“Surely such haste is unnecessary,” cried the girl.  “He can set out to-morrow in one direction while we go in another.  He traveled all last night, and for most part of it was paddling a boat containing four people; has ridden almost since daylight, and now to journey on horseback throughout the night is too much for human endurance.”

The grave smile of the Archbishop shone upon her anxiety.

“For lack of a nail the shoe was lost,” he said, “and you know the remainder of the warning.  If Prince Roland cares to risk an Empire for a night’s rest, I withdraw my objection.”

The Prince suddenly wheeled his horse, and coming briskly round to the side of the girl, placed a hand on hers.

“A decision, Countess!” he cried.  “Give me your decision.  I shall always obey you!”

“Oh, the rashness of youth!” murmured the Archbishop.

The girl looked up at the young man, and he caught his breath and clasped her hand more tightly as he gazed into the depths of her glorious eyes.

“You must go,” she sighed.

“Yes, alas!”

He raised her unresisting hand to his lips, and again turned his horse.

“You will obey?” asked the Archbishop.

“I will obey, my Lord.”

He flashed from its scabbard, into the rays of the setting sun, the sword he had made, and elevating the hilt to his forehead, saluted the Archbishop.

“I shall see you at Ehrenfels, my Lord.”

“Ah, do not go thus.  Come to the Castle for an hour’s rest at least.”

The young man whirled his sword around, and caught it by the blade, touching the hilt with his lips as if it were a cross.

“I thank God,” said he, “that I can willingly keep my oath.”

Then, looking at the girl—­“For the Empress, and not for the Empire!” he cried.

The sword seemed to drop into the scabbard of its own accord, as Roland set spurs to his steed and away.

XVIII

THE SWORD MAKER AT BAY

The heir-presumptive to the throne reached Frankfort very quietly in the Archbishop’s barge, and was landed after nightfall at the water-steps of the Imperial Palace.  The funeral of the Emperor took place almost as if it were a private ceremonial.  Grave trouble had been anticipated, and the route of the procession for the short distance between Palace and Cathedral was thickly lined on either side by the troops of the three Archbishops.  This precaution proved unnecessary.  The dispirited citizens cared nothing for their late nominal ruler, and they manifested their undisguised hatred of the real rulers, the Archbishops, by keeping indoors while their soldiers marched the streets.

The condition of the capital was unique.  It suffered from a famine of money rather than a famine of food.  Frankfort starved in the midst of plenty.  Never had the earth been more fruitful than during this year, and the coming autumn promised a harvest that would fill the granaries to overflowing, yet no one brought in food to Frankfort, for the common people had not the money to buy.  The working population depended entirely upon the merchants and manufacturers, and with the collapse of mercantile business thousands were thrown out of employment, and this penniless mob was augmented by the speedy cessation of all manufacturing.