So with a dry laugh away went the chief into the dark, leaving the defenders as helpless as caged rats who see the farmer come to drown them.
There was nothing to be done. The long racks of lances in the great Waffensaal were mockery. No hands to wield them! The Wartburg was strong, but there was no donjon, separate from the outer hold, where a few desperate spirits could prolong resistance. Besides, succour was absolutely impossible. Before midnight, Hans and Joachim decided that they could not let their brothers be grilled just because they desired to have their throats cut at Ulrich’s side in the morning. A little after midnight Michael killed a man who had tried to drop a rope from the battlement. Two hours after dawn, Ulrich, who had lain down, after leaving three men watching at the postern, returned and found only Franz.
“Call me ‘Ram’s Pate’ an you will; I can still die with my master.”
My Lord Baron had a choking in his throat. He gave Franz his mail-clad hand, then ordered him to summon Michael.
“All the rest have deserted, even the women,” reported the Breaker, grimly. “In the Wartburg are you, Franz, Priest Clement, and your humble man-at-arms--not to mention the hermit down below.”
“The joust ends,” quoth My Lord. “The camp below is stirring; they attack us soon. Summon Clement. We must sound a parley with the saints, though he is an indifferent pursuivant.”
In the wide, empty court they found the priest. His eyes were red, his gait unsteady. He had been heartening himself in the cellar, but when they told what they wanted he sobered quickly.
“Woe is me! All my sins flock home. It is I that need absolution.”
“A priest is a priest, and at least we have none better,” urged Michael, “therefore haste! Soon they will beat down the postern.”
“Ay,” lamented Clement, “‘the validity of the sacrament depends not on the righteousness of the cleric,’ so runs the canon; but I am undone. None to absolve me, no masses, no indulgence! I am damned forever!”
“The hermit, the saint!” this from the slow Franz.
“The hermit! the saint!” so cried Clement; and they all ran down into the dungeon, dragged their prisoner up into the great hall, and tore off his fetters. He, expecting instant death, bowed his head in silent prayer, but did not try to escape. Then with the ruddy glare of dawn pouring through the eastern casement, those four wild men plumped on their knees before him.