The crescets and sconces were lighted in the great hall, and all those
who were to be honoured with a seat at the banquet of the evening were
beginning to assemble in the lesser hall. On this occasion, none were
admitted to the table of their lords but such as could either show
some claim to noble blood, or were distinguished by particular favour.
Nevertheless, the guests were very numerous, for the changes which
time had produced in the strict feudal system, and in the severity of
the ancient chivalry, admitted many to distinction who would formerly
have been excluded; and every man, not absolutely a serf, was looked
upon as noble, and entitled to bear arms. Priests and friars, whether
they could prove their ancestry or not, found ready admission to the
tables even of monarchs; and in times of need and danger, when it was
necessary to court popular support, the leaders of the free communes
were treated with every sort of honour. The feudal system, indeed, at
this time, may be said to have been completely disorganised; and
amongst many symptoms of the total overthrow which was approaching,
was that mixture of classes, and the reverence for a great many
qualities, some of them much superior to mere ancestry, and some of
them perhaps inferior. However that may be, the number of those who,
notwithstanding all customary limitations, were entitled to dine with
the Count of Ehrenstein and his princely guest, did not amount to less
than seventy; and Adelaide, when she entered the lesser hall with her
father, felt her heart beat somewhat timidly at the sight of so many
who were perfect strangers to her.
It was to be remarked that amongst the various groups which the room
contained, the attendants of the lord of Ehrenstein looked grave,
moody, and anxious, while those of Count Frederick of Leiningen, not
aware of any cause for apprehension, were cheerful, if not merry.
Numbers, however, have a very encouraging effect; and with so many
companions around them, old Seckendorf and Mosbach, with their
fellow-soldiers of the castle, had screwed their courage to the
sticking point, and were prepared to face the ghosts of the old hall
without any external signs of fear. It had cost some trouble, indeed,
to get the cooks and sewers of the household to place the viands for
the supper on the tables, but the example of Ferdinand and Adelaide,
and the knowledge that they, with Franz Creussen and his boy, had
passed the whole morning in the hall without disturbance, induced them
rather to risk a meeting with the ghosts than to encounter their
lord's anger; and in parties of five and six, they had at length
ventured in, heavily laden with provisions.
Their terrors had caused some delay, however; and it was not till the
Count had waited impatiently for near a quarter of an hour, that the
trumpets were heard sounding clear and shrill from below. After a few
moments wasted, as was customary, to show that no one was in haste,
Count Frederick offered his hand to Adelaide, and led her to the door,
and the whole party moved forward towards the banquet room.
"Let the others go first, Mosbach," said Seckendorf, in a low tone;
"the devil may take them all, if he likes, so that he leave me enough
for supper: I am as ravenous as a wolf!"
"So am I," answered Mosbach; "but I would rather go hungry to bed than
sup in that dreary old hall, with the ghastly company we are likely to
have."
The sight that met their eye, however, when they approached the great
door, was one that they little expected. The whole hall was in a blaze
of light; tapers were hung thickly on the walls and in the arches,
showing forth, in fine relief, the garlands of flowers with which
Adelaide had decked them, and the branches of evergreen which both
tapestried and canopied the hall. The banners, freed from the dust of
many years, waved gaily overhead; the tables groaned with well-cooked
viands, and long ranges of cups, goblets, and tankards, in gold
and silver--for the Count had brought forth all his stores of
splendour--flashed back the rays of the lights around, and added to
the rich and cheerful aspect of the whole.
Count Frederick paused for an instant, exclaiming,--"Why, this is a
scene of fairy land!" and the Count of Ehrenstein himself gazed round
with wonder and pleasure on a sight which far surpassed his previous
expectations. He made no observation, however, but moved on to take
his seat in the great chair, in the centre of the cross table, and
several minutes were spent in arranging the guests according to their
rank and station. Adelaide was placed upon her father's left, Count
Frederick on his right; the priest sat next the lady, and then the
knights around, while Ferdinand, in a courteous tone, assigned the
jester a seat at the angle of the two tables, so that he could
converse with his lord during their meal, according to custom, without
being actually placed at the same table. This arrangement created much
surprise amongst the followers of the house of Ehrenstein, and some
displeasure, but the attendants of Count Frederick seemed to look upon
it as a matter of course.
