CHAPTER XXXVII.
It was a gloomy meal, the dinner at the castle of Ehrenstein; and would have been gloomier still, had it not been for the presence of one of those persons who in that age were privileged to mingle jest, if not mirth, with every event of life's chequered course, and make the wedding or the funeral alike the occasion of their wild satire. A number of the troops of Leiningen had gone forth to scour the country round in pursuit of the fugitive Baron of Eppenfeld; but Count Frederick himself had been persuaded, somewhat more easily than his host had expected, to remain till after the mid-day meal. A few courteous entreaties were all that the frank old nobleman required; and whether they were sincere or not, he evidently received them as such, saying that he could well trust his good riders to trap an old fox, though it might have grown grey in its cunning; but that, if they had not succeeded by two hours after noon, he would mount himself.
All was hurry and confusion during the morning, however; and the castle looked more like a fortress, the garrison of which expected immediate attack, than the dwelling of a high noble in a time of peace. Parties were hourly coming in or going forth, messengers arrived or were despatched continually, and even the hall and the festive board were not free from business and importunity. The brow of the Count of Ehrenstein remained as black as night; nothing could move his lip to a smile; and as he sat at the head of the table in the lesser hall, with a greatly diminished party around, his very look spread gloom over the feast, and saddened the gayest hearts present.
Count Frederick strove to comfort and console him; but the Lord of Ehrenstein heard his words in silence, or replied in monosyllables. The priest ate the rich food and drank the fine wine, without venturing more than a few words in praise of both; the knights sat round, and partook of their good cheer, with only a whisper amongst themselves now and then; and no one spoke but the jester, who, as usual, held on his captious course, as if nothing had occurred to interrupt the merriment; or, at least, as if he were in utter ignorance that such had been the case.
Those were days of privilege, when every prescriptive right, however ridiculous and sometimes iniquitous it might be, was reverenced as a part of a great system; and even the privilege of the jester was held so sacred, that any man who ventured to show serious anger at what he might say, would have been considered either as a fool or a tyrant. Thus our friend, on the present occasion, ventured, without the least fear, to touch upon all those subjects which were most painful to the master of the dwelling; sometimes wondering if the Lady Adelaide fared as well in the fields as they did in the castle, sometimes choosing to suppose that Ferdinand of Altenburg must have gained a goodly appetite by his early walk.
At length he exclaimed, looking round, "How silent you are, noble cousins! I know that it proceeds from your admiration for my rich talk; so, to improve your manners, I will give you a lecture upon morals. What is the cause of young men getting into all sorts of mischief? Answer, or I will answer for you."
"Want of sense," replied Count Frederick: "it can be nothing else."
"Wrong, uncle--ever wrong," cried the jester; "for then would old men get into mischief, too. God love you! there is as little sense under a grey beard as under a brown one, and more than either under none at all. Look you now, the Lady Adelaide has more sense than her father, though she has no beard, and he has a long one; and then he has more sense than I have, and his beard is but grey, while mine is white. Try again, uncle, try again."
"I have you now," answered the Count: "it is want of experience, you would say."
"Wrong once more," answered the jester. "See you not that those who have had most experience still do foolish things. Who would have thought that an armed lord, with well nigh five hundred men in his train, would have trusted sundry sacks of gold to be carried by peaceful merchants, when he could have brought it himself? No, no, uncle: 'tis the great fault of all men--want of faith."