When the Count of Ehrenstein opened his eyes, it seemed to him as if
he were in a dream, or as if he had been dreaming. The shrouded
figures, the darkened chapel, all had passed away, and everything was
restored to the same state as it had been before the awful apparition
had presented itself to his sight. There sat the Emperor in the centre
of the table, the knights forming the court were placed around.
Ferdinand, Father George, Franz Creussen, and those who had followed
them, stood in the centre aisle; the torches glided upon the walls and
pillars, and the end of the nave was crowded with the gaily dressed
nobles and officers of the Imperial Court. He himself, supported by
two guards, was seated on a settle, a few yards to the left of the
Emperor; and Count Rudolph of Schönborn, with his arm crossed upon his
chest, was gazing at him attentively, as if watching the progress of
his recovery.
The next moment, the Emperor's voice was heard, saying, in a loud
stern tone, "We can wait no longer; we must proceed to judgment."
"Stay, my lord, stay," replied Count Rudolph; "he revives, he is
opening his eyes."
"Where am I?" murmured the Count, in a low tone. "What has become of
them? Where have they gone to?"
"Whom do you mean?" asked Count Rudolph, gravely.
"My brother and his followers," said the Count, closing his eyes
again, as if afraid of beholding some dreadful sight. "I saw them
there--there before me."
"Your brain has wandered, my good lord," said Count Rudolph; "all are
here present who have been here to-night."
"It is a warning from Heaven," observed the voice of Father George,
"calling upon a bad man, perhaps for the last time, to repent of what
he has wrongly done, and to make restitution of what he unjustly
holds. Let him obey the voice of conscience, before it be too late."
"Your last words, my lord," said Count Rudolph, "uttered just before
you fell, were insulting to the Emperor and his court. You appealed to
another tribunal; but, from what you have just said, it would seem
that you were not then in command of your understanding. Doubtless,
the Emperor will take this into consideration, and hear anything that
you may have to say before he pronounces judgment between you and your
nephew, as he is about to do."
The Count rose feebly, with a pale cheek and haggard eye; and Count
Frederick of Leiningen, who was gazing at him, exclaimed, in an eager
and a friendly tone, "I beseech you, William of Ehrenstein, do
justice, and remember equity. To every one here present, I believe,
this case seems perfectly clear. Your brother's son stands before
you--there cannot be a doubt of it. It is proved that he was born in
lawful marriage; yield to him that which is rightly his; and, by a
grateful acquiescence in that which you cannot prevent, atone for the
past, and induce him not to inquire farther into deeds that it were
best to leave obscure."
"A little comfortable darkness is not unpleasant to most men," said
the jester, from behind his lord; but the Count of Ehrenstein waved
his hand fiercely, exclaiming, "I will never yield that which is mine
to this base tissue of forged evidence. My lands may be torn from me
by the arm of power; but I will not consent to the tyranny that wrongs
me."
"Have you aught more to say?" demanded the Emperor, gazing at him
sternly. The Count was silent, rolling his eyes around, as if seeking
for something to reply, and finding naught; and the monarch, after a
moment's pause, proceeded.
"To your judgment, noble lords, I leave this cause," he said. "You
will consider, first, whether you have evidence sufficient; next, if
you have, you will judge whether the claim of this young gentleman be,
or be not, fully substantiated. I will have no voice therein, but
leave you free to decide upon these questions, that no man hereafter
may say you have been influenced by aught but your own sense of right
and justice." Thus saying, he rose from his seat, and took two steps
back, standing with his arms folded upon his chest, and his eyes bent
upon the ground. A low and murmured consultation instantly took place
amongst the gentlemen round the table; and, after a very short
hesitation, the eldest rose, and, turning to the Emperor, said, "We
have decided, my lord, that the evidence is fully sufficient."
"Then judge upon it," replied the Emperor, briefly. "I am here to see
your judgment executed."
