Some of the company in the knights' hall were entertaining themselves with singing and lutes, but Junker Christopher had sat down to a grave game at chess with the Duke of Langeland. Sir Niels Brock, Sir Johan PapÆ and their silent friend with the helmet, tried their fortune at dice and backgammon. Count Gerhard listened with the king, the Marsk, and the young knights, to the adventures and songs of the German minstrels. These foreign masters of song sought especially to entertain the king and his guests with lays composed in honour of all crowned heads, whom they lauded as their munificent patrons and protectors. At last they addressed themselves immediately to the king in a strain of somewhat exaggerated panegyric, particularly on his learning, and in the same metre and high-flown phrase in which the Minnesingers formerly sang the praises of their loves. Count Gerhard smiled, and the king at last became impatient. "No! this goes too far!" he exclaimed; "would you make me believe, Master Rumelant, that you are enamoured of me as though I were a fair maiden? No more of this! Sing to us, rather of the brave NibÉlungen, and the hero SiÉgfred."

"As you command! most mighty prince! My generous and noble patron!" answered Master Rumelant, with a bow; but he had been thrown into such confusion by the king's displeasure at his flatteries, that he could recollect nothing perfectly, but jumbled different songs together. "Stop! let me!" interrupted Master PoppÉ, with his warrior-like voice, and he now began the bold and spirited German epic poem of the brave NibÉlungen, in tones which rang through the hall. The lay gained great applause, but it was a long epic, which became wearisome by the monotony of the melody or recitative. When PoppÉ paused only for a moment to take breath, or recollect, Master Rumelant instantly took up the lay, and as soon as he made any mistake, or faultered, Master PoppÉ recommenced with renovated powers; and thus it seemed as though the poem would never be ended.

The king was, however, an attentive listener, and laughed once or twice right heartily at the naÏve and vivid descriptions; but at last he grew tired, and cleared his throat several times. "Excellent! excellent! good sirs; thanks!" he said, interrupting the unwearied singers. "That is enough for one time. There is marrow and bone in your heroic lays, as well as in your warriors; they are almost as hard to despatch. Now we should like to hear a Danish song. We have, indeed, no such single heroic poem, unless it be our chronicles. In reality, they compose an epic which I trust will never be ended. Our war songs are but fragments of them, but they are therefore better suited for songs. They never flag, but go on briskly, and that I ought to like right well, since I am myself of a somewhat impetuous temper. We have, besides, no real master of the art as yet," he continued: "but our songs are national, and are sung both by knight and peasant. Where is the Drost?"

The Drost had been some time ago summoned from the hall, and no one knew where he was.

"Now Marsk Oluffsen! do you sing of our warriors and heroes!" said the king. "But have a care you split not the good arches here in our hall! I know your voice well."

"I would rather fight than sing songs for you, my liege!" answered the Marsk; "they say I sing like a growling bear, but if you desire it I will willingly growl you out a song." He then cleared his throat, and began in a bass voice as deep and hollow as from an abyss.

"Silence!" exclaimed the king, stamping vehemently on the floor.

The Marsk was silent, and stared at him in astonishment.

"What are ye thinking of, Sir Marsk! would you remind the king of his father's death?" whispered Count Henrik in his ear.

"By all the martyrs! who ever thought of that?" said the Marsk, and hastily withdrew. Soon after, the master of the household stepped forward, and summoned the king and his guests to the supper-table, as he threw open the door of the dining-hall.

As was customary when the king was present, all the etiquettes of the table were observed according to chivalrous usage. Each knight had his appointed seat, with a small separate trencher and napkin. When the king went to take his place, he was wont to walk round the table of his knights, and at times to cast an observant glance over these small napkins, which were to lie whole and smoothly spread before the seats of the knights, with bread and trenchers, or plates, in a prescribed position. If a rent or a slit was found in the napkin, or if the bread lay reversed, it implied a charge touching the honour of the knight to whom the bread and napkin belonged, and the person thus accused was instantly obliged to leave the table, and remain shut out from the community of knights, until he should have justified himself. The day preceding a tournament there were generally a herald and two pursuivants, or under-heralds, present, at the king's table and that of his knights, to watch over the observance of these customs. This was the case on this evening.

When the king came to the middle of the knights' table, he stopped, on remarking three trenchers upon which the bread lay reversed; he started, and nodded to the herald.

"Who are to sit here?" asked the king with a stern look.

"The high-born knights, Sir Niels Brock and Sir Johan PapÆ, my liege," answered the herald, with lowered staff and a precise deportment. "Also a certain Ako KrummedigÉ, whom no one knows. It is he to whom it hath been permitted to wear his helmet here in the hall, and keep silence towards every one, according to his knights' vow at the holy sepulchre."

"Who is their accuser?"

"An unknown knight, my liege! but he hath placed his covered shield as a pledge in the armoury; he will appear and give his name when it is demanded."

"Well! be watchful, herald! fulfil thy duty!" so saying, the king went to take his seat.

Shortly afterwards Sir Niels and Sir PapÆ, with their mysterious friend, appeared, and were about to take their accustomed places. On seeing the reversed bread, however, they started; the knight of the helmet changed colour and drew back a step; but Brock and PapÆ hastily replaced the bread in prescribed form, and took their seats with a look of haughty defiance; at the same moment the herald advanced with a drawn sword in his hand, directly opposite to them on the other side of the table; he slit, with the point of his sword, the three small napkins before them. "Sir Niels Brock, Sir Johan PapÆ, and you who call yourself Sir Ako KrummedigÉ!" he said, solemnly, "In the name of Danish chivalry, I cut asunder, as I have done your table napkins, every tie of fellowship between you and knighthood. You are accused of treachery and treason; of a Judas deed and projected regicide; therefore you are ejected from the king's, and every honourable knight's society, until you have met your accuser and justified yourselves, if you are able to do so; in consideration of the gravity of the accusation, I demand of ye, besides, your weapons, and announce to you that you are put under knightly arrest."

The herald then beckoned, and the two pursuivants advanced to receive the swords of the prisoners, and lead them to their confinement. All the guests rose in astonishment, and the king's knights and halberdiers drew their swords.

"Confounded mummery!" muttered the tall knight, Brock, as he rose. "There, herald!" he called in a loud voice, and threw his glove on the table--"Take that to my accuser! wherever he meets me, my good sword shall prove him to be a liar and a fool--where is he? Dare he not name himself and look me in the face?"

"Here he stands!" said a voice from the door of the dining hall, and Drost AagÉ stood there erect and calm on the threshold, with his hand on his sword, gazing with a searching look on the three accused knights.

"I laugh at the accusation of a dreamer and a visionary," cried Brock in a proud and scornful tone. "We meet. Sir Drost! I do but deposit my sword in the hands of these men that I may receive it to-morrow, acquitted by the king and knighthood, after washing out the blot here cast on mine and my friends' honour with the blood of the calumniator." He then delivered up his sword to the pursuivants.

PapÆ had risen likewise; he also threw his glove with a contemptuous smile on the table--"There lies my pledge." he said, "and here is my answer to my accuser, whoever he may be, even though he should be given over to the devil, and the destruction of the flesh." So saying, he flung his large battle sword on the flagged floor at the herald's feet. They then both went with haughty and hasty strides out of the door, casting one or two flashing glances at the Drost, and with the pretended Ako KrummedigÉ between them. This silent and disguised knight had become as blanched in the face as his slit trencher-napkin. He had given up his sword to the pursuivants; no sound issued from his blue compressed lips--but his glance rolled with fearful wildness beneath his bushy and blackened eyebrows; his legs tottered under him, and he was forced to take hold of the strong Sir Niels to keep himself from sinking on the floor. The Drost himself followed these dangerous prisoners to see that the formalities of their imprisonment were legally and properly conducted.

This singular occurrence had excited great astonishment. The general silence was soon succeeded by a low whispering. The two daring knights were well known; every one was aware that they were suspected of having abetted the archbishop's flight. It was also known that they belonged to the discontented in the land;--of friends they had not a few; and they passed for brave, independent lovers of their country, who cared not to flatter royalty, but had strength and courage to maintain the liberties of the people, and their own rights in council against the mightiest. That they should have joined in treasonable conspiracies did not seem probable; and it was supposed the Drost had been too precipitate in making this singular charge. As the king's favourite, he was not free from the attacks of envy. "It is sad to think of the young Drost," whispered one of the junker's knights, "he is such a dreamer he scents treason everywhere, and makes the king to be hated, by his ill-timed zeal." Respecting the unknown knight with the helmet, and his guilt, there were many conjectures; he appeared in a suspicious light to most of the company--but that one of the outlaws should have dared to enter into the king's presence and sit at his table, seemed an act of such presumptuous daring, that none believed it to be possible. Meanwhile, all took their seats. Although the wine-flasks soon went round, the company appeared, however, unable to forget the unpleasant transaction which had clouded the king's countenance, as well as his step-father's; and, as it seemed, had also thrown Junker Christopher into an anxious and uneasy mood. It was not until all were seated, that Drost AagÉ again entered the supper hall. He also was silent and depressed. He took his seat directly opposite the king and Junker Christopher. The three nearest knights rose to make room for him, according to the ancient usages of the table, and he sat down without saying a word respecting the accused and their crime. He seemed lost in reverie, and appeared not to notice the unusual flagging of the conversation around him; but his attention was in reality rivetted with affectionate sympathy on the deep emotion he thought he discovered in the king's countenance. The gloomy sternness before depicted in it seemed now to be lost in thoughtful sadness. Eric sat with his wine cup in his hand, and regarded with a kindly look his friend and step-father Count Gerhard; at last he nodded involuntarily, and turned towards his reconciled foe, Duke Eric of Langeland. "A health in honour of the negotiator of peace and of my reconciled kinsman!" he said, suddenly rising from his seat. All the knights stood up--and the king continued--"Even this feast in honour of peace hath been made gloomy to me by traitors; they shall have their deserts; to-morrow is the day for passing sentence; to-day we will not think on it. At this moment, I trust in the Lord and our blessed Lady that no secret traitor drains a cup in our hall. Long live Count Gerhard and Duke Eric!"

"Long life to them, and long live our noble king!" was echoed from mouth to mouth, with great and nearly universal enthusiasm, while the goblets rang, and the horn-players, on a signal from the herald, made their instruments resound through the hall.

Junker Christopher had also joined in the general shout of acclamation, and the king appeared especially to rejoice at hearing his brother's voice so animated on this occasion. His eye sought the junker's while he rung his glass against his; but Christopher's glance was cold, restless, and irresolute, while his cheek glowed, and he twisted the corner of his napkin with his left hand. A smothered sigh escaped the king's breast as he again resumed his seat. AagÉ now observed, with great astonishment, that there was a large rent in Junker Christopher's napkin, which he was vainly striving to conceal with his hand. The king seemed to have made the same discovery at the same instant. He had suddenly changed colour, and his countenance expressed a fearful degree of wrath and grief; he made a movement as if he were about to start up, but instantly recovered himself by a strong internal effort; he set down his cup directly before him on the table, and, by pushing his own napkin from him, contrived to hide with it the rent in his brother's.

A look of affectionate admiration from Drost AagÉ was repressed by a stern glance of the king's serious eye while he laid his finger on his lips. "Music!" he called, and gave a signal to the herald. The hall soon resounded with lively hunting horns. The gravity of the guests presently disappeared, and each talked gaily with his neighbour; the king himself appeared gay and in spirits, although AagÉ, indeed, remarked that it cost him a desperate effort. When the castle chaplain, at the conclusion of the feast, was about to pronounce the blessing, all the knights had become so joyous and loud-tongued, that the herald was twice compelled to remind them of the etiquette of the table. When the repast was ended the king retired in haste to his private chamber, and beckoned gravely to AagÉ to follow him. When Christopher rose, he threw his napkin, as if by accident, under the table; he then went out on the hall balcony, and whistled; soon afterwards the prince's large hunting-hound came bounding through the hall, with a crumpled napkin in his mouth.

The king had entered the private chamber with AagÉ; he had thrown himself into a chair, and held his hand before his eyes. He remained a long time in this posture. AagÉ stood in silence opposite to him, regarding him with a look of sorrowful sympathy. The king at last took his hand from his eyes, and he appeared to have wept. "Who hath dared to destroy love and confidence between brothers?" he exclaimed; "if it was you, Drost AagÉ, it is the last time I call you my Drost."

"I it was not, my noble liege!" answered AagÉ; "who it was I know not. May the Lord pardon that man among your true servants who so unwisely and rashly hath grieved you! It must have been done secretly, and without the herald's knowledge."

"I despise a secret accusation," continued the king; "it is unlawful; it is in a high degree deserving of chastisement; it shall--yet no--no examination can take place in this case. If he is a traitor," he continued, and deep grief was again visible in his countenance, "were he capable! Be it as God wills--I injure not a hair of his head. Should I disgrace my father in his children? Should I doom my mother's son outlawed and dishonoured? Should I myself, Great God!----" He paused, and his hair seemed to stand on end with horror. "Look at me, AagÉ," he resumed; "could such a thought be harboured here?" He laid his hand on his high and glowing forehead. "It burns within," he continued; "but no unseen Cain's mark burns there. My hand was sternly raised against him--love me he cannot--fear me he must. Well! let him tremble before his liege and sovereign until he learns to love his brother. Now, not a word more of this! It is perhaps only spite and slander. Who dares charge my left hand of treachery against the right? I know nothing as yet--I will know nothing--I have known enough of evil----" He began again after a thoughtful pause, and with a gloomy downcast look--"have I not had traitors around me since I was a child? Have I not seen my father murdered, and his shameless murderers in my presence? Have not their bloody hands been secretly and openly raised against my life from the hour in which I doomed them outlawed? yet have they not had the power to touch me," he continued with cheerfulness, and raised his head. "No assassin's dagger hath yet reached me, even though excommunicated and given over to the Evil One. I know it, AagÉ; I have seen it--the hand of the righteous Lord was betwixt me and my deadly foes. No traitor and murderer--not even a soul murderer--no sinful archbishop or pope--not the arch-fiend himself--shall shake the crown upon this head." As he said these words he raised his hand and looked upwards with a glance of almost prophetic inspiration, and there was a nobleness and majesty in his countenance which seemed capable of humbling the most presumptuous foe.

"My liege!" exclaimed AagÉ, with heartfelt joy, "the spirit which speaks through you at this hour is not alone the spirit of royalty and justice, but surely that of love also."

"Go to my brother, my faithful AagÉ," interrupted the king hastily; "take him this----" He took a gold chain from his neck, to which hung an image of the Madonna. "Pray him to accept this jewel from his brother, as a memorial of this celebration of peace. Tell him our unhappy father wore this image to the day of his death." The king turned hastily away, and seemed desirous to hide the sorrowful emotion which had caused his voice to falter. AagÉ stood with the chain in his hand, and was about to give vent to the warmth of his feelings; but the king turned suddenly, and said, in a stern voice, "Tomorrow a council of knights will be held. The accused shall be arraigned, and defend themselves if they can. All are equal here with respect to the law--be they friends or foes. Woe to the accuser who hath not ample proof, were he even my dearest friend! Go! and the Lord be with thee."

AagÉ bowed in silence, with wounded feelings, and would have departed, but the king, on perceiving his emotion, stretched out his arms towards him, and pressed him to his heart, without saying a word more.

AagÉ hastily departed with the chain. When the king was alone in his chamber, he put his hand into his vest, and drew forth a rosary, garnished with pearls and rubies. "Thy Christmas gift when we were children, my Ingeborg!" he said, with deep emotion. "What thou knewest I would ask for besides, thy angel joined me in prayer for at the throne of Grace.--Christopher! Christopher! may God forgive thee the thought thine eye betrayed!" He then imprinted a kiss on the rosary, replaced it in his vest, and sat down quietly before his table to attend to state affairs.