The Strong Arm

“Thank you. That is as God wills.”

“Assuredly, assuredly. We are all in His hands,” and the good man devoutedly crossed himself.

“I have answered your questions,” said Wilhelm, “answer you some of mine. Who are you?”

“I am a seeker after light.”

“Well, there it is,” said Wilhelm, touching the lantern with his foot as he paced up and down the limits of the cell.

“Earthly light is but dim at best, it is the light of Heaven I search after.”

“Well, I hope you may be successful in finding it. I know of no place where it is needed so much as here.”

“You speak like a scoffer. I thought from what you said of God’s will, that you were a religious man.”

“I am a religious man, I hope, and I regret if my words seem lightly spoken.

“What action of man, think you then, is most pleasing to God?”

“That is a question which you, to judge by your garb, are more able to answer than I.”

“Nay, nay, I want your opinion.”

“Then in my opinion, the man most pleasing to God is he who does his duty here on earth.”

“Ah! right, quite right,” cried the older man, eagerly. “But there lies the core of the whole problem. What is duty; that is what I have spent my life trying to learn.”

“Then at a venture I should say your life has been a useless one. Duty is as plain as the lighted lantern there before us. If you are a priest, fulfil your priestly office well; comfort the sick, console the dying, bury the dead. Tell your flock not to speculate too much on duty, but to try and accomplish the work in hand.”

“But I am not a priest,” faltered the other, rising slowly to his feet.

“Then if you are a soldier, strike hard for your King. Kill the man immediately before you, and if, instead, he kills you, be assured that the Lord will look after your soul when it departs through the rent thus made in your body.”

“There is a ring of truth in that, but it sounds worldly. How can we tell that such action is pleasing to God? May it not be better to depend entirely on the Lord, and let Him strike your blows for you?”

“Never! What does He give you arms for but to protect your own head, and what does He give you swift limbs for if not to take your body out of reach when you are threatened with being overmatched? God must despise such a man as you speak of, and rightly so. I am myself a commander of soldiers, and if I had a lieutenant who trusted all to me and refused to strike a sturdy blow on his own behalf I should tear his badge from him and have him scourged from out the ranks.”

“But may we not, by misdirected efforts, thwart the will of God?”

“Oh! the depths of human vanity! Thwart the will of God? What, a puny worm like you? You amaze me, sir, with your conceit, and I lose the respect for you which at first your garb engendered in my mind. Do your work manfully, and flatter not yourself that your most strenuous efforts are able to cross the design of the Almighty. My own poor belief is that He has patience with any but a coward and a loiterer.”

The elder prisoner staggered into the centre of the room and raised his hands above his head.

“Oh, Lord, have mercy upon me,” he cried. “Thou who hast brought light to me in this foul dungeon which was refused to me in the radiance of Thy Cathedral. Have mercy on me, oh, Lord, the meanest of Thy servants—a craven Emperor.”

“The Emperor!” gasped Wilhelm, the more amazed because he had his Majesty in mind when he spoke so bitterly of neglected duty, unconsciously blaming his sovereign rather than his own rashness for the extreme predicament in which he found himself.

Before either could again speak the door suddenly opened wide, and a deep voice solemnly enunciated the words:

“Wilhelm of Schonburg, pretended Commander of his Majesty’s forces, you are summoned to appear instantly before the court of the Holy Fehm, now in session and awaiting you.”

