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Tag: Sylvanus Cobb Jr

  • 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

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 15. The Midnight Mission

    Cobb’s False Knight: 15. The Midnight Mission

    Secret passages were one of my favourite elements in spooky old black and white movies. There was one in Ghost Breakers (dir. George Marshall) from1940, in which Paulette Goddard plays a particular combination of keys on the dusty old pipe organ of a very haunted castle in Cuba, and suddenly, in torchlight, a heavy stone column moves, revealing a secret passage to Bob Hope…. Great stuff.

    But are there real secret passages hidden in and around the old castles and churches of Germany and of course many other countries? Yes, there are.

    Passage leading from beneath the altar in the chapel of Wildenstein Castle

    There’s one in the chapel of Wildenstein Castle, near Leibertingen in the Black Forest. Those paying for a guided tour hear stories of the sadistic knight Heinrich von Wildenstein and his squire gruesomely knotting the legs of seditious peasants. But this short stairway down behind the altar probably only leads to a lower storey, that’s all. Those knobbled peasants probably couldn’t have managed any longer distance. But who needs a secret passage anyway if you can tie the peasants’ legs in knots? (‘Auf Burg Wildensteing’, Märchenfreude).

    A hidden passage was found leading out from Liebenburg Castle, about four kilometres north of the Ancient city of Goslar, not far from where I once lived. It was only discovered in the year 2005. You see, that’s the problem. The best hidden passages remained exactly that. Hidden. Often for centuries, until the tunnels collapsed and even if the entrances are ever found, nobody knows exactly where they once led…

    But why did people need secret passages back then? A silly question perhaps: to escape from enemies of course. But the reasons might be more complicated, as perhaps in the case of Liebenburg Castle, which came into the possession of Heinrich the Younger, Duke of Braunschweig-Wolfenbüttel in 1523. From 1541 to 1542, he hid his mistress, Eva von Trott and her three youngest children there, until she gave birth to her ninth child. Of course you would need a secret passage or two to hide a mistress with nine young kids. Even if just to have a place to hang up all the secret nappies to dry?

    There was a lot more to this story than that. Trying to avoid a scandal, Heinrich the Younger, a Catholic, needed some serious secrecy. After having his mistress, with whom he had already had three children, declared dead from the plague, he had a wooden doll put into her coffin and buried after a funeral service at Gandersheim Abbey, only to clandestinely install her and the kids in Liebenburg Castle, where he continued to visit her for a few more years, fathering another six children by her. He probably visited her through that same secret passage discovered in 2005.

    Underground secret passage of Liebenberg Castle, discovered in 2005

    Why all the fuss? Surely, Kings, Dukes etc., even some rich Archbishops had mistresses all over the place. Yes, maybe. But they didn’t have Martin Luther and the Reformation breathing down their necks. Luther used the affair as propaganda against the Duke in Wider Hans Worst (1541) in the Schmalkaldaic War, the war which caused Eva Von Trott to flee Liebenburg castle. Ah, they don’t quite have love affairs like that any more, secret passages and all….

    There are fine examples of entrances to such passages hidden in bookshelves and behind altars. The famous Admont Abbey in Austria, about forty kilometres east of Salzburg, has one, hidden in the theology section of the stunningly beautiful library. Shades of Harry Potter, the Da Vinci Code and The Name of the Rose perhaps? Not really. All that trouble creating a beautifully concealed entrance was simply to allow library users a discreet access to the upper rows of books. Now stop imagining what kinds of books the naughty monks might have hidden there!

    I really do wonder if Cobb might have heard of that hidden passage at Wildenstein Castle…

    CHAPTER 15

    THE MIDNIGHT MISSION

    The hunter returned alone to the living-room of the cot, but announcing that Wolfgang had departed.

    “But, he added, as our hero’s countenance fell, he will be with us bright and early tomorrow morning. He was obliged to go—called away by business of interest to us all. I may tell you that Thorbrand is so far recovered as to be able to take the saddle, should necessity call.”

    “Then why,” cried Ernest, vehemently, does he not show himself without further delay?”

    The next question was of importance: Had Thorbrand given his consent or countenance to Oberwald’s accompanying him to the castle?

    “Yes,” said Martin, “l am to go with you; and I received from that wonderful man information that may be of value to us. Were you aware that he was, for a considerable time, in the employ of the father of the late baron? He was for several years a boy with the Baron Gregory von Deckendorf, and loved him well and truly; and for that reason is he the more eager to assist the wife and daughter of Sir Gregory. Sir Pascal Dunwolf little dreams of what a rod I have in pickle for his back.”

