"But with no evil intentions!"
"Yet denies that he was there!" the Burgomaster concluded gravely.
That silenced my lady, and she sat rolling her kerchief in her hands.
Against the five impa.s.sive faces that confronted her, the ten inscrutable eyes that watched her; above all, against this strange, this inexplicable denial, she could do nothing! At last--
"Will you hear my steward?" she asked--in despair, I think.
"Certainly," the Burgomaster answered. "We wish to do so."
On that I told them all I knew; in what terms I had heard Neumann and General Tzerclas refer to the Waldgrave; how unexpected had been his appearance in the hall; how this interference had saved my life; and, finally, my own conviction that he was not privy to Tzerclas" designs.
The Court heard me with attention; the Burgomaster put a few questions, and I answered them. Then, afraid to stop--for their faces showed no relenting--I began to repeat what I had said before. But now the Court remained silent; I stumbled, stammered, finally sank into silence myself. The air of the place froze me; I seemed to be talking to statues.
The Countess was the first to break the spell. "Well?" she cried, her voice tremulous, yet defiant.
The Burgomaster consulted his colleagues, and for the first time something of animation appeared in their faces. But it lasted an instant only. Then the others sat back in their chairs, and he turned to my lady.
"We are obliged to your excellency," he said gravely and formally.
"And to your servant. But the Court sees no reason to change its decision."
"And that is?" The Countess"s voice was husky. She knew what was coming.
"That both prisoners suffer together."
For an instant I feared that my lady would do something unbecoming her dignity, and either break into womanish sobs and lamentations, or stoop to threats and insistence that must be equally unavailing. But she had learned in command the man"s lesson of control; and never had I seen her more equal to herself. I knew that her heart was bounding wildly; that her breast was heaving with indignation, pity, horror; that she saw, as I saw, the fair head for which she pleaded, rolling in the dust. But with all--she controlled herself. She rose stiffly from her seat.
"I am obliged to you for your patience, sir," she said, trembling but composed. "I had expected one to aid me in my prayer, who is not here.
And I can say no more. On his head be it. Only--I trust that you may never plead with as good a cause--and be refused."
They rose and stood while she turned from them; and the two court ushers with their wands went before her as she walked down the hall.
The silence, the formality, the creaking shoes, the very gules and purpure that lay in pools on the floor--I think that they stifled her as they stifled me; for when she reached the open air at last and I saw her face, I saw that she was white to the lips.
But she bore herself bravely; the surly crowd, that filled the Market Square and hailed our appearance with a harsh murmur, grew silent under her scornful eye, and partly out of respect, partly out of complaisance, because they now felt sure of their victim, doffed their caps to her and made room for us to pa.s.s. Every moment I expected her to break down: to weep or cover her face. But she pa.s.sed through all proudly, and walked, unfaltering, back to our lodging.
There on the threshold she did pause at last, just when I wished her to go on. She stood and turned her head, listening.
[Ill.u.s.tration: But with all--she controlled herself. She rose stiffly from her seat.]
"What is that?" she said.
"Cannon," I answered hastily. "In the trenches, my lady."
"No," she said quietly. "It is shouting. They have read the sentence."
She said no more, not another word; and went in quietly and upstairs to her room. But I wondered and feared. Such composure as this seemed to be unnatural, almost cruel. I could not think of the Waldgrave myself without a lump coming in my throat. I could not face the sunshine. And Steve and the men, when they heard, were no better. We stood inside the doorway in a little knot, and looked at one another mournfully. A man who pa.s.sed--and did not know the house or who we were--stopped to tell us that the sentence would be carried out at sunset; and, pleased to have given us the news, went whistling down the stale, sunny street.
Steve growled out an oath. "Who are these people," he said savagely, "that they should say my lady nay? When the Countess stoops to ask a life--Himmel!--is she not to have it?"
"Not here," I said, shaking my head.
"And why not?"
"Because we are not at Heritzburg now," I answered sadly.
"But--are we n.o.body here?" he growled in a rage. "Are we going to sit still and let them kill my lady"s own cousin?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "We have done all we can," I said.
"But there is some one can say nay to these curs!" he cried. And he spat contemptuously into the street. He had a countryman"s scorn of townsfolk. "Why don"t we take the law into our own hands, Master Martin?"
"It is likely," I said. "One against ten thousand! And for the matter of that, if the people are angry, it is not without cause. Did you see the man under the archway?"
Steve nodded. "Dead," he muttered.
"Starved," I said. "He was a cripple. First the cripples. Then the sound men. Life is cheap here."
Steve swore another oath. "Those are curs. But our man--why don"t we go to the King of Sweden? I suppose he is a sort of cousin to my lady?"
"We have as good as gone to him," I answered. At another time I might have smiled at Steve"s notion of my lady"s importance. "We have been to one equally able to help us. And he has done us no good. And for the matter of that, there is not time to go to the camp and back."
Steve began to fume and fret. The minutes went like lead. We were all miserable together. Outside, the kennel simmered in the sun, the low rumble of the cannon filled the air. I hated Nuremberg, the streets, the people, the heat. I wished that I had never seen a stone of it.
Presently one of the women came down stairs to us. "Do you know if there has been any fighting in the trenches to-day?" she asked.
"Nothing to speak of," I answered. "As far as I have heard. Why?"
"The Countess wishes to know," she said. "You have not heard of any one being killed?"
"No."
"Nor wounded?"
"No."
She nodded and turned away. I called after her to know the reason of her questions, but she flitted upstairs without giving me an answer, and left us looking at one another. In a second, however, she was down again.
"My lady will see no one," she said, with a face of mystery. "You understand, Master Martin? But--if any come of importance, you can take her will."
I nodded. The woman cast a lingering look into the street and went upstairs again.
CHAPTER x.x.xII.