alarm she left the palace and hastened to the shore, just as the
kidnapping craft began to move down the waters of the stream.

At the same moment young Henry, who had until now been absorbed in
gazing delightedly about the vessel, saw what was being done, and heard
his mother's cries. With courage and resolution unusual for his years he
broke, with a cry of anger, from those surrounding him, and leaped into
the stream, with the purpose of swimming ashore. But hardly had he
touched the water when Count Ekbert sprang in after him, seized him
despite his struggles, and brought him back to the vessel.

The empress entreated in pitiful accents for the return of her son, but
in vain; the captors of the boy were not of the kind to let pity
interfere with their plans; on down the broad stream glided the vessel,
the treacherous vassals listening in silence to the agonized appeals of
the distracted mother, and to the mingled prayers and demands of the
young emperor to be taken back. The country people, furious on learning
that the emperor had been stolen, and was being carried away before
their eyes, pursued the vessel for some distance on both sides of the
river. But their cries and threats were of no more avail than had been
the mother's tears and prayers. The vessel moved on with increasing
speed, the three kidnappers erect on its deck, their only words being
those used to cajole and quiet their unhappy prisoner, whom they did
their utmost to solace by promises and presents.

The vessel continued its course until it reached Cologne, where the
imperial captive was left under the charge of the archbishop, his two
confederates fully trusting him to keep close watch and ward over their
precious prize. The empress was of the same opinion. After vainly
endeavoring to regain her lost son from his powerful captors, she