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  • Cobb’s False Knight: 6. Waylaid

    Cobb’s False Knight: 6. Waylaid

    Trying to get a desperate message through to possibly avoid a looming disaster, a dangerous journey through a dark expanse. Where had I heard that before? It was also in Germany, but not in the Black Forest.

    This particular journey started from an airfield just outside Munich. The dark expanse was the North Sea, the destination Dungavel Castle in Scotland, strangely reminiscent of Dunwolf, but purely coincidentally. It was the Duke of Hamilton the desperate messenger had tried to reach, a fellow aviator, and one he had hoped could pass his message on to Churchill. Avoiding being shot down, he had to parachute into a field, unable to find his intended destination.

    The messenger was a man I had never met or had any interest whatsoever in meeting, but whose presence I had been aware of while living in West Berlin. He was the sole occupant of an entire prison built to incarcerate six hundred, kept there incommunicado, lest he told of what his errand had really been about. In later years, when his son was finally allowed to visit, guards were always present and he was not permitted to discuss anything in relation to his mission. Don’t you wonder why?

    Spandau Prison was less than twenty kilometres from where I lived, but normally, nobody was allowed to enter. An absurdly expensive, huge place to house the desperate messenger, already pushing ninety in the early 1980s, kept there under the jurisdiction of the Allied Command. These days they say it was the Soviets who held him, but when I was in West Berlin, we knew it was the British who blocked any attempts for release, even by someone as influential and definitely acting out of compassion and not because of any pro-Nazi sentiments, as former Mayor of West Berlin and Chancellor of Germany, Willy Brandt. But why?

    It was because of what Rudolf Hess knew about his mission, which was still highly embarrassing to the British. Had there been an intelligence sting to convince Hitler that Great Britain had been seeking a way out of the war? Or was Hess simply a madman? Berliners need knew of the old man, held alone in that huge and foreboding prison. Did he deserve to be there? At one time, probably. He had been Hitler’s deputy, had signed into law terrible policies that harmed and killed so many. Not an innocent, by any means.

    Why on Earth had he tried to get a message to Churchill? Because he knew that madman Hitler was about to invade the Soviet Union and thereby open a second front making the war unwinnable for Nazi Germany? Or had he been acting on the direct orders of Hitler, in response to secret British overtures? The murky world of intelligence services conceals many such plots. We will never know the details of this one, but we can be thankful that his desperate mission to find peace with the UK and avoid the defeat Nazi Germany did not succeed, whatever the circumstances.

    Hess allegedly hanged himself in 1987, at the age of 93. A messenger, whose to some still immensely embarrassing message finally “had to be stopped” from being told, because more moves were afoot to finally release the old man? Will Ernest von Linden succeed in getting his message through to King Leopold, or will he too be incarcerated or even killed?

    CHAPTER 6

    WAYLAID

    The baroness and Electra were ready to sit with Ernest at the breakfast table, so that no time might be lost in consultation. The distance to Baden-Baden was fifty miles — the road exceedingly mountainous and rough. If he could make the journey in a day he would do well. At all events, the chances were that he would be obliged to be gone three days, as he could not expect to find time for business on the day of his journeying.

    His business, however, was easily understood, most of it being left to his own judgment. Since Sir Pascal Dunwolf had made his appearance at the castle the baroness could not believe that the grand duke would insist upon his marriage with her daughter when the facts of the case had been presented to him. She knew how eager the dukes were that the great estates of the grand duchy should be possessed by their chief henchmen. She knew that during the reign of Leopold’s father three orphan daughters of wealthy baronies, representing their respective families, had been forced to wed with husbands of his choosing; and one of them, at least, she well knew had at the time a lover in the lower order of society to whom she was devotedly attached.

    Portrait of a Woman of 57 (1539), Hans Mielich. (MNAC, Barcelona). More information.

    Still, her case, she felt, was different. Her daughter had been long affianced — allianced, too, by a father who had given his life to the state — to a youth of noble lineage and owner of a large estate. As she arrived at this point in her statement Ernest interrupted her, saying:

    “And for that very reason, I am informed the grand duke said, he objected to our union; perhaps not in so many words, but such was doubtless his meaning. He regards the Barony of Deckendorf as already powerful enough. Let the earldom of Linden be combined therewith, as would be the case in my marriage with my darling, and Leopold thinks the lordship might, in time, over-shadow his own proud station.”

    “O! what a fool!” exclaimed Electa, impatiently. ”When Ernest and I would be to him two of the very best and truest of friends.”

    “That is what I shall try to make him understand, my own precious love,” said Ernest, as he moved back his chair from the table. There was further conversation on the all-important subject, but, as the result will be seen in the end, there is no need that we should follow it further.

    The question of companionship on the journey had been discussed, and the brave youth had decided that he would go unattended. He was not afraid of robbers, for he took with him nothing for them to steal. As for money, all he could want was in the hands of the baroness’s banker in Baden-Baden, and a simple cheque would command it. A companion of his own turn of mind and thought, one intelligent and educated, would have been pleasant; but none such was within call; so, after due consideration, he had resolved to go alone. Thus he could speed on his way as he pleased, and enjoy his own thoughts and fancies.

    The baroness had given her last words of direction and caution; both she and Electra had given him their blessing, and their parting kiss; after which he sent a servant to order his horse, while he went to his chamber to get his portmanteau and his pistols.

    The pistols, of the very latest pattern, procured of the manufacturer, at Heidelberg, less than a year ago, were the best weapons of their class to be found anywhere. The spring jaws for the flint, with the steel for the stroke directly over, and closing the pan, had been introduced; and the stock had been brought to a graceful, compact, and convenient form. In short, the pistols which our hero then handled were as nearly perfect as was possible with the flint lock.

    Those for the holsters were large and strong, carrying an ounce ball, the handles, or buts, being heavily bound with cast brass, to fit them for clubbing purposes in case of need. The smaller pistol, for the pocket, was highly ornamented. There were two barrels and two locks; the bores little more than half the diameter of the former; its sandalwood stock being richly bound and inlaid with silver and gold.

    As he took them up he instinctively opened the pans to see that the priming had not been accidently disturbed, and having found them intact, he put the smaller one into his pocket; took the others under his arm; then picked up his portmanteau and went out. In the passage he found a servant to whom he gave his key, bidding her to keep it until his return.

    As he passed through the lower hall he looked round for any friendly face that might appear; but no one did he see. He had not expected that Electra would come down; he had bidden her not to do so; but she might have sent word. None came, however, and he went his way out through the vestibule, down the broad steps, to the inner court, where he found his horse, and near by it standing Sir Pascal Dunwolf.

    For the moment his heart quickened its beatings, and his hands closed more tightly upon his luggage; but the knight gave him a smile, and offered his hand, which the youth took as soon as he had landed his portmanteau.

    “You have my letters?”

    “Yes Meinherr; and I will promptly deliver them.”

    “Thanks! I was not sure that my page had given them to you. The graceless rascal is such a liar that I know not when to believe him. But he is faithful, nevertheless, and serves me well, when it comes convenient for him to do so. I wish you a pleasant journey, Captain; and I beg you to forget our little passage of yesterday.”

    “It is already forgotten, Sir Pascal.”

    “Thanks again; and once more — success to you.” And with this the knight bowed, at the same time, raising his plumed cap, and then turned away.

    Ernest secured his portmanteau in its place, and put the pistols into the holsters; then vaulted to his saddle, and rode away. Not until he had crossed the draw-bridge, and began the descent of the deep ditch beyond, did he think of the last look he had seen upon the face of Sir Pascal Dunwolf. At that moment his thoughts chancing to turn back to his interview with the dark-browed knight, the look glared upon him. He saw it as though the face was there before him, and he could read its full diabolism. What did it mean? There had been malevolence in it, and such intense spite; but why should he have worn an expression of triumph? — for such it had surely been. Had he more promise from the grand duke than they had thought? Had he ground for the assurance that the youth’s mission would be fruitless? If not, whence his feeling of triumph? — for, the more he thought of it, the more deeply was he convinced that he had not been mistaken in his estimate of the knight’s look.

    “Bah! — I am a fool!” he told himself, after a deal of perplexing study. “The man is a natural braggart, and his look of triumph was a reflection of the wish of his heart. The grand duke will never enforce the marriage of Electra von Deckendorf with that monster! I will make him understand that he will find a safer friend in me than any man can find in Sir Pascal Dunwolf.” And he resolved that he would think no more about it.

    The sun was two hours high as Ernest crossed the stream in the valley, and shortly afterwards he began the ascent of the Schwarzwolf Mountain — or rather, of a spur thereof. It was a wild, rugged pass, but the path was clear, and he went on without difficulty, but rather slowly. At the summit of the spur the road lay through a dense growth of mountain fir — the black fir, whence the forest (wald) takes its name — and here, under the shadow of a precipitous cliff which arose on his left hand, he saw a large wolf sitting. His horse stopped suddenly and tried to turn, but the rider held him to his place; he could not hope to force him by the place, however, while the beast remained at his post; and he certainly exhibited no signs of moving out of the way.

    Photo by Mario Klingermann (CC BY-NC 4.0)

    The captain knew that sometimes an old wolf, in his mountain fastness, would be very bold and fearless, though he did not believe the animal would attack him. He considered a few moments, and then drew one of the large pistols, meaning to give the beast a shot between the eyes, the mark being direct to his aim. At the cocking and aiming of the piece the wolf raised himself to an erect posture, but nothing more. With a sure aim our rider pulled the trigger. A flash of the powder in the pan followed, and that was all. He waited a few seconds, to make sure that the fire had hot held only temporarily, and then knew that his pistol had missed fire entirely — something he had never before known with those weapons. Never before a burning of the priming without communicating fire to the charge.

    The bright flash and the tiny wave of smoke that curled up from the pan caused the wolf to take himself off, but that mattered little to the owner of the pistol at that particular moment. He cared more to know what was the matter with his powder.

    As soon as he had made sure that the wolf had disappeared, he slipped from his saddle, and having thrown the rein over the broken stub of a stout branch, he gave his attention to his pistol. First, however, before going further, he thought he would try the other. He took it from its holster, cocked it, took aim at a small sapling fifteen to twenty yards away, and pulled the trigger. Whew! The result was as before. His next movement was to draw the double-barrelled weapon from his pocket, and try first one hammer, and then the other; and, as the reader doubtless imagines, with the same result.

    And now for the bottom facts. There must be mischief somewhere. Ernest sat down upon a stone by the wayside, and exposed the screw upon the tail of the rammer of one of the holster pistols, with which he easily drew forth the wadding of the first one he took in hand; but he quickly determined that it was not the wadding he had himself put there. It was a wad of paper, which he recognised to be a part of a leaf from one of the books that lay in his room. He went on, and drew forth another wad, but no bullet. Then another — and yet another — piece from the same book, until the barrel was empty and the vent-hole clear.

    The second holster pistol, and likewise both the barrels of the smaller pistol, were found to have been deprived of their proper charges of powder and ball, and filled with nothing but paper from his devoted book! He sat for a time and looked at the three pistols.

    And the light burst upon him. He now could translate the look he had seen upon Dunwolf’s dark visage. And he understood, also, the secret of the early visit of the hunchback page. And, of course, there was more to come, which would doubtless present itself in due time.

    Fortunately he had plenty of ammunition in his saddle-bags. He opened them, and proceeded to load his weapons with extra care. He measured the powder critically; saw that the communication with the priming was free; he fitted a tallowed patch about the bullet so that it should drive home snugly; and when the work was done, and the flints had been made sure of striking plenty of fire, he put the pistols back into their places of rest, and resumed his journey.

    At a short distance from where he had stopped he reached the brow of the spur, and looked down into the valley below. It was a vast concavity of the forest, black as night, with here and there a giant oak or pine towering above the levels of the firs, and anon a cliff of gray rock lifted its bare peak into sight. The path was lost to view not far away, but the traveller knew where it lay, and was well acquainted with its many windings and its numerous branches. It was the branching of diverging tracks that made the desolate portion of the Schwarzwald dangerous to strangers. Many a man has been lost in those endless, intricate wilds; the sun and stars shut out by the mountain mists: his instinct leading him onward — ever onward — in a fatal circle, which he pursues until fatigue and famine conquer, and he finally sinks, perhaps not an hour’s journey from the point of his departure!

    But Ernest von Linden knew every turn and every branch, and he pushed surely on. A few hours’ more would bring him to the town of Wolfach, beyond which the road was broad and mostly good.

    He had reached the foot of the mountain spur, and was striking into a broader and better path, when he distinctly heard the footfall of a horse other than his own, not far away on his left hand, and on looking in that direction, he detected an opening in the thick wood, which he soon discovered to be another path, joining that which he was following at a short distance ahead. He looked to it that the pistols were loose in their holsters, and a few moments later two horsemen appeared to view directly before him, and not more than a dozen yards away.

    As he drew rein and brought his horse to a halt, the two men turned and faced him, and he recognised at sight two of the stout men-at-arms of Sir Pascal Dunwolf’s troop. They had not taken the trouble to disguise themselves.

    “Ha, Captain! Is it really you? I’faith, you must have given Sir Pascal the slip. He declared in our hearing that you would not leave the castle. Do you journey to Baden-Baden?”

    “Such is my intention.”

    “Good! We shall have company. In these times, with Thorbrand’s infants running at will through the forest, it is just as well to travel in goodly company. But I am surprised that you should have come alone.”

    “I have traversed this section many times,” the young man returned, and have yet to encounter an enemy. Still, as you suggest, we know not when one may appear.”

    “That is even so; but against the three of us it would require a strong force to prevail.”

    While this coloquy had been going on our hero had been making a study of the two men before him, and he had been content to quietly answer them that he might gain the opportunity.

    They were men of powerful frames, with VILLAIN indelibly stamped upon both their faces. Those faces were coarse-featured and battered; heavy-lipped and low-browed; with as wicked a complement of eyes as ever looked from a human head. They wore the uniform of their troop, heavy swords hung at their sides, daggers in their girdles, and evidently pistols in their holsters.

    Ernest knew that they must have left the castle during the night, for he remembered distinctly having seen them at parade on the preceding evening. And if they had left the castle during the night, of course their chief had sent them; for they could not have passed the sentinels otherwise. And for what had they been sent? Ah! it remained for them — clumsy loons! to blunder out the truth.

    “Captain,” said the second man of the twain, with an exceedingly cunning look, “did the chief send any letters by you?”

    What did this mean? Why was the question asked? The youth determined to pursue the matter to a solution.

    “He did,” he answered, after only an instant’s hesitation.

    “Oho! Then you saw him. I s’pose he gave the letters to you with his own hands.”

    Ernest began to gain a glimmering of light.

    “No,” he said. “They were given to me by another.”

    “I wouldn’t have believed it. Generally he doesn’t trust his letters in the hands of his underlings. I s’pose he sent ’em by Lieutenant Franz?”

    “No.”

    “Eh? Who could it have been?”

    “They were brought by a humpbacked dwarf, who brought them to me in my chamber before I had completed my toilet.”

    “Well, is it possible? What d’you think of that, Roger?”

    The man thus appealed to declared, most soberly, that he wouldn’t have believed it.

    The rascals had now learned all they could hope to discover by questioning. They believed that the captain’s pistols were innocent of powder and ball; and he knew that they so believed. Further, he knew that Sir Pascal had sent them out to intercept — to waylay — him, and that he had promised them that their victim’s weapons should be rendered harmless.

    At this point Ernest gathered in his slack rein and sat erect.

    “Look, you, sirrah!” to the man who had first addressed him. “If I heard
    correctly, your name is Roger. Now, sir” — to the other — “by what name may I call you?”

    “My name is Otto, sir,” the fellow replied without hesitation

    “Will you now tell me whither you are bound?”

    “Why,” answered Roger, “we are going right along with you.”

    “To Baden-Baden?”

    “Certainly.”

    “For what purpose?”

    “Why — bless you — the governor sent us, of course.”

    “Aye, but upon what business? He did not send you without a purpose.”

    “No, certainly not. He sent us — Eh, Otto?”

    “Why — he sent us,” said Otto, “to hunt up the trail of the robbers; and that was why we started off on that side path.”

    “And now,” suggested Ernest, “you will look for them in Baden-Baden?”

    “Yes; if we take a notion so to do. We are acting on our own judgment, and we’ll have you to know that we are not responsible to you.”

    “Certainly not. I should be exceedingly sorry if you were. And now, Roger and Otto, you will turn your horses’ heads to the front, and ride on. I propose to ride in the rear.”

    At that moment the assassins were evidently not prepared to act in concert; so without hesitation, save for the simple exchanging of a glance, they turned, as they had been ordered, and rode on. For a little time they sped on at a gallop, gaining a considerable distance in advance. At length they came to an open glade through which ran a brooklet of clear, sparkling water, where they reined up and allowed their horses to drink. Their heads were close together in earnest consultation, and our hero saw one of them point over his shoulder towards himself, at the same time laying the other hand upon the hilt of his sword.

    Evidently the time of trial was at hand; but the brave youth did not shrink, nor did he fear. He felt that he had the advantage, and with a watchful, wary eye upon their every movement, he rode slowly on.

    Notes and Reference

    • barony: a baron’s domain.
    • Schwarzwolf Mountain: fictional.
    • fastness: stronghold; fortified place.
    • rammer: in a muzzle-loaded firearm, an attachment to help load the bullet.
    • tallowed: v.t. constructed from n. “tallow”: solid oil or fat of ruminant animals (Encyc. Brit. qtd. Century Dictionary).
    • anon: soon.

    Handwerk, Brian. “Will We Ever Know Why Nazi Leader Rudolf Hess Flew to Scotland in the Middle of World War II?” Smithsonian Magazine (May 2016).

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  • Cobb’s False Knight: 4. A Brief, Sweet Dream

    Cobb’s False Knight: 4. A Brief, Sweet Dream

    A bit of a coincidence, more names. And Cobb even explains their origins in detail. How do we respond to and interpret them? Now we hear of Irene and Wolfgang. In English, we pronounce Irene as in “serene”, with an emphasis on the second syllable. In German, it sounds quite different, despite emphasis on the same syllable. The letter “e” is pronounced as “eh”, in addition to a bounce on the second “eh”, making the same lovely name sound much more harsh. Not instantly a beguiling Irish maiden, but perhaps a bit of a standoffish Valkyrie?

    It’s perhaps little wonder that the only German song about an Irene is “Leb Wohl, Irene” (Goodbye, Irene), the Nazi German song of the German flak unit drivers.

    Or should I have not mentioned the war, after the BBC tried to ban the Fawlty Towers episode “The Germans” this year? (See “Fawlty Towers ‘Don’t Mention the War’ Episode Removed from UKTV” Guardian, 12 Jun, 2020.)

    The German language is preferred by almost all lion and big cat tamers. Because these predators will more likely listen to you if you yell at them in German. The language even changes the way names are interpreted by us. Wolfgang sounds more foreboding in English, by contrast. The wolf and a sinister sounding gang? Which in German means only something like “gait” or “passage”. Goethe’s middle name, but still a popular one, even today. Mozart’s first, shortened to a cute little “Wolfie” in Amadeus, as his wife Constance is being chased by him around a table.

    Portrait of Mr. Van Amburgh, As He Appeared with His Animals at the London Theatres (1846-7). Sir Edwin Henry Landseer.

    On the subject of playing with names, will the evil Dunwolf finally be done in by a wolf? Cobb gives him the name “Sir Pascal Dunwolf”. Because that might sound sinister the first time you hear it? Could it be the first name Pascal that causes this? Not that I had anything against Blaise Pascal, although I abhorred having to calculate hectopascals. An instant villain?

    Or is it just me? Knights, in the many kingdoms, duchies and principalities of what later became Germany, were, in German, not given a title denoting knighthood, like “Sir”. They were of course noblemen, usually a von or a van something-or-other, but the fact that they might have been knights was bestowed by being a member of the “Deutscher Ritter Orden“, the German (or Teutonic) Order of Knights, with no extra title added to the name.

    CHAPTER 4

    A BRIEF, SWEET DREAM

    Towards the middle of the forenoon of the day following that on which the funeral at the castle had taken place, Irene Oberwald sat at the door of her father’s cot with a magnificent St. Bernard dog lying at her feet. Her distaff was before her and she was warbling a pretty little love-song as she spun her flaxen thread. Her father had gone down to the village in quest of medicine for his strange patient, and she had been left in charge.

    Thus she sat, busily spinning, and thus she sang, when a warning growl from her guardian gave token that something was approaching — something that might be dangerous, or Lion would not have uttered that particular note of alarm. She quickly set her distaff aside and arose to her feet, and as she did so the dog growled more deeply than before, and assumed an attitude of defiance. In another moment she heard the sound of a footfall behind her, and on turning she beheld the cause of her guardian’s disquiet. She had been looking in the direction of the village, supposing that any visitor would come that way, but the intruder had come from the opposite point. This is what she saw as she stood with her hand upon the head of the dog to hold him at her side; but her precaution was needless. The intelligent brute, having given one fair look into the new face, gave token of entire satisfaction.

    A man in a garb almost a duplicate of the garb worn by the man who now lay so sorely wounded near at hand; but a man very, very, very different. The girl’s first thought on seeing him was: “How like these robbers are; and what handsome men!” — for it was very evident at sight that he now before her was comrade with the other. Another thing passed through her mind, and was silently spoken: “How can men leading such a life wear such honest, truthful faces?”

    For the man before her she thought the handsomest, and the noblest, and the most truly loveable, she had ever seen. He was not more than five-and-twenty years of age, with a face the very picture of manly beauty and elegance. A mass of bright golden curls swept away from a full, open brow; his eyes, large and lustrous, were of a blue like the sapphire; his only beard being a prettily waving moustache upon the upper lip. The collar of his frock was open low in front, exposing a neck and the upper part of a bosom as fair as alabaster; and when he smiled his teeth gleamed like pearls. His cap, or bonnet, of purple velvet, bearing a rich, white ostrich feather, he held in his hand. He wore a sword of goodly size, with a hilt of gold, and a brace of pistols, also mounted with gold, were in his girdle. He was of medium height; of perfect form; compact and powerful.

    “I think I have found the dwelling of Martin Oberwald,” he said, in tones that sounded wonderfully melodious in the ears of the hunter’s daughter. Irene trembled, for her first thought was of the wounded man to whom they had given shelter; but her fear was only for the moment. “Surely,” she said to herself, “this man cannot be a traitor nor an enemy.” He marked her hesitation, and presently added, with a smile that banished the maiden’s last scruple:

    “Do not fear, fair lady. I would be the last to bring trouble upon your father’s abode. I will be frank with you, and I ask you to trust me. I am in search of a friend, and I think he has found blessed shelter beneath your roof. Am I wrong?”

    “If you would tell me the name of your friend, good sir—or,” she added, after a momentary pause, “perhaps l ought not to ask it.” Another pause, and she went on, with an answering smile—the smile came of its own accord:

    “I will be as frank as you have promised to be, fair sir. A stranger, sorely wounded, is at this moment beneath our roof. His name I do not know.”

    “Your father doubtless knows it.”

    “I think so; I am not sure.”

    “Let us call him — What shall it be?” the stranger said, with a smile that had a tinge of merriment in it. “What name should you give him?”

    “I would not dare to name him, sir.”

    “But, of course, you have given him a name in your thoughts. Will you speak it? No harm can come from that, I give you my solemn promise.”

    That was enough. The last remnant of doubt was swept away, and she resolved that she would trust the man fully.

    “I would call him,” she said, almost in a whisper, — “THORBRAND.”

    “Bless you for an angel of mercy and goodness!” the stranger exclaimed, from the fulness of his heart. “In that answer I read more than you think; I can see that a kind Providence must have led my poor friend in this direction. But tell me — how fares he? Was he very severely wounded?”

    “He was most terribly wounded. Had we not found him as we did he could not have lived many minutes. His life was running swiftly away from a deep wound in his bosom.”

    “You and your father found him?”

    “Nay, sir, my companion was Electra von Deckendorf.”

    “Who?” quickly demanded the stranger, with a palpable start as the name struck his ear.

    “Electra, daughter of the noble Baroness von Deckendorf.”

    “She it was?”

    “Yes, sir; and she it was who saved his life. I should not have known what to do; but she had studied chirurgery. She knew exactly what to do. O!” with a little cry of terror in memory of the scene — “how she had the courage to plunge her finger into the deep wound! I could not have done it if the wound had been on my dog.”

    “Bless the dear lady! We must find some fitting recompense for her most noble deed.”

    “Ah, sir!” cried Irene, without stopping to think, “if you could save her from a fate that threatens to make wreck and ruin of her joy forever, you would do a blessed thing indeed.”

    “Ha! What now! Who has dared? — But perhaps you will allow me to take a seat.”

    “Pardon me, good sir; I did not think,” and she pointed to the seat in which we first saw the young lady of the castle. As he sat down he said, with a smile that was captivating:

    “Now, fair lady, if you will add to your kindness by telling me your name I shall be grateful.”

    “That is hardly fair, sir. You know already who I am, while of yourself I know absolutely nothing.”

    The stranger laughed a light, merry laugh, and presently said:

    “Since you have my dearest friend a prisoner beneath your roof, I certainly should not fear to speak my name in your hearing but I would prefer that you should keep it to yourself, only, of course, telling your father, in case I do not see him.”

    “You may trust me, sir.”

    “I know it, sweet lady. Those lips of yours could no more conceal a lying tongue than Heaven itself could prove false. You may call me WOLFGANG. “

    “I am called Irene,” was the maiden’s response, scarcely above a whisper.

    Something in her bosom — it seemed near her heart — oppressed her. She knew not what it was — she did not try to think; she only knew that never before had such a feeling been hers. She had just bent her head, with her eyes cast upon the ground, when the tones of her companion, more musical, if possible, than before, caused her to look up.

    “Do you know the signification of that name — IRENE?”

    “No, sir,” she replied, wondering.

    “Shall I tell you?”

    “Certainly.”

    Portrait of Henry Casimir I, Count of Nassau-Dietz (c. 1632). Wybrand de Geest.

    “Then, listen.” He looked directly into her eyes with an expression upon his eloquent features that thrilled her through and through. ”The ancient heathens had a deity whom they worshipped as the personification of the Spirit of Peace. The Greeks called her Eirene. After the Romans had adopted Christianity, they gave that name to certain women whom they wished particularly to honor, calling it, as it has. been called ever since, IRENE. Several of the Greek empresses bore the name, and it was never given to one of humble station except for the purpose of rendering especial honor to her. So, do you see, you should be proud that your parents conferred it upon you.”

    “And now, Meinherr,” said the hunter’s daughter, after a little silence, ”can you tell me if your name has a signification?”

    “Ah! that is cruel; but I forgive you. Yes, the name has a signification, and you can read it in the name itself: WOLF-GANG — the Wolf’s course, the Wolf’s track; but perhaps it might be more properly given as the Wolf’s progress. Let me hope that the name will not frighten you.”

    “Indeed, no, sir; for I cannot believe that you could in any way resemble the wolf.”

    “And now,” said the visitor, seeing that the maiden was beginning to be troubled, “we were speaking of the young lady of the castle — Electra. What is the character of the danger that threatens her?”

    As she seemed to hesitate, he presently added:

    “I wish you would trust me, not only for the lady’s own sake, but for the sake of the man whom she so gallantly served. You may not know — I doubt if you have any idea — of that man’s power. And perhaps I can render her aid. Strange things sometimes happen in this world of ours.”

    Irene caught at the promise of help eagerly. Her heart had been aching ever since she had seen the dark, sinister face of Sir Pascal Dunwolf at the castle; and now had come a beam of hope. If she could in any way secure help to her beloved sister she had no right to neglect the opportunity. She bent her head for a brief; space in thought, and finally looked up and spoke. Her eyes were clear and steady in their beaming eloquence, and she looked straight into her listener’s face as she told him the story.

    She told of Electra’s childhood; of Ernest von Linden, and his adoption by the baron; of the love and the betrothment of the children; how they had gone on loving more and more, to the present time. She told of Sir Arthur; of his sickness and death; and then of the unfortunate whim of the grand duke; the suffering which it had occasioned; and finally, of the coming of Sir Pascal Dunwolf, just as the mortal remains of Sir Arthur von Morin had been laid at rest in the family vault.

    Irene had spoken more eloquently than she knew. Had her own heart been the scene of the suffering of which she told she could not have given to the story more feeling. Wolfgang had listened in rapt silence, his eyes fixed upon the face of the speaker as though by a spell. When she had concluded, he spoke, without premeditation, the words seeming to issue from his lips of their own volition, as though he had been dreaming, and spoke before being wholly awake.

    “Ah!” he said, a shadow resting upon his fresh, handsome face, “it is plainly to be seen that you know what true love is.”

    “Yes,” she responded, with simple honesty, her thoughts given so entirely to the story she had been telling that she did not catch the deeper significance of his words; “yes; I love my good father; and I could not love Electra more if she were my own sister.”

    “And another! Is there not another, at the sound of whose voice your pulses quicken, and your heart leaps with a wondrous emotion?”

    There was something in the man’s look — in his tone and bearing—that would not let her take offence. There was a slight tremor, quickly overcome; then a beaming smile, as she answered:

    “You mistake, sir. The emotion of which you speak was never mine.”

    It was strange how quickly the cloud passed away from Wolfgang’s face, and what a glorious light came into his blue eyes. Really, it seemed a transfiguration.

    “I beg your pardon,” he said. “And I ought perhaps to beg your pardon for having kept you so long in conversation, though I am free to confess that I have enjoyed it. I thank you for having trusted me in the matter of the young lady of Deckendorf. I think I must have an eye upon the dark-visaged knight.”

    “O, Sir! Do you think you can help the dear lady?”

    “I can certainly try.”

    “But if he has the authority of the grand duke to uphold him?”

    “The grand duke must be seen. Let the true lover go to Baden-Baden, where I believe Leopold at present has his headquarters.”

    “He is going, sir. He would have gone ere this had it not been for the death and funeral of the aged knight — Sir Arthur.”

    “Very well. Let Ernest von Linden look to the grand duke, and I will look to Sir Pascal. If I am not much mistaken, there is an unsettled account between us. Rest you easy, sweet lady, for I think I may promise you that your friend shall be saved from the fate she so much dreads. And now, if you do not forbid, and if you will kindly show me the way, I will go and see my friend and frater, Thorbrand.”

    “One word, good sir!” said Irene, with marked eagerness, as her visitor rose to his feet.” Because I gave you that name so readily, you will not think I would have carelessly exposed it.”

    “Bless you!” he cried with a kindling glance. “I thought you were wondrously careful in your keeping of the secret. No, no; I understand the matter much better than you can explain. You trusted me because you believed me trustworthy — following your own good judgment; as I will do always.”

    “The girl thanked him with a smiling look, and then led the way to the rear of the cot; and when they had come in sight of the door of the room in which the wounded man lay, she pointed it out and bade him enter. He went to the door and gently opened it and passed in. He closed it without noise, and in a moment more she heard a glad exclamation in the deep tones of the Schwarzwald chieftain followed by the musical notes of the voice of the visitor.

    Once more in her seat at the outer door, Irene drew up her distaff, and took a mass of the flossy flax in her hand, but she did not resume her spinning. An emotion new and strange was in her heart — a feeling never before experienced — a something that reached to every fibre of her being, thrilling her through and through. For a little time she sat as in a trance, without thought of any kind, her eyes half closed, her hands pressed on her bosom. And by and by she murmured, like one dreaming aloud:

    “Surely he must be a good man. He cannot be a robber. If he is — if such a thing were possible — there must, be some wonderful story in his life; some upheaval, wreck, ruin; some terrible treachery of professing friends, that drove him to the free life of the mountains. I wish I dared to ask him. Whatever he told me I should certainly believe.”

    She laid aside her distaff and arose, and began to pace slowly to and fro before the door. She was asking herself a solemn question: Had anything akin to love been awakened in her bosom towards the youthful mountaineer? Surely there was in her heart a feeling never known before. But — pshaw! how wild and foolish it was to speculate upon the subject! She would probably never see the man again, and yet, as she told herself so, a sense of desolation came upon her; a bright star seemed suddenly blotched out from the heaven of her life.

    She was thus slowly walking and deeply meditating, when a glad cry from her dog recalled her to herself, and on turning, she beheld her father close upon her.

    “Papa! O! I am glad you have come. We have had a visitor. — There! There! Be not alarmed. The wounded man, I am very sure, was anxiously expecting him.”

    “Ha! — is it — Did he give you his name?”

    “Yes.”

    “Was it — Wolfgang?”

    “Yes, papa!” she cried, seizing him by the wrist us she spoke. “He told me his name without fear. Do you know him?”

    “No. I never saw him.”

    The bright countenance fell in a moment, but presently it lighted up.

    “You know who he is, dear papa. You know something about him.”

    “Child, why are you so anxious! What can the man be to you? Look ye: Has he been talking tender nonsense to you?”

    “O, papa!”

    “Pooh! I was but jesting, my darling. And, moreover, I do not think Wolfgang — if it is really he —is at all such a man.

    ”Indeed, he is not. I never heard a man talk so wisely and so well.”

    “Oho! Then you have had a good bit of a chat, eh? And what sort of a man is he? Describe him to me, for be assured I have a deep interest in knowing all about him.”

    Without hesitation — from the fulness of an overflowing heart — the girl honestly and sincerely spoke:

    “He is the handsomest man I ever saw; and one of the grandest looking. I know he is brave; and I know he is true. A face like his could not belong to a man in whom there was a single grain of falsehood or deceit. And then, he is educated. He talked to me of things that I never knew before — talked like one whose understanding was deep and profound. If he is a robber — but I do not like to think of him as such. At heart I know he is not evil.”

    “An elderly man, I take it.”

    “Elderly! What are you thinking of? Why, he is not much older than — I won’t say that. But he is very young, not more than three or four-and-twenty.”

    The stout hunter gazed upon his daughter curiously. The smile which had at first broken over his kindly face faded away, and a look of deep concern took its place. After a little time he laid his hand tenderly upon the sunny head, and gently said:

    “My blessed child, beware of that heart of yours! I plainly see that this man has made a deep impression upon you. I simply ask you to keep a strong hand upon your affections, and especially upon your fancy. I think Wolfgang is an honest man, and true; but be sure, he will never seek a mate in these mountains.”

    “Oh! papa!”

    “Tush! That is all. Now go about your work, and I will go in and see our visitor. I suppose he is still with — his chief.”

    “Yes. He is in the —”

    The hunter did not wait for her to finish the sentence, but turned away at once towards the rear of the cot.

    Irene watched him until he had disappeared from her sight, and then she sank upon a seat, buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. For a time her heart seemed well nigh to breaking; but at length she started up, and dashed away her tears, and told herself that she was a fool. And the more she thought of it the more foolish the whole thing appeared. It had been a brief, wild dream, with her whole heart involved; but she had happily awakened, and she told herself that that was the end.

    Then she went to the little well-room and laved her face in the crystal water of the spring, after which she returned to her distaff, and set resolutely about her spinning; and as she watched the tiny thread lengthening and gleaming in the slanting sunbeams, she thought of the handsome stranger, and repeated the sweet words he had spoken.

    So she spun, and so she thought, resolving all the while that she would think no more.

    Notes

    • Leb Wohl, Irene: See Addendum below for English translation of lyrics.
    • Portrait of Mr. Van Amburgh: Isaac van Amburgh (1808-1865). Dutch-American lion tamer. See also, “Isaac van Amburgh and his Animals,” Royal Collection Trust, UK.
    • distaff: A stick or spindle on to which wool or flax is wound for spinning. (Lexico.com)
    • frater: Comrade
    • kindling glance: Not so much the sense of kind as kindling something. See, for example, “Terpsichore” in Poems by Oliver Wendell Holmes: “And there is mischief in thy kindling glance” (in Making of America, U of Michigan Library).
    • laved: Washed
    Addendum

    English translation of lyrics of “Leb Wohl, Irene” (Goodbye, Irene) (Das Flak Lied) (Source: “Axis History” and Google Translate.)

    1. We go back and forth
we drive all over the place.
Throughout the country
we are known
by every girl with taste
as a driver of the flak.

Chorus:
Farewell, Irene!
Love me, Sophie!
Be good, Marlene!
Are you staying true to me, Marie?
You are so lovely, so beautiful, so cheerful,
but unfortunately I have to go on again.

Farewell, Irene!
Love me, Sophie!
Be good, Marlene!
Are you staying true to me, Marie?
I will always love you.
I love you new in every new place!

2. We go back and forth
we drive all over the place.
Somehow sits
A battery
in one spot in the thick dirt,
there we take them away.

Chorus

3. We go back and forth
we drive all over the place.
And it turns out
the war is over,
let's go home on the last day
the flak with sack and pack.

Chorus

    This work CC BY-SA 4.0

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 3. A Funeral — A New Arrival

    Cobb’s False Knight: 3. A Funeral — A New Arrival

    Strange, that Electra’s beloved should say of Thorbrand that he may be “evil” but not “dreadful“, and that he would “never take a penny from a man he knew to be poor”. A German Robin Hood? Some say that the before-mentioned Eppelein von Gailingen was one; however, there is little remaining evidence of this.

    Robber knights often had no choice other than to take money and riches any way they could. As opposed to today, when many impoverished castle owners open bed and breakfasts or rent out their great halls for wedding parties, these opportunities for income did not exist in the Middle Ages. So there you were, the heir to a crumbling castle, people depending on your income, a few serfs tilling soil for which they offer some of their produce to the owner. Should you take something like an unofficial tax from those rich merchants who wear grooves into the paths through your land with their heavy carts, so you can make ends meet? Many did just that.

    The kings, dukes and so on did much the same, only on a grander scale. Even in the 1700s, they often demanded and went to war over ownership of assets like mines, silver or salt, etc, whether their families had ever had anything to with establishing them or not. Wasn’t that also theft? What then was legal, and what wasn’t? The only written laws appeared from 1220 to about 1235, such as the Sachsenspiegel, which remained a valid legal source in Germany until about 1900. Only seven copies of this German law book remain, all illuminated manuscripts and written in Low German.

    A page from the Heidelberg Sachsenspiegel, concerning murder and manslaughter. Source: U of Heidelberg

    It’s called Saxenspiegel (“Saxon Mirror”) because it was supposed to reflect the customary laws of the time. Of course people back then were obsessed with accusing others of witchcraft, or whatever constituted lewd behaviour in their opinions. Women could inherit, but if they married, all their possessions would become property of the male.

    Best be careful whom you might be forced to marry then. What will become of Electra if she marries her betrothed? According to the Sachsenspiegel, translated from Low German to High German, “Wenn ein Mann Eine Frau heiratet, so nimmt er all ihr Gut in sein Gewaehre zu rechter Vormundschaft” (“When a man marries a woman, he is granted all her possessions into proper trusteeship as her legal guardian”. (Because women were seen as “incapable of acting legally”, unless they happened to be queens or duchesses.) Can she really trust her suitor?

    CHAPTER 3

    A FUNERAL — A NEW ARRIVAL

    As our heroine approached the castle, she saw through the gathering gloom, the figure of a man — a man who appeared to be looking towards her — standing upon the drawbridge. The gleesome cry of her dog told her that he was a friend, and very shortly thereafter she was leaning upon the arm of her dear lover, Ernest von Linden, who had come out to meet her. He was a young man of four-and-twenty; tall and comely; with a frame of wonderful powers of endurance, lithe and sinewy; his face the mirror of truth and sincerity; his hair of a glossy brown, flowing over his well-shaped head in beautiful wavelets; his eyes of a rich gray, beaming with wit and intelligence; a man, take him all in all, as handsome as you will find in a day’s journeying through a populous district. He wore a doublet of dark green velvet, a white ostrich feather drooped over his velvet cap. and upon his hip he wore a good sword. He was a soldier, every inch of him, holding a captain’s commission from the baroness, and in command, under Sir Arthur, of the forces of the castle, and the town.

    “Darling, we had begun to worry about you, and I should have started out to meet you a long time ago, had not Sir Arthur — dear old man! — been taken with an ill turn. So ill was he that I dared not leave him.”

    “He is not dangerously ill? Do not tell me that!” cried Electra, in alarm.

    “We shall know very soon. Roland has gone on swift horse for the doctor, and it is time now that he had returned. However, there may be nothing to alarm us. He has had just such turns before.”

    “Yes,” said the loving niece, with infinite tenderness and pathos in her tone, “but they are worse and worse with every repetition. Dear old Sir Arthur! I hope God will spare him to us a little longer.”

    With this they turned to enter the main court of the castle and as they crossed the draw-bridge, Electra saw that the heavy chains were cast loose, and that the windlass of the portcullis was in readiness for use.

    “Ah!” said Ernest, in answer to her silent question. “We are making ready to close our gates. It was your mother’s desire and your uncle thought it had better be done. I suppose there can be no doubt that the noted robber chief, Thorbrand, is somewhere in the vicinity. He is no respecter of private property, and if he is accompanied by a sufficient force, he is as liable to strike at a strong castle as at a solitary wayfarer. However, he will find Deckendorf Castle a dangerous place to trifle with.”

    “Ernest, what sort of a man is this Thorbrand? Is he as dreadful as people say?”

    “If you mean to ask if he is powerful or evil, I should answer you, yes, most emphatically; but if you mean by ‘dreadful,’ is he a bloodthirsty, cruel monster, I should say, no. He never robbed a peasant’s cot, nor took a penny from a man whom he knew to be poor. Further he has been known — so I have been told — to shoot down one of his own men for offering gross insult to a peasant’s daughter; but, alas! that does not hold good, I fear, with regard to wives and daughters of castles. The man is governed by policy. While he can keep the friendship of the peasantry he finds many avenues of safety which he could not find otherwise. He has sacked whole villages, and I have no doubt but that he would attack and rob our peaceful hamlet should it come in his way. He is dangerous man, and he will be a public benefactor who shall slay him or deliver him up to justice.”

    They had now entered the broad court, and for a little time they walked on in silence. At length the young captain looked down into his companion’s face, which he could just distinguish in the deepening gloom and asked:

    “What are you thinking of, my sweet one? Has my picture of Thorbrand frightened you?”

    “No, Ernest, it was not that. A curious thought came to me, and I was trying to see through it. I was thinking: Suppose you and I were walking as we are walking now, only away in the deep forest, and should come upon a man suffering most cruelly — let us suppose him to have been wounded nigh unto death — and we should find him just when a helping, friendly hand could save his life. What should we do?”

    “Electra!”

    “Pshaw! You don’t think I am going to lead you to such an adventure, do you? Certainly not. It was only a fancy that struck me; and you will see what I mean pretty soon. What should we do to that man?”

    “Do? Why, we should put forth every effort to save him, of course.”

    “Certainly. And now suppose one thing further: Suppose after we had got the poor man up, and he had blessed us for our kindness, we should accidentally discover that we had saved the life of the Robber Chief, Thorbrand — should we seek to undo what we had done?”

    “What a question!”

    “Well — but — suppose we had known he was Thorbrand before we gave him help — when we first found his life running away through cruel wounds — would we have saved him all the same?”

    “Certainly. I would do so much for the bitterest enemy had in the world.”

    “Noble heart! I knew you would. And now answer me this: You have given the robber chief back his life, and he has asked God to bless you for your goodness; and then, after that, when he is at your mercy, are you going swiftly to the nearest barracks to call forth a host to go to the robber’s capture? That is the thought that has been puzzling me.”

    “Well, I wouldn’t let it puzzle you any more.”

    “I don’t want it to, my dear Ernest, and for that very reason I want you to tell me what you would do under such circumstances.”

    “Why, I should do as near right as I could, of course.”

    “Would you betray the man whose life you had so kindly saved to a death a thousand times more dreadful than that from which you had secured him?”

    “That is a hard question, Electra.”

    “I know it; and that is the very reason why I wish you to answer it.”

    “Well,” said the youth, after a little thought, stopping at the foot of the steps ending up to the vestibule, “if I must answer your question, I shall have to confess that, under the circumstances which you have supposed, I should not forsake the man in his great need. Betray him, I could not. The man whom I had befriended I could not, in that same hour, surrender to his enemies, let him be saint or sinner.”

    “O! I knew your heart would not let you do such a thing.”

    “But, tell me, what put that thought into your head? Electra! Have you —”

    “Hark! 0! there is dear mamma! Pooh! don’t you go to fancying that I have been doing any such wonderful things. I was thinking, that was all. You know what curious fancies sometimes possess me. — Here I am, mamma! — safe and well, with Ernest and my good Fritz for my guards.”

    With that she ran up the steps and threw her arms around the neck of her dear mother, who stood in the heavily arched doorway waiting for her.

    “Mamma! Mamma! How is Uncle Arthur?”

    “We shall know very soon, my child; for here comes the doctor.”

    Electra turned, and saw Doctor Ritter just coming through the inner gateway, with Roland in company. He was a small man, physically; but professionally he was a host. He was, in truth, a physician and surgeon of surpassing knowledge and skill; and had he not owed fealty to Deckendorf — had he not been under a promise to the last baron that he would never, willingly, forsake his old post while the Baroness Bertha lived, he might have found a more profitable location long ago.

    The Baroness Bertha von Deckendorf was of the same complexion as her daughter, but not quite so tall. She was really a short woman, and inclined to a healthful embonpoint; and though only forty years of age, the sorrow of. her great bereavement had drawn many lines of silver in her dark brown hair.

    “Electra, why did you stay so late? We had become really alarmed.”

    “Did you think I might have fallen in with the robber chieftain?”

    “Do not make light of that subject, my child. We have positive assurance that the dreadful man is somewhere in this neighborhood; and you know very well what his reputation is.”‘

    “My darling mamma, I did not think of making light of it, I assure you. Still I have no fear. But I am safe and well, as you see.”

    “For which blessing I thank Heaven devoutly,” murmured the baroness, seemingly to herself, after which she walked on with bowed head, busy with her own thoughts.

    In one of the older apartments of the castle, on the second floor, the narrow loopholes of which had been enlarged and glazed, the walls covered with arms and armour of every known description, together with trophies of the chase, lay the old knight Sir Arthur von Morin, now in his seventy-sixth year. His plentiful hair was as white, almost, as the covering of the pillow over which it floated in sinuous masses; his brow was high and full; his face of a leonine cast his frame massive, though now shrunken and shattered. For ten years, since the last going forth of the Baron Gregory, Sir Arthur had been sole master of the castle, and in that time he had endeared himself to, all with whom he had been brought in contact.

    But his days, alas! were numbered. Paralysis had followed a severe cold, taken after long and severe exposure in the mountains — a paralysis which had not marred the face, but which had been creeping nearer and nearer to the heart.

    Electra, when she entered the chamber, in company with her mother and Ernest, moved quickly to his bedside, and bent over and imprinted a kiss upon his brow.

    “Dear, dear uncle! You did not think I had forsaken you.”

    “No, sweet one. Kiss me again. Darling, you have been, very precious to me. No, no — I did not think you had run away; yet I wanted to see you — Bertha!” looking toward the baroness, “have you told her of the arrival from Baden Baden?”

    “No, dear uncle — I have had no opportunity.”

    “What is it? Who has arrived?” the girl asked eagerly.

    “It is not a person, my child — only a letter; but a letter of vast moment. It was for me,” said the old knight, “so I will explain it. A letter from the grand duke, informing me that Sir Pascal Dunwolf will soon arrive at the castle to confer with me. He had been informed of my sickness, and is pleased to add that, if it should come to pass that I be utterly incapacitated for military command, Sir Pascal will come clothed with authority to take my place, and — and —”

    “What more uncle? Do not fear to speak.”

    “Ah! Leopold does not know — he cannot know — what the situation is here. In fact, the letter itself shows that he has been misinformed. Tell me Electra — did Dunwolf ever hint to you of his love? Did he ever intimate to you that he would be happy in the possession of your hand?”

    “He! — Dunwolf! — hint to me of love! Merciful Heaven! — he dared not. Has he intimated such a thing? Does the grand Duke write to that effect?”

    “The duke writes as though he really hoped you would be happy with Sir Pascal. He says he owes the knight a heavy debt and he can think of no better way in which to pay it.”

    “The price he will pay,” said Electra with scornful bitterness, “is my castle and my hand! I wonder if he means to include my soul in the transfer”

    “The grand duke must be seen,” suggested the baroness, with calm decision. “Ernest, you are known to him.”

    “No, mother. I was well known to his father. During my stay at the ducal court Leopold was absent at the court of the emperor; and since his accession to the throne I have not been at the capital. Still, I will see him? He is reported to be a just and honourable man; and if he be that I have no fear of the result. If, after I have told him my story, as I feel I shall be able to tell it, he can turn a deaf ear to my entreaty I — shall think him neither just nor honourable.”

    The entrance of the doctor put a stop to further conversation on the subject of the grand duke’s letter, and attention was now given to Sir Arthur.

    At the end of a long and critical examination Dr. Ritter took a seat at the bedside, with one of the patient’s hands in his grasp.

    “Sir Arthur,” said he, in a frank, friendly manner, “I know you wish for the truth — the whole of it. — Certainly. Well, I have only this to say: — Put your house in order at once, after which you may quietly await the end. When it will be no man can tell. You may live for days — perhaps weeks; but, I think, not many days, if many hours. I will do what I can for you and, further, I will remain for a time with you.”

    After this the doctor prepared the simple medicines he intended to give, and took up his watch with his patient. He had explained to the baroness that the old man was liable to be taken away at any moment, and that the end might come with but little warning. He would let them know if he should detect any change for the worse.

    The evening meal was prepared, and after it had been disposed of Ernest and Electra repaired to the apartment of the baroness, where the subject of the grand duke’s project was further discussed; the conference ending with the promise that the young captain would see Leopold, and tell him the story as it was — how the Baron Gregory had planned to dispose of his daughter’s hand, and how such had been the heart’s desire of all concerned ever since, — and then he would respectfully demand that the wishes of the mother and child should be duly considered; and there was no doubt in their minds that justice would be done.

    After this Ernest went out to look to the defences of the castle, while the Baroness and Electra repaired once more to the chamber of Sir Arthur, where they found both the patient and the doctor buried in peaceful slumber; and they did not disturb them.

    Early on the morning of the following day the baroness and her daughter, who occupied apartments of the same suite, met in the passage leading to the chamber of Sir Arthur. They had but just arisen, and neither of them had yet heard from the sick one. At the old knight’s door the baroness gently knocked, and it was quickly opened by Ernest von Linden, whose cheeks were wet with tears.

    Tod (Death). 1911/13. Christian Rohlfs. Public Domain. Source: Wikimedia Commons

    No need was there to ask what had happened. Mother and daughter entered the chamber, and stood by the bedside, looking down upon the face of the dead. The good old man had passed away during the night, the doctor could not say when. He could only tell that the passage must have been peaceful and painless. He had slept lightly; at midnight he had given the patient a draught of cordial, and received in return his blessing. At four o’clock he awakened from a brief slumber, and found him sleeping the sleep that knows no earthly waking.

    They knelt in the chamber of death while Lady Bertha offered up a fervent prayer to the Throne of Grace, after which the household servants were notified of the solemn event, and those who desired were permitted to come and gaze upon the still, calm face of him whom, in life, they had so truly and devotedly loved.

    Then the death-flag was raised upon the main tower of the castle, and a gun was fired upon the western bastion, towards the settlement.

    Sir Arthur von Morin had died on Tuesday morning, and it was arranged that the funeral should take place on Thursday, at noon.

    Thursday morning dawned, and at an early hour all was in readiness for the solemn ceremonies. A rich casket had been brought from Zell, and the people had come in from far and near to pay their tribute of respect to the memory of the deceased.

    Irene Oberwald came over from her cot in the opposite mountain side; but she was forced to come alone, saving the company of one of her father’s dogs. When asked by the warder, at the gate, where old Martin was, she replied that sickness kept him confined within doors. She did not hesitate to go that far in the way of deceiving, since a good and sufficient excuse of some kind was absolutely necessary, seeing that her father had been one of Sir Arthur’s oldest and dearest friends. In answer to the baroness she was more frank. She said that her father was kept at home in attendance upon a sick guest, — an unfortunate traveller who had received a severe hurt in the forest, and whom he felt called upon to kindly nurse.

    “Dear Irene, tell me, how is it with my hero?” eagerly asked Electra, as soon as she could get the hunter’s daughter to herself.

    “I have not seen him since you left,” the girl replied; “but papa says he is doing well. He has a powerful frame, and most excellent health, and his recovery is likely to be rapid.”

    The last note of the solemn service had sounded; the mortal remains of the brave old knight had been consigned to their resting-place in the vaults beneath the chapel, and most of the people had departed for their homes, when, towards the middle of the afternoon, the warder of the castle, Herbert, came in from his post at the great gate, with the intelligence that a large troop of cavalry was approaching.

    Electra, upon the spur of the moment, thought of raising the drawbridge and letting fall the portcullis; but even she, upon more sober thought, was forced to the conclusion that such a course would not be advisable.

    Fifteen minutes later the head of the column crossed the drawbridge and entered the court. There were five-and-forty well-armed troopers of the Ducal Guard, with a richly-clad knight in command. When the whole force had entered, it was brought to a proper alignment, after which the knight turned over the command to a subaltern, and turned himself towards the vestibule, an orderly and a herald bearing him company.

    As the chieftain slipped from his saddle, and gave his horse to the servant, he displayed a thick-set, powerful frame, rather below the medium stature, but making up in breadth what it lacked in height. He was of dark complexion; his hair and beard as black as the raven’s plumage, with a pair of heavily-arched eyes to match. His features were regular, and by many might certainly have been thought handsome. He was a bold man, and reckless of physical danger, but hardly brave; for true bravery presupposes truth and honor, and these were not the characteristics of the man whose face and figure we are now contemplating.

    When he had given his horse to his orderly, he started up the broad steps towards the deep arch of the vestibule, sending his herald on in advance; and shortly thereafter the notes of a brazen trumpet smote the ears of the inmates, and the herald proclaimed:

    “SIR PASCAL DUNWOLF!”

    Notes and References

    • portcullis: Heavy gate, such as a metal grill, that can be lowered vertically to close off a gateway.
    • vestibule: “An antechamber, hall, or lobby next to the outer door of a building” (lexico.com).
    • embonpoint: The plump or fleshy part of a person’s body, in particular a woman’s bosom. E.g., ‘I have lost my embonpoint, and become quite thin.’ Late 17th century from French en bon point ‘in good condition’ (lexico.com).
    • subaltern: Officer below the rank of a captain (lexico.com).

    “The Heidelberg Saxon Mirror (Heidelberger Sachsenspiegel)“.  Heidelberg University. Jump to page.

    This work CC BY-SA 4.0