The Pilgrims of the Rhine

by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton

  THE BROTHERS.

  A TALE.*

  * This tale is, in reality, founded on the beautiful tradition which belongs to Liebenstein and Sternfels.

  You must imagine then, dear Gertrude (said Trevylyan), a beautifulsummer day, and by the same faculty that none possess so richly asyourself, for it is you who can kindle something of that divine sparkeven in me, you must rebuild those shattered towers in the pomp of old;raise the gallery and the hall; man the battlements with warders, andgive the proud banners of ancestral chivalry to wave upon the walls. Butabove, sloping half down the rock, you must fancy the hanging gardens ofLiebenstein, fragrant with flowers, and basking in the noonday sun.

  On the greenest turf, underneath an oak, there sat three persons, in thebloom of youth. Two of the three were brothers; the third was an orphangirl, whom the lord of the opposite tower of Sternfels had bequeathedto the protection of his brother, the chief of Liebenstein. The castleitself and the demesne that belonged to it passed away from the femaleline, and became the heritage of Otho, the orphan's cousin, and theyounger of the two brothers now seated on the turf.

  "And oh," said the elder, whose name was Warbeck, "you have twined achaplet for my brother; have you not, dearest Leoline, a simple flowerfor me?"

  The beautiful orphan (for beautiful she was, Gertrude, as the heroine ofthe tale you bid me tell ought to be,--should she not have to the dreamsof my fancy your lustrous hair, and your sweet smile, and your eyesof blue, that are never, never silent? Ah, pardon me, that in a formertale, I denied the heroine the beauty of your face, and remember that toatone for it, I endowed her with the beauty of your mind)--the beautifulorphan blushed to her temples, and culling from the flowers in her lapthe freshest of the roses, began weaving them into a wreath for Warbeck.

  "It would be better," said the gay Otho, "to make my sober brother achaplet of the rue and cypress; the rose is much too bright a flower forso serious a knight."

  Leoline held up her hand reprovingly.

  "Let him laugh, dearest cousin," said Warbeck, gazing passionately onher changing cheek; "and thou, Leoline, believe that the silent streamruns the deepest."

  At this moment, they heard the voice of the old chief, their father,calling aloud for Leoline; for ever when he returned from the chasehe wanted her gentle presence; and the hall was solitary to him if thelight sound of her step and the music of her voice were not heard inwelcome.

  Leoline hastened to her guardian, and the brothers were left alone.

  Nothing could be more dissimilar than the features and the respectivecharacters of Otho and Warbeck. Otho's countenance was flushed with thebrown hues of health; his eyes were of the brightest hazel: his darkhair wreathed in short curls round his open and fearless brow; the jestever echoed on his lips, and his step was bounding as the foot ofthe hunter of the Alps. Bold and light was his spirit; if at times hebetrayed the haughty insolence of youth, he felt generously, and thoughnot ever ready to confess sorrow for a fault, he was at least ready tobrave peril for a friend.

  But Warbeck's frame, though of equal strength, was more slender inits proportions than that of his brother; the fair long hair thatcharacterized his northern race hung on either side of a countenancecalm and pale, and deeply impressed with thought, even to sadness. Hisfeatures, more majestic and regular than Otho's, rarely varied in theirexpression. More resolute even than Otho, he was less impetuous; moreimpassioned, he was also less capricious.

  The brothers remained silent after Leoline had left them. Othocarelessly braced on his sword, that he had laid aside on the grass; butWarbeck gathered up the flowers that had been touched by the soft handof Leoline, and placed them in his bosom.

  The action disturbed Otho; he bit his lip, and changed colour; at lengthhe said, with a forced laugh,--

  "It must be confessed, brother, that you carry your affection forour fair cousin to a degree that even relationship seems scarcely towarrant."

  "It is true," said Warbeck, calmly; "I love her with a love surpassingthat of blood."

  "How!" said Otho, fiercely: "do you dare to think of Leoline as abride?"

  "Dare!" repeated Warbeck, turning yet paler than his wonted hue.

  "Yes, I have said the word! Know, Warbeck, that I, too, love Leoline; I,too, claim her as my bride; and never, while I can wield a sword, never,while I wear the spurs of knighthood, will I render my claim to a livingrival,--even," he added, sinking his voice, "though that rival be mybrother!"

  Warbeck answered not; his very soul seemed stunned; he gazed long andwistfully on his brother, and then, turning his face away, ascended therock without uttering a single word.

  This silence startled Otho. Accustomed to vent every emotion of his own,he could not comprehend the forbearance of his brother; he knew his highand brave nature too well to imagine that it arose from fear. Might itnot be contempt, or might he not, at this moment, intend to seek theirfather; and, the first to proclaim his love for the orphan, advance,also, the privilege of the elder born? As these suspicions flashedacross him, the haughty Otho strode to his brother's side, and layinghis hand on his arm, said,--

  "Whither goest thou; and dost thou consent to surrender Leoline?"

  "Does she love thee, Otho?" answered Warbeck, breaking silence at last;and his voice spoke so deep an anguish, that it arrested the passions ofOtho even at their height.

