The Count had requested the girl to be gone, and surely should have been contented now that she had withdrawn herself, yet so shifty a thing is human nature, that no sooner were his commands obeyed than he began to bewail their fulfilment. He accused himself of being a double fool, first, for not holding her when he had her; and secondly, having allowed her to depart, he bemoaned the fact that he had acted rudely to her, and thus had probably made her return impossible. His prison seemed inexpressibly dreary lacking her presence. Once or twice he called out her name, but the echoing empty walls alone replied.

For the first time in his life the heavy sleep of the camp deserted him, and in his dreams he pursued a phantom woman, who continually dissolved in his grasp, now laughingly, now in anger.

The morning found him deeply depressed, and he thought the unaccustomed restraints of a prison were having their effect on the spirits of a man heretofore free. He sat silently on the bench watching the door.

At last, to his great joy, he heard the rattle of bolts being withdrawn. The door opened slowly to the small extent allowed by the chains, but no one entered and the Count sat still, concealed from the view of whoever stood without.

“My Lord Count,” came the sweet tones of the girl and the listener with joy, fancied he detected in it a suggestion of apprehension, doubtless caused by the fact that the room seemed deserted. “My Lord Count, I have brought your breakfast; will you not come and receive it?”

Herbert rose slowly and came within range of his jailer’s vision. The girl stood in the hall, a repast that would have tempted an epicure arrayed on the wooden trencher she held in her hands.

“Beatrix, come in,” he said.

“I fear that in stooping, some portion of this burden may fall. Will you not take the trencher?”

The young man stepped to the opening and, taking the tray from her, placed it on the bench as he had previously done; then repeated his invitation.

“You were displeased with my company before, my Lord, and I am loath again to offend.”

“Beatrix, I beg you to enter. I have something to say to you.”

“Stout chains bar not words, my Lord. Speak and I shall listen.”

“What I have to say, is for your ear alone.”

“Then are the conditions perfect for such converse, my Lord. No guard stands within this hall.”

The Count sighed deeply, turned and sat again on the bench, burying his face in his hands. The maiden having given excellent reasons why she should not enter, thus satisfying her sense of logic, now set logic at defiance, slipped under the lowest chain and stood within the room, and, so that there might be no accusation that she did things by halves, closed the door leaning her back against it. The knight looked up at her and saw that she too had rested but indifferently. Her lovely eyes half veiled, showed traces of weeping, and there was a wistful expression in her face that touched him tenderly, and made him long for her; nevertheless he kept a rigid government upon himself, and sat there regarding her, she flushing, slightly under his scrutiny, not daring to return his ardent gaze.

“Beatrix,” he said slowly, “I have acted towards you like a boor and a ruffian, as indeed I am; but let this plead for me, that I have ever been used to the roughness of the camp, bereft of gentler influences. I ask your forgiveness.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You are a noble of the Empire, and I but a lowly serving-maid.”

“Nay, that cuts me to the heart, and is my bitterest condemnation. A true man were courteous to high and low alike. Now, indeed, you overwhelm me with shame, maiden of the woodlands.”

“Such was not my intention, my Lord. I hold you truly noble in nature as well as in rank, otherwise I stood not here.”

“Beatrix, does any woodlander come from the forest to the castle walls and there give signal intended for you alone?”

“Oh, no, my Lord.”

“Perhaps you have kindly preference for some one within this stronghold?”

“You forget, my Lord, that the castle is ruled by a lady, and that the preference you indicate would accord ill with her womanly government.”

“In truth I know little of woman’s rule, but given such, I suppose the case would stand as you say. The Countess then frowns upon lovers’ meetings.”

“How could it be otherwise?”

“Have you told her of—of yesterday?”

“You mean of your refusal to come to terms with her? Yes, my Lord.”

“I mean nothing of the kind, Beatrix.”

“No one outside this room has been told aught to your disadvantage, my Lord,” said the girl blushing rose-red.

“Then she suspects nothing?”

“Suspects nothing of what, my Lord?”

“That I love you, Beatrix.”

