and I intend to be in the thick of it. If you imprison me, the chances are that you will thrust bolt on the only man of brains in the place, not excepting your august self, for although you may be a stubborn fighter, I doubt if you know much of strategy, or can see far ahead of your prominent nose. So, my Lord, you may act as best pleases you, and call up all the men-at-arms in the castle, if their presence comforts you. If you trust me, I may, at a critical moment, be of vast assistance to you. It is even possible that should the Archbishop press you too closely, I may, by slipping out of Thuron, make way through his camp and, gathering my own men, fall on him unexpectedly from behind, thus confusing your foe. If you choose to treat me as a prisoner, then do you put your wits against mine, and you will wake up some morning to find three of your best men gone. So, my Lord, ponder on that, and lay what course you choose."
It was plain that the unready Count was baffled by the free and easy manner in which the other addressed him. The same feeling of mental inferiority which he had felt in Rodolph's presence the night before, again came over him, and, while it angered him, his caution whispered the suggestion that here was a possible ally who might in stress prove most valuable. Never had Heinrich met one apparently helpless, who seemed so careless what his jailer might think or do. The Count wished he had braved the archer's shaft, taken the risk of it, and hanged this man out of hand. However, it was too late to think of that now, and he asked, keeping control of his rising temper:
"How many men answer to your call?"
"Enough to make the Archbishop prefer, at any time, that they be not thrown in the scale against him. More than enough when he faces so doughty and brave a warrior as the devil of Thuron, regarding whose colour and fate those peasants outside are chanting."
"I take your word," cried Heinrich, with sudden impetuousness. "I should, of course, allow you to go free to Frankfort, but I beg of you to remain with me. I ask you not to leave until you have consulted with me, but, excepting that condition, you are as free of the castle as I am."
"Spoken like a true nobleman, and on such basis we shall have no fault to find with each other. And now I request your permission to send a messenger at once to Treves."
"To Treves!" cried the Black Count, the old look of fierce suspicion coming again into his piercing eyes. "Why to Treves? The archer wants to go to Treves. You want to send to Treves. It is nothing but Treves, Treves, Treves, till I am sick of the name. Why to Treves?"
"It is a very simple matter, my Lord Count. I told you I came from Frankfort with a friend. I also informed you that I took this journey down the Moselle most unexpectedly. My friend, who distrusts the Archbishop as much as you distrust him, and more if that be possible, is now in Treves not knowing what has become of me. He will imagine that the Archbishop has me by the heels, and may get himself into trouble by attempting my liberation. I wish, therefore, to get word to him of my whereabouts, not only that his just anxiety may be relieved, but also that if we are hard pressed, he may come to our timely rescue."
"If we are to trust each other, I must have fuller knowledge. Who is your friend?"
"The Baron von Brunfels."
"What? Siegfried von Brunfels of the Rhine? The friend of the Emperor?"
"The same."
"He has enough retainers of his own to raise the siege of Thuron if he wished to do so."
"That is true. All the more reason then that he should be acquainted with the fact that his friend is here, for, from what I have heard him say of you, he would never stir a man through love of Heinrich of Thuron."
"If Baron von Brunfels is your friend, you are no merchant."
"Indeed, I have often thought so; for I make some amazingly bad bargains."
"Should the Archbishop and his men come on, it will not be possible for a single horseman to get through to Treves. I do not wish to lose the archer, nor can I spare one of my own men. Do you intend yourself to go to Treves."
"No. Neither do I desire to lose the archer, even though he should bring back his equal with the bow, which would be his purpose in setting out. He has a friend, he says, who excels him in skill, although that I doubt. I desire to send my own man, Conrad, who knows Treves, and who was in the employ of the Baron. He will win his way through if any one can, and may bring the other archer back with him. Besides, there is a chance that the crafty Arnold is not yet on the move, and it would be interesting to learn something of what is going on in Treves, and what happened when the valiant Count Bertrich returned to his master. This, Conrad can discover much more effectually than the archer, for he is intelligent, and loves not the sound of his own voice as does our bowman. Conrad is a listener rather than a talker; I cannot say the same for the skilful arrow-maker."
In deep doubt Black Heinrich stood gazing on the stones at his feet. He was outmanœuvred, yet knew not how to help himself. Full authority was his, yet the control of affairs seemed slipping from his grasp. He had not entertained the slightest intention of allowing any one from the castle to depart for Treves, yet here he felt he was about to consent. He chafed at the turn things had taken, but knew not how to amend them. If he refused permission to everything proposed, he feared he might be making a fool of himself, and acting against his own interests, and worse, that the cool confident young man would know he was making a fool of himself, and despise him accordingly; still, he was loath to allow even the semblance of power to pass away from him.
"I like not this traffic with Treves," he said, at last.
"Nor do I. Still I am determined in some fashion to let Brunfels know where I am. Further than that I shall tell him nothing, if such knowledge is against your wish; but if you give your consent I shall ask him to keep an eye on this siege; and if, as is very likely, you beat off Arnold, he is not to interfere, but if you are getting the worst of it, there is little harm in having a friend outside on whom we can, in emergency, call. It all rests with you, my Lord; I merely make suggestions, and if they do not jump with your liking then they are of little value. Your experience is greater than mine, and your courage is unquestioned. A man less brave might hesitate to lay plans for emergencies, but with you it is different. Therefore you have but to command and I shall obey. I shall send word to Brunfels of my own safety to relieve his anxiety, and I shall ask him to keep an eye on the siege if you care to have me do so. It can at least bring us no harm."
The Count looked at the speaker with an expression in which distrust seemed to be fighting with gratification. There was at first a lurking fear that the young man was trifling with him, but the other's serene countenance gave no indication of lack of earnestness, and Heinrich's own self-esteem was so great that no praise of his courage could seem to him overdrawn. When all suspicion of Rodolph's good faith had been allayed, he said, heartily:
"Send what message you will to the Baron. We may be none the worse for a stroke from him at the right time."
With that the Count strode away, and Rodolph gave his instructions to Conrad, watching him ride from the gates in the direction of the Frankfort road, with the passport of the silk merchant in his pocket.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE ENVOY'S DISASTROUS RETURN.
The sun rose and set, and rose and set again, before news came to Castle Thuron. There was no sign of an enemy; the Moselle valley, as seen from the round towers, seemed a very picture of peace. During these two days the air was still, the flag drooped, unfluttering, from its staff, and the sun shone warmly in the serene heavens. Yet there was something ominous in the silence, and each person in the castle felt, more or less, the tension of the time. Black Heinrich scanned the distance from the battlements with growing impatience, for, like all men of action, he chafed at the delay and was eager for the fight to come on, even should it prove disastrous to him. Anything seemed better than this newsless waiting. The huge gates were never opened; in fact, it was now impossible to open them, for the outer courtyard was partly filled with sacks of grain and butts of wine, which were piled in a great heap against the two leaves of the gate, and