He was not present.
‘The more glory for us, then,’ Dietrich said.
It was here seriously put to the captain, whether they should not halt at the abbey, and reflect, seeing that great work was in prospect.
‘Truly,’ quoth Dietrich, ‘dying on an empty stomach is heathenish, and cold blood makes a green wound gape. Kaiser Conrad should be hospitable, and the monks honour numbers. Here be we, thirty and nine; let us go!’
The West was dark blue with fallen light. The lakewaters were growing grey with twilight. The abbey stood muffled in shadows. Already the youths had commenced battering at the convent doors, when they were summoned by the voice of the Goshawk on horseback. To their confusion they beheld the White Rose herself on his right hand. Chapfallen Dietrich bowed to his sweet mistress.
‘We were coming to the rescue,’ he stammered.
A laugh broke from the Goshawk. ‘You thought the lady was locked up in the ghostly larder; eh!’
Dietrich seized his sword, and tightened his belt.
‘The Club allows no jesting with the White Rose, Sir Stranger.’
Margarita made peace. ‘I thank you all, good friends. But quarrel not, I pray you, with them that save me at the risk of their lives.’