Chapter LXVI: The Castle of Lutzelstein

With a mind full of chequered thoughts, I set out that evening for the scene of my new duties, duly furnished with all the papers given to me by the Marquis, and escorted by a party of Brissac's dragoons. I left Schlettstadt behind, and took the way towards the wooded Vosges.

I thought of Marie Louise, and of all that fate and fortune had so studiously, sternly, and unremittingly raised between us as barriers, after all the kindness, love, and adventure we had shared together; and I vainly strove to dismiss her from my mind with a prayer that she might be happy.

Then I thought of my home and the letters just received from Scotland--letters by which I was free to return whenever I wearied of war, and the service of king Louis. Then came a glow of honest pride for the trust reposed in me, by this appointment to command a fortress, however small, and I resolved to fulfil that trust to the utmost.

Alas, for the vanity of human resolves! How I obeyed king Louis, and how I fulfilled the trust of Lavalette, the sequel will show.

Lastly, I began to feel lonely in the new separation from the frank military spirits of the Guard, with whom, as brother Scotsmen (that endearing term) I had spent so many happy days, and with whom I had so many kindly associations and sympathies in common. I recalled those gallant men, whose manly forms were now mouldering in a soldier's grave--Sir Quentin Home of Ravendean, Raynold Cheyne of Dundargle, Sir Archibald of Heriotmuir, and Bruce of Blairhall, and pondered sadly on who might next be missing from the ranks, when again I saw the Garde du Corps: and so, full of thought, I rode on, increasing by every step the distance between my countrymen and me. With no sound near but the monotonous tramp of my French escort, we advanced towards the mountains of the Vosges, the darkness deepening, and the night casting its shadows over us.

The distance we had to ride, was, if I remember, only about twelve leagues; but we were all ignorant of the country, and by unnecessary detours, added to our journey.

We soon passed through Andiau, a little town upon the margin of a stream which is so named, and which rolls from the Vosges laden with the spoil of the forest. The ancient castle of the Barons of Andiau, who held the town as a fief from the abbess of a convent there, was, like the convent itself, garrisoned by a portion of our troops; though this pious establishment was founded only for dames who could show their sixteen quarters of nobility, their abbess having the title of princess of the empire, with a seat among the Rhenish prelates, old Sir Andrew Gray of Broxmouth, colonel of Swedish infantry, had now quartered himself and his staff among them, and, seated in the chair of the reverend mother, drank her wine, collected her rents, and made himself quite at home.

A ten miles' ride took us through Bar, in a district clothed with vineyards, and literally flowing with milk and honey; and next we came to Maltzheim, a town of the Bishops of Strasbourg, at the foot of the Vosges, ruined in after years by the Imperialists. Spurring on silently and rapidly, by the pale, chill light of the waning moon, I saw the tall grim tower of Phalsbourg, with all its memories so exciting to me, rising on its rock; but like other strong places, it was now garrisoned by the soldiers of Louis XIII. I could see the turret wherein I had that deadly struggle with De Bitche; I could see the arched gate, from which, with a desperate heart, I issued with the Austrian sortie; the place where I had concealed myself and where the arquebussiers fired over me; the dreadful spot where Schreckhorn bound me to the petard, and the cliff over which, in despair, I had flung myself into the river. At all these places I gave a dark and furious glance, and turning my back on them, urged my escort on, and dashed into a steep and dark defile, which led direct to the castle of the Counts Palatine of Lutzelstein.

We soon reached the tower by a zig-zag ascent, up which our horses wound with no little difficulty. The noise of our approach was concealed by the roar of the cascade which thundered over a wall of rock into the ravine below; but on our appearance at the little stone bridge which spanned that tide of foam, we were immediately challenged by the sentinel; a drum was beaten within, and the garrison, which was still composed of a detachment of Ramsay's Scots, commanded by Lieutenant Ruthven, stood to their arms; and after due inquiries and explanations, the gates were opened, and about sunrise, I found myself duly installed Governor of Lutzelstein; and seated at table in the hall, discussing with Ruthven a breakfast of hot coffee, with pickled carp from the Rhine, with ham, eggs, and schnaps.

The Lieutenant, Francis Ruthven of the house of Redcastle, was an active and brave young officer, nephew of the Marshal Earl of Forth, and in after years colonel in the Dutch service, and Governor of Monell. He proved a very pleasant companion, and seemed glad of my arrival to relieve the monotony of his command in that lonely castle, among those wood-covered mountains that form the great barrier between France and the Empire, and which are usually capped with snow during half the year.

There a month stole tediously away, and save an occasional alarm, which gave me some anxiety, and beat us up in our shirts in the night, I had nothing to disturb the somewhat moody current of my thoughts, and I fear that my companion the lieutenant must have deemed me a very dull fellow, to be one of Gordon's cuirassiers.

'You have an estate,' said he to me, one day, 'while I have nought in this world but my sword; yet I am a jollier fellow than thee--how is this?'

'I know not,' said I, briefly.

'I am somewhat of a philosopher,' said he, smoothing his fine black moustache, 'and at college learned to deem a rich man in some respects a greater slave than a poor one.'

'How?'

'Was not Seneca right, when he termed a great wealth a great servitude?'

'Perhaps; yet believe me,' said I, with a smile, 'it is not the load of wealth that oppresses me.'

Lutzelstein was the scene of one of De Bitche's greatest atrocities--the abduction of its widowed countess. It was a true old German castle, the abode of gloom and superstition; moreover, it was, I know not how, associated with the memory of fair Agnes Sorel, the Lady of Beauty, the hapless mistress of Charles of France; and on the wall of the room I occupied hung a tapestry said to be worked by her, and which represented one of those most authentic scenes which enrich the ancient history of France, to wit--King Pepin la Bref laying at the feet of his queen, Bertha the giantess, the head of a lion, which he had cut off by one blow of his sword, and with the ears of which a chubby brat, supposed to represent the future Charlemagne, was playing.