THE TRAITOR'S DOOM.
The Hombourger led his horse down the winding path which conducts from
the hill and castle of Godesberg into the beautiful green plain below.
Who has not seen that lovely plain, and who that has seen it has not
loved it? A thousand sunny vineyards and cornfields stretch around
in peaceful luxuriance; the mighty Rhine floats by it in silver
magnificence, and on the opposite bank rise the seven mountains robed in
majestic purple, the monarchs of the royal scene.
A pleasing poet, Lord Byron, in describing this very scene, has
mentioned that “peasant girls, with dark blue eyes, and hands that offer
cake and wine,” are perpetually crowding round the traveller in this
delicious district, and proffering to him their rustic presents. This
was no doubt the case in former days, when the noble bard wrote his
elegant poems--in the happy ancient days! when maidens were as yet
generous, and men kindly! Now the degenerate peasantry of the district
are much more inclined to ask than to give, and their blue eyes seem to
have disappeared with their generosity.
But as it was a long time ago that the events of our story occurred,
'tis probable that the good Knight Ludwig of Hombourg was greeted
upon his path by this fascinating peasantry; though we know not how
he accepted their welcome. He continued his ride across the flat green
country until he came to Rolandseck, whence he could command the Island
of Nonnenwerth (that lies in the Rhine opposite that place), and all who
went to it or passed from it.
Over the entrance of a little cavern in one of the rocks hanging above
the Rhine-stream at Rolandseck, and covered with odoriferous cactuses
and silvery magnolias, the traveller of the present day may perceive a
rude broken image of a saint: that image represented the venerable Saint
Buffo of Bonn, the patron of the Margrave; and Sir Ludwig, kneeling on
the greensward, and reciting a censer, an ave, and a couple of acolytes
before it, felt encouraged to think that the deed he meditated was about
to be performed under the very eyes of his friend's sanctified patron.
His devotion done (and the knight of those days was as pious as he
was brave), Sir Ludwig, the gallant Hombourger, exclaimed with a loud
voice:--
“Ho! hermit! holy hermit, art thou in thy cell?”
“Who calls the poor servant of heaven and Saint Buffo?” exclaimed
a voice from the cavern; and presently, from beneath the wreaths of
geranium and magnolia, appeared an intensely venerable, ancient, and
majestic head--'twas that, we need not say, of Saint Buffo's solitary. A
silver beard hanging to his knees gave his person an appearance of great
respectability; his body was robed in simple brown serge, and girt with
a knotted cord: his ancient feet were only defended from the prickles
and stones by the rudest sandals, and his bald and polished head was
bare.
“Holy hermit,” said the knight, in a grave voice, “make ready thy
ministry, for there is some one about to die.”
“Where, son?”
“Here, father.”
“Is he here, now?”
“Perhaps,” said the stout warrior, crossing himself; “but not so if
right prevail.” At this moment he caught sight of a ferry-boat putting
off from Nonnenwerth, with a knight on board. Ludwig knew at once, by
the sinople reversed and the truncated gules on his surcoat, that it was
Sir Gottfried of Godesberg.
“Be ready, father,” said the good knight, pointing towards the advancing
boat; and waving his hand by way of respect to the reverend hermit,
without a further word, he vaulted into his saddle, and rode back for
a few score of paces; when he wheeled round, and remained steady. His
great lance and pennon rose in the air. His armor glistened in the
sun; the chest and head of his battle-horse were similarly covered with
steel. As Sir Gottfried, likewise armed and mounted (for his horse had
been left at the ferry hard by), advanced up the road, he almost started
at the figure before him--a glistening tower of steel.
“Are you the lord of this pass, Sir Knight?” said Sir Gottfried,
haughtily, “or do you hold it against all comers, in honor of your
lady-love?”
“I am not the lord of this pass. I do not hold it against all comers. I
hold it but against one, and he is a liar and a traitor.”
“As the matter concerns me not, I pray you let me pass,” said Gottfried.
“The matter DOES concern thee, Gottfried of Godesberg. Liar and traitor!
art thou coward, too?”
“Holy Saint Buffo! 'tis a fight!” exclaimed the old hermit (who, too,
had been a gallant warrior in his day); and like the old war-horse that
hears the trumpet's sound, and spite of his clerical profession, he
prepared to look on at the combat with no ordinary eagerness, and
sat down on the overhanging ledge of the rock, lighting his pipe, and
affecting unconcern, but in reality most deeply interested in the event
which was about to ensue.
As soon as the word “coward” had been pronounced by Sir Ludwig, his
opponent, uttering a curse far too horrible to be inscribed here, had
wheeled back his powerful piebald, and brought his lance to the rest.
“Ha! Beauseant!” cried he. “Allah humdillah!” 'Twas the battle-cry in
Palestine of the irresistible Knights Hospitallers. “Look to thyself,
Sir Knight, and for mercy from heaven! I will give thee none.”
“A Bugo for Katzenellenbogen!” exclaimed Sir Ludwig, piously: that, too,
was the well-known war-cry of his princely race.
“I will give the signal,” said the old hermit, waving his pipe.
“Knights, are you ready? One, two, three. LOS!” (let go.)
At the signal, the two steeds tore up the ground like whirlwinds;
the two knights, two flashing perpendicular masses of steel, rapidly
converged; the two lances met upon the two shields of either, and
shivered, splintered, shattered into ten hundred thousand pieces, which
whirled through the air here and there, among the rocks, or in the
trees, or in the river. The two horses fell back trembling on their
haunches, where they remained for half a minute or so.
“Holy Buffo! a brave stroke!” said the old hermit. “Marry, but a
splinter wellnigh took off my nose!” The honest hermit waved his pipe
in delight, not perceiving that one of the splinters had carried off the
head of it, and rendered his favorite amusement impossible. “Ha! they
are to it again! O my! how they go to with their great swords! Well
stricken, gray! Well parried, piebald! Ha, that was a slicer! Go it,
piebald! go it, gray!--go it, gray! go it, pie--Peccavi! peccavi!” said
the old man, here suddenly closing his eyes, and falling down on his
knees. “I forgot I was a man of peace.” And the next moment, muttering
a hasty matin, he sprung down the ledge of rock, and was by the side of
the combatants.
The battle was over. Good knight as Sir Gottfried was, his strength
and skill had not been able to overcome Sir Ludwig the Hombourger, with
RIGHT on his side. He was bleeding at every point of his armor: he had
been run through the body several times, and a cut in tierce, delivered
with tremendous dexterity, had cloven the crown of his helmet of
Damascus steel, and passing through the cerebellum and sensorium, had
split his nose almost in twain.
His mouth foaming--his face almost green--his eyes full of blood--his
brains spattered over his forehead, and several of his teeth knocked
out,--the discomfited warrior presented a ghastly spectacle, as, reeling
under the effects of the last tremendous blow which the Knight of
Hombourg dealt, Sir Gottfried fell heavily from the saddle of his
piebald charger; the frightened animal whisked his tail wildly with a
shriek and a snort, plunged out his hind legs, trampling for one moment
upon the feet of the prostrate Gottfried, thereby causing him to shriek
with agony, and then galloped away riderless.
Away! ay, away!--away amid the green vineyards and golden cornfields;
away up the steep mountains, where he frightened the eagles in their
eyries; away down the clattering ravines, where the flashing cataracts
tumble; away through the dark pine-forests, where the hungry wolves are
howling away over the dreary wolds, where the wild wind walks alone;
away through the plashing quagmires, where the will-o'-the-wisp slunk
frightened among the reeds; away through light and darkness, storm
and sunshine; away by tower and town, high-road and hamlet. Once a
turnpike-man would have detained him; but, ha! ha! he charged the pike,
and cleared it at a bound. Once the Cologne Diligence stopped the way:
he charged the Diligence, he knocked off the cap of the conductor on the
roof, and yet galloped wildly, madly, furiously, irresistibly on! Brave
horse! gallant steed! snorting child of Araby! On went the horse, over
mountains, rivers, turnpikes, apple-women; and never stopped until he
reached a livery-stable in Cologne where his master was accustomed to
put him up.