Barr Robert
Tekla

"If I may speak with him alone," she said, "I will try to convince him that he should give the captain his word, and I know he will keep it once it is given, otherwise he would have promised you anything to get free."

"Yes, the captain himself said as much, wondering why a man should so hesitate in the face of certain death."

They found Conrad standing bound, with a loop round his neck, the rope being threaded through an iron ring in the ceiling, while two stout men-at-arms held the loose end ready to pull him to destruction when their officer gave the word.

The captain, on hearing Hilda's proviso, ordered his men to withdraw, and, following them himself with the lieutenant, left Hilda alone with Conrad.

The subordinate officer suggested to his chief that the girl might untie the man and thus allow him to escape, as she seemed to have much interest in his welfare.

"Indeed," said the captain, with a shrug, "it is my devout hope that she will do so, if he refuses to take parole, for I know not what to do with the fool. If then you see him sneak away, in God's name let him go, and we will search ineffectually for him when it is too late. We shall be well rid of him."

When all had gone, Hilda said to her lover:

"You must promise, Conrad, not to come again to Alken. You run a double risk; first from the officers here; second from your own master when you return. Therefore give your word that you will attempt no such dangerous task again."

"How can I do that, Hilda? I must see you, otherwise life is unbearable to me. If I should promise I could not hold to it."

"It will be easy for us to meet, Conrad, without running such risks. I can pass through the lines at any time unchallenged, so on mid-week night I shall go up to the castle walls, and there we may be together without scathe. If we are discovered and I am made prisoner in Thuron, that will not matter. They will not harm me, and I shall then be where I wish to be. But with you it is different; if they capture you again, it will be impossible for me to save you, for they will believe you are a spy. Let me then meet you under the safe walls of Thuron, for I am as anxious to see you as you are to see me."

"It delights me to hear you say so, Hilda, but I like not the thought of you climbing this dark hill alone."

"Pooh, that is nothing. I shall most willingly do it, and then we can whisper to each other whatever seems of most interest, without fear of being interrupted, the constant terror of which would haunt us in Alken. The shadow of the frowning walls of Thuron makes an ideal lover's trysting-place, therefore, Conrad, give the captain your promise, and meet me under the north tower, two nights hence, at the same hour that you sent for me in Alken."

"It seems the only thing to do. I can come down the hill to meet you, so that you – "

"No, no. We will meet under the walls of Thuron; that is settled, and I shall now call the captain and his men to unbind you. I suppose they would not be pleased if I untied your cords."

The impatient captain, to his amazement, was summoned, after he had quite made up his mind that the girl would connive at the prisoner's escape. Conrad then, in presence of the men, gave the captain his word that he would not again attempt to pass the lines, and that he would inform no one in the castle of anything he might chance to have seen or heard while he was in Alken. He was then unbound and conducted through the lines, and set his face towards the steep and dark hill as the deep toned bell of the castle struck the hour of midnight. Although he had not told Hilda so, he feared treachery from the captain and his men. He had seen the captain's hesitancy regarding his threatened execution and wondered why that officer contented himself with the simple word of a captured underling, for Conrad knew how little dependence was placed even on the oath of such as he. He believed that for some reason the captain did not wish to hang him, but intended to have him set on in the dark and there quietly made away with. So when he had mounted a few steps he paused and listened intently, but could detect no indication of followers. Further up he paused again, and this time he certainly heard some one coming with apparent caution, yet, as if unfamiliar with the ground, the follower stumbled now and again among the vines and bushes. Conrad hurried up the slope and paused a third time, now being sure that he was indeed tracked, for the man behind came on with less circumspection and prudence. As Conrad, resolving to distance his pursuer in the race, plunged onward and upwards, he was startled by a man springing from the bushes in front who seized him by the shoulder. Instantly Conrad sprang upon him, making no outcry and determined that his antagonist should make none either, for he clutched the unknown firmly by the throat, and bore him to the earth, squeezing all possibility of sound from his windpipe. Kneeling thus above his unexpected foe, he tried to reach his knife, to give quietus to the under man before his accomplice could come up with them, for in spite of the absence of cries the two combatants made much noise thrashing about among the vines; but now the under man, who had been so easily pushed backwards, seemed to gather both strength and courage, fighting with such bravery of despair that Conrad had all he could do to keep him down, using both hands instead of one. If he was to maintain his position on top, the knife was out of the question, so he devoted his efforts to the strangling of the man beneath him. In the midst of this arduous occupation, the third man arrived on the scene.

