THE DUCHESS'S BLACK ROOMS
'In God's hands are all things. It is blasphemy to fear.'
THE Imperial decree was uncompromising: 'She leaves your court, this
adventuress, or ill betide her. If you take a mistress, well and
good--that is not in the power of Emperor to forbid; but you have
infringed the Empire's laws by bigamy, Serenissimus, and this we will not
tolerate. The lady must depart; if she goes not, the rigours of the law
will crush her. No more of your mock marriage, no more of your sorry,
sham court.'
Thus the gist of the document which shattered Wilhelmine's hopes and
interrupted her triumph at Urach. But to relinquish her ambition thus
easily, instantly to render obedience to Father Vienna, this was not to
be expected from so potent a lady, nor indeed from Eberhard Ludwig, who,
besides being deeply enamoured, judged his prerogative as an independent
reigning Prince to be threatened by this summary command. Then, too, all
the parasites of the mock court advised resistance; urged it in every
way, for their own existence depended upon the Countess of Urach and the
continuance of her royal retinue.
His Highness penned a private letter to the Emperor, in which he set
forth many arguments and added passionate entreaties. In his reasoning he
quoted historical examples of a Prince's right to discard a wife for
causes of State necessity or convenience. Even Henry VIII. of England was
held up as a pattern in this! One wonders whether the Emperor had
sufficient historical learning to smile at this unfortunate reference.
Schütz was despatched with this private missive and other intricate legal
documents.
Meanwhile the life at Urach went its usual course: hunts, feasts, music,
cards, love and laughter. Naturally those few members of the former
Wirtemberg court who had suffered themselves to be drawn into the vortex
of gaiety, now withdrew, and the Grävenitz circle grew to be more and
more the refuge of the brilliant disreputable. Adventurers flocked in
from all sides and, were they but entertaining, immediately became bright
satellites revolving round the sun of Wilhelmine's magnificence. Of
course, these personages were not welcomed by the older stars--the
Sittmanns and company; but the favourite waxed more overbearing, more
autocratic each day, and she permitted no censure of her will.
The Duchess Johanna Elizabetha was not idle; she had summoned her family
from Baden-Durlach, and they were moving heaven and earth, or rather
Vienna, in her cause.
Schütz wrote that things were going badly for the Grävenitz: the Emperor
was obdurate, the Privy Council was stern, and public opinion strong
against the double marriage.
Johanna Elizabetha at this crisis fell ill--'of a colic,' said the court
of Urach scornfully; 'of poison,' said Stuttgart, Baden-Durlach, finally
Vienna. This was serious, wrote Schütz. There were not wanting persons
who hinted that other inconvenient wives had died of this same class of
colic, and that the illness had been caused by the rival mistress.
Eberhard Ludwig raged, Wilhelmine laughed, but Zollern looked grave, and
spoke of the Prussian letter of royal protection, and of the beauty and
safety of Schaffhausen.
Anger gave place to anxiety, when a private letter from the Emperor to
Eberhard Ludwig arrived. It was really an unpleasant letter, and the
court, to whom its contents were communicated, felt that it was the
beginning of the end. His Majesty wrote that he gave Serenissimus one
last chance of saving the lady of his heart. She must yield at once, or
the law would proceed against her ruthlessly. The Emperor added that he
had commissioned the Electors of Brunswick, Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, and
Hesse-Cassel to act as intermediaries in the matter. They were empowered
to settle the dispute in his Majesty's name and in the interests of
virtue, law, and order. Serenissimus was overwhelmed. He vowed he would
abjure his allegiance to Austria, and as for the Protestant Church which
had proved so inconveniently honest, that could go by the board and he
would go over to Rome.
The Pope Clement XI. was unfriendly to Austria politically, and his
Holiness would welcome the Duke of Wirtemberg to the fold. For the rest,
Eberhard Ludwig talked wildly of approaching Louis XIV. and throwing in
his lot and his army with his old adversaries. The Pope was indeed
informed of the whole tangle, and had entered into secret negotiations
with Zollern on the subject.
Hereupon Forstner reappeared, and by his reproaches, his tediousness, and
his tactlessness nearly confirmed Serenissimus in his frantic decision.
Then arrived Osiander. He was a man of great strength of character and
intellect, and he succeeded in demonstrating to the Duke the
dishonourable nature of his intentions. Also he induced his Highness to
comprehend that the Pope, though ready to gather all men, and especially
princes, into the maw of Rome, could not make a double marriage legal
where there was no feasible plea for annulment of the first union. To be
politically hostile to Austria was one thing, to enter into open combat
with her another. Wirtemberg was not a large enough bribe in any case.
At this juncture arrived the Electorial ambassadors, and lengthy, tedious
negotiations commenced. The deliberations seemed endless. Did the
ambassadors believe their task to be nearing completion, the other side
had always a fresh plea, a new quibble; and the winter was far advanced
before these unfortunate envoys declared that they could do no more.
'We have proved the so-called marriage to be illegal,' they wrote to the
Emperor; 'we have offered lands and moneys to the favourite; we have been
conciliatory, then threatening, but Serenissimus is as one blinded, and
the woman remains in her preposterous position. We can do no more, save
humbly to recommend your Majesty to enforce the rigours of the law
against this bigamous female.' So Brunswick Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, and
Hesse-Cassel retired discomfited.
On the other side, Schütz in Vienna had made no headway. The mock court
continued as before, sometimes at Urach, sometimes at Tübingen or
Wildbad. Stuttgart was deserted, save for the mournful presence of the
unhappy Duchess.
The Countess of Urach's circle widened considerably, constantly enlarged
by inquisitive travellers, and it was marvellous how many of these
persons lingered and took root in the easy, evil soil of this unhallowed,
unlawful court. The very servants were for the most part of doubtful
character, and it is remarkable how successfully the Grävenitz ruled her
strangely composed household. She had the power to win hearts when she
chose, and she did choose where her domestics were concerned. Her method
was based on the human point of view. 'If I take this rascal into my
service and treat him well, he will respond by gratitude. At least, he
will be bound to me and to my interests. Should he betray me I can punish
him; but he is too disreputable for any one else to defend, therefore he
is mine, my creature.' These theories she expounded to Madame de Ruth,
never to Serenissimus. He, poor deluded one, thought his mistress a very
charitable lady, and loved her the more for her kindness to sinners.
Among this motley crew of her choosing was an Italian of the name of
Ferrari, who had come to Tübingen with a troupe of strolling actors.
In Tübingen the man had fallen ill, and Wilhelmine, hearing through the
maid Maria of the Italian's misery, caused him to be nursed back to life.
Then, when the grateful rascal came to thank his benefactress, she took
him into her service. The man proved himself useful; he was quick and
intelligent, and conceived a dog-like affection for the Grävenitz, who
rewarded him by employing him in any secret message she desired to be
conveyed. He it was who procured for her the various ingredients she used
in her magic brewings. He who spied upon the Duchess, for Wilhelmine had
a morbid curiosity to know each action of the woman she injured. The
people whispered that Ferrari instructed the Grävenitz in the mysterious
and terrible secrets of Italian poisons. This gossip reached the ears of
Johanna Elizabetha and she trembled, fearing poison in all she ate, in
all she touched, in the petals of the roses of the castle garden, in the
dust which lay on the road.
An ugly story leaked out. The Duchess's head cook, Glaser by name,
recounted how Ferrari had visited him and offered him a purse of gold and
a little phial which contained a greyish white powder. This, Ferrari had
told him, was a rare medicine known in Italy alone; it would cause a
barren woman to become fruitful. The Italian told Glaser that this
precious physic was sent for her Highness Johanna Elizabetha by one who
loved her well and would fain serve her. Glaser was desired to sprinkle
it on the Duchess's food, but her Highness must be unaware of its
presence, for such knowledge would destroy the medicine's efficacy.
Glaser replied that he would willingly serve so noble and unfortunate a
lady as Johanna Elizabetha, but he refused to take the responsibility of
administering the powder. If, however, Ferrari first showed it to the
court doctor, Schubart, Glaser would undertake to mix the stuff into some
dish for her Highness. At mention of the physician, Ferrari disappeared
and did not return. Then Glaser averred he had been set upon near the
Judengasse one dark night, soon after Ferrari's visit. Two masked bravos
attacked him from behind, and it was only by the chance passing of the
town guard that he had escaped with his life. Her Highness heard this
story and she smiled bitterly, knowing that her barren state proceeded
from a very important omission, and that no powder could be efficacious.
And who should know this better than the Grävenitz? the sender of this
absurd powder, as the Duchess surmised. 'Poison!' said the Duchess, and
despatched a broken-hearted letter to Vienna telling of her bodily peril.
