With blast of trumpet, and an air of triumph, the small force of the
Count of Ehrenstein marched up towards the gates of the castle. Each
individual soldier, long deprived of the means of winning any renown
in those "piping times of peace," felt an individual pride in having
fought and conquered; though, to say sooth, the two knights, and older
warriors were not very well contented that so small and inglorious a
part of the short siege of Eppenfeld had fallen to their share. The
youths might boast, they thought, and plume themselves upon so poor an
exploit, and some little honour might attach to those who had taken a
share in the first operations; but the days had been when the men of
Ehrenstein would not have remained inactive, watching to catch the
runaways, while the retainers of a friendly prince assailed the castle
itself, and underwent all the danger and fatigue of the assault. The
Count was brave and politic, they admitted, and policy has always
something in it which commands a sort of mysterious respect. We admire
what is successful, though we do not understand the principles upon
which success has been achieved; but yet, until discipline has
reached a high pitch, we do not conceive that there can be as much
glory in performing well a passive part, as in taking a share in
operations where peril and energetic action are the means of victory.
Thus many of the best soldiers in the Count's band were somewhat
discontented, and inclined to grumble, while he himself rode on in
silence, communicating to no one his feelings in regard to the result
of their undertaking, or to the plan upon which the enterprise had
been conducted. He had prisoners and treasure with him; and that, old
Seckendorf thought, would be enough to satisfy the Count; but the good
ritter himself was dissatisfied that he had not an opportunity of
striking a strong stroke, and longed for a more energetic and less
politic leader, although he owned that but little was to be done in
those days of art and negotiation, compared with the times when he
himself was young, and the sword decided all.
Very different is the operation of every passion upon the individual
on whom it acts. As the relative forces of agent and object always
modify the effect of every cause, the character of the person who
feels changes entirely the result of the emotions which act upon him.
Some men are elated by success; some almost depressed in spirit. With
some men the heart seems to expand under the sunshine of fair fortune,
with some to contract; as particular flowers open in the shade, while
others spread their breasts abroad to the bright day. The Count of
Ehrenstein was one on whom the light seemed to have no enlarging
influence; and while his men, especially the younger, laughed and
talked, he rode on from Eppenfeld towards his own stronghold, in
gloomy silence and deep thought. Hardly one word proffered he to any
one by the way, and ever and anon he looked back to the body of
prisoners with the Baron at their head, who followed, strongly
guarded, in the rear of his troop. Then, and only then, what may be
called a feeble look came over his countenance--a look of doubt and
hesitation, as if he were trying some question with his own heart,
which he found it difficult to solve.
At a short distance from the castle he was met by Martin of Dillberg,
who stopped and spoke to him for a few minutes in a low voice. Those
who were near saw an expression of sudden anger spread over the face
of their lord; his pale cheek flushed, his brow grew black as night,
his hands grasped the reins tight, and he replied in quick and hurried
tones. But after a time the young man rode on towards Eppenfeld, and
the troop, which had halted, recommenced its march. The fierce look of
the Count, however, speedily passed away; he turned his eyes again to
the Baron, and once more fell into gloomy thought.
At the end of about half an hour, the cavalcade approached the gates
of Ehrenstein, and the Count passed over the drawbridge, and under the
arch of the gateway, where Ferdinand of Altenburg stood, with some of
the soldiery, to receive him. If, as I have said, the operations of
passions are very different upon different individuals, the fact was
never more strikingly displayed than in the case of Ferdinand. He knew
that a moment of great peril had arrived, he felt that the purchase of
a few hours of joy might now have to be paid in his blood; he feared
also for her he loved more than for himself; but the emotions of such
a situation called forth in his mind powers of which he had been
ignorant: and although at first he had been agitated and almost
bewildered, he now stood calm and collected, marking well the heavy
frown upon the Count's brow, and a look of sudden fierceness that came
into his face when their eyes first met, but prepared for whatever
might follow and ready to endure it firmly.
