Next morning Prince Roland sent a letter to the Archbishop of Mayence informing him that the Empress had taken up her abode in the Palace of her old friend, the Lord of Cologne, giving the reasons for this move and his own desertion of the Imperial Palace, and asking permission to call upon his mother each day. The messenger brought back a prompt reply, which commended the delicacy of his motives in leaving the Royal Palace, but added that, so far as the three Archbishops were concerned, the Saalhof was still at their disposal: of course Prince Roland’s movements were quite untrammeled, and again, so far as concerned the three Archbishops, he was at liberty to visit whom he pleased, as often as he liked.
While waiting for the return of his messenger, Roland called upon Herr Goebel, and told him that twenty emissaries had gone forth in every direction from Frankfort to inform the farming community that a market had been opened in the city, and in exchange learned what the merchant had already done towards furthering the necessary organization.
“Oh, by the way, Herr Goebel,” he cried, suddenly recollecting, “just write out and sign a document to this effect: ‘I promise Herr Roland, sword maker of Sachsenhausen, to supply him with the capital necessary for carrying out his contract with his Lordship the Archbishop of Cologne.’”
Without demur the merchant indited the document, signed it, and gave it to the Prince.
“If any emissary of Mayence pays you a domiciliary visit, Herr Goebel, asking questions about me, carefully conceal my real status, and reply that I am an honest, skillful sword maker, anxious to revive the iron-working industry, and for this reason, being yourself solicitous for the welfare of Frankfort, you are risking some money.”
In the afternoon Roland walked to the Palace of Cologne and boldly entered, with no attempt at secrecy, the doorkeeper on this occasion offering no impediment to his progress. He learned that the Empress, much fatigued, had retired to her room and must not be disturbed; that the Archbishop was consulting with the Count Palatine, while the Countess von Sayn was walking in the garden. Roland passed with some haste through the Palace, and emerged into the grounds behind it: grounds delightfully umbrageous, and of an extent surprisingly large, surrounded by a very high wall of stone, so solidly built that it might successfully stand a siege.
Roland found the girl sauntering very slowly along one of the most secluded alleys, whose gravel-path lay deeply in the shade caused by the thick foliage of over-hanging trees, which made a cool, green tunnel of the walk. Her head was slightly bowed in thought, her beautiful face pathetic in its weariness, and the young man realized, with a pang of sympathy, that she was still to all intents and purposes a prisoner, with no companions but venerable people. She could not, and indeed did not attempt to suppress an exclamation of delight at seeing him, stretching out both hands in greeting, and her countenance cleared as if by magic.
“I was thinking of you!” she cried, without a trace of coquetry.
“I judged your thoughts to be rather gloomy,” he said, with a laugh, in which she joined.
“Gloomy only because I could see or hear nothing of you.”
“Did you know I came yesterday?”
“No. Why did you not ask to see me?”
“I was informed you were entertaining the Count Palatine.”
“Ah, yes. He is a delightful old man. I like him better and better as time goes on. My guardian and I were guests of his at Gutenfels just before I occupied the marine prison of Pfalz.”
“So your guardian told me.”
They were now walking side by side in this secluded, thickly-wooded avenue, just wide enough for two, running in a straight line from wall to wall the whole length of the property, in the part most remote from the house.
“Nothing disastrous has happened to you?” she asked. “I have had miserable forebodings.”
“No; I am living a most commonplace life, quite uneventful.”
“But why, why does the Archbishop of Mayence delay the Election?”
“I did not know he was doing so.”
“Oh, my guardian is very anxious about it. Such postponement, I understand, never happened before. The State is without a head.”
“Has your guardian spoken to Mayence about it?”
“Yes; and has been met by the most icy politeness. Mayence wishes this Election to take place with a full conclave of the seven Electors, three of whom have not yet arrived. But my guardian says they never arrive, and take no interest in Imperial matters. He pointed out to Mayence that a quorum of the Court is already in Frankfort, but his Lordship of the Upper Rhine merely protests that they must not force an Election, all of which my guardian thinks is a mere hiding of some design on the part of Mayence.”
Prince Roland meditated on this for a few moments, then, as if shaking off his doubts, he said:
“It never occurs to one Archbishop that either of the others may be speaking the truth. There is so much mistrust among them that they nullify all united action, which accounts for the prostrate state of this city, the capital of one of the most prosperous countries under the sun. So far as I can see, taken individually, they are upright, trustworthy men. Now, to give you an instance. Your guardian last night was simply panic-stricken at my audacity in visiting him. He said I must not come again, refusing me permission to see you; he told you nothing of my conference with him: he felt certain I was being tracked by spies, and could not be made to understand that my presence here was of no consequence one way or another.”