    During the latter part of the afternoon the hunter made a circuit of the forest near his premises, finding, as he had expected all clear. Evidently Sir Pascal was putting forth no effort towards recapturing the young captain.

    As the sun was setting supper was eaten, after which the two adventurers prepared for their nocturnal visit.

    Pistols were taken, but it was understood that they should not be used except in case of great emergency—it must be a situation where nothing else would serve them. Swords they would not take. They would be awkward weapons at night, in narrow quarters; and, moreover, their clanking might betray them. They took instead short clubs of iron-wood, almost as solid and heavy as iron itself, eighteen inches in length, with a knotted knob on the larger end, and the grip, or handle, so formed that it could not be lost nor slip in the hand. At close quarters it would be a more effective weapon than a blade, and far more readily used. Stout daggers they took and that was all, of the so-called deadly weapons; though, for that matter, the iron-wood club, in the hand of a strong, clear-headed man, might be about as deadly as anything that could be used upon a human skull.

    Two dark lanterns, with lamps well filled, and carefully trimmed, together with flint and steel and tinder, and soft moccasins for the feet, completed their outfit; and as the clock struck ten they were ready to set forth, though they waited a time before starting, it being their plan not to enter the castle until after the sentinels had been relieved at midnight.

    Irene had no fears. She would have the dogs for company, and in case of emergency she could take refuge with the occupant  of the cavern. They had had considerable difficulty with Electra’s stag-hound, having been obliged to keep him fastened most of the time. It was not the care, however that worried them, but the poor dog’s mournful howling—his dismal, heart-rending shrieks were painful to them all. They would have set him free, knowing very well that he would have flown to the castle as swiftly as his fleet feet could have carried him, but they feared that the angry men whom he had bitten—for he had torn the flesh of two or three of them before they had captured him—might intercept and kill him. After it had become dark, however, he had taken food from Irene’s hand, and the combined efforts of the patient girl, and her St. Bernard, at length quieted him and brought him to terms.

    Two Men Contemplating the Moon (c. 1825-30), Caspar David Friedrich.

    As the clock struck eleven, the two adventurers set forth. The night was clear and pleasant; the moon, a few days past its full, gave a light almost equal to day, which led them to be cautious, and to seek the shadows where they could conveniently find them. In less than half an hour they had reached the deep dell wherein was the entrance to the pass, and here, within the arch of the protecting cave or alcove, they lighted their lanterns. Then Ernest opened the hidden door, and they entered the passage.

    Considering all the circumstances, Ernest felt that he was in honor, not only authorized, but bound to reveal to his companion the secret of the subterranean passage, and he commenced by showing him how to open the way by which they had entered.

    “My dear boy,” said the hunter, gratefully, “it is a thing I would not have asked at your hands: but, believe me, you do no wrong in trusting me; for you do well know that with me the secret is safe, and, further, that I would never make use of the knowledge save for the purpose of good to the lawful inmates of the castle.”

    More than once on the way Oberwald stopped and pointed out to his young companion places in the pass that were like unto his own pass down the mountain.

    “At some time, probably before the advent of animal life upon the earth,” he said, “a mighty convulsion did this work. Who shall say that the same great upheaval which lifted these mountains to their commanding heights did not open these seams in the rock, and form the caverns as we now find them? It is wonderful! Wonderful! What a pigmy is man when compared with the stupendous forces of nature, and the omnipotent power of nature’s God. But only a pigmy in that comparison. As compared with other creatures, or with other creations, man is himself a wonder. Next to the Almighty himself is the good, true man. Made in God’s image, to live beyond the crash of worlds and the bounds of time, the man who strives in his heart to be godlike is surely no contemptible thing.

    “But enough of this. I am not apt to preach, yet I love to think.”

    “And I love to hear you preach, if you will call your grand theme by that name,” said the youth, with enthusiasm. “I have myself often thought in that same strain. I think until I am lost, and then I am forced to acknowledge how little I am. And here you have been giving me a pleasant, healthful thought. After all, our littleness is only in comparison with the infinite. Remembering that, we may take courage, and believe that we can, if we will, so live and act as to be worthy to be called the children of God.”

    “That is true, Ernest. Why haven’t we struck this theme before, during the hours we have spent so near to each other? There’s much of profit—of mental and moral health—in such conversation. Ah! what have we here?”

    “That is the murmuring of the stream above us. Just one half of our journey is done.”

