GRAF LUDWIG
The trap had snapped. Ulrich of Eisenach was in it. He had doubled
the vow to Saint Moritz, but with no avail. In the last twilight the
frighted watchers at the Wartburg peered from their turrets, and saw
the dim masses of horse and footmen spreading themselves around the
mountain,--hundreds, thousands. Graf Ludwig had been nearer, and in
greater force than any _lanzknecht_ dreamed. The Wartburg was ringed in
by foes.
But this was not the worst. Ulrich’s men were still beating up the
forest, and the Graf had silently cut off their retreat. As they
wandered home in sullen handfuls, cursing the bootless hunt, his
sentries had nipped them, nearly all, taking prisoners after few
struggles and fewer blows. Only two, slyer than the rest, had crept
through the besiegers, and into the postern, with a tale which made
Priest Clement’s teeth chatter,--how Ludwig was at the gates with nigh
three thousand men.
Ulrich had felt hard knocks from the Devil ere now, but this was the
hardest. The Wartburg was a very Emperor of castles,--provisioned
and garrisoned by eight hundred, it could hold Kaiser Rudolf at bay.
But inside the walls the Baron could barely count on twenty men fit
to strike a blow, and the sluttish women were good for nought save
screaming. Ulrich dropped the portcullis, placed a catapult to command
the gate, and set boxes of arrows along the ramparts to insure ready
ammunition; but how were a score to defend the long circuit of the
battlement? The moat was almost dry. At dawn the Baron could kill a few
attackers, but by the third hour after he knew well enough he would be
voyaging toward heaven or elsewhere.
Desperate enough was every one in the Wartburg. As the night blackened,
their mood blackened also. The sky was thickly clouded, starless,
and moonless. A murky hot wind fanned from the south, dead and
stifling,--“fit reminder,” so Michael forced the jest, “of the breeze
likely to blow in their next habitation.” Priest Clement, who stood
beside him on the gate tower, trembled all over at the impious levity.
“Do you not fear God? Are you so anxious for torment?”
“Humph!” grumbled the Breaker; “as much as you, holy Father. But I
would have small respect for God if He were to forgive you or me now.
We have made our bargain with Satan as do all fools, ‘for a short life
and a merry one,’ and none should whine like a puppy if the landlord
demands the ‘drink-penny’ at last.”
“You mean our souls?” moaned the priest.
“Very likely; ha! what is that?” and Michael levelled his crossbow into
the dark. From the gloom below the gate came a deep voice.
“Ho! Ulrich of Eisenach; attend!”
“I am listening,” bellowed the Baron from the tower; “who calls?”
“I,--Ludwig of the Harz; hear now and all your men! I command that you
surrender the castle at dawn, that especially you deliver up to me,
instantly and unharmed, my daughter, the Lady Agnes, likewise the holy
hermit Jerome, whom your men say you hold prisoner. Your naked state is
known to us. Escape is impossible. Surrender now, and I promise your
lives and liberties, with no more penalty than the trifling striking
off of your two thumbs, that you may never more draw bow, or swing
longsword; if not--”
Ulrich’s voice tossed back an angry answer.
“As for the Lady Agnes she is not with us. As for the hermit, when you
storm the castle, we slay him. As for our thumbs they will swing our
swords long enough to make your attack cost dear.”
“Liar--do not say my daughter is not in your foul hold.”
There was a ringing menace back of the word, which made even Ulrich
quiver, and he turned to Franz.
“Go you and one other. Bring the hermit. Set him on the battlement. We
will make him declare we have not the maid.”
So whilst defiance passed they brought Jerome, told him how the land
lay, and the Baron unsheathed a dagger.
“Speak him fair now, or take home this!” and he pricked with the point,
but even in the dark they saw the hermit’s grin of irony.
“Think you I am a child to fear the taste of steel? I say to you
again,” and Jerome’s voice was almost proud, “I could teach even
to demons like yourselves rare niceties in the arts of death and
torture,--the hell-deeds of the Turks, of the Sicilians--”
“Silence,” raged Ulrich; “here, set him upon the battlement. Now, my
Lord Graf, hearken, as the hermit Jerome declares to you that we have
not your daughter.”
