The stern Archbishop reined in his black charger when he reached the middle of the courtyard, but made no motion to dismount. The lady came slowly down the broad stone steps, followed by her feminine train, and, approaching the Elector, placed her white hand upon his stirrup, in mute acknowledgment of her vassalage. “Welcome, prince of the Church and protector of our Faith,” she said. “It is a hundred years since my poor house has sheltered so august a guest.” The tones were smooth and soothing as the scarcely audible plash of a distant fountain; but the incident she cited struck ominously on the Archbishop’s recollection, rousing memory and causing him to dart a quick glance at the countess, in which was blended sharp enquiry and awakened foreboding; but the lady, unconscious of his scrutiny, stood with drooping head and downcast eyes, her shapely hand still on his stirrup-iron. “If I remember rightly, madame, my august predecessor slept well beneath this roof.” “Alas, yes!” murmured the lady, sadly. “We have ever accounted it the greatest misfortune of our line, that he should have died mysteriously here. Peace be to his soul!” “Not so mysteriously, madame, but that there were some shrewd guesses concerning his malady.” “That is true, my Lord,” replied the countess, simply. “It was supposed that in his camp upon the lowlands by the river he contracted a fever from which he died.” “My journey by the Moselle has been of the briefest. I trust, therefore, I have not within me the seeds of his fatal distemper.” “I most devoutly echo that trust, my Lord, and pray that God, who watches over us all, may guard your health while sojourning here.” “Forgive me, madame, if, within the shadow of these walls, I say ‘Amen’ to your prayer with some emphasis.” The Countess Laurette contented herself with bowing low and humbly crossing herself, making no verbal reply to his Lordship’s remark. She then beseeched the Archbishop to dismount, saying something of his need of rest and refreshment, begging him to allow her to be his guide to the Rittersaal. When the Archbishop reached the topmost step that led to the castle door, he cast an eye, not devoid of anxiety, over the court-yard, to see how his following had fared. The gates were now fast closed, and forty horses were ranged with their tails to the wall, the silent riders in their saddles. Rapid as was his glance, it showed him his guard huddled together in the centre of the court, his own black charger, with empty saddle, the only living thing among them that showed no sign of dismay. Between two of the hostile horsemen stood his captain, with doublet torn and headgear awry, evidently a discomfited prisoner.