The Archduchess for the most part kept her gaze fixed upon the road, though, woman-like, she lost little of what went on below. Her eyes glistened with eagerness, but her features betrayed little of the drawn look that the Bishop's wore. If the Bishop noticed it, he said nothing, putting her apparent lack of anxiety down to the score of youth. But absorbed as he was in the inward contemplation of the stakes at issue, he did not closely scrutinise the face of his niece. For him the turn of events meant a very possible siege, a defence of sorts, a storming and a sack, or a judicious submission, but in any case a great inroad into his treasure-chests. It promised indignities falling short of bodily suffering, but hard to bear, and an ultimate disposal of his lands and possessions in ways that would at once reduce his princely bishopric to the dimensions of a paltry benefice, until the Lutheran tide should recede and the Church take her own again.
For the niece it meant excitement, peril, but peril that would pass. Princesses might be held to ransom, but no more. She might be expected to sympathise with her father in the defeat of his armies, to feel aggrieved at Fortune, who had dealt so hard a blow at her house, but not to be prostrated by her grief. She would still be the beautiful Archduchess Stephanie, and in the clash of armies and in the affairs of a hazardous campaign there was like to be scant attention paid to the matrimonial projects of Maximilian. Was this all? A cry broke from her lips, and she pointed to the farthest bend of the road visible from the tower.
"Now we shall know!" said the Bishop, clenching his lips firmly as if to make sure they did not tremble.
Round the bend came thirty or forty troopers, and the first man carried a yellow pennon.
"Tilly's men!" the Bishop exclaimed fervently. "To Thee be thanks, O Lord!"
The Archduchess's eyes were riveted. Whether her emotion had really been restrained hitherto by pride or not, her eyes filled with tears: tears that she hastily brushed away, leaving her eyes again free to discern what they might.
This time it was a group of officers, and in the middle could be distinguished the famous red feather, drooping, it is true, but there.
"Count Tilly himself, Uncle!"
Behind the little cavalcade came a regiment of foot, still preserving a martial appearance, with its pikemen and its musketeers, and after it another and yet another.
It was almost pitiful to hear the proud Bishop, secure except for the ears of his niece, ejaculating his thankfulness, as each addition to his possible defenders came in sight.