When this was done, and they gathered once more in the moonlit

courtyard, the Abbot took off his robes of office and handed them

to Father Gottlieb, saying significantly: “The lowest among you that

suffers and is true shall be exalted.” Turning to his own flock, he

commanded them to go in and obtain some rest after such a disquieting

night; then to Gottlieb, when the monks had obediently departed: “Bring

me, an’ ye know where to find such, the apparel of a fighting man and a

sword.”

Thus arrayed, he dismissed the old man, and alone in the silence, with

the row of figures like effigies on a tomb beside him, paced up and down

through the night, as the moon dropped lower and lower, in the heavens.

There was a period of dark before the dawn, and at last the upper walls

began to whiten with the coming day, and the Black Baron moaned uneasily

in his drunken sleep. The Abbot paused in his walk and looked down upon

them, and Gottlieb stole out from the shadow of the door and asked if

he could be of service. He had evidently not slept, but had watched his

chief, until he paused in his march.

“Tell our brothers to come out and see the justice of the Lord.”

When the monks trooped out, haggard and wan, in the pure light of the

dawn, the Abbot asked Gottlieb to get a flagon and dash water from the

spring in the faces of the sleepers.

The Black Baron was the first to come to his senses and realise dimly,

at first, but afterwards more acutely, the changed condition of affairs.

His eye wandered apprehensively to the empty noose swaying slightly in

the morning breeze above him. He then saw that the tall, ascetic man

before him had doffed the Abbot’s robes and wore a sword by his side,

and from this he augured ill. At the command of the Abbot the monks

raised each prostrate man and placed him against the north wall.

“Gottlieb,” said, the Abbot slowly, “the last office that will be

required of you. You took from our necks the nooses last night. Place

them, I pray you, on the necks of the Baron and his followers.”

The old man, trembling, adjusted the ropes.

“My Lord Abbot----” began the Baron.

“Baron von Grunewald,” interrupted the person addressed, “the Abbot

Ambrose is dead. He was foully assassinated last night. In his place

stands Conrad von Stern, who answers for his deeds to the Emperor, and

after him, to God.”

“Is it your purpose to hang me, Baron?”

“Was it your purpose to have hanged us, my Lord?”

“I swear to heaven, it was not. ‘Twas but an ill-timed pleasantry. Had I

wished to hang you I would have done so last night.”

“That seems plausible.”

The knights all swore, with many rounded oaths, that their over-lord

spoke the truth, and nothing was further from their intention than an

execution.

“Well, then, whether you hang or no shall depend upon yourselves.”

“By God, then,” cried the Baron, “an’ I have aught to say on that point,

I shall hang some other day.”

“Will you then, Baron, beg admittance to Mother Church, whose kindly

tenets you have so long outraged?”

“We will, we do,” cried the Baron fervently, whispering through his

clenched teeth to Segfried, who stood next him: “Wait till I have the

upper hand again.” Fortunately the Abbot did not hear the whisper. The

knights all echoed aloud the Baron’s pious first remark, and, perhaps,

in their hearts said “Amen” to his second.

The Abbot spoke a word or two to the monks, and they advanced to the

pinioned men and there performed the rites sacred to their office and to

the serious situation of the penitents. As the good brothers stood back,

they begged the Abbot for mercy to be extended towards the new converts,

but the sphinx-like face of their leader gave no indication as to their

fate, and the good men began to fear that it was the Abbot’s intention

to hang the Baron and his knights.

“Now--brothers,” said the Abbot, with a long pause before he spoke the

second word, whereupon each of the prisoners heaved a sigh of relief, “I

said your fate would depend on yourselves and on your good intent.”

They all vociferously proclaimed that their intentions were and had been

of the most honourable kind.

“I trust that is true, and that you shall live long enough to show your

faith by your works. It is written that a man digged a pit for his enemy

and fell himself therein. It is also written that as a man sows, so

shall he reap. If you meant us no harm then your signal shouted to the

battlements will do you no harm.”

“For God’s sake, my Lord....” screamed the Baron. The Abbot, unheeding,

raised his face towards the northern wall and shouted at the top of his

voice:

“So die SUCH Christians!” varying the phrase by one word. A simultaneous

scream rose from the doomed men, cut short as by a knife, as the huge

log was hurled over the outer parapet, and the seventeen victims were

jerked into the air and throttled at the coping around the inner wall.

Thus did the Abbot Ambrose save the souls of Baron von Grunewald and his

men, at some expense to their necks.

AN INVITATION

The proud and warlike Archbishop Baldwin of Treves was well mounted,

and, although the road by the margin of the river was in places bad, the

august horseman nevertheless made good progress along it, for he had

a long distance to travel before the sun went down. The way had been

rudely constructed by that great maker of roads--the army--and the

troops who had built it did not know, when they laboured at it, that

they were preparing a path for their own retreat should disaster

overtake them. The grim and silent horseman had been the brains, where

the troops were the limbs; this thoroughfare had been of his planning,

and over it, back into Treves, had returned a victorious, not a

defeated, army. The iron hand of the Archbishop had come down on every

truculent noble in the land, and every castle gate that had not opened

to him through fear, had been battered in by force. Peace now spread her

white wings over all the country, and where opposition to his Lordship’s

stubborn will had been the strongest, there was silence as well, with,

perhaps, a thin wreath of blue smoke hovering over the blackened walls.

The provinces on each bank of the Moselle from Treves to the Rhine now

acknowledged Baldwin their over-lord--a suzerainty technically claimed

by his Lordship’s predecessors--but the iron Archbishop had changed the

nominal into the actual, and it had taken some hard knocks to do it. His

present journey was well earned, for he was betaking himself from his

more formal and exacting Court at Treves to his summer palace at Cochem,

there to rest from the fatigues of a campaign in which he had used not

only his brain, but his good right arm as well.

The palace which was to be the end of his journey was in some respects

admirably suited to its master, for, standing on an eminence high above

Cochem, with its score of pinnacles glittering in the sun, it seemed, to

one below, a light and airy structure; but it was in reality a fortress

almost impregnable, and three hundred years later it sent into a less

turbulent sphere the souls of one thousand six hundred Frenchmen before

its flag was lowered to the enemy.

The personal appearance of the Archbishop and the smallness of his

escort were practical illustrations of the fact that the land was at

peace, and that he was master of it. His attire was neither clerical

nor warlike, but rather that of a nobleman riding abroad where no

enemy could possibly lurk. He was to all appearance unarmed, and had

no protection save a light chain mail jacket of bright steel, which was

worn over his vesture, and not concealed as was the custom. This jacket

sparkled in the sun as if it were woven of fine threads strung with

small and innumerable diamonds. It might ward off a dagger thrust,

or turn aside a half-spent arrow, but it was too light to be of much

service against sword or pike. The Archbishop was well mounted on a

powerful black charger that had carried him through many a hot contest,

and it now made little of the difficulties of the ill-constructed road,

putting the other horses on their mettle to equal the pace set to them.

The escort consisted of twelve men, all lightly armed, for Gottlieb, the

monk, who rode sometimes by the Archbishop’s side, but more often

behind him, could hardly be counted as a combatant should defence

become necessary. When the Archbishop left Treves his oldest general had

advised his taking an escort of a thousand men at least, putting it on

the ground that such a number was necessary to uphold the dignity of

his office; but Baldwin smiled darkly, and said that where _he_ rode the

dignity of the Electorship would be safe, even though none rode beside

or behind him. Few dared offer advice to the Elector, but the bluff

general persisted, and spoke of danger in riding down the Moselle valley

with so small a following.

“Who is there left to molest me?” asked the Archbishop; and the general

was forced to admit that there was none.

An army builds a road along the line of the least resistance; and often,

when a promontory thrust its rocky nose into the river, the way led up

the hill through the forest, getting back into the valley again as best

it could. During these inland excursions, the monk, evidently unused to

equestrianism, fell behind, and sometimes the whole troop was halted

by command of its chief, until Gottlieb, clinging to his horse’s mane,

emerged from the thicket, the Archbishop curbing the impatience of his

charger and watching, with a cynical smile curling his stern lips, the

reappearance of the good father.

After one of the most laborious ascents and descents they had

encountered that day, the Archbishop waited for the monk; and when he

came up with his leader, panting and somewhat dishevelled, the latter

said, “There appears to be a lesson in your tribulations which hereafter

you may retail with profit to your flock, relating how a good man

leaving the right and beaten path and following his own devices in the

wilderness may bring discomfiture upon himself.”

“The lesson it conveys to me, my Lord,” said the monk, drily, “is that

a man is but a fool to leave the stability of good stout sandals with

which he is accustomed, to venture his body on a horse that pays little

heed to his wishes.”

“This is our last detour,” replied the Elector; “there are now many

miles of winding but level road before us, and you have thus a chance to

retrieve your reputation as a horseman in the eyes of our troop.”

“In truth, my Lord, I never boasted of it,” returned the monk, “but I

am right glad to learn that the way will be less mountainous. To what

district have we penetrated?”

“Above us, but unseen from this bank of the river, is the castle of the

Widow Starkenburg. Her days of widowhood, however, are nearly passed,

for I intend to marry her to one of my victorious knights, who will hold

the castle for me.”

“The Countess of Starkenburg,” said the monk, “must surely now be at an

age when the thoughts turn toward Heaven rather than toward matrimony.”

“I have yet to meet the woman,” replied the Archbishop, gazing upward,

“who pleads old age as an excuse for turning away from a suitable lover.

It is thy misfortune, Gottlieb, that in choosing a woollen cowl rather

than an iron head-piece, thou should’st thus have lost a chance of

advancement. The castle, I am told, has well-filled wine vaults, and

old age in wine is doubtless more to thy taste than the same quality in

woman. ‘Tis a pity thou art not a knight, Gottlieb.”

“The fault is not beyond the power of our Holy Father to remedy by

special dispensation,” replied the monk, with a chuckle.

The Elector laughed silently, and looked down on his comrade in kindly

fashion, shaking his head.

“The wines of Castle Starkenburg are not for thy appreciative palate,

ghostly father. I have already selected a mate for the widow.”

“And what if thy selection jumps not with her approval. They tell me the

countess has a will of her own.”

“It matters little to me, and I give her the choice merely because I am

loth to war with a woman. The castle commands the river and holds the

district. The widow may give it up peaceably at the altar, or forcibly

at the point of the sword, whichever method most commends itself to her

ladyship. The castle must be in the command of one whom I can trust.”

The conversation here met a startling interruption. The Archbishop and

his guard were trotting rapidly round a promontory and following a

bend of the river, the nature of the country being such that it was

impossible to see many hundred feet ahead of them. Suddenly, they came

upon a troop of armed and mounted men, standing like statues before

them. The troop numbered an even score, and completely filled the way

between the precipice on their left and the stream on their right.

Although armed, every sword was in its scabbard, with the exception

of the long two-handed weapon of the leader, who stood a few paces in

advance of his men, with the point of his sword resting on the ground.

The black horse, old in campaigns, recognised danger ahead, and stopped

instantly, without waiting for the drawing of the rein, planting his two

forefeet firmly in front, with a suddenness of action that would have

unhorsed a less alert rider. Before the archbishop could question the

silent host that barred his way, their leader raised his long sword

until it was poised perpendicularly in the air above his head, and, with

a loud voice, in measured tones, as one repeats a lesson he has learned

by rote, he cried, “My Lord Archbishop of Treves, the Countess Laurette

von Starkenburg invites you to sup with her.”

In the silence that followed, the leader’s sword still remained uplifted

untrembling in the air. Across the narrow gorge, from the wooded sides

of the opposite mountains, came, with mocking cadence, the echo of the

last words of the invitation, clear and distinct, as if spoken again by

some one concealed in the further forest. A deep frown darkened the brow

of the fighting archbishop.

“The Countess is most kind,” he said, slowly. “Convey to her my

respectful admiration, and express my deep regret that I am unable to

accept her hospitality, as I ride to-night to my Castle at Cochem.”

The leader of the opposing host suddenly lowered his upraised sword,

as if in salute, but the motion seemed to be a preconcerted signal, for

every man behind him instantly whipped blade from scabbard, and stood

there with naked weapon displayed. The leader, raising his sword once

more to its former position, repeated in the same loud and monotonous

voice, as if the archbishop had not spoken. “My Lord Archbishop of

Treves, the Countess Laurette von Starkenburg invites you to sup with

her.”

The intelligent war-horse, who had regarded the obstructing force with

head held high, retreated slowly step by step, until now a considerable

distance separated the two companies. The captain of the guard had seen

from the first that attack or defence was equally useless, and, with

his men, had also given way gradually as the strange colloquy went on.

Whether any of the opposing force noticed this or not, they made no

attempt to recover the ground thus almost imperceptibly stolen from

them, but stood as if each horse were rooted to the spot.

Baldwin the Fighter, whose compressed lips showed how loth he was to

turn his back upon any foe, nevertheless saw the futility of resistance,

and in a quick, clear whisper, he said, hastily, “Back! Back! If we

cannot fight them, we can at least out-race them.”

The good monk had taken advantage of his privilege as a non-combatant

to retreat well to the rear while the invitation was being given and

declined, and in the succeeding flight found himself leading the van.

The captain of the guard threw himself between the Starkenburg men and

the prince of the Church, but the former made no effort at pursuit,

standing motionless as they had done from the first until the rounding

promontory hid them from view. Suddenly, the horse on which the monk

rode stood stock still, and its worthy rider, with a cry of alarm,

clinging to the animal’s mane, shot over its head and came heavily to

the ground. The whole flying troop came to a sudden halt, for there

ahead of them was a band exactly similar in numbers and appearance to

that from which they were galloping. It seemed as if the same company

had been transported by magic over the promontory and placed across the

way. The sun shone on the uplifted blade of the leader, reminding the

archbishop of the flaming sword that barred the entrance of our first

parents to Paradise.

The leader, with ringing voice, that had a touch of menace in it, cried:

“My Lord Archbishop of Treves, the Countess Laurette von Starkenburg

invites you to sup with her.”

“Trapped, by God!” muttered the Elector between his clinched teeth. His

eyes sparkled with anger, and the sinister light that shot from them

had before now made the Emperor quail. He spurred his horse toward

the leader, who lowered his sword and bowed to the great dignitary

approaching him.

“The Countess of Starkenburg is my vassal,” cried the Archbishop. “You

are her servant; and in much greater degree, therefore, are you mine. I

command you to let us pass unmolested on our way; refuse at your peril.”

“A servant,” said the man, slowly, “obeys the one directly above him,

and leaves that one to account to any superior authority. My men obey

me; I take my orders from my lady the countess. If you, my Lord, wish to

direct the authority which commands me, my lady the countess awaits your

pleasure at her castle of Starkenburg.”

“What are your orders, fellow?” asked the Archbishop, in a calmer tone.

“To convey your Lordship without scathe to the gates of Starkenburg.”

“And if you meet resistance, what then?”

“The orders stand, my Lord.”

“You will, I trust, allow this mendicant monk to pass peaceably on his

way to Treves.”

“In no castle on the Moselle does even the humblest servant of the

Church receive a warmer welcome than at Starkenburg. My lady would hold

me to blame were she prevented from offering her hospitality to the

mendicant.”

“Does the same generous impulse extend to each of my followers?”

“It includes them all, my Lord.”

“Very well. We will do ourselves the honour of waiting upon this most

bountiful hostess.”

By this time the troop which had first stopped the Archbishop’s

progress came slowly up, and the little body-guard of the Elector found

themselves hemmed in with twenty men in the front and twenty at the

rear, while the rocky precipice rose on one hand and the rapid river

flowed on the other.

The _cortège_ reformed and trotted gently down the road until it came

to a by-way leading up the hill. Into this by-way the leaders turned,

reducing their trot to a walk because of the steepness of the

ascent. The Archbishop and his men followed, with the second troop of

Starkenburg bringing up the rear. His Lordship rode at first in sullen

silence, then with a quick glance of his eye he summoned the captain to

his side. He slipped the ring of office from his finger and passed it

unperceived into the officer’s hand.

“There will be some confusion at the gate,” he said, in a low voice.

“Escape then if you can. Ride for Treves as you never rode before. Stop

not to fight with any; everything depends on outstripping pursuit.

Take what horses you need wherever you find them, and kill them all if

necessary, but stop for nothing. This ring will be warrant for whatever

you do. Tell my general to invest this castle instantly with ten

thousand men and press forward the siege regardless of my fate. Tell him

to leave not one stone standing upon another, and to hang the widow of

Starkenburg from her own blazing timbers. Succeed, and a knighthood and

the command of a thousand men awaits you.”

“I will succeed or die, my Lord.”

“Succeed and live,” said the Archbishop, shortly.

As the horses slowly laboured up the zigzagging road, the view along the

silvery Moselle widened and extended, and at last the strong grey walls

of the castle came into sight, with the ample gates wide open. The

horsemen in front drew up in two lines on each side of the gates without

entering, and thus the Archbishop, at the head of his little band,

slowly rode first under the archway into the courtyard of the castle.

On the stone steps that led to the principal entrance of the castle

stood a tall, graceful lady, with her women behind her. She was robed in

black, and the headdress of her snow-white hair gave her the appearance

of a dignified abbess at her convent door. Her serene and placid face

had undoubtedly once been beautiful; and age, which had left her form as

straight and slender as one of her own forest pines, forgetting to

place its customary burden upon her graceful shoulders, had touched her

countenance with a loving hand. With all her womanliness, there was,

nevertheless, a certain firmness in the finely-moulded chin that gave

evidence of a line of ancestry that had never been too deferential to

those in authority.

The stern Archbishop reined in his black charger when he reached the

middle of the courtyard, but made no motion to dismount. The lady came

slowly down the broad stone steps, followed by her feminine train, and,

approaching the Elector, placed her white hand upon his stirrup, in mute

acknowledgment of her vassalage.

“Welcome, prince of the Church and protector of our Faith,” she said.

“It is a hundred years since my poor house has sheltered so august a

guest.”

The tones were smooth and soothing as the scarcely audible plash of a

distant fountain; but the incident she cited struck ominously on the

Archbishop’s recollection, rousing memory and causing him to dart a

quick glance at the countess, in which was blended sharp enquiry and

awakened foreboding; but the lady, unconscious of his scrutiny, stood

with drooping head and downcast eyes, her shapely hand still on his

stirrup-iron.

“If I remember rightly, madame, my august predecessor slept well beneath

this roof.”

“Alas, yes!” murmured the lady, sadly. “We have ever accounted it the

greatest misfortune of our line, that he should have died mysteriously

here. Peace be to his soul!”

“Not so mysteriously, madame, but that there were some shrewd guesses

concerning his malady.”

“That is true, my Lord,” replied the countess, simply. “It was supposed

that in his camp upon the lowlands by the river he contracted a fever

from which he died.”

“My journey by the Moselle has been of the briefest. I trust, therefore,

I have not within me the seeds of his fatal distemper.”

“I most devoutly echo that trust, my Lord, and pray that God, who

watches over us all, may guard your health while sojourning here.”

“Forgive me, madame, if, within the shadow of these walls, I say ‘Amen’

to your prayer with some emphasis.”

The Countess Laurette contented herself with bowing low and humbly

crossing herself, making no verbal reply to his Lordship’s remark. She

then beseeched the Archbishop to dismount, saying something of his need

of rest and refreshment, begging him to allow her to be his guide to the

Rittersaal.

When the Archbishop reached the topmost step that led to the castle

door, he cast an eye, not devoid of anxiety, over the court-yard, to see

how his following had fared. The gates were now fast closed, and forty

horses were ranged with their tails to the wall, the silent riders in

their saddles. Rapid as was his glance, it showed him his guard huddled

together in the centre of the court, his own black charger, with empty

saddle, the only living thing among them that showed no sign of dismay.

Between two of the hostile horsemen stood his captain, with doublet torn

and headgear awry, evidently a discomfited prisoner.

The Archbishop entered the gloomy castle with a sense of defeat tugging

down his heart to a lower level than he had ever known it to reach

before; for in days gone by, when fate had seemed to press against

him, he had been in the thick of battle, and had felt an exultation in

rallying his half-discouraged followers, who had never failed to respond

to the call of a born leader of men. But here he had to encounter

silence, with semi-darkness over his head, cold stone under foot, and

round him the unaccustomed hiss of women’s skirts.

The Countess conducted her guest through the lofty Knight’s Hall, in

which his Lordship saw preparations for a banquet going forward. An

arched passage led them to a small room that seemed to be within a

turret hanging over a precipice, as if it were an eagle’s nest. This

room gave an admirable and extended view over the winding Moselle and

much of the surrounding country. On a table were flagons of wine and

empty cups, together with some light refection, upon all of which the

Archbishop looked with suspicious eye. He did not forget the rumoured

poisoning of his predecessor in office. The countess asked him, with

deference, to seat himself; then pouring out a cup of wine, she bowed to

him and drank it. Turning to rinse the cup in a basin of water which a

serving-woman held, she was interrupted by her guest, who now, for the

first time, showed a trace of gallantry.

“I beg of you, madame,” said the Archbishop, rising; and, taking the

unwashed cup from her hand, he filled it with wine, drinking prosperity

to herself and her home. Then, motioning her to a chair, he said seating

himself: “Countess von Starkenburg, I am a man more used to the uncouth

rigour of a camp than the dainty etiquette of a lady’s boudoir. Forgive

me, then, if I ask you plainly, as a plain man may, why you hold me

prisoner in your castle.”

“Prisoner, my lord?” echoed the lady, with eyebrows raised in amazement.

“How poorly are we served by our underlings, if such a thought has been

conveyed to your lordship’s mind. I asked them to invite you hither

with such deference as a vassal should hold toward an over-lord. I

am grievously distressed to learn that my commands have been so ill

obeyed.”

“Your commands were faithfully followed, madame, and I have made no

complaint regarding lack of deference, but when two-score armed men

carry a respectful invitation to one having a bare dozen at his back,

then all option vanishes, and compulsion takes its place.”

“My lord, a handful of men were fit enough escort for a neighbouring

baron should he visit us, but, for a prince of the Church, all my

retainers are but scanty acknowledgment of a vassal’s regard. I would

they had been twenty thousand, to do you seemly honour.”

“I am easily satisfied, madame, and had they been fewer I might have

missed this charming outlook. I am to understand, then, that you have no

demands to make of me; and that I am free to depart, accompanied by your

good wishes.”

“With my good wishes now and always, surely, my Lord. I have no demands

to make--the word ill befits the lips of a humble vassal; but, being

here----”

“Ah! But, being here----” interrupted the Archbishop, glancing keenly at

her.

“I have a favour to beg of you. I wish to ask permission to build a

castle on the heights above Trarbach, for my son.”

“The Count Johann, third of the name?”

“The same, my Lord, who is honoured by your Lordship’s remembrance of

him.”

“And you wish to place this stronghold between your castle of

Starkenburg and my town of Treves? Were I a suspicious man, I might

imagine you had some distrust of me.”

“Not so, my lord. The Count Johann will hold the castle in your

defence.”

“I have ever been accustomed to look to my own defence,” said the

Archbishop, drily; adding, as if it were an afterthought, “with the

blessing of God upon my poor efforts.”

The faintest suspicion of a smile hovered for an instant on the lips of

the countess, that might have been likened to the momentary passing of a

gleam of sunshine over the placid waters of the river far below; for

she well knew, as did all others, that it was the habit of the fighting

Archbishop to smite sturdily first, and ask whatever blessing might be

needed on the blow afterwards.

“The permission being given, what follows?”

“That you will promise not to molest me during the building.”

“A natural corollary. ‘Twould be little worth to give permission and

then bring up ten thousand men to disturb the builders. That granted,

remains there anything more?”

“I fear I trespass on your Lordship’s patience but this is now the

end. A strong house is never built with a weak purse. I do entreat your

lordship to cause to be sent to me from your treasury in Treves thousand

pieces of gold, that the castle may be a worthy addition to your

province.”

The Archbishop arose with a scowl on his face, and paced the narrow

limits of the room like a caged lion. The hot anger mounted to his brow

and reddened it, but he strode up and down until he regained control of

himself, then spoke with a touch of hardness in his voice:

“A good fighter, madame, holds his strongest reserves to the last. You

have called me a prince of the Church, and such I am. But you flatter

me, madame; you rate me too high. The founder of our Church, when

betrayed, was sold for silver, and for a lesser number of pieces than

you ask in gold.”

The lady, now standing, answered nothing to this taunt, but the colour

flushed her pale cheeks.

“I am, then, a prisoner, and you hold me for ransom, but it will avail

you little. You may close your gates and prevent my poor dozen of

followers from escaping, but news of this outrage will reach Treves, and

then, by God, your walls shall smoke for it. There will be none of the

Starkenburgs left, either to kidnap or to murder future archbishops.”

Still the lady stood silent and motionless as a marble statue. The

Elector paced up and down for a time, muttering to himself, then smote

his open palm against a pillar of the balcony, and stood gazing on the

fair landscape of river and rounded hill spread below and around him.

Suddenly he turned and looked at the Countess, meeting her clear,

fearless grey eyes, noticing, for the first time, the resolute contour

of her finely-moulded chin.

“Madame,” he said, with admiration in his tone, “you are a brave woman.”

“I am not so brave as you think me, my Lord,” she answered, coldly.

“There is one thing I dare not do. I am not brave enough to allow your

Lordship to go free, if you refuse what I ask.”

“And should I not relent at first, there are dungeons in Starkenburg

where this proud spirit, with which my enemies say I am cursed, will

doubtless be humbled.”

“Not so, my Lord. You will be treated with that consideration which

should be shown to one of your exalted station.”

“Indeed! And melted thus by kindness, how long, think you, will the

process take?”

“It will be of the shortest, my Lord, for if, as you surmise rumour

should get abroad and falsely proclaim that the Archbishop lodges here

against his will, there’s not a flying baron or beggared knight in all

the land but would turn in his tracks and cry to Starkenburg, ‘In God’s

name, hold him, widow, till we get our own again!’ Willingly would they

make the sum I beg of you an annual tribute, so they might be certain

your Lordship were well housed in this castle.”

“Widow, there is truth in what you say, even if a woman hath spoken it,”

replied the Archbishop, with a grim smile on his lips and undisguised

admiration gleaming from his dark eye. “This cowardly world is given

to taking advantage of a man when opportunity offers. But there is

one point you have not reckoned upon: What of my stout army lying at

Treves?”

“What of the arch when the keystone is withdrawn? What of the sheep

when the shepherd disappears? My Lord, you do yourself and your great

military gifts a wrong. Through my deep regard for you I gave strict

command that not even the meanest of your train should be allowed to

wander till all were safe within these gates, for I well knew that, did

but a whisper of my humble invitation and your gracious acceptance

of the same reach Treves, it might be misconstrued; and although some

sturdy fellows would be true, and beat their stupid heads against these

walls, the rest would scatter like a sheaf of arrows suddenly unloosed,

and seek the strongest arm upraised in the mêlée sure to follow. Against

your army, leaderless, I would myself march out at the head of my

two-score men without a tremor at my heart; before that leader, alone

and armyless, I bow my head with something more akin to fear than I have

ever known before, and crave his generous pardon for my bold request.”

The Archbishop took her unresisting hand, and, bending, raised it to his

lips with that dignified courtesy which, despite his disclaimer, he knew

well how, upon occasion, to display.

“Madame,” he said, “I ask you to believe that your request was granted

even before you marshalled such unanswerable arguments to stand, like

armoured men, around it. There is a tern and stringent law of our great

Church which forbids its servants suing for a lady’s hand. Countess, I

never felt the grasp of that iron fetter until now.”

Thus came the strong castle above Trarbach to be builded, and that not

at the expense of its owners.

THE ARCHBISHOP’S GIFT

Arras, blacksmith and armourer, stood at the door of his hut in the

valley of the Alf, a league or so from the Moselle, one summer evening.

He was the most powerful man in all the Alf-thal, and few could lift the

iron sledge-hammer he wielded as though it were a toy. Arras had twelve

sons scarce less stalwart than himself, some of whom helped him in

his occupation of blacksmith and armourer, while the others tilled the

ground near by, earning from the rich soil of the valley such sustenance

as the whole family required.

The blacksmith thus standing at his door, heard, coming up the valley of

the Alf, the hoof-beats of a horse, and his quick, experienced ear told

him, though the animal was yet afar, that one of its shoes was loose.

As the hurrying rider came within call, the blacksmith shouted to him in

stentorian tones:

“Friend, pause a moment, until I fasten again the shoe on your horse’s

foot.”

“I cannot stop,” was the brief answer.

“Then your animal will go lame,” rejoined the blacksmith.

“Better lose a horse than an empire,” replied the rider, hurrying by.

“Now what does that mean?” said the blacksmith to himself as he watched

the disappearing rider, while the click-clack of the loosened shoe

became fainter and fainter in the distance.

Could the blacksmith have followed the rider into Castle Bertrich, a

short distance further up the valley, he would speedily have learned the

meaning of the hasty phrase the horseman had flung behind him as he rode

past. Ascending the winding road that led to the gates of the castle as

hurriedly as the jaded condition of his beast would permit, the horseman

paused, unloosed the horn from his belt, and blew a blast that echoed

from the wooded hills around. Presently an officer appeared above the

gateway, accompanied by two or three armed men, and demanded who the

stranger was and why he asked admission. The horseman, amazed at the

officer’s ignorance of heraldry that caused him to inquire as to his

quality, answered with some haughtiness:

“Messenger of the Archbishop of Treves, I demand instant audience with

Count Bertrich.”

The officer, without reply, disappeared from the castle wall, and

presently the great leaves of the gate were thrown open, whereupon the

horseman rode his tired animal into the courtyard and flung himself off.

“My horse’s shoe is loose,” he said to the Captain. “I ask you to have

your armourer immediately attend to it.”

“In truth,” replied the officer, shrugging his shoulders, “there is

more drinking than fighting in Castle Bertrich; consequently we do not

possess an armourer. If you want blacksmithing done you must betake

yourself to armourer Arras in the valley, who will put either horse or

armour right for you.”

With this the messenger was forced to be content; and, begging the

attendants who took charge of his horse to remember that it had

travelled far and had still, when rested, a long journey before it, he

followed the Captain into the great Rittersaal of the castle, where, on

entering, after having been announced, he found the Count of Bertrich

sitting at the head of a long table, holding in his hand a gigantic wine

flagon which he was industriously emptying. Extending down each side of

the table were many nobles, knights, and warriors, who, to judge by the

hasty glance bestowed upon them by the Archbishop’s messenger, seemed

to be energetically following the example set them by their over-lord

at the head. Count Bertrich’s hair was unkempt, his face a purplish

red, his eye bloodshot; and his corselet, open at the throat, showed the

great bull-neck of the man, on whose gigantic frame constant dissipation

seemed to have merely temporary effect.

“Well!” roared the nobleman, in a voice that made the rafters ring.

“What would you with Count Bertrich?”

“I bear an urgent despatch to you from my Lord the Archbishop of

Treves,” replied the messenger.

“Then down on your knees and present it,” cried the Count, beating the

table with his flagon.

“I am Envoy of his Lordship of Treves,” said the messenger, sternly.

“You told us that before,” shouted the Count; “and now you stand in the

hall of Bertrich. Kneel, therefore, to its master.”

“I represent the Archbishop,” reiterated the messenger, “and I kneel to

none but God and the Emperor.”

Count Bertrich rose somewhat uncertainly to his feet, his whole frame

trembling with anger, and volleyed forth oaths upon threats. The tall

nobleman at his right hand also rose, as did many of the others who sat

at the table, and, placing his hand on the arm of his furious host, said

warningly:

“My Lord Count, the man is right. It is against the feudal law that he

should kneel, or that you should demand it. The Archbishop of Treves is

your overlord, as well as ours, and it is not fitting that his messenger

should kneel before us.”

“That is truth--the feudal law,” muttered others down each side of the

table.

The enraged Count glared upon them one after another, partially subdued

by their breaking away from him.

The Envoy stood calm and collected, awaiting the outcome of the tumult.

The Count, cursing the absent Archbishop and his present guests with

equal impartiality, sat slowly down again, and flinging his empty

flagon at an attendant, demanded that it should be refilled. The others

likewise resumed their seats; and the Count cried out, but with less of

truculence in his tone:

“What message sent the Archbishop to Castle Bertrich?”

“My Lord, the Archbishop of Treves requires me to inform Count Bertrich

and the assembled nobles that the Hungarians have forced passage across

the Rhine, and are now about to make their way through the defiles

of the Eifel into this valley, intending to march thence upon Treves,

laying that ancient city in ruin and carrying havoc over the surrounding

country. His Lordship commands you, Count Bertrich, to rally your men

about you and to hold the infidels in check in the defiles of the Eifel

until the Archbishop comes, at the bead of his army, to your relief from

Treves.”

There was deep silence in the vast hall after this startling

announcement. Then the Count replied:

“Tell the Archbishop of Treves that if the Lords of the Rhine cannot

keep back the Hungarians, it is hardly likely that we, less powerful,

near the Moselle, can do it.”

“His Lordship urges instant compliance with his request, and I am to say

that you refuse at your peril. A few hundred men can hold the Hungarians

in check while they are passing through the narrow ravines of the Eifel,

while as many thousands might not be successful against them should they

once reach the open valleys of the Alf and the Moselle. His Lordship

would also have you know that this campaign is as much in your own

interest as in his, for the Hungarians, in their devastating march,

spare neither high nor low.”

“Tell his Lordship,” hiccoughed the Count, “that I sit safely in my

Castle of Bertrich, and that I defy all the Hungarians who were ever let

loose to disturb me therein. If the Archbishop keeps Treves as tightly

as I shall hold Castle Bertrich, there is little to fear from the

invaders.”

“Am I to return to Treves then with your refusal?” asked the Envoy.

“You may return to Treves as best pleases you, so that you rid us of

your presence here, where you mar good company.”

The Envoy, without further speech, bowed to Count Bertrich and also

to the assembled nobles, passed silently out of the hall, once more

reaching the courtyard of the castle, where he demanded that his horse

be brought to him.

“The animal has had but scant time for feeding and rest,” said the

Captain.

“‘Twill be sufficient to carry us to the blacksmith’s hut,” answered the

Envoy, as he put his foot in stirrup.

The blacksmith, still standing at the door of his smithy, heard, coming

from the castle, the click of the broken shoe, but this time the rider

drew up before him and said:

“The offer of help which you tendered me a little ago I shall now be

glad to accept. Do your work well, smith, and know that in performing

it, you are obliging an envoy of the Archbishop of Treves.”

The armourer raised his cap at the mention of the august name, and

invoked a blessing upon the head of that renowned and warlike prelate.

“You said something,” spoke up the smith, “of loss of empire, as you

rode by. I trust there is no disquieting news from Treves?”

“Disquieting enough,” replied the messenger. “The Hungarians have

crossed the Rhine, and are now making their way towards the defiles of

the Eifel. There a hundred men could hold the infidels in check; but

you breed a scurvy set of nobles in the Alf-thal, for Count Bertrich

disdains the command of his over-lord to rise at the head of his men and

stay the progress of the invader until the Archbishop can come to his

assistance.”

“Now, out upon the drunken Count for a base coward!” cried the armourer

in anger. “May his castle be sacked and himself hanged on the highest

turret, for refusing aid to his over-lord in time of need. I and my

twelve sons know every rock and cave in the Eifel. Would the Archbishop,

think you, accept the aid of such underlings as we, whose only

commendation is that our hearts are stout as our sinews?”

“What better warranty could the Archbishop ask than that?” replied the

Envoy. “If you can hold back the Hungarians for four or five days, then

I doubt not that whatever you ask of the Archbishop will speedily be

granted.”

“We shall ask nothing,” cried the blacksmith, “but his blessing, and be

deeply honoured in receiving it.”

Whereupon the blacksmith, seizing his hammer, went to the door of his

hut, where hung part of a suit of armour, that served at the same time

as a sign of his profession and as a tocsin. He smote the hanging iron

with his sledge until the clangorous reverberation sounded through the

valley, and presently there came hurrying to him eight of his stalwart

sons, who had been occupied in tilling the fields.

“Scatter ye,” cried the blacksmith, “over the land. Rouse the people,

and tell them the Hungarians are upon us. Urge all to collect here at

midnight, with whatever of arms or weapons they may possess. Those who

have no arms, let them bring poles, and meanwhile your brothers and

myself will make pike-heads for them. Tell them they are called to,

action by a Lord from the Archbishop of Treves himself, and that I shall

lead them. Tell them they fight for their homes, their wives, and their

children. And now away.”

The eight young men at once dispersed in various directions. The smith

himself shod the Envoy’s horse, and begged him to inform the Archbishop

that they would defend the passes of the Eifel while a man of them

remained alive.

Long before midnight the peasants came straggling to the smithy from all

quarters, and by daylight the blacksmith had led them over the volcanic

hills to the lip of the tremendous pass through which the Hungarians

must come. The sides of this chasm were precipitous and hundreds of feet

in height. Even the peasants themselves, knowing the rocks as they did,

could not have climbed from the bottom of the pass to the height they

now occupied. They had, therefore, no fear that the Hungarians could

scale the walls and decimate their scanty band.

When the invaders appeared the blacksmith and his men rolled great

stones and rocks down upon them, practically annihilating the advance

guard and throwing the whole army into confusion. The week’s struggle

that followed forms one of the most exciting episodes in German history.

Again and again the Hungarians attempted the pass, but nothing could

withstand the avalanche of stones and rocks wherewith they were

overwhelmed. Still, the devoted little band did not have everything

its own way. They were so few--and they had to keep watch night and

day--that ere the week was out many turned longing eyes towards the

direction whence the Archbishop’s army was expected to appear. It was

not until the seventh day that help arrived, and then the Archbishop’s

forces speedily put to flight the now demoralised Hungarians, and chased

them once more across the Rhine.

“There is nothing now left for us to do,” said the tired blacksmith to

his little following; “so I will get back to my forge and you to your

farms.”

And this without more ado they did, the cheering and inspiring ring of

iron on anvil awakening the echoes of the Alf-thal once again.

The blacksmith and his twelve sons were at their noon-day meal when an

imposing cavalcade rode up to the smithy. At the head was no other

than the Archbishop himself, and the blacksmith and his dozen sons

were covered with confusion to think that they had such a distinguished

visitor without the means of receiving him in accordance with his

station. But the Archbishop said:

“Blacksmith Arras, you and your sons would not wait for me to thank you;

so I am now come to you that in presence of all these followers of mine

I may pay fitting tribute to your loyalty and your bravery.”

Then, indeed, did the modest blacksmith consider he had received more

than ample compensation for what he had done, which, after all, as he

told his neighbours, was merely his duty. So why should a man be thanked

for it?

“Blacksmith,” said the Archbishop, as he mounted his horse to return to

Treves, “thanks cost little and are easily bestowed. I hope, however, to

have a present for you that will show the whole country round how much I

esteem true valour.”

At the mouth of the Alf-thal, somewhat back from the small village of

Alf and overlooking the Moselle, stands a conical hill that completely

commands the valley. The Archbishop of Treves, having had a lesson

regarding the dangers of an incursion through the volcanic region of

the Eifel, put some hundreds of men at work on this conical hill, and

erected on the top a strong castle, which was the wonder of the country.

The year was nearing its end when this great stronghold was completed,

and it began to be known throughout the land that the Archbishop

intended to hold high revel there, and had invited to the castle all

the nobles in the country, while the chief guest was no other than the

Emperor himself. Then the neighbours of the blacksmith learned that a

gift was about to be bestowed upon that stalwart man. He and his twelve

sons received notification to attend at the castle, and to enjoy the

whole week’s festivity. He was commanded to come in his leathern apron,

and to bring with him his huge sledge-hammer, which, the Archbishop

said, had now become a weapon as honourable as the two-handed sword

itself.

Never before had such an honour been bestowed upon a common man, and

though the peasants were jubilant that one of their caste should be thus

singled out to receive the favour of the famous Archbishop, and meet not

only great nobles, but even the Emperor himself, still, it was gossiped

that the Barons grumbled at this distinction being placed upon a serf

like the blacksmith Arras, and none were so loud in their complaints

as Count Bertrich, who had remained drinking in the castle while the

blacksmith fought for the land. Nevertheless, all the nobility accepted

the invitation of the powerful Archbishop of Treves, and assembled in

the great room of the new castle, each equipped in all the gorgeous

panoply of full armour. It had been rumoured among the nobles that the

Emperor would not permit the Archbishop to sully the caste of knighthood

by asking the Barons to recognise or hold converse with one in humble

station of life. Indeed, had it been otherwise, Count Bertrich, with the

Barons to back him, were resolved to speak out boldly to the Emperor,

upholding the privileges of their class, and protesting against insult

to it in presence of the blacksmith and his sons.

When all assembled in the great hall they found at the centre of the

long side wall a magnificent throne erected, with a daïs in front of it,

and on this throne sat, the Emperor in state, while at his right hand

stood the lordly Archbishop of Treves. But what was more disquieting,

they beheld also the blacksmith standing before the daïs, some distance

in front of the Emperor, clad in his leathern apron, with his big brawny

hands folded over the top of the handle of his huge sledge-hammer.

Behind him were ranged his twelve sons. There were deep frowns on

the brows of the nobles when they saw this, and, after kneeling and

protesting their loyalty to the Emperor, they stood aloof and apart,

leaving a clear space between themselves and the plebeian blacksmith on

whom they cast lowering looks. When the salutations of the Emperor had

been given, the Archbishop took a step forward on the daïs and spoke in

a clear voice that could be heard to the furthermost corner of the room.

“My Lords,” he said, “I have invited you hither that you may have

the privilege of doing honour to a brave man. I ask you to salute the

blacksmith Arras, who, when his country was in danger, crushed the

invaders as effectually as ever his right arm, wielding sledge, crushed

hot iron.”

A red flush of confusion overspread the face of the blacksmith, but loud

murmurs broke out among the nobility, and none stepped forward to salute

him. One, indeed, stepped forward, but it was to appeal to the Emperor.

“Your Majesty,” exclaimed Count Bertrich, “this is an unwarranted breach

of our privileges. It is not meet that we, holding noble names, should

be asked to consort with an untitled blacksmith. I appeal to your

Majesty against the Archbishop under the feudal law.”

All eyes turned upon the Emperor, who, after a pause, said:

“Count Bertrich is right, and I sustain his appeal.”

An expression of triumph came into the red bibulous face of Count

Bertrich, and the nobles shouted joyously:

“The Emperor, the Emperor!”

The Archbishop, however, seemed in no way non-plussed by his defeat,

but, addressing the armourer, said:

“Advance, blacksmith, and do homage to your Emperor and mine.”

When the blacksmith knelt before the throne, the Emperor, taking his

jewelled sword from his side, smote the kneeling man lightly on his

broad shoulders, saying:

“Arise, Count Arras, noble of the German Empire, and first Lord of the

Alf-thal.”

The blacksmith rose slowly to his feet, bowed lowly to the Emperor, and

backed to the place where he had formerly stood, again resting his hands

on the handle of his sledge-hammer. The look of exultation faded from

the face of Count Bertrich, and was replaced by an expression of dismay,

for he had been until that moment, himself first Lord of the Alf-thal,

with none second.

“My Lords,” once more spoke up the Archbishop, “I ask you to salute

Count Arras, first Lord of the Alf-thal.”

No noble moved, and again Count Bertrich appealed to the Emperor.

“Are we to receive on terms of equality,” he said, “a landless man; the

count of a blacksmith’s hut; a first lord of a forge? For the second

time I appeal to your Majesty against such an outrage.”

The Emperor replied calmly:

“Again I support the appeal of Count Bertrich.”

There was this time no applause from the surrounding nobles, for many

of them had some smattering idea of what was next to happen, though the

muddled brain of Count Bertrich gave him no intimation of it.

“Count Arras,” said the Archbishop, “I promised you a gift when last

I left you at your smithy door. I now bestow upon you and your heirs

forever this castle of Burg Arras, and the lands adjoining it. I ask

you to hold it for me well and faithfully, as you held the pass of the

Eifel. My Lords,” continued the Archbishop, turning to the nobles, with

a ring of menace in his voice, “I ask you to salute Count Arras, your

equal in title, your equal in possessions, and the superior of any one

of you in patriotism and bravery. If any noble question his courage, let

him neglect to give Count of Burg Arras his title and salutation as he

passes before him.”

“Indeed, and that will not I,” said the tall noble who had sat at

Bertrich’s right hand in his castle, “for, my Lords, if we hesitate

longer, this doughty blacksmith will be Emperor before we know it.”

Then, advancing towards the ex-armourer, he said: “My Lord, Count of

Burg Arras, it gives me pleasure to salute you, and to hope that when

Emperor or Archbishop are to be fought for, your arm will be no less

powerful in a coat of mail than it was when you wore a leathern apron.”

One by one the nobles passed and saluted as their leader had done. Count

Bertrich hung back until the last, and then, as he passed the new Count

of Burg Arras, he hissed at him, with a look of rage, the single word,

“_Blacksmith!_”

The Count of Burg Arras, stirred to sudden anger, and forgetting in

whose presence he stood, swung his huge sledge-hammer round his head,

and brought it down on the armoured back of Count Bertrich, roaring the

word “ANVIL!”

The armour splintered like crushed ice, and Count Bertrich fell prone on

his face and lay there. There was instant cry of “Treason! Treason!” and

shouts of “No man may draw arms in the Emperor’s presence.”

“My Lord Emperor,” cried the Count of Burg Arras, “I crave pardon if

I have done amiss. A man does not forget the tricks of his old calling

when he takes on new honours. Your Majesty has said that I am a Count.

This man, having heard your Majesty’s word, proclaims me blacksmith, and

so gave the lie to his Emperor. For this I struck him, and would again,

even though he stood before the throne in a palace, or the altar in a

cathedral. If that be treason, take from me your honours, and let me

back to my forge, where this same hammer will mend the armour it has

broken, or beat him out a new back-piece.”

“You have broken no tenet of the feudal law,” said the Emperor. “You

have broken nothing, I trust, but the Count’s armour, for, as I see, he

is arousing himself, doubtless no bones are broken as well. The feudal

law does not regard a blacksmith’s hammer as a weapon. And as for

treason, Count of Burg Arras, may my throne always be surrounded by such

treason as yours.”

And for centuries after, the descendants of the blacksmith were Counts

of Burg Arras, and held the castle of that name, whose ruins to-day

attest the excellence of the Archbishop’s building.

COUNT KONRAD’S COURTSHIP

It was nearly midnight when Count Konrad von Hochstaden reached his

castle on the Rhine, with a score of very tired and hungry men behind

him. The warder at the gate of Schloss Hochstaden, after some

cautious parley with the newcomers, joyously threw apart the two great

iron-studded oaken leaves of the portal when he was convinced that it

was indeed his young master who had arrived after some tumultuous years

at the crusades, and Count Konrad with his followers rode clattering

under the stone arch, into the ample courtyard. It is recorded that,

in the great hall of the castle, the Count and his twenty bronzed

and scarred knights ate such a meal as had never before been seen to

disappear in Hochstaden, and that after drinking with great cheer to the

downfall of the Saracene and the triumph of the true cross, they all lay

on the floor of the Rittersaal and slept the remainder of the night,

the whole of next day, and did not awaken until the dawn of the second

morning. They had had years of hard fighting in the east, and on the way

home they had been compelled to work their passage through the domains

of turbulent nobles by good stout broadsword play, the only argument

their opposers could understand, and thus they had come through to the

Rhine without contributing aught to their opponents except fierce blows,

which were not commodities as marketable as yellow gold, yet with this

sole exchange did the twenty-one win their way from Palestine to the

Palatinate, and thus were they so long on the road that those in Schloss

Hochstaden had given up all expectation of their coming.

Count Konrad found that his father, whose serious illness was the cause

of his return, had been dead for months past, and the young man wandered

about the castle which, during the past few years, he had beheld only

in dreams by night and in the desert mirages by day, saddened because of

his loss. He would return to the Holy Land, he said to himself, and

let the castle be looked after by its custodian until the war with the

heathen was ended.

The young Count walked back and forth on the stone paved terrace which

commanded from its height such a splendid view of the winding river, but

he paid small attention to the landscape, striding along with his hands

clasped behind him; his head bent, deep in thought. He was awakened from

his reverie by the coming of the ancient custodian of the castle, who

shuffled up to him and saluted him with reverential respect, for the

Count was now the last of his race; a fighting line, whose members

rarely came to die peaceably in their beds as Konrad’s father had done.

The Count, looking up, swept his eye around the horizon and then to

his astonishment saw the red battle flag flying grimly from the high

northern tower of Castle Bernstein perched on the summit of the next

hill to the south. In the valley were the white tents of an encampment,

and fluttering over it was a flag whose device, at that distance, the

Count could not discern.

“Why is the battle flag flying on Bernstein, Gottlieb, and what means

those tents in the valley?” asked Konrad.

The old man looked in the direction of the encampment, as if the sight

were new to him, but Konrad speedily saw that the opposite was the case.

The tents had been there so long that they now seemed a permanent part

of the scenery.

“The Archbishop of Cologne, my Lord, is engaged in the besiegement of

Schloss Bernstein, and seems like to have a long job of it. He has been

there for nearly a year now.”

“Then the stout Baron is making a brave defence; good luck to him!”

“Alas, my Lord, I am grieved to state that the Baron went to his rest

on the first day of the assault. He foolishly sallied out at the head of

his men and fell hotly on the Archbishop’s troops, who were surrounding

the castle. There was some matter in dispute between the Baron and the

Archbishop, and to aid the settlement thereof, his mighty Lordship of

Cologne sent a thousand armed men up the river, and it is said that all

he wished was to have parley with Baron Bernstein, and to overawe him in

the discussion, but the Baron came out at the head of his men and

fell upon the Cologne troops so mightily that he nearly put the whole

battalion to flight, but the officers rallied their panic-stricken host,

seeing how few were opposed to them, and the order was given that the

Baron should be taken prisoner, but the old man would not have it so,

and fought so sturdily with his long sword, that he nearly entrenched

himself with a wall of dead. At last the old man was cut down and died

gloriously, with scarcely a square inch unwounded on his whole body. The

officers of the Archbishop then tried to carry the castle by assault,

but the Lady of Bernstein closed and barred the gate, ran, up the battle

flag on the northern tower and bid defiance to the Archbishop and all

his men.”

“The Lady of Bernstein? I thought the Baron was a widower. Whom, then,

did he again marry?”

“‘Twas not his wife, but his daughter.”

“His daughter? Not Brunhilda? She’s but a child of ten.”

“She was when you went away, my Lord, but now she is a woman of

eighteen, with all the beauty of her mother and all the bravery of her

father.”

“Burning Cross of the East, Gottlieb! Do you mean to say that for a year

a prince of the Church has been warring with a girl, and her brother,

knowing nothing of this cowardly assault, fighting the battles for his

faith on the sands of the desert? Let the bugle sound! Call up my men

and arouse those who are still sleeping.”

“My Lord, my Lord, I beg of you to have caution in this matter.”

“Caution? God’s patience! Has caution rotted the honour out of the bones

of all Rhine men, that this outrage should pass unmolested before their

eyes! The father murdered; the daughter beleaguered; while those who

call themselves men sleep sound in their safe castles! Out of my way,

old man! Throw open the gates!”

But the ancient custodian stood firmly before his over-lord, whose red

angry face seemed like that of the sun rising so ruddily behind him.

“My Lord, if you insist on engaging in this enterprise it must be gone

about sanely. You need the old head as well as the young arm. You have

a score of well-seasoned warriors, and we can gather into the castle

another hundred. But the Archbishop has a thousand men around Bernstein.

Your score would but meet the fate of the old Baron and would not better

the case of those within the castle. The Archbishop has not assaulted

Bernstein since the Baron’s death, but has drawn a tight line around

it and so has cut off all supplies, daily summoning the maiden to

surrender. What they now need in Bernstein is not iron, but food.

Through long waiting they keep slack watch about the castle, and it

is possible that, with care taken at midnight, you might reprovision

Bernstein so that she could hold out until her brother comes, whom it is

said she has summoned from the Holy Land.”

“Thou art wise, old Gottlieb,” said the Count slowly, pausing in his

wrath as the difficulties of the situation were thus placed in array

before him; “wise and cautious, as all men seem to be who now keep ward

on the Rhine. What said my father regarding this contest?”

“My Lord, your honoured father was in his bed stricken with the long

illness that came to be his undoing at the last, and we never let him

know that the Baron was dead or the siege in progress.”

“Again wise and cautious, Gottlieb, for had he known it, he would have

risen from his deathbed, taken down his two-handed sword from the wall,

and struck his last blow in defence of the right against tyranny.”

“Indeed, my Lord, under danger of your censure, I venture to say that

you do not yet know the cause of the quarrel into which you design to

precipitate yourself. It may not be tyranny on the part of the overlord,

but disobedience on the part of the vassal, which causes the environment

of Bernstein. And the Archbishop is a prince of our holy Church.”

“I leave those nice distinctions to philosophers like thee, Gottlieb.

It is enough for me to know that a thousand men are trying to starve one

woman, and as for being a prince of the Church, I shall give his devout

Lordship a taste of religion hot from its birthplace, and show him

how we uphold the cause in the East, for in this matter the Archbishop

grasps not the cross but the sword, and by the sword shall he be met.

And now go, Gottlieb, set ablaze the fires on all our ovens and put the

bakers at work. Call in your hundred men as speedily as possible, and

bid each man bring with him a sack of wheat. Spend the day at the baking

and fill the cellars with grain and wine. It will be reason enough, if

any make inquiry, to say that the young Lord has returned and intends to

hold feasts in his castle. Send hither my Captain to me.”

Old Gottlieb hobbled away, and there presently came upon the terrace

a stalwart, grizzled man, somewhat past middle age, whose brown face

showed more seams of scars than remnants of beauty. He saluted his chief

and stood erect in silence.

The Count waved his hand toward the broad valley and said grimly:

“There sits the Archbishop of Cologne, besieging the Castle of

Bernstein.”

The Captain bowed low and crossed himself.

“God prosper his Lordship,” he said piously.

“You may think that scarcely the phrase to use, Captain, when I tell you

that you will lead an assault on his Lordship to-night.”

“Then God prosper us, my Lord,” replied the Captain cheerfully, for he

was ever a man who delighted more in fighting than in inquiring keenly

into the cause thereof.

“You may see from here that a ridge runs round from this castle, bending

back from the river, which it again approaches, touching thus Schloss

Bernstein. There is a path along the summit of the ridge which I have

often trodden as a boy, so I shall be your guide. It is scarce likely

that this path is guarded, but if it is we will have to throw its

keepers over the precipice; those that we do not slay outright, when we

come upon them.”

“Excellent, my Lord, most excellent,” replied the Captain, gleefully

rubbing his huge hands one over the other.

“But it is not entirely to fight that we go. You are to act as convoy

to those who carry bread to Castle Bernstein. We shall leave here at the

darkest hour after midnight and you must return before daybreak so that

the Archbishop cannot estimate our numbers. Then get out all the old

armour there is in the castle and masquerade the peasants in it. Arrange

them along the battlements so that they will appear as numerous as

possible while I stay in Castle Bernstein and make terms with the

Archbishop, for it seems he out-mans us, so we must resort, in some

measure, to strategy. On the night assault let each man yell as if he

were ten and lay about him mightily. Are the knaves astir yet?”

“Most of them, my Lord, and drinking steadily the better to endure the

dryness of the desert when we go eastward again.”

“Well, see to it that they do not drink so much as to interfere with

clean sword-play against to-night’s business.”

“Indeed, my Lord, I have a doubt if there is Rhine wine enough in the

castle’s vaults to do that, and the men yell better when they have a few

gallons within them.”

At the appointed hour Count Konrad and his company went silently forth,

escorting a score more who carried sacks of the newly baked bread on

their backs, or leathern receptacles filled with wine, as well as a

stout cask of the same seductive fluid. Near the Schloss Bernstein the

rescuing party came upon the Archbishop’s outpost, who raised the alarm

before the good sword of the Captain cut through the cry. There were

bugle calls throughout the camp and the sound of men hurrying to their

weapons, but all the noise of preparation among the besiegers was as

nothing to the demoniac din sent up by the Crusaders, who rushed to the

onslaught with a zest sharpened by their previous rest and inactivity.

The wild barbaric nature of their yells, such as never before were

heard on the borders of the placid Rhine, struck consternation into

the opposition camp, because some of the Archbishop’s troops had fought

against the heathen in the East, and they now recognised the clamour

which had before, on many an occasion, routed them, and they thought

that the Saracenes had turned the tables and invaded Germany; indeed

from the deafening clamour it seemed likely that all Asia was let loose

upon them. The alarm spread quickly to Castle Bernstein itself, and

torches began to glimmer on its battlements. With a roar the Crusaders

rushed up to the foot of the wall, as a wave dashes against a rock,

sweeping the frightened bread-carriers with them. By the light of the

torches Konrad saw standing on the wall a fair young girl clad in chain

armour whose sparkling links glistened like countless diamonds in the

rays of the burning pitch. She leaned on the cross-bar of her father’s

sword and, with wide-open, eager eyes peered into the darkness beyond,

questioning the gloom for reason of the terrifying tumult. When Konrad

strode within the radius of the torches, the girl drew back slightly and

cried:

“So the Archbishop has at last summoned courage to attack, after all

this patient waiting.”

“My Lady,” shouted the Count, “these are my forces and not the

Archbishop’s. I am Konrad, Count of Hochstaden.”

“The more shame, then, that you, who have fought bravely with men,

should now turn your weapons against a woman, and she your neighbour and

the sister of your friend.”

“Indeed, Lady Brunhilda, you misjudge me. I am come to your rescue

and not to your disadvantage.. The Archbishop’s men were put to some

inconvenience by our unexpected arrival, and to gather from the sounds

far down the valley they have not ceased running yet. We come with

bread, and use the sword but as a spit to deliver it.”

“Your words are welcome were I but sure of their truth,” said the

lady with deep distrust in her tone, for she had had experience of

the Archbishop’s craft on many occasions, and the untimely hour of the

succour led her to fear a ruse. “I open my gates neither to friend nor

to foe in the darkness,” she added.

“Tis a rule that may well be commended to others of your bewitching

sex,” replied the Count, “but we ask not the opening of the gates,

although you might warn those within your courtyard to beware what comes

upon them presently.”

So saying, he gave the word, and each two of his servitors seized a sack

of bread by the ends and, heaving it, flung it over the wall. Some

of the sacks fell short, but the second effort sent them into the

courtyard, where many of them burst, scattering the round loaves along

the cobble-stoned pavement, to be eagerly pounced upon by the starving

servitors and such men-at-arms as had escaped from the encounter with

the Archbishop’s troops when the Baron was slain. The cries of joy

that rang up from within the castle delighted the ear of the Count and

softened the suspicion of the lady on the wall.

“Now,” cried Konrad to his Captain, “back to Schloss Hochstaden before

the dawn approaches too closely, and let there be no mistake in the

Archbishop’s camp that you are on the way.”

They all departed in a series of earsplitting, heart-appalling whoops

that shattered the still night air and made a vocal pandemonium of that

portion of the fair Rhine valley. The colour left the cheeks of the Lady

of Bernstein as she listened in palpable terror to the fiendish outcry

which seemed to scream for blood and that instantly, looking down she

saw the Knight of Hochstaden still there at the foot of her wall gazing

up at her.