CHAPTER XXX
THE STRUGGLE IN THE DARK

"Hold!" cried the newcomer. "Which is for the Archbishop – under dog or upper dog? A plague on this darkness which lets me see distinctly neither one nor the other."

Surrey underneath could not speak, and Conrad above thought it more prudent not to speak.

"Answer, upper dog," cried Roger Kent, peering at them, "or take your fingers from the under dog's throat and let him answer, otherwise I will run my knife into you on the chance that you are my enemy."

"You are free," said Conrad, maintaining his hold, but conscious that he had little chance against the two of them, "therefore declare yourself."

"I have no shame in doing so. I fight for the Archbishop and the Church."

"Then stand aside and see whether Archbishop or Black Count wins."

"Nay, that I will not do. You are no true follower of the Church or you would call me to your aid. Release your hold of the other's throat, or I will draw my knife across yours."

Conrad, seeing that the game was up, and guessing also that the two were not comrades and accomplices, as he had at first supposed, relaxed his hold and stood up. The other lay gasping where he had fallen.

"Now speak, fellow, an' enough breath has returned to you; are you for the White Cross or the Black Count?"

With some difficulty Surrey rose to a sitting posture, and said at last:

"Indeed I think I must be the Black Count himself, for with the choking I have had, my face, could any see it, more nearly resembles that of His Swarthiness than it does the lilies of the field."

"Is it you, archer?" asked Conrad in surprise, stepping forward.

"Yes," answered Surrey and Kent simultaneously, then the former added, shaking himself as he rose to his feet, "at least it was me before your most unlooked for interference, but who I am now it is beyond me accurately to tell. If you are Conrad, then what the devil do you here out of the castle on the hillside after midnight, when all honest folk, except those on watch, should be sleeping soundly on straw?"

"If it comes to that," replied Conrad, "what do you here, honest watchman, who at this moment are supposed to be faithfully guarding the battlements of Castle Thuron?"

"That in truth is a knotty question to answer, and I confess myself grievously in the wrong, in thus breaking my watch, and feel the more inclined to say, let us make a pact together, for if you inform not on me, then is my mouth shut regarding your own flagrant delinquencies. These I find hard to pardon, for a man owes it to his comrades during besiegement to stand by them and not to be found coming up from the camp of the enemy."

"I am not on guard, and therefore have broken no oath. My desertion is as white compared to thine as was my face to thine a few moments since."

"True, true. There is much to be said on both sides of the question, and if I had the judging in the matter we should each of us hang, that is, did the cases come impartially before me, without personal consequences affecting me in any way. And to think that I once had the privilege of sending an arrow through you at three yards distance, was begged to speed it, and neglected the opportunity! It serves me right well to be choked for thus putting aside the gifts of Providence."

"I am truly sorry I laid hands on you, but I was looking for an attack by the Archbishop's men, and when you came suddenly upon me I did what seemed best, for it is ill running up the hill, and I feared to run down as I heard this fellow on my track."

"I was journeying to meet my friend," said Roger, "and had no thought that any was before me until I heard the struggle. We seem all three equally foolish and equally guilty, therefore let us all forgive one another, as becomes Christians."

"I bear no malice," said Surrey; "but I will say that had he not taken me unaware, as I was looking for a friend, the contest might have turned out differently. Still it matters little, unless they have discovered my absence in the castle and have sent Conrad in search of me, in the which case I had better abandon bow and take to the camp of the Archbishops. Were you looking for me, Conrad? If not, why are you here?"

"I left the castle long before you did, most like. I went to the village to find Hilda, who was with us on the voyage down from Treves."

"Ah, that is the wench for whose sake you risked having an arrow hurtled through your vitals at Zurlauben, and, learning nothing, stake your life for her again. The folly of man!"

"Judge him not harshly, John," murmured the poet. "Admire rather the power wielded by true love. 'Tis the most beautiful thing on earth: the noblest passion that inspires the human breast. That a man should gladly venture his life on the chance of a few words with his beloved, shows us this world is not the sordid, disputatious place we sometimes fancy it to be. What other motive could so influence a man?"

"Tush, Roger!" cried his friend, with some impatience. "Your head is ever in the clouds, and you therefore see not what lies at your feet. Thousands of men continually risk their lives, and lose them, for less than threepence a day. No such motive as love! Nonsense! Friendship is every whit as strong, and we stand here to prove it, who have both this night risked our lives that we may but talk with one another. Out upon rhapsodies."

