CHAPTER X.
How the robbers attack Prince Ernest and his bride in the Uckermann forest, and Marcus Bork and Dinnies Kleist come to their rescue.
The young Lord of Wolgast and his young bride, the Princess Sophia Hedwig, arrived in due time at the court of Stettin, on a visit to their illustrious brother, Duke Johann Frederick. During the ten days of their stay, there was no end to the banquetings, huntings, fishings, and revellings of all kinds, to do honour to their presence.
The young lord has quite recovered from his long and strange illness. But the young bride complains a little. Whereupon my Lord of Stettin jests with her, and the courtiers make merry, so that the young bride blushes and entreats her husband to take her away from this impudent court of Stettin, and take her home to his illustrious mother at Wolgast.
Prince Ernest consents, but as the wind is contrary, he arranges to make the journey with a couple of carriages through the Uckermann forest, not waiting for the grand escort of cavaliers and citizens which his lady mother had promised to send to Stettin, to convey the bride with all becoming honour to her own future residence at Wolgast.
His brother reminded him of the great danger from the robber-band in the wood, now that the courts of justice were closed, and that Sidonia and Johann were hovering in the vicinity, ready for any iniquity. Indeed, he trusted the states would soon be brought to reason by the dreadful condition of the country, and give him the gold he wanted. These robbers would do more for him than he could do for himself. And this was not the only band that was to be feared; for, since the fatal bankruptcy of the Loitz family, robbers, and partisans, and freebooters had sprung up in every corner of the land. Then he related the trick concerning his two Andalusian stallions. And Duke Barnim the elder told him of his loss at Zachan, and that no one else but the knave Appelmann had been at the bottom of it. So, at last, Prince Ernest half resolved to await the escort from Wolgast. However, the old Duke continued jesting with the bride, after his manner, so that the young Princess was blushing with shame every moment, and finally entreated her husband to set off at once.
When his Grace of Stettin found he could prevail nothing, he bade them a kind farewell, promising in eight days to visit them at Wolgast, for the wedding festivities; and he sent stout Dinnies Kleist, with six companions, to escort them through the most dangerous part of the forest, which was a tract extending for about seven miles.
Now, when they were half-way through the forest, a terrible storm came on of hail, rain, thunder, and lightning; and though the Prince and his bride were safe enough in the carriage, yet their escort were drenched to the skin, and dripped like rivulets. The princely pair therefore entreated them to return to Falkenwald, and dry their clothes, for there was no danger to be apprehended now, since they were more than half through the wood, and close to the village of Mutzelburg.
So Dinnies and his companions took their leave, and rode off. Shortly after the galloping of a horse was heard, and this was Marcus Bork; for he was on his way to purchase the lands of Crienke, previous to his marriage with Clara von Dewitz, and had a heavy sack of gold upon his shoulder, and a servant along with him. Having heard at Stettin that the Prince and his young bride were on the road, he had followed them, as fast as he could, to keep them company.
By this time they had reached Barnim's Cross, and the Prince halted to point it out to his bride, and tell her the legend concerning it; for the sun now shone forth from the clouds, and the storm was over. But he first addressed his faithful Marcus, and asked, had he heard tidings lately of his cousin Sidonia? But he had heard nothing. He would hear soon enough, I'm thinking.
Then seeing that his good vassal Marcus was thoroughly wet, his
Grace advised him to put on dry clothes; but he had none with him.
Whereupon his Grace handed him his own portmanteau out of the
coach window, and bid him take what he wanted.
Marcus then lifted the money-bag from his shoulder, which his Grace drew into the coach through the window—and sprang into the wood with the portmanteau, to change his clothes. While the Prince tarried for him, he related the story of Barnim's Cross to his young wife, thus:—
"You must know, dearest, that my ancestor, Barnim, the second of the name, was murdered, out of revenge, in this very spot by one of his vassals, named Vidante von Muckerwitze. For this aforesaid ancestor had sent him into Poland under some pretence, in order the better to accomplish his designs upon the beautiful Mirostava of Warborg, Vidante's young wife. But the warder of Vogelsang, a village about two miles from here, pleasantly situated on the river Haff, and close to which lay the said Vidante's castle, discovered the amour, and informed the knight how he was dishonoured. His wrath was terrible when the news was brought to him, but he spoke no word of the matter until St. John's day in the year——"
But here his Grace paused in his story, for he had forgotten the year; so he drove on the carriage close up to the cross, where he could read the date—"St John's day, A.D. MCCXCII."—and there stopped, with the blessed cross of our Lord covering and filling up the whole of the coach window.
Ah, well it is said—Prov. xx. 24—"Each man's going is of the
Lord, what man is there who understandeth his way?"
Now when the Princess had read the date for herself, she asked, what had happened to the Duke, his ancestor? To which the Prince replied—
"Here, in these very bushes, the jealous knight lay concealed, while the Duke was hunting. And here, in this spot, the Duke threw himself down upon the grass to rest, for he was weary. And he whistled for his retinue, who had been separated from him, when the knight sprang from his hiding-place and murdered him where he lay. His false wife he reserved for a still more cruel death.
"For he brought a coppersmith from Stettin, and had him make a copper coffin for the wretched woman, who was obliged to help him in the work. Then he bade her put on her bridal dress, and forced her to enter the coffin, where he had her soldered up alive, and buried. And the story goes, that when any one walks over the spot, the coffin clangs in the earth like a mass-bell, to this very day." Meanwhile Marcus had retreated behind a large oak, to dress himself in the young Duke's clothes; but the wicked robber crew were watching him all the time from the wood, and just as he drew the dry shirt over his head, before he had time to put on a single other garment, they sprang upon him with loud shouts, Sidonia the foremost of all, screaming, "Seize the knave! seize the base spy! he is my greatest enemy!" So Marcus rushed back to the coach, just as he was, and placing the cross as a shield between him and the robbers, cried out loudly to his Highness for a sword.
The Prince would have alighted to assist him, but his young bride wound her arms so fast around him, shrieking till the whole wood re-echoed, that he was forced to remain inside. Up came the robber-band now, and attacked the coach furiously; musket after musket was fired at it and the horses, but luckily the rain had spoiled the powder, so they threw away their muskets, while Sidonia screamed, "Seize the false-hearted liar, who broke his marriage promise to me! seize his screaming harlot! drag her from the coach! Where is she?—let me see her!—we will cram her into the old oak-tree; there she can hold her marriage festival with the wild-cats. Give her to me!—give her to me! I will teach her what marriage is!" And she sprang wildly forward, while the others flung their spears at Marcus. But the blessed cross protected him, and the spears stuck in the wood or in the body of the carriage, while he hewed away right and left, striking down all that approached him, till he stood in a pool of blood, and the white shirt on him was turned to red.
As Sidonia rushed to the coach, he wounded her in the hand, upon which, with loud curses and imprecations, she ran round to the other coach window, calling out, "Come hither, come hither, Johann! here is booty, here is the false cat! Come hither, and drag her out of the coach window for me!" And now Marcus Bork was in despair, for the coachman had run away from fear, and though his sword did good service, yet their enemies were gathering thick round them. So he bade the Princess, in a low voice, to tear open his bag of money, for the love of heaven, with all speed, and scatter the gold out of the windows with both hands; for help was near, he heard the galloping of a horse; could they gain but a few moments, they were saved. Thereupon the Princess rained the gold pieces from the window, and the stupid mob instantly left all else to fling themselves on the ground for the bright coins, fighting with each other as to who should have them. In vain Johann roared, "Leave the gold, fools, and seize the birds here in this cage; ye can have the gold after." But they never heeded him, though he cursed and swore, and struck them right and left with his sword.
