The space between the two lines of horsemen was every instant increasing, and the queen, with lively satisfaction and joy, beheld the success of Count Gerhard's bold attack; when, turning her eyes once more towards Drost Peter, she uttered a cry of alarm. His troopers were in disorder, and he himself was unhorsed in the midst of the duke's people, who cast themselves upon him with a savage shout of triumph.
"Merciful Heaven!" she exclaimed, "they will murder him! Save, oh save Drost Peter, noble count!" and, heedless of the danger, she rode into the midst of the mêlée, where Count Gerhard's horsemen were on the point of beating the outlaws from the field, and, pressing close up to the side of the count, repeated her request.
"In God's name, be it as you command, noble queen!" he replied. "Forword, lads! Think not of me!" And turning his steed, he hastened to the assistance of Drost Peter, and endeavoured to restore order to his broken ranks.
But his own troops now fell into similar confusion, and the outlaws, inspired with new courage, again pressed forward with shouts of triumph; whilst, on the opposite side, the all-victorious duke continued to pursue the drost's chiefless band.
The attempts of Count Gerhard to rally the flying horsemen, and restore them to order, were vain: he found it impossible to collect the scattered soldiers; and the enemy pressed on victoriously from both sides. The confusion was now at its height, and the slaughter around him was dreadful.
"All is lost--we must fly, noble queen!" he at length cried, turning to the spot where the queen had stood only a moment before. But he now beheld her not. One of her troopers had thrown his cloak over her, and in the confusion she had disappeared, whilst the count, who could nowhere discover her amidst the tumultuous bands of contending horsemen, then became furious, and his blows fell fast on every side, directed indiscriminately at friends or foes. His glaring eye sought only the queen; but, at last, even his sight began to fail him: the scene appeared to whirl around him, and he became unconscious. When he recovered his senses, he found himself alone on the dreary battle-field, with only dead and wounded around him. His eye was safe, but that which was yet dearer to him had disappeared. He looked around once more; and then mounting his steed, which had remained near him, he proceeded rapidly in the direction of the town.
The tumult there had not yet ceased. Soldiers and armed burghers were scouring the streets, and scenes of bloodshed were everywhere enacted. Some shouted the names of Marsk Stig and Count Jacob, and exclaimed: "Vengeance for the outlaws!" Others had for their rallying cry the name of the duke, cutting down all who refused to join in it; whilst a great portion of the burghers and badly armed peasants vociferated: "Long live our young king! Death to the traitors!" The adherents of the duke and those of the outlaws did not seem to be quite certain whether they should regard each other as friends or foes; although, in general, they made common cause against the royalists.
Meanwhile, the duke, at the head of his Sleswick horsemen, returned triumphantly to the castle. The report of his victory, and the defeat of the royal party, soon became known, and greatly alarmed the trusty burghers and peasants, who had assembled in defence of their youthful king. The duke was accompanied by a crowd of savage-looking butchers, with blood-stained axes, and by many strangers in disguise, who applauded him loudly. A band of mailed horsemen, wearing their visors down, and who were supposed to be the outlaws and their followers, closed this triumphal procession.
The duke dismounted at the castle, and immediately occupied it with his troops.
"Where is the king?" he demanded.