It was a gloomy meal, the dinner at the castle of Ehrenstein; and
would have been gloomier still, had it not been for the presence of
one of those persons who in that age were privileged to mingle jest,
if not mirth, with every event of life's chequered course, and make
the wedding or the funeral alike the occasion of their wild satire. A
number of the troops of Leiningen had gone forth to scour the country
round in pursuit of the fugitive Baron of Eppenfeld; but Count
Frederick himself had been persuaded, somewhat more easily than his
host had expected, to remain till after the mid-day meal. A few
courteous entreaties were all that the frank old nobleman required;
and whether they were sincere or not, he evidently received them as
such, saying that he could well trust his good riders to trap an old
fox, though it might have grown grey in its cunning; but that, if they
had not succeeded by two hours after noon, he would mount himself.
All was hurry and confusion during the morning, however; and the
castle looked more like a fortress, the garrison of which expected
immediate attack, than the dwelling of a high noble in a time of
peace. Parties were hourly coming in or going forth, messengers
arrived or were despatched continually, and even the hall and the
festive board were not free from business and importunity. The brow of
the Count of Ehrenstein remained as black as night; nothing could move
his lip to a smile; and as he sat at the head of the table in the
lesser hall, with a greatly diminished party around, his very look
spread gloom over the feast, and saddened the gayest hearts present.
Count Frederick strove to comfort and console him; but the Lord of
Ehrenstein heard his words in silence, or replied in monosyllables.
The priest ate the rich food and drank the fine wine, without
venturing more than a few words in praise of both; the knights sat
round, and partook of their good cheer, with only a whisper amongst
themselves now and then; and no one spoke but the jester, who, as
usual, held on his captious course, as if nothing had occurred to
interrupt the merriment; or, at least, as if he were in utter
ignorance that such had been the case.
Those were days of privilege, when every prescriptive right, however
ridiculous and sometimes iniquitous it might be, was reverenced as a
part of a great system; and even the privilege of the jester was held
so sacred, that any man who ventured to show serious anger at what he
might say, would have been considered either as a fool or a tyrant.
Thus our friend, on the present occasion, ventured, without the least
fear, to touch upon all those subjects which were most painful to the
master of the dwelling; sometimes wondering if the Lady Adelaide fared
as well in the fields as they did in the castle, sometimes choosing to
suppose that Ferdinand of Altenburg must have gained a goodly appetite
by his early walk.
At length he exclaimed, looking round, "How silent you are, noble
cousins! I know that it proceeds from your admiration for my rich
talk; so, to improve your manners, I will give you a lecture upon
morals. What is the cause of young men getting into all sorts of
mischief? Answer, or I will answer for you."
"Want of sense," replied Count Frederick: "it can be nothing else."
"Wrong, uncle--ever wrong," cried the jester; "for then would old men
get into mischief, too. God love you! there is as little sense under a
grey beard as under a brown one, and more than either under none at
all. Look you now, the Lady Adelaide has more sense than her father,
though she has no beard, and he has a long one; and then he has more
sense than I have, and his beard is but grey, while mine is white. Try
again, uncle, try again."
"I have you now," answered the Count: "it is want of experience, you
would say."
"Wrong once more," answered the jester. "See you not that those who
have had most experience still do foolish things. Who would have
thought that an armed lord, with well nigh five hundred men in his
train, would have trusted sundry sacks of gold to be carried by
peaceful merchants, when he could have brought it himself? No, no,
uncle: 'tis the great fault of all men--want of faith."
"Nay, but, Herr von Narren, this is a lecture on religion, not on
morals, then," replied his lord.
"Not a whit, not a whit," cried the jester. "Want of faith in all
things is bad; but I dabble not with religion. Let the cobbler stick
to his awl: I am a moralist and philosopher, not a priest; and yet I
say it is want of faith that gets young men into mischief; for, did we
believe what those who have tried tell those who have not tried, we
should 'scape many a danger. But we never do believe in this world; we
always think that we shall be better off than our neighbours, and
therefore wish to try for ourselves. Is not that morality for you now?
And see how it is proved every day. Cage your bird for its own good,
and it will beat itself to death to get out; or, leave the door open
for a minute, and it flies away to be pecked to death by the first
hawk it meets. Is it not so, good Count of Ehrenstein?"
"Faith! I do not know," replied the Count; "but this I do know, that
if some birds, who have escaped from _my_ cage, fall into my hands
again, I will wring their heads off."
"So do men get bloody fingers," answered the jester; "but, after all,
who is there among us that has not some stain upon his hand? No one
except myself, I warrant. There is a lily palm, with not a drop of
Christian blood upon it; and as for the gore of a few stray Saracens,
that but cleanses a man's fingers; as a farmer's maiden uses sand,
which is dirt, to scrub her father's floor."
The Count of Ehrenstein's brow had become doubly dark, but he ventured
to give no other sign of his anger at the words of a mere jester; and
turning to a man who entered, booted and spurred, just at the
conclusion of Herr von Narren's speech, he inquired, "Well, what news?
Are there any tidings of them?"
"None, my good lord," answered the man; "all the world are so busy
with other thoughts, that they seem to have paid no attention to
anything but one."
"Ay, and what is that one?" said Count Frederick, turning to the
messenger also.
"Why, the Black Huntsman is out again, my lord," said the man; "and
old Seckendorf sent me back to let my lord know that all the country
is ringing with his doings. He rode all the way down the valley last
night, and some say, went down to the Rhine, while others will have
it, that he turned towards Zweibrücken."
"Then we must make ready for war, I suppose," replied Count Frederick;
"but is the news quite sure?"
"Oh, quite," answered the messenger; "we counted more than a hundred
horses' feet all the way along the dusty old road upon the top of the
hills."
"Did they stop at the abbey?" asked the Count of Ehrenstein, with a
sneering smile.
"No, my lord; they left it far to the left," was the man's answer,
"keeping along amongst the hills, until we lost them in the wood, some
six miles off."
"Well, let it come," said the Count musing, and speaking rather to
what was passing in his own thoughts, than in reference to anything
that had been said by others; "let it come. It shall go hard, if the
tide of war flows through this valley, but that one of the waves shall
sweep away the walls of the abbey--ay, and all that are within;" he
muttered between his teeth.
"My lord, my lord!" cried a man, who was seated near the window; "here
comes news at length, or I am mistaken. Some one galloping like mad up
from the bridge."
"Bring him up quick, as soon as he arrives," cried the Count of
Ehrenstein, turning to the attendants behind him; and the meal resumed
its course for a few minutes; though few of those principally
interested in the events which had taken place during that morning and
the preceding night, showed any great appetite for the dainties before
them.
At length, quick steps were heard in the outer chamber, and the two
Counts turned their faces towards the door with the eager look of
expectation. Some of the servants of the castle were the first that
appeared; but immediately behind them was a stranger, dressed in the
garb of the middle orders, and offering nothing very remarkable,
either in his person or apparel. The Count of Ehrenstein, as was not
unusual with him, fixed his eyes for a moment on the new comer,
without speaking. It seemed, as if he loved to question men's faces,
and to read the character in the countenance before he ventured
anything in words himself. It is not an unfrequent habit with all men
of dark and subtle natures; but before he could speak on the present
occasion, the person who thus sought his presence, looked inquiringly
from his countenance to that of Count Frederick of Leiningen, and then
asked, "Which is the Count of Ehrenstein?"
"I am he," replied the Count; "what would you with me, Sir?"
"I bring you this letter, my lord," answered the man; "I was told to
deliver it with all speed."
The Count took it, gazed thoughtfully at the superscription, and then
raising his eyes to the man's face, demanded, "Who gave you this?"
"Faith! my good lord, I do not know," replied the man; "it was a young
gentleman, of a fair countenance, and a good bearing, some twenty
years of age or so; and he gave me ten crowns out of his purse, to
carry it to you with all speed."
"Had he any one with him? Was he on foot or on horseback?" inquired
the Count.
"Quite alone, my lord," answered the man; "but he rode as fine a horse
as ever carried knight or noble."
The Count made no observation, but opened the letter and read. Then
laying it down upon the table by his side, he laid his hand upon it,
and seemed lost in thought; but after a moment, he pushed the paper
over to Count Frederick, saying, "Read, my friend, read; for it
concerns you too. Methinks this youth is bold, or else backed by means
we know not of."
Without reply, Count Frederick took the letter, and read as follows:--
"FERDINAND OF ALTENBURG TO THE COUNT OF EHRENSTEIN,
WITH HUMBLE AND RESPECTFUL GREETING.
"MY LORD THE COUNT,
"Finding myself in peril within the walls of your castle, and doubting
that you would give me other judgment than that of your own court,
which, as a stranger of noble birth, not born upon the lands of
Ehrenstein, I am not lawfully subject to, I have thought fit to take
such means of escape as were at hand, and have used them to good
purpose. Nevertheless, I wish you to know that in thus flying from the
castle of Ehrenstein, I have no will or purpose to escape from fair
trial and judgment of my guilt or innocence, by a free and open court
of knights or gentlemen of good degree, and that I am ready to submit
myself to such, in any sure place, when I shall be certified that I
shall have impartial judgment. I am now upon the lands of Leiningen,
and will there remain, claiming protection of that noble prince, the
Count Frederick, but ready at all times to appear before a court
summoned anywhere within his jurisdiction, and consisting, in at least
one-half, of persons who are not retainers of the Count of Ehrenstein.
To their decree, I shall bow without appeal, in all matters between
you and me, provided you also pledge yourself to abide by their
decision, whatever it may be.
"A summons to appear, according to the terms of this letter, with the
guarantee of Count Frederick, that they shall be duly observed, will
meet my eye, if hung upon the gates of the castle of Hardenberg, and I
will appear accordingly, at the place and time appointed."
Such was the tenor of the letter now laid before Count Frederick of
Leiningen; and after he had read it, he mused several minutes without
commenting upon its contents, till an impatient "Well!" from the Count
of Ehrenstein roused him from his reverie.
"You think the letter bold, Ehrenstein," he said; "but in this you are
not impartial. To me it seems fair enough. One who is willing to
submit himself to the free judgment of unbiassed men, can be conscious
of no great wrong."
The Count of Ehrenstein clenched his hand tight as it lay upon the
table, till the veins and sinews seemed starting through the skin, and
he muttered between his teeth, "You too, Leiningen!"
Count Frederick took no notice of the reproachful words; but calmly
inquired, "What say you, my good friend? Will you accept the terms?"
"Your wishing me to do so, my lord the Count," replied the master of
the castle somewhat sternly, "shows that you are not disposed to act
the more friendly part, and aid me in hunting down the treacherous
hound, as I would do with you in similar circumstances. Think you,
that if a follower of your house had injured you as deeply as this
youth has injured me, that I would not pursue him through my lands
till I had caught him, and then give him up to you, to deal with at
your pleasure?"
"I would not ask you, Ehrenstein," replied Count Frederick, coldly;
"justice and fair dealing have ever been my motto. He offers to submit
to justice, and I will have no hand in refusing it to him. If you will
accept his terms, well; I will name four honest men to judge him, and
you shall name an equal number. Doubt not, if he have committed the
crime with which you charge him, they will pronounce due sentence on
him, and I will see it executed; but if he can free himself of the
charge, God give him good deliverance! Once more, what say you?"
"What must be, must be," answered the Count; "and as I can have no
better, I will take these terms."
"Well, then," replied Count Frederick, rising, "I will see that notice
be duly given on the gates of my castle of Hardenberg, and will
appoint what place and hour you may think fit. When shall it be, and
where?"
The Count of Ehrenstein thought for a moment or two, and then said,
"To-morrow, at midnight, if you will. Then for the place--you know the
large old chapel, half way between Hardenberg and Mosbach."
"At midnight!" said Count Frederick, in a tone of much surprise.
"Ay, at midnight," answered the Count of Ehrenstein; "I cannot well be
there before, my good friend. I have another fugitive to seek and
find."
Count Frederick's brow grew rather clouded, for he had doubts which he
did not choose to express; but merely bowing his head in silent
acquiescence, he left the hall with his followers; and ere another
hour had passed, he and his train were riding down the hill, away from
Ehrenstein.