The Dove in the Eagle's Nest by Charlotte M. Yonge (i read book TXT) 📕

with the eagle carved at the back; every member of the household, from his grandmother downwards, placed him foremost, and Friedel followed their example, at the less loss to himself, as his hand was always in Ebbo’s, and all their doings were in common.  Sometimes however the mother doubted whether there would have been this perfect absence of all contest had the medal of the firstborn chanced to hang round Friedmund’s neck instead of Eberhard’s.  At first they were entirely left to her.  Their grandmother heeded them little as long as they were healthy, and evidently regarded them more as heirs of Adlerstein than as grandchildren; but, as they grew older, she showed anxiety lest their mother should interfere with the fierce, lawless spirit proper to their line.

One winter day, when they were nearly six years old, Christina, spinning at her window, had been watching them snowballing in the castle court, smiling and applauding every large handful held up to her, every laughing combat, every well-aimed hit, as the hardy little fellows scattered the snow in showers round them, raising their merry fur-capped faces to the bright eyes that “rained influence and judged the prize.”

By and by they stood still; Ebbo—she knew him by the tossed head and commanding air—was proposing what Friedel seemed to disapprove; but, after a short discussion, Ebbo flung away from him, and went towards a shed where was kept a wolf-cub, recently presented to the young Barons by old Ulrich’s son.  The whelp was so young as to be quite harmless, but it was far from amiable; Friedel never willingly approached it, and the snarling and whining replies to all advances had begun to weary and irritate Ebbo.  He dragged it out by its chain, and, tethering it to a post, made it a mark for his snowballs, which, kneaded hard, and delivered with hearty good-will by his sturdy arms, made the poor little beast yelp with pain and terror, till the more tender-hearted Friedel threw himself on his brother to withhold him, while Mätz stood by laughing and applauding the Baron.  Seeing Ebbo shake Friedel off with unusual petulance, and pitying the tormented animal, Christina flung a cloak round her head and hastened down stairs, entering the court just as the terrified whelp had made a snap at the boy, which was returned by angry, vindictive pelting, not merely with snow, but with stones.  Friedel sprang to her crying, and her call to Ebbo made him turn, though with fury in his face, shouting, “He would bite me! the evil beast!”

“Come with me, Ebbo,” she said.

“He shall suffer for it, the spiteful, ungrateful brute!  Let me alone, mother!” cried Ebbo, stamping on the snow, but still from habit yielding to her hand on his shoulder.

“What now?” demanded the old Baroness, appearing on the scene.  “Who is thwarting the Baron?”

“She; she will not let me deal with yonder savage whelp,” cried the boy.

“She!  Take thy way, child,” said the old lady.  “Visit him well for his malice.  None shall withstand thee here.  At thy peril!” she added, turning on Christina.  “What, art not content to have brought base mechanical blood into a noble house?  Wouldst make slaves and cowards of its sons?”

“I would teach them true courage, not cruelty,” she tried to say.

“What should such as thou know of courage?  Look here, girl: another word to daunt the spirit of my grandsons, and I’ll have thee scourged down the mountain-side!  On!  At him, Ebbo!  That’s my gallant young knight!  Out of the way, girl, with thy whining looks!  What, Friedel, be a man, and aid thy brother!  Has she made thee a puling woman already?”  And Kunigunde laid an ungentle grasp upon Friedmund, who was clinging to his mother, hiding his face in her gown.  He struggled against the clutch, and would not look up or be detached.

“Fie, poor little coward!” taunted the old lady; “never heed him, Ebbo, my brave Baron!”

Cut to the heart, Christina took refuge in her room, and gathered her Friedel to her bosom, as he sobbed out, “Oh, mother, the poor little wolf!  Oh, mother, are you weeping too?  The grandmother should not so speak to the sweetest, dearest motherling,” he added, throwing his arms round her neck.

“Alas, Friedel, that Ebbo should learn that it is brave to hurt the weak!”

“It is not like Walther of Vögelwiede,” said Friedel, whose mind had been much impressed by the Minnesinger’s bequest to the birds.

“Nor like any true Christian knight.  Alas, my poor boys, must you be taught foul cruelty and I too weak and cowardly to save you?”

“That never will be,” said Friedel, lifting his head from her shoulder.  “Hark! what a howl was that!”

“Listen not, dear child; it does but pain thee.”

“But Ebbo is not shouting.  Oh, mother, he is vexed—he is hurt!” cried Friedel, springing from her lap; but, ere either could reach the window, Ebbo had vanished from the scene.  They only saw the young wolf stretched dead on the snow, and the same moment in burst Ebbo, and flung himself on the floor in a passion of weeping.  Stimulated by the applause of his grandmother and of Mätz, he had furiously pelted the poor animal with all missiles that came to hand, till a blow, either from him or Mätz, had produced such a howl and struggle of agony, and then such terrible stillness, as had gone to the young Baron’s very heart, a heart as soft as that of his father had been by nature.  Indeed, his sobs were so piteous that his mother was relieved to hear only, “The wolf! the poor wolf!” and to find that he himself was unhurt; and she was scarcely satisfied of this when Dame Kunigunde came up also alarmed, and thus turned his grief to wrath.  “As if I would cry in that way for a bite!” he said.  “Go, grandame; you made me do it, the poor beast!” with a fresh sob.

“Ulrich shall get thee another cub, my child.”

“No, no; I never will have another cub!  Why did you let me kill it?”

“For shame, Ebbo!  Weep for a spiteful brute!  That’s no better than thy mother or Friedel.”

“I love my mother!  I love Friedel!  They would have withheld me.  Go, go; I hate you!”

“Peace, peace, Ebbo,” exclaimed his mother; “you know not what you say.  Ask your grandmother’s pardon.”

