Never did any summer’s day seem so long to the Count as St. Sylvester’s, while he waited with impatience for the departure of light. No sooner was it dark, than the allies began to assemble by twos and threes from different quarters. It was one of the most gloomy winter nights, that ever favoured a secret enterprise; and the glimmering taper, which was the usual signal for Alwyn to ascend the wall, was not yet discernible. Midnight was already past; still there was no token of Ursula’s approach; when suddenly the trampling of horses was heard, and the gleam of approaching torches showed them a body of soldiers coming from the Castle by a path, which was well guarded by sentinels and provided with several draw-bridges. Landenberg was at the head of the troop. Unmoved by her tears and fainting, he had just informed Amalberga, that he should return the next day to hear her final decision; and he was now bending his course to Sarno, in order to exact the usual new-year’s gift from the inhabitants of the Valley, and hear them renew the oath of submission to their Leige-Lord, the Emperor. It was an established custom of the vice-gerents to receive from the hands of the vassals on the first day of the new year, what little had escaped their extortion during the old one; in return for which they never failed to promise greater indulgence for the future, nor in spite of that promise to conduct themselves with increased oppression. As he journeyed onwards, Landenberg recapitulated to himself the advantages, which this year had produced to him; the quantity of wealth which he had collected in gold, jewels, and other valuables; the possession of the lovely Amalberga, whom he already looked upon as his own; and above all, the power of throwing off the wearisome mask of hypocrisy, which he had at first been compelled to assume.