointed to the peak, saying, “I was lying on my back by the tarn, when my lady eagle came sailing overhead, so low that I could see this poor little thing, and hear it bleat.”
“Thou hast been to the Eyrie—the inaccessible Eyrie!” exclaimed Ebbo, in amazement.
“That’s a mistake. It is not hard after the first” said Friedel. “I only waited to watch the old birds out again.”
“Robbed the eagles! And the young ones?”
“Well,” said Friedmund, as if half ashamed, “they were twin eaglets, and their mother had left them, and I felt as though I could not harm them; so I only bore off their provisions, and stuck some feathers in my cap. But by that time the sun was down, and soon I could not see my footing; and, when I found that I had missed the path, I thought I had best nestle in the nook where I was, and wait for day. I grieved for my mother’s fear; but oh, to see her here!”
“Ah, Friedel! didst do it to prove my words false?” interposed Ebbo, eagerly.
“What words?”
“Thou knowest. Make me not speak them again.”
“Oh, those!” said Friedel, only now recalling them. “No, verily; they were but a moment’s anger. I wanted to save the kid. I think it is old mother Rika’s white kid. But oh, motherling! I grieve to have thus frightened you.”
Not a single word passed between them upon Ebbo’s exploits. Whether Friedel had seen all from the heights, or whether he intuitively perceived that his brother preferred silence, he held his peace, and both were solely occupied in assisting their mother down the pass, the difficulties of which were far more felt now than in the excitement of the ascent; only when they were near home, and the boys were walking in the darkness with arms round one another’s necks, Christina heard Friedel say low and rather sadly, “I think I shall be a priest, Ebbo.”
To which Ebbo only answered, “Pfui!”
Christina understood that Friedel meant that robbery must be a severance between the brothers. Alas! had the moment come when their paths must diverge? Could Ebbo’s step not be redeemed?
Ursel reported that Dame Kunigunde had scarcely spoken again, but had retired, like one stunned, into her bed. Friedel was half asleep after the exertions of the day; but Ebbo did not speak, and both soon betook themselves to their little turret chamber within their mother’s.
Christina prayed long that night, her heart full of dread of the consequence of this transgression. Rumours of freebooting castles destroyed by the Swabian League had reached her every wake day, and, if this outrage were once known, the sufferance that left Adlerstein unmolested must be over. There was hope indeed in the weakness and uncertainty of the Government; but present safety would in reality be the ruin of Ebbo, since he would be encouraged to persist in the career of violence now unhappily begun. She knew not what to ask, save that her sons might be shielded from evil, and might fulfil that promise of her dream, the star in heaven, the light on earth. And for the present!—the good God guide her and her sons through the difficult morrow, and turn the heart of the unhappy old woman below!
When, exhausted with weeping and watching, she rose from her knees, she stole softly into her sons’ turret for a last look at them. Generally they were so much alike in their sleep that even she was at fault between them; but that night there was no doubt. Friedel, pale after the day’s hunger and fatigue, slept with relaxed features in the most complete calm; but though Ebbo’s eyes were closed, there was no repose in his face—his hair was tossed, his colour flushed, his brow contracted, the arm flung across his brother had none of the ease of sleep. She doubted whether he were not awake; but, knowing that he would not brook any endeavour to force confidence he did not offer, she merely hung over them both, murmured a prayer and blessing, and left them.
“Friedel, wake!”
“Is it day?” said Friedel, slowly wakening, and crossing himself as he opened his eyes. “Surely the sun is not up—?”
“We must be before the sun!” said Ebbo, who was on his feet, beginning to dress himself. “Hush, and come! Do not wake the mother. It must be ere she or aught else be astir! Thy prayers—I tell thee this is a work as good as prayer.”
