"But fifty thousand crowns!” groaned Greinitz, quailing before him, “Herrgott, there is not so much money to be found in all this town."
"There are silver-smiths and gold-smiths in Kreutzburg. But there! I have said it, I will not bandy words. Pay me the sum I have named or deliver up the town to my men for pillage, and I dare swear twice the account will be forthcoming. And, as God lives, Master Greinitz, if you trifle further with me in this matter I'll hang you unshriven to one of your own rafters."
Greinitz drew back in terror. “The money shall be paid to-morrow,” he groaned, wringing his hands.
"Now you are reasonable,” said Felsheim with a laugh. “See that you fulfil your promise."
With that we left him, and withdrew to the hostelry of the “Königin,” and after Felsheim had intrusted to his lieutenant Gessler the garrisoning of the place we sought our beds.
Next morning we were visited betimes by Greinitz, who came to pay over to Felsheim the money he demanded.
The town was quiet, and though men congregated here and there and discussed events in hushed voices, they gave us no trouble. Felsheim spent the day in seeing to the defences of the town, for on the morrow (which was Wednesday) Bozenhardt should arrive, and it was necessary to be prepared. Delventhal accompanied him, and that night, as we supped together, the nobleman could not find sufficient words wherein to praise the outlaw for whose future he predicted great things already.
But Felsheim cut short his protestations with little grace, and sat moody and silent, neither drinking nor speaking.
Seeing the work that the morrow was likely to bring us we got ourselves early abed, where I, at least, slept soundly.
I was awakened next morning by a loud knocking below, and, as I sat up, asking myself what it could mean, I caught the hum of many voices, the jingle of accoutrements and the stamp of hoofs, which brought to my mind my awakening in the inn at Steinau two days before.
Springing out of the bed I crossed to the window and looked down into the street, marvelling greatly at what I there beheld.
A vast array of steel-decked soldiers stretched as far as I could see, whilst just beneath me half-a-dozen gaily dressed figures on horseback riveted my attention—for before them, and looking the very picture of abject terror, stood Carl Greinitz, speaking with great earnestness. Then suddenly an oath escaped me as I recognised the Count von Bozenhardt in one of the foremost figures of the group. He had entered the place, then, despite our preparations! But where was Felsheim, and where his three hundred men?
Could it be that the outlaws of the Falkensteig were taken at last? If so, I thought, it was like to go hard with those who had been Felsheim's allies—even in a good cause—for Bozenhardt was not the man to leave life or liberty to any who might witness to his treachery; and Felsheim had given us good evidence of that.
There was a knock at my door and Delventhal entered the room half dressed. His fat face looked pale and careworn, and with a hand that shook like an aspen he held out to me a scrap of paper.
"Do you see who is below, my lord?” I cried.
"I have seen,” he answered dolefully.
"But, what does it mean? Where is Felsheim?"
"Gone, beim blute Gottes, gone! Gone with his three hundred ruffians and the fifty thousand crowns paid him by that craven fool. Curses on us all for being made the dupes of such a rogue!"
The news staggered me; moreover, Delventhal's tone was pregnant with disaster. “I don't understand,” I ventured at last.
"Read that,” he said, pointing to the paper which mechanically I had taken from his hand. “You will understand everything. It was thrust beneath my door during the night."
With an ominous foreboding I scanned the paper, which ran:
My Lord,
When you see this, in all probability the Count of Bozenhardt will have entered Kreutzburg, whilst I shall be well on my way to the Falkensteig. In return for the fifty thousand crowns which I have earned at considerable risk let me give you two words of advice. Next time you are in a hostelry do not proclaim your jealousy and your opinions at the top of your voice lest there be a man in the room above, who chancing to overhear you, profits by what he learns. With my own hand I penned the letter of Greinitz to the Duke Leopold, and whilst you slept on Saturday night at Steinau I brought my three hundred knaves from the Falkensteig. The rest you will understand, and you will curse me no doubt for a very scurvy rascal.
When I had read I returned the paper to Delventhal, who took it with a groan, and I, unable to hit upon a more fitting expression of my thoughts, groaned in echo.
