It was now seventeen years since the Count and Countess had been united: and although heaven had not blessed their couch with more than one child, it may be said of that one that it was a prize, and that surely never lighted on the earth a more delightful vision. When Count Ludwig, hastening to the holy wars, had quitted his beloved godchild, he had left him a boy; he now found him, as the latter rushed into his arms, grown to be one of the finest young men in Germany: tall and excessively graceful in proportion, with the blush of health mantling upon his cheek, that was likewise adorned with the first down of manhood, and with magnificent golden ringlets, such as a Rowland might envy, curling over his brow and his shoulders. His eyes alternately beamed with the fire of daring, or melted with the moist glance of benevolence. Well might a mother be proud of such a boy. Well might the brave Ludwig exclaim, as he clasped the youth to his breast, “By St. Bugo of Katzenellenbogen, Otto, thou art fit to be one of Coeur de Lion's grenadiers!” and it was the fact: the “Childe” of Godesberg measured six feet three.
He was habited for the evening meal in the costly, though simple attire of the nobleman of the period—and his costume a good deal resembled that of the old knight whose toilet we have just described; with the difference of color, however. The pourpoint worn by young Otto of Godesberg was of blue, handsomely decorated with buttons of carved and embossed gold; his haut-de-chausses, or leggings, were of the stuff of Nanquin, then brought by the Lombard argosies at an immense price from China. The neighboring country of Holland had supplied his wrists and bosom with the most costly laces; and thus attired, with an opera-hat placed on one side of his head, ornamented with a single flower, (that brilliant one, the tulip,) the boy rushed into his godfather's dressing-room, and warned him that the banquet was ready.
It was indeed: a frown had gathered on the dark brows of the Lady Theodora, and her bosom heaved with an emotion akin to indignation; for she feared lest the soups in the refectory and the splendid fish now smoking there were getting cold: she feared not for herself, but for her lord's sake. “Godesberg,” whispered she to Count Ludwig, as trembling on his arm they descended from the drawing-room, “Godesberg is sadly changed of late.”
“By St. Bugo!” said the burly knight, starting, “these are the very words the barber spake.”
The lady heaved a sigh, and placed herself before the soup-tureen. For some time the good Knight Ludwig of Hombourg was too much occupied in ladling out the forced-meat balls and rich calves' head of which the delicious pottage was formed (in ladling them out, did we say? ay, marry, and in eating them, too,) to look at his brother-in-arms at the bottom of the table, where he sat with his son on his left hand, and the Baron Gottfried on his right.
The Margrave was INDEED changed. “By St. Bugo,” whispered Ludwig to the Countess, “your husband is as surly as a bear that hath been wounded o' the head.” Tears falling into her soup-plate were her only reply. The soup, the turbot, the haunch of mutton, Count Ludwig remarked that the Margrave sent all away untasted.
“The boteler will serve ye with wine, Hombourg,” said the Margrave gloomily from the end of the table: not even an invitation to drink! how different was this from the old times!
But when in compliance with this order the boteler proceeded to hand round the mantling vintage of the Cape to the assembled party, and to fill young Otto's goblet, (which the latter held up with the eagerness of youth,) the Margrave's rage knew no bounds. He rushed at his son; he dashed the wine-cup over his spotless vest: and giving him three or four heavy blows which would have knocked down a bonassus, but only caused the young Childe to blush: “YOU take wine!” roared out the Margrave; “YOU dare to help yourself! Who time d-v-l gave YOU leave to help yourself?” and the terrible blows were reiterated over the delicate ears of the boy.
“Ludwig! Ludwig!” shrieked the Margravine.
“Hold your prate, madam,” roared the Prince. “By St. Buffo, mayn't a father beat his own child?”