“With my good wishes now and always, surely, my Lord. I have no demands to make--the word ill befits the lips of a humble vassal; but, being here----” “Ah! But, being here----” interrupted the Archbishop, glancing keenly at her. “I have a favour to beg of you. I wish to ask permission to build a castle on the heights above Trarbach, for my son.” “The Count Johann, third of the name?” “The same, my Lord, who is honoured by your Lordship’s remembrance of him.” “And you wish to place this stronghold between your castle of Starkenburg and my town of Treves? Were I a suspicious man, I might imagine you had some distrust of me.” “Not so, my lord. The Count Johann will hold the castle in your defence.” “I have ever been accustomed to look to my own defence,” said the Archbishop, drily; adding, as if it were an afterthought, “with the blessing of God upon my poor efforts.” The faintest suspicion of a smile hovered for an instant on the lips of the countess, that might have been likened to the momentary passing of a gleam of sunshine over the placid waters of the river far below; for she well knew, as did all others, that it was the habit of the fighting Archbishop to smite sturdily first, and ask whatever blessing might be needed on the blow afterwards. “The permission being given, what follows?” “That you will promise not to molest me during the building.” “A natural corollary. ‘Twould be little worth to give permission and then bring up ten thousand men to disturb the builders. That granted, remains there anything more?” “I fear I trespass on your Lordship’s patience but this is now the end. A strong house is never built with a weak purse. I do entreat your lordship to cause to be sent to me from your treasury in Treves thousand pieces of gold, that the castle may be a worthy addition to your province.” The Archbishop arose with a scowl on his face, and paced the narrow limits of the room like a caged lion. The hot anger mounted to his brow and reddened it, but he strode up and down until he regained control of himself, then spoke with a touch of hardness in his voice: “A good fighter, madame, holds his strongest reserves to the last. You have called me a prince of the Church, and such I am. But you flatter me, madame; you rate me too high. The founder of our Church, when betrayed, was sold for silver, and for a lesser number of pieces than you ask in gold.” The lady, now standing, answered nothing to this taunt, but the colour flushed her pale cheeks. “I am, then, a prisoner, and you hold me for ransom, but it will avail you little. You may close your gates and prevent my poor dozen of followers from escaping, but news of this outrage will reach Treves, and then, by God, your walls shall smoke for it. There will be none of the Starkenburgs left, either to kidnap or to murder future archbishops.”