Part 15

Count Don Sancho Diaz, lord of Saldana, shed bitter tears in his prison cell. Full of despair, he sighed forth in solitude his complaints against King Alfonso: “Oh, sad moments, when my white locks remind me how many years I have already passed in this horrible prison!”--_Old Spanish Romance._

The sun was setting, and its horizontal beams threw the dark shadow of the prison-bars upon Schumacker’s woollen gown and Ethel’s crape dress, as they sat by the high-arched casement, the old man in a great Gothic chair, the young girl upon a stool at his feet. The prisoner seemed to be brooding, in his favorite melancholy attitude. His bald, wrinkled brow rested on his hand, and his face was hidden save for the long white beard which hung down his breast in sad disorder.

“Father,” said Ethel, trying by every means to rouse him, “my lord and father, I dreamed last night of a happy future. Look, dear father; raise your eyes, and see that bright, cloudless sky.”

“I can only see the sky,” the old man replied, “through my prison-bars, as I can only see your future, Ethel, through my misfortunes.”

Then his head, for an instant lifted, fell back upon his hands, and both were silent.

“Father,” rejoined the young girl, a moment later, in a timid voice, “are you thinking of Lord Ordener?”

“Ordener?” said the old man, as if striving to recall the name. “Ah, I know whom you mean! What of him?”

“Do you think that he will soon return, father? He has been gone so long!--this is the fourth day.”

The old man shook his head sadly.

“I think that when four years have passed, his return will be as close at hand as it is to-day.”

Ethel turned pale.

“Heavens! Then you think that he will not come back?”

Schumacker made no answer. The young girl repeated her question in an anxious and beseeching tone.

“Did he not promise to return?” said the old man, curtly.

“Yes, to be sure!” eagerly answered Ethel.

“Well, how can you reckon upon his coming, then? Is he not a man? I believe that the vulture will return to a dead body, but I have no faith in the return of spring when the year is on the wane.”

Ethel, seeing that her father had relapsed into his wonted melancholy, took courage; the voice of her young and virginal soul proudly denied the old man’s morbid philosophy.

“Father,” she said firmly, “Lord Ordener will return; he is not like other men.”

“What do you know about it, girl?”

“What you know yourself, my lord and father.”

“I know nothing,” said the old man. “I heard words from a man, and they promised the actions of a god.” Then he added, with a bitter smile: “I have weighed them well, and I see that they are too beautiful to be true.”

“And I, sir, believe them because they are so beautiful.”

“Oh, girl, if you were what you should be, Countess of Tönsberg and Princess of Wollin, surrounded, as you would be, by a swarm of handsome traitors and selfish adorers, such credulity would be most dangerous.”

“It is not credulity, my lord and father, but confidence.”

“It is easy to see, Ethel, that there is French blood in your veins.”

This idea led the old man, by an imperceptible transition, to a different train of thought, and he added, with a certain complacency:--

“For those who degraded your father to a point lower yet than that from which he had raised himself, cannot deny that you are the daughter of Charlotte, Princess of Tarentum, or that one of your ancestresses was Adela (or Edila), Countess of Flanders, whose name you bear.”

Ethel’s mind was running on quite other things.

“Father, you misjudge the noble Ordener.”

“Noble, my daughter! What do you mean by that? I have made men noble who proved themselves very vile.”

“I do not mean, sir, that his nobility is of the kind conferred by man.”

“Do you know that he is descended from some ‘jarl’ or ‘hersa’?”[14]

“I know as little of his descent as you do, father. He may be,” she added, with downcast eyes, “the son of a vassal or a serf. Alas! crowns and lyres may be painted upon the velvet covering of a footstool. I only mean that, judged by your own standard, my revered sire, he has a noble heart.”

Of all the men whom she had seen, Ordener was the one whom Ethel knew at once best and least. He had dawned upon her destiny, like one of those angels who visited the first men, wrapped alike in mystery and in radiant light. Their mere presence revealed their nature, and they were at once adored. Thus Ordener had shown Ethel what men usually conceal, his heart; he had been silent concerning that of which they usually make boast, his country and his family. His look was enough for Ethel, and she had faith in his words. She loved him, she had given him her life, she was intimate with his soul, and she did not know his name.

