At last he ate his supper, and then threw himself upon the straw, but he was unable to sleep.  The death of Wallenstein had made a deep impression upon him.  The Imperialist general was greatly respected by his foes.  Not only was he admired for his immense military talents, but he carried on the war with a chivalry and humanity which contrasted strongly with the ferocity of Tilly, Pappenheim, and Piccolomini.  Prisoners who fell into his hands were always treated with courtesy, and although, from motives of policy, he placed but little check upon the excesses of his soldiery, no massacres, such as those which had caused the names of Tilly and Pappenheim to be held in abhorrence by the Protestants of Germany, were associated with that of Wallenstein.  Then, too, the princely dignity and noble presence of the duke had greatly impressed the young soldier, and the courtesy with which he had treated him personally had attracted his liking as well as respect.  To think that this great general, this princely noble, the man who alone had baffled the Lion of the North, had been foully murdered by those he had trusted and favoured, filled him with grief and indignation, the more so since two of the principal assassins were Scotchmen.

The thought that on the morrow Duke Bernhard of Weimar —­ a leader in importance second only to the Chancellor of Sweden —­ would fall unsuspiciously into the trap set for him goaded him almost to madness, and he tossed restlessly on the straw through the long hours of the night.  Towards morning he heard a faint creaking of bolts, then there was a sound of the locks of the door being turned.  He grasped his sword and sprang to his feet.  He heard the door close again, and then a man produced a lantern from beneath a long cloak, and he saw Wallenstein’s steward before him.  The old man’s eyes were bloodshot with weeping, and his face betokened the anguish which the death of his master had caused him.

“You have heard the news?” he asked.

“Alas!” Malcolm replied, “I have heard it indeed.”

“I am determined,” the old man said, “to thwart the projects of these murderers and to have vengeance upon them.  None have thought of me.  I was an old man, too insignificant for notice, and I have passed the day in my chamber lamenting the kindest of lords, the best of masters.  Last evening I heard the soldiers boasting that today they would capture the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, and I determined to foil them.  They have been feasting and drinking all night, and it is but now that the troopers have fallen into a drunken slumber and I was able to possess myself of the key of your dungeon.

“Here is your helmet.  I will lead you to the stable, where I have saddled the best and fastest of my master’s horses.  You must remain there quietly until you deem that the gates are open, then leap upon the horse, and ride for your life.  Few will know you, and you will probably pass out of the gate unquestioned.  If not, you have your sword to cut your way.  Once beyond the town ride to meet the duke.  Tell him my master has been murdered, that Egra is in the hands of the Imperialists, and that Saxe-Lauenburg is a prisoner.  Bid him march on this place with his force, take it by assault, and leave not one of the assassins of my lord living within its walls.”