THE PRISONER OF EHRENFELS
There is inspiration in the sight
of armed men marching steadily together; men well
disciplined, keeping step to the measured clank of
their armor. Like a great serpent the soldiers
of Cologne issued from the forest, coming down two
and two, for the path was narrow. They would
march four abreast when they reached the river road,
and the evolutions which accomplished this doubling
of the columns, without changing step or causing confusion,
called forth praise from the two southern Archbishops.
A beautiful tableau of amity and brotherly
love was presented to the troops as they looked up
at the three Archbishops standing together on the
balcony in relief against the gray walls of the Castle.
The officers, who were on horseback, raised their
swords sky-pointing from their helmets, for they recognized
their overlord and his two notable confreres.
With the motion of one man the three Archbishops acknowledged
the salute. The troops cheered and cheered as
the anaconda made its sinuous way down the mountain-side,
and company after company came abreast the Castle.
The Archbishops stood there until the last man disappeared
down the river road on his way to Coblentz.
“May I ask you,” said
Mayence, addressing Treves, “to conduct me to
the flat roof of your Castle? Will you accompany
us?” he inquired of Cologne.
Cologne and Treves being for once
in agreement, the latter led the way, and presently
the three stood on the broad stone plateau which afforded
a truly striking panorama of the Rhine. The July
sun sinking in the west transformed the river into
a crimson flood, and at that height the cool evening
breeze was delicious. Cologne stood with one hand
on the parapet, and gazed entranced at the scene,
but the practical Mayence paid no attention whatever
to it.
“Your troublesome guest, Treves,
has one more request to make, which is that you order
his flag hoisted to the top of that pole.”
Treves at once departed to give this
command, while Cologne, with clouded brow, turned
from his appreciation of the view.
“My Lord,” he said, “you
have requested the raising of a signal.”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“A signal which calls your men
from the Lahn to the landing at Stolzenfels?”
“Yes,” repeated Mayence.
“My Lord, I have kept my promise
not only to the letter, but in the spirit as well.
My troops are marching peaceably away, and will reach
their barracks some time to-morrow. Although I
exacted no promise from you, you implied there was
a truce between us, and that your army, like my company,
was not to be called into action of any kind.”
“Your understanding of our pact
is concisely stated, even though my share in that
pact remained unspoken. A truce, did you say?
Is it not more than that? I hoped that my seconding
of the nomination you proposed proved me in complete
accord with your views.”
“I am not in effect your prisoner, then?”
“Surely not; so contrary to
the fact is such an assumption that I implore you
to accept my hospitality. The signal, which I
see is now at the mast-head, calls for one barge only,
and that contains no soldier, merely a captain and
his ten stout rowers, whom you may at this moment,
if you turn round, see emerging from the mouth of the
Lahn. I present to you, and to the Countess von
Sayn, my Schloss of Martinsburg for as long as you
may require it. It is well furnished, well provisioned,
and attended to by a group of capable servants, who
are at your command. I suggest that you cross
in my barge, in company with the Countess and her
kinsman, the Reverend Father. You agree, I take
it, to convoy the lady safely to her temporary restraint
in Pfalz. It was her own request, you remember.”
“I shall convoy her thither.”
“I am trusting to you entirely.
The distance is but thirteen leagues, and can be accomplished
easily in a day. Once on the other side of the
river she may despatch her kinsman, or some more trustworthy
messenger, to her own Castle, and thus summon the
two waiting-women who will share her seclusion.”
“Is it your intention, my Lord,
that her imprisonment shall ?”
The Archbishop of Mayence held up
his thin hand with a gesture of deprecation.
“I use no word so harsh as ‘imprisonment.’
The penance, if you wish so to characterize it, is
rather in the nature of a retreat, giving her needed
opportunity for reflection, and, I hope, for regret.”
“Nevertheless, my Lord, your
action seems to me unnecessarily severe. How
long do you propose to detain her?”
“I am pained to hear you term
it severity, for her treatment will be of the mildest
description. I thought you would understand that
no other course was open to me. So far as I am
personally concerned, she might have said what pleased
her, with no adverse consequences, but she flouted
the highest Court of the realm, and such contempt cannot
be overlooked. As for the duration of her discipline,
it will continue until the new Emperor is married,
after which celebration the Countess is free to go
whither she pleases. I shall myself call at Pfalz
four days from now, that I may be satisfied the lady
enjoys every comfort the Castle affords.”