"Nay, John, if you were a true poet you would not speak in gross ignorance as now you do. If you try to weave friendship into verse you will find that it rouses not the warmth which the smaller word 'love' calls forth. I say nothing against friendship, for I have tasted the sweets of it, and I know nothing of love, having never myself experienced a touch of it, but I find that in the making of poetry love is the most useful of all the themes that a poet may play upon. Yet have I but to-day accomplished a poem on the delights of friendship, which I will now recite to you both, and which I think does justice to the subject in a manner that has hitherto been withheld from all writers, save perhaps Homer himself!"

"I must be gone to the castle," said Conrad.

"We will walk up the hill with you," rejoined Surrey, "and, Conrad, I wish you would take my watch on the wall till I relieve you. I desire to have converse with my friend here, and we will sit under the wall, where you can give me timely warning if you hear any one approach from within, although I think such interruption most unlikely. Was it on your rope I descended, I wonder?"

"I left a rope dangling at the north-west corner."

"That was it. I marvelled how it came there, and thought it had been flung up by the besiegers, remaining unseen by the garrison. Will you, then, take my watch for a time, Conrad?"

"Surely. 'Tis but slight recompense for the choking I – "

"Yes, yes," interrupted the archer, hurriedly, "we will not speak of that, for you took me by surprise. Mount to the battlements, and you will find my pike lying on the top of the wall near the place of descent."

They had by this time reached the castle, and there they stood for a few moments and listened, but everything was quiet, and Conrad, aided by the hanging rope, ascended to the top, while the two archers sat down at the foot of the northern tower.

"The poem on 'Friendship,' – " began Roger.

"Yes," broke in his friend, "we will come to it presently. How is it you are fighting for the Archbishop?"

"How is it you sent no word back to me as you promised to do?"

"That is a long story. They would not even let me enter Treves, for there was nothing of all this afoot when I was there. On finding service at last, having journeyed to a hill-top within a league of this place, I tried to send tidings to you by the young man who has just left us, but he was baffled and turned back by the forces of the Archbishop, and could no more get to Treves than I could enter it once I was at its gates. We are all prisoners here, and until your arrow tapped my steel cap I knew not where you were."

"Hearing nothing I went to Treves in search of you, regretting I had not accompanied you, but you know there were important poems that I wished to complete when you left me – they are all finished now, and it would have done you good to hear them, in fact, it was that which made me follow you to Treves, for the consummation of a poem is the listening to it. There is one set of verses on 'Sleep' that luckily I remember, and can recite, if you will but harken."

"What happened when you reached Treves?"

"I made enquiry concerning you from all with whom I could gain speech, but there was nothing save talk of war in the place, and nowhere could I hear aught of you. One army had already left Treves, marching eastward, and another was then filling its ranks. The officer I spoke with, who was inducing all he could to join, offering great chances of plunder when the castle was taken, said he remembered you well, and that you had gone with the first army, leaving word that I was to join and follow you."

"The liar. I wonder the Archbishop retains the service of such, although perhaps he does not know his officers hold the truth in contempt."

"It is strange you should refer so warmly to truth, for I esteem it the choicest of all virtues, and have written a poem on 'Whiterobed Truth,' which I hope remains in my memory, seeing it is so dark that no reading may be done. It begins – "

"You believed him, of course, and enlisted with him?"

"Yes. He said we should find you here, and so indeed have I, but in the opposite camp. I marched with them down the river, and when we arrived I heard such wonderful stories of an infallible archer in the castle that I knew he must be you."

"Yes," cried John, rubbing his hands together in glee, "it was the most heavenly opportunity ever bestowed upon a mortal man. I wish you had been there to see. I was in the tower above the enemy, and I shot them in the neck, stringing them one after another on the shafts, like running skewers in a round of beef. Not one did I miss."

"Oh, 'tis easily done," commented Roger, carelessly. "'Tis instinct, largely; you glance at your mark, and next instant your arrow is there."

"Roger Kent," replied the other, in a despondent tone, "I have on various occasions passed favourable judgment on your poems; I think you might, in return, admit that I am at least proficient in the rudiments of archery."

"John Surrey, I have more than once expressed the opinion, which I still hold, that you will in time, with careful practice, become a creditable archer. You would not have me say more and thus forswear myself."

