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The Strong Arm

by Robert Barr · English · Gutenberg #8716 · 557,530 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Strong Arm

Author: Robert Barr


        
Release date: August 1, 2005 [eBook #8716]
                Most recently updated: October 31, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8716

Credits: Text file produced by Lee Dawei, David Moynihan, Michelle Shephard,
        Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
        
        HTML file produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STRONG ARM ***




Produced by Lee Dawei, David Moynihan, Michelle Shephard,
Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team








THE STRONG ARM

By Robert Barr




CONTENTS


Chapter   I. THE BEAUTIFUL JAILER OF GUDENFELS
         II. THE REVENGE OF THE OUTLAW
        III. A CITY OF FEAR
         IV. THE PERIL OF THE EMPEROR
          V. THE NEEDLE DAGGER
         VI. THE HOLY FEHM


THE COUNT’S APOLOGY
CONVERTED
AN INVITATION
THE ARCHBISHOP’S GIFT
COUNT KONRAD’S COURTSHIP
THE LONG LADDER
“GENTLEMEN: THE KING!”
 THE HOUR-GLASS
THE WARRIOR MAID OF SAN CARLOS
THE AMBASSADOR’S PIGEONS




CHAPTER I

THE BEAUTIFUL JAILER OF GUDENFELS


The aged Emir Soldan sat in his tent and smiled; the crafty Oriental
smile of an experienced man, deeply grounded in the wisdom of this
world. He knew that there was incipient rebellion in his camp; that the
young commanders under him thought their leader was becoming too old
for the fray; caution overmastering courage. Here were these dogs of
unbelievers setting their unhallowed feet on the sacred soil of Syria,
and the Emir, instead of dashing against them, counselled coolness and
prudence. Therefore impatience disintegrated the camp and resentment
threatened discipline. When at last the murmurs could be no longer
ignored the Emir gathered his impetuous young men together in his tent,
and thus addressed them.

“It may well be that I am growing too old for the active field; it may
be that, having met before this German boar who leads his herd of swine,
I am fearful of risking my remnant of life against him, but I have ever
been an indulgent general, and am now loath to let my inaction stand
against your chance of distinction. Go you therefore forth against him,
and the man who brings me this boar’s head shall not lack his reward.”

The young men loudly cheered this decision and brandished their weapons
aloft, while the old man smiled upon them and added:

“When you are bringing confusion to the camp of the unbelievers, I shall
remain in my tent and meditate on the sayings of the Prophet, praying
him to keep you a good spear’s length from the German’s broad sword,
which he is the habit of wielding with his two hands.”

The young Saracens went forth with much shouting, a gay prancing of
the horses underneath them and a marvellous flourishing of spears above
them, but they learned more wisdom in their half hour’s communion with
the German than the Emir, in a long life of counselling, had been able
to bestow upon them. The two-handed sword they now met for the first
time, and the acquaintance brought little joy to them. Count Herbert,
the leader of the invaders, did no shouting, but reserved his breath for
other purposes. He spurred his horse among them, and his foes went
down around him as a thicket melts away before the well-swung axe of a
stalwart woodman. The Saracens had little fear of death, but mutilation
was another thing, for they knew that they would spend eternity in
Paradise, shaped as they had left this earth, and while a spear’s thrust
or a wound from an arrow, or even the gash left by a short sword may
be concealed by celestial robes, how is a man to comport himself in the
Land of the Blest who is compelled to carry his head under his arm, or
who is split from crown to midriff by an outlandish weapon that
falls irresistible as the wrath of Allah! Again and again they threw
themselves with disastrous bravery against the invading horde, and after
each encounter they came back with lessened ranks and a more chastened
spirit than when they had set forth. When at last, another counsel of
war was held, the young men kept silence and waited for the smiling Emir
to speak.

“If you are satisfied that there are other things to think of in war
than the giving and taking of blows I am prepared to meet this German,
not on his own terms but on my own. Perhaps, however, you wish to try
conclusions with him again?”

The deep silence which followed this inquiry seemed to indicate that
no such desire animated the Emir’s listeners, and the old man smiled
benignly upon his audience and went on.

“There must be no more disputing of my authority, either expressed or
by implication. I am now prepared to go forth against him taking with me
forty lancers.”

Instantly there was a protest against this; the number was inadequate,
they said.

“In his fortieth year our Prophet came to a momentous decision,”
 continued the Emir, unheeding the interruption, “and I take a spear with
me for every year of the Prophet’s life, trusting that Allah will add to
our number, at the prophet’s intervention, should such an augmentation
prove necessary. Get together then the forty _oldest_ men under my
command. Let them cumber themselves with nothing in the way of offence
except one tall spear each, and see that every man is provided with
water and dates for twenty days’ sustenance of horse and man in the
desert.”

The Emir smiled as he placed special emphasis on the word “oldest,” and
the young men departed abashed to obey his orders.

Next morning Count Herbert von Schonburg saw near his camp by the
water-holes a small group of horsemen standing motionless in the desert,
their lances erect, butt downward, resting on the sand, the little
company looking like an oasis of leafless poplars. The Count was
instantly astride his Arab charger, at the head of his men, ready to
meet whatever came, but on this occasion the enemy made no effort to
bring on a battle, but remained silent and stationary, differing greatly
from the hordes that had preceded it.

“Well,” cried the impatient Count, “if Mahomet will not come to the
mountain, the mountain for once will oblige him.”

He gave the word to charge, and put spurs to his horse, causing instant
animation in the band of Saracens, who fled before him as rapidly as the
Germans advanced. It is needless to dwell on the project of the Emir,
who simply followed the example of the desert mirages he had so often
witnessed in wonder. Never did the Germans come within touch of their
foes, always visible, but not to be overtaken. When at last Count
Herbert was convinced that his horses were no match for the fleet steeds
of his opponents he discovered that he and his band were hopelessly lost
in the arid and pathless desert, the spears of the seemingly phantom
host ever quivering before him in the tremulous heated air against the
cloudless horizon. Now all his energies were bent toward finding the way
that led to the camp by the water-holes, but sense of locality seemed to
have left him, and the ghostly company which hung so persistently on his
flanks gave no indication of direction, but merely followed as before
they had fled. One by one the Count’s soldiers succumbed, and when at
last the forty spears hedged him round the Emir approached a prisoner
incapable of action. The useless sword which hung from his saddle was
taken, and water was given to the exhausted man and his dying horse.

When the Emir Soldan and his forty followers rode into camp with their
prisoner there was a jubilant outcry, and the demand was made that the
foreign dog be instantly decapitated, but the Emir smiled and, holding
up his hand, said soothingly:

“Softly, softly, true followers of the only Prophet. Those who neglected
to remove his head while his good sword guarded it, shall not now
possess themselves of it, when that sword is in my hands.”

And against this there could be no protest, for the prisoner belonged to
the Emir alone, and was to be dealt with as the captor ordained.

When the Count had recovered speech, and was able to hold himself as a
man should, the Emir summoned him, and they had a conference together in
Soldan’s tent.

“Western barbarian,” said the Emir, speaking in that common tongue made
up of languages Asiatic and European, a strange mixture by means of
which invaders and invaded communicated with each other, “who are you
and from what benighted land do you come?”

“I am Count Herbert von Schonburg. My castle overlooks the Rhine in
Germany.”

“What is the Rhine? A province of which you are the ruler?”

“No, your Highness, it is a river; a lordly stream that never
diminishes, but flows unceasingly between green vine-clad hills; would
that I had some of the vintage therefore to cheer me in my captivity and
remove the taste of this brackish water!”

“In the name of the Prophet, then, why did you leave it?”

“Indeed, your Highness, I have often asked myself that question of late
and found but insufficient answer.”

“If I give you back your sword, which not I, but the demon Thirst
captured from you, will you pledge me your word that you will draw it no
more against those of my faith, but will return to your own land, safe
escort being afforded you to the great sea where you can take ship?”

“As I have fought for ten years, and have come no nearer Jerusalem than
where I now stand, I am content to give you my word in exchange for my
sword, and the escort you promise.”

And thus it came about that Count Herbert von Schonburg, although still
a young man, relinquished all thought of conquering the Holy Land, and
found himself one evening, after a long march, gazing on the placid
bosom of the broad Rhine, which he had not seen since he bade good-bye
to it, a boy of twenty-one, then as warlike and ambitious, as now, he
was peace loving and tired of strife. The very air of the Rhine valley
breathed rest and quiet, and Herbert, with a deep sigh, welcomed the
thought of a life passed in comforting uneventfulness.

“Conrad,” he said to his one follower, “I will encamp here for the
night. Ride on down the Rhine, I beg of you, and cross the river where
you may, that you may announce my coming some time before I arrive. My
father is an old man, and I am the last of the race, so I do not wish to
come unexpectedly on him; therefore break to him with caution the fact
that I am in the neighbourhood, for hearing nothing from me all these
years it is like to happen he believes me dead.”

Conrad rode down the path by the river and disappeared while his master,
after seeing to the welfare of his horse, threw himself down in a
thicket and slept the untroubled sleep of the seasoned soldier. It was
daylight when he was awakened by the tramp of horses. Starting to his
feet, he was confronted by a grizzled warrior with half a dozen men at
his back, and at first the Count thought himself again a prisoner, but
the friendliness of the officer soon set all doubts at rest.

“Are you Count Herbert von Schonburg?” asked the intruder.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“I am Richart, custodian of Castle Gudenfels, and commander of the small
forces possessed by her Ladyship, Countess von Falkenstein. I have to
acquaint you with the fact that your servant and messenger has been
captured. Your castle of Schonburg is besieged, and Conrad, unaware,
rode straight into custody. This coming to the ears of my lady the
Countess, she directed me to intercept you if possible, so that
you might not share the fate of your servant, and offer to you the
hospitality of Gudenfels Castle until such time as you had determined
what to do in relation to the siege of your own.”

“I give my warmest thanks to the Countess for her thoughtfulness. Is her
husband the Count then dead?”

“It is the young Countess von Falkenstein whose orders I carry. Her
father and mother are both dead, and her Ladyship, their only child, now
holds Gudenfels.”

“What, that little girl? She was but a child when I left the Rhine.”

“Her Ladyship is a woman of nineteen now.”

“And how long has my father been besieged?”

“Alas! it grieves me to state that your father, Count von Schonburg, has
also passed away. He has been dead these two years.”

The young man bowed his head and crossed himself. For a long time he
rode in silence, meditating upon this unwelcome intelligence, grieved to
think that such a desolate home-coming awaited him.

“Who, then, holds my castle against the besiegers?”

“The custodian Heinrich has stubbornly stood siege since the Count, your
father, died, saying he carries out the orders of his lord until the
return of the son.”

“Ah! if Heinrich is in command then is the castle safe,” cried the young
man, with enthusiasm. “He is a born warrior and first taught me the use
of the broad-sword. Who besieges us? The Archbishop of Mayence? He was
ever a turbulent prelate and held spite against our house.”

Richart shifted uneasily in his saddle, and for the moment did not
answer. Then he said, with hesitation:

“I think the Archbishop regards the siege with favour, but I know
little of the matter. My Lady, the Countess, will possess you with full
information.”

Count Herbert looked with astonishment upon the custodian of Castle
Gudenfels. Here was a contest going on at his very doors, even if on
the opposite side of the river, and yet a veteran knew nothing of the
contest. But they were now at the frowning gates of Castle Gudenfels,
with its lofty square pinnacled tower, and the curiosity of the young
Count was dimmed by the admiration he felt for this great stronghold
as he gazed upward at it. An instant later he with his escort passed
through the gateway and stood in the courtyard of the castle. When he
had dismounted the Count said to Richart:

“I have travelled far, and am not in fit state to be presented to a
lady. Indeed, now that I am here, I dread the meeting. I have seen
nothing of women for ten years, and knew little of them before I left
the Rhine. Take me, I beg of you, to a room where I may make some
preparation other than the camp has heretofore afforded, and bring me,
if you can, a few garments with which to replenish this faded, torn and
dusty apparel.”

“My Lord, you will find everything you wish in the rooms allotted to
you. Surmising your needs, I gave orders to that effect before I left
the castle.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Richart, and I shall not forget it.”

The Custodian without replying led his guest up one stair and then
another. The two traversed a long passage until they came to an open
door. Richart standing aside, bowed low, and entreated his lordship to
enter. Count Herbert passed into a large room from which a doorway
led into a smaller apartment which the young man saw was fitted as a
bedroom. The rooms hung high over the Rhine, but the view of the river
was impeded by the numerous heavy iron bars which formed a formidable
lattice-work before the windows. The Count was about to thank his
conductor for providing so sumptuously for him, but, turning, he was
amazed to see Richart outside with breathless eagerness draw shut the
strong door that led to the passage from which he had entered, and a
moment later, Herbert heard the ominous sound of stout bolts being shot
into their sockets. He stood for a moment gazing blankly now at the
bolted door, now at the barred window, and then slowly there came to him
the knowledge which would have enlightened a more suspicious man long
before--that he was a prisoner in the grim fortress of Gudenfels.
Casting his mind backward over the events of the morning, he now saw a
dozen sinister warnings that had heretofore escaped him. If a friendly
invitation had been intended, what need of the numerous guard of armed
men sent to escort him? Why had Richart hesitated when certain questions
were asked him? Count Herbert paced up and down the long room, reviewing
with clouded brow the events of the past few hours, beginning with the
glorious freedom of the open hillside in the early dawn and ending with
these impregnable stone walls that now environed him. He was a man slow
to anger, but resentment once aroused, burned in his heart with a steady
fervour that was unquenchable. He stopped at last in his aimless pacing,
raised his clinched fist toward the timbered ceiling, and cursed the
Countess von Falkenstein. In his striding to and fro the silence had
been broken by the clank of his sword on the stone floor, and he now
smiled grimly as he realised that they had not dared to deprive him of
his formidable weapon; they had caged the lion from the distant desert
without having had the courage to clip his claws. The Count drew his
broadsword and swung it hissing through the air, measuring its reach
with reference to the walls on either hand, then, satisfying himself
that he had free play, he took up a position before the door and stood
there motionless as the statue of a war-god. “Now, by the Cross I fought
for,” he muttered to himself, “the first man who sets foot across this
threshold enters the chamber of death.”

He remained thus, leaning with folded arms on the hilt of his long
sword, whose point rested on the flags of the floor, and at last his
patience was rewarded. He heard the rattle of the bolts outside, and a
tense eagerness thrilled his stalwart frame. The door came cautiously
inward for a space of perhaps two feet and was then brought to a stand
by the tightening links of a stout chain, fastened one end to the door,
the other to the outer wall. Through the space that thus gave a view of
the wide outer passage the Count saw Richart stand with pale face, well
back at a safe distance in the centre of the hall. Two men-at-arms held
a position behind their master.

“My Lord,” began Richart in trembling voice, “her Ladyship, the
Countess, desires----”

“Open the door, you cringing Judas!” interrupted the stern command of
the count; “open the door and set me as free as your villainy found me.
I hold no parley with a traitor.”

“My Lord, I implore you to listen. No harm is intended you, and my Lady,
the Countess, asks of you a conference touching----”

The heavy sword swung in the air and came down upon the chain with a
force that made the stout oaken door shudder. Scattering sparks cast a
momentary glow of red on the whitened cheeks of the startled onlookers.
The edge of the sword clove the upper circumference of an iron link,
leaving the severed ends gleaming like burnished silver, but the chain
still held. Again and again the sword fell, but never twice in the same
spot, anger adding strength to the blows, but subtracting skill.

“My Lord! my Lord!” beseeched Richart, “restrain your fury. You cannot
escape from this strong castle even though you sever the chain.”

“I’ll trust my sword for that,” muttered the prisoner between his set
teeth.

There now rang out on the conflict a new voice; the voice of a woman,
clear and commanding, the tones instinct with that inborn quality of
imperious authority which expects and usually obtains instant obedience.

“Close the door, Richart,” cried the unseen lady. The servitor made a
motion to obey, but the swoop of the sword seemed to paralyse him where
he stood. He cast a beseeching look at his mistress, which said as
plainly as words: “You are ordering me to my death.” The Count, his
weapon high in mid-air, suddenly swerved it from its course, for there
appeared across the opening a woman’s hand and arm, white and shapely,
fleecy lace falling away in dainty folds from the rounded contour of the
arm. The small, firm hand grasped bravely the almost severed chain and
the next instant the door was drawn shut, the bolts clanking into their
places. Count Herbert, paused, leaning on his sword, gazing bewildered
at the closed door.

“Ye gods of war!” he cried; “never have I seen before such cool courage
as that!”

For a long time the Count walked up and down the spacious room, stopping
now and then at the window to peer through the iron grille at the rapid
current of the river far below, the noble stream as typical of freedom
as were the bars that crossed his vision, of captivity. It seemed that
the authorities of the castle had abandoned all thought of further
communication with their truculent prisoner. Finally he entered the
inner room and flung himself down, booted and spurred as he was, upon
the couch, and, his sword for a bedmate, slept. The day was far spent
when he awoke, and his first sensation was that of gnawing hunger,
for he was a healthy man. His next, that he had heard in his sleep
the cautious drawing of bolts, as if his enemies purposed to project
themselves surreptitiously in upon him, taking him at a disadvantage.
He sat upright, his sword ready for action, and listened intently. The
silence was profound, and as the Count sat breathless, the stillness
seemed to be emphasised rather than disturbed by a long-drawn sigh which
sent a thrill of superstitious fear through the stalwart frame of the
young man, for he well knew that the Rhine was infested with spirits
animated by evil intentions toward human beings, and against such
spirits his sword was but as a willow wand. He remembered with renewed
awe that this castle stood only a few leagues above the Lurlei rocks
where a nymph of unearthly beauty lured men to their destruction, and
the knight crossed himself as a protection against all such. Gathering
courage from this devout act, and abandoning his useless weapon, he
tiptoed to the door that led to the larger apartment, and there found
his worst anticipations realised. With her back against the closed outer
door stood a Siren of the Rhine, and, as if to show how futile is the
support of the Evil One in a crisis, her very lips were pallid with fear
and her blue eyes were wide with apprehension, as they met those of the
Count von Schonburg. Her hair, the colour of ripe yellow wheat, rose
from her smooth white forehead and descended in a thick braid that
almost reached to the floor. She was dressed in the humble garb of a
serving maiden, the square bit of lace on her crown of fair hair and the
apron she wore, as spotless as new fallen snow. In her hand she held
a tray which supported a loaf of bread and a huge flagon brimming with
wine. On seeing the Count, her quick breathing stopped for the moment
and she dropped a low courtesy.

“My Lord,” she said, but there came a catch in her throat, and she could
speak no further.

Seeing that he had to deal with no spirit, but with an inhabitant of the
world he knew and did not fear, there arose a strange exultation in the
heart of the Count as he looked upon this fair representative of his own
country. For ten years he had seen no woman, and now a sudden sense of
what he had lost overwhelmed him, his own breath coming quicker as the
realisation of this impressed itself upon him. He strode rapidly toward
her, and she seemed to shrink into the wall at his approach, wild fear
springing into her eyes, but he merely took the laden tray from her
trembling hands and placed it upon a bench. Then raising the flagon to
his lips, he drank a full half of its contents before withdrawing it. A
deep sigh of satisfaction followed, and he said, somewhat shamefacedly:

“Forgive my hurried greed, maiden, but the thirst of the desert seems to
be in my throat, and the good wine reminds me that I am a German.”

“It was brought for your use,” replied the girl, demurely, “and I am
gratified that it meets your commendation, my Lord.”

“And so also do you, my girl. What is your name and who are you?”

“I am called Beatrix, my Lord, a serving-maid of this castle, the
daughter of the woodman Wilhelm, and, alas! that it should be so, for
the present your jailer.”

“If I quarrelled as little with my detention, as I see I am like to do
with my keeper, I fear captivity would hold me long in thrall. Are the
men in the castle such cravens then that they bestow so unwelcome a task
upon a woman?”

“The men are no cravens, my Lord, but this castle is at war with yours,
and for each man there is a post. A woman would be less missed if so
brave a warrior as Count von Schonburg thought fit to war upon us.”

“But a woman makes war upon me, Beatrix. What am I to do? Surrender
humbly?”

“Brave men have done so before now and will again, my Lord, where women
are concerned. At least,” added Beatrix, blushing and casting down her
eyes, “I have been so informed.”

“And small blame to them,” cried the count, with enthusiasm. “I swear to
you, my girl, that if women warriors were like the woodman’s daughter, I
would cast away all arms except these with which to enclasp her.”

And he stretched out his hands, taking a step nearer, while she shrank
in alarm from him.

