At first the sleep of Adelaide of Ehrenstein--when she at length could
close her eyes after the strange music which she had heard--was
troubled and light. Dreams visited her again and again; the same
shapes reappeared in different garbs and circumstances; and a thousand
shifting imaginations crossed the darkness of the sleeping brain, and
passed rapidly away, like summer lightning on a warm night. After some
hours, however, more calm and refreshing slumber fell upon her, and,
when she woke, the sun was shining brightly into her chamber, through
the young green leaves of the vine that mantled the window. Everything
looked sweet and peaceful; the song of birds came musical to her ear,
and she thought that from time to time she caught the sound of a
distant chant and the swelling notes of the organ. The window was half
open, and the balmy breath of spring fanned her cheek as she lay,
while by her side sat the lady whom she had seen the night before, now
gazing at her with the look of a tender mother watching a sick child.
It was full of deep affection, yet melancholy, very melancholy; and
who can gaze upon a young and inexperienced being just about to enter
upon the thorny path of mature life--who, with a knowledge of all that
experience teaches, the disappointments, the sorrows, the anxieties,
the pangs, the agonies that await mortal man upon his strange career,
can watch the young lie sleeping all unconscious of the evil to come,
and not feel sad at heart to think that in such a bitter school they
must learn the great lessons that prepare for immortality?
"Thou hast slept well, my child," said the lady, as soon as she saw
that Adelaide was awake. "I trust that thy weariness has passed away?"
"Yes, dear lady," answered Adelaide; "but not my fears. I heard
horsemen pass by last night, and voices singing, and, had not my whole
senses been dulled by fatigue, so that even very terror could not take
hold upon them, I believe I should have lain here and watched the
whole night through, thinking that every sound betokened pursuit."
"Have no fear, for there is no danger, dear one," said the lady. "I
will show you, when you have risen, how easy escape would be, even if
those whose pursuit you fear were aware of your place of refuge, and
sought you here. We have a sure sanctuary close at hand. I will leave
you now for a while, and then I will lead you to the chapel to praise
God for your deliverance last night."
Adelaide rose, and dressed herself, though not very quickly; for her
limbs still felt stiff and bruised; and often, too, she would pause
and think, gazing from the window into the little garden that
surrounded the house, and feeling the peaceful influence of the scene,
bring balm and refreshment to her heart. At length, when she was
ready, she opened the door, and looked out where the neat woman
servant was arranging all the little articles of furniture in the
passage; and, while the maid ran to call her mistress, Adelaide could
not prevent her thoughts from contrasting strongly the tranquil life
of that humble cottage with the haughty state and troublous energy of
her father's castle. Peace!--it is peace that the pure heart ever
longs for; and every spot where fancy teaches us to believe it
rests--the village, in its mantle of green trees--the cottage, with
its humble thatch and curling smoke--the cloister, the very hermitage,
wherever imagination places it, seems better far, however lowly, than
the highest and most splendid scene without that good and holy tenant.
Her reverie lasted not long; for, coming down the narrow stairs, with
the fair hand resting on the dark old oak, the lady joined her guest
in a few moments; and then, in a kind and tender tone, she said,
"Come; it is fit that we should thank God for all things. Had we light
to see, everything on earth is a blessing--except sin. There may be
sorrow; but there is no evil but wickedness. Come, my child."
