Christina’s mental and bodily constitution had much similarity—apparently most delicate, tender, and timid, yet capable of a vigour, health, and endurance that withstood shocks that might have been fatal to many apparently stronger persons. The events of that frightful Easter Monday morning did indeed almost kill her; but the effects, though severe, were not lasting; and by the time the last of Ermentrude’s snow-wreath had vanished, she was sunning her babes at the window, happier than she had ever thought to be—above all, in the possession of both the children. A nurse had been captured for the little Baron from the village on the hillside; but the woman had fretted, the child had pined, and had been given back to his mother to save his life; and ever since both had thriven perfectly under her sole care, so that there was very nearly joy in that room.

Outside it, there was more bitterness than ever. The grandmother had softened for a few moments at the birth of the children, with satisfaction at obtaining twice as much as she had hoped; but the frustration of her vengeance upon Kasimir of Adlerstein Wildschloss had renewed all her hatred, and she had no scruple in abusing “the burgher-woman” to the whole household for her artful desire to captivate another nobleman. She, no doubt, expected that degenerate fool of a Wildschlosser to come wooing after her; “if he did he should meet his deserts.” It was the favourite reproach whenever she chose to vent her fury on the mute, blushing, weeping young widow, whose glance at her babies was her only appeal against the cruel accusation.

On Midsummer eve, Heinz the Schneiderlein, who had all day been taking toll from the various attendants at the Friedmund Wake, came up and knocked at the door. He had a bundle over his shoulder and a bag in his hand, which last he offered to her.

“The toll! It is for the Lady Baroness.”

“You are my Lady Baroness. I levy toll for this my young lord.”

“Take it to her, good Heinz, she must have the charge, and needless strife I will not breed.”

The angry notes of Dame Kunigunde came up: “How now, knave Schneiderlein! Come down with the toll instantly. It shall not be tampered with! Down, I say, thou thief of a tailor.”

“Go; prithee go, vex her not,” entreated Christina.

“Coming, lady!” shouted Heinz, and, disregarding all further objurgations from beneath, he proceeded to deposit his bundle, and explain that it had been entrusted to him by a pedlar from Ulm, who would likewise take charge of anything she might have to send in return, and he then ran down just in time to prevent a domiciliary visit from the old lady.

From Ulm! The very sound was joy; and Christina with trembling hands unfastened the cords and stitches that secured the canvas covering, within which lay folds on folds of linen, and in the midst a rich silver goblet, long ago brought by her father from Italy, a few of her own possessions, and a letter from her uncle secured with black floss silk, with a black seal.

She kissed it with transport, but the contents were somewhat chilling by their grave formality. The opening address to the “honour-worthy Lady Baroness and love-worthy niece,” conveyed to her a doubt on good Master Gottfried’s part whether she were still truly worthy of love or honour. The slaughter at Jacob MÜller’s had been already known to him, and he expressed himself as relieved, but greatly amazed, at the information he had received from the Baron of Adlerstein Wildschloss, who had visited him at Ulm, after having verified what had been alleged at Schloss Adlerstein by application to the friar at Offingen.

Freiherr von Adlerstein Wildschloss had further requested him to make known that, feud-briefs having regularly passed between Schlangenwald and Adlerstein, and the two Barons not having been within the peace of the empire, no justice could be exacted for their deaths; yet, in consideration of the tender age of the present heirs, the question of forfeiture or submission should be waived till they could act for themselves, and Schlangenwald should be withheld from injuring them so long as no molestation was offered to travellers. It was plain that Sir Kasimir had well and generously done his best to protect the helpless twins, and he sent respectful but cordial greetings to their mother. These however were far less heeded by her than the coldness of her uncle’s letter. She had drifted beyond the reckoning of her kindred, and they were sending her her property and bridal linen, as if they had done with her, and had lost their child in the robber-baron’s wife. Yet at the end there was a touch of old times in offering a blessing, should she still value it, and the hopes that heaven and the saints would comfort her; “for surely, thou poor child, thou must have suffered much, and, if thou wiliest still to write to thy city kin, thine aunt would rejoice to hear that thou and thy babes were in good health.”

Precise grammarian and scribe as was Uncle Gottfried, the lapse from the formal Sie to the familiar Du went to his niece’s heart. Whenever her little ones left her any leisure, she spent this her first wedding-day in writing so earnest and loving a letter as, in spite of mediÆval formality, must assure the good burgomaster that, except in having suffered much and loved much, his little Christina was not changed since she had left him.

No answer could be looked for till another wake-day; but, when it came, it was full and loving, and therewith were sent a few more of her favourite books, a girdle, and a richly-scented pair of gloves, together with two ivory boxes of comfits, and two little purple silk, gold-edged, straight, narrow garments and tight round brimless lace caps, for the two little Barons. Nor did henceforth a wake-day pass by without bringing some such token, not only delightful as gratifying Christina’s affection by the kindness that suggested them, but supplying absolute wants in the dire stress of poverty at Schloss Adlerstein.

Christina durst not tell her mother-in-law of the terms on which they were unmolested, trusting to the scantiness of the retinue, and to her own influence with the Schneiderlein to hinder any serious violence. Indeed, while the Count of Schlangenwald was in the neighbourhood, his followers took care to secure all that could be captured at the Debateable Ford, and the broken forces of Adlerstein would have been insane had they attempted to contend with such superior numbers. That the castle remained unattacked was attributed by the elder Baroness to its own merits; nor did Christina undeceive her. They had no intercourse with the outer world, except that once a pursuivant arrived with a formal intimation from their kinsman, the Baron of Adlerstein Wildschloss, of his marriage with the noble FrÄulein, Countess Valeska von Trautbach, and a present of a gay dagger for each of his godsons. Frau Kunigunde triumphed a good deal over the notion of Christina’s supposed disappointment; but the tidings were most welcome to the younger lady, who trusted they would put an end to all future taunts about Wildschloss. Alas! the handle for abuse was too valuable to be relinquished.

The last silver cup the castle had possessed had to be given as a reward to the pursuivant, and mayhap Frau Kunigunde reckoned this as another offence of her daughter-in-law, since, had Sir Kasimir been safe in the oubliette, the twins might have shared his broad lands on the Danube, instead of contributing to the fees of his pursuivant. The cup could indeed be ill spared. The cattle and swine, the dues of the serfs, and the yearly toll at the wake were the sole resources of the household; and though there was no lack of meat, milk, and black bread, sufficient garments could scarce be come by, with all the spinning of the household, woven by the village webster, of whose time the baronial household, by prescriptive right, owned the lion’s share.

These matters little troubled the two beings in whom Christina’s heart was wrapped up. Though running about barefooted and bareheaded, they were healthy, handsome, straight-limbed, noble-looking creatures, so exactly alike, and so inseparable, that no one except herself could tell one from the other save by the medal of Our Lady worn by the elder, and the little cross carved by the mother for the younger; indeed, at one time, the urchins themselves would feel for cross or medal, ere naming themselves “Ebbo,” or “Friedel.” They were tall for their age, but with the slender make of their foreign ancestry; and, though their fair rosy complexions were brightened by mountain mists and winds, their rapidly darkening hair, and large liquid brown eyes, told of their Italian blood. Their grandmother looked on their colouring as a taint, and Christina herself had hoped to see their father’s simple, kindly blue eyes revive in his boys; but she could hardly have desired anything different from the dancing, kindling, or earnest glances that used to flash from under their long black lashes when they were nestling in her lap, or playing by her knee, making music with their prattle, or listening to her answers with faces alive with intelligence. They scarcely left her time for sorrow or regret.

They were never quarrelsome. Either from the influence of her gentleness, or from their absolute union, they could do and enjoy nothing apart, and would as soon have thought of their right and left hands falling out as of Ebbo and Friedel disputing. Ebbo however was always the right hand. The Freiherr, as he had been called from the first, had, from the time he could sit at the table at all, been put into the baronial chair with the eagle carved at the back; every member of the household, from his grandmother downwards, placed him foremost, and Friedel followed their example, at the less loss to himself, as his hand was always in Ebbo’s, and all their doings were in common. Sometimes however the mother doubted whether there would have been this perfect absence of all contest had the medal of the firstborn chanced to hang round Friedmund’s neck instead of Eberhard’s. At first they were entirely left to her. Their grandmother heeded them little as long as they were healthy, and evidently regarded them more as heirs of Adlerstein than as grandchildren; but, as they grew older, she showed anxiety lest their mother should interfere with the fierce, lawless spirit proper to their line.

One winter day, when they were nearly six years old, Christina, spinning at her window, had been watching them snowballing in the castle court, smiling and applauding every large handful held up to her, every laughing combat, every well-aimed hit, as the hardy little fellows scattered the snow in showers round them, raising their merry fur-capped faces to the bright eyes that “rained influence and judged the prize.”

By and by they stood still; Ebbo—she knew him by the tossed head and commanding air—was proposing what Friedel seemed to disapprove; but, after a short discussion, Ebbo flung away from him, and went towards a shed where was kept a wolf-cub, recently presented to the young Barons by old Ulrich’s son. The whelp was so young as to be quite harmless, but it was far from amiable; Friedel never willingly approached it, and the snarling and whining replies to all advances had begun to weary and irritate Ebbo. He dragged it out by its chain, and, tethering it to a post, made it a mark for his snowballs, which, kneaded hard, and delivered with hearty good-will by his sturdy arms, made the poor little beast yelp with pain and terror, till the more tender-hearted Friedel threw himself on his brother to withhold him, while MÄtz stood by laughing and applauding the Baron. Seeing Ebbo shake Friedel off with unusual petulance, and pitying the tormented animal, Christina flung a cloak round her head and hastened down stairs, entering the court just as the terrified whelp had made a snap at the boy, which was returned by angry, vindictive pelting, not merely with snow, but with stones. Friedel sprang to her crying, and her call to Ebbo made him turn, though with fury in his face, shouting, “He would bite me! the evil beast!”

“Come with me, Ebbo,” she said.

“He shall suffer for it, the spiteful, ungrateful brute! Let me alone, mother!” cried Ebbo, stamping on the snow, but still from habit yielding to her hand on his shoulder.

“What now?” demanded the old Baroness, appearing on the scene. “Who is thwarting the Baron?”

“She; she will not let me deal with yonder savage whelp,” cried the boy.

“She! Take thy way, child,” said the old lady. “Visit him well for his malice. None shall withstand thee here. At thy peril!” she added, turning on Christina. “What, art not content to have brought base mechanical blood into a noble house? Wouldst make slaves and cowards of its sons?”

“I would teach them true courage, not cruelty,” she tried to say.

“What should such as thou know of courage? Look here, girl: another word to daunt the spirit of my grandsons, and I’ll have thee scourged down the mountain-side! On! At him, Ebbo! That’s my gallant young knight! Out of the way, girl, with thy whining looks! What, Friedel, be a man, and aid thy brother! Has she made thee a puling woman already?” And Kunigunde laid an ungentle grasp upon Friedmund, who was clinging to his mother, hiding his face in her gown. He struggled against the clutch, and would not look up or be detached.

“Fie, poor little coward!” taunted the old lady; “never heed him, Ebbo, my brave Baron!”

Cut to the heart, Christina took refuge in her room, and gathered her Friedel to her bosom, as he sobbed out, “Oh, mother, the poor little wolf! Oh, mother, are you weeping too? The grandmother should not so speak to the sweetest, dearest motherling,” he added, throwing his arms round her neck.

“Alas, Friedel, that Ebbo should learn that it is brave to hurt the weak!”

“It is not like Walther of VÖgelwiede,” said Friedel, whose mind had been much impressed by the Minnesinger’s bequest to the birds.

“Nor like any true Christian knight. Alas, my poor boys, must you be taught foul cruelty and I too weak and cowardly to save you?”

“That never will be,” said Friedel, lifting his head from her shoulder. “Hark! what a howl was that!”

“Listen not, dear child; it does but pain thee.”

“But Ebbo is not shouting. Oh, mother, he is vexed—he is hurt!” cried Friedel, springing from her lap; but, ere either could reach the window, Ebbo had vanished from the scene. They only saw the young wolf stretched dead on the snow, and the same moment in burst Ebbo, and flung himself on the floor in a passion of weeping. Stimulated by the applause of his grandmother and of MÄtz, he had furiously pelted the poor animal with all missiles that came to hand, till a blow, either from him or MÄtz, had produced such a howl and struggle of agony, and then such terrible stillness, as had gone to the young Baron’s very heart, a heart as soft as that of his father had been by nature. Indeed, his sobs were so piteous that his mother was relieved to hear only, “The wolf! the poor wolf!” and to find that he himself was unhurt; and she was scarcely satisfied of this when Dame Kunigunde came up also alarmed, and thus turned his grief to wrath. “As if I would cry in that way for a bite!” he said. “Go, grandame; you made me do it, the poor beast!” with a fresh sob.

“Ulrich shall get thee another cub, my child.”

“No, no; I never will have another cub! Why did you let me kill it?”

“For shame, Ebbo! Weep for a spiteful brute! That’s no better than thy mother or Friedel.”

“I love my mother! I love Friedel! They would have withheld me. Go, go; I hate you!”

“Peace, peace, Ebbo,” exclaimed his mother; “you know not what you say. Ask your grandmother’s pardon.”

“Peace, thou fool!” screamed the old lady. “The Baron speaks as he will in his own castle. He is not to be checked here, and thwarted there, and taught to mince his words like a cap-in-hand pedlar. Pardon! When did an Adlerstein seek pardon? Come with me, my Baron; I have still some honey-cakes.”

“Not I,” replied Ebbo; “honey-cakes will not cure the wolf whelp. Go: I want my mother and Friedel.”

Alone with them his pride and passion were gone; but alas! what augury for the future of her boys was left with the mother!