  "It is thou who art now silent," continued Warbeck; "speak. Doth shelove thee, and has her lip confessed it?"

  "I have believed that she loved me," faltered Otho; "but she is ofmaiden bearing, and her lip, at least, has never told it."

  "Enough," said Warbeck; "release your hold."

  "Stay," said Otho, his suspicions returning; "stay,--yet one word; dostthou seek my father? He ever honoured thee more than me: wilt thou ownto him thy love, and insist on thy right of birth? By my soul and myhope of heaven, do it, and one of us two must fall!"

  "Poor boy!" answered Warbeck, bitterly; "how little thou canst read theheart of one who loves truly! Thinkest thou I would wed her if she lovedthee? Thinkest thou I could, even to be blessed myself, give her onemoment's pain? Out on the thought! away!"

  "Then wilt not thou seek our father?" said Otho, abashed.

  "Our father!--has our father the keeping of Leoline's affection?"answered Warbeck; and shaking off his brother's grasp, he sought the wayto the castle.

  As he entered the hall, he heard the voice of Leoline; she was singingto the old chief one of the simple ballads of the time that the warriorand the hunter loved to hear. He paused lest he should break the spell(a spell stronger than a sorcerer's to him), and gazing upon Leoline'sbeautiful form, his heart sank within him. His brother and himselfhad each that day, as they sat in the gardens, given her a flower; hisflower was the fresher and the rarer; his he saw not, but she wore hisbrother's in her bosom!

  The chief, lulled by the music and wearied with the toils of the chase,sank into sleep as the song ended, and Warbeck, coming forward, motionedto Leoline to follow him. He passed into a retired and solitary walk,and when they were a little distance from the castle, Warbeck turnedround, and taking Leoline's hand gently, said,--

  "Let us rest here for one moment, dearest cousin; I have much on myheart to say to thee."

  "And what is there," answered Leoline, as they sat on a mossy bank,with the broad Rhine glancing below, "what is there that my kind Warbeckwould ask of me? Ah, would it might be some favour, something in poorLeoline's power to grant; for ever from my birth you have been to memost tender, most kind. You, I have often heard them say; taught myfirst steps to walk; you formed my infant lips into language, and, inafter years, when my wild cousin was far away in the forests at thechase, you would brave his gay jest and remain at home, lest Leolineshould be weary in the solitude. Ah, would I could repay you!"

  Warbeck turned away his cheek; his heart was very full, and it was somemoments before he summoned courage to reply.

  "My fa
ir cousin," said he, "those were happy days; but they were thedays of childhood. New cares and new thoughts have now come on us; butI am still thy friend, Leoline, and still thou wilt confide in me thyyoung sorrows and thy young hopes, as thou ever didst. Wilt thou not,Leoline?"

  "Canst thou ask me?" said Leoline; and Warbeck, gazing on her face, sawthat though her eyes were full of tears, they yet looked steadily uponhis; and he knew that she loved him only as a sister.

  He sighed, and paused again ere he resumed. "Enough," said he; "now tomy task. Once on a time, dear cousin, there lived among these mountainsa certain chief who had two sons, and an orphan like thyself dwelt alsoin his halls. And the elder son--but no matter, let us not waste wordson _him_!--the younger son, then, loved the orphan dearly,--more dearlythan cousins love; and fearful of refusal, he prayed the elder one tourge his suit to the orphan. Leoline, my tale is done. Canst thou notlove Otho as he loves thee?"

  And now lifting his eyes to Leoline, he saw that she trembled violently,and her cheek was covered with blushes.

  "Say," continued he, mastering himself, "is not that flowerhis--present--a token that he is chiefly in thy thoughts?"

  "Ah, Warbeck! do not deem me ungrateful that I wear not yours also;but--"

  "Hush!" said Warbeck, hastily; "I am but as thy brother; is not Othomore? He is young, brave, and beautiful. God grant that he may deservethee, if thou givest him so rich a gift as thy affections!"

  "I saw less of Otho in my childhood," said Leoline, evasively;"therefore, his kindness of late years seemed stranger to me thanthine."

  "And thou wilt not then reject him? Thou wilt be his bride?"

  "And _thy_ sister," answered Leoline.

  "Bless thee, mine own dear cousin! one brother's kiss then, andfarewell! Otho shall thank thee for himself."

  He kissed her forehead calmly, and, turning away, plunged into thethicket; then, nor till then, he gave vent to such emotions as, hadLeoline seen them, Otho's suit had been lost forever; for passionately,deeply as in her fond and innocent heart she loved Otho, the _happiness_of Warbeck was not less dear to her.

  When the young knight had recovered his self-possession he went insearch of Otho. He found him alone in the wood, leaning with folded armsagainst a tree, and gazing moodily on the ground. Warbeck's noble heartwas touched at his brother's dejection.

  "Cheer thee, Otho," said he; "I bring thee no bad tidings; I have seenLeoline, I have conversed with her--nay, start not,--she loves thee! sheis thine!"

