were taken on account of the Archbishop, and not, as in this case, on
her own. She experienced the darkest forebodings from this incredible
silence. Imagine, then, her relief, when exactly two weeks from the day
he had left Schloss Sayn, she saw him coming down the valley. As when
she last beheld him, he traveled on foot, leading his horse, that had
gone lame.

Throwing etiquette to the wind, she flew down the stairway, and ran to
meet her thrice-welcome friend.

She realized with grief that he was haggard, and the smile he called up
to greet her was wan and pitiful.

"Oh, Father, Father!" she cried, "what has happened to you? I have been
nearly distraught with doubt and fear, hearing nothing of you since your
message from Limburg."

"I was made a prisoner," said the old man quietly, "and allowed to
communicate with no one outside my cell. 'Tis a long and sad story, and,
worse than all one that bodes ill for the Empire. I should have arrived
earlier in the day, but my poor, patient beast has fallen lame."

"Yes!" said the girl indignantly, "and you spare him instead of
yourself!"

The monk laid his left hand affectionately on her shoulder.

"You would have done the same, my dear," he said, and she looked up at
him with a sweet smile. They were kin, and if she censured any quality
in him, the comment carried something of self-reproach.