“My Lord, I am but an humble messenger, and I beg of you to listen to
what I am asked to say. My Lady, the Countess, has commissioned me to
tell you that--”

A startling malediction of the Countess that accorded ill with the
scarlet cross emblazoned on the young man’s breast, interrupted the
girl.

“I hold no traffic with the Countess,” he cried. “She has treacherously
laid me by the heels, coming as I did from battling for the Cross that
she doubtless professes to regard as sacred.”

“It was because she feared you, my Lord. These years back tales of your
valour in the Holy Land have come to the Rhine, and now you return to
find your house at war with hers. What was she to do? The chances stood
even with only your underling in command; judge then what her fate must
be with your strong sword thrown in the balance against her. All’s fair
in war, said those who counselled her. What would you have done in such
an extremity, my Lord?”

“What would I have done? I would have met my enemy sword in hand and
talked with him or fought with him as best suited his inclination.”

“But a lady cannot meet you, sword in hand, my Lord.”

The Count paused in the walk he had begun when the injustice of his
usage impressed itself once more upon him. He looked admiringly at the
girl.

“That is most true, Beatrix. I had forgotten. Still, I should not have
been met with cozenry. Here came I from starvation in the wilderness,
thirst in the desert, and from the stress of the battle-field, back to
mine own land with my heart full of yearning love for it and for all
within its boundaries. I came even from prison, captured in fair fight,
by an untaught heathen, whose men lay slain by my hand, yet with the
nobility of a true warrior, he asked neither ransom nor hostage, but
handed back my sword, saying, ‘Go in peace.’ That in a heathen land!
but no sooner does my foot rest on this Christian soil than I am met by
false smiles and lying tongues, and my welcome to a neighbour’s house is
the clank of the inthrust bolt.”

“Oh, it was a shameful act and not to be defended,” cried the girl, with
moist eyes and quivering lip, the sympathetic reverberation of her voice
again arresting the impatient steps of the young man, causing him to
pause and view her with a feeling that he could not understand, and
which he found some difficulty in controlling. Suddenly all desire for
restraint left him, he sprang forward, clasped the girl in his arms
and drew her into the middle of the room, where she could not give the
signal that might open the door.

“My Lord! my Lord!” she cried in terror, struggling without avail to
free herself.

“You said all’s fair in war and saying so, gave but half the proverb,
which adds, all’s fair in love as well, and maiden, nymph of the
woodland, so rapidly does a man learn that which he has never been
taught, I proclaim with confidence that I love thee.”

“A diffident and gentle lover you prove yourself!” she gasped with
rising indignation, holding him from her.

“Indeed, my girl, there was little of diffidence or gentleness in my
warring, and my wooing is like to have a touch of the same quality. It
is useless to struggle for I have thee firm, so take to yourself some of
that gentleness you recommend to me.”

He strove to kiss her, but Beatrix held her head far from him, her open
palm pressed against the red cross that glowed upon his breast, keeping
him thus at arm’s length.

“Count von Schonburg, what is the treachery of any other compared with
yours? You came heedlessly into this castle, suspecting as you say, no
danger: I came within this room to do you service, knowing my peril, but
trusting to the honour of a true soldier of the Cross, and this is
my reward! First tear from your breast this sacred emblem, valorous
assaulter of a defenceless woman, for it should be worn by none but
stainless gentlemen.”

Count Herbert’s arms relaxed, and his hands dropped listless to his
sides.

“By my sword,” he said, “they taught you invective in the forest. You
are free. Go.”

The girl made no motion to profit by her newly acquired liberty, but
stood there, glancing sideways at him who scowled menacingly at her.

When at last she spoke, she said, shyly: “I have not yet fulfilled my
mission.”

“Fulfil it then in the fiend’s name and begone.”

“Will you consent to see my Lady the Countess?”

“No.”

“Will you promise not to make war upon her if you are released?”

“No.”

“If, in spite of your boorishness, she sets you free, what will you do?”

“I will rally my followers to my banner, scatter the forces that
surround my castle, then demolish this prison trap.”

“Am I in truth to carry such answers to the Countess?”

“You are to do as best pleases you, now and forever.”

“I am but a simple serving-maid, and know nothing of high questions
of state, yet it seems to me such replies do not oil prison bolts, and
believe me, I grieve to see you thus detained.”

“I am grateful for your consideration. Is your embassy completed?”

The girl, her eyes on the stone floor, paused long before replying, then
said, giving no warning of a change of subject, and still not raising
her eyes to his:

“You took me by surprise; I am not used to being handled roughly; you
forget the distance between your station and mine, you being a noble
of the Empire, and I but a serving-maid; if, in my anger, I spoke in a
manner unbecoming one so humble, I do beseech that your Lordship pardon
me.”

“Now by the Cross to which you appealed, how long will you stand
chattering there? Think you I am made of adamant, and not of flesh and
blood? My garments are tattered at best, I would in woman’s company they
were finer, and this cross of Genoa red hangs to my tunic, but by a few
frail threads. Beware, therefore, that I tear it not from my breast as
you advised, and cast it from me.”

Beatrix lifted one frightened glance to the young man’s face and saw
standing on his brow great drops of sweat. His right hand grasped the
upper portion of the velvet cross, partly detached from his doublet, and
he looked loweringly upon her. Swiftly she smote the door twice with her
hand and instantly the portal opened as far as the chain would allow it.
Count Herbert noticed that in the interval, three other chains had been
added to the one that formerly had baffled his sword. The girl, like
a woodland pigeon, darted underneath the lower chain, and although the
prisoner took a rapid step forward, the door, with greater speed, closed
and was bolted.

The Count had requested the girl to be gone, and surely should have been
contented now that she had withdrawn herself, yet so shifty a thing is
human nature, that no sooner were his commands obeyed than he began
to bewail their fulfilment. He accused himself of being a double fool,
first, for not holding her when he had her; and secondly, having allowed
her to depart, he bemoaned the fact that he had acted rudely to her,
and thus had probably made her return impossible. His prison seemed
inexpressibly dreary lacking her presence. Once or twice he called out
her name, but the echoing empty walls alone replied.

For the first time in his life the heavy sleep of the camp deserted him,
and in his dreams he pursued a phantom woman, who continually dissolved
in his grasp, now laughingly, now in anger.

The morning found him deeply depressed, and he thought the unaccustomed
restraints of a prison were having their effect on the spirits of a man
heretofore free. He sat silently on the bench watching the door.

At last, to his great joy, he heard the rattle of bolts being withdrawn.
The door opened slowly to the small extent allowed by the chains, but no
one entered and the Count sat still, concealed from the view of whoever
stood without.

“My Lord Count,” came the sweet tones of the girl and the listener with
joy, fancied he detected in it a suggestion of apprehension, doubtless
caused by the fact that the room seemed deserted. “My Lord Count, I have
brought your breakfast; will you not come and receive it?”

Herbert rose slowly and came within range of his jailer’s vision. The
girl stood in the hall, a repast that would have tempted an epicure
arrayed on the wooden trencher she held in her hands.

“Beatrix, come in,” he said.

“I fear that in stooping, some portion of this burden may fall. Will you
not take the trencher?”

The young man stepped to the opening and, taking the tray from her,
placed it on the bench as he had previously done; then repeated his
invitation.

“You were displeased with my company before, my Lord, and I am loath
again to offend.”

“Beatrix, I beg you to enter. I have something to say to you.”

“Stout chains bar not words, my Lord. Speak and I shall listen.”

“What I have to say, is for your ear alone.”

“Then are the conditions perfect for such converse, my Lord. No guard
stands within this hall.”

The Count sighed deeply, turned and sat again on the bench, burying his
face in his hands. The maiden having given excellent reasons why she
should not enter, thus satisfying her sense of logic, now set logic at
defiance, slipped under the lowest chain and stood within the room,
and, so that there might be no accusation that she did things by halves,
closed the door leaning her back against it. The knight looked up at her
and saw that she too had rested but indifferently. Her lovely eyes half
veiled, showed traces of weeping, and there was a wistful expression
in her face that touched him tenderly, and made him long for her;
nevertheless he kept a rigid government upon himself, and sat there
regarding her, she flushing, slightly under his scrutiny, not daring to
return his ardent gaze.

“Beatrix,” he said slowly, “I have acted towards you like a boor and
a ruffian, as indeed I am; but let this plead for me, that I have ever
been used to the roughness of the camp, bereft of gentler influences. I
ask your forgiveness.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You are a noble of the Empire, and I but a
lowly serving-maid.”

“Nay, that cuts me to the heart, and is my bitterest condemnation.
A true man were courteous to high and low alike. Now, indeed, you
overwhelm me with shame, maiden of the woodlands.”

“Such was not my intention, my Lord. I hold you truly noble in nature as
well as in rank, otherwise I stood not here.”

“Beatrix, does any woodlander come from the forest to the castle walls
and there give signal intended for you alone?”

“Oh, no, my Lord.”

“Perhaps you have kindly preference for some one within this
stronghold?”

“You forget, my Lord, that the castle is ruled by a lady, and that the
preference you indicate would accord ill with her womanly government.”

“In truth I know little of woman’s rule, but given such, I suppose
the case would stand as you say. The Countess then frowns upon lovers’
meetings.”

“How could it be otherwise?”

“Have you told her of--of yesterday?”

“You mean of your refusal to come to terms with her? Yes, my Lord.”

“I mean nothing of the kind, Beatrix.”

“No one outside this room has been told aught to your disadvantage, my
Lord,” said the girl blushing rose-red.

“Then she suspects nothing?”

“Suspects nothing of what, my Lord?”

“That I love you, Beatrix.”

The girl caught her breath, and seemed about to fly, but gathering
courage, remained, and said speaking hurriedly and in some confusion:
“As I did not suspect it myself I see not how my Lady should have made
any such surmise, but indeed it may be so, for she chided me bitterly
for remaining so long with you, and made me weep with her keen censure;
yet am I here now against her express wish and command, but that is
because of my strong sympathy for you and my belief that the Countess
has wrongfully treated you.”

“I care nothing for the opinion of that harridan, except that it may
bring harsh usage to you; but Beatrix, I have told you bluntly of my
love for you, answer me as honestly.”

“My Lord, you spoke just now of a woodlander--”

“Ah, there is one then. Indeed, I feared as much, for there can be none
on all the Rhine as beautiful or as good as you.”

“There are many woodlanders, my Lord, and many women more beautiful than
I. What I was about to say was that I would rather be the wife of the
poorest forester, and lived in the roughest hut on the hillside, than
dwell otherwise in the grandest castle on the Rhine.”

“Surely, surely. But you shall dwell in my castle of Schonburg as my
most honoured wife, if you but will it so.”

“Then, my Lord, I must bid you beware of what you propose. Your wife
must be chosen from the highest in the land, and not from the lowliest.
It is not fitting that you should endeavour to raise a serving-maid to
the position of Countess von Schonburg. You would lose caste among your
equals, and bring unhappiness upon us both.”

Count Herbert grasped his sword and lifting it, cried angrily: “By the
Cross I serve, the man who refuses to greet my wife as he would greet
the Empress, shall feel the weight of this blade.”

“You cannot kill a whisper with a sword, my Lord.”

“I can kill the whisperer.”

“That can you not, my Lord, for the whisperer will be a woman.”

“Then out upon them, we will have no traffic with them. I have lived too
long away from the petty restrictions of civilisation to be bound down
by them now, for I come from a region where a man’s sword and not his
rank preserved his life.” As he spoke he again raised his huge weapon
aloft, but now held it by the blade so that it stood out against the
bright window like a black cross of iron, and his voice rang forth
defiantly: “With that blade I won my honour; by the symbol of its hilt I
hope to obtain my soul’s salvation, on both united I swear to be to you
a true lover and a loyal husband.”

With swift motion the girl covered her face with her hands and Herbert
saw the crystal drops trickle between her fingers. For long she could
not speak and then mastering her emotion, she said brokenly:

“I cannot accept, I cannot now accept. I can take no advantage of a
helpless prisoner. At midnight I shall come and set you free, thus my
act may atone for the great wrong of your imprisonment; atone partially
if not wholly. When you are at liberty, if you wish to forget your
words, which I can never do, then am I amply repaid that my poor
presence called them forth. If you remember them, and demand of the
Countess that I stand as hostage for peace, she is scarce likely to deny
you, for she loves not war. But know that nothing you have said is to be
held against you, for I would have you leave this castle as free as when
you entered it. And now, my Lord, farewell.”

Before the unready man could make motion to prevent her, she had opened
the door and was gone, leaving it open, thus compelling the prisoner
to be his own jailer and close it, for he had no wish now to leave the
castle alone when he had been promised such guidance.

The night seemed to Count Herbert the longest he had ever spent, as he
sat on the bench, listening for the withdrawing of the bolts; if indeed
they were in their sockets, which he doubted. At last the door was
pushed softly open, and bending under the chain, he stood in the outside
hall, peering through the darkness, to catch sight of his conductor. A
great window of stained glass occupied the southern end of the hall,
and against it fell the rays of the full moon now high in the heavens,
filling the dim and lofty apartment with a coloured radiance resembling
his visions of the half tones of fairyland. Like a shadow stood the
cloaked figure of the girl, who timidly placed her small hand in his
great palm, and that touch gave a thrill of reality to the mysticism
of the time and the place. He grasped it closely, fearing it might
fade away from him as it had done in his dream. She led him silently by
another way from that by which he had entered, and together they passed
through a small doorway that communicated with a narrow circular stair
which wound round and round downwards until they came to another door at
the bottom, which let them out in the moonlight at the foot of a turret.

“Beatrix,” whispered the young man, “I am not going to demand you of the
Countess. I shall not be indebted to her for my wife. You must come with
me now.”

“No, no,” cried the girl shrinking from him, “I cannot go with you thus
surreptitiously, and no one but you and me must ever learn that I led
you from the castle. You shall come for me as a lord should for his
lady, as if he thought her worthy of him.”

“Indeed, that do I. Worthy? It is I who am unworthy, but made more
worthy I hope in that you care for me.”

From where they stood the knight saw the moonlight fall on his own
castle of Schonburg, the rays seeming to transform the grey stone into
the whitest of marble, the four towers standing outlined against the
blue of the cloudless sky. The silver river of romance, flowed silently
at its feet reflecting again the snowy purity of the reality in an
inverted quivering watery vision. All the young man’s affection for the
home he had not seen for years seemed to blend with his love for the
girl standing there in the moonlight. Gently he drew her to him, and
kissed her unresisting lips.

“Woodland maiden,” he said tenderly, “here at the edge of the forest is
your rightful home and not in this grim castle, and here will I woo thee
again, being now a free man.”

“Indeed,” said the girl with a laugh in which a sob and a sigh
intermingled, “it is but scanty freedom I have brought to you; an
exchange of silken fetters for iron chains.”

His arms still around her, he unloosed the ribbon that held in thrall
the thick braid of golden hair, and parting the clustering strands
speedily encompassed her in a cloak of misty fragrance that seemed as
unsubstantial as the moonlight that glittered through its meshes. He
stood back the better to admire the picture he seemed to have created.

“My darling,” he cried, “you are no woodland woman, but the very spirit
of the forest herself. You are so beautiful, I dare not leave you here
to the mercies of this demon, who, finding me gone, may revenge herself
on you. If before she dared to censure you, what may she not do now that
you have set me free? Curse her that she stands for a moment between my
love and me.”

He raised his clenched fist and shook it at the tower above him, and
seemed about to break forth in new maledictions against the lady, when
Beatrix, clasping her hands cried in terror:

“No, no, Herbert, you have said enough. How can you pretend to love me
when implacable hatred lies so near to your affection. You must forgive
the Countess. Oh, Herbert, Herbert, what more could I do to atone? I
have withdrawn my forces from around your castle; I have set you free
and your path to Schonburg lies unobstructed. Even now your underling,
thinking himself victorious, is preparing an expedition against me, and
nothing but your word stands, between me and instant attack. Ponder, I
beseech of you, on my position. War, not of my seeking, was bequeathed
to me, and a woman who cannot fight must trust to her advisers, and thus
may do what her own heart revolts against. They told me that if I made
you prisoner I could stop the war, and thus I consented to that act of
treachery for which you so justly condemn me.”

“Beatrix,” cried her amazed lover, “what madness has come over you?”

“No madness touched me, Herbert, until I met you, and I sometimes think
that you have brought back with you the eastern sorcery of which I
have heard--at least such may perhaps make excuse for my unmaidenly
behaviour. Herbert, I am Beatrix of Gudenfels, Countess von Falkenstein,
who is and ever will be, if you refuse to pardon her, a most unhappy
woman.”

“No woodland maiden, but the Countess! The Countess von Falkenstein!”
 murmured her lover more to himself than to, his eager listener, the
lines on his perplexed brow showing that he was endeavouring to adjust
the real and the ideal in his slow brain.

“A Countess, Herbert, who will joyfully exchange the privileges of her
station for the dear preference shown to the serving-maid.”

A smile came to the lips of Von Schonburg as he held out his hands, in
which the Countess placed her own.

“My Lady Beatrix,” he said, “how can I refuse my pardon for the first
encroachment on my liberty, now that you have made me your prisoner for
life?”

“Indeed, my captured lord,” cried the girl, “you are but now coming to
a true sense of your predicament. I marvelled that you felt so resentful
about the first offence, when the second was so much more serious. Am I
then forgiven for both?”

It seemed that she was, and the Count insisted on returning to his
captivity, and coming forth the next day, freed by her commands,
whereupon, in the presence of all her vassals, he swore allegiance to
her with such deference that her advisers said to her that she must now
see they had been right in counselling his imprisonment. Prison, they
said, had a wonderfully quieting effect upon even the most truculent,
the Count being quickly subdued when he saw his sword-play had but
little effect on the chain. The Countess graciously acknowledged that
events had indeed proved the wisdom of their course, and said it was not
to be wondered at that men should know the disposition of a turbulent
man, better than an inexperienced woman could know it.

And thus was the feud between Gudenfels and Schonburg happily ended, and
Count Herbert came from the Crusades to find two castles waiting for
him instead of one as he had expected, with what he had reason to prize
above everything else, a wife as well.




CHAPTER II

THE REVENGE OF THE OUTLAW


The position of Count Herbert when, at the age of thirty-one he took
up his residence in the ancient castle of his line, was a most enviable
one. His marriage with Beatrix, Countess von Falkenstein, had added the
lustre of a ruling family to the prestige of his own, and the renown of
his valour in the East had lost nothing in transit from the shores of
the Mediterranean to the banks of the Rhine. The Counts of Schonburg had
ever been the most conservative in counsel and the most radical in the
fray, and thus Herbert on returning, found himself, without seeking
the honor, regarded by common consent as leader of the nobility whose
castles bordered the renowned river. The Emperor, as was usually
the case when these imperial figure-heads were elected by the three
archbishops and their four colleagues, was a nonentity, who made no
attempt to govern a turbulent land that so many were willing to govern
for him. His majesty left sword and sceptre to those who cared for
such baubles, and employed himself in banding together the most notable
company of meistersingers that Germany had ever listened to. But
although harmony reigned in Frankfort, the capital, there was much lack
of it along the Rhine, and the man with the swiftest and heaviest
sword, usually accumulated the greatest amount of property, movable and
otherwise.

Among the truculent nobles who terrorised the country side, none was
held In greater awe than Baron von Wiethoff, whose Schloss occupied a
promontory Some distance up the stream from Castle Schonburg, on the
same side of the river. Public opinion condemned the Baron, not because
he exacted tribute from the merchants who sailed down the Rhine, for
such collections were universally regarded as a legitimate source of
revenue, but because he was in the habit of killing the goose that laid
the golden egg, which action was looked upon with disfavour by those who
resided between Schloss Wiethoff and Cologne, as interfering with their
right to exist, for a merchant, although well-plucked, is still of
advantage to those in whose hands he falls, if life and some of his
goods are left to him. Whereas, when cleft from scalp to midriff by
the Baron’s long sword, he became of no value either to himself or to
others. While many nobles were satisfied with levying a scant five
or ten per cent on a voyager’s belongings, the Baron rarely rested
contented until he had acquired the full hundred, and, the merchant
objecting, von Wiethoff would usually order him hanged or decapitated,
although at times when he was in good humour he was wont to confer
honour upon the trading classes by despatching the grumbling seller
of goods with his own weapon, which created less joy in the commercial
community than the Baron seemed to expect. Thus navigation on the swift
current of the Rhine began to languish, for there was little profit in
the transit of goods from Mayence to Cologne if the whole consignment
stood in jeopardy and the owner’s life as well, so the merchants got
into the habit of carrying their gear overland on the backs of mules,
thus putting the nobility to great inconvenience in scouring the
forests, endeavouring to intercept the caravans. The nobility, with that
stern sense of justice which has ever characterised the higher classes,
placed the blame of this diversion of traffic from its natural channel
not upon the merchants but upon the Baron, where undoubtedly it rightly
belonged, and although, when they came upon an overland company which
was seeking to avoid them, they gathered in an extra percentage of the
goods to repay in a measure the greater difficulty they had in
their woodland search, they always informed the merchants with much
politeness, that, when river traffic was resumed, they would be pleased
to revert to the original exaction, which the traders, not without
reason pointed out was of little avail to them as long as Baron von
Wiethoff was permitted to confiscate the whole.

