IV.
The White Cross on the Hill.
Here the glassy waters of the River Rhine, holding upon its
bosom a mimic picture of the blue sky and white clouds floating
above, runs smoothly around a jutting point of land, St.
Michaelsburg, rising from the reedy banks of the stream, sweeps
up with a smooth swell until it cuts sharp and clear against the
sky. Stubby vineyards covered its earthy breast, and field and
garden and orchard crowned its brow, where lay the Monastery of
St. Michaelsburg - "The White Cross on the Hill." There within
the white walls, where the warm yellow sunlight slept, all was
peaceful quietness, broken only now and then by the crowing of
the cock or the clamorous cackle of a hen, the lowing of kine or
the bleating of goats, a solitary voice in prayer, the faint
accord of distant singing, or the resonant toll of the monastery
bell from the high-peaked belfry that overlooked the hill and
valley and the smooth, far-winding stream. No other sounds broke
the stillness, for in this peaceful haven was never heard the
clash of armor, the ring of iron-shod hoofs, or the hoarse call
to arms.
All men were not wicked and cruel and fierce in that dark, far-
away age; all were not robbers and terror-spreading tyrants,
even in that time when men's hands were against their neighbors,
and war and rapine dwelt in place of peace and justice.
Abbot Otto, of St. Michaelsburg, was a gentle, patient, pale.
faced old man; his white hands were soft and smooth, and no one
would have thought that they could have known the harsh touch of
sword-hilt and lance. And yet, in the days of the Emperor
Frederick - the grandson of the great Red-beard - no one stood
higher in the prowess of arms than he. But all at once - for why,
no man could tell - a change came over him, and in the flower of
his youth and fame and growing power he gave up everything in
life and entered the quiet sanctuary of that white monastery on
the hill-side, so far away from the tumult and the conflict of
the world in which he had lived.
Some said that it was because the lady he had loved had loved
his brother, and that when they were married Otto of Wolbergen
had left the church with a broken heart.
But such stories are old songs that have been sung before.
Clatter! clatter! Jingle! jingle! It was a full-armed knight
that came riding up the steep hill road that wound from left to
right and right to left amid the vineyards on the slopes of St.
Michaelsburg. Polished helm and corselet blazed in the noon
sunlight, for no knight in those days dared to ride the roads
except in full armor. In front of him the solitary knight
carried a bundle wrapped in the folds of his coarse gray cloak.
It was a sorely sick man that rode up the heights of St.
Michaelsburg. His head hung upon his breast through the
faintness of weariness and pain; for it was the Baron Conrad.
He had left his bed of sickness that morning, had saddled his
horse in the gray dawn with his own hands, and had ridden away
into the misty twilight of the forest without the knowledge of
anyone excepting the porter, who, winking and blinking in the
bewilderment of his broken slumber, had opened the gates to the
sick man, hardly knowing what he was doing, until he beheld his
master far away, clattering down the steep bridle-path.
Eight leagues had he ridden that day with neither a stop nor a
stay; but now at last the end of his journey had come, and he
drew rein under the shade of the great wooden gateway of St.
Michaelsburg.
He reached up to the knotted rope and gave it a pull, and from
within sounded the answering ring of the porter's bell. By and
by a little wicket opened in the great wooden portals, and the
gentle, wrinkled face of old Brother Benedict, the porter,
peeped out at the strange iron-clad visitor and the great black
war-horse, streaked and wet with the sweat of the journey,
flecked and dappled with flakes of foam. A few words passed
between them, and then the little window was closed again; and
within, the shuffling pat of the sandalled feet sounded fainter
and fainter, as Brother Benedict bore the message from Baron
Conrad to Abbot Otto, and the mail-clad figure was left alone,
sitting there as silent as a statue.
By and by the footsteps sounded again; there came a noise of
clattering chains and the rattle of the key in the lock, and the
rasping of the bolts dragged back. Then the gate swung slowly
open, and Baron Conrad rode into the shelter of the White Cross,
and as the hoofs of his war-horse clashed upon the stones of the
courtyard within, the wooden gate swung slowly to behind him.
Abbot Otto stood by the table when Baron Conrad entered the
high-vaulted room from the farther end. The light from the oriel
window behind the old man shed broken rays of light upon him,
and seemed to frame his thin gray hairs with a golden glory. His
white, delicate hand rested upon the table beside him, and upon
some sheets of parchment covered with rows of ancient Greek
writing which he had been engaged in deciphering.
Clank ! clank! clank ! Baron Conrad strode across the stone
floor, and then stopped short in front of the good old man.
"What dost thou seek here, my son ?" said the Abbot.
"I seek sanctuary for my son and thy brother's grandson," said
the Baron Conrad, and he flung back the folds of his cloak and
showed the face of the sleeping babe.
For a while the Abbot said nothing, but stood gazing dreamily at
the baby. After a while he looked up. "And the child's mother,"
said he - "what hath she to say at this?"