"No," admitted John; "I am well content when you say as much, and now if it pleases you I will listen to as many of your verses as you can conveniently remember."

Surrey leaned back against the wall with a deep sigh, and the other, his voice vibrant with enthusiasm said:

"I will recite you first the poem on 'Friendship,' in honour of our meeting, and then you shall hear the verses on 'Sleep,' which come the more timely on an occasion when we both deprive ourselves of it, in order to hear verse which you will be the first to admit is well worth the sacrifice."

The poet then delivered his lines in smooth and measured tones, to which the other listened without comment. From poem to poem Roger Kent glided, sometimes interlarding the pauses between with a few sentences describing how the following effort came to maturity, thus cementing the poems together with their history, as a skilful mason lays his mortar between the stones. No literary enthusiast could have had a more patient listener, and the night wore on to the tuneful cadence of the poet's voice. At last he ceased. The steps of the patient Conrad on the battlements echoed in the still night air.

"Those are all the poems I can remember," he said, "and you see that I have not misspent the time while you were journeying down the Moselle. I do not know when I have had a more fruitful season. If I could but deliver these verses to some monk who would inscribe them on lasting parchment, for future ages to discuss and con over, I would be a happy man. Alas, the monks care not to write of aught save the sayings of the Fathers of the Church, and look askance at poems dealing with human instincts and passions that are beyond the precincts of the cloister, even though such poems tend to the future enrichment of literature, had the holy men but the mind to appreciate them. Thus I fear my verse will be lost to the world and that, in this deplorably contentious existence which we lead, my span may be suddenly at an end, with none to put in permanent form the work to which my life has been devoted. What poem, think you, of all you have heard, is the most likely to live after we are gone?"

There was no reply, and in the silence that followed, the even breathing of John Surrey brought to the mind of the poet the well nigh incredible suspicion that his friend was asleep. This suspicion, however, he dismissed as unworthy of either of them, and he shook his comrade by the shoulder, repeating his question.

"Eh? What?" cried John. "Take your hand from my throat, villain."

"My hand is not on your throat but on your shoulder, and I misdoubt you have for some time been asleep."

"Asleep?" cried John, with honest indignation. "I was far from being asleep. When you stopped reciting I had but let my mind wander for a moment on the rough usage I had had from Conrad, who pretended he did not know me. I'll wing a shaft by his ear so close that it will make him jump a dozen yards, and for the space while he counts ten he will be uncertain whether he is in this world or the next. I called him villain, and I stick to it."

"But what call you my poems?"

"They are grand – all of them. You are getting better and better at rhyming; I swear by the bow, you are. I never heard anything to equal them."

"Indeed," replied the poet, complacently, "a man should improve with age, like good wine, if he have the right stuff in him, but though all are so good, there is surely some poem better than the rest, as in a company of men one must stand taller than his fellows. Which was it, John?"

"The last one you recited seemed to me the best," said John, scratching his head dubiously, and then not having the sense to let well enough alone, added, "the one on 'Sleep.'"

The poet rose to his feet and spoke with justifiable indignation.

"I have recited to you a score since that, you sluggard. You have indeed been asleep."

"I said not the last, but the first. I say the poem on 'Sleep' is the best, and that I hold to."

"The first was on 'Friendship,'" said the poet gloomily.

"Nay, I count not the one on 'Friendship' as aught but the introduction. 'Twas given, you said, in honour of our meeting, therefore I regard the one on 'Sleep' as the beginning, and although all are good, that seemed, in my poor judgment, the best."

"I had hoped you would have liked the one on 'Woman's Love,'" murmured Roger, evidently mollified.

"Ah, Roger, what can you expect of a hardened bachelor like me? There was a time when I would have thrown up my cap and proclaimed that poem master of them all, which doubtless it will be accounted in the estimation of the world. Even I admit it was enough to make my old bones burn again, and while you were reciting it, I was glad young Conrad was not here, else he had straightway run to Alken in his own despite. That poem will be the favourite of lovers all the world over; I am sure of it."

"Say you so, honest John?" cried Roger, with glee. "It is indeed my own hope. You were the truest and wisest of critics, and no bowman in all Germany can match you. Forgive me that I mistook your meditation for slumber. And now, good night, old friend; we will meet again when I have composed some others, although I doubt if I ever do anything as good as that one."

And thereupon the friends embraced and parted, each glowing with the praise of the other.