“The two are together,” said the Margrave, clutching his friend's shoulder. “NOW LOOK!”
Sir Ludwig turned towards a quadrille, and there, sure enough, were Sir Hildebrandt and young Otto standing side by side in the dance. Two eggs were not more like! The reason of the Margrave's horrid suspicion at once flashed across his friend's mind.
“'Tis clear as the staff of a pike,” said the poor Margrave, mournfully. “Come, brother, away from the scene; let us go play a game at cribbage!” and retiring to the Margravine's boudoir, the two warriors sat down to the game.
But though 'tis an interesting one, and though the Margrave won, yet he could not keep his attention on the cards: so agitated was his mind by the dreadful secret which weighed upon it. In the midst of their play, the obsequious Gottfried came to whisper a word in his patron's ear, which threw the latter into such a fury, that apoplexy was apprehended by the two lookers-on. But the Margrave mastered his emotion. “AT WHAT TIME, did you say?” said he to Gottfried.
“AND SO WILL I TOO,” thought Count Ludwig, the good Knight of Hombourg.
How often does man, proud man, make calculations for the future, and think he can bend stern fate to his will! Alas, we are but creatures in its hands! How many a slip between the lip and the lifted wine-cup! How often, though seemingly with a choice of couches to repose upon, do we find ourselves dashed to earth; and then we are fain to say the grapes are sour, because we cannot attain them; or worse, to yield to anger in consequence of our own fault. Sir Ludwig, the Hombourger, was NOT AT THE OUTER GATE at daybreak.
He slept until ten of the clock. The previous night's potations had been heavy, the day's journey had been long and rough. The knight slept as a soldier would, to whom a featherbed is a rarity, and who wakes not till he hears the blast of the reveille.
He looked up as he woke. At his bedside sat the Margrave. He had been there for hours watching his slumbering comrade. Watching?--no, not watching, but awake by his side, brooding over thoughts unutterably bitter--over feelings inexpressibly wretched.
“What's o'clock?” was the first natural exclamation of the Hombourger.
“I believe it is five o'clock,” said his friend. It was ten. It might have been twelve, two, half-past four, twenty minutes to six, the Margrave would still have said, “I BELIEVE IT IS FIVE O'CLOCK.” The wretched take no count of time: it flies with unequal pinions, indeed, for THEM.