“Very likely; ha! what is that?” and Michael levelled his crossbow into the dark. From the gloom below the gate came a deep voice.
“Ho! Ulrich of Eisenach; attend!”
“I am listening,” bellowed the Baron from the tower; “who calls?”
“I,—Ludwig of the Harz; hear now and all your men! I command that you surrender the castle at dawn, that especially you deliver up to me, instantly and unharmed, my daughter, the Lady Agnes, likewise the holy hermit Jerome, whom your men say you hold prisoner. Your naked state is known to us. Escape is impossible. Surrender now, and I promise your lives and liberties, with no more penalty than the trifling striking off of your two thumbs, that you may never more draw bow, or swing longsword; if not—”
Ulrich’s voice tossed back an angry answer.
“As for the Lady Agnes she is not with us. As for the hermit, when you storm the castle, we slay him. As for our thumbs they will swing our swords long enough to make your attack cost dear.”
“Liar—do not say my daughter is not in your foul hold.”
There was a ringing menace back of the word, which made even Ulrich quiver, and he turned to Franz.
“Go you and one other. Bring the hermit. Set him on the battlement. We will make him declare we have not the maid.”
So whilst defiance passed they brought Jerome, told him how the land lay, and the Baron unsheathed a dagger.