THE REVENGE OF THE OUTLAW
The position of Count Herbert when, at the age of thirty-one he took
up his residence in the ancient castle of his line, was a most enviable
one. His marriage with Beatrix, Countess von Falkenstein, had added the
lustre of a ruling family to the prestige of his own, and the renown of
his valour in the East had lost nothing in transit from the shores of
the Mediterranean to the banks of the Rhine. The Counts of Schonburg had
ever been the most conservative in counsel and the most radical in the
fray, and thus Herbert on returning, found himself, without seeking
the honor, regarded by common consent as leader of the nobility whose
castles bordered the renowned river. The Emperor, as was usually
the case when these imperial figure-heads were elected by the three
archbishops and their four colleagues, was a nonentity, who made no
attempt to govern a turbulent land that so many were willing to govern
for him. His majesty left sword and sceptre to those who cared for
such baubles, and employed himself in banding together the most notable
company of meistersingers that Germany had ever listened to. But
although harmony reigned in Frankfort, the capital, there was much lack
of it along the Rhine, and the man with the swiftest and heaviest
sword, usually accumulated the greatest amount of property, movable and
otherwise.
Among the truculent nobles who terrorised the country side, none was
held In greater awe than Baron von Wiethoff, whose Schloss occupied a
promontory Some distance up the stream from Castle Schonburg, on the
same side of the river. Public opinion condemned the Baron, not because
he exacted tribute from the merchants who sailed down the Rhine, for
such collections were universally regarded as a legitimate source of
revenue, but because he was in the habit of killing the goose that laid
the golden egg, which action was looked upon with disfavour by those who
resided between Schloss Wiethoff and Cologne, as interfering with their
right to exist, for a merchant, although well-plucked, is still of
advantage to those in whose hands he falls, if life and some of his
goods are left to him. Whereas, when cleft from scalp to midriff by
the Baron’s long sword, he became of no value either to himself or to
others. While many nobles were satisfied with levying a scant five
or ten per cent on a voyager’s belongings, the Baron rarely rested
contented until he had acquired the full hundred, and, the merchant
objecting, von Wiethoff would usually order him hanged or decapitated,
although at times when he was in good humour he was wont to confer
honour upon the trading classes by despatching the grumbling seller
of goods with his own weapon, which created less joy in the commercial
community than the Baron seemed to expect. Thus navigation on the swift
current of the Rhine began to languish, for there was little profit in
the transit of goods from Mayence to Cologne if the whole consignment
stood in jeopardy and the owner’s life as well, so the merchants got
into the habit of carrying their gear overland on the backs of mules,
thus putting the nobility to great inconvenience in scouring the
forests, endeavouring to intercept the caravans. The nobility, with that
stern sense of justice which has ever characterised the higher classes,
placed the blame of this diversion of traffic from its natural channel
not upon the merchants but upon the Baron, where undoubtedly it rightly
belonged, and although, when they came upon an overland company which
was seeking to avoid them, they gathered in an extra percentage of the
goods to repay in a measure the greater difficulty they had in
their woodland search, they always informed the merchants with much
politeness, that, when river traffic was resumed, they would be pleased
to revert to the original exaction, which the traders, not without
reason pointed out was of little avail to them as long as Baron von
Wiethoff was permitted to confiscate the whole.
In their endeavours to resuscitate the navigation interests of the
Rhine, several expeditions had been formed against the Baron, but his
castle was strong, and there were so many conflicting interests among
those who attacked him that he had always come out victorious, and after
each onslaught the merchants suffered more severely than before.
Affairs were in this unsatisfactory condition when Count Herbert of
Schonburg returned from the Holy Land, the fame of his deeds upon him,
and married Beatrix of Gudenfels. Although the nobles of the Upper Rhine
held aloof from all contest with the savage Baron of Schloss Wiethoff,
his exactions not interfering with their incomes, many of those further
down the river offered their services to Count Herbert, if he would
consent to lead them against the Baron, but the Count pleaded that he
was still a stranger in his own country, having so recently returned
from his ten contentious years in Syria, therefore he begged time to
study the novel conditions confronting him before giving an answer to
their proposal.
The Count learned that the previous attacks made upon Schloss Wiethoff
had been conducted with but indifferent generalship, and that failure
had been richly earned by desertions from the attacking force, each
noble thinking himself justified in withdrawing himself and his men,
when offended, or when the conduct of affairs displeased him, so von
Schonburg informed the second deputation which waited on him, that he
was more accustomed to depend on himself than on the aid of others, and
that if any quarrel arose between Castle Schonburg and Schloss Wiethoff,
the Count would endeavour to settle the dispute with his own sword,
which reply greatly encouraged the Baron when he heard of it, for he
wished to try conclusions with the newcomer, and made no secret of
his disbelief in the latter’s Saracenic exploits, saying the Count had
returned when there was none left of the band he took with him, and had,
therefore, with much wisdom, left himself free from contradiction.
There was some disappointment up and down the Rhine when time passed and
the Count made no warlike move. It was well known that the Countess was
much averse to war, notwithstanding the fact that she was indebted to
war for her stalwart husband, and her peaceful nature was held to excuse
the non-combative life lived by the Count, although there were others
who gave it as their opinion that the Count was really afraid of the
Baron, who daily became more and more obnoxious as there seemed to be
less and less to fear. Such boldness did the Baron achieve that he even
organised a slight raid upon the estate of Gudenfels which belonged to
the Count’s wife, but still Herbert of Schonburg did not venture from
the security of his castle, greatly to the disappointment and the
disgust of his neighbours, for there are on earth no people who love a
fight more dearly than do those who reside along the banks of the placid
Rhine.
