The Dove in the Eagle's Nest by Charlotte M. Yonge (e novels for free .txt) 📖

better than the Christian; and walking in the open air, chained to a German comrade, was far pleasanter than pining in his lonely dungeon.  At Adrianople, an offer had been made to each of the captives, if they would become Moslems, of entering the Ottoman service as Spahis; but with one voice they had refused, and had then been draughted into different divisions.  The fifteen nobles, who had been offered for ransom, were taken to Constantinople, to await its arrival, and they had promised Sir Eberhard to publish his fate on their return to their homes; and, though he knew the family resources too well to have many hopes, he was rather hurt to find that their promise had been unfulfilled.

“Alas! they had no opportunity,” said Ebbo.  “Gulden were scarce, or were all in Kaisar Friedrich’s great chest; the ransoms could not be raised, and all died in captivity.  I heard about it when I was at Wurms last month.”

“The boy at Wurms?” almost gasped Sir Eberhard in amaze.

“I had to be there about matters concerning the Wildschloss lands and the bridge,” said Ebbo; “and both Dankwart von Schlangenwald and I made special inquiries about that company in case you should have shared their fate.  I hoped to have set forth at that time, but the Kaisar said I was still too lame, and refused me license, or letters to the Sultan.”

“You would not have found me,” said his father, narrating how he with a large troop of captives had been driven down to the coast; where they were transferred to a Moorish slave-dealer, who shipped them off for Tunis.  Here, after their first taste of the miseries of a sea life, the alternative of Islam or slavery was again put before them.  “And, by the holy stone of Nicæa,” said Sir Eberhard, “I thought by that time that the infidels had the advantage of us in good-will and friendliness; but, when they told me women had no souls at all, no more than a horse or dog, I knew it was but an empty dream of a religion; for did I not know that my little Ermentrude, and thou, Stine, had finer, clearer, wiser souls than ever a man I had known?  ‘Nay, nay,’ quoth I, ‘I’ll cast in my lot where I may meet my wife hereafter, should I never see her here.’”  He had then been allotted to a corsair, and had thenceforth been chained to the bench of rowers, between the two decks, where, in stifling heat and stench, in storm or calm, healthy or diseased, the wretched oarsmen were compelled to play the part of machinery in propelling the vessel, in order to capture Christian ships—making exertions to which only the perpetual lash of the galley-master could have urged their exhausted frames; often not desisting for twenty or thirty hours, and rowing still while sustenance was put into their mouths by their drivers.  Many a man drew has last breath with his last stroke, and was at the first leisure moment hurled into the waves.  It was the description that had so deeply moved Friedel long ago, and Christina wept over it, as she looked at the bowed form once so proud and free, and thought of the unhealed scars.  But there, her husband added, he had been chained next to a holy friar of German blood, like himself a captive of the great Styrian raid; and, while some blasphemed in their misery, or wildly chid their patron saints, this good man strove to show that all was to work out good; he had a pious saying for all that befell, and adored the will of God in thus purifying him; “And, if it were thus with a saint like him, I thought, what must it be with a rough freebooting godless sinner such as I had been?  See”—and he took out a rosary of strung bladders of seaweed; “that is what he left me when he died, and what I meant to have been telling for ever up in the hermitage.”

“He died, then?”

“Ay—he died on the shore of Corsica, while most of the dogs were off harrying a village inland, and we had a sort of respite, or I trow he would have rowed till his last gasp.  How he prayed for the poor wretches they were gone to attack!—ay, and for all of us—for me also—There’s enough of it.  Such talk skills not now.”

It was plain that Sir Eberhard had learnt more Christianity in the hold of his Moorish pirate ship than ever in the Holy Roman Empire, and a weight was lifted off his son’s mind by finding that he had vowed never to return to a life of violence, even though fancying a life of penance in a hermitage the only alternative.

Ebbo asked if the Genoese merchant, Ser Gian Battista dei Battiste, had indeed been one of his fellow-captives.

“Ha!—what?” and on the repetition, “Truly I knew him, Merchant Gian as we used to call him; but you twang off his name as they speak it in his own stately city.”

Christina smiled.  “Ebbo learnt the Italian tongue this winter from our chaplain, who had studied at Bologna.  He was told it would aid in his quest of you.”

“Tell me not!” said the traveller, holding up his hands in deprecation; “the Junker is worse than a priest!  And yet he killed old Wolfgang!  But what of Gian?  Hold,—did not he, when I was with him at Genoa, tell me a story of being put into a dungeon in a mountain fortress in Germany, and released by a pair of young lads with eyes beaming in the sunrise, who vanished just as they brought him to a cloister?  Nay, he deemed it a miracle of the saints, and hung up a votive picture thereof at the shrine of the holy Cosmo and Damian.”

“He was not so far wrong in deeming one of the lads near of kin to the holy ones,” said Christina, softly.

And Ebbo briefly narrated the adventure, when it evidently appeared that his having led at least one foray gave his father for the first time a fellow-feeling for him, and a sense that he was one of the true old stock; but, when he heard of the release, he growled, “So!  How would a lad have fared who so acted in my time?  My poor old mother!  She must have been changed indeed not to have scourged him till he had no strength to cry out.”

“He was my prisoner!” said Ebbo, in his old defiant tone; “I had the right.”

“Ah, well! the Junker has always been master here, and I never!” said the elder knight, looking round rather piteously; and Ebbo, with a sudden movement, exclaimed, “Nay, sir, you are the only lord and master, and I stand ready to be the first to obey you.”

“You!  A fine young book-learned scholar, already knighted, and with all these Wildschloss lands too!” said Sir Eberhard, gazing with a strange puzzled look at the delicate but spirited features of this strange perplexing son.  “Reach hither your hand, boy.”

And as he compared the slender, shapely hand of such finely-textured skin with the breadth of his own horny giant’s paw, he tossed it from him, shaking his head with a gesture as if he had no commands for such feminine-looking fingers to execute, and mortifying Ebbo not a little.  “Ah!” said Christina, apologetically, “it always grieved your mother that the boys would resemble me and mine.  But, when daylight comes, Ebbo will show you that he has not lost the old German strength.”

“No doubt—no doubt,” said Sir Eberhard, hastily, “since he has slain Schlangenwald; and, if the former state of things be at an end, the less he takes after the ancient stock the better.  But I am an old man now, Stine, though thou look’st fair and fresh as ever, and I do not know what to make of these things.  White napery on the table; glass drinking things;—nay, were it not for thee and the Schneiderlein, I should not know I was at home.”

He was led back to his narration, and it appeared that, after some years spent at the oar, certain bleedings from the lungs, the remains of his wound, had become so much more severe as to render him useless for naval purposes; and, as he escaped actually dying during a voyage, he was allowed to lie by on coming into port till he had in some degree recovered, and then had been set to labour at the fortifications, chained to another prisoner, and toiling between the burning sand and burning sun, but treated with less horrible severity than the necessities of the sea had occasioned on board ship, and experiencing the benefit of intercourse with the better class of captives, whom their miserable fate had thrown into the hands of the Moors.

It was a favourite almsdeed among the Provençals, Spaniards, and Italians to send money for the redemption of prisoners to the Moors, and there was a regular agency for ransoms through the Jews; but German captives were such an exception that no one thought of them, and many a time had the summons come for such and such a slave by name, or for five poor Sicilians, twenty Genoese, a dozen Marseillais, or the like, but still no word for the Swabian; till he had made up his mind that he should either leave his bones in the hot mud of the harbour, or be only set free by some gallant descent either of the brave King of Portugal, or of the Knights of Rhodes, of whom the captives were ever dreaming and whispering.

At length his own slave name was shouted; he was called up by the captain of his gang, and, while expecting some fresh punishment, or, maybe, to find himself sold into some domestic form of slavery, he was set before a Jewish agent, who, after examining him on his name, country, and station, and comparing his answers with a paper of instructions, informed him that he was ransomed, caused his fetters to be struck off, and shipped him off at once for Genoa, with orders to the captain to consign him to the merchant Signor del Battiste.  By him Sir Eberhard had been received with the warmest hospitality, and treated as befitted his original station, but Battista disclaimed the merit of having ransomed him.  He had but acted, he said, as the agent of an Austrian gentleman, from whom he had received orders to inquire after the Swabian baron who had been his fellow-captive, and, if he were still living, to pay his ransom, and bring him home.

“The name—the name!” eagerly asked Ebbo and his mother at once.

“The name?  Gian was wont to make bad work of our honest German names, but I tried to learn this—being so beholden to him.  I even caused it to be spelt over to me, but my letters long ago went from me.  It seems to me that the man is a knight-errant, like those of thy ballads, Stine—one Ritter Theur—Theur—”

“Theurdank!” cried Ebbo.

“Ay, Theurdank.  What, you know him?  There is nothing you and your mother don’t know, I believe.”

“Know him!  Father, he is our greatest and noblest!  He has been kind to me beyond description.  He is the Kaisar!  Now I see why he had that strange arch look which so vexed me when he forbade me on my allegiance to set forth till my lameness should be gone!  Long ago had he asked me all about Gian Battista.  To him he must have written.”

“The Kaisar!” said Sir Eberhard.  “Nay, the poor fellows I left in Turkey ever said he was too close of fist for them to have hope from him.”

“Oh! that was old Kaisar Friedrich.  This is our own gallant Maximilian—a knight as true and brave as ever was paladin,” said Christina; “and most truly loving and prizing our Ebbo.”

“And yet I wish—I wish,” said Ebbo, “that he had let me win my father’s liberty for myself.”

“Yea, well,” said his father, “there spoke the Adlerstein.  We never were wont to be beholden to king or kaisar.”

“Nay,” say Ebbo, after a moment’s recollection, colouring as he spoke; “it is true that I deserved it not.  Nay, Sir Father, it is well.  You owe your freedom in very truth to the son you have not known.  It was he who treasured up the thought of the captive German described by the merchant, and even dreamt of it, while never doubting of your death; it was he who caught up Schlangenwald’s first hint that you lived, while I, in my pride, passed it by as merely meant to perplex me; it was he who had formed an absolute purpose of obtaining some certainty; and at last, when my impetuosity had brought on the fatal battle, it was he who bought with his own life the avowal of your captivity.  I had hoped to have fulfilled Friedel’s trust, and to have redeemed my own backwardness; but it is not to be.  While I was yet lying helpless on my bed, the Emperor has taken it out of my power.  Mother,