“What is that?” said the Prince.

  “To engage at the same time as myself,” said Otho, “the brave young fellow that your Lordship sees leaning on his bow over there, and who is called Hermann; he is a good comrade whom I do not wish to leave.”

  “Well,” said the Prince, “go and make him in my name the same offer I made you, and if he accepts, give him this purse which you do not want; perhaps he will not be so proud as you.”

  Otho bowed to the Prince, descended from the dais and went to offer Hermann the Prince’s proposal and the purse. He received one with joy and the other with gratitude; then immediately the two young fellows returned to take their place in the Prince’s suite.

  This time the Prince did not again give his hand to his daughter. The Count of Ravenstein had solicited this honour, and it had been granted him; then the proud procession advanced a few steps on foot to reach the spot where the horses were standing. That belonging to Princess Helena was under the care of a simple groom, as the page who should have held the stirrup for the Princess had loitered longer than he should have done amongst the throng of spectators where curiosity had led him. Otho observed his absence, and forgetting that it would betray him, since only a young man of noble blood was entitled to perform the duty of a page or squire, he hurried forward to take his place.

  “It would seem, my young master,” said the Count of Ravenstein to him, thrusting him aside with his elbow, “that victory has made you forget your rank. For this once we will forgive your pride on account of your good intention.”

  The blood surged to Otho’s face so fast it passed like a flame before his eyes. But he remembered that to say a word or make a sign would be ruin; therefore he stood motionless and silent. Helena thanked him with a glance. Already between those two young hearts which had only just met there was an understanding as deep and sympathetic as if they had always been brother and sister.

  The page’s horse stood riderless, and the groom held the bridle. The Prince noticed this, and that Otho was coming behind him with Hermann.

  “Otho,” said the Prince to him, “do you know how to ride?”

  “Yes, my lord,” he answered smiling.

  “Very well, take the page’s horse; ‘tis scarce fitting a conqueror should tramp afoot.”

  Otho bent his head in token of obedience and gratitude. Then approaching the steed, he threw himself into the saddle without the help of the stirrup so nimbly and gracefully that it was obvious this new exercise was as familiar to him as that in which he had just now shown himself so great an adept.

  The cavalcade continued its way towards the Castle and arrived at the great gate. Otho observed the escutcheon above it, whereon were carved and painted the arms of the House of Cleves, a field azure bearing a swan argent on a sea vert. Then he remembered that the swan was connected with the House of Cleves by an old tradition, which he had often heard recounted in his childhood. Over the gate was a heavy and massive balcony, called the balcony of Princess Beatrix, and between the gate and the balcony a carving belonging to the beginning of the XIIIth century, and representing a Knight sleeping in a boat drawn by a swan. The same heraldic figure was repeated on all sides, combined gracefully with the more modern ornamentation of certain recently built portions of the Castle.

  The rest of the day was spent in festivity. Otho in his capacity of victor was throughout the day an object of general attention; and while the Prince gave his friends a luxurious banquet, Otho’s companions gave him a dinner, of which he, Otho, was the prince. Mildar alone refused to take part in it.

  The next day by the orders of the Prince they brought Otho an Archer’s complete costume. Otho contemplated for a while this livery which, military though it was, was still none the less a livery; but thinking of Helena, he took courage, doffed the clothes he had had made at Cologne, and put on those provided for him for the future.

  He entered on his duties that same day, — to act as guard of the turrets and galleries. Otho’s turn came, and the young Archer was placed as sentry on a terrace facing the Castle windows. He thanked Heaven for his luck; through the windows opened to welcome the sun, which had begun to pierce the clouds, he hoped to see Helena.

  His hope was fulfilled; Helena shortly appeared with her father and the Count of Ravenstein. The party stopped to look at the young Archer; Otho even fancied that the noble Lords deigned to be interested in him. He was in truth the subject of their conversation. Prince Adolf of Cleves remarked on the fine appearance of his new follower to the Count of Ravenstein, and the Count drew the Prince’s attention to the fact that his new servant, in spite of human and divine laws, wore his hair long like a noble, when he ought to have his hair short, as became a man of humble condition. Helena ventured a word to save from the scissors the fair and curly hair of the young man she was interested in; but Prince Adolf of Cleves struck by the truth of his future son-in-law’s remarks, and jealous of the rights of the nobility, answered that the other Archers would have reason to complain if a rule to which they were subjected were violated in Otho’s favour.

  Otho was far from conjecturing the designs now being formed against this aristocratic adornment that his mother was so fond of; he passed and repassed before the windows, casting a hungry look at the interior of the rooms which she whom he loved already with all his heart inhabited. Dreams of happiness and schemes of vengeance then rose up together in his mind, entwined like a deadly serpent round a tree loaded with delicious fruit. From time to time remembrance of his father’s wrath darkened his brow, to pass away like a cloud which came between the future and the rising sun of his love.

  Relieved from guard, Otho found the Castle barber awaiting him, sent by the Count to cut his hair.

  Otho made him repeat this order twice; for since he could not drive away the vivid memory of his late exalted position, he was unwilling to believe the order really applied to him. But on reflection, he understood that what the Prince required was a simple matter; he, Otho, was only an Archer to the Prince, more dexterous it might be than the others; yet skill did not confer nobility, and nobles alone had the right to wear long hair. Otho would have to leave the Castle or obey.

  So great was the importance attributed by young nobles to this part of their person that Otho paused a while in suspense; it seemed to him that for his own honour and that of his family he should not undergo such degradation. Moreover, from the moment he allowed it, he would in truth become a mere Archer in Helena’s eyes, and the thought of separation from her was to be preferred to being thus lowered in her esteem. His reflections had reached this point when the Prince passed by with his daughter on his arm.

  Otho stepped forward towards the Prince, and the Prince stopped, seeing the young man wished to speak to him.

  “Forgive me, your Lordship,” said the young Archer “for daring to approach you with such a question; but is it really by your orders this man has come to crop my hair?”

  “Certainly,” answered the Prince, astonished, “why?”

  “Because your Lordship spoke of no such conditions when he proposed to me that I should take service among his Archers.”

  “I did not speak of this condition,” said the Prince, “because I did not dream you hoped to keep an adornment which does not belong to your station. Are you of noble origin to wear long hair like a Baron or a Knight?”

  “But,” said the young man, avoiding the question, “if I had known your Lordship demanded such a sacrifice from me, perhaps I should have refused your offer, however anxious I might be to accept it.”

  “There is still time to go back, young master,” answered the Prince, who began to be perplexed by such obstinacy displayed by a man of the people. “But take heed you do not make a worse bargain, and that the first nobleman whose territories you cross does not exact the same sacrifice, without offering you the same alternative.”

  “For anyone but you, my Lord,” answered Otho, smiling with an expression of disdain that astonished the Prince and made Helena tremble, “that were easy to undertake, but difficult to carry out. I am an Archer, and,” he continued, laying his hands on his arrows, “I carry as your Lordship can see the lives of twelve men at my belt.”

  “The Castle gate stands open,” answered the Count; “stay or go as you will. I have no change to make in the order I have given; your decision is you-r own. Now you know the condition and cannot say I have engaged you unfairly.”

  “I have decided, my Lord,” answered Otho, bowing with respect blended with dignity, and uttering these words with an accent that made it plain his resolution was in fact already formed.

  “You are going?” said the Prince.

  Otho was about to answer; but, before saying the words which would separate him for ever from Helena, he turned a last look towards her. A tear trembled in the girl’s eyes, and Otho saw it.

  “You are going,” said the Prince a second time, surprised at having to wait so long for an answer from one of his servants.

  “No, my Lord, I will stay,” said Otho.

  “That is well,” said the Prince, “I am glad to see you more reasonable.” And he went on his way.

  Helena said nothing; but she looked at Otho with such a grateful expression that when father and daughter were out of sight, the young man turned cheerfully to the barber, who was waiting for his answer.

  “Come along, master,” he said to him, “set to work.”

  And pushing him into the first room that he found open in the corridor, he sat down and resigned his head to the poor barber, who began the operation for which he had been summoned, without understanding a word of what had passed in his presence. Feeling no hesitation on that account, he proceeded with such energy that in a short time the stone flags were covered with ringlets of beautiful hair, the fair waving curls that had formed so graceful a frame to the young man’s face.

  Otho was left alone, and in spite of his devotion to the slightest orders of Helena, he could not look without regret at the silken curls his mother had so loved to play with, when he thought he heard a slight noise at the end of the corridor; he listened and recognised the girl’s light footfall. At that, though the sacrifice had been made on her account, he was ashamed to show her his head despoiled of its hair, and promptly threw himself into a recess before which hung a curtain. He was scarce there when he saw Helena appear, pacing slowly along as if looking for something. Passing before the door, her eyes fell on the floor. Then glancing round her and seeing she was alone, she paused a moment and listened; soon reassured by the silence, she entered softly, leant down — still listening and watching — then picking up a curl of the young Archer s hair, she hid it in her bosom and fled.

  Otho had fallen on his knees behind the curtain, his lips open in amaze and his hands clasped.

  All were surprised at this sudden resolution; but the same evening the rumour spread amongst the followers of the Prince that, pressed by her father to answer the proposal he had made for her hand, the young Countess had declared she had rather enter a Convent than become the Count of Ravenstein’s wife.

  CHAPTER VII.

  A WEEK after the events we related in our last chapter, and just as Adolf of Cleves was about to rise from table, it was announced that a herald from the Count of Ravenstein had entered the court-yard of the Castle, bringing his master’s challenge. The Prince turned towards his daughter with a look of mingled tenderness and reproach. Helena coloured and lowered her eyes; then after a moment’s silence, the Prince gave orders for the messenger to be brought in.

  The herald entered; he was a fine young man dressed in the Count’s colours, and wearing his coat of arms on his breast. He bowed low to the Prince, and with a voice in which firmness and courtesy were united gave the challenge.

  The Count of Ravenstein, without referring to the motives of his declaration, defied Prince Adolf wherever he might meet him, either man to man, or twenty against twenty, or army against army, by day or night, on mountain or plain.

  The Prince, seated and covered, listened to the Count’s challenge. When it was concluded, he rose, took from a settle where he had thrown it his own velvet mantle lined with ermine, placed it on the herald’s shoulders, unfastened a gold chain from his neck and passed it over the messenger’s. Then he gave orders he should be hospitably entertained, that when he left the Castle he might say that in the house of Prince Adolf of Cleves a challenge was received as an invitation to a feast.

  Two hours after and just when they were least expecting it, the Count of Ravenstein ordered his retinue to be ready next day to leave the Castle of Cleves.

  The Prince under this assumed calmness concealed deep anxiety. He had reached the age when armour begins to weigh on a warrior’s shoulders. He had neither son nor nephew to whom he could confide the care of his quarrel; but only friends from whom, — in these troublous times when each had his own business to attend to, whether on his own account or for the Emperor, — he knew well that he should have difficulty in getting, not indeed sympathy, but effectual help. Still he sent letters in all directions, appealing to alliance and friendship. Then he set himself to repair his Castle, strengthening it in weak places, and bringing in all provisions possible.

  The Count of Ravenstein had on his side made the most of the week’s start he had gained over his enemy. So a few days after the message had been received, and before the allies of the Prince of Cleves had time to come to his assistance, a voice was suddenly heard crying out: “To arms! to arms!”

  It was the voice of Otho, who happened to be on guard upon the walls, and had seen on the horizon from the direction of Nimwegen a cloud of dust in the midst of which glittered weapons, like sparks in smoke.

  The Prince without thinking the attack would come so quickly, still always held himself in readiness. He gave orders for the gates to be closed, the portcullis to be lowered, and the garrison to man the ramparts. Helena went down to the Chapel of the Countess Beatrix, and began to pray.

  When the troops of the Count of Ravenstein were only half a league from the Castle, the same herald who had come before in his master’s name, came out from the army and, preceded by a trumpeter, approached the foot of the walls.

  Arrived there, the trumpeter blew three blasts, and the herald on behalf of the Count once again challenged the Prince in person, or any champion who would fight in his stead, granting three days during which he would every morning come into the meadow which separated the ramparts from the river and claim single combat. After which time, if his challenge were not accepted, he would offer general warfare. This fresh challenge delivered, the herald advanced to the gate and with his dagger nailed the Count’s glove to the oak.

  For answer the Prince flung his down from the top of the wall. Then as night was coming on, besieged and besiegers made their arrangements, the one for attack, the other for defence.

  Meanwhile Otho, relieved at his post, and seeing that danger was not pressing, had descended from the ramparts to the Castle; for it sometimes happened that going through the quarters reserved for the Archers and servants of the Prince, he caught a glimpse of Helena in some corridor or other. Then, unaware she had been seen by the young Archer the day she had picked up the curl of hair, the girl sometimes smiled and always blushed. Also, under some pretence or other, she spoke to Otho, but not often; on those days the Archer’s heart rejoiced, and as soon as she had left him, he went to hide in some retired and solitary corner of the Castle, where in imagination he heard the words of his lady, and closing his eyes, saw once again the smile and blush that had accompanied them.

  This time it was all in vain; it was useless for him to gaze across through the windows, to pace through the corridors, he neither saw her nor met her. Wondering then if she were praying in the church, he went down there; but the church was empty. There only remained the Chapel of the Countess Beatrix, — she might be there, — but this was a private chapel, and the servants never entered it except when they were summoned there.

  Otho hesitated a little before following her into this sanctuary, but thinking the gravity of the situation might serve him as an excuse, he went towards the spot where he hoped to find her, and raising the tapestry which hung before the door, he saw Helena kneeling at the foot of the altar.

  It was the first time Otho had ever entered this oratory, a dim and dark and holy place, where the day only penetrated through stained windows, and everything invited the soul to prayer. A single lamp suspended over the altar burnt before a picture still representing the same legend of a Knight drawn by-a swan; only here the head of the Knight was surrounded! by a brilliant halo. And from the two columns that framed the picture hung, on the one side, a Crusader’s sword with hilt and scabbard of gold, and, on the other, a horn encrusted with pearls and rubies Between the pillars and above the picture, as is still the custom in Germany, was hung a shield surmounted by a helmet, the same shield and the same helmet as that portrayed in the painting. They were easily recognised; for on the canvas as on the steel, shone the same escutcheon, — or, a cross gules crowned with thorns on a hill vert. Sword, horn, helmet and shield were most probably those of the Knight with the swan, and this Knight undoubtedly was one of those paladins of olden days who had taken part in the Crusades.

  Otho quietly approached the young girl, who was praying in a low voice before the knight, as she would have prayed before the Christ or before a martyr, and holding in her hand a rosary of ebony beads inlaid with mother-of-pearl, at the end of which hung a small bell, which gave no sound, however, the clapper having most probably become detached by age and never having been replaced.

  At the noise made by Otho knocking against a chair, the girl turned round, and so far from her face showing any resentment at being followed in this way, she looked at him with a sad but sweet smile.

  “You see,” she said to him, “we each do as the spirit of God has inclined us. My father is preparing to fight, while I am praying. You hope to win by blood; I hope to conquer by tears.”