Otto of the Silver Hand | Page 8

Hans in the stress of his agony until the fellow winced again. For a
moment he stood as though gathering strength, then doggedly started
forth upon that quest which he had set upon himself.
At the door he stopped for a moment as though overcome by his
weakness, and there Master Nicholas, his cousin, met him; for the
steward had sent one of the retainers to tell the old man what the Baron
was about to do.
"Thou must go back again, Conrad," said Master Nicholas; "thou art
not fit to be abroad."
The Baron answered him never a word, but he glared at him from out

of his bloodshot eyes and ground his teeth together. Then he started
forth again upon his way.
Down the long hall he went, slowly and laboriously, the others
following silently behind him, then up the steep winding stairs, step by
step, now and then stopping to lean against the wall. So he reached a
long and gloomy passageway lit only by the light of a little window at
the further end.
He stopped at the door of one of the rooms that opened into this
passage-way, stood for a moment, then he pushed it open.
No one was within but old Ursela, who sat crooning over a fire with a
bundle upon her knees. She did not see the Baron or know that he was
there.
"Where is your lady?" said he, in a hollow voice.
Then the old nurse looked up with a start. "Jesu bless us," cried she,
and crossed herself.
"Where is your lady?" said the Baron again, in the same hoarse voice;
and then, not waiting for an answer, "Is she dead?"
The old woman looked at him for a minute blinking her watery eyes,
and then suddenly broke into a shrill, long-drawn wail. The Baron
needed to hear no more.
As though in answer to the old woman's cry, a thin piping complaint
came from the bundle in her lap.
At the sound the red blood flashed up into the Baron's face. "What is
that you have there?" said he, pointing to the bundle upon the old
woman's knees.
She drew back the coverings and there lay a poor, weak, little baby,
that once again raised its faint reedy pipe.
"It is your son," said Ursela, "that the dear Baroness left behind her

when the holy angels took her to Paradise. She blessed him and called
him Otto before she left us."
IV.
The White Cross on the Hill.
Here the glassy waters of the River Rhine, holding upon its bosom a
mimic picture of the blue sky and white clouds floating above, runs
smoothly around a jutting point of land, St. Michaelsburg, rising from
the reedy banks of the stream, sweeps up with a smooth swell until it
cuts sharp and clear against the sky. Stubby vineyards covered its
earthy breast, and field and garden and orchard crowned its brow,
where lay the Monastery of St. Michaelsburg - "The White Cross on
the Hill." There within the white walls, where the warm yellow sunlight
slept, all was peaceful quietness, broken only now and then by the
crowing of the cock or the clamorous cackle of a hen, the lowing of
kine or the bleating of goats, a solitary voice in prayer, the faint accord
of distant singing, or the resonant toll of the monastery bell from the
high-peaked belfry that overlooked the hill and valley and the smooth,
far-winding stream. No other sounds broke the stillness, for in this
peaceful haven was never heard the clash of armor, the ring of
iron-shod hoofs, or the hoarse call to arms.
All men were not wicked and cruel and fierce in that dark, far- away
age; all were not robbers and terror-spreading tyrants, even in that time
when men's hands were against their neighbors, and war and rapine
dwelt in place of peace and justice.
Abbot Otto, of St. Michaelsburg, was a gentle, patient, pale. faced old
man; his white hands were soft and smooth, and no one would have
thought that they could have known the harsh touch of sword-hilt and
lance. And yet, in the days of the Emperor Frederick - the grandson of
the great Red-beard - no one stood higher in the prowess of arms than
he. But all at once - for why, no man could tell - a change came over
him, and in the flower of his youth and fame and growing power he
gave up everything in life and entered the quiet sanctuary of that white
monastery on the hill-side, so far away from the tumult and the conflict

of the world in which he had lived.
Some said that it was because the lady he had loved had loved his
brother, and that