The girl caught her breath, and seemed about to fly, but gathering courage, remained, and said speaking hurriedly and in some confusion: “As I did not suspect it myself I see not how my Lady should have made any such surmise, but indeed it may be so, for she chided me bitterly for remaining so long with you, and made me weep with her keen censure; yet am I here now against her express wish and command, but that is because of my strong sympathy for you and my belief that the Countess has wrongfully treated you.”

“I care nothing for the opinion of that harridan, except that it may bring harsh usage to you; but Beatrix, I have told you bluntly of my love for you, answer me as honestly.”

“My Lord, you spoke just now of a woodlander—”

“Ah, there is one then. Indeed, I feared as much, for there can be none on all the Rhine as beautiful or as good as you.”

“There are many woodlanders, my Lord, and many women more beautiful than I. What I was about to say was that I would rather be the wife of the poorest forester, and lived in the roughest hut on the hillside, than dwell otherwise in the grandest castle on the Rhine.”

“Surely, surely. But you shall dwell in my castle of Schonburg as my most honoured wife, if you but will it so.”

“Then, my Lord, I must bid you beware of what you propose. Your wife must be chosen from the highest in the land, and not from the lowliest. It is not fitting that you should endeavour to raise a serving-maid to the position of Countess von Schonburg. You would lose caste among your equals, and bring unhappiness upon us both.”

Count Herbert grasped his sword and lifting it, cried angrily: “By the Cross I serve, the man who refuses to greet my wife as he would greet the Empress, shall feel the weight of this blade.”

“You cannot kill a whisper with a sword, my Lord.”

“I can kill the whisperer.”

“That can you not, my Lord, for the whisperer will be a woman.”

“Then out upon them, we will have no traffic with them. I have lived too long away from the petty restrictions of civilisation to be bound down by them now, for I come from a region where a man’s sword and not his rank preserved his life.” As he spoke he again raised his huge weapon aloft, but now held it by the blade so that it stood out against the bright window like a black cross of iron, and his voice rang forth defiantly: “With that blade I won my honour; by the symbol of its hilt I hope to obtain my soul’s salvation, on both united I swear to be to you a true lover and a loyal husband.”

With swift motion the girl covered her face with her hands and Herbert saw the crystal drops trickle between her fingers. For long she could not speak and then mastering her emotion, she said brokenly:

“I cannot accept, I cannot now accept. I can take no advantage of a helpless prisoner. At midnight I shall come and set you free, thus my act may atone for the great wrong of your imprisonment; atone partially if not wholly. When you are at liberty, if you wish to forget your words, which I can never do, then am I amply repaid that my poor presence called them forth. If you remember them, and demand of the Countess that I stand as hostage for peace, she is scarce likely to deny you, for she loves not war. But know that nothing you have said is to be held against you, for I would have you leave this castle as free as when you entered it. And now, my Lord, farewell.”

Before the unready man could make motion to prevent her, she had opened the door and was gone, leaving it open, thus compelling the prisoner to be his own jailer and close it, for he had no wish now to leave the castle alone when he had been promised such guidance.

The night seemed to Count Herbert the longest he had ever spent, as he sat on the bench, listening for the withdrawing of the bolts; if indeed they were in their sockets, which he doubted. At last the door was pushed softly open, and bending under the chain, he stood in the outside hall, peering through the darkness, to catch sight of his conductor. A great window of stained glass occupied the southern end of the hall, and against it fell the rays of the full moon now high in the heavens, filling the dim and lofty apartment with a coloured radiance resembling his visions of the half tones of fairyland. Like a shadow stood the cloaked figure of the girl, who timidly placed her small hand in his great palm, and that touch gave a thrill of reality to the mysticism of the time and the place. He grasped it closely, fearing it might fade away from him as it had done in his dream. She led him silently by another way from that by which he had entered, and together they passed through a small doorway that communicated with a narrow circular stair which wound round and round downwards until they came to another door at the bottom, which let them out in the moonlight at the foot of a turret.

“Beatrix,” whispered the young man, “I am not going to demand you of the Countess. I shall not be indebted to her for my wife. You must come with me now.”

“No, no,” cried the girl shrinking from him, “I cannot go with you thus surreptitiously, and no one but you and me must ever learn that I led you from the castle. You shall come for me as a lord should for his lady, as if he thought her worthy of him.”