Half awake, and entirely bewildered, Friedel dipped his finger in the pearl mussel shell of holy water over their bed, and crossed his own brow and his brother’s; then, carrying their shoes, they crossed their mother’s chamber, and crept down stairs. Ebbo muttered to his brother, “Stand thou still there, and pray the saints to keep her asleep;” and then, with bare feet, moved noiselessly behind the wooden partition that shut off his grandmother’s box-bedstead from the rest of the hall. She lay asleep with open mouth, snoring loudly, and on her pillow lay the bunch of castle keys, that was always carried to her at night. It was a moment of peril when Ebbo touched it; but he had nerved himself to be both steady and dexterous, and he secured it without a jingle, and then, without entering the hall, descended into a passage lit by a rough opening cut in the rock. Friedel, who began to comprehend, followed him close and joyfully, and at the first door he fitted in, and with some difficulty turned, a key, and pushed open the door of a vault, where morning light, streaming through the grated window, showed two captives, who had started to their feet, and now stood regarding the pair in the doorway as if they thought their dreams were multiplying the young Baron who had led the attack.
“Signori—” began the principal of the two; but Ebbo spoke.
“Sir, you have been brought here by a mistake in the absence of my mother, the lady of the castle. If you will follow me, I will restore all that is within my reach, and put you on your way.”
The merchant’s knowledge of German was small, but the purport of the words was plain, and he gladly left the damp, chilly vault. Ebbo pointed to the bales that strewed the hall. “Take all that can be carried,” he said. “Here is your sword, and your purse,” he said, for these had been given to him in the moment of victory. “I will bring out your horse and lead you to the pass.”
“Give him food,” whispered Friedel; but the merchant was too anxious to have any appetite. Only he faltered in broken German a proposal to pay his respects to the Signora Castellana, to whom he owed so much.
“No!Dormit in lecto,” said Ebbo, with a sudden inspiration caught from the Latinized sound of some of the Italian words, but colouring desperately as he spoke.
The Latin proved most serviceable, and the merchant understood that his property was restored, and made all speed to gather it together, and transport it to the stable. One or two of his beasts of burden had been lost in the fray, and there were more packages than could well be carried by the merchant, his servant, and his horse. Ebbo gave the aid of the old white mare—now very white indeed—and in truth the boys pitied the merchant’s fine young bay for being put to base trading uses, and were rather shocked to hear that it had been taken in payment for a knight’s branched velvet gown, and would be sold again at Ulm.
“What a poor coxcomb of a knight!” said they to one another, as they patted the creature’s neck with such fervent admiration that the merchant longed to present it to them, when he saw that the old white mare was the sole steed they possessed, and watched their tender guidance both of her and of the bay up the rocky path so familiar to them.
“But ah,signorini miei, I am aninfelice infelicissimo, ever persecuted byle Fate.”
“By whom? A count like Schlangenwald?” asked Ebbo.
“Das Schicksal,” whispered Friedel.
“Three long miserable years did I spend as a captive among the Moors, having lost all, my ships and all I had, and being forced to row their galleys,gli scomunicati.”
“Galleys!” exclaimed Ebbo; “there are some pictured in ourWorld History before Carthage. Would that I could see one!”
“Thesignorinowould soon have seen his fill, were he between the decks, chained to the bench for weeks together, without ceasing to row for twenty-four hours together, with a renegade standing over to lash us, or to put a morsel into our mouths if we were fainting.”
“The dogs! Do they thus use Christian men?” cried Friedel.
“Sì,sì—ja wohl. There were a good fourscore of us, and among them a Tedesco, a good man and true, from whom I learntla lingua loro.”
“Our tongue!—from whom?” asked one twin of the other.
“A Tedesco, a fellow-countryman ofsue eccellenze.”
“Deutscher!” cried both boys, turning in horror, “our Germans so treated by the pagan villains?”