“Then why are you here now?”
“I am just coming to that. I asked your guardian to invite my mother as his guest. Have you met her yet?”
“No; they told me the Empress was too tired to receive any one. I am to be introduced at dinner to-night.”
“Well, this morning I wrote to the Archbishop of Mayence, telling him of my interview with your guardian, the reason for it, and the results. His reply came promptly by return.” Roland produced the document. “Just read that, and see whether you detect anything sinister in it.”
She read the letter thoughtfully.
“That is honest enough on the surface.”
“On the surface, yes; but why not below the surface as well? That is a frank assent to a frank request. I think that if the Archbishops would treat each other with open candor they would save themselves a good deal of anxiety.”
“Perhaps,” said the girl, very quietly.
“You are not convinced?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Then she looked up at him quickly. “Were you followed last night?”
“Ah!” ejaculated Roland, laughing a little “apparently not, so far as I could see, but the night was very dark.” Then he related to her the incidents succeeding the return to his room, while she listened with breathless eagerness. “The Lieutenant,” he concluded, “did not deny that he was in the service of Mayence when I hinted as much, but, on the other hand, he did not admit it. Of course, I knew by his uniform to whom he belonged. He conducted my examination with military abruptness, but skillfully and with increasing courtesy, although I proclaimed myself a mechanic.”
“You a mechanic!” she said incredulously. “Do you think he believed it?”
“I see you doubt my histrionic ability, but when next he waits upon me I shall produce documentary evidence of my status, and, what is more, I’ll take to my workshop.”
“Do you possess a workshop?” cried the girl in amazement.
“Do I? Why, I am partner with a man named Greusel, and we own a workshop together. A gruff, clumsy individual, as you would think, but who, nevertheless, with his delicate hammer, would beat you out in metal a brooch finer than that you are wearing.”
“Do you mean Joseph?”
“Yes,” replied Roland, astonished. “What do you know of him?”
“Have you forgotten so soon? It was his stalwart shoulders that burst in my door at Pfalz, and you yourself told me his name was Joseph Greusel. Were all those marauders you commanded honest mechanics?”
“Every man of them.”
“Then you must be the villain of the piece who led those worthy ironworkers astray?”
Roland laughed heartily.
“That is quite true,” he said. “Have I fallen in your estimation?”
“No; to me you appeared as a rescuer. Besides, I come of a race of ruffians, and doubtless on that account take a more lenient view of your villainy than may be the case with others.”
The young man stopped in his walk, and seized her hands again, which she allowed him to possess unresisting.
“Hilda,” he said solemnly, “your guardian thought the Archbishop of Mayence had relented, and would withdraw his opposition to our marriage. Has Mayence said anything to corroborate that estimate?”
“Nothing.”
“Has your guardian broached the subject to him?”
“Yes; but the attitude of my Lord of Mayence was quite inscrutable. Personally I think my guardian wrong in his surmise. The Archbishop of Treves murmured that Mayence never forgives. I am certain I offended him too deeply for pardon. He wishes the future Empress to be a pliable creature who will influence her husband according to his Lordship’s desires, but, as I have boasted several times, I belong to the House of Sayn.”
“Hilda, will you marry me in spite of the Archbishops?”
“Roland, will you forego kingship for my sake?”
“Yes; a thousand times yes!”
“You said ‘For the Empress; not for the Empire,’ but if I am no Empress, you will as cheerfully wed me?”
“Yes.”
“Then I say yes!”
He caught her in his arms, and they floated into the heaven of their first kiss, an ecstatic melting together. Suddenly she drew away from him.
“There is some one coming,” she whispered.
“Nothing matters now,” said Roland breathlessly. “There is no one in the world to-day but you and me.”
Hildegunde drew her hands down her cheeks, as if to brush away their tell-tale color and their warmth.
“‘Tis like,” said Roland, “that you marry a poor man.”
“Nothing matters now,” she repeated, laughing tremulously. “I am said to be the richest woman in Germany. I shall build you a forge and enlist myself your apprentice. We will paint over the door ‘Herr Roland and wife; sword makers.’”
Two men appeared at the end of the alley, and stood still; the one with a frown on his brow, the other with a smile on his lips.
“Oh!” whispered the Countess, panic striking from her face the color that her palms had failed to remove, “the Archbishop and the Count Palatine!”
His Lordship strode forward, followed more leisurely by the smiling Count.
“Prince Roland,” said Cologne, “I had not expected this after our conference of last night.”
“I fail to understand why, my Lord, when my parting words were ‘Tell your porter to let me in without parley.’ That surely indicated an intention on my part to visit the Palace.”
“Your Highness knows that so far as I am concerned you are very welcome, and always shall be so, but at this juncture there are others to consider.”
Roland interrupted.
“Read this letter, my Lord, and you will learn that I am here with the full concurrence of that generous Prince of the Church, Mayence.”
Cologne, with knitted brow, scrutinized the communication.
“Your Highness is most courageous, but, if I may be permitted, just a trifle too clever.”
“My Highness is not clever at all, but merely meets a situation as it arises.”
“Prince Roland,” said the Countess, her head raised proudly, “may I introduce to you my friend, and almost my neighbor, the Count Palatine of the Rhine?”
“Ah, pardon me,” murmured the Archbishop, covered with confusion, but the jovial Count swept away all embarrassment by his hearty greeting.
“Prince Roland, I am delighted with the honor her ladyship accords me.”
“And I, my Lord, am exceedingly gratified to meet the Count Palatine again.”
“Again?” cried the Count in astonishment, “If ever we had encountered one another, your Highness, I certainly should not have been the one to forget the privilege.”
The Prince laughed.
“It is true, nevertheless. My Lord Count, there is a namesake of mine in the precincts of your strong Castle of Gutenfels; a namesake who does more honor to the title than I do myself.”
The Count Palatine threw back his head, and the forest garden echoed with boisterous laughter.
“You mean my black charger, Prince Roland!” he shouted. “A noble horse indeed. How knew you of him? If your Highness cares for horses allow me to present him to you.”
“Never, my Lord Count. You are too fond of him yourself, and I have always had an affectionate feeling towards you for your love of that animal, which, indeed, hardly exceeds my own. I grasped his bridle-rein, and held the stirrup while you mounted.”
“How is that possible?” asked the astonished Count.
“I cared for Prince Roland nearly a month, receiving generous wages, and, what I valued more, your own commendation, for you saw I was as fond of horses as you were.”
“Good heavens! Were you that youth who came so mysteriously, and disappeared without warning?”
“Yes,” laughed the Prince. “I know Gutenfels nearly as well as you do. I was a spy, studying the art of war and methods of fortification. I stopped in various capacities at nearly all the famous Castles of the Rhine, and this knowledge recently came in—”
“Your Highness, your Highness!” pleaded the Archbishop. “I implore you to remember that the Count Palatine is an Elector of the Empire, and, as I told last night, we are facing a crisis. Until that crisis is passed you will add to my already great anxiety by any lack of reticence on your part.”
“By the Three Kings!” cried the Count, “this youth, if I may venture to call him so, has bound me to him with bands stronger than chain armor. I shall vote for him whoever falters.”
“His Highness,” said the Archbishop, with a propitiatory smile, “has been listening to the Eastern tales which our ancestors brought from the Crusades, and I fear has filled his head with fancies.”
“Really, Archbishop, you misjudge me,” said the young man; “I am the most practical person in the Empire. You interrupted my boasting to her ladyship of my handiwork. I would have you know I am a capable mechanic and a sword maker. What think you of that, my Lord?” he asked, drawing forth his weapon, and handing it to Cologne.
“An excellent blade indeed,” said the latter, balancing it in his hand.
“Very well, my Lord, I made it and tempered it unassisted. I beg you to re-enter your palace, and write me out an order for a thousand of these weapons.”
“If your Highness really wishes me to do this, and there is no concealed humorism in your request which I am too dull to fathom, you must accompany me to my study and dictate the document I am to indite. I shall wait till you bid farewell to the Countess.”
A glance of mutual understanding flashed between the girl and himself, then Roland raised her hand to his lips, and although the onlookers saw the gallant salutation, they knew nothing of the gentle pressure with which the fingers exchanged their confidences.
“Madam,” said the Prince, “it will be my pleasure and duty to wait upon my mother to-morrow. May I look forward to the happiness of presenting you to her?”
“I thank you,” said the Countess simply, with a glance of appeal at her guardian. That good man sighed, then led the way into the house.
