“In the name of the Lord Christ,--where? where?”
“Where, what?” demanded Ulrich, trembling, but not so much as before; there was nothing awesome in the hermit now.
“The maid! Maid Agnes, the Graf’s daughter? She has vanished. You have stolen her. Oh! may the curse of God light swift on you!”
He was nigh crazed, and a mere madman was not very terrifying. So they plucked up courage, and stood their ground.
“Hark you, greybeard,” warned the Baron, roughly; “it is for the wench we are come ourselves. Do you think we would rout you out of your accursed den without fair cause? The maid we will have, or by the Trinity,--” he broke off, the threat unfinished, and glared on the hermit, who appeared utterly unstrung. For an instant he seemed only the shambling dotard.
“Gone! gone,” he moaned abjectly. “I can find her nowhere. If you fiends do not possess her, she has perished amongst the cruel beasts.”
The Baron was brave now, and advanced boldly.
“Here, Michael,--a cord; pinion this babbler. We’ll hale him to the Wartburg, and then if the wench is not found, there’ll be tortures to wring out of him where he is hiding her. Forward, lads; there’s nothing dreadful.”
He snatched Jerome by the arm. Men looked to see a bolt crash down from heaven. None came. Jerome submitted like a lamb. Michael and Clement were at least brave enough to stand at either side as guards. Ulrich led thirty of his boldest down the Dragon’s Dale, crossbow strung, swords bare,--half disappointed they did not meet a fire-breathing goblin. They found the little hut empty; they searched about the tree--only birds and dragon-flies. Maid Agnes was nowhere. Ulrich returning promised Jerome smart torture if the girl was not found. Jerome gave back not a word. So at last the Baron started again for the Wartburg with his prisoner, ordering the men to scatter through the greenwood, by fives and tens, and to scour knoll and dale for seven leagues about. Have the hostage they must, though they sought all night for her!
Once at the castle Ulrich ordered forth the bloodhounds. The pack went baying down the valley, the halloos of the hunt sounded far and wide in the forest; but when the _lanzknechts_ dispersed in little bands, they knew too well the paling dread of pixies to pry over deeply into the secrets of the wood. The hounds ran down all scents--but vainly. Priest Clement swore that the Brown Dwarfs had stolen the queen down to their underworld. “Where, alas for her poor soul, since they were pagans all!” he added as became a holy cleric. The chase wandered far from the Wartburg. Presently Ulrich, disheartened, angry, turned back to the castle, with Clement and Michael, leaving the rest to carry on the hunt. Saint or no saint, he intended to test his prisoner by torture to see if he were hiding Agnes by some art-magic. It would be an impious deed,--Ulrich knew it,--but better impiety, than the falling into Graf Ludwig’s iron clutches!