The Heidenmauer, or, The Benedictines a legend of the Rhine |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. | CHAPTER VII. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
 | CHAPTER VII. The Heidenmauer, or, The Benedictines |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
Was I, to take this drunkard for a god!
Caliban
Physical qualities are always prized in proportion
to the value that is attached to those that are purely
intellectual. So long as power and honor depend
on the possession of brute force, strength and agility
are endowments of the last importance, on the same
principle that they render the tumbler of more account
in his troop; and he who has ever had occasion
to mingle much with the brave, and subject to
a qualification that will readily be understood, we
might add, the noble savages of this continent, will
have remarked, that, while the orators are in general
a class who have cultivated their art for want
of qualifications to excel in that which is deemed
still more honorable, the first requisite in the warrior
document to prove how much even their successors,
a people in no degree deficient in acuteness, have
been subject to a similar influence. We allude to a
register that was made of the thews and sinews
among the chiefs of the army of Washington, during
the moment of inaction that preceded the recognition
of Independence. By this report it would
seem, that the animal entered somewhat into the
ideas of our fathers, when they made their original
selection of leaders, a circumstance that we attribute
to the veneration that man is secretly disposed
to show to physical perfection, until a better training
and experience have taught him there is still a
superior power. Our first impressions are almost
always received through the senses, and the connexion
between martial prowess and animal force seems
so natural, that we ought not to be surprised that a
people so peaceful and unpractised, in their simplicity,
betrayed a little of this deference to appearances.
Happily, if they sometimes put matter into
stations which would have been better filled by
mind, the honesty and zeal that were so general in
the patriotic ranks carried the country through in
triumph.
It was a consequence of the high favor enjoyed
by all manly or physical qualities in the sixteenth century,
that men were even prized for their excesses.
Thus he who could longest resist the influence of
liquor was deemed, in a more limited sense, as
much a hero as he who swung the heaviest mace,
or pointed the surest cannon in battle. The debauch
in which the Abbot of Limburg and his
neighbor Emich of Leiningen, were now engaged,
was one of no unusual nature; for, in a country in
which prelates appeared in so many other doubtful
characters, it should not excite surprise that some
of the class were willing to engage in a strife that
with the noble and the great.
The reader will have seen that great progress
had been made towards the issue of the celebrated
encounter it is our duty to relate, even before its
precise object had been formally introduced among
the contending parties. But while the monks came
to the struggle apprized of its motive, and prepared
at all points to maintain the reputation of their
ancient and hospitable brotherhood, the Count of
Leiningen, with a sullen reliance on his own powers,
that was somewhat increased by his contempt for
priestcraft, had neglected to bestow the same care
on his auxiliaries. It is scarcely necessary to add
that both the Abbé and the knight of Rhodes had
become heated to garrulousness, before they perfectly
understood the nature of the service that was
expected at their hands, or, we ought rather to say,
of their heads. With this explanation we shall
resume the narrative, taking up its thread some two
hours later than the moment when it was last
dropped.
At this particular juncture of the strife, Fathers
Siegfried and Cuno had become thoroughly warmed
with their endeavors, and habitual and profound
respect for the Abbot was gradually giving way
before the quickening currents of their blood. The
eyes of the former glistened with a species of forensic
ferocity, for he was ardently engaged on a controversial
point with Albrecht of Viederbach, all of
whose faculties appeared to be rapidly exhaling
with his potations. The other Benedictine and the
Abbé from time to time mingled in the dispute, in
the character of seconds, while the two most interested
in the issue sat, warily collecting their powers,
and sternly regarding each other, like men who
knew they were not engaged in idle sport.
“This is well, with thy tales of L'Isle Adam, and
pursuing the discourse from a point, beyond which
we consider it unnecessary to record all that passed
—“This will do to repeat to the dames of our German
courts, for the journey between these Rhenish
plains and yonder island of Rhodes is far, and few
are inclined to make it, in order to convict thy
chiefs of neglect, or their sworn followers of forgetfulness
of their vows.”