At last an heir was born to Castle Schonburg, and the rejoicings
throughout all the district governed by the Count were general and
enthusiastic. Bonfires were lit on the heights and the noble river
glowed red under the illumination at night. The boy who had arrived
at the castle was said to give promise of having all the beauty of
his mother and all the strength of his father, which was admitted by
everybody to be a desirable combination, although some shook their heads
and said they hoped that with strength there would come greater courage
than the Count appeared to possess. Nevertheless, the Count had still
some who believed in him, notwithstanding his long period of inaction,
and these said that on the night the boy was born, and word was brought
to him in the great hall that mother and child were well, the cloud
that had its habitual resting-place on the Count’s brow lifted and his
lordship took down from its place his great broadsword, rubbed from its
blade the dust and the rust that had collected, swung the huge weapon
hissing through the air, and heaved a deep sigh, as one who had come to
the end of a period of restraint.
The boy was just one month old on the night that there was a thunderous
knocking at the gate of Schloss Wiethoff. The Baron hastily buckled
on his armour and was soon at the head of his men eager to repel the
invader. In a marvellously short space of time there was a contest in
progress at the gates which would have delighted the heart of the most
quarrelsome noble from Mayence to Cologne. The attacking party which
appeared in large force before the gate, attempted to batter in the
oaken leaves of the portal, but the Baron was always prepared for such
visitors, and the heavy timbers that were heaved against the oak made
little impression, while von Wiethoff roared defiance from the top of
the wall that surrounded the castle and what was more to the purpose,
showered down stones and arrows on the besiegers, grievously thinning
their ranks. The Baron, with creditable ingenuity, had constructed above
the inside of the gate a scaffolding, on the top of which was piled a
mountain of huge stones. This scaffold was arranged in such a way that
a man pulling a lever caused it to collapse, thus piling the stones
instantly against the inside of the gate, rendering it impregnable
against assault by battering rams. The Baron was always jubilant when
his neighbours attempted to force the gate, for he was afforded much
amusement at small expense to himself, and he cared little for the
damage the front door received, as he had built his castle not for
ornament but for his own protection. He was a man with an amazing
vocabulary, and as he stood on the wall shaking his mailed fist at
the intruders he poured forth upon them invective more personal than
complimentary.
While thus engaged, rejoicing over the repulse of the besiegers, for the
attack was evidently losing its vigour, he was amazed to note a sudden
illumination of the forest-covered hill which he was facing. The
attacking party rallied with a yell when the light struck them, and
the Baron, looking hastily over his shoulder to learn the source of the
ruddy glow on the trees, saw with dismay that his castle was on fire and
that Count Herbert followed by his men had possession of the battlements
to the rear, while the courtyard swarmed with soldiers, who had
evidently scaled the low wall along the river front from rafts or boats.
“Surrender!” cried Count Herbert, advancing along the wall. “Your castle
is taken, and will be a heap of ruins within the hour.”
“Then may you be buried beneath them,” roared the Baron, springing to
the attack.
Although the Baron was a younger man than his antagonist, it was soon
proven that his sword play was not equal to that of the Count, and
the broadsword fight on the battlements in the light of the flaming
stronghold, was of short duration, watched breathlessly as it was by men
of both parties above and below. Twice the Baron’s guard was broken, and
the third time, such was the terrific impact of iron on iron, that the
Baron’s weapon was struck from his benumbed hands and fell glittering
through the air to the ground outside the walls. The Count paused in his
onslaught, refraining from striking a disarmed man, but again demanding
his submission. The Baron cast one glance at his burning house, saw that
it was doomed, then, with a movement as reckless as it was unexpected,
took the terrific leap from the wall top to the ground, alighting on his
feet near his fallen sword which he speedily recovered. For an instant
the Count hovered on the brink to follow him, but the swift thought of
his wife and child restrained him, and he feared a broken limb in
the fall, leaving him thus at the mercy of his enemy. The moment for
decision was short enough, but the years of regret for this hesitation
were many and long. There were a hundred men before the walls to
intercept the Baron, and it seemed useless to jeopardise life or limb
in taking the leap, so the Count contented himself by giving the loud
command: “Seize that man and bind him.”
It was an order easy to give and easy to obey had there been a dozen men
below as brave as their captain, or even one as brave, as stalwart and
as skilful; but the Baron struck sturdily around him and mowed his way
through the throng as effectually as a reaper with a sickle clears a
path for himself in the standing corn. Before Herbert realised what was
happening, the Baron was safe in the obscurity of the forest.
The Count of Schonburg was not a man to do things by halves, even though
upon the occasion of this attack he allowed the Baron to slip through
his fingers. When the ruins of the Schloss cooled, he caused them to be
removed and flung stone by stone into the river, leaving not a vestige
of the castle that had so long been a terror to the district, holding
that if the lair were destroyed the wolf would not return. In this the
Count proved but partly right. Baron von Wiethoff renounced his
order, and became an outlaw, gathering round him in the forest all the
turbulent characters, not in regular service elsewhere, publishing along
the Rhine by means of prisoners he took and then released that as the
nobility seemed to object to his preying upon the merchants, he would
endeavour to amend his ways and would harry instead such castles as fell
into his hands. Thus Baron von Wiethoff became known as the Outlaw of
the Hundsrück, and being as intrepid as he was merciless, soon made
the Rhenish nobility withdraw attention from other people’s quarrels in
order to bestow strict surveillance upon their own. It is possible
that if the dwellers along the river had realised at first the kind of
neighbour that had been produced by burning out the Baron, they might,
by combination have hunted him down in the widespread forests of the
Hundsrück, but as the years went on, the Outlaw acquired such knowledge
of the interminable mazes of this wilderness, that it is doubtful
whether all the troops in the Empire could have brought his band to bay.