  "Generous, generous Warbeck!" exclaimed Otho; and he threw himself onhis brother's neck. "No, no," said he, "this must not be; thou hast theelder claim,--I resign her to thee. Forgive me my waywardness, brother,forgive me!"

  "Think of the past no more," said Warbeck; "the love of Leoline is anexcuse for greater offences than thine. And now, be kind to her; hernature is soft and keen. _I_ know her well; for _I_ have studied herfaintest wish. Thou art hasty and quick of ire; but remember that a wordwounds where love is deep. For my sake, as for hers, think more of herhappiness than thine own; now seek her,--she waits to hear from thy lipsthe tale that sounded cold upon mine."

  With that he left his brother, and, once more re-entering the castle, hewent into the hall of his ancestors. His father still slept; he put hishand on his gray hair, and blessed him; then stealing up to his chamber,he braced on his helm and armour, and thrice kissing the hilt of hissword, said, with a flushed cheek,--

  "Henceforth be _thou_ my bride!" Then passing from the castle, he spedby the most solitary paths down the rock, gained the Rhine, and hailingone of the numerous fishermen of the river, won the opposite shore; andalone, but not sad, for his high heart supported him, and Leoline atleast was happy, he hastened to Frankfort.

  The town was all gayety and life, arms clanged at every corner, thesounds of martial music, the wave of banners, the glittering of plumedcasques, the neighing of war-steeds, all united to stir the blood andinflame the sense. Saint Bertrand had lifted the sacred cross along theshores of the Rhine, and the streets of Frankfort witnessed with whatsuccess!

  On that same day Warbeck assumed the sacred badge, and was enlistedamong the knights of the Emperor Conrad.

  We must suppose some time to have elapsed, and Otho and Leoline were notyet wedded; for, in the first fervour of his gratitude to his brother,Otho had proclaimed to his father and to Leoline the conquest Warbeckhad obtained over himself; and Leoline, touched to the heart, would notconsent that the wedding should take place immediately. "Let him, atleast," said she, "not be insulted by a premature festivity; and givehim time, amongst the lofty beauties he will gaze upon in a far country,to forget, Otho, that he once loved her who is the beloved of thee."

  The old chief applauded this delicacy; and even Otho, in the first flushof his feelings towards his brother, did not venture to oppose it. Theysettled, then, that the marriage should take place at the end of a year.

  Months rolled away, and an absent and moody gloom settled upon Otho'sbrow. In his excursions with his gay companions among the neighbouringtowns, he heard of nothing but the glory of the Crusaders, of the homagepaid to the heroes of the Cross at the courts they visited, of theadventures of their life, and the exciting spirit that animated theirwar. In fact, neither minstrel nor priest suffered the theme to growcold; and the fame of those who had gone forth to the holy strife gaveat once emulation and discontent to the youths who remained behind.

  "And my brother enjoys this ardent and glorious life," said theimpatient Otho; "while I, whose arm is as strong, and whose heart is asbold, languish here listening to the dull tales of a hoary sire andthe silly songs of an orphan girl." His heart smote him at the lastsentence, but he had already begun to weary of the gentle love ofLeoline. Perhaps when he had no longer to gain a triumph over a rivalthe excitement palled; or perhaps his proud spirit secretly chafed atbeing conquered by his brother in generosity, even when outshining himin the success of love.

  But poor Leoline, once taught that she was to consider Otho herbetrothed, surrendered her heart entirely to his control. His wildspirit, his dark beauty, his daring valour, won while they awed her; andin the fitfulness of his nature were those perpetual springs of hopeand fear that are the fountains of ever-agitated love. She saw withincreasing grief the change that was growing over Otho's mind; nor didshe divine the cause. "Surely I have not offended him?" thought she.

  Among the companions of Otho was one who possessed a singular swayover him. He was a knight of that mysterious Order of the Temple, whichexercised at one time so great a command over the minds of men.

  A severe and dangerous wound in a brawl with an English knight hadconfined the Templar at Frankfort, and prevented his joining theCrusade. During his slow recovery he had formed an intimacy with Otho,and, taking up his residence at the castle of Liebenstein, had beenstruck with the beauty of Leoline. Prevented by his oath from marriage,he allowed himself a double license in love, and doubted not, could hedisengage the young knight from his betrothed, that she would add anew conquest to the many he had already achieved. Artfully therefore hepainted to Otho the various attractions of the Holy Cause; and, aboveall, he failed not to describe, with glowing colours, the beauties who,in the gorgeous East, distinguished with a prodigal favour the warriorsof the Cross. Dowries, unknown in the more sterile mountains of theRhine, accompanied the hand of these beauteous maidens; and even aprince's daughter was not deemed, he said, too lofty a marriage for theheroes who might win kingdoms for themselves.

  "To me," said the Templar, "such hopes are eternally denied. But you,were you not already betrothed, what fortunes might await you!"

  By such discourses the ambition of Otho was perpetually aroused; theyserved to deepen his discontent at his present obscurity, and to convertto distaste the only solace it afforded in the innocence and affectionof Leoline.