“By the quality of my order! reverend Benedictine,
thou pushest words to unseemliness! Is it not
enough, that the chosen and the gentlest of Europe
should devote soul and body to services that would
better become thy lazy order—that all that is noble
and brave should abandon the green fields and
pleasant rivers of their native lands, to endure hot
suns and sultry winds from Africa, in order to keep
the unbeliever in his limits, but they must be taunted
with gibes like these? Go, count the graves and
number the living, if thou wouldst learn the manner
in which our illustrious master held out against Solyman,
or wouldst know the services of his knights!”
“It would sound ill in thy ears, were I to bid thee
enter purgatory, to inquire into the fruits of our
masses and prayers, and yet one and the other are
equally easy to perform. Thou knowest well, that
Rhodes is no longer a Christian island, and that
none bearing the cross dare be seen on its shores.
Go to, Count Albrecht, thy order is fallen into disuse,
and it is better where it is, hid beneath the
snowy mountains of the country of Nice, than it
might be in the front ranks of Christendom. There
is not a crone in Germany that does not bewail the
backsliding of an order so esteemed of old, or a
maiden that does not speak lightly of its deeds!”
“Heavenly patience! hearest thou this, Monsieur
Latouche? and from the mouth of a chanting Benedictine,
who passeth his days between safe walls of
nights on a warm pallet, beyond sound even of the
rushing winds, unless, in sooth, he be not bent on
offices of midnight charity among the believing
wives of the faithful!”
“Boy! dost presume to scandalize the Church,
and dare its anger?” demanded Bonifacius, in a
voice of thunder.
“Reverend Abbot,” answered Albrecht, crossing
himself, for habit and policy equally held him subject
to the predominant authority of the age, “the
little I say is more directed to the man than to his
cloth.”
“Let him give utterance to all he fancies,” interrupted
the wily Siegfried. “Is not a knight of
Rhodes immaculate, and shall we refuse him right
of speech?”
“It is held at the court of the chivalrous Valois,”
observed the Abbé, who perceived it was necessary
to interfere, in order to preserve the peace, “that
the defence of Rhodes was of exceeding valor, and
few survived it, who did not meet with high honors
from Christian hands. We have seen numberless
of the brave knights among us, in the most esteemed
houses of Paris, and at the merry castle of Fontainebleau,
and believe me, none were more sought, or
better honored. The scars of even Marignano
and of Pavia are less prized than those given by the
hands of the infidel.”
“Thou dost well, my learned and self-denying
brother,” answered Siegfried, with a sneer, “to remind
us of the fight of Pavia, and of thy great master's
present abode! Are these tidings of late from
the Castiles, or is it not permitted to thy prince to
dispatch couriers to his own capital?”
“Nay, reverend monk, thou pressest with unkind
allusions, and forgettest that, like thee, we are both
servitors of the Church.”
“We count thee not—one nor the other. Martyred
St. Peter! what would become of thy keys,
were they intrusted to the keeping of such hands!—
Go, doff thy vanities—lay aside that attire of velvet,
if thou wouldst be known as of the flock.”
“Master Latouche,” exclaimed Emich, who was
boiling with indignation, but who preserved his self-command
in order to circulate the cups, and to see
that each man did true service in the prescribed
contest, “tell him of his brother of Wittenberg, and
of these late doings in the hive. Stick that thorn
into his side, and thou shalt see him shrink like a
jaded and galled steed, under a pointed spur! Who
art thou, and why dost thou disturb my pleasures?”
This sudden interruption of himself was addressed
by the baron to a youth, in neat but modest attire,
who had just entered the banqueting-room, and who,
passing by the menial that filled the glasses at the
beck of his master's hand, now stood, with a firm
but respectful mien, at the elbow of the speaker.
“'Tis Berchthold, my lord's forester. They bid
me come to do your pleasure, noble Count.”
“Thou art seasonably arrived to keep the peace
between a sworn knight of Rhodes and a garrulous
monk of Limburg. This reverend Abbot would do
thee favor, boy.”
Berchthold bowed respectfully, and turned towards
the prelate.
“Thou art the orphan of our ancient liegeman, he
who bore thy name, and was well esteemed among
the townsmen of Deurckheim?”
“I am the son of him your reverence means, but
that he was liegeman of any of Limburg, I deny.”
“Bravely answered, boy!” shouted Emich, striking
his fist on the table so hard as to threaten destruction
to all it held: “Ay, and as becomes thy
master's follower! Hast enough, Father Bonifacius,
or wilt dip deeper into the youth's catechism?”
“The young man has been tutored to respect his
present ease,” returned the Abbot, affecting indifference
equally to the exultation of the Count and to the
disrespect of his forester. “When he next comes
to our confessionals, there will be occasion to give
him other schooling.”
“God's truth! that hour may never happen. We
are half disposed to live on in our sins, and to take
soldier's fortune, in these stirring times; which is
ever the chance of sudden death, without the
church's passport. We are fast getting of this
mind—are we not, brave Berchthold?”
The youth bowed respectfully, but without answering,
for he saw by the inflamed countenances
and swimming eyes of all at table, that the moment
was one in which explanations would be useless.
Had it been possible to doubt the cause of the scene
he witnessed, the manner in which glass after glass
was swallowed, at the will of the cup-bearer, would
have explained its nature. But, far advanced as
Father Bonifacius had now become in inebriety, in
common with the other guests, he retained enough
of his faculties, to see that the words of Emich contained
an allusion of a dangerously heretical character.
“Thou art resolved to despise our counsel and
our warnings!” he exclaimed, glancing fiercely at
one and the other. 'Twere better to say at once,
that thy wish is to see the walls of Limburg Abbey
lying on the side of Limburg hill.”
“Nay, reverend and honored priest, thou pushest
a few hasty words beyond their meaning. What
is it to a Count of the noble house of Leiningen, that
a few monks find shelter for their heads, and ease
for their souls, beneath a consecrated roof within
cannon-shot of his own towers. If thy walls do
not tumble until hand of mine helps to unsettle them,
they may stand till the fallen Angel that set them
Bonifacius, for a godly community, this tale of thy
sanctuary's origin makes it of none of the best parentage!”
“Hear ye that!” sputtered Albrecht of Viederbach,
who, though his tongue had continued to sound
a sort of irregular accompaniment to his cousin's
speeches, was no longer able to articulate clearly—
“Here ye that! imp of St. Benedict! The devil set
ye up, and the devil will be your downfall. L'Isle
Adam is a saint to thy holiest; and his—good—
sword—”
At this word, the knight of Rhodes succumbed,
losing his balance in an animated effort to gesticulate,
and fairly falling under the table. A sarcastic
smile crossed the Abbot's face, at this overthrow
of one of his adversaries, while Emich scowled in
disdain at the ignoble exhibition made by his kins-man;
who, finding it impossible to rise, resigned
himself to sleep on the spot where he had fallen.
“Swallow thy Rhenish, monk, and count not on
the slight advantage thou hast got in the overthrow
of that prating fool,” said the host, whose tones
grew less and less amicable, as the plot thickened—
“But to a more fitting subject; Berchthold is worthy
of his lord, and is a youth that thinks of things
as things appear. We may quit thy confessionals
for divers reasons, as thou knowest. Here is the
Monk of Erfurth! Ha! what think you of his new
teaching, and of the manner in which he advises the
faithful to come to the altar? You have had him at
Rome, and at Worms, and among ye in many councils,
and yet the honest man stands fast in all reasonable
opinions. Thou hast heard of Luther, is it
not so, young Berchthold?”
“'Tis certain, my Lord Count, that few in the
Jaergerthal escape the tidings of his name.”
“Then are they in danger of a most damnable
thunder. “Why tell me of this driveller of Erfurth,
Lord Emich, if thou art not in secret praying that
his rebellious wishes may prosper at the Church's
cost! But we mark thee, irreverent Count, and hard
and griping penance may yet purge thee of these
prurient fancies—” Here the Abbot, inflamed as he
was with wine and resentment, paused; for the silent
monk, Father Cuno, fell from his seat like a soldier
shot in battle; the simple inferior having entered
into the trial of heads, more with a relish for the
liquor than with any thought of victory, and having,
in consequence, done so much honor to the potations,
as to become an easy sacrifice to the common
enemy. The Abbot looked at his prostrate follower
with grim indifference, showing by his hard, scowling,
and angry eye, that he deemed the loss of little
moment to the main result. “What matters the
impotency of a fool!” he muttered, turning away
to his principal and only dangerous opponent, with
a full return of all his angry feelings:—“That the
devils are suffered to gain a momentary and specious
triumph, we are well aware, Baron of Hartenburg—”
“By my father's bones, proud priest, but thou
strangely forgettest thyself! Am I not a prince of
Leiningen, that one of the cowl should please to call
me less?”
“I should have said the Summer Landgrave!”
answered Bonifacius sneeringly, for long-smothered
hatred was beginning to break through the feeble
barriers that their reeling faculties still preserved.
“I crave pardon of your highness; but a short
reign leaves brief recollections. Even thy subjects,
illustrious Emich, may be forgiven, that they know
not their sovereign's title. The coronet that is worn
from June to September scarce gets the fit of the
head!”
“It was worn longer, Abbot, than ever head of
thine will wear a saintly crown. But I forget my
ancient house, and the forbearance due to a guest, in
honest anger at an artful and malignant monk!”
Bonifacius bowed with seeming composure, and
while each appeared to recover his moderation, in a
misty recollection of the true affair in hand, the
dialogue between the Abbé and Father Siegfried,
which had been drowned by the stentorian lungs of
the principal disputants, broke out in the momentary
pause.
“Thou sayest true, reverend father,” said the former,
“but were our fair and sprightly dames of
France to perform these pilgrimages to distant
shrines, of which thou speakest, rude treatment in
the wayfaring, evil company, and, haply, designing
confessors, might tarnish the present lustre of their
graces, and leave them less ornaments to our brilliant
and gallant court, than they at present prove. No,
I espouse no such dangerous opinions, but endeavor,
by gentle persuasion and courtly arguments, to lead
their precious souls nearer to the heaven they so
well merit, and which it were scarce impious to say,
they will so rarely become.”
“This may be well for the towering fancies of thy
French imaginations, but our slower German minds
must be dealt with differently. By the mass! I
would give little for the success of the confessor,
that should deal only in persuasive and gentle discourse!
Here, we throw out manifold hints of damnation,
in plainer speech.”
“I condemn no usage on speculation, Benedictine;
but truly this directness of condemnation would
be thought indecorous in our more refined presences.
As yet, thou wilt acknowledge, we are less tainted
with heresies than thy northern courts.”
Here the deep voice of Emich, who had recovered
of the subordinates.
“We are not children, most reverend Bonifacius,”
he resumed, “to irritate ourselves with names.
That I have been denied the honors and rights of
my birth and line, for one come of no direct descent,
is admitted; but let it be forgotten. Thou art welcome
to my board, and there is no dignitary of the
church, or of thy brotherhood, that I esteem more
than thee and thine, within a hard ride of these
towers. Let us be friends, holy Abbot, and drink to
our loving graces.”
“Count Emich, I pledge thee, and pray for thee,
as thou meritest. If there have been misunderstandings
between our convent and thy house, they
have come of the misguiding of the devil. We are
a peaceful community, and one given more to
prayer and a just hospitality, than to any grasping
desire to enrich our coffers.”
“On these points we will not dwell, father, for it
is not easy for baron and abbot, layman and priest,
to see at all times with the same eyes. I would that
this question of authority in Deurckheim were fairly
disposed of, that there might always be good neighborhood
in the valley. Our hills shut in no wide
plain, like yon of the river, that we must needs turn
the little level land we have into a battle-ground.
By the mass, most holy Abbot, but thou wouldst do
well to dismiss the Elector's troops, and trust this
matter between us, to gentle and friendly argument.”
“If it were the last prayer I uttered, before passing
into the fruition of a self-denying and holy life,
princely Emich, thy wish should not want support!
Have we not often professed a willingness to refer
the question to the Holy Father, or any other high
church authority, that can fittingly take cognizance
would scarce become our apostolic mission.”
“God's truth! mein Herr Wilhelm, but ye are
too grasping for those who mortify the flesh! Is it
meet, I ask ye, that a goodly number of valiant and
pains-taking burghers should be led by shaven crowns,
in the day of strife, in fair and foul, evil and good,
like so many worthless women, who, having lived in
the idleness and vanities of gossip and backbiting,
are fain to hope that their sex's sins may be hid beneath
a monk's frock? Give me up, therefore, this
question of Deurckheim, and certain other rights
that might be fairly written out, and the saints in
Paradise shall not live in more harmony than we of
the Jaegerthal.”
“Truly, Lord Emich, the means of fitting us for
the heavenly state thou namest have not been forgotten,
since thou hast made a purgatory of the valley
these many years—”
“By the mass, priest, thou again pushest thy remarks
beyond discreet speech! In what manner
have I done aught to bring this scandal on the neighborhood,
beyond a mere forethought to mine own
interest. Hast thou not opened thy abbey-gates to
receive armed and irreligious men?—are not thy
ears hourly wounded by rude oaths, and thy eyes
affronted by sights that should be thought unseemly
in a sanctuary?—Nay, that thou mayest not suppose
I am ignorant of thy hidden intentions, do not the
armed bands of Duke Friedrich lie at watch, this
very moment, within thy cloisters?”
“We have a just caution of our rights and of the
church's honor,” answered Bonifacius, who scarce
endeavored to conceal the contemptuous smile the
question excited.
“Believe me, Abbot of Limburg, so far from being
the enemy of our holy religion, I am its sworn
friend; else should I long since have joined the proselytes
harm openly.”
“'Twere better than to pray at our altars by day,
and to plot their fall at night.”
“I swear by the life of the Emperor that thou
urgest me too far, haughty priest!”
The clamor created by the Abbé and Father Siegfried
here caused the two principal speakers to direct
their attention, for the moment, to the secondary
combatants. From a courtly dispute, the argument
had got to be so confused and warm, between
the latter, that each raised his voice in a vain endeavor
to drown that of his adversary. It was but
an instant, before the whirling senses of M. Latouche,
who had only maintained his present place in the
debauch by fraud, gave way to so rude an assault,
and he staggered to a settee, where, gesticulating
wildly, he soon sunk at his length, unable to lift his
head. Father Siegfried witnessed the retreat of his
mercurial foe with a grin of exultation; then he
raised a ferocious shout, which, coming from lungs
that had so lately chanted to the honor of God, caused
the young Berchthold to shudder with horror.
But the glazed eyes of the monk, and his failing
countenance, betrayed an inability to endure more.
After staring wildly about him, with the unmeaning
idiotcy of a drunkard, he settled himself in his chair,
and closed his eyes in the heavy sleep that nature
unwillingly furnishes to those who abuse her gifts.
The Abbot and the Count witnessed the manner
in which their respective seconds were thus put hors
de combat, in sullen silence. Their growing warmth,
and the feelings excited by the mention of their
several grievances, had insensibly drawn their attention
from the progress of the contest, but each now
regained a certain glimpse of its nature and of its
results; the recollection served to recall the temper
of both, for they were too well practised in these
mind in maintaining the command of their faculties.
“Our brother Siegfried hath yielded to the frailties
of nature, noble Emich,” resumed Boniface,
smiling as placidly on his remaining companion, as
flushed features and a heated eye would permit.
“The flesh of priest can endure no more than that
of layman, else would he have seen thy flasks drained
of their last drop, for better intention never filled
grateful heart, in doing honor to the gifts of Providence.”
“Ay, thou passest thy debauches to the account
of this subtilty, while we of the sword, Master
Abbot, sin to-night, and ask forgiveness to-morrow,
without other pretence than our pleasures. But the
hood of a monk is a mask, and he who wears it
thinks he hath a right to the benefit of the disguise.
I would I knew, to a boddice, the number of
burghers' wives thou hast shrived since Corpus
Domini!”
“Jest not with the secrets of the confessional,
Count Emich; the subject is too sacred for profane
tongues. There has been bitter penance for greater
than thou!”
“Nay, mistake me not, holy Abbot,” returned
the baron, hurriedly crossing himself; “but your
bold talkers say there is discontent in Deurckheim
on this point, and I deem it friendly to communicate
the accusations of the enemy. This is a moment
in which our German monks are in danger;
for, in sooth, thy brother of Erfurth is no driveller
in his cry against Rome.”
The eye of Father Boniface flashed fire, for none
are so quick to meet, or so violent to resent attacks,
on what they consider their rights, as those
who have long been permitted to enjoy monopolies,
however frail or unjust may be the tenure of their
possession.
“In thy heart, rude Emich, thou clingest to this
heresy!” he said: “Beware, in what manner thou
castest the weight of thy example and name into
the scale, against the commands of God and the
authority of the church! As for this Luther, a
backsliding wretch, that unquiet ambition and love
for a professed but misguided nun, having urged to
rebellion, the devils are rejoicing in his iniquity, and
imps of darkness stand ready to riot in his final and
irretrievable fall.”
“By the mass! father, to a plain soldier it seemeth
better to wive the sister honestly, than to give
all this scandal in Deurckheim, and otherwise to do
violence to the peace of families on the fair plains
of the Palatinate. If brother Luther hath done no
more, than thou sayest here, he hath fairly cheated
Satan, which is what thy community did of old,
when it got the evil spirit to aid in raising thy
chapel, and then, with no great regard to a debtor's
obligations, sent him away penniless.”
“Were the truth known, Emich, I fear it would
be found that thou hast faith in this silly legend!”
“If thou hast not outwitted the devil, priest, it
hath been that his prudence hath kept him from bargaining
with those he knows to be his betters in cunning.
By the rood! 'twas a bold spirit that would
grapple, wit to wit, with the monks of Limburg!”
Disdain kept the Abbot from answering, for he
was too superior to vulgar tradition to feel even resentment
at an imputation of this kind. His host
perceived that he was losing ground, and he began
to see, by the manner in which his senses were
slowly receding, that he was in imminent danger of
forfeiting the important stake that now depended
wholly on his powers of endurance. The Abbot
had a well-earned reputation of having the strongest
head of all the churchmen of the Palatinate, and
Count Emich, who was nowise wanting in physical
failing which is commonly the forerunner, as it is
often the cause, of defeat. He swallowed bumper
after bumper, with a reckless desire to overwhelm
his antagonist, without thought of the inroads that
he was producing on his own faculties. Bonifacius,
who saw and felt his superiority, willingly indulged
his antagonist in this feverish desire to drive the
struggle to a premature issue, and several glasses
were taken in a sort of sullen defiance, without a
syllable issuing from the lips of either. In this
strait, the Count turned his swimming eyes towards
his attendants, in a vague hope that they who served
him so faithfully on ordinary occasions, might aid
him in the present desperate emergency.
Young Berchthold Hintermayer stood near his
lord, in respectful attendance on his pleasure, for
habit prevented him from withdrawing without an
order. Enough had fallen from the parties in this
singular contest to let him into the secret of its object.
He appeared to understand the appeal, and
advancing to do the office of cup-bearer, a duty
that in truth required some such interference, for he
who should have discharged it had been too diligently
imitating those at the board, to be able any
longer to acquit himself with propriety of his functions.
“If my Lord Abbot would but relieve the passing
time,” said Berchthold, as he poured out the wine,
“by descanting more at large on this heresy, he
might be the instrument of saving a doubting soul;
I freely confess, that for one, I find much reason to
distrust the faith of my fathers.”
This was attacking the Abbot on his weakest, not
to say his only vulnerable, point.
“Thou shalt smart for this, bold boy!” he cried,
striking the table with a clenched fist. “Thou harborest
heresies, unfledged and paltry reasoner on
avowal is noted!”
Emich made a sign of gratitude, for in his rage
the priest took a heavy draught, unconscious of
what he was about.
“Nay, my Lord, the most reverend Abbot will
pardon imprudent speech in one little gifted in
knowledge of this sort. Were it to strike a wild-boar,
or to stop a roe-buck, or haply to do harm to
my master's enemies, this hand might prove of some
account; but is it matter of fair surprise that we of
simple wit should be confounded, when the most
learned of Germany are at a loss what to believe?
I have heard it said, that Master Luther made noble
answers in all the councils and wise bodies, in which
he hath of late appeared.”
“He spoke with the tongue of Lucifer!” roared
the Abbot, fairly frothing with the violence of ungovernable
rage. “Whence cometh this new and
late-discovered religion! Of what stock and root is
it? Why hath it been so long hid, and where is its
early history? Doth it mount to Peter and Paul, or
is it the invention of modern arrogance and rank
conceit?”
“Nay, father, the same might be asked of Rome
itself, before Rome knew an apostle. The tree is
not less a tree after it hath been trimmed of its decayed
branches, though it may be more comely.”
Father Bonifacius was both acute and learned,
and, under ordinary circumstances, even the monk
of Wittenberg might have found him a stubborn and
subtle casuist; but in his actual condition, the most
sophistical remark, if it had but the aspect of reason,
was likely to inflame him. Thus assailed, therefore,
he exhibited an awful picture of the ferocity of human
passions when brutalized by indulgence. His
eyes seemed starting from his head, his lips quivered,
and his tongue refused its functions. He was now
stood; and, though he foresaw the consequences,
with the desperation of an inebriated man, he sought
the renewal of his forces in the very agent which
had undermined them. Count Emich himself was
past intelligible utterance, but eloquence not being
his strongest arm, he still maintained sufficient command
of his physical powers to continue the conflict.
He flourished his hand in defiance, and muttered
words that seemed to breathe hatred and scorn. In
this manner did a noble of an illustrious and princely
house, and a mitred prelate of the church, stand at
bay, with little other consciousness of the existence
of the nobler faculties of their being, than that connected
with the common mercenary object which
had induced this trial of endurance.
“The church's malediction on ye all!” Boniface
at length succeeded in uttering:—then falling back
in his elbowed and well-cushioned chair, he yielded
his faculties to the sinister influence of the liquor he
had swallowed.
When Emich of Leiningen witnessed the overthrow
of his last antagonist, a gleam of intelligence
and triumph shot from beneath his shaggy brows.
By a desperate effort he raised himself, and stretching
forth an arm, he gained possession of the deed
by which the community of Limburg formally released
its claims upon the products of the disputed
vineyards. Arising, with the air of one accustomed
to command even in his cups, he signed for his forester
to approach, and aided by his young and nervous
arm, he tottered from the room, leaving the
banqueting-hall, like a deserted field, a revolting
picture of human infirmity in its degradation and
neglect.
As the Count fell heavily upon his couch, clad as
he had been at table, he shook the parchment
towards his young attendant, till the folds rattled.
soon announced, that the victor of this debauch
lay like the vanquished, unconscious, feverish, and
unmanned.
Thus terminated the well-known debauch of Hartenburg,
a feat of physical endurance on the part
of the stout baron who prevailed, that gained him
little less renown among the boon companions of
the Palatinate, than he would have reaped from a
victory in the field; and which, strange as it may
now appear, derogated but little from any of the
qualities of the vanquished.
| CHAPTER VII. The Heidenmauer, or, The Benedictines | |