“Indeed, that do I. Worthy? It is I who am unworthy, but made more worthy I hope in that you care for me.”

From where they stood the knight saw the moonlight fall on his own castle of Schonburg, the rays seeming to transform the grey stone into the whitest of marble, the four towers standing outlined against the blue of the cloudless sky. The silver river of romance, flowed silently at its feet reflecting again the snowy purity of the reality in an inverted quivering watery vision. All the young man’s affection for the home he had not seen for years seemed to blend with his love for the girl standing there in the moonlight. Gently he drew her to him, and kissed her unresisting lips.

“Woodland maiden,” he said tenderly, “here at the edge of the forest is your rightful home and not in this grim castle, and here will I woo thee again, being now a free man.”

“Indeed,” said the girl with a laugh in which a sob and a sigh intermingled, “it is but scanty freedom I have brought to you; an exchange of silken fetters for iron chains.”

His arms still around her, he unloosed the ribbon that held in thrall the thick braid of golden hair, and parting the clustering strands speedily encompassed her in a cloak of misty fragrance that seemed as unsubstantial as the moonlight that glittered through its meshes. He stood back the better to admire the picture he seemed to have created.

“My darling,” he cried, “you are no woodland woman, but the very spirit of the forest herself. You are so beautiful, I dare not leave you here to the mercies of this demon, who, finding me gone, may revenge herself on you. If before she dared to censure you, what may she not do now that you have set me free? Curse her that she stands for a moment between my love and me.”

He raised his clenched fist and shook it at the tower above him, and seemed about to break forth in new maledictions against the lady, when Beatrix, clasping her hands cried in terror:

“No, no, Herbert, you have said enough. How can you pretend to love me when implacable hatred lies so near to your affection. You must forgive the Countess. Oh, Herbert, Herbert, what more could I do to atone? I have withdrawn my forces from around your castle; I have set you free and your path to Schonburg lies unobstructed. Even now your underling, thinking himself victorious, is preparing an expedition against me, and nothing but your word stands, between me and instant attack. Ponder, I beseech of you, on my position. War, not of my seeking, was bequeathed to me, and a woman who cannot fight must trust to her advisers, and thus may do what her own heart revolts against. They told me that if I made you prisoner I could stop the war, and thus I consented to that act of treachery for which you so justly condemn me.”

“Beatrix,” cried her amazed lover, “what madness has come over you?”

“No madness touched me, Herbert, until I met you, and I sometimes think that you have brought back with you the eastern sorcery of which I have heard—at least such may perhaps make excuse for my unmaidenly behaviour. Herbert, I am Beatrix of Gudenfels, Countess von Falkenstein, who is and ever will be, if you refuse to pardon her, a most unhappy woman.”

“No woodland maiden, but the Countess! The Countess von Falkenstein!” murmured her lover more to himself than to, his eager listener, the lines on his perplexed brow showing that he was endeavouring to adjust the real and the ideal in his slow brain.

“A Countess, Herbert, who will joyfully exchange the privileges of her station for the dear preference shown to the serving-maid.”

A smile came to the lips of Von Schonburg as he held out his hands, in which the Countess placed her own.

“My Lady Beatrix,” he said, “how can I refuse my pardon for the first encroachment on my liberty, now that you have made me your prisoner for life?”

“Indeed, my captured lord,” cried the girl, “you are but now coming to a true sense of your predicament. I marvelled that you felt so resentful about the first offence, when the second was so much more serious. Am I then forgiven for both?”

It seemed that she was, and the Count insisted on returning to his captivity, and coming forth the next day, freed by her commands, whereupon, in the presence of all her vassals, he swore allegiance to her with such deference that her advisers said to her that she must now see they had been right in counselling his imprisonment. Prison, they said, had a wonderfully quieting effect upon even the most truculent, the Count being quickly subdued when he saw his sword-play had but little effect on the chain. The Countess graciously acknowledged that events had indeed proved the wisdom of their course, and said it was not to be wondered at that men should know the disposition of a turbulent man, better than an inexperienced woman could know it.

And thus was the feud between Gudenfels and Schonburg happily ended, and Count Herbert came from the Crusades to find two castles waiting for him instead of one as he had expected, with what he had reason to prize above everything else, a wife as well.