“My horse’s shoe is loose,” he said to the Captain. “I ask you to have your armourer immediately attend to it.” “In truth,” replied the officer, shrugging his shoulders, “there is more drinking than fighting in Castle Bertrich; consequently we do not possess an armourer. If you want blacksmithing done you must betake yourself to armourer Arras in the valley, who will put either horse or armour right for you.” With this the messenger was forced to be content; and, begging the attendants who took charge of his horse to remember that it had travelled far and had still, when rested, a long journey before it, he followed the Captain into the great Rittersaal of the castle, where, on entering, after having been announced, he found the Count of Bertrich sitting at the head of a long table, holding in his hand a gigantic wine flagon which he was industriously emptying. Extending down each side of the table were many nobles, knights, and warriors, who, to judge by the hasty glance bestowed upon them by the Archbishop’s messenger, seemed to be energetically following the example set them by their over-lord at the head. Count Bertrich’s hair was unkempt, his face a purplish red, his eye bloodshot; and his corselet, open at the throat, showed the great bull-neck of the man, on whose gigantic frame constant dissipation seemed to have merely temporary effect. “Well!” roared the nobleman, in a voice that made the rafters ring. “What would you with Count Bertrich?” “I bear an urgent despatch to you from my Lord the Archbishop of Treves,” replied the messenger. “Then down on your knees and present it,” cried the Count, beating the table with his flagon. “I am Envoy of his Lordship of Treves,” said the messenger, sternly. “You told us that before,” shouted the Count; “and now you stand in the hall of Bertrich. Kneel, therefore, to its master.” “I represent the Archbishop,” reiterated the messenger, “and I kneel to none but God and the Emperor.” Count Bertrich rose somewhat uncertainly to his feet, his whole frame trembling with anger, and volleyed forth oaths upon threats. The tall nobleman at his right hand also rose, as did many of the others who sat at the table, and, placing his hand on the arm of his furious host, said warningly: “My Lord Count, the man is right. It is against the feudal law that he should kneel, or that you should demand it. The Archbishop of Treves is your overlord, as well as ours, and it is not fitting that his messenger should kneel before us.” “That is truth--the feudal law,” muttered others down each side of the table. The enraged Count glared upon them one after another, partially subdued by their breaking away from him.