"We are two years nearer," replied the Lord of Treves, calmly, "but I made no predictions regarding the length of the siege when it began. The bloodless environment of the castle was your plan, and not mine. I had little belief in your method, and have less now, but I fell in with it to please you, and I regret to find that after two years' constant endeavour to meet your approval, I have apparently failed. But, although I may have hopes of saintship being the reward of my life-long patience and moderation, I have never pretended to the mantle of a prophet; therefore, I hazarded no opinion with reference to the duration of the siege."
"You said Heinrich of Thuron was but imperfectly provisioned; that he did not have time to fill his castle with grain. In that you must admit you were wrong."
"We are fallible creatures, my Lord, which statement I make in all deference, willing instantly to withdraw it, if you object to being placed in a category in which I am compelled to include myself. I formed an opinion of the Black Count's resources from reports brought to me. These reports apparently contained mis-statements; therefore my deductions from them were wrong. In that there was error of judgment, but you spoke of wilful deceit—an entirely different matter, and a mistake on your part for which you are, doubtless, eagerly waiting opportunity to apologise."
"No apology is due from me. In spite of your verbal trickery, I have been deluded and cozened from the first; that I say, and that I adhere to. Still, of what avail is talk——"
"True, true," murmured Arnold, gently. "You were ever a man of action, my Lord."
"I shall be a man of action now; I have been too long quiescent!" cried von Hochstaden, again half-drawing his sword and springing to his feet with a celerity that might not have been expected from one who had had the flagon so constantly under tribute. "I shall now leave this camp and bring with me every officer and man that is mine. They are as weary of this business as I am, and will be glad to follow. You may then get others to be your dupes."
Count Bertrich, who had with difficulty kept his hot temper in hand during this dialogue, now leaped upright, and flashing out the sword that was by his side, smote the table with the hilt of it, as he shouted:
"My Lord of Cologne, twice you have made a feeble attempt to draw your reluctant weapon; if you had kept your eyes on me you would have seen how easily the trick is done. My over-lord does not choose to chastise you for your insolence to him, but I would have you know there are good blades here ready to meet those of your men, the moment he gives the signal. If you want to appeal to the sword, in God's name have the courage to draw it; if you rest on argument and reason, then keep your seat and address my Lord of Treves with that respect which his position as Prince of the Church demands."
At this wild cheers burst from the men of Treves. Each warrior stood up, and there was a bristling hedge of swords held in the air above their heads. The men of Cologne rose also, but hesitatingly, not actuated by the instantaneous impulse which brought such quick action into play on the other side of the table. The Archbishop of Treves alone remained seated, a cynical smile parting his lips. He raised his hand as if to pronounce benediction, and by a slight motion of it, soothed and quelled the disturbance in a manner almost magical. The swords, seemingly of their own accord, returned to their scabbards, and one by one the wearers seated themselves.
"You see, my Lord," he said, in a low voice, "how quickly a bad example influences those who look on. Your hand to the hilt brought steel into view even before a good half of your own formidable weapon was visible. My trusty captain has asked you, with all a soldier's bluntness, which a champion like yourself will be first to excuse, to be seated. May I, in the utmost humility, associate myself with his desire? The sword, alas, has its uses, still it is but a cumbrous instrument at a dinner table. You were speaking, I think, of withdrawing your men, but in the tumult, I fear, I missed your peroration."
Cologne thrust his weapon back into its scabbard, but he nevertheless remained standing.
"If the tongue were a weapon——"
"It is, in a measure."
"—I would grant that you are master of it," said von Hochstaden.
"I thank you for the compliment, and its generosity gives me hope that we are about to come to an amicable understanding."
"We have already come to an understanding, and if you consider it amicable, the better am I pleased. To-night I withdraw my troops."
"And why?"
"The reasons I have already set down in my communication to you at Treves."
"I do not recall them; at least my remembrance is, that on perusing them they did not seem to me to justify a withdrawal. Would you, therefore, for our present enlightenment, recount the most important clauses of your letter?"
"One reason will suffice. I cannot consent to have my troops longer engaged in a futile enterprise."
"Ah, yes. I recollect now that such an excuse for cowardice seemed entirely indefensible."
"For cowardice, my Lord?"
"Call it what you will. I shall not quarrel about terms; withdrawal is, I think, your favourite word. However, to please you, I acted instantly in the matter, and will therefore be in possession of the castle to-morrow night, or, making allowances for accidents, the night following. Accordingly, my Lord, you shall not withdraw your troops, but will enjoy the pleasures of conquest with me."
"You will possess Thuron so soon?"
"Of a surety."
"If you are so certain of that, why did you not inform me of the prospect, I being an ally of yours?"
"It is not my custom to spread my plans abroad. You were in Cologne, probably most devoutly occupied, and I hesitated to obtrude worldly affairs on your attention. Had you been here, and had you expressed any curiosity in the matter, I should have satisfied it, as I do now."
"Frankly, my Lord, I do not believe you. This is but another of your crafty tricks to keep my men at your beck and call. I have had enough of such foolery, and am not to be again deluded. If this taking of Thuron can be so speedily accomplished now, why was it not done six months or a year ago?"
"I shall charge to the potency of the wine the insinuation made against my probity, and will therefore pass it by. Your method of siege, my Lord, was a plant of slow growth. I have but grafted upon it a little sprig of my own, which is now blossoming and will to-morrow bear fruit: an exceedingly swift maturity. Six months ago, your slow growing stem was not ready to receive a graft; now it is, and there all's said. I therefore count confidently on your co-operation."
"I shall not rob your Lordship of the full glory of success. You shall have no co-operation from me."
"You still do not believe what I say, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
"I am not given to substantiating my statements, but in this instance, such is my warm friendship for you, I will change an old habit and shortly furnish you with proof. I am momentarily expecting the return of my messengers, and you will hear from their lips that the castle has been bought and paid for, and that it will be in our possession at a given time, perhaps not more than twenty-four hours hence."
"Your messengers will report to you alone, my Lord, for I shall not stay to question them," cried von Hochstaden. "Up, men of Cologne, we have waited here too long. To the North, to the North!"
The Archbishop of Treves, seeing that a crisis had come, leaned forward, and sharply hissed the word,
"Swords!"
