The Strong Arm | Page 5

stand
by the tightening links of a stout chain, fastened one end to the door,
the other to the outer wall. Through the space that thus gave a view of
the wide outer passage the Count saw Richart stand with pale face, well
back at a safe distance in the centre of the hall. Two men-at-arms held a
position behind their master.
"My Lord," began Richart in trembling voice, "her Ladyship, the
Countess, desires----"

"Open the door, you cringing Judas!" interrupted the stern command of
the count; "open the door and set me as free as your villainy found me.
I hold no parley with a traitor."
"My Lord, I implore you to listen. No harm is intended you, and my
Lady, the Countess, asks of you a conference touching----"
The heavy sword swung in the air and came down upon the chain with
a force that made the stout oaken door shudder. Scattering sparks cast a
momentary glow of red on the whitened cheeks of the startled
onlookers. The edge of the sword clove the upper circumference of an
iron link, leaving the severed ends gleaming like burnished silver, but
the chain still held. Again and again the sword fell, but never twice in
the same spot, anger adding strength to the blows, but subtracting skill.
"My Lord! my Lord!" beseeched Richart, "restrain your fury. You
cannot escape from this strong castle even though you sever the chain."
"I'll trust my sword for that," muttered the prisoner between his set
teeth.
There now rang out on the conflict a new voice; the voice of a woman,
clear and commanding, the tones instinct with that inborn quality of
imperious authority which expects and usually obtains instant
obedience.
"Close the door, Richart," cried the unseen lady. The servitor made a
motion to obey, but the swoop of the sword seemed to paralyse him
where he stood. He cast a beseeching look at his mistress, which said as
plainly as words: "You are ordering me to my death." The Count, his
weapon high in mid-air, suddenly swerved it from its course, for there
appeared across the opening a woman's hand and arm, white and
shapely, fleecy lace falling away in dainty folds from the rounded
contour of the arm. The small, firm hand grasped bravely the almost
severed chain and the next instant the door was drawn shut, the bolts
clanking into their places. Count Herbert, paused, leaning on his sword,
gazing bewildered at the closed door.

"Ye gods of war!" he cried; "never have I seen before such cool
courage as that!"
For a long time the Count walked up and down the spacious room,
stopping now and then at the window to peer through the iron grille at
the rapid current of the river far below, the noble stream as typical of
freedom as were the bars that crossed his vision, of captivity. It seemed
that the authorities of the castle had abandoned all thought of further
communication with their truculent prisoner. Finally he entered the
inner room and flung himself down, booted and spurred as he was,
upon the couch, and, his sword for a bedmate, slept. The day was far
spent when he awoke, and his first sensation was that of gnawing
hunger, for he was a healthy man. His next, that he had heard in his
sleep the cautious drawing of bolts, as if his enemies purposed to
project themselves surreptitiously in upon him, taking him at a
disadvantage. He sat upright, his sword ready for action, and listened
intently. The silence was profound, and as the Count sat breathless, the
stillness seemed to be emphasised rather than disturbed by a long-
drawn sigh which sent a thrill of superstitious fear through the stalwart
frame of the young man, for he well knew that the Rhine was infested
with spirits animated by evil intentions toward human beings, and
against such spirits his sword was but as a willow wand. He
remembered with renewed awe that this castle stood only a few leagues
above the Lurlei rocks where a nymph of unearthly beauty lured men to
their destruction, and the knight crossed himself as a protection against
all such. Gathering courage from this devout act, and abandoning his
useless weapon, he tiptoed to the door that led to the larger apartment,
and there found his worst anticipations realised. With her back against
the closed outer door stood a Siren of the Rhine, and, as if to show how
futile is the support of the Evil One in a crisis, her very lips were pallid
with fear and her blue eyes were wide with apprehension, as they met
those of the Count von Schonburg. Her hair, the colour of ripe yellow
wheat, rose from her smooth white forehead and descended in