"I am ready, and quite willing," answered Adelaide, following; and the
lady led her on along the passage to the back of the house, where
appeared a low arch, and a heavy door covered with iron plates. It was
not locked; but, as soon as it was drawn open, Adelaide beheld a
ponderous key and manifold bolts and fastenings within, and another
door beyond, while overhead, between the two, was a space open to the
air, but above which hung the lower edge of an iron portcullis ready
to descend. The lady saw her young companion's eyes turned up, and
answered her thoughts by saying, "The touch even of so weak a hand as
mine upon the machinery behind this other door will cause that gate to
descend in an instant, and cut off all communication between this
cottage and the convent garden. Thus, you see we have a sure escape
always nigh." As she spoke, she opened the other door, and Adelaide
following her as she advanced, found herself in the garden of the
convent of Heiligenstein. It was a calm and thoughtful-looking place,
surrounded by high walls of massive masonry, which towered up almost
to a level with the tops of the old trees. Of these there were many;
beeches and oaks, and elms, with here and there a dark yew,
contrasting strongly and solemnly with the light green foliage of the
rest. They were, nevertheless, not planted thick together; but each
tree stood detached, shadowing its own spot of ground; and beneath the
branches no brushwood was suffered to grow, nor weeds to encumber the
earth. The lower boughs, too, were cut away, to the height of six or
seven feet up the stem, so that those who wandered in the garden in
the summer could sit or stand in the cool shade, and meditate at their
leisure. The ground was generally covered with soft turf; but there
were many paths of pebbles laid side by side, and here and there was a
bed of such simple flowers as then ornamented the gardens of Europe.
Except where some of the nuns were seen walking two and two, and
speaking together in a low tone,--or where a solitary sister stood
cultivating some one particular bed which she had taken under her
especial care, all was still as death; and the only thing that seemed
endued with life and energy was the little stream, which, entering
from the hill above, flowed through the convent garden.
The nuns nodded kindly to the lady when she passed any of them, and
gazed on Adelaide with inquiring eyes, turning the one to the other,
and talking glibly. The outward world visited them too rarely for even
an occasional glance of one of its denizens not to afford matter for
busy speculation. The young lady of Ehrenstein and her conductor,
however, went on in silence, under the green old quiet trees, and over
the soft cool turf, towards a pile of building with long curved
windows, ornamented in a lighter style than the rest of the convent.
Under a low, but wide-spreading tree, was a pointed door, apparently
ever open, and through it the two passed into the chapel. It was
lofty, if not spacious; and there was an air of misty gloom spread
through it which disposed the heart to prayer, while through the
stained glass windows of the chancel streamed a red and yellow light,
as if from the glories of a world beyond this life. Advancing slowly
to a chapel dedicated to "Our Lady of Good help," Adelaide's new
friend bent her knees, and offered up the prayer of the heart.
Adelaide knelt down also, and, though she spoke not aloud, her lips
moved, and thanks and praise, and entreaty, rose up from before that
altar to the Giver of all good, and the Protector from all evil. She
felt more comfort and refreshment from that prayer than sleep or food
had given; and, when she rose, her thought was, "One can bear much,
with hope and faith in God."
She was yet destined, and that speedily, to need such support; but we
must turn to what had been passing elsewhere, but not far off. When
the mistress of the little cottage beneath the convent walls had left
her dwelling with her fair guest, all was quiet and peaceful; the
careful maid was busily engaged in the small entrance hall, brushing
the dust from the rare old furniture, raising, as she did so, a thin
cloud of motes, that went dancing away in a long line of sunshine
which streamed through the open door. The other servant was preparing
breakfast for her lady, on her return. Nought stirred in the garden
but the lizard on the wall, and the gay birds moving amongst the
leaves of the vines. The two ladies could not have reached the chapel,
however, when a head was raised over the garden wall at the corner
farthest from the entrance. Had there been doubt or suspicion, no eye
would have been turned in that direction; for there the moat that
enclosed the ground was broad and deep; and, whoever it was, who now
gazed quickly round that quiet little spot, he must have found some
means, by plank or ladder, of crossing the wide ditch. The maids in
the house continued their work, unconscious; no one saw the intruder,
no ear caught any sound of his proceedings; and, after having made his
furtive examination of the premises, he raised himself upon his arms,
swung himself over the wall, and, dropping down within the limits of
the garden, hid himself behind the vines. A moment after, another head
appeared; but the proceedings on this occasion were shorter than
before. There was no long scrutiny of the ground; but, leaping over at
once, this new visitor took up his position beside his companion. A
third, a fourth, followed; and Heaven knows how many more might have
thus poured in unperceived, had not a sudden ringing of the bell been
heard at the garden-gate, which as the reader is aware, lay on the
other side of the house, towards the village. So loud and sharp was
the sound, that the maid who was in the passage ran out at once, and
drew back the little wooden screen from the wicket. The face that
presented itself was that of one of the peasants of the neighbouring
village; and it was full of anxiety and apprehension.