But Jerome only lifted his fettered hands, and called a terrible curse
down on the Baron and his men.
“Smite! Smite and spare not! For the Lord has delivered these foes of
His servants unto you. Root out His enemies. Let theirs be the fate of
Dathan and Abiram, of Jezebel and Judas. Trust not their oaths, noble
Graf, when they say they know nothing of your child. God knoweth the
truth, but by their lies they would seek to deceive even Him and His
Holy One!”
“Dash him down! Quench this madness!”
Thus cried Ulrich, but even Michael would not raise his sword.
“At least, let us not murder this saint _now_!” he resisted, and Ulrich
blessed the darkness for hiding his own blenching skin.
They haled Jerome back to his dungeon, and again through the dark came
a summons. “Hear then, men of the Wartburg. All, who by dawn shall come
out to me, shall have their lives, saving always Ulrich of Eisenach,
and Michael the Breaker, whose heads are forfeit to the Kaiser, and
that unfrocked priest Clement, who is reserved for the merciful and
paternal chastening of the most holy Inquisitor at Mainz.”
But here Priest Clement began to groan terribly, fearing the rack and
faggots even more than the subsequent strappadoes by Satan.
“And you, Hans Broadfoot, and you, Joachim the Smith, except you
surrender yourselves ere midnight, your brothers, whom I hold
prisoners, have their feet wedged into split logs, and those logs most
duly enkindled. Therefore, learn wisdom swiftly.”
Whereupon two men-at-arms, who had been loudest and bravest for a
fierce defence, became of a sudden thoughtful.
“And finally,” wound up the Graf, “I do counsel that you kindle no
torch nor fire upon the battlement; for I have placed Jack, Hodge, and
Giles with twelve more picked English bowmen under your walls. Their
eyes are like cats’, and their cloth-yard shafts are the swiftest
messengers to the Devil.”
So with a dry laugh away went the chief into the dark, leaving the
defenders as helpless as caged rats who see the farmer come to drown
them.
There was nothing to be done. The long racks of lances in the great
Waffensaal were mockery. No hands to wield them! The Wartburg was
strong, but there was no donjon, separate from the outer hold, where a
few desperate spirits could prolong resistance. Besides, succour was
absolutely impossible. Before midnight, Hans and Joachim decided that
they could not let their brothers be grilled just because they desired
to have their throats cut at Ulrich’s side in the morning. A little
after midnight Michael killed a man who had tried to drop a rope from
the battlement. Two hours after dawn, Ulrich, who had lain down, after
leaving three men watching at the postern, returned and found only
Franz.
“Where are the others?” asked the Baron.
“Deserted like the rest.”
“And why not you?”
“Call me ‘Ram’s Pate’ an you will; I can still die with my master.”
My Lord Baron had a choking in his throat. He gave Franz his mail-clad
hand, then ordered him to summon Michael.
“All the rest have deserted, even the women,” reported the Breaker,
grimly. “In the Wartburg are you, Franz, Priest Clement, and your
humble man-at-arms--not to mention the hermit down below.”
“The joust ends,” quoth My Lord. “The camp below is stirring; they
attack us soon. Summon Clement. We must sound a parley with the saints,
though he is an indifferent pursuivant.”
In the wide, empty court they found the priest. His eyes were red, his
gait unsteady. He had been heartening himself in the cellar, but when
they told what they wanted he sobered quickly.
“Woe is me! All my sins flock home. It is I that need absolution.”
“A priest is a priest, and at least we have none better,” urged
Michael, “therefore haste! Soon they will beat down the postern.”
“Ay,” lamented Clement, “‘the validity of the sacrament depends not on
the righteousness of the cleric,’ so runs the canon; but I am undone.
None to absolve me, no masses, no indulgence! I am damned forever!”
“The hermit, the saint!” this from the slow Franz.