“Peace, thou fool!” screamed the old lady.  “The Baron speaks as he will in his own castle.  He is not to be checked here, and thwarted there, and taught to mince his words like a cap-in-hand pedlar.  Pardon!  When did an Adlerstein seek pardon?  Come with me, my Baron; I have still some honey-cakes.”

“Not I,” replied Ebbo; “honey-cakes will not cure the wolf whelp.  Go: I want my mother and Friedel.”

Alone with them his pride and passion were gone; but alas! what augury for the future of her boys was left with the mother!

CHAPTER X
THE EAGLE’S PREY

“It fell about the Lammas tide,
When moor men win their hay,”

that all the serfs of Adlerstein were collected to collect their lady’s hay to be stored for the winter’s fodder of the goats, and of poor Sir Eberhard’s old white mare, the only steed as yet ridden by the young Barons.

The boys were fourteen years old.  So monotonous was their mother’s life that it was chiefly their growth that marked the length of her residence in the castle.  Otherwise there had been no change, except that the elder Baroness was more feeble in her limbs, and still more irritable and excitable in temper.  There were no events, save a few hunting adventures of the boys, or the yearly correspondence with Ulm; and the same life continued, of shrinking in dread from the old lady’s tyrannous dislike, and of the constant endeavour to infuse better principles into the boys, without the open opposition for which there was neither power nor strength.

The boys’ love was entirely given to their mother.  Far from diminishing with their dependence on her, it increased with the sense of protection; and, now that they were taller than herself, she seemed to be cherished by them more than ever.  Moreover, she was their oracle.  Quick-witted and active-minded, loving books the more because their grandmother thought signing a feud-letter the utmost literary effort becoming to a noble, they never rested till they had acquired all that their mother could teach them; or, rather, they then became more restless than ever.  Long ago had her whole store of tales and ballads become so familiar, by repetition, that the boys could correct her in the smallest variation; reading and writing were mastered as for pleasure; and the Nuremberg Chronicle, with its wonderful woodcuts, excited such a passion of curiosity that they must needs conquer its Latin and read it for themselves.  This World History, with Alexander and the Nine Worthies, the cities and landscapes, and the oft-repeated portraits, was Eberhard’s study; but Friedmund continued—constant to Walther of Vögelweide.  Eberhard cared for no character in the Vulgate so much as for Judas the Maccabee; but Friedmund’s heart was all for King David; and to both lads, shut up from companionship as they were, every acquaintance in their books was a living being whose like they fancied might be met beyond their mountain.  And, when they should go forth, like Dietrich of Berne, in search of adventures, doughty deeds were chiefly to fall to the lot of Ebbo’s lance; while Friedel was to be their Minnesinger; and indeed certain verses, that he had murmured in his brother’s ear, had left no doubt in Ebbo’s mind that the exploits would be worthily sung.

The soft dreamy eye was becoming Friedel’s characteristic, as fire and keenness distinguished his brother’s glance.  When at rest, the twins could be known apart by their expression, though in all other respects they were as alike as ever; and let Ebbo look thoughtful or Friedel eager and they were again undistinguishable; and indeed they were constantly changing looks.  Had not Friedel been beside him, Ebbo would have been deemed a wondrous student for his years; had not Ebbo been the standard of comparison, Friedel would have been in high repute for spirit and enterprise and skill as a cragsman, with the crossbow, and in all feats of arms that the Schneiderlein could impart.  They shared all occupations; and it was by the merest shade that Ebbo excelled with the weapon, and Friedel with the book or tool.  For the artist nature was in them, not intentionally excited by their mother, but far too strong to be easily discouraged.  They had long daily gazed at Ulm in the distance, hoping to behold the spire completed; and the illustrations in their mother’s books excited a strong desire to imitate them.  The floor had often been covered with charcoal outlines even before Christina was persuaded to impart the rules she had learnt from her uncle; and her carving-tools were soon seized upon.  At first they were used only upon knobs of sticks; but one day when the boys, roaming on the mountain, had lost their way, and coming to the convent had been there hospitably welcomed by Father Norbert, they came home wild to make carvings like what they had seen in the chapel.  Jobst the Kohler was continually importuned for soft wood; the fair was ransacked for knives; and even the old Baroness could not find great fault with the occupation, base and mechanical though it were, which disposed of the two restless spirits during the many hours when winter storms confined them to the castle.  Rude as was their work, the constant observation and choice of subjects were an unsuspected training and softening.  It was not in vain that they lived in the glorious mountain fastness, and saw the sun descend in his majesty, dyeing the masses of rock with purple and crimson; not in vain that they beheld peak and ravine clothed in purest snow, flushed with rosy light at morn and eve, or contrasted with the purple blue of the sky; or that they stood marvelling at ice caverns with gigantic crystal pendants shining with the most magical pure depths of sapphire and emerald, “as if,” said Friedel, “winter kept in his service all the jewel-forging dwarfs of the motherling’s tales.” And, when the snow melted and the buds returned, the ivy spray, the smiling saxifrage, the purple gentian bell, the feathery rowan leaf, the symmetrical lady’s mantle, were hailed and loved first as models, then for themselves.

One regret their mother had, almost amounting to shame.  Every virtuous person believed in the efficacy of the rod, and, maugre her own docility, she had been chastised with it almost as a religious duty; but her sons had never felt the weight of a blow, except once when their grandmother caught them carving a border of eagles and doves round the hall table, and then Ebbo had returned the blow with all his might.  As to herself, if she ever worked herself up to attempt chastisement, the Baroness was sure to fall upon her for insulting the noble birth of her sons, and thus gave them a triumph far worse for them than impunity.  In truth, the boys had