THE Count of Ehrenstein retired to his chamber to write, passing the
soldiers, whom he had directed to wait at the bottom of the stairs,
without speaking to them: he did not signify to them that they might
retire; he did not tell them to take food or wine to the captive,
though the journey of the morning had been long and fatiguing, and
none of the party had broken bread since they marched from Eppenfeld.
But the good lord was a keen calculator, and he judged that the men
would watch better, the Baron prove more tractable, fasting than well
fed. He remained some time alone, writing and destroying what he had
written--for he was as difficult to please in his composition as a
young lover in his first letter to his mistress. Now he thought that
the terms he used were too plain and condemnatory of the Baron's own
conduct for him to sign them readily; now they were not fully
satisfactory to himself; and he strove so to express himself that the
words might imply more than they actually stated in his own favour. At
length, however, the work was completed, and calling some one from
without, he bade him seek Count Frederick's chaplain, for he was
anxious to give the whole proceeding an air of candour and
straightforwardness which it did not, in truth, possess.
When the good priest appeared, he said, with an air which, for him who
assumed it, was unusually free and unembarrassed, "I wish you, good
Father, to carry this paper to the Baron of Eppenfeld, whom you will
find confined above, where one of my men will lead you, and to read to
him the contents. It seems that to my good follower, Ferdinand of
Altenburg, he used foul and calumnious expressions regarding me; and
that now, being sorry for having done so, he would fain retract them
and make amends. I have put down nearly his own words. If he will sign
them, well; if not, do not press him. Pray let him see that I am
indifferent to his exculpation or his charges, and hold as little
communication with him as possible till my noble friend Count
Frederick's return, as I am anxious that aught we may have to say to
this notorious culprit should be said by mutual understanding and
consent."
The priest took the paper, and promised to observe the directions to
the letter; and, after having given him a conductor to the Baron's
prison, the Count paced up and down his chamber in gloomy expectation.
It seemed to him that his envoy was long; he would fain have gone to
listen to what passed between him and the captive; but he did not
dare; and at length he cast himself down upon a seat, and taking a
book from the shelf, affected to read. Scarcely had he done so, when
the chaplain returned; and, though the Count's keen eye fixed upon him
with an eager and inquiring glance, it could discover nothing in his
countenance but the air of a good honest man who had just transacted a
piece of ordinary business.
"There is the paper signed, noble Count," he said; "the poor man
expresses himself all hungered, and asks for meat and drink."
"Did he make any difficulty as to signing this?" asked the Count;
adding, "I hope you pressed him not."
"There was no need, my son," answered the priest, "he signed it at
once, and seemed wondrous meek considering all we have heard of him.
All he complained of was thirst and hunger; and, good sooth, he should
have food, seeing that he says he has not tasted aught since late last
night, and it is three of the clock even now."
"Three!" exclaimed the Count; "is it three? How the time flies!"
"Hasting on towards eternity," replied the priest; "it is well to
think of such things."
"It is," answered the Lord of Ehrenstein; "he shall have food. Thanks,
Father, for your pains; the poor man shall have food:--I had forgot
how rapidly time speeds away from us;--thanks."
As soon as the chaplain was gone, he read the paper over again, and
marked well the scrawl which testified the Baron of Eppenfeld's
concurrence in the truth of its contents; and then he somewhat
regretted that he had not made them stronger in expression,
considering the facility with which it had been signed. But after
having carefully locked it in a casket, he turned his thoughts to
other subjects, only second in importance to that which had just been
discussed and settled.
"Now, then, for this strange tale," he said; "I cannot believe it
true. He would not dare;--and yet the youth spoke boldly. It may be
malice after all: I never saw aught but such reverence as might become
one in his station to the daughter of his lord; nor, on her part,
aught but kindness--gentle, yet not familiar--such as she shows to
all. And yet it is strange she has not come forth to greet her father
on his return. She never failed before. Oh, if it be so, my vengeance
shall be long remembered in the land;--but no, it is impossible! I
will never believe it. This Martin of Dillberg is a proved traitor:
the Baron's words condemn him; and he has known that Ferdinand would
bring him to the question, and with the common art of half-fledged
villany, has taken the poor vantage ground of the first charge. But it
must be inquired into--must be refuted. I will call the youth before
me:--nay, I will see her first.--But I will not tax her with it: such
accusations often plant in the mind the first seeds of deeds to come.
