"Nonsense!" cried the girl, "the vineyard would be but a barren plantation without you; and speaking of it reminds me that I have poured out, with my own hand, a tankard of the choicest, oldest wine in our cellars, which I allow no one but yourself to taste. Sit down, I beg of you, and drink."

The wise old man smiled, wondering what innocent trap was being set for him. He raised the tankard to his lips, but merely indulged in one sip of the delectable beverage. Then he seated himself, and looked at the girl, still smiling. She went on speaking rapidly, a delicate flush warming her fair cheeks.

"Father, you are the most patient and indefatigable of agriculturists, sparing neither yourself nor others, but there is danger that you grow bucolic through overlong absence from the great affairs of this world."

"What can be greater, my child, than increasing the productiveness of the land; than training men to supply all their needs from the fruitful earth?"

"True, true," admitted the girl, her eyes sparkling with eagerness, "but to persist overlong even in well-doing becomes ultimately tedious. If the laborer is worthy of his hire, so, too, is the master. You should take a change, and as I know your fondness for travel, I have planned a journey for you."

The old man permitted himself another sip of the wine.

"Where?" he asked.

"Oh, an easy journey; no farther than the royal city of Frankfort, there to wander among the scenes of your youth, and become interested for a time in the activities of your fellow-men. You have so long consorted with those inferior to you in intellect and learning that a meeting with your equals--though I doubt if there are any such even in Frankfort--must prove as refreshing to your mind as that old wine would to your body, did you but obey me and drink it."

Father Ambrose slowly shook his head.

"From what I hear of Frankfort," he said, "it is anything but an inspiring town. In my day it was indeed a place of cheer, learning, and prosperity, but now it is a city of desolation."

"The rumors we hear, Father, may be exaggerated; and even if the city itself be doleful, which I doubt, there is sure to be light and gayety in the precincts of the Court and in the homes of the n.o.bility."

"What have I to do with Court or palaces? My duty lies here."

"It may be," cried the girl archly, "that some part of your duty lies there. If Frankfort is indeed in bad case, your sage advice might be of the greatest benefit. Prosperity seems to follow your footsteps, and, besides, you were once a chaplain in the Court, and surely you have not lost all interest in your former charge?"

Again that quiet, engaging smile lit up the monk's emaciated features, and then he asked a question with that honest directness which sometimes embarra.s.sed those he addressed:

"Daughter Hildegunde, what is it you want?"

"Well," said the girl, sitting very upright in her chair, "I confess to loneliness. The sameness of life in this castle oppresses me, and in its continuous dullness I grow old before my time. I wish to enjoy a month or two in Frankfort, and, as doubtless you have guessed, I send you forth as my amba.s.sador to spy out the land."

"In such case, daughter, you should present your pet.i.tion to that Prince of the Church, the Archbishop of Cologne, who is your guardian."

"No, no, no, no!" cried the girl emphatically; "you are putting the grapes into the barrel instead of into the vat. Before I trouble the worthy Archbishop with my request, I must learn whether it is practicable or not. If the city is indeed in a state of turbulence, of course I shall not think of going thither. It is this I wish to discover, but if you are afraid." She shrugged her shoulders and spread out her hands.

And now the old monk came as near to laughing as he ever did.

"Clever, Hildegunde, but unnecessary. You cannot spur me to action by slighting the well-known valor of our race. I will go where and when you command me, and report to you faithfully what I see and hear. Should the time seem favorable for you to visit Frankfort, and if your guardian consents, I shall raise not even one objection."

"Oh, dear Father, I do not lay this as a command upon you."

"No; a request is quite sufficient. To-morrow morning I shall set out."

"Along the Rhine?" queried the girl, so eagerly that the old man's eyes twinkled at the celerity with which she accepted his proposition.

"I think it safer," he said, "to journey inland over the hills. The robbers on the Rhine have been so long bereft of the natural prey that one or other of them may forget I am Father Ambrose, a poor monk, remembering me only as Henry of the rich House of Sayn, and therefore hold me for ransom. I would not willingly be a cause of strife, so I shall go by way of Limburg on the Lahn, and there visit my old friend the Bishop, and enjoy once more a sight of the ancient Cathedral on the cliff by the river."

When the young Countess awoke next morning, and reviewed in her mind the chief event of the preceding day, remembering the reluctance of Father Ambrose to undertake the quest she had outlined without the consent of his overlord the Archbishop, a feeling of compunction swept over her.

She berated her own selfishness, resolving to send her pet.i.tion to her guardian, the Archbishop, and abide by his decision.

When breakfast was finished, she asked her lady-in-waiting to request the presence of Father Ambrose, but instead of the monk came disturbing news.

"The seneschal says that Father Ambrose left the Castle at daybreak this morning, taking with him frugal rations for a three days' journey."

"In which direction did he go?" asked the lady of Sayn.

"He went on horseback up the valley, after making inquiries about the route to Limburg on the Lahn."

"Ah!" said the Countess. "He spoke yesterday of taking such a journey, but I did not think he would leave so early."

This was the beginning of great anxiety for the young lady of the Castle. She knew at once that pursuit was useless, for daybreak comes early in summer, and already the good Father had been five hours on his way--a way that he was certain to lose many times before he reached the capital city. An ordinary messenger might have been overtaken, but the meditative Father would go whither his horse carried him, and when he awoke from his thoughts and his prayers, would make inquiries, and so proceed. A day or two later came a message that he had achieved the hospitality of Limburg's bishop, but after that arrived no further word.

Nearly two weeks had elapsed when, from the opposite direction, Hildegunde received a communication which added to her already painful apprehension. It was a letter from her guardian in Cologne, giving warning that within a week he would call at her Castle of Sayn.

"Matters of great import to you and me," concluded the Archbishop, "are toward. You will be called upon to meet formally my two colleagues of Mayence and Treves, at the latter's strong Castle of Stolzenfels, above Coblentz. From the moment we enter that palace-fortress, I shall, temporarily, at least, cease to be your guardian, and become merely one of your three overlords. But however frowningly I may sit in the throne of an Elector, believe me I shall always be your friend. Tell Father Ambrose I wish to consult with him the moment I arrive at your castle, and that he must not absent himself therefrom on any pretext until he has seen me."

Here was trouble indeed, with Father Ambrose as completely disappeared as if the dragons of the Taunus had swallowed him. Never before on his journeys had he failed to communicate with her, even when his travels were taken on account of the Archbishop, and not, as in this case, on her own. She experienced the darkest forebodings from this incredible silence. Imagine, then, her relief, when exactly two weeks from the day he had left Schloss Sayn, she saw him coming down the valley. As when she last beheld him, he traveled on foot, leading his horse, that had gone lame.

Throwing etiquette to the wind, she flew down the stairway, and ran to meet her thrice-welcome friend.

She realized with grief that he was haggard, and the smile he called up to greet her was wan and pitiful.

"Oh, Father, Father!" she cried, "what has happened to you? I have been nearly distraught with doubt and fear, hearing nothing of you since your message from Limburg."

"I was made a prisoner," said the old man quietly, "and allowed to communicate with no one outside my cell. 'Tis a long and sad story, and, worse than all one that bodes ill for the Empire. I should have arrived earlier in the day, but my poor, patient beast has fallen lame."

"Yes!" said the girl indignantly, "and you spare him instead of yourself!"

The monk laid his left hand affectionately on her shoulder.

"You would have done the same, my dear," he said, and she looked up at him with a sweet smile. They were kin, and if she censured any quality in him, the comment carried something of self-reproach.

A servitor took away the lame horse; another waited on Father Ambrose in his small room, which was simple as that of a monastery cell, and as meagerly furnished. After a slight refection, Father Ambrose received peremptory command to rest for three full hours, the lady of the Castle saying it was impossible for her to receive him until that time had elapsed. The order was welcome to the tired monk, although he knew how impatient Hildegunde must be to unpack his budget of news, and he fell asleep even as he gave instructions that he should be awakened at nine.

Descending at that time, the supper hour of the Castle, he found a dainty meal awaiting him, flanked by a flagon of that rare wine which he sipped so sparingly.

"I lodged with my brethren in their small and quiet monastery on the opposite side of the Main from Frankfort, in that suburb of the workingmen which is called Sachsenhausen. Even if my eyes had not seen the desolation of the city, with the summer gra.s.s growing in many of its streets, the description given of its condition by my brethren would have been saddening enough to hear. All authority seems at an end. The n.o.bles have fled to their country estates, for defense in the city is impossible should once a universal riot break out, and thinking men look for an insurrection when continued hunger has worn down the patience of the people. Up to the present sporadic outbreaks have been cruelly suppressed, starving men falling mutilated before the sword-cuts of the soldiers; but now disaffection has penetrated the ranks of the Army itself, through short rations and deferred pay, and when the people learn that the military are more like to join them than oppose, destruction will fall upon Frankfort. The Emperor sits alone in drunken stupor, and it is said cannot last much longer, he who has lasted too long already; while the Empress is as much a recluse as a nun in a convent."

"But the young Prince?" interrupted the Countess. "What of him? Is there no hope if he comes to the throne?"

"Ah!" cried the monk, with a long-drawn sigh, dolefully shaking his head.

"But, Father Ambrose, you knew him as a lad, almost as a young man. I have heard you speak highly of his promise."

"He denied me; denied his own ident.i.ty; threatened my life with his sword, and finally flung me into the most loathsome dungeon in all Frankfort!"

The girl uttered an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of dismay. If so harsh an estimate of the heir-presumptive came from so mild and gentle a critic as Father Ambrose, then surely was this young man lower in the grade of humanity than even his b.e.s.t.i.a.l father.