"I see, my Lord, that it is unnecessary for me to caution your men not to move hand to hilt until some friendly arrangement is come to between you and me. The air has been thick with threats for some time past; it is well that definite action should clear it. How easy would it be for me to give another brief signal and thus end the lives of all your followers in this tent? With you a prisoner, word could be sent to the camp, and your unsuspecting soldiers would be prisoners as well. Thus might I act were I a bloody-minded warrior, but I thank my Maker, and you may well join your thanks with mine, that I am ever a man of peace, rarely using forceful measures except when compelled to do so. Perhaps you will consent to reconsider your decision, my Lord."
"Go on with your treacherous butchery, cut-throat of Treves, and see what good you reap from it."
"It is easy for you, my Lord, to say go on, when your throat is unthreatened, but I grieve for those who must be victims of your stubbornness. In case you may imagine that the cut-throat of Treves will hesitate when it comes to your own august person, I beg to remind your Lordship that an ancestor of mine slew a predecessor of yours."
"Say murdered, and you will be nearer the mark."
The Archbishop of Treves spread out his hands in conciliatory fashion and, bowing slightly, replied,
"Well, murdered then, if it please you. I am always willing to concede to a disputant his own choice of words."
Von Hochstaden's secretary, standing at his master's elbow, filled with alarm at the threatening aspect of affairs, pleaded in whispers with him to give way, but the prelate, with an angry motion of his hand, waved the subordinate aside, bidding him hold his peace.
The good Ambrose, with uplifted eyes and paled face, prayed that heaven might send peace to that sorely divided camp. Heaven replied in its own way, but in a manner which made the startled occupants of the tent imagine that the prayer had been literally answered. The Archbishop of Cologne was about to speak when there was an impact on the end of the tent which first made it bulge suddenly in, then the cloth ripped with a loud report, and there shot swiftly along the line of swords, sweeping many of them jangling from the hands of their owners, a nondescript bundle that sped hurtling down the table, coming to rest against the heavy chair at the head, with a woeful groan like the rending of a soul from a body; a groan that struck wild terror into every heart, so supernatural did it seem, giving appalling indication that there was yet life in the shapeless heap when it was hurled against the tent. Even the Archbishop of Treves, for the first time that evening, sprang in quick alarm to his feet, as the living projectile dropped from the end of the table into the empty chair, and lay there motionless. The men of Cologne, who had been seated breathless, with the sharp points of the swords at their throats, now took swift advantage of the amazing intervention, and, throwing themselves backwards, jumped upright, plucked blade from scabbard, and stood at least on equal terms with their foes, but having thus prepared themselves for defence, all remained silent and motionless, awe-struck by the astounding interruption.
Through the tattered rent in the end of the tent came the sound of distant laughter, like the laughter of some fiend suspended in the sky, and then all distinctly heard the words:
"There, Arnold von Isenberg! The gold is in my courtyard; the merchandise is in your camp!"