Ferdinand himself was about to take a seat much farther down, but, as
he moved towards it, the Count called him up, saying, "Here is room
for you, Ferdinand. Well and faithfully have you done all that was
entrusted to you, and neither a braver heart nor a better head have we
amongst us. I name you the Master of my Household from this hour, and
leave my good guests to your care and courtesy whenever I am not
present."
"Well may he make him master of his household," said Seckendorf, in a
whisper, to Mosbach, "for he seems master of the spirits as well as
the bodies. I am sure without their help he never could have done all
this."
"He had Franz Creussen with him," mumbled Karl of Mosbach; "and I
don't see why a boy like that, not knighted yet, should be put over
our heads."
"He's a good youth, he's a good youth," answered Seckendorf; "and may
well have an office that neither you nor I could manage. We are over
his head in arms, and that is all we have to care about."
In the mean while Count Frederick had put some question to his
entertainer, who bowed his head, replying, "Yes, the same, Ferdinand
of Altenburg," and the old nobleman instantly rose up, as Ferdinand
advanced with some degree of diffidence, and took him in his arms,
saying, "Ah! good youth, I am right glad to see you. I knew your
father well, a gallant gentleman as ever drew a sword. He died in
foreign lands, many long years ago. We must know each other better, my
son. Here, Philip of Wernheim, I pray you for this night make room for
him beside me."
"Nay, my good lord," said Ferdinand; "I beseech you excuse me--I must
not displace a noble gentleman so much older and better than myself."
"There, sit you down, boy," cried the bluff old soldier, to whom the
Count had spoken, taking him by the shoulder and thrusting him into
the seat, with a laugh, "It matters not where a man sits. If he have
honour, he will carry his honour about with him; if he have none, he
may well sit low. I will go place me by my old friend, the Herr von
Narren, and see whether his sharp wit will crack my hard skull."
Thus saying he moved round, and took a seat at the other side of the
cross table, saying to the jester, in a low tone, as he sat down,
"Why, how now, you seem dull, mein Herr, cheer up."
The jester suddenly raised his face, and answered, "What makes a cat
mew and a lion roar--a young man fierce and an old man dull?--Hunger,
hunger, Sir Philip! Heaven send the good priest a weak breath and a
strong appetite, for he is rising to bless the meat, I see, and if he
be long about it, like the grace of many another man, it will be a
curse instead of a blessing."
The priest, however, was as hungry as the rest, and his words quick
and few. The meal began, and for well nigh half an hour it passed
nearly in silence, but then, as the appetite was assuaged, and wine
began to flow, the tongue was allowed time to act as well as the
teeth; and Count Frederick began to urge the jester to speak, though
the latter, either from not having yet satisfied his hunger, or
perhaps from weariness with long travel, seemed little disposed to
indulge his lord.
"Come, come, my friend," cried Count Frederick, at length; "thou art
playing the silent counsellor to-night,--what dost thou cogitate?"
"Bitter sweet," answered the jester. "Call you me counsellor, uncle? I
would give you all right good advice and sharp, if you would but take
it--man, woman, and child."
"Let us hear, let us hear," cried Count Frederick; "then will we judge
whether it be worth the taking. Begin with the lady, cousin, as in
duty-bound."
"Well, then, here's for her counsel," said the jester, laying his
finger on his brow:--
THE JESTER'S ADVICE TO LADIES.
"Flaunt not your beauty in the common eye,
Lest, like hedge flowers, it be not thought worth plucking,
Trust to no young man's tender word or sigh;
For even pigs are gentle when they're sucking.
"Judge of your lover by his deeds to others,
For to yourself he's ever a deceiver.
Mark, girls, your fathers' conduct to your mothers,
And each be, if she can be, a believer."
"Good counsel, cousin! good counsel!" cried Count Frederick, "but now
for another. What say you to the young men?"