In their endeavours to resuscitate the navigation interests of the
Rhine, several expeditions had been formed against the Baron, but his
castle was strong, and there were so many conflicting interests among
those who attacked him that he had always come out victorious, and after
each onslaught the merchants suffered more severely than before.

Affairs were in this unsatisfactory condition when Count Herbert of
Schonburg returned from the Holy Land, the fame of his deeds upon him,
and married Beatrix of Gudenfels. Although the nobles of the Upper Rhine
held aloof from all contest with the savage Baron of Schloss Wiethoff,
his exactions not interfering with their incomes, many of those further
down the river offered their services to Count Herbert, if he would
consent to lead them against the Baron, but the Count pleaded that he
was still a stranger in his own country, having so recently returned
from his ten contentious years in Syria, therefore he begged time to
study the novel conditions confronting him before giving an answer to
their proposal.

The Count learned that the previous attacks made upon Schloss Wiethoff
had been conducted with but indifferent generalship, and that failure
had been richly earned by desertions from the attacking force, each
noble thinking himself justified in withdrawing himself and his men,
when offended, or when the conduct of affairs displeased him, so von
Schonburg informed the second deputation which waited on him, that he
was more accustomed to depend on himself than on the aid of others, and
that if any quarrel arose between Castle Schonburg and Schloss Wiethoff,
the Count would endeavour to settle the dispute with his own sword,
which reply greatly encouraged the Baron when he heard of it, for he
wished to try conclusions with the newcomer, and made no secret of
his disbelief in the latter’s Saracenic exploits, saying the Count had
returned when there was none left of the band he took with him, and had,
therefore, with much wisdom, left himself free from contradiction.

There was some disappointment up and down the Rhine when time passed and
the Count made no warlike move. It was well known that the Countess was
much averse to war, notwithstanding the fact that she was indebted to
war for her stalwart husband, and her peaceful nature was held to excuse
the non-combative life lived by the Count, although there were others
who gave it as their opinion that the Count was really afraid of the
Baron, who daily became more and more obnoxious as there seemed to be
less and less to fear. Such boldness did the Baron achieve that he even
organised a slight raid upon the estate of Gudenfels which belonged to
the Count’s wife, but still Herbert of Schonburg did not venture from
the security of his castle, greatly to the disappointment and the
disgust of his neighbours, for there are on earth no people who love a
fight more dearly than do those who reside along the banks of the placid
Rhine.

At last an heir was born to Castle Schonburg, and the rejoicings
throughout all the district governed by the Count were general and
enthusiastic. Bonfires were lit on the heights and the noble river
glowed red under the illumination at night. The boy who had arrived
at the castle was said to give promise of having all the beauty of
his mother and all the strength of his father, which was admitted by
everybody to be a desirable combination, although some shook their heads
and said they hoped that with strength there would come greater courage
than the Count appeared to possess. Nevertheless, the Count had still
some who believed in him, notwithstanding his long period of inaction,
and these said that on the night the boy was born, and word was brought
to him in the great hall that mother and child were well, the cloud
that had its habitual resting-place on the Count’s brow lifted and his
lordship took down from its place his great broadsword, rubbed from its
blade the dust and the rust that had collected, swung the huge weapon
hissing through the air, and heaved a deep sigh, as one who had come to
the end of a period of restraint.

The boy was just one month old on the night that there was a thunderous
knocking at the gate of Schloss Wiethoff. The Baron hastily buckled
on his armour and was soon at the head of his men eager to repel the
invader. In a marvellously short space of time there was a contest in
progress at the gates which would have delighted the heart of the most
quarrelsome noble from Mayence to Cologne. The attacking party which
appeared in large force before the gate, attempted to batter in the
oaken leaves of the portal, but the Baron was always prepared for such
visitors, and the heavy timbers that were heaved against the oak made
little impression, while von Wiethoff roared defiance from the top of
the wall that surrounded the castle and what was more to the purpose,
showered down stones and arrows on the besiegers, grievously thinning
their ranks. The Baron, with creditable ingenuity, had constructed above
the inside of the gate a scaffolding, on the top of which was piled a
mountain of huge stones. This scaffold was arranged in such a way that
a man pulling a lever caused it to collapse, thus piling the stones
instantly against the inside of the gate, rendering it impregnable
against assault by battering rams. The Baron was always jubilant when
his neighbours attempted to force the gate, for he was afforded much
amusement at small expense to himself, and he cared little for the
damage the front door received, as he had built his castle not for
ornament but for his own protection. He was a man with an amazing
vocabulary, and as he stood on the wall shaking his mailed fist at
the intruders he poured forth upon them invective more personal than
complimentary.

While thus engaged, rejoicing over the repulse of the besiegers, for the
attack was evidently losing its vigour, he was amazed to note a sudden
illumination of the forest-covered hill which he was facing. The
attacking party rallied with a yell when the light struck them, and
the Baron, looking hastily over his shoulder to learn the source of the
ruddy glow on the trees, saw with dismay that his castle was on fire and
that Count Herbert followed by his men had possession of the battlements
to the rear, while the courtyard swarmed with soldiers, who had
evidently scaled the low wall along the river front from rafts or boats.

“Surrender!” cried Count Herbert, advancing along the wall. “Your castle
is taken, and will be a heap of ruins within the hour.”

“Then may you be buried beneath them,” roared the Baron, springing to
the attack.

Although the Baron was a younger man than his antagonist, it was soon
proven that his sword play was not equal to that of the Count, and
the broadsword fight on the battlements in the light of the flaming
stronghold, was of short duration, watched breathlessly as it was by men
of both parties above and below. Twice the Baron’s guard was broken, and
the third time, such was the terrific impact of iron on iron, that the
Baron’s weapon was struck from his benumbed hands and fell glittering
through the air to the ground outside the walls. The Count paused in his
onslaught, refraining from striking a disarmed man, but again demanding
his submission. The Baron cast one glance at his burning house, saw that
it was doomed, then, with a movement as reckless as it was unexpected,
took the terrific leap from the wall top to the ground, alighting on his
feet near his fallen sword which he speedily recovered. For an instant
the Count hovered on the brink to follow him, but the swift thought of
his wife and child restrained him, and he feared a broken limb in
the fall, leaving him thus at the mercy of his enemy. The moment for
decision was short enough, but the years of regret for this hesitation
were many and long. There were a hundred men before the walls to
intercept the Baron, and it seemed useless to jeopardise life or limb
in taking the leap, so the Count contented himself by giving the loud
command: “Seize that man and bind him.”

It was an order easy to give and easy to obey had there been a dozen men
below as brave as their captain, or even one as brave, as stalwart and
as skilful; but the Baron struck sturdily around him and mowed his way
through the throng as effectually as a reaper with a sickle clears a
path for himself in the standing corn. Before Herbert realised what was
happening, the Baron was safe in the obscurity of the forest.

The Count of Schonburg was not a man to do things by halves, even though
upon the occasion of this attack he allowed the Baron to slip through
his fingers. When the ruins of the Schloss cooled, he caused them to be
removed and flung stone by stone into the river, leaving not a vestige
of the castle that had so long been a terror to the district, holding
that if the lair were destroyed the wolf would not return. In this the
Count proved but partly right. Baron von Wiethoff renounced his
order, and became an outlaw, gathering round him in the forest all the
turbulent characters, not in regular service elsewhere, publishing along
the Rhine by means of prisoners he took and then released that as the
nobility seemed to object to his preying upon the merchants, he would
endeavour to amend his ways and would harry instead such castles as fell
into his hands. Thus Baron von Wiethoff became known as the Outlaw of
the Hundsrück, and being as intrepid as he was merciless, soon made
the Rhenish nobility withdraw attention from other people’s quarrels in
order to bestow strict surveillance upon their own. It is possible
that if the dwellers along the river had realised at first the kind of
neighbour that had been produced by burning out the Baron, they might,
by combination have hunted him down in the widespread forests of the
Hundsrück, but as the years went on, the Outlaw acquired such knowledge
of the interminable mazes of this wilderness, that it is doubtful
whether all the troops in the Empire could have brought his band to bay.
The outlaws always fled before a superior force, and always massacred
an inferior one, and like the lightning, no man could predict where the
next stroke would fall. On one occasion he even threatened the walled
town of Coblentz, and the citizens compounded with him, saying they had
no quarrel with any but the surrounding nobles, which expression the
thrifty burghers regretted when Count Herbert marched his men through
their streets and for every coin they, had paid the Outlaw, exacted ten.

The boy of Castle Schonburg was three years old, when he was allowed
to play on the battlements, sporting with a wooden sword and imagining
himself as great a warrior as his father had ever been. He was a brave
little fellow whom nothing could frighten but the stories his nurse told
him of the gnomes and goblins who infested the Rhine, and he longed
for the time when he would be a man and wear a real sword. One day just
before he had completed his fourth year, a man came slinking out of
the forest to the foot of the wall, for the watch was now slack as the
Outlaw had not been heard of for months, and then was far away in
the direction of Mayence. The nurse was holding a most absorbing
conversation with the man-at-arms, who should, instead, have been pacing
up and down the terrace while she should have been watching her charge.
The man outside gave a low whistle which attracted the attention of the
child and then beckoned him to come further along the wall until he had
passed the west tower.

“Well, little coward,” said the man, “I did not think you would have the
courage to come so far away from the women.”

“I am not a coward,” answered the lad, stoutly, “and I do not care about
the women at all.”

“Your father was a coward.”

“He is not. He is the bravest man in the world.”

“He did not dare to jump off the wall after the Baron.”

“He will cut the Baron in pieces if he ever comes near our castle.”

“Yet he dared not jump as the Baron did.”

“The Baron was afraid of my father; that’s why he jumped.”

“Not so. It was your father who feared to follow him, though he had a
sword and the Baron had none. You are all cowards in Castle Schonburg.
I don’t believe you have the courage to jump even though I held out my
arms to catch you, but if you do I will give you the sword I wear.”

The little boy had climbed on the parapet, and now stood hovering on the
brink of the precipice, his childish heart palpitating through fear of
the chasm before him, yet beneath its beatings was an insistent command
to prove his impugned courage. For some moments there was deep silence,
the man below gazing aloft and holding up his hands. At last he lowered
his outstretched arms and said in a sneering tone:

“Good-bye, craven son of a craven race. You dare not jump.”

The lad, with a cry of despair, precipitated himself into the empty air
and came fluttering down like a wounded bird, to fall insensible into
the arms that for the moment saved him from death or mutilation. An
instant later there was a shriek from the negligent nurse, and the
man-at-arms ran along the battlements, a bolt on his cross-bow which he
feared to launch at the flying abductor, for in the speeding of it he
might slay the heir of Schonburg. By the time the castle was aroused and
the gates thrown open to pour forth searchers, the man had disappeared
into the forest, and in its depths all trace of young Wilhelm was lost.
Some days after, the Count von Schonburg came upon the deserted camp
of the outlaws, and found there evidences, not necessary to be here set
down, that his son had been murdered. Imposing secrecy on his followers,
so that the Countess might still retain her unshaken belief that not
even an outlaw would harm a little child, the Count returned to his
castle to make preparations for a complete and final campaign of
extinction against the scourge of the Hundsrück, but the Outlaw had
withdrawn his men far from the scene of his latest successful exploit
and the Count never came up with him.

Years passed on and the silver came quickly to Count Herbert’s hair,
he attributing the change to the hardships endured in the East, but all
knowing well the cause sprang from his belief in his son’s death. The
rapid procession of years made little impression on the beauty of the
Countess, who, although grieving for the absence of her boy, never
regarded him as lost but always looked for his return. “If he were
dead,” she often said to her husband, “I should know it in my heart; I
should know the day, the hour and the moment.”

This belief the Count strove to encourage, although none knew better
than he how baseless it was. Beatrix, with a mother’s fondness, kept
little Wilhelm’s room as it had been when he left it, his toys in their
places, and his bed prepared for him, allowing no one else to share the
task she had allotted to herself. She seemed to keep no count of the
years, nor to realise that if her son returned he would return as a
young man and not as a child. To the mind of Beatrix he seemed always
her boy of four.

When seventeen years had elapsed after the abduction of the heir of
Schonburg, there came a rumour that the Outlaw of Hundsrück was again at
his depredations in the neighbourhood of Coblentz. He was at this time
a man of forty-two, and if he imagined that the long interval had led to
any forgetting on the part of the Count von Schonburg, a most unpleasant
surprise awaited him. The Count divided his forces equally between his
two castles of Schonburg and Gudenfels situated on the west bank and
the east bank respectively. If either castle were attacked, arrangements
were made for getting word to the other, when the men in that other
would cross the Rhine and fall upon the rear of the invaders,
hemming them thus between two fires. The Count therefore awaited with
complacency whatever assault the Outlaw cared to deliver.

It was expected that the attack would be made in the night, which was
the usual time selected for these surprise parties that kept life
from stagnating along the Rhine, but to the amazement of the Count the
onslaught came in broad daylight, which seemed to indicate that the
Outlaw had gathered boldness with years. The Count from the battlements
scanned his opponents and saw that they were led, not by the Outlaw
in person, but by a young man who evidently held his life lightly, so
recklessly did he risk it. He was ever in the thick of the fray, dealing
sword strokes with a lavish generosity which soon kindled a deep respect
for him in the breasts of his adversaries. The Count had not waited for
the battering in of his gates but had sent out his men to meet the enemy
in the open, which was rash generalship, had he not known that the men
of Gudenfels were hurrying round to the rear of the outlaws. Crossbowmen
lined the battlements ready to cover the retreat of the defenders of
the castle, should they meet a reverse, but now they stood in silence,
holding their shafts, for in the mêslée there was a danger of destroying
friend as well as foe. But in spite of the superb leadership of the
young captain, the outlaws, seemingly panic-stricken, when there was no
particular reason, deserted their commander in a body and fled in
spite of his frantic efforts to rally them. The young man found himself
surrounded, and, after a brave defence, overpowered. When the Gudenfels
men came up, there was none to oppose them, the leader of the enemy
being within the gates of Schonburg, bound, bleeding and a prisoner. The
attacking outlaws were nowhere to be seen.

The youthful captive, unkempt as he was, appeared in the great hall
of the castle before its grey-headed commander, seated in his chair of
state.

“You are the leader of this unwarranted incursion?” said the Count,
sternly, as he looked upon the pinioned lad.

“Warranted or unwarranted, I was the leader.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Wilhelm, only son of the Outlaw of Hundsrück.”

“The only son,” murmured the Count, more to himself than to his
auditors, the lines hardening round his firm mouth. For some moments
there was a deep silence in the large room, then the Count spoke in a
voice that had no touch of mercy in it:

“You will be taken to a dungeon and your wounds cared for. Seven days
from now, at this hour, you will appear again before me, at which time
just sentence will be passed upon you, after I hear what you have to say
in your own defence.”

“You may hear that now, my Lord. I besieged your castle and would
perhaps have taken it, had I not a pack of cowardly dogs at my heels.
I am now in your power, and although you talk glibly of justice, I know
well what I may expect at your hands. Your delay of a week is the mere
pretence of a hypocrite, who wishes to give colour of legality to an
act already decided upon. I do not fear you now, and shall not fear you
then, so spare your physicians unnecessary trouble, and give the word to
your executioner.”

“Take him away, attend to his wounds, and guard him strictly. Seven days
from now when I call for him; see to it that you can produce him.”

Elsa, niece of the Outlaw, watched anxiously for the return of her
cousin from the long prepared for expedition. She had the utmost
confidence in his bravery and the most earnest belief in his success,
yet she watched for the home-coming of the warriors with an anxious
heart. Perhaps a messenger would arrive telling of the capture of the
castle; perhaps all would return with news of defeat, but for what
actually happened the girl was entirely unprepared. That the whole
company, practically unscathed, should march into camp with the
astounding news that their leader had been captured and that they
had retreated without striking a blow on his behalf, seemed to her so
monstrous, that her first thought was fear of the retribution which
would fall on the deserters when her uncle realised the full import of
the tidings. She looked with apprehension at his forbidding face and was
amazed to see something almost approaching a smile part his thin lips.

“The attack has failed, then. I fear I sent out a leader incompetent
and too young. We must make haste to remove our camp or the victorious
Count, emboldened by success, may carry the war into the forest.”
 With this amazing proclamation the Outlaw turned and walked to his hut
followed by his niece, bewildered as one entangled in the mazes of a
dream. When they were alone together, the girl spoke.

“Uncle, has madness overcome you?”

“I was never saner than now, nor happier, for years of waiting are
approaching their culmination.”

“Has, then, all valour left your heart?”

“Your question will be answered when next I lead my band.”

“When next you lead it? Where will you lead it?”

“Probably in the vicinity of Mayence, toward which place we are about to
journey.”

“Is it possible that you retreat from here without attempting the rescue
of your son, now in the hands of your lifelong enemy?”

“All things are possible in an existence like ours. The boy would
assault the castle; he has failed and has allowed himself to be taken.
It is the fortune of war and I shall not waste a man in attempting his
rescue.”

Elsa stood for a moment gazing in dismay at her uncle, whose shifty eyes
evaded all encounter with hers, then she strode to the wall, took down
a sword and turned without a word to the door. The Outlaw sprang between
her and the exit.

“What are you about to do?” he cried.

“I am about to rally all who are not cowards round me, then at their
head, I shall attack Castle Schonburg and set Wilhelm free or share his
fate.”

The Outlaw stood for a few moments, his back against the door of the
hut, gazing in sullen anger at the girl, seemingly at a loss to know
how she should be dealt with. At last his brow cleared and he spoke: “Is
your interest in Wilhelm due entirely to the fact that you are cousins?”

A quick flush overspread the girl’s fair cheeks with colour and her eyes
sought the floor of the hut. The point of the sword she held lowered
until it rested on the stone flags, and she swayed slightly, leaning
against its hilt, while the keen eyes of her uncle regarded her
critically. She said in a voice little above a whisper, contrasting
strongly with her determined tone of a moment before:

“My interest is due to our relationship alone.”

“Has no word of love passed between you?”

“Oh, no, no. Why do you ask me such a question?”

“Because on the answer given depends whether or not I shall entrust you
with knowledge regarding him. Swear to me by the Three Kings of Cologne
that you will tell to none what I will now impart to you.”

“I swear,” said Elsa, raising her right hand, and holding aloft the
sword with it.

“Wilhelm is not my son, nor is he kin to either of us, but is the heir
of the greatest enemy of our house, Count Herbert of Schonburg. I lured
him from his father’s home as a child and now send him back as a man.
Some time later I shall acquaint the Count with the fact that the young
man he captured is his only son.”

The girl looked at her uncle, her eyes wide with horror.

“It is your purpose then that the father shall execute his own son?”

The Outlaw shrugged his shoulders.

“The result lies not with me, but with the Count. He was once a crusader
and the teaching of his master is to the effect that the measure he
metes to others, the same shall be meted to him, if I remember aright
the tenets of his faith. Count Herbert wreaking vengeance upon my
supposed son, is really bringing destruction upon his own, which seems
but justice. If he show mercy to me and mine, he is bestowing the
blessed balm thereof on himself and his house. In this imperfect world,
few events are ordered with such admirable equity as the capture of
young Lord Wilhelm, by that haughty and bloodthirsty warrior, his
father. Let us then await with patience the outcome, taking care not to
interfere with the designs of Providence.”

“The design comes not from God but from the evil one himself.”

“It is within the power of the Deity to overturn even the best plans of
the fiend, if it be His will. Let us see to it that we do not intervene
between two such ghostly potentates, remembering that we are but puny
creatures, liable to err.”

“The plot is of your making, secretly held, all these years, with
unrelenting malignity. The devil himself is not wicked enough to send
an innocent, loyal lad to his doom in his own mother’s house, with his
father as his executioner. Oh, uncle, uncle, repent and make reparation
before it is too late.”

