Through weakness and sickness and faintness, Otto had lain in a half
swoon through all that long journey under the hot May sun. It was as in
a dreadful nightmare that he had heard on and on and on that monotonous
throbbing of galloping hoofs upon the ground; had felt that last kiss
that his father had given him upon his cheek. Then the onward ride
again, until all faded away into a dull mist and he knew no more. When
next he woke it was with the pungent smell of burned vinegar in his
nostrils and with the feeling of a cool napkin bathing his brow. He
opened his eyes and then closed them again, thinking he must have been
in a dream, for he lay in his old room at the peaceful monastery of the
White Cross on the hill; the good Father Abbot sat near by, gazing upon
his face with the old absent student look, Brother John sat in the deep
window seat also gazing at him, and Brother Theodore, the leech of the
monastery, sat beside him bathing his head. Beside these old familiar
faces were the faces of those who had been with him in that long flight;
the One-eyed Hans, old Master Nicholas his kinsman, and the others.
So he closed his eyes, thinking that maybe it was all a dream. But the
sharp throbbing of the poor stump at his wrist soon taught him that he
was still awake.
“Am I then really home in St. Michaelsburg again?” he murmured, without
unclosing his eyes.
Brother Theodore began snuffling through his nose; there was a pause.
“Yes,” said the old Abbot at last, and his gentle voice trembled as
he spoke; “yes, my dear little child, thou art back again in thine own
home; thou hast not been long out in the great world, but truly thou
hast had a sharp and bitter trial of it.”
“But they will not take me away again, will they?” said Otto quickly,
unclosing his blue eyes.
“Nay,” said the Abbot, gently; “not until thou art healed in body and
art ready and willing to go.”
Three months and more had passed, and Otto was well again; and now,
escorted by One-eyed Hans and those faithful few who had clung to the
Baron Conrad through his last few bitter days, he was riding into the
quaint old town of Nurnburg; for the Emperor Rudolph was there at that
time, waiting for King Ottocar of Bohemia to come thither and answer
the imperial summons before the Council, and Otto was travelling to the
court.
As they rode in through the gates of the town, Otto looked up at the
high-peaked houses with their overhanging gables, the like of which he
had never seen before, and he stared with his round blue eyes at seeing
them so crowded together along the length of the street. But most of
all he wondered at the number of people that passed hither and thither,
jostling each other in their hurry, and at the tradesmen’s booths
opening upon the street with the wonderful wares hanging within; armor
at the smiths, glittering ornaments at the goldsmiths, and rich fabrics
of silks and satins at the mercers. He had never seen anything so rich
and grand in all of his life, for little Otto had never been in a town
before.
“Oh! look,” he cried, “at that wonderful lady; see, holy father! sure
the Emperor’s wife can be no finer than that lady.”
The Abbot smiled. “Nay, Otto,” said he, “that is but a burgher’s wife or
daughter; the ladies at the Emperor’s court are far grander than such as
she.”
“So!” said Otto, and then fell silent with wonder.
And now, at last the great moment had come when little Otto with his own
eyes was to behold the mighty Emperor who ruled over all the powerful
kingdoms of Germany and Austria, and Italy and Bohemia, and other
kingdoms and principalities and states. His heart beat so that he could
hardly speak as, for a moment, the good Abbot who held him by the hand
stopped outside of the arrased doorway to whisper some last instructions
into his ear. Then they entered the apartment.
It was a long, stone-paved room. The floor was covered with rich rugs
and the walls were hung with woven tapestry wherein were depicted
knights and ladies in leafy gardens and kings and warriors at battle.
A long row of high glazed windows extended along the length of the
apartment, flooding it with the mellow light of the autumn day. At
the further end of the room, far away, and standing by a great carved
chimney place wherein smouldered the remains of a fire, stood a group of
nobles in gorgeous dress of velvet and silks, and with glittering golden
chains hung about their necks.
One figure stood alone in front of the great yawning fireplace. His
hands were clasped behind him, and his look bent thoughtfully upon the
floor. He was dressed only in a simple gray robe without ornament or
adornment, a plain leathern belt girded his waist, and from it hung a
sword with a bone hilt encased in a brown leathern scabbard. A noble
stag-hound lay close behind him, curled up upon the floor, basking in
the grateful warmth of the fire.
