THE DISTURBING JOURNEY OF FATHER AMBROSE
The setting summer sun shone full
on the western side of Sayn Castle, sending the shadow
of that tenth-century edifice far along the greensward
of the upper valley. Upon a balcony, perched like
a swallow’s nest against the eastern end of
Sayn Castle, a lovely girl of eighteen leaned, meditating,
with arms resting on the balustrade, the harshness
of whose stone surface was nullified by the soft texture
of a gaudily-covered robe flung over it. This
ample cloth, brought from the East by a Crusading
ancestor of the girl, made a gay patch of scarlet
and gold against the somber side of the Castle.
The youthful Countess Hildegunde von
Sayn watched the slow oncoming of a monk, evidently
tired, who toiled along the hillside deep in the shadow
of the Castle, as if its cool shade was grateful to
him. Belonging, as he did, to the very practical
Order of the Benedictines, whose belief was in work
sanctioned by prayer, the Reverend Father did not deny
himself this temporary refuge from the hot rays of
the sun, which had poured down upon him all day.
Looking up as he approached the stronghold,
and seeing the girl, little dreaming of the frivolous
mission she would propose, he waved his hand to her,
and she responded gracefully with a similar gesture.
Indeed, however strongly the monk
might disapprove, there was much to be said in favor
of the resolution to which the young lady had come.
She was well educated, probably the richest heiress
in Germany, and carefully as the pious Sisters of
Nonnenwerth Convent may have concealed the fact from
her, she was extremely beautiful, and knew it, and
although the valley of the Saynbach was a very haven
of peace and prosperity, the girl became just a trifle
lonely, and yearned to know something of life and
the Court in Frankfort, to which her high rank certainly
entitled her.
It is true that very disquieting rumors
had reached her concerning the condition of things
in the capital city; nevertheless she determined to
learn from an authoritative source whether or not it
was safe to take up a temporary residence in Frankfort,
and for this purpose the reluctant Father Ambrose
would journey southward.
Father Ambrose was more than sixty
years old, and if he had belonged to the world, instead
of to religion, would have been entitled to the name
Henry von Sayn. His presence in the Benedictine
Order was proof of the fact that money will not accomplish
everything. His famous, or perhaps we should
say infamous, ancestor, Count Henry III. of Sayn, who
died in 1246, was a robber and a murderer, justly
esteemed the terror of the Rhine. Concealed as
it was in the Sayn valley, half a league from the
great river, the situation of his stronghold favored
his depredations. He filled his warehousing rooms
with merchandise from barges going down the river,
and with gold seized from unhappy merchants on their
way up. He thought no more of cutting a throat
than of cutting a purse, and it was only when he became
amazingly wealthy that the increase of years brought
trouble to a conscience which all men thought had ceased
to exist. Thereupon, for the welfare of his soul,
he built the Abbey of Sayn, and provided for the monks
therein. Yet, when he came to die, he entertained
fearsome, but admittedly well-founded doubts regarding
his future state, so he proceeded to sanctify a treasure
no longer of any use to him, by bequeathing it to
the Church, driving, however, a bargain by which he
received assurance that his body should rest quietly
in the tomb he had prepared for himself within the
Abbey walls.
He was buried with impressive ceremony,
and the monks he had endowed did everything to carry
out their share of the pact. The tomb was staunchly
built with stones so heavy that no ordinary ghost could
have emerged therefrom, but to be doubly sure a gigantic
log was placed on top of it, strongly clamped down
with concealed bands of iron, and, so that this log
might not reveal its purpose, the monks cunningly carved
it into some semblance of Henry himself, until it
seemed a recumbent statue of the late villainous Count.
But despite such thoughtfulness their
plan failed, for when next they visited the tomb the
statue lay prone, face downwards, as if some irresistible,
unseen power had flung it to the stone flags of the
floor. Replacing the statue, and watching by
the tomb, was found to be of little use. The
watchers invariably fell asleep, and the great wooden
figure, which during their last waking moments lay
gazing towards the roof, was now on its face on the
monastery floor, peering down in the opposite direction,
and this somehow was regarded by the brethren as a
fact of ominous significance.
