The Outlaws of Falkensteig

by Rafael Sabatini

  "Beim blute Gottes," I cried, “I'll kill the man."

  "He has powerful friends. The King—"

  "I care not. Where can I find him?"

  "Pish. Tarry a moment, Sir Captain. I have devised a plan for you which is far safer and far prettier than the mere slaying of the Count. It will make him the butt of every clownish tongue in Sachsenberg when the affair is known. Now mark me well. Lindenstein and Wulff have hit upon the idea of impersonating you and a friend of yours—let us say myself. Good! Now I have thought that it would be vastly entertaining to impersonate Lindenstein and Wulff in their impersonation of you and me. Wulff is an utter stranger at the Schloss Eberholz. He is to enter the ground at ten o'clock, and cast pebbles at the lady's window until she opens it. Then he throws up his rope ladder and whispers your name. She guesses that he is an agent of yours, catches the ladder and makes it fast. Up he goes with his falsehood, and down he comes with the lady. Such, in brief, is the plan of action.

  "Meanwhile the Count sets out at dusk for Abenthurn, where he will sup, repairing later to the Chapel of St. Christopher to keep the assignation which has been made for midnight."

  "What is your plan?” I inquired feverishly.

  "I have already told you. For the rest, if you will trust me I can promise you success."

  I still pressed him for a more detailed answer, and when I got it I was forced to laugh despite my mingled anger and anxiety and to give him the confidence he sought.

  Next he desired me to write three lines that he might deliver to Agathe, and that would lead her to trust him. This I did, and in addition I drew from my finger a ring which Agathe herself had given me, and which I bade him show her, thereby dispelling any doubt of his sincerity that she might foster.

  Then, deeming it unwise to leave Lindenstein and his ally too long unwatched, Felsheim left me, and returned to the “Zwei Tauben” inn. In a fever of impatience, and tormented by a hundred dreads born of my own inactivity, I awaited his return.

  At last he came half-an-hour or so after sunset, and success was written on his comely face.

  "I waited to see my Lord of Lindenstein ride out for Abenthurn,” he said. “He has just left. Courage, Sir Captain, everything goes well. I visited the Schloss two hours ago, and introduced myself to Madame as the Count's emissary, of whom Lindenstein had already spoken with her. I argued that I thought it would be well if I had speech with the maid, and prepared her for the planned elopement, to save any difficulties later. Madame suspected nought. She concurred throughout with me, and forthwith led me to Mistress Agathe—as bonny a maid as ever I beheld—to whom she presented me as a friend of Count Lindenstein, and bearer of a message from him to her.

  "She left us alone, and in the twinkling of an eye I had whispered my true errand in the lady's ear. Beim Grabe! You should have seen the scornful air wherewith she had received me, melt into one of eagerness and joy. It made me tremble to think how easily that knave Wulff might have duped her, had we not forestalled him. I told her of the plot that Lindenstein had hatched, and how we had thought of circumventing it, showing her your letter and the ring as proofs of my own integrity. All is arranged, and at half-past nine to-night she will come to us in the garden; not by a rope-ladder from her own window, but through one of the windows of the dining-hall, which is but a yard or so from the ground. Then away to Abenthurn to get Lindenstein's priest to marry you. Now time presses, and we must sup."

  Impatience made me fretful and robbed me of my appetite; but Felsheim made amends for that by supping like two men and sipping like four. At last the meal was ended, my score settled, and our horses at the door. Night had fallen dark and moonless, and nine o'clock had struck when we got into our saddles and rode out towards Schloss Eberholz, which stands on a hillock beyond Fortstadt.

  At the foot of that little eminence we drew rein. Felsheim alighted, and leaving me to hold the horses he disappeared among the shrubs, which grow thick about the place, and above which the castle loomed like a great black shadow in the night. There followed for me another period of suspense, which happily was brief. At the end of some few minutes Felsheim reappeared, and with him a little figure in cloak and hood. With a glad cry she ran towards me, and as I caught her in my arms she nestled her winsome head against my shoulder, and there, laughing and sobbing in a breath she bid fair to remain for ever. It was Felsheim's voice, with that satirical ring from which it was never free, that awakened us to the situation.

