Could the blacksmith have followed the rider into Castle Bertrich, a short distance further up the valley, he would speedily have learned the meaning of the hasty phrase the horseman had flung behind him as he rode past. Ascending the winding road that led to the gates of the castle as hurriedly as the jaded condition of his beast would permit, the horseman paused, unloosed the horn from his belt, and blew a blast that echoed from the wooded hills around. Presently an officer appeared above the gateway, accompanied by two or three armed men, and demanded who the stranger was and why he asked admission. The horseman, amazed at the officer’s ignorance of heraldry that caused him to inquire as to his quality, answered with some haughtiness:
“Messenger of the Archbishop of Treves, I demand instant audience with Count Bertrich.”
The officer, without reply, disappeared from the castle wall, and presently the great leaves of the gate were thrown open, whereupon the horseman rode his tired animal into the courtyard and flung himself off.
“My horse’s shoe is loose,” he said to the Captain. “I ask you to have your armourer immediately attend to it.”
“In truth,” replied the officer, shrugging his shoulders, “there is more drinking than fighting in Castle Bertrich; consequently we do not possess an armourer. If you want blacksmithing done you must betake yourself to armourer Arras in the valley, who will put either horse or armour right for you.”
With this the messenger was forced to be content; and, begging the attendants who took charge of his horse to remember that it had travelled far and had still, when rested, a long journey before it, he followed the Captain into the great Rittersaal of the castle, where, on entering, after having been announced, he found the Count of Bertrich sitting at the head of a long table, holding in his hand a gigantic wine flagon which he was industriously emptying. Extending down each side of the table were many nobles, knights, and warriors, who, to judge by the hasty glance bestowed upon them by the Archbishop’s messenger, seemed to be energetically following the example set them by their over-lord at the head. Count Bertrich’s hair was unkempt, his face a purplish red, his eye bloodshot; and his corselet, open at the throat, showed the great bull-neck of the man, on whose gigantic frame constant dissipation seemed to have merely temporary effect.
“Well!” roared the nobleman, in a voice that made the rafters ring. “What would you with Count Bertrich?”
“I bear an urgent despatch to you from my Lord the Archbishop of Treves,” replied the messenger.
“Then down on your knees and present it,” cried the Count, beating the table with his flagon.
“I am Envoy of his Lordship of Treves,” said the messenger, sternly.