The new Count von Sayn, heir to the
title and estate of the late Henry III. was a gloomy,
pious man, very different indeed from his turbulent
predecessor. Naturally he was much perturbed by
the conduct of the wooden statue. At first he
affected disbelief in the phenomena despite the assurances
of the monks, and later on the simple brethren deeply
regretted they had made any mention of the manifestations.
The new Count himself took up the task of watching,
and paced all night before the tomb of the third Henry.
He was not a man to fall asleep while engaged on such
a somber mission, and the outcome of his vigil was
so amazing that in the morning he gathered the brethren
together in the great hall of the Abbey, that he might
relate to them his experience.
The wooden statue had turned over,
and fallen to the floor, as was its habit, but on
this occasion it groaned as it fell. This mournful
sound struck terror into the heart of the lonely watcher,
who now, he confessed, regretted he had not accepted
the offer of the monks to share his midnight surveillance.
The courage of the House of Sayn is, however, a well-known
quality, and, notwithstanding his piety, the new holder
of the title was possessed of it, for although admitting
a momentary impulse towards flight, and the calling
for assistance which the monks would readily have
given, he stood his ground, and in trembling voice
asked what he could do to forward the contentment of
his deceased relative.
The statue replied, still face downward
on the stone floor, that never could the late wicked
Count rest in peace unless the heir to his titles
and lands should take upon himself the sins Henry had
committed during his life, while a younger member
of the family should become a monk of the Benedictine
Order, and daily intercede for the welfare of his soul.
“With extreme reluctance,”
continued the devout nobleman, “I gave my assent
to this unwelcome proposal, providing only that it
should receive the sanction of the Abbot and brethren
of the Monastery of Sayn, hoping by a life of continuous
rectitude to annul, in some measure at least, the
evil works of Henry III.; and that holy sanction I
now request, trusting if given it may remove any doubts
regarding the righteousness of my promise.”
Here the Count bowed low to the enthroned
Abbot and, with less reverence, to the assembled brethren.
The Abbot rose to his feet, and in a few well-chosen
words complimented the nobleman on the sacrifice he
made, predicting that it would redound greatly to his
spiritual welfare. Speaking for himself, he had
no hesitation in giving the required sanction, but
as the Count made it a proviso that the brethren should
concur, he now requested their acquiescence.
This was accorded in silent unanimity,
whereupon Count von Sayn, deeply sighing as one accepting
a burden almost too heavy to bear, spoke with a tremor
of grief in his voice.
“It is not for me,” he
said, “to question your wisdom, nor shrink from
my allotted task. After all, I am but human, and
up to this decisive moment had hoped, alas! in vain,
that some one more worthy than I might be chosen in
my place. The most grievous part of the undertaking,
so far as I am concerned, was outlined in the last
words spoken by the wooden statue. The evil deeds
my ancestor has committed will in time be obliterated
by the prayers of the younger member of my family who
becomes a monk, but the accumulated gold carries with
it a continual curse, which can be wiped off each
coin only by that coin benefiting the merchants who
have been robbed. The contamination of this metal,
therefore, I must bear, for it adds to the agony of
my ancestor that, little realizing what he was doing,
he bequeathed this poisonous dross to the Abbey he
founded. I am required to lend it in Frankfort,
upon undoubted security and suitable usury, that it
may stimulate and fertilize the commerce of the land,
much as the contents of a compost heap, disagreeable
in the senses, and defiling to him who handles it,
when spread upon the fields results in the production
of flower, fruit, and food, giving fragrance, delight,
and sustenance to the human frame.”
The count, bowing for the third time
to the conclave, passed from its presence with mournful
step and sorrowful countenance; whereupon the brethren,
seeing themselves thus denuded of wealth they had hoped
to enjoy, gave utterance to a groan doubtless much
greater in volume than that emitted by the carven
statue, which wooden figure may be seen to-day in
the museum of the modern Castle of Sayn by any one
who cares to spend the fifty pfennigs charged
for admission.
All that has been related happened
generations before the time when the Countess Hildegunde
reigned as head of the House of Sayn, but Father Ambrose
formed a link with the past in that he was the present
scion of Sayn who, as a Benedictine, daily offered
prayer for the repose of the wicked Henry III.
The gold which Henry’s immediate successor so
craftily deflected from the monks seemed to be blessed
rather than cursed, for under the care of that subtle
manager it multiplied greatly in Frankfort, and scandal-mongers
asserted that besides receiving the usury exacted,
the pietistic Count tapped the treasure-casks of upward-sailing
Rhine merchants quite as successfully, if more quietly,
than the profane Henry had done. Thus the House
of Sayn was one of the richest in Germany.
The aged monk and the youthful Countess
were distant relatives, but he regarded her as a daughter,
and her affection was given to him as to a father,
in other than the spiritual sense.
In his youth Ambrose the Benedictine,
because of his eloquence in discourse, and also on
account of his aristocratic rank, officiated at the
court in Frankfort. Later, he became spiritual
and temporal adviser to that great prelate, the Archbishop
of Cologne, and the Archbishop, being guardian of
the Countess von Sayn, sent Father Ambrose to the
castle of his ancestor to look after the affairs of
Sayn, both religious and material. Under his
gentle rule the great wealth of his House increased,
although he, the cause of prosperity, had no share
in the riches he produced, for, as has been written
of the Benedictines:
“It was as teachers of ... scientific
agriculture, as drainers of fens and morasses, as
clearers of forests, as makers of roads, as tillers
of the reclaimed soil, as architects of durable and
even stately buildings, as exhibiting a visible type
of orderly government, as establishing the superiority
of peace over war as the normal condition of life,
as students in the library which the rule set up in
every monastery, as the masters in schools open not
merely to their own postulants but to the children
of secular families also, that they won their high
place in history as benefactors of mankind.”
“Oh, Father Ambrose,”
cried the girl, when at last he entered her presence,
“I watched your approach from afar off.
You walked with halting step, and shoulders increasingly
bowed. You are wearing yourself out in my service,
and that I cannot permit. You return this evening
a tired man.”
“Not physically tired,”
replied the monk, with a smile. “My head
is bowed with meditation and prayer, rather than with
fatigue. Indeed, it is others who do the harassing
manual labor, while I simply direct and instruct.
Sometimes I think I am an encumberer in the vineyard,
lazily using brain instead of hand.”
“Nonsense!” cried the
girl, “the vineyard would be but a barren plantation
without you; and speaking of it reminds me that I have
poured out, with my own hand, a tankard of the choicest,
oldest wine in our cellars, which I allow no one but
yourself to taste. Sit down, I beg of you, and
drink.”
The wise old man smiled, wondering
what innocent trap was being set for him. He
raised the tankard to his lips, but merely indulged
in one sip of the delectable beverage. Then he
seated himself, and looked at the girl, still smiling.
She went on speaking rapidly, a delicate flush warming
her fair cheeks.
“Father, you are the most patient
and indefatigable of agriculturists, sparing neither
yourself nor others, but there is danger that you grow
bucolic through overlong absence from the great affairs
of this world.”
“What can be greater, my child,
than increasing the productiveness of the land; than
training men to supply all their needs from the fruitful
earth?”
“True, true,” admitted
the girl, her eyes sparkling with eagerness, “but
to persist overlong even in well-doing becomes ultimately
tedious. If the laborer is worthy of his hire,
so, too, is the master. You should take a change,
and as I know your fondness for travel, I have planned
a journey for you.”
The old man permitted himself another sip of the wine.
“Where?” he asked.
“Oh, an easy journey; no farther
than the royal city of Frankfort, there to wander
among the scenes of your youth, and become interested
for a time in the activities of your fellow-men.
You have so long consorted with those inferior to
you in intellect and learning that a meeting with
your equals though I doubt if there are
any such even in Frankfort must prove as
refreshing to your mind as that old wine would to
your body, did you but obey me and drink it.”
Father Ambrose slowly shook his head.
“From what I hear of Frankfort,”
he said, “it is anything but an inspiring town.
In my day it was indeed a place of cheer, learning,
and prosperity, but now it is a city of desolation.”
“The rumors we hear, Father,
may be exaggerated; and even if the city itself be
doleful, which I doubt, there is sure to be light and
gayety in the precincts of the Court and in the homes
of the nobility.”
“What have I to do with Court
or palaces? My duty lies here.”
“It may be,” cried the
girl archly, “that some part of your duty lies
there. If Frankfort is indeed in bad case, your
sage advice might be of the greatest benefit.