The outlaws always fled before a superior force, and always massacred
an inferior one, and like the lightning, no man could predict where the
next stroke would fall. On one occasion he even threatened the walled
town of Coblentz, and the citizens compounded with him, saying they had
no quarrel with any but the surrounding nobles, which expression the
thrifty burghers regretted when Count Herbert marched his men through
their streets and for every coin they, had paid the Outlaw, exacted ten.
The boy of Castle Schonburg was three years old, when he was allowed
to play on the battlements, sporting with a wooden sword and imagining
himself as great a warrior as his father had ever been. He was a brave
little fellow whom nothing could frighten but the stories his nurse told
him of the gnomes and goblins who infested the Rhine, and he longed
for the time when he would be a man and wear a real sword. One day just
before he had completed his fourth year, a man came slinking out of
the forest to the foot of the wall, for the watch was now slack as the
Outlaw had not been heard of for months, and then was far away in
the direction of Mayence. The nurse was holding a most absorbing
conversation with the man-at-arms, who should, instead, have been pacing
up and down the terrace while she should have been watching her charge.
The man outside gave a low whistle which attracted the attention of the
child and then beckoned him to come further along the wall until he had
passed the west tower.
“Well, little coward,” said the man, “I did not think you would have the
courage to come so far away from the women.”
“I am not a coward,” answered the lad, stoutly, “and I do not care about
the women at all.”
“Your father was a coward.”
“He is not. He is the bravest man in the world.”
“He did not dare to jump off the wall after the Baron.”
“He will cut the Baron in pieces if he ever comes near our castle.”
“Yet he dared not jump as the Baron did.”
“The Baron was afraid of my father; that’s why he jumped.”
“Not so. It was your father who feared to follow him, though he had a
sword and the Baron had none. You are all cowards in Castle Schonburg.
I don’t believe you have the courage to jump even though I held out my
arms to catch you, but if you do I will give you the sword I wear.”
The little boy had climbed on the parapet, and now stood hovering on the
brink of the precipice, his childish heart palpitating through fear of
the chasm before him, yet beneath its beatings was an insistent command
to prove his impugned courage. For some moments there was deep silence,
the man below gazing aloft and holding up his hands. At last he lowered
his outstretched arms and said in a sneering tone:
“Good-bye, craven son of a craven race. You dare not jump.”
The lad, with a cry of despair, precipitated himself into the empty air
and came fluttering down like a wounded bird, to fall insensible into
the arms that for the moment saved him from death or mutilation. An
instant later there was a shriek from the negligent nurse, and the
man-at-arms ran along the battlements, a bolt on his cross-bow which he
feared to launch at the flying abductor, for in the speeding of it he
might slay the heir of Schonburg. By the time the castle was aroused and
the gates thrown open to pour forth searchers, the man had disappeared
into the forest, and in its depths all trace of young Wilhelm was lost.
Some days after, the Count von Schonburg came upon the deserted camp
of the outlaws, and found there evidences, not necessary to be here set
down, that his son had been murdered. Imposing secrecy on his followers,
so that the Countess might still retain her unshaken belief that not
even an outlaw would harm a little child, the Count returned to his
castle to make preparations for a complete and final campaign of
extinction against the scourge of the Hundsrück, but the Outlaw had
withdrawn his men far from the scene of his latest successful exploit
and the Count never came up with him.
Years passed on and the silver came quickly to Count Herbert’s hair,
he attributing the change to the hardships endured in the East, but all
knowing well the cause sprang from his belief in his son’s death. The
rapid procession of years made little impression on the beauty of the
Countess, who, although grieving for the absence of her boy, never
regarded him as lost but always looked for his return. “If he were
dead,” she often said to her husband, “I should know it in my heart; I
should know the day, the hour and the moment.”
This belief the Count strove to encourage, although none knew better
than he how baseless it was. Beatrix, with a mother’s fondness, kept
little Wilhelm’s room as it had been when he left it, his toys in their
places, and his bed prepared for him, allowing no one else to share the
task she had allotted to herself. She seemed to keep no count of the
years, nor to realise that if her son returned he would return as a
young man and not as a child. To the mind of Beatrix he seemed always
her boy of four.
When seventeen years had elapsed after the abduction of the heir of
Schonburg, there came a rumour that the Outlaw of Hundsrück was again at
his depredations in the neighbourhood of Coblentz. He was at this time
a man of forty-two, and if he imagined that the long interval had led to
any forgetting on the part of the Count von Schonburg, a most unpleasant
surprise awaited him. The Count divided his forces equally between his
two castles of Schonburg and Gudenfels situated on the west bank and
the east bank respectively. If either castle were attacked, arrangements
were made for getting word to the other, when the men in that other
would cross the Rhine and fall upon the rear of the invaders,
hemming them thus between two fires. The Count therefore awaited with
complacency whatever assault the Outlaw cared to deliver.