Again a low murmured consultation took place, and, once more, the old
knight rose and said, "We find, upon the evidence tendered to us by
Ferdinand, hitherto called of Altenburg, that he is the lawful son of
the late Count Ferdinand Charles of Ehrenstein, and as such entitled
to the lands, lordships, rights, and privileges of the house of
Ehrenstein, upon doing due and customary homage, and rendering such
service to the Imperial Crown as his predecessors have done before
him."
There was a dead silence for a moment. The Count clenched his hands
tight together, and gnashed his teeth; and then Count Frederick of
Leiningen, and Father George of Altenburg, took Ferdinand by the hand,
and led him between them to the Emperor. He was about to kneel, and
tender homage at once; but the monarch took him in his arms, and
embraced him, saying, "I give you joy, young Sir, upon the recovery of
your own. Reserve your homage, however, for another day, when it shall
be received in public, in our city of Spires. At present, there is
another task before you, and one more form to be gone through, before
I place you in that chair, to take the first steps in judging those
who have wronged you." He then raised his voice, and said, aloud, "Let
the trumpet sound, and the herald call upon any one who denies that
Ferdinand, hitherto named 'of Altenburg,' is of right, Count of
Ehrenstein, to come forward now, and show cause why he should not be
pronounced such by the Imperial Court, and received to homage
accordingly. Sound!"
Instantly the trumpet sounded at the door of the chapel, and a herald
made proclamation in due form. All men listened to the words in
silence, not, indeed, expecting any reply, except it were from Count
William.
To the surprise of all, however, a voice, not very far from where the
Emperor stood, exclaimed aloud, "I do deny his title!"
There was a slight movement among the crowd; the lords and knights
made way for the appellant; all eyes from the other parts of the
chapel turned in the direction of the altar, and wonder, not unmixed
with scorn, was depicted on every countenance but two or three, when
the jester advanced from the group around the Emperor, and took his
way straight towards the chair in which the monarch had lately sat.
"What foolery is this?" cried one.
"Cast the mad fellow out!" said another.
"This is no time for such jests," said a third.
But, with a firm and lordly step, a head held high, and an air of
dignity and command in his whole look, the jester walked up to the
table, seated himself in the central chair, and then looking round to
the knights who had pronounced judgment, he said, in a loud, clear
voice, "You have pronounced that Ferdinand of Ehrenstein is the lawful
son of Ferdinand Charles, upon good, just, and true evidence. But
before you pronounce him Count of Ehrenstein you must prove that
Ferdinand Charles is dead."
Thus saying, he removed the unsightly cap from his head, and with it a
large quantity of white hair, threw the bauble from his hand into the
midst of the aisle, cast back the cloak from his shoulders, and gazed
around him,--as lordly a man, in his presence and bearing, as any in
the whole court.
As he did so, a cry, strange and horrible, came from the group on the
left; and Count William of Ehrenstein darted forward, with his hands
clasped tight together--gazed for an instant, with wild eagerness, in
the face of him who had so boldly seated himself in the Emperor's
chair--and then falling on his knees, exclaimed, "Ferdinand!
Ferdinand!"
The multitude in the chapel seemed at once to conceive the whole; and
a loud shout--the mixture of surprise and satisfaction--burst from
them, and made the vaulted roof ring. At the same moment, too, good
Franz Creussen strode up to the table, and taking the Count's hand in
his, wrung it hard, exclaiming, "Welcome to your own again, my good
and noble lord!"
But how shall I depict all the varied expressions on the
countenances of those who surrounded the table at that moment:--the
joy, the surprise, the bewilderment in the face of Ferdinand of
Ehrenstein;--the agony and despair in that of his uncle, as he still
knelt, with the eye of his brother fixed even fiercely upon him; the
look of terror and dismay of old Karl von Mosbach; and the calm and
triumphant glance of satisfaction in the eyes of the two old knights
who had accompanied Ferdinand thither, and of several other hardy
warriors around.
