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The Strong Arm

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The Baron raised his eyebrows in surprise at this, and, turning to
Segfried, he said in angry tones: "Is it so? Pledged you my word for
the safety of these men?"

"The reverend Abbot is mistaken," replied the knight, who had not yet
descended from his horse. "There was no word of safe conduct between
us."

"Safe conduct is implied when an officer of the Church is summoned to
administer its consolations to the dying," said the Abbot.

"All trades," remarked the Baron suavely, "have their dangers--yours
among the rest, as well as ours. If my follower had pledged my word
regarding your safety, I would now open the gates and let you free. As
he has not done so, I shall choose a manner for your exit more in
keeping with your lofty aspirations."

Saying this, he gave some rapid orders; his servitors fell upon the
unresisting monks and bound them hand and foot. They were then
conducted to the northern wall, and the nooses there adjusted round the
neck of each. When this was done, the Baron stood back from the
pinioned victims and addressed them:

"It is not my intention that you should die without having time to
repent of the many wicked deeds you have doubtless done during your
lives. Your sentence is that ye be hanged at cockcrow to-morrow, which
was the hour when, if your teachings cling to my memory, the first of
your craft turned traitor to his master. If, however, you tire of your
all-night vigil, you can at once obtain release by crying at the top of
your voices 'So die all Christians.' Thus you will hang yourselves, and
so remove some responsibility from my perhaps overladen conscience. The
hanging is a device of my own, of which I am perhaps pardonably proud,
and it pleases me that it is to be first tried on so worthy an
assemblage. With much labour we have elevated to the battlements an
oaken tree, lopped of its branches, which will not burn the less
brightly next winter in that it has helped to commit some of you to
hotter flames, if all ye say be true. The ropes are tied to this log,
and at the cry 'So die all Christians,' I have some stout knaves in
waiting up above with levers, who will straightway fling the log over
the battlements on which it is now poised, and the instant after your
broken necks will impinge against the inner coping of the northern
wall. And now good-night, my Lord Abbot, and a happy release for you
all in the morning."

"Baron von Grunewald, I ask of you that you will release one of us who
may thus administer the rites of the Church to his brethren and receive
in turn the same from me."

"Now, out upon me for a careless knave!" cried the Baron. "I had
forgotten that; it is so long since I have been to mass and such like
ceremonies myself. Your request is surely most reasonable, and I like
you the better that you keep up the farce of your calling to the very
end. But think not that I am so inhospitable, as to force one guest to
wait upon another, even in matters spiritual. Not so. We keep with us a
ghostly father for such occasions, and use him between times to wait on
us with wine and other necessaries. As soon as he has filled our
flagons, I will ask good Father Gottlieb to wait upon you, and I doubt
not he will shrive with any in the land, although he has been this
while back somewhat out of practice. His habit is rather tattered and
stained with the drippings of his new vocation, but I warrant you, you
will know the sheep, even though his fleece be torn. And now, again,
good-night, my Lord."

The Baron and his knights returned up the broad stairway that led to
the Rittersaal. Most of the torches were carried with them. The
defences of the castle were so strong that no particular pains were
taken to make all secure, further than the stationing of an armed man
at the gate. A solitary torch burnt under the archway, and here a guard
paced back and forth. The courtyard was in darkness, but the top of the
highest turrets were silvered by the rising moon. The doomed men stood
with the halters about their necks, as silent as a row of spectres.

The tall windows of the Rittersaal, being of coloured glass, threw
little light into the square, although they glowed with a rainbow
splendour from the torches within. Into the silence of the square broke
the sound of song and the clash of flagons upon the oaken table.

At last there came down the broad stair and out into the court a figure
in the habit of a monk, who hurried shufflingly across the stones to
the grim row of brown-robed men. He threw himself sobbing at the feet
of the tall Abbot.

"Rise, my son, and embrace me," said his superior. When Father Gottlieb
did so, the other whispered in his ear: "There is a time to weep and a
time for action. Now is the time for action. Unloosen quickly the bonds
around me, and slip this noose from my neck."

Father Gottlieb acquitted himself of his task as well as his agitation
and trembling hands would let him.

"Perform a like service for each of the others," whispered the Abbot
curtly. "Tell each in a low voice to remain standing just as if he were
still bound. Then return to me."

