The travellers paused not till they had to turn their horses up the
side of the hills; but then the beasts slackened their pace without
the riders drawing the rein, for the ascent was steep, and the roads
not so good as they are now. A wide wood covered the slopes; and the
path wound in and out amongst the trees, while glimpses of the rising
moon were seen through the brakes, where the leafy screen fell away;
and often a straggling ray of moonlight was caught pouring over the
bushes, even where the bright orb of night was invisible to the eye of
the wanderer.
"I know not how to offer you my thanks, Franz," said Ferdinand of
Altenburg, as he laid down the bridle on the beast's neck. "I know you
would have no wordy gratitude; and I must not hope that you will ever
be in circumstances which may enable me to return you the kindness you
have shown me. Nevertheless I hope some occasion may come when I can
prove to you how deeply I feel it."
"God send that Franz Creussen may ever want help as little as he needs
it now," answered the stout smith; "and God send he may ever be as
able and as willing to lend it to those who deserve it, Master
Ferdinand. I know not which would be the greatest curse, to be
unwilling though able, or to be willing and yet unable, to aid a good
fellow-creature in his need. The first, methinks; for though in the
latter case one might feel much pain, in the former one would have no
pleasure. But it is not gratitude or service in return, one works for.
One hammers iron for pay; but one does not do what is kind for
recompense of any sort. On the contrary, I think one takes a greater
pleasure in serving a person who can never repay it, especially when
one has served him before. Now I have had a kindness for you from your
boyhood. Do you remember when you used to come to me from the Abbey to
give you fishing lines to catch the poor shining fellows out of the
stream--the White fish and the May fish? A little curly-headed urchin
you were then, as wild as a young roe deer, but not half so timid."
"I remember it well, Franz," replied Ferdinand, "those were happy
days, and I shall never forget them. You were always very kind to me,
and I believe used to spoil me, and do everything I asked you."
"Not a whit, not a whit," cried the smith. "I pitched you into the
river once when you were over wilful, just to cool your fire; and then
I pulled you out again, and laughed at you, which did you more good
than the wetting.--But that was a long time ago--you were just six
years old then."
"I recollect it well," answered the young gentleman, "and it served me
right. I have never failed to think of it when I have felt inclined to
give way to angry impatience. It was just by the mill pond."
"Ay, your memory is good," said the smith, "can you remember anything
before that?"
"Oh, yes," replied Ferdinand, after a moment's thought; "I can
recollect many things that happened at the Abbey. I can remember, when
the Abbot Waldimer died, the great bell tolling, and how hard it was
for Father George to teach me to read and write."
"Ay, but before that?" asked Franz Creussen. "Can you recall any other
place, before you were at the Abbey?"
"Sometimes I think I do," was the young gentleman's reply. "You know,
Franz, when one is riding along in the night, everything will seem
dark and indistinct around one, with trees, and rocks, and houses, all
faint, and scarcely to be distinguished one from the other, taking
strange shapes and unnatural forms; and then, if one passes the open
door of a cottage where there is a light burning, or a forge like
yours, one suddenly sees a small space around, all clear and defined;
and then the minute after everything is dark again. Now the past seems
to me just like that. I see, when I turn my eyes to the days of my
childhood, a number of strange vague things, of which I can make out
the forms but faintly, and know not what they are; but here and there
comes a spot of brightness, where all seems as if it were now before
my eyes."
"Ay, that is curious," said the smith. "Can you tell me any of these
matters that you recollect so clearly?"
Ferdinand paused a moment, and then answered, "I am sure I can trust
you, Franz; but Father George warned me to tell no one at the castle
anything I may be able to remember of my early days."
"I am not of the castle," answered Franz Creussen; "and besides, if I
chose, I could tell you more of those days than you yourself could
tell me."
"Indeed," answered Ferdinand; "I remember you, it is true, ever since
my boyhood, but still, I do not see your figure in any of those
visions which sometimes come back upon me."
"Ay, but I've held you in my arms when you were not a twelvemonth
old," said his companion, "and carried you at my saddle-bow during six
hours of a long night. It is true I did not see you for years after,
till Franz Creussen became the Abbey smith, and you the ward of Father
George. But tell me what you recollect, lad, for you may tell me
safely. I can keep counsel, as you may see; but things are now coming
to a close, and it is right we should all understand each other."
"The first thing I can recollect," said the young gentleman, "seems to
me a fine house in a small town, with gardens and trees, and a
beautiful lady I called mother,--that is a pleasant dream, Franz, full
of happy things, sports of childhood, joys in flowers, and in birds'
songs,--I am sure I remember it well, for nobody has talked to me
about those things since, and it cannot be all fancy."
