CHAPTER XXII.
With blast of trumpet, and an air of triumph, the small force of the Count of Ehrenstein marched up towards the gates of the castle. Each individual soldier, long deprived of the means of winning any renown in those "piping times of peace," felt an individual pride in having fought and conquered; though, to say sooth, the two knights, and older warriors were not very well contented that so small and inglorious a part of the short siege of Eppenfeld had fallen to their share. The youths might boast, they thought, and plume themselves upon so poor an exploit, and some little honour might attach to those who had taken a share in the first operations; but the days had been when the men of Ehrenstein would not have remained inactive, watching to catch the runaways, while the retainers of a friendly prince assailed the castle itself, and underwent all the danger and fatigue of the assault. The Count was brave and politic, they admitted, and policy has always something in it which commands a sort of mysterious respect. We admire what is successful, though we do not understand the principles upon which success has been achieved; but yet, until discipline has reached a high pitch, we do not conceive that there can be as much glory in performing well a passive part, as in taking a share in operations where peril and energetic action are the means of victory. Thus many of the best soldiers in the Count's band were somewhat discontented, and inclined to grumble, while he himself rode on in silence, communicating to no one his feelings in regard to the result of their undertaking, or to the plan upon which the enterprise had been conducted. He had prisoners and treasure with him; and that, old Seckendorf thought, would be enough to satisfy the Count; but the good ritter himself was dissatisfied that he had not an opportunity of striking a strong stroke, and longed for a more energetic and less politic leader, although he owned that but little was to be done in those days of art and negotiation, compared with the times when he himself was young, and the sword decided all.
Very different is the operation of every passion upon the individual on whom it acts. As the relative forces of agent and object always modify the effect of every cause, the character of the person who feels changes entirely the result of the emotions which act upon him. Some men are elated by success; some almost depressed in spirit. With some men the heart seems to expand under the sunshine of fair fortune, with some to contract; as particular flowers open in the shade, while others spread their breasts abroad to the bright day. The Count of Ehrenstein was one on whom the light seemed to have no enlarging influence; and while his men, especially the younger, laughed and talked, he rode on from Eppenfeld towards his own stronghold, in gloomy silence and deep thought. Hardly one word proffered he to any one by the way, and ever and anon he looked back to the body of prisoners with the Baron at their head, who followed, strongly guarded, in the rear of his troop. Then, and only then, what may be called a feeble look came over his countenance--a look of doubt and hesitation, as if he were trying some question with his own heart, which he found it difficult to solve.
At a short distance from the castle he was met by Martin of Dillberg, who stopped and spoke to him for a few minutes in a low voice. Those who were near saw an expression of sudden anger spread over the face of their lord; his pale cheek flushed, his brow grew black as night, his hands grasped the reins tight, and he replied in quick and hurried tones. But after a time the young man rode on towards Eppenfeld, and the troop, which had halted, recommenced its march. The fierce look of the Count, however, speedily passed away; he turned his eyes again to the Baron, and once more fell into gloomy thought.
At the end of about half an hour, the cavalcade approached the gates of Ehrenstein, and the Count passed over the drawbridge, and under the arch of the gateway, where Ferdinand of Altenburg stood, with some of the soldiery, to receive him. If, as I have said, the operations of passions are very different upon different individuals, the fact was never more strikingly displayed than in the case of Ferdinand. He knew that a moment of great peril had arrived, he felt that the purchase of a few hours of joy might now have to be paid in his blood; he feared also for her he loved more than for himself; but the emotions of such a situation called forth in his mind powers of which he had been ignorant: and although at first he had been agitated and almost bewildered, he now stood calm and collected, marking well the heavy frown upon the Count's brow, and a look of sudden fierceness that came into his face when their eyes first met, but prepared for whatever might follow and ready to endure it firmly.
The Count of Ehrenstein dismounted slowly, and, without addressing a word to his young follower, called Seckendorf and Mosbach to him, giving them directions for lodging the prisoners securely, and especially for placing the Baron of Eppenfeld in a chamber apart, in one of the high towers. He then spoke a word or two in a low tone to Karl von Mosbach, which seemed somewhat to surprise him; but the Count repeated aloud and emphatically, "Not for one moment! You will soon know the reason." Then turning to Ferdinand he said, "Has all gone quietly in the castle?"
"No, my good lord," replied the young gentleman, boldly. "That youth, Martin of Dillberg, who came hither with Count Frederick, dared to lock me in my chamber, and has since fled on horseback. I should have pursued him and brought him back, but I had no horses saddled."
"He will come back very soon," said the Count, in a marked tone.
"I doubt it, my good lord," answered Ferdinand; "he knows that I have a charge to bring against him which may cost his life; and which, if I had been permitted to join you before Eppenfeld, I should have made ere now."
"Indeed," said the Count musing; "it may be so."
"Nay, noble Sir, it is," replied the young gentleman, thinking the Count's words were an answer to what he had said, rather than to what was passing in his own mind; "I am ready to state the whole now, if you have time; for as I see the Baron of Eppenfeld is a prisoner in your hands, you have the means of testing the truth at once."
"Not now," rejoined the Count; "not now,--I have other matters to think of. I will hear you in an hour."
As he spoke, the Baron was led past, and the Lord of Ehrenstein immediately followed. Ferdinand remained musing in the court, not daring to seek any means of communicating with his young bride, and doubtful what course to follow.
As he thus stood, Seckendorf came up, and drawing him aside, demanded, "What is this, Ferdinand? Mosbach, tells me he has orders not to suffer you to pass the gates, or to take a step beyond the walls, the little hall, or the tower in which you sleep. What have you been doing, you graceless young dog? Is your affair with Bertha come to light?"
Ferdinand saw that his apprehensions were but too just, but he replied calmly, "I know not what our lord suspects, Seckendorf: he mentioned no charge against me to myself; but doubtless, whatever it is, it springs from the malice of Martin of Dillberg, who is right well aware that when this affair of the plunder of the Italian merchants is inquired into, his treason to his lord will be apparent."
"Ay, ay; is it so?" cried Seckendorf. "I saw him stop the Count and speak with him just now. What! I suppose he has been dealing with the Baron, and was to have shared the booty?"
"Something like it, I believe," answered Ferdinand; "but as the Baron is here, he can prove the truth of what he told me."
"So then the tale came from him," said Seckendorf; "I fear it is not to be trusted."
"It was spoken in the presence of many of his people and of some of ours," answered Ferdinand. "However, it is my duty to repeat what he told me; and if he has not had some communication with Martin of Dillberg, I see not how his tongue could be so glibe with his name, as the youth has but lately returned with Count Frederick from the East."
"Right, right," answered Seckendorf; "thou art as shrewd as a blood-hound, Ferdinand. Doubtless the lad is afraid of thy tale, and has brought some charge against thee to cover his own treachery."
"It may be so,--it may not," answered Ferdinand. "However, Mosbach must obey our lord's behest, so I will even take myself to the battlements, which are within the limits you have mentioned."
Thus saying, he turned away, and walked up to the wall, gazing anxiously towards Father George's cell, yet taking care to pace up and down with as unconcerned an air as possible, that no eye watching him from the main building or its manifold towers might see the anxious expectation of his heart, or judge in what direction his thoughts turned. It were vain to deny that he revolved, with eager rapid emotions, all the circumstances of his fate, and strove to discover some cause of hope; some clue to escape from the dangers that menaced him on every side. At one time it seemed impossible that anything but the most fatal result could ensue. He knew the Count too well to think that he would be merciful--he knew the customs, if not the laws, of the land too well, not to feel certain that his death would be deemed only a reasonable atonement for the deed he had ventured to do. But then, again, he asked himself, would the good priest who had been as a father to him from his infancy, sanction, counsel, aid him in an enterprise so perilous to all concerned in it, unless he had the most positive assurance that he could guide the course he had pointed out to a happy termination, and shield those from peril who, in following the dictates of their own inclination, had also followed his advice and exhortation. But still apprehension predominated; and though, at each turn he took, his eyes were directed to the little chapel in the wood, his hopes were destined to be disappointed. The door of the priest's cell he could not see, but he caught several glimpses of the road, and the second time he reached the point where he had the best view, he saw a female figure--which he instantly concluded to be that of Bertha--approach the chapel, and disappear behind the angle of the building. It scarcely was obscured a moment ere it reappeared again, and then was lost in the wood, "She has not found him," said Ferdinand to himself; "he is absent--was ever anything so unfortunate?" and he turned again upon the battlements lost in thought.
In the mean while, the Count of Ehrenstein had followed close upon the steps of those who led the Baron of Eppenfeld to the place of his imprisonment; and the door was not yet fully bolted and barred when he caused it to be opened again, and entered, directing the three soldiers who had conveyed the captive thither to wait at the foot of the stairs till he came out. Then, closing the door behind him, he confronted the prisoner with a stern brow, and teeth close shut. The Baron gave him back look for look; and a smile, slight but sarcastic, curled his lip.
"Well, Baron of Eppenfeld," said the Count; and then paused.
"Well, Count of Ehrenstein," replied the Baron; and he also stopped in the midst, for the other to go on.
"You sent me a message, last night," said the Count; "and you were fool enough, in your drunken sleepiness, not to take advantage of the opportunity given you, and to suffer the hot-headed Count of Leiningen to blow your gates open, when you might have escaped two hours before."
"Very unlucky for you, Count," replied the Baron of Eppenfeld, in a tone of provoking coolness. "You should have sent me some answer to my message, and then I should have known how to act."
"I could not; I had no time; I had no opportunity," answered the Count of Ehrenstein. "All I could do, after I received that message, was to withdraw my men to the east, and leave you room to escape with all your treasure."
