The Dove in the Eagle's Nest

by Charlotte M. Yonge

  CHAPTER XIXTHE FIGHT AT THE FORD

  BY the early September sunrise the thicket beneath the pass wassheltering the twenty well-appointed reiters of Adlerstein, eachstanding, holding his horse by the bridle, ready to mount at the instant.In their rear were the serfs and artisans, some with axes, scythes, orploughshares, a few with cross-bows, and Jobst and his sons with the longblackened poles used for stirring their charcoal fires. In advance wereMaster Moritz and the two barons, the former in a stout plain steelhelmet, cuirass, and gauntlets, a sword, and those new-fashioned weapons,pistols; the latter in full knightly armour, exactly alike, from thegilt-spurred heel to the eagle-crested helm, and often moving restlesslyforward to watch for the enemy, though taking care not to be betrayed bythe glitter of their mail. So long did they wait that there was even adoubt whether it might not have been a false alarm; the boy wasvituperated, and it was proposed to despatch a spy to see whetheranything were doing at Schlangenwald.

  At length a rustling and rushing were heard; then a clank of armour.Ebbo vaulted into the saddle, and gave the word to mount; Schleiermacher,who always fought on foot, stepped up to him. “Keep back your men, HerrFreiherr. Let his design be manifest. We must not be said to havefallen on him on his way to the muster.”

  “It would be but as he served my father!” muttered Ebbo, forced, however,to restrain himself, though with boiling blood, as the tramp of horsesshook the ground, and bright armour became visible on the further side ofthe stream.

  For the first time, the brothers beheld the foe of their line. He wasseated on a clumsy black horse, and sheathed in full armour, and wasapparently a large heavy man, whose powerful proportions were becomingunwieldy as he advanced in life. The dragon on his crest and shieldwould have made him known to the twins, even without the deadly cursethat passed the Schneiderlein’s lips at the sight. As the armed troop,out-numbering the Adlersteiners by about a dozen, and followed by arabble with straw and pine brands, came forth on the meadow, the counthalted and appeared to be giving orders.

  “The ruffian! He is calling them on! Now—” began Ebbo.

  “Nay, there is no sign yet that he is not peacefully on his journey tothe camp,” responded Moritz; and, chafing with impatient fury, the knightwaited while Schlangenwald rode towards the old channel of theBraunwasser, and there, drawing his rein, and sitting like a statue inhis stirrups, he could hear him shout: “The lazy dogs are not astir yet.We will give them a réveille. Forward with your brands!”

  “Now!” and Ebbo’s cream-coloured horse leapt forth, as the whole bandflashed into the sunshine from the greenwood covert.

  “Who troubles the workmen on my land?” shouted Ebbo.

  “Who you may be I care not,” replied the count, “but when I findstrangers unlicensed on my lands, I burn down their huts. On, fellows!”

  “Back, fellows!” called Ebbo. “Whoso touches a stick on Adlersteinground shall suffer.”

  “So!” said the count, “this is the burgher-bred, burgher-fed varlet, thatcalls himself of Adlerstein! Boy, thou had best be warned. Wert thoutrue-blooded, it were worth my while to maintain my rights against thee.Craven as thou art, not even with spirit to accept my feud, I would fainnot have the trouble of sweeping thee from my path.”

  “Herr Graf, as true Freiherr and belted knight, I defy thee! I proclaimmy right to this ground, and whoso damages those I place there must dobattle with me.”

  “Thou wilt have it then,” said the count, taking his heavy lance from hissquire, closing his visor, and wheeling back his horse, so as to givespace for his career.

  Ebbo did the like, while Friedel on one side, and Hierom vonSchlangenwald on the other, kept their men in array, awaiting the issueof the strife between their leaders—the fire of seventeen against theforce of fifty-six.

  They closed in full shock, with shivered lances and rearing, pawinghorses, but without damage to either. Each drew his sword, and they werepressing together, when Heinz, seeing a Schlangenwalder aiming with hiscross-bow, rode at him furiously, and the mêlée became general; shotswere fired, not only from cross-bows, but from arquebuses, and in thethrong Friedel lost sight of the main combat between his brother and thecount.

  Suddenly however there was a crash, as of falling men and horses, with ashout of victory strangely mingled with a cry of agony, and both sidesbecame aware that their leaders had fallen. Each party rushed to itsfallen head. Friedel beheld Ebbo under his struggling horse, and anenemy dashing at his throat, and, flying to the rescue, he rode down theassailant, striking him with his sword; and, with the instinct of drivingthe foe as far as possible from his brother, he struck with a sort offrenzy, shouting fiercely to his men, and leaping over the dry bed of theriver, rushing onward with an intoxication of ardour that would haveseemed foreign to his gentle nature, but for the impetuous desire toprotect his brother. Their leaders down, the enemy had no one to rallythem, and, in spite of their superiority in number, gave way in confusionbefore the furious onset of Adlerstein. So soon, however, as Friedelperceived that he had forced the enemy far back from the scene ofconflict, his anxiety for his brother returned, and, leaving theretainers to continue the pursuit, he turned his horse. There, on thegreen meadow, lay on the one hand Ebbo’s cream-coloured charger, with hismaster under him, on the other the large figure of the count; and severalother prostrate forms likewise struggled on the sand and pebbles of thestrand, or on the turf.

  “Ay,” said the architect, who had turned with Friedel, “’twas a gallantfeat, Sir Friedel, and I trust there is no great harm done. Were it themere dint of the count’s sword, your brother will be little the worse.”

  “Ebbo! Ebbo mine, look up!” cried Friedel, leaping from his horse, andunclasping his brother’s helmet.

  “Friedel!” groaned a half-suffocated voice. “O take away the horse.”

  One or two of the artisans were at hand, and with their help the dyingsteed was disengaged from the rider, who could not restrain his moans,though Friedel held him in his arms, and endeavoured to move him asgently as possible. It was then seen that the deep gash from the count’ssword in the chest was not the most serious injury, but that an arquebusball had pierced his thigh, before burying itself in the body of hishorse; and that the limb had been further crushed and wrenched by theanimal’s struggles. He was nearly unconscious, and gasped with anguish,but, after Moritz had bathed his face and moistened his lips, as he layin his brother’s arms, he looked up with clearer eyes, and said: “Have Islain him? It was the shot, not he, that sent me down. Lives he?See—thou, Friedel—thou. Make him yield.”

  Transferring Ebbo to the arms of Schleiermacher, Friedel obeyed, andstepped towards the fallen foe. The wrongs of Adlerstein were indeedavenged, for the blood was welling fast from a deep thrust above thecollar-bone, and the failing, feeble hand was wandering uncertainly amongthe clasps of the gorget.

  “Let me aid,” said Friedel, kneeling down, and in his pity for the dyingman omitting the summons to yield, he threw back the helmet, and beheld agrizzled head and stern hard features, so embrowned by weather andinflamed by intemperance, that even approaching death failed to blanchthem. A scowl of malignant hate was in the eyes, and there was a thrillof angry wonder as they fell on the lad’s face. “Thou again,—thou whelp!I thought at least I had made an end of thee,” he muttered, unheard byFriedel, who, intent on the thought that had recurred to him with greatervividness than ever, was again filling Ebbo’s helmet with water. Herefreshed the dying man’s face with it, held it to his lips, and said:“Herr Graf, variance and strife are ended now. For heaven’s sake, saywhere I may find my father!”

  “So! Wouldst find him?” replied Schlangenwald, fixing his look on theeager countenance of the youth, while his hand, with a dying man’snervous agitation, was fumbling at his belt.

  “I would bless you for ever, could I but free him.”