But Marcus, meanwhile, had nearly come to a sad end; for the old gipsy hag swore she would stab him with her knife, and while the poor Marcus was defending himself from a robber who had rushed at him with a dagger, she crept along upon the ground, and lifted her great knife to plunge into his side.
Just then, like a messenger from God, comes the stout Dinnies Kleist, galloping up to the rescue; for after he had ridden a good piece upon the homeward road, he stopped his horse to empty the water out of his large jack-boots, for there it was plumping up and down, and he was still far from Falkenwald. While one of his men emptied the boots, another wandered through the wood picking the wild strawberries, that blushed there as red as scarlet along the ground.
While he was so bent down close to the earth, the shrieks of my gracious lady reached his ear, upon which he ran to tell his master, who listened likewise; and finding they proceeded from the very direction where he had left the bridal pair, he suspected that some evil had befallen them. So springing into his saddle, he bade his fellows mount with ail speed, and dashed back to the spot where they had left the carriage.
Marcus was just now fainting from loss of blood, and his weary hand could scarcely hold the sword, while his frame swayed back and forward, as if he were near falling to the ground. The gipsy hag was close beside him, with her arm extended, ready to plunge the knife into his side, when the heavy stroke of a sword came down on it, and arm and knife fell together to the ground, and Dinnies shouting, "Jodute! Jodute!" swung round his sword a second time, and the head of the robber carl fell upon the arm of the hag. Then he dashed round on his good horse to the other side of the carriage, hewed right and left among the stupid fools who were scraping up the gold, while his fellows chased them into the wood, so that the alarmed band left all this booty, and ran in every direction to hide themselves in the forest. In vain Johann roared, and shouted, and swore, and opposed himself single-handed to the knight's followers. He received a blow that sent him flying, too, after his band, and Sidonia along with him, so that none but the dead remained around the carriage.
Thus did the brave Dinnies Kleist and Marcus Bork save the Prince and his bride, like true knights as they were; but Marcus is faint, and leans for support against the carriage, while before him lie three robber carls whom he had slain with his own hand, although he fought there only in his shirt; but the blessed cross had been his shield. And there, too, lay the gipsy's arm with the knife still clutched in the hand, but the hag herself had fled away; and round the brave Dinnies was a circle of dead men, seven in number, whom he and his followers had killed; and the earth all round looked like a ripe strawberry field, it was so red with blood.
One can imagine what joy filled the hearts of the princely pair, when they found that all their peril was past. They alighted from the coach, and when the Princess saw Marcus lying there in a dead faint, with his garment all covered with blood, she lamented loudly, and tore off her own veil to bind up his wounds, and brought wine from the carriage, which she poured herself through his lips, like a merciful Samaritan; and when he at last opened his eyes, and kissed the little hands of the Princess out of gratitude, she rejoiced greatly. And the Prince himself ran to the wood for the portmanteau, which they found behind the oak, and helped to dress the poor knight, who was so weak that he could not raise a finger.
Then they lifted him into the coach, while the Prince comforted him, saying, he trusted that he would soon be well again, for he would pray daily to the Lord Jesus for him, whose blessed cross had been their protection, and that he should have all his gold again, and the lands of Crienke in addition. So faithful a vassal must never be parted from his Prince, for inasmuch as he hated Sidonia, so he loved and praised him. They were like the two Judases in Scripture, of whom some one had said, "What one gave to the devil, the other brought back to God."
And now he saw the wonderful hand of God in all; for if it had not rained, the powder of the robber-band would have been dry, and then they were all lost. Item, the knight would not have stopped to empty his boots, and they never would have heard the screams of his dear wife. Item, if he had himself not forgotten the date, he would never have driven up close to the cross, which cross had saved them all, but, in particular, saved their dear Marcus, after a miraculous manner. "Look how the blessed wood is everywhere pierced with spears, and yet we are all living! Therefore let us hope in the Lord, for He is our helper and defender!"
Then the Duke turned to the stout Dinnies, and prayed him to enter his service, but in vain, for he was sworn vassal to his Highness of Stettin. So his Grace took off his golden collar, and put it on his neck, and the Princess drew off her diamond ring to give him, whereupon her spouse laughed heartily, and asked, Did she think the good knight had a finger for her little ring? To which she replied, But the brave knight may have a dear wife who could wear it for her sake, for he must not go without some token of her gratitude.
However, the knight put back the ring himself, saying that he had no spouse, and would never have one; therefore the ring was useless. So the Princess wonders, and asks why he will have no spouse; to which he replied, that he feared the fate of Samson, for had not love robbed him of his strength? He, too, might meet a Delilah, who would cut off his long hair. Then riding up close to the carriage, he removed his plumed hat from his head, and down fell his long black hair, that was gathered up under it, over his shoulders like a veil, even till it swept the flanks of his horse. Would not her Grace think it a grief and sorrow if a woman sheared those locks? In such pleasant discourse they reached Mutzelburg, where, as the good Marcus was so weak, they resolved to put up for the night, and send for a chirurgeon instantly to Uckermund. And so it was done.
CHAPTER XI.
Of the ambassadors in the tavern of Mutzelburg—Item, how the miller, Konnemann, is discovered, and made by Dinnies Kleist to act as guide to the robber cave, where they find all the women-folk lying apparently dead, through some devil's magic of the gipsy mother.
When their Highnesses entered the inn at Mutzelburg, they found it filled with burghers and peasants out of Uckermund, Pasewalk, and other adjacent places, on their way to Stettin, to petition his Grace the Duke to open the courts of justice, for thieves and robbers had so multiplied throughout the land, that no road was safe; and all kinds of witchcraft, and imposture, and devil's work were so rife, that the poor people were plagued out of their lives, and no redress was to be had, seeing his Grace had closed all the courts of justice. Forty burghers had been selected to present the petition, and great was the joy to meet now with his Grace Prince Ernest, for assuredly he would give them a letter to his illustrious brother, and strengthen the prayer of their petition. The Prince readily promised to do this, particularly as his own life and that of his bride had just been in such sore peril, all owing to the obstinacy of his Grace of Stettin in not opening the courts.
Meanwhile the leech had visited good Marcus Bork, who was much easier after his wounds were dressed, and promised to do well, to the great joy of their Graces; and Dinnies Kleist went to the stable to see after his horse, there being so many there, in consequence of this gathering of envoys, that he feared they might fight. Now, as he passed through the kitchen, the knight observed a man bargaining with the innkeeper; and he had a kettle before him, into which he was cramming sausages, bread, ham, and all sorts of eatables. But he would have taken no further heed, only that the carl had but one tail to his coat, which made the knight at once recognise him as the very fellow whose coat-tail he had hewed off in the forest. He sprang on him, therefore; and as the man drew his knife, Dinnies seized hold of him and plumped him down, head foremost, into a hogshead of water, holding him straight up by the feet till he had drunk his fill. So the poor wretch began to quiver at last in his death agonies; whereupon the knight called out, "Wilt thou confess? or hast thou not drunk enough yet?"