“Let the Count repent and make reparation. I have now nothing to do with
the matter. As I have said, if the Count is merciful, he is like to be
glad of it later in his life; if he is revengeful, visiting the sin
of the father on the son, innocent, I think you called him, then he
deserves what his own hand deals out to himself. But we have talked too
much already. I ask you to remember your oath, for I have told you this
so that you will not bring ridicule upon me by a womanish appeal to my
own men, who would but laugh at you in any case and think me a dotard in
allowing women overmuch to say in the camp. Get you back to your women,
for we move camp instantly. Even if I were to relent, as you term it,
the time is past, for Wilhelm is either dangling from the walls of
Castle Schonburg or he is pardoned, and all that we could do would be of
little avail. Prepare you then instantly for our journey.”

Elsa, with a sigh, went slowly to the women’s quarters, her oath, the
most terrible that may be taken on the Rhine, weighing heavily upon her.
Resolving not to break it, yet determined in some way to save Wilhelm,
the girl spent the first part of the journey in revolving plans of
escape, for she found as the cavalcade progressed that her uncle did not
trust entirely to the binding qualities of the oath she had taken, but
had her closely watched as well. As the expedition progressed farther
and farther south in the direction of Mayence, vigilance was relaxed,
and on the evening of the second day, when a camp had been selected for
the night, Elsa escaped and hurried eastward through the forest until
she came to the Rhine, which was to be her guide to the castle of
Schonburg. The windings of the river made the return longer than the
direct journey through the wilderness had been, and in addition to this,
Elsa was compelled to circumambulate the numerous castles, climbing the
hills to avoid them, fearing capture and delay, so it was not until the
sun was declining on the sixth day after the assault on the castle that
she stood, weary and tattered and unkempt, before the closed gates of
Schonburg, and beat feebly with her small hand against the oak, crying
for admittance. The guard of the gate, seeing through the small lattice
but a single dishevelled woman standing there, anticipating treachery,
refused to open the little door in the large leaf until his captain
was summoned, who, after some parley, allowed the girl to enter the
courtyard.

“What do you want?” asked the captain, curtly.

She asked instead of answered:

“Is your prisoner still alive?”

“The son of the Outlaw? Yes, but he would be a confident prophet who
would predict as much for him at this hour to-morrow.”

“Take me, I beg of you, to the Countess.”

“That is as it may be. Who are you and what is your business with her?”

“I shall reveal myself to her Ladyship, and to her will state the object
of my coming.”

“Your object is plain enough. You are some tatterdemalion of the forest
come to beg the life of your lover, who hangs to-morrow, or I am a
heathen Saracen.”

“I do beseech you, tell the Countess that a miserable woman craves
permission to speak with her.”

What success might have attended her petition is uncertain, but the
problem was solved by the appearance of the Countess herself on the
terrace above them, which ran the length of the castle on its western
side. The lady leaned over the parapet and watched with evident
curiosity the strange scene in the courtyard below, the captain and his
men in a ring around the maiden of the forest, who occupying the centre
of the circle, peered now in one face, now in another, as if searching
for some trace of sympathy in the stolid countenances of the warriors
all about her. Before the captain could reply, his lady addressed him.

“Whom have you there, Conrad?”

It seemed as if the unready captain would get no word said, for again
before he had made answer the girl spoke to the Countess.

“I do implore your Ladyship to grant me speech with you.”

The Countess looked down doubtfully upon the supplicant, evidently
prejudiced by her rags and wildly straying hair. The captain cleared his
throat and opened his mouth, but the girl eagerly forestalled him.

“Turn me not away, my Lady, because I come in unhandsome guise, for
I have travelled far through forest and over rock, climbing hills and
skirting the river’s brink to be where I am. The reluctant wilderness,
impeding me, has enviously torn my garments, leaving me thus ashamed
before you, but, dear Lady, let not that work to my despite. Grant my
petition and my prayer shall ever be that the dearest wish of your own
heart go not unsatisfied.”

“Alas!” said the Countess, with a deep sigh, “my dearest wish gives
little promise of fulfilment.”

Conrad, seeing that the lady thought of her lost son, frowned angrily,
and in low growling tones bade the girl have a care what she said, but
Elsa was not to be silenced and spoke impetuously.

“Oh, Countess, the good we do often returns to us tenfold; mercy calls
forth mercy. An acorn planted produces an oak; cruelty sown leaves us
cruelty to reap. It is not beyond imagination that the soothing of my
bruised heart may bring balm to your own.”

“Take the girl to the east room, Conrad, and let her await me there,”
 said the Countess.

“With a guard, your Ladyship?”

“Without a guard, Conrad.”

“Pardon me, my Lady, but I distrust her. She may have designs against
you.”

The Countess had little acquaintance with fear. She smiled at the
anxious captain and said:

“Her only desire is to reach my heart, Conrad.”

“God grant it may not be with a dagger,” grumbled the captain, as he
made haste to obey the commands of the lady.

When the Countess entered the room in which Elsa stood, her first
question was an inquiry regarding her visitor’s name and station, the
telling of which seemed but an indifferent introduction for the girl,
who could not help noting that the Countess shrank, involuntarily from
her when she heard the Outlaw mentioned.

“Our house has little cause to confer favour on any kin of the Outlaw of
Hundsrück,” the lady said at last.

“I do not ask for favour, my Lady. I have come to give your revenge
completeness, if it is revenge you seek. The young man now imprisoned in
Schonburg is so little esteemed by my uncle that not a single blow has
been struck on his behalf. If the Count thinks to hurt the Outlaw by
executing Wilhelm, he will be gravely in error, for my uncle and his men
regard the captive so lightly that they have gone beyond Mayence without
even making an effort toward his rescue. As for me, my uncle bestows
upon me such affection as he is capable of, and would be more grieved
should I die, than if any other of his kin were taken from him. Release
Wilhelm and I will gladly take his place, content to receive such
punishment as his Lordship, the Count, considers should be imposed on a
relative of the Outlaw.”

“What you ask is impossible. The innocent should not suffer for the
guilty.”

“My Lady, the innocent have suffered for others since the world began,
and will continue to do so till it ends. Our only hope of entering
Heaven comes through Him who was free from sin being condemned in our
stead. I do beseech your Ladyship to let me take the place of Wilhelm.”

“You love this young man,” said the Countess, seating herself, and
regarding the girl with the intent interest which women, whose own love
affair has prospered, feel when they are confronted with an incident
that reminds them of their youth.

“Not otherwise than as a friend and dear companion, my Lady,” replied
Elsa, blushing. “When he was a little boy and I a baby, he carried me
about in his arms, and since that time we have been comrades together.”

“Comradeship stands for much, my girl,” said the Countess, in kindly
manner, “but it rarely leads one friend willingly to accept death
for another. I have not seen this young man whom you would so gladly
liberate; the dealing with prisoners is a matter concerning my husband
alone; I never interfere, but if I should now break this rule because
you have travelled so far, and are so anxious touching the prisoner’s
welfare, would you be willing to accept my conditions?”

“Yes, my Lady, so that his life were saved.”

“He is a comely young man doubtless, and there are some beautiful women
within this castle; would it content you if he were married to one of my
women, and so escaped with life?”

A sudden pallor overspread the girl’s face, and she clasped her hands
nervously together. Tears welled into her eyes, and she stood thus for a
few moments unable to speak. At last she murmured, with some difficulty:

“Wilhelm can care nothing for any here, not having beheld them, and it
would be wrong to coerce a man in such extremity. I would rather die for
him, that he might owe his life to me.”

“But he would live to marry some one else.”

“If I were happy in heaven, why should I begrudge Wilhelm’s happiness on
earth?”

“Ah, why, indeed, Elsa? And yet you disclaim with a sigh. Be assured
that I shall do everything in my power to save your lover, and that not
at the expense of your own life or happiness. Now come with me, for I
would have you arrayed in garments more suited to your youth and your
beauty, that you may not be ashamed when you meet this most fascinating
prisoner, for such he must be, when you willingly risk so much for his
sake.”

The Countess, after conducting the girl to the women’s apartments,
sought her husband, but found to her dismay that he showed little sign
of concurrence with her sympathetic views regarding the fate of the
prisoner. It was soon evident to her that Count Herbert had determined
upon the young man’s destruction, and that there was some concealed
reason for this obdurate conclusion which the Count did not care to
disclose. Herbert von Schonburg was thoroughly convinced that his son
was dead, mutilated beyond recognition by the Outlaw of Hundsrück, yet
this he would not tell to Beatrix, his wife, who cherished the unshaken
belief that the boy still lived and would be restored to her before she
died. The Count for years had waited for his revenge, and even though
his wife now pleaded that he forego it, the Master of Schonburg was in
no mind to comply, though he said little in answer to her persuading.
The incoming of Elsa to the castle merely convinced him that some
trick was meditated on the part of the Outlaw, and the sentimental
consideration urged by the Countess had small weight with him. He gave
a curt order to his captain to double his guards around the stronghold,
and relax no vigilance until the case of the prisoner had been finally
dealt with. He refused permission for Elsa to see her cousin, even in
the presence of witnesses, as he was certain that her coming was for the
purpose of communicating to him some message from the Outlaw, the news
of whose alleged withdrawal he did not believe.

“With the country at peace, the Outlaw has instigated, and his son has
executed, an attack upon this castle. The penalty is death. To-morrow
I shall hear what he has to say in his defence, and shall deliver
judgment, I hope, justly. If his kinswoman wishes to see him, she may
come to his trial, and then will be in a position to testify to her
uncle that sentence has been pronounced in accordance with the law
that rules the Rhine provinces. If she has communication to make to
her cousin, let it be made in the Judgment Hall in the presence of all
therein.”

The Countess, with sinking heart, left her husband, having the tact
not to press upon him too strongly the claims of mercy as well as of
justice. She knew that his kind nature would come to the assistance of
her own suing, and deeply regretted that the time for milder influences
to prevail was so short. In a brief conference with Elsa, she
endeavoured to prepare the girl’s mind for a disastrous ending of her
hopes.

Some minutes before the hour set for Wilhelm’s trial, the Countess
Beatrix, followed by Elsa, entered the Judgment Hall to find the Count
seated moodily in the great chair at one end of the long room, in whose
ample inclosure many an important state conference had been held,
each of the forefathers of the present owner being seated in turn as
president of the assemblage. Some thought of this seemed to oppress the
Count’s mind, for seated here with set purpose to extinguish his enemy’s
line, the remembrance that his own race died with him was not likely to
be banished. The Countess brought Elsa forward and in a whisper urged
her to plead for her kinsman before his judge. The girl’s eloquence
brought tears to the eyes of Beatrix, but the Count’s impassive face
was sphinx-like in its settled gloom. Only once during the appeal did
he speak, and that was when Elsa offered herself as a sacrifice to his
revenge, then he said, curtly:

“We do not war against women. You are as free to go as you were to come,
but you must not return.”

A dull fear began to chill the girl’s heart and to check her earnest
pleading: She felt that her words were making no impression on the
silent man seated before her, and this knowledge brought weak hesitation
to her tongue and faltering to her speech. In despair she wrung her
hands and cried: “Oh, my Lord, my Lord, think of your own son held at
the mercy of an enemy. Think of him as a young man just the age of your
prisoner, at a time when life is sweetest to him! Think, think, I beg of
you----”

The Count roused himself like a lion who had been disturbed, and cried
in a voice that resounded hoarsely from the rafters of the arched roof,
startling the Countess with the unaccustomed fierceness of its tone:

“Yes, I will think of him--of my only son in the clutch of his bitter
foe, and I thank you for reminding me of him, little as I have for these
long years needed spur to my remembrance. Bring in the prisoner.”

When Wilhelm was brought in, heavy manacles on his wrists, walking
between the men who guarded him, Elsa looked from judge to culprit, and
her heart leaped with joy. Surely such blindness could not strike this
whole concourse that some one within that hall would not see that, here
confronted, stood father and son, on the face of one a frown of anger,
on the face of the other a frown of defiance, expressions almost
identical, the only difference being the thirty years that divided their
ages. For a few moments the young man did not distinguish Elsa in
the throng, then a glad cry of recognition escaped him, and the cloud
cleared from his face as if a burst of sunshine had penetrated the
sombre-coloured windows and had thrown its illuminating halo around his
head. He spoke impetuously, leaning forward:

“Elsa, Elsa, how came you here?” then, a shadow of concern crossing his
countenance, “you are not a prisoner, I trust?”

“No, no, Wilhelm, I am here to beseech the clemency of the Count--”

“Not for me!” exclaimed the prisoner, defiantly, drawing himself up
proudly: “not for me, Elsa. You must never ask favour from a robber
and a coward like, Count von Schonburg, brave only in his own Judgment
Hall.”

“Oh, Wilhelm, Wilhelm, have a care what you say, or you will break my
heart. And your proclamation is far from true. The Count is a brave man
who has time and again proved himself so, and my only hope is that
he will prove as merciful as he is undoubtedly courageous. Join your
prayers with mine, Wilhelm, and beg for mercy rather than justice.”

“I beg from no man, either mercy or justice. I am here, my Lord Count,
ready to receive whatever you care to bestow, and I ask you to make the
waiting brief for the sake of the women present, for I am I sure the
beautiful, white-haired lady there dislikes this traffic in men’s lives
as much as does my fair-haired cousin.”

“Oh, my lord Count, do not heed what he says; his words but show the
recklessness of youth; hold them not against him.”

“Indeed I mean each word I say, and had I iron in my hand instead of
round my wrists, his Lordship would not sit so calmly facing me.”

Elsa, seeing how little she had accomplished with either man began to
weep helplessly, and the Count, who had not interrupted the colloquy,
listening unmoved to the contumely heaped upon him by the prisoner, now
said to the girl:

“Have you finished your questioning?”

Receiving no answer, he said to the prisoner after a pause:

“Why did you move against this castle?”

“Because I hoped to take it, burn it, and hang or behead its owner.”

“Oh, Wilhelm, Wilhelm!” wailed the girl.

“And, having failed, what do you expect?”

“To be hanged, or beheaded, depending on whether your Lordship is the
more expert with a cord or with an axe.”

“You called me a coward, and I might have retorted that in doing so you
took advantage of your position as prisoner, but setting that aside, and
speaking as man to man, what ground have you for such an accusation?”

“We cannot speak as man to man, for I am bound and you are free, but
touching the question of your cowardice, I have heard it said by those
who took part in the defence of my father’s castle, when you attacked it
and destroyed it, commanding a vastly superior force, my father leaped
from the wall and dared you to follow him. For a moment, they told
me, it seemed that you would accept the challenge, but you contented
yourself with calling on others to do what you feared to do yourself,
and thus my father, meeting no opposition from a man of his own rank,
was compelled to destroy the unfortunate serfs who stood in his way and,
so cut out a path to safety. In refusing to accept the plunge he took,
you branded yourself a coward, and once a toward always a coward.”

“Oh, Wilhelm,” cried Elsa, in deep distress at the young man’s lack of
diplomacy, while she could not but admire his ill-timed boldness, “speak
not so to the Count, for I am sure what you say is not true.”

“Indeed,” growled Captain Conrad, “the young villain is more crafty than
we gave him credit for. Instead of a rope he will have a challenge from
the Count, and so die honourably like a man, in place of being strangled
like the dog he is.”

“Dear Wilhelm, for my sake, do not persist in this course, but throw
yourself on the mercy of the Count. Why retail here the irresponsible
gossip of a camp, which I am sure contains not a word of truth, so far
as the Count is concerned.”

Herbert of Schonburg held up his hand for silence, and made confession
with evident difficulty.

“What the young man says with harshness is true in semblance, if not
strictly so in action. For the moment, thinking of my wife and child,
I hesitated, and when the hesitation was gone the opportunity was gone
with it. My punishment has been severe; by that moment’s cowardice, I
am now a childless man, and therefore perhaps value my life less highly
than I held it at the time we speak of. Hear then, your sentence: You
will be taken to the top of the wall, the iron removed from your wrists,
and your sword placed in your hand. You will then leap from that wall,
and if you are unhurt, I will leap after you. Should your sword serve
you as well as your father’s served him, you will be free of the forest,
and this girl is at liberty to accompany you. I ask her now to betake
herself to the field outside the gate, there to await the result of our
contest.”

At this there was an outcry on the part of Countess Beatrix, who
protested against her husband placing himself in this unnecessary
jeopardy, but the Count was firm and would permit no interference with
his sentence. Elsa was in despair at the unaccountable blindness of all
concerned, not knowing that the Count was convinced his son was dead,
and that the Countess thought continually of her boy as a child of four,
taking no account of the years that had passed, although her reason, had
she applied reason to that which touched her affections only, would have
told her, he must now be a stalwart young man and not the little lad she
had last held in her arms. For a moment Elsa wavered in her allegiance
to the oath she had taken, but she saw against the wall the great
crucifix which had been placed there by the first crusader who had
returned to the castle from the holy wars and she breathed a prayer as
she passed it, that the heir of this stubborn house might not be cut off
in his youth through the sightless rancour that seemed to pervade it.

The Count tried to persuade his weeping wife not to accompany him to the
walls, but she would not be left behind, and so, telling Conrad to keep
close watch upon her, in case that in her despair she might attempt to
harm herself, his lordship led the way to the battlements.

Wilhelm, at first jubilant that he was allowed to take part in a sword
contest rather than an execution, paused for a moment as he came to the
courtyard, and looked about him in a dazed manner, once or twice drawing
his hand across his eyes, as if to perfect his vision. Some seeing him
thus stricken silent and thoughtful, surmised that the young man was
like to prove more courageous in word than in action; others imagined
that the sudden coming from the semi-gloom of the castle interior into
the bright light dazzled him. The party climbed the flight of stone
steps which led far upward to the platform edged by the parapet from
which the spring was to be made. The young man walked up and down the
promenade, unheeding those around him, seeming like one in a dream,
groping for something he failed to find. The onlookers watched him
curiously, wondering at his change of demeanour.

Suddenly he dropped his sword on the stones at his feet, held up his
hands and cried aloud:

“I have jumped from here before--when I was a lad--a baby almost--I
remember it all now--where am I--when was I here before--where is my
wooden sword--and where is Conrad, who made it--Conrad, where are you?”

The captain was the first to realise what had happened. He stepped
hurriedly forward, scrutinising his late prisoner, the light of
recognition, in his eyes.

“It is the young master,” he shouted. “My Lord Count, this is no kinsman
of the Outlaw, but your own son, a man grown.”

The Count stood amazed, as incapable of motion as a statue of stone; the
countess, gazing with dreamy eyes, seemed trying to adjust her inward
vision of the lad of four with the outward reality of the man of
twenty-one. In the silence rose the clear sweet voice of Elsa without
the walls, her face upturned like a painting of the Madonna, her hands
clasped in front of her.

“Dear Virgin Mother in Heaven, I thank thee that my prayer was not
unheard, and bear me witness that I have kept my oath--I have kept
my oath, and may Thy intervention show a proud and sinful people the
blackness of revenge.”

Count Herbert, rousing himself from his stupor, appealed loudly to the
girl.

“Woman, is this indeed my son, and, if so, why did you not speak before
we came to such extremity?”

“I cannot answer. I have sworn an oath. If you would learn who stands
beside you, send a messenger to the Outlaw, saying you have killed him,
as indeed you purposed doing,” then stretching out her arms, she said,
with faltering voice: “Wilhelm, farewell,” and turning, fled toward the
forest.

“Elsa, Elsa, come back!” the young man cried, foot on the parapet, but
the girl paid no heed to his commanding summons, merely waving her hand
without looking over her shoulder.

“Elsa!”

The name rang out so thrillingly strange that its reverberation
instantly arrested the flying footsteps of the girl. Instinctively she
knew it was the voice of a man falling rapidly through the air.
She turned in time to see Wilhelm strike the ground, the impetus
precipitating him prone on his face, where he lay motionless. The cry
of horror from the battlements was echoed by her own as she sped swiftly
toward him. The young man sprang to his feet as she approached and
caught her breathless in his arms.

“Ah, Elsa,” he said, tenderly, “forgive me the fright I gave you, but
I knew of old your fleetness of foot, and if the forest once encircled
you, how was I ever to find you?”

The girl made no effort to escape from her imprisonment, and showed
little desire to exchange the embrace she endured for that of the
forest.

“Though I should blush to say it, Wilhelm, I fear I am easily found,
when you are the searcher.”

“Then let old Schloss Schonburg claim you, Elsa, that the walls which
beheld a son go forth, may see a son and daughter return.”




CHAPTER III

A CITY OF FEAR


The Countess Beatrix von Schonburg warmly welcomed her lost son and her
newly-found daughter. The belief of Beatrix in Wilhelm’s ultimate return
had never wavered during all the long years of his absence, and although
she had to translate her dream of the child of four into a reality
that included a stalwart young man of twenty-one, the readjustment
was speedily accomplished. Before a week had passed it seemed to her
delighted heart that the boy had never left the castle. The Countess had
liked Elsa from the first moment when she saw her, ragged, unkempt and
forlorn, among the lowering, suspicious men-at-arms in the courtyard,
and now that she knew the dangers and the privations the girl had braved
for the sake of Wilhelm, the affectionate heart of Beatrix found ample
room for the motherless Elsa.

