“To this the Countess made no reply, and allowed to lapse any title she might have to the town of Linz.”

“I think,” cried the girl indignantly, “that my ancestress was in the right, refusing further communication with this ignoble Churchman who dared to impugn her good faith.”

The Archbishop smiled at her vehemence.

“I shall make no attempt to defend my astute predecessor.  A money-lender’s soul tenanted his austere body, but what would you say if his implication of the Countess Matilda’s good faith was justified?”

“You mean that the copy which she sent of the Archbishop’s letter was fraudulent?  I cannot believe it.”

“Not fraudulent.  So far as it went her copy was word perfect.  She neglected to add, however, a final sentence, and rather than make it public forfeited her rightful claim to great possessions.  Of the Archbishop’s communications to her there remains in our archives a copy of this last epistle written in his own hand.  I cannot imagine why he added the final clauses to what was in essence an important business communication.  The premonition he admits may have set his thoughts upon things not of this world, but undoubtedly he believed that he would live long enough to conquer the rebels of Linz, and restore to the Countess her property.  This is what he wrote, and she refused to publish: 

“’Matilda, I feel that my days are numbered, and that their number is scant.  To all the world my life seems to have been successful beyond the wishes of mortal man, but to me it is a dismal failure, in that I die bachelor Archbishop of Cologne, and you are the spinster Countess von Sayn.’”

VI

TO BE KEPT SECRET FROM THE COUNTESS

There are few favored spots occupied by blue water and greensward over which a greater splendor is cast by the rising sun on a midsummer morning than that portion of the Rhine near Coblentz, and as our little procession emerged from the valley of the Saynbach every member of it was struck with the beauty of the flat country across the Rhine, ripening toward a yellow harvest, flooded by the golden glory of the rising sun.

Their route led to the left by the foot of the eastern hills, and not yet along the margin of the great river.  Gradually, however, as they journeyed in a southerly direction, the highlands deflected them westward until at last there was but scant room for the road between rock and water.  Always they were in the shade, a comforting feature of a midsummer journey, an advantage, however, soon to be lost when they crossed the Rhine by the ferry to Coblentz.  The distance from Sayn Castle to Schloss Stolzenfels was a little less than four leagues, so their early start permitted a leisurely journey.

The Archbishop and the Countess rode side by side.  Following them at some distance came Father Ambrose, deep in his meditations, and paying little attention to the horse he rode, which indeed, faithful animal, knew more about the way than did his rider.  Still farther to the rear rode half a dozen mounted lancemen, two and two, the scant escort of one who commanded many thousands of armed men.