“Tell our brothers to come out and see the justice of the Lord.”
When the monks trooped out, haggard and wan, in the pure light of the dawn, the Abbot asked Gottlieb to get a flagon and dash water from the spring in the faces of the sleepers.
The Black Baron was the first to come to his senses and realise dimly, at first, but afterwards more acutely, the changed condition of affairs. His eye wandered apprehensively to the empty noose swaying slightly in the morning breeze above him. He then saw that the tall, ascetic man before him had doffed the Abbot’s robes and wore a sword by his side, and from this he augured ill. At the command of the Abbot the monks raised each prostrate man and placed him against the north wall.
“Gottlieb,” said, the Abbot slowly, “the last office that will be required of you. You took from our necks the nooses last night. Place them, I pray you, on the necks of the Baron and his followers.”
The old man, trembling, adjusted the ropes.
“My Lord Abbot——” began the Baron.
“Baron von Grunewald,” interrupted the person addressed, “the Abbot Ambrose is dead. He was foully assassinated last night. In his place stands Conrad von Stern, who answers for his deeds to the Emperor, and after him, to God.”
“Is it your purpose to hang me, Baron?”
“Was it your purpose to have hanged us, my Lord?”
“I swear to heaven, it was not. ‘Twas but an ill-timed pleasantry. Had I wished to hang you I would have done so last night.”