Nor was there less pleasure in the aspect of Count Frederick of
Leiningen, who, after having paused for a moment to let the first
feelings have way, advanced, and laid his hand upon the shoulder of
him who had so lately appeared as his jester, and said aloud, "This is
Ferdinand Charles, Count of Ehrenstein, delivered by my assistance
from the bonds of the infidel. No man, who knows him and looks upon
him, will deny it; but, should there be any one bold enough so to do,
I will prove the fact, either by my body against his in battle, or by
the course of true evidence; showing that this noble Count has, ever
since his captivity, been in constant communication with the Grand
Master of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem; who, at his intercession
and upon his bond, has ransomed, from time to time, every one of his
companions made captive at the same time with himself; and would have
ransomed him also, long ago, had not the sum demanded been utterly
unreasonable. William of Ehrenstein, do you deny that this is your
brother?"
"I do not," answered the unhappy man, bending his head down to the
table, and covering his eyes with his hands. "It is--it is my brother.
Fool that I was not to know him sooner!"
"Fool that you were, indeed," replied his brother; "for fool must be
every man who takes not warnings repeatedly given. You have had every
means; you have had every chance. When I could have struck you in the
halls that you had taken from my son,--when I could have punished you
at the board, where you had no right to sit but as a guest,--when I
could have made you bow the head amongst the soldiery, where you had
no place but as a vassal--I forebore; although I knew you to be
perfidious, blood-stained, cruel! But yet I hoped that there might
be some grace left,--that some redeeming quality--some tardy
repentance of error--might give room for clemency,--might excuse, to
my own heart, the traitor against my own life, the plotter against my
child, the persecutor of my wife, the assassin of a faithful though
humble friend. Yet here, even here, to the very last, no touch of
remorse has shaken you,--no shame has found place in your bosom. When
proofs, as clear as day, have established rights of another and your
own guilt, you have resisted, with base and dishonourable subterfuges,
the restitution of that to which you had no claim; and have striven to
murder, with words, him whom your steel was impotent to reach. The day
of mercy and tenderness is past; I have swept from my bosom every
feeling of brotherly love--every memory of youthful hours--all the
linked tenderness of young affections,--all the sweet bonds of the
early heart. I deal with you as traitor, knave, assassin;--false to
your brother and your lord; and henceforth, from me, hope neither
grace, nor favour, nor compassion. Not as you have done to others will
I do to you; but, with the stern and rigid arm of impartial justice, I
will strike at proved crimes and wickedness unrepented.--My lord the
Emperor," he continued, rising, "I have usurped this seat too long,
and crave your gracious pardon; but at your hands I demand this man,
my vassal and my liegeman, whom I formerly called brother, to deal
with him, in my court, according as justice shall determine; and
justice he shall have, even to the uttermost jot, according to the
laws and customs of the nobles of this realm."
While he spoke, the culprit had remained with his head bent down, and
his face hidden; but the moment that the stern words left the Count's
lips, his brother made a convulsive motion forward, and grasped his
knees, exclaiming, "Ferdinand! Ferdinand!--Have mercy, have pity!"
But the Count spurned him from him, asking, in a deep fierce tone,
"Have you had pity?" And as the unfortunate man fell back upon the
pavement, there was a shrill cry--not exactly a shriek, but the sound
of grief rather than of terror; and suddenly from between the pillars
which separated the south aisle from the nave, a beautiful form darted
forward, passed the knights before the table, passed the prostrate
suppliant and his brother, passed Father George and the Emperor, and,
advancing straight to Ferdinand of Ehrenstein, caught his hand, and,
casting herself upon her knees at his feet, raised that beautiful face
toward him, exclaiming, "Ferdinand! Ferdinand! my husband, my beloved!
Now, remember the promise that you made me, the oath you swore. Save
my father: intercede for him--now, even now, when the warm gush of
parental love must be flowing from the heart of him who has our fate
in his hands, when the long yearnings of the soul to see his child
must make his spirit tender. Save my father--save him, my husband; by
your oath, by our hopes, by our mutual love. Kneel to him--I will
kneel too."
Ferdinand replied not but by a mute caress; but then advancing, he
bent his knee before the Count, saying, "My father!" Adelaide followed
timidly, and knelt beside him. But the Count seemed not to notice her;
and, casting his arms round the youth's neck, he bent his head over
him, while tears bedewed his cheeks, murmuring with faltering accents,
"My son! My brave, my noble son!"
At the same time he strove to raise him; but Ferdinand remained upon
his knee, and lifting his eyes to the Count's face, he answered, "Oh,
my father, my dear father! Welcome, welcome from bonds, from
captivity, from the grave, to receive your own, and to make all your
own happy. A boon, a boon, my father--in this hour of unexpected, of
unparalleled joy, grant your child one boon. Cloud not this hour of
happiness by the darkest blot that can stain existence. Spare your
brother. He may have wronged you, he may have wronged me, but he is
still your brother. Let it not be said that there was one man in all
your lordships who had real cause to mourn, that the Count of
Ehrenstein came to claim his own again. Let it be all bright, let it
be an hour of sunshine and of joy to every one, that brought you back
to us, when we all thought you lost for ever."
Adelaide also clasped her hands, and, gazing in his face, strove
eagerly to speak, but terror had too strong possession of her, and all
that she could utter was, "He is my father--have mercy, have mercy!"
"He is your father, Lady," answered the Count, sternly; "he is my
brother. His wrongs to me I could forgive--I do forgive them. His
wrongs to those who were dearer to me than life, I forgive them too.
But he has wronged others, ay, and with a darker and more devilish art
than man might fancy hell itself could produce--blackened the name of
the honest and the true, of the most faithful of servants and friends,
that he might stifle in the blood of the messenger the crimes
committed against him who sent him. Entreat not, Ferdinand, for it is
in vain. In this I am immoveable. The hour of mercy, as I have said,
is past. Endurance has been prolonged to the utmost; and not even the
voice of a son, dear and beloved though he may be, can shake me in my
purpose. It is all, all in vain. Rise, youth: if I must speak plain, I
deny your boon--I refuse your prayer; and this man dies, as I hope--"
"Hold!" said Father George, "there is still another voice to be
heard."
"Not yours, good Father," said the Count. "I love, I esteem you. I
know that for this object you have laboured to unite him who is
dearest to me on this earth, to the daughter of him who has become my
bitterest foe; and I have seen and suffered it, for her virtues atone
for the crime of being his daughter. But I have suffered it with the
full resolve of guarding myself sternly against your pious policy, and
not permitting my firm heart to be moved, even by filial love or
parental tenderness, to pardon him who has hardened his heart till
pity were folly, and mercy were injustice. Speak not for him; for I
will not hear. Your voice is powerless as theirs."
"There may be another stronger," said the monk; and at the same moment
a lady, closely veiled, advanced from behind him.
"I know not that!" she said (and she, too, knelt at the Count's feet),
"my voice was once strong with you, my noble lord. I am sure that it
will be powerful still, unless you are changed indeed--changed in
heart, as I am in form, unless your spirit has lost that beauty of
essence which I have lost of person. Yet my voice, now as ever, shall
be raised only in entreaty, beseeching you to remember hours of
tenderness and love long past, and to grant life and pardon to this
man, your brother, for the sake of one who has mourned and wept full
twenty years for you."
A strange change had come over the Count of Ehrenstein. It could
hardly be said he listened. He heard it, it is true; but his spirit
seemed pre-occupied by other thoughts. His face turned deadly pale; he
trembled in every limb; he gasped, as if for breath; and all he could
utter was, "That voice--that voice!" As she ended, he stretched forth
his hands eagerly towards the veil, but ere he could touch it, she
threw it back herself, and after one momentary gaze, he cast his arms
around her, exclaiming, "My wife, my beloved!" and pressed her to his
bosom, with a convulsive clasp.
There was a deep silence through the chapel for some moments, and
then, as she still remained resting on her husband's bosom, the voice
of the Countess of Ehrenstein murmured a few words in his ear.
"Take him," cried the Count, suddenly, casting wide his right arm, and
pointing to his brother, while his left still pressed his wife to his
heart: "do with him what you will,--I give him to you, and renounce
all power over him and his fate."
