Adelaide gently clasped her hands together, and looked down upon the ground for a moment or two, lost in deep thought. It was not that she hesitated, it was not that she asked herself, "Shall I, or shall I not, quit this place of sure and peaceful refuge, to mingle again with the strifes and confusion of the world?" for her mind was made up; and, thus far advanced, she was ready to go on. But it was that she saw many a painful hour before her, and she asked herself, "How shall I surmount all the anguish and the difficulty of the hour? Will my courage fail, will my bodily strength give way? Will God help me at my need, and strengthen me to do his appointed task?" As she thus thought, her hands pressed closer together, and her lips murmured, "Christ help me!" Then turning to Count Rudolph, she said, "I am ready to go, my lord, in obedience to the Emperor's command, and trusting to your word."
She did not venture to say more, and Count Rudolph showed some inclination to depart; but the Abbess besought him to pause awhile, till both he and the lady had partaken of some refreshment. To speak the truth, he was not averse to a supply of good meat and wine; for he had ridden far, and was at all times blessed with a good appetite. He made Adelaide his excuse, however; and while he courteously complimented her in somewhat formal speeches, according to the custom of the day, Father George spoke eagerly, but apart, to the lady who had been Adelaide's hostess, and then called the Abbess to their consultation. Like a hill-side under cloud and sunshine, the cheek of the lady glowed and turned pale by turns, as she listened to the words which the monk spoke. She gazed down upon the ground, she looked up to the sky, her eyes filled with tears, her limbs trembled; and ere she answered, she sat down upon a settle, as if overpowered by what was said.
"This is foolish and weak," she exclaimed, at length. "I will not shrink from the task, and why should I dread the peril? For him have I lived, for his sake have I endured the burden of existence, which otherwise would have long since crushed me. 'Tis but the habit of concealment and apprehension that engenders these foolish fears; and I will shake them off. Father, you tell me it is right to go, and I will go, if death should be my portion."
"Joy may be your portion, daughter," answered Father George, laying his right hand lightly, but impressively, upon her shoulder;--"joy, brighter, deeper, than you have known for years, perhaps than you have known in life--It may be so. I say not that it will; but surely, to see your son raised to the summit of your highest hopes, is sufficient motive even for a greater risk."
"It is--it is," answered the lady; "and I will go, good Father; but do not abandon me, do not leave me to meet a strange court, and scenes such as I have not seen for years, alone. I shall feel like some of the wild creatures of the woods, suddenly caught, and brought before a thousand gazing eyes."
"I will go with you, daughter," answered Father George, "for your sake, and for that dear child's; I will not leave you as long as there is aught doubtful in your fate. If wrong has been committed, it is mine; and I will abide the issue with you."
While this conversation had taken place between Father George and the lady, with the Abbess listening, and joining in from time to time, Count Rudolph had applied himself to soothe and encourage Adelaide, and he had made some progress in quieting her apprehension, when the refreshments which had been ordered were brought in. The worthy Count undoubtedly did more justice to the good fare than any of the other persons present; but he despatched his present task rapidly; and then, after pausing for a moment to see if his companions would take anything more, he rose, as a signal for departure.
Several little interludes had taken place, and all the by-play which must occur in such a scene. Lay-sisters had come in and gone out; two men had even appeared in the parlour, had received orders, and taken their departure; but the Count had paid little attention, and was somewhat surprised in the end to find that he was to have another companion besides the Lady Adelaide. He was too courteous to offer any objection, however; and in a short time the whole party were on their way to Spires.
We need not notice the incidents of the journey, which were few and of no importance. Refreshed by a night's rest, Adelaide was far less fatigued than Bertha had been the night before; but still, as they entered the city, then in its splendour and its pride, filled with a moving multitude, and displaying in its streets all the pageantry of commerce, of arms, and of royalty, with gay cavalcades at every corner, with marching troops, with sounding trumpets, with gaily decorated booths and shops, and with innumerable human beings, all occupied with themselves, or with thoughts totally alien to her feelings, situation, and anticipations, Adelaide felt lost and abandoned in the crowd, and her heart sank with a greater feeling of desolation than ever she had felt in the wildest scenes of her own hills.
Such sensations were increased when they approached the palace, and beheld a multitude of guards and attendants, armed and on horseback, surrounding a small open space, in the midst of which was seen a magnificent charger, held by two grooms; while, with one knee bent to the ground, a man of lordly aspect, held a gilded stirrup, to which another, of the middle age, robed in royal splendour, placed his foot, and then vaulted into the saddle.