The days lengthened, bright April came with the calling and rustling of
Spring in all the air. There were mighty gay doings again at Urach, but
Stuttgart held aloof. Things had gone too far; the story of the white
powder had played the Grävenitz an evil turn, and people were genuinely
horrified at her wickedness. Not a jot cared Wilhelmine. 'The
Stuttgarters were such provincials, such shabby, heavy, rude louts,'
said the lady from Güstrow. There were no festivities at the castle in
Stuttgart. How should there be with the agonised, deserted woman as
hostess?
It was her Highness's custom to pray and meditate in solitude for an hour
when the day waned. She led a busy, if sedentary, life; sewing her
eternal garments of coarse flannel for the poor while Madame de Stafforth
read aloud from books of piety. A number of poor people came to the
castle, and her Highness was ever ready--nay, eager, to listen to their
tales of misery and to distribute alms to these her only courtiers. Then
there were the legal reports of the learned doctors-at-law engaged upon
her matrimonial business. Johanna Elizabetha welcomed the twilight hour's
solitary musing. Poor soul! often she spent this hour on her knees,
mourning her sorrow before God.
One evening towards the middle of April, the Duchess had withdrawn as
usual to her own apartments leaving Madame de Stafforth in the chief
salon reading a sermon by an eminent Swiss divine. The two ladies had
felt strangely nervous and anxious during the afternoon, and several
times it had seemed to her Highness that she heard stealthy footsteps on
the inner gallery of the courtyard, but when she questioned the
page-in-waiting whose duty it was to watch at the door of the ante-hall
leading to her Highness's rooms, the youth replied that he had seen and
heard nothing. The Duchess told herself she was becoming a fearsome,
anxious old woman, and she endeavoured to smile down the haunting feeling
of some unseen, creeping presence. Still it was with a sense of
trepidation that she entered the small room where she was wont to
meditate each evening when the day's wearisome, self-imposed labours were
ended. This room lay beyond her Highness's sleeping chamber and had a
small balcony looking over the Lustgarten.
This apartment was plainly furnished, almost monastic in its simplicity:
one chair, a small bureau, a table on which lay a few books of sermons
and volumes of theological treatises, and a praying-stool stood against
the wall. The only thing recalling the vanities of the world was a mirror
let into the panel above the praying-stool. Indeed, this mirror was a
relic of one of poor Johanna Elizabetha's few happy hours. Eberhard
Ludwig had ordered the whole room to be panelled with mirrors, having
seen some such conceit in a château in France during his travels. He had
thought to please her Highness by this attention, but the dull, awkward
woman had forbidden the completion of the plan: it was a wrongful waste
of money, she averred, and a French vanity! So Eberhard Ludwig had
angrily commanded the workmen to desist, and, wounded and offended, he
had reflected on his wife's lack of appreciation of the little elegancies
of life. True, she had seemed pleased by his thought of her, she had
thanked him--but she had declined his present!
The only alteration in the castle which Johanna Elizabetha had ever been
known to order had been done, to the surprise of all, some time after the
Duke's desertion of his wife and son. The entire suite of apartments
which her Highness occupied had been redecorated. The panelling, which
was of time-mellowed oak, the Duchess had caused to be painted black, the
chairs and tables of her rooms were covered with black brocade, and the
window curtains were fashioned of the same sombre material. It was a
strange fancy, the exaggeration of a brain strung up, taut and strained
to a quivering line on the border of insanity. Yet the Duchess was not
mad, only sad to desperation, utterly humiliated, shuddering with despair
and shame. Possibly the unhappy woman, shut into the silence of her dumb
personality, had here sought to give expression to her voiceless agony.
The effect of these black walls, black furniture, black hangings, was
odiously funereal. Some one said that her Highness should complete the
picture of mourning by donning the sinister trappings of the Swabian
widow--the bound brow, the nunlike hood, the swathing band with which
South German widows of mediæval times hid their lips from the sight of
all men, in token of their bereavement and enforced chastity.
Her Highness looked anxiously round her sleeping apartment as she passed
through. To her overstrung nerves each darker shadow held an evil menace.
A breeze crept in through the open casement, and swayed the heavy black
curtains round her Highness's bed, and she started back, thinking that
some hostile hand had moved the folds. In vain she told herself how
baseless were her fears. She chid herself for a craven, but her heart
still fluttered fearfully, and her lips were a-tremble when she reached
the little room. She sank down in her chair with a sigh of relief. Here
in this little room, she reasoned, there could be nothing to fear; here
were no shadowy corners where a lurking enemy might hide.
'O God! O God!' she wailed suddenly aloud, 'am I going mad that I should
tremble at a gust of wind, that I should suffer this insane consciousness
of some haunting presence near me when I know I am, in truth, alone and
safe?' She covered her face with her hands.
'Your Highness,' came a voice, and the unhappy woman started to her feet
in renewed alarm--'Your Highness, have I permission to depart now?
Monsieur de Stafforth wishes me to assist at a supper he gives this
evening. As your Highness knows, my husband is very harsh to me since the
Duke dismissed him, and indeed I dare not be late.'
It was Madame de Stafforth who, having finished reading, had come to take
leave of the Duchess.
'Alas!' said her Highness sadly, 'I am not permitted to bear my sorrow
alone; my friends must suffer also.'
'Ah! Madame,' said the little moth-coloured woman tenderly, 'we would all
suffer joyfully, could we ease your Highness; but think, Madame! you, at
least, have one great happiness: to all women it is not given to bear a
son, and the Erbprinz grows stronger each day.'
Poor little Madame de Stafforth! The tragedy of her life lay in her
words. She was childless; and Stafforth reproached her--nay, taunted her
daily with this, for he desired an heir to carry on his new nobility.
'Forgive me, dear friend; indeed I am blessed. And my son grows stronger,
you really think?'
Johanna Elizabeth's face lit with a mother's tenderness, and the two
ladies plunged into a detailed discourse on the Erbprinz's health. At
length Madame de Stafforth took her leave.
'Shall I send any one to your Highness?' she asked as she reached the
door.
The Duchess's terrors had been allayed by the familiar discussion of the
Erbprinz's ailments, but a thrill of nameless fear passed through her
when she remembered she would be alone again in her sombre apartment. But
this was weakness! What had she read in the Swiss sermon? 'In the hands
of God are all things. It is blasphemy to fear darkness, solitude, or the
evil machinations of men. All is in the Great Grasp, and each happening
is made and directed by God.' The solemn words came back to her now.
'Dear Madame de Stafforth, I can ring when I wish for any one. Good
night, and God bless you!' she said, and laid her hand upon the small
silver hand-bell which was on the bureau near her.
When the sound of Madame de Stafforth's footsteps ceased, her Highness
turned to the books on the table and sought the volume of Swiss sermons;
but it was not there; evidently Madame de Stafforth had forgotten to
bring it from the salon. The Duchess decided to fetch it, but she
lingered a moment, for it was unaccountably disagreeable to her to pass
through the half-light of her sleeping apartment.
'In the hands of God are all things!' she murmured, and with firm step
she moved towards the sombre chamber. Once more she thought she saw the
bed-curtains sway; she fancied she heard a movement behind her. 'It is
blasphemy to fear,' she said, but she felt her brow moisten with the
sweat of terror.
She found the book, and resolutely re-entered the sleeping-room. She
would not allow her eyes to wander to the bed-hangings, nor to search the
dusky corners of the chamber. She passed on, and, gaining the little
study, laid the book open on the table, and, leaning her head on her
hands, began to read; but she could not fix her attention on the page
before her. She was tortured by faint stirrings, by scarcely perceptible
sounds, by an eerie feeling of some lurking presence always behind her.
At length she could bear it no longer. She closed the book and rose,
intending to ring the hand-bell and summon her attendants, but the words
of the sermon echoed in her brain: 'It is blasphemy to fear,' and she
felt ashamed of her impulse. She turned, and, going to the praying-stool,
kneeled in prayer.
'Give me strength, O God! to resist this baseless terror,' she prayed.