CHAPTER VI. – THE HOLY FEHM

When the spokesman of the Fehmgerichte had finished his ominous summons, his attendants crowded round Wilhelm swiftly and silently as if to forestall any attempt at resistance either on his part or on the part of the Emperor. They hurried their victim immediately out of the cell and instantly barred the door on the remaining prisoner. First they crossed the low-roofed, thickly-pillared great hall, passing through a doorway at which two armed men stood guard, masked, as were all the others. The Judgment Hall of the dread Fehmgerichte was a room of about ten times the extent of the cell Wilhelm had just left, but still hardly of a size that would justify the term large. The walls and vaulted roof were of rough stone, and on the side opposite the entrance had been cut deeply the large letters S. S. G. G. A few feet distant from this lettered wall stood a long table, and between the wall and the table sat seven men. The Freigraf, as Wilhelm surmised him to be, occupied in the centre of this line a chair slightly more elevated than those of the three who sat on either hand. Seven staples had been driven into the interstices of the stones above the heads of the Court and from each staple hung a lighted lantern, which with those at the belts of the guard standing round, illuminated the dismal chamber fairly well. To the left of the Court was a block draped in black and beside it stood the executioner with his arms resting on the handle of his axe. In the ceiling above his head was an iron ring and from this ring depended a rope, the noose of which dangled at the shoulder of the headsman, for it was the benevolent custom of the Court to allow its victim a choice in the manner of his death. It was also a habit of the judges of this Court to sit until the sentence they had pronounced was carried out, and thus there could be no chance of mistake or rescue. No feature of any judge was visible except the eyes through the holes pierced for the purposes of vision in the long black cloaks which completely enveloped their persons.

As Wilhelm was brought to a stand before this assemblage, the Freigraf nodded his head and the guards in silence undid the thongs which pinioned together wrists and elbows, leaving the prisoner absolutely unfettered.—This done, the guard retreated backwards to the opposite wall, and Wilhelm stood alone before the seven sinister doomsmen. He expected that his examination, if the Court indulged in any such, would be begun by the Freigraf, but this was not the case. The last man to the left in the row had a small bundle of documents on the table before him. He rose to his feet, bowed low to his brother judges, and then with less deference to the prisoner. He spoke in a voice lacking any trace of loudness, but distinctly heard in every corner of the room because of the intense stillness. There was a sweet persuasiveness in the accents he used, and his sentences resembled those of a lady anxious not to give offence to the person addressed.

“Am I right in supposing you to be Wilhelm, lately of Schonburg, but now of Frankfort?”

“You are right.”

“May I ask if you are a member of the Fehmgerichte?”

“I am not. I never heard of it until this afternoon.”

“Who was then your informant regarding the order?”

“I refuse to answer.”

The examiner inclined his head gracefully as if, while regretting the decision of the witness, he nevertheless bowed to it.

“Do you acknowledge his lordship the Archbishop of Mayence as your over lord?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Have you ever been guilty of an act of rebellion or insubordination against his lordship?”

“My over-lord, the Archbishop of Mayence, has never preferred a request to me which I have refused.”

“Pardon me, I fear I have not stated my proposition with sufficient clearness, and so you may have misunderstood the question. I had in my mind a specific act, and so will enter into further detail. Is it true that in the Wahlzimmer you entered the presence of your over-lord with a drawn sword in your hand, commanding a body of armed men lately outlaws of the Empire, thus intimidating your over-lord in the just exercise of his privileges and rights as an Elector?”

“My understanding of the Feudal law,” said Wilhelm, “is that the commands of an over-lord are to be obeyed only in so far as they do not run counter to orders from a still higher authority.”

“Your exposition of the law is admirable, and its interpretation stands exactly as you have stated it. Are we to understand then that you were obeying the orders of some person in authority who is empowered to exercise a jurisdiction over his lordship the Archbishop, similar to that which the latter in his turn claims over you?”

“That is precisely what I was about to state.”

“Whose wishes were you therefore carrying out?

“Those of his Majesty the Emperor.”

The examiner bowed with the utmost deference when the august name was mentioned.

“I have to thank you in the name of the Court,” he went on, “for your prompt and comprehensive replies, which have thus so speedily enabled us to come to a just and honourable verdict, and it gives me pleasure to inform you that the defence you have made is one that cannot be gainsaid, and, therefore, with the exception of one slight formality, there is nothing more for us to do but to set you at liberty and ask pardon for the constraint we regret having put upon you, and further to request that you take oath that neither to wife nor child, father nor mother, sister nor brother, fire nor wind, will you reveal anything that has happened to you; that you will conceal it from all that the sun shines on and from all that the rain wets, and from every being between heaven and earth. And now before our doors are thus opened I have to beg that you will favour the Court with the privilege of examining the commission that his Majesty the Emperor has signed.”

“You cannot expect me to carry my commission about on my person, more especially as I had no idea I should be called upon to undergo examination upon it.”

