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Tag: Early American Popular Culture

  • A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez: 1. The Returning Californians

    A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez: 1. The Returning Californians

    Welcome to the first instalment of Achibald Clavering Gunter’s 1893 novel Baron Montez of Panama and Paris. The story is integrated with historical events which provide a background for the introduction of the main character, Fernando Gomez Montez. The first chapters take place on a particular day, the fifteenth day of April, 1856, a date that has a significant part to play both in history and future plot.

    Panama

    Panama was always of vital interest to the United States. President Andrew Jackson as early as 1836 had commissioned a study of proposed routes for a railroad across the Isthmus to protect the interests of Americans travelling to and from the Eastern and Western states by ocean, and the developing Oregon County in the Pacific Northwest. Two years before gold was discovered in California in 1848, which made safe transit across the Isthmus even more crucial, William H. Aspinall, who ran the Pacific mail steamships conceived of a railroad. He and his partners formed a New York company and raised a million dollars to conduct engineering and route studies. The Panama Railroad was completed on January 27, 1855, at a cost of eight million and an estimated five to ten thousand lives to malaria, yellow fever and cholera.

    The ‘science’ of blood and race

    There is a great dollop of blood ahead and smatterings throughout these first chapters, with racial connotations. Not to alarm our readers, it is best to put this in context with the time of A.C. Gunter’s writing, 1893. Ten years before, Sir Francis Galton, a cousin of Charles Darwin, defined Eugenics as ‘the study of agencies under social control that may improve or impair the racial quality of future generations’ (Memories… p. 321). As Darwin’s evolutionary ‘survival of the fittest’ made universal sense and was applied widely beyond its scientific origins, so Galton’s determination took on a life of its own in the US. Pseudo-eugenics prospered. Galton proposed that, where possible, breeding should be encouraged from good stock, and discouraged in bad. He saw the English upper classes as good stock with good qualities.

    Sir Francis Galton (1822–1911). Platinum print by Eveleen Myers (née Tennant). Source: Wikimedia Commons

    It’s all very well to establish a scientific principle, but left in the hands of the unscientific to ascribe subjective values on who or what is desirable, is another thing, particularly if based simply on race. It becomes a basis and validation for prejudice. None-the-less a movement began to grow to embrace the principles for the betterment of society through inherited blood. As Nancy Ordover puts it:

    U.S. eugenicists tended to believe in the genetic superiority of Nordic, Germanic and Anglo-Saxon peoples, supported strict immigration and anti-miscegenation laws, and supported the forcible sterilization of the poor, disabled and “immoral.”

    Ordover, American Eugenics (2003) xii

    Today, the narrator’s stereotypical presumptions would be considered racist, but these were, not to judge or justify, the emerging values of the society within which he lived. With financial support from the likes of John D. Rockefeller, and the Carnegie Institution, and aided by influential scientists like Charles B. Davenport and Alexander Graham Bell, the formation of organizations such as The Eugenics Record Office and the American Breeders Association, ensured the movement continued to grow and expand its demands until the commencement of the First World War (Ordover).

    Style and technique of the storyteller

    Contemporary writing has been greatly influenced by the visual mediums of television and film. ‘Show don’t tell’ is the admonition given new writers. This is a distinct departure from previous writing styles where the narrator plays a more visible, involved role of story-teller. However, even in Gunter’s period narrators were generally unobtrusive entities largely prepared to let their characters’ actions and words speak for qualities and nature.

    The narrator of Baron Montez, has a prominent all-seeing, all-knowing presence, to the extent of almost becoming a character of the story himself—as a US basketball coach is considered part of the team or an off-stage voice one of the cast. But this is purposeful. A.C. Gunter is a successful New York playwright, and this dramatic influence is evident in this work, in staging, character design and the transparency of his dialogue which truly provides an insight into character.

    In this first chapter, A.C. Gunter has several revelations to impart which have a bearing on the larger plot: the new Panama Railroad and its effect on the native population, and transiting Americans such as Alice and George Ripley; and while alternatively mollifying the reader with exquisite descriptions of the paradise that is Toboga Island, the sand, jewel waters and flowers, the vehement narrator carries out a relentless character assassination of Fernando Gomez Montez, who no doubt is up to no good. He is the quintessential bad boy, a charming rogue without soul, capable of anything, and his irresistible potential for evil-doing draws the reader on.

    BARON MONTEZ

    OF

    PANAMA AND PARIS

    A NOVEL

    BY

    ARCHIBALD CLAVERING GUNTER

    BOOK 1

    A TRAGEDY OF THE EARLY ISTHMUS

    CHAPTER 1

    THE RETURNING CALIFORNIANS

    “ANITA!”

    “Fernando, light of my heart! Returned from the Pearl Islands!” cries the beautiful Indian girl rushing to his arms and covering Mr. Fernando’s olive face with the kisses of youth and love. Anita is but fifteen, and the heart grows fast under the sun of the Equator.

    Fernando himself is scarce twenty, but he does not seem so ardent. He replies carelessly, “Yes, last night, by the Columbus,” pointing to that little unseaworthy steamer as she lies languidly upon the blue waters of the Bay of Panama, about three miles from the town, and seven from the lovely Island of Toboga, from which these two are gazing at it.

    “Last night, and you did not come to me? you—away five days!” answers the girl, tears coming into her eyes that flash through mists of passion like topaz stones.

    “Last night I had business in Panama—great business.”

    Then the young man says anxiously, “Is the Americano well?”

    Photo of indigenous Panamanian woman by Ayaita (detail, adjusted) CC BY-SA 3.0 Source: Wikimedia Commons

    “Yes.”

    “And here?”

    “Still here.”

    “He has not gone yet! Blessings on God! And his wife—the beautiful Senora Alicia, the lady with the white skin? She has recovered from her touch of the fever Panama?”

    “She is better. They go to the mainland this after noon.”

    “Ho-oh!”

    “To-morrow morning they take passage on the railway, to Aspinwall, and then go on the big vessel with the smoke to the great America beyond the sea.”

    “A-ah. she is well enough to travel?”

    “Yes, she is yellow no more; her cheeks are red as the blossoms of the manzanilla.”

    “Por Dios! She must be lovely as a mermaid of Las Islas de las Perles!” murmurs Fernando half to himself, but still not sufficiently low to miss the sharp ear of an Indian; for at his words the dark eyes of Anita flash ominously, her full, round bosom pants under its white semitransparent cotton drapery, and she mutters savagely to herself.

    “What are you saying under your breath, Anita?” cries the young man.

    “Nothing! I—I was only whispering a prayer to the Virgin for the young American lady’s recovery, in the language of my tribe,” answers the girl hesitatingly.

    “Diablo! No more of the language of your tribe! I don’t understand the language of your tribe!” sneers Señor Fernando, giving the girl a little slap on her shapely brown shoulder and a nasty glance out of his bright eyes. To this she does not reply, as she passes round the corner of the bamboo cottage, apparently overcome by some emotion she would sooner the gentleman who has been speaking to her would not discern in her face.

    “By all the saints of the cathedral, I believe the fool is jealous of my passion for the beautiful Americana! Anita jealous! Did she but know there is an Anita at Cruces, another at the Island del Rey, and half a dozen more scattered between Aspinwall and Panama, little Anita of Toboga would have fine cause for jealousy,” chuckles the young gentleman, smoothing his elaborate and spotlessly white shirt front, and settling the bright red sash around his hips, in the conceited way peculiar to South American dandies.

    A moment after, he thinks: “What matters one Indian girl, more or less? Besides, today I have other things—they are going away today. How lucky I returned from the Pearl Islands in time! But now, Por Dios!—everything is arranged for the departure tonight of the American, his treasure, and his—beautiful—wife.” He lisps this through his white teeth, as he looks lazily out over the Bay of Panama, and dreams a daydream which seems to be a pleasant one.

    It is shortly interrupted by a hearty American voice saying: “Back at last, Señor Montez. I hope you have brought the pearls. I was afraid we would not be able to wait for you. A gleaming necklace would be a very pretty present for my little girl in the United States.”

    With these words, a brown-faced, hardy and stalwart American, George Merritt Ripley, steps upon the bamboo portico and gives the man he addresses a hearty grasp of the hand. Ripley’s manners are those of one who has been educated as a gentleman, but has to a limited extent thrown off the veneer of society among the rough and ready companions of Alta California.

    This is apparent as he continues. “Light a cigar, my Spanish friend, and enjoy the view with me, this beautiful morning;” and, taking a camp chair, places his feet lazily upon the bamboo railing of the veranda, making a fine picture of a returning Californian of the fifties in his light woollen turn-away shirt, Panama hat, black trousers, high boots and belted revolver.

    “Gracias!” The Spaniard accepts the offered weed and then suggests: “Your wife, I understand, is now sufficiently recovered, to continue her journey to the United States.”

    “Yes, thank God!” answers the American. Then his lip trembles a little, as he says: “Though our first day in Panama, I was afraid my Alice would leave me forever;” and sighs: “That would have been the saddest parting on earth. My wife going to the embraces of our daughter she has not seen for four years—since we left her to journey to California.”

    “Why did you not take her with you to the land of gold?”

    “What! take a child of twelve across the Isthmus in 1852? With its boat travel on the Chagres—its night at Gargona, amid the clicking of dice and the curses of the gamblers—its morning of miasma, going up the river to Cruces, and its mule ride through tropical forests infested by thieves and banditti? That would have been too great a risk; but now, with the railroad, our return is different and safe.”

    At the American’s mention of gamblers at Gargona, and bandits on the Cruces road in 1852, a slight smile has rippled the olive features of the young man to whom he is talking.

    As the returning Californian speaks of the railroad, the smile on the Spaniard’s features changes to a scowl, but a moment after he assents laughingly: “Yes, it is different.” Then a gleam of diabolical hope comes into his face, as he says: “I am glad the Señora is well enough to travel.”

    “Yes, we leave here this afternoon. That reminds me I must thank you for your kindness of the week. Had it not been for you, Alice would have remained in Panama, and perhaps have succumbed to the fever; but here on this beautiful island, the sea breezes and the perfume of the tamarind groves have been better for her than all the quinine in the universe, and all the doctors on earth. So I shall take her back to the East to meet our child, and a reunited family will settle down to a life of civilization, blessing God for the gold placers of the Sierras, for I have been very fortunate in California. My wife will be dressed very shortly, Señor Montez. Would you mind suggesting to the kind Anita that sea breezes bring appetite for breakfast?”

    With this the gentleman returns into the little cottage of bamboo walls and palm-thatched roof, and Fernando Gomez Montez, looking after him, murmurs: “He has been very fortunate!” and thinks covetously of a strong ironbound chest the returning Californian carries with him, whose weight indicates that it contains the gold of the Sierras.

    Then his agile though sensuous mind wanders to the beauty that he knows the slight bamboo walls keep from his prying, inquisitive, hungering eyes—the beauty of the American lady—the white lady whose loveliness he has longed for since he has seen it—more than for the biggest pearl ever fished up from the blue waters of the Gulf of Panama.

    So he chuckles, looking over his own personal charms which he thinks are great, for he has very nice regular white teeth and sparkling dark eyes; his skin is a very mild chocolate color, and his slight, wiry, petite figure is clothed in immaculate white linen save where his bright red sash circles his dapper waist and falls down his right leg almost to his highly polished patent leather Wellington boots.

    Then hearing a woman’s soft voice within the bamboo walls, he mutters: “The Californian is bigger than I; but she will forget him for me—the prettiest boy in Panama!” and, gazing over the bay, sees in the distance, on the shore, the ramparts of the town, the white walls of its houses, and the glittering domes of its cathedrals.

    Back of it are the savannas, green as emeralds, that glisten in the rising sun; beyond, the Cordilleras droop to the lowest gap of that great ridge that divides the Atlantic and Pacific—so low here that twenty-five years after, they will draw all the gold from the stockings of the saving peasants of Brittany and Normandy, in the vain attempt to make the waters of the Pacific and Atlantic meet.

    Behind the South American town rise two green hills—the nearest, called Ancon; the other, farther back, an advance peak of the Sierras, is the Cerro de Filibusteres—thus ominously named because Morgan, the buccaneer, first gazed upon the old Panama that he and his two thousand miscreants (gathered from all quarters of the earth) three days afterwards destroyed with lust and pillage and rapine and fire and blood.

    Looking on this, Montez murmurs: “How peaceful! how beautiful!” Even his soul is struck by the lovely view before him, though he has seen it a hundred times, for to devils’ eyes, heaven is sometimes lovely: and this looks like heaven—though it is not.

    The sea breezes bring to him the scent of the tamarind, lime and orange groves. Around him is a mass of green—feathery green—of palms and bamboos, brightened here and there by red and yellow blossoms, that are strung, as if on florist’s wreaths, from tree to tree, and often dangle and droop into the limpid waters that lave the shore of fair Toboga Island.

    In front of him, and round to right and left, are waves clear as blue diamonds, in which the fish are seen as in some gigantic aquarium: the white shark, mixing with shoals of baracuta, and now and then a shiver of pearly water thrown into the air by flights of flying fish, that glisten in the sun.

    A little to his right, concealing a portion of the modern town of Panama, are three or four islands—green to the water’s edge. Were he nearer to them, they would also be brightened by the colors of innumerable tropical flowers, and made joyous by the songs of tropic birds. Beyond these, on the mainland to the south, lie the ruins of the old town of Panama—the one that Morgan made no more. Farther towards the Equator, the mountain range, growing higher, disappears in the blue sky.

    To the southeast, but beyond his eye, lie the beautiful Islas de las Perles. Around him it is all green and golden yellow and brilliant red—the foliage, fruits, and flowers of the tropics; about him blue; at his feet the waters of the Gulf; above him the ether of a fairy atmosphere. Its dreamy effect appeals to his sensuous soul. He gazes entranced.

    Panama, showing Archipiélago de las Perlas and Isla del Rey. (By Zakuragi; released by copyright holder)

    But as he looks his restless eyes catch, just on the right of the new town of Panama, a little smoke that goes peacefully into the air above it, and mingles with it. It comes from one of the locomotives of the Panama Railway, completed but eighteen months before, and a gleaming smile, as bright and sunny as the day he looks on, comes into the eyes of Fernando Gomez Montez, as he thinks: “Our mulateros and the Chagres boatmen hate this railroad that has taken from them the just dues they filched from the stupid Gringos who travel across our land. This iron track robs our honest banditti of their chances of spoil and plunder on the Cruces mule trail. To-night this helps me! To-night I have both the American’s treasure and his wife!”

    Then he giggles and chuckles to himself, emotions running over his mobile countenance, as fantastic, bizarre, and changing as the many drops of the blood of the various human races who in two centuries have passed across this highway of the world; and Montez of Panama has a drop of nearly all the races of the earth within his despicable carcass, and each drop—the basest.

    He has the drop that gives the cunning of the Spaniard; the drop that holds the bourgeois greed of the Frenchman; the drop that makes the watchful stealth of the Indian; the drop that contains the savage cruelty of the Zulu warrior; the drop that gives the finesse of the Italian; the drop that comes from the Corsican and makes undying hate; and, above all, one drop left by one of Morgan’s buccaneers, that makes him more dangerous than all the other drops of wickedness in his blood, for it gives to him the determination and the bulldog pluck of the Anglo-Saxon.

    Brute and bully as this buccaneer had been, he left his drop of blood to flow in the veins of this fantastic creature of all nations, to make him dangerous; because it gave him that unflinching determination that has carried the Anglo-Saxon race to all quarters of the world, and made it dominant in every one of them.

    But Montez awakes with a start. A merry voice is in his ear, a white, aristocratic hand is held toward him in friendly greeting. These belong to Alice Ripley, who with joy, hope, and happiness on her fair American face, is saying: “Señor Montez, our kind friend, you have been to the Pearl Islands for us—another favor for which to thank you!”

    “You are now quite well?” he stammers, a little confused, though his eyes are bold enough to linger over the beautiful woman, as she stands before him, a white muslin dress floating about her graceful form, and some ribbons in her golden hair, giving color to a fair Saxon face, that is lighted up by radiant, happy violet eyes.

    “Yes—quite well!” she laughs. “So well, appetite has returned to me. I am impatient for breakfast, which kind Anita says is ready in the tamarind grove.”

    “You are—quite changed—you are more beautiful—”

    “No,” she laughs, “more happy. I am well once more—my husband is by my side. In ten days I shall kiss my daughter. Am I not a fortunate woman? But breakfast. En avant, George, and forward Montez!” and Alice Ripley flits over the veranda towards the breakfast bower, made girlish by joy, and stands beside the green palms and red flowers, a picture that makes Señor Montez’s eyes grow tender, and he would pity this lovely American lady he hopes this night to cut off from husband and friends, and home and child—but in all the polyhæma drops that run in his vile veins, there is no drop of pity.

    But there are in his body, drops of blood that carry unbounded passion and intense desire, and gazing on this fair woman’s blue eyes, and white skin, and graceful mobile figure, his eyes grow misty, as he mutters: “A rare flower for Fernando Gomez Montez of Panama to pluck—Ah! This is a lucky day for the naughty boy of the Isthmus!”

    Notes and References

    • Francis Galton (quotation): The version above is taken from Galton’s book Memories of My Life (1908), where he refers to the quoted definition appearing in the ‘minutes of the University of London’, presumably based on his work. (See Field, p.23 for clarification.)
    • Por Dios: Spanish, ‘For God’s sake'.
    • quinine: anti-malaria treatment. Made from bark of a tree from Peru. It gives Tonic Water its bitter taste.
    • rapine: origin 1375–1425; late Middle English – robbery, pillage.
    • mulateros: Spanish, mule driver, mule boy.
    • Gringos: Spanish foreigners, pejorative: Yanks, Yankees, North Americans, light hair/complexion.
    • banditti: Spanish, el bandido; bandit (plural, el bandolero).
    • Cerro de Filibusteres: Cerro, hill. The literal meaning of ‘filibustero‘/’filibuster’ is ‘obstruction’; hence in the text, ‘thus ominously named…’.
    • lave: before 900; Middle English, laven < Old French, laver < Latin, lavāre, to wash. Partly representing Old English, lafian, to pour water on, wash, itself perhaps < Latin, lavāre (same Latin root as ‘lavatory’).
    • polyhæma: ‘many’ + ‘blood’; in the context, perhaps referring derogatively to his ‘mixed blood’?

    Field, James A. ‘The Progress of Eugenics’, Quarterly Journal of Economics, 1911, 26.1, 1-67. Jump to file (OUP) at JSTOR.

    Galton, Francis.Memories of My Life (London: Methuen, 1908). Jump to quotation at Internet Archive.

    ——. Hereditary Genius: An Enquiry into its Laws and Consequences (London:Macmillan, 1802). Jump to file at Internet Archive.

    ——. Inquiries into Human Faculty and its Development. (London: Macmillan, 1883). Jump to file at Internet Archive.

    Otis, Fessendon Not. Isthmus of Panama: History of the Panama Railroad; and of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company (NY: Harpers Brothers, 1867). Available free: Google Books. Internet Archive.

    Ordover, Nancy. American Eugenics: Race, Queer Anatomy, and the Science of Nationalism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003).

    This edition © 2021 Furin Chime, Brian Armour

  • A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez of Panama and Paris

    A.C. Gunter’s Baron Montez of Panama and Paris

    Prepare to embark on an idiosyncratic taste thrill, another foray into the paradoxically expanding universe of vanishing literature. This bestselling author-playwright, said to have been better known in his day than his contemporary, Mark Twain (1835-1910), is now reduced to fragments, trivial contributions to popular culture: Played middle-man in the rise of the great American baseball poem “Casey at the Bat” – sometimes referred to as the best known poem in the United States. Authored a novel on which A Florida Enchantment (1914) was based, ancestor of lesbian-transgender films.

    Archibald Clavering Gunter (1847-1907) was born in Liverpool, England, taken by his parents to San Francisco when he was six, and grew up there, before moving to New York to become a playwright, after building careers in rail and mining engineering, chemistry and stockbroking. Something of the thrill and spectacle of that six-year-old Liverpudlian’s trans-Atlantic voyage surely took permanent root in his imagination, given the extensive output he managed to generate even after such patently anti-literary occupations. Actually, he wrote his first play, Found a True Vein (1872), about life in a mining camp, while still working as an engineer.

    Baron Montez of Panama and Paris (1893) is a rags-to-riches story, like other of Gunter’s novels propelled by a dynamic of character and place. We can compare with titles of his such as  Mr. Barnes of New York (1888), Mr. Potter of Texas (1891), Don Balasco of Key West (1897), and the intriguing Miss Nobody of Nowhere (1890). Intriguing indeed, as Harlequin Romance author Elizabeth Ashton must have thought in 1933 when writing her novel Miss Nobody from Nowhere.

    But where are places as plentiful in such possibilities of drama and exotica as Panama and Paris – especially in that exciting era of massive change and aspiration, of explorers, prospectors, swindlers and tycoons? We wonder already about Gunter’s representation of the burgeoning Americas and Americana upon a global stage.

    Panama Dancers (1910-11), Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. (North Carolina Musuem of Art)

    Shady Señor Fernando Montez starts out as a seedy muchacho in a bamboo shack on Toboga Island. These are portentous times, however, preceding the building of a great canal to link the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, and hence the two hemispheres of the globe, a dream only intensified by the discovery of Californian gold. Montez’ ascent can be limited only by his own hubris, and Gunter’s imagination.

    The French diplomat Ferdinand de Lesseps, who had developed the Suez Canal in 1869, attempted a repeat performance in Panama during the years 1881-89 but went bankrupt. The Compagnie Nouvelle du Canal de Panama again tried unsuccessfully in 1894. Gunter’s novel is, therefore, quite contemporaneous with the world depicted in it. One anticipates a taste of the authentic flavour of the times—the authentic zeitgeist, good and ill.

    In Gunter’s own estimation, his were “the most successful novels ever published” (Hart 189). Well, we’ve heard that sort of thing before, and it depends which way you’re looking at it. Nevertheless, if not for literary brilliance or a polished style, he is acknowledged for bringing American and European attitudes into a comparative focus and for the immense popularity of his

    …long line of yellow-backed novels, soon to be seen in innumerable hammocks, summer resorts, excursion boats, Pullman Palace cars, or wherever else Americans moved for dreams and escape.

    Hart 188

    Brian Armour will edit the chapters and provide reflective, contextual prefaces. Brian is the author of a stunningly good science fiction novel, Future Crime (2015), with a further brilliant novel and book of short stories coming out soon.

    Reference

    Hart, J.D.,The Popular Book: a History of America’s Literary Taste (NY: OUP, 1950).

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 18. A Revelation—Conclusion

    Cobb’s False Knight: 18. A Revelation—Conclusion

    The term “shotgun wedding”, which most English speaking people are familiar with, loses all its descriptive impact in German. “Mussehe” doesn’t sound as dramatic at all. It means “have-to wedding”. The first word, muss, meaning “have to”, also means “mash” or “sauce”, although that word is pronounced with a soft “s”. It sounds a bit ho-hum or mundane, totally unlike what awaits you in the final chapter.

    There’s actually a German website that helps get rid of some of the ho-hum at weddings, at least for any kids attending. Sort of for when the shotgun has been implied or threatened many times before perhaps. They offer a service where you can choose your favourite fairy princess to turn up, singing songs, doing face-painting and so on. Ghastly. Probably slightly better than a circus clown, I suppose. But, as I said, the final chapter has no need for any such boredom relief.

    In the English speaking world, royal weddings are all too well documented in publications that do that sort of thing (e.g., Royalty Magazine, Royal Life, New Idea). We hear little about the same sort of thing in Germany however. Of course the sorts of Germans who are into royal weddings can read all about British royal “tie the knot shindigs” too in the Bunte Illustrierte, in “Heim und Welt” or whatever hair salon magazine they read, but there still are German royal weddings too, long after royal titles and privileges were done away with in the Weimar constitution of 1919.

    When the Hohenzollern heir weds, or the Prince of Hannover, Frau Schulz or Mueller can still see all the details of whatever wedding dress was chosen, etc, at least in those sorts of magazines. Because the old royal families and suburban housewife interest in them still do exist. Somewhat diminished perhaps, but some former royals still own vast swathes of land, royal jewels and so on.

    I remember a popular family TV show in the eighties, “The Rudi Carrell Show”. Perhaps because there were only two channels at the time. They did a skit involving an expensive jewel necklace. Quite bizarrely, there, in the front row of the audience, was Krupp family heir Arndt von Bohlen-Halbach, famously and obviously very gay, but who had married some Princess Henrietta von somethingorother, “graciously” nodding, almost royally waving and smiling at Rudi Carrell for his grovelling acknowledgement in allowing the use of his probably well insured, glittering and sparkling family heirloom for the show, which Carrell handed back to him. As I said, truly bizarre, but it illustrates that Germans are still just as much “royal watchers” as the Brits or Americans.

    Part of the Landshut Wedding of 2005 (source: de.wikipedia.org) CC BY-SA 3.0

    In the town of Landshut, the wedding of Duke George of Bavaria in the year 1474 is still re-enacted every year, with thousands of people watching knights and participants dressed in mediaeval costumes parading through the streets in this amazing pageant. I’m sure you will enjoy the wedding in this final chapter. With a happy end? Who knows? I wouldn’t want to be a spoiler…

    CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

    A REVELATION—CONCLUSION

    Sir Pascal had caused a clock to be set up in the sitting-room occupied by the ladies, towards the face of which our heroine glanced over and anon, to note the passing of the lime—the passing of the brief hour that had been given her in which to prepare for her nuptials. As the fateful moments drew near she caught her mother’s hand, and asked her, with a world of earnest entreaty in her gaze,—Did she really think they would come? The simplest word of hope would give her comfort.

    “Let us hope. They have promised; and we know they will keep the promise if they can.”

    At the same time, in the great audience chamber, or hall of state, of the castle—sometimes the banqueting hall—Sir Pascal Dunwolf had assembled his chief officers, together with a number of men-at-arms, who were stationed at the doors as sentinels and ushers. He was determined that his marriage should not lack publicity. These men-at-arms, it is worthwhile stating, were all of the original garrison-men, who had willingly sworn fealty to the new chief.

    In a far corner, at the head of the hall, where over the permanent dais a canopy of silk had been suspended from the vaulted roof, stood the knight in company with good father Alexis. The priest was in full canonicals, and was comparatively sober. His patron had drunk with him several times, and had caused his lieutenant to do the same, well knowing that a certain quantity of wine would inspire the priest with a daring obliviousness to consequences which might not otherwise possess him. And success had crowned his efforts. The ecclesiastic had reached that happy state between inebriety and soberness which, without seriously clouding his mental faculties, yet blunted every moral sense, rendering him fit and ready for any work not terribly wicked or fraught with mortal danger.

    “Produce the lovely bride,” he said, heroically. “There shall be no delay on my part.”

    “You will allow nothing to stop you. As soon as I give the word you will proceed with the service.”

    “Yes, my lord, and I will finish it right speedily.”

    “All right, remain you here, do not leave until I am done with you.”

    The priest promised, and the knight went away. He touched his lieutenant on the arm as he passed him, whispering in his ear a caution to look to the good father, and see that he drank no more wine until after the marriage service had been performed.

    In her prison chamber Electra still watched the passing of the minutes, pale and prayerful. At the stroke of ten, as she had expected, Sir Pascal appeared. As he approached her and extended his hand she arose. She had resolved that she would offer no senseless opposition—no opposition which could only serve to render her treatment at the bad man’s hands more harsh and painful.

    The Reluctant Bride (1866), Auguste Toulmouche (Source: Wikimedia Commons)

    “Dear lady—Electra—the hour is up, and all is ready for the brief ceremony that is to make us one. I had hoped that you would have felt like arraying yourself in a more befitting costume than that is you now wear. You might, at least, have put on a few jewels.”

    She did not tell him that her jewels were all in a place far from the castle, because, if she had had them near her, she would not have worn them.

    “Never mind,” he added, trying to smile. “If you are satisfied, I will be. After all, it is Electra I want, and not her finery. Come.—Good mother, you may walk by your, daughter’s side, or follow us, as you please.”

    For a single instant the sorely tried maiden came near fainting. Her limbs weakened, and her brain reeled; but with a mighty effort she recovered herself and moved on by the knight’s side. Her mother came close behind her, walking with Theresa, the two women of the forest bringing up the rear.

    So the procession moved on, down the great stairway, into the main hall of the keep, and thence to the broad doorway of the chamber of audience, which was open for their reception. At the arch of the vestibule Electra saw, as she passed, a squad of men-at-arms, who seemed to be stationed there for guard duty; a little further on, at the opening of a passage which led to a side porch, other sentinels were posted, and at the door of the audience chamber itself armed men were stationed.

    Her heart throbbed painfully as she entered the old hall of state. The first thing upon which her eyes fell, as she crossed the threshold, was the silken canopy at the far end. O! what a mockery it seemed! And then she saw the full-robed priest standing on the dais! When she saw this she came near stopping. It was an instinctive movement, without premeditation; the pressure of her companion’s hand, however, drew her on, and she hesitated no more.

    Half way up the long room the knight stopped to speak with his lieutenant, and he appeared to desire that the ladies should hear.

    “Franz, has there been any sign of interruption yet?”

    “None, my lord.”

    “Are the guards thoroughly instructed?”

    “They are.”

    “And every avenue efficiently guarded?”

    “Everything has been done, my lord, as you commanded.”

    “It is well.”

    And then, with head erect, and a proud step, Sir Pascal moved on to the dais; assisted his fair companion to ascend; stopped at the proper place, and turned, bringing the prospective bride upon his right hand.

    “Now, good father, you may proceed at once.”

    The priest had stepped to the front, and made ready to commence the service, when the baroness, with a sudden movement, dashed him aside, and turned to the men who had assembled there, many of whom she recognised as having belonged to her own guard.

     “O! in Heaven’s name! are you men, to stand and see this thing? Is there not—”

    At this point the lieutenant, at a sign from his chief, laid his hand upon the lady’s arm, and drew her aside. She started to struggle; but when she found that among those who stood before her she had not a friend who would, or who dared, to move in her behalf, she gave up, and resisted no more; but she turned upon the false knight, with flaming eyes, and with her hand extended, exclaiming, in a voice that rang like the blast of a cornet:

    “Base, wicked man! thou shalt not succeed! High Heaven will not permit it! O! for one brave, true heart to stand by me now! Cowards! cowards, all!”

    So far had she gone when Franz, with evident reluctance, placed a strong hand over her lips, thus stopping her impassioned appeal.

    Twice the daughter tried to break away to go to her mother’s assistance; but the man at her side, now beside himself with anger and chagrin, had held her back; and when he had seen the baroness under control, he turned again to the priest.

    “Now, Sir Priest, should the very walls come crashing down about us, do you proceed. Not a word more than is necessary; and speak the words you must speak quickly. Up, up, my sweet wife that is to be! No fainting now. By Heaven! this fair hand’s mine at length!”

    “Not quite yet!” spoke a voice close beside him.

    At the sound of that voice the drooping maiden started out from her half swooning state into which she had sank, and found no difficulty in breaking away from the hand that had held her. It was the rich, deep voice heard once before—the voice of him whose life she had saved in the forest. Her heart bounded with rapture unspeakable, for it was to her a note of redemption.

    Sir Pascal turned, and beheld, just stepped from behind the old tapestry that hung against the wall, a man in whose majestic presence he quailed instinctively—a man but little past the middle-age; of powerful frame, his lower features covered by a full beard, his brow full and expansive, with a pair of dark gray eyes, that seemed to look him through and through.

    “No quite yet, Pascal Dunwolf. There are others who have an interest in this matter.”

    “What ho, Franz! Bring up your guard!” So shouted the knight, as soon as he could command his speech; and when he had seen his lieutenant start to obey, he laid his hand upon his sword, and drew it half way from its scabbard.

    But he drew it no further, for at that moment his attention was called to a newcomer upon the scene.

    Following close upon the steps of him who has surely been recognized as our friend of the mountain-side, known to us thus far as Thorbrand, came that other friend—the blue-eyed, fair-haired Wolfgang. But now, in place of the leathern doublet of the forester, he wore a coat of purple velvet richly embroidered, and upon his breast a golden star blazing with diamonds.

    The effect upon Dunwolf was terrible. He gasped for breath; turned pale as death; his legs quivered and grew limp beneath him; and his sword dropped back into its scabbard, and his hand fell powerless at his side, a deep groan escaped his bloodless lips.

    A squad of the headstrong men-at-arms, made pot-valiant by numerous potations of strong- drink, eager to obey the command of their chief, and indignant at seeing the exhibition thus interfered with, had hastened forward, and would have rushed upon the dais, had not Franz, aroused from his stupor by the impending calamity, put himself quickly in their way.

    “Back! Back!” he cried, vehemently.

    “No, no!” vociferated a stout trooper. ”Who dares come hither to interfere with our master?”

    “Fool! It is the grand duke!”

    The effect was electrical; not only upon the rough soldiers, who fell back like so many frightened animals, but upon others as well. Electra, as she heard, gazed upon the transformed man in utter amazement as did her mother; and the thought came to them both at the same moment,—”If Wolfgang is the grand duke, who is Thorbrand?”

    But their thoughts were soon called in a new direction by the appearance of Martin Oberwald and Ernest von Linden. Our hero flew to the side of his darling and caught her hand.

    “Saved! Saved! O! thank Heaven!” So ejaculated Electra, in answer to her lover’s eager look of inquiry; and on the next instant she was clasped closely to his bosom.

    Sir Pascal saw it all, but could utter not a word nor a movement in opposition. Still pale and trembling he stood before the sovereign whom he had betrayed, knowing full well that his race was run—his short-lived power at an end.

     Ernest, when he had seen Electra’s sweet face once more beaming with happy smiles, called to still another new-comer to advance and take his place; and in a moment more the dear girl found herself in the loving embrace of Irene Oberwald, with her faithful stag-hound, mad with joy, leaping and frisking about her.

    Once more our hero was captain in the castle. Stepping to the rear of the dais he lifted aside the tapestry, and spoke a wore of command, and directly an armed man appeared, wearing the uniform of the ducal guard; then two more abreast, and another, until a score of them had entered the chamber, and formed in order upon the grand duke’s left hand.

     “Sir Pascal Dunwolf!” said Leopold, “I trust you will offer no word in justification of your conduct. I know the whole story of your treachery against this house, and of your treason against me. Aye, well may you tremble. O! Sir Pascal! I  had not thought it! In memory of the great kindness you once did me—the saving of my life—I would have done much for you. When you told me that the heiress of Deckendorf loved you devotedly, and that her mother desired nothing so much as the union of her daughter with yourself; when, beyond that, I was told that this important fortress was without a commander, Sir Arthur von Morin being near his death, I sent you hither, with full powers of command, and with my consent to the marriage.”

    At this point the duke took a step forward and bent upon the miserable culprit a look beneath which he seemed to wither and collapse.

    “O! false knight that you are! you had not been three days in this castle before I knew that you were the leading spirit on this side of the border of the treasonable insurrection I had been fearing—that you had entered into a league with the Robber Chief, Thorbrand, and that he was to meet you here, with his chief lieutenant, for the purpose of arranging your plans for the overthrow of all healthful government in the realm. Here, in fact, were to be the headquarters of the conspirators. Can you deny it?”

    “Why should I?” sulkily returned the scoundrel, struggling hard to hold up his head. “If Thorbrand—may the fiends seize him—has turned traitor to me—”

    “Hold!” commanded a deep, solemn voice. “Curse not the dead!” And he whom we have known as the brigand chieftain stepped forth from where he had seemed to be in hiding, and confronted the false knight.

    “Sir Pascal Dunwolf,” he went on, as the grand duke moved back to give him place, “would you have me to tell you why you did not meet the Robber of the Schwarzwald as you had expected?”

    “Who—who are you?” the quivering culprit gasped, something in those solemn eyes and in the towering form striking him with awe.

    “Who am I? I will tell you that anon. For the present I will tell you that both Thorbrand and his lieutenant, Wolfgang, fell by my hand, though the strife cost me dear; and would have cost me my life but for the providential appearance and ministrations of two angels who found me, dying, in the deep forest. Would you like to hear my story? Would it please you to know how it came to pass that I slew those two men? For, let me add, it will tell you how your treason came to be known.”

    Sir Pascal started and caught his breath. He did not speak, but his looks plainly signified that he would be only too glad to hear.

     So others seemed eager to hear. The women, Elize and Zenzel, with dark, lowering brows and compressed lips, listened eagerly; and Franz was eager; and so were all of them, for that matter.

    “Pascal Dunwolf, you behold in me one raised from the dead more than once. Years ago, upon a hard fought field, when you might have won glory had you fought for your country and your religion as you fought for plunder. Aye, you were there Dunwolf; and you, with others, thought me dead. But I was not. The spear of a turbaned Moslem had stricken me down and when my consciousness returned I found myself a prisoner in Moslem hands. Those same Moslem hands nursed me back to health and strength, and then put me into the slave market in Constantinople, when I was sold to a merchant of Bagdad. And to Bagdad I was carried; and there I remained, a bondman and a slave, for ten long years.

    “At length my master died, and in dying gave me my freedom. Do you ask why I had not escaped? I tell you—I could not. Many times I tried, but the thing was not to be done. But the blessed boon was mine, as I have said, on my owner’s death, and the widow, when she had heard my story, not only kept the faith her dying husband had pledged, but gave me money for my journey home—more than enough, by far.

    “Thank the Good Father of us all! nothing occurred to interrupt my homeward voyage. I arrived in my native country well and strong. At Baden-Baden I stopped co see the grand duke; but he whom I had expected to meet was dead, and his son, Leopold, was on the throne. But Leopold received me kindly and affectionately; and when I had told him my story, he embraced me as a son might have done.

    “When he learned that I was going to Deckendorf, a curious plan formed itself in his mind. He told me of the contemplated insurrection in that region, and how necessary it was that he should discover who were the chief conspirators. I told him I would help him in any way within my power. It was then arranged that we should come hither incog., letting no one know of our intention. I was in haste, and started on in advance, arranging to meet him at the cot of the hunter of the Schwarzwolf Mountain, Martin Oberwald. He knew how to find the village of Deckendorf, and I told him the people there would inform him how to find the hunter’s cot.

    “Then I set forth, intending first to call upon good old Martin, who had been my dear and loving friend from boyhood, and enlist him in our enterprise; for I had great confidence in his judgment and shrewdness. On the way up the mountain I fell in with two men. They asked me certain questions about the castle over the way. I told them I knew the place well. From the first I guessed their true characters, and led them on for the purpose of gettinq them to commit themselves, and I succeeded. They believed me to be the very man of whom they were in search—Sir Pascal Dunwolf.

    “After that the rest was easy—easy until they had discovered their error—and then it became rather difficult. I learned from them all their secrets—learned the whole scheme and scope of the insurrection—learned the names of the chief conspirators; and learned that for giving Deckendorf Castle to be the stronghold of the Grand Brigand Confederacy, Sir Pascal Dunwolf was to be general-in-chief of the Free-Riders.

    “At length an unlucky word betrayed me, and I was foolish enough, in the instinct of self-preservation, to lay my hand upon the hilt of my sword. Their eyes followed in that direction, and they saw that he weapon at my side was the double-handed sword of a Knight of the Temple. That was sufficient information for them. No man honestly bearing the knightly accolade would dare to assume a sign of rank or station not his own. Enough to say beyond that,—we were quickly engaged, and I slew then both, though the younger of the twain wounded me so severely that my life would have soon left me had not kind Heaven sent me help.

    “The place where we had held our conference had been a deep, hidden nook, shut in by tangled vines and brushwood; and there we had fought. As the two robbers had fallen side by side, I was able to pull a few branches over their dead bodies before I left. A considerable distance I managed to crawl, then I fainted. I think I called for help. A dog came first,—then—Ah! how hard it was to refrain from taking the administering angel to my bosom!—but, believing that the mortal remains of those two robbers would not be found, I had resolved that the duke and I would assume their names, thus “enjoying a freedom in our movements which could not otherwise be ours. So I held my peace, and gave out that I was the terrible Thorbrand.

    “O! it was hard—very—very hard! But—but—”

    He could hold himself from his loved ones no longer. From the very first the baroness had suspected, and very shortly thereafter she had known. So, too, had the truth burst upon Electra. As the speaker now turned, the flowing beard no longer concealed the well-remembered features. With a quick step he left the dais, and in a moment more wife and daughter were clasped in his loving embrace.

    “Gregory! My husband! O! thank God!”

    Portrait of a Nobleman (1610), Guilliam van Deynum (Source: Wikipedia Commons)

    “Papa! Papa!”

    “My blessed child! Your father’s life is yours from this time; for surely he holds it as your gift.”

    “And Irene’s, papa. What could I have done without her?”

    Already have I thanked that dear girl, my darling, though she knew not until now that her grateful debtor was the Baron von Deckendorf.”

    While this latter scene had been going on with the re-united ones, the grand duke had given Sir Pascal Dunwolf into the hands of a double file of his guard, with direction that he should be taken away, and held in strict and sure confinement until further orders. To others of his guard he gave direction that they should clear the chamber of all, saving his true and loyal friends. One man, however, he was inclined to favor. He had marked with what entire revulsion of feeling Lieutenant Franz had recognised him and how luckily he had held back the would-be assailants. Him he called aside as the others were being sent away, and kindly said:

    “Franz, I know that you have been played upon by a wicked, designing man, who has taken advantage of your little weaknesses to bend you to his own purpose. I will not lose your love and loyalty if I can help it. Will you take command of the men who came hither with you, and march them back to Baden-Baden? I care not to know who have offered to desert me, provided they will be true in the time to come.”

    Utterly crushed, and seemingly heart-broken, the conscience-stricken man sank upon his knees, and implored forgiveness, pledging himself, while life should be his, to be honest and true.

    So Franz was forgiven; and, for the first time in many days, he was able to think of the present with satisfaction, and look to the future with hope. In the time to come, when he had proved himself worthy, he was to be given Sir Pascal’s old command, that recreant knight having been banished forever from the land he had dishonored.

    Ordinarily, the traitor and conspirator should have suffered death; but Leopold could not find it in his heart to take the life of the man who had once saved his own.

    And now, back to the old chamber of audience. As soon as the company not wanted had been sent away, Leopold stepped down from the dais and looked about him. He saw the baron, with his wife and daughter in his arms, and Ernest with them, their tears of joy still coursing down their cheeks, their voices mingling in praise and thanksgiving. And presently he saw two others—the hunter and his child. They stood against the tapestry, near to the secret pass, the child held close to the bosom of the father, who appeared to be trying to comfort and console her.

    He looked upon them for a little time; then moved quickly forward and captured one of Irene’s hands. She turned, with a wild frightened look upon her beautiful face, a low, startled cry bursting from her lips; but when she saw the loving light of those wondrous eyes, and marked the infinite tenderness of the gaze that was bent upon her, her heart bounded with a renewal of hope, and the light of a great joy chased away the cloud from her face.

    “Irene,” he said, with a smile that seemed to her celestial, “do you remember the question I once asked you in your mountain home? I can repeat it, word for word. I asked you if you thought—if you believed—you could make me a good and happy man—a man who could be of use to his fellows and of value to his country—would you give yourself to the work? Would you be willing to place your hand in mine, and go with me to the end? So I asked you, and then gave you time for thought. Dear girl—my love, my life—l repeat the question now. Shall this dear hand be mine?”

    Again something of the old frightened look came back.

    “You!!—you!—the grand duke! O! it cannot be! Your people would never look upon me—”

    “Pshaw!” broke in Leopold, laughingly. “Dear girl, I tell you truly, were you the poorest of the poor, and plebeian to the core, loving you as I do, so you were honest and pure, I would make you my wife. But— My lord,” he continued, turning to Oberwald, “you must tell her who she is.”

    “Irene, the story of my life I must tell you at another time. For the present suffice it for me to say, I have promised our duke that I will, for his sake resume the title and station once cast off, and give to him my poor services in the time to come. For yourself, you must answer according to the dictates of your own heart; but, if it will help you any, I will inform you that you are the daughter of a baron of the empire. Something of this you have heard before, but I now give it to you plainly, that you may know your true rank and station.”

    “Sweet love, again I ask the question,” said Leopold, taking her hand once more.

    Her answer was given upon his bosom. Held close in his strong embrace—a happy, joyous answer, never to be regretted while life should endure.

    By-and-by Electra and Irene found themselves together, talking of the wonderful things that had happened, while the grand duke and Ernest, with the two barons and the Lady Bertha, were arranging for the double wedding, which they had planned should come off at the Ducal Palace of Baden-Baden.

    And the noble stag-hound went from one to another of his true friends, looking up happily from his great brown eyes, and wagging his tail with infinite satisfaction.

    THE END

    Notes

    • pot-valiant: cf. “Dutch courage”.
    • dark, lowering brows: “looking sullen: appearing dark and threatening” (Chambers Twentieth Century Dictionary).
    • Knight of the Temple: Templar. See Furinchime, “Cobb Biosnip: Laborare est orare” on Cobb’s connection with Freemasonry.
    • recreant knight: (cowardly, unfaithful)
    • Arndt von Bohlen-Halbach: Heir to the 400-year-old Krupp dynasty, producers of steel and armaments. See Time magazine, “West Germany: Who Should Pay the Playboy?” (Aug 15, 1969).

    NIGHTSHIFT byTony Reck © 2025

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 17. Beginning of the End

    Cobb’s False Knight: 17. Beginning of the End

    As the story hurtles towards what appears to be a bloody climax, our heroine and her mother, the baroness, seem like bait in a trap, a trap set to kill the only threat to Pascal Dunwolf’s dastardly plan to force Electra to marry him so he can inherit the castle.

    Luring the good guy into a trap so the bad guy can get the loot was also part of the plot of the German movie The Oil Prince from 1965. Never heard of it? Why mention it? Well, 19th century American writer Cobb set The False Knight in Germany, while The Oil Prince was written by 19th century German writer Karl May, but set in the United States. Same sort of thing, just the other way around.

    Karl May books and movies were unbelievably popular in Germany. Every year, the town of Bad Segeberg still hosts the Karl May Festival, in an open air theatre in September. To non-Germans, it seems rather weird to see Germans, dressed up as cowboys and Indians with heavy German accents, re-enacting bits from films and novels involving Winnetou (the noble Indian chief), Old Surehand and Old Shatterhand (the good white guy), among the buildings of a fake western town. Yet Germans still seem to love it, although the movies are long past their heyday in the sixties. Is Ernest von Linden just as doomed as Old Shatterhand (Lex Barker), tied to a post in the old movie poster? You’ll have to read on to find out.

    Portrait of Karl May himself dressed as Old Shatterhand. Photograph by Alois Schiesser, 1896.

    Cobb’s writings were just as popular in the English speaking world; his novel The Gunmaker of Moscow, a huge hit of the 1850s, had made it onto the film screen in 1913, via Edison Studios in Manhattan. A common thread between his work and that of Karl May seems to be the fascination of people of one culture or continent with stories about the people of far away places. Knights and damsels in distress versus Indians, settlers and western bad guys.

    Nineteenth century opera composers and librettists wrote about Egyptian Princesses, French bohemians, and Japanese geisha girls too, and I love their works because of the music; yet I never really warmed to May’s western novels or the movies based on them. I’m sure it wasn’t because of Lex Barker or Stewart Grainger as Old Surehand, even if the actors may have resented being typecast as “old”. I guess it’s more of matter of too many blows by the heavy German accents of other actors, wielded as laughter inducing weapons of involuntary humor that might have done it for me. While we luckily never had some unfortunate German actor cast as Sir Pascal Dunwolf having to put on a terribly fake American accent.

    Just as well perhaps. May’s books and films had females in supporting roles, for example Karin Dor as Ribanna, the daughter of an Indian chief, in the Winnetou series of novels (1892/1910), but he never wrote a novel with women as the main characters. Cobb way ahead of his time? All the more reason to enjoy this episode.

    CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

    BEGINNING OF THE END

    The man now brought before the troubled knight for examination was in a pitiable plight. He was the first who had felt the weight of our hero’s iron-wood club. If his skull had been fractured, which was probably the case, the excessive flow of blood from a long, ugly wound of the scalp had served to lessen the pressure upon the brain and to restore him to consciousness. The cut, though thickly bandaged, was still bleeding, and his face was hideously begrimed with the ghastly exudation. His name was Brandt.

    He thought there were at least a dozen of his assailants. They had come upon him just as he had ascended the stairs at the rear of the lower hall. He and his companions had been standing at the far end of the hall when they were startled by the shrieks of the women, one of whom simply screamed with all her might, while the other yelled Murder! As quickly as possible they had rushed up the stairs, to meet the fate of which his lordship had been already informed.

    “Did you see the faces of any of the men?” Dunwolf asked.

    “No, sir,” was the answer. He said, further, that he thought their faces were covered. It had been a gigantic fellow who had given him the blow that overcame him—a man of prodigious strength and ferocity.

    Sir Pascal asked several more questions, after which the man was led away, it being very evident that nothing more could be gained from him.

    “Franz,” said the chief, when he and his lieutenant had been left alone together, “what do you make of this?”

    “I think,” replied the other, “that somebody from outside has been in the castle.”

    “Aye, that is very evident. But who were they?”

    “Captain von Linden was one of them. Who the other was I am unable to say.”

    “Then you think there were but two of them?”

    “It so appears to me, sir.”

    “I think you are right. And yet, our men—three of them—ought to have done better work.”

    “As for that, Sir Pascal, you will remember that the young captain has proved himself, ere this, a dangerous customer. Remember, also, that he had our men at a disadvantage.”

    Dunwolf arose from his seat and took several turns across the room. Then he pulled out his watch and looked at the time. He found it to be a few minutes past three.

    “Franz, it is very evident—in fact, we know—that these interlopers came in by way of the secret pass, the same through which Von Linden and the ladies left the castle; and from the account of Elize and Theresa, as well as from the manner in which the baroness and her daughter left us, it is equally evident that there is a hidden means of entrance to that pass somewhere in the apartments which the ladies were wont to occupy. Do you not think so yourself?”

    “I am sure of it, sir.”

    “Then I wish you to see to it that those apartments are strictly guarded. In every room where such an entrance could possibly be hidden have two good men stationed, with fire-arms carefully loaded, instructed to shoot any person—any man—who may appear in any such manner. Next, I wish you to look well to the known places of entrance. I know, as well as I can know anything of which my senses have not directly informed me, that Ernest von Linden was in the castle this night. He knows that I intend to make the daughter of the baroness my wife, and he means to prevent it if he can. To that end he may raise men enough in the village to give us trouble, provided they could gain entrance.

    “So, Franz, you will keep the great gate fast; keep the bridge up, and the portcullis down; and also look to the smaller gate, and the posterns. At the break of day have every man of our host under arms, and ready for service at a moment’s call. Will you do this?”

    The subaltern promised that he would not fail.

    “Then,” said the knight, “I will seek my pillow, and try to sleep for a little time. If I am not up by six o’clock, you may call me.”

    With that the aspiring chief went to the sideboard and swallowed a generous draught of strong spirit, after which he went to his sleeping-room.

    While the examination of the man Brandt had been going on before Sir Pascal, the housekeeper’s assistant, Theresa, was giving to Electra details of the night’s alarm that differed somewhat from those she had given to the knight.

    Our heroine knew that something unusual had happened. When the two servants had returned empty-handed from the expedition in quest of her mother’s resting-drops, Elize had declared that sentinels had been posted in the passage, and that they had not been allowed to proceed; but Electra had not believed her. The face of Theresa betrayed something startling and mysterious; but she could find no opportunity to question her until after a time the two women of the Schwarzwald fell asleep, leaving her to do the watching.

    While Elize had been away, in the presence of Sir Pascal, Zenzel had been awake and watchful; but, after Theresa had been out, and had returned, both of the women of the forest surrendered themselves to their craving for sleep, giving to the anxious girl the opportunity she so much desired.

    “Now, Theresa, what is it? What has happened?”

    And Theresa told her the story as we know it, saving only that she knew it was the handsome young captain who had so frightened her.

    “At the moment,” she explained, “I did not know him; but as soon as I had started to run his face came back to me, and then I knew.”

    She said, further, that there was another with him, not quite so tall as the captain, but stouter. She thought it was Martin Oberwald.

    When asked if she had told the wicked knight of this, she answered that she had not. She said she would have died first. “He tried to make me speak, but I would not.”

    “My dear Theresa,” said her young mistress, in a guarded whisper, “when I was in mamma’s dressing-room—when we went to get our clothing—I dropped a little note for Ernest. 0, if I could be sure he had found it I should be very happy. Don’t you think you could go and look, and see if it has been taken away?”

    The true-hearted girl said she would do all she could. Nothing but absolute force should hold her back.

    “I dropped it,” explained Electra, “close to the partition between that room and the room in which I used to sleep. As you stand looking straight into mamma’s great looking-glass, it should be on the floor, at your left hand, within a foot of the wall. You understand— about halfway between the looking-glass and the door to the clothes-press. You understand?”

    “Yes.”

    “And you will be sure and look for it?”

    “Yes. But you hope I shall not find it?”

    “Of course I do. If you do not find it I shall think Ernest has it in his dear hands. 0, if he knows—if the good hunter knows—be sure help will come.”

    Theresa promised once more she would do all that lay in her power to do, after which the heiress sought her pillow, and finally sleep came to her relief.

    Frau Scholderer am Frühstückstisch (c. 1872), Otto Scholderer

    When the new day had dawned, and while the women of the forest were thinking of breakfast, Theresa said she would go, now that it was daylight, and see if she could find her lady’s drops. No objection was made, and she departed on her errand.

    She was gone but a little while; and when she returned her face, full of disappointment and chagrin, told to the anxious maiden that her effort had resulted in failure. She said to Elize, who was the first to question her, that sentinels had been posted in all the rooms in that wing and that no one was allowed to enter.

    And she could tell to Electra but little more. An officer whom she had met had informed her that the orders of Sir Pascal had been peremptory. No person could be allowed in any of the rooms which either the baroness or her daughter had occupied.

    “But do not give up tall hope,” whispered the faithful servitor, as her mistress groaned in the bitterness of her disappointment. “I am as sure that Captain von Linden was in that room last night as I am that I am alive. And if he was there, he must have seen the paper; for, surely, no one else had been there before him.”

    Electra thanked the girl for her kindness, and said she would hope if she could.

    Later, when she saw her mother suffering on her account, she took it upon herself to whisper of hope; and in seeking to strengthen another, she found her own strength revived.

    They had eaten breakfast, and the table had been cleared and set aside, when Sir Pascal made his appearance. His first movement on entering was to signal to the guard-women that they might retire. At first Theresa, who was waiting upon the baroness, did not offer to move, but the knight caught her eye, and pointed to the door with a look which she dared not disregard. She had crossed the threshold, and was drawing the door to after her, when it was wrenched from her hand, and in a moment more the dark-browed knight was before her.

    “Look ye, woman!” he said, in a harsh, grating whisper, eyeing her as though he would look her through if he could—”I want you to call back the events of the past few hours and try to think if there was not something forgotten in your story of the fright you received, and of the men who caused it. Your companion was not more than three or four paces in advance of you, carrying a light that illumined the way so that you saw plainly. Of course, the very first thing you did, when you felt the touch of that hand, was to look up at the face. You could not have helped it. Now I know there was light enough to reveal to you the features—or, at least, their outlines. I ask you once more—and, mark me—if I can find that you have lied to me, I will put you to the rack!—I will, as sure as fate! Now,—once more I ask you,— Did you not see the face of Captain von Linden?”

    If there had been a quivering of the poor girl’s nerves when the man began to speak, it had all gone when he had concluded. She looked him straight in the eye, with a glance in which there was no sign of quailing, and stoutly answered:

    “You might put me to all the racks in the world, Meinherr, and I could tell you nothing different from what I have told you. Suppose, to save myself from torture I should speak a lie, and tell you ‘Yes,’ when the truth would be ‘No,’ would it help you any?”

    This simple argument fairly nonplussed the man, and having bidden the girl to hold her tongue and say nothing of that interview, he sent her away and returned to the chamber, carefully closing the door behind him.

    The baroness was sitting in a large easy-chair, near one of the windows, and did not offer to rise. Electra, however, had arisen as the knight entered, and when he had turned towards her, after having closed the door, she politely pointed to a seat. He bade her to be seated first, and when she had obeyed, he moved his chair so that he might face her, and then, with a low bow, sat down.

    He was arrayed in the full uniform of his rank as Colonel of the Imperial Hussars, graceful and elegant, even in that early day. It was new, and very likely donned for the first time. He had thoroughly soaked his head and laved his face, until a look of something like freshness had replaced the bloated, haggard look with which he had arisen. He had drank what would have been deeply for most men, but which, with him, had been only sufficient to steady his nerves, and give borrowed vigor to his system.

    After taking his seat he recognized the baroness with a slight inclination of the head; then he fixed his gaze upon the daughter, so regarding her for a time in silence. When he at length spoke, his voice was deep and low, with a sound that might be truly termed sepulchral.

    “Lady, you know what was the object of my coming to the castle. It had been for a considerable time the desire of your royal guardian, the grand duke, that I should be lord and master of Deckendorf. He had many reasons for that wish, chief of which was this: that he might have a true and reliable friend in this fortress, which, as you are aware, holds a commanding position in one of the most important passes of the Schwarzwald. At first my only desire was to please my sovereign; but since I have come hither, and have been permitted to gaze upon the face of the lady selected by him to be my bride, I have found my heart gone from me, and my duty has become my fondest hope.

    Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher (c. 1815-19). Artist unknown, copying Paul Ernst Gebauer.

    “Of the little accidents that have happened since I came, we will not speak. I shall think of them no more; yet, you will allow me to tell you that I thank Heaven from the very depths of my heart that the bond between us has not been irreparably broken.”

    At this point, while the maiden sat like one turned stone, her only signs of sense of feeling being the changing light of her staring eyes, and the occasional twitching of the muscles of the compressed lips and the tightly-clenched hands, the speaker took his watch from his fob and consulted it. Then he put it slowly back, and changed his position in his chair. When he next raised his eyes to the maiden’s face, they had assumed a fateful glare—a wicked threatening look—and his lips were compressed until well nigh bloodless.

    “Electra!” She started when he spoke that name, as though a serpent had suddenly darted up and stung her. “Electra, it is now almost nine o’clock Before this day has seen its noon-tide you will be my wife. I know not what hopes have been held out to you of an avoidance of the union, for I will not pretend ignorance of the fact that your wish lies in that direction. I know that you have friends—they call themselves friends—who would aid you in resisting me if they could. Perhaps,” he went on, with a keener glance into the “windows of her soul,” “you have been led to think that those people can reach you here, but do you put away all such thought. My precautions are taken, and from this moment until I have held you by the hand as my wife, no human being from beyond these walls will come within the castle limits.

    “It may seem foolish for me to tell you this; but I wish to satisfy you that those so-called friends who would make you discontented with the inevitable are no friends at all. It is not impossible that your wild fancy, or your wilder hope, leads you to think that your sympathizers outside will come to you through the mysterious passage by means of which you managed once to slip away from me; but, I beg you, do not cherish any such delusion. I know every place—every nook and corner—where an entrance can possibly exist; and you may be sure I shall see that they are sufficiently guarded. Further, on that point, I have only this to say: If powder and leaden ball have any power over life and death, then, woe betide the unfortunate wight who shall attempt to introduce himself into this castle through any one of those hidden ways.”

    For the life of her, Electra could not repress the shudder that shook her frame as these words fell upon her ear. On the instant this picture was present before her eyes: Her dear lover, his heart bounding with eagerness to save her,—no matter who followed to assist, he would be surely in the lead,—his would be the post of danger,—she saw him, thus eager, behind the secret panel—saw him, moving quickly now that he was so near—touch the hidden spring—saw the panel slide noiselessly away into the adjacent wall—saw him, with the fire of ardor in his handsome face, start to enter the room thinking only of her and her weal, when— 0! taken suddenly, unaware of the danger, and shot through the heart on threshold of the pass.

    “Does it frighten you?” the knight said with a gleam of diabolical malevolence in his wicked eyes. “Let us hope none will be so foolish as to make the venture; for, I do assure you, if they come, they will come only to their death.”

    “And now,’ he added, rising as he spoke, “I give you one hour for preparation. At the end of that time I shall come for you, and you will accompany me to the place where the marriage ceremony will be performed. It will please me if I find you ready. If you wish for anything from your old apartments, you may send your maid, Theresa, who will go with Elize and get what you want. Remember—this is final.”

    And without waiting for reply he turned and left the room, passing out by the way which the servants had taken on their exit. For a little time after he had gone the stricken twain sat speechless. Then Electra started up and threw herself upon her mother’s bosom, and the loving arms were clasped tightly around her. At that moment how willingly would the widowed parent have given her life to save her child.

    “0, mamma! will they come? Will they be killed? 0, mamma! mamma! will they shoot my dear Ernest?” wailed poor Electra.

    “Hush! hush, my child! You should know Ernest better. Be sure he will not come by a way which they can suspect. If he comes at all, as I believe he will, he will be accompanied by others—by those of whom we have been told—and when he enters the keep it will be from the vault. My word for it, this wicked man—false knight—will never think of the chapel; and if he did, it would not matter, for upon entering there our dear boy would discover his enemies before they could discover him. Think of the situation of the altar, behind which is the hidden door, and you will see and understand.”

    The words were of simple fact, and they had a wonderful effect upon the hearer. In her fears for her dear lover, she had for the time forgotten herself, and now that his safety was well nigh assured, she was glad. In this spirit she resumed her seat, and shortly after Elize and Zenzel entered, behind them, a little later, coming Theresa.

    Electra was asked if she would require anything from the chambers in the old wing. She shook her head, and answered, “No.”

    The woman Elize said his lordship would be better pleased if she should put on wedding garments. A look was the maiden’s only reply, but it was a reply before which the bandit’s mate quailed and held her peace.

    Then Theresa, with a world of love and devotion in the warm clasp of her hand, ventured forward and to help her young mistress.

    “0! sweet lady,” said she, ” tell me what I can do, and I will do it if it is in my power.”

    “Nothing, Theresa, only this: stay by me if you can. Help my dear mamma if she shall need.”

    And then she drew close to her mother’s side, and took one of her dear hands in her own; and so she sat, and waited for what should come, her heart the while raised in earnest prayer for release from her deadly peril.

    Notes

    NIGHTSHIFT byTony Reck © 2025

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 16. An Adventure

    Cobb’s False Knight: 16. An Adventure

    Odd, that the simple maid should cry “murder, murder!” Or is it? I mean, long before anyone had been done in yet—without giving too much away. Now, any simple English maid who happened to be skulking around in any old dark secret passage and suddenly feeling a hand against her and somebody whispering might have yelled something else. Just a shriek perhaps? Or an extremely panicked sounding “help!”?

    What about an American maid? Probably likewise, even in the late 1800s, I’d guess, although nowadays she’d be more likely to yell “pervert” and spray him with mace. So I wonder if Cobb using the words “murder, murder” for the poor young lady to yell really was merely a coincidence?

    You see there is a common term that any Swabian or German maid might have yelled, in any play or novel of that time, and that’s “Zeter und Mordio”, “Zetermordio” or just “Mordio”. Not that anyone would yell that these days, but back then, a writer would commonly have stated that the poor young lady had yelled exactly those words. Sounds intriguingly Italian or maybe even Spanish, doesn’t it? But it’s German, from the Middle Ages. In the law courts of the time, as the Sachsenspiegel (“Saxon Mirror”) states, prosecutors would yell “Zeter und Mordio!” to signify that they wish to lay charges. (“so fure en vor den richter und schry obit den schuldigen zcether obir minen morder” , “so lead him before the judge and yell over the guilty Zeter over mine murder”)

    Nobody knows for sure any more what Zeter actually meant. Today, the verb Zetern means to scold or clamor. It is assumed, because of the context, that it derives from ze aechte her, which is Middle Ages German and means “come to the punishment”, while mordio was a cry for help, derived from the German word mord, which still means murder today. These days, to yell “Zeter und Mordio” means “to scream blue murder”.

    The Seven Swabians and the hare (Brothers Grimm)

    An example of the use of this term in an older text is—perhaps appropriate to the Black Forest setting—in the Fairytale of the Seven Swabians, collected by the Brothers Grimm.

    This tale, well worth reading, tells of seven timid men who go off to find adventure, carrying a huge pike which they can only lug around together. “All for seven, seven for one”, although their greater number hardly makes them Musketeers. They come across a bear on the way to Lake Constance, where they intend to kill a fabled monster. Luckily, the bear is already dead, so they pull its fur over it’s ears, hence the modern German saying “das Fell ueber die Ohren ziehen”, which means “to fleece someone” in English.

    Wonderfully colloquially described by the Grimms, they are even more easily scared than the hare they mistake for the Lake Constance monster. In their final tale, they are brought down by their unintelligible Swabian dialect, yelling to a person on the other side of the Mosel how they might get across. He only calls back “Wat? Wat? Wat?”, meaning “what” of course, which the heroes mistake for “Wade, Wade, Wade”. This they also do, when they hear the order apparently mimicked by the croaking of a frog inside the washed up hat of their first and bravest, who had already waded into the river only to drown. None are ever to be seen or heard of again…

    Knowing how well researched Cobb’s writings were, I really do wonder if he might have been aware of the use of “Mordio“. If not, then please feel free to cry blue murder at my assumption.

    CHAPTER SIXTEEN

    AN ADVENTURE

    As the light came nearer our adventurers saw that it was borne by a woman, the position which they occupied enabling them to see so much without being themselves seen. Ernest’s heart bounded gratefully, for the garb of the woman bespoke her a servant, and he had no doubt she was of the household. Several of the female helpers in the departments of the cook and housekeeper he did not know—some of them not even by sight.

    “Who is she?” asked Oberwald”, in a low whisper.

    “Wait a moment. I think she is one of the cooks. If she is, she is sure to be friendly to Electra, for the dear girl had been very kind, and even loving, to them. Ah!”

    “What is it?”

    “Another is coming, this one has stopped. Wait a moment.”

    At this time the woman who bore the light—a lighted lamp—had reached to within two or three steps of the top of the stairway, where she had stopped to await the arrival of her companion. Presently the second woman came in sight, and our hero’s heart bounded anew as he recognised the well-remembered features of a girl who had been always friendly and pleasantly familiar with the baroness and her daughter. It was Theresa, belonging to the housekeeper’s force, a girl who had often worked in his own apartment, and whom he knew he could trust.

    Night Scene (1616-7), Peter Paul Rubens

    “Be very careful,” whispered Martin Oberwald. “Do not run a risk that may be fatal to the very purpose we have in view.”

    The youth assured him that there could be no danger. He knew the girl very well and he would run no risk in speaking with her.

    The cautious hunter understood his companion to mean that he knew both the females, and that he could personally vouch for both. Had he understood otherwise he would have held him back without hesitation.

    The twain were now approaching again, evidently bent upon entering the very passage in which the two intruders were ensconced, probably, thought Ernest, on their way to the apartments of the ladies in quest of something for their use and comfort.

    There was a door close by where our friends stood, and into the shallow place between the posts they drew themselves. The woman with the light, who was none other than Elize, one of the keepers of the captive ladies, passed without discovering them; but Martin Oberwald obtained a fair view of her face, and it struck him as sinister and dangerous. He grasped his companion’s arm, meaning to hold him back from betraying himself, but he was too late.

    Already had Ernest put forth his hand, and before he could fully realise what the hunter meant by his sudden movement, he had softly whispered the girl’s name, and at the same tune touched her on the shoulder.

    No sooner had he done so than he regretted it, for it flashed upon him instantly that he had done a very foolish thing. Nothing that could have happened could have more terribly frightened the simpleminded, timid girl. She was on a midnight errand, in a forsaken part of a castle given up to all sorts of wickedness and misrule, her dear mistress a prisoner in her own home; and she, at this ghostly hour, forced to accompany a woman who, she was very sure, was a companion of the dreadful robbers of the Black Forest—to accompany her to these dark, deserted halls in order to show her where she could find certain necessaries she must get for her prisoners.

    Under these circumstances was poor Theresa creeping unwillingly along behind the ogress when, from a dark corner, came a man’s hand in contact with her person, and a man’s voice in her ear! She did just what our hero ought to have known she would do. She screamed for mercy!—mercy!—a scream that broke upon the midnight air with frightful force. The woman with the lamp—the ogress—heard, and turned quickly, and as she did so the two adventurers stood revealed before her, the bright rays of her lamp falling full upon them; and she, with the voice of a Stentor, shouted:

    “Murder! Murder!”

    And straightway the pair of them fled back to the hall and down the stairs up which they had come.

    There was nothing left now for Oberwald and Ernest but instant retreat, and that of a most rapid character. The dressing room of the baroness was the nearest point whence they could gain the secret pass, and in that direction they bent their steps.

    Had the youth thought of a flight of stairs at the far end of that same passage, leading up from the rear hall below, he might have taken his way towards the old picture gallery; but he did not think of it until, just as he drew near to the door of the drawing-room, a bright light flashed up that same stairway, and immediately after came two men, evidently soldiers on duty, who were upon him before he could open the door and pass in—that is, he saw that, should he succeed in gaining entrance to the drawing-room, his companion would be inevitably cut off; so he turned to face the danger.

    If the headstrong youth had blundered when danger was to be only apprehended and guarded against, he made no blunder now that it had come upon him. No sooner had he seen that the escape of the hunter was a thing impossible, than he thrust his lantern into the bosom of his frock and grasped his club, his hand steady and his brain clear.

    The foremost swordsman came on with his sword raised for a blow, shouting loudly: “Surrender or die!” The man behind him carried the torch. “Who are you?” added the first, as he came almost within reach of the intruder.

    Quick as lightening Ernest stepped forward and dealt a blow with his iron-wood club upon the side of the trooper’s head that felled him like a dead man.

    In a moment more it was discovered that two other men had come upon the scene, but they were disposed of very quickly. They had not thought of drawing their pistols, if they had them, but depended wholly on their swords. The second sentinel, upon seeing his comrade fall, sprang quickly forward, not having seen how the work had been done; but his torch was an encumbrance, and before he had fairly seen where he must strike the unerring chip fell upon his head, and he went down to keep company with the first.

    Had the troopers worn their iron morions upon their heads, our friends might not have disposed of them so easily; but for duty at night, within doors, they had worn only their leathern skull caps, which afforded not a particle of protection against the blows of those marvellous clubs.

    The torch borne by the last man who had fallen was not extinguished, and by it’s light, as it flared and sputtered on the pavement, the stout hunter sprang upon the remaining trooper, and before the poor fellow had fairly seen with what he had to contend he was sent to join his unfortunate companions.

    By this time the first man whom Ernest had felled was beginning to move and to moan, but the adventurers did not stop to see more. They assured themselves that no more of the enemy were at hand, and then, by the light of the sputtering torch, they found the drawing-room, and entered, Oberwald passing in first, as he chanced to be nearest. As our hero started, to follow—just as his foot was raised over the threshold—he saw the glare of a light away at the far end of the passage where the two women had been first seen. Either the women were returning, or someone whom they had alarmed, but he did not stop to solve the mystery. Quickly following his companion, he closed and locked the door behind him; then drew his lantern from his bosom and opened the slide; and then away to the dressing-room, where he quickly set free and slid back the moveable panel, and in a few moments more the pair of them were beyond the possible reach of pursuers.

    Down a flight of narrow steps; thence through a winding way between flanking walls, and ere long they struck the main pass. To the right would take them to the picture-gallery. They turned to the left, and followed back the path by which they had come. They were fatigued and, in a measure, out of breath; but not until they had reached the point where they had left their heavy boots did they stop to rest for a second.

    “Do not scold me,” begged the youth, with sincere earnestness, after they had exchanged the covering of their feet, and had breathed awhile. ” I will acknowledge that I was foolish—stupidly foolish. I should have known better than to speak to that simple-hearted, timid girl as I did.”

    “I thought you knew both the females,” said Oberwald, pleasantly. “Had you told me that one of them was a stranger to you as she proved to be, I should have advised you not to make any sign. The moment I saw that foremost woman’s face, I knew she was dangerous. I am very sure that she is the wife of one of the Schwarzwald robbers—one whom Dunwolf has brought in to keep guard over his captives, as he dares not trust any of the women of the castle.”

    “Yes, I see it now; and I saw it the moment I had committed the blunder. Scarcely had the girl’s name passed my lips when I would have given much to recall it. But I was so anxious to get word to Electra.”

    “Well, well, never mind now. It is too late to mend it; and, after all, no damage is done. I think we may take it for granted that your lady-love will hear of your presence in the castle. If I know anything of womankind, that Jezebel is not going to keep her adventure to herself. Even if the girl Theresa does not see the baroness, this woman will be very sure to tell her of the two interlopers whom she frightened half out of their wits. That is the way she will picture it. Naturally, the ladies will ask for a description of the wretches, and it will be given; and the narrator’s instinctive exaggeration will not fail to convey to her hearers an inkling of the truth. They will recognize you; and will be very likely to recognize me as well.”

    “I hope it will be so.”

    “You may not only hope, my dear boy, but you may be sure of it. Take my word for it, before the morrow is an hour old, your darling will know that you have been in the castle during the night; and she will have strong faith that you have seen and read the missive she prepared for you. Upon my word, Ernest, that girl is one of a thousand. Not many would, under such circumstances, have thought of that method of communication.”

    The young lover expressed his pleasure at hearing his companion’s warm eulogium, after which the twain arose, and having trimmed their lamps, they set forth upon their homeward way, arriving at the cottage, without further hindrance, between two and three hours after midnight, where they found Irene and the dogs awake, and ready to receive them.

    After they had made a simple repast, which the thoughtful girl had ready for them, the hunter took his young friend by the hand, and said to him, in a tone of mild, paternal authority:

    “Now, my dear Ernest, I desire that you will attend to what I say. Put away all anxious imagining and vain surmising, and seek your rest. Accept from me the solemn assurance that all shall be well. If you would be fresh and vigorous on the morrow, you must give the few hours remaining of the night to sleep. Do you borrow no anxiety about awaking. I am older, and sleep lightly. I will see that you are called in season. If it will make you easier, I will whisper in your ear that Wolfgang is here, and is now with Thorbrand. They will be with us when we want them, be sure. Will you do as I tell you?”

    Sleeping Savoyard Boy (1869), Wilhelm Leible

    The youth, with more gratitude in his eloquent look than tongue could have told, answered that he would do his best. And with that he bade his kind host and gentle Irene a cheerful good night, with a God’s blessing, and then sought his rest, As he reached the door he felt a warm touch upon the back of his hand, and on looking down he found the bereaved stag-hound at his side, his great brown eyes beseechingly upraised.

    “Come, Fritz! Come with me.”

    No human being could have expressed more gratitude, nor expressed it more plainly. The faithful animal clung close to Ernest’s side; and almost spoke his joy in words when he was invited to make his bed upon the sofa clothing at his feet.

    * * *

    At the castle there was uproar and confusion. An hour after midnight, or little later, Sir Pascal was aroused by his hunchback page, who scorned to take delight in tormenting him when the opportunity offered. The page himself had been awakened by an officer of the guard, who wished to know if the master had retired, he not daring to intrude upon his sleep.

    But Master Balthazar had no such fear. Having learned what was the nature of the business, he made his way to the knight’s bedside with a noisy stamping, and yelled “Murder!” into his ear. Dunwolf had gone to bed more than half drunk, as usual, and it was a considerable time before he could open his eyes, and a longer time still before he could arouse his wits. His first sensible motion was to seize the imp by the collar, and half strangle him while he shook him.

    “Now, you miserable ape, what is all this racket about? Why have you awakened me at this hour?”

    “O! mercy, good lord. If you knew what had happened, you wouldn’t spend your strength in shaking a fool’s ape.”

    “Ha! What now? What is it, boy Speak!”

    “It’s a murder, my lord!—murder mos’ foul and bloody. I don’t know how many of your best men have been killed, but the castle has been invaded, and dreadful things have been done.”

    By this time, the knight had got out bed, and as he had retired with his top-boots and small-clothes on, it required but a few moments for his toilet. Moreover he had heard all that he cared to hear from Balthazar. Knowing so well the rascal’s inability to tell a straight story, he would not waste more time with him. So he hastened out, and in his office he found the officer of the guard, who told him, in few words, and as nearly as he could what had happened.

    A number of men had been in the castle, one of whom had been recognized to be the young captain of the original guard of the castle. Who the others were could not be told. The intruders had first been seen by two women, whom they had tried to seize. The cries of these women had brought three men of the guard to the rescue. A conflict had followed, in which one of the guardsmen had been killed.

    “And how many of the intruders were killed?”

    “We do not know, my lord.”

    Already his followers had begun to give him the lordly title he coveted, They saw that it flattered him and made him proud, and as it cost them nothing they did it cheerfully.

    “Do not know?” thundered the chief angrily. What do you know about it? Where is the man who can speak? Where are the women? Who were they?”

    Of these questions the trembling officer answered half the last. He said that the woman Elize had been one of them.

    The woman was brought before him after a time, and in answer to the general question of what she knew of the affair, she said that as it was found hard for her and Zenzel to keep watch alone through the night, they had called in one of the women of the household, named Theresa. Some time after midnight the baroness had asked for a bottle of medicine that was in her old chamber, and as she had been ordered to do what she could for the lady’s comfort, she concluded that she would go and get it; and, as Zenzel chanced to wake up while they were talking, she took Theresa with her to find the thing wanted, as she knew just where to put her hand on it, while she herself might have spent half the night in the search.

    She then reminded the knight that the only door, on that floor, communicating with the old keep, was locked, and that he had the key; so they had been obliged to go down stairs, into the main hall, and thence up the great staircase, to the floor they wished to reach. She then told how, in passing a corner, just off the main hall, she had heard her companion cry out, ”in a manner fit to wake the dead.” She had turned quickly, when two men were revealed to her sight.

    “I went towards them, and demanded to know who they were; but instead of answering, one of them pushed me out of the way, and the pair of them made off as swiftly as their legs would carry them.” And this was all she knew.

    Next, the knight sent for the girl Theresa. She came reluctantly, and with her mouth tightly closed. Elize had not been able to describe either of the men she had seen, as she had gained but a single glance, and that not entirely clear. She only knew that they had been very tall men, and very large.

    Theresa declared that she did not know the men. There was but two of them, so far as she saw; but, as for that matter, there might have been a score of them beyond. Elize had carried the light, and was ahead of her at the time, so that the faces of the men were not to be seen; furthermore, she was so scared that she had no thought of trying to make out the persons. One of the men had put out his hand and touched her arm; that was the first intimation she had of their presence, and his excellency could judge how it must have frightened her.

    At this point the knight put the question direct:

    “Did not one of those men look to you like Captain von Linden?”

    “Mercy on me!—no, your honor; no more like him than a bear looks like a young antelope.”

    “If it had been the young captain, would you have recognised him, do you think?”

    The girl was not to be caught. If she was prevaricating, she did it very shrewdly; and it is more than possible she was doing so. To expose the presence of Ernest might result in ill to her young mistress, which she would not have done to save her own life. Yet she told the truth so far as this: She had not recognized a friend when she screamed. Not until after she had started upon her flight had her wits returned with an inkling of the truth.

    At length, in disgust, Sir Pascal sent the woman away, and caused the wounded man to be brought before him.

    Meantime he ordered that the guard should be doubled throughout the castle, and that no gate or postern should be opened under any circumstances whatever, without orders from him.

    “Franz!” he said to his lieutenant, “up with the bridge, and down with the portcullis! The gate shall not be opened again until I am Lord of Deckendorf.”

    Notes

    • Sachsenspiegel: See Oliver Raven, Introduction to Chapter 3 (and n.) See Heidelberger Sachsenspiegel (Heidelberg U).
    • Seven Swabians: English text / The original German text, with the word yelled “Zetermordio” when one of the seven Swabians imagines the monster of Lake Constance.
    • morion: type of round helmet; cf. Spanish conquistador style. Jump to image of 17th c. German example.
    • Stentor: Mythological Greek herald during the Trojan war, with a voice as loud as that of fifty men.
    • eulogium: eulogy (praiseful speech).
    • in season: in time
    • top-boots / small clothes: “Top boots, or hunting boots (for riding, and fox hunts), during most of the 19th century usually meant knee-high leather boots of black with the top portion of the the shaft a natural brown, emulating the look of previous centuries when thigh-high boots were folded down.” / “Small clothes referred to men’s undergarments, usually of silk, linen, or cotton, but also sometimes shirts and breeches.” From R.S. Fleming’s Kate Tatersall Adventures, “Victorian fashion terms“.

    NIGHTSHIFT byTony Reck © 2025