  “Know then,” said the count, speaking very slowly, and still holding theyoung knight’s gaze with a so
rt of intent fascination, by the stony glareof his light gray eyes, “know that thy villain father is a Turkish slave,unless he be—as I hope—where his mongrel son may find him.”

  Therewith came a flash, a report; Friedel leaped back, staggered, fell;Ebbo started to a sitting posture, with horrified eyes, and a loudshriek, calling on his brother; Moritz sprang to his feet, shouting,“Shame! treason!”

  “I call you to witness that I had not yielded,” said the count. “There’san end of the brood!” and with a grim smile, he straightened his limbs,and closed his eyes as a dead man, ere the indignant artisans fell on himin savage vengeance.

  All this had passed like a flash of lightning, and Friedel had almost atthe instant of his fall flung himself towards his brother, and raisinghimself on one hand, with the other clasped Ebbo’s, saying, “Fear not; itis nothing,” and he was bending to take Ebbo’s head again on his knee,when a gush of dark blood, from his left side, caused Moritz to exclaim,“Ah! Sir Friedel, the traitor did his work! That is no slight hurt.”

  “Where? How? The ruffian!” cried Ebbo, supporting himself on his elbow,so as to see his brother, who rather dreamily put his hand to his side,and, looking at the fresh blood that immediately dyed it, said, “I do notfeel it. This is more numb dulness than pain.”

  “A bad sign that,” said Moritz, apart to one of the workmen, with whom heheld counsel how to carry back to the castle the two young knights, whoremained on the bank, Ebbo partly extended on the ground, partlysupported on the knee and arm of Friedel, who sat with his head droopingover him, their looks fixed on one another, as if conscious of nothingelse on earth.

  “Herr Freiherr,” said Moritz, presently, “have you breath to wind yourbugle to call the men back from the pursuit?”

  Ebbo essayed, but was too faint, and Friedel, rousing himself from thestupor, took the horn from him, and made the mountain echoes ring again,but at the expense of a great effusion of blood.

  By this time, however, Heinz was riding back, and a moment his exultationchanged to rage and despair, when he saw the condition of his younglords. Master Schleiermacher proposed to lay them on some of the planksprepared for the building, and carry them up the new road.

  “Methinks,” said Friedel, “that I could ride if I were lifted onhorseback, and thus would our mother be less shocked.”

  “Well thought,” said Ebbo. “Go on and cheer her. Show her thou canstkeep the saddle, however it may be with me,” he added, with a groan ofanguish.

  Friedel made the sign of the cross over him. “The holy cross keep us andher, Ebbo,” he said, as he bent to assist in laying his brother on theboards, where a mantle had been spread; then kissed his brow, saying, “Weshall be together again soon.”

  Ebbo was lifted on the shoulders of his bearers, and Friedel strove torise, with the aid of Heinz, but sank back, unable to use his limbs; andSchleiermacher was the more concerned. “It goes so with the backbone,”he said. “Sir Friedmund, you had best be carried.”

  “Nay, for my mother’s sake! And I would fain be on my good steed’s backonce again!” he entreated. And when with much difficulty he had beenlifted to the back of his cream-colour, who stood as gently and patientlyas if he understood the exigency of the moment, he sat upright, and wavedhis hand as he passed the litter, while Ebbo, on his side, signed to himto speed on and prepare their mother. Long, however, before the castlewas reached, dizzy confusion and leaden helplessness, when no longerstimulated by his brother’s presence, so grew on him that it was withmuch ado that Heinz could keep him in his saddle; but, when he saw hismother in the castle gateway, he again collected his forces, bade Heinzwithdraw his supporting arm, and, straightening himself, waved a greetingto her, as he called cheerily; “Victory, dear mother. Ebbo hasoverthrown the count, and you must not be grieved if it be at some costof blood.”

  “Alas, my son!” was all Christina could say, for his effort at gaietyformed a ghastly contrast with the gray, livid hue that overspread hisfair young face, his bloody armour, and damp disordered hair, and evenhis stiff unearthly smile.

