“Can you direct me to Captain Malcolm Graheme, who, they tell me, belongs to this regiment?”

“You have come to the right man,” Malcolm said.  “I am Captain Graheme —­ what would you with me?”

“I am the bearer of a letter to you,” the man said, and taking off his cap he pulled out the lining and brought out a letter hidden beneath it.

“I am to ask for some token from you by which it may be known that it has been safely delivered.”

Malcolm cut with his dagger the silk with which the letter was fastened.  It began: 

“From the Lady Hilda, Countess of Mansfeld, to Captain Malcolm Graheme of Colonel Munro’s Scottish regiment. —­ My dear friend, —­ I do not know whether you have heard the misfortune which has fallen upon us.  The town and castle of Mansfeld were captured two months since by a sudden assault of the Imperialists, and my dear husband was grievously wounded in the defence.  He was brought hither a prisoner, and Thekla and I also carried here.  As the count still lies ill with his wounds he is not placed in a prison, but we are treated as captives and a close watch is kept upon us.  The count is threatened with the forfeiture of all his possessions unless he will change sides and join the Imperialists, and some of his estates have been already conferred upon other nobles as a punishment for the part he has taken.

“Were my husband well and free he would treat the offers with scorn, believing that the tide will turn and that he will recover his possessions.  Nor even were he certain of their perpetual forfeiture would he desert the cause of Protestantism.  Moreover, the estates which I brought him in marriage lie in the north of Pomerania, and the income there from is more than ample for our needs.  But the emperor has ordered that if the count remain contumacious Thekla shall be taken from us and placed in a convent, where she will be forced to embrace Catholicism, and will, when she comes of age, be given in marriage to some adherent of the emperor, who will with her receive the greater portion of her father’s lands.

“She is now sixteen years old, and in another year will be deemed marriageable.  My heart is broken at the thought, and I can scarce see the paper on which I write for weeping.  I know not why I send to you, nor does the count know that I am writing, nor does it seem possible that any aid can come to us, seeing that we are here in the heart of Bohemia, and that Wallenstein’s army lies between us and you.  But somehow in my heart I have a hope that you may aid us, and at any rate I know that you will sympathize with us greatly.  I feel sure that if there be any mode in which we may be aided it will be seized by your ready wit.  And now adieu!  This letter will be brought to you by a messenger who will be hired by a woman who attends us, and who has a kind heart as well as an eye to her own interests.  Send back by the messenger some token which she may pass on to me, that I may know that you have received it.  Send no written answer, for the danger is too great.”