The Dove in the Eagle's Nest. Yonge Charlotte Mary

comfort that were almost like health.  To train her into occupying herself was however, as Christina soon found, in her present state, impossible.  She could spin and sew a little, but hated both; and her clumsy, listless fingers only soiled and wasted Christina’s needles, silk, and lute strings, and such damage was not so easily remedied as in the streets of Ulm.  She was best provided for when looking on at her attendant’s busy hands, and asking to be sung to, or to hear tales of the active, busy scenes of the city life—the dresses, fairs, festivals, and guild processions.

      The gentle nursing and the new interests made her improve in health, so that her father was delighted, and Christina began to hope for a return home.  Sometimes the two girls would take the air, either, on still days, upon the battlements, where Ermentrude watched the Debateable Ford, and Christina gazed at the Danube and at Ulm; or they would find their way to a grassy nook on the mountain-side, where Christina gathered gentians and saxifrage, trying to teach her young lady that they were worth looking at, and sighing at the thought of Master Gottfried’s wreath when she met with the asphodel seed-vessels.  Once the quiet mule was brought into requisition; and, with her brother walking by her, and Sorel and his daughter in attendance, Ermentrude rode towards the village of Adlerstein.  It was a collection of miserable huts, on a sheltered slope towards the south, where there was earth enough to grow some wretched rye and buckwheat, subject to severe toll from the lord of the soil.  Perched on a hollow rock above the slope was a rude little church, over a cave where a hermit had once lived and died in such odour of sanctity that, his day happening to coincide with that of St. John the Baptist, the Blessed Freidmund had acquired the credit of the lion’s share both of the saint’s honours and of the old solstitial feast of Midsummer.  This wake was the one gaiety of the year, and attracted a fair which was the sole occasion of coming honestly by anything from the outer world; nor had his cell ever lacked a professional anchorite.

      The Freiherr of his day had been a devout man, who had gone a pilgrimage with Kaiser Friedrich of the Red Beard, and had brought home a bit of stone from the council chamber of Nicæa, which he had presented to the little church that he had built over the cavern.  He had named his son Friedmund; and there were dim memories of his days as of a golden age, before the Wildschlossen had carried off the best of the property, and when all went well.

      This was Christina’s first sight of a church since her arrival, except that in the chapel, which was a dismal neglected vault, where a ruinous altar and mouldering crucifix testified to its sacred purpose.  The old baron had been excommunicated for twenty years, ever since he had harried the wains of the Bishop of Augsburg on his way to the Diet; and, though his household and family were not under the same sentence, “Sunday didna come abune the pass.”  Christina’s entreaty obtained permission to enter the little building, but she had knelt there only a few moments before her father came to hurry her away, and her supplications that he would some day take her to mass there were whistled down the wind; and indeed the hermit was a layman, and the church was only served on great festivals by a monk from the convent of St. Ruprecht, on the distant side of the mountain, which was further supposed to be in the Schlangenwald interest.  Her best chance lay in infusing the desire into Ermentrude, who by watching her prayers and asking a few questions had begun to acquire a few clearer ideas.  And what Ermentrude wished had always hitherto been acquiesced in by the two lords.

      The elder baron came little into Christina’s way.  He meant to be kind to her, but she was dreadfully afraid of him, and, when he came to visit his daughter, shrank out of his notice as much as possible, shuddering most of all at his attempts at civilities.  His son she viewed as one of the thickwitted giants meant to be food for the heroism of good knights of romance.  Except that he was fairly conversant with the use of weapons, and had occasionally ridden beyond the shadow of his own mountain, his range was quite as limited as his sister’s; and he had an equal scorn for all beyond it.  His unfailing kindness to his sister was however in his favour, and he always eagerly followed up any suggestion Christina made for her pleasure.

      Much of his time was spent on the child, whose chief nurse and playmate he had been throughout her malady; and when she showed him the stranger’s arrangements, or repeated to him, in a wondering, blundering way, with constant appeals to her attendant, the new tales she had heard, he used to listen with a pleased awkward amazement at his little Ermentrude’s astonishing cleverness, joined sometimes with real interest, which was evinced by his inquiries of Christina.  He certainly did not admire the little, slight, pale bower-maiden, but he seemed to look upon her like some strange, almost uncanny, wise spirit out of some other sphere, and his manner towards her had none of the offensive freedom apparent in even the old man’s patronage.  It was, as Ermentrude once said, laughing, almost as if he feared that she might do something to him.

      Christina had expected to see a ruffian, and had found a boor; but she was to be convinced that the ruffian existed in him.  Notice came up to the castle of a convoy of waggons, and all was excitement.  Men-at-arms were mustered, horses led down the Eagle’s Ladder, and an ambush prepared in the woods.  The autumn rains were already swelling the floods, and the passage of the ford would be difficult enough to afford the assailants an easy prey.

      The Freiherrinn Kunigunde herself, and all the women of the castle, hurried into Ermentrude’s room to enjoy the view from her window.  The young lady herself was full of eager expectation, but she knew enough of her maiden to expect no sympathy from her, and loved her well enough not to bring down on her her mother’s attention; so Christina crept into her turret, unable to withdraw her eyes from the sight, trembling, weeping, praying, longing for power to give a warning signal.  Could they be her own townsmen stopped on the way to dear Ulm?

      She could see the waggons in mid-stream, the warriors on the bank; she heard the triumphant outcries of the mother and daughter in the outer room.  She saw the overthrow, the struggle, the flight of a few scattered dark figures on the farther side, the drawing out of the goods on the nearer.  Oh! were those leaping waves bearing down any good men’s corpses to the Danube, slain, foully slain by her own father and this gang of robbers?

      She was glad that Ermentrude went down with her mother to watch the return of the victors.  She crouched on the floor, sobbing, shuddering with grief and indignation, and telling her beads alike for murdered and murderers, till, after the sounds of welcome and exultation, she heard Sir Eberhard’s heavy tread, as he carried his sister up stairs.  Ermentrude went up at once to Christina.

      “After all there was little for us!” she said.  “It was only a wain of wine barrels; and now will the drunkards down stairs make good cheer.  But Ebbo could only win for me this gold chain and medal which was round the old merchant’s neck.”

      “Was he slain?” Christina asked with pale lips.

      “I only know I did not kill him,” returned the baron; “I had him down and got the prize, and that was enough for me.  What the rest of the fellows may have done, I cannot say.”

      “But he has brought thee something, Stina,” continued Ermentrude.  “Show it to her, brother.”

      “My father sends you this for your care of my sister,” said Eberhard, holding out a brooch that had doubtless fastened the band of the unfortunate wine-merchant’s bonnet.

      “Thanks, sir; but, indeed, I may not take it,” said Christina, turning crimson, and drawing back.

      “So!” he exclaimed, in amaze; then bethinking himself,—“They are no townsfolk of yours, but Constance cowards.”

      “Take it, take it, Stina, or you will anger my father,” added Ermentrude.

      “No, lady, I thank the barons both, but it were sin in me,” said Christina, with trembling voice.

      “Look you,” said Eberhard; “we have the full right—’tis a seignorial right—to all the goods of every wayfarer that may be overthrown in our river—as I am a true knight!” he added earnestly.

      “A true knight!” repeated Christina, pushed hard, and very indignant in all her terror.  “The true knight’s part is to aid, not rob, the weak.”  And the dark eyes flashed a vivid light.

      “Christina!” exclaimed Ermentrude in the extremity of her amazement, “know you what you have said?—that