The Count of Ehrenstein dismounted slowly, and, without addressing a
word to his young follower, called Seckendorf and Mosbach to him,
giving them directions for lodging the prisoners securely, and
especially for placing the Baron of Eppenfeld in a chamber apart, in
one of the high towers. He then spoke a word or two in a low tone to
Karl von Mosbach, which seemed somewhat to surprise him; but the Count
repeated aloud and emphatically, "Not for one moment! You will soon
know the reason." Then turning to Ferdinand he said, "Has all gone
quietly in the castle?"
"No, my good lord," replied the young gentleman, boldly. "That youth,
Martin of Dillberg, who came hither with Count Frederick, dared to
lock me in my chamber, and has since fled on horseback. I should have
pursued him and brought him back, but I had no horses saddled."
"He will come back very soon," said the Count, in a marked tone.
"I doubt it, my good lord," answered Ferdinand; "he knows that I have
a charge to bring against him which may cost his life; and which, if I
had been permitted to join you before Eppenfeld, I should have made
ere now."
"Indeed," said the Count musing; "it may be so."
"Nay, noble Sir, it is," replied the young gentleman, thinking the
Count's words were an answer to what he had said, rather than to what
was passing in his own mind; "I am ready to state the whole now, if
you have time; for as I see the Baron of Eppenfeld is a prisoner in
your hands, you have the means of testing the truth at once."
"Not now," rejoined the Count; "not now,--I have other matters to
think of. I will hear you in an hour."
As he spoke, the Baron was led past, and the Lord of Ehrenstein
immediately followed. Ferdinand remained musing in the court, not
daring to seek any means of communicating with his young bride, and
doubtful what course to follow.
As he thus stood, Seckendorf came up, and drawing him aside, demanded,
"What is this, Ferdinand? Mosbach, tells me he has orders not to suffer
you to pass the gates, or to take a step beyond the walls, the little
hall, or the tower in which you sleep. What have you been doing, you
graceless young dog? Is your affair with Bertha come to light?"
Ferdinand saw that his apprehensions were but too just, but he replied
calmly, "I know not what our lord suspects, Seckendorf: he mentioned
no charge against me to myself; but doubtless, whatever it is, it
springs from the malice of Martin of Dillberg, who is right well aware
that when this affair of the plunder of the Italian merchants is
inquired into, his treason to his lord will be apparent."
"Ay, ay; is it so?" cried Seckendorf. "I saw him stop the Count and
speak with him just now. What! I suppose he has been dealing with the
Baron, and was to have shared the booty?"
"Something like it, I believe," answered Ferdinand; "but as the Baron
is here, he can prove the truth of what he told me."
"So then the tale came from him," said Seckendorf; "I fear it is not
to be trusted."
"It was spoken in the presence of many of his people and of some of
ours," answered Ferdinand. "However, it is my duty to repeat what he
told me; and if he has not had some communication with Martin of
Dillberg, I see not how his tongue could be so glibe with his name, as
the youth has but lately returned with Count Frederick from the East."
"Right, right," answered Seckendorf; "thou art as shrewd as a
blood-hound, Ferdinand. Doubtless the lad is afraid of thy tale, and
has brought some charge against thee to cover his own treachery."
"It may be so,--it may not," answered Ferdinand. "However, Mosbach
must obey our lord's behest, so I will even take myself to the
battlements, which are within the limits you have mentioned."
Thus saying, he turned away, and walked up to the wall, gazing
anxiously towards Father George's cell, yet taking care to pace up and
down with as unconcerned an air as possible, that no eye watching him
from the main building or its manifold towers might see the anxious
expectation of his heart, or judge in what direction his thoughts
turned. It were vain to deny that he revolved, with eager rapid
emotions, all the circumstances of his fate, and strove to discover
some cause of hope; some clue to escape from the dangers that menaced
him on every side. At one time it seemed impossible that anything but
the most fatal result could ensue. He knew the Count too well to think
that he would be merciful--he knew the customs, if not the laws, of
the land too well, not to feel certain that his death would be deemed
only a reasonable atonement for the deed he had ventured to do. But
then, again, he asked himself, would the good priest who had been as a
father to him from his infancy, sanction, counsel, aid him in an
enterprise so perilous to all concerned in it, unless he had the most
positive assurance that he could guide the course he had pointed out
to a happy termination, and shield those from peril who, in following
the dictates of their own inclination, had also followed his advice
and exhortation. But still apprehension predominated; and though, at
each turn he took, his eyes were directed to the little chapel in the
wood, his hopes were destined to be disappointed. The door of the
priest's cell he could not see, but he caught several glimpses of the
road, and the second time he reached the point where he had the best
view, he saw a female figure--which he instantly concluded to be that
of Bertha--approach the chapel, and disappear behind the angle of the
building. It scarcely was obscured a moment ere it reappeared again,
and then was lost in the wood, "She has not found him," said Ferdinand
to himself; "he is absent--was ever anything so unfortunate?" and he
turned again upon the battlements lost in thought.
In the mean while, the Count of Ehrenstein had followed close upon the
steps of those who led the Baron of Eppenfeld to the place of his
imprisonment; and the door was not yet fully bolted and barred when he
caused it to be opened again, and entered, directing the three
soldiers who had conveyed the captive thither to wait at the foot of
the stairs till he came out. Then, closing the door behind him, he
confronted the prisoner with a stern brow, and teeth close shut. The
Baron gave him back look for look; and a smile, slight but sarcastic,
curled his lip.
"Well, Baron of Eppenfeld," said the Count; and then paused.
"Well, Count of Ehrenstein," replied the Baron; and he also stopped in
the midst, for the other to go on.
"You sent me a message, last night," said the Count; "and you were
fool enough, in your drunken sleepiness, not to take advantage of the
opportunity given you, and to suffer the hot-headed Count of Leiningen
to blow your gates open, when you might have escaped two hours
before."
"Very unlucky for you, Count," replied the Baron of Eppenfeld, in a
tone of provoking coolness. "You should have sent me some answer to my
message, and then I should have known how to act."
"I could not; I had no time; I had no opportunity," answered the Count
of Ehrenstein. "All I could do, after I received that message, was to
withdraw my men to the east, and leave you room to escape with all
your treasure."
"But why answered you not the first," asked the Baron; "the message
that I sent you by young Ferdinand of Altenburg?--I thought better of
it after a time, it is true, and judged that a short repose in
Eppenfeld would do him good; but when he got out, he must have told
you what I said, which was just the same thing; and instead of a
friendly reply or friendly comment, your first act was to march
against me."
"And you told Ferdinand of Altenburg?" said the Count, with a moody
look. "Pray, what was it you told him?"
"The same, as near as may be," answered the Baron, "that I told the
other."
"The other is dead," replied the Count; "and Ferdinand of Altenburg is
in peril. You shall judge, by the way in which I treat him, how I deal
with those who possess perilous secrets."
Thus saying, he opened the door, called one of the soldiers from the
bottom of the stairs, and, when he reached the room, bade him hasten
to Karl von Mosbach, and direct him to arrest Ferdinand of Altenburg,
and place him in confinement in the dark cell below the lesser hall.
"Now, Baron," he said, as soon as the man was gone, "What think you,
now?"
"That you are a hard-hearted villain," answered the Baron, "and ten
times worse than myself, bad as men call me. The youth served you well
and boldly; he risked his life, I can tell you, to do your bidding,
and this is the way you repay him. But I don't believe it; you will
not injure him for any words he has heard from me."
"If I live till noon to-morrow," answered the Count, in a cold,
deliberate tone, "he shall lose his head by the axe, upon those
battlements."