I have known many a guiltless heart made guilty by being once
suspected."
With these thoughts--for it is wonderful how often the same reflexions
present themselves to the pure and to the corrupt, only their effects
upon action are different--he went forth into the corridor, and opened
the door of his daughter's apartments. In the ante-chamber the girl
Theresa was sitting alone at her embroidery, and the Count asked,
"Where is your mistress? How is it she has not been to greet her
father on his return?"
"I know not, my good lord," replied the girl, apparently embarrassed
by a certain degree of sternness in his tone. "I believe my lady
sleeps; I heard her say she had rested ill last night."
"Go call her," said the Count. "Sleeps at midday! she must be ill. We
must have some physician."
The maid did not venture to reply, but went in at once to the lady's
chamber; and the moment after Adelaide herself came forth. Her fair
face was as pale as death, but yet her air was firm, and she seemed to
the eye but little agitated. Her step was slow, however, and showed
none of the buoyant joys with which, in former times, she sprang to
meet her father.
"How now, my child?" said the Count, as soon as he saw her; "what!
sleeping at this time of day? You must be ill, Adelaide."
"I slept not, father," she answered at once; "I never sleep by day."
"Then why came you not, as usual, to meet me?" asked the Count. "In
what important task have you been busy that you could not give a
moment to greet your father on his return from strife?"
"In prayer," she answered, simply.
"In prayer!" he repeated;--"why in prayer at this hour to-day?"
"At this hour and day in every year I am in prayer," she answered;
"for it is the hour and day my mother left me."
A deep shade fell upon her father's face: "True--I forgot," he said;
"the busy occupation of the last few hours has driven from my mind
things I am wont to remember: but now sit down beside me, my dear
child. This foolish girl, Theresa, says you rested ill."
"She says true," answered Adelaide, taking the place to which her
father pointed; "I slept but little."
"And where did you ramble in your waking thoughts?" asked the Count.
"Far and wide," was her reply; but as she answered, she bent down her
head, the colour rose into her cheek, and there was a confession in
her whole air which made her father's heart beat quick and fiercely.
Nearly in vain he strove to master himself, and in a hurried, yet
bitter tone, he said: "Perchance, as far as the chapel in the wood."
His daughter remained silent. "And not without a companion," he added.
"Base, wretched girl, what have you done? Is this your maiden
modesty?--is this your purity and innocence of heart?--are these the
lessons that your mother taught you?"
Suddenly Adelaide raised her head, and though with a crimson cheek and
brow, she answered, "Yes! Nothing, my lord,--neither deep, true love,
nor human persuasion, nor girl-like folly, nor one idle dream of
fancy--would have made me do what I have done, had I not been sure
that duty--ay, duty even to you, required me to forget all other
things, the fears of my weak nature, the habits of my station, all the
regards of which I have been ever careful,--my very name and fame, if
it must be so, and do as I have done."
"Duty to me!" exclaimed the Count, vehemently. "I thought you wise as
well as good. You are a fool, weak girl, and have suffered a
treacherous knave to impose upon you by some idle tale:--but he shall
dearly rue it. Time for prayer and shrift is all that he shall have
'twixt now and eternity."
"He is my husband," answered Adelaide; "and--"
"Go, make your widow's weeds then," cried her father; "for no husband
will you have after to-morrow's dawn."
"Yet, listen," she said, in an imploring tone; "condemn not before you
have heard. He is guiltless of having deceived me, if I have been
deceived: he told me no false tale, for all he said was that he loved
me--and that he does; he pleaded no excuse of duty--"
"Who, then?" demanded her father; "who then, I say? Ah! I can guess
right well; that false priest, who has always been the bitterest enemy
of me and mine. Is it so, girl?--Answer, is it so?"
"If you mean Father George," replied Adelaide, slowly, "you are right.
He bade me tell you the fact, if it became absolutely necessary to do
so; but oh, my father! you do him wrong. He is not an enemy to you and
yours--far, very far--"
"Out upon you, wretched girl!" exclaimed the Count, growing more and
more furious every moment. "I know him but too well; and for what he
has done I will have bitter retribution. I will lay his abbey in
smoking ruins for his sake; but first he shall see the results of his
dark intrigues on those he has attempted to force into high stations.
He shall see the blood of his beggar brother's child stain the axe, as
he has well deserved--ay, and he shall have notice that if he would
ever see his face again it must be ere to-morrow. He may come to
shrive him for the block, if he will; but I swear, by all I hold holy!
that daring traitor shall never see another sun set than that which
has this day arisen."
"Hold, hold, my father!" cried Adelaide; "first, for your daughter's
sake; for, did you do the act you threaten, the blow must fall on her,
not him alone. Be sure that she would not survive him long. Nay, look
not scornful, for it is too true; but, if not for her sake, for your
own, pause but three days, both to give your better spirit time to
act, and to allow yourself to judge with better knowledge. Oh, pause,
my father! Bring not on your head the weight of such a crime; think
what men will say of you--think how the eye of God will judge
you--think what torture your own heart will inflict--how memory will
ever show the spirit of the dead reproaching you, and calling you to
judgment--think what it will seem in your own eyes, when passion has
passed away, to know that you have murdered in your own stronghold
your daughter's husband, and, with the same blow, your own child too."
"Adelaide," said the Count, in a tone less vehement, but more stern,
"what I have sworn, I will do. You have chosen your own course, the
consequences be on your own head. It is you who slay him, not I; but
murder!--no, there shall be no murder. He shall be judged as he
deserves, this very night. We have laws and customs amongst us which
will touch his case--ay, and your own too, were it needful, but that I
am tender of you. However, keep your pleadings for yourself, for you
yet may have need of them. As to him, his fate is sealed."
"Be his and mine together," answered Adelaide, raising her head, and
gazing at her father mildly but firmly. "Let the same judgment pass on
me as on him. Spare not your own child, when she is as guilty, if
there be guilt, as he is. With him did I hope to live; with him I am
content to die. You cannot, and you shall not, separate us."
"Girl, you will drive me mad!" exclaimed the Count. "Cannot separate
you! You shall soon see that. Never shall your eyes behold him again.
He dies at dawn to-morrow; and, in the mean time, hence to your
chamber. There, as a prisoner, shall you remain till all is over. What
further punishment I may inflict, you shall know in time; but think
not to escape. Doubtless these women are sharers in your crime, or, at
least, aiders of your disobedience;" and he turned a fierce glance on
the girl Theresa, who stood pale and trembling near the door.
"Oh no, noble lord!" she exclaimed, casting herself at his knees; "I
never dreamt of such a thing--the lady knows right well."
"It shall be inquired into," said the Count. "Hence to your chamber,
disobedient child; and I will put you under safer guard than this. But
delude yourself with no false hopes; you have seen the last of him
whom you call husband, for I will grant him not another hour beyond
the rise of sun to-morrow. Hark! there are Count Frederick's
trumpets--that suits well. He shall be judged at once. Away, I say!
Why linger you? To your chamber--to your chamber; but I will see that
it is secure."
With a slow step Adelaide entered her own room, followed by her
father. There was before her a little desk for prayer, an open book, a
cross, and the picture of a lady very like herself, and, kneeling
down, she bent her head upon the book,--it might be to weep, it might
be to pray.
The Count's eye rested for an instant on the portrait, and then on his
child. His cheek grew very pale, and, with a hasty glance around the
room, he retired, securing the door behind him.