if it pleases you I will listen to as many of your verses as you can conveniently remember."
Surrey leaned back against the wall with a deep sigh, and the other, his voice vibrant with enthusiasm said:
"I will recite you first the poem on 'Friendship,' in honour of our meeting, and then you shall hear the verses on 'Sleep,' which come the more timely on an occasion when we both deprive ourselves of it, in order to hear verse which you will be the first to admit is well worth the sacrifice."
The poet then delivered his lines in smooth and measured tones, to which the other listened without comment. From poem to poem Roger Kent glided, sometimes interlarding the pauses between with a few sentences describing how the following effort came to maturity, thus cementing the poems together with their history, as a skilful mason lays his mortar between the stones. No literary enthusiast could have had a more patient listener, and the night wore on to the tuneful cadence of the poet's voice. At last he ceased. The steps of the patient Conrad on the battlements echoed in the still night air.
"Those are all the poems I can remember," he said, "and you see that I have not misspent the time while you were journeying down the Moselle. I do not know when I have had a more fruitful season. If I could but deliver these verses to some monk who would inscribe them on lasting parchment, for future ages to discuss and con over, I would be a happy man. Alas, the monks care not to write of aught save the sayings of the Fathers of the Church, and look askance at poems dealing with human instincts and passions that are beyond the precincts of the cloister, even though such poems tend to the future enrichment of literature, had the holy men but the mind to appreciate them. Thus I fear my verse will be lost to the world and that, in this deplorably contentious existence which we lead, my span may be suddenly at an end, with none to put in permanent form the work to which my life has been devoted. What poem, think you, of all you have heard, is the most likely to live after we are gone?"
There was no reply, and in the silence that followed, the even breathing of John Surrey brought to the mind of the poet the well nigh incredible suspicion that his friend was asleep. This suspicion, however, he dismissed as unworthy of either of them, and he shook his comrade by the shoulder, repeating his question.
"Eh? What?" cried John. "Take your hand from my throat, villain."
"My hand is not on your throat but on your shoulder, and I misdoubt you have for some time been asleep."
"Asleep?" cried John, with honest indignation. "I was far from being asleep. When you stopped reciting I had but let my mind wander for a moment on the rough usage I had had from Conrad, who pretended he did not know me. I'll wing a shaft by his ear so close that it will make him jump a dozen yards, and for the space while he counts ten he will be uncertain whether he is in this world or the next. I called him villain, and I stick to it."
"But what call you my poems?"
"They are grand—all of them. You are getting better and better at rhyming; I swear by the bow, you are. I never heard anything to equal them."
"Indeed," replied the poet, complacently, "a man should improve with age, like good wine, if he have the right stuff in him, but though all are so good, there is surely some poem better than the rest, as in a company of men one must stand taller than his fellows. Which was it, John?"
"The last one you recited seemed to me the best," said John, scratching his head dubiously, and then not having the sense to let well enough alone, added, "the one on 'Sleep.'"
The poet rose to his feet and spoke with justifiable indignation.
"I have recited to you a score since that, you sluggard. You have indeed been asleep."
"I said not the last, but the first. I say the poem on 'Sleep' is the best, and that I hold to."
"The first was on 'Friendship,'" said the poet gloomily.
"Nay, I count not the one on 'Friendship' as aught but the introduction. 'Twas given, you said, in honour of our meeting, therefore I regard the one on 'Sleep' as the beginning, and although all are good, that seemed, in my poor judgment, the best."
"I had hoped you would have liked the one on 'Woman's Love,'" murmured Roger, evidently mollified.
"Ah, Roger, what can you expect of a hardened bachelor like me? There was a time when I would have thrown up my cap and proclaimed that poem master of them all, which doubtless it will be accounted in the estimation of the world. Even I admit it was enough to make my old bones burn again, and while you were reciting it, I was glad young Conrad was not here, else he had straightway run to Alken in his own despite. That poem will be the favourite of lovers all the world over; I am sure of it."
"Say you so, honest John?" cried Roger, with glee. "It is indeed my own hope. You were the truest and wisest of critics, and no bowman in all Germany can match you. Forgive me that I mistook your meditation for slumber. And now, good night, old friend; we will meet again when I have composed some others, although I doubt if I ever do anything as good as that one."
And thereupon the friends embraced and parted, each glowing with the praise of the other.
CHAPTER XXXI.
BRAVE NEWS OF THE EMPEROR.
As the days went by and the seasons changed, dull monotony settled down upon the besieged castle, and all within felt more or less its depressing effects. The Black Count chafed under it like a caged lion, breaking out now and then into helpless rage, eager to do anything rather than the one thing which had to be done, and that was to sit quiet until the Archbishops tired of their task, or until some commotion occurred elsewhere which would compel them to withdraw their troops. Heinrich had wild schemes of breaking through the lines, marching on to Treves, and there fomenting rebellion, so that Arnold might find something to occupy him at home and be thus compelled to leave his neighbour in peace. But the cool head in the garrison was that of Rodolph, who pointed out calmly to his nominal chief the impracticability of his plans. He knew more of Treves than did the Count, and asserted that no man could stir up trouble in that town, where all were but too well acquainted with the weight of the Archbishop's iron hand.
It was not to be expected that two men so differently constituted as the Emperor and the Count, thus hemmed in together, should grow to love each other; indeed, Heinrich took small pains to conceal the dislike he felt for his enforced guest, although Rodolph was more politic, and always treated his elder with grave respect. Only once during the two years' siege did there come a conflict of authority between them, and this said much for the forbearance of the Emperor.
One morning Rodolph found the Count in the courtyard in full armour vigorously superintending his men, who were removing from the gates the bags of grain and casks of wine which were piled against them.
"What is going forward?" asked Rodolph, quietly.
"Something that concerns you not, and your assistance is neither asked nor wanted," answered the Black Count, in his most surly manner.
"Pardon me, if I venture to point out that anything which pertains to the safety of the castle concerns me."
"Whose castle is it?" roared the Count.
"That is precisely the point now under dispute," replied the Emperor, with the utmost gravity. "If you do some foolish thing the castle doubtless will in a few hours belong to the Archbishops, for they are probably counting on an act of folly which will bring them into possession. I am anxious that the castle remain in your hands, therefore I ask again, what are you proposing to do, and why are you taking away the materials which so well supported the gates when they were assaulted?"
"I am commander here and not to be questioned."
"That is hardly according to our compact, my Lord. Let us not, however, discuss the matter before the men, but in the council chamber alone together. I must know what you intend to do."
"I have held my castle until now against all comers. I will continue to