When the monk had done what he was told, he returned to his superior.

"Have you access to the wine cellar?" asked the Abbot.

"Yes, Father."

"What are the strongest wines?"

"Those of the district are strong. Then there is a barrel or two of the
red wine of Assmannshausen."

"Decant a half of each in your flagons. Is there brandy?"

"Yes, Father."

"Then mix with the two wines as much brandy as you think their already
drunken palates will not detect. Make the potation stronger with brandy
as the night wears on. When they drop off into their sodden sleep,
bring a flagon to the guard at the gate, and tell him the Baron sends
it to him."

"Will you absolve me, Father, for the--"

"It is no falsehood, Gottlieb. I, the Baron, send it. I came hither the
Abbot Ambrose: I am now Baron von Stern, and if I have any influence
with our mother Church the Abbot's robe shall fall on thy shoulders, if
you but do well what I ask of you to-night. It will be some
compensation for what, I fear, thou hast already suffered."

Gottlieb hurried away, as the knights were already clamouring for more
wine. As the night wore on and the moon rose higher the sounds of
revelry increased, and once there was a clash of arms and much uproar,
which subsided under the over-mastering voice of the Black Baron. At
last the Abbot, standing there with the rope dangling behind him, saw
Gottlieb bring a huge beaker of liquor to the sentinel, who at once sat
down on the stone bench under the arch to enjoy it.

Finally, all riot died away in the hall except one thin voice singing,
waveringly, a drinking song, and when that ceased silence reigned
supreme, and the moon shone full upon the bubbling spring.

Gottlieb stole stealthily out and told the Abbot that all the knights
were stretched upon the floor, and the Baron had his head on the table,
beside his overturned flagon. The sentinel snored upon the stone bench.

"I can now unbar the gate," said Father Gottlieb, "and we may all
escape."

"Not so," replied the Abbot. "We came to convert these men to
Christianity, and our task is still to do."

The monks all seemed frightened at this, and wished themselves once
more within the monastery, able to say all's well that ends so, but
none ventured to offer counsel to the gaunt man who led them. He bade
each bring with him the cords that had bound him, and without a word
they followed him into the Rittersaal, and there tied up the knights
and their master as they themselves had been tied.

"Carry them out," commanded the Abbot, "and lay them in a row, their
feet towards the spring and their heads under the ropes. And go you,
Gottlieb, who know the ways of the castle, and fasten the doors of all
the apartments where the servitors are sleeping."

When this was done, and they gathered once more in the moonlit
courtyard, the Abbot took off his robes of office and handed them to
Father Gottlieb, saying significantly: "The lowest among you that
suffers and is true shall be exalted." Turning to his own flock, he
commanded them to go in and obtain some rest after such a disquieting
night; then to Gottlieb, when the monks had obediently departed: "Bring
me, an' ye know where to find such, the apparel of a fighting man and a
sword."

Thus arrayed, he dismissed the old man, and alone in the silence, with
the row of figures like effigies on a tomb beside him, paced up and
down through the night, as the moon dropped lower and lower, in the
heavens. There was a period of dark before the dawn, and at last the
upper walls began to whiten with the coming day, and the Black Baron
moaned uneasily in his drunken sleep. The Abbot paused in his walk and
looked down upon them, and Gottlieb stole out from the shadow of the
door and asked if he could be of service. He had evidently not slept,
but had watched his chief, until he paused in his march.

"Tell our brothers to come out and see the justice of the Lord."

When the monks trooped out, haggard and wan, in the pure light of the
dawn, the Abbot asked Gottlieb to get a flagon and dash water from the
spring in the faces of the sleepers.

The Black Baron was the first to come to his senses and realise dimly,
at first, but afterwards more acutely, the changed condition of
affairs. His eye wandered apprehensively to the empty noose swaying
slightly in the morning breeze above him. He then saw that the tall,
ascetic man before him had doffed the Abbot's robes and wore a sword by
his side, and from this he augured ill. At the command of the Abbot the
monks raised each prostrate man and placed him against the north wall.

"Gottlieb," said, the Abbot slowly, "the last office that will be
required of you. You took from our necks the nooses last night. Place
them, I pray you, on the necks of the Baron and his followers."

The old man, trembling, adjusted the ropes.

"My Lord Abbot----" began the Baron.

"Baron von Grunewald," interrupted the person addressed, "the Abbot
Ambrose is dead. He was foully assassinated last night. In his place
stands Conrad von Stern, who answers for his deeds to the Emperor, and
after him, to God."

"Is it your purpose to hang me, Baron?"

"Was it your purpose to have hanged us, my Lord?"

"I swear to heaven, it was not. 'Twas but an ill-timed pleasantry. Had
I wished to hang you I would have done so last night."

"That seems plausible."

The knights all swore, with many rounded oaths, that their over-lord
spoke the truth, and nothing was further from their intention than an
execution.

"Well, then, whether you hang or no shall depend upon yourselves."

"By God, then," cried the Baron, "an' I have aught to say on that
point, I shall hang some other day."

"Will you then, Baron, beg admittance to Mother Church, whose kindly
tenets you have so long outraged?"

"We will, we do," cried the Baron fervently, whispering through his
clenched teeth to Segfried, who stood next him: "Wait till I have the
upper hand again." Fortunately the Abbot did not hear the whisper. The
knights all echoed aloud the Baron's pious first remark, and, perhaps,
in their hearts said "Amen" to his second.

The Abbot spoke a word or two to the monks, and they advanced to the
pinioned men and there performed the rites sacred to their office and
to the serious situation of the penitents. As the good brothers stood
back, they begged the Abbot for mercy to be extended towards the new
converts, but the sphinx-like face of their leader gave no indication
as to their fate, and the good men began to fear that it was the
Abbot's intention to hang the Baron and his knights.

"Now--brothers," said the Abbot, with a long pause before he spoke the
second word, whereupon each of the prisoners heaved a sigh of relief,
"I said your fate would depend on yourselves and on your good intent."

They all vociferously proclaimed that their intentions were and had
been of the most honourable kind.

"I trust that is true, and that you shall live long enough to show your
faith by your works. It is written that a man digged a pit for his
enemy and fell himself therein. It is also written that as a man sows,
so shall he reap. If you meant us no harm then your signal shouted to
the battlements will do you no harm."

"For God's sake, my Lord...." screamed the Baron. The Abbot, unheeding,
raised his face towards the northern wall and shouted at the top of his
voice:

"So die SUCH Christians!" varying the phrase by one word. A
simultaneous scream rose from the doomed men, cut short as by a knife,
as the huge log was hurled over the outer parapet, and the seventeen
victims were jerked into the air and throttled at the coping around the
inner wall.

Thus did the Abbot Ambrose save the souls of Baron von Grunewald and
his men, at some expense to their necks.




AN INVITATION


The proud and warlike Archbishop Baldwin of Treves was well mounted,
and, although the road by the margin of the river was in places bad,
the august horseman nevertheless made good progress along it, for he
had a long distance to travel before the sun went down. The way had
been rudely constructed by that great maker of roads--the army--and the
troops who had built it did not know, when they laboured at it, that
they were preparing a path for their own retreat should disaster
overtake them. The grim and silent horseman had been the brains, where
the troops were the limbs; this thoroughfare had been of his planning,
and over it, back into Treves, had returned a victorious, not a
defeated, army. The iron hand of the Archbishop had come down on every
truculent noble in the land, and every castle gate that had not opened
to him through fear, had been battered in by force. Peace now spread
her white wings over all the country, and where opposition to his
Lordship's stubborn will had been the strongest, there was silence as
well, with, perhaps, a thin wreath of blue smoke hovering over the
blackened walls. The provinces on each bank of the Moselle from Treves
to the Rhine now acknowledged Baldwin their over-lord--a suzerainty
technically claimed by his Lordship's predecessors--but the iron
Archbishop had changed the nominal into the actual, and it had taken
some hard knocks to do it. His present journey was well earned, for he
was betaking himself from his more formal and exacting Court at Treves
to his summer palace at Cochem, there to rest from the fatigues of a
campaign in which he had used not only his brain, but his good right
arm as well.

The palace which was to be the end of his journey was in some respects
admirably suited to its master, for, standing on an eminence high above
Cochem, with its score of pinnacles glittering in the sun, it seemed,
to one below, a light and airy structure; but it was in reality a
fortress almost impregnable, and three hundred years later it sent into
a less turbulent sphere the souls of one thousand six hundred Frenchmen
before its flag was lowered to the enemy.

The personal appearance of the Archbishop and the smallness of his
escort were practical illustrations of the fact that the land was at
peace, and that he was master of it. His attire was neither clerical
nor warlike, but rather that of a nobleman riding abroad where no enemy
could possibly lurk. He was to all appearance unarmed, and had no
protection save a light chain mail jacket of bright steel, which was
worn over his vesture, and not concealed as was the custom. This jacket
sparkled in the sun as if it were woven of fine threads strung with
small and innumerable diamonds. It might ward off a dagger thrust, or
turn aside a half-spent arrow, but it was too light to be of much
service against sword or pike. The Archbishop was well mounted on a
powerful black charger that had carried him through many a hot contest,
and it now made little of the difficulties of the ill-constructed road,
putting the other horses on their mettle to equal the pace set to them.

The escort consisted of twelve men, all lightly armed, for Gottlieb,
the monk, who rode sometimes by the Archbishop's side, but more often
behind him, could hardly be counted as a combatant should defence
become necessary. When the Archbishop left Treves his oldest general
had advised his taking an escort of a thousand men at least, putting it
on the ground that such a number was necessary to uphold the dignity of
his office; but Baldwin smiled darkly, and said that where _he_
rode the dignity of the Electorship would be safe, even though none
rode beside or behind him. Few dared offer advice to the Elector, but
the bluff general persisted, and spoke of danger in riding down the
Moselle valley with so small a following.

"Who is there left to molest me?" asked the Archbishop; and the general
was forced to admit that there was none.

An army builds a road along the line of the least resistance; and
often, when a promontory thrust its rocky nose into the river, the way
led up the hill through the forest, getting back into the valley again
as best it could. During these inland excursions, the monk, evidently
unused to equestrianism, fell behind, and sometimes the whole troop was
halted by command of its chief, until Gottlieb, clinging to his horse's
mane, emerged from the thicket, the Archbishop curbing the impatience
of his charger and watching, with a cynical smile curling his stern
lips, the reappearance of the good father.

After one of the most laborious ascents and descents they had
encountered that day, the Archbishop waited for the monk; and when he
came up with his leader, panting and somewhat dishevelled, the latter
said, "There appears to be a lesson in your tribulations which
hereafter you may retail with profit to your flock, relating how a good
man leaving the right and beaten path and following his own devices in
the wilderness may bring discomfiture upon himself."

"The lesson it conveys to me, my Lord," said the monk, drily, "is that
a man is but a fool to leave the stability of good stout sandals with
which he is accustomed, to venture his body on a horse that pays little
heed to his wishes."

"This is our last detour," replied the Elector; "there are now many
miles of winding but level road before us, and you have thus a chance
to retrieve your reputation as a horseman in the eyes of our troop."

"In truth, my Lord, I never boasted of it," returned the monk, "but I
am right glad to learn that the way will be less mountainous. To what
district have we penetrated?"

"Above us, but unseen from this bank of the river, is the castle of the
Widow Starkenburg. Her days of widowhood, however, are nearly passed,
for I intend to marry her to one of my victorious knights, who will
hold the castle for me."

"The Countess of Starkenburg," said the monk, must surely now be at an
age when the thoughts turn toward Heaven rather than toward matrimony."

"I have yet to meet the woman," replied the Archbishop, gazing upward,
"who pleads old age as an excuse for turning away from a suitable
lover. It is thy misfortune, Gottlieb, that in choosing a woollen cowl
rather than an iron head-piece, thou should'st thus have lost a chance
of advancement. The castle, I am told, has well-filled wine vaults, and
old age in wine is doubtless more to thy taste than the same quality in
woman. 'Tis a pity thou art not a knight, Gottlieb."

"The fault is not beyond the power of our Holy Father to remedy by
special dispensation," replied the monk, with a chuckle.

The Elector laughed silently, and looked down on his comrade in kindly
fashion, shaking his head.

"The wines of Castle Starkenburg are not for thy appreciative palate,
ghostly father. I have already selected a mate for the widow."

"And what if thy selection jumps not with her approval. They tell me
the countess has a will of her own."

"It matters little to me, and I give her the choice merely because I am
loth to war with a woman. The castle commands the river and holds the
district. The widow may give it up peaceably at the altar, or forcibly
at the point of the sword, whichever method most commends itself to her
ladyship. The castle must be in the command of one whom I can trust."

The conversation here met a startling interruption. The Archbishop and
his guard were trotting rapidly round a promontory and following a bend
of the river, the nature of the country being such that it was
impossible to see many hundred feet ahead of them. Suddenly, they came
upon a troop of armed and mounted men, standing like statues before
them. The troop numbered an even score, and completely filled the way
between the precipice on their left and the stream on their right.
Although armed, every sword was in its scabbard, with the exception of
the long two-handed weapon of the leader, who stood a few paces in
advance of his men, with the point of his sword resting on the ground.
The black horse, old in campaigns, recognised danger ahead, and stopped
instantly, without waiting for the drawing of the rein, planting his
two forefeet firmly in front, with a suddenness of action that would
have unhorsed a less alert rider. Before the archbishop could question
the silent host that barred his way, their leader raised his long sword
until it was poised perpendicularly in the air above his head, and,
with a loud voice, in measured tones, as one repeats a lesson he has
learned by rote, he cried, "My Lord Archbishop of Treves, the Countess
Laurette von Starkenburg invites you to sup with her."

In the silence that followed, the leader's sword still remained
uplifted untrembling in the air. Across the narrow gorge, from the
wooded sides of the opposite mountains, came, with mocking cadence, the
echo of the last words of the invitation, clear and distinct, as if
spoken again by some one concealed in the further forest. A deep frown
darkened the brow of the fighting archbishop.

"The Countess is most kind," he said, slowly. "Convey to her my
respectful admiration, and express my deep regret that I am unable to
accept her hospitality, as I ride to-night to my Castle at Cochem."

The leader of the opposing host suddenly lowered his upraised sword, as
if in salute, but the motion seemed to be a preconcerted signal, for
every man behind him instantly whipped blade from scabbard, and stood
there with naked weapon displayed. The leader, raising his sword once
more to its former position, repeated in the same loud and monotonous
voice, as if the archbishop had not spoken. "My Lord Archbishop of
Treves, the Countess Laurette von Starkenburg invites you to sup with
her."

The intelligent war-horse, who had regarded the obstructing force with
head held high, retreated slowly step by step, until now a considerable
distance separated the two companies. The captain of the guard had seen
from the first that attack or defence was equally useless, and, with
his men, had also given way gradually as the strange colloquy went on.
Whether any of the opposing force noticed this or not, they made no
attempt to recover the ground thus almost imperceptibly stolen from
them, but stood as if each horse were rooted to the spot.

Baldwin the Fighter, whose compressed lips showed how loth he was to
turn his back upon any foe, nevertheless saw the futility of
resistance, and in a quick, clear whisper, he said, hastily, "Back!
Back! If we cannot fight them, we can at least out-race them."

The good monk had taken advantage of his privilege as a non-combatant
to retreat well to the rear while the invitation was being given and
declined, and in the succeeding flight found himself leading the van.
The captain of the guard threw himself between the Starkenburg men and
the prince of the Church, but the former made no effort at pursuit,
standing motionless as they had done from the first until the rounding
promontory hid them from view. Suddenly, the horse on which the monk
rode stood stock still, and its worthy rider, with a cry of alarm,
clinging to the animal's mane, shot over its head and came heavily to
the ground. The whole flying troop came to a sudden halt, for there
ahead of them was a band exactly similar in numbers and appearance to
that from which they were galloping. It seemed as if the same company
had been transported by magic over the promontory and placed across the
way. The sun shone on the uplifted blade of the leader, reminding the
archbishop of the flaming sword that barred the entrance of our first
parents to Paradise.

The leader, with ringing voice, that had a touch of menace in it,
cried:

"My Lord Archbishop of Treves, the Countess Laurette von Starkenburg
invites you to sup with her."

"Trapped, by God!" muttered the Elector between his clinched teeth. His
eyes sparkled with anger, and the sinister light that shot from them
had before now made the Emperor quail. He spurred his horse toward the
leader, who lowered his sword and bowed to the great dignitary
approaching him.

"The Countess of Starkenburg is my vassal," cried the Archbishop. "You
are her servant; and in much greater degree, therefore, are you mine. I
command you to let us pass unmolested on our way; refuse at your
peril."

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