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

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

“Know then,” said the count, speaking very slowly, and still holding the young knight’s gaze with a sort of intent fascination, by the stony glare of 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 loud shriek, 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’s an 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 him in savage vengeance.

All this had passed like a flash of lightning, and Friedel had almost at the instant of his fall flung himself towards his brother, and raising himself on one hand, with the other clasped Ebbo’s, saying, “Fear not; it is 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 not feel it.  This is more numb dulness than pain.”

“A bad sign that,” said Moritz, apart to one of the workmen, with whom he held counsel how to carry back to the castle the two young knights, who remained on the bank, Ebbo partly extended on the ground, partly supported on the knee and arm of Friedel, who sat with his head drooping over him, their looks fixed on one another, as if conscious of nothing else on earth.

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

Ebbo essayed, but was too faint, and Friedel, rousing himself from the stupor, 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 exultation changed to rage and despair, when he saw the condition of his young lords.  Master Schleiermacher proposed to lay them on some of the planks prepared for the building, and carry them up the new road.

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

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

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

Ebbo was lifted on the shoulders of his bearers, and Friedel strove to rise, with the aid of Heinz, but sank back, unable to use his limbs; and Schleiermacher 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 back once again!” he entreated.  And when with much difficulty he had been lifted to the back of his cream-colour, who stood as gently and patiently as if he understood the exigency of the moment, he sat upright, and waved his hand as he passed the litter, while Ebbo, on his side, signed to him to speed on and prepare their mother.  Long, however, before the castle was reached, dizzy confusion and leaden helplessness, when no longer stimulated by his brother’s presence, so grew on him that it was with much ado that Heinz could keep him in his saddle; but, when he saw his mother in the castle gateway, he again collected his forces, bade Heinz withdraw his supporting arm, and, straightening himself, waved a greeting to her, as he called cheerily; “Victory, dear mother.  Ebbo has overthrown the count, and you must not be grieved if it be at some cost of blood.”

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

“Nay, motherling,” he added, as she came so near that he could put his arm 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 I would that I could have brought him.  Mother, he died not under the Schlangenwald swords.”

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

“Your own Eberhard, our father,” said Friedel, raising her face to him with his hand, and adding, as he met a startled look, “The cruel count owned it with his last breath.  He is a Turkish slave, and surely heaven will give him back to comfort you, even though we may not work his freedom!  O mother, I had so longed for it, but God be thanked that at least certainty was bought by my life.”  The last words were uttered almost unconsciously, and he had nearly fallen, as the excitement faded; but, as they were lifting him down, he bent once more and kissed the glossy 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 for that by and by!  The one wish of the twins was to be together, and presently both were laid on the great bed in the upper chamber, Ebbo in a swoon from the pain of the transport, and Friedel lying so as to meet the first look of recovery.  And, after Ebbo’s eyes had re-opened, they watched one another in silence for a short space, till Ebbo said: “Is that 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 owned that my father was among the Turks.”

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

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

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

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

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

To be together seemed an all-sufficient consolation, and, when the chaplain came sorrowfully to give them the last rites of the Church, Ebbo implored 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 holy Sebastian or Maurice; but I—I was never such as he.  O father, will it be my 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 murmured over a broken, brief confession—exhausting by its vehemence of self-accusation for his proud spirit, his wilful neglect of his lost father, his hot contempt of prudent counsel.

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

The farewell greetings of the Church on earth breathed soft and sweet in their loftiness, and Friedel, though lying motionless, and with closed eyes, never failed in the murmured response, whether fully conscious or not, while his brother only attended by fits and starts, and was evidently often in too much pain to know what was passing.

Help was nearer than had been hoped.  The summons despatched the night before had been responded to by the vintners and mercers; their train bands had set forth, and their captain, a cautious man, never rode into the way of blows without his surgeon at hand.  And so it came to pass that, before the sun was low on that long and grievous day, Doctor Johannes Butteman was led into the upper chamber, where the mother looked up to him with a kind of hopeless gratitude on her face, which was nearly as white as those of her sons.  The doctor soon saw that Friedel was past human aid; but, when he declared that there was fair hope for the other youth, 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 wound unless he were the sole occupant of the bed, and this sentence brought the first cloud of grief or dread to Friedel’s brow, but only for a moment.  He looked at his brother, who had again fainted at the first touch of his wounded limb, and said, “It is well.  Tell the dear Ebbo that I cannot help it if after all I go to the praying, and leave him the fighting.  Dear, dear Ebbo!  One day together again and for ever!  I leave thee for thine own sake.”  With much effort he signed the cross again on his brother’s brow, and kissed it long and fervently.  Then, as all stood round, reluctant to effect this severance, or disturb one on whom death was visibly fast approaching, he struggled up on his elbow, and held out the other hand, saying, “Take me now, Heinz, ere Ebbo revive to be grieved.  The last sacrifice,” he further whispered, whilst almost giving himself to Heinz and Moritz to be carried to his own bed in the turret chamber.

There, even as they laid him down, began what seemed to be the mortal agony, and, though he was scarcely sensible, his mother felt that her prime call was to him, while his brother was in other hands.  Perhaps it was well for her.  Surgical practice was rough, and wounds made by fire-arms were thought to have imbibed a poison that made treatment be supposed efficacious in proportion to the pain inflicted.  When Ebbo was recalled by the torture to see no white reflection of his own face on the pillow beside him, and to feel in vain for the grasp of the cold damp hand, a delirious frenzy seized him, and his struggles were frustrating the doctor’s attempts, when a low soft sweet song stole through the open door.

“Friedel!” he murmured, and held his breath to listen.  All through the declining day did the gentle sound continue; now of grand chants or hymns caught from the cathedral choir, now of songs of chivalry or saintly legend so often sung over the evening fire; the one flowing into the other in the wandering of failing powers, but never failing in the tender sweetness that had distinguished Friedel through life.  And, whenever that voice was heard, let them do to him what they would, Ebbo was still absorbed in intense listening so as not to lose a note, and lulled almost out of sense of suffering by that swan-like music.  If his attendants made such noise as to break in on it, or if it ceased for a moment, the anguish returned, but was charmed