"He would confess, if the knight promised him life. His name was Konnemann; he had lost his mill and all he was worth, by the Loitz bankruptcy, therefore had joined the robber-band, who held their meeting in an old cave in the forest, where also they kept their booty." On further question, he said it was an old, ruined place, with the walls all tumbling down. A man named Muckerwitze had lived there once, who buried his wife alive in this cave, therefore it had been deserted ever since.
Then the knight asked the innkeeper if he knew of such a place in the forest; who said, "Yes." Then he asked if he knew this fellow, Konnemann; but the host denied all knowledge of him (though he knew him well enough, I think). Upon which Konnemann said, "That he merely came to buy provisions for the band, who were hungry, and had despatched him to see what he could get, while they remained hiding in the cave." The knight having laid these facts before their Graces and the envoys, it was agreed that they should steal a march upon the robbers next morning, and meanwhile keep Konnemann safe under lock and key.
Next morning they set off by break of day, taking Konnemann as guide, and surrounded the old ruin, which lay upon a hill buried in oak-trees; but not a sound was heard inside. They approached nearer—listened at the cave—nothing was to be heard. This angered Dinnies Kleist, for he thought the miller had played a trick on them, who, however, swore he was innocent; and as the knight threatened to give him something fresh to drink in the castle well, he offered to light a pine torch and descend into the cave. Hardly was he down, however, when they heard him screaming—"The robbers have murdered the women—they are all lying here stone dead, but not a man is to be seen."
The knight then went down with his good sword drawn. True enough, there lay the old hag, her daughter, and Sidonia, all stained with blood, and stiff and cold, upon the damp ground. And when the knight asked, "Which is Sidonia?" the fellow put the pine torch close to her face, which was blue and cold. Then the knight took up her little hand, and dropped it again, and shook his head, for the said little hand was stiff and cold as that of a corpse.
Summa.—As there was nothing further to be done here, the knight left the corpses to moulder away in the old cellar, and returned with the burghers to Mutzelburg, when his Highness wondered much over the strange event; but Marcus rejoiced that his wicked cousin was now dead, and could bring no further disgrace upon his ancient name.
But was the wicked cousin dead? She had heard every word that had been said in the cave; for they had all drunk some broth made by the gipsy mother, which can make men seem dead, though they hear and see everything around them. Such devil's work is used by robbers sometimes in extremity, as some toads have the power of seeming dead when people attempt to seize them. It will soon be seen what a horrible use Sidonia made of this devil's potion.
Wherefore she tried its effect upon herself now, I know not—I have my own thoughts upon the subject—but it is certain that the innkeeper, who was a secret friend of the robbers (as most innkeepers were in those evil times), had sent a messenger by night to warn them of their danger. So, while the band saved themselves by hiding in the forest, perhaps the old hag recommended this plan for the women, as they had got enough of cold steel the day before; or perhaps the robbers wished to have a proof of the power of this draught, in case they might want to save themselves, some time or other, by appearing dead. Still I cannot, with any certainty, assert why they should all three choose to simulate death.
Further, just to show the daring of these robber-bands, now that his Highness had closed the courts, I shall end this chapter by relating what happened at Monkbude, a town through which their Highnesses passed that same day, and which, although close to the Stettin border, belongs to Wolgast.
It was Sunday, and after the priest had said Amen from the pulpit, the sexton rung the kale-bell. This bell was a sign throughout all Pomerania land, to the women-folk who were left at home in the houses, to prepare dinner; for then, in all the churches, the closing hymn began—"Give us, Lord, our daily bread." So the maid, at the first stroke of the bell, lifted off the kale-pot from the fire, and had the kale dished, with the sausages, and whatever else was wanting, by the time that the hymn was over, and father and mother had come out of church. Then, whatever poor wretch had fasted all the week, and never tasted a morsel of blessed bread, if he passed on a Sunday through the town, might get his fill; for when the hymn is sung, "Give us, Lord, our daily bread," the doors lie open, and no stranger or wayfarer is turned away empty.
Just before their Highnesses had entered the town, this kale-bell had been rung, and each maid in the houses had laid the kale and meat upon the table, ready for the family, when, behold! in rush a troop of robbers from the forest, Appelmann at their head—seize every dish with the kale and meat that had been laid on the tables, stick the loaves into their pockets, and gallop away as hard as they can across into the Stettin border.
How the maids screamed and lamented I leave unsaid; but if any one of them followed and seized a robber by the hair, he drew his knife, so she was glad enough to run back again, while the impudent troop laughed and jeered. Thus was it then in dear Pomerania land! It seemed as if God had forsaken them; for the nobles began their feuds, as of old, and the Jews were tormented even to the death—yea, even the pastors were chased away, as if, indeed, they had all learned of Otto Bork, these nobles saying, "What need of these idle, prating swaddlers, with their prosy sermons and whining psalms, teaching, forsooth, that all men are equal, and that God makes no difference between lord and peasant? Away with them! If the people learn such doctrine, no wonder if they grow proud and disobedient—better no priests in the land." And such-like ungodly talk was heard everywhere.
CHAPTER XII.
How the peasants in Marienfliess want to burn a witch, but are hindered by Johann Appelmann and Sidonia, who discover an old acquaintance in the witch, the girl Wolde Albrechts.
At this time, one David Grosskopf was pastor of Marienfliess. He was a learned and pious man, and like other pious priests, was in the habit of gathering all the women-folk of the parish in his study of a winter's evening, particularly the young maidens, with their spinning-wheels. And there they all sat spinning round the comfortable fire, while he read out to them from God's Word, and questioned them on it, and exhorted them to their duties. Thus was it done every evening during the winter, the maidens spinning diligently till midnight without even growing weary; or if one of them nodded, she was given a cup of cold water to drink, to make her fresh again. So there was plenty of fine linen by each New Year's day, and their masters were well pleased. No peasant kept his daughter at home, but sent her to the priest, where she learned her duties, and was kept safe from the young men. Even old mothers went there, among whom Trina Bergen always gave the best answers, and was much commended by the priest in consequence. This pleased her mightily, so that she boasted everywhere of it; but withal she was an excellent old woman, only the neighbours looked rather jealously on her.
This same priest, with all his goodness and learning, was yet a bad logician; for by his careless speaking in one of his sermons, much commotion was raised in the village. In this sermon he asserted that anything out of the usual course of nature must be devil's work, and ought to be held in abhorrence by all good Christians: he suffered for this after-wards, as we shall see. On the Monday after this discourse, he journeyed into Poland, to visit a brother who dwelt in some town there, I know not which.
Then arose a great talking amongst the villagers concerning the said Trina Bergen; for the cocks began to sit upon the eggs in place of the hens, in her poultry-yard, and all the people came together to see the miracle, and as it was against the course of nature, it must be devil's work, and Trina Bergen was a witch.
In vain the old mother protested she knew nothing of it, then runs to the priest's house, but he is away; from that to the mayor of the village, but he is going out to shoot, and bid her and the villagers pack off with their silly stories.