"She hath naught to say," said Baron Conrad, hoarsely, and then
stopped short in his speech. "She is dead," said he, at last, in
a husky voice, "and is with God's angels in paradise."
The Abbot looked intently in the Baron's face. "So!" said he,
under his breath, and then for the first time noticed how white
and drawn was the Baron's face. "Art sick thyself?" he asked.
"Ay," said the Baron, "I have come from death's door. But that
is no matter. Wilt thou take this little babe into sanctuary? My
house is a vile, rough place, and not fit for such as he, and
his mother with the blessed saints in heaven." And once more
Conrad of Drachenhausen's face began twitching with the pain of
his thoughts.
"Yes," said the old man, gently, "he shall live here," and he
stretched out his hands and took the babe. "Would," said he,
"that all the little children in these dark times might be thus
brought to the house of God, and there learn mercy and peace,
instead of rapine and war."
For a while he stood looking down in silence at the baby in his
arms, but with his mind far away upon other things. At last he
roused himself with a start. "And thou," said he to the Baron
Conrad - "hath not thy heart been chastened and softened by
this? Surely thou wilt not go back to thy old life of rapine and
extortion?"
"Nay," said Baron Conrad, gruffly, "I will rob the city swine no
longer, for that was the last thing that my dear one asked of
me."
The old Abbot's face lit up with a smile. "I am right glad that
thy heart was softened, and that thou art willing at last to
cease from war and violence."
"Nay," cried the Baron, roughly, "I said nothing of ceasing from
war. By heaven, no! I will have revenge!" And he clashed his
iron foot upon the floor and clinched his fists and ground his
teeth together. "Listen," said he, "and I will tell thee how my
troubles happened. A fortnight ago I rode out upon an expedition
against a caravan of fat burghers in the valley of Gruenhoffen.
They outnumbered us many to one, but city swine such as they are
not of the stuff to stand against our kind for a long time.
Nevertheless, while the men-at-arms who guarded the caravan were
staying us with pike and cross-bow from behind a tree which they
had felled in front of a high bridge the others had driven the
pack-horses off, so that by the time we had forced the bridge
they were a league or more away. We pushed after them as hard as
we were able, but when we came up with them we found that they
had been joined by Baron Frederick of Trutz-Drachen, to whom for
three years and more the burghers of Gruenstadt have been paying
a tribute for his protection against others. Then again they made a
stand, and this time the Baron Frederick himself was with them.
But though the dogs fought well, we were forcing them back, and
might have got the better of them, had not my horse stumbled upon
a sloping stone, and so fell and rolled over upon me. While I lay
there with my horse upon me, Baron Frederick ran me down with
his lance, and gave me that foul wound that came so near to
slaying me - and did slay my dear wife. Nevertheless, my men
were able to bring me out from that press and away, and we had
bitten the Trutz-Drachen dogs so deep that they were too sore to
follow us, and so let us go our way in peace. But when those
fools of mine brought me to my castle they bore me lying
upon a litter to my wife's chamber. There she beheld me, and,
thinking me dead, swooned a death-swoon, so that she only lived
long enough to bless her new-born babe and name it Otto, for
you, her father's brother. But, by heavens! I will have revenge,
root and branch, upon that vile tribe, the Roderburgs of Trutz-
Drachen. Their great-grandsire built that castle in scorn of
Baron Casper in the old days; their grandsire slew my father's
grandsire; Baron Nicholas slew two of our kindred; and now this
Baron Frederick gives me that foul wound and kills my dear wife
through my body." Here the Baron stopped short; then of a
sudden, shaking his fist above his head, he cried out in his
hoarse voice: "I swear by all the saints in heaven, either the
red cock shall crow over the roof of Trutz-Drachen or else it
shall crow over my house! The black dog shall sit on Baron
Frederick's shoulders or else he shall sit on mine!" Again he
stopped, and fixing his blazing eyes upon the old man, "Hearest
thou that, priest?" said he, and broke into a great boisterous
laugh.
Abbot Otto sighed heavily, but he tried no further to persuade
the other into different thoughts.
"Thou art wounded," said he, at last, in a gentle voice; "at
least stay here with us until thou art healed."
"Nay," said the Baron, roughly, "I will tarry no longer than to
hear thee promise to care for my child."
"I promise," said the Abbot; "but lay aside thy armor, and
rest."
"Nay," said the Baron, "I go back again to-day."
At this the Abbot cried out in amazement: "Sure thou, wounded
man, would not take that long journey without a due stay for
resting! Think! Night will be upon thee before thou canst reach
home again, and the forests are beset with wolves."
The Baron laughed. "Those are not the wolves I fear," said he.
"Urge me no further, I must return to-night; yet if thou hast a
mind to do me a kindness thou canst give me some food to eat and
a flask of your golden Michaelsburg; beyond these, I ask no
further favor of any man, be he priest or layman."
"What comfort I can give thee thou shalt have," said the Abbot,
in his patient voice, and so left the room to give the needful
orders, bearing the babe with him.
