There was a new emperor in Germany who had come from a far away Swiss
castle; Count Rudolph of Hapsburg, a good, honest man with a good,
honest, homely face, but bringing with him a stern sense of justice and
of right, and a determination to put down the lawlessness of the savage
German barons among whom he had come as Emperor.
One day two strangers came galloping up the winding path to the gates
of the Dragon’s house. A horn sounded thin and clear, a parley was held
across the chasm in the road between the two strangers and the porter
who appeared at the little wicket. Then a messenger was sent running to
the Baron, who presently came striding across the open court-yard to the
gateway to parley with the strangers.
The two bore with them a folded parchment with a great red seal
hanging from it like a clot of blood; it was a message from the Emperor
demanding that the Baron should come to the Imperial Court to answer
certain charges that had been brought against him, and to give his bond
to maintain the peace of the empire.
One by one those barons who had been carrying on their private wars, or
had been despoiling the burgher folk in their traffic from town to
town, and against whom complaint had been lodged, were summoned to the
Imperial Court, where they were compelled to promise peace and to swear
allegiance to the new order of things. All those who came willingly were
allowed to return home again after giving security for maintaining the
peace; all those who came not willingly were either brought in chains
or rooted out of their strongholds with fire and sword, and their roofs
burned over their heads.
Now it was Baron Conrad’s turn to be summoned to the Imperial Court,
for complaint had been lodged against him by his old enemy of
Trutz-Drachen—Baron Henry—the nephew of the old Baron Frederick
who had been slain while kneeling in the dust of the road back of the
Kaiserburg.
No one at Drachenhausen could read but Master Rudolph, the steward,
who was sand blind, and little Otto. So the boy read the summons to his
father, while the grim Baron sat silent with his chin resting upon his
clenched fist and his eyebrows drawn together into a thoughtful frown as
he gazed into the pale face of his son, who sat by the rude oaken table
with the great parchment spread out before him.
Should he answer the summons, or scorn it as he would have done under
the old emperors? Baron Conrad knew not which to do; pride said one
thing and policy another. The Emperor was a man with an iron hand, and
Baron Conrad knew what had happened to those who had refused to obey the
imperial commands. So at last he decided that he would go to the court,
taking with him a suitable escort to support his dignity.
It was with nearly a hundred armed men clattering behind him that Baron
Conrad rode away to court to answer the imperial summons. The castle was
stripped of its fighting men, and only eight remained behind to guard
the great stone fortress and the little simple-witted boy.
It was a sad mistake.
Three days had passed since the Baron had left the castle, and now the
third night had come. The moon was hanging midway in the sky, white and
full, for it was barely past midnight.
The high precipitous banks of the rocky road threw a dense black shadow
into the gully below, and in that crooked inky line that scarred the
white face of the moonlit rocks a band of some thirty men were creeping
slowly and stealthily nearer and nearer to Castle Drachenhausen. At the
head of them was a tall, slender knight clad in light chain armor, his
head covered only by a steel cap or bascinet.
Along the shadow they crept, with only now and then a faint clink or
jingle of armor to break the stillness, for most of those who followed
the armed knight were clad in leathern jerkins; only one or two wearing
even so much as a steel breast-plate by way of armor.
So at last they reached the chasm that yawned beneath the roadway, and
there they stopped, for they had reached the spot toward which they had
been journeying. It was Baron Henry of Trutz-Drachen who had thus come
in the silence of the night time to the Dragon’s house, and his visit
boded no good to those within.
The Baron and two or three of his men talked together in low tones, now
and then looking up at the sheer wall that towered above them.
“Yonder is the place, Lord Baron,” said one of those who stood with him.
“I have scanned every foot of the wall at night for a week past. An we
get not in by that way, we get not in at all. A keen eye, a true aim,
and a bold man are all that we need, and the business is done.” Here
again all looked upward at the gray wall above them, rising up in the
silent night air.
High aloft hung the wooden bartizan or watch-tower, clinging to the face
of the outer wall and looming black against the pale sky above. Three
great beams pierced the wall, and upon them the wooden tower rested. The
middle beam jutted out beyond the rest to the distance of five or six
feet, and the end of it was carved into the rude semblance of a dragon’s
head.
“So, good,” said the Baron at last; “then let us see if thy plan holds,
and if Hans Schmidt’s aim is true enough to earn the three marks that I
have promised him. Where is the bag?”
One of those who stood near handed the Baron a leathern pouch, the Baron
opened it and drew out a ball of fine thread, another of twine, a coil
of stout rope, and a great bundle that looked, until it was unrolled,
like a coarse fish-net. It was a rope ladder. While these were being
made ready, Hans Schmidt, a thick-set, low-browed, broad-shouldered
archer, strung his stout bow, and carefully choosing three arrows
from those in his quiver, he stuck them point downward in the earth.
Unwinding the ball of thread, he laid it loosely in large loops upon the
ground so that it might run easily without hitching, then he tied the
end of the thread tightly around one of his arrows. He fitted the arrow
to the bow and drew the feather to his ear. Twang! rang the bowstring,
and the feathered messenger flew whistling upon its errand to the
watch-tower. The very first shaft did the work.
“Good,” said Hans Schmidt, the archer, in his heavy voice, “the three
marks are mine, Lord Baron.”
The arrow had fallen over and across the jutting beam between the carved
dragon’s head and the bartizan, carrying with it the thread, which now
hung from above, glimmering white in the moonlight like a cobweb.
The rest was an easy task enough. First the twine was drawn up to and
over the beam by the thread, then the rope was drawn up by the twine,
and last of all the rope ladder by the rope. There it hung like a thin,
slender black line against the silent gray walls.
“And now,” said the Baron, “who will go first and win fifty marks for
his own, and climb the rope ladder to the tower yonder?” Those around
hesitated. “Is there none brave enough to venture?” said the Baron,
after a pause of silence.
A stout, young fellow, of about eighteen years of age, stepped forward
and flung his flat leathern cap upon the ground. “I will go, my Lord
Baron,” said he.
“Good,” said the Baron, “the fifty marks are thine. And now listen, if
thou findest no one in the watch-tower, whistle thus; if the watchman
be at his post, see that thou makest all safe before thou givest the
signal. When all is ready the others will follow thee. And now go and
good luck go with thee.”
The young fellow spat upon his hands and, seizing the ropes, began
slowly and carefully to mount the flimsy, shaking ladder. Those below
held it as tight as they were able, but nevertheless he swung backward
and forward and round and round as he climbed steadily upward. Once he
stopped upon the way, and those below saw him clutch the ladder close
to him as though dizzied by the height and the motion but he soon began
again, up, up, up like some great black spider. Presently he came out
from the black shadow below and into the white moonlight, and then his
shadow followed him step by step up the gray wall upon his way. At last
he reached the jutting beam, and there again he stopped for a moment
clutching tightly to it. The next he was upon the beam, dragging himself
toward the window of the bartizan just above. Slowly raising himself
upon his narrow foothold he peeped cautiously within. Those watching
him from below saw him slip his hand softly to his side, and then place
something between his teeth. It was his dagger. Reaching up, he clutched
the window sill above him and, with a silent spring, seated himself
upon it. The next moment he disappeared within. A few seconds of silence
followed, then of sudden a sharp gurgling cry broke the stillness. There
was another pause of silence, then a faint shrill whistle sounded from
above.
“Who will go next?” said the Baron. It was Hans Schmidt who stepped
forward. Another followed the arch up the ladder, and another, and
another. Last of all went the Baron Henry himself, and nothing was left
but the rope ladder hanging from above, and swaying back and forth in
the wind.
That night Schwartz Carl had been bousing it over a pot of yellow wine
in the pantry with his old crony, Master Rudolph, the steward; and the
two, chatting and gossiping together, had passed the time away until
long after the rest of the castle had been wrapped in sleep. Then,
perhaps a little unsteady upon his feet, Schwartz Carl betook himself
homeward to the Melchior tower.
He stood for a while in the shadow of the doorway, gazing up into the
pale sky above him at the great, bright, round moon, that hung like a
bubble above the sharp peaks of the roofs standing black as ink against
the sky. But all of a sudden he started up from the post against which
he had been leaning, and with head bent to one side, stood listening
breathlessly, for he too had heard that smothered cry from the
watch-tower. So he stood intently, motionlessly, listening, listening;
but all was silent except for the monotonous dripping of water in one of
the nooks of the court-yard, and the distant murmur of the river borne
upon the breath of the night air. “Mayhap I was mistaken,” muttered
Schwartz Carl to himself.
But the next moment the silence was broken again by a faint, shrill
whistle; what did it mean?
Back of the heavy oaken door of the tower was Schwartz Carl’s cross-bow,
the portable windlass with which the bowstring was drawn back, and a
pouch of bolts. Schwartz Carl reached back into the darkness, fumbling
in the gloom until his fingers met the weapon. Setting his foot in the
iron stirrup at the end of the stock, he wound the stout bow-string
into the notch of the trigger, and carefully fitted the heavy,
murderous-looking bolt into the groove.
Minute after minute passed, and Schwartz Carl, holding his arbelast in
his hand, stood silently waiting and watching in the sharp-cut, black
shadow of the doorway, motionless as a stone statue. Minute after minute
passed. Suddenly there was a movement in the shadow of the arch of the
great gateway across the court-yard, and the next moment a leathern-clad
figure crept noiselessly out upon the moonlit pavement, and stood there
listening, his head bent to one side. Schwartz Carl knew very well
that it was no one belonging to the castle, and, from the nature of his
action, that he was upon no good errand.
He did not stop to challenge the suspicious stranger. The taking of
another’s life was thought too small a matter for much thought or care
in those days. Schwartz Carl would have shot a man for a much smaller
reason than the suspicious actions of this fellow. The leather-clad
figure stood a fine target in the moonlight for a cross-bow bolt.
Schwartz Carl slowly raised the weapon to his shoulder and took a long
and steady aim. Just then the stranger put his fingers to his lips and
gave a low, shrill whistle. It was the last whistle that he was to give
upon this earth. There was a sharp, jarring twang of the bow-string, the
hiss of the flying bolt, and the dull thud as it struck its mark. The
man gave a shrill, quavering cry, and went staggering back, and then
fell all of a heap against the wall behind him. As though in answer to
the cry, half a dozen men rushed tumultuously out from the shadow of
the gateway whence the stranger had just come, and then stood in the
court-yard, looking uncertainly this way and that, not knowing from what
quarter the stroke had come that had laid their comrade low.
But Schwartz Carl did not give them time to discover that; there was no
chance to string his cumbersome weapon again; down he flung it upon the
ground. “To arms!” he roared in a voice of thunder, and then clapped to
the door of Melchior’s tower and shot the great iron bolts with a clang
and rattle.
The next instant the Trutz-Drachen men were thundering at the door, but
Schwartz Carl was already far up the winding steps.
But now the others came pouring out from the gateway. “To the house,”
roared Baron Henry.
Then suddenly a clashing, clanging uproar crashed out upon the night.
Dong! Dong! It was the great alarm bell from Melchior’s tower--Schwartz
Carl was at his post.
Little Baron Otto lay sleeping upon the great rough bed in his room,
dreaming of the White Cross on the hill and of brother John. By and by
he heard the convent bell ringing, and knew that there must be visitors
at the gate, for loud voices sounded through his dream. Presently he
knew that he was coming awake, but though the sunny monastery garden
grew dimmer and dimmer to his sleeping sight, the clanging of the bell
and the sound of shouts grew louder and louder. Then he opened his eyes.
Flaming red lights from torches, carried hither and thither by people
in the court-yard outside, flashed and ran along the wall of his
room. Hoarse shouts and cries filled the air, and suddenly the shrill,
piercing shriek of a woman rang from wall to wall; and through the
noises the great bell from far above upon Melchior’s tower clashed and
clanged its harsh, resonant alarm.
Otto sprang from his bed and looked out of the window and down upon
the court-yard below. “Dear God! what dreadful thing hath happened?” he
cried and clasped his hands together.
A cloud of smoke was pouring out from the windows of the building across
the court-yard, whence a dull ruddy glow flashed and flickered. Strange
men were running here and there with flaming torches, and the now
continuous shrieking of women pierced the air.
Just beneath the window lay the figure of a man half naked and face
downward upon the stones. Then suddenly Otto cried out in fear and
horror, for, as he looked with dazed and bewildered eyes down into the
lurid court-yard beneath, a savage man, in a shining breast-plate and
steel cap, came dragging the dark, silent figure of a woman across the
stones; but whether she was dead or in a swoon, Otto could not tell.
And every moment the pulsing of that dull red glare from the windows of
the building across the court-yard shone more brightly, and the glare
from other flaming buildings, which Otto could not see from his window,
turned the black, starry night into a lurid day.
Just then the door of the room was burst open, and in rushed poor old
Ursela, crazy with her terror. She flung herself down upon the floor and
caught Otto around the knees. “Save me!” she cried, “save me!” as though
the poor, pale child could be of any help to her at such a time. In the
passageway without shone the light of torches, and the sound of loud
footsteps came nearer and nearer.
And still through all the din sounded continually the clash and clang
and clamor of the great alarm bell.
The red light flashed into the room, and in the doorway stood a tall,
thin figure clad from head to foot in glittering chain armor. From
behind this fierce knight, with his dark, narrow, cruel face, its
deep-set eyes glistening in the light of the torches, crowded six or
eight savage, low-browed, brutal men, who stared into the room and
at the white-faced boy as he stood by the window with the old woman
clinging to his knees and praying to him for help.
“We have cracked the nut and here is the kernel,” said one of them who
stood behind the rest, and thereupon a roar of brutal laughter went up.
But the cruel face of the armed knight never relaxed into a smile;
he strode into the room and laid his iron hand heavily upon the boy’s
shoulder. “Art thou the young Baron Otto?” said he, in a harsh voice.
“Aye,” said the lad; “but do not kill me.”
The knight did not answer him. “Fetch the cord hither,” said he, “and
drag the old witch away.”
It took two of them to loosen poor old Ursela’s crazy clutch from about
her young master. Then amid roars of laughter they dragged her away,
screaming and scratching and striking with her fists.
They drew back Otto’s arms behind his back and wrapped them round and
round with a bowstring. Then they pushed and hustled and thrust him
forth from the room and along the passageway, now bright with the flames
that roared and crackled without. Down the steep stairway they drove
him, where thrice he stumbled and fell amid roars of laughter. At last
they were out into the open air of the court-yard. Here was a terrible
sight, but Otto saw nothing of it; his blue eyes were gazing far away,
and his lips moved softly with the prayer that the good monks of St.
Michaelsburg had taught him, for he thought that they meant to slay him.
All around the court-yard the flames roared and snapped and crackled.
Four or five figures lay scattered here and there, silent in all the
glare and uproar. The heat was so intense that they were soon forced
back into the shelter of the great gateway, where the women captives,
under the guard of three or four of the Trutz-Drachen men, were crowded
together in dumb, bewildered terror. Only one man was to be seen among
the captives, poor, old, half blind Master Rudolph, the steward,
who crouched tremblingly among the women.
They had set the blaze to Melchior’s tower, and now, below, it was a
seething furnace. Above, the smoke rolled in black clouds from the
windows, but still the alarm bell sounded through all the blaze and
smoke. Higher and higher the flames rose; a trickle of fire ran along
the frame buildings hanging aloft in the air. A clear flame burst out
at the peak of the roof, but still the bell rang forth its clamorous
clangor. Presently those who watched below saw the cluster of buildings
bend and sink and sway; there was a crash and roar, a cloud of sparks
flew up as though to the very heavens themselves, and the bell of
Melchior’s tower was stilled forever. A great shout arose from the
watching, upturned faces.
“Forward!” cried Baron Henry, and out from the gateway they swept and
across the drawbridge, leaving Drachenhausen behind them a flaming
furnace blazing against the gray of the early dawning.