"Not so, my uncle," cried Tekla, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm, "we are all loyal subjects of his Majesty, I hope, and I confess I should like to hear how he prospers. I beg you to admit the pious father."
"He is most likely a pious spy, sent by the connivance of the Archbishops, whose tool he is. Their Lordships desire to know how matters stand within the fortress."
"Even if that be the case," put in Rodolph, mildly, "I should be the last to baulk their curiosity. It would give me pleasure to have them know that the stout Count Heinrich is well, and has no fear of them, either separate or united. It may comfort the Archbishops to learn that we were faring generously when their envoy came upon us, and that Heinrich of Thuron thought them of so small account that he permitted a man coming from their camp and through their lines to enter his dining hall."
The Count's eye lit up for a moment as he glanced round his hall, then the light died out, gloom came upon his brow, and once more he bent his gaze on the table in silence.
"I would suggest, however, that the Palmer be blindfolded before he is taken up the ladder, and so conducted to the Count's presence. It may be prudent to conceal from him how well the gates are barricaded. If he actually comes from the Emperor, I confess, like the Countess here, I think so much of his Majesty that I should dearly love to have news of him. What say you, my lord Count?"
"Have it as you will. There is no desire on my part to hear of his Majesty, so question the Palmer as best pleases you. Admit the man, Steinmetz, but blindfold him as has been suggested."
A few minutes later the monk was led into the hall, advancing with caution as a blind man does, gropingly uncertain regarding his footsteps, placing one sandal tentatively before the other, as if he feared a trap, although led by the captain, who at last removed the bandage from his blinking eyes, thus bringing him suddenly from darkness to light. The monk bowed low to each one present, then stood with folded arms, awaiting permission to speak. If he were indeed a spy he showed no indication of it: his face was calm and imperturbable, and looked little like the countenance of a man in fear of the fate which must quickly have followed conviction as an informant.
"You come from the Holy Land, Father?" began Rodolph.
"Not so, my Lord. I come from Frankfort, but there has recently arrived from Palestine a messenger, who brought brave tidings from his noble Majesty, the Emperor Rodolph of Germany."
"Indeed. And who sends you forth, or do you come of your own accord?"
"I am sent forth by the Baron von Brunfels, now in Frankfort, to relate intelligence of the Emperor in all castles and camps and strongholds, to those of noble birth, who are, I trust, loyal subjects of his Majesty."
"That are we all here, holy father," cried Tekla with enthusiasm.
The monk bowed low to the lady.
"I trust that the Baron von Brunfels is well. He is a dear friend of mine," said Rodolph.
"He is well, my Lord, but somewhat haggard with the care of state which has fallen upon him in his Majesty's absence. He is thought to be over-anxious regarding his Majesty's welfare; but I surmise that the news he has now received of him may bring more cheerfulness to his brow than has been seen there of late."
"Doubtless that will be the case," remarked Rudolph, with a deep sigh. "Do you know to what particular part of the business of state Baron von Brunfels bends his energies?"
"Particularly to the army, my Lord. He has greatly increased it, drawing men mainly from Southern Germany, and placing in command of them officers who come from the Emperor's own part of the country. It is said he is raising a company of archers, not armed with the cross-bow, but with a thin weapon held in one hand, so marvellously inaccurate that when the regiment practices near Frankfort the people round about fly to their houses, saying there is little security for life while that company is abroad, as no prophet can predict where their shafts will alight. Prayers are offered that this company be disbanded, or that Providence will confer greater blessings on their marksmanship than has hitherto been vouchsafed."
"Ah, it is a pity we cannot lend the Baron our good archer, who would do more for the efficiency of the company than much devotion. Does rumour give any reason for this increase of the army, or has Baron von Brunfels said anything regarding its purpose?"
"It is believed that a large reinforcement will presently be sent to the Emperor in Palestine, when the men are more accustomed to their duties."
"A most scandalous waste of human lives," cried the Black Count, sternly. "German men should fight their enemies at home or on the borders of German land. Of what benefit are the desert sands to us, even should we win them?"
The monk seemed shocked at this, and devoutly crossed himself, but made no reply. Tekla flashed an indignant look at her uncle, but spoke instead to Rodolph.
"My Lord," she said, "you seem more interested in the Baron than in the Emperor. I wish to hear of his Majesty's campaign in the Holy Land."
"True, Countess, I had forgotten myself, and I beg you to pardon me. The Baron is a very dear friend of mine, as I have said, but I will have speech with our visitor later concerning him. Now, Father, what of the Emperor?"
"His Majesty, the Emperor, has proven himself a warrior not only of great personal bravery, but one who is a redoubted general as well. He has displayed marvellous knowledge of the arts of war, and has routed the infidels, horse and foot, wherever he encountered them, scattering them like chaff before the wind. Threescore of their bravest leaders has he slain with his own hand, until now his very name spreads terror throughout the land. When it is known he leads the Christian host, the Saracens fly without giving battle, and cannot be lured into the field to face him."
"In God's name, then," cried the irate Count, "why doesn't he take Palestine with his own hand, and return so that he may reduce at least two of his truculent Princes to order and some respect for him? Germany is languishing for a ruler of such prowess. Told you the Archbishops of all this?"
"I did, my Lord."
"And what said they?"
"They prayed that he might be long spared to perform such deeds in the Holy Land, and are about to offer Mass in honour of his victories over the heathen."
"I can well believe it. If masses will keep him in the East he will never return to Germany. I have no patience with such old wives' tales."
The Count rose from his bench and strode from the room, saying to Steinmetz as he departed:
"See that this relator of fables is carefully deposited outside the walls in the way he came, and allow no loitering in the courtyard."
"My Lord," cried Rodolph as the Count approached the door, "I wish to have some converse with the good Father alone, and I desire to offer him refreshment before he departs from us. Have I your sanction?"
The Black Count paused near the door and looked back at the assemblage before answering. Then he said:
"Captain Steinmetz, you will obey his Lordship's orders as faithfully as if they came from me."
With this command he withdrew from the room. The ladies also rose and bent their heads to receive the blessing of the monk, thanking him for what he had told them, and expressing a wish that this should not be his last visit to the castle.
Refreshments were placed on the table, to which the monk, on being invited, devoted himself with right good will. Rodolph requested Captain Steinmetz to leave them alone together.
"Are you the only messenger Baron von Brunfels sends forth from Frankfort?" asked Rodolph.
"No, my Lord, there are many of us. One goes east, another west, and so in all directions. It is the desire of Baron von Brunfels that the people know as speedily as possible of the deeds done by their brave Emperor."
"A most loyal and laudable intention, which will be well carried out if all the messengers are as faithful and competent as you are, Father. Do you return instantly to Frankfort?"
"No, my Lord. I go now up the Moselle to Treves, and so back in a southerly direction to the capital."
"I ask you, then, to change your plans, and return forthwith to Frankfort."
"'Twould be contrary to the orders of my Lord of Brunfels. I dare not disobey him."
"Nevertheless, I request you to do so, and I give you my assurance that you will be the most welcome visitor the Baron has received this many a day, and that he himself will tell you so, blessing you for your disobedience."
"If the news you have to send is so important to him, I might venture to change my route, but as I shall have to suffer if a mistake is made, while you are safe in this castle, I must judge of the importance of your message by hearing it."
"Friendship lends importance to tidings that may seem trivial to a stranger. The Baron is my most intimate friend, therefore I ask of you to remember carefully and relate accurately what I have to send him. Tell him the silk merchant whom he accompanied to Treves is well, and is now in Castle Thuron."
"I carry not news of silk merchants, but of Emperors," cried the monk resentfully, for, despite his calling, even his humility was offended by the sudden descent from the highest to the lowest, in a country where rank was so greatly esteemed.
"Remember, Father, that the founder of our Holy Church was the son of a carpenter."
"He was the Son of God."
"Most true, but reputed to be what I say, and his Apostles were poor fishermen. Therefore it may well be that when you carry news of a silk merchant you are no less ignoble a messenger than when you carry news of an Emperor. Tell the Baron the silk merchant sends him greeting, and asks him to persevere in the augmenting of the army, which the silk merchant hopes will, from its very strength and efficiency, prove to be, not an engine of war, but an assurance of peace. To be thus effective, however, it must be undeniably stronger than any forces that may combine against it. Say that the West and the North have combined, which fact he probably already knows. The Baron is, therefore, not to interfere in any struggle that may be going on, but rather to keep a close watch upon it, and to have everything ready when a command is sent him. Have you given strict heed to my message, good Father? Repeat it to me."
"Baron von Brunfels is to be made aware that the silk merchant who accompanied him to Treves is at present in Castle Thuron. The army is to be increased and made more efficient. The West and the North have combined, which I take to mean, that Europe is as one against the Saracen, and that the Emperor's army is to be made stronger than the combination, so that when he gives the command, he will be at the head of a force superior to all others sent out, and may thus bring the war to an end without further blood being shed, through the mere terror of his name, supplemented by an army so redoubtable."
"I beg you to colour not your message with your own explanations but to attend more strictly to the exact words I give you. Say that when further news of the Emperor comes to him, he is to send you again to Castle Thuron, and he may give you instructions that will be for my ear alone. You will, therefore, be careful, if you value the good opinion of the Baron, to keep strictly apart the message for me and the general intelligence which you recite to the Archbishops. Say that the silk merchant is in safe quarters, and thinks it better to make no premature attempt to leave Thuron. The main thing at present is to get together as many troops as will outnumber two to one the forces of the West and the North. All this is not done in a day. Do you go back to the Archbishops?"
"No, my Lord. I intended to journey up the Moselle."
"Are you afoot?"
"The Baron von Brunfels, wishing me speed, gave me a horse, to which I am only now becoming accustomed. I left it at the village below in care of a soldier, it being my intention to travel to-night to the valley of the Brodenbach, and rest at the castle of Ehrenburg."
"Ehrenburg can wait for its news of the Emperor. Go, therefore, up the Brodenbach valley as was your first determination, but continue on past the castle until you come to the Frankfort road. Rest then if you must, but know that the sooner you reach Frankfort the better will you please the Baron."
Rodolph called to Steinmetz, who again blindfolded the monk, and accompanied by Emperor and captain the Palmer was set once more outside the walls, and disappeared in the night down the hill towards Alken.
The Countess Tekla spent the greater portion of her time waiting upon her aunt, who, never having known a true friend in her life before, clung to the girl with a pathetic insistence, unhappy if Tekla was out of her sight. The natural positions of the two seemed reversed; the elder woman leaning dependently on the younger, and looking to her for protection, as a child looks to its mother. When Tekla was busy in the courtyard garden her aunt would sit on the balcony and watch her every movement with a dumb, tender affection that was most touching. The elder rarely spoke, and never smiled except when Tekla looked up to her with a smile on her own pretty lips.
Rodolph often wished the aunt were not quite so much the shadow of the niece, but there was such love between the two women that he never ventured to suggest to Tekla his hope that he might be permitted now and then to enjoy her companionship unshared. He worked with her in the garden, and often said that he expected to make horticulture his occupation when the siege was over, so expert had he become under the charming instruction of his fair teacher.
When winter intervened, and the spring came again, Rodolph jokingly suggested that they should plant grain instead of flowers, as there was still no sign that the Archbishops were becoming tired of their undertaking. The second winter passed, and a second spring found the living line around the castle still intact, thus Rodolph's former jest began to take a grimmer meaning, for provisions were indeed running low, and the two years' supply, which seemed at first almost inexhaustible, was now coming to an end, yet not a pound of wheat or a gallon of wine had succeeded in getting through the cordon drawn by the stubborn Archbishops. Rodolph had counted on a quarrel between the two commanders ere this, but there was no indication of dissension in the opposing camp. The bitter persistence of the siege he laid to the account of the Archbishop of Treves, and in this he was right. There was, however, one grain of consolation in its continuance; so long as the armies of the Archbishops were encircling Thuron, they were out of mischief elsewhere, and the rest of Germany was at peace. Rodolph could not help thinking that if it came to a fight the troops would hardly be as warlike as they had shown themselves two years before, when the siege began, for the sound of revelry came up each night from the camp, and the idle men were industriously drinking their thousand gallons of wine each day, which tended more to hilarity than discipline. Nevertheless, they held tightly to the castle, and there was no relaxing of the lines that surrounded it. On several occasions attempts were made to get through by one or other belonging to the garrison, but in each case without success. The deserters were turned back, the officers refusing even to make prisoners of them.
Meanwhile the Emperor periodically received news from the capital, and was compelled also to listen to long-winded mythical accounts of his own bravery in the East, which did much credit to the fictional power of the romancer in Frankfort who put the stories together. When at last it was reported to him that the army centred in Frankfort, and at other points within easy call of the capital, was fit to cope successfully with all opposition, the Emperor resolved to quit the castle by stealth if possible, and if that proved impracticable, to send word when next the monk came, telling Brunfels to lead the army in person up the Moselle and raise the siege of Thuron. His hope, however, was to get away from the castle and himself give the command to the Archbishops to cease their warfare.
But another matter occupied his mind, almost to the exclusion of the great affairs of state, which should perhaps have had his undivided attention, because of their paramount importance. This interest held him a willing prisoner in Thuron, and it may be some excuse for his inaction—for his reluctance in showing himself a real and not a nominal Emperor—that he was less than thirty years of age. Before he quitted Thuron, therefore, he desired to know whether the Countess Tekla regarded him as a dear friend or a dearer lover. It was his right to come at the head of his army and demand the girl, for even if she had, when sorely pressed, rebelled against being bestowed upon an equal in rank and wealth in the person of Count Bertrich, yet, whatever her personal inclinations might be, she could not deny the suit of the Emperor, were he as ugly as Calaban, as old as Methuselah, and as wicked as Beelzebub. Such a refusal would have been unheard of under the feudal law, and would certainly not have been allowed by the upholders of it. But Rodolph was in the mind to keep all prerogatives of his position for other purposes, and trust to his own qualities in pursuing the course that Cupid had marked out for him. If the girl cared nothing for him as Lord Rodolph, he would not ask her to bestow her affection upon the Emperor.
The moon was shining brightly over the Moselle valley when he determined to escape from the castle, and as he had resolved to take the archer and Conrad with him, not only as a bodyguard, but in order that there might be less demand on the almost empty larder of the castle, he had to wait for a night when the moon was obscured, or until it grew older and rose later. It would be impossible for the three of them to get away when night was as light as day; indeed experience had proved the futility of even one attempting to quit the stronghold; but the Emperor was imbued with the belief that he could succeed where others had failed. The archer had formulated a plan for their escape in conjunction with his friend Roger Kent, who was now on guard at a portion of the line in the Thaurand valley after midnight, and although Surrey had had as yet no chance of consulting his friend, he surmised there would be little difficulty in persuading him to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear up the valley for a few minutes to accommodate an old comrade.
Things were at this pass when, one afternoon, Rodolph was with the Countess Tekla in the garden while the girl's aunt sat on the balcony watching them.
"My Lady," said Rodolph, in a low voice, "I have serious complaint to make of you."
"Of me, my Lord," asked the girl, in surprise, glancing swiftly up at him.
"Yes, Countess. While we have each, even to Count Heinrich himself, taken turns in keeping watch and ward on the battlements, you have never shouldered pike and marched up and down the promenade. Yet is there reason for that. Your doing so would attract rather than repel the enemy, so perhaps we were wise in allowing you to work in the garden instead. Still, you should at least encourage those on guard, and as this promises to be a beautiful night, and as I pace the battlements until the stroke of twelve, I beg of you to come upon the parapet soon after our evening meal and bear me company for an hour or so. I make it a question of duty, if I cannot persuade you else."
"I am not one to shirk from duty," said the Countess, brightly, "so upon that basis will I assist you to repel the invaders. Besides, I wish to see the valley bathed in the moonlight, and have long desired to venture on the battlements, and would have done so before now had not my uncle forbidden it. But that was long since, and perhaps he apprehends no danger at this time."
"The ramparts are as safe as the quietest street in Frankfort, and I do assure you that the valley in the moonlight is most lovely and well worth gazing upon. I may, then, look forward to your coming?"
"Yes, unless my uncle or aunt object."
"They will not object, especially if you do not ask their permission, which I beg you not to do. Just make the venture, and I will guarantee that no one will have aught to say against your presence on the platform of the west wall."
And thus it came about that the Countess Tekla, with a fleecy white scarf thrown over her fair head, reaching down to her waist, looking as if it had been woven from the moonbeams themselves, walked on the stone terrace that night with Lord Rodolph of Hapsburg, and then was the time, had the Archbishops been looking for a favourable opportunity of attack, to charge upon the fortress, for never since the world began was watch so carelessly kept in ancient stronghold, as when these two young people guarded grim Castle Thuron.
"This reminds me of another night," said Rodolph. "The moon shone as brightly, and the river flowed on as peacefully under its mild radiance. Does your recollection join with mine?"
"Yes. It was the night we left Treves."
"Together."
Tekla looked up at him, then gently murmured a repetition of the word.
"It was an idyllic voyage," he continued, "whose remembrance lingers as does the fragrance of a precious flower. Its dangers seem to have faded away, and only the charm remains. The recollection of it is like a beautiful dream: a vision of Heaven rather than an actuality of earth."
The Countess Tekla paused in her walk, and clasping her hands over her breast, gazed up the valley at the winding ribbon of silver far below, the glamour and soft witchery of the moonlight in the lustre of her eyes.
"There can be nothing more beautiful in the world than the Moselle," she said, slowly.
"It is indeed an enchanted river, but that night it looked upon a beauty superior to its own."
"I shall not pretend ignorance of your meaning, my Lord, and so take the compliment to myself, undeserving of it though I may be. But my treatment of you then was, I fear, a sad blemish on whatever of beauty I may possess. I see you now standing on the rock by the margin of the stream, to which my petulance and suspicion unwarrantably banished you. I often think of my injustice, pain mingling with pleasure in the remembrance, which is unaccountable, for I should dwell on the incident with regret only, yet it passes my comprehension that I experience felicity in conning it over. You looked like an indignant god of the Moselle, standing there silent in the moonlight, and even although I deeply distrusted you then—you must remember I had not seen you until that moment—I felt as if I were a culprit, refusing to pay just toll as I floated on the river you guarded."
"Ah, Countess, payment deferred makes heavy demand when time for settlement ultimately comes. The river god now asks for toll, with two years' interest, compounded and compounded, due."
"Alas!" cried the Countess, arching her eyebrows, and spreading out her empty hands, accompanying the word with a little nervous laugh, "I fear I am bankrupt. Should this siege succeed, as it seems like to do——"
"What siege, my Lady?"
"The siege of Castle Thuron," she answered, looking sideways at him. "Is there another?"
"I had another in my mind at the moment. I trust that it too will be successful, or rather that it will be successful and the Archbishops' effort fail. But if Thuron falls, what then, my Lady?"
"Then am I bankrupt, for my lands will be confiscated and other grievous things may happen. With lands and castles gone, how can I pay the river god his fee, even were he generous to forego his rightful interest, twice or thrice compounded?"
"The gods, my Lady, traffic not in castles nor in lands. Were these tendered, free of fee or vassalage, your river god would value them no more than the lump of rock he stood upon, and would proclaim to all the Moselle valley his charge was still unsatisfied."
"Then he is no god, but a Frankfort usurer."
"That he is indeed, my Lady; rapacious, exacting, demanding that to which he has no rightful claim, yet still demanding. And worse than any mortgage broker, because he knows no debt has been incurred, but the reverse, for such slight service as he rendered was a pleasure to him, and he knew himself deeply the debtor in that it was accepted of him. And yet, my Lady, this confessed cozening knave implores recompense so far above his merits, that there is this to say in his behalf: his tongue, more modest than his thoughts, hesitates to formulate in words his arrogant petition. I stand here landless and castleless, but I hope a gentleman, and if any man question that I am as noble as the Archbishop himself I will dispute his contention with my sword; brushing aside all thought of the possessions that may come to you or to me, are you content, my Lady Tekla, to place your hand in my empty palm and say, 'Rodolph, I take you for my future husband'?"
He stood with both hands outstretched, and she a little distance from him, her head bowed, once venturing to dart a swift glance at him, again scrutinising the silent stones lying in the moonlight at her feet. Then suddenly she placed both her hands in his, and cried breathlessly:
"Rodolph, Rodolph, it were a foolish bargain for you, and I cannot have it so. Wait, wait a little, till I know whether I have what should be mine; whether I am to be as poor as any village maiden in Alken yonder; then ask me, Rodolph. In either case ask me then, and I will answer you."
"No, Tekla, answer me now—now."
"You are young, Rodolph. Oh, why must I be wise for two?—your way is to make, and I must not retard your career. You join a tottering house: my only relative cannot hold his own with his single sword. I feel disaster hovering over us, and yet so shallow a maid am I, that I came joyously forth to be with you on this promenade, unheeding of impending calamity. Think what you do, my Lord: the powerful Archbishops are your enemies, and there is no kin of mine to befriend you. Wait, wait, wait."
"I have already waited—for two years have I waited; I want my answer now, Tekla."
"No, no. This madness is of the moonlight. They say the moon, when it shines brightly—our talk of the river spirits has made us blind to practical things, and so I seem to be myself one of the Rhine maidens who lure men on to destruction. I will not be the Lorelei of the Moselle. Let me go, my Lord: I should not have come here to the battlements in the moonlight, for reason has fled from us. You shall not blight your noble career for one so ill-fated as I. See what I have already done. My uncle besieged this two years, and now certain of defeat. You imprisoned here when you should have been making your way in the East, or in Germany, where, with your bravery, your name would have rung throughout the land. I will not embroil you with the Archbishops, and perhaps with the Emperor himself. Go forth, Lord Rodolph, from this doomed house, and come to me, if you still wish, when I shall not retard you."
"My career I shall look to with satisfied mind and heart, if first I have assurance from you that all is well with my love. I have no fears for my future. I willingly stayed my career at a single sight of you, for I came to Treves to see the Archbishop, and not to look upon the Countess Tekla. It seems to me amazing that there ever was a time when I had to say to my comrade, 'Who is she?' yet such was indeed the case, for when I should have been gazing at Arnold von Isenberg, my thoughts and glances were all for the lady who rode by his side. My being in the skiff was no accident, as you thought, but the result of careful planning, with a craft worthy of Arnold himself. I came here willingly, eagerly, and not through inadvertence, and Thuron never held so complacent a prisoner, nor one who so welcomed captivity as I, less held by its adamantine walls than by your silken bondage, if my glad restraint merit so harsh a name. Tekla, I love you at dawn, at mid-day, in darkness, or in moonlight; all's one to me. How is it with you, my lady of the silver light?"
"Oh, with me, with me, Rodolph, what need to answer that which all may see so plainly? What need for you to ask, when every glance that fell from my eyes upon you must have betrayed me? Oh, my knight of the water-lapped rock, I loved you ever since first I saw you standing there, flinging your abandoned sword at my feet, for the protection of one so cruel and unjust. And now must my foolish fondness drag you down with me into the torrent that may overwhelm us both? Rodolph, Rodolph, I cry to you beware, for I cannot protest longer, and am so selfish that, for your love, I would defy fate; so ungenerous that while my lips warn you my heart hopes you will not heed. Oh, Rodolph, I have loved you since the world began."
The young man, suddenly releasing her imprisoned hands, clasped the girl unresisting to him and on her trembling dewy lips pressed, long and tenderly, their first kiss; she, with a deep sigh, closing her eyes, and resigning herself to his tenderness. For him, no less than for her, the moment was supreme, and it seemed as if the world had faded from them and they stood alone in delirious space together. The tent of the Archbishops, precursor of the great Cathedral, shone white in the moonlight, looking in calm unconsciousness at the plans of its august builders crumbling to pieces, through the action of a man and woman.
Not on the battlements alone did lovers meet. At nearly the same hour of the night after the ill-kept guard on the promenade, Conrad set forth to greet Hilda, as had been his custom for many evenings during the past two years. The girl stole quietly up among the sadly trampled grape vines to a corner of the castle which the two had made their own. There was an angle in the wall under the northern tower which was in darkness whether the moon shone or no, and above this stone alcove, the machicolated wall gave Conrad an opportunity for descent unseen, which would not have been possible from the promenade itself, except on dark nights. Here he placed his rope, and thus he slipped silently down to meet the girl who crept up from the village for the pleasure of holding whispered converse with him. When it had become evident that the castle was to be starved into submission, there was no further talk of Hilda returning to her old service. The girl would at least have plenty to eat in the village, which could not be guaranteed to her in the castle, and although Hilda would have run the risk of starving had she been allowed to return, the Countess herself felt she could not, in justice to those beleaguered with her, allow the tire woman to leave her present lodging.
Of late, although they stood in the shadow, Hilda's sharp eyes noted the ever-increasing gauntness of Conrad, who, like all within the castle, except the two ladies, was placed on short rations, and at last the girl brought up with her, without saving anything, cakes of her own baking from the village, and although at first Conrad thought of sharing his good fortune with his comrades, reflection showed him that this could not be done without endangering the secret of their rendezvous. Thus their retreat in the secluded embrasure of the silent walls had become a nocturnal picnic, Hilda watching her lover with tender solicitude while he ate, sure for one night at least he should not starve. She begged him to let her come oftener, but he, fearing discovery, would not permit this, for her passing through the lines too frequently might raise suspicion in the camp, where the greatest precautions were taken to permit no supplies to pass the cordon, in which task the besiegers were amazingly successful.
Their time of meeting was early in the evening, while the Count and his household were at their last meal of the day, as at that hour there was less chance of interruption, and there was also the advantage that Hilda could return to Alken before it grew late.
Conrad had finished his welcome repast and the two stood in the darkness together, the gloom perhaps made the more intense because it contrasted so strongly with the sloping hillside flooded with bright moonlight, when Hilda's quick ear, ever on the alert for a sound on the wall above or the earth beneath them, heard a stealthy step, and she whispered suddenly:
"Hush! Some one is approaching along the west side."
They remained breathless a few moments listening, and Conrad was about to say he heard nothing, when round the corner came a muffled stooped figure, which, although it was in darkness itself, stood out like a black silhouette against the moonlit hills opposite. With a thrill of fear Conrad recognised the evil face of Captain Steinmetz, peering with anxious eyes ahead of him, luckily not in their direction, but towards the plantation that clothed the hillside where the vineyard ended. At first he thought the captain had discovered something of the meeting in the corner, but it was soon evident that officer had no suspicion, thinking himself entirely alone.
The two stood there in acute suspense, with Steinmetz before them, almost within touching distance, did Conrad but reach out his hand. While they trembled thus, scarce daring to breathe, they saw emerging from the plantation, two figures, also cloaked, who paused at the edge of the wood, and on the captain giving utterance to a low sibilant sound like the soft hissing of a serpent, the two darted quickly across the band of moonlight and stood beside the captain in the shadow of the great north tower.
"Have you brought the money?" were the first words of Steinmetz, spoken under his breath, but as distinctly heard by Conrad and his companion as by those to whom the remark was addressed.
"We have brought three bags of it, Captain," said the foremost man. "The rest will be given you when the castle is ours."
"But that is not according to the bargain," protested Steinmetz.
"It is according to the command of the Archbishop," replied the other, with a shrug of his shoulders. "His Lordship is under the impression that you can trust him with quite as much faith as he can trust you. If you deal fair and honourably towards us, there will be no fear that you will be cozened out of the rest of the money. If not—well, you will be three weighty bags of gold to the good, but I warn you, there will be little opportunity of enjoying it, for the Archbishop will exact stern interest when the castle ultimately falls, as fall it must."
"A bargain is a bargain," muttered Steinmetz, in no good humour.
"The Archbishop will keep it, and if you stand by your word, the remainder of the money will be paid you to-morrow night. So that is not long to wait, for you will have but small chance of spending it in the interval. Your hesitation gives colour to the Archbishop's suspicions that you intend to play him false. I would I were so sure of as much gold in so short a time, if you mean fair."
"Oh, I mean fair enough, and will take the gold, but I like not this distrust of a man's motives."
"It is remarkable," replied the other, nonchalantly, "that the Archbishop should be suspicious of you. I confess I do not understand it myself, but I am simply the messenger, and merely lay down the orders of my master. Do you take the money?"
"Yes, unless you now say you have forgotten to bring it, and that I must deliver up the castle for nothing, and whistle for payment."
"No; the gold is here. You accept the Archbishop's terms, then?"
"Yes, since it is his will to drive so cautious a bargain."
The other turned to his fellow and took from him three well-filled bags, each about half the size of a man's head, and these he passed to the captain, who concealed them under his cloak. When the folds of the cloak had fallen over and covered the treasure, the ambassador of the Archbishop said:
"What are your final instructions regarding the assault on the castle?"
"I have caused to be removed from the gates the bags of sand and earth, for I have had communication with the Black Count, telling him there is no fear of an attack, and that we must hold ourselves in readiness, before hunger too much weakens us, to open the gates and sally forth to cut our way through the lines, and so escape. In this he agrees with me, and even while I speak the gates are free, and may be opened by any one from the inside. If you have your men in readiness to-morrow night when the bell tolls twelve, taking care to keep them unseen and under cover in the forest before the gates, until about an hour after midnight, when the moon begins to throw the shadow of the wood nearly to the wall, you can approach silently and with caution, when you will find the gates push open at a touch. We change guard at midnight, and it may be half an hour after that time before I will have opportunity to undo the bars and bolts and leave the gates swinging freely. I shall give orders to the sentinel to keep himself at the end of the battlements near this tower, still it will be as well if you observe caution until you are in the castle. I shall dispose the men-at-arms within so that you need not fear much opposition, for they are at best half starved, and will have little pluck to fight; but it is best to secure at once the body of the Count, who may otherwise rally them and give you more trouble than you look for. With reasonable luck, and all precaution, there need not be a blow struck, but if you bungle and raise a premature alarm, you are like to stir a hornet's nest, unless you secure at once Black Heinrich and the young man Rodolph, who is his lieutenant, and who can fight like the fiend himself. He it was who brought the Countess Tekla from Treves, and I think the Archbishop will be glad to have hold of him, and should give me extra pay for his capture."
Conrad had stood with dropped jaw, listening to this black treachery so calmly enunciated by the captain, whose oath laid it upon him to protect the lives of those he was thus coolly selling for gold. Conrad remained motionless until the reference to the capture of his master was made, then, forgetting where he was and the great need of secrecy, he strode forward before Hilda could restrain him and cried, his voice quivering with anger:
"You traitorous devil! Captain Judas!"
The three men jumped as if the Black Count himself had unexpectedly sprung upon them, each whipping out his sword. Hilda, with a moan, sank almost senseless to the ground at the angle of the walls, where she lay unnoticed. Conrad being unarmed, saw that he would have no chance against three, whose swords were already at his throat, so he sprang aside from the well swung blade of the captain, flung himself on one of the Archbishop's men, and wrested his weapon from him, the other, baffled by the darkness and bewildered by the suddenness of the crisis, was thus unable to come to the assistance of his colleague. Defending himself from the onslaught of Captain Steinmetz, Conrad raised his voice and shouted:
"Help! Turn out the guard! Treason! Treason!"
Along the top of the battlements were heard the hurried footsteps of the sentinel, who cried as he ran:
"An attack! To arms; to arms!"
The keen-witted captain saw that not a moment was to be lost, or destruction would fall on him. He turned savagely to the envoys and said:
"Fly at once. Leave me to deal with this. You must not be seen."
The ambassadors, nothing loth to be quit of a situation so unforeseen and so dangerous, fled to the plantation and disappeared. Steinmetz easily parried the blows of Conrad, who was unused to the handling of a sword, and when the sentinel looked over the wall, the captain said, sternly and authoritatively:
"Cease your foolish shouting. Open the gates and send me here six armed men as quickly as possible. Then come and stand on the wall at this corner. I have other commands for you."
"Shall I call his Lordship the Count?"
"No. Obey at once, and attend strictly to what I have said to you."
The sentinel departed, trailing his pike behind him. A few moments later the six men with drawn swords came running along the western wall, to the spot where their master was holding off the infuriated Conrad.
"Seize this traitor," cried Steinmetz, "and gag him. Then conduct him to the courtyard, where he is to be hanged forthwith. Sentinel, search the battlements and find the ladder by which this rascal got out of the fortress."
The six men, with their gagged prisoner, now marched back the way they had come, Captain Steinmetz, pleased with his own resourcefulness in a difficult situation, striding after them.
"Here is the rope dangling from the parapet," shouted the sentinel.
"Then bring it with you to the courtyard. I have use for it," cried the captain, over his shoulder.
Hilda, moaning hysterically, yet fearful she would discover herself, crouched along the wall in the shadow, following the cortége marching to the open gates. She was shrewd enough to recognise the fact that if she was to save her lover she must act quickly, and, if possible, get to the Black Count himself, or failing him, to Rodolph. She knew there could be no appeal to Captain Steinmetz, who must kill the witness of his treachery, and that speedily, if he were to save his own head. She slipped in behind the procession before the gates were closed, and kept craftily in the rear of the excited throng who crowded round the prisoner and their captain. She saw the sentinel coming down from the battlements with the fatal rope in his hand, and heard as in a dream the captain telling his indignant followers of their comrade's treachery. Waiting to hear no more the girl ran like a hare, easily unseen, for all attention was being paid to the captain's words, while curses were muttered against the gagged and helpless man, to the main doorway and up the stair, nearly upsetting Surrey, who came out of the great hall with some trenchers in his hand. The Count sat moody at the head of the table, with the others in their usual positions. To their surprise, there burst in upon them a wild, dishevelled, frantic creature, whom, at the moment, none of them recognised.
"Oh, my Lord! My Lord!" she cried; "they are hanging Conrad in the courtyard. Oh, my Lord, save him! Save him!"
The Black Count started up in sudden anger, and roared with an oath:
"What if they are? He deserves it, I doubt not. Get you gone. How dare you come screeching here like a night owl? Take this beldame away to a mad house!" he shouted to the archer, who had entered, anxious to learn what exciting event was going forward.
"It is Hilda! It is Hilda!" cried the Countess Tekla, springing to her feet, and rushing to the frightened girl. "Hilda, what is it? Speak calmly. You are safe here."
"Oh, my Lady, it is Conrad who is in danger. Save him, save him. I cannot talk or it will be too late. Steinmetz is hanging him. The captain sold the castle to the Archbishop, and Conrad saw it done. Therefore he is killing Conrad. Oh, make haste, my Lord."
"What is that?" roared the Black Count. "Steinmetz a traitor? It is a lie!"
"Let us see to it at once, my Lord," said Rodolph, sternly, "The thing does not seem to me so incredible."
Count Heinrich grasped a naked sword, and with it in his hand, strode to the door bareheaded as he was, his great shock of shaggy coal-black hair seeming to bristle in anger. Rodolph, also picking up a sword, quickly followed him. The Count jangled down the stone steps, and, emerging into the courtyard, beheld a striking scene. Notwithstanding the bright moonlight, part of the courtyard was in darkness, and men stood there holding lighted torches above their heads, whose yellow flaring rays mingled strangely with the pure white beams of the moon. The gates were now shut, and the space within the walls was clamorous with excited men, most of whom were gazing upward at a man astride a piece of timber that projected from the castle wall, bidding him make haste. He had the rope between his teeth, and was working his way to the end of the beam, somewhat over-cautious, perhaps fearing a fall on the hard flags beneath. Steinmetz, who shot forth curt commands, palpably nervous with impatience, feeling the necessity for a regular execution before witnesses, yet cursing the inevitable slowness of the proceedings, kept an eye on the doorway, and was thus the first to see the coming of the Black Count, whose mottled face in the glare of the torches looked like a death's head. The captain started, and clenched and unclenched his hands in an agony of anxiety, yet he knew his master could have no suspicion of the real state of the case, and he counted on his impulse to hang the man first and make inquiry after. It was not the Count's coming he so much feared as that of the man who followed him, for he knew the cool mastery of Lord Rodolph, who would perhaps insist on the ungagging of the prisoner, and the hearing of his version. If then he could get Conrad partly throttled while making explanations to his master, all might yet be well, even were the gag removed, and so after the first spasm of surprise at the unexpected coming of the Black Count, he breathed easier, casting an evil eye on Rodolph, ready to resent his interference, and to inflame the Count against him, if, as he rightly surmised, there was not too great a liking between the two. Conrad swayed slightly from side to side as he stood bound and gagged, the loop of the rope round his neck. His face was ghastly in its pallor, and looked as if life had already left it, the wanness of its appearance being heightened by a trickle of blood which flowed down his chin from the spot where the rude putting in of the gag had cut his lip.
The tall nobleman came forward with martial stride, his men falling into immediate silence as they noticed his presence among them. When he spoke it was with a level calmness for which Rodolph was not prepared, after the outburst that almost immediately preceded it in the hall. The Count looked lowering at his officer, and said:
"What have we here, Captain Steinmetz?"
"A traitor, my Lord. I have, for some time, suspected him, and to-night kept watch upon him. He slipped down the walls by this rope which the sentinel but a few moments since found there. I came upon him trafficking with two emissaries of the Archbishop, and when I called to the sentinel, all three fell upon me. This man himself, when the guards came to my rescue, was fighting with a sword belonging to the Archbishop. My lieutenant here, who disarmed him, informs me that it is a Treves blade, and he will tell you that he took it from him."
"That is true, my Lord," said the lieutenant, when the Count darted a piercing glance at him.
"In what is this man a traitor, Captain Steinmetz?" next asked the Black Count, still speaking with moderation.
"I heard him agree to deliver up the castle to the Archbishop's troops, letting them come over the wall by the same rope which he had used, while he himself stood sentry, and delivered us up by giving no alarm."
"Why this haste with his execution, Captain Steinmetz? Am I not still Lord of Thuron, with the power of life and death over those within?"
"Yes, my Lord, but if we are to be free from treachery, sharp punishment should fall on the offender. I myself caught him red-handed, and my lieutenant, as he has told you, took from him a traitorous sword of Treves. For less than that, I cut off the head of a better man before the siege began."
"True, so you did. This man has sold us, then? Search him, and let us see at how much we are valued by their august Lordships."
Two men at a nod from the Count fell upon Conrad and brought forth all there was to be found on him, a pitiful handful of small coins. These, at the Count's command, the searchers poured into the huge open palm of his Lordship, who looked closely at the pieces, demanding that a torch be held near him, while he made the examination.
When it was finished the inspector thrust forth his open hand toward the captain, saying:
"This is not traitorous money. Every coin has my own effigy on it, which, if unlovely, is still honest? What say you to that, Captain Steinmetz?"
"My Lord, the money was not paid to him, but promised when the castle was delivered."
"Ah, Captain Steinmetz, there your own good heart deceives you. You know so little of treachery that you think all men equally innocent. That is not the way of the world, honest Steinmetz, for a traitor is ever a suspicious villain, and demands not a few paltry pieces of silver, but the yellow gold paid in hand. Strike a traitor, Captain Steinmetz, and he jingles with gold."
As the Black Count spoke his voice gradually rose to a tone of such menace that more than one standing near him trembled, and a paleness of apprehension swept over the captain's hardened face. Heinrich, with a sweep of his hand, scattered the coins clattering to the stones, and with the flat of his drawn sword struck the captain quickly, first on one side, then the other. An intense stillness pervaded the courtyard; every man seemed transformed into stone, and stood there motionless, dimly perceiving that something ominous was in the air, yet not understanding the drift of events. As each blow fell, a chink of coins broke the silence. The captain half drew his own sword, and cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the gates.
"The gates are closed, Steinmetz," roared the Count, losing all control of himself in his wild rage. "Lieutenant, see that they are securely barred and guarded. Pikes here! Lower, and surround this traitor."
The lancemen jumped alertly at the word of command, and instantly a bristling array of levelled pikes circled the doomed captain, who, seeing the game was up and escape impossible, folded his arms across his breast and stood there making no outcry.
"Unbind this man. Take the gag from his mouth and the rope from his neck. Now, fellow, is it true that you were outside the walls? What were you doing there?"
Conrad stood speechless, apparently in a dazed condition, looking about him like one in a dream, but when the Emperor spoke kindly to him, he moistened his dry lips, and drew the back of his hand across his chin.
"What did you say?" he asked, turning his eyes upon his master.
"My Lord, the Count, wishes to know if it is true that you were outside the walls, and asks why you were there."
"I went to meet Hilda, who had come up from Alken."
"Then you disobeyed orders, and have deserved the fright you got," broke in the Count. "How came you with a Treves blade?"
"I wrested it from one of the Archbishop's men when the captain fell on me. I tried to defend myself and called for the guard, but when it came it arrested and gagged me."
"What is the truth of this selling of the castle?"
"The captain was to unbar the gates an hour after guard-changing to-morrow night, and the Archbishop's troops were to enter silently. He told them to be certain to secure your Lordship first, otherwise you might rally the men and defeat the soldiers, even though they got inside."
The Black Count almost smiled as he heard this compliment paid him, and he cast a malignant glance at the silent captain.
"Yes," he cried, "the opening of the gates seems more likely than the climbing of the wall. Now search Steinmetz as you searched his prisoner, and let us see what you discover. I think I heard the chime of coin in his neighbourhood."
Without resistance the searchers brought forth the three bags of gold, one of which the Count tore open, pouring the yellow pieces into his palm as he had done with Conrad's silver. His eyes lit up again with the insane frenzy which now and then shone in them, as he gazed down at the coins, on each of which was the head of his old enemy, Arnold von Isenberg. Scattering the money from his hand as if it had suddenly become red hot, he seized the three bags one after another and dashed them in fury on the stones, where they burst, sending the gold like a shower of sparks from a smith's anvil all over the courtyard. Men's eyes glittered at the sight, but such was their terror of the Black Count that no one moved a muscle as this wealth rolled at their feet.
"Steinmetz," shouted the Count, "draw your sword and cast it on the stones. No man can take it, for none amongst us is so low and vile but he would be contaminated by the touch of it."
Captain Steinmetz drew his sword and flung it ringing at his master's feet. The Count stamped on it near the hilt and shattered the blade like an icicle. Turning to the followers he cried:
"You see this man has sold us. What should be the fate of such a traitor?"
With one voice the men shouted:
"He should be hanged with the rope he designed for the other."
The Count pondered a moment with lowering brows, then said, his face as malignant as that of a demon:
"Not so. My good brother of Treves has bought him, and I am too honest a trader to cheat the holy Archbishop, God bless him, of his purchase. We shall bind our worthy captain and straightway deliver him, as goods duly bargained for, to his owner, von Isenberg. Tear off his cloak and bind him, leaving his legs free that he may walk."
Surprise and delight gleamed in the captain's eyes. Merely to be delivered to the Archbishop of Treves, was getting well out of a predicament he had come to look upon as fatal. In spite of their fear of the master of Thuron, there were murmurs at this unexampled clemency, and Rodolph gave voice to the general feeling.
"I think, my Lord, that his treachery, not to speak of his usage of an innocent man, is inadequately punished by simply handing him over to the Archbishop, who assuredly will not molest him further."
But the Count made no answer. When the elbows of the criminal were securely bound, Heinrich said;
"Lieutenant, select a dozen of your best catapult men as guard to the prisoner. Bring with you the rope and take this Archbishop's man under close watch to the top of the north tower. Let a torchbearer precede us. Follow us, my Lord Rodolph, and you, fellow, who came so near to hanging."
When they reached the top of the north tower, Captain Steinmetz, with sudden premonition of his fate, now for the first time cried aloud for mercy, but the Count paid no heed to him. From this tower could best be descried the awful depth of the Thaurand's chasm, made the more terrible by the partial illumination of the moon adding a seeming vastness to the gulf, which the clearer light of day dispelled. The profound and narrow valley appeared gloomy and unfathomable, and on the opposite height above it gleamed the great white tent of the Archbishops.
"Bend back the catapult," commanded the Count.
The stalwart men threw themselves on the levers, and slowly worked back the tremendous arms of the engine, which bent grudgingly, groaning from long disuse. At last the claw-like clutches which held the incurvated beams in place until released by a jerk of the rope, snapped into position, and the catapult men, rising and straightening their backs from the levers, drew hand across perspiring brow.
"Take up the rope," said the Count to Conrad, who with visible reluctance lifted the release rope, and stood holding it.
"Now force this traitor's head between his knees. Double up his legs, and tie him into a ball. The Archbishop must not complain that we deliver goods slovenly."
Steinmetz screamed aloud, and cried that such punishment was inhuman; even the guard hesitated, but an oath from the Black Count and a fierce glare flung about him, put springs into their bodies, and they fell on their late captain, smothering his cries, jamming down his head as they had been directed to do, finally tying him into a bundle that looked like nothing human. The wails of the doomed man in this constrained position would have cried mercy to any less savage than the Count.
"Place him on the catapult."
Two men picked him up and flung him into the jaws of the waiting monster with as little ceremony as if he were a sack of corn.
"Pull the rope, fellow."
Conrad stood motionless, gazing with horror at the furious Count.
"Stop, stop," cried Rodolph. "I protest against this cruelty. It is never your intention to launch him into eternity in such ghastly fashion. This is fiendish torture, not justice."
The Count, with the snarl of a wild beast, sprang forward, seized the rope from Conrad's nerveless fingers, jerked the mechanism loose before any could move to prevent him, and the great beams shot out like the arms of a man swimming. The human bundle was hurled forth into space, giving vent to a long continued shriek, that struck terror into every heart but that of the man who stood with the rope in his hand, his exultant face turned triumphantly upward in the moonlight. The shriek, continually lessening, rose and fell as the victim's head revolved round and round in its course through the air.
The human projectile disappeared long before it reached the earth, and every one stood motionless awaiting the crash which they thought would come to them in the still night air across the valley, but the Count sprang forward, and standing at the parapet, shook his clenched fist toward the sky, filling the valley with a madman's laughter which came echoing back to them from the opposite cliffs, as if there were in the hills a cave full of malignant maniacs.
"There, Arnold von Isenberg," he roared, "the gold is in my courtyard; the merchandise is in your camp."
During the two years that the siege lasted, the Archbishops did not remain in their camp on the heights as pertinaciously as their soldiers had to cling to the line around the castle. Konrad von Hochstaden spent much of his time at Cologne and Arnold von Isenberg in Treves. Frequent messengers kept the latter aware that nothing in particular was happening, but the former had no such interest in the progress of the contest, and was content to visit the camp at widely infrequent intervals. The Lord of Cologne became somewhat tired of being reminded by his colleague that the siege, as then conducted, was following the lines laid down by himself, and not those which would better have pleased the more aggressive Lord of Treves. Whenever Konrad, grudging the expense and inconvenience of keeping so many of his men in an occupation so barren of results, grumbled at the fruitlessness of their endeavours, the other called his attention to the fact that this bloodless method of conquest originated not in Treves but in Cologne. All this tended towards irritation, and the communications between the two allies were marked by an acerbity that was as deplorable as it was inevitable.
In reply to the complaints of the Archbishop of Cologne, his friend of Treves advised him to lay the corner-stone of his Cathedral, and progress with its construction, leaving the conduct of the siege to those more eager for war than for the building of churches, but Konrad von Hochstaden held that he could not begin such an edifice while his hands were imbrued with blood. Arnold replied cynically that in so far as that was concerned his Lordship might go on with his architecture, for the siege was as bloodless as a pilgrimage. When nearly two years had been consumed in sitting before Thuron, the Archbishop of Cologne declared his patience exhausted, and sent a message to Treves with the announcement that he would appear in camp on a certain day and return to Cologne with his men behind him. This message brought Arnold von Isenberg from Treves to the camp some days in advance of his partner, and as he was himself tiring of the contest, he opened negotiations with Captain Steinmetz for the betrayal of the castle. The money was sent on the day that his Lordship of Cologne arrived, and next night, or the night after, at latest, the Archbishop of Treves expected to have the Black Count at his mercy.
The two Princes met that day at dinner, and greeted each other with somewhat distant courtesy. As the meal went on, and the wine flagons were emptied with greater frequency, conversation became less reserved and more emphatic than during the earlier part of the feast. The wine, so far from producing friendliness between the august confederates, had rather an opposite effect, and, as the hum of conversation deepened into one continuous roar, there was an undertone, acrid and ominous, of enmity and distrust. At the long table there were perhaps thirty men on each side. The chair at the head of the board was empty, for such was the jealousy between the two dignitaries that neither would concede to the other the right to sit there if both were present. When either the Archbishop of Treves or his brother of Cologne was in camp alone, he sat in the chair of state at the head of the table, but now one had his place on the right hand side and the other sat facing him. Next to Treves was Count Bertrich, after him the secretary of the Archbishop, then down the table on that side were all the various officers of Treves, according to their rank. In like manner the followers of the Archbishop of Cologne were placed, and thus there were, fronting each other, two hostile rows of drinking men, theoretically allies. As the wine flowed freely, the assemblage resembled two lines of combatants, who only waited the disappearance of the table from between them to fly at each other's throats. Exception, however, must be made of Arnold von Isenberg himself, whose attitude was coolly and scrupulously correct, and in the heated throng he was the only one who maintained control over voice and gesture; who answered questions quietly and put them with careful moderation of speech. Yet it would have been difficult for an unprejudiced observer to understand thoroughly the motives that actuated the astute Archbishop of Treves, for while his own example had a restraining effect on the impulses of his men, and as a matter of fact on his opponents as well, he would, when matters seemed about to mend, interject some sneering, cutting phrase, all the more unbearable because it was peacefully uttered, sometimes with a glimmer of a smile about his thin lips, that would once more put his brother of Cologne into a towering rage, and thus, while apparently quenching the fire, he was in reality adding fuel to it. When Konrad, goaded beyond endurance by some taunt, gave forcible expression to his anger, Arnold would look across the table at him with a pained and anxious expression, of which child-like innocence seemed the distinguishing characteristic, as if he could not understand what had so grievously disturbed his worthy colleague.
Konrad von Hochstaden drank more than was his custom. He had resolved that night to withdraw his forces, a determination of which he had given Treves full notice, in writing sent by special messenger, but Arnold continued to ignore this communication, and when von Hochstaden endeavoured to bring on a discussion with reference to their approaching severance, the other jauntily waived the subject aside, treating it as if it were a good-natured pleasantry which did not merit serious consideration. Thus rebuffed, the Archbishop of Cologne drank deeply, so that when the time for action came, he would have made up for his natural deficiency of courage by a temporary bravery drawn from the flagon. Arnold, as was his invariable custom, drank sparingly, sipping the wine occasionally rather than drinking it, and thus the two nominal friends, but actual foes, sat in contra-position to each other, the one getting redder and redder in the face and louder and louder in the voice, the other with firm hand on his appetites and even tones in his speech.
"Well," cried Konrad von Hochstaden, raising his flagon aloft, "here's good luck and speedy success to the Archbishop of Treves, in the reducing of the Black Count's castle, now that he is about to set himself to the task alone."
"Thank you," replied Arnold von Isenberg, "if I were indeed alone the siege would soon be ended."
"What mean you by that, my Lord?" asked Cologne, flushing with anger. "Have I then hampered your attack? I wish to God you had said as much two years ago. I was willing enough to withdraw."
"I have never made complaint, my Lord, of your lack of energy in retreat," replied Arnold with a smile and a bow, and a general air of saying the most polite thing that could readily come to a man's tongue.
Konrad, glaring menacingly at his foe, half rose in his place, and put his right hand to the hilt of the sword by his side.
"Now by the three Kings of Cologne—" he cried, but the other interrupted him, saying with gentle suggestion:
"And add the Holy Coat of Treves, in token of our amicable compact. When I swear, which is seldom, so few occasions being worth the effort, I always use the Coat and the Kings in conjunction, as tending towards strength in their union, and as evidence of the loyalty of my partnership with the guardian of the bones of the Magi, presented by Frederick Barbarossa, God rest his soul, to Archbishop von Dassele of Cologne, God rest his soul also, something less than a century ago. You will find great merit, my Lord, in swearing by the combination."
"Our partnership, Arnold of Treves, is at an end, a fact of which I have already formally given you intimation. It is at an end because of continued deceit and treachery in the compact."
"You grieve me deeply by your confession, my Lord, and I am loath to credit anything to your disadvantage, even though the admission come from your own lips. Had another made such charge against you, he should have had to answer personally to me. I hold your honor as dearly as my own."
"I cannot pretend to follow your subtleties. I am an outspoken man, and do not feign friendship where there is none. Confession? Charge against me? I do not know what you mean."
"There are but two to our compact, my Lord. You say there has been treachery in it. There has been none on my part, therefore if truth dwells in your statement, and—I am put in the invidious position of being compelled to believe either that you have been treacherous or that you speak falsely—the deceit must have been practised by you. So I termed your remark a confession, and added in deep humility, that I was slow to believe it. I know of no deceit on your part, as I know of none on my own."
The Archbishop of Cologne stood for a moment staring at his antagonist, then thrusting his half-drawn sword back into its scabbard, he sank again into his seat, and took a long draught from the flagon with shaking hand. Many of his followers drank as deeply as himself, and were clamorous, shouting boisterously when he spoke; but others looked with anxiety towards their leader, fearing an outbreak, the consequences of which no one could foretell.
"You have used deceit, and not I," said the Archbishop of Cologne. "You said this siege would last but a short time, while at the end of two years we are no nearer the possession of the castle than when we began."