“Mere mischief-making, as before,” said Master Gottfried, while his nephews started with amaze. “His father’s death was proved by an eye-witness, whom you still have in your train, have you not, Herr Freiherr?”
“Yea,” replied Ebbo, “he is at Adlerstein now, Heinrich Bauermann, called the Schneiderlein, a lanzknecht, who alone escaped the slaughter, and from whom we have often heard how my father died, choked in his own blood, from a deep breast-wound, immediately after he had sent home his last greetings to my lady mother.”
“Was the corpse restored?” asked the able Rathsherr Ulrich.
“No,” said Ebbo. “Almost all our retainers had perished, and when a friar was sent to the hostel to bring home the remains, it appeared that the treacherous foe had borne them off—nay, my grandfather’s head was sent to the Diet!”
The whole assembly agreed that the Count could only mean to make the absence of direct evidence about a murder committed eighteen years ago tell in sowing distrust between the allies. The suggestion was not worth a thought, and it was plain that no site would be available except the Debateable Strand. To this, however, Ebbo’s title was assailable, both on account of his minority, as well as his father’s unproved death, and of the disputed claim to the ground. The Rathsherr, Master Gottfried, and others, therefore recommended deferring the work till the Baron should be of age, when, on again tendering his allegiance, he might obtain a distinct recognition of his marches. But this policy did not consort with the quick spirit of Moritz Schleiermacher, nor with the convenience of the mercers and wine-merchants, who were constant sufferers by the want of a bridge, and afraid of waiting four years, in which a lad like the Baron might return to the nominal instincts of his class, or the Braunwasser might take back the land it had given; whilst Ebbo himself was urgent, with all the defiant fire of youth, to begin building at once in spite of all gainsayers.
“Strife and blood will it cost,” said Master Sorel, gravely.
“What can be had worth the having save at cost of strife and blood?” said Ebbo, with a glance of fire.
“Youth speaks of counting the cost. Little knows it what it saith,” sighed Master Gottfried.
“Nay,” returned the Rathsherr, “were it otherwise, who would have the heart for enterprise?”
So the young knights mounted, and had ridden about half the way in silence, when Ebbo exclaimed, “Friedel”—and as his brother started, “What art musing on?”