It was expected that the attack would be made in the night, which was
the usual time selected for these surprise parties that kept life
from stagnating along the Rhine, but to the amazement of the Count the
onslaught came in broad daylight, which seemed to indicate that the
Outlaw had gathered boldness with years. The Count from the battlements
scanned his opponents and saw that they were led, not by the Outlaw
in person, but by a young man who evidently held his life lightly, so
recklessly did he risk it. He was ever in the thick of the fray, dealing
sword strokes with a lavish generosity which soon kindled a deep respect
for him in the breasts of his adversaries. The Count had not waited for
the battering in of his gates but had sent out his men to meet the enemy
in the open, which was rash generalship, had he not known that the men
of Gudenfels were hurrying round to the rear of the outlaws. Crossbowmen
lined the battlements ready to cover the retreat of the defenders of
the castle, should they meet a reverse, but now they stood in silence,
holding their shafts, for in the mêslée there was a danger of destroying
friend as well as foe. But in spite of the superb leadership of the
young captain, the outlaws, seemingly panic-stricken, when there was no
particular reason, deserted their commander in a body and fled in
spite of his frantic efforts to rally them. The young man found himself
surrounded, and, after a brave defence, overpowered. When the Gudenfels
men came up, there was none to oppose them, the leader of the enemy
being within the gates of Schonburg, bound, bleeding and a prisoner. The
attacking outlaws were nowhere to be seen.
The youthful captive, unkempt as he was, appeared in the great hall
of the castle before its grey-headed commander, seated in his chair of
state.
“You are the leader of this unwarranted incursion?” said the Count,
sternly, as he looked upon the pinioned lad.
“Warranted or unwarranted, I was the leader.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Wilhelm, only son of the Outlaw of Hundsrück.”
“The only son,” murmured the Count, more to himself than to his
auditors, the lines hardening round his firm mouth. For some moments
there was a deep silence in the large room, then the Count spoke in a
voice that had no touch of mercy in it:
“You will be taken to a dungeon and your wounds cared for. Seven days
from now, at this hour, you will appear again before me, at which time
just sentence will be passed upon you, after I hear what you have to say
in your own defence.”
“You may hear that now, my Lord. I besieged your castle and would
perhaps have taken it, had I not a pack of cowardly dogs at my heels.
I am now in your power, and although you talk glibly of justice, I know
well what I may expect at your hands. Your delay of a week is the mere
pretence of a hypocrite, who wishes to give colour of legality to an
act already decided upon. I do not fear you now, and shall not fear you
then, so spare your physicians unnecessary trouble, and give the word to
your executioner.”
“Take him away, attend to his wounds, and guard him strictly. Seven days
from now when I call for him; see to it that you can produce him.”
Elsa, niece of the Outlaw, watched anxiously for the return of her
cousin from the long prepared for expedition. She had the utmost
confidence in his bravery and the most earnest belief in his success,
yet she watched for the home-coming of the warriors with an anxious
heart. Perhaps a messenger would arrive telling of the capture of the
castle; perhaps all would return with news of defeat, but for what
actually happened the girl was entirely unprepared. That the whole
company, practically unscathed, should march into camp with the
astounding news that their leader had been captured and that they
had retreated without striking a blow on his behalf, seemed to her so
monstrous, that her first thought was fear of the retribution which
would fall on the deserters when her uncle realised the full import of
the tidings. She looked with apprehension at his forbidding face and was
amazed to see something almost approaching a smile part his thin lips.
“The attack has failed, then. I fear I sent out a leader incompetent
and too young. We must make haste to remove our camp or the victorious
Count, emboldened by success, may carry the war into the forest.”
With this amazing proclamation the Outlaw turned and walked to his hut
followed by his niece, bewildered as one entangled in the mazes of a
dream. When they were alone together, the girl spoke.
“Uncle, has madness overcome you?”
“I was never saner than now, nor happier, for years of waiting are
approaching their culmination.”
“Has, then, all valour left your heart?”
“Your question will be answered when next I lead my band.”
“When next you lead it? Where will you lead it?”
“Probably in the vicinity of Mayence, toward which place we are about to
journey.”
“Is it possible that you retreat from here without attempting the rescue
of your son, now in the hands of your lifelong enemy?”
“All things are possible in an existence like ours. The boy would
assault the castle; he has failed and has allowed himself to be taken.
It is the fortune of war and I shall not waste a man in attempting his
rescue.”
Elsa stood for a moment gazing in dismay at her uncle, whose shifty eyes
evaded all encounter with hers, then she strode to the wall, took down
a sword and turned without a word to the door. The Outlaw sprang between
her and the exit.
“What are you about to do?” he cried.
“I am about to rally all who are not cowards round me, then at their
head, I shall attack Castle Schonburg and set Wilhelm free or share his
fate.”
The Outlaw stood for a few moments, his back against the door of the
hut, gazing in sullen anger at the girl, seemingly at a loss to know
how she should be dealt with. At last his brow cleared and he spoke: “Is
your interest in Wilhelm due entirely to the fact that you are cousins?”
A quick flush overspread the girl’s fair cheeks with colour and her eyes
sought the floor of the hut. The point of the sword she held lowered
until it rested on the stone flags, and she swayed slightly, leaning
against its hilt, while the keen eyes of her uncle regarded her
critically. She said in a voice little above a whisper, contrasting
strongly with her determined tone of a moment before:
“My interest is due to our relationship alone.”
“Has no word of love passed between you?”
“Oh, no, no. Why do you ask me such a question?”
“Because on the answer given depends whether or not I shall entrust you
with knowledge regarding him. Swear to me by the Three Kings of Cologne
that you will tell to none what I will now impart to you.”
“I swear,” said Elsa, raising her right hand, and holding aloft the
sword with it.
“Wilhelm is not my son, nor is he kin to either of us, but is the heir
of the greatest enemy of our house, Count Herbert of Schonburg. I lured
him from his father’s home as a child and now send him back as a man.
Some time later I shall acquaint the Count with the fact that the young
man he captured is his only son.”
The girl looked at her uncle, her eyes wide with horror.
“It is your purpose then that the father shall execute his own son?”
The Outlaw shrugged his shoulders.
“The result lies not with me, but with the Count. He was once a crusader
and the teaching of his master is to the effect that the measure he
metes to others, the same shall be meted to him, if I remember aright
the tenets of his faith. Count Herbert wreaking vengeance upon my
supposed son, is really bringing destruction upon his own, which seems
but justice. If he show mercy to me and mine, he is bestowing the
blessed balm thereof on himself and his house. In this imperfect world,
few events are ordered with such admirable equity as the capture of
young Lord Wilhelm, by that haughty and bloodthirsty warrior, his
father. Let us then await with patience the outcome, taking care not to
interfere with the designs of Providence.”
“The design comes not from God but from the evil one himself.”
“It is within the power of the Deity to overturn even the best plans of
the fiend, if it be His will. Let us see to it that we do not intervene
between two such ghostly potentates, remembering that we are but puny
creatures, liable to err.”
“The plot is of your making, secretly held, all these years, with
unrelenting malignity. The devil himself is not wicked enough to send
an innocent, loyal lad to his doom in his own mother’s house, with his
father as his executioner. Oh, uncle, uncle, repent and make reparation
before it is too late.”
“Let the Count repent and make reparation. I have now nothing to do with
the matter. As I have said, if the Count is merciful, he is like to be
glad of it later in his life; if he is revengeful, visiting the sin
of the father on the son, innocent, I think you called him, then he
deserves what his own hand deals out to himself. But we have talked too
much already. I ask you to remember your oath, for I have told you this
so that you will not bring ridicule upon me by a womanish appeal to my
own men, who would but laugh at you in any case and think me a dotard in
allowing women overmuch to say in the camp. Get you back to your women,
for we move camp instantly. Even if I were to relent, as you term it,
the time is past, for Wilhelm is either dangling from the walls of
Castle Schonburg or he is pardoned, and all that we could do would be of
little avail. Prepare you then instantly for our journey.”
Elsa, with a sigh, went slowly to the women’s quarters, her oath, the
most terrible that may be taken on the Rhine, weighing heavily upon her.
Resolving not to break it, yet determined in some way to save Wilhelm,
the girl spent the first part of the journey in revolving plans of
escape, for she found as the cavalcade progressed that her uncle did not
trust entirely to the binding qualities of the oath she had taken, but
had her closely watched as well. As the expedition progressed farther
and farther south in the direction of Mayence, vigilance was relaxed,
and on the evening of the second day, when a camp had been selected for
the night, Elsa escaped and hurried eastward through the forest until
she came to the Rhine, which was to be her guide to the castle of
Schonburg. The windings of the river made the return longer than the
direct journey through the wilderness had been, and in addition to this,
Elsa was compelled to circumambulate the numerous castles, climbing the
hills to avoid them, fearing capture and delay, so it was not until the
sun was declining on the sixth day after the assault on the castle that
she stood, weary and tattered and unkempt, before the closed gates of
Schonburg, and beat feebly with her small hand against the oak, crying
for admittance. The guard of the gate, seeing through the small lattice
but a single dishevelled woman standing there, anticipating treachery,
refused to open the little door in the large leaf until his captain
was summoned, who, after some parley, allowed the girl to enter the
courtyard.
“What do you want?” asked the captain, curtly.
She asked instead of answered:
“Is your prisoner still alive?”
“The son of the Outlaw? Yes, but he would be a confident prophet who
would predict as much for him at this hour to-morrow.”
“Take me, I beg of you, to the Countess.”
“That is as it may be. Who are you and what is your business with her?”
“I shall reveal myself to her Ladyship, and to her will state the object
of my coming.”
“Your object is plain enough. You are some tatterdemalion of the forest
come to beg the life of your lover, who hangs to-morrow, or I am a
heathen Saracen.”
“I do beseech you, tell the Countess that a miserable woman craves
permission to speak with her.”
What success might have attended her petition is uncertain, but the
problem was solved by the appearance of the Countess herself on the
terrace above them, which ran the length of the castle on its western
side. The lady leaned over the parapet and watched with evident
curiosity the strange scene in the courtyard below, the captain and his
men in a ring around the maiden of the forest, who occupying the centre
of the circle, peered now in one face, now in another, as if searching
for some trace of sympathy in the stolid countenances of the warriors
all about her. Before the captain could reply, his lady addressed him.
“Whom have you there, Conrad?”
It seemed as if the unready captain would get no word said, for again
before he had made answer the girl spoke to the Countess.
“I do implore your Ladyship to grant me speech with you.”
The Countess looked down doubtfully upon the supplicant, evidently
prejudiced by her rags and wildly straying hair. The captain cleared his
throat and opened his mouth, but the girl eagerly forestalled him.
“Turn me not away, my Lady, because I come in unhandsome guise, for
I have travelled far through forest and over rock, climbing hills and
skirting the river’s brink to be where I am. The reluctant wilderness,
impeding me, has enviously torn my garments, leaving me thus ashamed
before you, but, dear Lady, let not that work to my despite. Grant my
petition and my prayer shall ever be that the dearest wish of your own
heart go not unsatisfied.”
“Alas!” said the Countess, with a deep sigh, “my dearest wish gives
little promise of fulfilment.”
Conrad, seeing that the lady thought of her lost son, frowned angrily,
and in low growling tones bade the girl have a care what she said, but
Elsa was not to be silenced and spoke impetuously.
“Oh, Countess, the good we do often returns to us tenfold; mercy calls
forth mercy. An acorn planted produces an oak; cruelty sown leaves us
cruelty to reap. It is not beyond imagination that the soothing of my
bruised heart may bring balm to your own.”
“Take the girl to the east room, Conrad, and let her await me there,”
said the Countess.
“With a guard, your Ladyship?”
“Without a guard, Conrad.”
“Pardon me, my Lady, but I distrust her. She may have designs against
you.”
The Countess had little acquaintance with fear. She smiled at the
anxious captain and said:
“Her only desire is to reach my heart, Conrad.”
“God grant it may not be with a dagger,” grumbled the captain, as he
made haste to obey the commands of the lady.
When the Countess entered the room in which Elsa stood, her first
question was an inquiry regarding her visitor’s name and station, the
telling of which seemed but an indifferent introduction for the girl,
who could not help noting that the Countess shrank, involuntarily from
her when she heard the Outlaw mentioned.
“Our house has little cause to confer favour on any kin of the Outlaw of
Hundsrück,” the lady said at last.
“I do not ask for favour, my Lady. I have come to give your revenge
completeness, if it is revenge you seek. The young man now imprisoned in
Schonburg is so little esteemed by my uncle that not a single blow has
been struck on his behalf. If the Count thinks to hurt the Outlaw by
executing Wilhelm, he will be gravely in error, for my uncle and his men
regard the captive so lightly that they have gone beyond Mayence without
even making an effort toward his rescue. As for me, my uncle bestows
upon me such affection as he is capable of, and would be more grieved
should I die, than if any other of his kin were taken from him. Release
Wilhelm and I will gladly take his place, content to receive such
punishment as his Lordship, the Count, considers should be imposed on a
relative of the Outlaw.”
“What you ask is impossible. The innocent should not suffer for the
guilty.”
“My Lady, the innocent have suffered for others since the world began,
and will continue to do so till it ends. Our only hope of entering
Heaven comes through Him who was free from sin being condemned in our
stead. I do beseech your Ladyship to let me take the place of Wilhelm.”
“You love this young man,” said the Countess, seating herself, and
regarding the girl with the intent interest which women, whose own love
affair has prospered, feel when they are confronted with an incident
that reminds them of their youth.
“Not otherwise than as a friend and dear companion, my Lady,” replied
Elsa, blushing. “When he was a little boy and I a baby, he carried me
about in his arms, and since that time we have been comrades together.”
“Comradeship stands for much, my girl,” said the Countess, in kindly
manner, “but it rarely leads one friend willingly to accept death
for another. I have not seen this young man whom you would so gladly
liberate; the dealing with prisoners is a matter concerning my husband
alone; I never interfere, but if I should now break this rule because
you have travelled so far, and are so anxious touching the prisoner’s
welfare, would you be willing to accept my conditions?”
“Yes, my Lady, so that his life were saved.”
“He is a comely young man doubtless, and there are some beautiful women
within this castle; would it content you if he were married to one of my
women, and so escaped with life?”
A sudden pallor overspread the girl’s face, and she clasped her hands
nervously together. Tears welled into her eyes, and she stood thus for a
few moments unable to speak. At last she murmured, with some difficulty:
“Wilhelm can care nothing for any here, not having beheld them, and it
would be wrong to coerce a man in such extremity. I would rather die for
him, that he might owe his life to me.”
“But he would live to marry some one else.”
“If I were happy in heaven, why should I begrudge Wilhelm’s happiness on
earth?”
“Ah, why, indeed, Elsa? And yet you disclaim with a sigh. Be assured
that I shall do everything in my power to save your lover, and that not
at the expense of your own life or happiness. Now come with me, for I
would have you arrayed in garments more suited to your youth and your
beauty, that you may not be ashamed when you meet this most fascinating
prisoner, for such he must be, when you willingly risk so much for his
sake.”
The Countess, after conducting the girl to the women’s apartments,
sought her husband, but found to her dismay that he showed little sign
of concurrence with her sympathetic views regarding the fate of the
prisoner. It was soon evident to her that Count Herbert had determined
upon the young man’s destruction, and that there was some concealed
reason for this obdurate conclusion which the Count did not care to
disclose. Herbert von Schonburg was thoroughly convinced that his son
was dead, mutilated beyond recognition by the Outlaw of Hundsrück, yet
this he would not tell to Beatrix, his wife, who cherished the unshaken
belief that the boy still lived and would be restored to her before she
died. The Count for years had waited for his revenge, and even though
his wife now pleaded that he forego it, the Master of Schonburg was in
no mind to comply, though he said little in answer to her persuading.
The incoming of Elsa to the castle merely convinced him that some
trick was meditated on the part of the Outlaw, and the sentimental
consideration urged by the Countess had small weight with him. He gave
a curt order to his captain to double his guards around the stronghold,
and relax no vigilance until the case of the prisoner had been finally
dealt with. He refused permission for Elsa to see her cousin, even in
the presence of witnesses, as he was certain that her coming was for the
purpose of communicating to him some message from the Outlaw, the news
of whose alleged withdrawal he did not believe.
“With the country at peace, the Outlaw has instigated, and his son has
executed, an attack upon this castle. The penalty is death. To-morrow
I shall hear what he has to say in his defence, and shall deliver
judgment, I hope, justly. If his kinswoman wishes to see him, she may
come to his trial, and then will be in a position to testify to her
uncle that sentence has been pronounced in accordance with the law
that rules the Rhine provinces. If she has communication to make to
her cousin, let it be made in the Judgment Hall in the presence of all
therein.”
The Countess, with sinking heart, left her husband, having the tact
not to press upon him too strongly the claims of mercy as well as of
justice. She knew that his kind nature would come to the assistance of
her own suing, and deeply regretted that the time for milder influences
to prevail was so short. In a brief conference with Elsa, she
endeavoured to prepare the girl’s mind for a disastrous ending of her
hopes.
Some minutes before the hour set for Wilhelm’s trial, the Countess
Beatrix, followed by Elsa, entered the Judgment Hall to find the Count
seated moodily in the great chair at one end of the long room, in whose
ample inclosure many an important state conference had been held,
each of the forefathers of the present owner being seated in turn as
president of the assemblage. Some thought of this seemed to oppress the
Count’s mind, for seated here with set purpose to extinguish his enemy’s
line, the remembrance that his own race died with him was not likely to
be banished. The Countess brought Elsa forward and in a whisper urged
her to plead for her kinsman before his judge. The girl’s eloquence
brought tears to the eyes of Beatrix, but the Count’s impassive face
was sphinx-like in its settled gloom. Only once during the appeal did
he speak, and that was when Elsa offered herself as a sacrifice to his
revenge, then he said, curtly:
“We do not war against women. You are as free to go as you were to come,
but you must not return.”
A dull fear began to chill the girl’s heart and to check her earnest
pleading: She felt that her words were making no impression on the
silent man seated before her, and this knowledge brought weak hesitation
to her tongue and faltering to her speech. In despair she wrung her
hands and cried: “Oh, my Lord, my Lord, think of your own son held at
the mercy of an enemy. Think of him as a young man just the age of your
prisoner, at a time when life is sweetest to him! Think, think, I beg of
you----”
The Count roused himself like a lion who had been disturbed, and cried
in a voice that resounded hoarsely from the rafters of the arched roof,
startling the Countess with the unaccustomed fierceness of its tone:
“Yes, I will think of him--of my only son in the clutch of his bitter
foe, and I thank you for reminding me of him, little as I have for these
long years needed spur to my remembrance. Bring in the prisoner.”
When Wilhelm was brought in, heavy manacles on his wrists, walking
between the men who guarded him, Elsa looked from judge to culprit, and
her heart leaped with joy. Surely such blindness could not strike this
whole concourse that some one within that hall would not see that, here
confronted, stood father and son, on the face of one a frown of anger,
on the face of the other a frown of defiance, expressions almost
identical, the only difference being the thirty years that divided their
ages. For a few moments the young man did not distinguish Elsa in
the throng, then a glad cry of recognition escaped him, and the cloud
cleared from his face as if a burst of sunshine had penetrated the
sombre-coloured windows and had thrown its illuminating halo around his
head. He spoke impetuously, leaning forward:
“Elsa, Elsa, how came you here?” then, a shadow of concern crossing his
countenance, “you are not a prisoner, I trust?”
“No, no, Wilhelm, I am here to beseech the clemency of the Count--”
“Not for me!” exclaimed the prisoner, defiantly, drawing himself up
proudly: “not for me, Elsa. You must never ask favour from a robber
and a coward like, Count von Schonburg, brave only in his own Judgment
Hall.”
“Oh, Wilhelm, Wilhelm, have a care what you say, or you will break my
heart. And your proclamation is far from true. The Count is a brave man
who has time and again proved himself so, and my only hope is that
he will prove as merciful as he is undoubtedly courageous. Join your
prayers with mine, Wilhelm, and beg for mercy rather than justice.”
“I beg from no man, either mercy or justice. I am here, my Lord Count,
ready to receive whatever you care to bestow, and I ask you to make the
waiting brief for the sake of the women present, for I am I sure the
beautiful, white-haired lady there dislikes this traffic in men’s lives
as much as does my fair-haired cousin.”
“Oh, my lord Count, do not heed what he says; his words but show the
recklessness of youth; hold them not against him.”
“Indeed I mean each word I say, and had I iron in my hand instead of
round my wrists, his Lordship would not sit so calmly facing me.”
Elsa, seeing how little she had accomplished with either man began to
weep helplessly, and the Count, who had not interrupted the colloquy,
listening unmoved to the contumely heaped upon him by the prisoner, now
said to the girl:
“Have you finished your questioning?”
Receiving no answer, he said to the prisoner after a pause:
“Why did you move against this castle?”
“Because I hoped to take it, burn it, and hang or behead its owner.”
“Oh, Wilhelm, Wilhelm!” wailed the girl.
“And, having failed, what do you expect?”
“To be hanged, or beheaded, depending on whether your Lordship is the
more expert with a cord or with an axe.”
“You called me a coward, and I might have retorted that in doing so you
took advantage of your position as prisoner, but setting that aside, and
speaking as man to man, what ground have you for such an accusation?”
“We cannot speak as man to man, for I am bound and you are free, but
touching the question of your cowardice, I have heard it said by those
who took part in the defence of my father’s castle, when you attacked it
and destroyed it, commanding a vastly superior force, my father leaped
from the wall and dared you to follow him. For a moment, they told
me, it seemed that you would accept the challenge, but you contented
yourself with calling on others to do what you feared to do yourself,
and thus my father, meeting no opposition from a man of his own rank,
was compelled to destroy the unfortunate serfs who stood in his way and,
so cut out a path to safety. In refusing to accept the plunge he took,
you branded yourself a coward, and once a toward always a coward.”
“Oh, Wilhelm,” cried Elsa, in deep distress at the young man’s lack of
diplomacy, while she could not but admire his ill-timed boldness, “speak
not so to the Count, for I am sure what you say is not true.”
“Indeed,” growled Captain Conrad, “the young villain is more crafty than
we gave him credit for. Instead of a rope he will have a challenge from
the Count, and so die honourably like a man, in place of being strangled
like the dog he is.”
“Dear Wilhelm, for my sake, do not persist in this course, but throw
yourself on the mercy of the Count. Why retail here the irresponsible
gossip of a camp, which I am sure contains not a word of truth, so far
as the Count is concerned.”
Herbert of Schonburg held up his hand for silence, and made confession
with evident difficulty.
“What the young man says with harshness is true in semblance, if not
strictly so in action. For the moment, thinking of my wife and child,
I hesitated, and when the hesitation was gone the opportunity was gone
with it. My punishment has been severe; by that moment’s cowardice, I
am now a childless man, and therefore perhaps value my life less highly
than I held it at the time we speak of. Hear then, your sentence: You
will be taken to the top of the wall, the iron removed from your wrists,
and your sword placed in your hand. You will then leap from that wall,
and if you are unhurt, I will leap after you. Should your sword serve
you as well as your father’s served him, you will be free of the forest,
and this girl is at liberty to accompany you. I ask her now to betake
herself to the field outside the gate, there to await the result of our
contest.”
At this there was an outcry on the part of Countess Beatrix, who
protested against her husband placing himself in this unnecessary
jeopardy, but the Count was firm and would permit no interference with
his sentence. Elsa was in despair at the unaccountable blindness of all
concerned, not knowing that the Count was convinced his son was dead,
and that the Countess thought continually of her boy as a child of four,
taking no account of the years that had passed, although her reason, had
she applied reason to that which touched her affections only, would have
told her, he must now be a stalwart young man and not the little lad she
had last held in her arms. For a moment Elsa wavered in her allegiance
to the oath she had taken, but she saw against the wall the great
crucifix which had been placed there by the first crusader who had
returned to the castle from the holy wars and she breathed a prayer as
she passed it, that the heir of this stubborn house might not be cut off
in his youth through the sightless rancour that seemed to pervade it.
The Count tried to persuade his weeping wife not to accompany him to the
walls, but she would not be left behind, and so, telling Conrad to keep
close watch upon her, in case that in her despair she might attempt to
harm herself, his lordship led the way to the battlements.
Wilhelm, at first jubilant that he was allowed to take part in a sword
contest rather than an execution, paused for a moment as he came to the
courtyard, and looked about him in a dazed manner, once or twice drawing
his hand across his eyes, as if to perfect his vision. Some seeing him
thus stricken silent and thoughtful, surmised that the young man was
like to prove more courageous in word than in action; others imagined
that the sudden coming from the semi-gloom of the castle interior into
the bright light dazzled him. The party climbed the flight of stone
steps which led far upward to the platform edged by the parapet from
which the spring was to be made. The young man walked up and down the
promenade, unheeding those around him, seeming like one in a dream,
groping for something he failed to find. The onlookers watched him
curiously, wondering at his change of demeanour.
Suddenly he dropped his sword on the stones at his feet, held up his
hands and cried aloud:
“I have jumped from here before--when I was a lad--a baby almost--I
remember it all now--where am I--when was I here before--where is my
wooden sword--and where is Conrad, who made it--Conrad, where are you?”
The captain was the first to realise what had happened. He stepped
hurriedly forward, scrutinising his late prisoner, the light of
recognition, in his eyes.
“It is the young master,” he shouted. “My Lord Count, this is no kinsman
of the Outlaw, but your own son, a man grown.”
The Count stood amazed, as incapable of motion as a statue of stone; the
countess, gazing with dreamy eyes, seemed trying to adjust her inward
vision of the lad of four with the outward reality of the man of
twenty-one. In the silence rose the clear sweet voice of Elsa without
the walls, her face upturned like a painting of the Madonna, her hands
clasped in front of her.
“Dear Virgin Mother in Heaven, I thank thee that my prayer was not
unheard, and bear me witness that I have kept my oath--I have kept
my oath, and may Thy intervention show a proud and sinful people the
blackness of revenge.”
Count Herbert, rousing himself from his stupor, appealed loudly to the
girl.
“Woman, is this indeed my son, and, if so, why did you not speak before
we came to such extremity?”
“I cannot answer. I have sworn an oath. If you would learn who stands
beside you, send a messenger to the Outlaw, saying you have killed him,
as indeed you purposed doing,” then stretching out her arms, she said,
with faltering voice: “Wilhelm, farewell,” and turning, fled toward the
forest.
“Elsa, Elsa, come back!” the young man cried, foot on the parapet, but
the girl paid no heed to his commanding summons, merely waving her hand
without looking over her shoulder.
“Elsa!”
The name rang out so thrillingly strange that its reverberation
instantly arrested the flying footsteps of the girl. Instinctively she
knew it was the voice of a man falling rapidly through the air.
She turned in time to see Wilhelm strike the ground, the impetus
precipitating him prone on his face, where he lay motionless. The cry
of horror from the battlements was echoed by her own as she sped swiftly
toward him. The young man sprang to his feet as she approached and
caught her breathless in his arms.
“Ah, Elsa,” he said, tenderly, “forgive me the fright I gave you, but
I knew of old your fleetness of foot, and if the forest once encircled
you, how was I ever to find you?”
The girl made no effort to escape from her imprisonment, and showed
little desire to exchange the embrace she endured for that of the
forest.
“Though I should blush to say it, Wilhelm, I fear I am easily found,
when you are the searcher.”
“Then let old Schloss Schonburg claim you, Elsa, that the walls which
beheld a son go forth, may see a son and daughter return.”