though secluded in one of his monastery
retreats, weighing the affairs of state, nearer and nearer drew the
soldiers of the bastard of Pfalz-Urfeld; roughly calculating, a force
numerically as strong as the emperor's own guard.

The young girl, her face now white and drawn, watched the approaching
band. Would Charles never give the signal? Imperturbable sat the
mounted troopers of the emperor, awaiting the word of command. At
length, when her breath began to come fast and sharp, Charles raised
his arm. In a solid, steady body, his men swept onward. The girl
strove to look away, but could not.

Both bands, gaining in momentum, met with a crash. That nice symmetry
of form and orderliness of movement was succeeded by a tangle of men
and horses; the bristling array of lances had vanished, and swords and
weapons for hand-to-hand warfare threw a play of light amid the jumble
of troops and steeds, flags and banners. With sword red from carnage,
Louis of Hochfels drew his men around him, hurling them against the
firm front of Charles' veterans. It was the crucial moment; the
turning point in a struggle that could not be prolonged, but would be
rather sharp, short and decisive. If his men failed at the onset, all
was lost; if they gained but a little ascendancy now, their mastery of
the field became fairly assured. Great would be the reward for
success; the fruits of victory--the emperor himself. And savagely the
free baron cut down a stalwart trooper; his blade pierced the throat of
another.

"Clear the way to Charles!" he cried, exultantly. "He is our guerdon."

So terrible that rush, the guard of Spain on the right and the troops
of Flanders on the left began to give way; only the men of Friedwald
stood, but with the breaking of the forces on each side it was
inevitable they, too, must soon be overwhelmed. Involuntarily, as the
quick eye of the emperor detected this sign of impending disaster, he
half-started from his chair. His hand sought his side; in his eyes
shone a steely light. The prelate quickly crossed himself and raised
his head as if in prayer.

"The penance, Sire," he murmured, but his voice trembled.

Mechanically Charles replaced his blade. "Yea; better a kingdom lost,"
he muttered, "than a broken vow."

Yet, after so many battles won in the field and Diet; after titanic
contests with kings in Christendom, and Solyman in the east, to fall,
by the mockery of fate, into the grasp of a thie