After many reciprocal expressions of courtesy, which, however, were not wanting in sincerity and heartfelt goodwill, the Drost left the ladies' apartment with Master Petrus; but the object on which his eye lingered the longest was the fair Lady Margaretha. As it rang for mass in Vordingborg town, Drost Aagé, clad in complete armour, rode out of the castle gate at the head of two thirds of the garrison of the fortress. At the same time the lady of the castle drove to church with the two captive maidens. At the cross-road before the fortress Drost Aagé once more turned round and saluted the ladies in the car. He observed with pleasure a white veil waving from the car in the meek Margaretha's hand. The car was followed to church by Sir Ribolt, accompanied by the three strangers on horseback.
"Whither goes the Drost, with all those men-at-arms, Sir Ribolt?" asked Ulrica, inquisitively, as she put her head out of the car; "there is surely neither war nor rebellion here?"
"They go but to rid the land of the outlaws and other vagabonds," answered Sir Ribolt. "The assassin who attacked the Drost it seems hath been taken already," he added, in a careless tone, without recollecting the connection of the captive maidens with these turbulent and hated characters, and without remarking that the lively querist turned pale.
"What ails thee, sweet child? Canst thou not endure to sit backward?" asked the watchful mistress of the castle. "Come, change places with me; I can bear it."
"Ah, let me sit quiet!" sighed Ulrica, drawing her veil over her face. "Margaretha! Margaretha!" she whispered, clinging to her sister; "my dream! my dream! He is taken! His life is in peril!"
"Hush! hush! dearest sister!" whispered Margaretha; "it is but a rumour. We will now pray for him and for all sinful souls. See,--the blessed Lord still permits his mild sun to shine upon us all."
The car rolled past a troop of richly attired burghers on their way to church, who greeted the ladies with courtesy. Ulrica recovered herself, and nodded to them with a consequential air. They whispered together, and she conjectured that their talk was, doubtless, of her beauty and supposed high birth.
CHAP. XII.
It was past midnight when Drost Aagé, with his troop of horsemen, drew near the Issefiord near Holbek. The weather was calm and frosty, the snow sparkled in the starlight winter night, the marshes and all the pools by the road side were frozen, but the ford was still open and passable. Holbek rather resembled a ruin than a town; instead of houses, there were now chiefly to be seen single walls and solitary hearths. Five years before the town had been plundered and nearly burnt down by the Norwegian fleet, in the feud with Marsk Stig and the outlaws. Some small houses, however, had been rebuilt. The church and the monastery of the Gray Friars stood unscathed, as well as the castle, which had been lately put in good repair by Junker Christopher, and which, it appeared, he now intended, despite the king's prohibition, to make as strong a fortress as Kallundborg.
By Aagé's side rode an elderly captain of horse, Sir Ribolt's brother, a silent, serious personage, whom the Drost informed by the way of what was here to be attempted. When they approached the town they halted, and had their horses rubbed down, while each horseman received his separate directions. They then rode slowly, and as quietly as possible, through the snow-covered streets of the town, and past the monastery, where all lay in profound slumber. At the castle also the inmates seemed to be reposing in the greatest calmness and security; even the warders on the battlements were asleep. They examined the castle narrowly on every side. There was not a light to be seen in the whole of the upper story; it was only from the knights' hall, opposite the ford, that a faint light gleamed from a window; and at the quay behind the castle lay a boat with a red sail, from which glimmered the light of a horn lantern. On the quay a fat knight, wrapped in a fox-skin pelisse, paced up and down, apparently waiting for some one; he often yawned, and rubbed his hands, while he looked up impatiently at the window from whence gleamed the solitary light. A rough-looking, one-eyed fellow, with a hideous and bloated visage, lay half asleep on the rampart.