THE CASTLE OF LUTZELSTEIN.
With a mind full of chequered thoughts, I set out that evening for
the scene of my new duties, duly furnished with all the papers given
to me by the Marquis, and escorted by a party of Brissac's dragoons.
I left Schlettstadt behind, and took the way towards the wooded
Vosges.
I thought of Marie Louise, and of all that fate and fortune had so
studiously, sternly, and unremittingly raised between us as barriers,
after all the kindness, love, and adventure we had shared together;
and I vainly strove to dismiss her from my mind with a prayer that
she might be happy.
Then I thought of my home and the letters just received from
Scotland--letters by which I was free to return whenever I wearied of
war, and the service of king Louis. Then came a glow of honest pride
for the trust reposed in me, by this appointment to command a
fortress, however small, and I resolved to fulfil that trust to the
utmost.
Alas, for the vanity of human resolves! How I obeyed king Louis, and
how I fulfilled the trust of Lavalette, the sequel will show.
Lastly, I began to feel lonely in the new separation from the frank
military spirits of the Guard, with whom, as brother Scotsmen (that
endearing term) I had spent so many happy days, and with whom I had
so many kindly associations and sympathies in common. I recalled
those gallant men, whose manly forms were now mouldering in a
soldier's grave--Sir Quentin Home of Ravendean, Raynold Cheyne of
Dundargle, Sir Archibald of Heriotmuir, and Bruce of Blairhall, and
pondered sadly on who might next be missing from the ranks, when
again I saw the Garde du Corps: and so, full of thought, I rode on,
increasing by every step the distance between my countrymen and me.
With no sound near but the monotonous tramp of my French escort, we
advanced towards the mountains of the Vosges, the darkness deepening,
and the night casting its shadows over us.
The distance we had to ride, was, if I remember, only about twelve
leagues; but we were all ignorant of the country, and by unnecessary
detours, added to our journey.
We soon passed through Andiau, a little town upon the margin of a
stream which is so named, and which rolls from the Vosges laden with
the spoil of the forest. The ancient castle of the Barons of Andiau,
who held the town as a fief from the abbess of a convent there, was,
like the convent itself, garrisoned by a portion of our troops;
though this pious establishment was founded only for dames who could
show their sixteen quarters of nobility, their abbess having the
title of princess of the empire, with a seat among the Rhenish
prelates, old Sir Andrew Gray of Broxmouth, colonel of Swedish
infantry, had now quartered himself and his staff among them, and,
seated in the chair of the reverend mother, drank her wine, collected
her rents, and made himself quite at home.
A ten miles' ride took us through Bar, in a district clothed with
vineyards, and literally flowing with milk and honey; and next we
came to Maltzheim, a town of the Bishops of Strasbourg, at the foot
of the Vosges, ruined in after years by the Imperialists. Spurring
on silently and rapidly, by the pale, chill light of the waning moon,
I saw the tall grim tower of Phalsbourg, with all its memories so
exciting to me, rising on its rock; but like other strong places, it
was now garrisoned by the soldiers of Louis XIII. I could see the
turret wherein I had that deadly struggle with De Bitche; I could see
the arched gate, from which, with a desperate heart, I issued with
the Austrian sortie; the place where I had concealed myself and where
the arquebussiers fired over me; the dreadful spot where Schreckhorn
bound me to the petard, and the cliff over which, in despair, I had
flung myself into the river. At all these places I gave a dark and
furious glance, and turning my back on them, urged my escort on, and
dashed into a steep and dark defile, which led direct to the castle
of the Counts Palatine of Lutzelstein.
We soon reached the tower by a zig-zag ascent, up which our horses
wound with no little difficulty. The noise of our approach was
concealed by the roar of the cascade which thundered over a wall of
rock into the ravine below; but on our appearance at the little stone
bridge which spanned that tide of foam, we were immediately
challenged by the sentinel; a drum was beaten within, and the
garrison, which was still composed of a detachment of Ramsay's Scots,
commanded by Lieutenant Ruthven, stood to their arms; and after due
inquiries and explanations, the gates were opened, and about sunrise,
I found myself duly installed Governor of Lutzelstein; and seated at
table in the hall, discussing with Ruthven a breakfast of hot coffee,
with pickled carp from the Rhine, with ham, eggs, and schnaps.
The Lieutenant, Francis Ruthven of the house of Redcastle, was an
active and brave young officer, nephew of the Marshal Earl of Forth,
and in after years colonel in the Dutch service, and Governor of
Monell. He proved a very pleasant companion, and seemed glad of my
arrival to relieve the monotony of his command in that lonely castle,
among those wood-covered mountains that form the great barrier
between France and the Empire, and which are usually capped with snow
during half the year.
There a month stole tediously away, and save an occasional alarm,
which gave me some anxiety, and beat us up in our shirts in the
night, I had nothing to disturb the somewhat moody current of my
thoughts, and I fear that my companion the lieutenant must have
deemed me a very dull fellow, to be one of Gordon's cuirassiers.
'You have an estate,' said he to me, one day, 'while I have nought in
this world but my sword; yet I am a jollier fellow than thee--how is
this?'
'I know not,' said I, briefly.
'I am somewhat of a philosopher,' said he, smoothing his fine black
moustache, 'and at college learned to deem a rich man in some
respects a greater slave than a poor one.'
'How?'
'Was not Seneca right, when he termed a great wealth a great
servitude?'
'Perhaps; yet believe me,' said I, with a smile, 'it is not the load
of wealth that oppresses me.'
Lutzelstein was the scene of one of De Bitche's greatest
atrocities--the abduction of its widowed countess. It was a true old
German castle, the abode of gloom and superstition; moreover, it was,
I know not how, associated with the memory of fair Agnes Sorel, the
Lady of Beauty, the hapless mistress of Charles of France; and on the
wall of the room I occupied hung a tapestry said to be worked by her,
and which represented one of those most authentic scenes which enrich
the ancient history of France, to wit--King Pepin la Bref laying at
the feet of his queen, Bertha the giantess, the head of a lion, which
he had cut off by one blow of his sword, and with the ears of which a
chubby brat, supposed to represent the future Charlemagne, was
playing.