said in favor of the resolution to which the young lady had come. She
was well educated, probably the richest heiress in Germany, and
carefully as the pious Sisters of Nonnenwerth Convent may have concealed
the fact from her, she was extremely beautiful, and knew it, and
although the valley of the Saynbach was a very haven of peace and
prosperity, the girl became just a trifle lonely, and yearned to know
something of life and the Court in Frankfort, to which her high rank
certainly entitled her.
It is true that very disquieting rumors had reached her concerning the
condition of things in the capital city; nevertheless she determined to
learn from an authoritative source whether or not it was safe to take up
a temporary residence in Frankfort, and for this purpose the reluctant
Father Ambrose would journey southward.
Father Ambrose was more than sixty years old, and if he had belonged to
the world, instead of to religion, would have been entitled to the name
Henry von Sayn. His presence in the Benedictine Order was proof of the
fact that money will not accomplish everything. His famous, or perhaps
we should say infamous, ancestor, Count Henry III. of Sayn, who died in
1246, was a robber and a murderer, justly esteemed the terror of the
Rhine. Concealed as it was in the Sayn valley, half a league from the
great river, the situation of his stronghold favored his depredations.
He filled his warehousing rooms with merchandise from barges going down
the river, and with gold seized from unhappy merchants on their way up.
He thought no more of cutting a throat than of cutting a purse, and it
was only when he became amazingly wealthy that the increase of years
brought trouble to a conscience which all men thought had ceased to
exist. Thereupon, for the welfare of his soul, he built the Abbey of
Sayn, and provided for the monks therein. Yet, when he came to die, he
entertained fearsome, but admittedly well-founded doubts regarding his
future state, so he proceeded to sanctify a treasure no longer of any
use to him, by bequeathing it to the Church, driving, however, a bargain
by which he received assurance that his body should rest quietly in the
tomb he had prepared for himself within the Abbey walls.
He was buried with impressive ceremony, and the monks he had endowed did
everything to carry out their share of the pact. The tomb was staunchly
built with stones so heavy that no ordinary ghost could have emerged
therefrom, but to be doubly sure a gigantic log was placed on top of it,
strongly clamped down with concealed bands of iron, and, so that this
log might not reveal its purpose, the monks cunningly carved it into
some semblance of Henry himself, until it seemed a recumbent statue of
the late villainous Count.
But despite such thoughtfulness their plan failed, for when next they
visited the tomb the statue lay prone, face downwards, as if some
irresistible, unseen power had flung it to the stone flags of the floor.
Replacing the statue, and watching by the tomb, was found to be of
little use. The watchers invariably fell asleep, and the great wooden
figure, which during their last waking moments lay gazing towards the
roof, was now on its face on the monastery floor, peering down in the
opposite direction, and this somehow was regarded by the brethren as a
fact of ominous significance.
The new Count von Sayn, heir to the title and estate of the late Henry
III. was a gloomy, pious man, very different indeed from his turbulent
predecessor. Naturally he was much perturbed by the conduct of the
wooden statue. At first he affected disbelief in the phenomena despite
the assurances of the monks, and later on the simple brethren deeply
regretted they had made any mention of the manifestations. The new Count
himself took up the task of watching, and paced all night before the
tomb of the third Henry. He was not a man to fall asleep while engaged
on such a somber mission, and the outcome of his vigil was so amazing
that in the morning he gathered the brethren together in the great hall
of the Abbey, that he might relate to them his experience.
The wooden statue had turned over, and fallen to the floor, as was its
habit, but on this occasion it groaned as it fell. This mournful sound
struck terror into the heart of the lonely watcher, who now, he
confessed, regretted he had not accepted the offer of the monks to share
his midnight surveillance. The courage of the House of Sayn is, however,
a well-known quality, and, notwithstanding his piety, the new holder of
the title was possessed of it, for although admitting a momentary
impulse towards flight, and the calling for assistance which the monks
would readily have given, he stood his ground, and in trembling voice
asked what he could do to forward the contentment of his deceased
relative.
The statue replied, still face downward on the stone floor, that never
could the late wicked Count rest in peace unless the heir to his titles
and lands should take upon himself the sins Henry had committed during
his life, while a younger member of the family should become a monk of
the Benedictine Order, and daily intercede for the welfare of his soul.
"With extreme reluctance," continued the devout nobleman, "I gave my
assent to this unwelcome proposal, providing only that it should receive
the sanction of the Abbot and brethren of the Monastery of Sayn, hoping
by a life of continuous rectitude to annul, in some measure at least,
the evil works of Henry III.; and that holy sanction I now request,
trusting if given it may remove any doubts regarding the righteousness
of my promise."
Here the Count bowed low to the enthroned Abbot and, with less
reverence, to the assembled brethren. The Abbot rose to his feet, and in
a few well-chosen words complimented the nobleman on the sacrifice he
made, predicting that it would redound greatly to his spiritual welfare.
Speaking for himself, he had no hesitation in giving the required
sanction, but as the Count made it a proviso that the brethren should
concur, he now requested their acquiescence.
This was accorded in silent unanimity, whereupon Count von Sayn, deeply
sighing as one accepting a burden almost too heavy to bear, spoke with a
tremor of grief in his voice.
"It is not for me," he said, "to question your wisdom, nor shrink from
my allotted task. After all, I am but human, and up to this decisive
moment had hoped, alas! in vain, that some one more worthy than I might
be chosen in my place. The most grievous part of the undertaking, so far
as I am concerned, was outlined in the last words spoken by the wooden
statue. The evil deeds my ancestor has committed will in time be
obliterated by the prayers of the younger member of my family who
becomes a monk, but the accumulated gold carries with it a continual
curse, which can be wiped off each coin only by that coin benefiting the
merchants who have been robbed. The contamination of this metal,
therefore, I must bear, for it adds to the agony of my ancestor that,
little realizing what he was doing, he bequeathed this poisonous dross
to the Abbey he founded. I am required to lend it in Frankfort, upon
undoubted security and suitable usury, that it may stimulate and
fertilize the commerce of the land, much as the contents of a compost
heap, disagreeable in the senses, and defiling to him who handles it,
when spread upon the fields results in the production of flower, fruit,
and food, giving fragrance, delight, and sustenance to the human frame."
The count, bowing for the third time to the conclave, passed from its
presence with mournful step and sorrowful countenance; whereupon the
brethren, seeing themselves thus denuded of wealth they had hoped to
enjoy, gave utterance to a groan doubtless much greater in volume than
that emitted by the carven statue, which wooden figure may be seen
to-day in the museum of the modern Castle of Sayn by any one who cares
to spend the fifty pfennigs charged for admission.
All that has been related happened generations before the time when the
Countess Hildegunde reigned as head of the House of Sayn, but Father
Ambrose formed a link with the past in that he was the present scion of
Sayn who, as a Benedictine, daily offered prayer for the repose of the
wicked Henry III. The gold which Henry's immediate successor so craftily
deflected from the monks seemed to be blessed rather than cursed, for
under the care of that subtle manager it multiplied greatly in
Frankfort, and scandal-mongers asserted that besides receiving the usury
exacted, the pietistic Count tapped the treasure-casks of upward-sailing
Rhine merchants quite as successfully, if more quietly, than the profane
Henry had done. Thus the House of Sayn was one of the richest in
Germany.
The aged monk and the youthful Countess were distant relatives, but he
regarded her as a daughter, and her affection was given to him as to a
father, in other than the spiritual sense.
In his youth Ambrose the Benedictine, because of his eloquence in
discourse, and also on account of his aristocratic rank, officiated at
the court in Frankfort. Later, he became spiritual and temporal adviser
to that great prelate, the Archbishop of Cologne, and the Archbishop,
being guardian of the Countess von Sayn, sent Father Ambrose to the
castle of his ancestor to look after the affairs of Sayn, both religious
and material. Under his gentle rule the great wealth of his House
increased, although he, the cause of prosperity, had no share in the
riches he produced, for, as has been written of the Benedictines:
"It was as teachers of ... scientific agriculture, as drainers of fens
and morasses, as clearers of forests, as makers of roads, as tillers of
the reclaimed soil, as architects of durable and even stately buildings,
as exhibiting a visible type of orderly government, as establishing the
superiority of peace over war as the normal condition of life, as
students in the library which the rule set up in every monastery, as the
masters in schools open not merely to their own postulants but to the
children of secular families also, that they won their high place in
history as benefactors of mankind."