    “Another wonderful thing is this,” said Oberwald, stopping a moment to look up at the dripping roof above his head. “Think how this pass is opened in the solid rock in so strange a manner. A simple fissure or chasm would be easily understood, but this deep rent, roofed as though by the hand of man, is passing strange—it is inexplicable.”

    After this they pushed on, beginning to ascend very shortly after passing under the stream, and so continuing until they stopped before what appeared to be a solid wall of rock, shutting off further advance.

    “We are at length beneath the inner court of the castle,” said Ernest, as he stooped down and pointed out to the hunter a seam in the rock, and in the seam a tiny opening like a key-hole. Into this he bade Oberwald insert the point of his dagger, pressing with a gentle force.

    It was done, and instantly a section of the rock swung inward, creating an aperture through which the pair of them readily passed. A little distance further, and they ascended a flight of stone steps, at the top of which the youth announced that they had reached a point beneath the old keep.

    “And not ten yards away,” he added, is the dungeon into which I was cast.”

    The hunter looked at his watch, and  found it on the stroke of low twelve—midnight.

    “We want the sentinels to be surely exchanged before we enter the keep,” he said; “and I have a great desire to look into that dungeon, which I have doubtless visited from the other side. We shall have plenty of time.”

    So, without further remark, Ernest kept on a few paces, then turned abruptly to the right, at a short distance further reaching the foot of a flight of narrow stone steps cut from the native rock. Up these he led the way, at the top, after listening until assured that all was safe beyond, he lifted the edge of the ponderous slab of stone directly over his head, and stepped up into the dungeon. Oberwald followed and gazed about the place. A swarm of rats scampered away, having been drawn hither by the food which had been left behind when the prisoner went away. Their means of passage was a hole near the door, where, in the course of years, they had succeeded in digging through the thick, hard masonry.

    The adventurers did not tarry long here. The hunter remembered the place, having visited it in other years with Sir Gregory, little thinking then that he should ever come to it through the bowels of the earth.

    “Having reached the main pass, once more they took an upward course, and at the first landing above the level of the dungeon they stopped and exchanged their boots for the soft, noiseless moccasins; and ere long thereafter the guide announced that they had arrived at the second floor of the old keep, and that the closet of the picture-gallery was directly before them.

    They both bent their ears and listened attentively, very soon making sure that no one was at the other side. Then the secret opening was touched, and the panel moved back, revealing an aperture through which they passed without difficulty, finding themselves in a small room half filled with dust-covered pictures and useless lumber. Another season of listening, and they carefully opened the door of the gallery beyond. As the door was opened Oberwald, who was behind, saw a scrap of paper on the floor. He picked it up and held it to his light, it was only an old label that had fallen from one of the pictures. Another scrap was found by Ernest, which proved to be a blank. Another piece, carefully folded and dropped near the door, escaped their observation, though they might have seen it had not their attention been distracted by the others.

    The gallery had a dismal, forsaken look, the sombre portraits on the wall wearing a ghostly aspect, the pictured faces of the dead-and-gone barons frowning down upon them as though in indignant reproof for the sacrilege they had committed.

    Portrait of Pompeius Occo (c. 1531), Dirck Jacobsz.

    “We must reach the apartments of the baroness,” said Von Linden, when they had assured themselves that nobody was moving near the place. “I am confident that the ladies expect my visit, and they will communicate with us if they possibly can.”

    “Then on it is,” answered the hunter, sententiously. “We must find something.”

    “The apartments are on the same floor, and not far away,” the youth explained. And without further question they carefully opened the door communicating with the hall, and stepped out, their moccasined feet falling lightly on the pavement.

    Slowly and carefully they moved on, seeing no light anywhere, and hence judging that no sentinels had been posted in the neighborhood. The door of Lady Bertha’s drawing-room was reached without accident, and it was found unlocked. Ernest opened it and went in. The place was dark and silent; the proper occupants surely not there. Without hesitation they passed on into the sleeping-room, where the great bed was in a sad state of disarray, more than half the clothing having been taken away, probably to make for her ladyship a couch elsewhere.

    Having carefully looked over the room for any scrap of information that might in any manner have been left, Ernest made his way into the room next adjoining—the dressing-room.

    “Here,” he said to his companion, as they closed the door behind them, “is another entrance to the secret pass—the one by which we left the keep when we sought your cot. This is the panel. It is so contrived that—”

    He did not finish the sentence. His eye had caught a carefully folded paper on the floor upon which a bright beam from his lantern had fallen. He picked it up, and a startled exclamation burst from his lips as he saw the superscription—“This from your captive friends.”