"Good faith! uncle, I know not that I have anything to say," answered
the jester; "for whatever age says, youth will not believe, and
whatever wisdom advises, folly will not follow; grace has gone out of
season with garden rue; and wit, as well as wisdom, has become the
property of fools. Argue me now wisely, with a sleek young
crimson-spotted trout, upon the eminent perdition which befalls him if
he snaps at a gay-looking fly with a hook in its belly; yet will your
trout leap at the bait, and soon be flapping his broad tail on the
bank. If the hook break in his jaws, indeed, he will gain wit from his
wound, and look before he leaps another time--experience is the
scourge that drives us all, admonition but a fool's blown bladder,
that makes a sound where it strikes, but no impression. Boys will
after their own game, as a goshawk after a partridge--and a pretty
pair of heels, or a small delicate hand, most kissable and sugary,
rosy lips set in a white skin, like strawberries in cream, and eyes
that say 'Come, love me,' will any day, about feeding time, make a lad
like that jump at a hook that will draw him into the frying-pan.
Heaven help and mend us all!
"Beauty's a butterfly, and youth's a boy,
Let him catch it if he can.
When he casts away his toy,
He may learn to be a man."
"Pretty Mistress Bertha wouldn't thank him if she could hear that,"
said Seckendorf, apart to his fellow-knight.
"Mistress Bertha!" answered old Mosbach. "I've a notion the young
cockerel carries his eyes higher than that, and all this notice of him
will spoil him. The other day I saw him looking into the Lady
Adelaide's eyes, and she into his, as if they were drinking love
pledges to one another."
"Pooh! nonsense," answered Seckendorf. "You are always finding out a
nest of cock's eggs, Karl. Have you nothing to say to us, Sir Jester?"
he continued aloud, speaking across the table.
"Good faith! but little," answered the other; "your old man is worse
to deal with than your young one, for he is as weak in the wit as in
the hams, and his brain, like a worn horse-trough, is ever leaking
with watery talk.
"Graybeards and wisdom were married one day;--
'Tis a very long time since then--
But they parted by chance upon the highway
And ne'er came together again.
"Leave wine, and leave women, graybeard, and leave oaths,
Leave dicing, and jesting, and scoffing;
And thou'lt find thine old wife, dressed in her best clothes,
At thy long journey's end--in the coffin."
"There Seckendorf," cried the Count of Ehrenstein, "you have enough,
methinks. For my part; I will not tempt our friend."
"Then you shall have counsel without asking," answered the jester, and
he went on in his usual rude verse as follows:--
"The noble lord, the just, the true--
Methinks I see him now--
Claims from no vassal more than due--
But gives him more, I trow.
"No stolen swine grunts in his sty,
No plundered goose complains,
No cackling hens against him cry,
His barn no spoil contains.
"Quick he restores what's wrongly got,
Without a suit at law,
His sword has never cut a knot,
His fingers could not draw.
"If such thou art, no danger dread,
In camp, in court, in town,
But if thou'rt not, beware thy head,
For sure thou'lt tumble down."
At the first stanza the Lord of Ehrenstein smiled pleasantly, but as
the jester went on to paint a character, which by no stretch of human
vanity he could attribute to himself, his laugh grew somewhat grim,
and although all the customs of the day required that he should seem
amused with the jester's observations, even when they hit him the
hardest, yet he might have made a somewhat tart reply in the shape of
a joke, which he was very well qualified to do, if he had not been
interrupted before he could speak. Just as the jester concluded,
however, a loud, wild, extraordinary burst of martial music drowned
every other sound at the table: clarions and trumpets, drums and
atabals, sounded all round the hall, in a strain so peculiar, that
ears which had once heard it, could never forget it again. Count
Frederick started, and turned towards the Count, exclaiming, "Odds
life! we are in Africa again. Whence got you this Moorish music, my
lord? I have not heard the like since I was at Damietta. You must have
a whole troop of Moslema."
The Count's cheek had turned very pale, and Ferdinand's eye was seen
wandering round the hall, as if expecting some strange sight suddenly
to present itself.
