“At daybreak, at the outer gate.”

“I will be there.”

“And so will I too,” thought Count Ludwig, the good Knight of Hombourg.

CHAPTER IV.

The flight.

How often does man, proud man, make calculations for the future, and think he can bend stern fate to his will!  Alas, we are but creatures in its hands!  How many a slip between the lip and the lifted wine-cup!  How often, though seemingly with a choice of couches to repose upon, do we find ourselves dashed to earth; and then we are fain to say the grapes are sour, because we cannot attain them; or worse, to yield to anger in consequence of our own fault.  Sir Ludwig, the Hombourger, was not at the outer gate at daybreak.

He slept until ten of the clock.  The previous night’s potations had been heavy, the day’s journey had been long and rough.  The knight slept as a soldier would, to whom a featherbed is a rarity, and who wakes not till he hears the blast of the reveille.

He looked up as he woke.  At his bedside sat the Margrave.  He had been there for hours watching his slumbering comrade.  Watching?—­no, not watching, but awake by his side, brooding over thoughts unutterably bitter—­over feelings inexpressibly wretched.

“What’s o’clock?” was the first natural exclamation of the Hombourger.

“I believe it is five o’clock,” said his friend.  It was ten.  It might have been twelve, two, half-past four, twenty minutes to six, the Margrave would still have said, “I believe it is five o’clock.”  The wretched take no count of time:  it flies with unequal pinions, indeed, for them.

“Is breakfast over?” inquired the crusader.

“Ask the butler,” said the Margrave, nodding his head wildly, rolling his eyes wildly, smiling wildly.

“Gracious Bugo!” said the Knight of Hombourg, “what has ailed thee, my friend?  It is ten o’clock by my horologe.  Your regular hour is nine.  You are not—­no, by heavens! you are not shaved!  You wear the tights and silken hose of last evening’s banquet.  Your collar is all rumpled—­’tis that of yesterday.  You have not been to bed!  What has chanced, brother of mine:  what has chanced?”

“A common chance, Louis of Hombourg,” said the Margrave:  “one that chances every day.  A false woman, a false friend, a broken heart.  This has chanced.  I have not been to bed.”

“What mean ye?” cried Count Ludwig, deeply affected.  “A false friend?  I am not a false friend.  A false woman?  Surely the lovely Theodora, your wife—­”

“I have no wife, Louis, now; I have no wife and no son.”

*****