"I have a good friend,--I know of a foreign knight I would say--a master of his weapon, who in such courteous game might have a mind to play Hother."
"Ay! indeed!" muttered Christopher, looking uneasily around,--"you should caution your friend, though, against playing so dangerous a game; you should least of all speak to me, Sir Brock, of such friends and their wishes. What I have confided to you, in no wise warrants such presumptuous confidence. Whatever there may be between me and a certain mighty personage, matters will hardly be pushed so far as you and your bold friends think."
"Be pleased to understand me aright, high-born junker," interrupted Sir Niels hastily. "I speak but of a sport; I know they amuse themselves here at times with mumming, and such diversions."
"They may amuse themselves as they please, for aught I care," muttered the junker, gloomily; "but I will be out of the game. Half one's life is but a sorry piece of mumming, whether we play friend or foe. It will be seen who hath best enacted his part, when the childs' play here is ended, and people think in earnest again in Denmark. He then spurred his horse, and rode into the court of the castle.
"After the junker and Brock had dismounted from their horses in the castle-yard, and as they were passing the maidens' tower, they heard the sound of a lute, and saw a knightly figure hastily conceal himself behind the pillars of the tower."
"Hath every one gone mad? Serenades here in the country, and that even ere the nightingale hath come!" muttered the junker with a scornful laugh, and wrapping himself in his mantle to keep out the cold wind. "Hum! as is the master so are his servants--are we not far advanced here in courtesy, and gentle customs Sir Niels! Know ye ought of such gallantry in Jutland? All will now go on in as chivalrous a fashion as in Spain and Italy. That we may thank these vagabond minstrels for, with their ballads and their books of adventures, which my chivalrous brother even takes with him in his pocket, on his campaigns. In the knights' hall there, they are now talking, no doubt, of the beautiful Florez and Blantzeflor, and of the virtuous Tristan and King Arthur. All that is indispensable if one would pass for a courteous and courtly knight;--and without, here, wanders a fool to sing serenades in the moonlight, to the owls of Wordingborg tower."
"If that was a prison we passed. Sir Junker," observed his companion, "it might be easily explained without such players' tricks."
"Well possibly," said the junker nodding. "It was here the Drost took the liberty of caging Marsk Stig's raven brood instead of at Kallundborg. Even the pretty vagabond ladies we shall find have their adorers." The junker then ascended the stairs of the balcony.
CHAP. IX.
In the castle-yard, before the knights' hall, stood a crowd of curious grooms and kitchen maids, to hear the singing, and gaze at the king and the stranger-guests. Amid this gossiping and jesting throng, wandered a fat, silent personage, closely muffled in a cloak. The maidens crowded together, and giggled whenever he came near them, and the one joked the other about him as a well-known wooer of the whole fair sex. It was the generally self-satisfied and obsequious Sir Pallé, who now however looked most solemn and thoughtful. He had here for some time listened to the jests of the maidens and their talkative admiration of the king's handsome presence and his splendour, and of all the pomp they beheld. This seemed however but little to amuse him to-night; he yawned with a sigh, and went with undecided steps towards the maidens' tower; he now heard the sound of a lute in that part of the square, where fell a partial shadow, and the cold wind whistled in eddies around the pillars of the tower. He paused, and listened attentively; the sounds continued, and he thought he discerned a dark form standing under the tower window. He drew nearer with curiosity, and distinctly beheld a man with a knight's helmet, around whose person fluttered an ample mantle; while he gazed up at the grated window, and occasionally struck the cords of a lute with wild earnestness. Pallé leaned back in alarm against the wall, and thought he had recognised the mysterious guest of the forest monastery. The cold perspiration broke out on his forehead; but his curiosity overcame his fright, and he remained standing. He heard a whisper, which was answered from above, and a deep but low voice, now sung beneath: