BARBAROSSA. A DRAMATIC SKETCH IN FOUR PARTS. BY CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY, WITH PICTURES BY WERNER ZEHME. PART I. AT THE CASTLE OF VOBURG. WAITING THE ROYAL VISITOR. VEN the fascinations of chess seemed no to distract the of the Countess Matilda von Voburg. Her companion, who was but an indifferent player at best, was plainly getting the advantage of her in her preoccupation, when she stopped the game and dismissed the waiting-woman for the night. Leaving the carved ivory chessmen standing upon their squares, she presently rose from the table, and-for the autumn night was chill-stepped over to the fire of great logs crackling and blazing in the huge fireplace which, with its massive chimney, nearly filled one side of the room. She stood in silence, gazing at the flames, twisting her hands together from time to time in a gesture of mingled perplexity and anxiety. Presently her meditations were interrupted by the entrance of her old steward, who announced the arrival of a royal messenger from the kaiser. Giving brief direction to admit him forthwith, the countess walked across the rush-strewn floor to the dais against the wall opposite the fireplace. She seated herself in the great carved chair with the wolf's head hanging above it, and there awaited the arrival of the king's despatch-bearer. When he came into the hall she signed to him to approach nearer, and, as he knelt lowly before her, she received from him the bulky parcel sealed with the imperial lions. Dismissing him with an inclination of her head, she waited in assumed calmness until he had left the hall. As he disappeared behind the tapestry hangings, however, her seeming indifference was abandoned, and with eager, impatient hands she broke the seal, tore off the confining ribbons of the wrapping, and opened the packet. The Countess Matilda had been well educated. She was able to read-nay, more, to read somewhat rapidly and with ease. A few moments, therefore, sufficed to put her in possession of the brief message scrawled sheet of parchment. She read it over again, frowning with displeasure as she did so, although it conveyed an intimation of an honor which most subjects would have prized highly. The document, although purporting to be only an announcement, was in effect a royal order. It informed her that his Majesty the emperor purposed visiting the castle of Voburg that night, and begged that due preparation on the part of the countess might be made to receive him. It was signed by a name which, though it was but little known at that time, was destined to become one of the most famous in history. There were many other more important things than these, however, which the message did not explicitly state, but which it nevertheless conveyed in a perfectly unmistakable way to the Countess Matilda, and doubtless it was these unwritten facts which ruffled the brow of the fair lady; and it was these unwelcome tidings which caused her to spring to her feet and descend from the dais while she proceeded to crumple and crush the inoffensive parchment between her strong, white hands. Her apprehension of what was behind the letter it was, surely, that so clouded the hospitality of a loyal subject to her king. The countess was alone in the world, save for her admirers, and they were many. The last of a great and ancient race, the representative of a proud and distinguished line, the mistress in her own right of vast possessions, she was one of the most desirable of women, from a matrimonial point of view, in Germany, or even in the Roman Empire. In addition to all these advantages, Heaven had endowed her with a magnificent person, which did not diminish her potential value. A splendid picture she made standing tall and queenly in the great vaulted room. She wore a tight-fitting bodice, which emphasized, rather than concealed, every swelling curve and rounded outline of her splendid figure. Her skirt was confined by a loose belt studded with gems, which fell low over the hips in front, and over which the kirtle dropped in graceful folds. The fabric of her dress was of rich silver tissue, and embroidered upon it in vivid scarlet were the rampant wolves of the Voburgs. The underskirt she wore, which swept the rush-covered stone flagging of the hall, was of blue cloth; and soft, heelless cloth shoes, richly jeweled, covered her shapely, if not very small, feet. Her bodice, which was bordered with scarlet, was cut square at the neck above her magnificent bust, disclosing a throat of dazzling whiteness; her thick blond hair was confined about her brows by a band, or fillet, of gold, mounted with rudely cut turquoises, and fell far down her back in two long, heavy braids. Pride, strength, power, were stamped on her noble features, sparkled in her eyes, quivered in her nostrils, curled in her lips, flushed in her cheek. She appeared as Britomart or Brunhild might have looked-typically German, splendidly strong, brilliantly fair, yet possessing, in spite of all this, a subtle something that proclaimed the woman. For all her size and strength, her movements were as graceful, her step was as light, her carriage as easy, as a swan in the water or a bird in the air. She stood forth a heroic woman for a historic age, a potential mother for Homeric races of medieval days. The recently elected kaiser was madly in love with her, although a married man was Frederick when he first realized his passion for his noble ward. According to the feudal law, and by the will of her father as well, she had been left to the guardianship of that fountain of honor, the then Duke of Swabia. She had grown to womanhood in Waiblingen, at the court of the Hohenstaufens, and it was not until Frederick had been for some time married to the noble Adelheid-a marriage of policy and convenience, be it said that he became aware of her matchless beauty. With the easy morality of the age-and, indeed, of any age, so far as kings have been concerned he had at once offered her the questionable position of mistress of his heart, a dubious offer which she spurned with the native purity of her Teutonic race. FredVOL. LXIII.-15. erick had persisted in his attention, and his passion had only grown stronger under the opposition with which it had been received. Finally, carried beyond all reason by the fervor of his feelings, for he was still a young man, he had actually contrived to secure a divorce from his unfortunate wife through the complaisance of the Pope. The Vicegerent of Heaven did not yet wish to break with the rising sun of secular power, and precipitate that long struggle between church and state which did not end until the waters of the swollen Kalykadnos River closed over the head of the dying crusader emperor. As soon as he was freed, Frederick proposed to make the countess his wife. The dazzling prospect before her-for there had been no secrecy about the kaiser's plans-had not charmed her, and she had taken advantage of the absence of the emperor on an expedition to bring into submission some of the refractory nobles of the great empire, which he held at that time by no very certain tenure, to leave the court and fly to her own castle. It is not probable, however, that even a woman of the heroic mold of the Countess Matilda would have been able, or indeed willing, to reject an alliance of so brilliant a character if, with the perversity of women of all ages, she had not fallen madly in love with another man. young It had been some years now since the Count Conrad von Hohenzollern-destined to be the founder of a most illustrious line, and whose descendants would in time wear the imperial purple-had come riding down, like the simple soldier of fortune he was, from the high mountains from which, as a younger son, he took his name. He had been attended by but a single esquire, and had carried all his earthly possessions on his person in the shape of his lance, his sword, and his armor. He had entered the service of the powerful Duke of Swabia, in whose following, in those turbulent days, there was always room for a good blade. By his prowess and courage he had found favor with his ducal and afterward imperial master until he ventured to eclipse the royal sun in the attempt to enkindle the flame of love in the heart of the Countess Matilda. A rivalry none the less intense because between monarch and man had presently arisen between them. Hohenzollern had presumed to cross the will of the emperor. Forgetful of the obedience due to his liege lord, he refused to stand aside, and had persisted in his suit. The king, doing a little forgetting on his own account, disregarded the fact that the young count should receive every consideration from him because he had saved his master's life in one of the border frays of the period, and at last became so incensed at him that he drove him from the court. Nay, more; he deprived him of his offices, abrogated his privileges, stripped him of his emoluments, withdrew the grants he had made, nullified the rewards he had given him, and left him penniless. Unmindful of all these things, or rather in despite of them, Count Conrad had persevered in his love chase, and had found means to intrench himself so firmly in the affections of the countess that the emperor was almost forced to acknowledge that he was beaten. One weapon still was left him, and having made use of it, the king felt that he had indeed launched the last bolt in his quiver. He put Hohenzollern under the ban of the empire, making it lawful for any one to take him prisoner and deliver him to the monarch, promising rich reward therefor, and, in case of resistance, full immunity if the unlucky count were killed. He was made an outlaw among men from that day forth, a wanderer and a vagabond on the face of the earth, with no asylum anywhere. After perpetrating this ingenious piece of infamy, the emperor promptly despatched the letter in question to the Countess Matilda. Having, as he considered, disposed of Hohenzollern, it was evident that he purposed coming himself and securing the person, if not the heart, of the object of his passion. Things boded ill for the Countess Matilda. Standing alone in the great hall of the ancient castle, in the flickering, uncertain light of lamp and torch, she looked a fitting part of the ancient picture, as she thought hard and desperately as to what should be done. Her castle of Voburg was a strong one, but resistance would be fruitless. She had not anticipated the visit; the place was not provisioned for a siege or garrisoned for defense. Indeed, there was no one there save a few old retainers and lackeys. Her feudal retainers, her guards and troopers, were then actually with the army of the kaiser. Also it was too late to fly. She had no place to which she could escape, except the gloomy depths of the Black Forest, which stretched far to the southward of the castle, and even that she could not try unaccompanied. The Schwarzwald was the haunt of every rascal and vagrant in the empire; there her life alone would scarce be worth a moment's purchase. She was helpless. was indeed desperate. The course of their true love ran rough over rocks, and bade fair in the end to be swallowed up altogether. Still, she did not entirely give up. In spite of herself, there yet remained to her some lingering faith in the kaiser. She did not know where Conrad von Hohenzollern was; she had not yet, in fact, become aware that he was under the ban of the empire, but she knew that he was a fugitive and in disgrace. There was nothing to do but to wait, and to do what she could by matching her woman's wit against the kaiser's power. Women of her stamp are not good waiters. Patience was left out of her fiery soul. The impotent helplessness of her position exasperated her beyond measure. She threw the crumpled letter from her hand, and tramped restlessly up and down the length of the long, sparsely furnished apartment. A rough, bare table, a few rudely carved, uncomfortable chairs, a settle and some stools, were lost in the dim, bare expanse. In one neglected corner stood a dusty spinning-wheel, evidently not a favorite article with the countess. Here and there on the walls, where the quaint tapestry or the hangings of skins of wild beasts, slain by former lords, gave space, hung rude suits of armor and the massive weapons of the period. There was her father's mighty sword. She stopped before it, and drew it from its scabbard. She poised it lightly in the air, some vain fleeting hope filling her breast. A modern woman could scarce have lifted the huge brand, yet she mastered it easily, and, indeed, was not without some skill in the rude fence of the day; but she could do nothing against a warrior like Barbarossa. Give me blade rather than distaff!" she cried at last, thrusting the sword reluctantly into its sheath. "Oh, that I were a man! I would-but an I were a man there would be no need for doing. I would be nothing to the kaiser nor to Count Conrad. Where can he be, I wonder? Hath sworn thousands of times he loved me, and splintered many lances in the tourney in my honor, and now, when I want him most, he is not here." She stepped over to the table, and, with the hilt of a dagger which she drew from a sheath hanging at her side, struck a sharp blow upon a metal gong standing thereon. Immediately the arras parted, and the grayhaired majordomo bowed before her to receive her commands. "The emperor stops here to-night. Make what preparation you can with the little As for Conrad von Hohenzollern, his case that we have here," she cried. "Comes he alone, your Highness, or with much retinue?" "I know not. But stay; hand me yon parchment," she added. Unfolding the crumpled message once more as the steward obeyed her, she continued: "His Majesty writes me that he will be accompanied by only one attendant, Baron Eckhardt. See that all needful be done. The messenger who arrived a moment since-hath he been provided for?" "He hath drunk deep in the refectory, your Highness, and is gone but a moment since." 66 ""T is well. See that nothing you can compass be lacking for the emperor's welcome. Go!" After the old man left her, the countess sank down on a low stool, clasped her hands in her lap, and, leaning forward, gazed into the crackling fire. The night wind howled around the old turrets of the castle, and the rain drum-tapped on the long lancet-windows, new-filled with horn to keep out the coming cold. In an hour, perhaps, the emperor would be there. She would be alone, helpless, in his hands. What might not happen then? It was a barbarous age, and might meant right more often than not, especially with a king. When power, desire, and opportunity were conjoined, little care was had of consequence. She was a bold, resolute woman, but she shivered at the dire possibilities of the situation. Presently a relieving thought came to her. She was not quite helpless, after all; she had a refuge. She unclasped her fingers and slipped her dagger from its sheath. It was a rare Spanish blade, Toledo-tempered, keen and true. The firelight played fitfully on its polished surface. Although it lay in a woman's hand, it was a man's weapon. With that in hand, at least she was master of destiny-in the end. "Daggers and love," she murmured sadly; "they go not well together by right, I think. And yet-oh, that I were a man, or that my knight were here! Where is the count? Why comes he not in this my hour of need?" As she spoke she was aware of a clinking step in the antechamber to the hall, a vibrant ringing as of rustling links of steel. She sprang to her feet, dagger still in hand, her soul aflame for resistance, defense, death, if need be. "So early!" throbbed her beating heart. "It cannot be!" THE COUNTESS MATILDA ENTER- THE tapestry was parted again. A tall, blond giant, in full war panoply of linked mail, stepped lightly within the room. The hood, or coif, of his hauberk was thrown back upon his shoulder. As he entered he removed the ogival-pointed cap of burnished steel which covered his light-brown curls. Then he allowed the heavy, pointed war-shield that he carried to slip from his left arm and rest against the wall. His sleeveless blue surcoat, open at the breast, was richly embroidered with a royal golden stag passant, the heraldic cognizance of his princely house; the same device appeared painted on the face of his shield. His legs and feet were covered with the same ringed mail, and on his heels he wore the golden spurs of knighthood. He carried no weapons save a heavy sword and a dagger swinging from a loose belt; his lance, ax, and cumbrous war-helmet he had left outside with his steed. Raindrops sparkled on the polished iron of his equipment. The light showed a fair face, red-cheeked, handsome, bold. He set down his steel cap, tore the ironplated gauntlets from his hands, threw them on a stool, and extended his arms toward the maiden, such a look of passionate devotion in his laughing gray eyes as filled her heart with flooding feeling. "Oh," she cried, running toward him, her joy and relief at his presence shining in her face, "is it thou?" "Didst not expect me, sweet?" answered the man, smiling buoyantly down upon her as he swept her to his heart. After a moment of rapturous embrace she drew away from him slightly, and gazed at him lovingly while she answered his question: 'Nay; the king comes here to-night." "The king?" he cried in amazement, releasing her in sudden jealous suspicion. "Yes, Sir Count-but not the king of my heart," she added daringly. "Lady Matilda!" he cried, opening his arms again, and as she fled therein he fairly crushed her against his mail-clad breast. She thought she loved to feel the touch even of that hard iron over that iron heart, since it beat for her alone. "Conrad," she said at last, clinging passionately to him, "I have longed for thee. Thou comest in a fitting hour. The kaiser has divorced the noble Adelheid. He rides here to-night to-to claim me." |