Adelaide caught the lady's hand, and kissed it; and gently releasing
herself from her husband's embrace, the Countess of Ehrenstein
approached his brother, and said, in a low tone, "You are free, my
lord; you had better, perhaps, retire, and for a time betake you to
some place of seclusion till my lord and husband has forgotten some of
the past events, or has time to think more gently of them."
The unhappy man bowed his head low, and with pale cheek, turned away.
The crowd drew back to let him pass; but ere he could take two steps
from the spot where this scene had passed, Adelaide sprang forward and
knelt before him. He had not noticed--he had not seemed to see her
before; but now she raised her beautiful face towards him, with the
rich brown hair falling back, and the torch-light streaming on her
brow; and, in a tone of musical melancholy, she said, "Forgive me, my
father! Oh! forgive me, and let me go with you to comfort you. What I
have done, was done only in the hope of saving you, not from undutiful
disobedience. I learned that these events were coming, only under the
most solemn vow of secrecy, and even then but vaguely. I was told
enough, however, to know, or at least to believe, that the only means
of rescuing my father from destruction, was by giving my hand to one
whose voice might be most powerful with my uncle. I trust I hope that
the love, which I own I felt, had no weight in my resolve; but, at all
events, you are saved, my father; and my first duty now is, to beseech
your forgiveness, and to try to soothe and to console you."
For an instant, as she spoke, her father eyed her with a stern and
angry glance. Old passions revived; he forgot how he had fallen:
pride, and the lingerings of a vengeful spirit, made themselves felt
again; but as he raised his eyes, all that he saw around brought back
the bitter and humiliating present. He felt that he was crushed down
to the very earth,--nay, more, he felt that his own crimes crushed
him. His heart was humbled--the first step to true repentance--and
that better feeling threw open the gates of the breast to others:
parental love returned; ay, and even a sense of gratitude for that
which his child had done. He saw, he understood the motives on which
she had acted; and listening, softened, to the last words she spoke,
he put his arms around her, and leaning down his head, for the first
time, he wept.
"I will go with you,--I will go with you," murmured Adelaide.
"Nay, my child, it must not be," replied her father. "I do believe you
have acted for the best; but now you are bound in duty to another.
Stay with your husband. I have done him wrong; but he loves you
deeply, I am sure; and you shall teach him, by your gentle tenderness,
to forget your father's faults.--Adieu, my child! May God bless and
protect you!"
As he spoke, the Count of Ehrenstein strode forward, and took him by
both the hands. "William," he said, "William, do you repent of what
you have done?"
"From my heart and soul, Ferdinand," replied his brother. "Nay, more,
I have ever repented bitterly. I have found that one crime, besides
its own remorse, brings a thousand others to be repented of. The
things I have done have haunted me by day and night: they have
embittered life; and I have learned, too late, that though crime may
purchase a moment's joy, it is sure to be followed by an existence of
misery. But you know not--oh! you know not, you who have lived in one
course of integrity and honour, how entanglements and temptations
crowd upon one, how they interweave a net, from which the heart, were
it as strong as a lion, could not break forth, when once we have
plunged into a course of wrong,--how the evil wish begets the evil
act,--how the evil act calls to the lie to conceal it,--how the lie,
in its shame, has recourse to a new crime to cover it. None can know,
none can tell, what are the difficulties, the agonies--what are the
struggles, the writhings, of those who go on in doing what is wrong,
with some sense of right remaining. Oh! the longing for deliverance;
the eager thirst to obliterate the past; the tender thoughts of youth
and infancy, and innocence and peace; the fearful looking forward to
the future day, when Satan will claim his tribute of fresh wickedness
to purchase a brief immunity from the penalty of the soul's dark bond;
the effort for firmness, even in the course we have taken; the feeling
that there is no real strength but in virtue, no fortitude but in
honesty! It is inexpressible, it cannot be described or told: but I