The single syllable might have been an incantation, so quickly was it acted upon. It was evidently a prearranged signal, for the moment it was uttered, every man on the Treves side of the table whipped out his blade, and placed its point at the throat of the man who sat opposite him. None were so drunk as not to know that a single lunge forward on the part of the assailants would cause the simultaneous deaths of the followers of Cologne. Each, sobered by the sudden menace and the presence of a grave danger, sat motionless as if turned to stone. His Lordship of Cologne stood uncertainly, and cast a wavering eye down along the bridge of steel that spanned the table. His serene Lordship of Treves sat in his place, an ill-omened glitter in his piercing eye, while his thin bloodless lips were compressed into a straight line. After an interval of silence he spoke in silky tones:
"I see, my Lord, that it is unnecessary for me to caution your men not to move hand to hilt until some friendly arrangement is come to between you and me. The air has been thick with threats for some time past; it is well that definite action should clear it. How easy would it be for me to give another brief signal and thus end the lives of all your followers in this tent? With you a prisoner, word could be sent to the camp, and your unsuspecting soldiers would be prisoners as well. Thus might I act were I a bloody-minded warrior, but I thank my Maker, and you may well join your thanks with mine, that I am ever a man of peace, rarely using forceful measures except when compelled to do so. Perhaps you will consent to reconsider your decision, my Lord."
"Go on with your treacherous butchery, cut-throat of Treves, and see what good you reap from it."
"It is easy for you, my Lord, to say go on, when your throat is unthreatened, but I grieve for those who must be victims of your stubbornness. In case you may imagine that the cut-throat of Treves will hesitate when it comes to your own august person, I beg to remind your Lordship that an ancestor of mine slew a predecessor of yours."
"Say murdered, and you will be nearer the mark."
The Archbishop of Treves spread out his hands in conciliatory fashion and, bowing slightly, replied,
"Well, murdered then, if it please you. I am always willing to concede to a disputant his own choice of words."
Von Hochstaden's secretary, standing at his master's elbow, filled with alarm at the threatening aspect of affairs, pleaded in whispers with him to give way, but the prelate, with an angry motion of his hand, waved the subordinate aside, bidding him hold his peace.
The good Ambrose, with uplifted eyes and paled face, prayed that heaven might send peace to that sorely divided camp. Heaven replied in its own way, but in a manner which made the startled occupants of the tent imagine that the prayer had been literally answered. The Archbishop of Cologne was about to speak when there was an impact on the end of the tent which first made it bulge suddenly in, then the cloth ripped with a loud report, and there shot swiftly along the line of swords, sweeping many of them jangling from the hands of their owners, a nondescript bundle that sped hurtling down the table, coming to rest against the heavy chair at the head, with a woeful groan like the rending of a soul from a body; a groan that struck wild terror into every heart, so supernatural did it seem, giving appalling indication that there was yet life in the shapeless heap when it was hurled against the tent. Even the Archbishop of Treves, for the first time that evening, sprang in quick alarm to his feet, as the living projectile dropped from the end of the table into the empty chair, and lay there motionless. The men of Cologne, who had been seated breathless, with the sharp points of the swords at their throats, now took swift advantage of the amazing intervention, and, throwing themselves backwards, jumped upright, plucked blade from scabbard, and stood at least on equal terms with their foes, but having thus prepared themselves for defence, all remained silent and motionless, awe-struck by the astounding interruption.
Through the tattered rent in the end of the tent came the sound of distant laughter, like the laughter of some fiend suspended in the sky, and then all distinctly heard the words:
"There, Arnold von Isenberg! The gold is in my courtyard; the merchandise is in your camp!"
When the Black Count had shouted his defiance to the tent of the Archbishop, he stood there in the calm moonlight with his clenched fist raised high above his head, while a deep silence held in thrall all who were on the roof of the northern tower. Suddenly his upstretched hand dropped to his side, and the wild exultation faded from his fiery eyes. He turned, and curtly bidding the others to follow, clanked down the circular stone stair, and presently entered the courtyard he had so recently quitted. All his men there assembled stood motionless as he had left them. The yellow bits of gold lay where they had fallen, no man having had the courage to stoop and pick up a single coin.
Heinrich flashed a contemptuous glance at the scattered metal, and said:
"Lieutenant, see that this trash is gathered up. Give half of it to the honest fellow who discovered the plot, and divide the rest among yourselves. You will take temporary command until I have further investigated this treachery."
"My Lord," interrupted Rodolph, "Conrad is my man, and I will myself undertake to compensate him for what he has undergone. I beg of you to divide the Archbishop's gold entirely among those who have stood so faithfully by the castle. If you give orders to that effect, I would be glad to have a word with you in private."
"What is done, is done," replied the Black Count, frowning. "There is little good in further talk about it. I mean with regard to the sending away of the traitor; that's past praying for; the dividing of the gold shall be according to your wish."
"What is done, is done, as you most truly say, and I have no comment to make upon it. If a man is to be killed, and Steinmetz richly merited death, I suppose it matters little how his taking off is accomplished so that it be speedy, and none can complain that he was kept long in suspense. I shall have the honour of following you to the council chamber, my Lord."
The Black Count strode up the stone steps and entered the now deserted room, turning round upon his guest with some apprehension on his brow.
"Well, my Lord," he said, and from his tones had departed all their former truculence.
"I have to ask your permission to leave the castle to-night. The time is ripe for my departure, and I think during the commotion that will inevitably ensue in the enemy's camp after the receipt of your startling message, I may the more surely make my way through the lines. I shall, with as little delay as need be, bring up my own men, and I imagine we will have small difficulty in raising the siege, or at least in getting through to you some necessary provender, if you can but hold out for a few days longer."
"How many men answer to your command?"
"Enough to make their Lordships regret that my followers are thrown in the scale against them."
For a moment an elated gleam of hope lit up the dark eye of the Count, but it soon died away as unbelief in the other's ability to do what he had promised reasserted itself.
"You have been here for two years: your men are now most likely scattered, or may indeed be in the Archbishop's own camp. When the hand of the master is withdrawn, his mercenaries look to themselves!"
"True, my Lord; but I have been in constant communication with my trusty lieutenant, and he now informs me that everything is ready."
"How can you have been in communication with him?"
"The good monk, my Lord, was my secret messenger."
"Ah! That accounts for his frequent visits, then. Well, go, in God's name, if you think you can benefit us. I trust you all the more because I believe there is one within these walls whom you would wish to see neither harmed nor starved. I am not blind, although I say little."
"You are right, my Lord, and your observation has not misled you. But I would like you to credit this; that even if there were none such, I would gladly come to your aid, on your account as well. I propose to take Conrad and the archer with me, for we may arrive at blows in the getting away, and I wish two followers in whom I have confidence. Besides, the departure of three will relieve, to that extent, the slender resources of the castle. I hope I have your approval of my project."
"Surely, surely. May prosperity attend you, and may I meet you at my own gate with your lancemen at your back. You will be most heartily welcome."
The two shook hands and parted with much cordiality. Rodolph made his way to his room in the tower, followed by Conrad. There they found the archer, seemingly in deep dejection.
"Well," cried Rodolph, "are you returned already? What luck have you had with the poet?"