"Then, there will be rare chopping," answered the Baron, with a laugh;
"for eight or nine of your men heard the message I sent--the words
were addressed to him, but they were spoken in the hearing of many."
"This is no jesting matter, Baron," said the Count; "let me tell you
that your own life or death is the question. I shall give this youth
time to prepare, for he is my own sworn follower, and no one can see
or tamper with him. But your case is different; and all the time I can
allow you is one hour, for the questions between us must be despatched
before the return of those who are now destroying the wolf's den."
Even this stern announcement seemed to have but a small effect upon
the captive. "All which that shows," he answered, with a shrug of the
shoulders, "is, that you take little time to deliberate upon murdering
a prisoner. You cannot frighten me, Count of Ehrenstein! I have
confronted death many a time a month, during twenty years or more; and
if in all this talking you have some object in view, you had better
speak it plainly at once, and not strive to reach it by threats."
"Should I not be a fool to trust you living," asked the Count, "when
you can use such threats to me?"
"Oh, dear! no," answered his prisoner; "whatever I have done, I have
never broken an oath in my life; and I am quite ready to relieve you
from all fears, upon certain conditions."
"Ha!" said the Count, "what may they be?"
"First, that you will give me the means of escape," answered the
Baron.
"At the present moment that is impossible," replied the Count; "but
to-night it may be done. What more?"
"Secondly, I must have some small sum of gold to get me together a
band in some distant country. If I were to go wandering about here
without my stone walls around me, I should soon be caught, and I have
no mind to find myself embroiled with the Imperial Court. I will be
content with a small amount; and the third condition is, that you deal
not harshly with that youth Ferdinand. On my life! I believe he
neither knows nor suspects anything from what I said. He seemed not to
heed it, as if he thought you to be too honest a man to do aught that
was wrong. He paid much more attention to what I said concerning Count
Frederick, and Martin of Dillberg--he marked that right well."
"Ay, and what was that?" asked the Count.
"Why, I told him how that same Martin came to me, and, upon promise of
a share of the booty, warned me of the passage of those Italian
merchants. Faith! they came sooner than he expected; for he said, some
three weeks hence. But I kept a sharp watch, for fear of accidents,
and an unlucky watch it has turned out: for Count Frederick has got
all the money, and the castle to boot."
The Count mused for a few moments, with his arms crossed upon his
chest, and then replied, "Well, we shall see. Leave the youth to me; I
promise that he shall suffer nothing on your account. The money you
shall have, and freedom too, if you can give me such a pledge as I can
depend upon."
"I can give you nought else than my oath, Sir Count," answered the
Baron, stoutly, "You have taken all else from me. The pig has nothing
but the pig's skin."
"Well, you shall swear," answered the other; "but yet I would fain
have some other bond than air."
"Give me your dagger," said the Baron. "I will swear on the cross
thereof."
But the Count of Ehrenstein was too wary to trust a weapon in the hand
of a foe. "No," he said, "I will have you swear on a holy relic I have
in the chapel, and by the mass.--But you can write, I think?"
"I can make something which they tell me is my name," answered the
Baron of Eppenfeld, who, like an eager chapman, grew in impatience to
possess the object of his desire, as he who could grant it seemed to
hesitate.
"Well then, you shall sign a paper stating that all the aspersions of
my name which, in the heat of passion, you uttered to my retainer,
Ferdinand of Altenburg, are false and groundless," said the Count;
"that will satisfy me."
"How shall I know what the paper is?" asked the Baron; but immediately
afterwards he added, "Well, well, it matters not. You swear that I
shall have my liberty, and I will sign."
"I swear it," answered the Count, kissing the cross of his dagger.
"Wait, and I will write the paper, which shall be read to you word by
word."
"I must needs wait when I cannot get away," replied the prisoner; and
when the Count had quitted the chamber, he murmured, "Accursed dog! I
will be a match for thee still."