"In truth, I know not whence these sounds come," answered the Count,
after a moment's pause for consideration; and he then added, seeing
that any further attempt at concealment would be vain, "It is no
ordinary place, this castle of Ehrenstein, my noble friend. We have
strange sights, and strange sounds here. But what matters it? We are
not men to be frightened by unsubstantial sounds or appearances
either. I drink to your health," and filling his cup high with wine,
he said aloud--the music having by this time ceased, "To Count
Frederick of Leiningen!"
His guest immediately answered the pledge, saying, "Health to the
Count of Ehrenstein!" but instantly a loud voice echoed through the
hall, pronouncing in a solemn tone, "Health to the Dead!"
"This is mighty strange!" exclaimed Count Frederick, setting down his
cup scarcely tasted. "Methought I had seen or heard all of wonderful
that this earth can produce, but now I come back to my own land to
witness things stranger still.--This must be Satan's work. We must get
you, good father, to lay this devil."
"Please you, my noble lord," replied the priest, whose face had turned
as white as paper, "I would rather have nothing to do with him. There
is the Abbey hard by, surely the good fathers there could keep the
place free from spirits if they liked it.--It is their business, not
mine, and as I see the lady is rising, by my troth, I will go to bed
too, for I am somewhat weary with our long marches."
"It may be better for us all to do so, too," said Count Frederick; but
his host pressed him to stay longer so earnestly, that he sat down for
a few minutes, while Adelaide and the priest retired from the hall.
The retainers of the two noblemen did not venture to follow their own
inclinations and the priest's example, but, though the Lord of
Ehrenstein pressed the wine hard upon them, all mirth was at an end,
and whispered conversations alone went on, except between the two
counts, who spoke a few words from time to time, in a louder tone, but
evidently with a great effort, and at the end of about a quarter of an
hour, during which there was no further interruption, Count Frederick
rose,--begging his entertainer to excuse him, for retiring to rest.
All were eager to rise, and to get out of a place where none of them
felt themselves in security; but Ferdinand touched his lord's arm, as,
with a gloomy brow, he was following his guest from the hall, saying,
in a low voice, "What is to be done with all this gold and silver, my
lord? we shall never persuade the sewers to clear it away to-night."
"I know not," answered the Count, moodily, but aloud. "You must lock
the door, or stay and watch."
Ferdinand fell back, and suffered the stream to pass by him,
meditating thoughtfully upon how he should act. As was not uncommon in
those days, there was a good deal of confusion in his mind in regard
to matters of superstitious belief. Persons of strong intellect,
however rude the education which they had received, were not easily
induced to suppose that beings merely spiritual could have the powers
and faculties of corporeal creatures, and although few doubted the
fact of apparitions, being frequently seen, and even heard to speak,
yet they did not believe in general that they had any power of dealing
with substantial bodies. Thus, when Ferdinand thought of the events of
the preceding night, although he could not doubt the evidence of his
own senses, yet the fact of the banner having been changed puzzled him
a good deal, and in his straightforward simplicity he asked himself,
"If ghosts can carry away so heavy a thing as a banner and a banner
pole, why should they not take silver tankards and golden cups?" He
looked at the different articles that strewed the tables with a
doubtful eye, at first proposing to move them to a safer place
himself, but upon the cross table were many large silver plates and
dishes loaded with fragments of the meal, and he felt a repugnance to
undertake for any one an office unsuited to his birth. To lock the
door and leave the things to their fate, he could not help thinking
might be merely consigning the valuable stores that were there
displayed to a place from which they were never likely to
return--whether above the earth or under the earth, he did not stop to
inquire--and at length, after a little hesitation, he said, "I will
stay and watch. They did me no harm last night, why should they harm
me to-night? I can rest here as well as in my bed, and I should like
to see more of these strange things.--They are awful, it is true; but
yet, what has one to fear with God and a good conscience,--I will
stay."
Just as he came to this resolution, he heard a returning step in the
vestibule, the door leading, to which had been left open behind the
retreating crowd, and the next minute the face of the jester appeared
looking in. "Ha, ha! good youth," he said; "are you going to stay
here, like a bait in a rat-trap, till our friends the ghosts come and
nibble you? I heard what your excellent, good lord said,--a wise man!
an admirably wise man! who understands the craft of princes, and
leaves his followers a pleasant choice, in which they are sure to get
blame or danger, in whatever way they act. What do you intend to do?
lock up the door and leave the cups and tankards for devils to drink
withal? or to wait and bear them company, if they choose to come and
have a merry bout with you?"
"I shall stay and watch," answered Ferdinand; "I am not a steward or a
scullion, to move plates and dishes, and if I leave them here Heaven
only knows where they will be to-morrow!"
"Then, good faith! I'll stay and watch with you, Sir Ferdinand,"
answered the jester; "two fools are better than one, at any time, and
one by profession and one by taste ought to be a match for a score or
two of spirits, whether they be black, white, or grey."
"I've a notion, Herr von Narren," answered Ferdinand; "that you have
less of a fool in you than many who would be more ashamed of the
name."
"Good lack!" answered the jester, "you do my wit but little justice,
youth. Who would not be a fool, when wise men do such things every
day. Better to profess folly at once, of your own good will, than to
have other men put the cap upon your head. A fool has one great
advantage over a wise man which no one will deny him--a fool can be
wise when he pleases, a wise man cannot be foolish when he likes. Oh!
the bauble for ever; I would not change my motley just yet for a robe
of miniver. But we'll watch, we'll watch, and we'll make ourselves
comfortable too. By my faith! it gets cold of nights, or else the
chilly wing of another world is flapping through this old hall. Go,
get some logs, good youth, and we'll have a fire then; with our toes
upon the andirons, and our chins in our palms. By the beard of St.
Barnabas, we'll tell old stories of strange things gone by, till the
cock shall crow before we know it. You are not afraid to leave me with
the tankards, I suppose, for, on my life, I drink fair with every man,
and have no itch for silver."
"Oh no, I do not fear," answered Ferdinand, "and I'll soon bring logs
enough for the night. A cheerful blaze will do us no harm, and I shall
be glad of your company."
Thus saying, he left the place, and from the great coffer at the
entrance of the lesser hall, he soon loaded himself with sufficient
wood, as he thought, to last the night. When he re-entered the great
hall, he found the jester walking back from the other end towards the
centre, where the fireplace stood; and as he came near, the young man
inquired, "Were you talking to yourself just now, Herr von Narren?"
"Nay, good sooth, that were waste of words," answered the jester. "I
was peeping through yonder keyhole, and as it is a mighty ghostly
looking door, I thought I might as well tell the spirits not to
disturb us, as we had much to talk about. They took it all in good
part, poor things, and said nothing; though after all it would be but
charity to let them come and have a warm at our good fire, for it must
be cold down stairs, I fancy, and your ghost is thinly clad. Where
does yon door lead to, good youth?"
"To the serfs burying vault," answered Ferdinand, "and then to the old
chapel under the new one."
"Ha, ha! all convenient for the ghosts," said the jester, "but there
must be a number of sad Turks amongst them to make such a noise with
their atabals as they did to-night. There, you reach me down a lamp,
while I lay the sticks. Trust a fool for making a fire, if he do not
make it too large: then he may burn his own fingers, and the house
too. We will put out half the sconces, and so, we shall have
candle-light till the morning, when the sun and the tapers may wink at
each other, like merry maids upon a May-day."
The fire was soon lighted, and the suggestion regarding the sconces
carried into execution; after which, Ferdinand and the jester drew two
stools into the wide chimney, and the latter bringing the large flagon
of wine and two cups from the cross table, set the beaker down upon
the hearth, saying, "We will drink and keep our spirits up."
"Nay," answered Ferdinand, "I want no wine for that purpose. I will
take one cup, for I have had none to-night, and I have worked hard
during the day, but if I took more, I should sleep and not watch."
"Ay, young brains are soon addled, like a pigeon's egg," answered the
jester. "And so you are Ferdinand of Altenburg?"