“My Lord,” she said with concern, “if you stay thus behind your noisy

troop you will certainly be captured when it comes day.”

“My Lady of Bernstein, I am already a captive, and all the Archbishop’s

men could not hold me more in thrall did they surround me at this

moment.”

“I do not understand you, sir,” said Brunhilda coldly, drawing herself

up with a dignity that well became her, “your language seems to partake

of an exaggeration that doubtless you have learned in the tropical East,

and which we have small patience with on the more temperate banks of the

Rhine.”

“The language that I use, fair Brunhilda, knows neither east nor west;

north nor south, but is common to every land, and if it be a stranger to

the Rhine, the Saints be witness ‘tis full time ‘twere introduced here,

and I hold myself as competent to be its spokesman, as those screeching

scoundrels of mine hold themselves the equal in battle to all the

archbishops who ever wore the robes of that high office.”

“My Lord,” cried Brunhilda, a note of serious warning in her voice,

“my gates are closed and they remain so. I hold myself your debtor for

unasked aid, and would fain see you in a place of safety.”

“My reverenced Lady, that friendly wish shall presently be gratified,”

and saying this, the Count unwound from his waist a thin rope woven of

horse-hair, having a long loop at the end of it. This he whirled round

his head and with an art learned in the scaling of eastern walls flung

the loop so that it surrounded one of the machicolations of the bastion,

and, with his feet travelling against the stone work, he walked up

the wall by aid of this cord and was over the parapet before any could

hinder his ascent. The Maid of the Schloss, her brows drawn down

in anger, stood with sword ready to strike, but whether it was the

unwieldiness of the clumsy weapon, or whether it was the great celerity

with which the young man put his nimbleness to the test, or whether it

was that she recognised him as perhaps her one friend on earth, who can

tell; be that as it may, she did not strike in time, and a moment, later

the Count dropped on one knee and before she knew it raised one of her

hands to his bending lips.

“Lovely Warder of Bernstein,” cried Count Konrad, with a tremor of

emotion in his voice that thrilled the girl in spite of herself, “I lay

my devotion and my life at your feet, to use them as you will.”

“My Lord,” she said quaveringly, with tears nearer the surface than she

would have cared to admit, “I like not this scaling of the walls; my

permission unasked.”

“God’s truth, my Lady, and you are not the first to so object, but the

others were men, and I may say, without boasting, that I bent not the

knee to them when I reached their level, but I have been told that

custom will enable a maid to look more forgivingly on such escapades if

her feeling is friendly toward the invader, and I am bold enough to hope

that the friendship with which your brother has ever regarded me in

the distant wars, may be extended to my unworthy self by his sister at

home.”

Count Konrad rose to his feet and the girl gazed at him in silence,

seeing how bronzed and manly he looked in his light well-polished

eastern armour, which had not the cumbrous massiveness of western mail,

but, while amply protecting the body, bestowed upon it lithe freedom

for quick action; and unconsciously she compared him, not to his

disadvantage, with the cravens on the Rhine, who, while sympathising

with her, dared not raise weapon on her behalf against so powerful an

over-lord as the warlike Archbishop. The scarlet cross of the Crusader

on his broad breast seemed to her swimming eyes to blaze with lambent

flame in the yellow torchlight. She dared not trust her voice to answer

him, fearing its faintness might disown the courage with which she had

held her castle for so long, and he, seeing that she struggled to hold

control of herself, standing there like a superb Goddess of the Rhine,

pretended to notice nothing and spoke jauntily with a wave of his hand:

“My villains have brought to the foot of the walls a cask of our best

wine which we dared not adventure to cast into the courtyard with that

freedom which forwarded the loaves; there is also a packet of dainties

more suited to your Ladyship’s consideration than the coarse bread from

our ovens. Give command, I beg of you, that the gates be opened and that

your men bring the wine and food to safety within the courtyard, and

bestow on me the privilege of guarding the open gate while this is being

done.”

Then gently, with insistent deference, the young man took from her the

sword of her father which she yielded to him with visible reluctance,

but nevertheless yielded, standing there disarmed before him. Together

in silence they went down the stone steps that led from the battlements

to the courtyard, followed by the torch-bearers, whom the lightening

east threatened soon to render unnecessary. A cheer went up, the first

heard for many days within those walls, and the feasters, flinging their

caps in the air, cried “Hochstaden! Hochstaden!” The Count turned to his

fair companion and said, with a smile:

“The garrison is with me, my Lady.”

She smiled also, and sighed, but made no other reply, keeping her eyes

steadfast on the stone steps beneath her. Once descended, she gave the

order in a low voice, and quickly the gates were thrown wide, creaking

grumblingly on their hinges, long unused. Konrad stood before the

opening with the sword of Bernstein in his hands, swinging it this way

and that to get the hang of it, and looking on it with the admiration

which a warrior ever feels for a well hung, trusty blade, while the

men-at-arms nodded to one another and said: “There stands a man who

knows the use of a weapon. I would that he had the crafty Archbishop

before him to practise on.”

When the barrel was trundled in, the Lady of Bernstein had it broached

at once, and with her own hand served to each of her men a flagon of the

golden wine. Each took his portion, bowing low to the lady, then doffing

cap, drank first to the Emperor, and after with an enthusiasm absent

from the Imperial toast, to the young war lord whom the night had flung

thus unexpectedly among them. When the last man had refreshed himself,

the Count stepped forward and begged a flagon full that he might drink

in such good company, and it seemed that Brunhilda had anticipated such

a request, for she turned to one of her women and held out her hand,

receiving a huge silver goblet marvellously engraved that had belonged

to her forefathers, and plenishing it, she gave it to the Count, who,

holding it aloft, cried, “The Lady of Bernstein,” whereupon there arose

such a shout that the troubled Archbishop heard it in his distant tent.

“And yet further of your hospitality must I crave,” said Konrad, “for

the morning air is keen, and gives me an appetite for food of which I am

deeply ashamed, but which nevertheless clamours for an early breakfast.”

The lady, after giving instruction to the maids who waited upon her,

led the way into the castle, where Konrad following, they arrived in the

long Rittersaal, at the end of which, facing the brightening east, was

placed a huge window of stained glass, whose great breadth was gradually

lightening as if an unseen painter with magic brush was tinting the

glass with transparent colour, from the lofty timbered ceiling to the

smoothly polished floor. At the end of the table, with her back to the

window, Brunhilda sat, while the Count took a place near her, by

the side, turning so that he faced her, the ever-increasing radiance

illumining his scintillating armour. The girl ate sparingly, saying

little and glancing often at her guest. He fell to like the good

trencherman he was, and talked unceasingly of the wars in the East, and

the brave deeds done there, and as he talked the girl forgot all else,

rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, regarding him

intently, for he spoke not of himself but of her brother, and of how,

when grievously pressed, he had borne himself so nobly that more than

once, seemingly certain defeat was changed into glorious victory. Now

and then when Konrad gazed upon Brunhilda, his eloquent tongue faltered

for a moment and he lost the thread of his narrative, for all trace of

the warrior maid had departed, and there, outlined against the glowing

window of dazzling colours, she seemed indeed a saint with her halo of

golden hair, a fit companion to the angels that the marvellous skill of

the artificer had placed in that gorgeous collection of pictured panes,

lead-lined and cut in various shapes, answering the needs of their

gifted designer, as a paint-brush follows the will of the artist. From

where the young man sat, the girl against the window seemed a member

of that radiant company, and thus he paused stricken speechless by her

beauty.

She spoke at last, the smile on her lips saddened by the down turning

of their corners, her voice the voice of one hovering uncertain between

laughter and tears.

“And you,” she said, “you seem to have had no part in all this stirring

recital. It was my brother and my brother and my brother, and to hear

you one would think you were all the while hunting peacefully in your

Rhine forests. Yet still I do believe the Count of Hochstaden gave the

heathen to know he was somewhat further to the east of Germany.”

“Oh, of me,” stammered the Count. “Yes, I was there, it is true, and

sometimes--well, I have a fool of a captain, headstrong and reckless,

who swept me now and then into a melee, before I could bring cool

investigation to bear upon his mad projects, and once in the fray of

course I had to plead with my sword to protect my head, otherwise my

bones would now be on the desert sands, so I selfishly lay about me and

did what I could to get once more out of the turmoil.”

The rising sun now struck living colour into the great window of stained

glass, splashing the floor and the further wall with crimson and blue

and gold. Count Konrad sprang to his feet. “The day is here,” he cried,

standing in the glory of it, while the girl rose more slowly. “Let us

have in your bugler and see if he has forgotten the battle call of the

Bernsteins. Often have I heard it in the desert. ‘Give us the battle

call,’ young Heinrich would cry and then to its music all his followers

would shout ‘Bernstein! Bernstein!’ until it seemed the far-off horizon

must have heard.”

The trumpeter came, and being now well fed, blew valiantly, giving to

the echoing roof the war cry of the generations of fighting men it had

sheltered.

“That is it,” cried the Count, “and it has a double significance. A

challenge on the field, and a summons to parley when heard from the

walls. We shall now learn whether or no the Archbishop has forgotten it,

and I crave your permission to act as spokesman with his Lordship.”

“That I most gratefully grant,” said the Lady of the Castle.

Once more on the battlements, the Lord of Hochstaden commanded the

trumpeter to sound the call The martial music rang out in the still

morning air and was echoed mockingly by the hills on the other side of

the river. After that, all was deep silence.

“Once again,” said Konrad.

For a second time the battle blast filled the valley, and for a second

time returned faintly back from the hills. Then from near the great tent

of the Archbishop, by the margin of the stream, came the answering call,

accepting the demand for a parley.

When at last the Archbishop, mounted on a black charger, came slowly up

the winding path which led to the castle, attended by only two of

his officers, he found the Count of Hochstaden awaiting him on the

battlements above the gate. The latter’s hopes arose when he saw that

Cologne himself had come, and had not entrusted the business to an

envoy, and it was also encouraging to note that he came so poorly

attended, for when a man has made up his mind to succumb he wishes as

few witnesses as possible, while if he intends further hostilities, he

comes in all the pomp of his station.

“With whom am I to hold converse?” began the Archbishop, “I am here at

the behest of the Bernstein call to parley, but I see none, of that name

on the wall to greet me.”

“Heinrich, Baron Bernstein, is now on his way to his castle from the

Holy Land, and were he here it were useless for me to summon a parley,

for he would answer you with the sword and not with the tongue when he

learned his father was dead at your hand.”

“That is no reply to my question. With whom do I hold converse?”

“I am Konrad, Count of Hochstaden, and your Lordship’s vassal.”

“I am glad to learn of your humility and pleased to know that I need not

call your vassalage to your memory, but I fear that in the darkness you

have less regard for either than you now pretend in the light of day.”

“In truth, my Lord, you grievously mistake me, for in the darkness I

stood your friend. I assure you I had less than a thousand rascals at my

back last night, and yet nothing would appease them but that they must

fling themselves upon your whole force, had I not held them in check. I

told them you probably outnumbered us ten to one, but they held that

one man who had gone through an eastern campaign was worth ten honest

burghers from Cologne, which indeed I verily believe, and for the fact

that you were not swept into the Rhine early this morning you have me

and my peaceful nature to thank, my Lord. Perhaps you heard the rogues

discussing the matter with me before dawn, and going angrily home when I

so ordered them.”

“A man had need to be dead and exceedingly deep in his grave not to have

heard them,” growled the Archbishop.

“And there they stand at this moment, my Lord, doubtless grumbling among

themselves that I am so long giving the signal they expect, which will

permit them to finish this morning’s work. The men I can generally

control, but my captains are a set of impious cut-throats who would

sooner sack an Archbishop’s palace than listen to the niceties of the

feudal law which protects over-lords from such pleasantries.”

The Archbishop turned on his horse and gazed on the huge bulk of Schloss

Hochstaden, and there a wonderful sight met his eye. The walls bristled

with armed men, the sun glistening on their polished breastplates like

the shimmer of summer lightning. The Archbishop turned toward the gate

again, as though the sight he beheld brought small comfort to him.

“What is your desire?” he said with less of truculence in his tone than

there had been at the beginning.

“I hold it a scandal,” said the Count gravely, “that a prince of the

Church should assault Christian walls while their owner is absent in the

East venturing his life in the uplifting of the true faith. You can

now retreat without loss of prestige; six hours hence that may be

impossible. I ask you then to give your assurance to the Lady of

Bernstein, pledging your knightly word that she will be no longer

threatened by you, and I ask you to withdraw your forces immediately

to Cologne where it is likely they will find something to do if Baron

Heinrich, as I strongly suspect, marches directly on that city.”

“I shall follow the advice of my humble vassal, for the strength of a

prince is in the sage counsel of his war lords. Will you escort the lady

to the battlements?”

Then did Count Konrad von Hochstaden see that his cause was won, and

descending he came up again, leading the Lady Brunhilda by the hand.

“I have to acquaint you, madame,” said the Archbishop, “that the

siege is ended, and I give you my assurance that you will not again be

beleaguered by my forces.”

The Lady of Bernstein bowed, but made no answer. She blushed deeply that

the Count still held her hand, but she did not withdraw it.

“And now, my Lord Archbishop, that this long-held contention is amicably

adjusted,” began Von Hochstaden, “I crave that you bestow on us two your

gracious blessing, potentate of the Church, for this lady is to be my

wife.”

“What!” cried Brunhilda in sudden anger, snatching her hand from his,

“do you think you can carry me by storm as you did my castle, without

even asking my consent?”

“Lady of my heart,” said Konrad tenderly, “I did ask your consent. My

eyes questioned in the Rittersaal and yours gave kindly answer. Is there

then no language but that which is spoken? I offer you here before the

world my open hand; is it to remain empty?”

He stood before her with outstretched palm, and she gazed steadfastly at

him, breathing quickly. At length a smile dissolved the sternness of her

charming lips, she glanced at his extended hand and said:

“‘Twere a pity so firm and generous a hand should remain tenantless,”

and with that she placed her palm in his.

The Archbishop smiled grimly at this lovers’ by-play, then solemnly,

with upraised hands, invoked God’s blessing upon them.

THE LONG LADDER

Every fortress has one traitor within its walls; the Schloss Eltz had

two. In this, curiously enough, lay its salvation; for as some Eastern

poisons when mixed neutralise each other and form combined a harmless

fluid, so did the two traitors unwittingly react, the one upon the

other, to the lasting glory of Schloss Eltz, which has never been

captured to this day.

It would be difficult to picture the amazement of Heinrich von

Richenbach when he sat mute upon his horse at the brow of the wooded

heights and, for the first time, beheld the imposing pile which had been

erected by the Count von Eltz. It is startling enough to come suddenly

upon a castle where no castle should be; but to find across one’s path

an erection that could hardly have been the product of other agency than

the lamp of Aladdin was stupefying, and Heinrich drew the sunburned back

of his hand across his eyes, fearing that they were playing him a trick;

then seeing the wondrous vision still before him, he hastily crossed

himself, an action performed somewhat clumsily through lack of practice,

so that he might ward off enchantment, if, as seemed likely, that

mountain of pinnacles was the work of the devil, and not placed there,

stone on stone, by the hand of man. But in spite of crossing and the

clearing of his eyes, Eltz Castle remained firmly seated on its stool

of rock, and, when his first astonishment had somewhat abated, Von

Richenbach, who was a most practical man, began to realise that here,

purely by a piece of unbelievable good luck, the very secret he had

been sent to unravel had been stumbled upon, the solving of which he

had given up in despair, returning empty-handed to his grim master, the

redoubtable Archbishop Baldwin of Treves.

It was now almost two months since the Archbishop had sent him on the

mission to the Rhine from which he was returning as wise as he went,

well knowing that a void budget would procure him scant welcome from his

imperious ruler. Here, at least, was important matter for the warlike

Elector’s stern consideration--an apparently impregnable fortress

secretly built in the very centre of the Archbishop’s domain; and

knowing that the Count von Eltz claimed at least partial jurisdiction

over this district, more especially that portion known as the Eltz-thal,

in the middle of which this mysterious citadel had been erected.

Heinrich rightly surmised that its construction had been the work of

this ancient enemy of the Archbishop.

Two months before, or nearly so, Heinrich von Richenbach had been

summoned into the presence of the Lion of Treves at his palace in that

venerable city. When Baldwin had dismissed all within the room save only

Von Richenbach, the august prelate said:

“It is my pleasure that you take horse at once and proceed to my city of

Mayence on the Rhine, where I am governor. You will inspect the garrison

there and report to me.”

Heinrich bowed, but said nothing.

“You will then go down the Rhine to Elfield, where my new castle is

built, and I shall be pleased to have an opinion regarding it.”

The Archbishop paused, and again his vassal bowed and remained silent.

“It is my wish that you go without escort, attracting as little

attention as possible, and perhaps it may be advisable to return by the

northern side of the Moselle, but some distance back from the river,

as there are barons on the banks who might inquire your business, and

regret their curiosity when they found they questioned a messenger of

mine. We should strive, during our brief sojourn on this inquisitive

earth, to put our fellow creatures to as little discomfort as possible.”

Von Richenbach saw that he was being sent on a secret and possibly

dangerous mission, and he had been long enough in the service of the

crafty Archbishop to know that the reasons ostensibly given for his

journey were probably not those which were the cause of it, so he

contented himself with inclining his head for the third time and holding

his peace. The Archbishop regarded him keenly for a few moments, a

derisive smile parting his firm lips; then said, as if his words were an

afterthought:

“Our faithful vassal, the Count von Eltz, is, if I mistake not, a

neighbor of ours at Elfield?”

The sentence took, through its inflection, the nature of a query, and

for the first time Heinrich von Richenbach ventured reply.

“He is, my Lord.”

The Archbishop raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling, and seemed for a

time lost in thought, saying, at last, apparently in soliloquy, rather

than by direct address:

“Count von Eltz has been suspiciously quiet of late for a man so

impetuous by nature. It might be profitable to know what interests him

during this unwonted seclusion. It behooves us to acquaint ourselves

with the motives that actuate a neighbour, so that, opportunity arising,

we may aid him with counsel or encouragement. If, therefore, it should

so chance that, in the intervals of your inspection of governorship or

castle, aught regarding the present occupation of the noble count comes

to your ears, the information thus received may perhaps remain in your

memory until you return to Treves.”

The Archbishop withdrew his eyes from the ceiling, the lids lowering

over them, and flashed a keen, rapier-like glance at the man who stood

before him.

Heinrich von Richenbach made low obeisance and replied:

“Whatever else fades from my memory, my Lord, news of Count von Eltz

shall remain there.”

“See that you carry nothing upon you, save your commission as inspector,

which my secretary will presently give to you. If you are captured

it will be enough to proclaim yourself my emissary and exhibit your

commission in proof of the peaceful nature of your embassy. And now to

horse and away.”

Thus Von Richenbach, well mounted, with his commission legibly engrossed

in clerkly hand on parchment, departed on the Roman road for Mayence,

but neither there nor at Elfield could he learn more of Count von Eltz

than was already known at Treves, which was to the effect that this

nobleman, repenting him, it was said, of his stubborn opposition to

the Archbishop, had betaken himself to the Crusades in expiation of

his wrong in shouldering arms against one who was both his temporal and

spiritual over-lord; and this rumour coming to the ears of Baldwin, had

the immediate effect of causing that prince of the Church to despatch

Von Richenbach with the purpose of learning accurately what his old

enemy was actually about; for Baldwin, being an astute man, placed

little faith in sudden conversion.

When Heinrich von Richenbach returned to Treves he was immediately

ushered into the presence of his master.

“You have been long away,” said the Archbishop, a frown on his brow.

“I trust the tidings you bring offer some slight compensation for the

delay.” Then was Heinrich indeed glad that fate, rather than his own

perspicacity, had led his horse to the heights above Schloss Eltz.

“The tidings I bring, my Lord, are so astounding that I could not

return to Treves without verifying them. This led me far afield, for my

information was of the scantiest; but I am now enabled to vouch for the

truth of my well-nigh incredible intelligence.”

“Have the good deeds of the Count then translated him bodily to heaven,

as was the case with Elijah? Unloose your packet, man, and waste not so

much time in the vaunting of your wares.”

“The Count von Eltz, my Lord, has built a castle that is part palace,

part fortress, and in its latter office well-nigh impregnable.”

“Yes? And where?”

“In the Eltz-thal, my Lord, a league and a quarter from the Moselle.”

“Impossible!” cried Baldwin, bringing his clenched fist down on the

table before him. “Impossible! You have been misled, Von Richenbach.”

“Indeed, my Lord, I had every reason to believe so until I viewed the

structure with my own eyes.”

“This, then, is the fruit of Von Eltz’s contrition! To build a castle

without permission within my jurisdiction, and defy me in my own domain.

By the Coat, he shall repent his temerity and wish himself twice over a

captive of the Saracen ere I have done with him. I will despatch at once

an army to the Eltz-thal, and there shall not be left one stone upon

another when it returns.”

“My Lord, I beseech you not to move with haste in this matter. If twenty

thousand men marched up to the Eltz-thal they could not take the castle.

No such schloss was ever built before, and none to equal it will ever be

built again, unless, as I suspect to be the case in this instance, the

devil lends his aid.”

“Oh, I doubt not that Satan built it, but he took the form and name

of Count von Eltz while doing so,” replied the Archbishop, his natural

anger at this bold defiance of his power giving way to his habitual

caution, which, united with his resources and intrepidity, had much to

do with his success. “You hold the castle, then, to be unassailable. Is

its garrison so powerful, or its position so strong?”

“The strength of its garrison, my Lord, is in its weakness; I doubt if

there are a score of men in the castle, but that is all the better, as

there are fewer mouths to feed in case of siege, and the Count has some

four years’ supplies in his vaults. The schloss is situated on a lofty,

unscalable rock that stands in the centre of a valley, as if it were

a fortress itself. Then the walls of the building are of unbelievable

height, with none of the round or square towers which castles usually

possess, but having in plenty conical turrets, steep roofs, and

the like, which give it the appearance of a fairy palace in a wide,

enchanted amphitheatre of green wooded hills, making the Schloss Eltz,

all in all, a most miraculous sight, such as a man may not behold in

many years’ travel.”

“In truth, Von Richenbach,” said the Archbishop, with a twinkle in his

eye, “we should have made you one of our scrivening monks rather than a

warrior, so marvellously do you describe the entrancing handiwork of our

beloved vassal, the Count von Eltz. Perhaps you think it pity to destroy

so fascinating a creation.”

“Not so, my Lord. I have examined the castle well, and I think were I

entrusted with the commission I could reduce it.”

“Ah, now we have modesty indeed! You can take the stronghold where I

should fail.”

“I did not say that you would fail, my Lord. I said that twenty thousand

men marching up the valley would fail, unless they were content to sit

around the castle for four years or more.”

“Answered like a courtier, Heinrich. What, then, is your method of

attack?”

“On the height to the east, which is the nearest elevation to the

castle, a strong fortress might be built, that would in a measure

command the Schloss Eltz, although I fear the distance would be too

great for any catapult to fling stones within its courtyard. Still, we

might thus have complete power over the entrance to the schloss, and no

more provender could be taken in.”

“You mean, then, to wear Von Eltz out? That would be as slow a method as

besiegement.”

“To besiege would require an army, my Lord, and would have this

disadvantage, that, besides withdrawing from other use so many of your

men, rumour would spread abroad that the Count held you in check. The

building of a fortress on the height would merely be doing what the

Count has already done, and it could be well garrisoned by twoscore men

at the most, vigilant night and day to take advantage of any movement of

fancied security to force way into the castle. There need be no formal

declaration of hostilities, but a fortress built in all amicableness, to

which the Count could hardly object, as you would be but following his

own example.”

“I understand. We build a house near his for neighbourliness. There is

indeed much in your plan that commends itself to me, but I confess a

liking for the underlying part of a scheme. Remains there anything else

which you have not unfolded to me?”

“Placing in command of the new fortress a stout warrior who was at the

same time a subtle man----”

“In other words, thyself, Heinrich--well, what then?”

“There is every chance that such a general may learn much of the castle

from one or other of its inmates. It might be possible that, through

neglect or inadvertence, the drawbridge would be left down some night

and the portcullis raised. In other words, the castle, impervious to

direct assault, may fall by strategy.”

“Excellent, excellent, my worthy warrior! I should dearly love to have

captain of mine pay such an informal visit to his estimable Countship.

We shall build the fortress you suggest, and call it Baldwineltz. You

shall be its commander, and I now bestow upon you Schloss Eltz, the only

proviso being that you are to enter into possession of it by whatever

means you choose to use.”

Thus the square, long castle of Baldwineltz came to be builded, and

thus Heinrich von Richenbach, brave, ingenious, and unscrupulous, was

installed captain of it, with twoscore men to keep him company, together

with a plentiful supply of gold to bribe whomsoever he thought worth

suborning.

Time went on without much to show for its passing, and Heinrich began to

grow impatient, for his attempt at corrupting the garrison showed that

negotiations were not without their dangers. Stout Baumstein, captain

of the gate, was the man whom Heinrich most desired to purchase, for

Baumstein could lessen the discipline at the portal of Schloss Eltz

without attracting undue attention. But he was an irascible German,

whose strong right arm was readier than his tongue; and when Heinrich’s

emissary got speech with him, under a flag of truce, whispering that

much gold might be had for a casual raising of the portcullis and

lowering of the drawbridge, Baumstein at first could not understand his

purport, for he was somewhat thick in the skull; but when the meaning of

the message at last broke in upon him, he wasted no time in talk, but,

raising his ever-ready battle-axe, clove the Envoy to the midriff. The

Count von Eltz himself, coming on the scene at this moment, was amazed

at the deed, and sternly demanded of his gate-captain why he had

violated the terms of a parley. Baumstein’s slowness of speech came

near to being the undoing of him, for at first he merely said that such

creatures as the messenger should not be allowed to live and that an

honest soldier was insulted by holding converse with him; whereupon the

Count, having nice notions, picked up in polite countries, regarding the

sacredness of a flag of truce, was about to hang Baumstein, scant though

the garrison was, and even then it was but by chance that the true state

of affairs became known to the Count. He was on the point of sending

back the body of the Envoy to Von Richenbach with suitable apology for

his destruction and offer of recompense, stating that the assailant

would be seen hanging outside the gate, when Baumstein said that while

he had no objection to being hanged if it so pleased the Count, he

begged to suggest that the gold which the Envoy brought with him to

bribe the garrison should be taken from the body before it was returned,

and divided equally among the guard at the gate. As Baumstein said this,

he was taking off his helmet and unbuckling his corselet, thus freeing

his neck for the greater convenience of the castle hangman. When the

Count learned that the stout stroke of the battle-axe was caused by the

proffer of a bribe for the betraying of the castle, he, to the amazement

of all present, begged the pardon of Baumstein; for such a thing was

never before known under the feudal law that a noble should apologise

to a common man, and Baumstein himself muttered that he wot not what the

world was coming to if a mighty Lord might not hang an underling if it

so pleased him, cause or no cause.

The Count commanded the body to be searched, and finding thereon

some five bags of gold, distributed the coin among his men, as a good

commander should, sending back the body to Von Richenbach, with a most

polite message to the effect that as the Archbishop evidently intended

the money to be given to the garrison, the Count had endeavoured to

carry out his Lordship’s wishes, as was the duty of an obedient vassal.

But Heinrich, instead of being pleased with the courtesy of the message,

broke into violent oaths, and spread abroad in the land the false saying

that Count von Eltz had violated a flag of truce.

But there was one man in the castle who did not enjoy a share of the

gold, because he was not a warrior, but a servant of the Countess. This

was a Spaniard named Rego, marvellously skilled in the concocting of

various dishes of pastry and other niceties such as high-born ladies

have a fondness for. Rego was disliked by the Count, and, in fact, by

all the stout Germans who formed the garrison, not only because it is

the fashion for men of one country justly to abhor those of another,

foreigners being in all lands regarded as benighted creatures whom we

marvel that the Lord allows to live when he might so easily have peopled

the whole world with men like unto ourselves; but, aside from this, Rego

had a cat-like tread, and a furtive eye that never met another honestly

as an eye should. The count, however, endured the presence of this

Spaniard, because the Countess admired his skill in confections, then

unknown in Germany, and thus Rego remained under her orders.

The Spaniard’s eye glittered when he saw the yellow lustre of the gold,

and his heart was bitter that he did not have a share of it. He soon

learned where it came from, and rightly surmised that there was more

in the same treasury, ready to be bestowed for similar service to that

which the unready Baumstein had so emphatically rejected; so Rego,

watching his opportunity, stole away secretly to Von Richenbach

and offered his aid in the capture of the castle, should suitable

compensation be tendered him. Heinrich questioned him closely regarding

the interior arrangements of the castle, and asked him if he could find

any means of letting down the drawbridge and raising the portcullis in

the night. This, Rego said quite truly, was impossible, as the guard

at the gate, vigilant enough before, had become much more so since the

attempted bribery of the Captain. There was, however, one way by

which the castle might be entered, and that entailed a most perilous

adventure. There was a platform between two of the lofty, steep roofs,

so elevated that it gave a view over all the valley. On this platform

a sentinel was stationed night and day, whose duty was that of outlook,

like a man on the cross-trees of a ship. From this platform a stair,

narrow at the top, but widening as it descended to the lower stories,

gave access to the whole castle. If, then, a besieger constructed a

ladder of enormous length, it might be placed at night on the narrow

ledge of rock far below this platform, standing almost perpendicular,

and by this means man after man would be enabled to reach the roof of

the castle, and, under the guidance of Rego, gain admittance to the

lower rooms unsuspected.

“But the sentinel?” objected Von Richenbach.

“The sentinel I will myself slay. I will steal up behind him in the

night when you make your assault, and running my knife into his neck,

fling him over the castle wall; then I shall be ready to guide you down

into the courtyard.”

Von Richenbach, remembering the sheer precipice of rock at the foot of

the castle walls and the dizzy height of the castle roof above the rock,

could scarcely forbear a shudder at the thought of climbing so high on a

shaky ladder, even if such a ladder could be made, of which he had some

doubts. The scheme did not seem so feasible as the Spaniard appeared to

imagine.

“Could you not let down a rope ladder from the platform when you had

slain the sentinel, and thus allow us to climb by that?”

“It would be impossible for me to construct and conceal a contrivance

strong enough to carry more than one man at a time, even if I had the

materials,” said the wily Spaniard, whose thoughtfulness and ingenuity

Heinrich could not but admire, while despising him as an oily foreigner.

“If you made the rope ladder there would be no method of getting it into

Schloss Eltz; besides, it would need to be double the length of a wooden

ladder, for you can place your ladder at the foot of the ledge, then

climb to the top of the rock, and, standing there, pull the ladder up,

letting the higher end scrape against the castle wall until the lower

end stands firm on the ledge of rock. Your whole troop could then climb,

one following another, so that there would be no delay.”

Thus it was arranged, and then began and was completed the construction

of the longest and most wonderful ladder ever made in Germany or

anywhere else, so far as history records. It was composed of numerous

small ladders, spliced and hooped with iron bands by the castle

armourer. At a second visit, which Rego paid to Baldwineltz when the

ladder was completed, all arrangements were made and the necessary

signals agreed upon.

It was the pious custom of those in the fortress of Baldwineltz to

ring the great bell on Saints’ days and other festivals that called

for special observance, because Von Richenbach conducted war on the

strictest principles, as a man knowing his duty both spiritual and

temporal. It was agreed that on the night of the assault, when it was

necessary that Rego should assassinate the sentinel, the great bell of

the fortress should be rung, whereupon the Spaniard was to hie himself

up the stair and send the watchman into another sphere of duty by means

of his dagger. The bell-ringing seems a perfectly justifiable device,

and one that will be approved by all conspirators, for the sounding of

the bell, plainly heard in Schloss Eltz, would cause no alarm, as it was

wont to sound at uncertain intervals, night and day, and was known

to give tongue only during moments allotted by the Church to devout

thoughts. But the good monk Ambrose, in setting down on parchment the

chronicles of this time, gives it as his opinion that no prosperity

could have been expected in thus suddenly changing the functions of the

bell from sacred duty to the furtherance of a secular object. Still,

Ambrose was known to be a sympathiser with the house of Eltz, and, aside

from this, a monk in his cell cannot be expected to take the same

view of military necessity that would commend itself to a warrior on a

bastion; therefore, much as we may admire Ambrose as an historian, we

are not compelled to accept his opinions on military ethics.

On the important night, which was of great darkness, made the more

intense by the black environment of densely-wooded hills which

surrounded Schloss Eltz, the swarthy Spaniard became almost pale with

anxiety as he listened for the solemn peal that was to be his signal.

At last it tolled forth, and he, with knife to hand in his girdle, crept

softly along the narrow halls to his fatal task. The interior of Schloss

Eltz is full of intricate passages, unexpected turnings, here a few

steps up, there a few steps down, for all the world like a maze, in

which even one knowing the castle might well go astray. At one of the

turnings Rego came suddenly upon the Countess, who screamed at sight of

him, and then recognising him said, half laughing, half crying, being a

nervous woman:

“Ah, Rego, thank heaven it is you! I am so distraught with the doleful

ringing of that bell that I am frightened at the sound of my own

footsteps. Why rings it so, Rego?”

“‘Tis some Church festival, my Lady, which they, fighting for the

Archbishop, are more familiar with than I,” answered the trembling

Spaniard, as frightened as the lady herself at the unexpected meeting.

But the Countess was a most religious woman, well skilled in the

observances of her Church, and she replied:

“No, Rego. There is no cause for its dolorous music, and to-night there

seems to me something ominous and menacing in its tone, as if disaster

impended.”

“It may be the birthday of the Archbishop, my Lady, or of the Pope

himself.”

“Our Holy Father was born in May, and the Archbishop in November. Ah,

I would that this horrid strife were done with! But our safety lies in

Heaven, and if our duty be accomplished here on earth, we should have

naught to fear; yet I tremble as if great danger lay before me. Come,

Rego, to the chapel, and light the candles at the altar.”

The Countess passed him, and for one fateful moment Rego’s hand hovered

over his dagger, thinking to strike the lady dead at his feet; but the

risk was too great, for there might at any time pass along the corridor

one of the servants, who would instantly raise the alarm and bring

disaster upon him. He dare not disobey. So grinding his teeth in

impotent rage and fear, he followed his mistress to the chapel, and,

as quickly as he could, lit one candle after another, until the usual

number burned before the sacred image. The Countess was upon her knees

as he tried to steal softly from the room. “Nay, Rego,” she said,

raising her bended head, “light them all to-night. Hearken! That raven

bell has ceased even as you lighted the last candle.”

The Countess, as has been said was a devout lady, and there stood an

unusual number of candles before the altar, several of which burned

constantly, but only on notable occasions were all the candles lighted.

As Rego hesitated, not knowing what to do in this crisis, the lady

repeated: “Light _all_ the candles to-night, Rego.”

“You said yourself, my Lady,” murmured the agonised man, cold sweat

breaking out on his forehead, “that this was not a Saint’s day.”

“Nevertheless, Rego,” persisted the Countess, surprised that even a

favourite servant should thus attempt to thwart her will, “I ask you to

light each candle. Do so at once.”

She bowed her head as one who had spoken the final word, and again her

fate trembled in the balance; but Rego heard the footsteps of the Count

entering the gallery above him, that ran across the end of the chapel,

and he at once resumed the lighting of the candles, making less speed in

his eagerness than if he had gone about his task with more care.

The monk Ambrose draws a moral from this episode, which is sufficiently

obvious when after-events have confirmed it, but which we need not here

pause to consider, when an episode of the most thrilling nature is going

forward on the lofty platform on the roof of Eltz Castle.