RITTER THEURDANK
THE snow fell all night without ceasing, and was still falling on the
morrow, when the guest explained his desire of paying a short visit to
the young Baron, and then taking his departure. Christina would gladly
have been quit of him, but she felt bound to remonstrate, for their
mountain was absolutely impassable during a fall of snow, above all when
accompanied by wind, since the drifts concealed fearful abysses, and the
shifting masses insured destruction to the unwary wayfarer; nay, natives
themselves had perished between the hamlet and the castle.
“Not the hardiest cragsman, not my son himself,” she said, “could venture
on such a morning to guide you to—”
“Whither, gracious dame?” asked Theurdank, half smiling.
“Nay, sir, I would not utter what you would not make known.”
“You know me then?”
“Surely, sir, for our noble foe, whose generous trust in our honour must
win my son’s heart.”
“So!” he said, with a peculiar smile, “Theurdank—Dankwart—I see! May I
ask if your son likewise smelt out the Schlangenwald?”
“Verily, Sir Count, my Ebbo is not easily deceived. He said our guest
could be but one man in all the empire.”
Theurdank smiled again, saying, “Then, lady, you shudder not at a man
whose kin and yours have shed so much of one another’s blood?”
“Nay, ghostly knight, I regard you as no more stained therewith than are
my sons by the deeds of their grandfather.”
“If there were more like you, lady,” returned Theurdank, “deadly feuds
would soon be starved out. May I to your son? I have more to say to
him, and I would fain hear his views of the storm.”
Christina could not be quite at ease with Theurdank in her son’s room,
but she had no choice, and she knew that Heinz was watching on the turret
stair, out of hearing indeed, but as ready to spring as a cat who sees
her young ones in the hand of a child that she only half trusts.
Ebbo lay eagerly watching for his visitor, who greeted him with the same
almost paternal kindness he had evinced the night before, but consulted
him upon the way from the castle. Ebbo confirmed his mother’s opinion
that the path was impracticable so long as the snow fell, and the wind
tossed it in wild drifts.
“We have been caught in snow,” he said, “and hard work have we had to get
home! Once indeed, after a bear hunt, we fully thought the castle stood
before us, and lo! it was all a cruel snow mist in that mocking shape. I
was even about to climb our last Eagle’s Step, as I thought, when behold,
it proved to be the very brink of the abyss.”
“Ah! these ravines are well-nigh as bad as those of the Inn. I’ve known
what it was to be caught on the ledge of a precipice by a sharp wind,
changing its course, mark’st thou, so swiftly that it verily tore my hold
from the rock, and had well-nigh swept me into a chasm of mighty depth.
There was nothing for it but to make the best spring I might towards the
crag on the other side, and grip for my life at my alpenstock, which by
Our Lady’s grace was firmly planted, and I held on till I got breath
again, and felt for my footing on the ice-glazed rock.”
“Ah!” said Eberhard with a long breath, after having listened with a
hunter’s keen interest to this hair’s-breadth escape, “it sounds like a
gust of my mountain air thus let in on me.”
“Truly it is dismal work for a lusty hunter to lie here,” said Theurdank,
“but soon shalt thou take thy crags again in full vigour, I hope. How
call’st thou the deep gray lonely pool under a steep frowning crag
sharpened well-nigh to a spear point, that I passed yester afternoon?”
“The Ptarmigan’s Mere, the Red Eyrie,” murmured Ebbo, scarcely able to
utter the words as he thought of Friedel’s delight in the pool, his
exploit at the eyrie, and the gay bargain made in the streets of Ulm,
that he should show the scaler of the Dom steeple the way to the eagle’s
nest.
“I remember,” said his guest gravely, coming to his side. “Ah, boy! thy
brother’s flight has been higher yet. Weep freely; fear me not. Do I
not know what it is, when those who were over-good for earth have found
their eagle’s wings, and left us here?”
Ebbo gazed up through his tears into the noble, mournful face that was
bent kindly over him. “I will not seek to comfort thee by counselling
thee to forget,” said Theurdank. “I was scarce thine elder when my life
was thus rent asunder, and to hoar hairs, nay, to the grave itself, will
she be my glory and my sorrow. Never owned I brother, but I trow ye two
were one in no common sort.”
“Such brothers as we saw at Ulm were little like us,” returned Ebbo, from
the bottom of his heart. “We were knit together so that all will begin
with me as if it were the left hand remaining alone to do it! I am glad
that my old life may not even in shadow be renewed till after I have gone
in quest of my father.”
“Be not over hasty in that quest,” said the guest, “or the infidels may
chance to gain two Freiherren instead of one. Hast any designs?”
Ebbo explained that he thought of making his way to Genoa to consult the
merchant Gian Battista dei Battiste, whose description of the captive
German noble had so strongly impressed Friedel. Ebbo knew the difference
between Turks and Moors, but Friedel’s impulse guided him, and he further
thought that at Genoa he should learn the way to deal with either variety
of infidel. Theurdank thought this a prudent course, since the Genoese
had dealings both at Tripoli and Constantinople; and, moreover, the
transfer was not impossible, since the two different hordes of Moslems
trafficked among themselves when either had made an unusually successful
razzia.
“Shame,” he broke out, “that these Eastern locusts, these ravening
hounds, should prey unmolested on the fairest lands of the earth, and our
German nobles lie here like swine, grunting and squealing over the
plunder they grub up from one another, deaf to any summons from heaven or
earth! Did not Heaven’s own voice speak in thunder this last year, even
in November, hurling the mighty thunderbolt of Alsace, an ell long,
weighing two hundred and fifteen pounds? Did I not cause it to be hung
up in the church of Encisheim, as a witness and warning of the plagues
that hang over us? But no, nothing will quicken them from their sloth
and drunkenness till the foe are at their doors; and, if a man arise of
different mould, with some heart for the knightly, the good, and the
true, then they kill him for me! But thou, Adlerstein, this pious quest
over, thou wilt return to me. Thou hast head to think and heart to feel
for the shame and woe of this misguided land.”
“I trust so, my lord,” said Ebbo. “Truly, I have suffered bitterly for
pursuing my own quarrel rather than the crusade.”
“I meant not thee,” said Theurdank, kindly. “Thy bridge is a benefit to
me, as much as, or more than, ever it can be to thee. Dost know Italian?
There is something of Italy in thine eye.”
“My mother’s mother was Italian, my lord; but she died so early that her
language has not descended to my mother or myself.”
“Thou shouldst learn it. It will be pastime while thou art bed-fast, and
serve thee well in dealing with the Moslem. Moreover, I may have work
for thee in Welschland. Books? I will send thee books. There is the
whole chronicle of Karl the Great, and all his Palsgrafen, by Pulci and
Boiardo, a brave Count and gentleman himself, governor of Reggio, and
worthy to sing of deeds of arms; so choice, too, as to the names of his
heroes, that they say he caused his church bells to be rung when he had
found one for Rodomonte, his infidel Hector. He has shown up Roland as a
love-sick knight, though, which is out of all accord with Archbishop
Turpin. Wilt have him?”
“When we were together, we used to love tales of chivalry.”
“Ah! Or wilt have the stern old Ghibelline Florentine, who explored the
three realms of the departed? Deep lore, and well-nigh unsearchable, is
his; but I love him for the sake of his Beatrice, who guided him. May we
find such guides in our day!”
“I have heard of him,” said Ebbo. “If he will tell me where my Friedel
walks in light, then, my lord, I would read him with all my heart.”
“Or wouldst thou have rare Franciscus Petrarca? I wot thou art too young
as yet for the yearnings of his sonnets, but their voice is sweet to the
bereft heart.”
And he murmured over, in their melodious Italian flow, the lines on
Laura’s death:—
“Not pallid, but yet whiter than the snow
By wind unstirred that on a hillside lies;
Rest seemed as on a weary frame to grow,
A gentle slumber pressed her lovely eyes.”
“Ah!” he added aloud to himself, “it is ever to me as though the poet had
watched in that chamber at Ghent.”
Such were the discourses of that morning, now on poetry and book lore;
now admiration of the carvings that decked the room; now talk on grand
architectural designs, or improvements in fire-arms, or the discussion of
hunting adventures. There seemed nothing in art, life, or learning in
which the versatile mind of Theurdank was not at home, or that did not
end in some strange personal reminiscence of his own. All was so kind,
so gracious, and brilliant, that at first the interview was full of
wondering delight to Ebbo, but latterly it became very fatiguing from the
strain of attention, above all towards a guest who evidently knew that he
was known, while not permitting such recognition to be avowed. Ebbo
began to long for an interruption, but, though he could see by the
lightened sky that the weather had cleared up, it would have been
impossible to have suggested to any guest that the way might now probably
be open, and more especially to such a guest as this. Considerate as his
visitor had been the night before, the pleasure of talk seemed to have
done away with the remembrance of his host’s weakness, till Ebbo so
flagged that at last he was scarcely alive to more than the continued
sound of the voice, and all the pain that for a while had been in
abeyance seemed to have mastered him; but his guest, half reading his
books, half discoursing, seemed too much immersed in his own plans,
theories, and adventures, to mark the condition of his auditor.
Interruption came at last, however. There was a sudden knock at the door
at noon, and with scant ceremony Heinz entered, followed by three other
of the men-at-arms, fully equipped.
“Ha! what means this?” demanded Ebbo.
“Peace, Sir Baron,” said Heinz, advancing so as to place his large person
between Ebbo’s bed and the strange hunter. “You know nothing of it. We
are not going to lose you as well as your brother, and we mean to see how
this knight likes to serve as a hostage instead of opening the gates as a
traitor spy. On him, Koppel! it is thy right.”
“Hands off! at your peril, villains!” exclaimed Ebbo, sitting up, and
speaking in the steady resolute voice that had so early rendered him
thoroughly their master, but much perplexed and dismayed, and entirely
unassisted by Theurdank, who stood looking on with almost a smile, as if
diverted by his predicament.
“By your leave, Herr Freiherr,” said Heinz, putting his hand on his
shoulder, “this is no concern of yours. While you cannot guard yourself
or my lady, it is our part to do so. I tell you his minions are on their
way to surprise the castle.”
Even as Heinz spoke, Christina came panting into the room, and, hurrying
to her son’s side, said, “Sir Count, is this just, is this honourable,
thus to return my son’s welcome, in his helpless condition?”
“Mother, are you likewise distracted?” exclaimed Ebbo. “What is all this
madness?”
“Alas, my son, it is no frenzy! There are armed men coming up the
Eagle’s Stairs on the one hand and by the Gemsbock’s Pass on the other!”
“But not a hair of your head shall they hurt, lady,” said Heinz. “This
fellow’s limbs shall be thrown to them over the battlements. On,
Koppel!”
“Off, Koppel!” thundered Ebbo. “Would you brand me with shame for ever?
Were he all the Schlangenwalds in one, he should go as freely as he came;
but he is no more Schlangenwald than I am.”
“He has deceived you, my lord,” said Heinz. “My lady’s own letter to
Schlangenwald was in his chamber. ’Tis a treacherous disguise.”
“Fool that thou art!” said Ebbo. “I know this gentleman well. I knew
him at Ulm. Those who meet him here mean me no ill. Open the gates and
receive them honourably! Mother, mother, trust me, all is well. I know
what I am saying.”
The men looked one upon another. Christina wrung her hands, uncertain
whether her son were not under some strange fatal deception.
“My lord has his fancies,” growled Koppel. “I’ll not be balked of my
right of vengeance for his scruples! Will he swear that this fellow is
what he calls himself?”
“I swear,” said Ebbo, slowly, “that he is a true loyal knight, well known
to me.”
“Swear it distinctly, Sir Baron,” said Heinz. “We have all too deep a
debt of vengeance to let off any one who comes here lurking in the
interest of our foe. Swear that this is Theurdank, or we send his head
to greet his friends.”
Drops stood on Ebbo’s brow, and his breath laboured as he felt his senses
reeling, and his powers of defence for his guest failing him. Even
should the stranger confess his name, the people of the castle might not
believe him; and here he stood like one indifferent, evidently measuring
how far his young host would go in his cause.
“I cannot swear that his real name is Theurdank,” said Ebbo, rallying his
forces, “but this I swear, that he is neither friend nor fosterer of
Schlangenwald, that I know him, and I had rather die than that the
slightest indignity were offered him.” Here, and with a great effort
that terribly wrenched his wounded leg, he reached past Heinz, and
grasped his guest’s hand, pulling him as near as he could.
“Sir,” he said, “if they try to lay hands on you, strike my death-blow!”
A bugle-horn was wound outside. The men stood daunted—Christina in
extreme terror for her son, who lay gasping, breathless, but still
clutching the stranger’s hand, and with eyes of fire glaring on the
mutinous warriors. Another bugle-blast! Heinz was almost in the act of
grappling with the silent foe, and Koppel cried as he raised his halbert,
“Now or never!” but paused.
“Never, so please you,” said the strange guest. “What if your young lord
could not forswear himself that my name is Theurdank! Are you foes to
all the world save Theurdank?”
“No masking,” said Heinz, sternly. “Tell your true name as an honest
man, and we will judge whether you be friend or foe.”
“My name is a mouthful, as your master knows,” said the guest, slowly,
looking with strangely amused eyes on the confused lanzknechts, who were
trying to devour their rage. “I was baptized Maximilianus; Archduke of
Austria, by birth; by choice of the Germans, King of the Romans.”
“The Kaisar!”
Christina dropped on her knee; the men-at-arms tumbled backwards; Ebbo
pressed the hand he held to his lips, and fainted away. The bugle
sounded for the third time.