“And also, perhaps, to be certain she is there
immured.”
Mayence’s thin lips indulged in a wry smile.
“I need no such assurance,”
he said, “since my Lord of Cologne has pledged
his word to see that the order of the Court is carried
out.”
The conversation was here interrupted
by the return of Treves. Already the great barge
was half-way across the river. The surging, swift
current swept it some distance below Stolzenfels, and
the rowers, five a side, were working strenuously
to force it into slower waters. Lord, lady, and
monk crossed over to the mouth of the Lahn, and the
barge returned immediately to convey across horses
and escort.
As the valley of the Lahn opened out
it presented a picture of quiet sylvan beauty, apparently
uninhabited by any living thing. The Archbishop
of Cologne rose, and, shading his eyes from the still
radiant sun, gazed intently up the little river.
No floating craft was anywhere in sight. He turned
to the captain.
“Where is the flotilla from Mayence?”
he asked.
“Flotilla, my Lord?”
“Yes; a hundred barges sailed
down from Mayence in the darkness either last night
or the night before, taking harbor here in the Lahn.”
“My Lord, even one barge, manned
as this is, could not have journeyed such a distance
in so short a time, and, indeed, for a flotilla to
attempt the voyage, except in daylight, would have
been impossible. No barges have come down the
Rhine for months, and had they ventured the little
Lahn is too shallow to harbor them.”
“Thank you, captain. I
appear to be ignorant both of the history and the
geography of this district. If I were to ask you
and your stout rowers to take me down through the
swiftest part of the river to Coblentz, how soon would
we reach that town?”
“Very speedily, my Lord, but
I could undertake no such voyage except at the command
of my master. He is not one to be disobeyed.”
“I quite credit that,”
said Cologne, sitting down again, the momentary desire
to recall his marching troops, that had arisen when
he saw the empty Lahn, dying down when he realized
how effectually he had been outwitted.
When the horses were brought across,
Father Ambrose, at the request of the Countess, rode
back to Sayn, and sent forward the two waiting-women
whom she required, and so well did he accomplish his
task that they arrived at Schloss Martinsburg before
ten of the clock that night. At an early hour
next morning the little procession began its journey
up the Rhine, his Lordship and the Countess in front;
the six horsemen bringing up the rear.
The lady was in a mood of deep dejection;
the regret which Mayence had anticipated as result
of imprisonment already enveloped her. It was
only too evident that the Archbishop of Cologne was
bitterly disappointed, for he rode silently by her
side making no attempt at conversation. They
rested for several hours during midday, arriving at
Caub before the red sun set, and now the Countess
saw her pinnacled prison lying like an anchored ship
in midstream.
At Caub they were met by a bearded,
truculent-looking ruffian, who introduced himself
to the Archbishop as the Pfalzgraf von Stahleck.
“You take us rather by surprise,
Prince of Cologne,” he said. “It is
true that my overlord, the Archbishop of Mayence, called
upon me several days ago while descending the Rhine
in his ten-oared barge, and said there was a remote
chance that a prisoner might shortly be given into
my care. This had often happened before, for
my Castle covers some gruesome cells that extend under
the river, cells with secret entrances not
easily come by should any one search the Castle.
It is sometimes convenient that a prisoner of State
should be immured in one of them when the Archbishop
has no room in his own Schloss Ehrenfels, so I paid
little attention, and merely said the prisoner would
receive a welcome on arrival. This morning there
came one of the Archbishop’s men from Stolzenfels,
and both my wife and myself were astonished to learn
that the prisoner would be here this evening under
your escort, my Lord, and that it was a woman we were
to harbor. Further, she was to be given the best
suite of rooms we had in the Castle, and to be treated
with all respect as a person of rank. Now, this
apartment is in no state of readiness to receive such
a lady, much less to house one of the dignity of your
Lordship.”
“It does not matter for me,”
replied the Archbishop. “Being, as I may
say, part soldier, the bed and board of an inn is quite
acceptable upon occasion.”
“Oh no, your Highness, such
a hardship is not to be thought of. The Castle
of Gutenfels, standing above us, is comfortable as
any on the Rhine. Its owner, the Count Palatine,
is fellow-Elector of yours, and a very close friend
of my overlord of Mayence, and I am told they vote
together whenever my overlord needs his assistance.”