Ferdinand nodded his head, answering, with a smile, "No other."
"You are a bold man," said his companion, "to give me such an answer."
"How so?" demanded Ferdinand, "I must surely know who I am myself."
"If you know yourself, you are the first man that ever did," replied
the jester. "Your father was a proper man."
"Indeed! did you know him?" exclaimed Ferdinand.
"Oh, dear no, not at all," said the Herr von Narren, "but my uncle
Frederick told us so at supper. I knew your grand-father and
your great-grandfather, and I was distantly related to his
great-grandfather; for as Adam was the first of my ancestors, and all
his race sprang from Eve, there was some connection between us, either
by blood or matrimony--Do you remember your father?"
"No," answered Ferdinand, "I was but a mere boy when he died."
"Ay, then you were not long acquainted," said the jester. "I remember
mine quite well, and how he used to tickle me with his beard--that's
longer ago than you recollect, or than you could if you would, for to
ask you for a long memory in your short life, would be like putting a
gallon of wine into a pint stoup--But I'll tell you a story, cousin."
"What is it about?" asked Ferdinand, drinking some of the wine out of
the cup he held in his hand. "Is it a story of fate, or about the
Saracens, or of knightly deeds here in our own land?"
"A little of all, a little of all, cousin," answered the jester. "It's
a Saturday's stew, containing fragments of all things rich and rare,
with a sauce of mine own composing. Now listen and you shall hear.
Once upon a time there was a prince--we'll call him prince for want of
a better name; without offence too, for a prince may be a gentleman
sometimes--well, this prince lived at ease in his own land--for you
see he had neither wife nor child to vex him--and a very merry prince
he was. Well might he be so, too, for everybody did just what he
liked, and he drank the best wine and ate the best meat, and slept
upon good goose-feathers which he had not the trouble of plucking; and
then, moreover, he had a jester who was fit to make any heart gay.
Besides this jester, he had a brother, a wise man and a thoughtful,
full of all sorts of learning; for they wished to make a bishop of
him, but he loved the sword better than the coif, and all he learned
in the convent was Latin and Greek, and reading and writing, and
Aristotle, and Duns Scotus, and to love nobody better than himself."
"Ha!" exclaimed Ferdinand, beginning to think that he perceived some
drift in the man's tale, but he made no observation, and the jester
continued.
"Well, the prince loved his brother very much, and they lived together
in the same castle, and passed their time pleasantly; they hunted
together, and they made a little war, and then they made a little
peace; and while the men at arms played at mutton-bones in the
court-yard, the two lords played at chess in the hall--and I can tell
you, that though the brother, won the first game, the prince won the
second, and the jester stood by and laughed. Merrily passed, the time,
and if men would but be contented in this world, life would be like a
summer day, but the brother was always urging the prince to this war
or that, for the glory of their house, as he called it; and sometimes
he went himself, and sometimes he stayed at home to take care of the
castle, while the prince followed his advice; and then the brother one
day thought it would be a good thing for the prince to go and visit
Jerusalem, and that it would be honourable, as he knew something of
hard blows and of leading armies, to help the knights hospitallers and
other sagacious men who were fighting for the pure pleasure of the
thing, to get lands which they could not keep when they had got them.
And the prince thought it a very good plan; and as he had got a great
number of chests full of money, he went away to sow it in the fields
of Syria, and to see if it would grow there. As he had a multitude of
stout young men, too, who always required bleeding in the summer time,
he took them with him, but as his brother was of a cold constitution,
he left him at home to keep house. Now the prince having neither wife
nor child, his dear brother was his heir."
"I see," said Ferdinand. "Go on, Herr!"
"Before they went," continued the jester, "the brother had a good deal
of talk with some of the prince's followers, and told them how much he
loved their dear lord. He did not say that he wished him dead; oh
dear, no, that was not the way at all; but he told them all that he
would do if he were prince, and how he would promote them, and left
Sir Satan, the king of all evil imaginations, to deal with their
consciences as he might find expedient. Well, the prince went away,
and took with him his jester as his chief counsellor, though he never
took his counsel either, for if he had he would have staid at home.
But so they went on up by the Boden Sea, and then by the Vorarlberg
and through the Tyrol, kissing the Emperor's hand at Inspruck, and
then came to Venice, and there they had an audience of the Duke; and
at Venice they staid a long time, for there was a fair Venetian lady
that the prince loved passing well--" and the jester paused, and gazed
thoughtfully into the fire for several moments.
"That has nothing to do with my tale, however," he continued, at
length. "The prince went on, and after long journeying, he came to the
place whither he was going; and though it was once a land flowing with
milk and honey, very little honey and no milk was to be found there
then. So, to keep down their appetites, he and his followers took to
fighting in real earnest; one day, however, a certain officer of the
prince, and a great friend of his brother's, brought him word that
there were a number of Moslem in a valley not far from the castle
where they were, and that if he would go out with his men, while the
knights of the hospital guarded the castle, he might have them all as
cheap as gudgeons. The prince had some doubts of his friend, and sent
out for better intelligence, but finding that all that he said seemed
very true, he got upon horseback, and sallied forth with his people.
About three or four miles from the castle, however, he was suddenly
surrounded and attacked on all sides by a number of the Moslem, of
whom his officer had quite forgotten to tell him, though they had been
watching there since daybreak. Nevertheless he fought tolerably well,
considering he was a prince, and he and his men might perhaps have got
out of the trap, by the force of impudence and a strong arm, if his
friend the officer had not come behind him just then and struck him a
gentle stroke, with something sharp, in the neck, about the place
where the gorget joins the cuirass. Upon that the prince incontinent
tumbled headlong off his horse; the Moslem closed in on all sides, and
with their sharp scimeters sent the heads flying about like pippins
shaken off a tree. All were killed or taken except one, who got
through and galloped away, first carrying the news of the defeat to
the knights of St. John in the castle, and then to the prince's
brother at home."
"This was of course the traitor who murdered his lord," exclaimed
Ferdinand, who had listened with ever-growing interest.
"Oh dear, no," replied the jester; "his friends the Moslem kept him,
but thought he would be safer in two pieces, and so they separated his
head from his shoulders."
"A very wise precaution," answered Ferdinand, "the true way of
recompensing traitors. And what became of the jester? He was taken
prisoner, I suppose?"
"Yes, he was," answered his companion. "But now listen; I am coming to
the most curious part of my story, and that is the history of the
prince's followers after they were dead. One clear, moonlight night, I
have heard say, just as they were all lying in the rocky valley, where
they had fallen, and their bones, well picked by the wild beasts of
that country, were shining white amongst the bushes and large stones,
there came suddenly amongst them a tall thin figure, like a shadow on
the wall, through which you could see the rocks, and the branches, and
the round-faced moon, just as if it had been the horn-plate of a
lantern; and it stooped over the bones, and looked at them, and
counted them one by one, and then it said to each fleshless head,
separately,--'The man whose insinuations brought about your death, has
strangled me in the vaults of his castle, though he knew that I was
innocent. Rise up, then, all that were true to their prince, and come,
let us to his brother's house, and plague him night and day,--at his
board, and in his bed. Let us give him no rest so long as he remains
upon the earth!'
"The moment he had spoken, slowly rising out of the ground, came a
number of thin, shadowy figures, like himself, and they mounted calmly
into the air, and floated away towards this land, just as you see a
cloud rise out of the west, and soar slowly along, casting a shadow as
it flies. Where they went to, and what they did, let the wise say; I
know not. Only this I know, and that I heard from one who saw it, that
the prince's followers, a great many years after they were killed and
lying on the dry Syrian ground, rose up, man by man, each just like
his own living self, and came away to their own land to torment their
good lord's bad brother. One, indeed, remained behind, but he was the
man who smote his prince in the neck when he was contending with the
infidels; but doubtless the Moslem pickled him, for he was worth
preserving, and salt meat keeps better than fresh, you know, Sir
Ferdinand."