At the third repetition, he drew a deep sigh, and fell back motionless, a dead man.

  “Father,” said Count Karl to the priest, “are you not authorised to reveal the confession that has but now been made to you?”

  “I am,” answered the priest, “but only to one person, — the Landgrave of Godesberg.”

  “Get you up on my horse then,” continued the Knight dismounting, “and let us go and find him.”

  “What are you going to do, my brother?” answered the priest, accustomed to travel in more humble style.

  “Get up, get up, Father,” insisted the Knight; “it shall not be said that a poor sinner like me rides, when a man of God walks.”

  So saying, he helped the other up into the saddle, and despite any resistance the humble rider could make, he led him thus by the bridle to the Castle of Godesberg. Arrived there, he placed Hans, contrary to custom, in the charge of the grooms, led the priest to the Landgrave, whom he found in the same room, at the same place and seated in the same chair, though seven hours had passed since he left the Castle. At the noise of their entrance the Landgrave raised his pale face and looked at them, astonished.

  “See, brother,” Karl said to him, “here is a worthy servant of God who has a confession made in extremis to reveal to you.”

  “Why! who is dead?” cried the Count, turning paler still.

  “Godefroy,” answered the Knight.

  “And who has slain him?” murmured the Landgrave.

  “I have,” said Karl.

  And he left the room softly, shutting the door behind him, and leaving the Landgrave alone with the priest.

  This is what the priest related to the Landgrave:

  Godefroy had known in Palestine a German Knight from the neighbourhood of Cologne, called Ernst of Huningen: he was a stern and sober man who had some fifteen years previously joined the Order of the Knights of Malta, and who was renowned for his piety, loyalty and valour:

  Godefroy and Ernst were fighting side by side at Saint-Jean-d’Acre, when Ernst fell, mortally wounded.

  Godefroy saw him fall, carried him out of the press and returned to the mêlée.

  The battle over, he went back to his tent to remove his armour; but he was hardly there when they came to tell him that Ernst of Huningen in desperate plight desired to see him before he died.

  He complied with this wish, and found the wounded man in the paroxysm of a burning fever, which would in a little while consume what remained of his life. Ernst knew he was going to die, and explained to his friend in a few words the service he wished Godefroy to render him.

  When he was twenty years old, Ernst had loved a young girl and had been loved by her; but as the younger son of the family, without title or fortune, he had been unable to ask for her hand. In despair the lovers had forgotten they could never marry, and a son was born who could bear the name neither of father nor mother.

  Shortly afterwards the girl was compelled by her relations to marry a noble and wealthy Lord. Ernst had gone away, had halted on his way at Malta to take the vows, and ever since had been fighting in Palestine. God had rewarded his bravery; after living a holy life, he died a martyr’s death.

  Ernst entrusted Godefroy with a paper; it was the gift of everything he possessed to his son Albrecht, — about sixty thousand florins. As to his mother, as she had been dead six years, he thought he might reveal her name, since it would guide him in his search. It was the Countess of Ronsdorf.

  Godefroy returned to Germany with the purpose of carrying out his friend’s last wishes. But on reaching the house of his kinsman, the Landgrave, and noting the position of affairs, he saw at once all the advantage he might derive from the secret he possessed. The Landgrave had only one son, and Otho and Emma out of the way, Godefroy would be the Count’s only heir.

  We have seen how he had put this scheme into practice, till the hour when he met the Count Karl of Homburg in the gorge of Rolandswerth.

  “Karl! Karl!” cried the Landgrave, flinging himself like a madman into the corridor where his comrade was waiting for him, “Karl, he was not her lover; he was her brother!”

  And he gave instant orders that they should bring Emma and Otho back to Godesberg. Two messengers set off, one ascending, the other descending, the Rhine.

  During the night the first returned. Emma, for long unhappy, and insulted I the evening before, now asked to end her life in the Cloister where she had passed her youth, and declared that, if need be, she would invoke the sanctity of her place of asylum.

  At daybreak, the second messenger returned. He was accompanied by the armed men who should have led Otho to Kirberg; but Otho was not with them. At night descending the Rhine, Otho who knew the fate for which he was destined chose the moment when the men were one and all busy guiding the boat in a rapid current, and had plunged into the deepest part of the river and disappeared.

  CHAPTER III.

  THE Landgrave’s misfortune was not so great as he imagined. Otho had flung himself into the river, not to, seek death but freedom. Brought up on its banks, the old Rhine was a friend against whom he had too often tried his strength for him to fear it. He plunged then into the deepest part, swam as long under the water as his breath allowed, and when he came to the surface to fill his lungs with air, the boat was so far removed and the night so black that the guard who accompanied him could only think he had been swallowed up in the stream.

  Otho hastened to gain the bank. The night was cold, his clothes were streaming, he needed fire and a bed. So he turned to the first house whose windows he saw shining in the darkness, introduced himself as a traveller who had lost his way, and since it was impossible to distinguish whether he was soaked by the rain of heaven or by the river, he roused no suspicion, and hospitality was given him with true German liberality and discretion.

  The next day he left at morning and set out for Cologne. It was Sunday and as he entered the town about the hour of mass, he saw everybody going towards the Church. He followed the crowd; for he, too, wished to pray to God... first for his father on account of the sad mistake he had made and the bereavement in which he had left him... then for his mother who was shut up in a Convent... lastly for himself, free but without protection, and lost in this wide world, which had as yet shown him no wider horizon but that of the Castle where he was born. He hid behind a pillar to pray; so near to Godesberg, he might be recognised by some of the Nobles who had come the evening before to the festal gathering, or by the Archbishop, Walerand of Juliers, who was one of his father’s oldest and most faithful friends.

  When Otho had ended his prayer, he looked round him and seeing with astonishment so great a number of Archers from different countries among the congregation, his first thought was that they must be celebrating a mass in honour of Saint Sebastian, the patron saint of the guild. So he enquired of his nearest neighbour, and learnt that they had repaired thither for the Festival of the Bow, which was held yearly at the same season by Prince Adolphus of Cleves, one of the wealthiest and most renowned of all the Barons whose Castles crown the steep from Strasburg to Nimwegen.

  Otho straightway left the Church, found out the most suitable tailor in the town, and changed his velvet and silk clothes for a close coat of green cloth fastened by a leathern belt. He bought a bow of the best maple wood he could find, chose a quiver stocked with its dozen arrows; then having enquired at which hostelry the Archers chiefly gathered, and having learnt that it was the Golden Heron, he proceeded towards that Inn, which was situated on the Verdingen road, outside the Eagle Gate.

  There he found some thirty Archers assembled and feasting. He sat himself down in the midst of them, and although he was unknown to them all, they all welcomed him, thanks to his youth and comely looks. Besides, he had forestalled a cordial reception by first remarking that he was on his way to the Festival of the Bow and would like to travel in company with such brave and merry comrades, — a proposal accepted with unanimity.

  As the Archers had still three days before them, and Sunday being a day consecrated to rest, they did not start on their way till the next morning, when they followed the banks of the river, with much merry chat of sport and hunting to beguile the way.

  As they went along, the Archers noticed that Otho had no feather in his cap, which was not in accordance with the uniform, everyone of them having a feather, at the same time spoil and trophy of some bird the victim of his skill, and they jeered at his new bow and arrows. Otho smilingly acknowledged that neither his bow nor arrows had yet been used, but he would endeavour with their help at the first opportunity to provide himself with the indispensable ornament lacking to his cap. So he strung his bow. They all waited with curiosity for an opportunity of testing the skill of their new comrade.

