over the topmost leaves, but to every loophole of the walls lies bare the circuit of the land.  Werner could rule with a glance the Rhine’s course down from the broad rock over Coblentz to the white tower of Andernach.  He claimed that march as his right; but the Mosel was no hard ride’s distance, and he gratified his thirst for rapine chiefly on that river, delighting in it, consequently, as much as his robber nature boiled over the bound of his feudal privileges.

Often had the Baron held his own against sieges and restrictions, bans and impositions of all kinds.  He boasted that there was never a knight within twenty miles of him that he had not beaten, nor monk of the same limit not in his pay.  This braggadocio received some warrant from his yearly increase of licence; and his craft and his castle combined, made him a notable pest of the region, a scandal to the abbey whose countenance he had, and a frightful infliction on the poorer farmers and peasantry.

The sun was beginning to slope over Laach, and threw the shadows of the abbey towers half-way across the blue lake-waters, as two men in the garb of husbandmen emerged from the wood.  Their feet plunged heavily and their heads hung down, as they strode beside a wain mounted with straw, whistling an air of stupid unconcern; but a close listener might have heard that the lumbering vehicle carried a human voice giving them directions as to the road they were to take, and what sort of behaviour to observe under certain events.  The land was solitary.  A boor passing asked whether toll or tribute they were conveying to Werner.  Tribute, they were advised to reply, which caused him to shrug and curse as he jogged on.  Hearing him, the voice in the wain chuckled grimly.  Their next speech was with a trooper, who overtook them, and wanted to know what they had in the wain for Werner.  Tribute, they replied, and won the title of ‘brave pigs’ for their trouble.

‘But what’s the dish made of?’ said the trooper, stirring the straw with his sword-point.

‘Tribute,’ came the answer.

‘Ha!  You’ve not been to Werner’s school,’ and the trooper swung a sword-stroke at the taller of the two, sending a tremendous shudder throughout his frame; but he held his head to the ground, and only seemed to betray animal consciousness in leaning his ear closer to the wain.

‘Blood and storm!  Will ye speak?’ cried the trooper.

’Never talk much; but an ye say nothing to the Baron,’—­thrusting his hand into the straw—­’here’s what’s better than speaking.’

‘Well said!—­Eh?  Liebfrauenmilch?  Ho, ho! a rare bleed!’

Striking the neck of the flask on a wheel, the trooper applied it to his mouth, and ceased not deeply ingurgitating till his face was broad to the sky and the bottle reversed.  He then dashed it down, sighed, and shook himself.

’Rare news! the Kaiser’s come:  he’ll be in Cologne by night; but first he must see the Baron, and I’m post with the order.  That’s to show you how high he stands in the Kaiser’s grace.  Don’t be thinking of upsetting Werner yet, any of you; mind, now!’