  “Nay, motherling,” he added, as she came so near that he could put hisarm round her neck, “sorrow not, for Ebbo will need thee much. And,mother,” as his face lighted up, “there is joy coming to you. Only Iwould that I could have brought him. Mother, he died not under theSchlangenwald swords.”

  “Who? Not Ebbo?” cried the bewildered mother.

  “Your own Eberhard, our father,” said Friedel, raising her face to himwith his hand, and adding, as he met a startled look, “The cruel countowned it with his last breath. He is a Turkish slave, and surely heavenwill give him back to comfort you, even though we may not work hisfreedom! O mother, I had so longed for it, but God be thanked that atleast certainty was bought by my life.” The last words were utteredalmost unconsciously, and he had nearly fallen, as the excitement faded;but, as they were lifting him down, he bent once more and kissed theglossy neck of his horse. “Ah! poor fellow, thou too wilt be lonely.May Ebbo yet ride thee!”

  The mother had no time for grief. Alas! She might have full time forthat by and by! The one wish of the twins was to be together, andpresently both were laid on the great bed in the upper chamber, Ebbo in aswoon from the pain of the transport, and Friedel lying so as to meet thefirst look of recovery. And, after Ebbo’s eyes had re-opened, theywatched one another in silence for a short space, till Ebbo said: “Isthat the hue of death on thy face, brother?”

  “I well believe so,” said Friedel.

  “Ever together,” said Ebbo, holding his hand. “But alas! My mother!Would I had never sent thee to the traitor.”

  “Ah! So comes her comfort,” said Friedel. “Heard you not? He ownedthat my father was among the Turks.”

  “And I,” cried Ebbo. “I have withheld thee! O Friedel, had I listenedto thee, thou hadst not been in this fatal broil!”

  “Nay, ever together,” repeated Friedel. “Through Ulm merchants will mymother be able to ransom him. I know she will, so oft have I dreamt ofhis return. Then, mother, you will give him our duteous greetings;” andhe smiled again.

  Like one in a dream Christina returned his smile, because she saw hewished it, just as the moment before she had been trying to staunch hiswound.

  It was plain that the injuries, except Ebbo’s sword-cut, were far beyondher skill, and she could only endeavour to check the bleeding till betteraid could be obtained from Ulm. Thither Moritz Schleiermacher hadalready sent, and he assured her that he was far from despairing of theelder baron, but she derived little hope from his words, for gunshotwounds were then so ill understood as generally to prove fatal.

  Moreover, there was an undefined impression that the two lives must endin the same hour, even as they had begun. Indeed, Ebbo was suffering soterribly, and was so much spent with pain and loss of blood, that heseemed sinking much faster than Friedel, whose wound bled less freely,and who only seemed benumbed and torpid, except when he roused himself tospeak, or was distressed by the writhings and moans which, however, forhis sake, Ebbo restrained as much as he could.

  To be together seemed an all-sufficient consolation, and, when thechaplain came sorrowfully to give them the last rites of the Church, Ebboimplored him to pray that he might not be left behind long in purgatory.

  “Friedel,” he said, clasping his brother’s hand, “is even like the holySebastian or Maurice; but I—I was never such as he. O father, will it bemy penance to be left alone when he is in paradise?”

  “What is that?” said Friedel, partially roused by the sound of his name,and the involuntary pressure of his hand. “Nay, Ebbo; one repentance,one cross, one hope,” and he relapsed into a doze, while Ebbo murmuredover a broken, brief confession—exhausting by its vehemence ofself-accusation for his proud spirit, his wilful neglect of his lostfather, his hot contempt of prudent counsel.

  Then, when the priest came round to Friedel’s side, and the boy waswakened to make his shrift, the words were contrite an
d humble, but calmand full of trust. They were like two of their own mountain streams, thewaters almost equally undefiled by external stain—yet one struggling,agitated, whirling giddily round; the other still, transparent, and thelight of heaven smiling in its clearness.

  The farewell greetings of the Church on earth breathed soft and sweet intheir loftiness, and Friedel, though lying motionless, and with closedeyes, never failed in the murmured response, whether fully conscious ornot, while his brother only attended by fits and starts, and wasevidently often in too much pain to know what was passing.

  Help was nearer than had been hoped. The summons despatched the nightbefore had been responded to by the vintners and mercers; their trainbands had set forth, and their captain, a cautious man, never rode intothe way of blows without his surgeon at hand. And so it came to passthat, before the sun was low on that long and grievous day, DoctorJohannes Butteman was led into the upper chamber, where the mother lookedup to him with a kind of hopeless gratitude on her face, which was nearlyas white as those of her sons. The doctor soon saw that Friedel was pasthuman aid; but, when he declared that there was fair hope for the otheryouth, Friedel, whose torpor had been dispelled by the examination,looked up with his beaming smile, saying, “There, motherling.”

  The doctor then declared that he could not deal with the Baron’s woundunless he were the sole occupant of the bed, and this sentence broughtthe first cloud of grief or dread to Friedel’s brow, but only for amoment. He looked at his brother, who had again fainted at the firsttouch of his wounded limb, and said, “It is well. Tell the dear Ebbothat I cannot help it if after all I go to the praying, and leave him thefighting. Dear, dear Ebbo! One day together again and for ever! Ileave thee for thine own sake.” With much effort he signed the crossagain on his brother’s brow, and kissed it long and fervently. Then, asall stood round, reluctant to effect this severance, or disturb one onwhom death was visibly fast approaching, he struggled up on his elbow,and held out the other hand, saying, “Take me now, Heinz, ere Ebbo reviveto be grieved. The last sacrifice,” he further whispered, whilst almostgiving himself to Heinz and Moritz to be carried to his own bed in theturret chamber.

  There, even as they laid him down, began what seemed to be the mortalagony, and, though he was scarcely sensible, his mother felt that herprime call was to him, while his brother was in other hands. Perhaps itwas well for her. Surgical practice was rough, and wounds made byfire-arms were thought to have imbibed a poison that made treatment besupposed efficacious in proportion to the pain inflicted. When Ebbo wasrecalled by the torture to see no white reflection of his own face on thepillow beside him, and to feel in vain for the grasp of the cold damphand, a delirious frenzy seized him, and his struggles were frustratingthe doctor’s attempts, when a low soft sweet song stole through the opendoor.

  “Friedel!” he murmured, and held his breath to listen. All through thedeclining day did the gentle sound continue; now of grand chants or hymnscaught from the cathedral choir, now of songs of chivalry or saintlylegend so often sung over the evening fire; the one flowing into theother in the wandering of failing powers, but never failing in the tendersweetness that had distinguished Friedel through life. And, wheneverthat voice was heard, let them do to him what they would, Ebbo was stillabsorbed in intense listening so as not to lose a note, and lulled almostout of sense of suffering by that swan-like music. If his attendantsmade such noise as to break in on it, or if it ceased for a moment, theanguish returned, but was charmed away by the weakest, faintestresumption of the song. Probably Friedel knew not, with any earthlysense, what he was doing, but to the very last he was serving his twinbrother as none other could have aided him in his need.

  The September sun had set, twilight was coming on, the doctor had workedhis stern will, and Ebbo, quivering in every fibre, lay spent on hispillow, when his mother glided in, and took her seat near him, thoughwhere she hoped he would not notice her presence. But he raised hiseyelids, and said, “He is not singing now.”

  “Singing indeed, but where we cannot hear him,” she answered. “‘Whiterthan the snow, clearer than the ice-cave, more solemn than the choir.They will come at last.’ That was what he said, even as he enteredthere.” And the low dove-like tone and tender calm face continued uponEbbo the spell that the chant had left. He dozed as though still lulledby its echo.