“The most reverend Father Clement, possessed himself of them,” ventured Franz, to be cut short by a hurried ‘Maledicte!’ from the priest, and a warning from Ulrich that the holy man’s share, when the spoil was divided, should be abated accordingly.
“Well, girl,” continued the Baron, “and who may your gallant father be, that you travelled from Bamberg with so handsomely furnished a company? Some fat burgomaster of Hamburg or of Lubeck, I dare swear by Saint Godehard’s self!”
The girl held up her head now, and her voice was very shrill.
“I am come from the convent at Bamberg, where the Lady Abbess reared me, and I go to Graf Ludwig of the Harz, who is my father.”
Had the prisoner suddenly become a knight in mail, Ulrich could scarce have liked this answer less. He stormed out a fearful oath “not to lie,” which only drove her back to silence, and every feaster stopped his drinking. The Baron looked uneasily on Michael.
“Does the wench lie?” he demanded.
“I could see from the first that she was nobly born, by her small hands and feet, and she is too scared to lie. She is Ludwig’s own brat, as I am a sinner.”
“Holy Trinity!” swore Ulrich, staring hard; “this is what comes of setting on companies one knows nothing about. You see she is but a puling child, though tall for her age, and of no use to us. Ludwig of the Harz! He will pull down the Wartburg stone by stone, but never pay a ransom. I know him. Safer to rouse a she-bear just missing a whelp!”
“Ludwig may never know to blame us,” suggested Michael; “those other fools are too dead for babbling. There are more bands who ‘live by the stirrup’ betwixt Goslar and Bamberg to share the suspicions.”
“But you dogs will wag your tongues in the Eisenach taverns,” frowned his lord. “Stories will fly; the Graf swoop down.”