    Giving his lantern to his companion, he opened it, and read.

    “Eureka!” he cried, as he caught the meaning of the note. “Here it is, Martin. It is brief, but it is to the point. It is in Electra’s hand. ‘We are in the chambers of the new wing,’ she writes. Ah! Sir Pascal had his wits about him. He judged rightly that there could be no communication with the subterranean pass in that modern structure. They were put there when they were first brought in. Probably they were permitted to come hither under watchful eyes, to  get such articles as they might want for comfort. O! bless the dear girl! how thoughtful she was.

    “Oh! the black-hearted villain! Listen to this: ‘The bad knight will, if he is not prevented, make me his wife to-morrow. To-morrow, Martin! And the day has already commenced. By heavens! We must be moving if we would prevent it.”

    “Easy, my boy. There is time enough Does she say at what hour?”

    “No; she only adds:  ‘We are under strict guard.’ And then she repeats: ‘Remember, it is TO-MORROW!’

    “What shall we do? When will Thorbrand be ready to help us? When will Wolfgang—”

    “Tut! tut! they will be ready whenever we speak the word. We have but to give them information of the need, and you shall find them up and doing on the instant.”

    “But the men! Must they not assemble from the forest some of their band to help them? Think of the host which Dunwolf has at command.”

    “My dear Ernest, you know not yet the power of those two men. Their appearance at the castle will be sufficient. Either one of them would be a host in himself; but let them both appear, and you shall see the stout men-at-arms quail and shrink as from a thunderbolt! Do you borrow no trouble on that score.”

    A little time the youth stood, gazing in speechless amaze into the face of the hunter, and then he turned once more to the paper in his hand.

    “To-morrow!” he repeated, quivering at every joint. “How many hours are there? Think of it! His wife! I would rather see her lovely form torn and rent by the wild beasts of the forest.”

    “Hush! Hush! You shall see neither. We have gained all the information we desired—of course we cannot see the ladies—and we may now return. Let us thank kind Heaven that our effort has been so signally rewarded.”

    “I do! I do—thank Heaven from my heart. But—l wish I could see one of the old servants. If I could but gain speech with one, though but for an instant, I should be glad.”

    “For what, my dear Captain? What can you hope to gain more than we have already accomplished?”

    “Can you not see?” cried the impetuous youth, in surprise. “How will the dear girl live through the coming hours if she knows not that her effort has been effective? Let her remain in ignorance of what we are doing—in ignorance of our knowledge of her situation—and her great anxiety may drive her mad, if it does not kill her. If I can see a servant and leave a sign to be given to Electra by which she may know—”

    “I see,” interrupted Martin, breaking in upon his companion’s eloquent explanation. “I understand you, my dear boy, and I agree with you, too. Let us go back and make the search. Perhaps the servants’ quarters are not under surveillance. But remember this: An accident that should detain us, or, mayhap, do worse for us would be terrible.”

    “We will be very careful,” pleaded Ernest, beseechingly. “O! I must get word to the dear one if I can. Let us make an effort. I will not venture far. You shall say when we must give it up.”

    “Very well. Do you lead the way. Be careful of your light after you strike the open passage.”

    With this they turned back and retraced their steps as far as the passage beyond the drawing-room, where, as the way was clear before them, they closed the slides of their lanterns, and moved slowly forward in the dark. They had reached the end of the passage, and were about to enter the common hall of that floor, from which all the narrower ways diverged, when they were brought to a stand by the glare upon the wall before them of a light; and in a moment more the changing of the shadows told them that the light was in motion. Some one besides themselves was astir.

    Drawing back from the narrow passage pressing close against the wall, they stood and waited.

    Notes

    • Heinrich the Younger: Nicknamed Der Wilde Heinrich, which translates to more like “Randy Heinrich”.
    • Martin Luther, Wider Hans Worst: a propaganda pamphlet satirising Duke Henry. “Wider” means “against”; “Hansworst” was a carnival buffoon character of the time, the name used as an insult.
    • ‘the hunter looked at his watch’: Don’t worry, spring powered clocks originated in the 15th century; pendant-watches were crafted in France and Germany in the 16th century; the pocket watch in the 18th century, when waistcoats became fashionable. See Carlos Perez, “Artifacts of the Golden Age” (2001).
    • ‘I would rather see her lovely form torn and rent…’: Easy for him to say.
    • ‘Do you borrow no trouble on that score’: ‘Don’t let that worry you.”
    • ‘signally rewarded’: conspicuously, eminently, memorably.