"There are men getting over into the garden," he cried; "and a number
more down beyond the corner of the wood. Run and tell the good lady."
The woman turned round, with a scream; for the first glance to the
opposite side showed her three or four persons running from the far
angle of the garden. Darting back into the house, she rushed along the
passage, and through the doors which led to the convent. In her
terror, she said not a word to her fellow-servant; but the moment she
was within the convent-garden, she cast off the chain that upheld the
portcullis, and it fell with a tremendous clang, cutting off the
grounds of the nunnery from the cottage built against their walls.
In the mean time, three of the men had entered the dwelling where
Adelaide had taken refuge the night before, and were searching it in
no very ceremonious manner; while the fourth rushed to the garden
gate, threw it open, and, running round to the angle, from which he
could see the neighbouring wood, took off his steel cap, and waved it
over his head as a signal to some persons at a distance. The moment
after, a large party of horse drew out from amongst the trees, and
rode up at a quick pace towards the cottage. A circumstance had
occurred, however, which the leader of that party had wished to avoid;
for the Count of Ehrenstein, though, as we have shown, a man of strong
and violent passions, was more cautious, both by habit and by nature,
than is usual with persons of his disposition. The peasant who had
given the alarm to the good woman at the cottage instantly hurried to
the great gates of the monastery, rang the bell, spoke a few words to
the portress, and then ran away to the village.
In a minute or two after, the great bell of the convent rang loud and
clear, sending the deep waves of sound far over forest and field,
giving notice to a great distance round, that the nuns of
Heiligenstein were in danger, and required aid. Ere it had rung for
three minutes, the Abbess and several of the sisters appeared on the
battlemented portal of the gate, and made signs to some of the
horsemen who were now surrounding the cottage garden, expressive of a
desire to speak with them. No notice was taken for some time; but at
length, with a moody and disappointed brow, the Count of Ehrenstein
himself came out from the cottage, with a number of men who had
entered with him, and springing on his horse, rode up direct to the
gates of the convent.
He seemed about to speak, but the Abbess, as well aware as any woman
of the advantage of the first word in a dispute, exclaimed, before he
could open his lips, "What seek you here, bold man; and how dare you
enter, like a thief, the grounds and dependencies of this convent?"
"I seek for my own, my good lady and mother," replied the Count of
Ehrenstein, "and will take it wherever I find it, by fair means, if
peaceably yielded--by force, if withheld. You seem not to know me,
though we have seen each other before; and what you have heard of me
should make you understand that I am not one to be trifled with. You
have my daughter within these walls; that fact I have learned beyond
all doubt. Bring her out to me within five minutes, and all shall go
well. I will take off my bonnet, like a good and humble servant of the
Church, and thank you right courteously. But if you do not, my men
with their axes will, in half an hour, hew down these gates of yours,
and I will take boldly what I now ask reverently, though the night and
a wolf or two may find their way in through the holes I am obliged to
make."
"This is all pretence," answered the Abbess. "You seek to plunder the
convent. I have never seen your daughter since she was an infant; and
you forge your cause of complaint, Count of Ehrenstein, in order to
commit violence against a body of women whom you think helpless. But,
thank God and our holy Mother, we are not without defence; and if you
attempt to touch the gates, the consequences be upon your own head.
Bid the men come up there, sister Louisa, and garnish the walls. I
take Heaven to witness, that if blood be shed, it is this man's doing,
for he seeks a vain pretence against me."
One of the nuns here whispered a few words to the Abbess, and the
Abbess replied with an impatient gesture; but in the mean time, at a
signal from above, a number of men, armed in haste, with cross bows in
their hands, began to hurry up, their heads and shoulders appearing at
various parts of the wall, and over the battlements of the portal. At
the same time, the great bell, which had ceased while the Abbess and
the Count were speaking, commenced again its loud peal, and a crowd of
people were seen hurrying down from the hills beyond, while several
parties appeared running with whatever arms they could collect, from
the farther end of the village to a postern behind the convent. Every
thing, in short, seemed to promise, that there would speedily take
place one of the scenes so common in those days, when nunnery or abbey
was attacked by any of its unruly neighbours, and defended
successfully or unsuccessfully, not alone by the vassals, who were
bound by their tenure to serve in arms, but also by the peasantry, who
had generally many motives for gratitude and kindly feeling towards
the ecclesiastics and recluses who dwelt among them.
The enterprise, however, seemed now somewhat more serious in the eyes
of the Count of Ehrenstein than he had previously expected. The words
of the Abbess were bold and resolute; her declaration that she had not
seen his daughter since she was an infant, had been spoken in a frank
and straightforward tone; the number of men who already crowded the
walls was considerable, and more were likely soon to arrive. Besides
this, the reputation of attacking a nunnery was not altogether that
which the Count of Ehrenstein could have desired; and he felt that he
could be by no means certain of what acts his soldiers might commit,
to bring down discredit on his name, even if he should be successful.
These considerations made him hesitate; and spurring his horse
somewhat nearer to the gate, he said, "Lady Abbess, it is quite
possible my disobedient child may be here without your knowledge or
consent. I wish to do nothing rashly, wrongly, or unjustly; and to
show you that I am not using a false pretence to violate your rights,
although I have certain information that she is now here, I will give
you half an hour to seek for her, and bring her forth, provided you
stop the ringing of that bell. If you do not bring her forth within
that time, I must use my own right, and take her."
The Abbess made no reply, but waved her hand, with an angry and
somewhat scornful expression; and, accompanied by the nuns, withdrew
from the walls, leaving them guarded by the armed men who had been
admitted.
The first care of the Count of Ehrenstein was to prevent the entrance
of any more; and he accordingly detached a small party to guard the
postern at the back of the convent. He then held a conversation with
Seckendorf and old Karl von Mosbach, and, although the bell still
continued to ring, he delayed the threatened attack, withdrawing his
men out of the reach of the crossbows, and watching, with somewhat
anxious eyes, the progress of the peasantry who were coming down the
hills, and who, when they saw the postern guarded by his horsemen,
gathered in one body of considerable strength upon the nearest slope.
When about twenty minutes had elapsed, some movements towards the
attack might be observed amongst his soldiery; several small trees
were cut down, and shaped into various implements with the axe. Twelve
stout men dismounted, and were formed in two lines before the rest;
and, judging by these signs, that more active operations were about to
commence, the cross-bowmen on the walls might be seen fitting their
quarrels to the string; and some of them seemed marking out the
principal figures amongst the assailants for the first shot.
Before they proceeded further, however, the Count once more rode
forward to the gate, whispering a word before he went to old Karl von
Mosbach, who immediately led five or six men round to the cottage
garden, and disappeared amongst the vines.
The Count, as soon as he was within hearing, called to a burly yeoman,
who seemed in command above the gate, and bade him send for the
Abbess, as he wanted to speak with her again. A few minutes elapsed
before she appeared; but as soon as she came forward, the Count
addressed her, saying, "You have now, Lady Abbess, had full time to
inquire and learn whether my child be within your gates or not. You
know well that she is. I see it on your face; and I, as her father,
summon you to bring her forth, and yield her to my lawful authority.
If not, the evil consequences, whatever they may be, rest upon your
head, not mine; for you dare not and cannot deny that she is at this
moment in the convent."
The countenance of the Abbess--it was a venerable and amiable one,
though somewhat touched with pride--was certainly troubled; but still
she replied boldly, and at once, "Your daughter, my lord the Count, is
at the altar of Our Lady of good help, and that is _sanctuary_. I knew
not, when I spoke to you before, that she was within these walls; but
even had I known it, I must have refused to give her up. I no more
dare to take her from sanctuary than you do; and therefore I tell you
to withdraw your men from these gates,--to return home to your own
dwelling, and to leave this holy place in peace."
"Away with such idle words!" cried the Count, furiously; "what
sanctuary shall shield a child from her father, whom she has offended?
Will you bring her forth at once, or I will fire your convent and your
sanctuary together? Advance, Seckendorf!"
"Take but one step towards these gates, and the deepest curses of the
church shall fall upon you all," cried the Abbess. "What, shall not
the sanctuary, which gives safety even to the homicide, with his
fellow's blood red upon his hand, shield an innocent child from the
fury of her rash and violent father? Bend your bows, my children, and
defend these holy walls to the last, if they be attacked."
"On, Seckendorf, on!" cried the Count, waving his hand; but the old
knight rode forward alone, while a quarrel from one of the cross-bows,
discharged by somewhat too eager a hand, rang upon his casque.
"There is a trumpet, my lord the Count," said the good old soldier,
paying no more attention to the missile than if it had been a
snow-ball thrown by a boy in sport; "better see who is coming, before
we begin: if they be friends, they will help us; if enemies, it were
well not to let them take us in the flank."
The Count looked round, with a gloomy brow, and a fierce rolling eye,
in the direction towards which Seckendorf had pointed. No one was yet
visible; but the woods and hills screened the roads round about till
they came very near the village; and the sounds of a trumpet was heard
again, clear and distinct, mingling shrilly with the low dull peal of
the great bell of the convent.
"Help is at hand!" cried the Abbess. "Bold man, you will repent this:"
and, almost as she spoke, two figures appeared at the opening of the
road that led away towards Spires. One was a gentleman of the middle
age, unarmed, but mounted on a powerful charger. The other was a monk,
if one might judge by his garments, riding a mule well nigh as
spirited as a horse.
"Father George, I think," cried Seckendorf; "but who is that with him?
There are more behind."
The next instant the head of a troop of horse was seen, with several
officers in arms, a herald, two trumpeters, and a banner; and, as two
and two the men-at-arms issued forth, at a quick pace, the Count of
Ehrenstein soon perceived that his own force was far inferior.
"Gather the men together, Seckendorf," he cried; "call Mosbach and his
men out of the cottage; bring the party back from the postern there,
and secure that road by the left of the village. We must retreat. Who,
in the fiend's name, can these be?"
"It is an imperial banner, Sir," answered the old knight, ere he rode
back to the troop to execute the orders he received.
In the mean while the other parry advanced rapidly: they crossed the
little stream, were lost for a minute behind an orchard,--their heads
and shoulders, banners and lances, were then seen over the walls of
the cottage-garden; and in another moment the officer in command
halted his men within fifty yards of the convent gate. After a few
words to those behind, he pushed his horse forward, accompanied by
Father George, and followed by the herald and one of the trumpeters.
"What is all this?" he cried, in a loud, stern tone: "why is the alarm
bell of this holy place ringing so loud? and what are these armed men
doing before the walls of Heiligenstein?"
"The Count of Ehrenstein comes to force a penitent from the sanctuary
of our Lady's altar," cried the Abbess, waving her hand for the bell
to cease; "and he was about to force our gates and burn the convent.
Thank God! and all the saints, for your coming, noble Count."
"I am here, Count Rudolph of Schönborn," said the Count of Ehrenstein,
riding a little forward, and smoothing his brow, "to claim my
disobedient daughter at the hands of these good sisters, who do not
deny that she is within their walls; and it was certainly my
determination to take her hence, with as little force as might be,
upon their refusal to give her up upon the pretence of sanctuary. I
trust that you, as a father yourself, and a brother noble, will aid me
to make this reverend lady hear reason,--for who ever knew of
sanctuary protecting a refractory child from her parent's due
authority?"
"I know no limit to the shelter of a sanctuary, my good lord," replied
Count Rudolph. "Even I, myself, though now armed with the Emperor's
authority, must respect it, as you will soon see. As to forcing the
gates of a holy place like this, and threatening to burn it down, even
as a menace, it is a high offence, my lord."
"A usual one with this noble Count," said Father George, "as I showed
the Emperor this morning."
"Ha, poisonous reptile!" cried the Count of Ehrenstein, giving way to
a burst of fury; "have you been spitting your venom so far from your
own den? Who made my child--the sweetest, gentlest girl that ever
lived--despise her father's authority, fly from her home, and wed a
beggarly outcast? Who prompted his brother's bastard to seduce from
her duty the daughter of his lord? But there is vengeance yet in
store."
"My lord the Count," replied Father George, calmly, "I might put
questions to you more difficult to answer than these will prove to me.
When you ask them in fit presence, as I believe you will soon have
occasion, I am ready to reply; but the matter is now in other hands,
and there I will leave it for the time."
"I will leave my cause with you in no other hands," answered the Count
of Ehrenstein, fiercely; "sooner or later I will have vengeance. It
were vain now, I see," he continued, turning to Count Rudolph, "to try
to enforce my right here to the custody of my own child, as you, sir,
refuse to give me aid; and therefore----"
"Stay yet a moment, my lord of Ehrenstein," said Count Rudolph; "my
whole mission refers to you: and, first, as to your daughter, you had
better witness what steps I take. My dear lady Abbess," he continued,
advancing close to the gates, "I was commanded by the Emperor, my lord
and friend, to seek the lady Adelaide, of Ehrenstein, here, and to
bring her to the Imperial Court at Spires, there to live, under my
good wife's protection, till her case can be fully considered. As,
however, she has claimed sanctuary, far be it from me even to think of
taking her from it without her free consent. Give her, therefore, my
message, and tell her, that if she be willing to go with me, I pledge
my knightly word, at any time that she may require it, to restore her
to her place of refuge, and defend her there against all men."
"I will tell her, my lord," replied the Abbess, "and doubtless she
will readily go with one so noble and so true."
"I will not stay here," cried the Count of Ehrenstein, "to be mocked
and set at nought by my rebellious child.--Mount the men, Mosbach, and
march."
"One moment more, my lord," said Count Rudolph; "I was bound for
Ehrenstein, had I not so fortunately found you here; so that I am
saved a farther journey. You are accused, my lord, before the Imperial
Chamber, of several high offences, and----"
"And you are ordered, perhaps, to arrest me," said the Count, reining
back his horse towards his troop: "be it at your own peril,--I am not
very tame."
"You mistake, sir," said Count Rudolph; "I am ordered formally to
summon you to appear to-morrow before the Emperor's court at Spires;
there to answer any charges that may be brought against you. Advance,
herald, and read the summons."
The herald immediately spurred forward his horse, till he was somewhat
in advance of Count Rudolph and Father George, and then, drawing forth
a parchment with a large seal, he read aloud, in a dull and monotonous
voice, a formal summons for the Count of Ehrenstein to appear, as
Count Rudolph had announced. After he had concluded, he waved his
truncheon thrice in the air, and each time the trumpeter behind blew a
loud short blast.
"And now, my good lord, I may as well ask whether you will appear, or
not?" said Count Rudolph, as soon as this ceremony was over.
"I love to have time to consider all things," answered the Count of
Ehrenstein. "To-morrow will be time enough for my determination to
appear: and now, my lord, farewell. I trust your daughter may prove as
obedient as mine, and may find friends, as wise and powerful as
yourself, to aid and encourage her in the course she chooses."
Thus saying, with a bitter smile, and every angry passion in his
heart, the Count of Ehrenstein turned his horse and rode away, his
retainers following, and old Seckendorf keeping a wary eye to the
rear, lest any attack should be made upon their retreating party,
either by the force of Count Rudolph, or the armed peasantry who had
gathered on the hill.