As soon as Father George had rejoined Adelaide of Ehrenstein, he
hurried her rapidly on through the passage, and down the well
staircase, towards the vaults; but in pushing back the door which
opened into the serfs' burial-place, a sharp gust of wind blew out the
lamp, and they were both left in utter darkness.
"I cannot go back for a light," said the priest; "but hold by my gown;
and fear not, daughter."
The sights she had seen, however, in that place, and all the awful
mementoes of mortality which it contained, recurred at once to the
mind of Adelaide, and a chilly shuddering sensation crept over her as
she followed Father George, holding his robe with her right hand, and
feeling the way with her left. Scarcely had they taken a step,
however, when a voice demanded aloud, "Who is it comes hither?"
"It is I," answered the priest, without pausing; "give way to the
holy cross." No farther sounds succeeded, except the shriek of a
screech-owl, as it flitted past; but the moment after, the
out-stretched hand of Adelaide came upon something cold, and round,
and damp, which she instantly perceived to be a mouldering human
skull, and, drawing her arms suddenly back, the movement was succeeded
by a rattling noise, as if a pile of bones had fallen down, one
striking upon the other. Then came a loud laugh, and a whispering
through the arches, and the poor girl faltered on her way, and drew
back.
"Fear not, fear not," said Father George, hurrying her on again. "All
depends upon speed; let us lose no time. Where is that other door? It
should be here.--There is nothing but the wall. We must have got
astray amongst the arches?"
Adelaide's heart sank with fear, and, leaning against the damp
stone-work of the vault, she supported herself with difficulty, while
the priest felt with his hand in order to discover which way the door
lay. Even he seemed puzzled and alarmed, as he proceeded slowly,
saying in broken, muttered sentences, "This is very unlucky. It must
be this way, surely. Keep close by me, daughter, and hold fast by my
robe. It is no jest to lose one's self here. Nay, this is the other
wall; we must have gone wrong again. Stay, I must have recourse to
other means--do not be alarmed." And, raising his voice, he added, in
a loud tone, "Let the chapel door be opened!"
There was a pause, and then a slight rustling sound, and then the
creaking of a heavy door upon a rusty hinge, and the moment after, at
some distance from them on the left, a faint light, which would not
have deserved the name but from the more profound gloom of the vaults,
showed where the door was placed.
"Now, quick, quick, my child;" said Father George. "Lean upon my arm;
there is no need of terror. 'Tis but that I would fain avoid bringing
about hasty deeds that can never be recalled. Day must be coming fast,
by that light; but we shall yet have time." And, hurrying her through
the door into the crypt, he took his way onward toward the arch which
led out upon the side of the hill.
No farther obstruction presented itself, no living object was seen,
and, hastening after her old guide, Adelaide soon felt the fresh
chilly air, which in most countries precedes the dawn of day,
breathing cold upon her cheek. Not a streak was yet to be seen in the
eastern sky, the light clouds above were untouched with the rays of
the coming sun, and the stars were seen peeping through them here and
there, but yet there was a silvery greyness mingling with the darkness
of the night, and showing plainly that morning was at hand.
"Now, my child, all is safe, I trust," said the priest, as they issued
forth. "Take heart, take heart, for you must still walk down to the
chapel, I could not have the horses brought up here."
"Is Ferdinand there?" asked Adelaide, anxiously.
"Nay, nay; he's farther than that by this time, I trust," answered
Father George; "but you shall soon join him, where there will be more
safety for both." Thus saying, he led her on; endeavouring to while
away the time, and cheer her spirits, with kindly words and
assurances; but Adelaide felt deeply depressed; and neither to feel
herself free from the threatened danger, nor to hear the monk's
assurances of her husband's safety, could rouse her from the dread and
apprehension that still hung upon her.
When they were about half way down the hill, and the twilight had so
far increased that they could see the faint outline of the little
chapel from a point of the rock, Father George paused, and looked
down towards it with a somewhat anxious gaze. "It is very odd," he
muttered to himself; "they must have put them on the other side, I
suppose, to keep them out of sight;" and with a still quicker step he
hurried on down the hill, and soon, with his fair companion, reached
the chapel-door.
