Ferdinand of Altenburg would have given much for a good horse, a few
words in Adelaide's ear, and a free passage over the drawbridge. They
were the only three wishes he would have formed, at that moment, if
any good fairy would have granted them, but none of those benignant
beings came to his help, and he saw that he must abide his fate,
whatever it might be. For a time he bent down his eyes in deep
despondency, after seeing what he conceived to be Bertha's figure turn
away from the chapel in the wood; but then, again, he gazed round him,
with an anxious glance, looking to the east and to the west, as if in
the vague hope of some help appearing.
The hills which stretched in a wavy line from the old ruined castle
opposite, beyond the abbey in the valley, till they fell in with the
mountains that formed the basin of the Rhine, were clothed, as we have
seen, with wood; but yet every here and there the forest trees would
break away, and leave a patch of meadow or cultivated ground; and in
various other places the different roads that cut direct over the
summits of the hills, left a small spot vacant of trees, like the
entrance of a garden between two walls. Suddenly, at the point where
the road leading towards Eppenfeld crossed the higher ground, the eye
of the young gentleman saw something pass rapidly across, as if a band
of spearmen were proceeding at a quick pace along the road above. The
distance was more than two miles, and he could not be certain that he
was right in his conjecture; but at somewhat less than half a mile
distant from the spot where he had seen this passing object, and
nearer to the castle, a patch of vines, nestling into the bosom of the
sheltering wood, exposed the higher road again, and Ferdinand stopped
in his walk upon the battlements, and gazed for several minutes till
once more the head of a long line of horsemen appeared, with banners
and lances, and glittering arms, which caught and reflected a stray
gleam of sunshine, that poured through the clouds gathering overhead.
"It is Count Frederick," said the young gentleman to himself. "I am
glad of that, for he is kind and noble, and if this charge, whatever
it may be, rests alone upon the testimony of Martin of Dillberg, I may
shake that if I have a fair hearing."
It is true, that when Ferdinand said, in speaking of the charge,
"whatever it may be," a voice from within told him quite plainly what
that charge really was; but ere the last horseman of the train had
passed across the aperture, he heard the sound of footfalls at the
other end of the battlement, and turning in that direction, perceived
old Karl von Mosbach and two of the soldiers advancing towards him.
Now the character of Mosbach, though there was a general resemblance
between all the old ritters of his day, differed considerably from
that of Seckendorf. He was less frank and free, and though, perhaps,
not so full of the active marauding spirit of his companion, was of a
more suspicious and less generous nature. Neither had he ever shown
that sort of warm and paternal friendliness for Ferdinand of Altenburg
which the other old knight had always displayed towards the youth whom
he had seen grow up from boyhood. These circumstances, and a knowledge
of the task of watching him, which the Count had assigned to Karl von
Mosbach, did not render his approach particularly agreeable to
Ferdinand, and the first word of the old knight showed that his errand
was as unpleasant as it well could be.
"Come, Master Ferdinand," he said, "you must end your walk. I have the
Count's orders to arrest you, and put you in the cell under the little
hall."
"What for, Mosbach," asked Ferdinand, anxious to obtain any precise
information that he could get.
"Nay, that is no business of mine," replied the old ritter, "you will
soon hear from the Count himself, I dare say. My business is to obey
his orders, so come along."
Ferdinand felt no disposition to resist, where he knew that resistance
would be in vain, and therefore, without further comment, he walked
slowly on with Mosbach, followed by the two soldiers, and fearing that
the next moment his arms might be taken from him. The old soldier,
however, did not seem to think of such a precaution, but contented
himself with leading him to the cell, shutting him in, and barring
and bolting the door. Ferdinand was now left, if not in utter
darkness--for there was one small loophole high up, which afforded
air and a slight glimmering of light to the interior--at least in such
a degree of obscurity, that for several minutes he could see none of
the objects around, and though with his arms crossed upon his chest,
and his teeth hard set, he strove vigorously to bear his fate with
firmness, if not tranquillity, the gloom of the place seemed to sink
into his heart, and overcome for the time all the strongly resisting
powers of youth. There was something in his present situation which
depressed him much more than the imprisonment he had so lately
undergone at Eppenfeld. There he knew right well, indeed, that a few
hours might terminate his existence, and now the worst that could
befall him was the same fate; but the difference was in the causes
which might lead to such an end. At Eppenfeld, he knew that if he
died, he died without reproach, in the bold execution of a duty; now,
if he fell, it was under a grave and heavy charge, from which,
notwithstanding all the assurances he had received from the priest, he
could not wholly exculpate himself even to his own heart. He felt that
passion had lent too ready an aid to the promises of others, and
although he had every confidence in the truth and honesty of him with
whom his early years had been spent, yet he could hardly bring himself
to believe that Father George had not both deluded and been deluded
himself.