  "Time presses, Sir Captain, and since one place is much the same as another to those whom love has rendered blind, perhaps you will see fit to proceed."

  A moment later we were cantering away in the direction of Abenthurn, Agathe still in my arms since we were both forced to ride the one horse.

  What need to dwell upon all the things whereof Agathe and I conversed during that ride? Felsheim—with commendable discretion—rode on ahead and left us to ourselves—and so, by my faith, shall you.

  It wanted rather more than half-an-hour to midnight when we reached the Chapel of St. Christopher.

  Felsheim sprang to the ground and bounded up the half-dozen steps into the porch of the church, where darkness swallowed him. A moment later he reappeared with the information that the priest was already there.

  We dismounted forthwith, and Felsheim led away the horses to conceal them, so that should we be surprised their presence would not betray us.

  When this was done—and it occupied some precious moments—we ascended the steps together, and, lifting the latch, pushed open the door. Black, impenetrable gloom filled the little chapel, save by the altar at the far end from which four tapers shed a melancholy ring of yellow light, serving but to accentuate the shadows beyond its narrow reach. By the altar loomed a great, cassocked figure, looking for all the world as if it had been fashioned out of the darkness of the place.

  We went swiftly up the aisle, our footsteps ringing out with hollow clatter, and stood at last within the weird circle of that dismal light.

  "So, you are arrived?” quoth the priest in a whisper. “All is ready. Let us proceed.” Then suddenly, as chancing to turn my head towards Agathe, the light fell full upon my face. “How now?” he ejaculated, thrusting forward his long, lean countenance. “You are not the Graf von Lindenstein."

  "What of that, sir priest, what of that?” I retorted hastily. “Are there to be no weddings in Sachsenberg saving those of my Lord of Lindenstein. Come, hasten, sir priest."

  "But—"

  "I know, I know. Here, take this purse, and say masses with the money."

  At last it was over, and not a moment too soon. Scarce were the lines completed, when:

  "Hist!” whispered Felsheim at my elbow. “They come."

  From without came the thud of hoofs growing rapidly louder. Agathe drew near to me instinctively seeking protection. The priest looked askance.

  "Let us away, Felsheim. Quick!"

  He took two steps down the aisle, then turned.

  "Too late,” he said, and his hand went to his sword which he loosened in its scabbard. Then drawing a petronel from his breast, he pointed the long, shiny barrel at the priest, whose face went ashen at the sight.

  "My Lord of Lindenstein comes,” he said. “We do not wish that he shall find us here, and we shall remain concealed in the darkness by the door. Until he is gone this petronel will be pointed at you. Be circumspect and you have naught to fear. But betray us by word or sign, or as much as hint that there has been a marriage here to-night, and—well, our Holy Father, the Pope, will canonise another saint."

  As he finished speaking, the horseman pulled up without, and we had scarcely time to gain the protection of the gloom, when the door opened, and a tall figure stood on the threshold, sharply outlined in the white radiance of the now risen moon. Simultaneously, in a voice which I recognised as Lindenstein's, came the words:

  "Not yet arrived?"

  "Not yet, my lord,” answered the priest in a quavering voice.

  "'Tis
high time. Ah! I hear them."

  And indeed as he spoke I again caught the sound of hoofs in the distance. He closed the door and strode leisurely up the aisle.

  As he came into the light, I started to see that he wore the scarlet and gold livery of the guards. He had bedraggled his hair until it fell about his face so as to almost mask his features. Not content with this, however, he calmly ascended the altar steps, and blew out two of the four tapers.

  "'Tis a wanton waste of wax, and such as befits not the occasion,” he laughed.

  Then followed a season of waiting with bated breath, my little Agathe clinging to me the while, and my Lord of Lindenstein striding silently up and down the aisle, until I feared that in one of his turnings he must chance upon us. I would have had a mass said for his soul if he had done so. At last the waiting came to an end, but upon it followed something which well nigh made me cry out with amazement.

  Hermann Wulff stood in the doorway, and by his side a woman, cloaked and hooded.

