Feeble and faint, with every nerve unstrung, with a swimming brain and
a heavy heart, Adelaide of Ehrenstein unclosed her eyes after a long
period of unconsciousness--how long she knew not; but it was evident
that a considerable time most have passed since thought had left her,
for she was now in a small room with an arched, stone roof, and a long
pointed window. The sole furniture it contained was a stool, a table
bearing a crucifix and a closed book, and the pallet on which she lay.
"Where am I?" she asked herself, as her mind still wandered wildly
over the past; and for an instant the impression was--for it cannot be
called thought--that her father had executed his threat, and sent her
to the convent of the Black Nuns at Würtzburg. The next moment,
however, recollection returned more fully; her flight from the castle;
her stay at the chapel; her journey through the wood, and then the
horrible sight she had witnessed on the drawbridge, all flashed back
upon memory, and with a sudden cry, as if of pain, she pressed her
hand upon her eyes.
But Adelaide was not alone, as she thought; and the movement that she
made showed those who watched her that she had revived. Instantly the
well-known voice of Father George, low, but still rich and clear, said
in her ear, "You are deluding yourself, my child. You are grieving
without cause. He is safe and well, and far from the castle."
Adelaide started up and gazed at him with a look of doubt, mingled
with reproach. Then shaking her head sadly, she burst into tears,
saying, "I saw--I saw but too well! Why try to deceive me?"
"Nay daughter, I deceive you not," answered the monk, gravely; "'tis
you deceive yourself. Think you that in these dark times the axe can
fall on none other but him you love?"
"It is true, indeed, lady," said the voice of Bertha. "It was not your
husband. It was Martin of Dillberg whom they put to death. I spoke
with the lay brother, myself, who brought the news."
Adelaide clasped her hands together, and looked up to heaven, with
reviving hope in her eyes; but then, bending down her head again, she
murmured to herself, "Now, God forgive me that I should so rejoice.
There must have been some who loved him, too,--some whose heart must
now be as cold as mine was."
"But few," answered the monk; "he perished well meriting his fate; and
we may reasonably rejoice that the innocent have not suffered instead
of the guilty. Take heart, then, my child; for this illness of yours
has already been most unfortunate, and I must go to see how the evil
can be remedied."
"But is it true, is it quite true, Father?" said Adelaide, grasping
his robe. "He is safe? Oh, assure me of it! Nay, look not stern, good
Father: you know not how the heart that loves as mine does doubts all
things, fears all things, when there is danger to the beloved. I know
what you would say; but when I am ready to suspect the evidence of my
own senses, to think that my eyes and ears deceive me, you must have
some compassion if I hardly can believe the voice of one whom I
venerate."
"I make allowance, my child," said the monk; "but yet you do not
reason well of these things. Were he not safe, mine would be another
task--to console and to mourn with you. Be assured, then. But now I
must leave you; for though he is safe, you are not; and for your
safety I must provide."
Thus saying, he left her; and Adelaide again and again questioned
Bertha as to the fate of Ferdinand; but all she could learn amounted
only to the fact, that a lay brother of the abbey had gone up to
Ehrenstein at dawn, and, mingling with the people of the castle, had
witnessed the execution of Martin of Dillberg on the drawbridge. But
of all sceptics, fear is the foremost; and no sooner was the lady
fully convinced that the terrible scene she had witnessed had no
reference to her young husband, than immediately new terrors arose.
She fancied that the execution of Ferdinand might merely be delayed;
that her father might still perpetrate the deed he had threatened;
that at that very moment the axe might be raised to smite him; and she
argued that her own flight would only render the Count more
relentless, if her lover remained behind. As she thus lay and thought,
the sound of horses' feet was heard as they passed at no great
distance from the cell; and, raising her head, she listened, saying to
herself, "Perhaps they bring tidings;" but the sounds continued some
time, till at length they died away from the ear. It was evident that
horses were going away from, not arriving at, the abbey. Then came the
blast of a trumpet from no great distance, and then the murmur of
voices, rising and falling, as of people speaking vehemently, but far
off. Shortly after, Father George returned, and with him the abbot,
whom Adelaide had often seen before; a man far advanced in life, but
of a stiff, unbending character.
"How goes it with you, now, daughter?" he said, seating himself on the
stool by her side. "I have ordered some poor refreshments to be
brought you, that you may pursue your journey with more strength; for
I am sorry to say, this is no place of sure refuge. Your father's men
are seeking you already, and have been even now at the gates. Luckily,
the brother who answered them knew not that you were here, and
answered, boldly, 'No;'--for which he shall have absolution; but if it
be discovered that you are within our walls, we cannot refuse to give
you up at the Count's demand; for, although his haughty tone and
frequent offences against the church would well warrant, in my poor
judgment, a flat refusal, yet we poor monks meet with but little
protection; and though we can, thank God! defend ourselves well, in
case of need, yet the Imperial Court would leave us with our loss and
damage, if we gave even a pretext for his aggression. I have heard his
haughty words, however, and his threats to burn the abbey; but he may
find its stones a stumbling-block at which he may fall down."
"I am ready to go, when you will, Father," answered Adelaide, turning
an anxious look to Father George; "but, if they be searching for me,
whither shall I fly?"
"You must wait a while, my child," replied the monk, to whom the words
were really addressed, rather than to the abbot. "It is not the
intention of our noble and reverend father, the lord abbot here, to
send you forth without all care for your security."
"But my good brother," said the abbot, "if these men return--"
"We will send them back with such answer as they deserve," replied the
monk, boldly; for although mild and gentle in manner, and by no means
so stern and rigid as the abbot himself, there was, in times of need
and danger, that vigour and decision in the character of Father George
which always rules weaker and less resolute spirits. At first the
abbot, transferred from a distant priory, had struggled against his
influence; and Father George had made no apparent effort to maintain
it; but gradually, as years went by, and difficulties arose, the
superior yielded more and more to one who seemed to yield most to him,
and the rule of the mere monk over the present abbot had become more
powerful than it had even been with Abbot Waldimer.
After a brief discussion, then, it was agreed that Adelaide should
remain at the abbey till the hour of noon, when, with a shrewd
calculation of the habits of his countrymen, Father George judged that
lord and vassal, leader and follower, would all have occupations of a
kind they would not willingly forego. He thought it possible, indeed,
that ere that hour a new demand might be made at their gate for the
restoration of the lady to her father's power; but he was firm in his
purposes, and doubted not so to use his authority in the abbey, as to
commit the abbot to a decided refusal, from which, once given, he knew
that the old man would not depart. Neither did he fear the result; for
the sound of horses' feet, which Adelaide had heard, was but an
indication of preparations for defence against any sudden attack; and
vassals and retainers were already flocking in to support, with the
strong hand, if need should be, a community who were generally kind
and gentle masters, if not always safe and pleasant neighbours.
Father George also reckoned a good deal upon the presence of Count
Frederick of Leiningen at Ehrenstein, to ward off any immediate
collision between the castle and the abbey; for that prince, though
vigorous and decided in character, was reverential towards the church,
and adverse at all times to violence; and, in the mean time, he took
care that from one of those high towers of the building which I have
alluded to, as being seen over the trees from the walls of Ehrenstein,
a keen watch should be kept upon the gate of the castle, that the
brethren might not be attacked unawares. Every five minutes, a
messenger came down from the clear-sighted watcher, to convey to the
abbot and Father George tidings of all that had been observed; and
thus party after party of the followers of the Count of Ehrenstein
were reported to have returned to the stronghold, and passed the
drawbridge. Father George mused and calculated, till at length,
turning suddenly to the abbot, as the clock struck ten, he said,
"There cannot now be more than five of the men of Ehrenstein out. It
were as well the lady departed at once; she can be guarded by those
who brought her hither, and, passing unseen through the woods, will
run no risk."
The abbot rubbed his hands slowly together, and then replied, "Good,
good, brother George. Far from me to refuse the lady Adelaide refuge
and hospitality; but when once she is beyond the walls, then let her
proud father bluster if he dare."
"He will not be proud long, my noble lord," replied Father George;
"there are reverses preparing for him which he dreams not of; and you
may ere long see him humbled at your feet."
"Then will I receive him with fatherly tenderness," said the old man,
with a look full of, what he thought, humility; but in which, perhaps,
a clearer eye might have discovered no small pride.
Father George, however, hastened at once to the cell in what was
called the stranger's lodging, where Adelaide still remained with
Bertha; but on his entrance the maid held up her hand, and pointed to
her mistress, who, worn out with watching, anxiety, and grief, had
fallen into a brief slumber. The beautiful eyes were closed; the long,
dark, silken lashes rested on the fair cheek, now pale with weariness
and sleep; the head fell gracefully on the shoulder, and the soft
white hand dropped over the side of the pallet. It was a lovely sight
to look upon; and for a moment Father George paused and gazed, with
strange emotions. His heart, bound down by icy chains to a solitary,
unsocial life, yearned for a child like that. He asked himself--Is it
well for man in any class, in any state, to live alone?--to cut
himself off from the dearest, the highest, the holiest associations of
our nature? Can he really feel and sympathize with human beings?--Can
he retain all the perceptions, all the qualities of the heart and mind
with which God first endowed him,--to bless, and to be blessed? Is he,
in the full sense of the word, a man, if he do not exercise the
rights, and fulfil, the duties, of a man? To extinguish hope and
aspiration, to shut out love and affection, to separate ourselves from
joy and sorrow, to put an icy bar between our bosoms and every warm
feeling of our fellows--is this to live?
