for the
diet. Here he was sternly called to answer for his acts of opposition to
the decree of the ruling body of Germany, and finding that the tide of
feeling was running strongly against him, proposed to return to his
fortress in conformity with the plighted faith of Bishop Hatto. Hatto,
with an aspect of supreme honesty, declared that he had already
fulfilled his promise. He had agreed that Adalbert should have a free
and safe return to his castle. This had been granted him. He had
returned there to breakfast without opposition of any sort. The word of
the bishop had been fully kept, and now, as a member of the diet, he
felt free to act as he deemed proper, all his obligations to the accused
having been fulfilled. Just how far this story accords with the actual
facts we are unable to say, but Adalbert, despite his indignant protest,
was sentenced to death and beheaded.

Hatto had reached his dignity in the church by secular instead of
ecclesiastic influence, and is credited with employing his power in this
and other instances with such lack of honor and probity that he became
an object of the deepest popular contempt and execration. His name was
derided in the popular ballads, and he came to be looked upon as the
scapegoat of the avarice and licentiousness of the church in that
irreligious mediaeval age. Among the legends concerning him is one
relating to Henry, the son of his ally, Otho of Saxony, who died in 912.
Henry had long quarrelled with the bishop, and the fabulous story goes
that, to get rid of his high-spirited enemy, the cunning churchman sent
him a gold chain, so skilfully contrived that it would strangle its
wearer.

[Illustration: THE MOUSE-TOWER ON THE RHINE.]

The most famous legend about Hatto, however, is that which tells the
manner of his death. The story has been enshrined in poetry by
Longfellow, but we must be content to give it in plain prose. It tells
us that a famine occurred in the land, and that a number of peasants
came to the avaricious bishop to beg for bread. By his order they were
shut up in a great barn, which then was set on fire, and its miserable
occupants burned to death.

And now the cup of Hatto's infamy was filled, and heaven sent him
retribution. From the ruins of the barn issued a myriad of mice, which
pursued the remorseless bishop, ceaselessly following him in his every
effort to escape their avenging teeth. At length the wretched sinner,
driven to despair, fled for