Prosperity seems to follow your footsteps, and, besides,
you were once a chaplain in the Court, and surely you
have not lost all interest in your former charge?”
Again that quiet, engaging smile lit
up the monk’s emaciated features, and then he
asked a question with that honest directness which
sometimes embarrassed those he addressed:
“Daughter Hildegunde, what is it you want?”
“Well,” said the girl,
sitting very upright in her chair, “I confess
to loneliness. The sameness of life in this castle
oppresses me, and in its continuous dullness I grow
old before my time. I wish to enjoy a month or
two in Frankfort, and, as doubtless you have guessed,
I send you forth as my ambassador to spy out the land.”
“In such case, daughter, you
should present your petition to that Prince of the
Church, the Archbishop of Cologne, who is your guardian.”
“No, no, no, no!” cried
the girl emphatically; “you are putting the
grapes into the barrel instead of into the vat.
Before I trouble the worthy Archbishop with my request,
I must learn whether it is practicable or not.
If the city is indeed in a state of turbulence, of
course I shall not think of going thither. It
is this I wish to discover, but if you are afraid.”
She shrugged her shoulders and spread out her hands.
And now the old monk came as near
to laughing as he ever did.
“Clever, Hildegunde, but unnecessary.
You cannot spur me to action by slighting the well-known
valor of our race. I will go where and when you
command me, and report to you faithfully what I see
and hear. Should the time seem favorable for
you to visit Frankfort, and if your guardian consents,
I shall raise not even one objection.”
“Oh, dear Father, I do not lay
this as a command upon you.”
“No; a request is quite sufficient.
To-morrow morning I shall set out.”
“Along the Rhine?” queried
the girl, so eagerly that the old man’s eyes
twinkled at the celerity with which she accepted his
proposition.
“I think it safer,” he
said, “to journey inland over the hills.
The robbers on the Rhine have been so long bereft
of the natural prey that one or other of them may
forget I am Father Ambrose, a poor monk, remembering
me only as Henry of the rich House of Sayn, and therefore
hold me for ransom. I would not willingly be a
cause of strife, so I shall go by way of Limburg on
the Lahn, and there visit my old friend the Bishop,
and enjoy once more a sight of the ancient Cathedral
on the cliff by the river.”
When the young Countess awoke next
morning, and reviewed in her mind the chief event
of the preceding day, remembering the reluctance of
Father Ambrose to undertake the quest she had outlined
without the consent of his overlord the Archbishop,
a feeling of compunction swept over her. She
berated her own selfishness, resolving to send her
petition to her guardian, the Archbishop, and abide
by his decision.
When breakfast was finished, she asked
her lady-in-waiting to request the presence of Father
Ambrose, but instead of the monk came disturbing news.
“The seneschal says that Father
Ambrose left the Castle at daybreak this morning,
taking with him frugal rations for a three days’
journey.”
“In which direction did he go?” asked
the lady of Sayn.
“He went on horseback up the
valley, after making inquiries about the route to
Limburg on the Lahn.”
“Ah!” said the Countess.
“He spoke yesterday of taking such a journey,
but I did not think he would leave so early.”
This was the beginning of great anxiety
for the young lady of the Castle. She knew at
once that pursuit was useless, for daybreak comes
early in summer, and already the good Father had been
five hours on his way a way that he was
certain to lose many times before he reached the capital
city. An ordinary messenger might have been overtaken,
but the meditative Father would go whither his horse
carried him, and when he awoke from his thoughts and
his prayers, would make inquiries, and so proceed.
A day or two later came a message that he had achieved
the hospitality of Limburg’s bishop, but after
that arrived no further word.
Nearly two weeks had elapsed when,
from the opposite direction, Hildegunde received a
communication which added to her already painful apprehension.
It was a letter from her guardian in Cologne, giving
warning that within a week he would call at her Castle
of Sayn.
“Matters of great import to
you and me,” concluded the Archbishop, “are
toward. You will be called upon to meet formally
my two colleagues of Mayence and Treves, at the latter’s
strong Castle of Stolzenfels, above Coblentz.
From the moment we enter that palace-fortress, I shall,
temporarily, at least, cease to be your guardian, and
become merely one of your three overlords. But
however frowningly I may sit in the throne of an Elector,
believe me I shall always be your friend. Tell
Father Ambrose I wish to consult with him the moment
I arrive at your castle, and that he must not absent
himself therefrom on any pretext until he has seen
me.”
Here was trouble indeed, with Father
Ambrose as completely disappeared as if the dragons
of the Taunus had swallowed him. Never before
on his journeys had he failed to communicate with
her, even when his travels were taken on account of
the Archbishop, and not, as in this case, on her own.
She experienced the darkest forebodings from this incredible
silence. Imagine, then, her relief, when exactly
two weeks from the day he had left Schloss Sayn, she
saw him coming down the valley. As when she last
beheld him, he traveled on foot, leading his horse,
that had gone lame.
Throwing etiquette to the wind, she
flew down the stairway, and ran to meet her thrice-welcome
friend.
She realized with grief that he was
haggard, and the smile he called up to greet her was
wan and pitiful.
“Oh, Father, Father!”
she cried, “what has happened to you? I
have been nearly distraught with doubt and fear, hearing
nothing of you since your message from Limburg.”
“I was made a prisoner,”
said the old man quietly, “and allowed to communicate
with no one outside my cell. ’Tis a long
and sad story, and, worse than all one that bodes
ill for the Empire. I should have arrived earlier
in the day, but my poor, patient beast has fallen lame.”
“Yes!” said the girl indignantly,
“and you spare him instead of yourself!”
The monk laid his left hand affectionately
on her shoulder.
“You would have done the same,
my dear,” he said, and she looked up at him
with a sweet smile. They were kin, and if she
censured any quality in him, the comment carried something
of self-reproach.
A servitor took away the lame horse;
another waited on Father Ambrose in his small room,
which was simple as that of a monastery cell, and as
meagerly furnished. After a slight refection,
Father Ambrose received peremptory command to rest
for three full hours, the lady of the Castle saying
it was impossible for her to receive him until that
time had elapsed. The order was welcome to the
tired monk, although he knew how impatient Hildegunde
must be to unpack his budget of news, and he fell
asleep even as he gave instructions that he should
be awakened at nine.
Descending at that time, the supper
hour of the Castle, he found a dainty meal awaiting
him, flanked by a flagon of that rare wine which he
sipped so sparingly.
“I lodged with my brethren in
their small and quiet monastery on the opposite side
of the Main from Frankfort, in that suburb of the
workingmen which is called Sachsenhausen.
Even if my eyes had not seen the desolation of the
city, with the summer grass growing in many of its
streets, the description given of its condition by
my brethren would have been saddening enough to hear.
All authority seems at an end. The nobles have
fled to their country estates, for defense in the city
is impossible should once a universal riot break out,
and thinking men look for an insurrection when continued
hunger has worn down the patience of the people.
Up to the present sporadic outbreaks have been cruelly
suppressed, starving men falling mutilated before the
sword-cuts of the soldiers; but now disaffection has
penetrated the ranks of the Army itself, through short
rations and deferred pay, and when the people learn
that the military are more like to join them than oppose,
destruction will fall upon Frankfort. The Emperor
sits alone in drunken stupor, and it is said cannot
last much longer, he who has lasted too long already;
while the Empress is as much a recluse as a nun in
a convent.”
“But the young Prince?”
interrupted the Countess. “What of him?
Is there no hope if he comes to the throne?”
“Ah!” cried the monk,
with a long-drawn sigh, dolefully shaking his head.
“But, Father Ambrose, you knew
him as a lad, almost as a young man. I have heard
you speak highly of his promise.”
“He denied me; denied his own
identity; threatened my life with his sword, and finally
flung me into the most loathsome dungeon in all Frankfort!”
The girl uttered an ejaculation of
dismay. If so harsh an estimate of the heir-presumptive
came from so mild and gentle a critic as Father Ambrose,
then surely was this young man lower in the grade of
humanity than even his bestial father.
“And yet,” said the girl
to herself, “what else was to be expected?
Go on,” she murmured; “tell me from the
beginning.”
“One evening, crossing the old
bridge from Frankfort to Sachsenhausen, I saw
approach me a swaggering figure that seemed familiar,
and as he drew nearer I recognized Prince Roland,
son of the Emperor, despite the fact that he held
his cloak over the lower part of his face, as if, in
the gathering dusk, to avoid recognition.
“‘Your Highness!’
I cried in surprise. On the instant his sword
was out, and as the cloak fell from his face, displaying
lips which took on a sinister firmness, I saw that
I was not mistaken in so accosting him. He threw
a quick glance from side to side, but the bridge, like
the silent streets, was deserted. We stood alone,
beside the iron Cross, and there under the Figure
of Christ he denied me, with the sharp point of his
sword against my breast.
“‘Why do you dare address me by such a
title?’
“‘You are Prince Roland, son of the Emperor.’
“The sword-point pressed more sharply.
“‘You lie!’ he cried,
’and if you reiterate that falsehood, you will
pay the penalty instantly with your life, despite
your monkish cowl. I am nobody. I have no
father.’
“‘May I ask, then, sir, who you are?’
“’You may ask, but there
is no reason for me to answer. Nevertheless, to
satisfy your impertinent curiosity, I inform you that
I am an ironworker, a maker of swords, and if you
desire a taste of my handiwork, you have but to persist
in your questioning. I lodge in the laboring
quarter of Sachsenhausen, and am now on my way
into Frankfort, which surely I have the right to enter
free from any inquiry unauthorized by the law.’
“‘In that case I beg your
pardon,’ said I. ’The likeness is
very striking. I had once the honor to be chaplain
at Court, where frequently I saw the young Prince
in company with that noble lady, noble in every sense
of the word, his mother, the Empress.’
“I watched the young man narrowly
as I said this, and despite his self-control, he winced
perceptibly, and I thought I saw a gleam of recognition
in his eyes. He thrust the sword back into its
scabbard, and said with a light laugh:
“’’Tis I that should
beg your pardon for my haste and roughness. I
assure you I honor the cloth you wear, and would not
willingly offer it violence. We are all liable
to make mistakes at times. I freely forgive yours
and trust you will extend a like leniency to mine.’
“With that he doffed his hat,
and left me standing there.”
“Surely,” said the Countess,
deeply interested in the recital, “so far as
speech was concerned he made amends?”
“Yes, my daughter; such speech
never came from the lips of an ironworker.”
“You are convinced he was the Prince?”
“Never for one instant did I doubt it.”
“Be that as it may, Father Ambrose,
why should not the young man walk the streets of his
own capital city, and even explore the laborers’
quarter of Sachsenhausen, if he finds it interesting
to do so? Is it not his right to wear a sword,
and go where he lists; and is it such a very heinous
thing that, being accosted by a stranger, he should
refuse to make the admission demanded? You took
him, as one might say, unaware.”
The monk bowed his head, but did not
waste time in offering any defense of his action.
“I followed him,” he went
on, “through the narrow and tortuous streets
of Frankfort, an easy adventure, because darkness had
set in, but even in daylight my course would have
been safe enough, for never once did he look over
his shoulder, or betray any of that suspicion characteristic
of our laboring classes.”
“I think that tells in his favor,” persisted
the girl.
“He came to the steps of the
Rheingold, a disreputable drinking cellar, and disappeared
from my sight down its steps. A great shout greeted
him, and the rattle of tankards on a table, as he
joined what was evidently his coterie. Standing
outside, I heard song and ribaldry within. The
heir-presumptive to the throne of the Empire was too
obviously a drunken brawler; a friend and comrade
of the lowest scum in Frankfort.
“After a short time he emerged
alone, and once more I followed him. He went
with the directness of a purposeful man to the Fahrgasse,
the street of the rich merchants, knocked at a door,
and was admitted. Along the first-floor front
were three lighted windows, and I saw his form pass
the first two of these, but from my station in the
street could not witness what was going on within.
Looking about me, I found to my right a narrow alley,
occupied by an outside stairway. This I mounted,
and from its topmost step I beheld the interior of
the large room on the opposite side of the way.
“It appeared to me that Prince
Roland had been expected, for the elderly man seated
at the table, his calm face toward me, showed no surprise
at the Prince’s entrance. His Highness
sat with his back towards me, and for a time it seemed
that nothing was going forward but an amiable conversation.
Suddenly the Prince rose, threw off his cloak, whisked
out his sword, and presented its point at the throat
of the merchant.