But the monk indulged hardly a moment in such thoughts. They flashed
across his mind, and were then banished; but they made him feel that
he was not a monk at heart; and gently and tenderly waking Adelaide
from her slumber, he told her what was proposed for her; adding, in a
low tone, "I have certain intelligence that he is safe and free."
The lady rose joyfully, exclaiming, "And shall I see him, then, soon?"
"His steps and thine, my child, are bent in the same path," answered
Father George; "and doubtless he will reach the bourne before thee.
But we must be speedy. Are you refreshed and ready?"
"Quite, quite," answered Adelaide; "those tidings, dear Father, are
better than wine or medicine either. Let us go. Come, Bertha, are you
ready?"
"Ay, good lack!" answered the gay girl, who had now somewhat recovered
her light spirits; "I am ready, since it must be so; but yet I am
never very willing to exchange a comfortable roof and good provision
for the bare road and acorn woods; but let us go, lady. It is as well
to do what is to be done with a good grace; and now Heaven send us
forty miles from Ehrenstein ere night."
No long time was required to prepare; the nuns' gowns, which had been
laid aside on account of the warmth of the day, were soon resumed; the
hoods were drawn over the heads of the two girls, and, led by Father
George, they went out into the great court of the abbey, where not
only a number of monks were walking to and fro, some in meditation,
some in busy talk, but a large party of armed men also were seated
under an arcade that ran along one side, busily eating and drinking,
and laughing with merriment somewhat dissonant to the grave solemnity
of the scene.
Father George spoke to none; but walking rapidly across, opened a door
under the cloister, and held it wide till Adelaide and Bertha had
passed through. Then locking it behind him, he crossed a lesser court,
and thence led the two girls into what seemed a wing of the abbey.
That there were high towers of Gothic stone-work rising above them,
they clearly saw; but after passing along a narrow, vaulted passage,
with rich tracery upon the roof and in the windows which flanked it on
the left, their guide paused at a low door, covered with iron plates
and large-headed nails, or bosses. By the side of the door stood a
stone bench or coffer, and on it lay several tapers, not yet lighted,
and a lamp already burning. Father George, before he proceeded
farther, lighted three of the candles at the lamp, and giving one to
each of his companions, he took a key from his girdle, and put it in
the lock. He was, as we have described him, a hale, strong old man,
but to move that door required the exertion of all his powers; and
when at length it was thrown back, it exposed to view the entrance of
a dark cavern or passage in the rock, which rose gradually from the
back of the building.
"Be not afraid," said the monk to Adelaide; "the horses and men are
waiting for you in the wood at the end of this hollow. I feared that
from the watch-tower of the castle they might see women's garments
flutter, if you went out by any of the gates, and that would instantly
raise suspicion. By this road you may pass unseen for miles, till you
are beyond all pursuit."
"I fear not, I fear not, holy Father," answered Adelaide; and while
Bertha murmured to herself, "But I do, mightily," they went on upon
their way.
The cavern--which, though perhaps a part was nature's handiwork,
displayed evidently the traces of man's labour also--extended for
perhaps three or four hundred yards, and then terminated at another
door, beyond which they found the dark woods sweeping round, and a
spur of the mountain hiding the spot completely from the valley above
which Ehrenstein was situated. Immediately beneath the door by which
they issued forth was a slight descent, where broken fragments of
rock, tumbled about in all directions, concealed from all but very
curious eyes the entrance of the passage to the abbey; and below that
again, was a small green area, surrounded by tall trees, in which was
collected a number of men and horses.
Adelaide and Bertha were soon mounted, the armed men sprang into the
saddle, Father George bestowed his blessing upon the young heiress of
Ehrenstein, and the word was given to depart, when Bertha, turning her
head, exclaimed, "At least tell us whither we are going to, Father, as
you go not with us."
"To Heiligenstein," answered the monk. "There you will find a place
prepared for you;" and, approaching Adelaide's side, he added, "I
forgot, in all the hurry of this day to tell you, my dear daughter,
that till you hear more from me, for your own security and that of him
you love, conceal carefully your name and rank; your young husband has
been cautioned, but you must not forget to be careful."
"I will not," answered Adelaide; "and indeed it will be joyful to me
to repose for a time even as a poor country maiden."
"A maiden!" said Father George with a smile; "nay, you must not forget
you are a wife."
The colour rose warm in Adelaide's cheek; and, without reply, she rode
on, musing.