  Opportunities were not wanting. A raven was croaking on the lowest decayed branch of an oak tree and the Archers laughingly showed this mark to Otho; but the young man answered that the raven was an obscene bird whose feathers were unworthy to adorn the cap of an honest archer. This was true enough; and the merry travellers were satisfied with the answer.

  A little further on they observed a hawk motionless on a peak of rock, and the same proposal was made to the young man. But this time he answered that the hawk is a noble bird which men of noble birth alone had the right to kill, and that he, the son of a peasant, could not allow himself to kill such a bird on the estates of a powerful Lord like the Count of Woringen, whose territories they were now crossing. Though there was a foundation of truth in this reply, and though E

  not one of the Archers would have dared indulge in the deed to which they instigated Otho, all received this answer with a more or less derisive smile. For they began to imagine that their young friend, uncertain of his skill, sought to delay the moment for giving as decisive a proof as they required.

  Otho had seen and understood the Archers’ smile; but had not appeared to notice it, and went on his way, laughing and chatting, when suddenly about fifty paces from the noisy troop a heron rose from the banks of the river. Then Otho turned to the Archer nearest him, and whom they had themselves pointed out to him as one of the most skilful marksmen.

  “Brother,” he said to him, “I am very anxious to have one of this bird’s feathers for my cap; do you, who are the best shot amongst us, bring him down for me.”

  “On the wing?” said the Archer, astonished.

  “Of course on the wing,” continued Otho. “You see how heavily he rises; he has hardly gone ten paces since he left the ground, and he is only half a range off.”

  “Shoot, Robert, shoot!” cried all the Archers.

  Robert nodded with his head to show that he complied with the general invitation, but more out of deference to the honourable company than with any hope of success. He took aim none the less carefully, and the arrow shot by a strong arm and a practised eye flew, watched by them all, and passed so near to the bird that it gave a cry of terror, greeted with a shout of applause from all the Archers.

  “Well shot!” said Otho. “Now you, Hermann,” he added turning towards the Archer on his left. Whether the man he spoke to was expecting this invitation or whether he was carried away by the force of example, he was ready when Otho addressed him, and hardly had he spoken when another arrow as quick and well aimed as the first followed the retreating bird. It gave a fresh cry as this second messenger of death whistled only a few inches from its body, and again the Archers applauded.

  “Now it is my turn,” said Otho.

  Every eye was turned on the lad: for the heron, though not altogether out of range, was now a very considerable distance off, and having the wide space of air necessary for his ample wings, flew with a swiftness which would soon put him beyond all danger. Otho had no doubt taken all this into calculation; for it was only after he had measured the distance with his eyes, that he took slow and careful aim at the bird, then having got the line of sight, he drew the string back almost behind his head, after the manner of English Archers, bending his bow as if it were a willow-wand. One moment he remained motionless as a statue; then suddenly a slight whistling was heard, for the arrow had sped so rapidly that no one had seen it. Every eye was fastened on the bird which stopped as if a flash of unseen lightning had struck him, and fell pierced through, from a height to which one would scarce have supposed it possible an arrow could reach.

  The Archers were stupefied, such prowess was scarcely credible; as to Otho, who had stopped to judge the effect of his shot, he had hardly seen the bird fall when he set off again without seeming to notice the amazement of his companions. When he had come up to the heron, he plucked the delicate and graceful neck feathers of the bird that formed a natural aigrette, and fastened them in his cap. The Archers meantime had paced the distance; the bird had fallen three hundred and twenty paces off.

  This time admiration had not burst into applause; the Archers looked at one another, astonished at such a proof of skill, then they had counted the paces, as we have said, and when Otho had finished decorating his hat with the feathers he had won in so wonderful a way, Franz and Hermann, the two Archers who had shot before him, gave him their hands, but with a feeling of respect that showed plainly they recognised in him not only a comrade but a master too.

