“What have I to do with Court or palaces?  My duty lies here.”

“It may be,” cried the girl archly, “that some part of your duty lies there.  If Frankfort is indeed in bad case, your sage advice might be of the greatest benefit.  Prosperity seems to follow your footsteps, and, besides, you were once a chaplain in the Court, and surely you have not lost all interest in your former charge?”

Again that quiet, engaging smile lit up the monk’s emaciated features, and then he asked a question with that honest directness which sometimes embarrassed those he addressed: 

“Daughter Hildegunde, what is it you want?”

“Well,” said the girl, sitting very upright in her chair, “I confess to loneliness.  The sameness of life in this castle oppresses me, and in its continuous dullness I grow old before my time.  I wish to enjoy a month or two in Frankfort, and, as doubtless you have guessed, I send you forth as my ambassador to spy out the land.”

“In such case, daughter, you should present your petition to that Prince of the Church, the Archbishop of Cologne, who is your guardian.”

“No, no, no, no!” cried the girl emphatically; “you are putting the grapes into the barrel instead of into the vat.  Before I trouble the worthy Archbishop with my request, I must learn whether it is practicable or not.  If the city is indeed in a state of turbulence, of course I shall not think of going thither.  It is this I wish to discover, but if you are afraid.”  She shrugged her shoulders and spread out her hands.

And now the old monk came as near to laughing as he ever did.

“Clever, Hildegunde, but unnecessary.  You cannot spur me to action by slighting the well-known valor of our race.  I will go where and when you command me, and report to you faithfully what I see and hear.  Should the time seem favorable for you to visit Frankfort, and if your guardian consents, I shall raise not even one objection.”

“Oh, dear Father, I do not lay this as a command upon you.”

“No; a request is quite sufficient.  To-morrow morning I shall set out.”

“Along the Rhine?” queried the girl, so eagerly that the old man’s eyes twinkled at the celerity with which she accepted his proposition.

“I think it safer,” he said, “to journey inland over the hills.  The robbers on the Rhine have been so long bereft of the natural prey that one or other of them may forget I am Father Ambrose, a poor monk, remembering me only as Henry of the rich House of Sayn, and therefore hold me for ransom.  I would not willingly be a cause of strife, so I shall go by way of Limburg on the Lahn, and there visit my old friend the Bishop, and enjoy once more a sight of the ancient Cathedral on the cliff by the river.”

When the young Countess awoke next morning, and reviewed in her mind the chief event of the preceding day, remembering the reluctance of Father Ambrose to undertake the quest she had outlined without the consent of his overlord the Archbishop, a feeling of compunction swept over her.  She berated her own selfishness, resolving to send her petition to her guardian, the Archbishop, and abide by his decision.