    NIGHTSHIFT byTony Reck © 2025

  • Cobb’s False Knight: 14. A Scrap of Paper

    Cobb’s False Knight: 14. A Scrap of Paper

    Interesting plot twists and a good knowledge of his foreign settings. Zenzel may sound a bit strange as a choice of name for one of Electra’s new maids these days, but it is a real one and reflects how much serious research Cobb put into his writing.

    More common in southern Germany and particularly Bavaria is “Zenzi“. An interesting name, it sadly has very little to do with any enlightened school of Buddhism however. Nowadays used to name anything from a beach bar in Playa del Carmen to a “real food” fast food chain based in Oslo, to an expensive brand clothing store in Singapore, Bavarian “Zenzis” are usually villager girls, the name being a short form of “Kreszentia” and also “Innozenzia” and “Vincentia“.

    Black Forest (Gutach) woman in costume, c. 1898, color photo lithograph

    It was particularly popular in Swabia, where the short form “Zenzl” was most commonly used. Nowadays, only about one in 100,000 girls are given the name, in contrast to Bavarian cows, many of which are still named “Zenzi” to this day.

    Carrying our damsels in distress down the mountain on a litter invokes a scene more common in times gone by, even if the one used is a bit makeshift. The German name for a “litter” being “Saenfte“. This word sounds a lot less like anything possibly related to rubbish, as the term comes from the word “Sanft”, which means “Gentle” or “Gently”. Usually, it describes something more like a sedan chair, but it is also used as a name for a simpler construction with poles.

    Just who exactly are these homely-looking replacement maids you will read about? That “Elise”, who sounds more like some sort of nightmare female Swabian prison warder or birthday gift prank masseuse named “Battleship Potemkin” than the beautiful piano piece written for that name. I guess you just couldn’t get the staff, even in those days…

    CHAPTER 14

    A SCRAP OF PAPER

    Half way down the mountain the ruffian band stopped, and having thrown out safe sentinels to give warning of approaching danger, the rest of them went at the work of making a litter upon which to carry their captives. This they did for their own convenience—not for any sentiment of kindness or compassion upon two weak, suffering women. On the contrary, many of them seemed to feel really provoked and indignant because on account of these women they had been forced to expose themselves to such disagreeable weather. A very fair contrivance for the purpose in hand was soon put together, and with the two ladies installed thereon the party once more set forward.

    Finding a mass of fir boughs which she could pull over her head and shoulders, Electra removed the heavy trooper’s coat from that part of her body, as there was an odor coming from it which she could not endure. They made no complaints, as they well knew they would be useless; nor did they ask any favors. The baroness blamed herself for her folly in disobeying her kind protector, whereupon her daughter tried to comfort her.

    “Mamma, let us be brave. You shall not see me surrender. Let us remember what good Martin told us of the robber chief, and of his lieutenant Wolfgang. If they are for us, and mean to put forth a helping hand in earnest, we may surely hope.”

    “Ah! my child, you forget the characters of those men.”

    “Their characters?”

    “Yes. One of them a, chief of robbers!”

    “O, mamma! mamma! you have not seen that chieftain’s face. He is the grandest, noblest, handsomest man that I ever saw.”

    “Handsomer than Ernest?”

    “Yes— because he is more massive, and more muscular—by far a larger and stronger man. You know what I mean.”

    By this time they had reached the foot of the mountain, and as two of the guards came up and walked beside the litter, the captives held their peace.

    Arrived at the castle, they were borne to the foot of the steps leading up to the vestibule, where they were lifted out, and taken at once to the main hall; and here Sir Pascal Dunwolf found them.

    His exclamations of joy and satisfaction upon beholding the rich prize thus returned to him had more gross profanity in them than we care to transcribe. But he settled down into moderation after a time and smiled grimly when the baroness refused him her hand.

    “Well, well,” he said, “I am very glad the castle has its proper mistress once more, and it is not my intention that you shall leave us again. If you give me no more trouble—if you will settle down into two well-behaved, quiet ladies, I will treat you with all respect and kindness. But, mark you, I shall know how to put a stop to any further trouble on your part. You took away a servant with you, I think.”

    “A servant accompanied me, sir,” replied Lady Bertha, proudly.

     She had become calm and dignified, and resolved to quietly submit to what she could not help.

    “Your servant has not returned with you?”

     “Your ruffians did not find her.”