“A noble heart!” repeated the old man; “a noble heart! Such nobility is higher than any in the gift of kings; it is the gift of God. He is less lavish with it than are they.”

The prisoner raised his eyes to his shattered escutcheon as he added: “And he never withdraws it.”

“Then, father,” said the girl, “he who retains the one should be easily consoled for the loss of the other.”

These words startled her father and restored his courage. He replied in a firm voice:--

“You are right, girl. But you do not know that the disgrace held by the world to be unjust is sometimes confirmed by our secret conscience. Such is our poor nature; once unhappy, countless voices which slumbered in the time of our prosperity wake within us and accuse us of faults and errors before unnoted.”

“Say not so, illustrious father,” said Ethel, deeply moved; for by the old man’s altered voice, she felt that he had allowed the secret source of one of his greatest sorrows to escape him.

She raised her eyes to his face, and kissing his pallid, withered hand, she added gently: “You are severe in your judgment of two noble men, Lord Ordener and yourself, my revered father.”

“You decide lightly, Ethel. One would say that you did not know that life is a serious matter.”

“Am I wrong then, sir, to do justice to the generous Ordener?”

Schumacker frowned, with a dissatisfied air.

“I cannot approve, my daughter, of such admiration for a stranger whom you may never see again.”

“Oh,” said the young girl, upon whose soul these cold words fell like a heavy weight, “do not believe it. We shall see him again. Was it not for your sake that he went forth to brave such danger?”

“Like yourself, I confess that I was at first deceived by his promises. But no; he will never go upon his mission, and therefore he will never return to us.”

“He did go, sir; he did go.”

The tone in which the young girl pronounced these words was almost that of one offended and insulted. She felt herself outraged in her Ordener’s person. Alas! she was only too sure in her own soul of the truth which she asserted.

The prisoner replied, seemingly unmoved: “Very well. If he has really gone to fight that brigand, if he has rushed into such danger, it comes to the same thing,--he will never return.”

Poor Ethel! how often a word indifferently uttered, painfully galls the hidden wound in an anxious and tortured heart! She bent her pale face to hide from her father’s stern gaze the tears which, in spite of all her efforts, fell from her burning eyes.

“Oh, father,” she sighed, “while you speak thus, this noble and unfortunate youth may be dying for your sake!”

The aged minister shook his head doubtfully.

“That I can neither believe nor wish. And even so, how am I to blame? I should merely show myself ungrateful to the young man, as so many others have shown themselves to me.”

A deep sigh was Ethel’s only answer; and Schumacker, turning to his table, tore up with an absent air a few leaves of “Plutarch’s Lives,” which volume lay before him, already tattered in countless places, and covered with marginal notes. A moment later the door opened, and Schumacker, without looking up, cried out as usual: “Do not enter! do not disturb me! I will see no one!”

“It is his Excellency the governor,” was the answer.

An elderly man dressed in the uniform of a general, with the collars of the Elephant, the Dannebrog, and the Golden Fleece about his neck, advanced toward Schumacker, who half rose, muttering, “The governor! the governor!” The general bowed respectfully to Ethel, as she stood at her father’s side, timidly and anxiously watching him.

Perhaps before proceeding further, it will be well briefly to recall the motives of General Levin’s visit to Munkholm. The reader will remember the unpleasant news which disturbed the old governor, in the twentieth chapter of this truthful narrative. On receiving it, he at once saw the importance of questioning Schumacker; but he was extremely reluctant to do so. The idea of tormenting a poor prisoner, already a prey to so much that was painful, and whom he had known in his days of power, of severely scanning the secrets of an unfortunate man, even if guilty, was most unpleasant to his kind and generous soul. Still, his duty to the king required it. He ought not to leave Throndhjem without such fresh light as might be gained by questioning the apparent author of the rebellion among the miners. Accordingly, the night before his departure, after a long and confidential talk with Countess d’Ahlefeld, the governor made up his mind to visit the prisoner. As he approached the fortress, thoughts of the interests of the State, of the advantage to which his many personal enemies might turn what they would style his negligence, and perhaps too the crafty words of the chancellor’s wife, worked within him, and confirmed him in his purpose. He therefore climbed to the Lion of Schleswig tower with every intention to be severe; he resolved to bear himself toward Schumacker the conspirator as if he had never known Griffenfeld the chancellor,--to cast aside all his memories, and even his natural disposition, and to speak as a firm judge to this former fellow-sharer in the royal favor.

So soon, however, as he entered the ex-chancellor’s apartment, the old man’s venerable though sombre face made a strong impression upon him; Ethel’s sweet though dignified expression touched him; and with his first glance at the two prisoners, his stern intentions died within him.

He advanced toward the fallen minister, and involuntarily offered him his hand, saying, without remarking that his politeness met with no response:--

“How are you, Count Griffenf--” His old habit overcame him for the moment; then he corrected himself quickly--“Mr. Schumacker?” With this he paused, satisfied and exhausted by such an effort.

Silence ensued. The general racked his brain to find words harsh enough to correspond with this brutal beginning.

“Well,” Schumacker said at last, “are you the governor of the province of Throndhjem?”

The governor, somewhat surprised to find himself questioned by the man he had meant to question, bowed his head.

“Then,” added the prisoner, “I have a complaint to lay before you.”

“A complaint! What is it? what is it?” And the kind-hearted Levin’s countenance assumed a look of interest.

Schumacker went on, in a tone of considerable annoyance: “By order of the viceroy I am to be left free and undisturbed in this donjon.”

“I am aware of the order.”

“And yet, Governor, I am importuned and annoyed by visits.”

“Visits! and from whom?” cried the general; “tell me who dares--”

“You, Governor.”

These words, uttered in a haughty tone, offended the general. He answered, in a somewhat irritated voice: “You forget that my power knows no limits when it is a question of serving the king.”

“Unless,” said Schumacker, “it were those of the respect due to misfortune. But men know nothing of that.”

The ex-chancellor said this as if speaking to himself. The governor heard him.

“Yes, indeed! yes, indeed! I was wrong, Count Griff--Mr. Schumacker, I should say; I should leave the privilege of anger to you, since the power is mine.”

Schumacker was silent for a moment. “There is,” he resumed thoughtfully, “something about your face and voice, Governor, which reminds me of a man I once knew. It was very long ago. No one but myself can remember those days. It was in the time of my prosperity. He was one Levin de Knud, of Mecklenburg. Did you ever know the foolish fellow?”

“I knew him,” quietly replied the general.

“Oh, you remember him! I thought it was only in adversity that we remembered.”

“Was he not a captain in the Royal Guards?” added the governor.

“Yes, a mere captain, although the king loved him dearly. But he thought of nothing but pleasure, and seemed to have no ambition. He was a strange, mad fellow. Can you conceive that a favorite could be so moderate in his desires?”

“I can understand it.”

“I was fond of this Levin de Knud, because he never gave me any alarm. He was the king’s friend as he might have been the friend of any other man. It seemed as if he loved him for his own sake, and not for his position.”

The general would have interrupted Schumacker; but the latter persisted, either from a spirit of contradiction, or because the train of thought into which he had drifted really pleased him.

“Since you knew this Captain Levin, Governor, you probably know that he had a son who died young. But do you remember what happened at the birth of this son?”

“I can better recall what occurred at the time of his death,” said the general, covering his eyes with his hand, and in a faltering voice.

“But,” continued the heedless Schumacker, “this fact was known to very few persons, and it will show you just how peculiar this Levin was. The king wished to be the child’s godfather; would you believe that Levin refused? He did more; he chose an old beggar who hung about the palace gates, to hold his son at the baptismal font. I never could understand the reason for such an act of lunacy.”

“I will tell you,” replied the general. “In choosing a guardian for his son’s soul, this Captain Levin doubtless thought that a poor man had more influence with God than a king.”

Schumacker considered for a moment, then said: “You are right.”

The governor again attempted to turn the conversation to the object of his visit. But Schumacker cut him short.

“Excuse me; if it be true that you know this Levin of Mecklenburg, let me talk of him. Of all the men whom I knew in the days of my grandeur, he is the only one whose memory does not inspire me with disgust or horror. Although he carried his peculiarity to the verge of folly, his noble qualities, none the less, made him one man in a thousand.”

“I do not agree with you. This Levin was no better than other men. In fact, there are many who are better.”

Schumacker folded his arms, and raised his eyes to heaven. “Yes, that is the way with them all. You cannot praise a worthy man in their presence, that they do not instantly seek to disparage him. They poison everything, even the pleasure of just praise, rare as it is.”

“If you knew me, you would not accuse me of disparaging Gener--I mean, Captain Levin.”

“Nonsense! nonsense,” said the prisoner; “for loyalty and generosity, there were never two men like this Levin de Knud, and to say a word to the contrary is both an outrageous slander and a flattery of this miserable human race.”

“I assure you,” returned the general, trying to assuage Schumacker’s wrath, “that I have not the slightest intention of wronging Levin de Knud.”

“Do not say that. Although he was so foolish, the rest of mankind is anything but like him. They are a false, ungrateful, envious set of slanderers. Do you know that Levin de Knud gave more than half his income to the Copenhagen hospitals?”

“I did not know that you knew it.”

“There it is!” triumphantly exclaimed the old man. “You thought that you could safely brand him, trusting to my ignorance of the poor fellow’s good deeds!”

“Not at all, not at all!”

“Do you suppose, too, that I don’t know that he persuaded the king to give the regiment which he intended for him, to an officer who had wounded him in a duel, because, he said, the other outranked him?”

“I thought that transaction was a secret.”

“Well, tell me, Governor of Throndhjem, does that make it any less beautiful? If Levin concealed his virtues, is that a reason for denying them? Oh, how much alike men are! How dare you compare the noble Levin with them,--he who, when he could not save a soldier convicted of an attempt to murder him, settled a pension upon his murderer’s widow?”

“Pooh! who would not do as much?”

Here Schumacker exploded. “Who? You! I! Any other man, Sir Governor! Because you wear the showy uniform of a general, and stars and crosses on your breast, do you think yourself a very meritorious person? You are a general, and poor Levin, I dare say, died a captain. True, he was a foolish fellow, and never thought of promotion.”

“If he did not think of it himself, the king in his goodness thought of it for him.”

“Goodness? Say, rather, justice, if there be such a thing as the justice of a king! Well, what signal reward did he receive?”

“His Majesty paid Levin de Knud far beyond his deserts.”

“Capital!” cried the aged minister, clapping his hands. “A faithful captain is perhaps, after thirty years’ service, made a major; and this distinguished mark of favor offends you, noble general? The Persian proverb is true which says that the setting sun is jealous of the rising moon.”

Schumacker’s fury was so great that the general could scarcely get in the words: “If you persist in interrupting me--You will not let me explain--”

“No, no!” continued the other; “I thought at first sight, General, that I caught a certain likeness between you and my good Levin; but no! there is none.”

“Do but listen to me--”

“Listen to you! and hear you say that Levin de Knud is unworthy of some trifling reward?”

“I swear it is not--”

“You will presently--I know you men--try to persuade me that he is a knave, a hypocrite, and a villain, like the rest of you.”

“No, indeed!”

“How do I know? Or perhaps that he betrayed a friend, persecuted a benefactor, as you all do; or poisoned his father, or murdered his mother?”

“You are mistaken. I have not the slightest desire--”

“Do you know that it was he who compelled Vice-chancellor Wind, as well as Scheele, Vinding, and Justice Lasson, three of my judges, not to sentence me to death? And you would have me hear him calumniated, and not defend him! Yes, that is what he did for me, and yet I had always done him more harm than good; for I am like you, vile and wicked.”

The noble Levin was strangely moved by this singular interview. The object alike of the most direct insults and the sincerest praise, he knew not how to take such rough compliments and such flattering abuse. He was shocked and touched. Now he wanted to get into a passion, and now to thank Schumacker. Present and yet unknown, he loved to hear the fierce Schumacker defend in him, and against him, a friend and an absent man; only he would have preferred that his advocate should put a trifle less bitterness and acrimony into his panegyric. But in his innermost heart the exaggerated praise bestowed on Captain Levin pleased him even more than the insults addressed to the governor of Throndhjem wounded him. Fixing his kindly gaze upon the favorite in disgrace, he allowed him to vent his gratitude and his wrath; until at last, after a prolonged invective against human ingratitude, he sank exhausted upon an arm-chair, into the trembling Ethel’s arms, saying in a melancholy voice: “Oh, men! what have I done that I should be forced to know you?”

The general had not yet been able to broach the important topic of his visit to Munkholm. All his reluctance to torment the captive by a series of questions, revived; to his pity and emotion were added two powerful motives: Schumacker’s present state of agitation made it improbable that he could answer satisfactorily; and, moreover, on considering the affair more closely, it did not seem to the trusting Levin that such a man could be a conspirator. Still, how could he leave Throndhjem without examining Schumacker? This disagreeable necessity of his position as governor once more overcame all his scruples, and he began as follows, softening his voice as much as possible: “Pray, calm your excitement, Count Schumacker.”

This compromise struck the good governor as a happy inspiration, well fitted to reconcile the respect due to the sentence pronounced against him, with a proper regard for the prisoner’s misfortune, as it combined his noble title and his humble cognomen. He added: “It is my painful duty--”

“First,” interrupted the prisoner, “allow me, Governor, to return to a subject which interests me far more than anything that your Excellency can have to say to me. You assured me just now that that madcap Levin had been rewarded for his services. I am most anxious to know in what way.”

“His Majesty, my lord Griffenfeld, raised Levin to the rank of general, and for more than twenty years the foolish fellow has grown old in peace, honored with this military dignity and the favor of his king.”

Schumacker’s head drooped.

“Yes; that foolish Levin, who cared so little whether he ever lived to be more than a captain, will die a general; and the wise Schumacker, who expected to die Lord Chancellor, grows old a prisoner of State.”

As he uttered these words, he hid his face in his hands and heaved a deep sigh. Ethel, who understood nothing of the conversation, save that it distressed her father, instantly strove to divert him.

“Look yonder, father, to the north; I see a gleam of light which I never noticed before.”

In fact, the night, which had now closed in, revealed a faint and distant light upon the horizon, apparently coming from some far-off mountain. But Schumacker’s mind and eye were not, like those of Ethel, ever bent on the north; therefore he made no reply. The general alone was struck by the young girl’s remark.

“It may be,” thought he, “a fire kindled by the rebels;” and this idea forcibly reminding him of the purpose of his visit, he thus addressed the prisoner: “Mr. Griffenfeld, I am sorry to distress you, but you must allow me--”

“I understand you, Governor; it is not enough to spend my days in this dungeon, to lead a lonely, disgraced existence, to have nothing left but bitter memories of past grandeur and power, you must also intrude upon my solitude, gaze upon my sorrow, and enjoy my misfortune. Since that noble Levin de Knud, whom some of your outward features recall to me, is a general like yourself, why was not he permitted to fill your post; for he would never, I swear, Sir Governor, have come to torture a miserable prisoner.”

During the course of this strange interview the general had more than once been on the point of revealing himself, that he might bring it to a close. This indirect reproach made it impossible; it accorded so well with his secret feelings that it almost made him feel ashamed of himself. Still, he tried to answer Schumacker’s injurious charge. Strange to say, from their mere difference of character, the two men had mutually changed their position; the judge was in some sort obliged to justify himself to the prisoner.

“But,” said the general, “if his duty compelled him, do not doubt that Levin de Knud--”

“I do doubt it, noble Governor,” exclaimed Schumacker; “do not doubt in your turn that he would have rejected, with all the generous indignation of his soul, the office of spy, or of increasing the agony of a wretched prisoner! No, I know him better than you; he would never have accepted the duties of an executioner. Now, General, I am at your service; do what you consider your duty. What does your Excellency require of me?”

And the old minister fixed his haughty gaze upon the governor, all whose resolution was gone. His first reluctance had returned, and was not to be overcome.