“There are archers and archers,” said the old man.  “Some archers are snobs, as your ladyship states; some, on the contrary, are gentlemen by birth, at least, though not by breeding.  Witness young Otto, the Landgrave of Godesberg’s son, who is listening at the door like a lackey, and whom I intend to run through the—­”

“Law, Baron!” said the lady.

“I will, though,” replied the Baron, drawing an immense sword, and glaring round at Otto:  but though at the sight of that sword and that scowl a less valorous youth would have taken to his heels, the undaunted Childe advanced at once into the apartment.  He wore round his neck a relic of St. Buffo (the tip of the saint’s ear, which had been cut off at Constantinople).  “Fiends!  I command you to retreat!” said he, holding up this sacred charm, which his mamma had fastened on him; and at the sight of it, with an unearthly yell the ghosts of the Baron and the Baroness sprung back into their picture-frames, as clowns go through a clock in a pantomime.

He rushed through the open door by which the unlucky Wolfgang had passed with his demoniacal bride, and went on and on through the vast gloomy chambers lighted by the ghastly moonshine:  the noise of the organ in the chapel, the lights in the kaleidoscopic windows, directed him towards that edifice.  He rushed to the door:  ’twas barred!  He knocked:  the beadles were deaf.  He applied his inestimable relic to the lock, and—­whiz! crash! clang! bang! whang!—­the gate flew open! the organ went off in a fugue—­the lights quivered over the tapers, and then went off towards the ceiling—­the ghosts assembled rushed away with a skurry and a scream—­the bride howled, and vanished—­the fat bishop waddled back under his brass plate—­the dean flounced down into his family vault—­and the canon Schidnischmidt, who was making a joke, as usual, on the bishop, was obliged to stop at the very point of his epigram, and to disappear into the void whence he came.

Otto fell fainting at the porch, while Wolfgang tumbled lifeless down at the altar-steps; and in this situation the archers, when they arrived, found the two youths.  They were resuscitated, as we scarce need say; but when, in incoherent accents, they came to tell their wondrous tale, some sceptics among the archers said—­“Pooh! they were intoxicated!” while others, nodding their older heads, exclaimed—­“They have seen the lady of Windeck!” and recalled the stories of many other young men, who, inveigled by her devilish arts, had not been so lucky as Wolfgang, and had disappeared—­for ever!

This adventure bound Wolfgang heart and soul to his gallant preserver; and the archers—­it being now morning, and the cocks crowing lustily round about—­pursued their way without further delay to the castle of the noble patron of toxophilites, the gallant Duke of Cleves.

CHAPTER X.