“That is true,” commented Cologne.
“My overlord sent word that
anything I needed for the accommodation of her ladyship,
he recognizing that my warning had been short, I should
requisition from the Count Palatine, so at midday I
went up to call upon him, not saying anything, of
course, about State prisoners, male or female.
The moment he heard that you, my Lord, were visiting
this neighborhood, he begged me to tender to you,
and to all your companions or following, the hospitality
of his Castle for so long as you might honor him with
your presence.”
“The Count Palatine is very
gracious, and I shall be glad to accept shelter and
refreshment.”
“He would have been here to
greet your Highness, but I was unable to inform him
at what hour you would arrive, so I waited for you
myself, and will be pleased to guide you to the gates
of Gutenfels.”
The conversation was interrupted by
a great clatter of galloping horses, descending the
hill with reckless speed, and at its foot swinging
round into the main street of the town.
“Ha!” cried the amateur
jailer, “here is the Count Palatine himself;”
and thus it is our fate to meet the fourth Elector
of the Empire, who, added to the three Archbishops,
formed a quorum so potent that it could elect or depose
an Emperor at will.
The cavalry of the Count Palatine
was composed of fifty fully-armed men, and their gallop
through the town roused the echoes of that ancient
bailiwick, which, together with the Castle, belonged
to the Palatinate. The powerful noble extended
a cordial welcome to his fellow-Elector, and together
they mounted to the Castle of Gutenfels.
At dinner that night the Count Palatine
proved an amiable host. Under his geniality the
charming Countess von Sayn gradually recovered her
lost good spirits, and forgot she was on her way to
prison. After all, she was young, naturally joyous,
and loved interesting company, especially that of
the two Electors, who were well informed, and had
seen much of the world. The Archbishop also shook
off some of his somberness; indeed, all of it as the
flagons flowed. Being asked his preference in
wine, he replied that yesterday he had been regaled
with a very excellent sample of Oberweseler.
“That is from this neighborhood,”
replied the Count. “Oberwesel lies but
a very short distance below, on the opposite side of
the river, but we contend that our beverage of Caub
is at least equal, and sometimes superior. You
shall try a good vintage of both. How did you
come by Oberweseler so far north as Stolzenfels?”
“Simply because I was so forward,
counting on the good nature of my friend of Treves,
that I stipulated for Oberweseler.”
“Ah! I am anxious to know why.”
“For reasons of history, not
of the palate. A fair English Princess was guest
of Stolzenfels long ago, and this wine was served to
her.”
“In that case,” returned
the Count, “I also shall fall back on history,
and first order brimming tankards of old Caub.
Really, Madam,” he said, turning to Hildegunde,
“we should have had Royalty here to meet you,
instead of two old wine-bibbers like his Highness and
myself.”
The girl looked startled at this mention
of Royalty, bringing to her mind the turbulent events
of yesterday. Nevertheless, with great composure,
she smiled at her enthusiastic host.
“Still,” went on the Count,
“if we are not royal ourselves, ’tis a
degree we are empowered to confer, and, indeed, may
be very shortly called upon to bestow. That is
true from what I hear, is it not, your Highness?”
“Yes,” replied the Archbishop gravely.
“Well, as I was about to say,
this Castle belonged to the Falkensteins, and was
sold by them to the Palatinate. Rumor, legend,
history, call it what you like, asserts that the most
beautiful woman ever born on the Rhine was Countess
Beatrice of Falkenstein. But when I drink to the
toast I am about to offer I shall, Madam,” he
smiled at Hildegunde, “assert that the legend
no longer holds, a contention I am prepared to maintain
by mortal combat. Know then that the Earl of Cornwall,
who was elected King of Germany in 1257, met Beatrice
of Falkenstein in this Castle. The meeting was
brought about by the Electors themselves, who, stupid
matchmakers, attempted to coerce each into a marriage
with the other. Beatrice refused to marry a foreigner.
“The Chronicles are a little
vague about the most interesting part of the negotiations,
but minutely plain about the outcome. In some
manner the Earl and Beatrice met, and he became instantly
enamored of her. This is the portion so deplorably
slurred by these old monkish writers. I need
hardly tell you that the Earl himself succeeded where
the seven Electors failed. Beatrice became Cornwall’s
wife and Queen of Germany, and they lived happily
ever afterwards.
“I give you the toast!”
cried the chivalrous Count Palatine, rising. “To
the cherished memory of the Royal lovers of Gutenfels!”
The Archbishop’s eyes twinkled
as he looked across the table at Hildegunde.
“This seems to be a time of
Royal betrothals,” he said, raising his flagon.
“‘Seems’ is the
right word, Guardian,” replied the Countess.
Then she sipped the ancient wine of Caub.
Next morning Hildegunde was early
afoot. Notwithstanding her trouble of mind, she
had slept well, and awakened with the birds, so great
is the influence of youth and health. During
her last conscious moments the night before, as she
lay in the stately bed of the most noble room the
Castle contained, she bitterly accused herself for
the disastrous failure of the previous day. The
Archbishop of Cologne had given her good counsel that
was not followed, and his disappointment with the
result, generously as he endeavored to conceal it,
was doubtless the deeper because undiscussed.
Thinking of coming captivity, a dream of grim Pfalz
was expected, but instead the girl’s spirit wandered
through the sweet seclusion of Nonnenwerth, living
again that happy, earlier time, free from politics
and the tramp of armed men.
In the morning the porter, at her
behest, withdrew bolt, bar, and chain, allowing exit
into the fresh, cool air, and skirting the Castle,
she arrived at a broad terrace which fronted it.
A fleecy mist extending from shore to shore concealed
the waters of the Rhine, and partially obliterated
the little village of Caub at the foot of the hill.
Where she stood the air was crystal clear, and she
seemed to be looking out on a broad snow-field of
purest white. Beyond Caub its surface was pierced
by the dozen sharp pinnacles of her future prison,
looking like a bed of spikes, upon which one might
imagine a giant martyr impaled by the verdict of a
cruel Archbishop.
Gazing upon this nightmare Castle,
whose tusks alone were revealed, the girl formulated
the resolution but faintly suggested the night before.
On her release should ensue an abandonment of the world,
and the adoption of a nun’s veil in the convent
opposite Drachenfels, an island exchanged for an island;
turmoil for peace.
At breakfast she met again the jovial
Count Palatine, and her more sober guardian, who both
complimented her on the results of her beauty rest,
the one with great gallantry, the other with more reserve,
as befitted a Churchman. The Archbishop seemed
old and haggard in the morning light, and it was not
difficult to guess that no beauty sleep had soothed
his pillow. It wrung the girl’s heart to
look at him, and again she accused herself for lack
of all tact and discretion, wishing that her guardian
took his disappointment more vengefully, setting her
to some detested task that she might willingly perform.
The hospitable Count, eager that they
should stop at least another night under his roof,
pressed his invitation upon them, and the Archbishop
gave a tacit consent.
“If the Countess is not too
tired,” said Cologne, “I propose that she
accompany me on a little journey I have in view farther
up the river. We will return here in the evening.”
“I should be delighted,”
cried Hildegunde, “for all sense of fatigue has
been swept away by a most restful night.”
The good-natured Count left them to
their own devices, and shortly afterwards guardian
and ward rode together down the steep declivity to
the river. The mist was already driven away, except
a wisp here and there clinging to the gray surface
of the water, trailing along as if drawn by the current,
for the air was motionless, and there was promise
of a sultry day. They proceeded in silence until
a bend in the Rhine shut Caub and its sinister water-prison
out of sight, and then it was the girl who spoke.
“Guardian,” she said,
“have I offended you beyond forgiveness?”
A gentle smile came to his lips as
he gazed upon her with affection.
“You have not offended me at
all, my dear,” he said, “but I am grieved
at thwarting circumstance.”
“I have been thinking over circumstances
too, and hold myself solely to blame for their baffling
opposition. I will submit without demur to whatever
length of imprisonment may please, and, if possible,
soften the Archbishop of Mayence. After my release
I shall ask your consent that I may forthwith join
the Sisterhood at Nonnenwerth. I wish to divide
my wealth equally between yourself and the convent.”
The Archbishop shook his head.
“I could not accept such donation.”
“Why not? The former Archbishop
of Cologne accepted Linz from my ancestress Matilda.”