"Roger is as stubborn as a mule, my Lord, and insists that his oath to the Archbishop will not allow him to let me pass through the lines. A plague on his good principles. I never let my principles interfere with the serving of a friend."
"Is it so, honest John? You would, then, at the request of Roger, allow me to be captured by the Archbishops?"
"Oh, no, my Lord," replied the archer, in astonishment at the bare suggestion. "Not for all the friends that were ever weaned in England would I betray your Lordship."
"I am sure of it. Therefore must we not be too severe on the poet if he refuses to do for one friend what you would not do for a whole regiment of them. Where is our faithful rhymester on guard?"
"He stands in the valley of the Thaurand, in a most excellent position for our escape, and that is the pity of it, curses on his stubbornness. We could slip through to the stream and either up the opposite hill or along the water course to the Moselle quite unmolested, once we were past the lines. If your honour commands me to do it, I will send an arrow through his unfriendly heart, although I must say I would loosen string with grief and bitterness in my own; then we may pass unchecked."
"No, no. Such a trial shall not be put upon you. The arrow is silent, and if it be necessary we will send it through the heart of another on the line, and step over his body. But it is best to attain our object bloodlessly, if possible, for a man killed may cause the hue and cry to be raised after us. Has Roger no poetry to recite to you? No new verses or changes in the old, regarding which he wishes your sage opinions?"
"Oh, he has plenty of new verse, curse him, but I told him I would not wait to hear, saying I believed him no true poet at all, thus leaving him in deep melancholy, leaning on his bow regardless of the strain upon it, as I bent my way up the hill."
"'Tis a pity author and critic should part in anger. Will you then make your way to him again, taking your bow and a well-filled quiver with you. Apologise for your remarks reflecting on his quality as poet; say your bad temper made you speak, and not your critical judgment. Induce him to recite all that is new in his composition, and also some of the old verses, until you hear my signal on the other side of the valley. Then break his bow so that he may not injure you, and fly to us. During the recital we will steal through as silently as we can, trusting to the poet's fervour of genius for our being unseen and unheard. Win to us then if you can; should this be impossible, Conrad and I will have to make our way down the Moselle without you. I will give you an hour to make your peace with the offended Roger, then, when you hear the night bird's cry, know that we are about to steal through the lines. Keep Roger busily engaged without rest until the cry comes to you again from the other side of the valley. If he discover us and is about to give the alarm, I trust that you will let friendship fly to the winds for a short time and promptly throttle him, escaping after, as best you may."
"I will do all I can, even if I have to wring his long neck," said the archer, buckling quiver to his back and taking up his bow. When he had gone Rodolph turned to Conrad.
"Hilda has had a somewhat exciting evening of it, and will be glad to have assurance that you are unhurt. Seek her out, therefore, and bid her farewell for a few days. Ask her, so that you may not be interrupted during your parting, to deliver a message to the Countess Tekla from me. Tell the Countess that I am on the battlements and beg of her indulgence that she meet me there. I value you so highly, Conrad, that I will myself engage the Countess in conversation, so that Hilda may not be called upon by her Ladyship, until your conference is ended. Thus I hope to merit the gratitude of both Hilda and yourself."
"Thank you, my Lord," said Conrad, with a smile as he departed on his mission.
The young Emperor, his hands clasped behind him, paced up and down the broad promenade in the moonlight. He was now at last on the eve of achievement; about to return to his capital and take his rightful place at the head of the State. An army awaited him, quietly accumulated and efficiently drilled. This huge weapon was ready to his hand to be wielded absolutely as pleased him, for the good or for the evil of his country. The young man pondered gravely on the situation. What would be the result? Bloodshed and civil war, or peace and prosperity in the land? Would the Archbishops fight when he ordered the siege to be raised, or would they obey his command? Only a few more moonlight nights lay between him and this knowledge. As he meditated on his danger and hopes, the white slender figure of the Countess came up the steps to the promenade, and he rushed forward to meet her with both hands outstretched.
"Ah, Tekla," he said, "it is kind of you to come."
The girl put her hands in his, but there was an expression of concern on her face.
"What has uncle done with Captain Steinmetz?" she asked.
"He was a traitor," said Rodolph, sternly.
"I know, I know, but for long he was in my uncle's service, and he has been these two years one of our defenders. Perhaps, half starved, he succumbed to the temptation of a moment. His years of good faith should not be forgotten at this time. Is he in prison?"
"No. The Black Count bound him and sent him, with a warlike message, to the Archbishop of Treves."
"Oh," cried the girl, much relieved, "I am glad that nothing more severe was done. I feared my uncle, in his just anger, might have acted harshly, but I think you have had a good influence on him, Rodolph. I have noted, with gladness, how he defers to you."
"I suppose we influence more or less all those with whom we come into contact. I should be glad to believe that I had a benign effect upon his conduct, but, before arriving at a definite conclusion in the matter, I shall await further proof of his Lordship's leaning towards clemency and softness of speech."
"What further proof could you wish than the incident to-night? I assure you, and you are yourself very well aware, that two years ago, yes, and often since then, my uncle would have killed Steinmetz on evidence of such treachery."
"I think he would have deserved his fate, Tekla; and now I beg of you dismiss the traitor for ever from your mind, and give your unworthy lover some space in your thoughts. I am about to quit the castle, and I ask your good wishes in my venture. I hope shortly to return at the head of my own men, and have some influence on the siege if I have little with your uncle."
"To leave the castle? Does my uncle know?"
"Yes, and he cordially approves my scheme. Furthermore, he has no doubts about my loyalty, for he says he is cognizant of the fact that I leave one within the castle to whom I shall be most eager to return, which is, indeed, the case, my Tekla."
"He knows that also, does he?" replied the girl, blushing, and hiding her blushes on the shoulder of her lover.
Rodolph, bending over and caressing her, undid a knot of ribbon at her throat, kissing the white neck thus laid bare.
"I shall wear your colours on my arm, Tekla, till I return, if you will but tie them there and entangle your good wishes with the knot."
The girl tied the shred of ribbon on his arm, daintily pressing her lips to the knot when it was in place.
"There," she cried, looking up at him with moist and glistening eyes, "that will bring you safely to me; but, Rodolph, you will be careful and not rash. Do not jeopardise your own safety for—for us. I fear your men are but few, and if that is the case, do not, I beg of you, adventure life in a hopeless enterprise. Let us rather surrender and throw ourselves on the mercy of the Archbishop."
