“Gone! gone,” he moaned abjectly. “I can find her nowhere. If you fiends do not possess her, she has perished amongst the cruel beasts.”
The Baron was brave now, and advanced boldly.
“Here, Michael,—a cord; pinion this babbler. We’ll hale him to the Wartburg, and then if the wench is not found, there’ll be tortures to wring out of him where he is hiding her. Forward, lads; there’s nothing dreadful.”
He snatched Jerome by the arm. Men looked to see a bolt crash down from heaven. None came. Jerome submitted like a lamb. Michael and Clement were at least brave enough to stand at either side as guards. Ulrich led thirty of his boldest down the Dragon’s Dale, crossbow strung, swords bare,—half disappointed they did not meet a fire-breathing goblin. They found the little hut empty; they searched about the tree—only birds and dragon-flies. Maid Agnes was nowhere. Ulrich returning promised Jerome smart torture if the girl was not found. Jerome gave back not a word. So at last the Baron started again for the Wartburg with his prisoner, ordering the men to scatter through the greenwood, by fives and tens, and to scour knoll and dale for seven leagues about. Have the hostage they must, though they sought all night for her!
Once at the castle Ulrich ordered forth the bloodhounds. The pack went baying down the valley, the halloos of the hunt sounded far and wide in the forest; but when the lanzknechts dispersed in little bands, they knew too well the paling dread of pixies to pry over deeply into the secrets of the wood. The hounds ran down all scents—but vainly. Priest Clement swore that the Brown Dwarfs had stolen the queen down to their underworld. “Where, alas for her poor soul, since they were pagans all!” he added as became a holy cleric. The chase wandered far from the Wartburg. Presently Ulrich, disheartened, angry, turned back to the castle, with Clement and Michael, leaving the rest to carry on the hunt. Saint or no saint, he intended to test his prisoner by torture to see if he were hiding Agnes by some art-magic. It would be an impious deed,—Ulrich knew it,—but better impiety, than the falling into Graf Ludwig’s iron clutches!
The Wartburg was nigh empty when the Baron reëntered. In the courts some of the slattern women had lit huge bonfires, which roared up to the deepening sky, making turret and rampart frown down grimly. Franz, who had played castellan in his lord’s absence, reported the captive safe in the lower dungeon. The Baron cursed that no one had advised him to shoot down the herald, and so win extra time to prepare to face attack; but there was only one thing to do now. Leaving Franz and a bare dozen of men-at-arms to patrol the battlement, he summoned Priest Clement and Michael to fetch him divers instruments; then with them hastened down into the bowels of the great Wartburg rock.
All that stone and steel could do to secure Jerome had been done. He was in a cell whither no sun had crawled since the building of the Wartburg; but the hermit had recovered his dignity. He faced the three men of blood with a cold, stern stare, which stole away half their courage.
“Where is the maid?” demanded Ulrich, trying to set bravado up for valour.
“God knoweth, and in His wisdom keeps her hid, except you have already possessed yourselves of her, and seek this occasion against me.”
Ulrich ostentatiously produced a mallet, and many little oaken wedges, while Clement raised the smoking torch. Then the Baron’s tone grew threatening.