    “Oho! that’s it. Well, I must supply you with another. You may follow me.”

    With this the knight made a sign to a man who stood near at hand—a man in the garb of a mountaineer, whom the baroness had never before seen; and no wonder for it was none other than the brigand, Hildegund. In answer to the sign, he bowed respectfully and went away. Then the master beckoned to another man; and, as he started to lead the way up the great staircase, this last man followed behind.

    The knight bent his course, not towards the apartments which the ladies had formerly occupied, but towards a wing of the keep which had been erected during the time of the two or three generations last past, rightly judging that the new work could have no connection with the secret passes, through which his captives had so unexpectedly escaped him.

    The wing in question, connected with which was a tower with an observatory on its top, had been completed with the late baron’s father. On reaching it, the ladies were ushered into a suite of four small chambers, all connected, three of them being respectably furnished.

    “There,” said the knight, as the countess and her daughter stood and glanced about them; “here you may make yourselves very comfortable if you will. You can, of course, understand why I do not give you back the apartments which you so readily forsook. Yet,” he added, with a malicious twinkle in his deep-set eyes, “if you will promise to show me how you made your escape—if you will point out to me and explain the secret pass, I will allow you to occupy your old rooms.”

    “We shall be as comfortable here, sir, as we can be anywhere under your control. The secret of which you speak is not mine to give.”

    “As you will. I do not suppose I can force you to speak.”

    He then pointed out to them the two apartments which he had supposed they would appropriate to themselves, remarking that the third was for the use of their servants. The room not furnished might be fitted up as they should later suggest.

    “But one small bed has been provided for two servants,” he said, “because only one of them will sleep at the same time.”

    He had just spoken, when Hildegund appeared, accompanied by two females. They were women of middle age; large, coarse looking, with faces hard and uncompromising. One of them, however, was more repelling in appearance than was the other.

    “Ah, here are our helpers!” Dunwolf went on, as the women appeared. “My good Hildegund, will you have the kindness to introduce them to her ladyship.”

    Head of a Peasant with White Cap (1884), Vincent van Gogh

    “This,” said the man thus addressed, answering promptly, “is Elize. She is variously accomplished, and of a most excellent disposition; only she likes to be well treated, as she has always been used to it.”

    This was the harshest and most forbidding of the twain,—a woman of five-and-thirty, or thereabout; tall and heavily framed; low-browed, and sharp-eyed; coarse, unkempt hair, of a reddish brown color; with quite a beard upon her long upper lip and her heavy massive chin.

    “And this,” the robber continued, presenting the other, “is our fair Zenzel. If she is not so accomplished as is the gentle Elize, she at least has the quality of faithfulness. I think they will make madam very comfortable.”

    Zenzel was a few years older than her companion; her face was not so dark; her brow was higher; her eyes were larger, with more of softness in their light; her hair was of a dark brown, and well bestowed; and her face looked as though she could laugh upon occasion, which was more than could be said of the other. But she was far from being happy-looking, and was not by any means such a person as either the baroness or her daughter would have chosen for a servant.

    Further than this Sir Pascal informed the ladies that their meals would be served to them where they now were; that one of the household servants, to be selected by himself, would be permitted to come for orders; and that they should have for food anything they chose to order. He then asked them if they had any request to make.

    “Sir Pascal Dunwolf,” said the baroness, after a moment’s thought, “there are a few things in my old apartments which I would like to obtain; and I must go for them myself. If you will allow me to go, you may send your whole troop to over-look, if you wish. No other person can find them.”

    The knight stood for a few seconds as if in doubt; then his brow unbent, and he told the lady she might go.

    “By and by,” he said, “when you have had your dinner, these two women shall accompany you, and you may get what you like.”

    Then he turned to the woman named Elize, and instructed her in the matter. At any time after the ladies had eaten their dinner, she and her companion might go with them to the apartments which they had formerly occupied, and there allow them to gather up what they pleased, at the same time sternly bidding them to remember that he should look to them for the safety of their charge.

    With this he turned towards the door, motioning for Hildegund to pass out before him; and when the man had gone, and was out of hearing, he once more turned, and bent a keen, significant glance upon the maiden. He started twice to speak, but hesitated. At length with a gleam of triumph in his dark eyes, he said:

    “Young lady,—Once you have escaped me. Had you remained in your castle you would have been my wife ere this. I have no doubt that your flight was for the purpose of avoiding that interesting ceremony. But know ye, my dear girl, that your fate is sealed. I will give you fair warning, that you may be prepared. You shall rest to-day, for on the morrow, before the sun shall have set, you will be a wife. For the purpose of becoming your husband, and lord of Deckendorf, I came hither; that purpose I intend to accomplish; and the sooner it is done the better for all concerned.—Lady Bertha,” to the baroness, “you will be wise if you can help your daughter as she may need. Do not resist the inevitable.”

    He paused a moment, and bent his eyes to the floor. When he next spoke he had assumed what he doubtless thought a frank, generous expression, and his voice was carefully modulated:

    “My dear young lady,—allow me to call you Electra,—l wish you would try to believe that I will make you happy if you will let me. You shall have every privilege you can in honour ask; you shall have state and pomp, if you like it; in short, no lady of the whole Rhine country shall stand above you. Is not your pride something? Would you not like to be worshipped and admired? Think of it; reflect upon it; and be wise in time.”

    And then, without waiting for a response,—perhaps not desiring one, he turned and strode away, leaving one of the new servants to close the door after him.

    For several minutes after the knight had gone not a word was spoken in the chamber where the four women had been left. The baroness and her child sat in deep thought, looking now upon one another, then towards the strange servants, and anon around the bare and cheerless rooms.

    At length Electra bent her head upon her hand, so remaining for a considerable time. When she finally looked up, she turned to the woman called Elize and addressed her quickly, but in an offhand, easy manner, in French, a language with which both she and her mother were entirely familiar.

    The woman stared at her in blank amaze. Our heroine repeated the question, so inclining her glance that either of the servants might consider it as put to herself. But they were both alike. Neither of them understood her.

    “Pardon me, I pray you,” she said, with a pleasant smile. “I did not stop to reflect that you might be ignorant of the language.”

    The twain shook their heads, and Elize responded, gruffly:

    “We know our own language, and that is all; and it is enough for us.”

    “You are not from the village, are you?” Electra pursued, with all the affability she could command.

    “Not from your village, my lady.”

    “I have no desire to pry into your secrets, my good woman; but surely since we are to be together for a time, it would be pleasant for us all if my mother and I knew whence you come.”

    Elize looked first upon the speaker and then upon her companion, and she was evidently upon the point of returning another crisp and unsatisfactory answer, when the other—Zenzel—with a flush upon her face, and a peculiar snapping of the eye, spoke up:

    “Why should we not tell the truth? Lady, we are from the uttermost depths of the Schwarzwald. We are of Thorbrand’s people, and have been reared with the robbers of the Wald from childhood. Our men are brigands, as are the soldiers of our grand duke; only there is this difference: While your soldiers never do good, but kill, kill, kill, the robbers of the Schwarzwald—brave Thorbrand’s men—never kill if they can avoid it; and the cry of distress is never made to them in vain.”

    “Zenzel,  l have not a word to say against Thorbrand. I have heard him spoken very well of. For the good that is in him I honor him.”

    “Ah, lady, I wish you could tell us where he is to be found.”

    “How? Has he gone away?”

    “He left us—now two weeks or more ago—to come to this castle. That, we know, was his purpose when he set forth. There went with him the Paladin of our host—young Wolfgang, the fairest and the bravest, next to the chief himself, of our gallant men. They went from us, those many days ago, and that is the last we know. He has not been here. At least, so the knight says.”

    Old Peasant Woman (c. 1905), Paula Modersohn-Becker

    “I think he speaks truly,” said Electra, as the speaker looked towards her inquiringly. “My mother and I were here several days after Sir Pascal came, and we know that during those days he was anxiously expecting the chieftain, who did not come.”

    Here the conversation ended, and shortly afterwards it was proposed they should think of dinner. It was now well on into the afternoon, and the ladies were hungry. Elize went away to order the meal, having first learned what was wanted, leaving her companion to keep guard. Zenzel was evidently determined to be strict in the performance of her duty; but she was not obtrusive, nor did she make herself unnecessarily attentive in any way. The result was that mother and daughter enjoyed opportunity for private conversation without resorting to a foreign tongue, though they hold that resort in reserve in case of emergency.

    “Electra, what was your object in speaking that woman in French? Was it simply to know if we might safely converse in that tongue?”

    “No, mamma, not wholly that. In fact, I was not thinking of conversing at all. Can you not guess?”

    “No. I fail to think of anything else.”

    “Mamma,” the daughter said with a quick glance towards their guard, “how long do you suppose it will be before Ernest comes to the castle.”

    The baroness started, but did not forget her caution.

