had been better put in the poetry itself, for if it convey so little to the reader that it needs must be explained 'twere as well not written."
"That shows you to be no true poet, nor critic either," said the Emperor. "But now that old friends are in correspondence with each other, I shall leave them to the furtherance of it, merely reminding you that if a message is sent similar to the one received, you will observe like caution in not mentioning anything that relates to the castle or its occupants."
When the Emperor left him the archer laboured hard to transcribe his thoughts on the back of a sheet containing one of the poems. He told Roger he was not permitted to leave the castle, but that he had orders to go on guard upon the western battlements at midnight to take up his watch until daybreak, and if Roger could quit the camp at that hour and climb the hill, keeping the north tower against the sky as his guide, the writer would endeavour to meet him half-way, when they could talk over their mutual adventures since parting. In case there was a companion at his watch that night, and it was thus impossible for him to desert the castle, the up-comer was to approach the wall under the northern tower, giving the customary cry of the water-fowl, when the friend on the wall and the one at the foot of it might have some whispered communication between them. He added, however, that there was little danger of a second man being on the battlements unless a new alarm of some kind intervened. The leaf containing these instructions he deftly fastened to the shaft of an arrow and so sped it to the feet of his friend, who was himself on guard.
When Roger had read what was sent he waved his hand in apparent token that the arrangement suited him, and Surrey, so understanding the signal, went to the room below and threw himself on his pallet of straw to get the rest he needed before his watch began. Like all great warriors he was instantly asleep, and knew no more until he felt Gottlieb's hand on his shoulder announcing to him the beginning of his vigil. Once on the ramparts, he relieved the man who had been there during the earlier part of the night, and was pleased to note that nothing had occurred to put an extra guard on the promenade. The camp fires had gone out, and the valley lay in blackness. Surrey paced up and down the battlements for a while to let the sleepy man he had relieved get to his bed, then he looked about him for means of reaching the foot of the wall outside. There was as yet no cry of the night bird, and he began to fear that his friend had probably gone so soundly asleep that daylight alone would awaken him. Surrey examined the wall with some care. He might jump over without running great risk of injuring himself, but he could not jump back again. At the remote end of the battlements under the north tower, his foot struck an obstacle, and, stooping to examine the obstruction, he found it one of the wooden missiles with a rope attached to it which the besiegers had flung over the machicolated parapet to enable them to climb the wall. The rope hung down outside, and Surrey wondered that it had remained there all this time unnoticed, certainly a grave menace to the safety of the garrison, for a whole troop might have climbed up in the darkness with little chance of being seen by the one sentinel on top, whose watch, now that all fear of attack had left those in the castle, had become somewhat perfunctory. However, this was just the thing the archer needed, and he marvelled why he had not thought of such a plan before, for numbers of these ropes and billets lay in the courtyard of the fortress. He slipped down the cord and made his way cautiously through the vineyard towards the village, pausing now and then to give the signal. About half-way down the hill, he heard the breaking of twigs, and knew that his friend was coming up. He crouched under the vines and waited; then as the other came opposite him, he sprang up and gave him a vigorous slap on the shoulder. Instantly the stranger grappled him, pinioning his arms at his side, and the next thing the archer knew he had stumbled backwards and fallen, with the assailant's knee on his breast and a strong grip at his throat, shutting off the breath and making outcry impossible, even if it had been politic.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CONRAD VENTURES HIS LIFE FOR HIS LOVE.
Hilda had been given lodging in a house at the back of the village, and from her window she could see the castle which had so inhospitably sent her from its gates. But the girl had little time to mourn her fate, for the attacks on the castle followed so swiftly one upon another that Alken became speedily filled with wounded men, all the houses of the place being transformed into hospitals for the time. In like manner the women were requisitioned as nurses, and to their care many of the stricken men owed life. Into this humane occupation Hilda threw herself with a fervour that was not only admirable in itself, but which was deeply appreciated by all those to whom she ministered. The other women of the village were anxious to do their best, but they were for the most part rude and ignorant peasants, knowing little of their new duties, and their aid was at all times clumsy and often ineffectual. But Hilda brought to bear upon her task an enlightened intelligence and a deftness of hand, the product of long residence amidst civilised surroundings, which quickly gave her, by right of dexterity, the command of the nursing staff. She reduced the arrangements to cleanliness and order, and her bright presence, not less than her winning beauty, seemed to do more for the convalescent than the ointment of the physicians. She was thoroughly womanly, and thus was in her element while having charge of so many injured men, and every moment of her day being taken up with her work of mercy, she had no time to brood over her own expulsion from the castle, nor the severance from her lover and mistress; and so, in doing good to others, she unconsciously bestowed great benefit upon herself.
Once she had a fright that for the time almost deprived her of speech. In the midst of her duties a breathless messenger brought news that the Archbishops themselves were coming to visit the wounded. Hilda, pressing her hand to her heart, stood pale and confounded, not knowing what to do, for she feared the sharp eyes of Arnold von Isenberg, which had before fallen upon her in Treves, might now recognise her. She hoped that the comparative obscurity of the room would shield her from too minute scrutiny, and, at first it seemed that this would be the case, but the officers who accompanied the prelates spoke so enthusiastically of her untiring efforts to ameliorate distress and pain, that Arnold turned his keen eyes full upon her, slightly wrinkling his brow, as if her appearance brought recollection to him that he had difficulty in localising. The girl stood trembling before him, not daring to raise her eyes to his. After a moment's pause, filled with deep anxiety on her part, the dignified prelate stretched out his hand and rested it upon her fair hair.
"Blessed are those who do deeds of mercy, my child," he said, solemnly, in sonorous voice.
"Amen," responded the Archbishop of Cologne, with equal seriousness.
"Remember," said von Isenberg, significantly, turning to his officers, "that on her head rests the benediction of our Holy Church."
All present bowed low and the stately cortege withdrew, leaving the girl thankful that recognition had not followed the unlooked-for encounter, for so little do the great take account of those who serve them, that no suspicion crossed the Archbishop's mind that the one he commended had been a member of his own household.
Thus it came about that Hilda was a privileged person in Alken and its environs, and there was not an officer or common soldier who would not instantly have drawn weapon to protect her from insult or injury had there been any in the camp inclined to transgress against her.
Late one night a lad called at the house where Hilda lived and told her a soldier had hurt his foot and could not walk. He was seated on the river bank, the boy added, and asked the good nurse to come to him, as he could not come to her. Hilda followed her conductor through the darkness without question, and found the man sitting by the margin of the stream. He gave a coin to the boy, who at once ran off to tell his comrades of his good luck, leaving the two alone. Hilda, although without fear, called after the boy, but he paid little heed to her; then she turned to the man and said:
"Where is your wound?"
"In the heart, Hilda, and none save you can cure it," he answered in a low voice. The girl gave a little cry of joy.
"Conrad! Is it indeed you? Where have you come from?"
"From the castle, where for many days I have lain wounded, but now I am well again and yearn only for you. So to-night I