CHAPTER II.
In the custody of the Grand Marshall, Algernon Grey was removed from the presence of the Elector, and passing across the hall where he had seen Agnes waiting, he was led into one of the open galleries which ran along the great court on one side, and thence by innumerable small passages, scarcely large enough for two persons to thread them abreast, to the door of a chamber which opened upon one of the landing-places of a tolerably wide staircase.
The door was low, scarcely of the height of the young Englishman's head, and covered with large bars and bands of iron, as well as heavy-headed nails. When it was opened, it displayed on the right-hand side a small ante-room, with a high window, opposite to which was another low-browed arch with a door, and beyond that a third door equally solid and strong with the first.
The Lord of Helmstadt, as they passed, pointed towards the arch on the left, saying, in a courteous tone: "There will be your bedroom, and here your servants can remain, if, as I trust, it be the Elector's pleasure that your usual attendants should be admitted to you." As he spoke, he led the way towards the third door; and, turning the heavy key that was in the lock, opened it, motioning the young Englishman to go in.
Algernon Grey did so in silence, and with no very pleasant anticipations; but he was agreeably disappointed in finding himself in a room bearing very little the aspect of a prison, cheerful in itself, and commanding that same unrivalled view, which he had beheld before from the castle grounds. In shape, the chamber was an exact half-moon; the large round tower in which it was situated being cut by a partition, which left this segment as a sort of wide saloon; while the other half was again divided into two, the one portion being appropriated to the purposes of a bed-room, and the second and lesser part serving as an ante-room, except a small space which was separated from the rest to contain the staircase.
The furniture of the room was costly and convenient. Nothing was wanting that could contribute to the comfort of its denizen; and Algernon Grey drew from the aspect of the whole place an augury that it was not the Elector's intention to show any very great severity towards him. The hangings, the tables, the velvet chairs, however attracted but little of his attention; for he walked at once forward to one of the three large windows, through which the full torrent of light was streaming into the room, though not indeed the sunshine; for it was yet morning, and that side of the tower looked to the south and west.
"A glorious prospect," he said, turning to the Marshall; "methinks a day or two's sojourn here will be no great infliction. Nevertheless, I protest against the right of any one to place me in confinement for that which I have done. Endurance, however, is a serviceable quality; and the Elector's will must be obeyed; but I do trust that I shall not be left here without some attendants within call; and that my servants and baggage may be brought up from the inn, where I left them, little anticipating imprisonment."
"I will take the Elector's farther commands," replied the Lord of Helmstadt. "Of course some persons will be appointed to attend upon you; but whether your own servants, or not, I cannot say.--I must leave you alone for a time, greatly grieving that such a chance should have befallen so gallant a gentleman. We all know John of Oberntraut well; and there is not a man in all the court who doubts that he has provoked this affair; but the Elector has been very strict in such matters lately, and of course he cannot show favour even were he inclined."
Thus saying, he withdrew; and Algernon was left alone. For an instant he gazed round the room, while the key grated heavily in the lock, and then laughed in a light cheerful tone. "Here I am a captive," he said; "well, though unexpected, it is no great matter. A few short hours, a few short days, what are they from the sum of life; and, forgetting that I have lost my liberty, I will think myself a prince hospitably received, well lodged, and only, like the slave of the Harem, not suffered to go abroad. What an idle thing it is for a man to fret and wear himself with vain regrets over the loss of that shadowy thing, the portion of freedom that is left him by the usages of the world. In courts and cities, with the stiff bit of the law beneath his jaws, he is trained and curbed up by the habits of the land to go through his taught paces, like a horse in the manege, curveting here, and passaging there, with hardly a natural step in his whole allure. Here, with no eves to watch me, with no form of restraint or customary ceremonies, I can have more real freedom than in a king's halls, although yonder door be locked and bolted. What is it that makes imprisonment painful? Either the anticipation of farther evil as its dark termination, or the prospect of its indefinite, perhaps interminable, extent. In a few days I shall be free. They dare not do me wrong. I have nothing farther to apprehend. Why should the locking of that door jar upon my ear, when the hand that turns the key is on the outside? Had it been my own hand, ere I lay down to sleep, it would have been nothing--no, no, I will bear it lightly. Man doubles all the evils of his fate by pondering over them; a scratch becomes a wound, a slight an injury, a jest an insult, a small peril a great danger; and a light sickness often ends in death by the brooding apprehensions of the sick.--What a magnificent scene! Methinks, I could contemplate that view for ever; and, forgetting all the world, live here an anchorite in the midst of a great city, worshipping God in the grand temple of his brightest works."
Vain, oh! how vain is it in man to strive, by the mere power of intellect, to quell or overrule the natural affections of the heart. The stoical philosophy would have broken down instantly, had not its teachers skilfully applied emollients to its harsh sternness, teaching not alone to bear the evils that fate inflicts, but often, also, to fly from them--ay, to fly, even though the place of refuge was the tomb: for, after all, the magnificent-miened crime of suicide, was but a cowardly flight before a conquering army of the world's ills.