“Yea, truly,signorini miei. This fellow-captive of mine was acavalierein his own land, but he had been betrayed and sold by his enemies, and he mourned piteously forla sposa sua—his bride, as they say here. A goodly man and a tall, piteously cramped in the narrow deck, I grieved to leave him there when the goodconfraternitàat Genoa paid my ransom. Having learnt to speakil Tedesco, and being no longer able to fit out a vessel, I made my venture beyond the Alps; but, alas! till this moment fortune has still been adverse. My mules died of the toil of crossing the mountains; and, when with reduced baggage I came to the river beneath there—when my horses fell and my servants fled, and the peasants came down with their hayforks—I thought myself in hands no better than those of the Moors themselves.”
“It was wrongly done,” said Ebbo, in an honest, open tone, though blushing. “I have indeed a right to what may be stranded on the bank, but never more shall foul means be employed for the overthrow.”
The boys had by this time led the traveller through the Gemsbock’s Pass, within sight of the convent. “There,” said Ebbo, “will they give you harbourage, food, a guide, and a beast to carry the rest of your goods. We are now upon convent land, and none will dare to touch your bales; so I will unload old Schimmel.”
“Ah,signorino, if I might offer any token of gratitude—”
“Nay,” said Ebbo, with boyish lordliness, “make me not a spoiler.”
“If thesignorinishould ever come to Genoa,” continued the trader, “and would honour Gian Battista dei Battiste with a call, his whole house would be at their feet.”
“Thanks; I would that we could see strange lands!” said Ebbo. “But come, Friedel, the sun is high, and I locked them all into the castle to make matters safe.”
“May the liberated captive know the name of his deliverers, that he may commend it to the saints?” asked the merchant.
“I am Eberhard, Freiherr von Adlerstein, and this is Freiherr Friedmund, my brother. Farewell, sir.”
“Strange,” muttered the merchant, as he watched the two boys turn down the pass, “strange how like one barbarous name is to another. Eberardo! That was what we calledil Tedesco, and, when he once told me his family name, it ended instino; but all these foreign names sound alike. Let us speed on, lest these accursed peasants should wake, and be beyond the control of thesignorino.”
“Ah!” sighed Ebbo, as soon as he had hurried out of reach of the temptation, “small use in being a baron if one is to be no better mounted!”
“Thou art glad to have let that fair creature go free, though,” said Friedel.
“Nay, my mother’s eyes would let me have no rest in keeping him. Otherwise—Talk not to me of gladness, Friedel! Thou shouldst know better. How is one to be a knight with nothing to ride but a beast old enough to be his grandmother?”
“Knighthood of the heart may be content to go afoot,” said Friedel. “Oh, Ebbo, what a brother thou art! How happy the mother will be!”
“Pfui, Friedel; what boots heart without spur? I am sick of being mewed up here within these walls of rock! No sport, not even with falling on a traveller. I am worse off than ever were my forefathers!”
“But how is it? I cannot understand,” asked Friedel. “What has changed thy mind?”
“Thou, and the mother, and, more than all, the grandame. Listen, Friedel: when thou camest up, in all the whirl of eagerness and glad preparation, with thy grave face and murmur that Jobst had put forked stakes in the stream, it was past man’s endurance to be baulked of the fray. Thou hast forgotten what I said to thee then, good Friedel?”
“Long since. No doubt I thrust in vexatiously.”
“Not so,” said Ebbo; “and I saw thou hadst reason, for the stakes were most maliciously planted, with long branches hid by the current; but the fellows were showing fight, and I could not stay to think then, or I should have seemed to fear them! I can tell you we made them run! But I never meant the grandmother to put yon poor fellow in the dungeon, and use him worse than a dog. I wot that he was my captive, and none of hers. And then came the mother; and oh, Friedel, she looked as if I were slaying her when she saw the spoil; and, ere I had made her see right and reason, the old lady came swooping down in full malice and spite, and actually came to blows. She struck the motherling—struck her on the face, Friedel!”
“I fear me it has so been before,” said Friedel, sadly.
“Never will it be so again,” said Ebbo, standing still. “I took the old hag by the hands, and told her she had ruled long enough! My father’s wife is as good a lady of the castle as my grandfather’s, and I myself am lord thereof; and, since my Lady Kunigunde chooses to cross me and beat my mother about this capture, why she has seen the last of it, and may learn who is master, and who is mistress!”
“Oh, Ebbo! I would I had seen it! But was not she outrageous? Was not the mother shrinking and ready to give back all her claims at once?”
“Perhaps she would have been, but just then she found thou wast not with me, and I found thou wast not with her, and we thought of nought else. But thou must stand by me, Friedel, and help to keep the grandmother in her place, and the mother in hers.”
“If the motherwillbe kept,” said Friedel. “I fear me she will only plead to be left to the grandame’s treatment, as before.”
“Never, Friedel! I will never see her so used again. I released this man solely to show that she is to rule here.—Yes, I know all about freebooting being a deadly sin, and moreover that it will bring the League about our ears; and it was a cowardly trick of Jobst to put those branches in the stream. Did I not go over it last night till my brain was dizzy? But still, it is but living and dying like our fathers, and I hate tameness or dullness, and it is like a fool to go back from what one has once begun.”
“No; it is like a brave man, when one has begun wrong,” said Friedel.
“But then I thought of the grandame triumphing over the gentle mother—and I know the mother wept over her beads half the night. Sheshallfind she has had her own way for once this morning.”
Friedel was silent for a few moments, then said, “Let me tell thee what I saw yesterday, Ebbo.”
“So,” answered the other brother.
“I liked not to vex my mother by my tidings, so I climbed up to the tarn. There is something always healing in that spot, is it not so, Ebbo? When the grandmother has been raving” (hitherto Friedel’s worst grievance) “it is like getting up nearer the quiet sky in the stillness there, when the sky seems to have come down into the deep blue water, and all is so still, so wondrous still and calm. I wonder if, when we see the great Dome Kirk itself, it will give one’s spirit wings, as does the gazing up from the Ptarmigan’s Pool.”
“Thou minnesinger, was it the blue sky thou hadst to tell me of?”
“No, brother, it was ere I reached it that I saw this sight. I had scaled the peak where grows the stunted rowan, and I sat down to look down on the other side of the gorge. It was clear where I sat, but the ravine was filled with clouds, and upon them—”
“The shape of the blessed Friedmund, thy patron?”
“Ourpatron,” said Friedel; “I saw him, a giant form in gown and hood, traced in grey shadow upon the dazzling white cloud; and oh, Ebbo! he was struggling with a thinner, darker, wilder shape bearing a club. He strove to withhold it; his gestures threatened and warned! I watched like one spell-bound, for it was to me as the guardian spirit of our race striving for thee with the enemy.”
“How did it end?”
“The cloud darkened, and swallowed them; nor should I have known the issue, if suddenly, on the very cloud where the strife had been, there had not beamed forth a rainbow—not a common rainbow, Ebbo, but a perfect ring, a soft-glancing, many-tinted crown of victory. Then I knew the saint had won, and that thou wouldst win.”
“I! What, not thyself—his own namesake?”
“I thought, Ebbo, if the fight went very hard—nay, if for a time the grandame led thee her way—that belike I might serve thee best by giving up all, and praying for thee in the hermit’s cave, or as a monk.”
“Thou!—thou, my other self! Aid me by burrowing in a hole like a rat! What foolery wilt say next? No, no, Friedel, strike by my side, and I will strike with thee; pray by my side, and I will pray with thee; but if thou takest none of the strokes, then will I none of the prayers!”
“Ebbo, thou knowest not what thou sayest.”
“No one knows better! See, Friedel, wouldst thou have me all that the old Adlersteinen were, and worse too? then wilt thou leave me and hide thine head in some priestly cowl. Maybe thou thinkest to pray my soul into safety at the last moment as a favour to thine own abundant sanctity; but I tell thee, Friedel, that’s no manly way to salvation. If thou follow’st that track, I’ll take care to get past the border-line within which prayer can help.”
Friedel crossed himself, and uttered an imploring exclamation of horror at these wild words.
“Stay,” said Ebbo; “I said not I meant any such thing—so long as thou wilt be with me. My purpose is to be a good man and true, a guard to the weak, a defence against the Turk, a good lord to my vassals, and, if it may not be otherwise, I will take my oath to the Kaiser, and keep it. Is that enough for thee, Friedel, or wouldst thou see me a monk at once?”
“Oh, Ebbo, this is what we ever planned. I only dreamed of the other when—when thou didst seem to be on the other track.”
“Well, what can I do more than turn back? I’ll get absolution on Sunday, and tell Father Norbert that I will do any penance he pleases; and warn Jobst that, if he sets any more traps in the river, I will drown him there next! Only get this priestly fancy away, Friedel, once and for ever!”
“Never, never could I think of what would sever us,” cried Friedel, “save—when—” he added, hesitating, unwilling to harp on the former string. Ebbo broke in imperiously,
“Friedmund von Adlerstein, give me thy solemn word that I never again hear of this freak of turning priest or hermit. What! art slow to speak? Thinkest me too bad for thee?”
“No, Ebbo. Heaven knows thou art stronger, more resolute than I. I am more likely to be too bad for thee. But so long as we can be true, faithful God-fearing Junkern together, Heaven forbid that we should part!”
“It is our bond!” said Ebbo; “nought shall part us.”
“Nought but death,” said Friedmund, solemnly.
“For my part,” said Ebbo, with perfect seriousness, “I do not believe that one of us can live or die without the other. But, hark! there’s an outcry at the castle! They have found out that they are locked in! Ha! ho! hilloa, Hatto, how like you playing prisoner?”
Ebbo would have amused himself with the dismay of his garrison a little longer, had not Friedel reminded him that their mother might be suffering for their delay, and this suggestion made him march in hastily. He found her standing drooping under the pitiless storm which Frau Kunigunde was pouring out at the highest pitch of her cracked, trembling voice, one hand uplifted and clenched, the other grasping the back of a chair, while her whole frame shook with rage too mighty for her strength.
“Grandame,” said Ebbo, striding up to the scene of action, “cease. Remember my words yestereve.”
“She has stolen the keys! She has tampered with the servants! She has released the prisoner—thy prisoner, Ebbo! She has cheated us as she did withWildschloss! False burgherinn! I trow she wanted another suitor! Bane—pest of Adlerstein!”
Friedmund threw a supporting arm round his mother, but Ebbo confronted the old lady. “Grandmother,” he said, “I freed the captive. I stole the keys—I and Friedel! No one else knew my purpose. He was my captive, and I released him because he was foully taken. I have chosen my lot in life,” he added; and, standing in the middle of the hall, he took off his cap, and spoke gravely:—“I will not be a treacherous robber-outlaw, but, so help me God, a faithful, loyal, godly nobleman.”
His mother and Friedel breathed an “Amen” with all their hearts; and he continued,
“And thou, grandame, peace! Such reverence shalt thou have as befits my father’s mother; but henceforth mine own lady-mother is the mistress of this castle, and whoever speaks a rude word to her offends the Freiherr von Adlerstein.”
“‘Henceforth mine own lady-mother is the mistress of this castle, and whoever speaks a rude word to her offends the Freiherr von Adlerstein’”—Page 126
That last day’s work had made a great step in Ebbo’s life, and there he stood, grave and firm, ready for the assault; for, in effect, he and all besides expected that the old lady would fly at him or at his mother like a wild cat, as she would assuredly have done in a like case a year earlier; but she took them all by surprise by collapsing into her chair and sobbing piteously. Ebbo, much distressed, tried to make her understand that she was to have all care and honour; but she muttered something about ingratitude, and continued to exhaust herself with weeping, spurning away all who approached her; and thenceforth she lived in a gloomy, sullen acquiescence in her deposition.
Christina inclined to the opinion that she must have had some slight stroke in the night, for she was never the same woman again; her vigour had passed away, and she would sit spinning, or rocking herself in her chair, scarcely alive to what passed, or scolding and fretting like a shadow of her old violence. Nothing pleased her but the attentions of her grandsons, and happily she soon ceased to know them apart, and gave Ebbo credit for all that was done for her by Friedel, whose separate existence she seemed to have forgotten.
As long as her old spirit remained she would not suffer the approach of her daughter-in-law, and Christina could only make suggestions for her comfort to be acted on by Ursel; and though the reins of government fast dropped from the aged hands, they were but gradually and cautiously assumed by the younger Baroness.
Only Elsie remained of the rude, demoralized girls whom she had found in the castle, and their successors, though dull and uncouth, were meek and manageable; the men of the castle had all, except Mätz, been always devoted to the Frau Christina; and Mätz, to her great relief, ran away so soon as he found that decency and honesty were to be the rule. Old Hatto, humpbacked Hans, and Heinz the Schneiderlein, were the whole male establishment, and had at least the merit of attachment to herself and her sons; and in time there was a shade of greater civilization about the castle, though impeded both by dire poverty and the doggedness of the old retainers. At least the court was cleared of the swine, and, within doors, the table was spread with dainty linen out of the parcels from Ulm, and the meals served with orderliness that annoyed the boys at first, but soon became a subject of pride and pleasure.
Frau Kunigunde lingered long, with increasing infirmities. After the winter day, when, running down at a sudden noise, Friedel picked her up from the hearthstone, scorched, bruised, almost senseless, she accepted Christina’s care with nothing worse than a snarl, and gradually seemed to forget the identity of her nurse with the interloping burgher girl. Thanks or courtesy had been no part of her nature, least of all towards her own sex, and she did little but grumble, fret, and revile her attendant; but she soon depended so much on Christina’s care, that it was hardly possible to leave her. At her best and strongest, her talk was maundering abuse of her son’s low-born wife; but at times her wanderings showed black gulfs of iniquity and coarseness of soul that would make the gentle listener tremble, and be thankful that her sons were out of hearing. And thus did Christina von Adlerstein requite fifteen years of persecution.
The old lady’s first failure had been in the summer of 1488; it was the Advent season of 1489, when the snow was at the deepest, and the frost at the hardest, that the two hardy mountaineer grandsons fetched over the pass Father Norbert, and a still sturdier, stronger monk, to the dying woman.
“Are we in time, mother?” asked Ebbo, from the door of the upper chamber, where the Adlersteins began and ended life, shaking the snow from his mufflings. Ruddy with exertion in the sharp wind, what a contrast he was to all within the room!
“Who is that?” said a thin, feeble voice.
“It is Ebbo. It is the Baron,” said Christina. “Come in, Ebbo. She is somewhat revived.”
“Will she be able to speak to the priest?” asked Ebbo.
“Priest!” feebly screamed the old woman. “No priest for me! My lord died unshriven, unassoilzied. Where he is, there will I be. Let a priest approach me at his peril!”
Stony insensibility ensued; nor did she speak again, though life lasted many hours longer. The priests did their office; for, impenitent as the life and frantic as the words had been, the opinions of the time deemed that their rites might yet give the departing soul a chance, though the body was unconscious.
When all was over, snow was again falling, shifting and drifting, so that it was impossible to leave the castle, and the two monks were kept there for a full fortnight, during which Christmas solemnities were observed in the chapel, for the first time since the days of Friedmund the Good. The corpse of Kunigunde, preserved—we must say the word—salted, was placed in a coffin, and laid in that chapel to await the melting of the snows, when the vault at the Hermitage could be opened. And this could not be effected till Easter had nearly come round again, and it was within a week of their sixteenth birthday that the two young Barons stood together at the coffin’s head, serious indeed, but more with the thought of life than of death.