Farina beheld a scene that first dazzled, but, as it grew into shape, sank him with dismay.  Below, and level with the chamber he had left, a rude banqueting-hall glowed, under the light of a dozen flambeaux, with smoking boar’s flesh, deer’s flesh, stone-flagons, and horn-beakers.  At the head of this board sat Werner, scarlet with furious feasting, and on his right hand, Margarita, bloodless as a beautiful martyr bound to the fire.  Retainers of Werner occupied the length of the hall, chorusing the Baron’s speeches, and drinking their own healths when there was no call for another.  Farina saw his beloved alone.  She was dressed as when he parted with her last.  The dear cameo lay on her bosom, but not heaving proudly as of old.  Her shoulders were drooped forward, and contracted her bosom in its heaving.  She would have had a humbled look, but for the marble sternness of her eyes.  They were fixed as eyes that see the way of death through all earthly objects.

‘Now, dogs!’ cried the Baron, ’the health of the night! and swell your lungs, for I’ll have no cat’s cry when Werner’s bride is the toast.  Monk or no monk’s leave, she’s mine.  Ay, my pretty one! it shall be made right in the morning, if I lead all the Laach rats here by the nose.  Thunder! no disrespect to Werner’s bride from Pope or abbot.  Now, sing out!—­or wait! these fellows shall drink it first.’

He stretched and threw a beaker of wine right and left behind him, and Farina’s despair stiffened his limbs as he recognized the Goshawk and Schwartz Thier strapped to the floor.  Their beards were already moist with previous libations similarly bestowed, and they received this in sullen stillness; but Farina thought he observed a rapid glance of encouragement dart from beneath the Goshawk’s bent brows, as Margarita momentarily turned her head half-way on him.

’Lick your chaps, ye beasts, and don’t say Werner stints vermin good cheer his nuptial-night.  Now,’ continued the Baron, growing huskier as he talked louder:  ’Short and ringing, my devil’s pups:—­Werner and his Bride! and may she soon give you a young baron to keep you in better order than I can, as, if she does her duty, she will.’

The Baron stood up, and lifted his huge arm to lead the toast.

‘Werner and his Bride!’

Not a voice followed him.  There was a sudden intimation of the call being echoed; but it snapped, and ended in shuffling tones, as if the hall-door had closed on the response.

’What ‘s this?’ roared the Baron, in that caged wild beast voice Margarita remembered she had heard in the Cathedral Square.

No one replied.

‘Speak! or I’ll rot you a fathom in the rock, curs!’

‘Herr Baron!’ said Henker Rothhals impressively; ’the matter is, that there’s something unholy among us.’

The Baron’s goblet flew at his head before the words were uttered.

‘I’ll make an unholy thing of him that says it,’ and Werner lowered at them one by one.