THE Wartburg was in commotion; men ran this way and that through barbican and bailey. Michael the Breaker looked to see if the portcullis was ready to drop at a hatchet stroke. Franz of the Ram’s Pate brandished a battle-axe of three stone, and Priest Clement clapped on a helmet.
A herald had come to the Wartburg. He wore the Imperial arms, the double eagle of the Hapsburgs upon his orange surcoat. He reined his white mule at the gate of the Vorburg, and wound a long blast upon his silver horn. Then his roaring summons roused all the castle.
“Ho! Ulrich of Eisenach! come forth, come forth and listen to the summons of your liege lord and emperor!”
But Ulrich safe in the inner Hofburg swore a great oath by Saint Jacobus that the herald might bawl until the bastion cracked before he stirred to hear him; and the herald, having waited duly and gotten only curses through the loophole, completed his proclamation.
“In the Name of the Blessed Trinity, Amen!
“I, Rudolf, Crowned of God, Emperor of the Romans, Graf of Hapsburg, and Freiherr of Argau, to Ulrich of Eisenach, and all who follow him,—greeting:—
“I do summon you to appear before my assize at Goslar, on the third Monday hereafter following, to answer by what warrant you do hold this castle of the Wartburg to the detriment of its lawful master, our well-beloved cousin the Landgraf of Thuringia; and by what warrant you have halted, robbed, and slain divers of our loving subjects upon our highways, in violation of our Imperial peace.
“And especially we command you, under pain of our most condign displeasure, to deliver instantly to this our herald the noble lady, Agnes, daughter of our trusty vassal Graf Ludwig of the Harz, whom you do detain in most unlawful custody.
“And each and all of you who shall defy these our commands, we declare under our Imperial Ban, and as such our loyal subjects are commanded to apprehend or extirpate. Also by the special authorization of the holy Apostolic Inquisitor, the Archbishop of Mainz, we declare all contemners of our decrees excommunicated from the sacraments of Holy Church.
“God save Kaiser Rudolf!”
So cried the herald; and when no intention was manifested of delivering up the Lady Agnes to him, he blew another great blast, and rode down the steep to leave Baron Ulrich and his merry men clear at their wits’ last end.
No one could doubt that the extermination of Maid Agnes’s escort had been incomplete. Some one had escaped and told Graf Ludwig. The lion was unchained in very deed! In the great feasting hall the council met, but there was no wassail now. Ulrich’s scarred face was black with rage and dread. Priest Clement had nearly forgotten his scraps of Latin. The situation was plain enough. All through the wild and wicked years following the death of Frederick the Second, Thuringia had belonged to the bandit barons who had watched the roads and ruled by “fist-law.” The power of the Landgraf had sunk to a shadow, and Ulrich and his crew had held the Wartburg for a decade. But there was a new kaiser now who had begun to end the merry dance of devils. Rumours blew north,—how in Swabia Kaiser Rudolf had beaten down castles and hanged many a reckless “ritter” on the pine tree facing his own smoking keep. And Graf Ludwig, the Imperial Vicar, had come to Thuringia with a goodly force to do the very same deeds; therefore My Lord Ulrich had his food for thought.
“How many men will the Graf bring?” he was asking.
“I have heard said,” quoth Michael, sullenly, “he has more than two thousand, with battering mangonels, likewise a band of English longbowmen who came with Duke Richard of Cornwall and remained. No crossbows can match their archery.”
“And we have an hundred and twenty dogs at most, and the Wartburg, though strong, has a vast circuit to defend. If cleared of this plight, I vow Saint Moritz of Coburg a chalice of heavy gold! Is that overdear for the worthy saint’s aid—eh! Clement?”
Ulrich leered at the priest, and the holy man twisted his nose, while meditating. “A pious vow, noble Baron, a very pious vow! Nevertheless,—humph!—what did you say? How long did you think we could make good the castle?”
“Two days at most,” snarled Michael, crossly.
“Two days, and then to heaven!” ran on Clement; “will the ladder be axe, sword, or rope? Ah! Gratias Deo,—a thought!”
“What?”
“That the wench Agnes is still with the hermit. It is wrong to outrage a saint sed necessitas non habet legem; and we can also add a trifle to the weight of the chalice. In brief, seize her from the hermit, hold her hostage; and when the Graf comes, force him to promise us at least our lives in exchange for her safety.”
“The saint will rage,” objected Michael.
“If your wisdom knows a better salve against the little pains of hanging, I am listening,” laughed Clement, dryly. Whereat Ulrich leaped up with a jangle of armour.
“Priest Clement has the only sense. Be Jerome saint or devil, he must not keep the maid. Out, every man and lad; arm heavily, and away to the Dragon’s Dale!”
Therefore it befell that an hour later, just as the sun was scattering the last mists of the morning, the Baron led out his force,—an hundred odd of as hardened sinners as ever put on harness. Nevertheless it took all his oaths, and the well-grounded fears of a swift voyage to a nether country, to make the file advance when they began to enter the charmed region around the Dragon’s Dale.
When they reached the cross where burgomaster Gottfred had been stricken, even Michael the Breaker wished to halt and pray. Ulrich and Clement walked behind with their lances to prod on the laggards. They reached the mouth of the Dragon’s Dale, and every man stood irresolute, nigh convinced that the first wight inside the ravine would be frozen into a black stone in a twinkling. Yet as they scuffled and shrank, lo! straight out from the wall of rock came running the saint himself, his white hair spread like a lion’s mane, wild fire in his eyes, his hands upraised now in prayer, now in cursings.
“In the name of the Lord Christ,—where? where?”
“Where, what?” demanded Ulrich, trembling, but not so much as before; there was nothing awesome in the hermit now.
“The maid! Maid Agnes, the Graf’s daughter? She has vanished. You have stolen her. Oh! may the curse of God light swift on you!”
He was nigh crazed, and a mere madman was not very terrifying. So they plucked up courage, and stood their ground.
“Hark you, greybeard,” warned the Baron, roughly; “it is for the wench we are come ourselves. Do you think we would rout you out of your accursed den without fair cause? The maid we will have, or by the Trinity,—” he broke off, the threat unfinished, and glared on the hermit, who appeared utterly unstrung. For an instant he seemed only the shambling dotard.
“Gone! gone,” he moaned abjectly. “I can find her nowhere. If you fiends do not possess her, she has perished amongst the cruel beasts.”
The Baron was brave now, and advanced boldly.
“Here, Michael,—a cord; pinion this babbler. We’ll hale him to the Wartburg, and then if the wench is not found, there’ll be tortures to wring out of him where he is hiding her. Forward, lads; there’s nothing dreadful.”
He snatched Jerome by the arm. Men looked to see a bolt crash down from heaven. None came. Jerome submitted like a lamb. Michael and Clement were at least brave enough to stand at either side as guards. Ulrich led thirty of his boldest down the Dragon’s Dale, crossbow strung, swords bare,—half disappointed they did not meet a fire-breathing goblin. They found the little hut empty; they searched about the tree—only birds and dragon-flies. Maid Agnes was nowhere. Ulrich returning promised Jerome smart torture if the girl was not found. Jerome gave back not a word. So at last the Baron started again for the Wartburg with his prisoner, ordering the men to scatter through the greenwood, by fives and tens, and to scour knoll and dale for seven leagues about. Have the hostage they must, though they sought all night for her!
Once at the castle Ulrich ordered forth the bloodhounds. The pack went baying down the valley, the halloos of the hunt sounded far and wide in the forest; but when the lanzknechts dispersed in little bands, they knew too well the paling dread of pixies to pry over deeply into the secrets of the wood. The hounds ran down all scents—but vainly. Priest Clement swore that the Brown Dwarfs had stolen the queen down to their underworld. “Where, alas for her poor soul, since they were pagans all!” he added as became a holy cleric. The chase wandered far from the Wartburg. Presently Ulrich, disheartened, angry, turned back to the castle, with Clement and Michael, leaving the rest to carry on the hunt. Saint or no saint, he intended to test his prisoner by torture to see if he were hiding Agnes by some art-magic. It would be an impious deed,—Ulrich knew it,—but better impiety, than the falling into Graf Ludwig’s iron clutches!
The Wartburg was nigh empty when the Baron reëntered. In the courts some of the slattern women had lit huge bonfires, which roared up to the deepening sky, making turret and rampart frown down grimly. Franz, who had played castellan in his lord’s absence, reported the captive safe in the lower dungeon. The Baron cursed that no one had advised him to shoot down the herald, and so win extra time to prepare to face attack; but there was only one thing to do now. Leaving Franz and a bare dozen of men-at-arms to patrol the battlement, he summoned Priest Clement and Michael to fetch him divers instruments; then with them hastened down into the bowels of the great Wartburg rock.
All that stone and steel could do to secure Jerome had been done. He was in a cell whither no sun had crawled since the building of the Wartburg; but the hermit had recovered his dignity. He faced the three men of blood with a cold, stern stare, which stole away half their courage.
“Where is the maid?” demanded Ulrich, trying to set bravado up for valour.
“God knoweth, and in His wisdom keeps her hid, except you have already possessed yourselves of her, and seek this occasion against me.”
Ulrich ostentatiously produced a mallet, and many little oaken wedges, while Clement raised the smoking torch. Then the Baron’s tone grew threatening.
“Hear you, old man! be you saint or devil, we will have the maid. Whether angel or gnome has hidden her, and where, you know; and by Saint Moritz”—Ulrich felt safe invoking that martyr, in view of his vow,—“out with her hiding-place or try these pretty toys! Behold!”
The anchorite shrugged his shoulders with undisguised contempt.
“Ulrich of Eisenach,” spoke he, sternly, “I answer you on the word of a Christian man, though a sinner, that I know not where the maid is. Doubtless it has pleased God to bring this thing to pass that you may rush headlong in your sins and dash to eternal perdition. As for these oaken splints, which you weakly design to drive betwixt my nails and fingers,—bethink you if a man like me, who has endured the worst gehennas of the paynim will flinch before your petty torments? Or what will they profit you, save to heat sevenfold the fires now lit for you in hell?”
Michael had been stripping back the sheepskin from the prisoner’s shoulder. Then, as the light flickered over it, leaped back in horror.
“Holy Mother! His back,—all marked with scarce-healed scars!”
“Amen!” quoth Jerome, grimly; “those and all other tortures are too gentle for my sins. Yet, if I would glory after the flesh, I can make boast that all your tortures, Ulrich of the Wartburg, will be to me as nothing.”
“He is right,” groaned the Breaker, all his terrors springing up anew; “we are outraging God’s saint. The demons will boil us forever!”
“Silence, fool,” commanded Ulrich, grown desperate; “pass me yonder mallet, and hold fast his wrist. We will sound the depth of this loud boasting. Now and for the last time, babbler! Where hide you Agnes the maid?”
Jerome vouchsafed no reply. Ulrich was clutching the mallet and sliver when Franz-of-the-Ram’s-Pate burst into the prison. Even in the gloom his face shone white as a ghost’s.
“Up, for the love of Christ! Horses and men are all about! The Wartburg is surrounded.”
Whereat the three raced up from that dungeon, never waiting for the door to clash.