“The hermit! the saint!” so cried Clement; and they all ran down into
the dungeon, dragged their prisoner up into the great hall, and tore
off his fetters. He, expecting instant death, bowed his head in silent
prayer, but did not try to escape. Then with the ruddy glare of dawn
pouring through the eastern casement, those four wild men plumped on
their knees before him.
“What do you wish?” said Jerome, opening his eyes.
“Oh, holy hermit, beloved of God,” prayed Clement, catching at the
anchorite’s sheepskin, “absolve us, for we are nigh to death. We are
sinful men, so hark to our confession.”
Jerome frowned sternly.
“I am no priest,” he shot back, nigh in wrath; “you who call yourself
priest hear these men’s confessions, and confess yourself to God. I am
no intercessor for you.”
“Not so,” cried My Lord Baron, beginning to beat his breast; “you would
not have us lost forever!”
“I am sinful like yourself. Refrain from sacrilege.”
“Give attention, greybeard,” admonished Michael, laying his battle-axe
significantly beside him; “you have the ear of St. Peter and of St.
Gabriel, and have it better than most bishops too. Bid them make us
a smooth road to heaven, or it is the worse for you--by Our Lady of
Lichtenfels--”
“Blaspheme not the Mother of God,” thundered Jerome, as immovable as
granite, “nor think by carnal threatenings to stir me.”
“Confess first,” advised Clement, sagely; “then we have but to wring
‘_absolvo_’ out from his teeth, and we can sell our lives dear,
fighting like the Christians that we are.”
A rending crash without gave weight to his counsels.
“The postern yields,” groaned Ulrich; “let us confess.”
So all four beat their breasts, repeating their _mea culpas_; then the
Baron spoke first:--
“Hearken to my confession. I have sinned against God, His Mother, and
the Holy Angels, inasmuch as I melted into a drinking-cup the golden
crucifix which I took from the body of the Abbot of Nördhausen after
that I had slain him.”
And Michael the Breaker spoke: “Hear me. I also have sinned, inasmuch
as last Ash Wednesday in my forgetfulness I ate the leg of a fowl at a
farm-house we were pillaging.”
And Franz of the Ram’s Pate spoke: “Hear me. I also have sinned,
inasmuch as I hunted a buck on the day of the last Communion, despising
the holy sacrament.”
And Priest Clement spoke: “Hear me. I also have sinned, inasmuch as
forgetful of my sanctity as clerk, I did kiss the daughter of mine host
of the ‘Crown and Bells’ the last Sunday that I was in Eisenach.”
“And now,” commanded Ulrich, roundly, “speak it out, the word
‘_absolvo_.’”
What strange thing played on Jerome’s stern face? Was it the smile of
the avenging angel or of the demon who sees his sinking prey? Louder
the crash and wrack without. The Graf was almost in the Wartburg.
Jerome’s eyes seemed burning into all the four.
“Is this _all_?” demanded he, implacably. “Have you no murders, thefts,
gross wickednesses of the flesh to own to, ere you pass to God’s
assize?”
“A few throat-cuttings, holy Father, only a few,” smoothed Clement;
“I do assure you the Church lays major stress on what we have
acknowledged, and time now presses.”
Jerome swept his hands about in fearful anger.
“‘_Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the
Devil and his angels._’ When I absolve such as you let Satan possess my
soul with yours!”
“You will not?” shrieked Michael, leaping up and waving the axe.
“No, since I fear God!”
The Wartburg shook with the bursting of the last barrier. They heard a
whooping war-shout.
“An end to this folly,” cried Ulrich, his sword leaping forth; “kill
him first, then go out fighting, whether St. Michael or Beelzebub
snatch us.”
Jerome never blinked. They cursed, raved, but he was silent. Now feet
trampled in the court. Priest Clement grew grey with fear, but he swung
an axe too.
“_Absolvo! Absolvo!_ Say but the word,” he screamed, and buffeted
Jerome, who stood like a stony tower, silent, but frowning terrible.
“Kill him! Curse him!” cried Clement; “they are on us, and we are
burned forever.”
But high above the groan of the hunted and the shout of the hunters
sounded the Graf’s voice:--
“For the love of Christ! Hold!”
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