  One night, a minstrel sought shelter from the storm in the halls ofLiebenstein. His visit was welcomed by the chief, and he repaid thehospitality he had received by the exerc
ise of his art. He sang of thechase, and the gaunt hound started from the hearth. He sang of love, andOtho, forgetting his restless dreams, approached to Leoline, andlaid himself at her feet. Louder then and louder rose the strain. Theminstrel sang of war; he painted the feats of the Crusaders; he plungedinto the thickest of the battle; the steed neighed; the trump sounded;and you might have heard the ringing of the steel. But when he cameto signalize the names of the boldest knights, high among the loftiestsounded the name of Sir Warbeck of Liebenstein. Thrice had he saved theimperial banner; two chargers slain beneath him, he had covered theirbodies with the fiercest of the foe.

  Gentle in the tent and terrible in the fray, the minstrel should forgethis craft ere the Rhine should forget its hero. The chief started fromhis seat. Leoline clasped the minstrel's hand.

  "Speak,--you have seen him, he lives, he is honoured?"

  "I myself am but just from Palestine, brave chief and noble maiden. Isaw the gallant knight of Liebenstein at the right hand of the imperialConrad. And he, ladye, was the only knight whom admiration shone uponwithout envy, its shadow. Who then," continued the minstrel, once morestriking his harp, "who then would remain inglorious in the hall? Shallnot the banners of his sires reproach him as they wave; and shall notevery voice from Palestine strike shame into his soul?"

  "Right!" cried Otho, suddenly, and flinging himself at the feet of hisfather. "Thou hearest what my brother has done, and thine aged eyes weeptears of joy. Shall I only dishonour thine old age with a rusted sword?No! grant me, like my brother, to go forth with the heroes of theCross!"

  "Noble youth," cried the harper, "therein speaks the soul of SirWarbeck; hear him, sir, knight,--hear the noble youth."

  "Heaven cries aloud in his voice," said the Templar, solemnly.

  "My son, I cannot chide thine ardour," said the old chief, raising himwith trembling hands; "but Leoline, thy betrothed?"

  Pale as a statue, with ears that doubted their sense as they drank inthe cruel words of her lover, stood the orphan. She did not speak, shescarcely breathed; she sank into her seat, and gazed upon the ground,till, at the speech of the chief both maiden pride and maiden tendernessrestored her consciousness, and she said,--

  "_I_, uncle! Shall _I_ bid Otho stay when his wishes bid him depart?"

  "He will return to thee, noble ladye, covered with glory," said theharper: but Otho said no more. The touching voice of Leoline went tohis soul; he resumed his seat in silence; and Leoline, going up tohim, whispered gently, "Act as though I were not;" and left the hall tocommune with her heart and to weep alone.

  "I can wed her before I go," said Otho, suddenly, as he sat that nightin the Templar's chamber.

  "Why, that is true! and leave thy bride in the first week,--a hardtrial!"

  "Better than incur the chance of never calling her mine. Dear, kind,beloved Leoline!"

  "Assuredly, she deserves all from thee; and, indeed, it is no smallsacrifice, at thy years and with thy mien, to renounce forever allinterest among the noble maidens thou wilt visit. Ah, from the galleriesof Constantinople what eyes will look down on thee, and what ears,learning that thou art Otho the bridegroom, will turn away, caring forthee no more! A bridegroom without a bride! Nay, man, much as the Crosswants warriors, I am enough thy friend to tell thee, if thou weddest, tostay peaceably at home, and forget in the chase the labours of war, fromwhich thou wouldst strip the ambition of love."

  "I would I knew what were best," said Otho, irresolutely. "Mybrother--ha, shall he forever excel me? But Leoline, how will shegrieve,--she who left him for me!"

  "Was that thy fault?" said the Templar, gayly. "It may many times chanceto thee again to be preferred to another. Troth, it is a sin under whichthe conscience may walk lightly enough. But sleep on it, Otho; my eyesgrow heavy."

  The next day Otho sought Leoline, and proposed to her that their weddingshould precede his parting; but so embarrassed was he, so dividedbetween two wishes, that Leoline, offended, hurt, stung by his coldness,refused the proposal at once. She left him lest he should see her weep,and then--then she repented even of her just pride!

  But Otho, striving to appease his conscience with the belief thathers now was the _sole_ fault, busied himself in preparations for hisdeparture. Anxious to outshine his brother, he departed not as Warbeck,alone and unattended, but levying all the horse, men, and money thathis domain of Sternfels--which he had not yet tenanted--would afford, herepaired to Frankfort at the head of a glittering troop.

  The Templar, affecting a relapse, tarried behind, and promised to joinhim at that Constantinople of which he had so loudly boasted. Meanwhilehe devoted his whole powers of pleasing to console the unhappy orphan.The force of her simple love was, however, stronger than all his arts.In vain he insinuated doubts of Otho,--she refused to hear them; in vainhe poured with the softest accents into her ear the witchery of flatteryand song,--she turned heedlessly away; and only pained by the courtesiesthat had so little resemblance to Otho, she shut herself up in herchamber, and pined in solitude for her forsaker.