“It was clear, from the expression
of dismay on the merchant’s face, that this
move on the part of his guest was entirely unexpected,
but its object was speedily manifested. The old
man, with trembling hand, pushed across the table
to his assailant a well-filled bag, which the Prince
at once untied. Pouring out a heap of yellow
gold, he began with great deliberation to count the
money, which, when you consider his precarious situation,
showed the young man to be old in crime. Some
portion of the gold he returned to the merchant; the
rest he dropped into an empty bag, which he tied to
his belt.
“I did not wait to see anything
more, but came down to the foot of the stairs, that
I might learn if Roland took his money to his dissolute
comrades. He came out, and once more I followed
him, and once more he led me to the Rheingold cellar.
On this occasion, however, I took step by step with
him until we entered the large wineroom at the foot
of the stairs, he less than an arm’s length
in front of me, still under the illusion that he was
alone. Prince though he was, I determined to
expostulate with him, and if possible persuade a restitution
of the gold.
“‘Your Highness!’
I began, touching him lightly on the shoulder.
“Instantly he turned upon me
with a savage oath, grasped me by the throat, and
forced me backward against the cellar wall.
“‘You spying sneak!’
he cried. ’In spite of my warning you have
been hounding my footsteps!’
“The moment I attempted to reply,
he throttled me so as to choke every effort at utterance.
There now approached us, with alarm in his wine-colored
face, a gross, corpulent man, whom the Prince addressed
as proprietor of the place, which doubtless he was.
“‘Landlord,’ said
Roland very quietly, ’this unfortunate monk is
weak in the head, and although he means no harm with
his meddling, he may well cause disaster to my comrades
and myself. Earlier in the evening he accosted
on the bridge, but I spared him, hoping never to see
his monkish costume again. You may judge the
state of his mind when I tell you he accuses me of
being the Emperor’s son, and Heaven only knows
what he would estimate to be the quality of my comrades
were he to see them.’
“Two or three times I attempted
to speak, but the closing of his fingers upon my throat
prevented me, and even when they were slightly relaxed
I was scarcely able to breathe.”
The Countess listened with the closest
attention, fixing upon the narrator her splendid eyes,
and in them, despite their feminine beauty and softness,
seemed to smoulder a deep fire of resentment at the
treatment accorded her kinsman, a luminant of danger
transmitted to her down the ages from ancestors equally
ready to fight for the Sepulcher in Palestine or for
the gold on the borders of the Rhine. In the pause,
during which the monk wiped from his wrinkled brow
the moisture brought there by remembrance of the indignity
he had undergone, kindliness in the eyes of the Countess
overcame their menace, and she said gently:
“I am quite confident, Father,
that such a ruffian could not be Prince Roland.
He was indeed the rude mechanic he proclaimed himself.
No man of noble blood would have acted thus.”
“Listen, my child, listen,”
resumed Father Ambrose. “Turning to the
landlord, the Prince asked:
“’Is there a safe and
vacant room in your establishment where I could bestow
this meddlesome priest for a few days?’
“‘There is a wine vault
underneath this drinking cellar,’ responded the
landlord.
“‘Does anyone enter that vault except
yourself?’
“‘No one,’
“’Will you undertake charge
of the priest, seeing that he communicates with none
outside?’
“‘Of a surety, Captain,’
“‘Good. I will pay you well, and
that in advance.’”
“This ruffian was never the Prince,” interrupted
the Countess firmly.
“I beg you to listen, Hildegunde,
and my next sentence will convince you. The Prince
continued:
“’Not only prevent his
communication with others, but do not listen to him
yourself. He will endeavor to persuade you that
his name is Father Ambrose, and that he is a monk
in good standing with the Benedictine Order.
If he finds you care little for that, he may indeed
pretend he is of noble origin himself; that he is
Henry von Sayn, and thus endeavor to work on whatever
sympathy you may feel for the aristocrats. But
I assure you he is no more a Sayn than I am Prince
Roland.’
“‘Indeed, Captain,’
replied the host, ’I have as little liking for
an aristocrat as for a monk, so you may depend that
I will keep him safe enough until you order his release.’
“Now, my dear Hildegunde, you
see there was no mistake on my part. This young
man asserted he knew nothing of me, and indeed, I believed
he had forgotten the time of my chaplaincy at the
Court, often as he listened to my discourses, yet
all the time he knew me, and now, with an effrontery
that seems incredible, he showed no hesitation in proving
me right when I accosted him as son of the Emperor.
I must in justice, however, admit that he instructed
the landlord when he paid him, to treat me with gentleness,
and to see that I had plenty to eat and drink.
When three days had expired, I was to be allowed my
liberty.
“‘He can do no harm then,’
concluded the Prince, in his talk with the landlord,
‘for by that time I shall have succeeded or failed.’
“I was led down a narrow, broken
stairway by the proprietor, and thrust into a dark
and damp cellar, partially filled with casks of wine,
and there I remained until set at liberty a few days
ago.
“I returned at once to the Benedictine
Monastery where I had lodged, expecting to find my
brethren filled with anxiety concerning me, but such
was not the case. Any one man is little missed
in this world, and my comrades supposed that I was
invited to the Court, and had forgotten them as I
saw they had forgotten me, so I said nothing of my
adventure, but mounted my waiting horse and journeyed
back to the Castle of Sayn.”
For a long time there was silence
between the two, then the younger spoke.
“Do you intend to take any action
regarding your unauthorized imprisonment?”
“Oh, no,” replied the forgiving monk.
“Is it certain that this dissolute young man
will be chosen Emperor?”
“There is a likelihood, but not a certainty.”
“Would not the election of such
a person to the highest position in the State prove
even a greater misfortune to the land than the continuance
of the present regime, for this young man adds to his
father’s vice of drunkenness the evil qualities,
of dishonesty, cruelty, ribaldry, and a lack of respect
for the privileges both of Church and nobility?”
“Such indeed is my opinion, daughter.”
“Then is it not your duty at
once to acquaint the three Archbishops with what you
have already told me, so that the disaster of his election
may be avoided?”
“It is a matter to which I gave
deep thought during my journey thither, and I also
invoked the aid of Heaven in guiding me to a just
conclusion.”
“And that conclusion, Father?”
“Is to say nothing whatever about my experiences
in Frankfort.”
“Why?”
“Because it is not given to
a humble man like myself, occupying a position of
no authority, to fathom what may be in the minds of
those great Princes of the Church, the Archbishops.
In effect they rule the country, and it is possible
that they prefer to place on the throne a drunken
nonentity who will offer no impediment to their ambitions,
rather than to elect a moral young man who might in
time prove too strong for them.”
“I am sure no such motive would actuate the
Archbishop of Cologne.”
“His Lordship of Cologne, my
child, dare not break with their Lordships of Treves
and Mayence, so you may be sure that if these two wish
to elect Prince Roland Emperor, nothing I could say
to the Archbishop of Cologne would prevent that choice.”
“Oh, I had forgotten, in the
excitement of listening to your adventures, but talking
of the Archbishop reminds me his Highness of Cologne
will visit us to-morrow, and he especially wishes
to see you. You may imagine my anxiety when I
received his message a few days ago, knowing nothing
of your whereabouts.”
“Wishes to see me?” ejaculated
Father Ambrose, wrinkling a perplexed brow. “I
wonder what for. Can he have any knowledge of
my visit to Frankfort?”
“How could he?”
“The Archbishops possess sources
of enlightenment that we wot not of. If he charges
me with being absent from my post, I must admit the
fact.”
“Of course. Let me confess
to him as soon as he arrives; your journey was entirely
due to my persistence. I alone am to blame.”
The old man slowly shook his head.
“I am at least equally culpable,”
he said. “I shall answer truthfully any
question asked me, but I hope I am not in the wrong
if I volunteer no information.”
The girl rose.
“You could do no wrong, Father, even if you
tried; and now good-night.
Sleep soundly and fear nothing. On the rare occasions
when the good
Archbishop was angry with me, I have always managed
to placate him, and
I shall not fail in this instance.”
Father Ambrose bade her good-night,
and left the room with the languid air of one thoroughly
tired. As the young Countess stood there watching
his retreat and disappearance, her dainty little fist
clenched, and her eyebrows came together, bringing
to her handsome face the determined expression which
marked the countenances of some of her Crusader ancestors
whose portraits decorated the walls.
“If ever I get that ruffian
Prince Roland into my power,” she said to herself,
“I will make him regret his treatment of so tolerant
and forbearing a man as Father Ambrose.”