As he thus stood and mused, the sound of trumpets was borne from
without through the little loophole above, and a momentary gleam of
hope, he knew not why, came to cheer his heart. But the sounds of the
trumpet soon ceased, the trampling of horses was heard as they crossed
the drawbridge, and then many voices in the court-yard, first laughing
and talking loud, then growing fewer and fainter, till at length they
ceased; and no other sounds arose but the occasional call of one
servant to another, or the heavy tramp of a soldier's foot, as he
crossed the courts, or threaded the passages. Hope and expectation
died away again, and the captive sat himself down to meditate bitterly
over the passing away of all those bright dreams we have so lately
seen him indulging. Where was the joy of the night before? Where was
the sunshiny aspect of life that love, and youth, and imagination
afforded? Where was the glowing future, with its hopes and its
ambitions--ambitions, the fiery strength of which was all softened and
sweetened by tenderness and love? Where was the ecstasy of gratified
affection? Where all the splendid pageantry with which fancy decorates
the gratification of every desire to the eager early heart? All, all
had passed away--the bubble had burst, the vision had faded, and
nothing was left but dark despondency, akin to despair. He could have
wept, but then the stubborn heart of man, the touch of the sin which
hurled the powers from on high, the pride of hardy resistance, came to
his support, and he refrained, closing up the sources of his tears,
and strengthening himself in the hardness of resolute endurance.
"No," he thought,--"I will give up such weak regrets; I will think no
more of things that only unman me; I will consider how I may best meet
this charge--what I am to do, what I am to say; and I can say much in
my defence. Who could resist such love as I have felt for her? Who
could help feeling that love who was with her as I have been? Then,
again, Father George, the guardian of my youth, whose counsel and
directions I have ever been taught to follow, he directed, he guided,
he counselled me to act as I have acted, even when I myself hesitated
and doubted. He authorized me, too, to lay the deed on him, and
promised to come forward and support it. The Count may indeed condemn
me, may put me to death, but still I shall die without a stain."
The more he thus reasoned, however, the more Ferdinand felt that his
own case was a perilous one, that although some excuse might be found
for what he had done in the extenuating circumstances over which he
pondered, yet that excuse would be but little available to save him
from destruction. He knew the Count too well, not to be sure that some
victim he would have to assuage his wrath, and that, as against Father
George his hand would be powerless, protected as the priest would be
sure to be by the arm of the church, the whole weight of his
indignation would fall upon him. Thus he thought for some time; but
yet, though his considerations were eager and full of interest, they
were not sufficient to make the passing of the time seem quick. Hour
by hour went by, various sounds succeeded each other in the castle,
each marking some particular epoch in the passing of the day, to the
ear of one who, like Ferdinand of Altenburg, knew well the stated
periods of the daily life within; every moment he expected to be
called to judgment and to doom; but still the time fled and no summons
came, till darkness covered the face of the earth, and he heard the
sound of revelry above. Oh! how dissonant, how painful, how unlike it
had ever been before, was the merry voice and the gay laugh, and the
cheerful noise of the banquet! He thought it a cruelty in the Count to
place him there, a mute and sorrowful ear-witness of happy life, in
which he was no more to partake; and bending down his head, he covered
his eyes with his hands, but it must have been to shut out the sights
that fancy offered, for in the profound gloom around him no other
object was to be discerned.
While he thus sat, he suddenly heard a sound, as if of the clanking of
an iron chain, and then a voice spoke, apparently close beside him.
"Fear not, youth," it said; "be thy heart bold, be thy words true, be
thy faith pure, and fear not!" Ferdinand started up and listened,
almost fancying that his imagination had deceived him. The sounds had
seemed to come from the opposite side to that on which the door was
placed, and they were clear and distinct. It was a voice, too, that he
knew not. That of Father George he would have recognised anywhere; but
it was not his. The tones were deep and firm, like those of a man; and
yet there was a sad and solemn sound in them, which filled Ferdinand's
mind with doubt and awe.
"Who is it that speaks?" he said; and instantly the voice answered,
"It matters not. It is one who knows. Hast thou not seen enough to
make thee believe?"
"I have," answered Ferdinand; "and I do."
But the voice replied not again; and all was silent. The sounds above
had by this time changed their character. Laughter had ceased, the
merriment and the revel seemed over; and though voices were heard
speaking, the tones of some were stern and grave, the tones of another
low and apparently suppliant. For many minutes, Ferdinand's ear
listened eagerly, as the speakers continued; but then steps were heard
coming down the stairs, and through the sort of wide vestibule that
separated the cell in which he was confined from the great hall. An
instant after, the key was turned in the lock, the bolts were drawn
back, and the door opened.