  The Templar now resolved to attempt darker arts to obtain power overher, when, fortunately, he was summoned suddenly away by a mission fromthe Grand Master of so high import, that it could not be resisted by apassion stronger in his breast than love,--the passion of ambition. Heleft the castle to its solitude; and Otho peopling it no more with hisgay companions, no solitude _could_ be more unfrequently disturbed.

  Meanwhile, though, ever and anon, the fame of Warbeck reached theirears, it came unaccompanied with that of Otho,--of him they had notidings; and thus the love of the tender orphan was kept alive bythe perpetual restlessness of fear. At length the old chief died, andLeoline was left utterly alone.

  One evening as she sat with her maidens in the hall, the ringing of asteed's hoofs was heard in the outer court; a horn sounded, the heavygates were unbarred, and a knight of a stately mien and covered with themantle of the Cross entered the hall. He stopped for one moment at theentrance, as if overpowered by his emotion; in the next he had claspedLeoline to his breast.

  "Dost thou not recognize thy cousin Warbeck?" He doffed his casque, andshe saw that majestic brow which, unlike Otho's, had never changed orbeen clouded in its aspect to her.

  "The war is suspended for the present," said he. "I learned my father'sdeath, and I have returned home to hang up my banner in the hall andspend my days in peace."

  Time and the life of camps had worked their change upon Warbeck's face;the fair hair, deepened in its shade, was worn from the temples, anddisclosed one scar that rather aided the beauty of a countenance thathad always something high and martial in its character; but the calm ithad once worn had settled down into sadness; he conversed more rarelythan before, and though he smiled not less often, nor less kindly, thesmile had more of thought, and the kindness had forgot its passion. Hehad apparently conquered a love that was so early crossed, but notthat fidelity of remembrance which made Leoline dearer to him than allothers, and forbade him to replace the images he had graven upon hissoul.

  The orphan's lips trembled with the name of Otho, but a certainrecollection stifled even her anxiety. Warbeck hastened to forestall herquestions. Otho was well, he said, and sojourning at Constantinople; hehad lingered there so long that the crusade had terminated without hisaid: doubtless now he would speedily return,--a month, a week, nay, aday, might restore him to her side.

  Leoline was inexpressibly consoled, yet something remained untold.Why, so eager for the strife of the sacred tomb, had he thus tarried atConstantinople? She wondered, she wearied conjecture, but she did notdare to search further.

  The generous Warbeck concealed from her that Otho led a life of the mostreckless and indolent dissipation,--wasting his wealth in the pleasuresof the Greek court, and only occupying his ambition with the wildschemes of founding a principality in those foreign climes, which theenterprises of the Norman adventurers had rendered so alluring to theknightly bandits of the age.

  The cousins resumed their old friend
ship, and Warbeck believed that itwas friendship alone.

  They walked again among the gardens in which their childhood hadstrayed; they sat again on the green turf whereon they had wovenflowers; they looked down on the eternal mirror of the Rhine,--ah! couldit have reflected the same unawakened freshness of their life's earlyspring!

  The grave and contemplative mind of Warbeck had not been so contentedwith the honours of war but that it had sought also those calmer sourcesof emotion which were yet found among the sages of the East. He haddrunk at the fountain of the wisdom of those distant climes, and hadacquired the habits of meditation which were indulged by those wisertribes from which the Crusaders brought back to the North the knowledgethat was destined to enlighten their posterity. Warbeck, therefore, hadlittle in common with the ruder chiefs around; he did not summon them tohis board; nor attend at their noisy wassails. Often late at night, inyon shattered tower, his lonely lamp shone still over the mighty stream,and his only relief to loneliness was in the presence and the song ofhis soft cousin.

  Months rolled on, when suddenly a vague and fearful rumour reached thecastle of Liebenstein. Otho was returning home to the neighbouring towerof Sternfels; but not alone. He brought back with him a Greek bride ofsurprising beauty, and dowered with almost regal wealth. Leoline wasthe first to discredit the rumour; Leoline was soon the only one whodisbelieved.

  Bright in the summer noon flashed the array of horsemen; far upthe steep ascent wound the gorgeous cavalcade; the lonely towers ofLiebenstein heard the echo of many a laugh and peal of merriment. Othobore home his bride to the hall of Sternfels.

  That night there was a great banquet in Otho's castle; the lights shonefrom every casement, and music swelled loud and ceaselessly within.

  By the side of Otho, glittering with the prodigal jewels of the East,sat the Greek. Her dark locks, her flashing eye, the false colours ofher complexion, dazzled the eyes of her guests. On her left hand sat theTemplar.

  "By the holy rood," quoth the Templar, gayly, though he crossed himselfas he spoke, "we shall scare the owls to-night on those grim towersof Liebenstein. Thy grave brother, Sir Otho, will have much to do tocomfort his cousin when she sees what a gallant life she would have ledwith thee."

  "Poor damsel!" said the Greek, with affected pity, "doubtless she willnow be reconciled to the rejected one. I hear he is a knight of a comelymien."

  "Peace!" said Otho, sternly, and quaffing a large goblet of wine.

  The Greek bit her lip, and glanced meaningly at the Templar, whoreturned the glance.