So the poor old mother gets no help, and meanwhile the peasants storm her house, and search and ransack every corner for proofs of her witchcraft, but nothing can be found. Stay! there in the cellar sits a woman, who will not tell her name.
They drag her out, bring her up to the parlour, while the old mother sits wringing her hands. Who was this woman? and how did she come into the cellar?
Illa.—"She had hired her to spin, because her daughter was out at service till autumn, and she could not do all the work herself."
"Why then did she sit in the cellar, as if she shunned the light?"
Illa.—"The girl had prayed for leave to sit there, because the screaming of the young geese in the yard disturbed her; besides, she had been only two days with her."
"But who in the devil's name was the girl? It was easy to see she had bewitched the hens, for everything against the course of nature must be devil's work."
Illa.—"Ah, yes! this must be the truth. Let them chase the devil away. Now she saw why the girl would not sit in the light, and had refused to enter the blessed church with her the day before."
"What was her name? They should both be sent to the devil, if she did not tell the girl's name."
Illa.—"Alas! she had forgotten it, but ask herself. Her story was, that she had been married to a peasant in Usdom, who died lately, and his relations then turned her out, that she was now going to Daber, where she had a brother, a fisher in the service of the Dewitz family, and wanted to earn a travelling penny by spinning, to convey her there."
Now as the rumour of witchcraft spread through the village, all the people ran together, from every part, to Trina's house. And a pale young man pressed forward from amongst the crowd, to look at the supposed witch. When he stood before her, the girl cast down her eyes gloomily, and he cried out, "It is she! it is the very accursed witch who robbed me of my strength by her sorceries, and barely escaped from the fagot—seize her—that is Anna Wolde. Now he knew what the elder sticks meant, which he found set up as a gallows before his door this morning—the witch wanted to steal away his manhood from him again—burn her! burn her! Come and see the elder sticks, if they did not believe him!"
So the whole village ran to his cottage, where he had just brought home a widow, whom he was going to marry, and there indeed stood the elder sticks right before his door in the form of a gallows, upon which the sheriff was wroth, and commanded the girl to be brought before him with her hands bound.
But as she denied everything, Zabel Bucher, the sheriff, ordered the hangman to be sent for, to see what the rack might do in eliciting the truth. Further, he bade the people make a fire in the street, and burn the elder sticks therein.
So the fire is lit, but no one will touch the sticks. Then the sheriff called his hound and bade him fetch them; but Fixlein, who was acute enough at other times, pretended not to know what his master wanted. In vain the sheriff bent down on the ground, pointing with his finger, and crying, "Here, Fixlein! fetch, Fixlein!" No, Fixlein runs round and round the elder sticks till the dust rises up in a cloud, and yelps, and barks, and jumps, and stares at his master, but never touches the sticks, only at last seizes a stone in his mouth, and runs with it to the sheriff.
Now, indeed, there was a commotion amongst the people. Not even the dog would touch the accursed thing. So at last the sheriff called for a pair of tongs, to seize the sticks himself and fling them into the fire. Whereupon his wife screamed to prevent him; but the brave sheriff, strengthening his heart, advanced and touched them; whereupon Fixlein, as if he had never known until now what his master wanted, made a grab at them, but the sheriff gave him a blow on the nose with the tongs which sent him away howling, and then, with desperate courage and a stout heart, seizing the elder twigs in the tongs, flung them boldly into the fire.
Meanwhile Peter Bollerjahn, the hangman, has arrived, and when he hears of the devilry he shakes his head, but thinks he could make the girl speak, if they only let him try his way a little. But they must first get authority from the mayor. Now the mayor had not gone to the hunt, for some friends arrived to visit him, whom he was obliged to stay at home and entertain, so the whole crowd, with the sheriff, Zabel Bucher, at the head, set off to the mayoralty, bringing the witch with them, and prayed his lordship to make a terrible example of her, for that witchcraft was spreading fearfully in the land, and they would have no peace else.
Whereupon he came out with his guests to look at the miserable criminal, who, conscious of her guilt, stood there silent and glowering; but he could do nothing for them—did they not know that his Highness had closed all the courts of justice, therefore he could not help them, nor be troubled about their affairs? Upon which the sheriff cried out, "Then we shall help ourselves; let us burn the witch who bewitches our hens, and sticks up elder sticks before people's doors. Come, let us right ourselves!" So the mayor said they might do as they pleased, he had no power to hinder them, only let them remember that when the courts reopened, they would be called to a strict account for all this. And he went into his house, but the people shouted and dragged away the witch, with loud yells, to the hangman, bidding him stretch her on the rack before all their eyes.
When the girl saw and heard all this, and remembered how the old Lord Chamberlain at Wolgast had stretched her till her hip was broken, she cried out, "I will confess all, only spare me the torture, for I dread it more than death."
Upon this, the sheriff said, "He would ask her three questions, and pronounce judgment accordingly." (Oh! what evil times for dear Pomerania land, when the people could thus take the law into their own hands, and pronounce judgment, though no judges were there. Had the bailiff given her a little twist of the rack, just to get at the truth, it would at least have been more in accordance with the usages, although I say not he would have been justified in so doing; but without using the rack at all, to believe what this devil's wretch uttered, and judge her thereupon, was grossly improper and absurd.) Summa, here are the three questions:—
"First, whether she had bewitched the hens; and for what?"
Respond.—"Simply to amuse herself; for the time hung heavy in the cellar, and she could see them through the chinks in the wall." (Let her wait; Master Peter will soon give her something to amuse her.)
"Second, why and wherefore had she stuck up the elder twigs?"
Respond.-"Because she had been told that Albert was going to marry a widow; for he had promised her marriage, as all the world knew, and even called her by his name, Wolde Albrechts, and therefore she had put a spell upon him of elder twigs, that he might turn away the widow and marry her." (Let her wait; Master Peter will soon stick up elder twigs for her.)
"Third, whether she had a devil; and how was he named?"
Here she remained silent, then began to deny it, but was reminded of the rack, and Master Peter got ready his instruments as if for instant use; so she sighed heavily, and answered, "Yes, she had a familiar called Jurge, and he appeared always in the form of a man."
Upon this confession the sheriff roared, "Burn the witch!" and all the people shouted after him, "Burn the witch! the accursed witch!" and she was delivered over to Master Peter.
But he made answer that he had never burned a witch; he would, however, go over to Massow in the morning, to his brother-in-law, who had burned many, and learn the mode from him. Meanwhile the peasants might collect ten or twelve clumps of wood upon the Koppenberg, and so would they frighten all women from practising this devil's magic. Would they not burn Trina Bergen likewise—the old hag who had the witch in her cellar? It would be a right pleasant spectacle to the whole town.
This, however, the peasants did not wish. Upon which the carl asked what he was to be paid for his trouble? Formerly the state paid for the criminal, but the courts now would have nothing to do with the business. What was he to get? So the peasants consulted together, and at last offered him a sack of oats at Michaelmas, just that they might have peace in the village. Whereupon he consented to burn her; only in addition they must give him a free journey to Massow on the morrow.
