Before the small chapel in the wood, below the castle of Ehrenstein,
there was, as I have said, an open space of about half an acre. The
trees encroached upon it here and there, rendering the boundary-line
broken and irregular, detracting nought from the sylvan beauty of the
scene. On the contrary, the variety was pleasant to the eye; and the
old oaks and beeches, which, starting out before their fellows,
obtruded on the soft dry turf, rendered the sight more agreeable by
depriving it of all formality. It looked like a space for fairy
revels; and in truth, though the fathers, if they had seen any of the
little good people present, might have sent them roughly to some other
quarters, took no slight pleasure, as was commonly the case with the
monks, in the charms of the spot where they had fixed one of their
buildings, and would rather have forfeited a great deal than have cut
down one of the trees which formed the great ornament of the place.
The varied colours of the spring, the summer, and the autumn, afforded
much delight to the good old men. The sunshine, streaming through the
green leaves, was like the return of the summer of life to the winter
of their age; and it was the boast of the Lord Abbot--though he was
not otherwise than fond of venison--that neither stag, nor roe, nor
fallow-deer, had ever been slaughtered in those woods by his command.
Thus the wild creatures of the forest, who have more sense than we
give them credit for, looked upon the wood, within two or three
hundred yards of the chapel, as a place of refuge, a sort of
sanctuary; and the open space between the trees and the building as a
play-ground for their evening hours. The beams of the full day,
however, were pouring over the blades of grass, and tinging with
bright yellow the beech leaves above, when Count Frederick of
Leiningen, with a small party behind him, drew in his rein at the
chapel door. A groom sprang to his stirrup, and, dismounting more
lightly than from his age one would have judged possible, he entered
the chapel and bent his knee for some moments before the altar, in
prayer; then rising, he advanced towards the door of the little wing
inhabited by Father George, and, after knocking at it with his
knuckles, opened it and entered, beckoning the jester to follow. The
good priest was seated at a table reading, but he rose, when, by air
and manner, more than even by dress, he perceived the high rank of his
visitor. For a moment or two neither of the three spoke, and the eye
of the monk ran from the face of Count Frederick to that of the
jester, resting upon the latter long and steadfastly, with a sort of
inquiring look, as if he recognised features which he had seen in
times of old, and yet had some difficulty in assuring himself that
they were the same which he had beheld before the scorching blast of
time had passed over them.
Count Frederick was the first who spoke, saying, "You do not remember
me, good father, though we have met often in early days, and more than
once some ten years ago; but I can easily forgive your forgetfulness,
for, good faith, the suns of Syria and Africa are not the greatest
beautifiers of man's person, and the change must be somewhat rueful.
You are little altered, since last I saw you; more silver than sable
in your hair now, it is true, but still the features are the same."
"I remember you well, my good lord," replied the priest; "though you
are greatly changed, I own. Yet here is one I should remember better,
methinks; for, if my eyes deceive me not strangely, we have met more
often;" and as he spoke he laid his hand upon the jester's arm.
"I know not which is the greatest deceiver," cried the jester, with a
laugh; "a man's eyes or his ears; the one cheats him more often, the
other more deeply; but, by my faith! I know not why my lord called me
here. If you be old friends you will have old tales to tell, and I
never yet could listen patiently to an ancient story, or to the wit
and mirth of sixty years and upwards. My own jests are sufficient for
me, so, I pray you, jolly priest, don't flout me."
Father George bent down his eyes thoughtfully on the ground, and then
shook his head somewhat mournfully, but looking up suddenly at length,
he said, addressing Count Frederick, "Well, my good lord, I am glad at
all events to see you safe returned. Have you any commands for me?"
"None, good father, none," replied Count Frederick. "I come but to ask
a question or two.--I have found at the castle a youth named Ferdinand
of Altenburg, who is he?"
"Methinks, noble lord," replied Father George; "that the name is
enough to show you that he is of a noble race and kin; not so rich as
he might be, perhaps, but still with the hope of rising in the world.
He was my ward, and is now in the train of the Count of Ehrenstein,
serving him well I trust, for he was always well disposed and
honourable."
"So is a cat," replied the jester, "rather thievishly disposed towards
mice, but still an honourable beast, as the world goes, with a mighty
soft tread, and a sleek skin well smoothed."
"But he is thievishly disposed to no one," answered Father George.
"By my faith! that is saying much for any man under ninety," rejoined
the jester; "for there are many kinds of thievishness, which assault
us at different stages of this world's journey; and I have seldom met
with the male thing of twenty, or thereabouts, that would not steal a
smile from beauty, or a heart if he could get it, in a very roguish
manner."
"That is lawful robbery," said the priest, with a smile, "against
which there is no commandment."
"Ay, if the church have its dues," cried the jester, "then things are
easily managed; but Heaven help me! I blame not the youth, nor call
him a cat either; I but said that Grimalkin is as honest as he."
"But not so bold, so brave, and so true," answered Father George,
"else he belies his teaching."
"He seems brave enough, in truth," answered Count Frederick, "for he
is even now gone to put his head into a lion's mouth."
"Ah! how is that?" exclaimed Father George, in evident surprise and
alarm; "I knew not that he was going anywhere."
"He has gone to beard the Baron of Eppenfeld in his hold," answered
the Count; "you can judge better, my good friend, what reception he is
likely to meet with than I can."
"Comfortable lodging and good food," replied the jester, "if nothing
worse; but clean straw, and bread and water may serve a man's turn
very well, if it be not on compulsion. Compulsion is the salad of
bitter herbs, that makes all a man's meat have a hard flavour."
"And when does he propose to come back?" asked the monk, without
noting Herr von Narren's words.
"As soon as he can ride thither and return," said Count Frederick in
reply; "he may be back by nine, I should think."
"He must have help in case of need," replied Father George,
thoughtfully.
"That he shall have beyond all doubt," answered the nobleman; "depend
upon it, no wrong shall befall him without vengeance from my hand."
"Ay, that is the way with all these great lords," exclaimed the
jester; "vengeance is a part of their creed. Now a fool or a serf
would think it better to stop evil deeds than to punish them: if I
were to kill your horse, uncle, the beast would not be a bit better
off for knowing that my head would pay the penalty. I say, let those
who can, stop the doing of that which is amiss, and then there will be
no occasion for avenging it afterwards."
He spoke with a good deal of emphasis, and then turned round to the
lattice-window and looked out, while the priest and his noble visitor
conversed for some few minutes apart.
From time to time the eye of Count Frederick's strange companion
wandered from the space immediately opposite the chapel, and from the
group of attendants and men-at-arms it contained, up towards the
castle, with a marking and significant glance. Whether by accident or
design, I know not, but the chapel had been so built, that the window
of that room, although it could not command the whole extent of the
road, caught glimpses of it, even after the trees crossed it, at every
fifty or sixty yards along the whole extent, and after gazing forth
for two or three minutes, something seemed to catch and arrest the
man's attention; for he suddenly smiled, laid his finger on his
temple, and then, after having watched for a moment or two more,
turned quickly round, exclaiming, "Give you good day," uncle
Frederick; "I am away for a pot of honey, I see there;" and out of the
door he strode without awaiting an answer. Hurrying up the hill,
without mounting his horse, he had just passed the first turning in
the wood, when he suddenly came upon the pretty maid Bertha, tripping
down with a rapid step, and a cheek somewhat flushed.
"A fair afternoon to you, sweet lady," said the jester, taking her
hand; "whither away so fast?"
"I am going to tell my beads at the chapel," said Bertha, evidently
discomposed.
"A pious undertaking," cried the jester, "and easily performed, too,
if there were none but pigeons in this world; but doves will meet with
hawks, pretty mistress, when they fly out alone; and if I mistake not,
something has ruffled your feathers."
Bertha laughed, blushing, and replied: "You saw him, then, Sir?"
"I saw some one lay hold of you roughly," answered the jester; "but,
in truth, my eyes are somewhat dim; for the passing of years will
scratch the horn lantern, and though I came out to help you in case of
need, I could not distinguish who it was."
"One of your good lord's followers," answered Bertha; "but it is no
matter, I trust he will be less saucy henceforth, for I threatened to
tell of him."
"If you threatened to tell and don't tell, pretty maid, be you sure
that he will read the riddle to his own advantage. Otherwise, he will
be as great a fool as I am, and I will leave him my cap and bauble for
a legacy."
Just as the jester was uttering these words, the youth Martin of
Dillberg appeared coming down with a stealthy step; and Bertha's
companion exclaimed, "Ha! ha! Here we have him, and no tale told. For
this he shall be punished enough."
"Nay, I beseech you," cried Bertha, "do him no harm! He is a saucy
boy; but he will not offend again."
"He has offended often enough already," answered the jester, "but fear
not, pretty maid; I will not deal roughly. I will but set the dwarf
upon him, and for the next three days he will lead the life of a
strange fowl in a farm-yard--but see! as soon as his eye lights upon
me, he creeps away amongst the trees. That youth will fall upon some
evil thing before he is done. Now hie thee on to the chapel, and tell
thy beads in peace; though, Heaven help us! if all the love tales were
counted that lie under a rosary, they would drown the paters and aves,
I fear."
"I am going to tell no love tale," answered Bertha, colouring and
walking on. "I wish I had a love tale to tell."
The jester laughed, and followed towards the chapel, saying, "It must
be a luckless place this castle of Ehrenstein, not to furnish a pretty
maiden with such a bosom-friend. Perhaps your sweet mistress cannot
say the same."
"I never pry into my mistress's affairs," cried Bertha, "I know
nothing of them."
But the jester's keen eye was upon her as she spoke, and he exclaimed
with a provoking smile, "Ha! ha! thy warm cheek is as red as thy warm
lip, fair maid; and, on my troth, I can forgive Martin of Dillberg for
tasting both. Why, you tell-tale, if you guard your face no better, it
is useless putting a bridle on your tongue."
"It is because you tease me," answered Bertha, petulantly; "I declare,
Martin of Dillberg was better than you are, so I shall hurry on, and
do without your company."
The jester followed, but not very rapidly; and when Bertha saw the
horsemen standing at the chapel gate, she paused, and seemed to
hesitate; but then taking heart of grace, she hastened forward again,
and, without looking to the right or left, approached the shrine.
Her orisons were somewhat long, for the Count, and the jester, who had
again entered the good priest's cell, remained there for half an hour,
and when they came forth and rode on towards the Abbey, Bertha was
still at prayer.