With the Count, the process of mental reconstruction was slower, not
only on account of his former conviction that his son was dead, but
also because of the deep distrust in which he held the Outlaw. He said
little, as was his custom, but often sat with brooding brows, intently
regarding his son, gloomy doubt casting a shadow over his stern
countenance. Might not this be a well-laid plot on the part of the
Outlaw to make revenge complete by placing a von Weithoff in the halls
of Schonburg as master of that ancient stronghold? The circumstances in
which identity was disclosed, although sufficient to convince every
one else in the castle, appeared at times to the Count but the stronger
evidence of the Outlaw’s craft and subtlety. If the young man were
actually the son of von Weithoff, then undoubtedly the Outlaw had run
great risk of having him hanged forthwith, but on the other hand, the
prize to be gained, comprising as it did two notable castles and two
wide domains, was a stake worth playing high for, and a stake which
appealed strongly to a houseless, landless man, with not even a
name worth leaving to his son. Thus, while the Countess lavished
her affection on young Wilhelm, noticing nothing of her husband’s
distraction in this excessive happiness, Count Herbert sat alone in the
lofty Knight’s Hall, his elbows resting on the table before him, his
head buried in his hands, ruminating on the strange transformation that
had taken place, endeavouring to weigh the evidence _pro_ and _con_
with the impartial mind of an outsider, becoming the more bewildered the
deeper he penetrated into the mystery.

It was in this despondent attitude that Elsa found him a few days
after the leap from the wall that had caused her return to Schonburg,
a willing captive. The Count did not look up when she entered, and the
girl stood for a few moments in silence near him. At last she spoke in
a low voice, hesitating slightly, nevertheless going with incisive
directness into the very heart of the problem that baffled Count
Herbert.

“My Lord, you do not believe that Wilhelm is indeed your son.”

The master of Schonburg raised his head slowly and looked searchingly
into the frank face of the girl, gloomy distrust reflected from his own
countenance.

“Were you sent by your uncle to allay my suspicion?

“No, my Lord. I thought that a hint of the truth being given, Nature
would come to the assistance of mutual recognition. Such has been
the case between my lady and her son, but I see that you are still
unconvinced.”

“For my sins, I know something of the wickedness of this world, a
knowledge from which her purity has protected the Countess. You believe
that Wilhelm is my son?”

“I have never said so, my Lord.”

“What you did say was that you had taken an oath. You are too young and
doubtless too innocent to be a party to any plot, but you may have been
the tool of an unscrupulous man, who knew the oath would be broken when
the strain of a strong affection was brought to bear upon it.”

“Yet, my Lord, I kept my oath, although I saw my--my--”

The girl hesitated and blushed, but finally spoke up bravely:

“I saw my lover led to his destruction. If Wilhelm is my cousin, then
did his father take a desperate chance in trusting first, to my escape
from the camp, and second to my perjury. You endow him with more than
human foresight, my Lord.”

“He builded on your love for Wilhelm, which he had seen growing under
his eye before either you or the lad had suspicion of its existence. I
know the man, and he is a match for Satan, his master.”

“But Satan has been discomfited ere now by the angels of light, and
even by holy men, if legend tells truly. I have little knowledge of the
world, as you have said, but the case appears to me one of the simplest.
If my uncle wished the bitterest revenge on you, what could be more
terrible than cause you to be the executioner of your own son? The
vengeance, however, to be complete, depends on his being able to place
before you incontrovertible proof that you were the father of the
victim. Send, therefore, a messenger to him, one from Gudenfels, who
knows nothing of what has happened in this castle of Schonburg, and who
is therefore unable to disclose, even if forced to confess, that Wilhelm
is alive. Let the messenger inform my uncle that his son is no more,
which is true enough, and then await the Outlaw’s reply. And meanwhile
let me venture to warn you, my Lord, that it would be well to conceal
your disbelief from Wilhelm, for he is high-spirited, and if he gets
but an inkling that you distrust him, he will depart; for not all your
possessions will hold your son if he once learns that you doubt him,
so you are like to find yourself childless again, if your present mood
masters you much longer.”

The Count drew a deep sigh, then roused himself and seemed to shake off
the influence that enchained him.

“Thank you, my girl,” he cried, with something of the old ring in his
voice, “I shall do as you advise, and if this embassy results as you
say, you will ever find your staunchest friend in me.”

He held out his hand to Elsa, and departed to his other castle of
Gudenfels on the opposite side of the Rhine. From thence he sent a
messenger who had no knowledge of what was happening in Schonburg.

When at last the messenger returned from the Outlaw’s camp, he brought
with him a wailing woman and grim tidings that he feared to deliver.
Thrice his lordship demanded his account, the last time with such
sternness that the messenger quailed before him.

“My Lord,” he stammered at last, “a frightful thing has taken
place--would that I had died before it was told to me. The young man
your lordship hanged was no other than----’

“Well, why do you pause? You were going to say he was my own son. What
proof does the Outlaw offer that such was indeed the case?”

“Alas! my Lord, the proof seems clear enough. Here with me is young Lord
Wilhelm’s nurse, whose first neglect led to his abduction, and who fled
to the forest after him, and was never found. She followed him to the
Outlaw’s camp, and was there kept prisoner by him until she was at last
given charge of the lad, under oath that she would teach him to forget
who he was, the fierce Outlaw threatening death to both woman and child
were his orders disobeyed. She has come willingly with me hoping to
suffer death now that one she loved more than son has died through her
first fault.”

Then to the amazement of the pallid messenger the Count laughed aloud
and called for Wilhelm, who, when he was brought, clasped the trembling
old woman in his arms, overjoyed to see her again and eager to learn
news of the camp. How was the stout Gottlieb? Had the messenger seen
Captain Heinrich? and so on.

“Indeed, my young Lord,” answered the overjoyed woman “there was such
turmoil in the camp that I was glad to be quit of it with unbroken
bones. When the Outlaw proclaimed that you were hanged, there was
instant rebellion among his followers, who thought that your capture was
merely a trick to be speedily amended, being intended to form a laughing
matter to your discomfiture when you returned. They swore they would
have torn down Schonburg with their bare hands rather than have left you
in jeopardy, had they known their retreat imperilled your life.”

“The brave lads!” cried the young man in a glow of enthusiasm, “and here
have I been maligning them for cowards! What was the outcome?”

“That I do not know, my Lord, being glad to escape from the ruffians
with unfractured head.”

The result of the embassy was speedily apparent at Schonburg. Two days
later, in the early morning, the custodians at the gate were startled
by the shrill Outlaw yell, which had on so many occasions carried terror
with it into the hearts of Rhine strongholds.

“Come out, Hangman of Schonburg!” they shouted, “come out, murderer of
a defenceless prisoner. Come out, before we drag you forth, for the rope
is waiting for your neck and the gallows tree is waiting for the rope.”

Count Herbert was first on the battlements, and curtly he commanded his
men not to launch bolt at the invaders, knowing the outlaws mistakenly
supposed him to be the executioner of their former comrade. A moment
later young Wilhelm himself appeared on the wall above the gate, and,
lifting his arms above his head raised a great shout of joy at seeing
there collected his old companions, calling this one or that by name
as he recognised them among the seething, excited throng. There was an
instant’s cessation of the clamour, then the outlaws sent forth a cheer
that echoed from all the hills around. They brandished their weapons
aloft, and cheered again and again, the garrison of the castle, now
bristling along the battlements, joining in the tumult with strident
voices. Gottlieb advanced some distance toward the gate, and holding up
his hand for silence addressed Wilhelm.

“Young master,” he cried, “we have deposed von Weithoff, and would have
hanged him, but that he escaped during the night, fled to Mayence and
besought protection of the Archbishop. If you will be our leader we will
sack Mayence and hang the Archbishop from his own cathedral tower.”

“That can I hardly do, Gottlieb, as a messenger has been sent to the
Archbishop asking him to come to Schonburg and marry Elsa to me. He
might take our invasion as an unfriendly act and refuse to perform the
ceremony.”

Gottlieb scratched his head as one in perplexity, seeing before him a
question of etiquette that he found difficult to solve. At last he said:

“What need of Archbishop? You and Elsa have been brought up among us,
therefore confer honour on our free company by being married by our own
Monk who has tied many a knot tight enough to hold the most wayward
of our band. The aisles of the mighty oaks are more grand than the
cathedral at Mayence or the great hall of Schonburg.”

“Indeed I am agreed, if Elsa is willing. We will be married first in the
forest and then by the Archbishop in the great hall of Schonburg.”

“In such case there will be delay, for now that I bethink me, his
Lordship of Mayence has taken himself to Frankfort, where he is to meet
the Archbishops of Treves and Cologne who will presently journey to the
capital We were thinking of falling upon his reverence of Cologne as he
passed up the river, unless he comes with an escort too numerous for us,
which, alas! is most likely, so suspicious has the world grown.”

“You will be wise not to meddle with the princes of the Church, be their
escorts large or small.”

“Then, Master Wilhelm, be our leader, for we are likely to get into
trouble unless a man of quality is at our head.”

Wilhelm breathed a deep sigh and glanced sideways at his father, who
stood some distance off, leaning on his two-handed sword, a silent
spectator of the meeting.

“The free life of the forest is no more for me, Gottlieb. My duty is
here in the castle of my forefathers, much though I grieve to part with
you.”

This decision seemed to have a depressing effect on the outlaws within
hearing. Gottlieb retired, and the band consulted together for a time,
then their spokesman again advanced.

“Some while since,” he began in dolorous tone, “we appealed to the
Emperor to pardon us, promising in such case to quit our life of
outlawry and take honest service with those nobles who needed stout
blades, but his Majesty sent reply that if we came unarmed to the
capital and tendered submission, he would be graciously pleased to hang
a round dozen of us to be selected by him, scourge the rest through the
streets of Frankfort and so bestow his clemency on such as survived.
This imperial tender we did not accept, as there was some uncertainty
regarding whose neck should feel the rope and whose back the scourge.
While all were willing to admit that more than a dozen of us sorely
needed hanging, yet each man seemed loath to claim precedence over
his neighbour in wickedness, and desired, in some sort, a voice in the
selection of the victims. But if you will accept our following, Master
Wilhelm, we will repair at once to Frankfort and make submission to his
Majesty the Emperor. The remnant being well scourged, will then return
to Schonburg to place themselves under your command.”

“Are you willing then to hang for me, Gottlieb?”

“I hanker not after the hanging, but if hang we must, there is no man
I would rather hang for than Wilhelm, formerly of the forest, but now,
alas! of Schonburg. And so say they all without dissent, therefore the
unanimity must needs include the eleven other danglers.”

“Then draw nigh, all of you, to the walls and hear my decision.”

Gottlieb waving his arms, hailed the outlaws trooping to the walls, and,
his upraised hand bringing silence, Wilhelm spoke:

“Such sacrifice as you propose, I cannot accept, yet I dearly wish to
lead a band of men like you. Elsa and I shall be married by our ancient
woodland father in the forest and then by the Abbot of St. Werner in the
hall of Schonburg. We will make our wedding journey to Frankfort, and
you shall be our escort and our protectors.”

There was for some moments such cheering at this that the young man was
compelled to pause in his address, and then as the outcry was again and
again renewed, he looked about for the cause and saw that Elsa and his
mother had taken places on the balcony which overlooked the animated
scene. The beautiful girl had been recognised by the rebels and she
waved her hand in response to their shouting.

“We will part company,” resumed Wilhelm, “as near Frankfort as it is
safe for you to go, and my wife and I, accompanied by a score of men
from this castle, will enter the capital. I will beg your complete
pardon from his Majesty and if at first it is refused, I think Elsa
will have better success with the Empress, who may incline her imperial
husband toward clemency. All this I promise, providing I receive the
consent and support of my father, and I am not likely to be refused,
for he already knows the persuasive power of my dear betrothed when she
pleads for mercy.”

“My consent and support I most willingly bestow,” said the Count, with a
fervour that left no doubt of his sincerity.

The double marriage was duly solemnised, and Wilhelm, with his
newly-made wife, completed their journey to Frankfort, escorted until
almost within sight of the capital by five hundred and twenty men, but
they entered the gates of the city accompanied by only the score of
Schonburg men, the remaining five hundred concealing themselves in the
rough country, as they well knew how to do.

Neither Wilhelm nor Elsa had ever seen a large city before, and silence
fell upon them as they approached the western gate, for they were coming
upon a world strange to them, and Wilhelm felt an unaccustomed elation
stir within his breast, as if he were on the edge of some adventure
that might have an important bearing on his future. Instead of passing
peaceably through the gate as he had expected, the cavalcade was
halted after the two had ridden under the gloomy stone archway, and
the portcullis was dropped with a sudden clang, shutting out the twenty
riders who followed. One of several officers who sat on a stone bench
that fronted the guard-house within the walls, rose and came forward.

“What is your name and quality?” he demanded, gruffly.

“I am Wilhelm, son of Count von Schonberg.”

“What is your business here in Frankfort?”

“My business relates to the emperor, and is not to be delivered to the
first underling who has the impudence to make inquiry,” replied
Wilhelm in a haughty tone, which could scarcely be regarded, in the
circumstances, as diplomatic.

Nevertheless, the answer did not seem to be resented, but rather
appeared to have a subduing effect on the questioner, who turned, as if
for further instruction, to another officer, evidently his superior in
rank. The latter now rose, came forward, doffing his cap, and said:

“I understand your answer better than he to whom it was given, my Lord.”

“I am glad there is one man of sense at a gate of the capital,” said
Wilhelm, with no relaxation of his dignity, but nevertheless bewildered
at the turn the talk had taken, seeing there was something underneath
all this which he did not comprehend, yet resolved to carry matters with
a high hand until greater clearness came to the situation.

“Will you order the portcullis raised and permit my men to follow me?”

“They are but temporarily detained until we decide where to quarter
them, my Lord. You know,” he added, lowering his voice, “the necessity
for caution. Are you for the Archbishop of Treves, of Cologne, or of
Mayence?”

“I am from the district of Mayence, of course.”

“And are you for the archbishop?”

“For the archbishop certainly. He would have honoured me by performing
our marriage ceremony had he not been called by important affairs of
state to the capital, as you may easily learn by asking him, now that he
is within these walls.”

The officer bowed low with great obsequiousness and said:

“Your reply is more than sufficient, my Lord, and I trust you will
pardon the delay we have caused you. The men of Mayence are quartered in
the Leinwandhaus, where room will doubtless be made for your followers.

“It is not necessary for me to draw upon the hospitality of the good
Archbishop, as I lodge in my father’s town house near the palace, and
there is room within for the small escort I bring.”

Again the officer bowed to the ground, and the portcullis being by this
time raised, the twenty horsemen came clattering under the archway,
and thus, without further molestation, they arrived at the house of the
Count von Schonburg.

“Elsa,” said Wilhelm, when they were alone in their room, “there is
something wrong in this city. Men look with fear one upon another, and
pass on hurriedly, as if to avoid question. Others stand in groups at
the street corners and speak in whispers, glancing furtively over their
shoulders.”

“Perhaps that is the custom in cities,” replied Elsa.

“I doubt it. I have heard that townsmen are eager for traffic, inviting
all comers to buy, but here most of the shops are barred, and no
customers are solicited. They seem to me like people under a cloud of
fear. What can it be?”

“We are more used to the forest path than to city streets, Wilhelm. They
will all become familiar to us in a day or two, yet I feel as if I could
not get a full breath in these narrow streets and I long for the trees
already, but perhaps content will come with waiting.”

“‘Tis deeper than that. There is something ominous in the air. Noted
you not the questioning at the gate and its purport? They asked me if
I favoured Treves, or Cologne, or Mayence, but none inquired if I stood
loyal to the Emperor, yet I was entering his capital city of Frankfort.”

“Perhaps you will learn all from the Emperor when you see him,” ventured
Elsa.

“Perhaps,” said Wilhelm.

The chamberlain of the von Schonburg household, who had supervised the
arrangements for the reception of the young couple, waited upon his
master in the evening and informed him that the Emperor would not be
visible for some days to come.

“He has gone into retreat, in the cloisters attached to the cathedral,
and it is the imperial will that none disturb him on worldly affairs.
Each day at the hour when the court assembles at the palace, the Emperor
hears exhortation from the pious fathers in the Wahlkapelle of the
cathedral; the chapel in which emperors are elected; these exhortations
pertaining to the ruling of the land, which his majesty desires to
govern justly and well.

“An excellent intention,” commented the young man, with suspicion of
impatience in his tone, “but meanwhile, how are the temporal affairs of
the country conducted?”

“The Empress Brunhilda is for the moment the actual head of the state.
Whatever act of the ministers receives her approval, is sent by a monk
to the Emperor, who signs any document so submitted to him.”

“Were her majesty an ambitious woman, such transference of power might
prove dangerous.”

“She is an ambitious woman, but devoted to her husband, who, it perhaps
may be whispered, is more monk than king,” replied the chamberlain
under his breath. “Her majesty has heard of your lordship’s romantic
adventures and has been graciously pleased to command that you and her
ladyship, your wife, be presented to her to-morrow in presence of the
court.”

“This is a command which it will be a delight to obey. But tell me, what
is wrong in this great town? There is a sinister feeling in the air;
uneasiness is abroad, or I am no judge of my fellow-creatures.”

“Indeed, my Lord, you have most accurately described the situation.
No man knows what is about to happen. The gathering of the Electors is
regarded with the gravest apprehension. The Archbishop of Mayence, who
but a short time since crowned the Emperor at the great altar of the
cathedral, is herewith a thousand men at his back. The Count Palatine
of the Rhine is also within these walls with a lesser entourage. It is
rumoured that his haughty lordship, the Archbishop of Treves, will reach
Frankfort to-morrow, to be speedily followed by that eminent Prince of
the Church, the Archbishop of Cologne. Thus there will be gathered in
the capital four Electors, a majority of the college, a conjunction
that has not occurred for centuries, except on the death of an emperor,
necessitating the nomination and election of his successor.”

“But as the Emperor lives and there is no need of choosing another,
wherein lies the danger?

“The danger lies in the fact that the college has the power to depose as
well as to elect.”

“Ah! And do the Electors threaten to depose?”

“No. Treves is much too crafty for any straight-forward statement of
policy. He is the brains of the combination, and has put forward Mayence
and the Count Palatine as the moving spirits, although it is well known
that the former is but his tool and the latter is moved by ambition to
have his imbecile son selected emperor.”

“Even if the worst befall, it seems but the substitution of a
weak-minded man for one who neglects the affairs of state, although I
should think the princes of the Church would prefer a monarch who is so
much under the influence of the monks.”

“The trouble is deeper than my imperfect sketch of the situation would
lead you to suppose, my Lord. The Emperor periodically emerges from his
retirement, promulgates some startling decree, unheeding the counsel of
any adviser, then disappears again, no man knowing what is coming
next. Of such a nature was his recent edict prohibiting the harrying of
merchants going down the Rhine and the Moselle, which, however just in
theory, is impracticable, for how are the nobles to reap revenue if such
practices are made unlawful? This edict has offended all the magnates
of both rivers, and the archbishops, with the Count Palatine, claim
that their prerogatives have been infringed, so they come to Frankfort
ostensibly to protest, while the Emperor in his cloister refuses to meet
them. The other three Electors hold aloof, as the edict touches them
not, but they form a minority which is powerless, even if friendly to
the Emperor. Meanwhile his majesty cannot be aroused to an appreciation
of the crisis, but says calmly that if it is the Lord’s will he remain
emperor, emperor he will remain.”

“Then at its limit, chamberlain, all we have to expect is a peaceful
deposition and election?”

“Not so, my lord. The merchants of Frankfort are fervently loyal, to the
Emperor, who, they say, is the first monarch to give forth a just law
for their protection. At present the subtlety of Treves has nullified
all combined action on their part, for he has given out that he comes
merely to petition his over-lord, which privilege is well within his
right, and many citizens actually believe him, but others see that a
majority of the college will be within these walls before many days are
past, and that the present Emperor may be legally deposed and another
legally chosen. Then if the citizens object, they are rebels, while at
this moment if they fight for the Emperor they are patriots, so you see
the position is not without its perplexities, for the citizens well know
that if they were to man the walls and keep out Treves and Cologne, the
Emperor himself would most likely disclaim their interference, trusting
as he does so entirely in Providence that a short time since he actually
disbanded the imperial troops, much to the delight of the archbishops,
who warmly commended his action. And now, my Lord, if I may venture to
tender advice unasked, I would strongly counsel you to quit Frankfort as
soon as your business here is concluded, for I am certain that a
change of government is intended. All will be done promptly, and the
transaction will be consummated before the people are aware that such a
step is about to be taken. The Electors will meet in the Wahlzimmer
or election room of the Romer and depose the Emperor, then they will
instantly select his successor, adjourn to the Wahlkapelle and elect
him. The Palatine’s son is here with his father, and will be crowned at
the high altar by the Archbishop of Mayence. The new Emperor will dine
with the Electors in the Kaisersaal and immediately after show
himself on the balcony to the people assembled in the Romerberg below.
Proclamation of his election will then be made, and all this need not
occupy more than two hours. The Archbishop of Mayence already controls
the city gates, which since the disbanding of the imperial troops have
been unguarded, and none can get in or out of the city without that
potentate’s permission. The men of Mayence are quartered in the centre
of the town, the Count Palatine’s troops are near the gate. Treves and
Cologne will doubtless command other positions, and thus between
them they will control the city. Numerous as the merchants and their
dependents are, they will have no chance against the disciplined force
of the Electors, and the streets of Frankfort are like to run with
blood, for the nobles are but too eager to see a sharp check given to
the rising pretensions of the mercantile classes, who having heretofore
led peaceful lives, will come out badly in combat, despite their
numbers; therefore I beg of you, my Lord, to withdraw with her Ladyship
before this hell’s caldron is uncovered.”

“Your advice is good, chamberlain, in so far as it concerns my wife, and
I will beg of her to retire to Schonburg, although I doubt if she
will obey, but, by the bones of Saint Werner which floated against the
current of the Rhine in this direction, if there must be a fray, I will
be in the thick of it.”

“Remember, my Lord, that your house has always stood by the Archbishop
of Mayence.”

“It has stood by the Emperor as well, chamberlain.”

The Lady Elsa was amazed by the magnificence of the Emperor’s court,
when, accompanied by her husband, she walked the length of the great
room to make obeisance before the throne. At first entrance she shrank
timidly, closer to the side of Wilhelm, trembling at the ordeal of
passing, simply costumed as she now felt herself to be, between two
assemblages of haughty knights and high-born dames, resplendent in
dress, with the proud bearing that pertained to their position in
the Empire. Her breath came and went quickly, and she feared that all
courage would desert her before she traversed the seemingly endless
lane, flanked by the nobility of Germany, which led to the royal
presence. Wilhelm, unabashed, holding himself the equal of any there,
was not to be cowed by patronising glance, or scornful gaze. The thought
flashed through his mind:

“How can the throne fall, surrounded as it is by so many supporters?”

But when the approaching two saw the Empress, all remembrance of others
faded from their minds. Brunhilda was a woman of superb stature. She
stood alone upon the dais which supported the vacant throne, one hand
resting upon its carven arm. A cloak of imperial ermine fell gracefully
from her shapely shoulders and her slightly-elevated position on the
platform added height to her goddess-like tallness, giving her the
appearance of towering above every other person in the room, man or
woman. The excessive pallor of her complexion was emphasised by the
raven blackness of her wealth of hair, and the sombre midnight of her
eyes; eyes with slumbering fire in them, qualified by a haunted look
which veiled their burning intensity. Her brow was too broad and her
chin too firm for a painter’s ideal of beauty; her commanding presence
giving the effect of majesty rather than of loveliness. Deep lines of
care marred the marble of her forehead, and Wilhelm said to himself:

“Here is a woman going to her doom; knowing it; yet determined to show
no sign of fear and utter no cry for mercy.”

Every other woman there had eyes of varying shades of blue and gray, and
hair ranging from brown to golden yellow; thus the Empress stood before
them like a creature from another world.

Elsa was about to sink in lowly courtesy before the queenly woman when
the Empress came forward impetuously and kissed the girl on either
cheek, taking her by the hand.

“Oh, wild bird of the forest,” she cried, “why have you left the pure
air of the woods, to beat your innocent wings in this atmosphere of
deceit! And you, my young Lord, what brings you to Frankfort in these
troublous times? Have you an insufficiency of lands or of honours that
you come to ask augmentation of either?”

“I come to ask nothing for myself, your Majesty.”

“But to ask, nevertheless,” said Brunhilda, with a frown.

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“I hope I may live to see one man, like a knight of old, approach the
foot of the throne without a request on his lips. I thought you might
prove an exception, but as it is not so, propound your question?”

“I came to ask if my sword, supplemented by the weapons of five hundred
followers, can be of service to your Majesty.”

The Empress seemed taken aback by the young man’s unexpected reply, and
for some moments she gazed at him searchingly in silence.

At last she said:

“Your followers are the men of Schonburg and Gudenfels, doubtless?”

“No, your Majesty. Those you mention, acknowledge my father as their
leader. My men were known as the Outlaws of the Hundsrück, who have
deposed von Weithoff, chosen me as their chief, and now desire to lead
honest lives.”

The dark eyes of the Empress blazed again.

“I see, my Lord, that you have quickly learned the courtier’s language.
Under proffer of service you are really demanding pardon for a band of
marauders.”

Wilhelm met unflinchingly the angry look of this imperious woman, and
was so little a courtier that he allowed a frown to add sternness to his
brow.

“Your Majesty puts it harshly,” he said, “I merely petition for a stroke
of the pen which will add half a thousand loyal men to the ranks of the
Emperor’s supporters.”

Brunhilda pondered on this, then suddenly seemed to arrive at a
decision. Calling one of the ministers of state to her side, she said,
peremptorily:

“Prepare a pardon for the Outlaws of the Hundsrück. Send the document
at once to the Emperor for signature, and then bring it to me in the Red
Room.”

The minister replied with some hesitation:

“I should have each man’s name to inscribe on the roll, otherwise every
scoundrel in the Empire will claim protection under the edict.”

“I can give you every man’s name,” put in Wilhelm, eagerly.

“It is not necessary,” said the Empress.

“Your Majesty perhaps forgets,” persisted the minister, “that pardon
has already been proffered by the Emperor under certain conditions that
commended themselves to his imperial wisdom, and that the clemency so
graciously tendered was contemptuously refused.”

At this veiled opposition all the suspicion in Brunhilda’s nature turned
from Wilhelm to the high official, and she spoke to him in the tones of
one accustomed to prompt obedience.

“Prepare an unconditional pardon, and send it immediately to the Emperor
without further comment, either to him or to me.”

The minister bowed low and retired. The Empress dismissed the court,
detaining Elsa, and said to Wilhelm:

“Seek us half an hour later in the Red Room. Your wife I shall take with
me, that I may learn from her own lips the adventures which led to your
recognition as the heir of Schonburg, something of which I have already
heard. And as for your outlaws, send them word if you think they are
impatient to lead virtuous lives, which I take leave to doubt, that
before another day passes they need fear no penalty for past misdeed,
providing their future conduct escapes censure.”

“They are one and all eager to retrieve themselves in your Majesty’s
eyes!”

“Promise not too much, my young Lord, for they may be called upon to
perform sooner than they expect,” said Brunhilda, with a significant
glance at Wilhelm.

The young man left the imperial presence, overjoyed to know that his
mission had been successful.




CHAPTER IV

THE PERIL OF THE EMPEROR


Wilhelm awaited with impatience the passing of the half hour the Empress
had fixed as the period of his probation, for he was anxious to have
the signed pardon for the outlaws actually in his hand, fearing
the intrigues of the court might at the last moment bring about its
withdrawal.

When the time had elapsed he presented himself at the door of the Red
Room and was admitted by the guard. He found the Empress alone, and she
advanced toward him with a smile on her face, which banished the former
hardness of expression.

“Forgive me,” she said, “my seeming discourtesy in the Great Hall. I
am surrounded by spies, and doubtless Mayence already knows that your
outlaws have been pardoned, but that will merely make him more easy
about the safety of his cathedral town, especially as he holds Baron
von Weithoff their former leader. I was anxious that it should also be
reported to him that I had received you somewhat ungraciously. Your wife
is to take up her abode in the palace, as she refuses to leave Frankfort
if you remain here. She tells me the outlaws are brave men.”

“The bravest in the world, your Majesty.”

“And that they will follow you unquestioningly.”

“They would follow me to the gates of--” He paused, and added as if in
afterthought--“to the gates of Heaven.”

The lady smiled again.

“From what I have heard of them,” she said, “I feared their route lay in
another direction, but I have need of reckless men, and although I hand
you their pardon freely, it is not without a hope that they will see fit
to earn it.”

“Strong bodies and loyal souls, we belong to your Majesty. Command and
we will obey, while life is left us.”

“Do you know the present situation of the Imperial Crown, my Lord?”

“I understand it is in jeopardy through the act of the Electors, who, it
is thought, will depose the Emperor and elect a tool of their own. I am
also aware that the Imperial troops have been disbanded, and that there
will be four thousand armed and trained men belonging to the Electors
within the walls of Frankfort before many days are past.”

“Yes. What can five hundred do against four thousand?”

“We could capture the gates and prevent the entry of Treves and
Cologne.”

“I doubt that, for there are already two thousand troops obeying Mayence
and the Count Palatine now in Frankfort. I fear we must meet strength
by craft. The first step is to get your five hundred secretly into this
city. The empty barracks stand against the city wall; if you quartered
your score of Schonburg men there, they could easily assist your five
hundred to scale the wall at night, and thus your force would be at hand
concealed in the barracks without knowledge of the archbishops. Treves
and his men will be here to-morrow, before it would be possible for
you to capture the gates, even if such a design were practicable. I am
anxious above all things to avoid bloodshed, and any plan you have to
propose must be drafted with that end in view.”

“I will ride to the place where my outlaws are encamped on the
Rhine, having first quartered the Schonburg men in the barracks with
instructions regarding our reception. If the tales which the spies tell
the Archbishop of Mayence concerning my arrival and reception at court
lead his lordship to distrust me, he will command the guards at the
gate not to re-admit me. By to-morrow morning, or the morning after at
latest, I expect to occupy the barracks with five hundred and twenty
men, making arrangement meanwhile for the quiet provisioning of the
place. When I have consulted Gottlieb, who is as crafty as Satan
himself, I shall have a plan to lay before your Majesty.”

Wilhelm took leave of the Empress, gave the necessary directions to the
men he left behind him, and rode through the western gate unmolested and
unquestioned. The outlaws hailed him that evening with acclamations
that re-echoed from the hills which surrounded them, and their cheers
redoubled when Wilhelm presented them with the parchment which made them
once more free citizens of the Empire. That night they marched in, five
companies, each containing a hundred men, and the cat’s task of climbing
the walls of Frankfort in the darkness before the dawn, merely gave a
pleasant fillip to the long tramp. Daylight, found them sound asleep,
sprawling on the floors of the huge barracks.

When Wilhelm explained the situation to Gottlieb the latter made light
of the difficulty, as his master expected he would.

“‘Tis the easiest thing in the world,” he said.

“There are the Mayence men quartered in the Leinwandhaus. The men of
Treves are here, let us say, and the men of Cologne there. Very well,
we divide our company into four parties, as there is also the Count
Palatine to reckon with. We tie ropes round the houses containing these
sleeping men, set fire to the buildings all at the same time, and, pouf!
burn the vermin where they lie. The hanging of the four Electors after,
will be merely a job for a dozen of our men, and need not occupy longer
than while one counts five score.”

Wilhelm laughed.

“Your plan has the merit of simplicity, Gottlieb, but it does not fall
in with the scheme of the Empress, who is anxious that everything be
accomplished legally and without bloodshed. But if we can burn them, we
can capture them, imprisonment being probably more to the taste of the
vermin, as you call them, than cremation, and equally satisfactory to
us. Frankfort prison is empty, the Emperor having recently liberated all
within it. The place will amply accommodate four thousand men. Treves
has arrived to-day with much pomp, and Cologne will be here to-morrow.
To-morrow night the Electors hold their first meeting in the election
chamber of the Romer. While they are deliberating, do you think you and
your five hundred could lay four thousand men by the heels and leave
each bound and gagged in the city prison with good strong bolts shot in
on them?”

“Look on it as already done, my Lord. It is a task that requires speed,
stealth and silence, rather than strength. The main point is to see that
no alarm is prematurely given, and that no fugitive from one company
escape to give warning to the others. We fall upon sleeping men, and if
some haste is used, all are tied and gagged before they are full awake.”

“Very well. Make what preparations are necessary, as this venture may be
wrecked through lack of a cord or a gag, so see that you have everything
at hand, for we cannot afford to lose a single trick. The stake, if we
fail, is our heads.”

Wilhelm sought the Empress to let her know that he had got his men
safely housed in Frankfort, and also to lay before her his plan for
depositing the Electors’ followers in prison.

Brunhilda listened to his enthusiastic recital in silence, then shook
her head slowly.

“How can five hundred men hope to pinion four thousand?” she asked. “It
needs but one to make an outcry from an upper window, and, such is the
state of tension in Frankfort at the present moment that the whole city
will be about your ears instantly, thus bringing forth with the rest the
comrades of those you seek to imprison.”

“My outlaws are tigers, your Majesty. The Electors’ men will welcome
prison, once the Hundsrückers are let loose on them.”

“Your outlaws may understand the ways of the forest, but not those of a
city.”

“Well, your Majesty, they have sacked Coblentz, if that is any
recommendation for them.”

The reply of the Empress seemed irrelevant.

“Have you ever seen the hall in which the Emperors are nominated--or
deposed?” she asked.

“No, your Majesty.”

“Then follow me.”

The lady led him along a passage that seemed interminable, then down a
narrow winding stair, through a vaulted tunnel, the dank air of
which struck so cold and damp that the young man felt sure it was
subterranean; lastly up a second winding stair, at the top of which,
pushing aside some hanging tapestry, they stood within the noble
chamber known as the Wahlzimmer. The red walls were concealed by hanging
tapestry, the rich tunnel groining of the roof was dim in its lofty
obscurity. A long table occupied the centre of the room, with three
heavily-carved chairs on either side, and one, as ponderous as a throne,
at the head.

“There,” said the Empress, waving her hand, “sit the seven Electors when
a monarch of this realm is to be chosen. There, to-morrow night will sit
a majority of the Electoral College. In honour of this assemblage I have
caused these embroidered webs to be hung round the walls, so you see,
I, too, have a plan. Through this secret door which the Electors know
nothing of, I propose to admit a hundred of your men to be concealed
behind the tapestry. My plan differs from yours in that I determine to
imprison four men, while you would attempt to capture four thousand; I
consider therefore that my chances of success, compared with yours, are
as a thousand to one. I strike at the head; you strike at the body. If I
paralyse the head, the body is powerless.”

Wilhelm knit his brows, looked around the room, but made no reply.

“Well,” cried the Empress, impatiently, “I have criticised your plan;
criticise mine if you find a flaw in it.”

“Is it your Majesty’s intention to have the men take their places behind
the hangings before the archbishops assemble?”

“Assuredly.”

“Then you will precipitate a conflict before all the Electors are here,
for it is certain that the first prince to arrive will have the place
thoroughly searched for spies. So momentous a meeting will never be held
until all fear of eavesdroppers is allayed.”

“That is true, Wilhelm,” said the Empress with a sigh, “then there is
nothing left but your project; which I fear will result in a mêlée and
frightful slaughter.”

“I propose, your Majesty, that we combine the two plans. We will
imprison as many as may be of the archbishops’ followers and then by
means of the secret stairway surround their lordships.”

“But they will, in the silence of the room, instantly detect the
incoming of your men.”

“Not so, if the panel which conceals the stair, work smoothly. My men
are like cats, and their entrance and placement will not cause the most
timid mouse to cease nibbling.”

“The panel is silent enough, and it may be that your men will reach
their places without betraying their presence to the archbishops, but
it would be well to instruct your leaders that in case of discovery they
are to rush forward, without waiting for your arrival or mine, hold the
door of the Wahlzimmer at all hazards, and see that no Elector escapes.
I am firm in my belief that once the persons of the archbishops are
secured, this veiled rebellion ends, whether you imprison your four
thousand or not, for I swear by my faith that if their followers raise
a hand against me, I will have the archbishops slain before their eyes,
even though I go down in disaster the moment after.”

The stern determination of the Empress would have inspired a less
devoted enthusiast than Wilhelm. He placed his hand on the hilt of his
sword.

“There will be no disaster to the Empress,” he said, fervently.

They retired into the palace by the way they came, carefully closing the
concealed panel behind them.

As Wilhelm passed through the front gates of the Palace to seek Gottlieb
at the barracks, he pondered over the situation and could not conceal
from himself the fact that the task he had undertaken was almost
impossible of accomplishment. It was an unheard of thing that five
hundred men should overcome eight times their number and that without
raising a disturbance in so closely packed a city as Frankfort, where,
as the Empress had said, the state of tension was already extreme.
But although he found that the pessimism of the Empress regarding his
project was affecting his own belief in it, he set his teeth resolutely
and swore that if it failed it would not be through lack of taking any
precaution that occurred to him.

At the barracks he found Gottlieb in high feather. The sight of his
cheerful, confident face revived the drooping spirits of the young man.

“Well, master,” he cried, the freedom of outlawry still in the
abruptness of his speech, “I have returned from a close inspection of
the city.”

“A dangerous excursion,” said Wilhelm. “I trust no one else left the
barracks.”

“Not another man, much as they dislike being housed, but it was
necessary some one should know where our enemies are placed. The
Archbishop of Treves, with an assurance that might have been expected of
him, has stalled his men in the cathedral, no less, but a most excellent
place for our purposes. A guard at each door, and there you are.

“Ah, he has selected the cathedral not because of his assurance, but to
intercept any communication with the Emperor, who is in the cloisters
attached to it, and doubtless his lordship purposes to crown the new
emperor before daybreak at the high altar. The design of the archbishop
is deeper than appears on the surface, Gottlieb. His men in the
cathedral gives him possession of the Wahlkapelle where emperors are
elected, after having been nominated in the Wahlzimmer. His lordship has
a taste for doing things legally. Where are the men of Cologne?”

“In a church also; the church of St. Leonhard on the banks of the Main.
That is as easily surrounded and is as conveniently situated as if I
had selected it myself. The Count Palatine’s men are in a house near the
northern gate, a house which has no back exit, and therefore calls but
for the closing of a street. Nothing could be better.”

“But the Drapers’ Hall which holds the Mayence troops, almost adjoins
the cathedral. Is there not a danger in this circumstance that a turmoil
in the one may be heard in the other?”

“No, because we have most able allies.”

“What? the townsmen? You have surely taken none into your confidence,
Gottlieb?”

“Oh, no, my Lord. Our good copartners are none other than the
archbishops themselves. It is evident they expect trouble to-morrow, but
none to-night. Orders have been given that all their followers are to
get a good night’s rest, each man to be housed and asleep by sunset.
The men of both Treves and Cologne are tired with their long and hurried
march and will sleep like the dead. We will first attack the men of
Mayence surrounding the Leinwandhaus, and I warrant you that no matter
what noise there is, the Treves people will not hear. Then being on the
spot, we will, when the Mayence soldiers are well bound, tie up those
in the cathedral. I purpose if your lordship agrees to leave our bound
captives where they are, guarded by a sufficient number of outlaws, in
case one attempts to help the other, until we have pinioned those
of Cologne and the Count Palatine. When this is off our minds we can
transport all our prisoners to the fortress at our leisure.”

Thus it was arranged, and when night fell on the meeting of the
Electors, so well did Gottlieb and his men apply themselves to the task
that before an hour had passed the minions of the Electors lay packed in
heaps in the aisles and the rooms where they lodged, to be transported
to the prison at the convenience of their captors.

Many conditions favoured the success of the seemingly impossible feat.
Since the arrival of the soldiery there had been so many night brawls
in the streets that one more or less attracted little attention, either
from the military or from the civilians. The very boldness and magnitude
of the scheme was an assistance to it. Then the stern cry of “_In the
name of the Emperor!_” with which the assaulters once inside cathedral,
church or house, fell upon their victims, deadened opposition, for the
common soldiers, whether enlisted by Treves, Cologne, or Mayence, knew
that the Emperor was over all, and they had no inkling of the designs
of their immediate masters. Then, as Gottlieb had surmised, the extreme
fatigue of the followers of Treves and Cologne, after their toilsome
march from their respective cities, so overcame them that many went to
sleep when being conveyed from church and cathedral to prison. There
was some resistance on the part of officers, speedily quelled by the
victorious woodlanders, but aside from this there were few heads
broken, and the wish of the Empress for a bloodless conquest was amply
fulfilled.