call God to witness that I speak the truth, when I say, that I even I,
for the last twenty years--though I seemed to have gained all that
ambition could desire--though wealth, power, luxury, enjoyment, were
all at my command--have suffered tortures that hell itself can hardly
equal, and which might well expiate a life of sin. I know now, I know
bitterly, what is the meaning of 'the worm that never dies, and the
fire that can never be quenched.' And what has this strife made
me?--how changed a thing from what I was before! If I look back but
for a few short years, I can see myself a different being. Do you
remember, Ferdinand, when we were boys together at Würzburg, and this
good lord here of Leiningen was our gay companion, how cheerfully the
days passed, how light the hours seemed? Time had no weight: existence
was a blessing. The free, sunshiny air came with its wings loaded with
enjoyment; the breath of the spring flowers was like the balm of Eden,
the singing of the birds an angels' choir. I enjoyed all, in those
days; I loved you all well. My heart was open as the Heaven to every
human creature. The whole universe had nothing but delight, except
when sometimes I thought, with a regretful sullenness, that you were
destined to the busy scenes in which I longed to mingle, and I to a
cloister's gloom, and the separation of a hard vow from all my fellow
men. But that was nothing: a light cloud upon a summer's sky, in a
moment borne away, and all was sunshine again, and cheerfulness.--Do
you remember, Ferdinand? It seems to me but yesterday."
His face lighted up, as if the sunshine of early days shone forth on
his countenance; and as he spoke, he laid his hand forgetfully upon
his brother's arm, and gazed upon him with a look of tender memory.
The Count, too, gave way to the soft influences of those early days:
they came back upon him, as his brother spoke. One harsh feeling after
another faded away, like darkness giving place to light: he leaned his
arm upon Count William's shoulder; and, bending down his head, while a
tear trickled from his eye, he said, "I do remember, William; I do
remember all right well."
"And what am I now?" asked his brother, suddenly withdrawing from him,
as if he felt that he was not worthy of that kind familiar touch; "a
wretch, an outcast, hated by all, abhorrent to myself. But that is
nothing--all nothing to the past. I am happier now than heretofore;
for the effect of that dark struggle in my heart was strange and
terrible; from kind, I had become fierce and cruel; from gentle and
patient, angry and proud. Powerless to enjoy, I hated the sight of
enjoyment; and with a chain of adamant about my heart, the sight of a
free spirit in another was bitterness to me. Only, indeed, in the case
of this youth and this dear girl did I ever witness the pure and
simple pleasures of happy innocence, without hating what I witnessed
for the reproof it bore me. But it was not so with them.--He knows it
was not.--In his wild energies and soaring fancy, in his free spirit
and his bold heart, he would often call back the brother of my youth,
vaguely but sweetly, and in the regrets I felt there might mingle
melancholy, but no pain. It was too indistinct to wound. It was as a
sight or a sound that we have known in childhood, coming back upon the
ear of age, and cheating it with a misty dream of early joy.
"Oh, it was sweet to mark him; and, though sometimes--provoked to
sudden frenzy, as if a demon whispered, he had wrongs to avenge upon
me--I would be fierce and wayward with him, like a tyrant as I was,
yet Heaven can testify that I loved him better than any being on
earth, except this my child."
The Count suddenly took him by the hand, and, pointing to Father
George, he said, "There is hope yet, William--good hope, I am sure;
the seed may lie long in the foul earth, but will germinate and bud,
and grow and blossom, and bear fruit at last. Speak with this holy
man: he will comfort you, he will lead you to a better forgiveness
than a brother's, which is already given. A time in solitude, in
thought, and prayer, will calm down remorse into repentance, and hope
and peace may yet visit your latter days. I have been entangled for
twenty years in earthly bonds: you in fetters that have chained the
spirit. I have returned, against all likelihood, to claim that which
was once mine; you will return, too, to take a former and a better
nature upon you. If she so wills it, this dear girl shall go with you
to comfort you."