    “Of course,” the girl continued, “he will not let the night pass without an effort to learn something of our fate, and of Dunworth’s purpose. He cannot hope to set us free, because the knight will guard against any further use of the secret passage by us. Yet he will do all he can. If he cannot see us, he will contrive to see some one of the old servants who can tell him how we are situated. You understand?”

    “Yes.”

    “And there is one thing more to be remembered: Thorbrand has pledged his word that he will deliver us from the power of that bad man. if you knew this wonderful chieftain as I know him, or if you could have seen him as did I, you would give him your confidence without reserve. And Thorbrand is almost well. Oberwald said yesterday that he was almost as strong as ever, and only waited for the coming of his companion, Wolfgang, to be ready to act.

    “Now, mamma, remembering all this, do you not see how necessary it is that we should let them know at the cot what will happen if we remain here unprotected through another day? for I am sure the wretch means exactly what he says. You follow me so far?”

    “Yes.”

    “Well, we have Dunwolf’s permission to go to our own apartments in quest of whatever we may want; and we must, if possible, persuade our guards to let us go to the old picture gallery, as in the store-room connected with that is one of the most direct and important entrances to the hidden pass, and it is the one I think Ernest will select—either that or the one in your dressing-room. He may think that our captor will not allow those rooms to be occupied, as we have once escaped from them, and consequently come that way. But one or the other of these he will surely use.

    “Now, this is why I wished to know if these women knew anything of French. I will write two brief notes, telling our friends what must be done if I am to be saved—write them in French—which I will drop in the picture gallery, where it cannot fail of being seen by any one who shall come forth from the secret passage. Of course, it is possible that the paper may be detected by one or both of our followers; but they will be none the wiser from seeing it. Something tells me that it will be a success.”

    The baroness was not only favourably impressed, but the details of the scheme had given her new hope and courage.

    Elize had returned while they were talking, being accompanied by one of the servants of the household, who modestly saluted the ladies on entering, but spoke with them no more.

    Lady Bertha chanced to have in her pocket a book of prayer—the last gift of her husband,—and from this, when she found opportunity, she carefully tore out two blank leaves. Electra had a pencil, and while the women were busy preparing the meal she wrote what she could; but though the missives were very brief, it cost her a number of trials before the work was accomplished. This was what she wrote:

    “For E. V. L.—We are in the chambers of the new wing, where we were put this forenoon, on being brought here. The bad knight will, if he is not prevented, make me his wife to-morrow. We are under strict guard. Remember, —IT IS TO-MORROW!”

    Two of these were written and carefully folded and on the outside she found opportunity to write, also, in French, “THIS FROM YOUR CAPTIVE FRIENDS.” She had scarcely completed the work when the woman Elize having seen the table cleared, informed the ladies that she and Zenzel were at liberty to go with them to their apartments. Before setting forth the last-named of the keepers expressed the hope that she and her companion would not be forced to harshness.

    “You know what our duty is,” she said, “and if you make it easy for us it will be better for all concerned.”

    Both the baroness and her daughter gave their word that they would offer no movement to which objection could be made, after which they set forth, Zenzel going in advance, while Elize brought up the rear.

    The old picture gallery was on the same floor of the old keep with the apartments which the baroness had occupied, and not far distant.  She wished to go there, she said, to find a book which she was sure had been left there; and, moreover, it would give them—the guards—an opportunity to see the pictures. Both the women were fond of pictures, though they had seen but very few during their lives; and without opposition, and with but little question, they went first to the gallery, where Electra had no trouble in dropping her folded paper in the little store-closet without being detected.

    She had more trouble in the old dressing-room. By a curious chance Zenzel found the paper after it had been dropped. Electra saw her pick it up, and open it, and examine it; then saw her, with a “Pshaw!” give it a twist and throw it down.

    To our heroine this seemed an augury of good, and she accepted it as such. When she looked back, as she and her mother were being conducted out from the old chambers, and saw the note lying very near the spot where she had dropped it, her heart was filled with thanksgiving. That scrap of paper seemed to her a connecting link between her dear lover and herself.

    Notes

    • Gutach (photo in preface): town in district of Ortenau in Baden-Württemberg; also the name of a river in the area.
    • brigands: ‘a bandit, especially one of a band of robbers in mountain or forest regions’ (dictionary.com).
    • ‘looking […] anon around the bare and cheerless rooms’: in this context, ‘anon’ assumes the sense ‘once in a while’.
    • Paula Modersohn-Becker (illust.): (1876-1907), early German expressionist painter.