'In thy hands are all things!' Yet her anxiety was unsoothed, and the
dread of madness came to her, but with it grew a brave defiance: she
would not go mad, she would not! She saw herself a prisoner in some
castle, kept alive and well treated, perhaps, but a piteous object, a
thing for all to point at--'the mad Duchess!' And the Grävenitz at
Stuttgart a legal Duchess. She believed a Prince could put away an insane
wife. 'Not madness, kind Jesus!' she prayed. Her heart was wrung in agony
as she pictured her son, the Erbprinz, taunted perhaps by the mention of
his mother's madness. 'All is in the Great Grasp, and each happening is
made and directed by God.' 'O Christ,' she prayed, 'I believe, I trust, I
will not blaspheme by fear; no madness can strike me down while I believe
and pray.' She lifted her hot face from her hands, calmed, soothed, brave
once more. She was rising from her knees, and the movement brought her
eyes on a level with the mirror panel. As one turned to stone, she stood
looking into the mirror, for it reflected one corner of her bed in the
next room, and the fading light fell on something white which pushed
aside the black brocade bed-curtain--a large yellow-white hand holding a
small gleaming knife. The Duchess, still with the dread of insanity upon
her, told herself that it was an hallucination, a delusion, the frenzied
working of her overwrought brain. She gathered her courage and fixed her
eyes on the mirror, which showed her what she conceived to be a phantom.
The hand was large, with hair growing hideously over it, and jagged,
bitten nails--she could see this distinctly, for the light fell from the
window full on the black curtain, and showed up the yellow hand.
Fascinated, she gazed into the mirror, wondering the while why, now that
the horror actually confronted her, she felt so little fear, whereas
before she had started and trembled at each gust of wind. Now the hand
emerged further from out the hangings. An arm in a brown sleeve appeared.
Then the curtains parted, and her Highness saw a ferret-like face appear.
She knew that this was no phantom. Swiftly she calculated the distance
between her and the hand-bell. She remembered that only her tiring-maid
would come in answer to the usual daily summons. If this man was indeed
an assassin, he would do his work immediately; kill her ere the woman
could come, and the unsuspecting maid herself might easily be silenced
with one stab from that pointed dagger. All this the Duchess realised in
a flash. She had never thought so rapidly in her life. No! she must not
ring; she must dupe the murderer! Her eyes met the assassin's in the
mirror, but she had the strength to return the gaze in an abstracted
fashion, so that the man should be uncertain whether she had seen him, or
whether the mirror had failed, by some strange chance, to transmit his
reflection. Instinctively she felt that her death-warrant would be signed
did the man know her to be aware of his presence. She moved towards the
table; thus she was out of the mirror's range, and she therefore could
not see what the man was doing in the adjoining apartment. 'Dupe him!
escape by ruse! get out of the rooms to the ante-hall, let him think I am
coming back!' Dully this thought struggled in her mind. With
extraordinary calmness she commenced to move the books on the table,
purposely rustling the pages. Then suddenly she knew her only way of
escape.
'Curious!' she said aloud; 'I thought my other book was here. I have left
it next door. I must find it and return to read and rest.' As she said
the words she walked into the sleeping-room. 'God give me strength not to
look towards the bed,' she prayed silently. 'Lord, in thy hands are all
things. It is blasphemy to fear.'
Now she was in the shadowy bedroom; she moved slowly across, saying again
aloud: 'I will fetch the volume and return.' As the words left her lips
she realised she had spoken in French; her ruse was useless then! The
murderer was probably some illiterate scoundrel; how should he
comprehend? But her dogged, methodical nature stood her in good stead. If
Johanna Elizabetha began anything, she invariably completed her task; so
although she imagined her strategy spoiled through her use of the French
language, she kept steadily moving across the large dark room. As she
gained the door leading to the audience-chamber she heard the man's
bitten, jagged nails scrape the silk brocade of the hangings. He had
pushed aside the curtains, then--he was following her! 'God give me
strength,' she prayed again. With unhurried step she passed across the
whole length of the long audience-chamber, and gently opened the door of
the ante-hall. The page-in-waiting, a slight child of fourteen years,
sprang to his feet, bowing deeply, as her Highness entered.
'Are you alone?' said the Duchess quietly. 'Is no lackey in waiting?'
'No, your Highness; I have had the honour to guard your Highness alone
for the last few minutes. There is no one else at all,' the boy replied,
proud of the trust reposed in him.
'I cannot give up this child to the assassin's dagger,' thought the
Duchess.
To her strained hearing there seemed to be a creeping movement behind
her. Quickly she pulled the key from the lock on the inner door of the
audience-chamber, and with trembling hand fitted it into the keyhole on
the ante-hall side.
'Quick, boy! fasten the other door leading to my apartment!' she
whispered.
The youth ran forward to do her bidding, and as she heard the bolt fall
under his hand she succeeded in turning the key in the lock noiselessly.
'Call the guard! Quick! quick!'