"No," exclaimed his brother,--"no. That selfishness shall be the first
I will cast off. She shall remain where present duty calls her, with
those who love and will cherish her. God's blessing upon you, my
child! may you be happy as you deserve! and, that no thought for me
may break in upon your peace, be assured that the only state in which
I can now find repose, is that of solitude and thought, where, removed
afar from the battlefield of the passions, I can rest after the combat
in which I have been vanquished; not without pain from my wounds, and
shame for my defeat, but still with the hope of recovery, and trust in
the future.--Adieu! adieu!" and, disengaging his hand from Adelaide,
as she bent her head over it bedewing it with tears, he turned towards
the door of the chapel, and walked silently away.
Father George followed him, without a word, merely waving his hand, in
token of farewell to the party that remained; and a number of those
present crowded round the Count of Ehrenstein, eagerly grasping his
hand, and congratulating him upon the events of that night. Adelaide,
with her head bent and her eyes full of tears, stood, like a lily of
the valley in the shade, by her young husband's side; and Ferdinand,
with expanded chest, high head, and beaming eyes, gazed from his
mother to his father, who stood for a moment in the midst, with a calm
and tempered satisfaction on his countenance, thanking all, but with
his mind evidently abstracted from that which was immediately passing
around him. Who can say what were his sensations at that moment?--what
was the strange turmoil of feelings in his bosom? There are times when
the meeting of the past and the present is sensibly felt, from their
strange contrast. We have all seen two rivers unite and flow on in
peace, mingling their waters together so gradually that the line of
their junction can scarcely be told; but many have beheld two torrents
rushing down in fury, like contending armies, and, for a time,
struggling in a whirlpool, ere they blend and rush away. Like that
whirlpool, perhaps, were the emotions of his mind, when the long lapse
of the dark and stormy past first met the gay and sunshiny present.
But he was not without power over his own mind; and he conquered the
tumult in a few moments. One glance at his wife, as she still clung to
his arm; brief thanks to his friends; and then, turning to the
Emperor, with the lady's hand in his, he bent the knee, and said, "I
do you homage, my liege lord, not only with a true but with a grateful
heart; and among all the causes of regret with which my long captivity
has furnished me, there is none greater than that I have been
prevented thereby from drawing a sword, which was once good, in behalf
of your just rights. All is now in peace, thank God; but, should it be
wanted, there is still strength in this old frame to go with you to
the field; and, when it fails, here are young, hardy limbs,"--and he
pointed to Ferdinand,--"which will never be found unwilling to mount a
horse and couch a lance in your Majesty's behalf."
"God grant that we never need them," replied the Emperor, raising him;
"but should a wise head and a strong arm, a good sword and a stout
heart, be needed in our cause, there is nowhere I will seek them more
confidently than with the Count of Ehrenstein and his son."
"And now, knights and nobles," he continued, gaily, "we will bid you
all adieu, and back to Spires; for, by my faith! we have been out so
late at night, without pretext of war, or feud, or hunting party, that
our fair Empress might think we were fooling away the hours with some
rosy country maiden, had we not so strange a tale as this to tell her,
of events that have been well worth the seeing.--Good night to all."
Thus saying, he quitted the chapel, followed by his train. For some
minutes after, a buzz rose up from within, as of many voices speaking.
Then came forth men and torches. Horses and litters were sought for,
and away towards Hardenberg wound a long train, to which the gates
opened, and spears and men-at-arms, and nobles in gay raiment passed
over the drawbridge and through the dark archway. For an hour there
were sounds of revelry within. A health, with a loud shout, was given
in the great hall; and while many prolonged the banquet and drained
the cup to a late hour, two young and graceful figures, lighted by a
lamp, moved slowly along one of the wide corridors of the castle. The
gentleman held a lamp in his hand, and gazed down upon his fair
companion; the lady, with both hands circling his arm, bent her eyes
on the ground, and trod softly, as if in fear of her own foot-falls.
Bertha, the gay maid, stood at the end of the passage, and opened the
door for them to pass through. She closed it when they were gone; and
then, clasping her hands together, she bent them backwards, looked up
half sighing, half laughing, and said, "Well, they are happy at
last.--Lackaday."