  "Nought but a beauty such as thine can win my pardon," said Otho,turning to his bride, and gazing passionately in her face.

  The Greek smiled.

  Well sped the feast, the laugh deepened, the wine circled, when Otho'seye rested on a guest at the bottom of the board, whose figure wasmantled from head to foot, and whose face was covered by a dark veil.

  "Beshrew me!" said he, aloud, "but this is scarce courteous at ourrevel: will the stranger vouchsafe to unmask?"

  These words turned all eyes to the figure, and they who sat next itperceived that it trembled violently; at length it rose, and walkingslowly, but with grace, to the fair Greek, it laid beside her a wreathof flowers.

  "It is a simple gift, ladye," said the stranger, in a voice of suchsweetness that the rudest guest was touched by it; "but it is all I canoffer, and the bride of Otho should not be without a gift at my hands.May ye both be happy!"

  With these words, the stranger turned and passed from the hall silent asa shadow.

  "Bring back the stranger!" cried the Greek, recovering her surprise.Twenty guests sprang up to obey her mandate.

  "No, no!" said Otho, waving his hand impatiently. "Touch her not, heedher not, at your peril."

  The Greek bent over the flowers to conceal her anger, and from amongstthem dropped the broken half of a ring. Otho recognized it at once; itwas the broken half of that ring which he had broken with his betrothed.Alas! he required not such a sign to convince him that that figure,so full of ineffable grace, that touching voice, that simple action sotender in its sentiment, that gift, that blessing, came only from theforsaken and forgiving Leoline.

  But Warbeck, alone in his solitary tower, paced to and fro with agitatedsteps. Deep, undying wrath at his brother's falsehood mingled withone burning, one delicious hope. He confessed now that he had deceivedhimself when he thought his passion was no more; was there any longer abar to his union with Leoline?

  In that delicacy which was breathed into him by his love, he hadforborne to seek, or to offer her the insult of consolation. He feltthat the shock should be borne alone, and yet he pined, he thirsted, tothrow himself at her feet.

  Nursing these contending thoughts, he was aroused by a knock at hisdoor; he opened it. The passage was thronged by Leoline's maidens,pale, anxious, weeping. Leoline had left the castle, with but one femaleattendant, none knew whither; they knew too soon. From the hall ofSternfels she had passed over in the dark and inclement night to thevalley in which the convent of Bornhofen offered to the weary of spiritand the broken of heart a refuge at the shrine of God.

  At daybreak the next morning, Warbeck was at the convent's gate. He sawLeoline. What a change one night of suffering had made in that face,which was the fountain of all loveliness to him! He clasped her in hisarms; he wept; he urged all that love could urge: he besought her toaccept that heart which had never wronged her memory by a thought. "Oh,Leoline! didst thou not say once that these arms nursed thy childhood;that this voice soothed thine early sorrows? Ah, trust to them againand forever. From a love that forsook thee turn to the love that neverswerved."

  "No," said Leoline; "no. What would the chivalry of which thou art theboast,--what would they say of thee, wert thou to wed one affianced anddeserted, who tarried years for another, and brought to thine arms onlythat heart which he had abandoned? No; and even if thou, as I know thouwouldst be, wert callous to such wrong of thy high name, shall I bringto thee a broken heart and bruised spirit? Shalt thou wed sorrow andnot joy; and shall sighs that will not cease, and tears that may not bedried, be the only dowry of thy bride? Thou, too, for whom all blessingsshould be ordained! No, forget me; forget thy poor Leoline! She hathnothing but prayers for thee."

  In vain Warbeck pleaded; in vain he urged all that passion and truthcould urge; the springs of earthly love were forever dried up in theorphan's heart, and her resolution was immovable. She tore herself fromhis arms, and the gate of the convent creaked harshly on his ear.

  A new and stern emotion now wholly possessed him; though naturallymild and gentle, he cherished anger, when once it was aroused, with thestrength of a calm mind. Leoline's tears, her sufferings, her wrongs,her uncomplaining spirit, the change already stamped upon her face,--allcried aloud to him for vengeance. "She is an orphan," said he, bitterly;"she hath none to protect, to redress her, save me alone. My father'scharge over her forlorn youth descends of right to me. What matters itwhether her forsaker be my brother? He is _her_ foe. Hath he not crushedher heart? Hath he not consigned her to sorrow till the grave? And withwhat insult! no warning, no excuse; with lewd wassailers keeping revelfor his new bridals in the hearing--before the sight--of his betrothed!Enough! the time hath come when, to use his own words, 'One of us twomust fall!'" He half drew his sword as he spoke, and thrusting it backviolently into the sheath, strode home to his solitary castle. The soundof steeds and of the hunting horn met him at his portal; the bridaltrain of Sternfels, all mirth and gladness, were parting for the chase.

  That evening a knight in complete armour entered the banquet-hall ofSternfels, and defied Otho, on the part of Warbeck of Liebenstein, tomortal combat.

  Even the Templar was startled by so unnatural a challenge; butOtho, reddening, took up the gage, and the day and spot were fixed.Discontented, wroth with himself, a savage gladness seized him; helonged to wreak his desperate feelings even on his brother. Nor hadhe ever in his jealous heart forgiven that brother his virtues and hisrenown.


  At the appointed hour the brothers met as foes. Warbeck's vizor was up,and all the settled sternness of his soul was stamped upon his brow.But Otho, more willing to brave the arm than to face the front of hisbrother, kept his vizor down; the Templar stood by him with folded arms.It was a study in human passions to his mocking mind. Scarce had thefirst trump sounded to this dread conflict, when a new actor enteredon the scene. The rumour of so unprecedented an event had not failed toreach the convent of Bornhofen; and now, two by two, came the sisters ofthe holy shrine, and the armed men made way, as with trailing garmentsand veiled faces they swept along into the very lists. At that momentone from amongst them left her sisters with a slow majestic pace, andpaused not till she stood right between the brother foes.

  "Warbeck," she said in a hollow voice, that curdled up his dark spiritas it spoke, "is it thus thou wouldst prove thy love, and maintain thytrust over the fatherless orphan whom thy sire bequeathed to thy care?Shall I have murder on my soul?" At that question she paused, and thosewho heard it were struck dumb, and shuddered. "The murder of one man bythe hand of his own brother! Away, Warbeck! _I command_."

  "Shall I forget thy wrongs, Leoline?" said Warbeck.

  "Wrongs! they united me to God! they are forgiven, they are no more.Earth has deserted me, but Heaven hath taken me to its arms. Shall Imurmur at the change? And thou, Otho"--here her voice faltered--"thou,does thy conscience smite thee not? Wouldst thou atone for robbing me ofhope by barring against me the future? Wretch that I should be, couldI dream of mercy, could I dream of comfort, if thy brother fell by thysword in my cause? Otho, I have pardoned thee, and blessed theeand thine. Once, perhaps, thou didst love me; remember how I lovedthee,--cast down thine arms."

  Otho gazed at the veiled form before him. Where had the soft Leolinelearned to command? He turned to his brother; he felt all that he hadinflicted upon both; and casting his sword upon the ground, he knelt atthe feet of Leoline, and kissed her garment with a devotion that votarynever lavished on a holier saint.

  The spell that lay over the warriors around was broken; there was oneloud cry of congratulation and joy. "And thou, Warbeck?" said Leoline,turning to the spot where, still motionless and haughty, Warbeck stood.

  "Have I ever rebelled against thy will?" said he, softly; and buried thepoint of his sword in the earth. "Yet, Leoline, yet," added he, lookingat his kneeling brother, "yet art thou already better avenged than bythis steel!"

  "Thou art! thou art!" cried Otho, smiting his breast; and slowly, andscarce noting the crowd that fell back from his path, Warbeck left thelists.

  Leoline said no more; her divine errand was fulfilled. She looked longand wistfully after the stately form of the knight of Liebenstein, andthen, with a slight sigh, she turned to Otho, "This is the last time weshall meet on earth. Peace be with us all!"

  She then, with the same majestic and collected bearing, passed ontowards the sisterhood; and as, in the same solemn procession, theyglided back towards the convent, there was not a man present--no, noteven the hardened Templar--who would not, like Otho, have bent his kneeto Leoline.

  Once more Otho plunged into the wild revelry of the age; his castle wasthronged with guests, and night after night the lighted halls shone downathwart the tranquil Rhine. The beauty of the Greek, the wealth of Otho,the fame of the Templar, attracted all the chivalry from far and near.Never had the banks of the Rhine known so hospitable a lord as theknight of Sternfels. Yet gloom seized him in the midst of gladness,and the revel was welcome only as the escape from remorse. The voice ofscandal, however, soon began to mingle with that of envy at the pompof Otho. The fair Greek, it was said, weary of her lord, lavished hersmiles on others; the young and the fair were always most acceptableat the castle; and, above all, her guilty love for the Templar scarcelyaffected disguise. Otho alone appeared unconscious of the rumour; andthough he had begun to neglect his bride, he relaxed not in his intimacywith the Templar.

  It was noon, and the Greek was sitting in her bower alone with hersuspected lover; the rich perfumes of the East mingled with thefragrance of flowers, and various luxuries, unknown till then in thosenorthern shores, gave a soft and effeminate character to the room.

  "I tell thee," said the Greek, petulantly, "that he begins to suspect;that I have seen him watch thee, and mutter as he watched, and play withthe hilt of his dagger. Better let us fly ere it is too late, for hisvengeance would be terrible were it once roused against us. Ah, why didI ever forsake my own sweet land for these barbarous shores! There, loveis not considered eternal, nor inconstancy a crime worthy death."

  "Peace, pretty one!" said the Templar, carelessly; "thou knowest not thelaws of our foolish chivalry. Thinkest thou I could fly from a knight'shalls like a thief in the night? Why, verily, even the red cross wouldnot cover such dishonour. If thou fearest that thy dull lord suspects,let us part. The emperor hath sent to me from Frankfort. Ere evening Imight be on my way thither."

  "And I left to brave the barbarian's revenge alone? Is this thychivalry?"

