V.—­Nemesis

A large Danish war vessel approached the port of Bergen, with prisoners to hand over to the castellan—­the new castellan, for old Erick Rosenkrantz was dead.  Chief of the captives was Bothwell, nonchalant but melancholy, pale, and more thoughtful than formerly; still, in pleasure and in sorrow, was he haunted by the shriek of the dying Darnley.

Near him stood one who was not a captive, but a returning wanderer.  Konrad had again crossed the path of the earl; his vessel, long detained in port, and afterwards delayed by storms, had been captured by the Scottish pirate ship, and he had been rescued from this new misfortune by the great Norwegian war vessel.

The prisoners were escorted to the hall of the castle, and Bothwell assumed his most defiant look.  The arras that concealed the dais was withdrawn, and Bothwell looked upon the face of the hereditary castellan of Bergen, Anna Rosenkrantz!

On seeing the earl, she turned pale as death.  The earl recovered instantly from his surprise, and bowed smilingly.

“Well, madam,” said he, “we foresaw not this meeting!”

“Dost thou know,” replied Anna firmly, “that thy life and liberty are in my power?”

“I am assured,” he answered, “that they could not be in safer keeping.”

“Regicide and betrayer,” return Anna, with flashing eyes, “from this hour thou shalt have meted out to thee the stern measures thou hast so ruthlessly dealt to others.  This man,” she went on, turning to the captain of the war ship, “is the king’s prisoner; away with him to the Castle of Kiobenhafen—­be under sail before sunset!”

Red-bearded Danish bowmen crowded round the earl, who thus passed away to the wretched captivity that ended only with his death, ten years afterwards.

Konrad, unnoticed and uncared for, stood alone in the hall where he had once been so welcome a guest.  He had no intention of remaining in a place where all was so changed; but ere he turned to leave it for ever he paused a moment irresolutely.  Once more the arras was withdrawn, and Anna stood before him.

“I heard thou wert here, Konrad,” she said, with a blushing cheek.  “Wouldst thou go without one word to me?”

She seated herself in the recess of a window.  “I have long wished,” she faltered, “to see thee once more.  I have now seen the worth and faith of thy heart when contrasted with mine own, and I blush for my weakness—­my wickedness—­my folly.  Thou mayest deem this unwomanly—­indelicate; but in love we are equal, and why may not one make reparation as the other?”

“Anna,” said Konrad, in a choking voice, “though my heart be soured and saddened, my first sentiment for thee hath never altered.  For all thou hast made me endure I forgive thee, and I pray that thou mayest be happy.  Anna—­dearest Anna—­I am going far away, for I have doomed myself to exile, but I still regard thee as a sister—­as a friend.  All is forgotten and forgiven.  And now, farewell!”