Two hours after darkness set in, Gottlieb, somewhat breathless, saluted
his master at the steps of the palace and announced that the followers
of the archbishops and the Count Palatine were behind bars in the
Frankfort prison, with a strong guard over them to discourage any
attempt at jailbreaking. When Wilhelm led his victorious soldiery
silently up the narrow secret stair, pushed back, with much
circumspection and caution, the sliding panel, listened for a moment to
the low murmur of their lordships’ voices, waited until each of his men
had gone stealthily behind the tapestry, listened again and still heard
the drone of speech, he returned as he came, and accompanied by a guard
of two score, escorted the Empress to the broad public stairway that led
up one flight to the door of the Wahlzimmer. The two sentinels at the
foot of the stairs crossed their pikes to bar the entrance of Brunhilda,
but they were overpowered and gagged so quickly and silently that their
two comrades at the top had no suspicion of what was going forward until
they had met a similar fate. The guards at the closed door, more alert,
ran forward, only to be carried away with their fellow-sentinels.
Wilhelm, his sword drawn, pushed open the door and cried, in a loud
voice:

“My Lords, I am commanded to announce to you that her Majesty the
Empress honours you with her presence.”

It would have been difficult at that moment to find four men in all
Germany more astonished than were the Electors. They saw the young man
who held open the door, bow low, then the stately lady so sonorously
announced come slowly up the hall and stand silently before them.
Wilhelm closed the door and set his back against it, his naked sword
still in his right hand. Three of the Electors were about to rise to
their feet, but a motion of the hand by the old man of Treves, who sat
the head of the table, checked them.

“I have come,” said the Empress in a low voice, but distinctly heard
in the stillness of the room, “to learn why you are gathered here in
Frankfort and in the Wahlzimmer, where no meeting has taken place for
three hundred years, except on the death of an emperor.”

“Madame,” said the Elector of Treves, leaning back in his chair and
placing the tips of his fingers together before him, “all present have
the right to assemble in this hall unquestioned, with the exception of
yourself and the young man who erroneously styled you Empress, with such
unnecessary flourish, as you entered. You are the wife of our present
Emperor, but under the Salic law no woman can occupy the German throne.
If flatterers have misled you by bestowing a title to which you have no
claim, and if the awe inspired by that spurious appellation has won your
admission past ignorant guards who should have prevented your approach,
I ask that you will now withdraw, and permit us to resume deliberations
that should not have been interrupted.”

“What is the nature of those deliberations, my Lord?”

“The question is one improper for you to ask. To answer it would be to
surrender our rights as Electors of the Empire. It is enough for you
to be assured, madame, that we are lawfully assembled, and that our
purposes are strictly legal.”

“You rest strongly on the law, my Lord, so strongly indeed that were I
a suspicious person I might surmise that your acts deserved strict
scrutiny. I will appeal to you, then, in the name of the law. Is it the
law of this realm that he who directly or indirectly conspires against
the peace and comfort of his emperor is adjudged a traitor, his act
being punishable by death?”

“The law stands substantially as you have cited it, madame, but its
bearing upon your presence in this room is, I confess, hidden from me.”

“I shall endeavour to enlighten you, my Lord. Are you convened here to
further the peace and comfort of his Majesty the Emperor?”

“We devoutly trust so, madame. His Majesty is so eminently fitted for a
cloister, rather than for domestic bliss or the cares of state, that
we hope to pleasure him by removing all barriers in his way to a
monastery.”

“Then until his Majesty is deposed you are, by your own confession,
traitors.”

“Pardon me, madame, but the law regarding traitors which you quoted with
quite womanly inaccuracy, and therefore pardonable, does not apply to
eight persons within this Empire, namely, the seven Electors and the
Emperor himself.”

“I have been unable to detect the omission you state, my Lord. There are
no exceptions, as I read the law.”

“The exceptions are implied, madame, if not expressly set down, for it
would be absurd to clothe Electors with a power in the exercise of which
they would constitute themselves traitors. But this discussion is as
painful as it is futile, and therefore it must cease. In the name of
the Electoral College here in session assembled, I ask you to withdraw,
madame.”

“Before obeying your command, my Lord Archbishop, there is another point
which I wish to submit to your honourable body, so learned in the law.
I see three vacant chairs before me, and I am advised that it is illegal
to depose an emperor unless all the members of the college are present
and unanimous.”

“Again you have been misinformed. A majority of the college elects; a
majority can depose, and in retiring to private life, madame, you
have the consolation of knowing that your intervention prolonged your
husband’s term of office by several minutes. For the third time I
request you to leave this room, and if you again refuse I shall be
reluctantly compelled to place you under arrest. Young man, open the
door and allow this woman to pass through.”

“I would have you know, my Lord,” said Wilhelm, “that I am appointed
commander of the imperial forces, and that I obey none but his Majesty
the Emperor.”

“I understood that the Emperor depended upon the Heavenly Hosts,” said
the Archbishop, with the suspicion of a smile on his grim lips.

“It does not become a prince of the Church to sneer at Heaven or its
power,” said the Empress, severely.

“Nothing was further from my intention, madame, but you must excuse me
if I did not expect to see the Heavenly Hosts commanded by a young man
so palpably German. Still all this is aside from the point. Will you
retire, or must I reluctantly use force?”

“I advise your lordship not to appeal to force.”

The old man of Treves rose slowly to his feet, an ominous glitter in his
eyes. He stood for some minutes regarding angrily the woman before him,
as if to give her time to reconsider her stubborn resolve to hold her
ground. Then raising his voice the Elector cried:

“Men of Treves! enter!”

While one might count ten, dense silence followed this outcry, the
seated Electors for the first time glancing at their leader with looks
of apprehension.

“Treves! Treves! Treves!”

That potent name reverberated from the lips of its master, who had never
known its magic to fail in calling round him stout defenders, and who
could not yet believe that its power should desert him at this juncture.
Again there was no response.

“As did the prophet of old, ye call on false gods.”

The low vibrant voice of the Empress swelled like the tones of a rich
organ as the firm command she had held over herself seemed about to
depart.

“Lord Wilhelm, give them a name, that carries authority in its sound.”

Wilhelm strode forward from the door, raised his glittering sword high
above his head and shouted:

“THE EMPEROR! Cheer, ye woodland wolves!”

With a downward sweep of his sword, he cut the two silken cords which,
tied to a ring near the door, held up the tapestry. The hangings fell
instantly like the drop curtain of a theatre, its rustle overwhelmed in
the vociferous yell that rang to the echoing roof.

“Forward! Close up your ranks!”

With simultaneous movement the men stepped over the folds on the floor
and stood shoulder to shoulder, an endless oval line of living warriors,
surrounding the startled group in the centre of the great hall.

“Aloft, rope-men.”

Four men, with ropes wound round their bodies, detached themselves from
the circle, and darting to the four corners of the room, climbed like
squirrels until they reached the tunnelled roofing, where, making their
way to the centre with a dexterity that was marvellous, they threw
their ropes over the timbers and came spinning down to the floor, like
gigantic spiders, each suspended on his own line. The four men, looped
nooses in hand, took up positions behind the four Electors, all of whom
were now on their feet. Wilhelm saluted the Empress, bringing the hilt
of his sword to his forehead, and stepped back.

The lady spoke:

“My Lords, learned in the law, you will perhaps claim with truth that
there is no precedent for hanging an Electoral College, but neither
is there precedent for deposing an Emperor. It is an interesting legal
point on which we shall have definite opinion pronounced in the inquiry
which will follow the death of men so distinguished as yourselves, and
if it should be held that I have exceeded my righteous authority in thus
pronouncing sentence upon you as traitors, I shall be nothing loath to
make ample apology to the state.”

“Such reparation will be small consolation to us, your Majesty,” said
the Archbishop of Cologne, speaking for the first time. “My preference
is for an ante-mortem rather than a post-mortem adjustment of the law.
My colleague of Treves, in the interests of a better understanding, I
ask you to destroy the document of deposition, which you hold in your
hand, and which I beg to assure her Majesty, is still unsigned.”

The trembling fingers of the Archbishop of Treves proved powerless
to tear the tough parchment, so he held it for a moment until it was
consumed in the flame of a taper which stood on the table.

“And now, your Majesty, speaking entirely for myself, I give you my word
as a prince of the Church and a gentlemen of the Empire, that my vote as
an Elector will always be against the deposition of the Emperor, for I
am convinced that imperial power is held in firm and capable hands.”

The great prelate of Cologne spoke as one making graceful concession
to a lady, entirely uninfluenced by the situation in which he so
unexpectedly found himself. A smile lit up the face of the Empress as
she returned his deferential bow.

“I accept your word with pleasure, my Lord, fully assured that, once
given, it will never be tarnished by any mental reservation.”

“I most cordially associate myself with my brother of Cologne and take
the same pledge,” spoke up his Lordship of Mayence.

The Count Palatine of the Rhine moistened his dry lips and said:

“I was misled by ambition, your Majesty, and thus in addition to giving
you my word, I crave your imperial pardon as well.”

The Archbishop of Treves sat in his chair like a man collapsed. He
had made no movement since the burning of the parchment. All eyes
were turned upon him in the painful stillness. With visible effort he
enunciated in deep voice the two words: “And I.”

The face of the Empress took on a radiance that had long been absent
from it.

“It seems, my Lords, that there has been merely a slight
misunderstanding, which a few quiet words and some legal instruction has
entirely dissipated. To seal our compact, I ask you all to dine with me
to-morrow night, when I am sure it will afford intense gratification
to prelates so pious as yourselves to send a message to his Majesty
the Emperor, informing him that his trust in Providence has not been
misplaced.”




CHAPTER V

THE NEEDLE DAGGER


Wilhelm Von Schonburg, Commander of the Imperial Forces at Frankfort,
applied himself to the task of building up an army round his nucleus of
five hundred with all the energy and enthusiasm of youth. He first
put parties of trusty men at the various city gates so that he might
control, at least in a measure, the human intake and output of the city.
The power which possession of the gates gave him he knew to be more
apparent than real, for Frankfort was a commercial city, owing its
prosperity to traffic, and any material interference with the ebb or
flow of travel had a depressing influence on trade. If the Archbishops
meant to keep their words given to the Empress, all would be well,
but of their good faith Wilhelm had the gravest doubts. It would be
impossible to keep secret the defeat of their Lordships, when several
thousands of their men lay immured in the city prison. The whole world
would thus learn sooner or later that the great Princes of the Church
had come to shear and had departed shorn; and this blow to their pride
was one not easily forgiven by men so haughty and so powerful as the
prelates of Treves, Mayence and Cologne. Young as he was, Wilhelm’s free
life in the forest, among those little accustomed to control the raw
passions of humanity, had made him somewhat a judge of character, and he
had formed the belief that the Archbishop of Cologne, was a gentleman,
and would keep his word, that the Archbishop of Treves would have no
scruple in breaking his, while the Archbishop of Mayence would follow
the lead of Treves. This suspicion he imparted to the Empress Brunhilda,
but she did not agree with him, believing that all three, with the Count
Palatine, would hereafter save their heads by attending strictly to
their ecclesiastical business, leaving the rule of the Empire in the
hands which now held it.

“Cologne will not break the pledge he has given me,” she said; “of that
I am sure. Mayence is too great an opportunist to follow an unsuccessful
leader; and the Count Palatine is too great a coward to enter upon such
a dangerous business as the deposing of an emperor who is _my_ husband.
Besides, I have given the Count Palatine a post at Court which requires
his constant presence in Frankfort, and so I have him in some measure
a prisoner. The Electors are powerless if even one of their number is
a defaulter, so what can Treves do, no matter how deeply his pride is
injured, or how bitterly he thirsts for revenge? His only resource is
boldly to raise the flag of rebellion and march his troops on Frankfort.
He is too crafty a man to take such risk or to do anything so open. For
this purpose he must set about the collection of an army secretly, while
we may augment the Imperial troops in the light of day. So, unless he
strikes speedily, we will have a force that will forever keep him in
awe.”

This seemed a reasonable view, but it only partly allayed the
apprehensions of Wilhelm. He had caught more than one fierce look
of hatred directed toward him by the Archbishop of Treves, since the
meeting in the Wahlzimmer, and the regard of his Lordship of Mayence
had been anything but benign. These two dignitaries had left Frankfort
together, their way lying for some distance in the same direction.
Wilhelm liberated their officers, and thus the two potentates had scant
escort to their respective cities. Their men he refused to release,
which refusal both Treves and Mayence accepted with bad grace, saying
the withholding cast an aspersion on their honour. This example was
not followed by the suave Archbishop of Cologne, who departed some days
after his colleagues. He laughed when Wilhelm informed him that his
troops would remain in Frankfort, and said he would be at the less
expense in his journey down the Rhine, as his men were gross feeders.

Being thus quit of the three Archbishops, the question was what to do
with their three thousand men. It was finally resolved to release them
by detachments, drafting into the Imperial army such as were willing so
to serve and take a special oath of allegiance to the Emperor, allowing
those who declined to enlist to depart from the city in whatever
direction pleased them, so that they went away in small parties. It
was found, however, that the men cared little for whom they fought,
providing the pay was good and reasonably well assured. Thus the
Imperial army received many recruits and the country round Frankfort few
vagrants.

The departed Archbishops made no sign, the Count Palatine seemed
engrossed with his duties about the Court, the army increased daily and
life went on so smoothly that Wilhelm began to cease all questioning of
the future, coming at last to believe that the Empress was right in her
estimate of the situation. He was in this pleasing state of mind when
an incident occurred which would have caused him greater anxiety than
it did had he been better acquainted with the governing forces of his
country. On arising one morning he found on the table of his room a
parchment, held in place by a long thin dagger of peculiar construction.
His first attention was given to the weapon and not to the scroll. The
blade was extremely thin and sharp at the point, and seemed at first
sight to be so exceedingly frail as to be of little service in actual
combat, but a closer examination proved that it was practically
unbreakable, and of a temper so fine that nothing made an impression
on its keen edge. Held at certain angles, the thin blade seemed to
disappear altogether and leave the empty hilt in the hand. The hilt had
been treated as if it were a crucifix, and in slightly raised relief
there was a figure of Christ, His outstretched arms extending along the
transverse guard. On the opposite side of the handle were the sunken
letters “S. S. G. G.”

Wilhelm fingered this dainty piece of mechanism curiously, wondering
where it was made. He guessed Milan as the place of its origin, knowing
enough of cutlery to admire the skill and knowledge of metallurgy that
had gone to its construction, and convinced as he laid it down that it
was foreign. He was well aware that no smith in Germany could fashion
a lancet so exquisitely tempered. He then turned his attention to
the document which had been fastened to the table by this needle-like
stiletto. At the top of the parchment were the same letters that had
been cut in the handle of the dagger.


_S. S. G. G._

_First warning. Wear this dagger thrust into your doublet over the
heart, and allow him who accosts you, fearing nothing if your heart be
true and loyal. In strict silence safety lies_.


Wilhelm laughed.

“It is some lover’s nonsense of Elsa’s,” he said to himself. “‘If your
heart be true and loyal,’ that is a woman’s phrase and nothing else.”

Calling his wife, he held out the weapon to her and said:

“Where did you get this, Elsa? I would be glad to know who your armourer
is, for I should dearly love to provide my men with weapons of such
temper.”

Elsa looked alternately at the dagger and at her husband, bewildered.

“I never saw it before, nor anything like it,” she replied. “Where did
you find it? It is so frail it must be for ornament merely.”

“Its frailness is deceptive. It is a most wonderful instrument, and I
should like to know where it comes from. I thought you had bought it
from some armourer and intended me to wear it as a badge of my office.
Perhaps it was sent by the Empress. The word ‘loyalty’ seems to indicate
that, though how it got into this room and on this table unknown to me
is a mystery.”

Elsa shook her head as she studied the weapon and the message
critically.

“Her Majesty is more direct than this would indicate. If she had aught
to say to you she would say it without ambiguity. Do you intend to wear
the dagger as the scroll commands?”

“If I thought it came from the Empress I should, not otherwise.”

“You may be assured some one else has sent it. Perhaps it is intended
for me,” and saying this Elsa thrust the blade of the dagger through the
thick coil of her hair and turned coquettishly so that her husband might
judge of the effect.

“Are you ambitious to set a new fashion to the Court, Elsa?” asked
Wilhelm, smiling.

“No; I shall not wear it in public, but I will keep the dagger if I
may.”

Thus the incident passed, and Wilhelm gave no more thought to the
mysterious warning. His duties left him little time for meditation
during the day, but as he returned at night from the barracks his mind
reverted once more to the dagger, and he wondered how it came without
his knowledge into his private room. His latent suspicion of the
Archbishops became aroused again, and he pondered on the possibility of
an emissary of theirs placing the document on his table. He had given
strict instructions that if any one supposed to be an agent of their
lordships presented himself at the gates he was to be permitted to enter
the city without hindrance, but instant knowledge of such advent was
to be sent to the Commander, which reminded him that he had not seen
Gottlieb that day, this able lieutenant having general charge of all
the ports. So he resolved to return to the barracks and question his
underling regarding the recent admittances. Acting instantly on this
determination, he turned quickly and saw before him a man whom he
thought he recognised by his outline in the darkness as von Brent, one
of the officers of Treves whom he had released, and who had accompanied
the Archbishop on his return to that city. The figure, however, gave
him no time for a closer inspection, and, although evidently taken by
surprise, reversed his direction, making off with speed down the street.
Wilhelm, plucking sword from scabbard, pursued no less fleetly.
The scanty lighting of the city thoroughfares gave advantage to the
fugitive, but Wilhelm’s knowledge of the town was now astonishingly
intimate, considering the short time he had been a resident, and his
woodlore, applied to the maze of tortuous narrow alleys made him a
hunter not easily baffled. He saw the flutter of a cloak as its wearer
turned down a narrow lane, and a rapid mental picture of the labyrinth
illuminating his mind, Wilhelm took a dozen long strides to a corner
and there stood waiting. A few moments later a panting man with cloak
streaming behind him came near to transfixing himself on the point of
the Commander’s sword. The runner pulled himself up with a gasp and
stood breathless and speechless.

“I tender you good-evening, sir,” said Wilhelm, civilly, “and were I
not sure of your friendliness, I should take it that you were trying to
avoid giving me salutation.”

“I did not recognise you, my Lord, in the darkness.”

The man breathed heavily, which might have been accounted for by his
unaccustomed exertion.

“‘Tis strange, then, that I should have recognised you, turning
unexpectedly as I did, while you seemingly had me in your eye for some
time before.”

“Indeed, my Lord, and that I had not. I but just emerged from this
crooked lane, and seeing you turn so suddenly, feared molestation, and
so took to my heels, which a warrior should be shamed to confess, but I
had no wish to be embroiled in a street brawl.”

“Your caution does you credit, and should commend you to so
peacefully-minded a master as his Lordship of Treves, who, I sincerely
trust, arrived safely in his ancient city.”

“He did, my Lord.”

“I am deeply gratified to hear it, and putting my knowledge of his
lordship’s methods in conjunction with your evident desire for secrecy,
I should be loath to inquire into the nature of the mission that brings
you to the capital so soon after your departure from it.”

“Well, my Lord,” said von Brent, with an attempt at a laugh, “I must
admit that it was my purpose to visit Frankfort with as little publicity
as possible. You are mistaken, however, in surmising that I am entrusted
with any commands from my lord, the Archbishop, who, at this moment, is
devoting himself with energy to his ecclesiastical duties and therefore
has small need for a soldier. This being the case, I sought and obtained
leave of absence, and came to Frankfort on private affairs of my own.
To speak truth, as between one young man and another, not to be further
gossiped about, while, stationed here some days ago, I became acquainted
with a girl whom I dearly wish to meet again, and this traffic, as you
know, yearns not for either bray of trumpet or rattle of drum.”

“The gentle power of love,” said Wilhelm in his most affable tone, “is
a force few of us can resist. Indeed, I am myself not unacquainted with
its strength, and I must further congratulate you on your celerity of
conquest, for you came to Frankfort in the morning, and were my guest in
the fortress in the evening, so you certainly made good use of the brief
interval. By what gate did you enter Frankfort?”

“By the western gate, my Lord.”

“This morning?”

“No, my Lord. I entered but a short time since, just before the gates
were closed for the night.”

“Ah! that accounts for my hearing no report of your arrival, for it is
my wish, when distinguished visitors honour us with their presence, that
I may be able to offer them every courtesy.”

Von Brent laughed, this time with a more genuine ring to his mirth.

“Seeing that your previous hospitality included lodging in the city
prison, my Lord, as you, a moment ago, reminded me, you can scarcely be
surprised that I had no desire to invite a repetition of such courtesy,
if you will pardon the frank speaking of a soldier.”