  Like one in a dream I watched him lead her up to the altar where Lindenstein stood waiting. I saw the Count stoop and kiss her hand, then I heard the droning Latin of the service. I saw them kneel, I heard the benediction and I saw them rise, then come together down the aisle, and pass out into the moonlight, whilst Wulff held the door for him, leaving it wide as he followed in their wake.

  "My God, Felsheim, what does it mean?"

  A smothered chuckle burst from the outlaw.

  "It means—hush. Listen."

  Through the open door came Lindenstein's voice, harshly playful.

  "And now, my little one, will you not kiss your husband?” Then the voice changed suddenly into a tone of ungovernable fury. “Heavens! What baggage have we here?"

  In my excitement I advanced a step, and, whilst keeping in the shadow, I looked out. Lindenstein had drawn the hood from the girl's head, and the look of rage and horror on his face, as he gazed at her in the moonlight, was fearful to behold.

  "Herrgott!" bellowed the Count. “What have you brought me, fool? Is this a jest, you hound? Speak, will you?"

  "Is it not Mistress Agathe?"

  "By Heaven, it is not!"

  "It is not?” echoed Wulff, coming a step nearer. “Then who, in Heaven's name, is it?"

  "Do you ask, you dog? Do you need telling that you have married me to a kitchen wench of the Schloss Eberholz?"

  The girl sank down in a heap on the bottom step of the porch, and burst into loud sobs. Wulff stared vacantly from one to the other of them for a moment. Then the ludicrous side of the affair broke full upon his mind, and he burst into a loud guffaw.

  "You laugh, you knave!” shrieked Lindenstein, beside himself with fury. Then with a frightful oath he sprang forward, and struck his accomplice on the mouth.

  The laugh died in Wulff's throat, and with the roar of a maddened animal, he got out his sword and rushed at the Count.

  "No man boasts that he struck Hermann Wulff and lived,” he snarled. “Guard yourself!"

  "The Countess of Lindenstein is like to become a widow,” quoth Felsheim in my ear. Nor was he wrong, for Hermann Wulff was one of the most dangerous swordsmen in Sachsenberg. It was soon over. A quick feint, and, before my lord could recover, something glittering showed itself through his back, and with a shriek he fell.

  Then Wulff—without so much as a glance at the affrighted girl who sat shuddering and moaning on the steps—untethered his horse, and springing into the saddle rode off at a gallop.

  "You saw what occurred?” quoth Felsheim of the priest who came up at that moment.

  "I see the result. I did not see it happen else I should have interfered,” he answered with a groan.

  "That is enough. If the man dies you will be able to bear witness how he met his end, as will also that poor wench whom I had not thought to pain by such a spectacle. You will minister to the Count, and here is money to provide for the immediate wants of the Countess. Now let us go."

  We rode on to Steinau that very night. There, before entering the town, Felsheim took his leave.

  "You owe me a matter of fifty gold crowns which it cost me to bribe Lischen, the kitchen maid, to wait in Mistress Agathe's room for Hermann Wulff, and become Countess of Lindenstein,” he said.

  "I owe you far more, Felsheim."

  "Tush, of that we will not speak. But the money you can pay me when next we meet—which I trust in all conscience may not be soon, for I am not minded to fall into the hands of the law just yet. Farewell, madame. Farewell, Sir Captain. May happiness attend you."

  He kissed Agathe's hand, pressed mine, then, wheeling his horse, he rode away into the night to his outlaw's home in the hills.

  THE OUTLAW AND THE LADY

  Andreas von Felsheim, the famous outlaw, chanced to ride alone one evening through the woods of Altenau. As he rode—being, for all his sins, a merry-hearted rogue—he sang a warlike ditty of his native Württemberg. He had just entered upon a track which in a few moments would bring him out of the wood, when of a sudden he came upon a lady garbed in a riding-dress of scarlet velvet and gold lace, who sat in a forlorn attitude, her back against a tree.

  She greeted his appearance with a little cry of gladness followed by a groan of pain, whereupon, concluding that she had met with some mischance, and that she sought assistance, he reined in, and hat in hand laid his services at her commands.

  "Truly, sir,” quoth she, in a voice whose natural sweetness was now accentuated by a plaintive note, “I am grieved to trouble you, but your aid would come most opportunely."

  "Will Madame tell me in what I can obey her?"

  "Alas, sir, I was riding this way half-an-hour ago, and being deep in thought at the time I did not remark that my horse had taken fright at I know not what, until I found that the unmannerly beast had flung me from his back, and scampered off. In falling I so hurt my foot that I cannot stand, and had you not chanced to pass this way I might have been forced to spend the night here."

  "Your foot is hurt, Madame; I am somewhat skilled in these matters; pray let me see to it."

  She looked up at him as he came nearer, and her cheeks reddened; then with a little laugh of confusion she waved him back.

  "Nay, sir; ‘twere troubling you overmuch. I do but crave your aid to reach the Castle of Huldenstein."

  Andreas was silent for a moment as if some hesitancy beset him. During that moment he allowed himself to look attentively at her pale, oval face, from out of which a pair of dark eyes—large and liquid as a child's—frankly returned his gaze; and as he looked he realised that she was young and very beautiful.

  "If you will permit me to lift you on to my horse, Madame,” he said at length, “we will reach Huldenstein in half-an-hour."

  He took her lissom figure in his arms and lifted her, as though she were but a feather's weight, into the saddle. But for a second he had held her, and a ringlet of her perfumed hair had brushed against his cheek, and that second was answerable for much that befell thereafter.

  Taking the bridle, he turned his horse and led it back part of the way he had just travelled. And as they went they talked of many things, as people will who are thus situated. Presently they emerged from the wood, and their way lay along the bank of the river Leub, with the Falkensteig, the outlaw's stronghold, looming up on the opposite shore, and raising its crest towards the sky.

  "Is not yonder a grim looking mountain?” she said, gazing across the water. “A fit home, indeed, for the bold outlaws it shelters."

  The shadow of a smile flitted across Felsheim's handsome face.

  "Is it not sad,” she went on, “to think that some day that brave and reckless freelance, Felsheim, will probably die the common felon's death on the gallows at Schwerlingen?"

  Felsheim looked at her for a moment, then laughed.

  "Beim Grabe, Madame, you speak of him as of some hero of old."

  "How else would you have me speak of him? A hero of the brave, dead days is what he most resembles. It is, ind
eed, to live, and to taste the joys of liberty and power, to be as he is—it is to be a man!"

  "Alas, Madame, it may be as you say,” laughed Andreas, “but to the law he is known as a poor thief who gives the King much trouble, and as a poor thief they'll hang him, no doubt—when they have caught him."

  After he had consigned her into the care of the servants who answered his knock at the gates of Huldenstein, and she had thanked him prettily for his service, he climbed into the saddle and rode briskly away, his mind full of the woman who regretted that Andreas von Felsheim would hang some day.

  So far did such thoughts prove master of Andreas von Felsheim, that after that evening when he met her in the woods of Altenau, rarely a day went by but that he descended into the valley upon some pretext or other, and at times with no pretext save that he needed exercise.

  Then it occurred to him to cross the river in a boat, for which purpose he borrowed the rude craft of one Anton Hübli—a peasant who dwelt on the spurs of the Falkensteig—and in it he would row across the Leub, and drift past the windows of the castle, which rose sheer from the water's edge.

  On the occasion of his third journey in this fashion, he beheld her walking in the garden, which ran beside the stream, and upon seeing her his heart gave a great bound, and he realised in full what had befallen him.

  She saw him, and recognising him, came forward with a smile upon her full, rich lips, and greeted him with pretty archness as her knight and deliverer. And so emboldened was he by the manner of her greeting that he craved her leave to quit his boat and walk with her in the garden, which leave was granted him with a readiness that all but drove him mad with hope and joy.

  He learnt that day that she was Sophia of Huldenstein, and that she lived alone in that castle, the last of her race, since Caspar von Huldenstein had become a monk and Fritz had been assassinated in Schwerlingen. In return he told her—and the lie scorched his tongue—that he was Andreas von Bonau, a gentleman of Württemberg to whom fortune had been none too kind.