CONRAD VENTURES HIS LIFE FOR HIS LOVE.
Hilda had been given lodging in a house at the back of the village, and
from her window she could see the castle which had so inhospitably sent
her from its gates. But the girl had little time to mourn her fate, for
the attacks on the castle followed so swiftly one upon another that
Alken became speedily filled with wounded men, all the houses of the
place being transformed into hospitals for the time. In like manner the
women were requisitioned as nurses, and to their care many of the
stricken men owed life. Into this humane occupation Hilda threw herself
with a fervour that was not only admirable in itself, but which was
deeply appreciated by all those to whom she ministered. The other women
of the village were anxious to do their best, but they were for the most
part rude and ignorant peasants, knowing little of their new duties, and
their aid was at all times clumsy and often ineffectual. But Hilda
brought to bear upon her task an enlightened intelligence and a deftness
of hand, the product of long residence amidst civilised surroundings,
which quickly gave her, by right of dexterity, the command of the
nursing staff. She reduced the arrangements to cleanliness and order,
and her bright presence, not less than her winning beauty, seemed to do
more for the convalescent than the ointment of the physicians. She was
thoroughly womanly, and thus was in her element while having charge of
so many injured men, and every moment of her day being taken up with her
work of mercy, she had no time to brood over her own expulsion from the
castle, nor the severance from her lover and mistress; and so, in doing
good to others, she unconsciously bestowed great benefit upon herself.
Once she had a fright that for the time almost deprived her of speech.
In the midst of her duties a breathless messenger brought news that the
Archbishops themselves were coming to visit the wounded. Hilda, pressing
her hand to her heart, stood pale and confounded, not knowing what to
do, for she feared the sharp eyes of Arnold von Isenberg, which had
before fallen upon her in Treves, might now recognise her. She hoped
that the comparative obscurity of the room would shield her from too
minute scrutiny, and, at first it seemed that this would be the case,
but the officers who accompanied the prelates spoke so enthusiastically
of her untiring efforts to ameliorate distress and pain, that Arnold
turned his keen eyes full upon her, slightly wrinkling his brow, as if
her appearance brought recollection to him that he had difficulty in
localising. The girl stood trembling before him, not daring to raise her
eyes to his. After a moment's pause, filled with deep anxiety on her
part, the dignified prelate stretched out his hand and rested it upon
her fair hair.
"Blessed are those who do deeds of mercy, my child," he said, solemnly,
in sonorous voice.
"Amen," responded the Archbishop of Cologne, with equal seriousness.
"Remember," said von Isenberg, significantly, turning to his officers,
"that on her head rests the benediction of our Holy Church."
All present bowed low and the stately cortege withdrew, leaving the girl
thankful that recognition had not followed the unlooked-for encounter,
for so little do the great take account of those who serve them, that no
suspicion crossed the Archbishop's mind that the one he commended had
been a member of his own household.
Thus it came about that Hilda was a privileged person in Alken and its
environs, and there was not an officer or common soldier who would not
instantly have drawn weapon to protect her from insult or injury had
there been any in the camp inclined to transgress against her.
Late one night a lad called at the house where Hilda lived and told her
a soldier had hurt his foot and could not walk. He was seated on the
river bank, the boy added, and asked the good nurse to come to him, as
he could not come to her. Hilda followed her conductor through the
darkness without question, and found the man sitting by the margin of
the stream. He gave a coin to the boy, who at once ran off to tell his
comrades of his good luck, leaving the two alone. Hilda, although
without fear, called after the boy, but he paid little heed to her; then
she turned to the man and said:
"Where is your wound?"
"In the heart, Hilda, and none save you can cure it," he answered in a
low voice. The girl gave a little cry of joy.
"Conrad! Is it indeed you? Where have you come from?"
"From the castle, where for many days I have lain wounded, but now I am
well again and yearn only for you. So to-night I took one of the scaling
ropes that the Archbishop's men used, and which Count Heinrich captured,
and, watching my opportunity when the sentinel was at the other end of
the battlements, I clambered down to the foot of the wall, descended the
hill, crawled through the lines unseen, and here I am. I was free from
danger the moment I reached the village, for there are so many men
hereabout that one more or less is not noticed, and luckily I am dressed
as Treves men dress. I looked to have trouble in finding where you
lived, but every one knew of the nurse Hilda, and spoke of her good
deeds, so, not wishing to come upon you without warning, I asked the lad
to bring you to a wounded soldier. It is not so long since I was one in
reality."
"But you are not wounded now?" asked Hilda, anxiously.
"No. I am as well as ever again."
"And you have braved all this danger to see me?"
"Indeed the danger is but slight, Hilda, and I do not even see you
plainly, but perhaps you will make amends for the darkness"; saying
which the young man placed his arm about her and kissed her tenderly,
and to this demonstration there was little opposition on the part of
Hilda.
"Can you return unseen as you came?" she asked.
"With less difficulty. The archer is on guard from midnight until dawn,
and even if he detected me, he would say nothing, for we are right good
friends. We are comrades, both serving Lord Rodolph, and not the Black
Count. I shall not return before midnight."
"Oh, but I dare not remain here so long. They would search for me, and
you would be discovered."
"You will stay as long as you can, will you not, Hilda? When you are
gone I shall make my way back through the lines and wait for the coming
of the archer on the battlements, unless there is good opportunity of
mounting before then."
"I like not all these risks for my sake, Conrad."
"I am more selfish than you think. It is for my own sake that I come."
And again he proved the truth of his statement, although the girl
forbore to chide him for his levity of conduct.
"Have you seen my Lady? How is she?" asked Hilda.
"I see her but seldom, though she is well, I know."
The two were so absorbed in their converse that neither noticed
gathering round them, stealthily enclosing them, a group of a dozen men
led by an officer. They were therefore startled when the officer cried:
"Stand! Make no resistance. You are prisoner."
The men instantly closed in on Conrad and had him pinioned before he
could think of escape.
"Why do you seize him?" said Hilda to the leader, hiding her agitation
the better because of the darkness that surrounded them.
"He is a spy, gentle nurse," answered the officer in kindly tone, "and
shall be hanged as one ere morning. His story of a wound is doubtless
false. He gave the boy a coin with the effigy of the Count Heinrich on
it, and one to whom the lad showed the coin sent warning to us. If this
man can tell us how he came by such a silver piece, and can show us a
wound got in honourable service under the Archbishop, then he will save
his neck, but not otherwise. What questions did he ask you, nurse? I
heard you talking together."
"None but those I might answer with perfect safety to both Archbishops."
"Ah, nurse, you know much of healing, but little of camp life, I fear. A
question that may appear trivial to you is like to seem important to his
Lordship. We give short trials to spies, which is the rule of war
everywhere, and always must be."
"He is no spy," maintained Hilda stoutly. "If you hold him, I will go
myself to the Archbishop and claim his release. You must give me your
word that nothing shall be done until I return."
"It is better to see the captain before troubling the Archbishop with so
small a matter."
"A man's life is no small matter."
"Indeed you will find the Archbishop attaches but little importance to
it. The case will go before the captain, and it will be well for you to
see him, for he may release the man if he wishes. I must hold him
prisoner in the square tower until I am told to let him go or to hang
him."
With this the officer moved his men on, the silent prisoner in their
midst, to the square tower which stood over the centre street of the
place. Hilda followed, not knowing what to do.
"I will see the captain," said the officer, evidently desiring to
befriend her, "and I will tell you what his decision is. Then you may
perhaps be able to give him good reason why the prisoner should be
released, or the man himself may be able to prove his innocence. In that
case your intervention will not be needed."
The prisoner had been taken up the narrow stair that led to a room in
the tower above the arch that spanned the street.
"I will await you here," said Hilda. She walked up and down in the
contracted street until the officer returned.
"I am sorry to say," he began, "that the captain has gone to the
Archbishop's tent and no one knows when he will return."
"What am I to do?" cried the girl.
"It is better for you to go home, and when the captain comes I will let
you know."
"But if he insists on executing the prisoner, then am I helpless. It
will be impossible for me to see the Archbishop until morning."
"Has this man come from the castle?"
"If I answer, what use will you make of what I say?"
"I shall make no use of it, but will give you a hint."
"I trust to your word then. He did come from the castle."
"So I thought. Well, I am responsible for the spies. The captain is
responsible for the imperviousness of the line round the castle, and he
will be most loath for any one to tell the Archbishop that a man from
the castle has broken through the lines to be captured by me on the bank
of the river. If one man comes through why not all? will be the natural
thought of the Archbishop. This I dare not suggest to the captain, but
you may do so, if you find your resolution to see the Archbishop has no
effect on him."
"I thank you," said Hilda, simply.
The lieutenant took her hand and whispered:
"What am I to get besides thanks for this valuable hint?"
He tried to draw the girl towards him but she held back, and said
quietly:
"I will give you a hint for a hint. I call to your remembrance the words
of the Archbishop concerning me. The benediction of our Holy Church
protected me, he said."
The officer dropped her reluctant hand.
"I will inform you when the captain comes," he replied, turning away
from her.
It was nearly midnight when the captain returned, the girl anxiously
awaiting him. It was found, however, that her intercession was not
necessary. The Archbishop, it seemed, had given general instructions
that any one attempting to leave Thuron was to be sent back unharmed, on
giving his parole that he would not again desert the stronghold. The
shrewd prelate did not propose to help Heinrich indirectly by capturing
and executing his men, thus leaving him with fewer mouths to fill. His
object was to bring starvation to Thuron as speedily as possible, and it
was not likely he would allow either death or imprisonment to be an ally
of the Black Count. But a difficulty presented itself, for the prisoner,
undeterred by threats, obstinately refused to give his word that he
would not again attempt to break through the lines. In vain did the
captain sternly acquaint him with the invariable fate of the spy,
asserting that the clemency of the Archbishop arose through his
Lordship's noted kindness of heart; that the terms of his liberation
were simple and much more humane than any other commander in the world
would impose; nevertheless, Conrad stoutly maintained that he would
break through the lines whenever it pleased him to do so, and if they
caught him next time they were quite welcome to hang him. The captain
was nonplussed, for the prisoner asserted this with the rope actually
round his neck. The lieutenant whispered that the nurse Hilda seemed to
have wonderful influence over the man and proposed that she be called
and the case stated to her, whereupon she might persuade him to be more
reasonable, although all their threats had failed. Accordingly Hilda was
sent for, the lieutenant telling her on the way that the captain would
spare the prisoner's life if he but gave his word that he would not
again return to Alken, concealing, however, the fact that the captain
dare not execute the man.
"If I may speak with him alone," she said, "I will try to convince him
that he should give the captain his word, and I know he will keep it
once it is given, otherwise he would have promised you anything to get
free."
"Yes, the captain himself said as much, wondering why a man should so
hesitate in the face of certain death."
They found Conrad standing bound, with a loop round his neck, the rope
being threaded through an iron ring in the ceiling, while two stout
men-at-arms held the loose end ready to pull him to destruction when
their officer gave the word.
The captain, on hearing Hilda's proviso, ordered his men to withdraw,
and, following them himself with the lieutenant, left Hilda alone with
Conrad.
The subordinate officer suggested to his chief that the girl might untie
the man and thus allow him to escape, as she seemed to have much
interest in his welfare.
"Indeed," said the captain, with a shrug, "it is my devout hope that she
will do so, if he refuses to take parole, for I know not what to do with
the fool. If then you see him sneak away, in God's name let him go, and
we will search ineffectually for him when it is too late. We shall be
well rid of him."
When all had gone, Hilda said to her lover:
"You must promise, Conrad, not to come again to Alken. You run a double
risk; first from the officers here; second from your own master when you
return. Therefore give your word that you will attempt no such dangerous
task again."
"How can I do that, Hilda? I must see you, otherwise life is unbearable
to me. If I should promise I could not hold to it."
"It will be easy for us to meet, Conrad, without running such risks. I
can pass through the lines at any time unchallenged, so on mid-week
night I shall go up to the castle walls, and there we may be together
without scathe. If we are discovered and I am made prisoner in Thuron,
that will not matter. They will not harm me, and I shall then be where I
wish to be. But with you it is different; if they capture you again, it
will be impossible for me to save you, for they will believe you are a
spy. Let me then meet you under the safe walls of Thuron, for I am as
anxious to see you as you are to see me."
"It delights me to hear you say so, Hilda, but I like not the thought of
you climbing this dark hill alone."
"Pooh, that is nothing. I shall most willingly do it, and then we can
whisper to each other whatever seems of most interest, without fear of
being interrupted, the constant terror of which would haunt us in Alken.
The shadow of the frowning walls of Thuron makes an ideal lover's
trysting-place, therefore, Conrad, give the captain your promise, and
meet me under the north tower, two nights hence, at the same hour that
you sent for me in Alken."
"It seems the only thing to do. I can come down the hill to meet you, so
that you----"
"No, no. We will meet under the walls of Thuron; that is settled, and I
shall now call the captain and his men to unbind you. I suppose they
would not be pleased if I untied your cords."
The impatient captain, to his amazement, was summoned, after he had
quite made up his mind that the girl would connive at the prisoner's
escape. Conrad then, in presence of the men, gave the captain his word
that he would not again attempt to pass the lines, and that he would
inform no one in the castle of anything he might chance to have seen or
heard while he was in Alken. He was then unbound and conducted through
the lines, and set his face towards the steep and dark hill as the deep
toned bell of the castle struck the hour of midnight. Although he had
not told Hilda so, he feared treachery from the captain and his men. He
had seen the captain's hesitancy regarding his threatened execution and
wondered why that officer contented himself with the simple word of a
captured underling, for Conrad knew how little dependence was placed
even on the oath of such as he. He believed that for some reason the
captain did not wish to hang him, but intended to have him set on in the
dark and there quietly made away with. So when he had mounted a few
steps he paused and listened intently, but could detect no indication of
followers. Further up he paused again, and this time he certainly heard
some one coming with apparent caution, yet, as if unfamiliar with the
ground, the follower stumbled now and again among the vines and bushes.
Conrad hurried up the slope and paused a third time, now being sure that
he was indeed tracked, for the man behind came on with less
circumspection and prudence. As Conrad, resolving to distance his
pursuer in the race, plunged onward and upwards, he was startled by a
man springing from the bushes in front who seized him by the shoulder.
Instantly Conrad sprang upon him, making no outcry and determined that
his antagonist should make none either, for he clutched the unknown
firmly by the throat, and bore him to the earth, squeezing all
possibility of sound from his windpipe. Kneeling thus above his
unexpected foe, he tried to reach his knife, to give quietus to the
under man before his accomplice could come up with them, for in spite of
the absence of cries the two combatants made much noise thrashing about
among the vines; but now the under man, who had been so easily pushed
backwards, seemed to gather both strength and courage, fighting with
such bravery of despair that Conrad had all he could do to keep him
down, using both hands instead of one. If he was to maintain his
position on top, the knife was out of the question, so he devoted his
efforts to the strangling of the man beneath him. In the midst of this
arduous occupation, the third man arrived on the scene.