“I do trust in the future,” answered the duke, “but not until I have embraced what reason dictates for the present.”

“Do you hold your reason more enlightened than that of His Holiness?”

“He cannot see what I see.  Urge me no more!  It is too late to recede.  I know well what dangers I incur by accepting the crown—­and what disgrace I should earn in refusing it.  Did I consult my inclinations, I should renounce the glittering ornament:  but I will not have men to point at me covertly, and say, ‘He faltered!’ I will not endanger the noble barons who have devoted themselves to my advancement.  If I have sinned in alluring them thus far, I will not deepen my guilt by betraying them.  Though I knew that the crown which I am about to assume were like the gift of Medea, I would still set it on my temples:  better pay the penalty of ambition by advancing than by timidly retreating, when boldness may remedy, and retreat is certain death!”

The tread of armed men was heard along the passage, and immediately afterward the Count Mangold entered the room.

“The diet awaits your highness’ answer,” he said, bowing deeply to the duke.

“I will follow you,” said Rodolph, “and deliver it in person.”  Saying this, he strode proudly from the room, preceded by the count and his attendants.

As the door closed behind them, Father Omehr fell upon his knees.  He knelt there with the tears streaming down his pale cheeks and his hands clasped in prayer, until a long loud shout announced Rodolph’s acceptance.  Then the trumpets’ merry notes, mingled with the joyful clang of arms, went up to heaven together with the missionary’s sighs.  Father Omehr appeared scarcely to hear the martial revelry, but as the tumult increased, he rose and glided from the room.

Amid the congratulations of the bishops, nobles, and people, Rodolph proceeded in great pomp to Mayence, where he was to be crowned and consecrated the following day.  It was after nightfall when Rodolph reached the palace prepared for his reception; and seizing the first moment to escape from the embraces of his friends, he retired early to his chambers, accompanied only by Gilbert de Hers.  Rodolph had always evinced a strong partiality for Gilbert, which the youth repaid by the liveliest love and admiration.  No sooner were they alone, than the duke threw himself dejectedly into a chair, and was soon plunged into a fit of gloomy abstraction.  Gilbert stood motionless beside him, inwardly wondering at the silence and despondency of the man, who, a moment before, had been gayly exchanging felicitations with all who approached him.

“Sit down, my son,” said the duke.

Gilbert mechanically obeyed.

“Do I seem happy?” asked Rodolph.

“No, my lord; are you unwell?”

“Do I seem overwhelmed with joy at my good fortune?”

“Has anything befallen you, sire?” inquired the youth.