* * * * *
"Oh, Father Ambrose," cried the girl, when at last he entered her
presence, "I watched your approach from afar off. You walked with
halting step, and shoulders increasingly bowed. You are wearing yourself
out in my service, and that I cannot permit. You return this evening a
tired man."
"Not physically tired," replied the monk, with a smile. "My head is
bowed with meditation and prayer, rather than with fatigue. Indeed, it
is others who do the harassing manual labor, while I simply direct and
instruct. Sometimes I think I am an encumberer in the vineyard, lazily
using brain instead of hand."
"Nonsense!" cried the girl, "the vineyard would be but a barren
plantation without you; and speaking of it reminds me that I have poured
out, with my own hand, a tankard of the choicest, oldest wine in our
cellars, which I allow no one but yourself to taste. Sit down, I beg of
you, and drink."
The wise old man smiled, wondering what innocent trap was being set for
him. He raised the tankard to his lips, but merely indulged in one sip
of the delectable beverage. Then he seated himself, and looked at the
girl, still smiling. She went on speaking rapidly, a delicate flush
warming her fair cheeks.
"Father, you are the most patient and indefatigable of agriculturists,
sparing neither yourself nor others, but there is danger that you grow
bucolic through overlong absence from the great affairs of this world."
"What can be greater, my child, than increasing the productiveness of
the land; than training men to supply all their needs from the fruitful
earth?"
"True, true," admitted the girl, her eyes sparkling with eagerness, "but
to persist overlong even in well-doing becomes ultimately tedious. If
the laborer is worthy of his hire, so, too, is the master. You should
take a change, and as I know your fondness for travel, I have planned a
journey for you."
The old man permitted himself another sip of the wine.
"Where?" he asked.
"Oh, an easy journey; no farther than the royal city of Frankfort, there
to wander among the scenes of your youth, and become interested for a
time in the activities of your fellow-men. You have so long consorted
with those inferior to you in intellect and learning that a meeting with
your equals--though I doubt if there are any such even in
Frankfort--must prove as refreshing to your mind as that old wine would
to your body, did you but obey me and drink it."
Father Ambrose slowly shook his head.
"From what I hear of Frankfort," he said, "it is anything but an
inspiring town. In my day it was indeed a place of cheer, learning, and
prosperity, but now it is a city of desolation."
"The rumors we hear, Father, may be exaggerated; and even if the city
itself be doleful, which I doubt, there is sure to be light and gayety
in the precincts of the Court and in the homes of the nobility."
"What have I to do with Court or palaces? My duty lies here."
"It may be," cried the girl archly, "that some part of your duty lies
there. If Frankfort is indeed in bad case, your sage advice might be of
the greatest benefit. Prosperity seems to follow your footsteps, and,
besides, you were once a chaplain in the Court, and surely you have not
lost all interest in your former charge?"
Again that quiet, engaging smile lit up the monk's emaciated features,
and then he asked a question with that honest directness which sometimes
embarrassed those he addressed:
"Daughter Hildegunde, what is it you want?"
"Well," said the girl, sitting very upright in her chair, "I confess to
loneliness. The sameness of life in this castle oppresses me, and in its
continuous dullness I grow old before my time. I wish to enjoy a month
or two in Frankfort, and, as doubtless you have guessed, I send you
forth as my ambassador to spy out the land."
"In such case, daughter, you should present your petition to that Prince
of the Church, the Archbishop of Cologne, who is your guardian."
"No, no, no, no!" cried the girl emphatically; "you are putting the
grapes into the barrel instead of into the vat. Before I trouble the
worthy Archbishop with my request, I must learn whether it is
practicable or not. If the city is indeed in a state of turbulence, of
course I shall not think of going thither. It is this I wish to
discover, but if you are afraid." She shrugged her shoulders and spread
out her hands.
And now the old monk came as near to laughing as he ever did.
"Clever, Hildegunde, but unnecessary. You cannot spur me to action by
slighting the well-known valor of our race. I will go where and when you
command me, and report to you faithfully what I see and hear. Should the
time seem favorable for you to visit Frankfort, and if your guardian
consents, I shall raise not even one objection."
