The public is a body very much like that which assembles round a
dinner table, and the wise host will cater for all. For some the
substantial joints, for some the _hors d'[oe]uvres_ are necessary, and
some will dwell long upon the dessert, which others will not deign to
taste. Those need not eat, who do not like it; and thus, with the
explanations at the end of a long tale, we may say to the reader,
close the page if you have heard enough. In the case of many,
imagination will supply all gaps, explain all obscurities, far better,
probably, than the writer can; at least, that skilful limner will use
brighter colours than any that the artist can employ; but with many
another man, on the contrary, fancy requires a leading hand; or
curiosity exacts a full account of what the author himself intended.
For such, I must give at least one more scene, and that shall be in
the same place whence we first set out,--the castle of Ehrenstein.
It was in the great old hall there--that hall so long deserted, or
only tenanted for an hour or two, to be again abandoned. Its aspect,
however, was now changed; the mould and damp had disappeared from the
walls and columns; rich stained glass in the windows, receiving the
full light of the summer sun, poured a flood of glorious colours
across the pavement; wreaths of flowers wound around the massive
pillars; green boughs and glittering armour hung upon the wall; and,
though the serving men, from time to time, looked round with habitual
dread at any sudden sound, yet the chief party, which remained in the
hall after the mid-day meal, was full of gay life and cheerful
happiness.
That party was small in number compared with those we have before seen
in the same mansion; for the retainers of the house, though lately
increased in number, had withdrawn, and left the lord of the castle
and his family alone. Old Seckendorf, indeed, still occupied a seat
amongst the rest, but the fact was, that the stout aged knight, after
a morning spent in hard and vigorous exercise, had eaten and drunk to
repletion, and was now nodding away the hour of digestion with his
head leaning on his hand. At the head of the table, sat the old Count
of Ehrenstein himself, with ineffaceable traces of cares and labours
still visible on his cheek and brow, his hair white as snow, and his
beard and eyebrows somewhat grey, but with a clear light in his keen
eye, the rose upon his cheek, his frame firm and strong, and a hand
that could raise a cup rounded with wine untrembling to his lips.
Through all and above all sparkled that living grace which never dies;
which age cannot wither, nor time touch; which death itself--as those
who have marked the clay of men kindly and cheerful in their nature,
must know well--which death itself, I say, gives over to corruption
undiminished--the grace which an elevated, generous, and noble spirit
spreads through the whole frame that contains it.
By his side sat his long-lost but well-beloved wife, who now, in the
garments of her rank and station, freed from grief, anxiety, and
apprehension, had recovered from the grasp of time a great portion of
that beauty for which she had once been famous. Her eyes were turned
upon the face which she had so constantly loved, her hand rested near
his, as if ready to touch it, and assure herself that he was there
indeed; and the half opened lips, when he spoke, showed how she drank
in his words, and how musical to her ear was the voice which she had
once deemed stilled in death.
Near them were another pair, in the first fruition of life's brightest
hopes, Ferdinand and Adelaide. His face was all brightness; his joy
was at its full; care and sorrow had no hold upon his heart; from his
own bosom spread forth a light that brightened all things; and the
world, and every object it contained, seemed instinct with joy, and
lustrous with happiness. Man's nature is not more susceptible of
pleasurable emotions than woman's, and, indeed, perhaps the finer
delights, the more delicate enjoyments which she feels, are to him
unknown; yet, as an equivalent, those very fine movements of the
spirit, which are the source of so much delight, are often the cause
of shadowy afflictions. Man can enjoy to the full, woman seldom,
without some vague sensation of a different character,--it may
be melancholy, it may be regret, it may be fear--mingling even
with the cup of joy, perhaps to diminish, perhaps to heighten the
flavour,--which I know not.
The lady's face was full of satisfaction, her beautiful eyes beamed
with joy; but yet--oh, that there should ever be but yet--those eyes
would sometimes turn thoughtfully towards the ground, and a shade
would come over that angelic face; it could not be called a cloud, it
was so light, so evanescent. Perhaps the reader may divine, without
explanation, the cause of that vague shadow, or, at all events, a word
will give him a clue. Her father was not there; and memories of his
fate and his loneliness would interweave themselves with the warp of
thought, and chequer with darker figures the bright web of her own
happiness.
One more figure completed the group,--it was that of good Father
George, now prior of his order; the abbacy he had declined; although,
since the events we have lately narrated, the worthy but weak Lord
Abbot had died--it was whispered from a surfeit, of a very nice but
dangerous animal, called in the language of the country "_Nine-eyes_,"
which has slain almost as many great men as the sword. The good monk
hardly looked as fresh and well as when first we beheld him, for he
had lately passed through some scenes of great excitement; and it is a
curious fact, that men of advanced life, who generally are less
susceptible of strong emotions, suffer more severely than others when
they do feel them. Nevertheless, during the meal he had been more gay
than usual, and now he was prolonging the conversation aloud with the
Count, while, from time to time, Ferdinand and Adelaide spoke together
in low tones, of things which referred only to themselves.
"Ah! my good lord," said the Prior, "if the verse-maker Ovid had lived
in these days, he might have added more than one book to his
Metamorphoses, and, in this very place, might have found matter for
many a long and ponderous verse. We have all, indeed, undergone
transformation--you from a jester to a count; I from a poor monk to a
rich prior; and you, my good youth, from a stripling to a married man.
Nor amongst the least is the change of this old hall. Why, not two
months ago, that is when last I saw it, it was all dark and mouldy,
the stone-work peeling away, the rafters rotting and inclined to fall,
with nought in it but the old banners and the great chair of state.
Men were afraid to tread it for fear of spectres, and the whistling
wind, the bats, and the dust, were its only tenants. Now it looks as
gay and as sunshiny as a bridal banquet-chamber, with its gay garlands
and festive flowers, and all fears seem laid aside in its new
freshness.
"Nay, not quite all fears," answered the Count; "and I believe they
never will be; for there is nothing so enduring as traditional terror.
From time to time, some of the men will look around over the left
shoulder, whenever the name of ghost or apparition is mentioned; and
often have I seen a merry tale interrupted in the midst, by one man
being seized with fears and infecting all the rest. But I do not much
mind that. At present, their terror does not go to an inconvenient
length; and with the passing days it will wear down to a calm and
wholesome superstition, which may have its advantages. Doubtless, too,
those who know all the secrets of the place, will whisper, amongst the
rest, the causes of all they have seen, and if they do, the marvellous
will suffer greatly, though doubtless, in winnowing truth from
falsehood, some part of the chaff still stays with the corn."
"What were the causes, my dear lord?" asked Adelaide, fixing her eyes
upon him; "I am well nigh as ignorant as the others; and though, as
Ferdinand can tell you, I am not much given to fear--"
"When love is in the case, dear child," said the Count, interrupting
her, with a smile. "But come, as a reward for that dear love, I will
tell you all."
"It has been well rewarded already," she said, looking at her husband;
"but yet I would fain know, and we will take the history as a pure
grace. I guess at some things, and I know others, but still there is
much that is dark and misty; and I have often heard, my dear lord and
uncle, that woman's curiosity will not rest satisfied till all has
been discovered. I see amongst us here in the hall at meal-time, many
a scarred and weather-beaten face that I know not; but all their eyes
seem to turn to you as if you were a saint, so that they must have
known you long; and I hear them talk of distant lands and strange
adventures, and therefore I deem they must have been your companions
in the Holy Land."
"My good friends and fellow-soldiers of the Cross, my dear child,"
replied the old Count. "With a noble train of such as these, now more
than twenty years ago, I left my home to fight, in company with other
lords of this and distant lands, for the deliverance of Christ's
sepulchre. We were bound by a vow to give our banners to the wind upon
the shores of Syria or Africa before a certain day; but in the fair
city of Venice, the starlight daughter of the blue Adriatic, of which
the heathen Venus was but an imperfect type, I met with one who made
me long to break my oath--" and he laid his hand upon his wife's.