"Go in, my child, and say an _Ave_ and a _Paternoster_," he said,
"while I look for the horses round here;" and as he spoke he pulled
open the door of the chapel for the lady to go in. He then went quite
round the little building, and, returning to the door of the priest's
lodging-chamber, shook it, exclaiming, "Brother Geoffrey, brother
Geoffrey!" No answer was returned, and, entering the chapel, he said,
in a tone of some alarm, though he strove hard to conceal it, "The
horses have not come, my child, though they should have been here an
hour ago; but you will be quite safe here. Come with me into the cell.
You can take some refreshment there while I go and seek them."
"Oh! do not leave me," cried Adelaide; "I shall die with fear, if I am
left alone."
"No, no--not so," answered the priest; "I will show you in a
moment that you are quite safe;" and, drawing a key from under his
gown, he opened the door which led from the little chapel to the
lodging-chamber at its side, and entered with the lady.
The cell was quite vacant; but on a shelf at one side stood a bottle
of wine and some provisions, which the priest soon placed before
Adelaide, and insisted upon her partaking thereof, though appetite she
had none. "Now, I will go and see for the horses," he said, as soon as
he had made her swallow a morsel, and taste the wine. "But first I
must show you--Hark! they are coming, I think. Did you not hear a
sound?"
"It is from the other side--it is from the castle," cried Adelaide,
starting up in terror; and the monk instantly crossed to a little
lancet-shaped window which looked up the hill, saying, at the same
time, in a confident tone, "No fear if it be, my child."
The next instant he turned round, nodded his head significantly, and
locked the door into the chapel; then advancing to the spot where his
pallet lay, with the crucifix at the head, he put his hand upon one of
the large blocks of stone which formed the wall of the building, and
pressed against it with no great effort. It instantly gave way,
however, rolling back, as a door, upon a strong perpendicular bar of
iron run through the angle of the block,[2] and disclosing the lower
steps of a little staircase, to which he motioned his fair companion.
"Quick; go in, my child," he said, in a low tone, while the horses'
feet came clattering down the hill; and with breathless haste Adelaide
darted forward, and ran some way up the steps. Father George followed,
pushed back the block of stone, and secured it with a bolt. "Go on,
daughter," he said; and, feeling her way up; for the stairs were quite
in darkness, she soon came to a door-way leading into the belfry over
the little chapel. Father George followed her, and reached the belfry
just as two armed horsemen checked their beasts at the door. One of
them, springing down, entered the chapel in haste, but returned
immediately, exclaiming aloud, "He's not in there; and that door's
locked."
--------------------
[Footnote 2: A door, precisely similar to that described, is still to
be seen in the old castle of Baden-Baden.]
--------------------
"Try the other," cried his companion; and the man who had dismounted
going up to the door of the cell, shook it as if he would have forced
it off its hinges, exclaiming aloud, "Father George, Father George!"
The good priest smiled, but replied not, and the next moment the man
without, exclaiming, with an oath, "I will see if he's within or not,"
dashed his gauntleted hand through the lower part of the window, which
was dim with dust and age, and, holding by the stone-work, looked into
the cell.
"There's no one there," he said at length. "Where, in the fiend's
name, can the monk be?"
"Gone to the devil, I suppose," answered the other man, "who has got
more of his companions than they suspect at the abbey, I fancy. But,
at all events, we must go back as fast as may be. The Count won't
catch him in a hurry, I should think."
While he had been speaking, his companion remounted, and they rode off
together towards the castle.
"Now, my child, you will not be afraid to stay here," said the priest,
turning to Adelaide, as soon as the men were gone. "I will not be long
ere I am back, and no harm can happen to you."
"I shall have less fear," replied the lady; "but yet I shall be
afraid. Day is breaking--how shall I ever escape? But look," she
continued, pointing towards the wood, as she stood with her face to
the arch over the bell, "there is a horse coming up that path, and
another behind."
"Brother Geoffrey at last!" exclaimed Father George. "What can have
detained him so long?"
"But it is already day," answered Adelaide, in a desponding tone. "We
shall be pursued, and overtaken."
"No fear, daughter; no fear," answered the good priest. "See you not
that you go well guarded?" and he pointed to a number of horsemen,
habited like the serving brothers of the abbey, who were now coming
out of the path which they had been following, into the small open
space before the chapel.