Half-an-hour later Delventhal and I were under arrest for treason, and some ten days afterwards we stood before the King in Schwerlingen, and told him our story, showing him the outlaw's letter.
His Majesty's candour on that occasion is a thing that I have scant pleasure in recalling. Delventhal and I were unquestionably in disgrace, and had not the war afforded me an opportunity, a month or so later, of redeeming my character it is more than possible that the affair would have cost me my captaincy.
THE SHRIVING OF FELSHEIM
"Felsheim dies at noon!"
That one hideous thought kept clanging through my brain as I sat alone in the squalid room that I rented in the house of Haensel, the leather worker.
The outlaws of the Falkensteig were no more a powerful, gallant company, defying King and State in their mountain stronghold. In a mad hour Felsheim, our chief, had thrown in his lot with the rebel Duke Leopold, and on the disastrous field of Meiernatt, where the ambitious Duke had suffered his final defeat, Felsheim left more than three-fourths of his merry followers.
Twice that day did Felsheim save the Duke's life, and once he went within an ace of forfeiting his own in doing so.
But for the risk he ran he earned at least Leopold's gratitude, and that night, when all was lost, the Duke besought him to return to Austria, where Leopold promised to find him honourable employment in the army.
To me, Felsheim's lieutenant, he made a similar proposal and in my eagerness to accept I urged Felsheim to do likewise. Indeed, he needed no persuasion, for of his own accord he appeared willing enough to seize his chance of mending his ways, and forsaking his freebooter's trade, now that there were no freebooters left to lead.
But there arose in his mind the memory of a woman, whose sweet face had—in absence—swayed his heart for months, and by whom he deemed himself beloved. So that, albeit he assented gratefully enough to the Duke's proposal, he yet avowed his purpose of first going to Schwerlingen to ask the Lady Stephanie von Neusch to wed him and bear him company into Austria and the new life he thought to lead.
Vainly did I point out to him the dangers which must perforce beset him in the very capital of Sachsenberg; that there was a price of five thousand crowns offered for his head, and many a knave ready to earn the money; he was obdurate in his resolve, and go he would. So, recognising in the end the futility of seeking to alter his determination, I signified my intention of accompanying him, and in this my purpose I had stood as firm as he in his.
So after taking leave of Duke Leopold, to Schwerlingen we had come, and Andreas von Felsheim had gone about his wooing and prospered. All was in readiness for our departure, and it seemed that none suspected our presence, when, of a sudden, like a thunderbolt from out of a serene sky, had come to me the news that Felsheim was taken.
Through many a desperate pass had Andreas won during our outlaws’ life, but never yet had they immured him in prison to come forth no more but to journey to the scaffold. Hope withered in my breast, and I did but linger in Schwerlingen that I might see the end of as brave and bold and gallant a man as ever wore a sword.
"Felsheim dies at noon to-morrow!"
Beim blute Gottes, the thought grew unbearable. I rose to my feet, and crossing to the window, threw back the shutters and gazed out into the black November night. Above the wailing of the wind and the patter of the rain, there came to me, as I stood ther
e, the sound of wheels and hoofs on the uneven paving of the street below. It ceased, and the coach stopped at the very door of the house that sheltered me.
In alarm I moved away from the window and waited. Clearly this visitor in a coach was for me. Who could it be? The thought of the law struck a passing chill through me; then the stairs creaked, the door was flung wide, and on the threshold stood a woman in a cloak, with a mask upon her face.
Before I could speak she had closed the door and come forward into the room; then, divesting herself of cloak and mask, she revealed to me, by the light of the single taper that burnt upon the table, the form and face of Stephanie von Neusch, the most beautiful woman at the court of Schwerlingen—the woman who had unwittingly brought Felsheim to his doom. She was pale as death, and, beneath those wondrous dark eyes of hers that glittered feverishly there were black lines that told of suffering and sleeplessness.
"Thank God, Master Gessler, that I have found you! But how is it that you have dared to linger here?” she cried, without heeding the chair which I had set for her.
"Why have you remained?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"I hardly know, madame, saving indeed that I could not bring myself to leave this place until I had seen the last of my poor leader."
"And you have been content to lie here concealed, without ever stirring hand or foot to aid him?"
"Aid him! Herrgott, madame, what could I do—myself proscribed and hunted? I have but to show my face where it is known, to forfeit my own freedom and my life."
"And think you,” she exclaimed with sudden scorn, “that had you been in Felsheim's place to-night, he would have left you to the hangman out of fear for his own life? Remember how he saved Dietrich when the King had sworn to hang him. Think of that, Master Gessler."
"Alas, madame,” I answered with a sigh, “Felsheim is a man of great resource, such as I possess not. But, Beim Grabe, you wrong me in thinking that I fear to imperil my own life. Did I but see a way to help him, no matter what the risk to myself, I would undertake it. Unfortunately, madame, I see no way."
"Oh, that I were a man!” she cried, as many another woman has cried. “As it is, what can I do! A woman's only weapons are her tears and her intreaties, and these I have employed, God knows, until I have made myself a sport for every fool at court, where one simpering dolt has even dared to speak of me as “the robber's widow!” She shuddered as she spoke the words.
"I went to the King, and on my knees I begged Felsheim's life of him, telling him that the outlaw had but come to Schwerlingen to ask me to go with him to Austria as his wife, and that did His Majesty pardon him he was like to be rid of him for all time. But Ludwig only laughed at me and counselled me to abandon a hopeless quest, lest my fair name should suffer by being coupled with a robber's.
"I have carried my intreaties to the Queen-Mother, to the Duke of Retzbach, to my Lord of Ronshausen, and everywhere—everywhere have I heard the same answer. There are too many counts against Felsheim and the King has sworn that he shall hang. And to-morrow—oh, God pity me, ‘tis I—I who have brought him to this!"
She sank into the chair and sat there dry-eyed and staring, with a look of anguish on her lovely face pitiful to behold. Presently regaining her composure:
"You will marvel perchance, Master Gessler,” she said, “why I have come to you. It is because, seeing how hopeless it was to gain a pardon for Andreas by supplications, I besought the King to-day, to at least grant me leave to pay Felsheim a farewell visit, and to take a priest with me so that he may shrive him. At first he would not hear of it, but in the end he consented grudgingly.
"So fearful was he lest Felsheim should again elude him, that he had commanded the officer of the Schloss Goedelt to allow none to visit his captive without a permit signed by His Majesty himself. This permit he has given me, for myself and a Capuchin monk of the monastery of Loebli, whilst to the abbot he dispatched a message bidding him to allow a monk to accompany me to the prison to-night. I am now on my way to Loebli for the priest, and with him I shall go straight to the Schloss Goedelt, unless—” Pausing she gazed eagerly into my face.
"Unless what, madame?"
"That is why I have sought you out. I shall go to the Schloss unless this permit and this priest prompts you with some idea for saving Felsheim even now."
Her suggestion set my head in a whirl and my nerves a-quivering with excitement.
"Madame,” I cried “Felsheim must strip the monk of his habit and make his escape in it, leaving the monk in his place. I will accompany you."
She shook her head.
"The permit reads: ‘A woman, bearer of this warrant, and a priest.’”
"Then, madame, you must accomplish it without me. Surely if you speak to Felsheim, he will contrive to overpower the monk, and thereafter, to assume his clothes."
"You forget that this is hardly to be done in silence. The turnkey will be there to hear and give the alarm. Oh, think again, sir, think again, in Heaven's name."
Vainly did I rack my brain for a fresh plan. I saw no other way. A very fever consumed me; my eyes burnt, my mouth was parched, and my thoughts paralysed.
"I cannot, madame!” I cried at last. “Leave me. Go to Loebli. Let me think calmly and alone. When you have your monk, return here, and by then, mayhap that I shall have found a way. If not—why, ‘twill be time enough to think of shriving Felsheim, and you can take your priest to him."
"You will not fail us, Master Gessler. I will pray that heaven may inspire you,” she said.
When she was gone I flung myself into the nearest chair, and with my chin in my open palms I sat there thinking, thinking, thinking. It was a desperate venture, truly, and yet there was no alternative but to cast ourselves upon the mercy of the fates.
Again I turned that wild thought over in my mind, and tested it, then springing to my feet I opened the door and called my host.
Haensel was a burly, swart-faced fellow of forty or thereabouts, a cunning and resourceful rogue whom I could trust. I told him briefly what I required, and was rejoiced to hear him answer that he knew whence to obtain the things in a few minutes. I gave him what money he asked, then, while he was away, I set myself about removing all trace of beard and mustachios from my face. And so great a change did this make in my appearance that when presently he returned, he stared at me, and but for the garments I wore ‘tis likely he would not have known me.
"You have been successful,” I cried, seeing the habit of coarse brown cloth he bore upon his arm. “Good. Now let us complete the change. I shall require your aid, Haensel."
I removed my doublet and, sitting down once more, I bade him tonsure me, using all dispatch. With a laugh at my whim, the full purport of which he was far from guessing, he sheared my lengthy locks, then went to work upon the crown of my head which was soon bald as an egg, incircled by a little fringe of short, black hair. When that was done, I divested myself of boots and hose, and on my naked feet I strapped the sandals he had bought me. Next I exchanged my soft shirt and velvet breeches, for a shirt and breeches of coarse wool. Lastly I took up the habit, and having donned it I stood before him with my beads dangling from my girdle, as saintly a Capuchin as ever plied a scourge.
When the Lady Stephanie returned, she looked askance at me for a moment, then calmly inquired how I came there and upon what mission, and where was the cavalier whose room I occupied. It was no time for jesting, so:
"Have you brought the monk, madame?” I inquired.
She drew back with an affrighted cry. Then, staring at me with eyes wide opened:
"Master Gessler!” quoth she. “Oh, ‘tis impossible!"
"Reassure yourself, madame. ‘tis I, indeed."
"What do you in these garments?"
In answer I told her of the idea that I had conceived. She heard me through with parted lips and heaving bosom, and when I had done she caught my hand in hers, and before I knew what she was about she had carried it again and yet again to her
lips—her sweet lips upon that rascally hand of mine! I snatched it away for very shame, and cutting the undeserved blessings which she invoked upon my head, I begged her beguile the monk to climb the stairs. I know not with what fiction she achieved it, but presently into my room there came a portly monk, rubicund of visage and vast of girth, who greeted me with a murmured Benedicite.
"Sir Priest,” quoth I (whereupon he blinked amazedly), “this Felsheim, whom you intend to visit is a dear friend of mine, and I must have two words with him before he dies. Therefore I have determined to visit him in your place, whilst you shall sojourn in the cellar for a little while. Nay, shrink not; have no fear. Your sanctity shall stand in no peril of temptation, for the place, I make no doubt, is empty."
My accents, I take it, were not priestly; they lacked that mellow, soothing sound, born of the free use of Latin. Moreover, I had addressed him as “Sir Priest,” which marked me outright for an impostor.
"My son,” cried the Priest in trepidation, “What travesty is this? What sacrilege are you committing? What sin do you contemplate?"
How monstrous a sinner I was my answer told him, for in the most unholy terms did I command him to descend with me into the cellar, where he might—for want of better occupation—pray that the sin on the brink of which I stood, might recoil upon the heads of those who drove me to it.
'Twas not done without much argument, but in the end ‘twas done, despite his protests that in that empty, cheerless cellar he was like to take his death of cold.
I entered the coach that waited below, and with Lady Stephanie beside me, drove swiftly, through the wind and rain of that wild night, to the Schloss Goedelt where Felsheim lay. Clearly the coach was awaited, for the gates were at once opened to admit us into the courtyard of the fortress. There we alighted, and a soldier bearing a lanthorn led us up a flight of steps and through a sombre doorway at the top, along a gloomy, endless corridor in which the clatter of my sandals found a hollow echo, halting at last by a door on which he knocked, then opened and bade us enter.