Summa.—When the third morning dawned, all the village came together to accompany the witch up the Koppenberg: the schoolmaster, with all his school going before, singing, "Now pray we to the Holy Ghost;" then came Master Peter with the witch, he bearing a pan of lighted coal in his hand. But, lo! when they reached the pile on the Koppenberg, behold it was wet wood which the stupid peasants had gathered.
Now the hangman fell into a great rage. Who the devil could burn a witch with wet wood? She must have bewitched it. This was as bad as the hen business.
Some of the people then offered to run for some dry wood and hay; but my knave saw that he might turn the matter to profit, so he proposed to sack the witch in place of burning her; "for," said he, "it will be a far more edifying spectacle and example to your children, this sacking in place of burning. There was a lake quite close to the town, and, indeed, he had forgotten yesterday to propose it to them. The plan was this. They were to tie her up in a leathern sack, with a dog, a cock, and a cat. (Ah, what a pity he had killed the wild-cat which he had caught some weeks before in the fox-trap.) Then they would throw all into the lake, where the cat and dog, and cock and witch, would scream and fight, and bite and scratch, until they sank; but after a little while up would come the sack again, and the screaming, biting, and fighting would be renewed until they all sank down again and for ever. Sometimes, indeed, they would tear a hole in the sack, which filled with water, and so they were all drowned. In any case it was a fine improving lesson to their children; let them ask the schoolmaster if the sacking was not a far better spectacle for the dear children than the burning."
"Ay, 'tis true," cried the schoolmaster; "sacking is better."
Upon which all the people shouted after him, "Ay, sack her! sack her!"
When the knave heard this, he continued—
"Now, they heard what the schoolmaster said, but he could not do all this for a sack of oats, for, indeed, leather sacks were very dear just now; but if each one added a sack of meal and a goose at Michaelmas, why, he would try and manage the sacking. The lake was broad and deep, and it lay right beneath them, so that all the dear children could see the sight from the hill."
However, the peasants would by no means agree to the sack of meal, whereupon a great dispute arose around the pile, and a bargaining about the price with great tumult and uproar.
Now the robber-band were in the vicinity, and Sidonia, hearing the noise, peeped out through the bushes and recognised Anna Wolde; then, guessing from the pile what they were going to do to her, she begged of Johann to save the poor girl, if possible; for Sidonia and the knave were now on the best of terms, since he had chased away the gipsy hag and her daughter for robbing him.
So Johann gives the word, and the band, which now numbered one hundred strong, burst forth from the wood with wild shouts and cries. Ho! how the people fled on all sides, like chaff before the wind! The executioner is the first off, throws away his pan of coals, and takes to his heels. Item, the schoolmaster, with all his school, take to their heels; the sheriff, the women, peasants, spectators-all, with one accord, take to their heels, screaming and roaring.
The witch alone remains, for she is lame and cannot run; but she screams, too, and wrings her hands, crying—
"Take me with you; oh, take me with you; for the love of God take me with you; I am lame and cannot run!"
Summa.—One can easily imagine how it all ended. The witch-girl was saved, and, as she now owed her life a second time to Sidonia, she swore eternal fidelity and gratitude to the lady, promising to give her something in recompense for all the benefits she had conferred on her. Alas, that I should have to say to Christian men what this was! [Footnote: Namely, the evil spirit Chim. See Sidonia's confession upon the rack, vol. iv. Dahnert's Pomeranian Library, p. 244.]
And when Sidonia asked how things went on in Daber, great was her joy to hear that the whole castle and town were full of company, for the nuptials of Clara von Dewitz and Marcus Bork were celebrated there. And the old Duchess from Wolgast had arrived, along with Duke Johann Frederick, and the Dukes Barnim, Casimir, and Bogislaff. Item, a grand cavalcade of nobles had ridden to the wedding upon four hundred horses, and lords and ladies from all the country round thronged the castle.
Now Johann Appelmann would not credit the witch-girl, for he had seen none of all this company upon the roads; but she said her brother the fisherman told her that their Graces travelled by water as far as Wollin, for fear of the robbers, and from thence by land to Daber.
When Sidonia heard this she fell upon Johann's neck, exclaiming—
"Revenge me now, Johann! revenge me! Now is the time; they are all there. Revenge me in their blood!"
This seemed rather a difficult matter to Johann, but he promised to call together the whole band, and see what could be done. So he went his way to the band, and then the evil-minded witch-girl began again, and told Sidonia, that if she chose to burn the castle at Daber, and make an end of all her enemies at once, there was some one hard by in the bush who would help her, for he was stronger than all the band put together.
Illa.—"Who was her friend? Let her go and bring him."
Hæc.—"She must first cross her hand with gold, and give a piece of money for him; [Footnote: According to the witches, every evil spirit must be purchased, no matter how small the price, but something must be given-a ball of worsted, a kerchief, &c.] then he would come and revenge her."
Sidonia's eyes now sparkled wildly, and she put some money in the woman's hand, who murmured, "For the evil one;" then stepped behind a tree, and returned in a short time with a black cat wrapped up in her apron.
"This," she said, "was the strong spirit Chim. [Footnote: Joachim.] Let her give him plenty to eat, but show him to no one. When she wanted his assistance, strike him three times on the head, and he would assume the form of a man. Strike him six times to restore him again to this form."
Now Sidonia would scarcely credit this; so, looking round to see if they were quite alone, she struck the animal three times on the head, who instantly started up in the form of a gay young man, with red stockings, a black doublet, and cap with stately heron's plumes.
"Yes, yes," he exclaimed, "I know thy enemies, and will revenge thee, beautiful child. I will burn the castle of Daber for thee, if thou wilt only do my bidding; but now, quick! strike me again on the head, that I may reassume my original form, for some one may see us; and put me in a basket, so can I travel with thee wheresoever thou goest."
And thus did Sidonia with the evil spirit Chim, as she afterwards confessed upon the rack, when she was a horrible old hag of eighty-four years of age.
And he went with her everywhere, and suggested all the evil to her which she did, whereof we shall hear more in another place. [Footnote: Dahnert.—This belief in the power of evil spirits to assume the form of animals, comes to us from remotest antiquity—example, the serpent in Paradise. In all religions, and amongst all nations, this belief seems firmly rooted; but even if we do not see a visible devil, do we not, alas! know and feel that there is one ever with us, ever pre-sent, ever suggesting all wickedness to us, as this devil to Sidonia?-even our own evil nature. For what else is the Christian life, but a warfare between the divine within us and this ever-present Satan?—and through God's grace alone can we resist this devil.]
CHAPTER XIII.
Of the adventure with the boundary lads, and how one of them promises to admit Johann Appelmann into the castle of Daber that same night-Item, of what befell amongst the guests at the castle.
When Johann and Sidonia proposed to the band that they should pillage the castle of Daber, they all shouted with delight, and swore that life and limb might be perilled, but the castle should be theirs that night. Nevertheless my knave Johann thought it a dangerous undertaking, for they knew no one inside the walls, and Anna Wolde, the witch, could not come with them, seeing that she was lame. So at last he thought of sending Konnemann disguised as a beggar, to examine the courtyard and all the out offices—perchance he might spy out some unguarded door by which they could effect an entrance.