Instantly the page rushed off, and once more Johanna Elizabetha was alone
with the owner of that yellow, hairy hand, but with a bolted door between
her and death this time. Still she held the door-handle firmly, and she
felt it being gently tried from inside. Then she heard distinctly
stealthy footsteps stealing away across the audience-chamber.
The guard clattered into the ante-hall--fifty men in yellow and silver
uniforms, with drawn swords, and pistols showing grimly at their sides.
The captain of the guard inquired her Highness's pleasure. The page had
summoned him, saying her Highness was in danger of her life.
'Yes,' said Johanna Elizabetha shortly, 'assassination. Search my
apartments, the doors are locked.'
The men poured in: some straight through the audience-chamber, others
through the narrow corridor leading round at the back of the Duchess's
sleeping apartment. In a short time the captain returned.
'We have found no one, your Highness; yet I have left my men to search
again, though in truth we have inspected every inch of all the rooms.'
He looked at Johanna Elizabetha curiously as he spoke. Did he guess her
mad? She felt guilty, suspected. Could that horrid vision, that creeping,
lurking man, have been a phantom? A thing, then, of her own creation, not
a ghost of the castle--no, a spectre of her own!
'You cannot have searched everywhere,' she said. 'There are no ghosts in
the castle save the White Lady, and I saw a man skulking in my
apartments.'
'Your Highness, the search has----,' he began.
'I will direct your men, Monsieur,' she interrupted hurriedly, and
entered the audience-chamber. Carefully the soldiers went through the
rooms again, probing each dark corner and under the hangings with their
swords, but no one was to be found. The sweat stood on her Highness's
brow. She knew she would give all she possessed for the man to be
discovered. If he were not, she knew that she must become insane--nay,
she would be proved already mad to her own knowledge.
Suddenly a shout went up from the soldiers who had penetrated to her
Highness's praying-room, which, owing to its bareness and small size, had
received at first but a cursory glance from the searchers.
Against the balustrade in the angle of the small balcony the murderer
crouched. The soldiers dragged him forward and flung him, an unresisting,
trembling heap, on to the middle of the floor. Her Highness hearing the
commotion hurried forward.
'You have found him, then? Oh, thank God!' she cried.
'Pardon, pardon, by your mother's heart, I implore!' moaned the miserable
wretch, dragging himself like a crawling, wriggling animal towards the
Duchess. He was immediately hauled back by the soldiers.
'Stand up, you worm, and give account of yourself,' said the captain
sternly, bestowing a kick on the man's ribs.
'I meant no harm! By Christ! I meant no harm!' the prisoner wailed.
'How came you in her Highness's apartments? Speak!'
'I am a stranger in Stuttgart,' replied the man.
'Here's a lie for you,' broke in a trooper; 'he's the Grävenitz's private
servant. I have often seen him at Tübingen.'
'Yes! yes! yes! I am the Comtesse d'Urach's secretary; but I return to
Italy soon, and I wished to see the Duchess's famous black rooms before I
left! Curiosity has been my undoing! Pardon! pardon!'
'If you only wanted to see my rooms,' said her Highness gently, 'why did
you hide from me beneath the hangings? Why had you a poignard in your
hand?'
'I had no poignard! By the Mother of God! I had no poignard,' he whined.
'It is in his girdle, your Highness,' said the trooper, drawing forth the
dagger from the man's belt.
'I had a poignard in my girdle, but I meant no harm! I meant no harm!
Madame, you cannot think I would have hurt you? Oh, mercy! mercy!' Once
more he threw himself at the Duchess's feet. 'I hid indeed. O Madame! I
feared your displeasure. Have mercy on me! I only wished to see your
beautiful black rooms before I went back to Italy. When your Highness
spoke of fetching the book----' The Duchess started. Of course the man
was an Italian, and he understood French; that was how her plan had not
miscarried, as she feared it had, when she thought her adversary was some
local cut-throat--'when your Highness spoke, I thought I might escape
while your Highness was away, and then the doors were bolted and the
guard came. Oh, mercy!'
'Poor soul, let him go,' said Johanna Elizabetha gently.
'Your Highness, he shall go--to prison, till he is hanged. My man here
tells me he is the person who gave poison to Kitchenmaster Glaser to
sprinkle in your Highness's food,' the captain answered.
'Alas! how evil are men's hearts,' sighed the Duchess. 'Take him, then,
but treat him gently. He says he meant no harm.'