Historians tell us that the priest, with a pretence of friendly purpose, offered to mediate between Adalbert and his enemies, promising him, if he would leave his stronghold to appear before the assembled nobles of the diet, that he should have a free and safe return.  Adalbert accepted the terms, deeming that he could safely trust the pledged word of a high dignitary of the church.  Leaving the gates of his castle, he was met at a short distance beyond by the bishop, who accosted him in his friendliest tone, and proposed that, as their journey would be somewhat long, they should breakfast together within the castle before starting.

Adalbert assented and returned to the fortress with his smooth-tongued companion, took breakfast with him, and then set out with him for the diet.  Here he was sternly called to answer for his acts of opposition to the decree of the ruling body of Germany, and finding that the tide of feeling was running strongly against him, proposed to return to his fortress in conformity with the plighted faith of Bishop Hatto.  Hatto, with an aspect of supreme honesty, declared that he had already fulfilled his promise.  He had agreed that Adalbert should have a free and safe return to his castle.  This had been granted him.  He had returned there to breakfast without opposition of any sort.  The word of the bishop had been fully kept, and now, as a member of the diet, he felt free to act as he deemed proper, all his obligations to the accused having been fulfilled.  Just how far this story accords with the actual facts we are unable to say, but Adalbert, despite his indignant protest, was sentenced to death and beheaded.

Hatto had reached his dignity in the church by secular instead of ecclesiastic influence, and is credited with employing his power in this and other instances with such lack of honor and probity that he became an object of the deepest popular contempt and execration.  His name was derided in the popular ballads, and he came to be looked upon as the scapegoat of the avarice and licentiousness of the church in that irreligious mediaeval age.  Among the legends concerning him is one relating to Henry, the son of his ally, Otho of Saxony, who died in 912.  Henry had long quarrelled with the bishop, and the fabulous story goes that, to get rid of his high-spirited enemy, the cunning churchman sent him a gold chain, so skilfully contrived that it would strangle its wearer.

[Illustration:  THE MOUSE-TOWER ON THE RHINE.]

The most famous legend about Hatto, however, is that which tells the manner of his death.  The story has been enshrined in poetry by Longfellow, but we must be content to give it in plain prose.  It tells us that a famine occurred in the land, and that a number of peasants came to the avaricious bishop to beg for bread.  By his order they were shut up in a great barn, which then was set on fire, and its miserable occupants burned to death.