Then Sidonia said she would go too, and although Johann tried hard to persuade her, yet she begged so earnestly for leave that finally he consented. Yes, she must see the very spot where the viper was hatched which had stung her to death. Ah, she would brew something for her in return; pity only that the wedding was over, otherwise the little bride should never have touched a wedding-ring, if she could help it; but it was too late now.
So the three Satan's children slipped out upon the highway from the wood, and travelled on so near to the castle that the noise, and talking, and laughing, and barking of dogs, and neighing of horses, were all quite audible to their ears.
Now the castle of Daber is built upon a hill which is entirely surrounded by water, so that the castle can be approached only by two bridges—one southwards, leading from the town; the other eastwards, leading direct through the castle gardens. The castle itself was a noble, lofty pile, with strong towers and spires—almost as stately a building as my gracious lord's castle at Saatzig.
When Johann observed all this, his heart failed him, and as he and his two companions peeped out at it from behind a thorn-bush, they agreed that it would be hard work to take such a castle, garrisoned, as it was now, by four hundred men or more, with their mere handful of partisans.
But Satan knows how to help his own, for what happened while they were crouching there and arguing? Behold, the old Dewitz, as an offering to the church at Daber upon his daughter's marriage, had promised twenty good acres of land to be added to the glebe. And he comes now up the hill, with a great crowd of men to dig the boundary. So the Satan's children behind the thorn-bush feared they would be discovered; but it was not so, and the crowd passed on unheeding them.
Old Dewitz now called the witnesses, and bid them take note of the position of the boundary. There where the hill, the wild apple-tree, and the town tower were all in one line, was the limit; let them keep this well in their minds. Then calling over six lads, he bid them take note likewise of the boundary, that when the old people were dead they might stand up as witnesses; but as such things were easily forgotten, he, the priest, and the churchwarden would write it down for them, so that it never, by any chance, could escape their memory.
Upon which the good knight, being lord and patron, took a stout stick the first, and cudgelled the young lads well, asking them between terms—
"Where is the boundary?"
To which they answered, screaming and roaring—
"Where the hill, the apple-tree, and the town tower are all in one line."
Then the knight, laughing, handed over the stick to the priest, saying—
"It was still possible they might forget; they better, therefore, have another little memorandum from his reverence."
"No! no!" screamed the boys, "we will remember it to eternity."
However, his reverence just gave them a little touch of the stick in fun, till they roared out the boundary marks a second time.
But now stepped forth the churchwarden, to take his turn with the stick on the boys' backs. This man had been a forester of the old Baron Dewitz, and had often taken note of one of the young fellows present, how he had poached and stolen the buck-wheat, so he gladly seized this opportunity to punish him for all his misdeeds, and laying the cudgel on his shoulders, thrashed and belaboured him so unmercifully, that the lad ran, shrieking, cursing, howling, and roaring, far away in amongst the bushes to hide himself, while the churchwarden cried out—
"Well! if all the other lads forget the boundary, I think my fine fellow here will bear the memorandum to the day of judgment."
And so they went away laughing from the place, and returned to the castle.
But the devil drew his profit from all this, for where should the lad run to, but close to the very spot where the robbers were hiding, and there he threw himself down upon the grass, writhing and howling, and swearing he would be revenged upon the churchwarden. This is a fine hearing for my knave in the bush, so he steps forward, and asks—
"What vile Josel had dared to ill-treat so brave a youth? He would help him to a revenge upon the base knave, for injustice was a thing he never could suffer. The tears really were in his eyes to think that such wickedness should be in the world;" and here he pretended to wipe his eyes. So the lad, being quite overcome by such compassionate sympathy, howled and cried ten times more—
"It was the forester Kell, the shameless hound; but he would play him a trick for it."
Ille.—"Right. He owed the fellow a drubbing already himself, and now he would have a double one, if he could only get hold of him."
Hic.—"He would run and tell him that a great lord wanted to speak to him here in the forest."
Ille.-"No, no; that would scarcely answer; but where did the fellow live?"
Hic.-"In the castle, where his father lived likewise."
Ille.-"Who was his father?"
Hic.—"His father was the steward."
Ille.—"Ah, then, he kept the keys of the castle?"
Hic.—"Oh yes, and the key of the back entrance also, which led through the gardens. His father kept one key, and the gardener the other."
Ille.—"Well, he would tell him a secret. This very Kell had deceived him once, like a knave as he was, and he was watching to punish him, but he daren't go up to the castle in the broad daylight, particularly now while the wedding was going on. How long would it last?"
Hic.—"For three days more; it had lasted three days already, and the castle was full of company, and great lords from all the country round, a great deal grander even than old Dewitz, were there."
Ille.—"Well, then, it would be quite impossible to go up to the castle and flog the churchwarden before all the company—he could see that himself. But supposing he let him in at night through the garden door, couldn't they get the knave out on some pretence, and then drub him to their heart's content?"
So the lad was delighted with the plan, particularly on hearing that he was to help in the drubbing; but then if the forester recognised him, what was to be done? he would be ruined. To which Johann answered—
"Just put on an old cloak, and speak no word; then, neither by dress nor voice will he know thee; besides, the night will be quite dark, so fear nothing. We'll teach him, I engage, how to beat a fine young fellow again, or to rob me of my gold, as he did, the base, unworthy knave."
Here the lad laughed outright with joy. "Yes, yes, that would just do; and he could put on his father's old mantle, and bring a stout crab-stick along with him."
Hic.—"All right, young friend; but how was he to get into the castle garden? Was there not a drawbridge which was lifted every night?"
Hic.—"Oh yes; but his father very often sent him to draw it up, and he could leave it down for tonight; then he would get the forester, by some means, into the shrubbery, where it was dark as pitch, and they could thrash the dog there without any one knowing a word about it."
Ille.-"Good! Then when the tower-clock struck nine, let him come himself and admit him into the garden—time enough after to run for the forester, while he was hiding himself in the shrubbery, for no one must know a word about his being there." Then he gave the lad a knife, and told him if all turned out well he should have a piece of gold in addition. "Ah! they would give him a warm greeting, this dog of a forester! But after he had called him out, the lad must pretend as if he had nothing to do with the matter, and go back to the house, or slip down some by-path."
So the lad jumped with joy when he got hold of the knife, and skipped off to the castle, promising to be at the drawbridge when nine o'clock struck from the tower, to admit his good friend into the garden.
Meanwhile my gracious Lady of Wolgast was making preparations for her departure on the morrow from the castle, for she had been attending the wedding festivities with her four sons, and Ulrich, the Grand Chamberlain; but previous to taking leave of her dear son, Duke Johann Frederick, she wished to make one more attempt to induce him to take off the interdict from the country, and allow the courts of justice to be re-opened, for thus would the land be freed from these wild hordes who haunted every road, and filled all hearts with fear.
For this purpose she went up to his own private chamber in the castle, bringing old Ulrich along with her; and when they entered, old Ulrich, having closed the door, began—"Now, gracious lady, speak to your son as befits a mother and your princely Grace to do."
Upon which he took his seat at the table, looking around him as sour as a vinegar-cruet.
So the Duchess lifted up her voice with many tears, and prayed his Highness of Stettin to stem all this violence that raged in the land, as a loving Prince and father towards his subjects. He had resisted all her entreaties until now, with those of his dear brothers and old Ulrich; and had not even his host and the whole nobility tried to soften his heart towards his people, who were suffering by his hard resolve? But surely he would not refuse her now, for she had come to take her leave of him, and had brought his old guardian and his brothers to plead along with her; besides, who knew what might happen next? For she heard, to her astonishment, that Sidonia was not dead at all, as they supposed, but roaming through the country with her accursed paramour. Had she known this, never would she have permitted this long journey, dear even as the bride was to her heart, but would have stayed at Wolgast to watch over her heart's dear son, Ernest, and his young spouse, who rightly feared to put themselves in danger again, after the sore peril they had encountered in the Stettin forest; and who knew what might happen to her on the journey homeward? for if she encountered Sidonia, what could she expect from her but the bitterest death? (weeping.) Ah, this all came upon them because the young Duke had despised the admonitions of his blessed father upon his death-bed, and thought not of that Scripture which saith, "The father's blessing buildeth the children's houses, but the curse of the mother pulleth them down." [Footnote: Sirach iii. II.] She had never cursed him yet, but that day might come.
Then Duke Johann answered, "He was sad to see his darling mother chafe and fret about these same courts of justice, but his princely honour was pledged, and he could not retract one word until the states came back to their duty, and gave him the gold he demanded. For how could he stand before the world as a fool? He had begun this castle of Friedrichswald, and had ordered all kinds of statues, paintings, &c., from Italy, for which gold must be paid. How, then, if he had none?"
"But those were idle follies," his mother answered, "and showed how true were the words of Solomon—'When a prince wanteth understanding, there is great oppression.'" [Footnote: Prov. xxviii. 16.]
Here the Duke grew angry. "It was false; he did not want understanding. Well it was that no one had dared to say this to him but his mother."
But my gracious lady could not hear him plainly; for his Serene Highness, Barnim the younger, who had drunk rather freely at dinner, began to snore so loudly, that he snored away a paper which lay before old Ulrich, upon which he had been sketching a list of propositions for the reconciliation of the Duke and the estates of the kingdom.
Hereupon the old chamberlain cursed and swore—"May the seven thousand devils take them! One snarls at his mother, and the other snores away his paper! Did the Prince think that Pomerania was like Saxony, when he began these fine buildings at Friedrichswald? His Grace had a house at Stettin; what did he want with a second? Was his Grace better than his forefathers? And would not his Grace have Oderburg when old Duke Barnim died? and castles and towns all round the land?"
But the Duke answered proudly, "That Ulrich should remember his guardianship had ended. He knew himself what to do and what to leave undone."
Herewith the young Lord Bogislaff broke in—"Yet, dearest brother, be advised by us. Bethink you how I resigned my chance of the duchy at the Diet of Wollin, and now I am ready to give you up the annuity which I then received, if it will help your necessities, and that you promise thereupon to release the land from the interdict, that all this fearful villainy and lawlessness which is devastating the country may have an end."
Ille.—"Matters were not so bad as he thought; besides, why cannot the people defend themselves, and take care of their own skin?"
Hic.—"So they do; but this only increased injustice and lawlessness." Then he related many examples of how the despairing people of the different towns had executed justice, after their own manner, upon the robbers who fell into their hands. In Stolpschen, for instance, three fellows had been caught plundering the corn, and the peasants nailed them up to a tree, and whipped them till they dropped down dead. Well might Satan laugh over the sin and wickedness that reigned now in poor Pomerania.
Item, he related how the peasants in Marienfliess were going to burn a witch, without trial or sentence. Item, how many peasants and villagers had hung up their own bailiffs, or strangled them. Item, how the priests had been chased away from many places, so that they now had to beg their bread upon the highway; and in such towns God's service was no more heard, but each one lived as it pleased him, and the peasants did as they chose. And now he would ask his heart's dear brother, which would be more upright and honourable in the sight of the great God—to build up this castle of Friedrichswald, or to let it fall, and build up the virtue and happiness of his people? He could not build the castle without money, and he had none; but he could restore his land to peace and happiness by a word. Let him, then, open these long-closed courts of justice, for this was his duty as a Prince; and let him remember that every prince was ordained of God, and must answer to Him for his government.
Hereupon the Stettin Duke made answer—"Pity, good Bogislaff, thou wert not a village priest! Hast thou finished thy sermon? Truly thou wert never meant for a prince, as we heard from thy own lips, the day of the Diet at Wollin. Thou hast no sense of princely honour, I see, but I stand by mine; and now, by my princely honour, I pledge my princely word, that, until the states give me the money, the land shall remain in all things as it is."
Here old Ulrich sprang to his feet (while my gracious lady sobbed aloud), clapped the table, and roared—"Seven thousand devils, my lord! are we to be robbed and murdered by those vile cut-throats that infest the land, and your Grace will fold your hands and do nothing, till they drive your Grace yourself out of the land, or run a spear through your body, as they would have done to your princely brother of Wolgast, only he had faithful vassals to defend him? If it is so to be, then must the nobles make their petition to the Emperor, and we shall see if his Imperial Majesty cannot bring your Grace to reason, though your mother and we all have failed to move you."
Here the little Casimir, who was playing with the paper which his brother had snored away, ran up to his mother, and pulling her by the gown, said, "Gracious lady mamma, what ails my brother, the Stettin Duke? Is he drunk, too?"
At which they all laughed, except Duke Johann, who gave a kick to his little brother, and then strode out of the room, exclaiming, "Sooner my life than my honour; I shall stay here no longer to be tutored and lectured, but will take my journey homewards this very night." And so he departed, but by a small side-door, for old Ulrich had locked the chief door on entering.
Now, indeed, her Grace wept bitterly: ah! she thought the evil had left her house, which the fatal business at her wedding had wrought on it, when Dr. Martinus dropped the ring; but, alas! it was only beginning now; and yet she could not curse him, for he was her son, and she had borne him in pain and sorrow.
Summa.—If many were displeased at these proceedings of his Grace, so also was the Lord God, as was seen clearly by many strange signs; for on that same night Duke Barnim the elder died at Oderburg, and all the crosses, knobs, and spires throughout the whole town turned quite black, though they had only been newly gilded a year before, and no rain, lightning, or thunder had been observed. [Footnote: The Duke died 29th September 1573, aged 72 years.—Micraelius. 369.]
But this was all clearly to show the anger of God over the sins of the young Duke, and by these signs He would admonish him to repentance, as a father might gently threaten a refractory child. As to what further happened his Grace when he went out by the little door, and the danger that befell him there, we shall hear more in another chapter.
CHAPTER XIV.
How the knave Appelmann seizes his Serene Eminence Duke Johann by the throat, and how his Grace and the whole castle are saved by Marcus Bork and his young bride Clara; also, how Sidonia at last is taken prisoner.
The castle was now almost quite still, for as the festival had already lasted three days, the guests were pretty well tired of dancing and drinking, and most of them, like young Prince Barnim, had lain down to snore. Yet still there were many drinking in the great hall, or dancing in the saloon, for the fiddles fiddled away merrily until far in the night.
And it was a beautiful night this one; not too dark, but starry, bright, and soft and still, so that Marcus and his young bride glided away from the dancing and drinking, to wander in the cool, fresh air of the shrubbery, before they retired to their chamber. So they passed down the broad path that led from the garden to the drawbridge by the water-mill, and seating themselves on a bank under the shade of the trees, began to kiss and caress, as may well become a young bridal pair to do.
Soon they heard nine o'clock strike from the town, and immediately after, stealthy footsteps coming along the shrubbery towards them. They held their breath, and remained quite still, thinking it was some half-drunken guest from the castle wandering this way; but then the drawbridge was lowered, and three persons advanced to a youth, as they could see plainly. One said, "Now?" to which another answered, "No, when I whistle!" He who had so asked, then went back again, but Sidonia and my knave came on with the boundary lad over the bridge (for, of course, every one will have guessed them) and entered the shrubbery where the young bridal pair were seated, but perfectly hidden, by reason of the darkness.
The boundary lad would now have drawn up the bridge, but the knave hindered him—"Let him leave it down; how would he escape else, if the carl roared, and all came running out of the castle to see what was the matter?" Then Sidonia asked the boy, if he thought the castle folk would hear him? To which he answered, no. They could thrash the hound securely, and he had brought a short cudgel with him for the purpose. Upon which my knave murmured to him, "Lead on, then; I must get out of this dark place to see what I am about. And when we get to the end of it, do you run and bring him out here. Then we shall both pay him off bravely."
So they crept on in the darkness towards the castle, but the young wedded pair had plenty of time to recognise both Sidonia and Appelmann by their voices. Therefore Marcus argued truly that the knave and his paramour could be about no good, for the whole land rang with their wickedness. And, no doubt, the band was in the vicinity, because Appelmann had answered, "No, when I whistle!"
So the good Marcus grew wroth over the villainy of this shameless pair, who had evidently resolved on nothing less than the destruction of the whole princely race, and even this castle of Daber was not to be spared, which belonged to his dear bride's father, so that their wicked purposes might be fulfilled. Then he whispered, did his dear wife know of any byway that led to the castle? as she was born here, perhaps some such little path might be known to her, so that she would escape meeting the villain. And as she whispered in return, "Yes, there was such a path," he bid her run along it quick as thought, have all the bells rung when she reached the castle, and even the cannon fired, which was ready loaded for the farewell salute to the Lady of Wolgast on the morrow; and to gather as many people together, of all stations and ages, as could be summoned on the instant, and let them shout "Murder! murder!" Meanwhile he would run and draw up the bridge, then track the fellow along the shrubbery, and seize him if possible.
How Clara trembled and hesitated, as a young girl might; but soon collecting herself, she said, although with much agitation, "I will trust in God: the Lord is my strength, of whom then should I be afraid?" and plunged alone into the darkest part of the shrubbery.
Marcus instantly ran down to the garden door, and began to draw up the bridge with as little noise as possible. "What are you doing?" called out a voice to him from the other side. "I hear steps," he answered, "and perchance it is the castellan on his rounds; he would discover all." So he draws up the bridge, and then glided along the shrubbery after my knave.
Meanwhile Appelmann and Sidonia, with the boundary lad, had reached the door of the castle, through which he was determined to make good his entrance after the lad by any means.
But at that very instant it opened, and my gracious lord Duke Johann Frederick stood before them. For it has been already mentioned, that he left the chamber in which the family council was held, by a small private door which led down to this portion of the castle. Here he was looking about for his court-jester, Clas Hinze, to bid him order the carriages to convey him and his suite that very night to Freienwald, and by chance opened this very door which led out to the shrubbery.
Seeing no one from the darkness, the Duke called out, "Is Clas there?" to which Appelmann answered, "Yes, my lord" (for he had recognised the Duke by his voice), and at the same time he retreated a few steps into the shrubbery, hoping the Duke would follow him.
But the Duke called out again, "Where art thou, Clas?" "Here!" responded Appelmann, retreating still further. Whereupon the boundary lad whispered, "That is not him!" His Grace, however, heard the whisper, and called out angrily, while he advanced from the door, "What meanest thou, knave? It is I who call! Art thou drunk, fool? If so, thou must have a bucket of water on thy head, for we ride away this night."
So speaking, his Highness went on still further into the shrubbery, upon which my knave makes a spring at his throat and hurls him to the ground, while he gives a loud, shrill whistle through the fingers of his other hand. Now the boundary lad screamed in earnest; but Sidonia threatened him, and bade him hold his tongue, and run for the other fellows, and not mind them. But she screamed yet louder herself, when a powerful arm seized her round the waist, and she found herself in the grasp of Marcus Bork.
Appelmann, who had stuffed his kerchief into the Duke's mouth to stifle his cries, and placed one knee upon his breast, now sprang up in terror at her scream, while at the same instant the bells rang, the cannon was fired, and all the court was filled with people shouting, "Murder! murder!" So he let go his hold of the Duke, and without waiting to release Sidonia, darted down the shrubbery, reached the bridge, and finding it raised, plunged into the water, and swam to the other side.
And here we see the hand of the all-merciful God; for had the bridge been down, the band would have rushed over at their captain's whistle, and then, methinks, there would have been a sad end to the whole princely race, for, as I have said, half the guests were drunk and half were snoring, so that but for Marcus this evil and accursed woman would have destroyed them all, as she had sworn. True, they were destroyed by her at last, but not until God gave them over to destruction, in consequence of their sins, no doubt, and of the wickedness of the land.
Summa.—When my gracious lord felt himself free, he sprang up, crying, "Help! help!" and ran as quick as he could back into the castle. Marcus Bork followed with Sidonia, who drew a knife to stab him, but he saw the glitter of the blade by the light of the lanterns (for one can easily imagine that the bells and the cannon had brought all the snorers to their legs), and giving her a blow upon the arm that made her drop the knife, dragged her through the little door, after the Duke, as fast as he was able.
So the whole princely party stood there, and great and small shouted when the upright Marcus appeared, holding Sidonia firmly by the back, while she writhed and twisted, and kicked him with her heels till the sweat poured down his face.
But when old Ulrich beheld her, he exclaimed, "Seven thousand devils!—do my eyes deceive me, or is this Sidonia again?" Her Grace, too, turned pale, and all were horrified at seeing the evil one, for they knew her wickedness.
Then Marcus must relate the whole story, and how he came to bring to nought the counsel of the devil.
And when Duke Johann heard the whole extent of the danger from which he had been saved, he fell upon the neck of the loyal Marcus, and, pressing him to his heart, exclaimed, "Well-beloved Marcus, and dear friend, thou hast saved my brother of Wolgast in the Stettin forest, so hast thou saved me this night, therefore accept knighthood from my hands; and I make thee governor of my fortress of Saatzig."
To which the other answered, "He thanked his Grace heartily for the honours; but he had already promised to remain in the service of his princely brother of Wolgast; and for that object had made purchase of the lands of Crienke."
But his Highness would hear of no refusal. Only let him look at Saatzig; it was the finest fortress in the land. What would he do in a miserable fishing village? The castle was almost grander than his own ducal house at Stettin; and the knights' hall, with its stone pillars and carved capitals, was the most stately work of architecture in the kingdom. Where would he find such a dwelling in his village nest? Old Kleist, the governor, had just died, and to whom could he give the castle sooner than to his right worthy and loyal Marcus?