his brain, and in a few moments he lay in the cold sleep of death. At the fall of their lord, his men-at-arms fell into confusion; some of the faint-hearted ones showed the white feather, while the braver warriors rushed down again from the tower. The enemy now observed that disorder and confusion reigned within the tower, the besiegers assailed it more violently, climbed the walls, won the gate, let down the drawbridge, and put all they met with to the sword. Even the cause of all the mischief, the extravagant wife, was slain with all her children by the furious warriors, who were as furious against the plundering nobility as afterwards were the rebels in the Suabian peasants’ war. The castle was entirely pillaged, set on fire, and, at last, levelled with the ground. During the tumult of the battle, Matilda kept quite quiet in the Patmos of her little attic, locked the door, and bolted it fast inside. But as she observed that all without was confusion, and that castle and bars could give her no further security, she threw her veil over her, turned her musk-apple three times in her hand, caught it skilfully while she repeated the little sentence which the Nymph taught her: “Night behind me, day before me, so that nobody may see me.” And thus she walked unseen through the enemy’s host, and out of the paternal citadel, although with a deeply sorrowful heart, and without knowing which way to take. As long as her tender feet did not refuse her their wonted service, she hastened on from the theatre of cruelty and devastation, until, overcome by night and weariness, she resolved to lodge under a wild pear-tree in the open field. She sat down on the cool turf and gave free vent to her tears. Once more she looked round the country, and wished to bless the spot, where she had passed the years of childhood; as she raised her eyes, she saw a blood-red sign of fire rise to heaven, by which she judged that the mansion of her ancestors would soon be a prey to the flames. She turned her eyes away from this miserable spectacle, and earnestly desired that the twinkling stars might grow pale, and the morning dawn appear in the east. Before it grew light, and while the morning dew lay in drops on the grass, the uncertain pilgrim set off, and soon reached a village, where she was received by a good-natured peasant woman, and refreshed with a morsel of bread and a cup of milk. With this woman she exchanged her own dress for a peasant’s clothing, and joined a caravan of merchants, who escorted her to Augsburg. In this woful and deserted condition, no other choice remained for her than to hire herself as a servant; but, because it was out of the season, for a long time she could not find a situation.
Count Conrad of Schwabeck, a German knight of the cross, and also governor and protector of the bishopric of Augsburg, possessed there a sort of court, where he was accustomed to spend the winter. In his absence a housekeeper dwelt there, called Dame Gertrude, who conducted the domestic affairs. This woman was