"When she became a soldier's bride, however, she felt for a soldier's
renown, and sadly, yet unmurmuringly, parted from me, that I might
fulfil the promise I had made. I went, dear child, leaving some
faithful friends and followers to guard her hither, after our first
child's birth; and then comes a time, on the events of which I will
not dwell. You have already heard too much, perchance. Suffice it that
I was wronged, and that the wrong has been forgiven. When I was
captured by the Saracens, some of my brave companions fell, some were
taken with me, some escaped to a castle of the Knights Hospitallers on
the African shore. There I had left a certain sum of treasure; but my
sword had plagued the infidels too sorely for them to let me go,
without enormous ransom. The Order of St. John and my comrades who had
escaped, trafficked eagerly with my captors to liberate me; but it was
in vain; and in those distant lands some years were consumed in these
fruitless endeavours. While they went on, I was permitted to see
several of my friends; and a plan struck me, for using their services
to gain the freedom of my companions in misfortune. At my desire, they
bound themselves to serve the Order of St. John in arms, a certain
number of years, upon condition that at the end of each man's time the
Order should redeem from slavery one of their comrades of equal rank,
they still retaining their homage to me. Thus, in the course of the
last four or five years, all of my train who survived had been set
free, the one part from the bondage of the infidel, the other from
their engagements to the Order; and as each man thus obtained
liberty, I sent him back hither with a sum of money, to watch over and
guard my child; for I knew that he still lived, although I had wept
for his mother as in the grave. To each I furnished a knowledge of the
secrets of this place,--for it has secrets, as you will soon
hear,--and bade them address themselves either to my reverend friend,
Father Francis, or to my old henchman, good Franz Creussen, for
farther information and directions. My own liberation seemed hopeless;
not a ray of light broke in upon the darkness of my fate; till some
good soul in England, where there are kind hearts and wealthy men,
left a large sum to the Knights of St. John, for the purpose of
ransoming the prisoners of the Cross. Still, the sum demanded for me
was very large: there were many who were suffering as severely as
myself: the Knights did not think it just to redeem any one man at
such a price; and I might have lingered still in Saracen bonds, had
not my noble friend, Frederick of Leiningen, come over to war in
behalf of the Order; and, when he heard of my state, gave up all the
recompense that was his due from the Hospitallers, to make up the
amount of my ransom, with what the Grand Master had already offered to
give. When the news first reached me that I was free, I cannot tell
you--for I am not a learned man, like my good brother--all the strange
thoughts and considerations that came into my mind. I fancied, if I
came back in my true character, supported by Count Frederick's power,
and the sixty or seventy good warriors I had sent back, I should have
to punish the guilty, as well as to reward the honest, and perhaps to
war for my inheritance against my own blood. I am not a harsh or cruel
man, my child, and the thought frightened me. I therefore bethought me
to take some disguise; but what to choose I knew not. If I came back
with shield and spear, as a follower of Count Frederick's, I felt sure
my brother would recognise me at once in a garb which I had so often
worn before his eyes. So I fell upon a jester's habit; for I had ever
been fond of a smart speech and a gay joke, and in my young days could
cope in his own coin with any fool of the imperial court. The dress
was sent me before I joined my friend, that his followers might not
know me in any other character; and I came hither in that garb, as you
know.--But now, to turn back to the fate of those I had sent over
before: three or four perished by the way, the rest arrived in safety.
The first, immediately on their return to their native land, visited
the cell of Father George, and from him received instructions how to
act.--I know not, my reverend friend," and he turned to the good monk,
"whether I read your intentions rightly; but it has always seemed to
me that your design was to collect the men together in one body, to be
ready for all emergencies; and that, foreseeing or hoping I should
myself in time return, you wished by superstitious impressions to
prepare my brother's mind for that event, and induce him to yield to
me, willingly and cheerfully, all that he had wrongly assumed."
"Good faith! my dear son," replied Father George, "if the truth must
be told, I, at first, had no design, like many another man who is
supposed to act upon well-digested schemes of policy; when, if put
upon his truth and honour, he would acknowledge that circumstances
suggested deeds. I hid the men in the old vaults, when first they
arrived, because I knew not what else to do with them. Some of the
people of the place saw them, and took them for ghosts; so I said, 'In
Heaven's name, let them be ghosts!' It was a better mode of
concealment than any I could devise. Then, again, as their numbers
increased, it was necessary to provide them with food. My poor old
trembling hands could not carry up all that was necessary; and
therefore I applied to good Franz Creussen, who, I knew, would supply,
and not betray. With him the whole business of the apparitions was
matured; and from the key which you gave me long ago of the private
passages, other keys were made, to give the good men exit and entrance
when they pleased."
"Ay," said the Count, "it is of those private passage I was about to
speak. You must know, my dear child, that when the old castle was
pulled down, some two hundred years ago, and a new one built in its
place, a famous architect was employed, who did not live to see his
whole designs completed, but was buried under one of the chambers,
where his tomb now stands. His son continued the work to a conclusion,
and the plans have never been made known to any but the lord of this
castle and his eldest son. Ere long, I will lead Ferdinand through the
whole of the building, and will show him the map thereof, which lies
in a niche of the architect's tomb. Suffice it to say, that the whole
of this vast structure, solid as it seems, and solid as it indeed is,
in reality, is double; there is as much beneath the surface of the
rock as above it. Every wall has its passage; between the ceiling of
one chamber and the floor of another, are rooms, and halls, and
staircases; and there is no part in the whole inhabited portion of the
castle of Ehrenstein, that I could not reach without showing myself to
one mortal eye of all those who are moving about in the clear and open
day. The great extent of the building, the masses of its towers and
walls, the cornices and mouldings, the buttresses and turrets, conceal
all the contrivances which were resorted to in its construction. No
eye gazing on it from without asks, 'with what chamber communicates
that loophole?' Or, 'why is there so great a space between one range
of windows and another?' All is in such good keeping, that all seems
natural and ordinary; and by means of these rooms and passages, you
and yours have been surrounded for the last five years, when you
thought yourselves most alone, by a body of men daily increasing, who,
at a word, would have seized the castle in their rightful lord's name.
Such were the circumstances when I myself arrived. I soon gathered,
from what I heard, that the old hall had been deserted, on account of
rumours of apparitions, and, having held frequent communication with
my friends here after my liberation, I easily divined the cause. More
information, however, was required, and that information I gained when
I undertook to watch in this hall with you, my son. From that moment
my course was determined, my path clear. I suffered events to take
their course, but added numerous warnings to my brother to soften his
heart, to awaken remorse, and to induce him to do right, without a
struggle, when the moment came. In your own secret marriage, my dear
children, I acquiesced, from feelings I cannot well define nor
describe. First, if ever there was one who won upon the heart at first
sight, it is this dear girl; and next, there was in my bosom a vague
unwillingness to strike the very blow I meditated, a lingering anxiety
for some excuse to pardon and forget. I gladly seized that which was
offered me; and however watchful and ready to step in and save my
child, should need be, yet I was not displeased to see him somewhat
tried by difficult circumstances, ere the day of his fortunes became
unclouded and serene. You may now range the events and their causes
easily for yourselves, for I have explained all that is needful to the
right understanding of the past."
While the Count had been speaking, old Seckendorf had roused himself
from his slumber, and was listening attentively; but when a pause
ensued he exclaimed, "Ay, that accounts for many a good ghost, my
lord, but the one I saw was a real ghost, I will swear; for you had
not arrived at the castle then. Tell me that I would not know a
man-at-arms from a shadow! Pooh! pooh! I am too old a soldier for
that."
"Doubtless, just such another ghost as the rest," replied the Count,
while Father George listened to the quiet smile.
"Not a whit of it," cried Seckendorf, "it made no more noise than a
cat, and walked through the door as if it had been air.--I'll call
Bertha--Bertha saw it too," and striding to the door of the hall,
the old man shouted for our pretty friend at the top of his
voice,--"Bertha, Bertha!" he exclaimed; "some of you knaves send the
girl hither. Devil take the girl! any one ought to hear my voice at
the top of the west turret."
"She is busy, Sir, I fancy," answered one of the men without; "but I
will call her for you;" and at the same moment the voice of Father
George exclaimed, "Herr von Seckendorf, come hither again. What would
you say, if I were the ghost?"
"Pooh! nonsense!" exclaimed Seckendorf bluntly, "I won't believe it."
"It is nevertheless true," answered Father George; "I was crossing the
end of the hall in the dusk to visit my young friend, Count Ferdinand,
here, when I saw you and Bertha together: I heard her scream, but,
guessing what was the occasion, took no notice, and went upon my way.
You may remember that you found me in his room; and as to my silent
step, I should think you had heard often enough from Count William,
that 'the noiseless sandal of the church reaches higher places than
the clanking heel of the man-at-arms;' at least, so he was wont to
say. He may think differently now."
Adelaide had fallen into thought, as the good Father spoke, and the
shade had come over her fair brow. But Father George observed the
change, and, going over to her side, he said in a low voice, "Do not
grieve for him, my dear child. It was but yesterday your father owned
to me, that he had never known peace or happiness till now. He has
chosen his fate; Heaven has granted him a period between the turmoil,
the strife, the passions, the sins of the world, and that state where
all is irretrievable, and all to be accounted for. Doubt not that he
will use it to the best advantage; and if so, happy is it for him that
those things which withheld him from better thoughts and higher
purposes have been taken away. But should power, and reverence, and
honour still have any hold upon his mind, or any value in his eyes,
they are within his reach. The abbacy is still vacant, and undoubtedly
at his disposal; I know not whether he will seek it or not, and by not
one word will I endeavour to influence him. If he feels like me, he
will avoid that which has been a snare to most men, and a fall to
many; but, at all events, we will pray that God may grant him grace in
any state to fulfil the duties of his station wisely--but here comes
Bertha."
"There, there," cried Seckendorf; "say nought of the ghost; that's
done. We'll have no more of them. But who, in fortune's name! has she
got with her?"
"The Emperor's page," cried Adelaide; some degree of alarm mingling
with her surprise.
Bertha, however, advanced up the hall with a timid and downcast look,
and glowing cheek, not at all with her usual gay and light-hearted air
and countenance; her steps were slow and hesitating; her bright eye
veiling itself under the sweeping lashes, and her hands, with the
invariable sign of bashful hesitation, playing with the tassels of her
bodice. Behind her came the page, with his plumed bonnet in his hand,
and more of sheepishness in his air, too, than was usual with himself
or any page of the day. But the matter was soon explained, though in
somewhat broken sentences.
"Please you, my lord," said Bertha, presenting herself before the
Count; "here's one of the Emperor's pages--"
"I was, pretty Bertha," interrupted the young man; "but I am now out
of my pagehood."
"And he has come to ask a question," said Bertha.
"To which I have got an answer," said the page, twirling round his
bonnet gaily, but casting down his eyes at the same time.
"Not yet, master Karl," rejoined Bertha, quickly; "I told you it must
depend upon the will of my lord and lady."
"Oh, but they won't refuse if you wish it," cried the youth.
"Who told you I wished it?" exclaimed Bertha. "I only said that sooner
than break your heart--and you know you swore more than twenty times
that it would if I refused--I would marry you, just to save you from
drowning, or a halter, or some other bad kind of death; but that is
not to say that I wish it. On the contrary, I will do what my lord and
lady think fit. I am quite passive, and do nothing but out of pure
benevolence;" and she clasped her pretty hands before her, and rolled
one thumb round the other with the most indifferent air in the world.
"Has inclination no share in it, my fair one?" said the Count, with a
smile; "if so, I think I shall withhold my consent; for such
indifferent marriages are never happy ones."
Bertha's cheek began to grow warm, and she answered, in a hesitating
tone, "I can't say I dislike him, my lord--I like him as well as any
other man."
"I must have something more than that, pretty Bertha," replied her
lord, with a slight degree of malice. "I am too grateful for all you
have done to serve those I love, to let you wed a man to whom your
whole heart is not given. You must like him better than any other man,
or never marry him."
"Well, perhaps I do like him a little better than most," answered
Bertha, with a sigh at her confession.
"Well enough to make a very good wife, my lord the Count," interposed
the page.
"Never believe that any woman will make a good wife who does not love
her husband, young gentleman," rejoined the Lord of Ehrenstein. "Do
you love him with all your heart, Bertha?"
"Yes," whimpered the girl.
"Better than any?"
"Yes."
"Better than all? Would you give your life for him? Will you give it
up to him?"
"Yes, yes, yes," she replied, and burst into a fit of tears.
"Well, then, you shall have a dower and a blessing," replied the
Count; "and I doubt not you will, as he says, make him a very good
wife; for the sauciest maidens sometimes turn out the humblest
spouses. But what says the Emperor, my good youth?"
"Oh, he says that I may do as I like," replied the young man; "and,
good faith! he could not well say less, for I believe he would have
married her himself if, by good luck, he had not had another wife."
"Nay, that was a stroke of fortune on your behalf," answered the
Count, laughing; "in the lands I have just left, he would have married
her notwithstanding. But, by my faith! I think one such will prove
enough for any man."
"Enough for me, my lord," said the page, with some grace; "I seek no
more, and with her shall find happiness enough."
Bertha held out her hand to him with a warm smile, exclaiming, "Well,
I do love you dearly."
"Right, right," cried the Count; "this is all right. We will take care
of your household, Bertha. Let your own heart make the sunshine, and
we will see that it shall have few worldly clouds; and now, if long
courtships be good, speedy weddings are better; so go your ways and
settle the day between you, leaving all the rest to us."
Ere ten days more had passed, there was a marriage train wound down
from the castle towards the little chapel in the wood; for Bertha,
with a gay smile in her young mistress's face, had prayed that her
wedding might be there celebrated, instead of the loftier building at
the castle. The way was strewed with flowers by young girls from the
village, and garlands hung amongst the branches of the old oaks and
beeches. Light hearts and pretty faces gathered round; and nought was
wanting to the happiness of Bertha but the presence of her young lord
and the old Count, who had promised to give her to her husband. Both,
however, had ridden away from the castle at an early hour, and good
Franz Creussen had appeared in the bridal train as a substitute for
the Count of Ehrenstein, to perform the part of parent to the fair
bride. The Countess and Adelaide accompanied her, and when by the way
she ventured to express her regret that her good lord was not to be
present, Adelaide replied, with a smile, perhaps produced by a
comparison between her feelings at the moment and those with which she
had trod the same path herself as a bride, "Doubtless he will come,
Bertha; for he went away this morning early, without telling any one
his errand. I know he intended to be here."
I have, far away in the beginning of this true history, described a
spot where the little chapel, and the door with its fretted
stone-work, first appeared on the road descending from the castle, and
when Bertha's bridal train reached that point, a group was seen in the
green glade before the portal, somewhat more splendid than might have
been expected to attend the bride-groom on his meeting with his
betrothed. There were dresses of silk and velvet, of gold and
embroidery, a banner or two waving above the horsemen, and a small
group of men-at-arms behind, with lances raised, and limbs hanging
drowsily, as if forming part of a scene in which they took no great
interest. In front were four or five gentlemen on foot, and the first
who came forward at a quick pace was the gay page. Behind, however,
were seen the Count of Ehrenstein and his son, and near them, a step
in advance, with head slightly bended, and all that air of dignity, if
not of pride, which is so frequently generated by the habit of
unlimited command, appeared the Emperor himself. He was speaking
eagerly to the Count of Ehrenstein, as if they had just met, but when
the two groups united, he took a kiss of Bertha's warm cheek, saying,
"I have come unasked to your wedding, fair maid, out of love for yon
youth and for you; make him a good wife as you have been a faithful
friend, and if he makes you a good husband he shall never want
advancement. Now let us forward to the ceremony: I will stand for his
father who is far away in Vienna, and you will have a noble godfather,
who will doubtless portion you as you deserve."
Bertha replied not, but by low obeisance; but, in the mean while, the
Count of Ehrenstein had placed himself between his wife and his
step-daughter, and, addressing himself to the latter, he said, "Let
this be a joyful day for us all, my dear Adelaide! I have just
returned from your father. Thinking that in such a case as this, we
might well bury all bitter memories and unkind feelings of the past, I
went over to the Abbey to see if he would quit his solitude, and join
our little festival. Though he declined to quit his cell till his vows
be taken and his fate sealed, yet it will give peace and comfort to
your heart to know that our hands have clasped in peace, and that we
have mutually agreed to remember nought but that we are brothers. All
is forgiven. By me all shall be forgotten; if he remembers aught, it
is the secret of his own heart, and between him and his God. He is
seeking happiness in the only course where he can find it; and he bade
me tell you that your joy and peace was the only earthly blessing that
Heaven could bestow. No more shadows on that fair brow, then, my dear
child; for though I have marked them with love, I have marked them
with regret; and be assured that he who is most justly dear to you,
except your husband, knows best the way to his own peace."
