It was about a week after this when I was startled out of my deepest midnight sleep by a rush of many feet, and a fierce and sudden knocking at my father's bed-room door—the door opposite my own.
I sat up, trembling. A bright blaze gleamed along the threshold, and high above the clamour of tongues outside, I recognised my father's voice, quick, sharp, imperative. Then a door was opened and banged. Then came the rush of feet again—then silence.
It was a strange, wild hubbub; and it had all come, and gone, and was over in less than a minute. But what was it?
Seeing that fiery line along the threshold, I had thought for a moment that the Château was on fire; but the light vanished with those who brought it, and all was darkness again.
“Bertha!” I cried tremulously. “Bertha!”
Now Bertha was my Rhenish hand-maiden, and she slept in a closet opening off my room; but Bertha was as deaf to my voice as one of the Seven Sleepers.
Suddenly a shrill trumpet-call rang out in the courtyard.
I sprang out of bed, flew to Bertha, and shook her with all my strength till she woke.
“Bertha! Bertha!” I cried. “Wake up—strike a light—dress me quickly! I must know what is the matter!”
In vain Bertha yawns, rubs her eyes, protests that I have had a bad dream, and that nothing is the matter. Get up she must; dress herself and me in the twinkling of an eye; and go upon whatsoever dance I choose to lead her.