  The company of travellers, who stopped at Woringen only to break their fast, reached Neufs at four o’clock in the afternoon. They dined hastily, for three leagues from Neufs was the famous Church Stone, near which no pious Archer could well pass without making a pilgrimage to it. Otho, who had adopted the life and customs of his new companions, followed them in this excursion, and as day declined they reached the sacred rock; it was an immense boulder bearing the outward appearance of a Church.

  The tale goes that this rock was actually the first Christian Church built on the banks of the Rhine, — raised by a German chieftain who died in the odour of sanctity, leaving seven lovely and virtuous daughters to pray around his tomb.

  It was in the days of the great Barbarian invasions. An unknown people, impelled by an invisible hand, descended from the plains of Asia to alter the face of the European world. A hind had led Attila across the Palus Maeotis, (sea of Azof.) and he came swooping down on Germany, heralded by the panic terror his name inspired. The Rhine shuddered at the tramp of these wild hordes, and hesitated to pursue its course towards the sands where its waters are absorbed, trembling all its length like an enormous serpent. Soon the Huns appeared on the right bank, and the same day fire was seen kindling the whole horizon from Colonia Agrippina to Aliso.(Cologne, Wesel)

  The danger was imminent. No pity was to be hoped from such enemies; and next morning, the instant they saw launched on the water the rafts the Barbarians had built in the night with the trees of a forest that had ceased to exist, the seven maidens fled into the Church and kneeling round their father’s tomb, besought him by the holy love he bore them in his life to protect them even after his death.

  The day and night were spent in prayer, and they already thought themselves saved, when at break of day they heard the Barbarians approaching. Soon they began hammering at the oaken door with the pommels of their swords; but finding that it refused to open, while some returned to the town to fetch ladders to scale the windows, others began cutting down a fir tree which they stripped of its branches and made into a battering-ram to break down the obstacle. Then when they had procured the necessary implements for their sacrilegious purpose, they set forth with them towards the Church in which the sisters had taken refuge. But when they arrived there, it had neither doors nor windows. The Church was still there; but it had turned into a rock. And from the midst of the granite mass a low chant was heard issuing, sad and sweet as the chant of the dead. It was the thanksgiving Canticle to the Lord of the seven virgins.

  The Archers offered up their prayers at the Church Stone, then returned to sleep at Strump.

  On the morrow they resumed their way. The journey was accomplished without any incident except a constant increase of numbers. Archers came from all parts of Germany to this annual festival, the prize of which for this occasion was a cap of green velvet mounted with two branches of ash in gold, fastened together by a diamond brooch. It was to be presented by the only daughter of the Margrave, the young Princess Helena, who had just turned fourteen. Thus there was nothing surprising in the concourse of so many dexterous archers.

  The little company which now amounted to forty or fifty men wished to reach Cleves the next morning, as the shooting was to begin directly after the last mass at eleven o’clock. Accordingly the Archers had determined to sleep at Kervenheim. The day’s journey was severe, they scarcely delayed either for breakfast or dinner. Yet in spite of their efforts the travellers did not arrive at the town in question till after the closing of the gates. It was necessary to spend the night outside, and with as little discomfort as possible; some one noticed a ruined castle on a neighbouring hill — the castle of Windeck.

  Everyone was disposed to make the best use they could of this favourable opportunity, excepting the oldest of the Archers, who opposed the scheme to his utmost, but as he stood alone in his opinion, no one heeded him and he was compelled to accompany his young friends — the only alternative being to stay by himself; so he followed them however unwillingly. The night was dark, not a star shone in the sky. Heavy clouds charged with rain swept over the heads of our travellers like the waves of a misty sea. Such a shelter, insufficient though it were, was a boon from heaven.

  The Archers climbed the hill in silence, but at every step they took along the brush-grown pathway they heard the flight of wild creatures of the wood, whose very numbers proved that the solitary ruins were guarded against the intrusion of man by some superstitious fear. Suddenly those marching in front saw rising up like a phantom before them the first tower, a gigantic sentinel whose mission it was in former times to defend the entrance to the castle.

 

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