  "Nay, prate not so wildly," answered the Templar. "Surely, when theobject of his suspicion is gone, thy woman's art and thy Greek wiles caneasily allay the jealous fiend. Do I not know thee, Glycera? Why, thouwouldst fool all men--save a Templar."

  "And thou, cruel, wouldst thou leave me?" said the Greek, weeping. "Howshall I live without thee?"

  The Templar laughed slightly. "Can such eyes ever weep without acomforter? But farewell; I must not be found with thee. To-morrow Idepart for Frankfort; we shall meet again."

  As soon as the door closed on the Templar, the Greek rose, and pacingthe room, said, "Selfish, selfish! how could I ever trust him? Yet Idare not brave Otho alone. Surely it was his step that disturbed usin our yesterday's interview? Nay, I will fly. I can never want acompanion."

  She clapped her hands; a young page appeared; she threw herself on herseat and wept bitterly.

  The page approached, and love was mingled with his compassion.

  "Why weepest thou, dearest lady?" said he. "Is there aught in whichConrad's services--services!--ah, thou hast read his heart--_hisdevotion_ may avail?"

  Otho had wandered out the whole day alone; his vassals had observedthat his brow was more gloomy than its wont, for he usually concealedwhatever might prey within. Some of the most confidential of hisservitors he had conferred with, and the conference had deepened theshadow of his countenance. He returned at twilight; the Greek did nothonour the repast with her presence. She was unwell, and not to bedisturbed. The gay Templar was the life of the board.

  "Thou carriest a sad brow to-day, Sir Otho," said he; "good faith, thouhast caught it from the air of Liebenstein."

  "I have something troubles me," answered Otho, forcing a smile, "which Iwould fain impart to thy friendly bosom. The night is clear and the moonis up, let us forth alone into the garden."

  The Templar rose, and he forgot not to gird on his sword as he followedthe knight.

  Otho led the way to one of the most distant terraces that overhung theRhine.

  "Sir Templar," said he, pausing, "answer me one question on thy knightlyhonour. Was it thy step that left my lady's bower yester-eve at vesper?"

  Startled by so sudden a query, the wily Templar faltered in his reply.

  The red blood mounted to Otho's brow. "Nay, lie not, sir knight; theseeyes, thanks to God! have not witnessed, but these ears have heard fromothers of my dishonour."

  As Otho spoke, the Templar's eye resting on the water perceived a boatrowing fast over the Rhine; the distance forbade him to see more thanthe outline of two figures within it. "She was right," thought he;"perhaps that boat already bears her from the danger."

  Drawing himself up to the full height of his tall stature, the Templarreplied haughtily,--

  "Sir Otho of Sternfels, if thou hast deigned to question thy vassals,obtain from them only an answer. It is not to contradict such minionsthat the knights of the Temple pledge their word!"

  "Enough," cried Otho, losing patience, a
nd striking the Templar with hisclenched hand. "Draw, traitor, draw!"

  Alone in his lofty tower Warbeck watched the night deepen over theheavens, and communed mournfully with himself. "To what end," thoughthe, "have these strong affections, these capacities of love, thisyearning after sympathy, been given me? Unloved and unknown I walk tomy grave, and all the nobler mysteries of my heart are forever to beuntold."

  Thus musing, he heard not the challenge of the warder on the wall, orthe unbarring of the gate below, or the tread of footsteps along thewinding stair; the door was thrown suddenly open, and Otho stood beforehim. "Come," he said, in a low voice trembling with passion; "come, Iwill show thee that which shall glad thine heart. Twofold is Leolineavenged."

  Warbeck looked in amazement on a brother he had not met since they stoodin arms each against the other's life, and he now saw that the arm thatOtho extended to him dripped with blood, trickling drop by drop upon thefloor.

  "Come," said Otho, "follow me; it is my last prayer. Come, for Leoline'ssake, come."

  At that name Warbeck hesitated no longer; he girded on his sword, andfollowed his brother down the stairs and through the castle gate. Theporter scarcely believed his eyes when he saw the two brothers, so longdivided, go forth at that hour alone, and seemingly in friendship.

  Warbeck, arrived at that epoch in the feelings when nothing stuns,followed with silent steps the rapid strides of his brother. The twocastles, as you are aware, are scarce a stone's throw from each other.In a few minutes Otho paused at an open space in one of the terraces ofSternfels, on which the moon shone bright and steady. "Behold!" he said,in a ghastly voice, "behold!" and Warbeck saw on the sward the corpse ofthe Templar, bathed with the blood that even still poured fast and warmfrom his heart.

  "Hark!" said Otho. "He it was who first made me waver in my vows toLeoline; he persuaded me to wed yon whited falsehood. Hark! he, who hadthus wronged my real love, dishonoured me with my faithless bride, andthus--thus--thus"--as grinding his teeth, he spurned again and again thedead body of the Templar--"thus Leoline and myself are avenged!"

  "And thy wife?" said Warbeck, pityingly.

  "Fled,--fled with a hireling page. It is well! she was not worth thesword that was once belted on--by Leoline."