Adelaide replied not in words, but she took the old Count's hand, and
kissed it tenderly, and then accompanied her husband and father-in-law
to the chapel, where Bertha's marriage vows were speedily plighted.
"And now, my good lord Count," said the Emperor, "I have come to spend
a day within your castle halls, bringing with me but a small escort;
for I know that the good nobles of this land are somewhat fearful of
encroachments upon their rights."
"Had you come with a whole host, my liege lord," replied the Count,
"you should have been welcome; my heart is as free of fear as it is of
guile. I have served your house ere now in war and in counsel, and you
will see nought within my walls to make you doubt that I am ever ready
to do so still. Were you a bad or an unjust monarch, which I know you
not to be, you might, perchance, seek to infringe the rights, or
disturb the peace of your vassals; but I do not think the first with
whom you would begin would be the Count of Ehrenstein."
"Assuredly not," replied the Emperor; "and to say the truth, the
object of my coming, noble friend, is to seek counsel and assistance
from your experience in framing some system by which the rights and
the happiness of all classes of people in this empire may be better
secured. The private wars of the lands, the constant feuds that take
place between cities and nobles, and between nobles themselves, as
well as the condition of the peasantry, form a great evil, which
requires some remedy. Count Frederick of Leiningen will join us this
night, and we will consult together--not bringing preconceived
opinions or unreasonable prejudices to council, and then fancying we
deliberate, but considering well and calmly whether anything can be
done, and if so, what had best be done to ameliorate the condition of
the people, and the institutions of the realm."
They met as was proposed; and in the consultation of that night was
drawn out the first sketch of that famous chamber of justice at
Spires, to which all causes of contention and dispute were referred.
Years passed, it is true, before the scheme was acted upon, but when
once it was in full operation, it soon put an end to that almost
anarchical state of which some scenes have been displayed in the
foregoing pages.
Little more remains to be told. The latter years of the Count of
Ehrenstein passed in peace; and, bowed with age, though scarcely
sensible of decay, he fell quietly asleep at a more advanced age than
is usually attained by men who have undergone such hardships, and
endured such privations. Old Seckendorf, too, with the flame burning
dimly over the lamp, passed far beyond man's allotted term. His body
submitted to all the ordinary processes of age; withered away from
that of the stout old knight to that of the decrepit and querulous old
man, sank into the lean and slippered pantaloon, and thence, through
life's last act, into the grave. His tombstone marks his age as 93;
but the truth of the record may be doubtful, for no one could ever
ascertain the precise year in which he was born. Bertha made a very
good and joyous wife, retaining just sufficient of the playful malice
of her youth to keep the waters of existence from stagnating; and
Ferdinand and Adelaide of Ehrenstein went on to the end with the same
bond of love between them which had encircled them in childhood, and
been knit fast in youth. In the lavish spirit of strong affection, he
had, as we have seen, made many a promise of enduring tenderness; but
his honour was very dear to him, and, had he even felt inclined to
break one of those dear engagements, he would have still held that a
promise to a woman is even more binding than to a man. But Adelaide
never had to remind him of one vow. Happily, her own high qualities,
her deep devotion to himself, her gentleness, and the strong moving
spirit of love which ruled her every action, deprived duty of all
honour in the unwavering performance of each assurance he had given.
Their hearts and their happiness shed their sunshine around them, and
as the old retainers dropped away, others supplied their place, and
inherit their veneration for their lord and lady.
Thus passed the days of the earthly inhabitants of the castle of
Ehrenstein; its unearthly tenants disappeared with the return of the
old Count to reclaim his own. Gradually the tales of spirits and
apparitions became less frequent and more vague; but yet they have not
entirely faded away from tradition; and the peasant returning home
late at night, from market or fair, will pass the mouldering bridge
with some awe, and fancy that he sees shadowy shapes and giant forms,
when he looks up by moonlight to the crumbling walls and ruined towers
of Ehrenstein.
THE END.
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