"I should scarcely care to trust to his tender heart, but you may be sure I shall use all caution. I think my men will be ample in number for the task I shall set to them, and in any case we will be strong in the justice of our cause and the prayers of our Lady. And now Tekla, I must be gone and trust myself to the outcome of the night. I hear Conrad approaching with a clumsy noisiness that betokens a desire to deal with others as he would be dealt with himself. His coming shows that the moment of parting is at hand, for another awaits us, and our success depends on our being at our post in the valley at the exact time, so kiss me, my Tekla, before the faithful head of Conrad appears above the battlements."
The kiss and others to supplement it were given and taken.
"We shall always remember these battlements, Rodolph," she whispered to him.
When Conrad at last came, Rodolph and he disappeared over the wall together: Tekla, leaning against the parapet, little as she imagined it, bade farewell for ever to her Knight of the Moselle. It was destined that the next lover she was to meet would be no unknown Lord, but the Emperor of Germany himself.
The bowman, with characteristic caution, stole down the hill until he neared the line, wound so tightly round the castle. Here his circumspection redoubled, and, trailing his bow after him, he crawled on hands and knees towards his friend, Roger Kent, who, with bowed head, marched to and fro along his accustomed beat. The poet seemed in a state of blank despondency, but whether on account of the slanders of an unsympathetic world, or for the reason that he had parted in discordant terms from his comrade, John Surrey could not tell. A warble from the forest caused the sentinel to raise his head and peer into the denseness of the thicket. The moon showed his face to be alert and expectant, expressions which changed into a look of joy when the warble was repeated and he saw emerge from the plantation the rotund figure of his friend and critic. The latter motioned him to come out of the moonlight into the shadow, and the unsuspicious Roger, casting a glance round him, seeing the coast clear, approached until the gloom of the wood fell over him, then stood, realising that, after all, the insult had not been of his bestowal, and that etiquette at least demanded from John some verbal amends for his former verbal buffets, if there was to be peace between them.
"Roger," said John, "I could not sleep until I had told you how sorry I am that my roughness of speech gave you good cause for offence, and I beg you to think no more of my words."
"What you said," replied Roger, dolefully, "was no doubt true enough. I have been thinking over your estimate of my poems, and I fear I have, in my enthusiasm, at various times given you the idea that I held them in high esteem myself; but alas, no one knows better than I what poor trash they are, and I recited them to you that I might profit by your criticism. I cannot find fault with an honest opinion."
"It was not an honest opinion," cried John, fervently. "I was disappointed that you refused to pleasure my master by allowing him to get free of the castle, but he has said that you were quite right to stand by your oath and showed me that, in your place, I would have done the same. Ah, he has a high opinion of poets, my master."
"Has he so? Then am I the more unfortunate that I cannot aid him to escape. I would I had taken the oath with him instead of under the Archbishop, whom I have never seen, but such are the fortunes of war, and one of the many blessings of peace is that then a man is at liberty to do what he will for a friend, as I think I have well set forth in a verse conned over in my mind since you left me, which I shall entitle, 'Peace boweth to Friendship.'"
"Let me hear it, Roger, in token of your forgiveness, for what I said to you a while since was but the reflex of my disappointment, and in no wise an indication of my true mind."
"The verse is but a trivial one at best," said Roger, in a tone of great complacency that rather belied his words, "and is, you must remember, not yet polished as it will be when I indite it on papyrus; still I have to admit that even in its present unfinished shape it contains the germ of what may be an epic. It runs thus——"
And here he repeated the lines sonorously, while his comrade listened with rapt attention beaming on his upturned countenance.
After this felicitous introduction the two sat down together, the sentinel rising now and then to cast a look about him, resolved that even the delights of a discussion upon poesy should not make him neglect the business he had in hand, but the night was still, with the castle and camp wrapped in equal silence. At last John's quick ear caught the low signal that told him Rodolph and Conrad were waiting to make good their way through the line, broken at this point by a literary conference. John looked sharply at his friend, wondering whether or no he also had heard the sound, but the other babbled serenely on.
"You remember the poems you delivered that night at the foot of the wall long ago, when you so unjustly charged me with being asleep, because, I suppose, your first verses were on 'Sleep?' Recite them again in the order you then arranged them, if you can, and I will tell you whether you have improved the lines or not."
The author rapturously began, and he had no complaint to make regarding his listener's lack of attention. John seemed fascinated, and fixed his eyes on the speaker with a keen inquiry that was most flattering. Never had reciter so absorbed an audience, and the poet went on like one inspired. He glowed with the enthusiasm of his varying themes, and his voice was at times thrilled with the pathos or the tenderness of his changing subjects. Once, indeed, he stopped abruptly in the middle of a quatrain, and whispered, alarmed:
"What was that? A twig snapped; I am sure of it. Did you hear nothing?"
"Nothing, Roger, but the most marvellous lines that ever man was privileged to listen to. Go on, for God's sake, and do not keep me thus deprived of the remainder. What follows: what follows, Roger?"
"Ah, John," cried the poet, beaming upon him, "you have the true feeling for poesy; why was the gift of expression denied you?"
"It is a question I cannot answer, but if I fail to make an arrow, I can judge it rightly when it is made. Perhaps if I were a poet myself I could not so well appreciate the verses with which you delight the world."
"True. I have met other versifiers who were so lacking in all valuation of genius that instead of listening to some of my best efforts they would insist on disturbing me with their own poor doggerel, which was entirely devoid of any just reason for existence. You would hear more of this poem, then?"
"I would not lose a word of it for all the wine between here and Treves. Go on, I beg you, for I never before heard the like of it."
The syllables of the poet flowed like the sweet purling of a stream, and finally, through it all, John's straining ears caught again the signal, but this time from the opposite side of the moonlit Thaurand valley, high up on the hill, which intimated to him that his comrades were at last safe, and that they were making their way across the rocky headland which jutted out between the Thaurand and the Moselle to the north of the spot where the talker and the listener sat, and thus Rodolph and Conrad had avoided the danger of going down the valley and past the end of the village, which was thronged with the Archbishop's men. John Surrey still sat there until he thought his comrades had had time to reach the bank of the river, knowing that then if he were captured or killed, they, at least, would be free from molestation, for it had been arranged that they were to wait but a short time for him, and, on the first symptom of alarm, make the best of their way down the Moselle, with such speed as was possible. Two more poems were recited, and at the end of the last, John Surrey rose and placed his hands on Roger's shoulder, his friend, the poet, rising also.
"If it should so chance, Roger, that I do not live to tell you this again, mark well my last words. The verse you have rhymed to me will live long after our two heads are low, if you can but get them on parchment so that others may read them when we are gone. This is my true belief, for there is something in them that touches me, although I cannot explain why or what it is. I do not think I understand them, yet am I pleased and soothed to listen to them, for the words run smoothly, the one into the other, like music. This, Roger, is my firm opinion, and perhaps my last, so remember it, and forget my petulance earlier in the night. How many arrows have you, Roger?"
"Arrows? The saints save us! What have arrows to do with poetry, John? I carry five with me each night on guard, but have never yet had use for any. But respecting that last poem, did you notice——"
"Roger, old friend, good-bye."
Saying this with trembling voice, John Surrey leaped down the hillside towards the stream, his stout body ill adapted to the recklessness of his descent, leaving the other standing open-mouthed in amazement, chagrin coming over him with the surmise that all this listening to his verse had been a mere cheat; yet John's last words of praise rang persistently and deliciously convincing in his ears. For a moment he stood thus, then a realisation of his duty burst upon him, and he seized bow, automatically placing an arrow accurately on the string.
Headlong the rotund John plunged downwards, expecting a command to stop, but no cry came. He splashed through the little stream, and knew that in his slow ascent up the steep crumbling hill, the moon would be shining full on his broad back, making him a target that would delight the heart of any archer who ever drew string to ear. He shivered in spite of his courage, in fear of the sudden pang which he himself had so often and so light-heartedly dealt, but the shiver was because his back was toward the danger, and he told himself that he would have faced certain death with equanimity could he but see the missile that was to slay him. He toiled panting up the hill, the ground crumbling under his feet and making progress doubly slow and tiresome, wondering why the shaft did not come. At last there was a swift hum at his right ear like the sharp baritone of an enraged wasp. Into the earth, on a level with his nose, an arrow buried itself up to the feather on its shank. He almost fancied he felt the sting of it, and his hand went up to his ear without thought on his part. He turned round for one brief moment, and waved his hand to the tall man across the valley, then struggled up as before. The second arrow came as close to his left ear, struck a ledge of rock and glanced out of sight. Still John laboured on and up. After a similar interval had passed and the distant bowman saw he did not intend to stop, the third arrow passed his side, grazing his doublet on a level with his panting heart. The hill seemed steeper and steeper, and John breathed as if his breast would burst, the breath coming hot as steam from his parched throat. He seemed intuitively to know when the next arrow would come, and it came exactly on the moment, not passing him as the others had done, but tearing his doublet and hanging there between the skin and the cloth, yet so far as John could tell in the excitement of the moment not cutting his flesh. He paused, turned, and lying back against the hill, gasped:
"Lord, Roger, what a marksman you are!"
Even his lack of breath could not disguise the admiration in his tone. The tall archer on the further side leaned forward as he saw the other apparently fall, but he made no outcry. There was still one arrow left, and he held it notched on the string. The fugitive lay where he had sunk to the ground, and closed his eyes as he rested, drawing in long draughts of air while his heart beat like the drumming of a partridge's wing. It was but a short distance now to the crest of the ridge, and once over that he was safe, but he was under no delusion that he could reach shelter if the other cared to use his remaining shaft. The belief became fixed in his mind that he would be killed at the last moment, just as he reached the apex, for he knew Roger would not have the heart to slay him sooner. He rose slowly, waved his hand, and set himself resolutely to the remainder of the task. The time passed at which the last arrow should have come, but still the bowman seemed to hesitate. So exhausted was the climber that he struggled up the last few yards of the terrible ascent on his hands and knees, grovelling like some wild beast, the sweat from his forehead drenching his eyes and blinding him. With a final effort he stood on the ridge, turned round, and in a panic of rapidly accumulated fear was about to precipitate himself down the opposite slope when he was saved the trouble of the effort, for the last arrow rang against his glittering steel cap, the impact flinging him on the loose rubble, half stunned by the blow. Through his brain rang the thought, repeated and repeated:
"Roger has preferred his friend to his oath."
After a time he began to fear he was really slain, and to convince himself that life was still in him, rose slowly, standing at last on the crest of the ridge, waving his arms. Roger had remained like a statue after his last shaft had sped, his gaze fixed on the spot where his friend had fallen. When he saw that Surrey was indeed alive, he sat down and buried his face in his hands.
Of all those gathered in the large tent, the Archbishop of Treves was the first to realise that the bundle which had so unexpectedly dropped down upon them, as it were, from the skies, was a man. The dismal groan of agony which had marked the sweep of the strange missile along the table, followed by the distant words from the direction of the castle, caused von Isenberg to fear that his envoy had been captured by the Black Count, probably betrayed by the captain, and had thus been flung back defiantly to his master by means of the tower catapult. Whilst the others stood horrified and amazed, crossing themselves devoutly, the Archbishop gave a quick command to Bertrich.
"It is a man, inhumanly bound, and thrown thus to his death. Cut the cords that imprison him. Call hither a physician, although I fear nothing can be done for him."
Two of Bertrich's men lifted the bundle from the chair and placed it on the table. Bertrich himself, drawing a dagger, at once severed the ropes, and the body, of its own accord, relaxed and straightened out, the limbs falling into a natural position after their constraint. To all appearances the man was dead. They turned him over, his ghastly purple face appearing uppermost in view of those who craned their necks to see.
"It is Steinmetz, captain of the castle," said Bertrich, who recognised him.
"The man we bought?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Ah." The Archbishop's interjection was long drawn out. "That explains the words we heard. The mission has been bungled, and probably the envoys are prisoners."
But as he spoke the physician entered, followed by the envoys themselves, who had just arrived up the hill from their interrupted conference. The physician announced that the man was not dead, but he gave little hope of his recovery after such frightful usage. He did recover, nevertheless, and lived to build the chapel on the Bladenburg, standing exactly where the great tent stood, to mark the spot where he had fallen and had been so miraculously saved, his descent being broken by the tent itself. The Archbishop enriched the traitor, as he enriched all those who served him, whether they were successful or the reverse, and part of this ill-gotten gold Steinmetz expended in the erection of the stone chapel, thus showing gratitude to the saint who had intervened on his behalf in the hour of his direst strait.
The chief of the two envoys told von Isenberg how their meeting with the captain under the walls of the castle had been interrupted. The gold had been given to Steinmetz, they said, and this the Archbishop believed, because he had heard the wild cry of the Black Count.
The Archbishop of Treves turned to his colleague of Cologne, and said:
"This unlooked-for incident may make an entire change in my plans. I must have further information before deciding what I shall do. If Steinmetz lives, and is in his right mind, we shall, for the first time, have accurate tidings of the state of things in the interior of Thuron. It may be that the Count has supplies we know not of; if such is the case, and if you still hold it well to raise the siege, we will then leave this place together, you for Cologne, I for Treves. I trust, my Lord, that you will agree to do nothing definite until we have further consultation with each other."
"I will so agree," replied the Archbishop of Cologne.
With this the high dignitaries parted for the night, to meet next morning in the conference tent. Day had broken before the unfortunate Steinmetz was able to speak. All his former truculence had departed, and although his bones were whole, thanks to the intercepting tent, his nervous system was shattered, and he seemed but a wreck of the bold soldier he had once been. When brought before the two Archbishops, supported by a man on either side of him, there was alarmed apprehension in his roving eyes, and he started at the slightest sound.
The Archbishop of Treves questioned him gently, speaking in a soothing monotone.
"I surmise that you were thrown hither from the catapult on the north tower. Was that the case?"
The captain bowed and shuddered, making no audible reply.
"Your master, then, discovered that you intended surrendering the castle to me. How did this knowledge come to him?"
Captain Steinmetz moistened his lips and in halting words related what had occurred in the courtyard of the castle.
"The money sent by me has therefore been lost to you?" said the Archbishop, when the recital was finished.
"Yes, my Lord."
"I would like to say that I make the loss mine, and will pay to you the whole sum originally agreed upon, as I am convinced you have done your best to terminate a struggle which, so far as Count Heinrich is concerned, was hopeless from the first. I have some curiosity to know how near starvation is to those within the castle."
Captain Steinmetz hesitated.
"There are two reasons why you may be loath to answer truthfully. The first is loyalty to your late master, but circumstances have caused me to apprehend that this consideration does not press heavily upon you. The second is that if starvation is within measurable distance, you may imagine that I repent paying good gold for a place shortly to be mine for nothing. It was to remove this impression that I stated to you a moment ago that the stipulated amount will be paid in full, not deducting the coins scattered in the castle yard. Therefore, answer truly; how stands Thuron as regards famine?"
"Famine is now there, my Lord."
"You mean they are already on short rations?"
"We have been on short rations for a long time past. I mean there is not enough food to keep the garrison alive for another ten days."
"You are sure of that?"
"Absolutely sure, my Lord."
"Were you never able to get into the castle even a scant supply from outside our lines?"
"We tried it often enough, but never succeeded."
"Ah," ejaculated the Archbishop with satisfaction; then turning to his Lordship of Cologne, he added:
"That is a compliment to our united forces, my Lord. I like to see a thing well done, when it is attempted, although I confess a more active campaign would have pleased me better. This close blockade, therefore, I look upon as a triumph more personal to yourself, perhaps, than to me."
"I trust my natural humility of mind will keep me from being too proud of it," replied his Lordship of Cologne, in dubious tones.
"You think, then, that Thuron cannot hold out many days longer?" continued Treves, again addressing Steinmetz.
"If the surrounding line is held as tightly as it has been," answered the captain, "Count Heinrich must surrender or starve."
"I see you are exhausted and will question you no more. You may retire."
Captain Steinmetz, assisted by his two supporters, left the Archbishops together. Arnold von Isenberg sat silent in his place, making no comment on the cross-examination. Conrad von Hochstaden walked up and down the tent with bowed head, absorbed in thought. He was apparently waiting for the Lord of Treves to speak first, but the other sat motionless and speechless, narrowly watching the movements of his reluctant ally.
"I suppose," said von Hochstaden at last, pausing in his promenade, "that you now expect me to remain in co-operation with you until the castle falls."
"I am not sure that I expect anything. I am waiting to hear your views, as all the circumstances of the case are now before you. I admit that I am disappointed over the failure of my latest plan; still, such is the risk all must run who attempt anything. The man who never fails is the man who never tries."
"If I could be sure this fellow speaks the truth——"
"He does speak the truth."
"How can you know?"
"Because it is not to his interest to tell a lie. He has placed the period of proving his words too near at hand to make dealing with fiction entirely safe. A prophet who sets a day for the fulfilment of his prediction must be either a true seer or a fool. Steinmetz is no fool."
"You think, perhaps, that I should be a fool to stand by you for two years and withdraw when the task is within ten days of completion."
The Archbishop of Treves spread out his hands deprecatingly, and slightly shrugged his shoulders.
"I should hesitate before I ventured to express an opinion in terms so strong as those you have suggested: I wait rather to hear your own judgment, hoping the verdict will be one with which I can cordially and conscientiously agree."
"Very well. It would be an act of folly to withdraw now that we are apparently within sight of the goal. I will, therefore, double the time held to be required, and will remain your faithful ally for twenty days longer. If, at the end of that period, the castle is not in your possession, you will place no obstacle in the way of my retirement to Cologne. If that does not meet with your approval, then make a proposal to me."
"I agree, and would have agreed had you placed the limit at ten days, so confident am I that the garrison of Thuron are at this moment in the direst straits. If unforeseen circumstances make it necessary for you to retire at the end of twenty days, I also will retire at the same time, and thus we will share defeat as we would have shared victory. Meanwhile, I suggest that until the twenty days have expired, it is necessary for both you and me to remain in this camp, for the castle may fall at any moment, and I desire that we march through its gates together, and raise the flag of Cologne on one tower and the flag of Treves on the other. I trust there is nothing impending that will make your return to Cologne, during this time, imperative?"
"No. It is not necessary for me to be in Cologne until the middle of August. I have set the fourteenth of that month as the day on which the corner stone of my cathedral is to be laid, and I wish to have my hands free of blood and myself free from feud before then, so that God's blessing may rest on the edifice."
"Such a condition is most exemplary and most necessary," said the Archbishop of Treves, with some suspicion of a sneer in his tone. "I make no doubt but your cathedral will be a beautiful building, and thrice blessed in the admitted sanctity of its founder. Well; we shall have ample time for the cleansing of hands before the fourteenth, not that there has been much blood to smear them for the past two years, but if your mind is ill at ease, I shall be happy, in the interests of good architecture, to be your confessor, and send you to the laying of the foundation stone fully absolved. It is then agreed that for twenty days we remain partners."
Thus the two Archbishops concluded their bargain, thinking perhaps of many events that might intervene between their hope and its realisation, but giving no thought to the real thunder-cloud that had been gathering so long to the south of them, and having no knowledge of a young man at that moment making his way through the forest to the east of the Rhine, his face set direct for Frankfort.
John Surrey, the archer, stumbled wearily down the crumbling shale of the steep hill, guided by the low signal cry that sounded at intervals from the edge of the Moselle. He found, on arriving breathless at the river, that Conrad had secured a boat, which, pole in hand, he held against the bank while Rodolph stood on shore impatiently awaiting the coming of his henchman. They were too near Alken for any conversation to take place, and the moment Surrey arrived, the Emperor stepped into the skiff, motioning the archer to follow. Conrad pushed the boat away from the bank, and standing upright, poled it down stream, keeping close to the southern shore, so as to be in the deep shadow of the hills. There was, however, little need for extreme caution. The whole attention of the besieging forces was concentrated in keeping intact the line around the castle, and no thought was given to what was passing outside that circle. The contest had been going on so long that the country had come to look upon it as the natural condition of the locality, and ordinary traffic up and down the river went to and fro as usual. Three men were therefore unlikely to attract much attention merely because they were floating along the stream to that great thoroughfare of commerce, the lordly Rhine. The distance to Coblentz being slightly more than four leagues, and the current tolerably swift, the Emperor expected to reach the larger river before the day dawned, short as the nights were, and in this he was not disappointed. The expedition passed unchallenged into the Rhine, and continued across that river, coming to land opposite Coblentz. Here the archer, who had slept soundly during the voyage, set out to forage for food, while Conrad, his pouch well filled with the gold of the Archbishop of Treves, a quantity of the coin having been taken for use while they were within his Lordship's sphere of influence, began his search for three riding horses that would carry the party to Frankfort. The purchase was speedily effected, for there was a depot on each side of the river for the sale or hiring of steeds, merchants from Treves going by one bank to Mayence or along the other to Frankfort being the chief customers of these horse dealers. Conrad was instructed to proclaim himself an emissary of the Archbishop of Treves, should he be questioned, and the Emperor rightly anticipated that no one would undertake to molest the minion of so powerful and haughty a Prince. But Rodolph, not being certain what state of feeling existed between the Archbishop of Mayence and his proud brother of Treves, now in active alliance with Cologne, was not so sure that a proclamation of dependence on Treves would serve to protect them further up the river, and so resolved to avoid the Rhine route, striking instead across the country direct to Frankfort, taking as his path the hypotenuse of that huge triangle, at the three extreme points of which stood Frankfort, Mayence, and Coblentz. The distance as the crow flies is scarcely more than seventeen leagues, but Rodolph knew the way would be rough, up hill and down, with numerous streams to ford, and finally the Taurus range to cross, but the course seemed safer than risking detention by the Archbishop of Mayence, or by some stupid, obstinate robber Baron along the banks of the Rhine.
The early dawn was just breaking as, having finished the hastily-prepared meal—the first satisfactory and full repast the archer or Rodolph had enjoyed for some days—the three set off up the Rhine until the Lahn was crossed; then they struck into the pathless forest. At various points they engaged woodmen or charcoal burners to guide them, dismissing a man when he came to the limit of his local knowledge, and securing another when another was to be found. The legend of that journey remained in the district for many a long day, for each guide, instead of being cast aside with a blow for his trouble, as was the custom of the country, was given a bright gold coin with the effigy of the Archbishop upon it, each piece representing untold wealth to the happy possessor. It came ultimately to be rumoured that it was the Emperor himself who made this golden pilgrimage, and how such rumour had its origin no one can rightly surmise; but, although the tale is devoutly believed by the peasantry, careful historians have proved conclusively that it is a myth, for they show that the Emperor was then returning triumphantly from the Holy Land, and consequently must have approached Frankfort from the east, and not from the north.
When the sun was at its highest altitude the party halted and rested for two hours or more in a rude hamlet on the borders of a stream in the depths of the forest; there they had their second meal, afterwards proceeding on their journey. Having secured a guide in the village, Rodolph was anxious to reach the foot of the Taurus mountains before night, for there he was confident they would come on the Roman road that led over the range directly into Frankfort. This they accomplished, and once they were on the road all fear of losing their way left them. It had now become merely a question of endurance so far as the horses were concerned. Conrad made no complaint, doing all that was required of him without grumbling, apparently untouched by fatigue; but the two years of inactivity in the castle had left the stout archer, never a good horseman, entirely unprepared for such exercise. He besought his master to rest for the night at the foot of the Taurus and continue their expedition in the morning.
"I know something of cities, my Lord," he said, "and have been present at the taking of many. We will not be allowed within the gates to-night even if we reach the walls. Therefore will it be useless for us to proceed further, for our horses are well nigh exhausted as it is, and no wonder, for the poor brutes have come through more to-day than any animal should be called upon to endure in such space of time. Besides, as I have said, the gates will be closed and you could not get in were you the Archbishop himself."
"We shall be the readier to enter in the morning," answered Rodolph sleepily, drowsing by the fire on which their supper was being prepared.
"But, my Lord, outside the walls there are usually gathered rough characters,—Egyptians and cut throats, who, for the sake of one of our gold pieces, will murder us all without compunction and with but small chance of being punished for it, not that punishment would matter to us who lay there robbed with our throats sundered. Here we may sleep safe, but a man's life is not worth a broken arrow outside the walls of Frankfort in the night time with the gates closed."
"I know Frankfort well, having being a resident of the city, so it is unlikely you can give me information regarding it. You must not forget that while we eat freely here our comrades in Thuron starve; therefore, we reach Frankfort sometime between now and dawn, the sooner to dispatch sustenance and help to our friends, if it prove to be in our power to send them aid."
"Oh, I am as anxious as any can be to send help to Thuron, and food as well, but nothing can be done in a sleeping city, and, if we are ourselves killed in our hurry, that will be small comfort to the Black Count and those with him. I am for making haste with caution."
"If you are tired, my good archer, have the courage to admit it, and then rest you here, to follow when your convenience suits."
"I am not tired, at least not more so than a man may without shame confess, who has come such a heathenish journey; but I see not the use of such eagerness to reach a city that will be sound asleep when we get there."
"Then we will awaken it, and so we may consider the discussion ended."
With many groans the archer got him on his patient horse again, and during the journey tried various devices to make travelling easier for himself. He sat sideways on the animal, with his feet dangling now on the right and now on the left. Then he tried to lie down but nearly fell off; then he sat with face to the rear, but this brought no amelioration. At last he rolled himself to the ground and swore he would walk the rest of the distance; indeed it was easy to keep pace with the jaded beasts who were now mounting the steep acclivity that leads to the heights of the range. At the summit the moon shone full on the wide plain below, and the Emperor almost persuaded himself that he saw the ancient city of Frankfort. They passed, with some caution, the stronghold of Konigstein, frowning down upon them in the moonlight, looking like a castle of white marble, and the Emperor breathed a sigh of relief when it was well in the rear with the trio still unmolested.
When at length the north gate of the capital was reached they found it in truth barred against them, as the archer had so confidently predicted. Rodolph rapped thrice upon it with the hilt of his sword.
"You might as well try to hammer down the wall," said a figure that rose out of the shadow. "They will not open. We have tried it."
"It is folly to open to any chance comer in a fortified town," grumbled the archer. "I knew well how it would be."
But as he spoke three raps were heard on the inner side of the gate, which Rodolph immediately answered with two, whereupon a small door at the side was opened slightly, and a voice asked:
"Who knocks?"
"The silk merchant," answered Rodolph.
"Travelling from where?"
"Travelling from Treves."
At once the small gate was closed and the bolts drawn from the larger leaves, which were then slowly swung apart.
A crowd had rapidly gathered at the sound of the blows on the gate, and now tried to press through, but two soldiers with pikes beat them back. When Conrad and the archer had followed their master, the gates were closed and barred again. The three horsemen found themselves under a dark echoing archway of stone, from the black mouth of which was given a view of a narrow moonlit street.
"You have a guide here for me?" said Rodolph.
"Yes, my Lord. He is to take you to the Golden Flagon."
"That is right. Let him lead on at once, for we have had a long journey."
A soldier stepped out into the light and the three followed him. He led them through the narrow winding streets of the city, flanked by tall houses whose overhanging gables caused the thoroughfares to seem more cramped than they actually were. At last he came to a street so much wider than the others that it might have been termed a square, and on one side of it stood the hostelry, from whose front the golden flagon swung in token of the good wine to be had within. Here all was silent, and the three horsemen sat where they were, while the soldier hammered with the end of his pike against a door. When it was opened there was a whispered colloquy, and then some sleepy stable boys were roused to take charge of the horses of the belated guests, while the landlord himself invited them to enter.
Rodolph swung himself from his exhausted steed, the others following his example; the archer, who had ridden from the summit of the Taurus, descending with painful slowness and extreme care.
"Take supper here," said Rodolph to his men, "and then to rest. I am sure you need it. Do not leave this house until I come or send for you. And now good-night."
"Are you not coming in also, my Lord?" asked Conrad, in surprise.
"No. My night's work is just beginning."
"Then I shall go with you, my Lord."
"No. Rest now, for I may need you early in the morning. Soldier, you are to be my guide for a short distance farther."
The soldier bowed and apparently needed no further instruction, for he led Rodolph through his capital until at length they came to a small portal at the rear of the Emperor's palace.
"This is the place, my Lord," he said, resting pike on butt and standing in attitude of attention.
Rodolph knocked thrice against the door, which signal was answered as it had been at the gate. Again he announced himself as the silk merchant from Treves, and so was admitted. Dismissing the soldier, Rodolph proceeded along a narrow passage and then up a stair into a wider hall. He was now on familiar ground, and walked briskly without hesitation until he approached a wide entrance, outside which two soldiers stood on guard.
The Emperor drew his enveloping cloak more closely about him, for his worn costume was not in such condition as befitted a monarch, but the ample cloak covered it's defects. The soldiers saluted and Rodolph passed between them into a large ante-chamber, in which, late as it was, a number of officers and messengers sat on benches round the walls, while a group of the higher ranks stood talking together in low tones. The room of Baron von Brunfels was beyond, and at the communication between the two apartments heavy crimson curtains of great thickness hung, their tasseled fringes spreading over the floor. Here two soldiers also stood, fully armed. On the entrance of the Emperor all who were seated sprang instantly to their feet, making low obeisance, which his Majesty acknowledged with an inclination of the head.
"Is Baron von Brunfels within?" asked Rodolph, addressing the senior General.
"Yes, your Majesty."
"Alone?"
"Yes, your Majesty."
"I will enter unannounced."
The heavy curtain was held back for him, and the Emperor passed through. So thick were the walls that the recess between the outer and inner curtains might almost itself be termed a small apartment. Motioning away the attendant, who would have drawn back the inner curtains also, the Emperor himself drew them aside and entered.
At a large table, littered with documents and lit by a small Roman lamp, sat a haggard, careworn man, at whom Rodolph had to look twice or thrice before he recognised his faithful servitor and firm and loyal friend, Baron von Brunfels. His dark hair had become sprinkled with grey since Rodolph last saw him, and as the Emperor stood motionless with his back against the crimson hangings the great love he felt for the man lit up his eyes, while remembrance of the anxiety he must have caused the Baron by an abrupt and long unexplained disappearance gave Rodolph a thrill of pain. He had never before realised what that disappearance had meant for Baron von Brunfels. Although there was no sound in the room, the Baron looked suddenly up, craned forward and peered across the table, gazing with startled anxiety into the comparative darkness at the other end of the room. The Emperor, with clanking spurs, took a rapid step or two forward.
"Rodolph!" cried Brunfels, in a husky undertone, springing to his feet. He seemed about to advance, but something failed within him, and he leaned heavily against the table, crying, with a sob in his voice:
"I thank God! I thank God!"
The young Emperor strode quickly to his friend, his hands upraised, and brought them down on the shoulders of the Baron, whom he drew towards him in a cordial embrace.
"My old friend," he said, repressing with difficulty the emotion that threatened to overmaster him. "My dear old friend, you are not more glad to see me than I am to see you. But I have brought an insistent personage with me other than Rodolph, and he clamours for attention."
"He! Whom?" replied the Baron, looking about him with apprehension, fearing that his friendly greeting might have had a witness, and that thus unwittingly he had embarrassed his sovereign.
"The Emperor is here, Brunfels, with weighty matters on his mind that will permit of no delay. The Emperor has at last arrived; I doubt if you have ever met him before."
"He will have most cordial welcome and support from me."
"He counts upon you, as on no other in the world. How many men have you encamped on the Rhine?"
"Forty thousand, your Majesty."
"Above or below Mayence?"
"Above. I thought it well not to pass Mayence until I received your Majesty's definite order."
"You were right. They are in divisions of ten thousand men, competently commanded, if I accurately understood your message. Detach ten thousand at once under the commander in whom you have most confidence, and send them along the Roman road to Treves. My officer will announce to whomsoever he finds in command there that I am about to pay a visit of state to his Lordship of Treves, and that my men are to enter and occupy the town until my arrival."
"If they meet opposition are they to attack Treves and capture it?"
"They will not be opposed. They go in the name of the Emperor, the overlord of the Archbishop. If the Archbishop himself is there he will not be so foolish as to oppose the entrance of my troops; if he is not there I doubt if any subordinate will have the courage to embroil him with his sovereign in his absence. However, if the unexpected happens and my troops are refused admittance, let them encamp quietly on the plain between Treves and Zurlauben until I arrive, not giving battle unless they are themselves attacked. In that case they are to take Treves if they can. Send a horseman at once with these orders, and see that this detachment is away before daybreak if possible. The other three battalions are to proceed immediately down the Rhine to Coblentz. No one on the road will dispute the passage of thirty thousand men, but if opposition takes shape they are to go through to Coblentz at all cost. Reaching Coblentz ten thousand men are to march to Cologne on exactly the same terms as the division that has gone to Treves. The remaining twenty thousand are to halt at Coblentz until we come up with them, although it is likely we shall overtake them before they reach there. Have you a thousand well-mounted men?"