“Such an expectation would certainly be doomed to disappointment, but you are doubtless able to tell us where the document lies, and I can assure you that, wherever it is placed, an emissary of this order will speedily fetch it, whether, it is concealed in palace or in hut. Allow me to ask you then, where this commission is?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Do you mean you cannot, or you will not?”

“Take it whichever way you please, it is a matter of indifference to me.”

The examiner folded his arms under his black cloak and stood for some moments in silence, looking reproachfully at the prisoner. At last he spoke in a tone which seemed to indicate that he was pained at the young man’s attitude:

“I sincerely trust I am mistaken in supposing that you refuse absolutely to assist this Court in the securing of a document which not only stands between you and your liberty, but also between you and your death.”

“Oh, a truce to this childish and feigned regret,” cried Wilhelm with rude impatience. “I pray you end the farce with less of verbiage and of pretended justice. You have his Majesty here a prisoner. You have, through my own folly, my neck at the mercy of your axe or your rope. There stands the executioner eager for his gruesome work. Finish that which you have already decided upon, and as sure as there is a God in heaven there will be quick retribution for the crimes committed in this loathsome dungeon.”

The examiner deplored the introduction of heat into a discussion that required the most temperate judgment.

“But be assured,” he said, “that the hurling of unfounded accusations against this honourable body will not in the least prejudice their members in dealing with your case.”

“I know it,” said Wilhelm with a sneering laugh.

“We have been informed that no such commission exists, that the document empowering you to take instant command of the Imperial troops rests in the hands of the wife of his Majesty the Emperor and is unsigned.”

“If you know that, then why do you ask me so many questions about it?”

“In the sincere hope that by the production of the document itself, you may be able to repudiate so serious an accusation. You admit then that you have acted without the shelter of a commission from his Majesty?”

“I admit nothing.”

The examiner looked up and down the row of silent figures as much as to say, “I have done my best; shall any further questions be put?” There being no response to this the examiner said, still without raising his voice:

“There is a witness in this case, and I ask him to stand forward.”

A hooded and cloaked figure approached the table.

“Are you a member of the Fehmgerichte?”

“I am.”

“In good and honourable standing?”

“In good and honourable standing.”

“You swear by the order to which you belong that the evidence you give shall be truth without equivocation and without mental reservation?”

“I swear it.”

“Has the prisoner a commission signed by the Emperor empowering him to command the Imperial troops?”

“He has not, and never has had such a commission. A document was made out and sent three times to his Majesty for signature; to-day it was returned for the third time unsigned.”

“Prisoner, do you deny that statement?”

“I neither deny nor affirm.”

Wilhelm was well aware that his fate was decided upon. Even if he had appeared before a regularly constituted court of the Empire instead of at the bar of an underground secret association, the verdict must inevitably have gone against him, so long as the Emperor’s signature was not appended to the document which would have legalised his position.

“It would appear then,” went on the examiner, “that in the action you took against your immediate over-lord, the Archbishop of Mayence, you were unprotected by the mandate of the Emperor. Freigraf and Freischoffen have heard question and answer. With extreme reluctance I am compelled to announce to this honourable body, that nothing now remains except to pronounce the verdict.”

With this the examiner sat down, and for a few moments there was silence, then the Freigraf enunciated in a low voice the single word:

“Condemned.”

And beginning at the right hand, each member of the Court pronounced the word “Condemned.”

Wilhelm listened eagerly to the word, expecting each moment to hear the voice of one or other of the Archbishops, but in this he was disappointed. The low tone universally used by each speaker gave a certain monotony of sound which made it almost impossible to distinguish one voice from another. This evident desire for concealment raised a suspicion in the young man’s mind that probably each member of the Court did not know who his neighbours were. When the examiner at the extreme left had uttered the word “Condemned” the Freigraf again spoke:

“Is there any reason why the sentence just pronounced be not immediately carried out?”

The examiner again rose to his feet and said quietly, but with great respect:

“My Lord, I ask that this young man be not executed immediately, but on the contrary, be taken to his cell, there to be held during the pleasure of the Court.”

There seemed to be a murmured dissent to this, but a whispered explanation passed along the line and the few that had at first objected, nodded their heads in assent.

“Our rule cannot be set aside,” said the Freigraf, “unless with unanimous consent. Does any member demur?”