Roland left the palace with a sense of elation he had never before experienced, but this received a check as he saw standing in the middle of the square the Lieutenant of the night before. His first impulse was to avoid the officer, yet almost instinctively he turned and walked directly to him, which apparently nonplussed the brave emissary of Mayence.
“Good afternoon to you, sir,” began Roland, as if overjoyed to see him. “Will you permit me to speak to you, sir?”
“Well?” said the Lieutenant curtly.
“My forge, which has been black and cold for many a long day, will soon be alight and warm again. What think you of this?” He handed to the Lieutenant his order for a thousand swords, and the officer made a mental note of the commission as an interesting point in armament that would be appreciated by his chief.
“You did not inform me last night who was the merchant you hoped would finance your enterprise.”
“Hoped?” echoed Roland, his eyes sparkling. “‘Tis more than hope, Herr Lieutenant. His name is Goebel, and he is one of the richest and chiefest traffickers of Frankfort. Why, my fortune is made! Read this, written in his own hand. I got it from him before midday, on my mere word that I was certain of an order from his Lordship.”
“You are indeed much to be envied,” said the Lieutenant coldly, returning the two documents.
“Ah, but I am just at the beginning. If you would favor me by smoothing the way to his Lordship, the Archbishop of Mayence, I in return—”
“Out upon you for a base-born, profit-mongering churl! Do you think that I, an officer, would demean myself by partnering a bagman!”
The Lieutenant turned on his heel, strode away and left him. Roland pursued his way with bowed head, as though stricken by the rebuff. Nearing the bridge, he saw a crowd around an empty cart, standing by which a man in rough clothing was cursing most vociferously.
At first he thought there had been an accident, but most of the people were laughing loudly; so, halting in the outskirts, he asked the cause of the commotion.
“‘Tis but a fool farmer,” said a man, “who came from the country with his load of vegetables. ‘Tis safer to enter a lion’s den unarmed than to come into Frankfort with food while people are starving. He has been plundered to the last leaf.”
Roland shouldered his way through the crowd, and touched the frantic man on the shoulder.
“What was the value of your load?” he said.
“A misbegotten liar told me this morning that a market had opened in Frankfort, and that there was money to be had. No sooner am I in the town than everything I brought in is stolen.”
“Yes, yes; I know all about that. My question is, How much is your merchandise worth?”
“Worth? Thirty thalers I expected to get, and now—”
“Thirty thalers,” interrupted the Prince. “Here is your money. Get you gone, and tell your neighbors there is prompt payment for all the provender they can bring in.”
The man calmed down as if a bucket of water had been thrown on him. He counted the payment with miserly care, testing each coin between his teeth, then mounted his cart without a word of thanks, and, to the disappointment of the gathering mob, drove away. Roland, seething with anger, walked directly to the house of Herr Goebel, and found that placid old burgher seated at his table.
“Ten thousand curses on your indolence!” he cried. “Where are your committee, and the emissaries empowered to carry out this scheme of relief I have ordered?”
“Committee? Emissaries?” cried the astonished man. “There has been no time!”
“Time, you thick-headed fool! I’ll time you by hanging you to your own front door. There has been time for me to send my men out into the country; time for a farmer to come in with a cartload of produce, and be robbed here under your very nose! Maledictions on you, you sit here, well fed, and cry there is no time! If I had not paid the yeoman he would have gone back into the country crying we were all thieves here in Frankfort. Now listen to me. I drew my sword once upon you in jest. Should I draw it a second time it will be to penetrate your lazy carcass by running you through. If within two hours there is not a paymaster at every gate in Frankfort to buy and pay for each cartload of produce as it comes, and also a number of guides to tell that farmer where to deliver his goods, I’ll give your town over to the military, and order the sacking of every merchant’s house within its walls.”
“It shall be done; it shall be done; it shall be done!” breathed the merchant, trembling as he rose, and he kept repeating the phrase with the iteration of a parrot.
“You owe me thirty thalers,” said the Prince calming down; “the first payment out of the relief fund. Give me the money.”
With quivering hands Herr Goebel, seeing no humor in the application, handed over the money, which the Prince slipped into his wallet.
Dusk had fallen when at last he reached his room in Sachsenhausen, and there he found awaiting him Joseph Greusel, in semi-darkness and in total gloom.
“Your housekeeper let me in,” said the visitor.
“Good! I did not expect you back so soon. Have the others returned?”
“I do not know. I came direct here. I carry very ominous news, Roland, of impending disaster in Frankfort.”
“Greater than at present oppresses it?”
“Civil war, fire, and bloodshed. Close the door, Roland; I am tired out, and I do not wish to be overheard.”
The Prince obeyed the request, locking the door. Going to a cupboard, he produced a generous flagon of wine and a tankard, setting the same on a small table before Greusel, then he threw himself down in the one armchair the room possessed. Greusel filled the tankard, and emptied it without drawing breath. He plunged directly into his narrative.
“I had penetrated less than half a league into the forest when I was stopped by an armed man who stepped out from behind a tree. He wore the uniform of Mayence, and proclaimed me a prisoner. I explained my mission, but this had no effect upon him. He asked if I would go with him quietly, or compel him to call assistance. Being helpless, I said I would go quietly. Notwithstanding this, he bound my wrists behind me, then with a strip of cloth blindfolded me. Taking me by the arm, he led me through the forest for a distance impossible to calculate. I think, however, we walked not more than ten minutes. There was a stop and a whispered parley; a pause of a few minutes, and a further conference, which I partially heard. The commander before whom I must be taken was not ready to receive me. I should be placed in a tent, and a guard set over me.
“This was done. I asked that the cord, which hurt my wrists, might be removed, but instead, my ankles were tied together, and I sat there on the ground, leaning against a pole at the back of the tent. Here my conductor left me, and I heard him give orders to those without to maintain a strict watch, but to hold no communication with me.
“I imagine that the tent I occupied stood back to back with the tent of the commander, for after some time I heard the sound of voices, and it seemed to me voices of two men in authority. They had come to the back part of their tent, as if to speak confidentially, and their voices were low, yet I could hear them quite distinctly, being separated from them merely by two thicknesses of cloth. What I learned was this. There is concealed in the forest, within half an hour’s quick march of the southern gate, a force of seven thousand soldiers. These soldiers belong to the Archbishop of Mayence, who commands an additional three thousand within the walls of Frankfort. Mayence holds the southern gate, as Treves holds the western and Cologne the northern. You see at once what that implies. Mayence can pour his troops into Frankfort, say, at midnight, and in the morning he has ten thousand soldiers as compared with the three thousand each commanded by the Archbishops of Treves and Cologne. That means civil war, and the complete crushing of the two northern Archbishops.”
“I think you take too serious a view of the matter,” commented Roland. “Mayence is undoubtedly a subtle man, who takes every precaution that he shall have his own way. The reason that there will be no civil war is this. I happen to know on very excellent authority that so far as the Electoral Court goes, Mayence is paramount. He does not need to conquer Cologne and Treves by force, because he is already supreme by his genius for intrigue. He is a born ruler, and his methods are all those of diplomacy as against those of arms. I dare say if occasion demanded it he would strike quick and strike effectually, but occasion does not demand. I am rather sure of my facts, and I know that the three Archbishops, together with the Count Palatine of the Rhine, are in agreement to elect my namesake, Prince Roland, Emperor of Germany.”
“Yes,” said Greusel, “I heard that rumor, and it is generally believed in Frankfort. Rumor, however, as usual, speaks falsely.”
The Prince smiled at his pessimistic colleague, for that colleague was talking to the man who knew; nevertheless, he listened patiently, for of course he could not yet reveal himself to his somber lieutenant, who continued his narrative:
“The two men spoke of the unfortunate Prince, who is, I understand, still a prisoner in Ehrenfels.”
Here Roland laughed outright.
“My dear Greusel, you are entirely mistaken. The Prince was never really a prisoner, and is at this moment in Frankfort, as free to do what he likes as I am.”
“I am sorry,” said Greusel, “that you do not grasp the seriousness of the situation, but I have not yet come to the vital part of it, although I thought the very fact that seven thousand men threatened Frankfort would impress you.”
“It does, Greusel,” said Roland, remembering the distrust in which both the Countess and her guardian held Mayence, and also the close watch his Lordship was keeping over Frankfort, as evidenced by the domiciliary visit paid to himself by an officer of that potentate. “Go on, Greusel,” he said more soberly, “I shall not interrupt you again.”
“I gathered that Prince Roland actually had been chosen, but complications arose which I do not altogether understand. These complications relate to a woman, or two women; both of them equally objectionable to the Archbishop of Mayence. One of these two women was to marry the new Emperor, but rather than have this happen, Mayence determined that another than Prince Roland should be elected, the reason being that Mayence feared one Empress would be entirely under the influence of Cologne, if chosen, and the other under the influence of Treves. So his subtle Lordship is deluding both of these Electors. Cologne has been asked to bring to Frankfort the woman he controls, therefore he harbors the illusion that Mayence is reconciled to her. Treves also has been requested to bring the lady who is his relative; thus she, too, is in Frankfort, and Treves blindly believes Mayence is favorable to her cause.
“As a matter of fact Mayence will have neither, but has resolved to spring upon the Electoral Court at the last moment the name of the Grand Duke Karl of Hesse, a middle-aged man already married, and entirely under the dominance of his Lordship of Mayence.”
“Pardon me, Greusel, I must interrupt, in spite of my disclaimer. What you say sounds very ingenious, but it cannot be carried out. Treves, Cologne, and the Count Palatine are already pledged to vote for Prince Roland, so is Mayence himself, and to change front at the last moment would be to forswear himself, and act as traitor to his colleagues. Now, he cannot afford to lose even one vote, and I believe that the Archbishop of Cologne will vote for Prince Roland through thick and thin. I think the same of the Count Palatine. Treves, of course, is always doubtful and wavering, but you see that the negative vote of the Archbishop of Cologne would render Mayence powerless and an Election impossible.”
“Doubtless what you say is true, and now you have put your finger on the danger spot. Why has the Election been delayed beyond all precedent?”
“That I do not know,” replied Roland.
“Then I will tell you. The Archbishop of Mayence has sent peremptory orders to the other three Electors, who are reported to be careless so far as Imperial affairs are concerned, and quite indifferent regarding the personality of the future Emperor. No one of these three Electors, however, dares offend so powerful a man as Mayence. If the Archbishop can overawe his colleagues nominally equal to him in position, each commanding an army, how think you can three small nobles, with no soldiers at their beck, withstand his requests, suavely given, no doubt, but with an iron menace behind them?”
“True, true,” muttered Roland.
“Two of these nobles have already arrived, and are housed with the Archbishop of Mayence. The third is expected here within three days; four days at the farthest. Mayence will immediately convene the Electoral Court, when the Count Palatine, with the two Archbishops, may be astonished to find that for the first time in history, the whole seven are present in the Wahlzimmer. Mayence will ask Cologne to make the nomination, and he will put forward the name of Prince Roland. On a vote being taken the Prince will be in a minority of one. Mayence then shows his hand, nominating the Grand Duke Karl, who will be elected by a majority of one. Then may ensue a commotion in the Wahlzimmer, and accusations of bad faith, but remember that Cologne and Treves are taken completely by surprise. They cannot communicate with their commanders, for the three thousand troops which Mayence already has within Frankfort will have quietly surrounded the Town Hall that contains the Election Chamber, and Mayence’s seven thousand men from the forest are pouring through the southern gate into the city, making straight for the Romer. Meanwhile the Grand Duke Karl, a man well known to the populace of Frankfort, appears on the balcony of the Kaisersaal, and is loudly acclaimed the new Emperor.”
“Ah, Greusel, forgive my attitude of doubt. It is all as plain now as the Cathedral tower. Still, there will be no civil war. Treves and Cologne will gather up their troops and go home, once more defeated by a man cleverer and more unscrupulous than both of them put together. They are but infants in his hands.”
“Have you any suggestion to make?” asked Greusel.
“No; there is nothing to be done. You see, the young Prince has no following. He is quite unknown in Frankfort. His name can arouse no enthusiasm, and, all in all, that strikes me as a very good thing. The Grand Duke Karl is popular, and I believe he will make a very good Emperor.”
“You mean, Roland, that the Archbishop of Mayence will make a very good ruler, for he will be the real king.”
“Well, after all, Joseph, there is much to be said in favor of Mayence. He is a man who knows what he wants, and, what is more, gets it, and that, after all is the main thing in life. If any one could sway the Archbishop so that he put his great talents to the benefit of his country, instead of thinking only of himself, what a triumph of influence that would be! By the Three Kings, I’d like to do it! I admire him. If I found opportunity and could persuade him to join us in the relief of Frankfort, and in opening the Rhine to commerce, we would give these inane merchants a lesson in organization.”
Greusel rose from his chair, poured out another tankard full from the flagon, and drank it off.
“I must go down now and meet the guild,” he said. “I have eaten nothing all day, and am as hungry as a wolf from the Taunus.”
“Oh, how did you escape, by the way?”