“That was intended to be but a temporary loan.”
“Well; call my benefaction temporary
if you like, to be kept until I call for it, but meanwhile
to be used at your discretion.”
“It is quite impossible,” said the Archbishop
firmly.
“Does that mean you will not allow me to adopt
the religious life?”
“It means, my child, that I
should not feel justified in permitting this renunciation
of the world until you knew more of what you were giving
up.”
“I know enough already.”
“You think so, but your experience
of it is too recent for us to expect unbiased judgment
this morning. I should insist on a year, at least,
and preferably two years, part of that time to be
spent in Frankfort and in Cologne. I anticipate
a great improvement in Frankfort when the new Emperor
comes to the throne. If at the end of two years
you are still of the same mind, I shall offer no further
opposition.”
“I shall never change my intention.”
“Perhaps not. I am told
that the determination of a woman is irrevocable,
so a little delay does not much matter. Meanwhile,
another problem passes my comprehension. I have
thought and thought about it, and am convinced there
is a misunderstanding somewhere, which possibly will
be cleared away too late. I am quite certain that
Father Ambrose did not meet Prince Roland in Frankfort.”
“Do you, then, dispute the word
of Father Ambrose?” asked the girl, quickly
checking the accent of indignation that arose in her
voice, for humility was to be her rôle ever after.
“Father Ambrose is at once both
the gentlest and most truthful of men. He has
undoubtedly seen somebody rob a merchant in Frankfort.
He has undoubtedly been imprisoned among wine-casks;
but that this thief and this jailer was Roland is
incredible to me who know the young man, and physically
impossible, for Prince Roland at that time was himself
a prisoner, as, indeed, he is to-day. Prince
Roland cannot be liberated from Ehrenfels without
an order signed by Mayence, Treves, and myself.
I alone have not the power to encompass his freedom,
and Mayence is equally powerless although he is owner
of the Castle. Some scoundrel is walking the
streets of Frankfort pretending to be Roland.”
“In that case, my Lord, he would
not deny his identity when accosted on the bridge.”
“A very clever point, my dear,
but it does not overcome my difficulty. There
might be a dozen reasons why the rascal would not incriminate
himself to any stranger who thus took him by surprise.
However, it is useless to argue the question, for
I persuade you as little as you persuade me.
The practical thing is to fathom the misunderstanding,
and remove it. Will you assist me in this?”
“Willingly, if I can, Guardian.”
“Very well. I must first
inform you that your imprisonment is likely to be
very short. You are to know that the harmony supposed
to exist in Stolzenfels is largely mythical:
I left behind me the seeds of discord. I proposed
that the glum niece of Treves, whom you met at our
historic lunch, should be the future Empress.
This nomination was seconded by Mayence himself, and
received with unconcealed joy by my brother of Treves.”
“Then for once the Court was
unanimous? I think your choice an admirable one.”
“The Archbishop of Mayence does
not agree with you, my dear.”
“Then why did he second your nomination?”
“Because he is so much more
clever than Treves, who a few minutes later would
have been the seconder.”
“Why should his Lordship of
Mayence think one thing and act another?”
“Why is he always doing it?
No one can guess what Mayence really thinks, if he
is judged by what he says. Were Treves’
niece to become Empress, her uncle would speedily
realize his power, and Mayence would lose his leadership.
Could Mayence to-day secretly promote you to the position
of Empress, he would gladly do so.”
“But won’t he at once look for some one
else?”
“Certainly. That choice
is now occupying his mind. His seconding of the
nomination was merely a ruse to gain time, but if he
proposes any one else he will find both Treves and
myself against him. His only hope of circumventing
the ambition of Treves is that something may happen,
causing you to change your mind concerning Prince Roland.”
“You forget, Guardian,”
protested the girl, “that his Lordship of Mayence
said he would not permit me to marry Prince Roland
after the way I had spoken and acted.”
“He said that, my dear, under
the influence of great resentment against you, but
Mayence never allows resentment or any other feeling
to stand in the way of his own interests. If
you wrote him a contrite letter regretting your defiance
of him, and expressing your willingness to bow to
his wishes, I am very sure he would welcome the communication
as a happy solution of the quandary in which he finds
himself.”
“You wish me to do this, Guardian?” she
asked wistfully.
“Not until you are satisfied
that Prince Roland is innocent of the charges you
make against him.”
“How can I receive such assurance?”
“Ah, now you come to the object
of this apparently purposeless journey. I have
had much experience in the world you are so anxious
to renounce, and although I have seen the wicked prosper
for a time, yet my faith has never been shaken in
an overruling Providence, and what happened last night
set me thinking so deeply that daylight stole in upon
my meditations.”
“Oh, my poor Guardian, I knew
you had not slept, and all because of a worthless
creature like myself, and a wicked creature, too, for
I did not see the hand of Providence so visible to
you.”
“Surely, my dear, a moment’s
thought would reveal it to you. Remember how
we came almost to the door of the prison, when a temporary
reprieve was handed to us by that coarse reprobate,
the Pfalzgraf. Your suite of rooms was not yet
ready, and thus we found bestowed upon us another free
day; a day of untrammeled liberty, quite unlooked for.
Now, much may be done in a day. An Empire has
been lost and won within a few hours. With this
gift came a revelation. That wine-blotched Pfalzgraf
would have shown no consideration for you: to
him a prisoner is a prisoner, to be cast anywhere,
lock the door, and have done, but a wholesome fear
had been instilled into him by his overlord.
The Archbishop of Mayence had taken thought for your
comfort, ordering that the best rooms in the Castle
should be placed at your disposal. Hence, after
all that had passed, his Lordship felt no malignancy
against you, and I dare say would have been glad to
rescind the order for your imprisonment, were it not
that he would never admit defeat.”
“Oh, Guardian, what an imagination
is yours! I am sure his Lordship of Mayence will
never forgive me.”
“His Lordship of Mayence, my
dear, is in a dilemma from which no one except yourself
can extricate him.”
“His own cleverness will extricate him.”
“Perhaps. Still, I’m
not troubling about him. My thoughts are much
too selfish for that. I wish you to lift me from
my uncertainty.”
“You mean about Prince Roland?
I shall do whatever you ask of me.”
“I place no command, but I proffer a suggestion.”
“It shall be a command, nevertheless.”
“We have left your own prison
far behind, and are approaching that of Prince Roland.
To the door of that detaining Castle I propose to lead
you. I am forbidden by my compact with the other
Electors to see Prince Roland or to hold any communication
with him. The custodian of the Castle, who knows
me well, will not refuse any request I make, even if
I ask to see the young man himself. He will therefore
not hesitate to admit you when I require him to do
so. To take away any taint of surreptitiousness
about my action, interfering, as one might say, with
another man’s house, I shall this evening write
to the Archbishop of Mayence, tell him exactly what
I have done, and why.”
“Do you intend, then, that I
should see Prince Roland and talk with him?”
“Yes.”
“My dear Guardian!” cried
the girl, her face flushing red, “what on earth
can I say to him? How am I to excuse my intrusion?”
“A prisoner, I fancy, does not
resent intrusion, especially if the intruder is ”
The old man smiled as he looked at the girl, whose
blush grew deeper and deeper; then, seeing her confusion,
he added: “There are many things to say.
Introduce yourself as the ward of his Lordship of
Cologne; reveal that your guardian has confided to
you that Prince Roland is to be the future Emperor;
ask for some assurance from him that the property
descending to you from your ancestors shall not be
molested; or perhaps, better still, with the same introduction,
tell him the story of Father Ambrose. Add that
this has disquieted you: demand the truth, hearken
to what the youth says for himself, thank him, and
withdraw. It needs no long conversation, though
I am prepared to hear that he wished to lengthen your
stay. I am certain that five minutes face to
face with him will completely overturn all Father Ambrose
has said to his disparagement, and a few simple words
from him will probably dispel the whole mystery.
If someone is personating him in Frankfort it is more
than likely he knows who it is.”
They traveled a generous furlong together
in silence, the girl’s head bowed and her brow
troubled. At last, as if with an effort, she cleared
doubt away, and raised her head.
“I will do it,” she said decisively.
The Archbishop heaved a deep sigh
of relief. He knew now he was out of the wood.
“Is this Assmannshausen we are
coming to?” she asked, as if to hint that the
subject on which they had talked so earnestly was finally
done with.
“No; this is Lorch, and that
is the Castle of Nollich standing above it.”
“I hope,” said the girl,
with a sigh of weariness, “that no English Princess
about to marry an Emperor lodged there, or no Englishman
who was to become an Emperor ”
The Archbishop interrupted the plaint
with a hearty laugh, the first he had enjoyed for
several days.
“The English seem an interfering
race,” she went on. “I wish they would
attend to their own affairs.”
“Nollich is uncontaminated,”
said the Archbishop, “though in olden days a
reckless knight on horseback rode up to secure his
lady-love, and I believe rode down again with her,
and his route is still called the Devil’s Ladder.”
“Did the marriage turn out so badly?”
“No; I believe they lived happily
ever after; but the ascent was so cliff-like that
mountain sprites are supposed to have given their
assistance.”
“How much farther is Assmannshausen?”
“Less than two leagues.
We will stop there and refresh ourselves. Are
you tired?”
“Oh no; not in the least.
I merely wish the ordeal was past.”
“You are a brave girl, Hildegunde.”
“I am anything but that, Guardian. Still,
do not fear I shall flinch.”
After partaking of the midday meal
at Assmannshausen, the Countess proposed that they
should leave their horses in the stable, and walk the
short third of a league to Ehrenfels, and to this her
guardian agreed.
He found more difficulty with the
custodian than had been expected. The man objected,
trembling. Without a written order from his master
he dare not allow any one to visit the prisoner.
He would be delighted to oblige his Lordship of Cologne,
but he was merely a poor wretch who had no option
in the matter.
“Very well,” said Cologne.
“I have just come from your master, who is stopping
with my brother Treves at Stolzenfels. If you
persist I must then request lodgings from you until
such time as a speedy messenger can bring your master
hither. This journey may cause him great inconvenience,
and should such be the case, I fear you will fare ill
with him.”
“That may be, my Lord, but I must do my duty.”
“Are you sure you have already
done it on all occasions?” asked the Archbishop
severely.
The man’s face became ghastly in its pallor.
“I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”
“Then I will quickly tell you
what I mean. It is rumored that Prince Roland
has been seen on the streets of Frankfort.”
“How how could that be, my Lord?”
“That is exactly what I wish
to know. I believe the Prince is not in your
custody.”
“I assure you, my Lord,”
said the now thoroughly frightened man, “that
his Highness is in his room.”
“Very well; then conduct this
lady thither. Although she does not know the
Prince, a relative of hers who does asserts that he
met his Highness in Frankfort. I said this was
impossible if you had done that duty you prate so
much about. The lady merely wishes to ask him
for some explanation of this affair, so make your
choice. Shall she go up with you now, or must
I send for the other two Archbishops?”
There was but one comforting phrase
in this remark, namely, that the lady did not know
the Prince. Still, it was a dreadful risk, yet
the custodian hesitated no longer. He took down
a bunch of keys, and asked the Countess to follow
him. Ascending the stair, he unlocked the door,
and stood aside for the Countess to pass through.
Some one with wildly tousled hair
sat sprawling in a chair; arms on the table, and head
sunk forward down upon them. A full tankard of
wine within his reach, and a flagon had been overset,
sluicing the table with its contents, which still
fell drip, drip, drip, to the floor.
The young man raised his head, aroused
by the harsh unlocking of the door, and with the crash
it made as his father flung it hard against the stone
wall for the purpose of giving him warning, but the
youth was in no condition to profit by this thoughtfulness,
nor to understand the signals his father made from
behind the frightened girl. He clutched wildly
at the overturned flagon, and with an oath cried:
“Bring me more wine, you old ”
Staggering to his feet, he threw the
flagon wide, then slipped on the spilled wine and
fell heavily to the floor, roaring defiance at the
world.
The panic-stricken girl shrank back,
crying to the jailer:
“Let me out! Close the
door quickly, and lock it!” an order obeyed with
alacrity.
When Hildegunde emerged to the court
her guardian asked no question. The horror in
her face told all.
“I am sorry, my Lord,”
said the cringing custodian, “but his Highness
is drunk.”
“Does this does this happen often?”
“Alas! yes, my Lord.”
“Poor lad, poor lad! The
sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children
to the third and fourth generation. Hildegunde,
forgive me. Let us away and forget it all.”
The next morning the Countess began her imprisonment
in Pfalz.