Monk Gregory was pacing the high road
between the Imperial camp and suffering Cologne.
The sun had risen through interminable distances of
cloud that held him remote in a succession of receding
mounds and thinner veils, realm beyond realm, till
he showed fireless, like a phantom king in a phantom
land. The lark was in the breast of morning.
The field-mouse ran along the furrows. Dews hung
red and grey on the weedy banks and wayside trees.
At times the nostril of the good father was lifted,
and he beat his breast, relapsing into sorrowful contemplation.
Passed-any citizen of Cologne, the ghostly head sunk
into its cowl. ‘There’s a black raven!’
said many. Monk Gregory heard them, and murmured,
‘Thou hast me, Evil one! thou hast me!’
It was noon when Farina came clattering
down from the camp.
‘Father,’ said he, ‘I have sought
thee.’
‘My son!’ exclaimed Monk
Gregory with silencing hand, ’thou didst not
well to leave me contending against the tongues of
doubt. Answer me not. The maiden! and what
weighed she in such a scale? No more!
I am punished. Well speaks the ancient proverb:
“Beware
the back-blows of Sathanas!”
I, that thought to have vanquished
him! Vanity has wrecked me, in this world and
the next. I am the victim of self-incense.
I hear the demons shouting their chorus “Here
comes Monk Gregory, who called himself Conqueror of
Darkness!” In the camp I am discredited and a
scoff; in the city I am spat upon, abhorred.
Satan, my son, fights not with his fore-claws.
’Tis with his tail he fights, O Farina! Listen,
my son! he entered to his kingdom below through Cologne,
even under the stones of the Cathedral Square, and
the stench of him abominably remaineth, challenging
the nostrils of holy and unholy alike. The Kaiser
cannot approach for him; the citizens are outraged.
Oh! had I held my peace in humbleness, I had truly
conquered him. But he gave me easy victory, to
inflate me. I shall not last. Now this only
is left, my son; that thou bear living testimony to
the truth of my statement, as I bear it to the folly!’
Farina promised, in the face of all,
he would proclaim and witness to his victory on Drachenfels.
‘That I may not be ranked an
impostor!’ continued the Monk. ’And
how great must be the virtue of them that encounter
that dark spirit! Valour availeth nought.
But if virtue be not in’ ye, soon will ye be
puffed to bursting with that devil’s poison,
self-incense. Surely, my son, thou art faithful;
and for this service I can reward thee. Follow
me yet again.’
On the road they met Gottlieb Groschen,
hastening to the camp. Dismay rumpled the old
merchant’s honest jowl. Farina drew rein
before him.
‘Your daughter is safe, worthy Master Groschen,’
said he.
‘Safe?’ cried Gottlieb; ‘where is
she, my Grete?’
Farina briefly explained. Gottlieb
spread out his arms, and was going to thank the youth.
He saw Father Gregory, and his whole frame narrowed
with disgust.
‘Are you in company with that pestilent animal,
that curse of Cologne!’
‘The good Monk ,’ said Farina.
’You are leagued with him, then,
sirrah! Expect no thanks from me. Cologne,
I say, is cursed! Meddling wretches! could ye
not leave Satan alone? He hurt us not. We
were free of him. Cologne, I say, is cursed!
The enemy of mankind is brought by you to be the deadly
foe of Cologne.’
So saying, Gottlieb departed.
‘Seest thou, my son,’ quoth the Monk,
‘they reason not!’
Farina was dejected. Willingly
would he, for his part, have left the soul of Evil
a loose rover for the sake of some brighter horizon
to his hope.
No twinge of remorse accompanied Gottlieb.
The Kaiser had allotted him an encampment and a guard
of honour for his household while the foulness raged,
and there Gottlieb welcomed back Margarita and Aunt
Lisbeth on the noon after his meeting with Farina.
The White Rose had rested at Laach, and was blooming
again. She and the Goshawk came trotting in advance
of the Club through the woods of Laach, startling the
deer with laughter, and sending the hare with her
ears laid back all across country. In vain Dietrich
menaced Guy with the terrors of the Club: Aunt
Lisbeth begged of Margarita not to leave her with the
footmen in vain. The joyous couple galloped over
the country, and sprang the ditches, and leapt the
dykes, up and down the banks, glad as morning hawks,
entering Andernach at a round pace; where they rested
at a hostel as capable of producing good Rhine and
Mosel wine then as now. Here they had mid-day’s
meal laid out in the garden for the angry Club, and
somewhat appeased them on their arrival with bumpers
of the best Scharzhofberger. After a refreshing
halt, three boats were hired. On their passage
to the river, they encountered a procession of monks
headed by the Archbishop of Andernach, bearing a small
figure of Christ carved in blackthorn and varnished:
said to work miracles, and a present to the good town
from two Hungarian pilgrims.
‘Are ye for Cologne?’ the monks inquired
of them.
‘Direct down stream!’ they answered.
’Send, then, hither to us Gregory,
the conqueror of Darkness, that he may know there
is gratitude on earth and gratulation for great deeds,’
said the monks.
So with génuflexions the travellers
proceeded, and entered the boats by the Archbishop’s
White Tower. Hammerstein Castle and Rheineck
they floated under; Salzig and the Ahr confluence;
Rolandseck and Nonnenwerth; Drachenfels and Bonn;
hills green with young vines; dells waving fresh foliage.
Margarita sang as they floated. Ancient ballads
she sang that made the Goshawk sigh for home, and affected
the Club with delirious love for the grand old water
that was speeding them onward. Aunt Lisbeth was
not to be moved. She alone held down her head.
She looked not Gottlieb in the face as he embraced
her. Nor to any questioning would she vouchsafe
reply. From that time forth, she was charity
to woman; and the exuberant cheerfulness and familiarity
of the men toward her soon grew kindly and respectful.
The dragon in Aunt Lisbeth was destroyed. She
objected no more to Margarita’s cameo.
The Goshawk quickly made peace with
his lord, and enjoyed the commendation of the Kaiser.
Dietrich Schill thought of challenging him; but the
Club had graver business: and this was to pass
sentence on Berthold Schmidt for the crime of betraying
the White Rose into the hands of Werner. They
had found Berthold at the Eck, and there consented
to let him remain until ransom was paid for his traitorous
body. Berthold in his mad passion was tricked
by Werner, and on his release, by payment of the ransom,
submitted to the judgement of the Club, which condemned
him to fight them all in turn, and then endure banishment
from Rhineland; the Goshawk, for his sister’s
sake, interceding before a harsher tribunal.