No protests being made the Freigraf ordered Wilhelm to be taken to a cell, which was accordingly done.

The young man left alone in the darkness felt a pleasure in being able to stretch his arms once more, and he paced up and down the narrow limits of his cell, wondering what the next move would be in this mysterious drama. In the Judgment Chamber he had abandoned all hope, and had determined that when the order was given to seize him he would pluck the dagger of the order from the inside of his doublet, and springing over the table, kill one or more of these illegal judges before he was overpowered. The sudden change in tactics persuaded him that something else was required of him rather than the death which seemed so imminent. It was palpable that several members of the Court at least were unacquainted with the designs of the master mind which was paramount in his prosecution. They had evinced surprise when the examiner had demanded postponement of the execution. There was something behind all this that betrayed the crafty hand of the Archbishop of Treves. He was not long left in doubt. The door of the cell opened slowly and the pale rays of a lantern illuminated the blackness which surrounded him. The young man stopped in his walk and awaited developments. There entered to him one of the cloak-enveloped figures, who might, or might not, be a member of the Holy Court. Wilhelm thought that perhaps his visitor was the examiner, but the moment the silence was broken, in spite of the fact that the speaker endeavoured to modulate his tones as the others had done, the young man knew the incomer was not the person who had questioned him.

“We are somewhat loth,” the intruder began, “to cut short the career of one so young as you are, and one who gives promise of becoming a notable captain.”

“What have you seen of me,” inquired Wilhelm, “that leads you to suppose I have the qualities of a capable officer in me?”

The other did not reply for a moment or two; then he said slowly:

“I do not say that I have seen anything to justify such a conclusion, but I have heard of your action in the Wahlzimmer, and by the account given, I judge you to be a young man of resource.”

“I am indebted to you for the good opinion you express. It is quite in your power to set me free, and then the qualities you are kind enough to commend, may have an opportunity for development.”

“Alas!” said the visitor, “it is not in my power to release you; that lies entirely with yourself.”

“You bring comforting news. What is the price?”

“You are asked to become a member of the Fehmgerichte.”

“I should suppose that to be easily accomplished, as I am now a partaker of its hospitality. What else?”

“The remaining proviso is that you take service, with his lordship, the Archbishop of Treves, and swear entire allegiance to him.”

“I am already in the service of the Emperor.”

“It has just been proven that you are not.”

“How could the Archbishop expect faithful service from me, if I prove traitor to the one I deem my master?”

“The Archbishop will probably be content to take the risk of that.”

“Are you commissioned to speak for the Archbishop?”

“I am.”

“Are you one of the Archbishop’s men?”

“My disposition towards him is friendly; I cannot say that I am one of his men.”

“Granting, then, that I took service with the Archbishop to save my life, what would he expect me to do?”

“To obey him in all things.”

“Ah, be more explicit, as the examiner said. I am not a man to enter into a bargain blindly. I must know exactly what is required of me.”

“It is probable that your first order would be to march your army from Frankfort to Treves. Would the men follow you, do you think?”

“Undoubtedly. The men will follow wherever I choose to lead them. Another question. What becomes of the Emperor in case I make this bargain?”

“That question it is impossible at the present moment, to answer. The Court of the Holy Fehm is now awaiting my return, and when I take my place on the bench the Emperor will be called upon to answer for his neglect of duty.”

“Nevertheless you may hazard a guess regarding his fate.”

“I hazard this guess then, that his fate will depend largely upon himself, just as your fate depends upon yourself.”

“I must see clearly where I am going, therefore I request you to be more explicit. What will the Court demand of the Emperor that he may save his life?”

“You are questioning me touching the action of others; therefore, all I can do is merely to surmise. My supposition is that if the Emperor promises to abdicate he will be permitted to pass unscathed from the halls of the Fehmgerichte.”

“And should he refuse?”

“Sir, I am already at the end of my patience through your numerous questions,” and as the voice rose in something approaching anger, Wilhelm seemed to recognise its ring. “I came here, not to answer your questions, but to have you answer mine. What is your decision?”

“My decision is that you are a confessed traitor; die the death of such!”

Wilhelm sprang forward and buried the dagger of the Fehmgerichte into the heart of the man before him. His action was so unexpected that the victim could make no motion to defend himself. So truly was the fierce blow dealt that the doomed man, without a cry or even a groan, sank in his death collapse at the young man’s feet in a heap on the floor.

Wilhelm, who thought little of taking any man’s life in a fair fight, shuddered as he gazed at the helpless bundle at his feet; a moment before, this uncouth heap stood erect, a man like himself, conversing with him, then the swift blow and the resulting huddle of clay.

“Oh, God above me, Over-lord of all, I struck for my King, yet I feel myself an assassin. If I am, indeed, a murderer in Thy sight, wither me where I stand, and crush me to the ground, companion to this dead body.”

For a few moments Wilhelm stood rigid, his face uplifted, listening to the pulsations in his own throat and the strident beatings of his own heart. No bolt from heaven came to answer his supplication. Stooping, he, with some difficulty, drew the poniard from its resting-place. The malignant ingenuity of its construction had caused its needle point to penetrate the chain armour, while its keen double edge cut link after link of the hard steel as it sunk into the victim’s breast. The severed ends of the links now clutched the blade as if to prevent its removal. Not a drop of blood followed its exit, although it had passed directly through the citadel of life itself. Again concealing the weapon within his doublet, a sudden realisation of the necessity for speed overcame the assaulter. He saw before him a means of escape. He had but to don the all-concealing cloak and walk out of this subterranean charnel house by the way he had entered it, if he could but find the foot of the stairs, down which they had carried him. Straightening out the body he pulled the cloak free from it, thus exposing the face to the yellow light of the lantern. His heart stood still as he saw that the man he had killed was no other than that exalted Prince of the Church, the venerable Archbishop of Treves. He drew the body to the pallet of straw in the corner of the cell, and there, lying on its face, he left it. A moment later he was costumed as a high priest of the order of the Fehmgerichte. Taking the lantern in his hand he paused before the closed door. He could not remember whether or not he had heard the bolts shot after the Archbishop had entered. Conning rapidly in his mind the startling change in the situation, he stood there until he had recovered command of himself, resolved that if possible no mistake on his part should now mar his chances of escape, and in this there was no thought of saving his own life, but merely a determination to get once more into the streets of Frankfort, rally his men, penetrate into these subterranean regions, and rescue the Emperor alive. He pushed with all his might against the door, and to his great relief the heavy barrier swung slowly round on its hinges. Once outside he pushed it shut again, and was startled by two guards springing to his assistance, one of them saying:

“Shall we thrust in the bolts, my Lord?”

“Yes,” answered Wilhelm in the low tone which all, costumed as he was, had used. He turned away but was dismayed to find before him two brethren of the order arrayed in like manner to himself, who had evidently been waiting for him.

“What is the result of the conference? Does he consent?”

Rapidly Wilhelm had to readjust events in his own mind to meet this unexpected emergency.

“No,” he replied slowly, “he does not consent, at least, not just at the moment. He has some scruples regarding his loyalty to the Emperor.”

“Those scruples will be speedily removed then, when we remove his Majesty. The other members of the Court are but now awaiting us in the Judgment Chamber. Let us hasten there, and make a quick disposal of the Emperor.”

Wilhelm saw that there was no possibility of retreat. Any attempt at flight would cause instant alarm and the closing of the exits, then both the Emperor and himself would be caught like rats in a trap, yet there was almost equal danger in entering the Council Chamber. He had not the remotest idea which seat at the table he should occupy, and he knew that a mistake in placing himself would probably lead to discovery. He lagged behind, but the others persistently gave him precedence, which seemed to indicate that they knew the real quality of the man they supposed him to be. He surmised that his seat was probably that of the Freigraf in the centre, but on crossing the threshold past the saluting guards, he saw that the Freigraf occupied the elevated seat, having at his left three Freischoffen, while the remaining seats at his right were unoccupied. It was a space of extreme anxiety when his two companions stopped to allow him to go first. He dared not take the risk of placing himself wrongly at the board. There was scant time for consideration, and Wilhelm speedily came to a decision. It was merely one risk to take where several were presented, and he chose that which seemed to be the safest. Leaning towards his companions he said quietly: