river god would value them no more than the lump of rock he stood upon, and would proclaim to all the Moselle valley his charge was still unsatisfied."
"Then he is no god, but a Frankfort usurer."
"That he is indeed, my Lady; rapacious, exacting, demanding that to which he has no rightful claim, yet still demanding. And worse than any mortgage broker, because he knows no debt has been incurred, but the reverse, for such slight service as he rendered was a pleasure to him, and he knew himself deeply the debtor in that it was accepted of him. And yet, my Lady, this confessed cozening knave implores recompense so far above his merits, that there is this to say in his behalf: his tongue, more modest than his thoughts, hesitates to formulate in words his arrogant petition. I stand here landless and castleless, but I hope a gentleman, and if any man question that I am as noble as the Archbishop himself I will dispute his contention with my sword; brushing aside all thought of the possessions that may come to you or to me, are you content, my Lady Tekla, to place your hand in my empty palm and say, 'Rodolph, I take you for my future husband'?"
He stood with both hands outstretched, and she a little distance from him, her head bowed, once venturing to dart a swift glance at him, again scrutinising the silent stones lying in the moonlight at her feet. Then suddenly she placed both her hands in his, and cried breathlessly:
"Rodolph, Rodolph, it were a foolish bargain for you, and I cannot have it so. Wait, wait a little, till I know whether I have what should be mine; whether I am to be as poor as any village maiden in Alken yonder; then ask me, Rodolph. In either case ask me then, and I will answer you."
"No, Tekla, answer me now—now."
"You are young, Rodolph. Oh, why must I be wise for two?—your way is to make, and I must not retard your career. You join a tottering house: my only relative cannot hold his own with his single sword. I feel disaster hovering over us, and yet so shallow a maid am I, that I came joyously forth to be with you on this promenade, unheeding of impending calamity. Think what you do, my Lord: the powerful Archbishops are your enemies, and there is no kin of mine to befriend you. Wait, wait, wait."
"I have already waited—for two years have I waited; I want my answer now, Tekla."
"No, no. This madness is of the moonlight. They say the moon, when it shines brightly—our talk of the river spirits has made us blind to practical things, and so I seem to be myself one of the Rhine maidens who lure men on to destruction. I will not be the Lorelei of the Moselle. Let me go, my Lord: I should not have come here to the battlements in the moonlight, for reason has fled from us. You shall not blight your noble career for one so ill-fated as I. See what I have already done. My uncle besieged this two years, and now certain of defeat. You imprisoned here when you should have been making your way in the East, or in Germany, where, with your bravery, your name would have rung throughout the land. I will not embroil you with the Archbishops, and perhaps with the Emperor himself. Go forth, Lord Rodolph, from this doomed house, and come to me, if you still wish, when I shall not retard you."
"My career I shall look to with satisfied mind and heart, if first I have assurance from you that all is well with my love. I have no fears for my future. I willingly stayed my career at a single sight of you, for I came to Treves to see the Archbishop, and not to look upon the Countess Tekla. It seems to me amazing that there ever was a time when I had to say to my comrade, 'Who is she?' yet such was indeed the case, for when I should have been gazing at Arnold von Isenberg, my thoughts and glances were all for the lady who rode by his side. My being in the skiff was no accident, as you thought, but the result of careful planning, with a craft worthy of Arnold himself. I came here willingly, eagerly, and not through inadvertence, and Thuron never held so complacent a prisoner, nor one who so welcomed captivity as I, less held by its adamantine walls than by your silken bondage, if my glad restraint merit so harsh a name. Tekla, I love you at dawn, at mid-day, in darkness, or in moonlight; all's one to me. How is it with you, my lady of the silver light?"
"Oh, with me, with me, Rodolph, what need to answer that which all may see so plainly? What need for you to ask, when every glance that fell from my eyes upon you must have betrayed me? Oh, my knight of the water-lapped rock, I loved you ever since first I saw you standing there, flinging your abandoned sword at my feet, for the protection of one so cruel and unjust. And now must my foolish fondness drag you down with me into the torrent that may overwhelm us both? Rodolph, Rodolph, I cry to you beware, for I cannot protest longer, and am so selfish that, for your love, I would defy fate; so ungenerous that while my lips warn you my heart hopes you will not heed. Oh, Rodolph, I have loved you since the world began."
The young man, suddenly releasing her imprisoned hands, clasped the girl unresisting to him and on her trembling dewy lips pressed, long and tenderly, their first kiss; she, with a deep sigh, closing her eyes, and resigning herself to his tenderness. For him, no less than for her, the moment was supreme, and it seemed as if the world had faded from them and they stood alone in delirious space together. The tent of the Archbishops, precursor of the great Cathedral, shone white in the moonlight, looking in calm unconsciousness at the plans of its august builders crumbling to pieces, through the action of a man and woman.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A GRIM INTERRUPTION TO A LOVER'S MEETING.
Not on the battlements alone did lovers meet. At nearly the same hour of the night after the ill-kept guard on the promenade, Conrad set forth to greet Hilda, as had been his custom for many evenings during the past two years. The girl stole quietly up among the sadly trampled grape vines to a corner of the castle which the two had made their own. There was an angle in the wall under the northern tower which was in darkness whether the moon shone or no, and above this stone alcove, the machicolated wall gave Conrad an opportunity for descent unseen, which would not have been possible from the promenade itself, except on dark nights. Here he placed his rope, and thus he slipped silently down to meet the girl who crept up from the village for the pleasure of holding whispered converse with him. When it had become evident that the castle was to be starved into submission, there was no further talk of Hilda returning to her old service. The girl would at least have plenty to eat in the village, which could not be guaranteed to her in the castle, and although Hilda would have run the risk of starving had she been allowed to return, the Countess herself felt she could not, in justice to those beleaguered with her, allow the tire woman to leave her present lodging.
Of late, although they stood in the shadow, Hilda's sharp eyes noted the ever-increasing gauntness of Conrad, who, like all within the castle, except the two ladies, was placed on short rations, and at last the girl brought up with her, without saving anything, cakes of her own baking from the village, and although at first Conrad thought of sharing his good fortune with his comrades, reflection showed him that this could not be done without endangering the secret of their rendezvous. Thus their retreat in the secluded embrasure of the silent walls had become a nocturnal picnic, Hilda watching her lover with tender solicitude while he ate, sure for one night at least he should not starve. She begged him to let her come oftener, but he, fearing discovery, would not permit this, for her passing through the lines too frequently might raise suspicion in the camp, where the greatest precautions were taken to permit no supplies to pass the cordon, in which task the besiegers were amazingly successful.
Their time of meeting was early in the evening, while the Count and his household were at their last meal of the day, as at that hour there was less chance of interruption, and there was also the advantage that Hilda could return to Alken before it grew late.
Conrad had finished his welcome repast and the two stood in the darkness together, the gloom perhaps made the more intense because it contrasted so strongly with the sloping hillside flooded with bright moonlight, when Hilda's quick ear, ever on the alert for a sound on the wall above or the earth beneath them, heard a stealthy step, and she whispered suddenly:
"Hush! Some one is approaching along the west side."
They remained breathless a few moments listening, and Conrad was about to say he heard nothing, when round the corner came a muffled stooped figure,