"But why answered you not the first," asked the Baron; "the message that I sent you by young Ferdinand of Altenburg?--I thought better of it after a time, it is true, and judged that a short repose in Eppenfeld would do him good; but when he got out, he must have told you what I said, which was just the same thing; and instead of a friendly reply or friendly comment, your first act was to march against me."
"And you told Ferdinand of Altenburg?" said the Count, with a moody look. "Pray, what was it you told him?"
"The same, as near as may be," answered the Baron, "that I told the other."
"The other is dead," replied the Count; "and Ferdinand of Altenburg is in peril. You shall judge, by the way in which I treat him, how I deal with those who possess perilous secrets."
Thus saying, he opened the door, called one of the soldiers from the bottom of the stairs, and, when he reached the room, bade him hasten to Karl von Mosbach, and direct him to arrest Ferdinand of Altenburg, and place him in confinement in the dark cell below the lesser hall. "Now, Baron," he said, as soon as the man was gone, "What think you, now?"
"That you are a hard-hearted villain," answered the Baron, "and ten times worse than myself, bad as men call me. The youth served you well and boldly; he risked his life, I can tell you, to do your bidding, and this is the way you repay him. But I don't believe it; you will not injure him for any words he has heard from me."
"If I live till noon to-morrow," answered the Count, in a cold, deliberate tone, "he shall lose his head by the axe, upon those battlements."
"Then, there will be rare chopping," answered the Baron, with a laugh; "for eight or nine of your men heard the message I sent--the words were addressed to him, but they were spoken in the hearing of many."
"This is no jesting matter, Baron," said the Count; "let me tell you that your own life or death is the question. I shall give this youth time to prepare, for he is my own sworn follower, and no one can see or tamper with him. But your case is different; and all the time I can allow you is one hour, for the questions between us must be despatched before the return of those who are now destroying the wolf's den."
Even this stern announcement seemed to have but a small effect upon the captive. "All which that shows," he answered, with a shrug of the shoulders, "is, that you take little time to deliberate upon murdering a prisoner. You cannot frighten me, Count of Ehrenstein! I have confronted death many a time a month, during twenty years or more; and if in all this talking you have some object in view, you had better speak it plainly at once, and not strive to reach it by threats."
"Should I not be a fool to trust you living," asked the Count, "when you can use such threats to me?"
"Oh, dear! no," answered his prisoner; "whatever I have done, I have never broken an oath in my life; and I am quite ready to relieve you from all fears, upon certain conditions."
"Ha!" said the Count, "what may they be?"
"First, that you will give me the means of escape," answered the Baron.
"At the present moment that is impossible," replied the Count; "but to-night it may be done. What more?"
"Secondly, I must have some small sum of gold to get me together a band in some distant country. If I were to go wandering about here without my stone walls around me, I should soon be caught, and I have no mind to find myself embroiled with the Imperial Court. I will be content with a small amount; and the third condition is, that you deal not harshly with that youth Ferdinand. On my life! I believe he neither knows nor suspects anything from what I said. He seemed not to heed it, as if he thought you to be too honest a man to do aught that was wrong. He paid much more attention to what I said concerning Count Frederick, and Martin of Dillberg--he marked that right well."
"Ay, and what was that?" asked the Count.
"Why, I told him how that same Martin came to me, and, upon promise of a share of the booty, warned me of the passage of those Italian merchants. Faith! they came sooner than he expected; for he said, some three weeks hence. But I kept a sharp watch, for fear of accidents, and an unlucky watch it has turned out: for Count Frederick has got all the money, and the castle to boot."
The Count mused for a few moments, with his arms crossed upon his chest, and then replied, "Well, we shall see. Leave the youth to me; I promise that he shall suffer nothing on your account. The money you shall have, and freedom too, if you can give me such a pledge as I can depend upon."
"I can give you nought else than my oath, Sir Count," answered the Baron, stoutly, "You have taken all else from me. The pig has nothing but the pig's skin."
"Well, you shall swear," answered the other; "but yet I would fain have some other bond than air."
"Give me your dagger," said the Baron. "I will swear on the cross thereof."
But the Count of Ehrenstein was too wary to trust a weapon in the hand of a foe. "No," he said, "I will have you swear on a holy relic I have in the chapel, and by the mass.--But you can write, I think?"
"I can make something which they tell me is my name," answered the Baron of Eppenfeld, who, like an eager chapman, grew in impatience to possess the object of his desire, as he who could grant it seemed to hesitate.
"Well then, you shall sign a paper stating that all the aspersions of my name which, in the heat of passion, you uttered to my retainer, Ferdinand of Altenburg, are false and groundless," said the Count; "that will satisfy me."
"How shall I know what the paper is?" asked the Baron; but immediately afterwards he added, "Well, well, it matters not. You swear that I shall have my liberty, and I will sign."
"I swear it," answered the Count, kissing the cross of his dagger. "Wait, and I will write the paper, which shall be read to you word by word."
"I must needs wait when I cannot get away," replied the prisoner; and when the Count had quitted the chamber, he murmured, "Accursed dog! I will be a match for thee still."