As the Father Abbot and Otto drew near he raised his head and looked
at them. It was a plain, homely face that Otto saw, with a wrinkled
forehead and a long mouth drawn down at the corners. It was the face of
a good, honest burgher burdened with the cares of a prosperous trade.
“Who can he be,” thought Otto, “and why does the poor man stand there
among all the great nobles?”
But the Abbot walked straight up to him and kneeled upon the floor,
and little Otto, full of wonder, did the same. It was the great Emperor
Rudolph.
“Who have we here,” said the Emperor, and he bent his brow upon the
Abbot and the boy.
“Sire,” said Abbot Otto, “we have humbly besought you by petition, in
the name of your late vassal, Baron Conrad of Vuelph of Drachenhausen,
for justice to this his son, the Baron Otto, whom, sire, as you may see,
hath been cruelly mutilated at the hands of Baron Henry of Roderburg of
Trutz-Drachen. He hath moreover been despoiled of his lands, his castle
burnt, and his household made prisoner.”
The Emperor frowned until the shaggy eyebrows nearly hid the keen gray
twinkle of the eyes beneath. “Yes,” said he, “I do remember me of
that petition, and have given it consideration both in private and in
council.” He turned to the group of listening nobles. “Look,” said he,
“at this little child marred by the inhumanity and the cruelty of those
robber villains. By heavens! I will put down their lawless rapine, if I
have to give every castle from the north to the south to the flames and
to the sword.” Then turning to Otto again, “Poor little child,” said he,
“thy wrongs shall be righted, and so far as they are able, those cruel
Roderburgs shall pay thee penny for penny, and grain for grain, for what
thou hast lost; and until such indemnity hath been paid the family of
the man who wrought this deed shall be held as surety.”
Little Otto looked up in the kind, rugged face above him. “Nay, Lord
Emperor,” said he, in his quaint, quiet way, “there are but two in the
family--the mother and the daughter--and I have promised to marry the
little girl when she and I are old enough; so, if you please, I would
not have harm happen to her.”
The Emperor continued to look down at the kneeling boy, and at last he
gave a short, dry laugh. “So be it,” said he, “thy plan is not without
its wisdom. Mayhap it is all for the best that the affair should be
ended thus peacefully. The estates of the Roderburgs shall be held in
trust for thee until thou art come of age; otherwise it shall be as thou
hast proposed, the little maiden shall be taken into ward under our own
care. And as to thee--art thou willing that I should take thee under my
own charge in the room of thy father, who is dead?”
“Aye,” said Otto, simply, “I am willing, for it seems to me that thou
art a good man.”
The nobles who stood near smiled at the boy’s speech. As for the
Emperor, he laughed outright. “I give thee thanks, my Lord Baron,” said
he; “there is no one in all my court who has paid me greater courtesy
than that.”
So comes the end of our tale.
But perhaps you may like to know what happened afterward, for no one
cares to leave the thread of a story without tying a knot in it.
Eight years had passed, and Otto grew up to manhood in the Emperor’s
court, and was with him through war and peace.
But he himself never drew sword or struck a blow, for the right hand
that hung at his side was of pure silver, and the hard, cold fingers
never closed. Folks called him “Otto of the Silver Hand,” but perhaps
there was another reason than that for the name that had been given him,
for the pure, simple wisdom that the old monks of the White Cross on
the hill had taught him, clung to him through all the honors that the
Emperor bestowed upon his favorite, and as he grew older his words were
listened to and weighed by those who were high in Council, and even by
the Emperor himself.
And now for the end of all.
One day Otto stood uncertainly at the doorway of a room in the imperial
castle, hesitating before he entered; and yet there was nothing so very
dreadful within, only one poor girl whose heart fluttered more than his.
Poor little Pauline, whom he had not seen since that last day in the
black cell at Trutz-Drachen.
At last he pushed aside the hangings and entered the room.
She was sitting upon a rude bench beside the window, looking at him out
of her great, dark eyes.
He stopped short and stood for a moment confused and silent; for he had
no thought in his mind but of the little girl whom he had last seen, and
for a moment he stood confused before the fair maiden with her great,
beautiful dark eyes.
She on her part beheld a tall, slender youth with curling, golden hair,
one hand white and delicate, the other of pure and shining silver.
He came to her and took her hand and set it to his lips, and all that
she could do was to gaze with her great, dark eyes upon the hero of whom
she had heard so many talk; the favorite of the Emperor; the wise young
Otto of the Silver Hand.