In accents broken by grief, the Margrave explained what had occurred.  Gottfried’s information was but too correct.  There was a cause for the likeness between Otto and Sir Hildebrandt:  a fatal cause!  Hildebrandt and Theodora had met at dawn at the outer gate.  The Margrave had seen them.  They walked long together; they embraced.  Ah! how the husband’s, the father’s, feelings were harrowed at that embrace!  They parted; and then the Margrave, coming forward, coldly signified to his lady that she was to retire to a convent for life, and gave orders that the boy should be sent too, to take the vows at a monastery.

Both sentences had been executed.  Otto, in a boat, and guarded by a company of his father’s men-at-arms, was on the river going towards Cologne, to the monastery of Saint Buffo there.  The Lady Theodora, under the guard of Sir Gottfried and an attendant, were on their way to the convent of Nonnenwerth, which many of our readers have seen—­the beautiful Green Island Convent, laved by the bright waters of the Rhine!

“What road did Gottfried take?” asked the Knight of Hombourg, grinding his teeth.

“You cannot overtake him,” said the Margrave.  “My good Gottfried, he is my only comfort now:  he is my kinsman, and shall be my heir.  He will be back anon.”

“Will he so?” thought Sir Ludwig.  “I will ask him a few questions ere he return.”  And springing from his couch, he began forthwith to put on his usual morning dress of complete armor; and, after a hasty ablution, donned, not his cap of maintenance, but his helmet of battle.  He rang the bell violently.

“A cup of coffee, straight,” said he, to the servitor who answered the summons; “bid the cook pack me a sausage and bread in paper, and the groom saddle Streithengst; we have far to ride.”

The various orders were obeyed.  The horse was brought; the refreshments disposed of; the clattering steps of the departing steed were heard in the court-yard; but the Margrave took no notice of his friend, and sat, plunged in silent grief, quite motionless by the empty bedside.

CHAPTER V.

The traitor’s Doom.

The Hombourger led his horse down the winding path which conducts from the hill and castle of Godesberg into the beautiful green plain below.  Who has not seen that lovely plain, and who that has seen it has not loved it?  A thousand sunny vineyards and cornfields stretch around in peaceful luxuriance; the mighty Rhine floats by it in silver magnificence, and on the opposite bank rise the seven mountains robed in majestic purple, the monarchs of the royal scene.

A pleasing poet, Lord Byron, in describing this very scene, has mentioned that “peasant girls, with dark blue eyes, and hands that offer cake and wine,” are perpetually crowding round the traveller in this delicious district, and proffering to him their rustic presents.  This was no doubt the case in former days, when the noble bard wrote his elegant poems—­in the happy ancient days! when maidens were as yet generous, and men kindly!  Now the degenerate peasantry of the district are much more inclined to ask than to give, and their blue eyes seem to have disappeared with their generosity.