"No, no," answered Franz Creussen; "it is all true, quite true, and
the lady was your mother! What more?"
"The next thing I remember," continued the young man; "is a less happy
day. It seems as if I had been playing at my mother's knee in that
same house--it was not a castle, but like the dwelling of some rich
burgher,--and then suddenly came in a messenger, with what seemed evil
tidings; for the lady wept, and in a few minutes all was bustle and
confusion, packing up clothes and other things in haste; and then
people spurring away at fiery speed, till I was weary, and fell
asleep."
"Ay, ay, who carried you, then?" said the smith; "who but Franz
Creussen? What do you recollect next?"
"There must have been a long interval," replied Ferdinand; "for I was
a bigger boy then; and of the intervening time I re-member little or
nothing; but shortly after that it seems as if I was very lonely and
sad, and seldom saw my mother, till one night I was called into a room
where she lay upon a bed propped up with pillows, and there were
priests in the room, and men in black gowns, and the girl called
Caroline, who used to nurse me; but my mother's face was sadly changed
then,--it was thin and sharp, and pale, and the lips seemed bloodless,
but her eyes were exceedingly bright, and her teeth as white as driven
snow. She had a crucifix lying before her,--I recollect it well--a
black cross with an ivory figure on it,--and she put her arms round my
neck, and kissed me often, and prayed God to bless me, and make me
happier and more fortunate than my father and herself.--That was not
long before I went to the Abbey, I think; but I never saw her after."
Franz Creussen was silent for a moment or two, apparently from some
emotion of the mind, but at length he answered, in a low tone, "She
died that night, Ferdinand. You remember more than I thought, and I
doubt not a few words would make you remember much more still. But
here we are upon the top of the hill, and if Father George requires
you to-night, it will be well for you to ride on quickly, for the day
will be dawning ere long."
"I had better go to the castle first," replied Ferdinand; "for if the
Count be not on his way to Eppenfeld, he may blame me for delay."
"No need, no need," answered the smith; "he is on the way, I am sure;
but we shall find some of the men at the forge, who will tell us.
There lies the village, not a hundred yards in advance."
The tidings they received at the blacksmith's dwelling showed, as he
had expected, that the Count of Ehrenstein had passed nearly an hour
before, and that, having met, farther on, and questioned some of the
party to whom Ferdinand owed his deliverance, he had sent back a
message by them, commanding his young follower not to join him at
Eppenfeld, but to remain at the Castle of Ehrenstein till his return.
Bidding adieu to the smith, with hearty thanks, Ferdinand spurred on
alone, but paused for a moment at the chapel in the wood, and knocked
at the door of the good priest. At first no answer was returned, but a
second summons soon roused Father George from his slumbers, and
brought him to the door.
The grey dawn was now beginning to break, and as soon as the priest
beheld the face of his young ward, he exclaimed, "Not to-night,
Ferdinand, not to-night.--Night do I call it? Heaven help us! it is
morning. See you not the sun coming up there? To-morrow night, my boy,
as soon as all in the castle are asleep, come down, and bring the lady
with you. I pray this Baron of Eppenfeld may keep the Counts before
his tower for a day or two."
"I doubt that such will be the case, good Father," answered Ferdinand,
"for there is a postern open, and they have tidings of it."
"That is unlucky," said the priest, "but speed you on to the castle,
and hide well your purpose from every eye. Let no one see you
thoughtful or agitated, and go early to rest, as if you were tired
with the labours of the days past. Away, Ferdinand, away."
The young man waved his hand and rode on, and in a few minutes his
horse was in front of the great gates. Beckoning to one of the
sentinels on the walls, he told him to go down and wake the warder to
let him in. But the man came down himself, and unbarred the gates,
while Ferdinand, dismounting, led his horse across the draw-bridge.
"Ha! God's benison on you, Master Ferdinand!" said the soldier. "You
have luck to get out of the castle of Eppenfeld. How did you manage
that?"
"I will tell you all another time, Henry," replied the young
gentleman. "I am tired now, and hungry, to say sooth. Who is in the
castle?"
"Why, the Count went forth some time ago," replied the man, "and left
nought but a guard of twenty men, with the women, and Count
Frederick's priest, and him they call Martin of Dillberg."
Ferdinand muttered something to himself which the soldier did not
hear, and then led on his horse towards the stable. None of the grooms
were up; but every young gentleman in those days was well accustomed
to tend his own horse, and, though it must be confessed, the escaped
captive did what was necessary for his poor charger as rapidly as
possible, yet he did not neglect him. As soon as this duty was
accomplished, he hurried back into the castle; and had any one been
watching him, it might have been observed that his step became more
light and noiseless as he ascended the great stairs, and passed along
the corridor, which stretched across one entire side of the principal
mass of the building. At the door next but one to that of the Count of
Ehrenstein, he paused for several moments, and looked up with an
anxious and hesitating look, as if he doubted whether he should go in.
But the morning light was by this time shining clear through the
casements; he heard the sound of persons moving below, and for
Adelaide's sake he forbore, and walked on towards the narrow staircase
which led to his own chamber. Ere he had taken ten steps, however, a
sound, as slight as the whisper of the summer wind, caused him to stop
and turn his head; and he saw the face of Bertha looking out from her
mistress's apartments. Instantly going back as noiselessly as
possible, he whispered, "Is your lady waking? Can I come in?"
"Not unless you are mad," answered Bertha. "She has been up all night,
and I too, God wot--though I have slept comfortably in the corner. But
thank Heaven you are safe and well, for her little foolish heart would
break easy enough if anything were to happen to your unworthiness. But
what news? When did you return?"
"I am but this instant back," answered the lover, "I have been captive
at Eppenfeld, and only freed by good Franz Creussen. Tell her that I
have seen Father George, however, and that he says--mark well,
Bertha--to-morrow night, as soon as all is quiet in the castle. She
will soon understand."
"Oh, I understand, too," answered Bertha, "for I have seen Father
George as well as you--forced to go down to do your errands. Well,
poor souls, as there is no other to help you, I must. But now tell me
how is all this to be arranged?"
"I will come, I will come," replied Ferdinand, "as soon as every one
is asleep."
"Well, on my word, you gain courage quickly," exclaimed Bertha. "You
will come! What, here?"
"Ay, anywhere," rejoined Ferdinand; "if it cost me life, pretty
Bertha, I would come--but hark, there are people stirring above--Tell
your lady--adieu."
"Be cautious, be cautious, rash young man," said the girl, and
instantly drawing back, closed the door.
On the stairs Ferdinand encountered Martin of Dillberg, who would fain
have stopped him to speak of his adventures; but the former passed on,
after a brief answer to the youth's inquiry regarding his escape; and
Martin of Dillberg proceeded on his way, with his lip curling for a
moment in a sneering smile, which faded away quickly, and gave place
to a look of deep and anxious thought.
Ferdinand sought no great length of repose; but was speedily down
again in the halls of the castle, on the battlements, in the
corridors, in the hope of somewhere meeting her he loved. Nor was he
disappointed; for some hours before noon, Adelaide came forth, with
hopes and wishes like his own, to walk upon the walls.--But hardly
had she and Ferdinand met--not ten words had been spoken between
them--when Martin of Dillberg was at the lady's side; and thus during
the whole day were they deprived of all means of direct communication.
As if he divined their object, and was resolved to frustrate it, the
youth was always on the watch, ever near, never abashed, although the
effect of his presence on their conversation was only too visible.
Thus passed by hour after hour, till towards evening, tidings arrived
that the two Counts were still beneath the walls of Eppenfeld, and
that but little progress had been made in the siege. Ferdinand
questioned the messenger as to whether the postern by which he had
escaped had been attempted; but upon that point the man could give him
no information; and the young gentleman thought it his duty to send
the soldier back to his lord with intelligence in case the news which
had been formerly sent had been misunderstood or not received--and
with a request that he might be permitted to join the attacking force
on the following day.
For one brief moment, soon after the messenger had departed, Adelaide
and her lover were alone together; and ere their tormentor was upon
them again, she had time to say, "Bertha has told me all, dear
Ferdinand, I shall be ready."
Not long after, she retired to her own apartments for the night; and
her lover remained in the hall with Martin of Dillberg and Count
Frederick's chaplain, trying to weary them out, till nearly eleven
o'clock at night. Then declaring that he was tired with all that he
had done during the preceding day,--which was true enough,--he
withdrew to his own chamber, and there sat meditating over the
happiness of the coming hour. The moments seemed sadly long; it
appeared as if the sounds of voices speaking and closing doors would
never end; but at length the noises ceased, one after the other; and
after waiting half an hour without hearing anything stir within the
walls, with a beating but happy heart, Ferdinand approached his door,
opened it, and listened.