"Oh, dear Father, I do not lay this as a command upon you."
"No; a request is quite sufficient. To-morrow morning I shall set out."
"Along the Rhine?" queried the girl, so eagerly that the old man's eyes
twinkled at the celerity with which she accepted his proposition.
"I think it safer," he said, "to journey inland over the hills. The
robbers on the Rhine have been so long bereft of the natural prey that
one or other of them may forget I am Father Ambrose, a poor monk,
remembering me only as Henry of the rich House of Sayn, and therefore
hold me for ransom. I would not willingly be a cause of strife, so I
shall go by way of Limburg on the Lahn, and there visit my old friend
the Bishop, and enjoy once more a sight of the ancient Cathedral on the
cliff by the river."
When the young Countess awoke next morning, and reviewed in her mind the
chief event of the preceding day, remembering the reluctance of Father
Ambrose to undertake the quest she had outlined without the consent of
his overlord the Archbishop, a feeling of compunction swept over her.
She berated her own selfishness, resolving to send her petition to her
guardian, the Archbishop, and abide by his decision.
When breakfast was finished, she asked her lady-in-waiting to request
the presence of Father Ambrose, but instead of the monk came disturbing
news.
"The seneschal says that Father Ambrose left the Castle at daybreak this
morning, taking with him frugal rations for a three days' journey."
"In which direction did he go?" asked the lady of Sayn.
"He went on horseback up the valley, after making inquiries about the
route to Limburg on the Lahn."
"Ah!" said the Countess. "He spoke yesterday of taking such a journey,
but I did not think he would leave so early."
This was the beginning of great anxiety for the young lady of the
Castle. She knew at once that pursuit was useless, for daybreak comes
early in summer, and already the good Father had been five hours on his
way--a way that he was certain to lose many times before he reached the
capital city. An ordinary messenger might have been overtaken, but the
meditative Father would go whither his horse carried him, and when he
awoke from his thoughts and his prayers, would make inquiries, and so
proceed. A day or two later came a message that he had achieved the
hospitality of Limburg's bishop, but after that arrived no further word.
Nearly two weeks had elapsed when, from the opposite direction,
Hildegunde received a communication which added to her already painful
apprehension. It was a letter from her guardian in Cologne, giving
warning that within a week he would call at her Castle of Sayn.
"Matters of great import to you and me," concluded the Archbishop, "are
toward. You will be called upon to meet formally my two colleagues of
Mayence and Treves, at the latter's strong Castle of Stolzenfels, above
Coblentz. From the moment we enter that palace-fortress, I shall,
temporarily, at least, cease to be your guardian, and become merely one
of your three overlords. But however frowningly I may sit in the throne
of an Elector, believe me I shall always be your friend. Tell Father
Ambrose I wish to consult with him the moment I arrive at your castle,
and that he must not absent himself therefrom on any pretext until he
has seen me."
Here was trouble indeed, with Father Ambrose as completely disappeared
as if the dragons of the Taunus had swallowed him. Never before on his
journeys had he failed to communicate with her, even when his travels
were taken on account of the Archbishop, and not, as in this case, on
her own. She experienced the darkest forebodings from this incredible
silence. Imagine, then, her relief, when exactly two weeks from the day
he had left Schloss Sayn, she saw him coming down the valley. As when
she last beheld him, he traveled on foot, leading his horse, that had
gone lame.
Throwing etiquette to the wind, she flew down the stairway, and ran to
meet her thrice-welcome friend.
She realized with grief that he was haggard, and the smile he called up
to greet her was wan and pitiful.
"Oh, Father, Father!" she cried, "what has happened to you? I have been
nearly distraught with doubt and fear, hearing nothing of you since your
message from Limburg."
"I was made a prisoner," said the old man quietly, "and allowed to
communicate with no one outside my cell. 'Tis a long and sad story, and,
worse than all one that bodes ill for the Empire. I should have arrived
earlier in the day, but my poor, patient beast has fallen lame."
"Yes!" said the girl indignantly, "and you spare him instead of
yourself!"
The monk laid his left hand affectionately on her shoulder.
"You would have done the same, my dear," he said, and she looked up at
him with a sweet smile. They were kin, and if she censured any quality
in him, the comment carried something of self-reproach.
A servitor took away the lame horse; another waited on Father Ambrose in
his small room, which was simple as that of a monastery cell, and as
meagerly furnished. After a slight refection, Father Ambrose received
peremptory command to rest for three full hours, the lady of the Castle
saying it was impossible for her to receive him until that time had
elapsed. The order was welcome to the tired monk, although he knew how
impatient Hildegunde must be to unpack his budget of news, and he fell
asleep even as he gave instructions that he should be awakened at nine.
Descending at that time, the supper hour of the Castle, he found a
dainty meal awaiting him, flanked by a flagon of that rare wine which he
sipped so sparingly.
"I lodged with my brethren in their small and quiet monastery on the
opposite side of the Main from Frankfort, in that suburb of the
workingmen which is called Sachsenhausen. Even if my eyes had not seen
the desolation of the city, with the summer grass growing in many of its
streets, the description given of its condition by my brethren would
have been saddening enough to hear. All authority seems at an end. The
nobles have fled to their country estates, for defense in the city is
impossible should once a universal riot break out, and thinking men look
for an insurrection when continued hunger has worn down the patience of
the people. Up to the present sporadic outbreaks have been cruelly
suppressed, starving men falling mutilated before the sword-cuts of the
soldiers; but now disaffection has penetrated the ranks of the Army
itself, through short rations and deferred pay, and when the people
learn that the military are more like to join them than oppose,
destruction will fall upon Frankfort. The Emperor sits alone in drunken
stupor, and it is said cannot last much longer, he who has lasted too
long already; while the Empress is as much a recluse as a nun in a
convent."
"But the young Prince?" interrupted the Countess. "What of him? Is there
no hope if he comes to the throne?"
"Ah!" cried the monk, with a long-drawn sigh, dolefully shaking his
head.
"But, Father Ambrose, you knew him as a lad, almost as a young man. I
have heard you speak highly of his promise."
"He denied me; denied his own identity; threatened my life with his
sword, and finally flung me into the most loathsome dungeon in all
Frankfort!"
The girl uttered an ejaculation of dismay. If so harsh an estimate of
the heir-presumptive came from so mild and gentle a critic as Father
Ambrose, then surely was this young man lower in the grade of humanity
than even his bestial father.
"And yet," said the girl to herself, "what else was to be expected? Go
on," she murmured; "tell me from the beginning."
"One evening, crossing the old bridge from Frankfort to Sachsenhausen, I
saw approach me a swaggering figure that seemed familiar, and as he drew
nearer I recognized Prince Roland, son of the Emperor, despite the fact
that he held his cloak over the lower part of his face, as if, in the
gathering dusk, to avoid recognition.
"'Your Highness!' I cried in surprise. On the instant his sword was out,
and as the cloak fell from his face, displaying lips which took on a
sinister firmness, I saw that I was not mistaken in so accosting him. He
threw a quick glance from side to side, but the bridge, like the silent
streets, was deserted. We stood alone, beside the iron Cross, and there
under the Figure of Christ he denied me, with the sharp point of his
sword against my breast.
"'Why do you dare address me by such a title?'
"'You are Prince Roland, son of the Emperor.'
"The sword-point pressed more sharply.
"'You lie!' he cried, 'and if you reiterate that falsehood, you will pay
the penalty instantly with your life, despite your monkish cowl. I am
nobody. I have no father.'
"'May I ask, then, sir, who you are?'
"'You may ask, but there is no reason for me to answer. Nevertheless, to
satisfy your impertinent curiosity, I inform you that I am an
ironworker, a maker of swords, and if you desire a taste of my
handiwork, you have but to persist in your questioning. I lodge in the
laboring quarter of Sachsenhausen, and am now on my way into Frankfort,
which surely I have the right to enter free from any inquiry
unauthorized by the law.'
"'In that case I beg your pardon,' said I. 'The likeness is very
striking. I had once the honor to be chaplain at Court, where frequently
I saw the young Prince in company with that noble lady, noble in every
sense of the word, his mother, the Empress.'
"I watched the young man narrowly as I said this, and despite his
self-control, he winced perceptibly, and I thought I saw a gleam of
recognition in his eyes. He thrust the sword back into its scabbard, and
said with a light laugh: