THE CHARM OF THE OLD WORLD ROMANCES – Premium 10 Book Collection. Robert Barr

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СКАЧАТЬ until it stood like a huge rampart over the walled town. Reaching level ground again, the riders took a westerly direction, bending their course so that they might enter the city by the northern gate. As they approached, it became evident that a throng was gathered on each side of the port, the way in the centre being kept clear by mounted soldiery.

      "You are versed in the manners of Treves," said the Emperor, "knowing all of note within its walls—what think you then is going forward at the gate? Is it well for us to attempt entrance now, or are we more likely to pass unnoticed in the press?"

      "It is probable that the Archbishop and his train are about to pass outward to his villa or water palace, as some call it. He travels in state, and there are always many onlookers."

      "Where is his water palace?"

      "On the Moselle, near Zurlauben, a short half-hour's ride from the gate."

      "This then gives us excellent opportunity of seeing Arnold von Isenberg, Archbishop of Treves, ourselves unseen in the throng. Shall we wait his coming outside or inside the gate?"

      "We were better outside, I think, for then we may enter unquestioned with the press of people when the show is over."

      Thus the two horsemen ranged themselves by the side of the road with others also on horseback, merchants, travellers, messengers and the like, while the crowd on foot shifted here and there to find standing room that commanded a view. Mounted men-at-arms rode hither and thither, roughly keeping the way clear and the mob in check, buffeting with their pike-handles those who were either reluctant or slow to move. The clattering of horses' shod hoofs on the stone-paved narrow street within the gate announced the coming of the cortège.

      "Off with your hat, fellow," cried one of the men-at-arms, raising his pike. "His Lordship, the Archbishop, comes."

      Rodolph's quick hand sought his sword-hilt, but a touch on his arm from his comrade recalled him to a sense of his position. He changed the downward motion of his hand to an upward one, and speedily doffed his cap, seeing now that every one else was uncovered, for the haughty Archbishop allowed no disrespect abroad when he took an airing.

      First came a troop of landsknecht, numbering perhaps a score, then, with an interval between, the Archbishop and his train, followed at a slight distance by another score of horsemen.

      Arnold von Isenberg sat upright on his black charger, looking much more the soldier than the churchman. On the further side of him rode a middle-aged nobleman, with whom the Archbishop now and then exchanged a word. Count Bertrich never could have been handsome, and the red scar from a sabre cut over his nose had in no way added to his personal attractions, but his fame throughout the land as a fighter of both skill and courage, caused him to be reckoned a favourite with the electoral prelate, who had usually more need of warriors round him than of the numerous court gallants who followed in his train, and were now conversing in low tones with the ladies who accompanied them. But whether the softness of their words was caused by the tender import of them, or whether they feared to intrude their voices on the conversation or the meditations of the Archbishop, the onlooking but unnoticed Emperor could not have guessed, had his curiosity been aroused to inquire. Rumour had it that the Archbishop intended to bestow on Count Bertrich the hand, and incidentally, the broad lands of his ward, who rode at his right hand, and if this were true the girl showed little pleasure over it, to judge by the small heed she gave either to the crowd that lined the road on each side or to those who accompanied her in the august procession. She seemed neither to see nor to hear aught that went on around her, but with eyes looking straight forward, and a slight frown on her fair brow, rode onward in silence, a marked contrast to the prattling train which followed her. Meanwhile, von Isenberg spoke with the Count, who bent his head deferentially to listen, and perhaps while doing so, to glance across the charger's mane at the proud and beautiful girl, who rode on the other side of the Archbishop, heedless of glance or conversation.

      When the procession had passed, the young Emperor sat looking after it, bonnet still in hand, with an absorbed expression on his face. And well might he gaze long at the iron Archbishop, for he had come on a weary journey to see that potentate, and judge for himself what manner of man he might be who was reported to have remarked to his brother Archbishop of Cologne, when he cast the vote which helped to make Rodolph an emperor, that the young man was said to be a romantic fool, who would be the more easily led by their Lordships of Treves and Cologne, than any older and more seasoned noble. Therefore had it been given out that the new Emperor was gone to smite the Saracen, whereas he had merely journeyed from Frankfort to Treves in disguise, to look upon a man who might prove more formidable to his peace than the fiercest Saracen roaming the plains of the East. Siegfried, who, though so much older, was Rodolph's confidential friend, seemed anxious to know the estimate the Emperor had formed of his probable adversary.

      "A hard, stern face," said Siegfried. "A cold friend and an implacable enemy, to judge by the glance I got of him. What think you?"

      "An adorable face," murmured the young man, absently, still gazing after the rapidly disappearing cortège. "A face to dream over; to die for. Who is she, Siegfried?"

      "The Countess Tekla," answered Siegfried, somewhat briefly and grimly, for here their expedition, not without peril, undertaken against his strongly urged advice, was turned from its purpose, at this critical moment, by a passing glimpse of a pretty face. Perhaps, after all, the Archbishop had made the remark attributed to him, and Rodolph seemed determined on the most inopportune occasion, to give colour to it.

      "But who is she?" demanded the Emperor, covering again.

      "The Countess Tekla is the ward of the Archbishop. Her father died in his service and is said to have been the only man Arnold von Isenberg ever had any affection for. The sole living relative she has, so far as known to me, is Count Heinrich, surnamed the Black, of Castle Thuron, near Coblentz. Her mother was sister to the Black Count."

      "That marauder! No wonder she was not left his ward."

      "There was little love lost between her father and her uncle. 'Tis said Heinrich tried to get possession of Tekla and has even had the temerity to threaten an attack upon the Archbishop because of her, but he is hardly likely to do more than bluster, for, however much the Count may lack common honesty, he is not devoid of common sense, and well knows that Arnold could crush him in his castle as a snail is crushed in its shell under an iron heel."

      "The Countess Tekla," murmured the Emperor, more to himself than to his companion. "She is the most beautiful vision that ever floated before the eyes of man."

      "She is betrothed to Count Bertrich, who rode at the Archbishop's left hand," said Siegfried, coldly.

      "What! To that florid image carved with a broadsword? I cannot believe it. 'Twould be sacrilege."

      "Rodolph, since you allow me to call you so," replied Siegfried, solemnly, "I have also heard that you yourself are hardly free."

      "It is false," cried the young man, hotly. "I am pledged to none. Such thought is utterly baseless. The Princess herself would be the first to disclaim it."

      "I mentioned no one."

      "Perhaps not. 'Tis false nevertheless."

      Two pikes, crossed, barred their entrance under the archway of the gate.

      "Where from?"

      "Frankfort."

      "Your purpose in Treves?"

      "We are two silk merchants."

      "Your СКАЧАТЬ