“I didn’t escape. I was led blindfolded into a tent, where my bandage was removed, and here a man in ordinary dress questioned me concerning my object in entering the forest. I told him exactly the truth, and explained what we were trying to do in Frankfort. I dare say I looked honest and rather stupid. He asked when I set out; in what direction I came; questioning me with a great affectation of indifference; wanted to know if I had met many persons, and I told him quite truthfully I met no one but the man I understood was a forester; a keeper, I supposed.”
“‘There are a number of us,’ he said, ‘hunting the wild boar, and we do not wish the animal life of these woods to be disturbed. We shall not be here longer than a week, but I advise you to seek another spot for what timber you require.’
“He asked me, finally, if any one in Frankfort knew I had come to the forest, and I answered that the guild of twenty knew, and that we were all to meet to-night at the Rheingold tavern to report. He pondered for a while on this statement, and I suppose reached the conclusion that if I did not return to Frankfort, this score of men might set out in the morning to search for me, it being well known that the forest is dangerous on account of wild boars. So, as if it were of no consequence, he blindfolded me again, apologizing privately for doing so, saying it was quite unnecessary in the first instance, but as the guard had done so, he did not wish to censure him by implication.
“I answered that it did not matter at all, but desired him to order my wrists released, which was done.”
“I must say,” commented Roland, “that the Archbishop of Mayence is well served by his officers. Your examiner was a wise man.”
“Yes,” replied Greusel, “but nevertheless, I am telling my story here in Frankfort.”
“No difference for that, because, as I have said, we can do nothing. Still, it is a blessing your examiner could not guess what you overheard in the other tent. He let you go thinking you had seen and learned nothing, and in doing so warded off a search party to-morrow.”
Blessed is he that expects nothing, for he shall not be disappointed. Roland walked with Greusel across the bridge and through the streets to the entrance of the Rheingold, and there stopped.
“I shall not go down with you,” he said. “You have given me much to think of, and I am in no mood for a hilarious meeting. Indeed, I fear I should but damp the enthusiasm of the lads. Continue your good work to-morrow, and report to me at my room.”
With this Roland bade Greusel good-night and turned away. He walked very slowly as far as the bridge, and there, resting his arms on the parapet, looked down at the dark water. He was astonished to realize how little he cared about giving up the Emperorship, and he recalled, with a glow of delight, his recent talk in the garden with Hildegunde, and her assurance that she lacked all ambition to become the first lady in the land so long as they two spent their lives together.
The bells of Frankfort tolling the hour of ten aroused him from his reverie, and brought down his thoughts from delicious dreams of romance to realms of reality. The precious minutes were passing over his head swiftly as the drops of water beneath his feet. There was little use of feeding Frankfort if it must be given over to fire and slaughter.
With a chill of apprehension he reviewed the cold treachery of Mayence, willing to levy the horrors of civil war upon an already stricken city so long as his own selfish purposes were attained.
“And yet,” he said to himself, “there must be good in the man. I wish I knew his history. Perhaps he had to fight for every step he has risen in the world. Perhaps he has been baffled and defeated by deception; overcome by chicanery until his faith died within him. My faith would die within me were it not that when I meet a Mayence I encounter also the virtue of a Cologne, and the bluff honesty of a Count Palatine. How marvelous is this world, where the trickery of a Kurzbold and a Gensbein is canceled by the faithfulness unto death of a Greusel and an Ebearhard! Thus doth good balance evil, and then—and then, how Heaven beams upon earth in the angel glance of a good woman. God guide me aright! God guide me aright!” he repeated fervently, “and suppress in me all anger and uncharitableness.”
He walked rapidly across the bridge into Sachsenhausen, past his room at the street corner, and on to the monastery of the Benedictines, whose little chapel stood open night and day for the prayers of those in trouble or in sadness, habited only by one of the elder brothers, who gave, if it were needed, advice, encouragement, or spiritual comfort. Removing his hat, the Prince entered into the silence on tiptoe, and kneeling before the altar, prayed devoutly for direction, asking the Almighty to turn the thoughts of His servant, Mayence, into channels that flowed towards peace and the relief of this unhappy city.
As he rose to his feet a weight lifted from his shoulders, and the buoyancy of youth drove away the depression that temporarily overcame him on hearing of the army threatening Frankfort. His plans were honest, his methods conciliatory, and the path now seemed clear before him. The monk in charge, who had been kneeling in a dark corner near the door, now came forward to intercept him.
“Will your Highness deny me in the chapel as you did upon the bridge?”
Roland stopped. In the gloom he had not recognized the ghostly Father.
“No, Father Ambrose, and I do now what I should have done then. I pray your blessing on the enterprise before me.”
“My son, it is willingly given, the more willingly that I may atone in part my forgetting of the Holy Words: ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ I grievously misjudged you, as I learn from both the Archbishop and my kinswoman. I ask your forgiveness.”
“I shall forgive you, Father Ambrose, if you make full, not partial atonement. The consequences of your mistake have proved drastic and far-reaching. The least of these consequences is that it has cost me the Emperorship.”
“Oh,” moaned the good man, “mea culpa, mea culpa! No penance put upon me can compensate for that disaster.”
“You blame yourself overmuch, good Father. The penance I have to impose will leave me deeply in your debt. Now, to come from the least to the greatest of these results, so far as I am concerned, my marriage with your kinswoman, whom I love devotedly, is in jeopardy. Through her conviction that I was a thief, she braved the Archbishop of Mayence, who imprisoned her, and now his Lordship has determined that the Grand Duke Karl of Hesse shall be Emperor. Thus we arrive at the most important outcome of your error. Between the overwhelming forces of Mayence and the insufficient troops of Cologne and Treves there may ensue a conflict causing the streets of Frankfort to flow with blood.”
The pious man groaned dismally.
“I have a plan which will prevent this. The day after to-morrow I shall renounce all claim to the throne; but being selfish, like the rest, I refuse to renounce all claim to the woman the Archbishops themselves chose as my wife, neither shall I allow the case to be made further the plaything of circumstance. Your kinswoman, no later ago than this afternoon, confessed her love for me and her complete disregard of any position I may hold in this realm. Now, Father Ambrose, I ask you several questions. Is it in consonance with the rules of the Church that a marriage be solemnized in this chapel?”
“Yes.”
“Are you entitled to perform the ceremony?”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible this ceremony can be performed to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“Will you therefore attend to the necessary preliminaries, of which I am vastly ignorant, and say at what hour the Countess and I may present ourselves in this chapel?”
“The Archbishop of Cologne is guardian to her ladyship. Will you bring me his sanction?”
“Ah, Father Ambrose, there is just the point. So far as concerns himself I doubt not that the Archbishop is the most unambitious of men, but to the marriage of his ward with a sword maker I fear he would refuse consent which he would gladly give to a marriage with an Emperor.”
The monk hung his head, and pondered on the proposition. At last he said:
“Why not ask my Lord the Archbishop?”
“I dare not venture. Too much is at stake. She might be carried away to any castle in Germany. Remember that Cologne has already acquiesced in her imprisonment, and but that the iron chain of the Pfalzgraf brought me to her prison door—The iron chain, do I say? ‘Twas the hand of God that directed me to her, and now, with the help of Him who guided me, not all the Archbishops in Christendom shall prevent our marriage. No, Father Ambrose, pile on yourself all the futile penances you can adopt. They are useless, for they do not remedy the wrong you have committed. And now, good-night to your Reverence!”
The young man strode towards the door.
“My son,” said the quiet voice of the priest, “when you were on your knees just now did you pray for remission from anger?”
Roland whirled round.
“Mea culpa, as you said just now. Father Ambrose, I ask your pardon. I made an unfair use of your mistake to coerce you. You were quite right in relating what your own eyes saw here in Frankfort, and although the inference drawn was wrong, you were not to blame for that. I recognize your scruples, but nevertheless protest that already I possess the sanction of the Archbishop, which has never been withdrawn.”
“Prince Roland, if you bring hither the Countess von Sayn to-morrow afternoon, when the bells strike three, I will marry you, and gladly accept whatever penances ensue. I fear the monk’s robe has not crushed out all the impulses of the Sayn blood. In my case, perhaps, it has only covered them. And now, good-night, and God’s blessing fall upon you and her you are to marry.”
Roland went directly from the chapel to his own room, where he slept the sleep of one who has made up his mind. Nevertheless, it was not a dreamless sleep, for throughout the night he seemed to hear the tramp of armed men marching upon unconscious Frankfort, and this sound was so persistent, that at last he woke, yet still it continued. Springing up in alarm, and flinging wide the wooden shutters of his window, he was amazed to see that the sun was already high, while the sound that disturbed him was caused by a procession of heavy-footed horses, dragging over the cobble-stones carts well-laden with farm produce.
Having dressed and finished breakfast, he wrote a letter to the Archbishop of Mayence: