It is a common maxim that time destroys falsehood, and leaves truth
intact. This may be true in the abstract; for truth, in its nature is
indestructible; but as the mind of man is always more or less in a
misty state, and his perception of no object very clear and distinct;
even that which is true in the abstract he often renders false in
application by various errors of his own, and by none more frequently
than by using that in a figurative sense which is only just in a
definite sense. No maxim has thus been more perverted than the one I
have cited, that time destroys falsehood, but leaves truth intact. It
has been used figuratively; it has had its signification extended; it
has had its very terms altered; and we find it at last changed so as
to assert that time destroys falsehood, but brings truth to light. In
this form, however, it is altogether inadmissible. Time may destroy
falsehood, as anything else that is perishable. It may sometimes bring
truth to light; but it does neither always; and this is one of the
vulgar maxims of the world, of which we have so many, intended to
support morality, but, in fact, destroying it; for the key-stone of
morals is truth. Society manufactures facts just as it builds houses
and churches, forms rings, or swords, or bracelets. The real deeds,
and thoughts, and feelings of men, and the false assertions concerning
them--all, in short, that forms the great mass of history,--are cast
down, broken, mutilated, and covered over with the mud and ashes of
passing generations, as age follows age; but the truth lies buried as
well as the falsehood; and the waves of time that overlay them with
the refuse, and lumber, and dirt of a hundred centuries, from hour to
hour, roll up the fragments to the feet of those who stand upon the
dry strand of the present; or else man's busy and inquisitive hand
digs them up; and--as we search amongst the ruins of a past city, for
the gems and jewels, the sculpture and the painting of races now no
more, casting from us what is worthless--so seek we amongst the
records of the former times (if we are wise), preserving what is true
and precious, and throwing away what is false. Yet how much useless
lumber and unsubstantial trash is retained and valued in both cases.
What history is not full of lies!--what cabinet uncrowded with
fabrications!
Perhaps in no case whatever has time given us so little truth as in
regard to many points relating to the religions institutions of the
middle ages. The gross and horrible superstitions and corruptions of
the Romish church, and the ambitious motives and eager thirst for
domination that existed in her hierarchy, acted as a sort of deluge,
overwhelming and hiding many excellent results--much that was
fine--much that was holy--much that was pure. The subject is vast, and
is receiving more attention now than it ever has done since the
Reformation; but I have to do with only one point. The monasteries and
nunneries of those days have been represented, generally, as places of
mere idleness, or idleness and vice; and yet, at the periods when they
were established, and for centuries after, they operated in many
respects most beneficially. They were the countercheck to feudal power
and tyranny; a refuge to the people in the time of oppression; a sure
support in the hour of need. There were drawbacks, certainly; they
were the manufactories of superstitions, the citadels of the enemy in
a fierce war against the human mind. Still they did much good, in some
directions, in their day. The lives of the recluses have been severely
criticised; they have, upon the faith of some shocking instances, been
represented as full of wickedness and corruption; and yet in general
the people loved them. There cannot be a doubt of it,--especially the
people of the country; for the new risen communes were generally
inimical to them.
At all events, the peasantry round the convent of Heiligenstein were
devotedly attached to the good sisters, who, living amongst them,
witnessed their joys and sorrows, alleviated their sufferings,
wherever it was possible, and sympathised with them whenever they had
no other balm to give. Simple in their lives, kind in their dealings,
liberal of their wealth, for which they had no other employment but
charity, and spreading those human affections which were denied an
individual object over the whole race, the nuns were pardoned easily a
little spiritual pride, as the alloy of the finer qualities which they
constantly displayed. The armed peasants, who had hurried to their
rescue, would willingly have shed their blood in defence of their
friends and benefactors; and a menacing movement took place amongst
them as the soldiery of the Count of Ehrenstein withdrew. A message,
sent in haste by the Abbess, stopped any hostile proceeding; but a
loud shout of derision, harder to bear, perhaps, than actual assault,
followed the Count, and worked up his anger almost to madness.
Count Rudolph of Schönborn, turned a quick and somewhat angry glance
towards them, for although a kind and noble hearted man, he was not by
any means without the prejudices of his class; and he felt the
indignity offered to another noble as an insult to his whole order. He
might, indeed, have added sharp words to his fierce look, but the
voice of the Abbess, speaking from above, caught his ear, and he
advanced, inquiring, "What says the Lady Adelaide?"
"I have not given her your message yet, my good lord," was the reply;
"I stayed to see what would happen to that bad Count of Ehrenstein.
But I have ordered the gates to be thrown open for you, my noble lord,
and refreshment to be prepared for your men, in the village. You had
better see the lady yourself, poor thing. Doubtless, her father's
harsh, bad temper has driven her to fly from him. He killed her
mother, who was as sweet a girl as ever lived, and my dear friend, in
childhood."
"Killed her!" exclaimed Count Rudolph in surprise.
"Nay, she means but by unkindness, my lord Count," replied Father
George. "There are murders which no law but that of God will reach;
but I cannot but think, that to slay the innocent and good by daily
torture, cold looks, harsh words, and deeds bitterer than blows, is as
great or greater a crime than to end life quickly by the dagger or the
phial. But see, my lord, the gates are open. Will you not enter? I
shall beg leave to accompany you within, for my words may have more
power with the lady than those of a stranger, however noble."
"We must not be long," answered Count Rudolph; and advancing to the
gates, he entered the outer court of the convent where the Abbess
stood ready to receive him, with all marks of gratitude and respect.
She did not, indeed, lead him to the interior of the building, but
took her way to the parlour of the lodge, where she ordered
refreshments to be brought instantly, and then, at the request of the
Count, sent for poor Adelaide of Ehrenstein. Father George she seemed
to know well, and though they were too courteous to converse apart in
Count Rudolph's presence, their looks held a mute conversation, till,
at length, the door of the parlour again opened, and Adelaide
appeared, clinging with unsubdued terror to the lady with whom she had
found refuge, whose face also was grave and apprehensive. The sight of
Father George, however, seemed to revive and encourage them both.
Adelaide at once sprang towards him and kissed his hand, and the lady
greeted him with a bright and well satisfied smile. To the one, his
manner was kind and paternal; to the other, reverent and courteous;
but Adelaide, ere she even looked round to Count Rudolph, whispered,
"Ferdinand, Father? Ferdinand? I have not seen him."
"He is safe, my child," said the old monk, in a low tone; "fear not;
the crisis is coming; and you will now find that the promises I made
are fulfilled. You have still to play your part, my child; but look
upon it as a blessing from Heaven, that you have the opportunity of
playing that part, and I trust of saving those most dear to you."
"Have you told the lady?" asked Count Rudolph, interrupting the monk,
as he was going on.
"No, my good lord," answered Father George, "I have not ventured to
give your message in your own presence."
Count Rudolph advanced towards Adelaide, and with a graceful, though
somewhat stately air, he said, "Your case, lady, has come before my
lord the Emperor in two forms: first, by private information from a
source in which he seems to have some confidence; and next, by an open
statement, made this morning, a few minutes before I set out--and of
which, by the way, I know nothing--by my reverend and very good friend
here, Father George. His Imperial Majesty seems to have been greatly
touched by the account given to him, and he despatched me in haste to
request your presence at his court at Spires. To satisfy any doubts
that you might have, he required me to assure you of the protection
and motherly care of my good wife, the Countess Schönborn, which she
will give you, I may say, willingly and frankly, as if you were a
child of her own. The Emperor knew not, when he sent me, that you had
taken sanctuary, and thus he spoke in the tone of command; but being
well aware that no one has greater reverence for the church than he, I
dare use nothing but entreaty now, assuring you, upon my knightly word
and honour, that at your request, I will restore you to this place of
refuge, and there defend you to the best of my power, should it be
needful."
Adelaide paused, and made no reply for a moment, looking to Father
George, as if for counsel. "Go, my child, go," he said. "Great things
are on the eve of decision in the Emperor's court. It is needful that
you should be present; for it often happens that a woman's voice,
wisely employed, mitigates the severity of man's justice, and acts the
sweetest part of Heaven on earth; go, my child, go. With this good
lord's inviolable word to guard you, you are as safe at Spires as
here."
Adelaide gently clasped her hands together, and looked down upon the
ground for a moment or two, lost in deep thought. It was not that she
hesitated, it was not that she asked herself, "Shall I, or shall I
not, quit this place of sure and peaceful refuge, to mingle again with
the strifes and confusion of the world?" for her mind was made up;
and, thus far advanced, she was ready to go on. But it was that she
saw many a painful hour before her, and she asked herself, "How shall
I surmount all the anguish and the difficulty of the hour? Will my
courage fail, will my bodily strength give way? Will God help me at my
need, and strengthen me to do his appointed task?" As she thus
thought, her hands pressed closer together, and her lips murmured,
"Christ help me!" Then turning to Count Rudolph, she said, "I am ready
to go, my lord, in obedience to the Emperor's command, and trusting to
your word."
She did not venture to say more, and Count Rudolph showed some
inclination to depart; but the Abbess besought him to pause awhile,
till both he and the lady had partaken of some refreshment. To speak
the truth, he was not averse to a supply of good meat and wine; for he
had ridden far, and was at all times blessed with a good appetite. He
made Adelaide his excuse, however; and while he courteously
complimented her in somewhat formal speeches, according to the custom
of the day, Father George spoke eagerly, but apart, to the lady who
had been Adelaide's hostess, and then called the Abbess to their
consultation. Like a hill-side under cloud and sunshine, the cheek of
the lady glowed and turned pale by turns, as she listened to the words
which the monk spoke. She gazed down upon the ground, she looked up to
the sky, her eyes filled with tears, her limbs trembled; and ere she
answered, she sat down upon a settle, as if overpowered by what was
said.
"This is foolish and weak," she exclaimed, at length. "I will not
shrink from the task, and why should I dread the peril? For him have I
lived, for his sake have I endured the burden of existence, which
otherwise would have long since crushed me. 'Tis but the habit of
concealment and apprehension that engenders these foolish fears; and I
will shake them off. Father, you tell me it is right to go, and I will
go, if death should be my portion."
"Joy may be your portion, daughter," answered Father George, laying
his right hand lightly, but impressively, upon her shoulder;--"joy,
brighter, deeper, than you have known for years, perhaps than you have
known in life--It may be so. I say not that it will; but surely, to
see your son raised to the summit of your highest hopes, is sufficient
motive even for a greater risk."
"It is--it is," answered the lady; "and I will go, good Father; but do
not abandon me, do not leave me to meet a strange court, and scenes
such as I have not seen for years, alone. I shall feel like some of
the wild creatures of the woods, suddenly caught, and brought before a
thousand gazing eyes."
"I will go with you, daughter," answered Father George, "for your
sake, and for that dear child's; I will not leave you as long as there
is aught doubtful in your fate. If wrong has been committed, it is
mine; and I will abide the issue with you."
While this conversation had taken place between Father George and the
lady, with the Abbess listening, and joining in from time to time,
Count Rudolph had applied himself to soothe and encourage Adelaide,
and he had made some progress in quieting her apprehension, when the
refreshments which had been ordered were brought in. The worthy Count
undoubtedly did more justice to the good fare than any of the other
persons present; but he despatched his present task rapidly; and then,
after pausing for a moment to see if his companions would take
anything more, he rose, as a signal for departure.
Several little interludes had taken place, and all the by-play which
must occur in such a scene. Lay-sisters had come in and gone out; two
men had even appeared in the parlour, had received orders, and taken
their departure; but the Count had paid little attention, and was
somewhat surprised in the end to find that he was to have another
companion besides the Lady Adelaide. He was too courteous to offer any
objection, however; and in a short time the whole party were on their
way to Spires.
We need not notice the incidents of the journey, which were few and of
no importance. Refreshed by a night's rest, Adelaide was far less
fatigued than Bertha had been the night before; but still, as they
entered the city, then in its splendour and its pride, filled with a
moving multitude, and displaying in its streets all the pageantry of
commerce, of arms, and of royalty, with gay cavalcades at every
corner, with marching troops, with sounding trumpets, with gaily
decorated booths and shops, and with innumerable human beings, all
occupied with themselves, or with thoughts totally alien to her
feelings, situation, and anticipations, Adelaide felt lost and
abandoned in the crowd, and her heart sank with a greater feeling of
desolation than ever she had felt in the wildest scenes of her own
hills.
Such sensations were increased when they approached the palace, and
beheld a multitude of guards and attendants, armed and on horseback,
surrounding a small open space, in the midst of which was seen a
magnificent charger, held by two grooms; while, with one knee bent to
the ground, a man of lordly aspect, held a gilded stirrup, to which
another, of the middle age, robed in royal splendour, placed his foot,
and then vaulted into the saddle.
Count Rudolph reined in his horse, and the whole party halted, while
the Emperor putting himself at the head of his train, rode past,
merely noticing his friend and companion by an inclination of the
head. As soon as the Imperial troop had marched by, Lady Adelaide was
conducted to the palace, and led, by nearly the same course which
Bertha had followed the night before, to two rooms which had been
prepared for her. Father George followed, but paused at the door,
saying, "I must seek myself lodging in the priory; but before I go,
dear lady, let me tell you, I find, from the words of the Emperor this
morning, that your maid Bertha is here. I learned late last night,
that your party had been intercepted by one of the three men who fled;
and I set off two hours before daybreak, to inquire into the fate of
all. You will need your maid to attend upon you, and I will ask one of
the pages to send her. Moreover," he added, in a low voice, "it is
needful to know what she has said to the Emperor; not that I wish you
to have any concealment from him; for he may know all; indeed, he does
know all, as far as I can tell it; and it will be well for you to show
him the motives on which you have acted, and to plead at once for that
lenity, of which some who have offended may have great need. Now, for
the present, farewell, my child, and farewell too, dear lady; I shall
see you both again ere night."
Thus saying, Father George left his fair companions, and in a moment
or two after, Bertha ran into the room, and threw her arms round her
fair mistress, kissing her tenderly, but gazing upon the stranger who
was with her in some surprise.
"Oh! dearest lady," she cried, in her usual gay tone, "I have been in
sad terror about you, and about myself too, ever since we parted. I
knew you were little fit to take care of yourself where you were; and
I soon found I was little fit to take care of myself where I was; for
Bertha in a court was quite as much lost as Adelaide in a wood; but
Heaven took care of us both it seems. Yet I must hear all that, has
happened to you; for by no stretch of imagination can I conceive how
one so little experienced in the tangled ways of life, could get out
of that forest in the night time--unless indeed, Father George came to
your help; for that wild boy of a page tells me, a monk sent him to
call me to you--pray, let me hear all."
"You will hear in good time, maiden," said the elder lady, somewhat
gravely; "but at present, it is needful that you should tell your
mistress all that has taken place between yourself and the Emperor;
for we know not when he may return and call for her; and it is right
that she should hear what has been said."
"Oh, I will tell what I said to him, in a minute," answered Bertha,
laughing; "but I must not tell all he said to me, for that would be
betraying Majesty's confidence--though it would serve him right too;
for great men in furs and velvets should not try to make fools of poor
girls."
"I seek not, my good Bertha," replied Adelaide, "to hear aught that he
said to you. That does not concern me; but Father George seems to
think that you told him much respecting me, and--"
"I told him all I knew, dear lady, and all I guessed," answered
Bertha; "but it was not till he had promised me, upon his royal word,
pardon for myself, and help for you, in case of need. But to my story,
such as it is--first, I told him that you were lost in the wood, which
I described as well as I could; and, moreover, that if you were out of
it, you would be as much puzzled to find your way either through the
mazes of the country or the mazes of your fate, as if you remained in.
Then he asked me a great number of questions, to which I could only
answer by guess--such as Whether you were really married to Ferdinand
of Altenburg? and I told him, I felt very sure of it, though I did not
see the ring put on with my own eyes."
Adelaide's cheek grew somewhat crimson, but the lady who was with her
asked, "Well, what more?"
"Why then, Madam, he inquired," continued Bertha, "Who Ferdinand of
Altenburg really was? and I told him that I fancied he was of higher
rank than he seemed, and of better hopes and fortunes too."
"I think you must have omitted something, dear Bertha," said Adelaide;
"for how came he to ask if I were married to Ferdinand of Altenburg,
if you told him nothing of poor Ferdinand before?"
"That puzzled me as much as it does you, lady," replied Bertha; "but
there were a thousand things besides that, which made me feel sure
that he had got nearly as good information as I could give, from some
one else. I went to him in the nun's gown, and he took me for you at
first; but when he found out the mistake, he questioned me closely, I
can assure you. Amongst other things, I told him that it was high time
for both you and Ferdinand to run away, inasmuch as I believed, if you
had staid, my good and merciful lord, your father, would have chopped
both your heads off. Then he asked if you were very handsome, and I
said Not particularly; for it seemed to me that this mighty Kaiser had
a great faculty of falling in love, and that if I told him how
beautiful you really are, you might find it unpleasant."
"Hush! hush! Bertha," said Adelaide; "there is no fear of the Emperor
falling in love with either of us. You must not mistake mere courtly
words for lover's professions."
"Well, I wish I were safe out of the place," answered Bertha; "for, on
my life! these courtly words are very warm ones; and as summer is hard
by, the air is hot enough without them. But to my tale again I told
him, in short, that I thought you were married; that I knew you had
long loved; that I believed you knew who Ferdinand of Altenburg really
is, as well or better than he does himself, and that I was quite sure
you acted for the best in giving him your hand without your father's
knowledge. On that he questioned me a long while, as to whether love
would not make a woman do anything, and whether you had not listened
to love instead of duty. I said No; that love would do great things,
but not all, and that, whatever his Majesty might think, there were
some women who would not do what they knew to be wrong, even for
love."
"You said well, Bertha;--you said well," answered Adelaide, casting
down her eyes thoughtfully, and questioning her own heart as to how
far love had made her lend a willing ear to persuasions that took the
voice of duty. But the elder lady bent her head approvingly towards
the maid, and gave her a well pleased smile.
Bertha's tale was soon concluded, and for a while both the ladies
mused over her account. The elder seemed not dissatisfied with what
she stated had taken place, but there were parts of the maid's
narrative which created some uneasy feeling in Adelaide's breast.--She
had previously shrunk from meeting a monarch to whom she might be
obliged to speak of feelings and actions which she would fain have
left in silence for ever, although the feelings might be pure and
noble, and the actions just and right; but she gathered from Bertha's
words that there had been a lightness of tone in the Emperor's
conversation which might well increase her apprehensions and make the
timid modesty of her nature almost deviate into terror. Her cheek
turned pale as she thus thought, and the watchful eye of her elder
companion saw the change.
"You are somewhat faint and weary, my dear child," she said; "I wonder
that the Countess of Schönborn has not yet appeared. She would
doubtless procure you some refreshment."
"I can do that as well, Madam," answered Bertha, turning gaily to the
door. "In the Emperor's absence, I command the buttery, and the
cellar, and am humbly served, I can tell you.--Here, slave," she
continued, opening the door and speaking to some one in the passage;
"bring these ladies some food and wine; and be quick, if you would
merit favour."
Adelaide smiled, inquiring, "Who have you there, giddy girl?"
"Oh, one who has vowed humble service this morning," answered Bertha;
"and as I hope and trust his bondage will not be long, I may as well
use my reign imperiously."
In a few minutes, the page whom we have seen before came in with an
inferior servant bearing refreshments; but ere Adelaide and her
companions had tasted much, Count Rudolph of Schönborn and his
Countess were announced, and ushered in with more of the pomp and
state of high station than had yet been seen in the Retscher. To the
surprise of both Adelaide and her companion, it was to the latter that
the Countess of Schönborn first addressed herself, and that with an
air of deep deference and respect.
"Although it was to this young lady--whom I take to be the Lady
Adelaide of Ehrenstein," the Countess said,--"that my husband promised
my protection and support, yet, Madam, as my good friend, Father
George of Altenburg, has made me acquainted with much concerning you,
let me first offer you any courtesy or attention I can show."
"I may doubtless yet much need your favour, Madam," replied the lady;
"and will seek it frankly, with many thanks that it is frankly
offered; but, for the time, this dear child requires countenance and
help, such as I ought to have power myself to give her, were it not
for the wrong I suffer."
The Countess's next address was to Adelaide; but it gave the poor girl
but small comfort or support; for though she wished to be kind and
considerate, Count Rudolph's worthy dame knew not rightly how. Stately
and ceremonious, she was not fitted to console under misfortune, or
inspire confidence in difficulty. She was one of those people who are
ever ready to do a real service or confer an important favour, but who
make even bounty burdensome by the manner in which it is exercised.
Oh, how poor and unequal is the exchange thus sought, of deference for
regard! Strange, strange must be the constitution of those minds who
prefer reverence to affection. Words of course, formal courtesies,
were all that passed between the Lady Adelaide and her visitor, and
although Heaven knows the poor girl had little pride in her nature,
and her heart was as gentle as the summer air, yet such was the
influence of the Countess's manner upon her that she became cold and
almost haughty in demeanour. Perhaps it might do her good, however;
for deeply depressed as she was, ignorant of the fate of those she
loved best, anxious and apprehensive in regard to the event of each
coming hour, she required something to rouse her from her despondency,
and recall her thoughts from the dreary looking forward to the future.
The Countess of Schönborn staid long, and only retired when the sound
of trumpets announced the Emperor's return; but, strange as it may
seem, though her demeanour had certainly not much pleased Adelaide,
yet Adelaide had much pleased her. Her cold stateliness had generated
the same; she herself had been reflected from Adelaide's mind as from
a glass; and as she valued herself highly, she was well satisfied with
the image.
"She is a dignified and high-minded young woman," said the Countess to
her husband, as they went away; "and I am quite sure that, whatever
men may say, she would never do aught unworthy of her rank and
station."
Count Rudolph knew more of human nature than his wife; he understood
the process by which the fair girl had become so different a creature
in the Emperor's palace from what she had been at the convent and by
the way; and he smiled, but without reply.
When they were gone, Adelaide's heart sank again; she expected each
minute to be called to the presence of the monarch, and all her fears
and apprehensions returned. Bertha, who knew her well, easily divined
what was passing in her heart, and strove to console and cheer her,
saying, "Indeed, dear lady, you, who fear no ghosts, need not fear any
emperors. They are a much tamer sort of cattle than we have any notion
of till we come near them--somewhat frolicsome, but no way frightful."
"Alas! my poor Bertha," answered the lady, "we have all our own
particular objects of fear; and that which might reassure you, would
terrify me. I am in no sportive humour myself, and I could easier bear
a reproof just now than a jest."
Still no summons came: hour after hour passed by, and Adelaide began
to think she was forgotten. A short visit from Father George tended in
some degree to break the heavy tedium of expectation; but he remained
not more than ten minutes, and during that time he was engrossed in
eager and private conversation with the lady of the cottage. He was
evidently hurried, and Adelaide thought she saw more agitation in his
manner than she had ever before witnessed. Her fears increased; she
asked herself if aught had gone wrong; if his plans, like so many
other well-devised schemes, had failed; but the calm demeanour of her
fair companion when he was gone, reassured her in a degree; and at
length just as the light that streamed through the long windows was
growing somewhat fainter, the expected summons came, and she rose to
obey it.
"I would fain go with you, my dear child," said the elder lady, in her
low, musical voice; "but I fear I must not on this occasion."
"I know it--I know it," answered Adelaide, "but, strange to say, I
fear less now than I did a moment ago. Expectation is fear."
Thus saying, she departed, and, preceded by two officers of the
palace, was conducted to the room where the Emperor awaited her. He
fixed his eyes steadfastly upon her for a moment as she entered--then
advanced, as she would have knelt, prevented her from doing so, and
led her to a seat.
Physiognomy is generally looked upon as an idle science, not, indeed,
deserving of the name. All must admit that it is an uncertain one; but
yet there is something in the human countenance, whether it be in
feature or in expression, or in both combined, which has its effect
upon every one. We judge by it, even when we know not that we are
judging; we act in consequence of its indications without being aware
that we are influenced by it. The monarch, while he imagined that the
girl Bertha was the daughter of the Count of Ehrenstein, had demeaned
himself towards her in a very different manner from that which he now
displayed towards Adelaide. It was that her appearance had produced a
very different impression. There is an alchemy in a high heart, which
transmutes other things to its own quality. He was calm and grave, but
mild and kind; and, as he saw that his fair visitor was somewhat
agitated, he soothed her tenderly, more in the tone of a father than a
sovereign.
"Do not be alarmed, my dear young lady," he said: "I am neither going
to speak harsh words nor ask idle questions. Your whole tale has been
told to me by lips that could not lie; therefore all discussion of the
past is useless. It remains but for me to do the best I can to render
you happy, to right what has been done wrong, and, if a fair
opportunity be given me, to temper justice, as far as possible, with
mercy. With such purposes and such wishes, all I have to ask of you
is, will you trust me?--will you place full confidence in me, and not
act in any shape till I let you know the time is come?"
"Oh! Sire," exclaimed Adelaide, in a tone of deep gratitude, "you are
too kind and too noble for me to doubt you for an instant. Command,
and I will obey."
"Well, then," replied the Emperor; "be prepared in an hour's time to
set out on a journey of some length. A litter shall be ready for you,
as you have already had much fatigue;--and fear not," he added, seeing
that she cast down her eyes thoughtfully: "you will be surrounded by
friends, and guarded against all danger."
"There is a lady here with me, Sire," replied Adelaide, "whose fate, I
feel, is in some way connected with mine."
"I know, I know," replied the Emperor, with a smile: "she will go with
you; her presence is as necessary as your own, as doubtless you are
well aware. And now, farewell. I will not keep you longer. Be ready,
and fear nothing."