Denmark was now at the height of her glory.  Her flag flew over all the once hostile lands to the south and east, clear into Russia.  The Baltic was a Danish inland sea.  King Valdemar was named “Victor” with cause.  His enemies feared him; his people adored him.  In a single night foul treachery laid the whole splendid structure low.  The King and young Valdemar, Dagmar’s son, with a small suite of retainers had spent the day hunting on the little island of Lyoe.  Count Henrik of Schwerin,—­the Black Count they called him,—­who had just returned from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, was his guest.  The count hated Valdemar bitterly for some real or fancied injury, but he hid his hatred under a friendly bearing and smooth speech.  He brought the King gifts from the Holy Sepulchre, hunted with him, and was his friend.  But by night, when the King and his son slept in their tent, unguarded, since no enemy was thought to be near, he fell upon them with his cutthroats, bound and gagged them despite their struggles, and gathering up all the valuables that lay around, to put the finishing touch upon his villainy, fled with his prisoners “in great haste and fear,” while the King’s men slept.  When they awoke, and tried to follow, they found their ships scuttled.  The count’s boat had been lying under sail all day, hidden in a sheltered cove, awaiting his summons.

Germany at last had the lion and its whelp in her grasp.  In chains and fetters they were dragged from one dungeon to another.  The traitors dared not trust them long in any city, however strong.  The German Emperor shook his fist at Count Henrik, but secretly he was glad.  He would have liked nothing better than to have the precious spoil in his own power.  The Pope thundered in Rome and hurled his ban at the thugs.  But the Black Count’s conscience was as swarthy as his countenance; and besides, had he not just been to the Holy Land, and thereby washed himself clean of all his sins, past and present?

Behind prison walls, comforted only by Dagmar’s son, sat the King, growing old and gray with anger and grief.  Denmark lay prostrate under the sudden blow, while her enemies rose on every side.  Day by day word came of outbreaks in the conquered provinces.  The people did not know which way to turn; the strong hand that held the helm was gone, and the ship drifted, the prey of every ill wind.  It was as if all that had been won by sixty years of victories and sacrifice fell away in one brief season.  The forests filled with out-laws; neither peasant nor wayfarer, nor yet monk or nun in their quiet retreat, was safe from outrage; and pirates swarmed again in bay and sound, where for two generations there had been peace.  The twice-perjured Bishop Valdemar left his cloister cell once more and girt on the sword, to take the kingdom he coveted by storm.