“Just then the fog lifted and the sun rose. Brightly gleamed the polished steel armor and helms gayly adorned with many-colored plumes, and the dense forest of spears flashed in the dazzling light. It was a fascinating and awe-inspiring spectacle, but it only strengthened our courage all the more. We calmly awaited our opportunity, entirely unobserved by the enemy. As the cavalry, little recking of any danger, advanced through the narrow pass between the Mattligütsch and Lake Ägeri we let loose a tremendous avalanche of logs and tree trunks, followed by a hail-storm of rocks. They were at once plunged into frightful disorder. Many men and horses were felled to the earth and crushed. The terrified steeds, almost as heavily weighed down as their riders, reared and threw them. Count Montfort and other leaders attempted to restore order and resume the march, but we gave them no time. We hurled rocks and logs into their ranks incessantly and their panic increased every moment. Though barely able to extricate themselves, some rode back and urged the rear ranks forward. But the enemy was overcome with terror. Threats and imprecations mingled with groans and screams on all sides. The commands of their leaders were not even respected.
“In the first moment of their rage at this unexpected obstruction to their march, several horsemen made a rash attempt to ride along the Haselmatt, where they thought they would be least exposed to our assault, and a part of the vanguard followed them. Observing this movement we redoubled our exertions, and most of them were crushed as they were toilsomely ascending. We charged upon those who escaped, and it was then my eye was put out by the thrust of a lance.
“The thirteen hundred confederates at Haslern, who had heard the tumult and din of arms, suddenly came up and attacked the cavalry. Their clubs, spears, and swords made frightful havoc, and they dealt such stout blows with their halberds that even the heaviest armed foe could not have withstood them. Hundreds struggled in the stream of blood, filled with demoniac rage, and many were wounded by them in their blind fury or were trampled upon by their horses. Some were so paralyzed by fear that they made no attempt to defend themselves, and were killed. Those who managed to extricate themselves took to flight. Several dived into Lake Ägeri, where most of them were drowned because of their heavy armor. Leopold’s horsemen, who rode along so gallantly and proudly only a short time before were now killed or fugitives. While the great battle-horns of Uri and Unterwalden were sounding their blasts of victory, the flying horsemen encountered the foot-soldiers just coming up. As they did not turn aside quickly enough, the latter were trodden underfoot by the wild horses. Among the fugitives were the Count of Montfort and Leopold. The Duke, usually a brave soldier, furiously galloped miles away to Winterthur,[9] although no one was pursuing him; such was his consternation over his surprising defeat.
“At last we met the terrified and panic-stricken ranks of the foot-soldiers, but among them were men from Zurich and Zug, who fought like lions. But they were doomed, for who could withstand the impetuosity of the Schwyzers, whose like was only to be found among the old German conquerors of the Romans. Like grass before the scythe these picked men of Zurich and Zug fell in heaps where they stood. Surely, heroism like this was worthy of a better cause! The other foot-soldiers fled to the adjacent mountains, and at nine o’clock the battle of Morgarten was over.
“The victors could not afford to follow the fugitives, for during the battle messengers had been sent from Unterwalden calling for help. In pursuance of their plan of battle Count Otto of Strasburg had made the attack on Unterwalden with his six thousand men. Our division made its approach in boats on the Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, and as the few defenders of the shore-line were powerless to prevent them, they destroyed everything in their way throughout the entire Nidwald. The other division, led by the Count, invaded the Obwald and ravaged it with the rapacity of a flock of wolves. After the enemy’s main force had been routed at Morgarten, the Unterwaldeners went at once to the relief of their own hard pressed countrymen and hundreds of stout Schwyzers accompanied them. They first rescued the Nidwaldeners from their unbidden guests, recovered the spoils, and drove them to their boats in such haste that many of them fell into the water and were drowned. Then they moved against the Strasburg force, which they found at Alpnach. As the Austrian count saw the Unterwaldeners approaching he was seized with a panic, which spread through his entire army; for he knew that the Unterwaldeners were at Morgarten and rightly concluded that the Duke’s army had been defeated. The Strasburgers lost courage and began retreating without even offering resistance. But some of them failed to escape, for the rear column was overtaken and several hundred were killed.
“Thus in one day the Confederates achieved a three-fold victory over an army which was sixteen times as strong as their own, and which lost fifteen hundred horsemen and as many foot-soldiers. The loss of the Confederates was small, but three of their bravest leaders were found among the dead. Horses, costly weapons, rider and horse equipment, ten banners, many decorated helmets such as the nobility wear to distinguish them from others, were among the rich spoils captured. Permission was granted to those among the enemy who had dead relatives on the field to take their bodies home. The rest were buried on the spot. The wounded were treated with special kindness. We who had made the first assault and prepared the way for victory were allowed to remain in the homeland, and it was sacred to us ever after.”
Such is the story of the battle at Morgarten as the monk, who had participated in the events of that memorable day, related it to the lad. Arnold gazed with admiration upon this old man who had once fought so stoutly and now went about in his sandals and black cowl as a messenger of peace. He looked with a kind of reverential awe at the blinded eye, and the scar seemed to him a mark of honor and victory.
Arnold had always loved his country, but now he was deeply moved by a feeling of pride as he thought of the skill and courage which had characterized the deeds of his countrymen, and his heart glowed with the fire of patriotism. His most ardent wish was to distinguish himself by his devotion to home and freedom, to swing the halberd in the hot fight, and to drive the enemy from the fatherland. He no longer wished to be a knight.
The monasteries in those days were the nurseries of the arts and sciences. The German stage also owes its origin to them. The so-called “mystery plays” originated in church ceremonials representing the Passion of Christ, and were intended to familiarize the people with the events narrated by the Evangelists. They were given in a semi-musical way by various ecclesiastics. One spoke the narrative parts, another the words of the Saviour, a third all the words of the remaining personages, and the chorus recited those of the people and priests. These plays were performed at the monastery of Engelberg, where young Arnold was studying, with all the scenic display possible at that time.
As the Easter festival drew nigh the men of the valley came with hammers and hatchets and built a large stage upon an open place near the monastery, where the life of the Saviour from His birth to His resurrection was to be represented before a vast concourse of spectators assembled from far and near. The stage was open on all sides, for they knew nothing about wings or curtains in those days. The play lasted an entire day. The players were monks and students; but as their number was too small because bystanders and crowds of people were necessary to the performance, intelligent outsiders were called in to help. Upon this account German was generally used in place of the earlier Latin text.
When everything was in readiness the performers entered and occupied a large semicircle of seats, after which the customary blessing was invoked. The man chorus pronounced the “Veni sancte Spiritus,” after which two students sang the “Emitte Spiritum.” They were dressed to represent angels, with wings on their shoulders; and in this guise the little Arnold, the great war hero of after days, took part in the sacred performance.
The angels as well as Christ and his apostles wore the mediæval costumes of that time. The risen Christ was clad in the official garments of a bishop—the dalmatic and the red chasuble. He also wore a crown and carried a cross and banner. This costume was intended to express the perpetuity of His episcopal authority as supreme head of the church. Next appeared Saint Augustine as herald or narrator. He called the assemblage to order, pointed out the persons sitting around, explaining who each one was, and introduced the play with a pious address. In the course of his remarks he interested the audience with digressions from the story and explanations of the significance of individual events.
Whenever a player was to appear in a scene he rose from his seat, but returned to it as soon as he had finished. For instance, Jesus went to John to be baptized and then took His seat again. Nearly all the events of the life and passion of the Saviour were represented in this way, and each important scene was followed by the chorus, in Latin. King Herod’s followers were in his immediate vicinity and behind them stood the servants who led John the Baptist to prison. At first the apostles were distributed about the stage, and the Master was obliged to go from one to the other and gather them together when He ordered them to follow Him. The Jewish people and their priests occupied a place set apart for them; and whenever Jesus wished to communicate with them, or to instruct them how to heal the blind, the dumb, the lepers, and the cripples, He had to go to them. Upon the awakening of Lazarus, at Jesus’s entrance into Jerusalem, and in some other scenes the people flocked to Him.
All the women mentioned in the sacred story were represented by monks and students. Various services were required of the angels. They had to demand order with the words “Silentium habete,” to perform many interpolated sacred songs, and to sing certain strophes explaining scenes that had not been described by the narrator, but which were arranged for music. It was also part of their duty to make changes necessitated by the stage conditions, and to explain the situation clearly. The palsied man was in bed, and when Jesus bade him arise he took his bed with him. The severed head of John was brought upon the stage. The foot-washing was literally represented. When the Saviour entered Jerusalem, both the ass upon which He rode and the palm-branches which the people strewed along the way, were provided. Everything connected with the death of Jesus, from the purple mantle and crown of thorns to the lance and the sponge, was used. The crowing of the cock, when Peter denied his Master, was imitated, as well as the thunder and the rising of the dead. A table covered with food and drink served for Herod’s banquet, before which the boy who represented Herodias danced; it served also for the supper at Simon’s, when the repentant Magdalen came to the Saviour, and for the Last Supper. The tombs of Lazarus and Christ, John’s prison, and the house of Martha and Lazarus were represented, as well as the pinnacle of the temple to which Satan led our Lord, and the Mount of Olives, set with exotic plants.
While the Chorus sang, living pictures were exhibited. They represented old Biblical events relating to the preceding scenes, so as to show the close connection of Old and New Testament occurrences. Sometimes events were artistically interwoven: While Jesus prayed on the Mount of Olives, Judas was making his treacherous bargain with the priests; and while Pontius Pilate was conducting the trial of Jesus, in another scene Peter was denying the Lord.
Monument commemorating the Battle of Sempach
To relieve the serious treatment of the subject, pleasant interludes were devised for the entertainment of the audience, showing various contrasts of life, so that smiles might follow tears. Satan appeared clad in a wolf-skin, with mighty horns and long tail, and must have presented a ludicrous sight. A merry fellow announced the arrival of the three wise men sent by Herod, and made fun of the timid sovereign who was afraid of a Child. Then he entered again with the derisive announcement that the three wise men would not go back, and a third time to say that the Holy Child would be represented in the temple. Every time he came in Herod would get enraged and threaten to hang him for making fun of a king. Another curious scene was that in which Peter smote off Malchus’s ear after the seizure of Christ. Malchus wofully exclaims: “Alas! what an outrage; what a shame! I have lost my ear. They will call me a fool.”
Thereupon Christ said to Peter: “Put up your sword, or you will not be safe, for those who seek revenge with the sword will perish by it.” Then He turned to the Jews and said: “Bring the man to me. I will replace his ear.”
After Malchus’s ear was put on, he said to one of his friends: “Tell me truly about my ear. See if it is on securely, for it aches very badly.”
After examining it carefully, the friend assured him it was all right.
Then Malchus expressed his gratitude to the Lord, after remarking: “Jesus is a very good man; He knows how to put on ears.”
Before the three Marys went to the sepulchre a man entered, dressed in the ordinary costume of the time, who was a familiar figure at fairs and markets. This was the travelling quack. With the words, “God greet you, gentlemen all, as the fox said when he peeped into the goose-pen,” he introduced himself, and stated that he was in need of a helper. Rubin, the merry fellow, applied for the situation, and after considerable haggling they agreed upon a price. Rubin then opened out the quack’s stock, helped to prepare the medicines, and explained their virtues to the crowd. At last he decided he would also have helpers. A second buffoon, called Purterbalk, and a third named Listerbalk, who was hunchbacked, applied; and while they were squabbling together a strophe of the three Marys’ song was heard, as they were on their way to the sepulchre. The three wags advanced to the front of the stage and began selling the medicines, and when the quack thought they were selling them too cheap, Rubin sharply reprimanded him. While the three Marys were still on their way the quack lay down and went to sleep; whereupon Rubin made off with his entire stock. His awakening and wrathful imprecations ended the humorous interlude. The three Marys were seen at the sepulchre and the angel announced to them the resurrection of the Lord.
The effect of this drama was so overpowering that reverence for the sacred associations was not affected in the least by these merry interludes, which were peculiarly adapted to the childish sentiment of the people. The denouement of the play represented the arrival of the Saviour in Heaven with a number of the elect, and God the Father, sitting in His majesty, welcoming them.
While Arnold was staying at the monastery and approaching young manhood, a terrible calamity visited the world and made its way into the peaceful little valley. Year after year reports had come that a frightful pestilence was raging in the eastern part of Asia and spreading from country to country. Ships laden with rich cargoes were found at sea, drifting about and their crews all dead.
The trade route from China led through central Asia to the Tauric coast,[10] whence the products of the Orient were transported to Constantinople, at that time the emporium for the three divisions of the earth. Over this route the plague spread into all lands. The terrible disease first appeared in Europe in the maritime cities of Italy, France, and Spain, and in the course of three years gradually but surely spread all over central Europe, Poland, and Russia, climbed the chalk cliffs of England, and ascended to the extreme northern part of Scandinavia. It was attended by strange manifestations, unknown up to that time, such as cramps, heart palpitation, lethargy, and in some cases delirium. Swellings as large as eggs appeared under the arms and knees. Black or blue spots came on various parts of the body, sometimes large and single, sometimes in small groups. At first it was denied that the disease was a pestilence, but when the strange malady spread so rapidly it was recognized as an actual pestilence. There was no other name for it.
Several causes were assigned for it. It was variously attributed to the just wrath of God at the wickedness of humanity; to the influences of the heavenly bodies; to the conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter; to unusual convulsions of nature which had either preceded or followed it. Reports had long before come from China of great earthquakes, sunken mountains, droughts, floods, crop failures, and subsequent famines. Syria and Egypt also had been visited by earthquakes. The same manifestations, followed by raging storms and floods, had also appeared in Cyprus and in Naples and other cities. Similar convulsions had been experienced in Germany. Many houses had been hurled into the Rhine by a great earthquake at Basle. In Carinthia, cities and castles had been destroyed. As the excited imagination of the people connected these events with the dreadful disease, it was natural for them to consider these manifestations as the cause, and crop failures and famines as the result. The pestilence, which so readily found victims among people condemned to want, wretchedness, and despair, came to be known as the Black Death. When it attacked a household it was not contented with one victim. Almost every well person who breathed the same air as the sick one, or who had even touched his clothing, was stricken with it. Human science and medical skill were of no avail. It was in vain that cities were cleansed of filth and offal, and that infected persons were forbidden to enter them. Sanitary measures were of no avail. Flight was useless, for the terrible malady overtook the fleetest and spared neither the distinguished nor the insignificant, neither the strong nor the weak, neither the layman nor the priest. It was in vain that the church framed three prayers, to be offered at daybreak, midday, and evening, at the summons of the church bells. The mass which Pope Clemens the Sixth, who resided at Avignon, arranged for the supplication of divine mercy was fruitless. The head of Christendom himself withdrew from contact with the outside world, behind a perpetually burning fire of coals. Ceremonial processions were also arranged to avert the evil. The people joined them in multitudes. Many women walked barefooted, clad in sackcloth. Ecclesiastics, brotherhoods carrying lighted tapers, and guilds bearing banners and singing prayers and the litany also marched. Suddenly it was discovered that the number of victims was increasing because of the densely crowded throngs watching these processions. In the large cities people died by hundreds; in the smaller ones, by scores. The closest family ties were dissipated like spiders’ webs. Brothers forsook brothers, wives their husbands. Parents forbore visiting their sick children. The best of friends avoided each other on the streets.
The sick were deserted save by their attendants, and the service of the latter was so difficult to procure, except at very high prices,—for nurses’ lives were in constant danger,—that many of the poor died absolutely alone. Depositing the dead in the church vaults and keeping them over night in the houses where they had died were strictly forbidden. It was ordered that they should be interred at once; and as the churchyards in the cities were not large enough to accommodate them, they were buried by thousands in great trenches. Every one expected the Black Death any moment. Trade and commerce were paralyzed. Merchants cared no longer for the valuables for which they had worked so hard; churches and schools were closed; the administration of justice ceased. There were no sounds in the factories, no rattle of carriages or cries of venders in the streets. The fields were left untilled. There was hardly one among the few who stole through the empty streets who did not show some sign of the awful visitation. Fear, sorrow, and despair were manifest in every face. If one wore a beard it was unkempt and the hair was long and straggling, for no one cared for his looks. Some held small metallic discs containing medicated sponges to their noses, hoping in this way not to inhale the tainted air. The few who recovered from the plague were regarded as a specially privileged class. They went about freely and fearlessly amid dangers, for it was something unheard of to have the disease twice. But among those who were liable to be attacked any instant there were some who were determined to do all they could at this time of universal gloom. Compassion and love were stronger in their hearts than ever before, and wherever they could be of help they were ready with word and deed.
The plague invaded Switzerland also, and raged more violently in its mountain regions than it did in the lowlands. The clear, healthy atmosphere of the high lying valley of Engelberg did not save it from the visitation of this gruesome guest, but it only met faces full of spiritual illumination in the death shadows which followed its track. Strengthened by holy love and despising danger, the Benedictines went among the sick and those struggling with death, to help the one and administer consolation to the other. Upon this small spot of earth the plague carried off sixteen victims in a single day and in four months twenty homes were devastated.
No one in those days of gloom and despair set a brighter example of courage and self-sacrificing love than Father Vincentius. It had always been his desire to give his life for his neighbors, and now the opportunity was granted him. Wherever there was sickness he was found performing every needful service; and Arnold, a faithful, courageous helper, was by his side. The youth had nothing more to lose, for both his parents were victims of the plague. He had closed the eyes of his uncle Berthold, abbot of Engelberg, after his two sisters, Adelheid and Elspeth, had passed away. Amid these dreadful scenes he had no other feeling than one of the deepest sympathy for those whom he visited daily; and death, even in its most terrible shapes, had no terrors for him. It was thus he strengthened himself for the heroic deed which was to perpetuate the name of Winkelried in the memory of the fatherland. Side by side with Father Vincentius he encountered the plague and often wondered why he kept so strong and well. He endured these extraordinary exertions, which kept him up day and night, because of his youthful vigor; but the old Benedictine felt his strength failing more and more every day. His once upright frame was bowed and his face grew thin and sunken. Spiritual strength alone sustained his exhausted body.
While returning to the monastery one evening with Arnold, he felt a depression, weariness in his feet, and difficulty in breathing, which he attributed to the day’s exertions. In the night he was visited by unpleasant dreams. In one of these he fancied he was in a great crowd of men with gray, faded, sightless faces. As they pressed against him, his nearest neighbor pushed his elbow into his side causing such a stinging pain that he awoke. His heart was beating violently. There was a ringing in his ears, severe pain in his limbs, and his whole body seemed on fire. He placed his hand upon the stinging spot—there was a great swelling!
Father Vincentius was not alarmed. “The Lord calls me,” he murmured, and clasped his hands in prayer.
When Arnold entered his cell the next morning and found him in bed, he recognized the signs of the disease the instant he saw him. He knew, as well as any physician, the remedies which should be given and he applied them all. With quiet resignation the monk awaited dissolution; but as the disease was making rapid progress, it became necessary for him to speak at once so that he should be clearly understood.
“Praised be the Lord for his justice! Praised be the Lord in healing as in death,” he said to himself. Then, turning to Arnold, he continued: “Many are called, but few are chosen. God has sent the Black Death to mankind to reserve a chosen few among its survivors who shall grow better by sorrow and nobler by gratitude, and find to their great joy what an inestimable boon life is. Devote it to good works and offer them to Him. You have learned this, my son. You have accomplished it. May God graciously guide you with His strong hand through these troubles, so that the lofty purpose and noble courage which you have displayed so splendidly in this narrow sphere of action may be devoted hereafter to the welfare of your fatherland. It needs just such men as you have already shown yourself to be.” Father Vincentius then gave Arnold his blessing and asked for the last sacrament which was administered by one of the brothers of the order.
Toward evening his sufferings ended, and that night the stars shone upon his grave, where Arnold lamented the last dear friend he had. But he must live on. So he still breathed the tainted air, still waited upon the sick, still placed the dead in their coffins; but the plague did not attack him. None of the brothers except his uncle and Father Vincentius died, but five students fell victims, and one hundred and sixty nuns were carried from the women’s cloisters to the grave in four months.
One day a young wanderer called at the monastery and begged for breakfast and a little money. It was Florian Häbli, Arnold’s old-time playmate. His father, mother, and sisters had perished, and the orphan was forced out into the world to look out for himself.
We have not yet reached the close of these terrible scenes. As if victims of the plague itself were too few, the despised and hated Jews, who lived near the Christians in the large cities, were accused by superstitious persons of poisoning the water in order to spread the plague and exterminate their enemies. These accusations were all the more readily believed when it was noticed that the Jews abstained from water and were less liable to take the disease than the Christians. It mattered not to their accusers that it was the Jews’ foresight which led them to avoid drinking water and that their greater moderation in living helped to protect them. And yet so many Jews died in Goslar and Vienna that their burial places were insufficient, and in cities like Leipsic and Magdeburg where no Jews resided the plague was as fatal as in other places. The popular clamor, however, increased. City authorities who harbored Jews were urged to adopt most cruel measures. The Jews were placed upon the rack and forced to confess crimes of which they were not guilty, and were banished from cities after their property had been confiscated. And this was not the worst. Every appeal of humanity was stifled by the unchristian and bitter hatred of the people. Only a few escaped with the penalty of exile and loss of property. Very many must have perished by fire. In almost all the Rhine cities and in some others also, not only in Germany but in neighboring countries, they were burned without trial or even examination. In utter despair they submitted to their terrible fate and even anticipated it. Six thousand Jews burned themselves in their own houses; and at Esslingen, Worms, and Speier they assembled in their synagogues and then fired them.
Still the plague did not cease, and the people soon decided that it was not caused by human agencies. The conviction became universal that it was the divine penalty for the prevailing immorality. Reconciliation with God became the watchword. It must be secured by expiation. The better classes sought for it by adopting a pious course of life. Parents taught their children to pray and to submit to the divine will. Others sought to propitiate God with gifts to the Church. Many others believed that the sins of their past wanton lives could be atoned for by physical suffering only, and castigated themselves relentlessly. This gave rise to the brotherhood of the Flagellants. They increased by hundreds and thousands all over Germany, and each brotherhood had its own head and regulations. One of these marched behind a cross. A red cross was also fastened upon the cloak and the hat of each Flagellant, and at his side hung the scourge—a short stick, with three stout thongs tied at the ends in a hard knot, in which were inserted two sharp iron prongs set crosswise. When the procession approached any place several Flagellants with showy banners of costly purple velvet or embroidered silk, waxen tapers flickering among them, assembled behind the cross-bearer. The rest marched two by two, with hats pulled down and looking before them silently and sorrowfully. Singing expiatory songs, they entered the place, greeted and accompanied by the tolls of the church bells. Great crowds of serious-faced persons followed the strange procession to the church, where the Flagellants prostrated themselves several times before the altar. On the next morning they formed their procession in the same order as on the day before and, followed by all the people, marched to the place of scourging. There they took off their shoes and removed their outer garments, leaving the upper part of the body nude. Then they advanced in the shape of a wide cross and prostrated themselves. Each one announced the offence for which he desired to make expiation. The perjurers rested upon one side, with three fingers raised above the head; liars stretched their hands out before them; drunkards placed their hands upon their mouths. Those who were not guilty of any particular offence lay with their arms outstretched on the ground in the shape of a cross. Then the leader, or master, arose, made a short address, and struck each with the scourge. The brothers arose in turn and imitated the master. The best singers then advanced, and while they sang with subdued voices, the Flagellants lashed each other with the iron thongs until blood streamed down their backs.
In the meantime the thousands of spectators stood in a profound silence, broken only by occasional sighs or loud weeping. Others imitated what they saw; and then followed the reading of a document which was said to be a direct message from God to sinful humanity. The Flagellants seldom left a place without gaining new members. A hundred of them went from Basle to Avignon and scourged themselves in the presence of the Pope. He did not believe, however, that God was pleased with such acts, and issued a bull forbidding Christians to perform flagellation in public, under penalty of excommunication.
Neither Jewish persecutions nor flagellation were of any avail in checking the plague. It spread through the terrified world. A fourth part of the population of Europe perished. After it subsided, the old worldly pleasures were resumed above those countless graves; but there were many who, in those terrible years of trial, had returned to the divine allegiance, and who consecrated the precious gift of life to that exercise of Christian love which Father Vincentius, before his departure, characterized as the noblest fruit of the divine justice.
Zurich, which had long been a free imperial city, held an important position among the municipalities. Its trade and commerce flourished, nor was it lacking in intellectual activity. It was enjoying a rest from the domination of the great property-holders and nobles, known as the patricians. The guilds had now grown strong enough to assert their opinions. Under the new constitution the Council was composed of thirteen patricians and thirteen members of the guilds. An able and judicious man named Rudolph Brun, leader in the revolt, was appointed burgomaster, and administered his office with a strong, sure hand.
It was natural that the patricians, who had exercised such absolute authority, should not relish the new order of things. They had a numerous following among the nobles outside the cities. These nobles scrupled not to attack and rob city merchants travelling in the mountain regions and levy tribute upon them. They were not on good terms with the cities. Life in the castles grew constantly quieter and more lonesome; the attendants demanded higher remuneration, and if their demands were not granted they would take themselves off and seek shelter behind the city walls, where they were protected and had greater freedom and more privileges than in the castles. For these reasons the nobles were naturally incensed at the cities, which were continually growing stronger, while the castle power was continually growing less.
Castle Reienstein had experienced these depressing changes. It had been left in a wretched plight to the young nobleman Jörgel, by his father. We behold him sitting one day at a window which commanded a wide prospect, engaged in fitting a new leash for his falcon. “You accursed bird,” he growled, “I feel like flinging you away for your obstinacy. If you go hungry for a time and have to look out for yourself perhaps you will come to your senses.”
With these words he threw the hood over the falcon’s head and went to an inner apartment, the only one which was fit for occupancy in his present circumstances, and which served alike for kitchen and sleeping room.
“Jörgel, come to table,” said Brigitte, his old aunt, who shared with him the poverty of castle Reienstein. After removing several things which littered up the rickety old table, she placed upon it a mess of lentils in a not over clean dish, and brought two plates and rusty knives and forks from a shelf. Jörgel reluctantly seated himself and sniffed at the little piece of sausage which his aunt fished out of the lentils and divided with him.
“A feast for the gods,” growled Jörgel. “I tell you, Aunt, I can’t stand this kind of thing much longer.”
“You are always complaining about your lot,” replied Brigitte, as she poked the lentils with her fork. “It would be more reasonable if you would try to better it. Fine chances are open to you. Why do you not open your eyes like other folks?”
“What can help such a poor devil as I am?” replied Jörgel. “The Mörspergers and Waltihofners have fast, stout horses which can make ten miles on the road without hurting a hoof; my nag can scarcely go from here to Zurich in a day, and if I hurry him he is winded. All my neighbors have money and can pay handsomely for service, but I have to put up with a ragged, ignorant journeyman, as you well know. When we come to divide, I get the leavings. I must get about in all kinds of weather, attend to affairs, and go half starved, while others who are not a whit more deserving can live in clover. I am sick of such injustice, plague upon it.”
“You are very hard to satisfy, Jörgel, and a lazy lout besides,” said Brigitte. “Think of others who are no better off than you are, and yet have wives and children to look after, while you are single, and have a careful, economical aunt to run your house! You can go and come when you please, and always find something to eat and sometimes an abundance, for your affairs do not always turn out badly. When the highways fail you, the forests supply plenty of game. At home you can stretch out on your straw bed, or train your falcon, or fix things when they need it. You have always something to wear, so—”
“Have I? Just take a look at my coat,” interrupted Jörgel. “There is a hole in the elbow of the right sleeve.”
“Is that so?” said Brigitte. “Hand me my needle and thread from the window shelf, and I will soon fix that.”
Jörgel betook himself to a small grindstone in a corner of the room to sharpen his hunting-knife. “I tell you what, Aunt, sing me a song to drive away the blues and make the stone turn more easily.”
“Certainly, my Jörgel,” assented Brigitte. She hung the mended coat upon a hook in the wall, and after giving the cat the scanty bits left from the meal, she sang, while clearing up the dishes, a ballad about Count Rudolf of Hapsburg—how he besieged the city of Glanzenburg and floated huge wine-casks down the Rhine, out of which armed men suddenly sprang; and how the Count took advantage of the confusion of the people to storm the unprotected walls.
After she had finished singing, the old woman remarked: “The cat has scratched herself several times behind the ear and my nose itches all the time. These things betoken a visitor.”
“I hope it is not an unwelcome one,” said Jörgel, “that Waltihofener whom I still owe ten shillings lost at dice, or that laborer whose hay I carried off from his rick, or—”
“Have no fears on that account, Jörgel,” replied his aunt. “You can get rid of the Waltihofener with fine words, and you can pitch the laborer downstairs. Now, my left hand begins to itch, and that means good luck, or money, which amounts to the same thing.”
Jörgel’s wheel flew so fast that it emitted sparks, and the falcon upon its perch fluttered its feathers in affright. Suddenly a young man, who lived in the lower part of the tumble-down building, called out at the door: “Noble sir, my father bids me tell you that a gentleman from Mörsperg has just arrived, and is even now putting his horse in the stall.”
“Did I not prophesy rightly?” triumphantly exclaimed Brigitte. “All the signs pointed to a visit, and the itching of my left hand meant good luck.”
“We shall see,” replied Jörgel. He rose from his rough wooden seat, drew on his boots, and put on his waistcoat. His aunt hastily set things in order, and had hardly finished when steps were heard on the stairs, and the herculean figure of Veit of Mörsperg entered and saluted them with a roaring “Good day!” He shook Jörgel’s hand and roughly slapped Brigitte on her bent back.
“I bring you good news,” he said, stroking his great beard.
Jörgel’s face brightened up. “You look as happy as if you were breaking into some rich merchant’s treasure box,” said Jörgel, with difficulty restraining his curiosity.
“It is something better than that,” said Veit, as he sat down upon the bed. “The Zurich oligarchy has come to an end.”
“Is that true?” shouted Jörgel. “Then the mob of the workshops may be in the Council.”
“Seven hundred patricians have united against the aristocratic city regime,” replied Veit.
“They are few compared with the crowds in the guilds and corporations,” said Brigitte.
“Be patient! I know still more,” said Veit. “The patricians have very wisely united with the counts of Rupperschwyl, who will invade the city; and other knights near by are to join them.”
“And I fancy that you will have the same honor,” said Jörgel.
“You are right,” replied Veit; “and as I am going to join, I advise you to do the same.”
“It is very good of you,” said Jörgel, “but if this movement is intended merely to help the patricians to regain their seats in the Council, I have no desire to risk my head.”
“Blockhead!” shouted Veit. “Do you suppose that I am going to help pull chestnuts out of the fire for others without making sure of a good slice for myself? I intend to profit by the confusion of the others.”
“Ah! now I understand,” said Jörgel, with a cunning laugh. “Go ahead! I am with you. But when will the dance begin?”
“When the clock strikes ten to-morrow the gates will be secretly opened and the Rupperschwyls and their following will enter the city and fall upon their opponents, who little dream what is in store for them. In the meantime, friend Jörgel, we shall have been waiting our chance. We shall leave our armor at home so as not to arouse suspicion. A good dagger will be enough for our purpose. But we must be off at once, for your nag needs plenty of time for a ride to Zurich.”
“For Heaven’s sake, be off,” muttered Aunt Brigitte, as she went to a corner of the room and took down Jörgel’s riding cloak, which ordinarily served to conceal Brigitte’s old and torn best dress.
Jörgel girded on his rapier belt, stuck his dagger in it, put on his cap and plume, and threw the cloak over his shoulder. Then he took a hasty leave of his aunt, and promised her a new dress if everything went well. Whereupon she invoked the blessing of all the saints upon him. When everything was in readiness the two robber knights set off for the city at an easy trot.
Upon the following day we behold Veit striding into the smithy of an armorer which resounds with the lusty hammering of his workmen. The bellows groans, the hammers ring, and songs in Swiss, Swabian, and Bavarian dialects are heard on all sides. One is piling coal upon the fire; another cooling the glowing metal in water from which clouds of steam ascend; others are polishing the steel smooth and bright, while the apprentice is riveting a neckband. In the midst of the busy crowd stands the stately master, examining a steel headpiece, just finished. Seeing Veit, who was one of his customers, he came forward and asked what he wished.
Veit drew a dagger from his cloak. “Here, Master Hildprand,” said he, “the hilt of my dagger needs fastening. Fix it and send it as soon as it is done to the Rebstock, but be sure to send it to-day, for I must return home before night.”
Master Hildprand took the dagger and promised to do his utmost to accommodate him, although his work was very pressing.
“That is fine work,” said the knight with a well pleased glance at the headpiece in the master’s hand.
“This kind is coming more and more into use, and is replacing the helmet,” said the smith.
“But I still stick to the helmet,” replied Veit. “It is better fitted for resistance. I have no use for these new-fangled inventions.”
“And yet we are still far behind the times,” said the master with a smile. “When I was working in France they had already gone over to steel. There is no longer any chain armor.”
“But how do the French protect the shoulders?”
“With a broad iron band reaching from the neck to the upper part of the arm. That enables the wearer to move the head more freely, which he could not do with the old, awkward style of armor.”
“Zounds! There is no end to these improvements,” blurted out Veit. “It must take all of ten years to make a new suit of armor now. One needs to be as rich as Crœsus to keep up with them.”