Part 11 (1/2)
The young man blushed up to the forehead. Since Bertha's departure she had not been the subject of conversation between him and his host, and therefore his sly question took him so much the more by surprise. ”I perceive,” said he, ”that you do not understand me yet. You believe I have only turned my back on the League for the purpose of joining the enemy? How can you think so ill of me?”
”Ah! away with you,” replied the wary scribe; ”no one else but my charming cousin has influenced your conduct. You would have shut an eye to every thing the League did, had old Lichtenstein been on our side; but now that you know he belongs to the other party, you think yourself justified in joining it also.”
Albert might defend himself as well as he could; the secretary was too firmly rooted in his opinion to allow himself to be talked out of it.
Moreover, he thought this step very natural, and saw nothing in it dishonourable or blamable. With a hearty remembrance to his cousin in Lichtenstein, he left the room of his guest. But on the threshold of the door he turned round again, and said, ”I had almost forgotten to mention, that I met George von Fronsberg in the street, who begs you will go and see him this evening at his house.”
Albert had already determined not to depart without taking leave of Fronsberg, but he felt nervous at appearing before a man whose intentions towards him were kind, but whose plans he had thwarted. He buckled on his sword, thinking upon this painful meeting, and was arranging his cloak, when his attention was drawn to an unusual noise on the stairs. Heavy steps of a party of men approached his door; he thought he heard the clatter of swords and halberts on the stone floor of the ante-room. He stepped quickly towards the door to ascertain the cause of this visit; but before he reached it, it opened, and by the light of a few candles he perceived many armed men about to enter. The same old soldier who had received him when he went to the council of war, stepped forward.
”Albert von Sturmfeder!” said he to the young man, who retreated a step in astonishment, ”by order of the grand council of war I make you my prisoner.”
”Me--prisoner?” said Albert, with consternation. ”Why? what am I guilty of?”
”That 'a not my affair,” answered the old man, surlily, ”but probably you will not be left long in ignorance. Be so good to deliver up your sword to me, and follow me to the town hall.”
”How? give up my sword?” replied the young man in the rage of insulted pride. ”Who are you that dares to demand my weapon? The council must send men of a different stamp for that purpose before I submit; I know too well what your profession is.”
”For G.o.d's sake give up your sword,” cried his friend, the secretary, who forced himself through the crowd to his side, ”obey the order--resistance were vain. You have to do with Truchses,” he whispered: ”he is a fearful enemy; do not force him to extremities.”
The old soldier, interrupting the secretary, said, ”It is perhaps the first time, sir, you have been arrested; therefore I forgive the hasty language you have made use of against a man who has slept in the same tent with your father. You may, however, retain your sword: I well know its hilt and scabbard, and I have witnessed many a deed of glory achieved with its blade. It is praiseworthy of you to be jealous of its falling into other hands. But you must come with me to the town hall, for it were folly in you to bid defiance to power.”
The young man, to whom every thing appeared a dream, submitted quietly to his fate. He whispered to his friend the secretary to go to Fronsberg, and inform him of his arrest, and concealing his person as much as possible under his cloak, to avoid the unpleasant gaze of the crowd in the streets, followed the old leader, surrounded by his party.
CHAPTER XI.
The iron door upon its hinges creaks, A lurid light upon the prison breaks, The captive, starting at a footstep's sound, Springs from his lonely couch, to gaze around.
WIELAND.
The troop, surrounding their prisoner, moved on in silence towards the town hall. A single torch was their only light on the way, and Albert thanked Heaven that it gave but a feeble glare; for he fancied that every one who met him must suppose he was being led to prison. But this was not the only thought which engrossed his mind. This was the first time in his life he had been in any dilemma, and it was not without dread that he figured to himself all the horrors of a damp dreary dungeon, remembering to have visited the one in his old castle. He was on the point of speaking to his leader on the subject, when it struck him he might be accused of a childish fear, and therefore he proceeded in silence.
He was, however, not a little surprised when he was led into a large handsome room, not very habitable indeed, as its furniture consisted only of a bedstead, and an uncommon large fire-place, but it was a palace compared to what his imagination had conjured up. The old soldier wished his prisoner a good night, and retired with the rest of his party. A little thin old man then made his appearance; a large bunch of keys, which hung by his side, rattling like a chain when he moved, announced him as the gaoler or servant of the town hall. He laid some large logs of wood in the fire-place, and made a blazing fire; a cheering companion on a cold night in March. He then spread an ample woollen covering on the bedstead, and the first word that Albert heard from him was a friendly invitation to make himself comfortable. He thanked the old man for his kind attention, though his place of rest for the night did not offer much to tempt him to repose.
”This apartment is set aside for knights in your situation,” said the old gaoler; ”the common people are confined under ground, and are not so well off.”
”Is it long since any one lodged here?” asked Albert, looking around the room.
”A Herr von Berger was the last; he died on that very bed seven years ago: G.o.d be merciful to his soul! He appeared to be fond of this place, for he often rises from his coffin at midnight to visit his old quarters.”
”How?” said Albert, smiling, ”has he been seen since his death?”
The old man looked fearfully around the room, now faintly lighted by the dying embers of the fire: he put another log on, and murmured, ”Ah, many strange stories are about.”
”Did he die on that covering?” said Albert, whilst an involuntary shudder came over him.
”Yes, sir,” whispered the gaoler, ”he breathed his last on that very covering; G.o.d grant he may not have descended lower than purgatory!
That covering is now called his winding-sheet, and this apartment the knight's death-room!” With this, the old man quietly slipt out of the room, as if he were afraid the slightest noise might awaken the departed knight.
”And so I am to sleep on the winding-sheet in the death-room of the knight,” thought Albert, and felt his heart beat quicker, for his nurse and old servants had often related ghost stories to him in his boyhood.