"
"My Lord, red ruin and the Red Margrave were made for each other. It was
the justice of God that they should meet." The young man raised aloft
his swordarm, shaking his clenched fist at the sky. "That hand held the
torch that fired Furstenberg. The Castle was taken and burned by three
sword makers from Frankfort, who never saw the Hunsruck or the outlaws
thereof."
The Archbishop reined in his horse, and looked at the excited young man
with amazement.
"_You_ fired Furstenberg?"
"Yes; and effectively, my Lord. I shall rebuild it for you, but the Red
Margrave I shall hang, as my predecessor Rudolph did his ancestor."
An expression of sternness hardened the Archbishop's face.
"Sir," he said, "I regret to hear you speak like this, and your safety
lies in the fact that I do not believe a word of it. Even so, such wild
words fill me with displeasure. I beg to remind you that the Election of
an Emperor has not yet taken place, and I, for one, am likely to
reconsider my decision. Still, as I said, I do not believe a word of
your absurd tale.
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