"Alas!" said the lady; "what could these good men do against my
father's soldiers?"
"There are more who watch for you than you know," said the priest;
"and if these were not enough, there are others on the road ready and
careful; but each of these, daughter, is equal at any time to a
man-at-arms, and not unpractised either. However, I will go with you
till you are beyond all danger, and you may be well assured that I
will do my best to avoid all risk of strife. Now, come with me, and
rely upon my counsels, nor doubt that they will guide you to safety at
last, though I warned you from the first that there were dangers and
sorrows to be encountered."
While he had been speaking, Adelaide's eye had been resting upon the
brake through which the cavalcade was advancing; and at length, to her
joy and surprise, she saw a woman's figure appear amongst the rest.
Father George remarked the expression of satisfaction that passed over
her face; and though she spoke not, he replied to her thoughts,
saying, "It is your girl, Bertha: they have thrown a nun's gown over
her and a veil, which is not quite right, perhaps; but the end
justifies the means."
The good priest's maxim is undoubtedly an immoral one, though Father
George, with some small faults, was a moral and conscientious man; but
that maxim was, and is, and probably ever will be, a favourite one
with the church to which he belonged. Leading Adelaide down, then, and
feeling quite secure in the numbers which now surrounded the chapel,
he threw open the door of his cell; and--while Bertha, with joy,
embraced her fair mistress, asked a thousand questions which there was
but little time to answer, and told how she had not dared to return to
the castle, but had found protection and shelter in the village beside
the Abbey--the monk conversed with a brother of the order who came
with the train, and heard the various impediments which had prevented
their appearance sooner. Their conversation was short, however, for
day had already dawned; and Adelaide was speedily mounted upon a
horse, which had been brought thither for her service, and covered
with the habit of a nun, which Bertha carried with her. Father
Geoffrey dismounted from the mule he rode to take the place of his
brother priest at the chapel; and Father George got into the saddle to
lead and direct the party.
By narrow and circuitous paths through the wood, avoiding as far as
possible every spot where they could be seen from the walls of the
castle, the monk and his companions wound their way round to the
stream, taking care to approach it as if they were coming from the
side of the abbey. Adelaide, as they went along, conversed for some
time with Bertha, in an under tone, turning quickly every now and then
to gaze around, as the terrors, which she could not shake off,
recurred again and again to her mind. When they approached the river,
however, renewed apprehensions for him she loved seemed to take
possession of her, from something that Bertha had said; and
approaching closer to the side of the priest, she once more inquired,
in an eager and anxious tone, "Are you sure he is safe--quite sure?"
"As sure as any one can be of anything in this life, daughter,"
answered Father George; "of nothing here below can we be perfectly
certain. But I myself entertain no doubt."
His words were not as satisfactory to Adelaide as perhaps he expected.
She would fain have had him repeat over and over again every assurance
he had given of Ferdinand's safety. The strongest, the most positive
terms, could hardly have reassured her; and the admission even of a
chance of the evil she dreaded, made her heart sink.
As it was absolutely necessary to ford the river, Father George paused
at the edge of the meadow before they quitted the covering of the
wood, to direct those who followed to make as much speed as possible,
after they issued forth, to gain the shelter of the trees opposite.
But while he was still speaking, the sound of a trumpet was heard;
apparently proceeding from the gates of the castle above. It only
served, however, to hasten the good monk's movements; and putting his
mule into a quick pace, he led the way to a ford over the stream. The
trumpet sounded again, just as they reached the bank and came in full
view of the walls. Each naturally turned the head in the direction of
the castle; but there an unexpected sight presented itself. The
gateway beyond the drawbridge was crowded with men, the figures
distinct, though the faces could not be seen: but none seemed mounted
for pursuit, and all were apparently occupied with another and more
terrible act. On the drawbridge itself were seen three figures: one
kneeling, one in the long robes of a priest, standing at some
distance, and one, with long bare arms, uplifting a ponderous axe.
Just as Adelaide's eyes were turned in that direction, the axe fell
upon the neck of the kneeling figure, and a loud, wild shriek burst
from her lips. Bertha, who was close beside her, caught her firmly, or
she would have fallen headlong into the stream; but the lady's eyes
swam faintly for a moment, and then all was darkness and
unconsciousness.