“Most assuredly. And to meet frankness with its like, I may add that the
city prison still stands intact. But I must no longer delay an impatient
lover, and so, as I began, I give you a very good evening, sir.”

Von Brent returned the salutation, bowing low, and Wilhelm watched
him retrace his steps and disappear in the darkness. The Commander,
returning his blade to its scabbard, sought Gottlieb at the barracks.

“Do you remember von Brent, of Treves’ staff?”

“That hangdog-looking officer? Yes, master. I had the pleasure of
knocking him down in the Cathedral before pinioning him.”

“He is in Frankfort to-night, and said he entered by the western gate
just before it was closed.”

“Then he is a liar,” commented Gottlieb, with his usual bluntness.

“Such I strongly suspect him to be. Nevertheless, here he is, and the
question I wish answered is, how did he get in?”

“He must have come over the wall, which can hardly be prevented if an
incomer has a friend who will throw him a rope.”

“It may be prevented if the walls are efficiently patrolled. See
instantly to that, Gottlieb, and set none but our own woodlanders on
watch.”

Several days passed, and Wilhelm kept a sharp lookout for von Brent, or
any other of the Archbishop’s men, but he saw none such, nor could he
learn that the lieutenant had left the city. He came almost to believe
that the officer had spoken the truth, when distrust again assailed him
on finding in the barracks a second document almost identical with the
first, except that it contained the words, “Second warning,” and the
dirk had been driven half its length into the lid of the desk. At first
he thought it was the same parchment and dagger, but the different
wording showed him that at least the former was not the same. He called
Gottlieb, and demanded to know who had been allowed to pass the guards
and enter that room. The honest warrior was dismayed to find such
a thing could have happened, and although he was unable to read the
lettering, he turned the missive over and over in his hand as if he
expected close scrutiny to unravel the skein. He then departed and
questioned the guards closely, but was assured that no one had entered
except the Commander.

“I cannot fathom it,” he said on returning to his master, “and, to tell
truth, I wish we were well back in the forest again, for I like not this
mysterious city and its ways. We have kept this town as close sealed
as a wine butt, yet I dare swear that I have caught glimpses of the
Archbishop’s men, flitting here and there like bats as soon as darkness
gathers. I have tried to catch one or two of them to make sure, but I
seem to have lost all speed of foot on these slippery stones, and those
I follow disappear as if the earth swallowed them.”

“Have you seen von Brent since I spoke to you about him?”

“I thought so, Master Wilhelm, but I am like a man dazed in the mazes of
an evil dream, who can be certain of nothing. I am afraid of no man who
will stand boldly up to me, sword in hand, with a fair light on both of
us, but this chasing of shadows with nothing for a pike to pierce makes
a coward of me.”

“Well, the next shadow that follows me will get my blade in its vitals,
for I think my foot is lighter than yours, Gottlieb. There is no shadow
in this town that is not cast by a substance, and that substance will
feel a sword thrust if one can but get within striking distance. Keep
strict watch and we will make a discovery before long, never fear. Do
you think the men we have enlisted from the Archbishop’s company are
trying to play tricks with us? Are they to be trusted?”

“Oh, they are stout rascals with not enough brains among them all
to plan this dagger and parchment business, giving little thought to
anything beyond eating and drinking, and having no skill of lettering.”

“Then we must look elsewhere for the explanation. It may be that your
elusive shadows will furnish a clue.”

On reaching his own house Wilhelm said carelessly to his wife, whom he
did not wish to alarm unnecessarily:

“Have you still in your possession that dagger which I found on my
table?”

“Yes, it is here. Have you found an owner for it or learned how it came
there?”

“No. I merely wished to look at it again.”

She gave it to him, and he saw at once that it was a duplicate of
the one he had hidden under his doublet. The mystery was as far from
solution as ever, and the closest examination of the weapon gave no
hint pertaining to the purport of the message. Yet it is probable that
Wilhelm was the only noble in the German Empire who was ignorant of the
significance of the four letters, and doubtless the senders were amazed
at his temerity in nonchalantly ignoring the repeated warnings, which
would have brought pallor to the cheeks of the highest in the land.
Wilhelm had been always so dependent on the advice of Gottlieb that it
never occurred to him to seek explanation from any one else, yet in
this instance Gottlieb, from the same cause of woodland training, was as
ignorant as his master.

It is possible that the two warnings might have made a greater
impression on the mind of the young man were it not that he was troubled
about his own status in the Empire. There had been much envy in the
Court at the elevation of a young man practically unknown, to the
position of commander-in-chief of the German army, and high officials
had gone so far as to protest against what they said was regarded as a
piece of unaccountable favouritism. The Empress, however, was firm, and
for a time comment seemed to cease, but it was well known that Wilhelm
had no real standing, unless his appointment was confirmed by the
Emperor, and his commission made legal by the royal signature. It became
known, or, at least, was rumoured that twice the Empress had sent this
document to her husband and twice it had been returned unsigned. The
Emperor went so far as to refuse to see his wife, declining to have any
discussion about the matter, and Wilhelm well knew that every step he
took in the fulfilment of his office was an illegal step, and if a
hint of this got to the ears of the Archbishops they would be more than
justified in calling him to account, for every act he performed relating
to the army after he knew that his monarch had refused to sanction his
nomination was an act of rebellion and usurpation punishable by death.
The Empress was well aware of the jeopardy in which her _attaché_ stood,
but she implored him not to give up the position, although helpless to
make his appointment regular. She hoped her husband’s religious fervour
would abate and that he would deign to bestow some attention upon
earthly things, allowing himself to be persuaded of the necessity of
keeping up a standing army, commanded by one entirely faithful to him.
Wilhelm himself often doubted the wisdom of his interference, which had
allowed the throne to be held by a man who so neglected all its duties
that intrigues and unrest were honeycombing the whole fabric of society,
beginning at the top and working its way down until now even the
merchants were in a state of uncertainty, losing faith in the stability
of the government. The determined attitude of Wilhelm, the general
knowledge that he came from a family of fighters, and the wholesome fear
of the wild outlaws, under his command, did more than anything else
to keep down open rebellion in Court and to make the position of
the Empress possible. It was believed that Wilhelm would have little
hesitation in obliterating half the nobility of the Court, or the whole
of it for that matter, if but reasonable excuse were given him for doing
so, and every one was certain that his cut-throats, as they were called,
would obey any command he liked to give, and would delight in whatever
slaughter ensued. The Commander held aloof from the Court, although,
because of his position, he had a room in the palace which no one but
the monarch and the chief officer of the army might enter, yet he rarely
occupied this apartment, using, instead, the suite at the barracks.

Some days after the second episode of the dagger he received a summons
from the Empress commanding his instant presence at the palace. On
arriving at the Court, he found Brunhilda attended by a group of nobles,
who fell back as the young commander approached. The Empress smiled as
he bent his knee and kissed her hand, but Wilhelm saw by the anxiety
in her eye that something untoward had happened, guessing that his
commission was returned for the third time unsigned from the Emperor,
and being correct in his surmise.

“Await me in the Administration Room of the Army,” said the Empress. “I
will see you presently. You have somewhat neglected that room of late,
my Lord.”

“I found I could more adequately fulfil your Majesty’s command and
keep in closer touch with the army by occupying my apartments at the
barracks.”

“I trust, then, that you will have a good report to present to me
regarding the progress of my soldiers,” replied the Empress, dismissing
him with a slight inclination of her head.

Wilhelm left the audience chamber and proceeded along the corridor with
which his room was connected. The soldier at the entrance saluted him,
and Wilhelm entered the Administration Chamber. It was a large room and
in the centre of it stood a large table. After closing the door Wilhelm
paused in his advance, for there in the centre of the table, buried to
its very hilt through the planks, was a duplicate of the dagger he had
concealed inside his doublet. It required some exertion of Wilhelm’s
great strength before he dislodged the weapon from the timber into which
it had been so fiercely driven. The scroll it affixed differed from each
of the other two. It began with the words, “Final warning,” and ended
with “To Wilhelm of Schonburg, so-called Commander of the Imperial
forces,” as if from a desire on the part of the writer that there should
be no mistake regarding the destination of the missive. The young man
placed the knife on the parchment and stood looking at them both until
the Empress was announced. He strode forward to meet her and conducted
her to a chair, where she seated herself, he remaining on his feet.

“I am in deep trouble,” she began, “the commission authorising you
to command the Imperial troops has been returned for the third time
unsigned; not only that, but the act authorising the reconstruction of
the army, comes back also without the Emperor’s signature.”

Wilhelm remained silent, for he well knew that the weakness of their
position was the conduct of the Emperor, and this was an evil which he
did not know how to remedy.

“When he returned both documents the first time,” continued the Empress,
“I sent to him a request for an interview that I might explain the
urgency and necessity of the matter. This request was refused, and
although I know of course that my husband might perhaps be called
eccentric, still he had never before forbade my presence. This aroused
my suspicion.”

“Suspicion of what, your Majesty?” inquired Wilhelm.

“My suspicion that the messages I sent him have been intercepted.”

“Who would dare do such a thing, your Majesty?” cried Wilhelm in
amazement.

“Where large stakes are played for, large risks must be taken,” went on
the lady. “I said nothing at the time, but yesterday I sent to him two
acts which he himself had previously sanctioned, but never carried out;
these were returned to me to-day unsigned, and now I fear one of three
things. The Emperor is ill, is a prisoner, or is dead.”

“If it is your Majesty’s wish,” said Wilhelm, “I will put myself at the
head of a body of men, surround the cathedral, search the cloisters, and
speedily ascertain whether the Emperor is there or no.”

“I have thought of such action,” declared the Empress, “but I dislike to
take it. It would bring me in conflict with the Church, and then there
is always the chance that the Emperor is indeed within the cloisters,
and that, of his own free will, he refuses to sign the documents I
have sent to him. In such case what excuse could we give for our
interference? It might precipitate the very crisis we are so anxious to
avoid.”

The Empress had been sitting by the table with her arm resting upon it,
her fingers toying unconsciously with the knife while she spoke, and now
as her remarks reached their conclusion her eyes fell upon its hilt
and slender blade. With an exclamation almost resembling a scream the
Empress sprang to her feet and allowed the dagger to fall clattering on
the floor.

“Where did that come from?” she cried. “Is it intended for me?” and she
shook her trembling hands as if they had touched a poisonous scorpion.

“Where it comes from I do not know, but it is not intended for your
Majesty, as this scroll will inform you.”

Brunhilda took the parchment he offered and held it at arm’s length from
her, reading its few words with dilated eyes, and Wilhelm was amazed to
see in them the fear which they failed to show when she faced the three
powerful Archbishops. Finally the scroll fluttered from her nerveless
fingers to the floor and the Empress sank back in her chair.

“You have received two other warnings then?” she said in a low voice.

“Yes, your Majesty. What is their meaning?”

“They are the death warrants of the Fehmgerichte, a dread and secret
tribunal before which even emperors quail. If you obey this mandate you
will never be seen on earth again; if you disobey you will be secretly
assassinated by one of these daggers, for after ignoring the third
warning a hundred thousand such blades are lying in wait for your heart,
and ultimately one of them will reach it, no matter in what quarter of
Germany you hide yourself.”

“And who are the members of this mysterious association, your Majesty?

“That, you can tell as well as I, better perhaps, for you may be a
member while I cannot be. Perhaps the soldier outside this door belongs
to the Fehmgerichte, or your own Chamberlain, or perhaps your most
devoted lieutenant, the lusty Gottlieb.”

“That, your Majesty, I’ll swear he is not, for he was as amazed as I
when he saw the dagger at the barracks.”

Brunhilda shook her head.

“You cannot judge from pretended ignorance,” she said, “because a member
is sworn to keep all secrets of the holy Fehm from wife and child,
father and mother, sister and brother, fire and wind; from all that the
sun shines on and the rain wets, and from every being between heaven and
earth. Those are the words of the oath.”

Wilhelm found himself wondering how his informant knew so much about
the secret court if all those rules were strictly kept, but he
naturally shrank from any inquiry regarding the source of her knowledge.
Nevertheless her next reply gave him an inkling of the truth.

“Who is the head of this tribunal?” he asked.

“The Emperor is the nominal head, but my husband never approved of the
Fehmgerichte; originally organised to redress the wrongs of tyranny,
it has become a gigantic instrument of oppression. The Archbishop of
Cologne is the actual president of the order, not in his capacity as an
elector, nor as archbishop, but because he is Duke of Westphalia, where
this tragic court had its origin.”

“Your Majesty imagines then, that this summons comes from the Archbishop
of Cologne?”

“Oh, no. I doubt if he has any knowledge of it. Each district has
a freigraf, or presiding judge, assisted by seven assessors, or
freischoffen, who sit in so called judgment with him, but literally they
merely record the sentence, for condemnation is a foregone conclusion.”

“Is the sentence always death?”

“Always, at this secret tribunal; a sentence of death immediately
carried out. In the open Fehmic court, banishment, prison, or other
penalty may be inflicted, but you are summoned to appear before the
secret tribunal.”

“Does your Majesty know the meaning of these cabalistic letters on the
dagger’s hilt and on the parchment?”

“The letters ‘S. S. G. G.’ stand for Strick, Stein, Gras, Grün: Strick
meaning, it is said, the rope which hangs you; Stein, the stone at the
head of your grave, and Gras, Grün, the green grass covering it.”

“Well, your Majesty,” said Wilhelm, picking up the parchment from the
floor and tearing it in small pieces, “if I have to choose between the
rope and the dagger, I freely give my preference to the latter. I shall
not attend this secret conclave, and if any of its members think to
strike a dagger through my heart, he will have to come within the radius
of my sword to do so.”

“God watch over you,” said the Empress fervently, “for this is a case
in which the protection of an earthly throne is of little avail. And
remember, Lord Wilhelm, trust not even your most intimate friend within
arm’s length of you. The only persons who may not become members of
this dread order are a Jew, an outlaw, an infidel, a woman, a servant, a
priest, or a person excommunicated.”

Wilhelm escorted the Empress to the door of the red room, and there took
leave of her; he being unable to suggest anything that might assuage her
anxiety regarding her husband, she being unable to protect him from the
new danger that threatened. Wilhelm was as brave as any man need be, and
in a fair fight was content to take whatever odds came, but now he was
confronted by a subtle invisible peril, against which ordinary courage
was futile. An unaccustomed shiver chilled him as the palace sentinel,
in the gathering gloom of the corridor, raised his hand swiftly to his
helmet in salute. He passed slowly down the steps of the palace into
the almost deserted square in front of it, for the citizens of Frankfort
found it expedient to get early indoors when darkness fell. The young
man found himself glancing furtively from right to left, starting at
every shadow and scrutinising every passerby who was innocently hurrying
to his own home. The name “Fehmgerichte” kept repeating itself in
his brain like an incantation. He took the middle of the square and
hesitated when he came to the narrow street down which his way lay. At
the street corner he paused, laid his hand on the hilt of his sword and
drew a deep breath.

“Is it possible,” he muttered to himself, “that I am afraid? Am I at
heart a coward? By the cross which is my protection,” he cried, “if they
wish to try their poniarding, they shall have an opportunity!”

And drawing his sword he plunged into the dark and narrow street, his
footsteps ringing defiantly in the silence on the stone beneath him as
he strode resolutely along. He passed rapidly through the city until he
came to the northern gate. Here accosting his warders and being assured
that all was well, he took the street which, bending like a bow,
followed the wall until it came to the river. Once or twice he stopped,
thinking himself followed, but the darkness was now so impenetrable that
even if a pursuer had been behind him he was safe from detection if he
kept step with his victim and paused when he did. The street widened as
it approached the river, and Wilhelm became convinced that some one was
treading in his footsteps. Clasping his sword hilt more firmly in
his hand he wheeled about with unexpectedness that evidently took his
follower by surprise, for he dashed across the street and sped fleetly
towards the river. The glimpse Wilhelm got of him in the open space
between the houses made him sure that he was once more on the track
of von Brent, the emissary of Treves. The tables were now turned, the
pursuer being the pursued, and Wilhelm set his teeth, resolved to put a
sudden end to this continued espionage. Von Brent evidently remembered
his former interception, and now kept a straight course. Trusting to the
swiftness of his heels, he uttered no cry, but directed all his energies
toward flight, and Wilhelm, equally silent, followed as rapidly.

Coming to the river, von Brent turned to the east, keeping in the middle
of the thoroughfare. On the left hand side was a row of houses, on the
right flowed the rapid Main. Some hundreds of yards further up there
were houses on both sides of the street, and as the water of the river
flowed against the walls of the houses to the right, Wilhelm knew there
could be no escape that way. Surmising that his victim kept the middle
of the street in order to baffle the man at his heels, puzzling him as
to which direction the fugitive intended to bolt, Wilhelm, not to be
deluded by such a device, ran close to the houses on the left, knowing
that if von Brent turned to the right he would be speedily stopped by
the Main. The race promised to reach a sudden conclusion, for Wilhelm
was perceptibly gaining on his adversary, when coming to the first house
by the river the latter swerved suddenly, jumped to a door, pushed it
open and was inside in the twinkling of an eye, but only barely in time
to miss the sword thrust that followed him. Quick as thought Wilhelm
placed his foot in such a position that the door could not be closed.
Then setting his shoulder to the panels, he forced it open in spite
of the resistance behind it. Opposition thus overborne by superior
strength, Wilhelm heard the clatter of von Brent’s footsteps down the
dark passage, and next instant the door was closed with a bang, and it
seemed to the young man that the house had collapsed upon him. He heard
his sword snap and felt it break beneath him, and he was gagged and
bound before he could raise a hand to help himself. Then when it was too
late, he realised that he had allowed the heat and fervour of pursuit to
overwhelm his judgment, and had jumped straight into the trap prepared
for him. Von Brent returned with a lantern in his hand and a smile on
his face, breathing quickly after his exertions. Wilhelm, huddled in a
corner, saw a dozen stalwart ruffians grouped around him, most of them
masked, but two or three with faces bare, their coverings having come
off in the struggle. These slipped quickly out of sight, behind the
others, as if not wishing to give clue for future recognition.

“Well, my Lord,” said von Brent, smiling, “you see that gagging and
binding is a game that two may play at.”

There was no reply to this, first, because Wilhelm was temporarily in a
speechless condition, and, second, because the proposition was not one
to be contradicted.

“Take him to the Commitment Room,” commanded von Brent.

Four of the onlookers lifted Wilhelm and carried him down a long
stairway, across a landing and to the foot of a second flight of steps,
where he was thrown into a dark cell, the dimensions of which he could
not estimate. When the door was closed the prisoner lay with his head
leaning against it, and for a time the silence was intense. By and by
he found that by turning his head so that his ear was placed against the
panel of the door, he heard distinctly the footfalls outside, and even
a shuffling sound near him, which seemed to indicate that a man was on
guard at the other side of the oak. Presently some one approached, and
in spite of the low tones used, Wilhelm not only heard what was being
said, but recognised the voice of von Brent, who evidently was his
jailer.

“You have him safely then?”

“Gagged and bound, my Lord.”

“Is he disarmed?”

“His sword was broken under him, my Lord, when we fell upon him.”

“Very well. Remove the gag and place him with No. 13. Bar them in and
listen to their conversation. I think they have never met, but I want to
be sure of it.”

“Is there not a chance that No. 13 may make himself known, my Lord?”

“No matter if he does. In fact, it is my object to have No. 13 and No.
14 known to each other, and yet be not aware that we have suspicion of
their knowledge.”

When the door of the cell was opened four guards came in. It was
manifest they were not going to allow Wilhelm any chance to escape, and
were prepared to overpower him should he attempt flight or resistance.
The gag was taken from his mouth and the thongs which bound his legs
were untied, and thus he was permitted to stand on his feet. Once
outside his cell he saw that the subterranean region in which he found
himself was of vast extent, resembling the crypt of a cathedral, the low
roof being supported by pillars of tremendous circumference. From the
direction in which he had been carried from the foot of the stairs he
surmised, and quite accurately, that this cavern was under the bed of
the river. Those who escorted him and those whom he met were masked.
No torches illuminated the gloom of this sepulchral hall, but each
individual carried, attached in some way to his belt, a small horn
lantern, which gave for a little space around a dim uncertain light,
casting weird shadows against the pillars of the cavern. Once or twice
they met a man clothed in an apparently seamless cloak of black cloth,
that covered the head and extended to the feet. Two holes in front of
the face allowed a momentary glimpse of a pair of flashing eyes as
the yellow light from the lanterns smote them. These grim figures were
presumably persons of importance, for the guards stopped, and saluted,
as each one approached, not going forward until he had silently passed
them. When finally the door of the cell they sought was reached, the
guards drew back the bolts, threw it open, and pushed Wilh

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