Otto of the Silver Hand
by
Howard Pyle
Part 1 out of 2
Angus Christian
Otto
Of the Silver Hand
by Howard Pyle
CONTENTS
I. The Dragon's House,
II. How the Baron Went Forth to Shear,
III. How the Baron Came Home Shorn,
IV. The White Cross on the Hill,
V. How Otto Dwelt at St. Michaelsburg,
VI. How Otto Lived in the Dragon's House,
VII. The Red Cock Crows on Drachenhausen,
VIII. In the House of the Dragon Scorner,
IX. How One-eyed Hans Came to Trutz-Drachen,
X. How Hans Brought Terror to the Kitchen,
XI. How Otto was Saved,
XII. A Ride for Life,
XIII. How Baron Conrad Held the Bridge,
XIV. How Otto Saw the Great Emperor,
FOREWORD.
Between the far away past history of the world, and that which
lies near to us; in the time when the wisdom of the ancient
times was dead and had passed away, and our own days of light
had not yet come, there lay a great black gulf in human history,
a gulf of ignorance, of superstition, of cruelty, and of
wickedness.
That time we call the dark or middle ages.
Few records remain to us of that dreadful period in our world's
history, and we only know of it through broken and disjointed
fragments that have been handed down to us through the
generations.
Yet, though the world's life then was so wicked and black, there
yet remained a few good men and women here and there (mostly in
peaceful and quiet monasteries, far from the thunder and the
glare of the worlds bloody battle), who knew the right and the
truth and lived according to what they knew; who preserved and
tenderly cared for the truths that the dear Christ taught, and
lived and died for in Palestine so long ago.
This tale that I am about to tell is of a little boy who lived
and suffered in those dark middle ages; of how he saw both the
good and the bad of men, and of how, by gentleness and love and
not by strife and hatred, he came at last to stand above other
men and to be looked up to by all. And should you follow the
story to the end, I hope you may find it a pleasure, as I have
done, to ramble through those dark ancient castles, to lie with
little Otto and Brother John in the high belfry-tower, or to sit
with them in the peaceful quiet of the sunny old monastery
garden, for, of all the story, I love best those early peaceful
years that little Otto spent in the dear old White Cross on the
Hill.
Poor little Otto's life was a stony and a thorny pathway, and it
is well for all of us nowadays that we walk it in fancy and not
in truth.
I.
The Dragon's House.
Up from the gray rocks, rising sheer and bold and bare, stood
the walls and towers of Castle Drachenhausen. A great gate-way,
with a heavy iron-pointed portcullis hanging suspended in the
dim arch above, yawned blackly upon the bascule or falling
drawbridge that spanned a chasm between the blank stone walls
and the roadway that winding down the steep rocky slope to the
little valley just beneath. There in the lap of the hills around
stood the wretched straw-thatched huts of the peasants belonging
to the castle - miserable serfs who, half timid, half fierce,
tilled their poor patches of ground, wrenching from the hard
soil barely enough to keep body and soul together. Among those
vile hovels played the little children like foxes about their
dens, their wild, fierce eyes peering out from under a mat of
tangled yellow hair.
Beyond these squalid huts lay the rushing, foaming river,
spanned by a high, rude, stone bridge where the road from the
castle crossed it, and beyond the river stretched the great,
black forest, within whose gloomy depths the savage wild beasts
made their lair, and where in winter time the howling wolves
coursed their flying prey across the moonlit snow and under the
net-work of the black shadows from the naked boughs above.
The watchman in the cold, windy bartizan or watch-tower that
clung to the gray walls above the castle gateway, looked from
his narrow window, where the wind piped and hummed, across the
tree-tops that rolled in endless billows of green, over hill and
over valley to the blue and distant slope of the Keiserberg,
where, on the mountain side, glimmered far away the walls of
Castle Trutz-Drachen.
Within the massive stone walls through which the gaping gateway
led, three great cheerless brick buildings, so forbidding that
even the yellow sunlight could not light them into brightness,
looked down, with row upon row of windows, upon three sides of
the bleak, stone courtyard. Back of and above them clustered a
jumble of other buildings, tower and turret, one high-peaked
roof overtopping another.
The great house in the centre was the Baron's Hall, the part to
the left was called the Roderhausen; between the two stood a
huge square pile, rising dizzily up into the clear air high
above the rest - the great Melchior Tower.
At the top clustered a jumble of buildings hanging high aloft in
the windy space a crooked wooden belfry, a tall, narrow watch-
tower, and a rude wooden house that clung partly to the roof of
the great tower and partly to the walls.
>From the chimney of this crazy hut a thin thread of smoke would
now and then rise into the air, for there were folk living far
up in that empty, airy desert, and oftentimes wild, uncouth
little children were seen playing on the edge of the dizzy
height, or sitting with their bare legs hanging down over the
sheer depths, as they gazed below at what was going on in the
court-yard. There they sat, just as little children in the town
might sit upon their father's door-step; and as the sparrows
might fly around the feet of the little town children, so the
circling flocks of rooks and daws flew around the feet of these
air-born creatures.
It was Schwartz Carl and his wife and little ones who lived far
up there in the Melchior Tower, for it overlooked the top of the
hill behind the castle and so down into the valley upon the
further side. There, day after day, Schwartz Carl kept watch
upon the gray road that ran like a ribbon through the valley,
from the rich town of Gruenstaldt to the rich town of
Staffenburgen, where passed merchant caravans from the one to
the other - for the lord of Drachenhausen was a robber baron.
Dong! Dong! The great alarm bell would suddenly ring out from
the belfry high up upon the Melchior Tower. Dong! Dong! Till the
rooks and daws whirled clamoring and screaming. Dong! Dong! Till
the fierce wolf-hounds in the rocky kennels behind the castle
stables howled dismally in answer. Dong! Dong! - Dong! Dong!
Then would follow a great noise and uproar and hurry in the
castle court-yard below; men shouting and calling to one
another, the ringing of armor, and the clatter of horses' hoofs
upon the hard stone. With the creaking and groaning of the
windlass the iron-pointed portcullis would be slowly raised, and
with a clank and rattle and clash of iron chains the drawbridge
would fall crashing. Then over it would thunder horse and man,
clattering away down the winding, stony pathway, until the great
forest would swallow them, and they would be gone.
Then for a while peace would fall upon the castle courtyard, the
cock would crow, the cook would scold a lazy maid, and Gretchen,
leaning out of a window, would sing a snatch of a song, just as
though it were a peaceful farm-house, instead of a den of
robbers.
Maybe it would be evening before the men would return once more.
Perhaps one would have a bloody cloth bound about his head,
perhaps one would carry his arm in a sling; perhaps one - maybe
more than one - would be left behind, never to return again, and
soon forgotten by all excepting some poor woman who would weep
silently in the loneliness of her daily work.
Nearly always the adventurers would bring back with them pack-
horses laden with bales of goods. Sometimes, besides these, they
would return with a poor soul, his hands tied behind his back
and his feet beneath the horse's body, his fur cloak and his
flat cap wofully awry. A while he would disappear in some gloomy
cell of the dungeon-keep, until an envoy would come from the
town with a fat purse, when his ransom would be paid, the
dungeon would disgorge him, and he would be allowed to go upon
his way again.
One man always rode beside Baron Conrad in his expeditions and
adventures a short, deep-chested, broad-shouldered man, with
sinewy arms so long that when he stood his hands hung nearly to
his knees.
His coarse, close-clipped hair came so low upon his brow that
only a strip of forehead showed between it and his bushy, black
eyebrows. One eye was blind; the other twinkled and gleamed like
a spark under the penthouse of his brows. Many folk said that
the one-eyed Hans had drunk beer with the Hill-man, who had
given him the strength of ten, for he could bend an iron spit
like a hazel twig, and could lift a barrel of wine from the
floor to his head as easily as though it were a basket of eggs.
As for the one-eyed Hans he never said that he had not drunk
beer with the Hill-man, for he liked the credit that such
reports gave him with the other folk. And so, like a half savage
mastiff, faithful to death to his master, but to him alone, he
went his sullen way and lived his sullen life within the castle
walls, half respected, half feared by the other inmates, for it
was dangerous trifling with the one-eyed Hans.
II.
How the Baron went Forth to Shear.
Baron Conrad and Baroness Matilda sat together at their morning
meal below their raised seats stretched the long, heavy wooden
table, loaded with coarse food - black bread, boiled cabbage,
bacon, eggs, a great chine from a wild boar, sausages, such as
we eat nowadays, and flagons and jars of beer and wine, Along
the board sat ranged in the order of the household the followers
and retainers. Four or five slatternly women and girls served
the others as they fed noisily at the table, moving here and
there behind the men with wooden or pewter dishes of food, now
and then laughing at the jests that passed or joining in the
talk. A huge fire blazed and crackled and roared in the great
open fireplace, before which were stretched two fierce, shaggy,
wolfish-looking hounds. Outside, the rain beat upon the roof or
ran trickling from the eaves, and every now and then a chill
draught of wind would breathe through the open windows of the
great black dining-hall and set the fire roaring.
Along the dull-gray wall of stone hung pieces of armor, and
swords and lances, and great branching antlers of the stag.
Overhead arched the rude, heavy, oaken beams, blackened with age
and smoke, and underfoot was a chill pavement of stone.
Upon Baron Conrad's shoulder leaned the pale, slender, yellow-
haired Baroness, the only one in all the world with whom the
fierce lord of Drachenhausen softened to gentleness, the only
one upon whom his savage brows looked kindly, and to whom his
harsh voice softened with love.
The Baroness was talking to her husband in a low voice, as he
looked down into her pale face, with its gentle blue eyes.
"And wilt thou not, then," said she, "do that one thing for me?"
"Nay," he growled, in his deep voice, "I cannot promise thee
never more to attack the towns-people in the valley over yonder.
How else could I live an' I did not take from the fat town hogs
to fill our own larder?"
"Nay," said the Baroness, "thou couldst live as some others do,
for all do not rob the burgher folk as thou dost. Alas! mishap
will come upon thee some day, and if thou shouldst be slain,
what then would come of me?"
"Prut," said the Baron, "thy foolish fears" But he laid his rough,
hairy hand softly upon the Baroness' head and stroked her
yellow hair.
"For my sake, Conrad," whispered the Baroness.
A pause followed. The Baron sat looking thoughtfully down into
the Baroness' face. A moment more, and he might have promised
what she besought; a moment more, and he might have been saved
all the bitter trouble that was to follow. But it was not to be.
Suddenly a harsh sound broke the quietness of all into a
confusion of noises. Dong! Dong! - it was the great alarm-bell
from Melchior's Tower.
The Baron started at the sound. He sat for a moment or two with
his hand clinched upon the arm of his seat as though about to
rise, then he sunk back into his chair again.
All the others had risen tumultuously from the table, and now
stood looking at him, awaiting his orders.
"For my sake, Conrad," said the Baroness again.
Dong! Dong! rang the alarm-bell. The Baron sat with his eyes
bent upon the floor, scowling blackly.
The Baroness took his hand in both of hers. "For my sake," she
pleaded, and the tears filled her blue eyes as she looked up at
him, "do not go this time."
>From the courtyard without came the sound of horses' hoofs
clashing against the stone pavement, and those in the hall stood
watching and wondering at this strange delay of the Lord Baron.
Just then the door opened and one came pushing past the rest; it
was the one-eyed Hans. He came straight to where the Baron sat,
and, leaning over, whispered something into his master's ear.
"For my sake," implored the Baroness again; but the scale was
turned. The Baron pushed back his chair heavily and rose to his
feet. "Forward!" he roared, in a voice of thunder, and a great
shout went up in answer as he strode clanking down the hall and
out of the open door.
The Baroness covered her face with her hands and wept.
"Never mind, little bird," said old Ursela, the nurse,
soothingly; "he will come back to thee again as he has come back
to thee before."
But the poor young Baroness continued weeping with her face
buried in her hands, because he had not done that thing she had
asked.
A white young face framed in yellow hair looked out into the
courtyard from a window above; but if Baron Conrad of
Drachenhausen saw it from beneath the bars of his shining
helmet, he made no sign.
"Forward" he cried again.
Down thundered the drawbridge, and away they rode with clashing
hoofs and ringing armor through the gray shroud of drilling
rain.
The day had passed and the evening had come, and the Baroness
and her women sat beside a roaring fire. All were chattering and
talking and laughing but two - the fair young Baroness and old
Ursela; the one sat listening, listening, listening, the other
sat with her chin resting in the palm of her hand, silently
watching her young mistress. The night was falling gray and
chill, when suddenly the clear notes of a bugle rang from
without the castle walls. The young Baroness started, and the
rosy light flashed up into her pale cheeks.
"Yes, good," said old Ursela; "the red fox has come back to his
den again, and I warrant he brings a fat town goose in his
mouth; now we'll have fine clothes to wear, and thou another
gold chain to hang about thy pretty neck."
The young Baroness laughed merrily at the old woman's speech.
"This time," said she, "I will choose a string of pearls like
that one my aunt used to wear, and which I had about my neck
when Conrad first saw me."
Minute after minute passed; the Baroness sat nervously playing
with a bracelet of golden beads about her wrist. "How long he
stays," said she.
"Yes," said Ursela; "but it is not cousin wish that holds him by
the coat."
As she spoke, a door banged in the passageway without, and the
ring of iron footsteps sounded upon the stone floor. Clank!
Clank! Clank!
The Baroness rose to her feet, her face all alight. The door
opened; then the flush of joy faded away and the face grew
white, white, white. One hand clutched the back of the bench
whereon she had been sitting, the other hand pressed tightly
against her side.
It was Hans the one-eyed who stood in the doorway, and black
trouble sat on his brow; all were looking at him waiting.
"Conrad," whispered the Baroness, at last. "Where is Conrad?
Where is your master?" and even her lips were white as she
spoke.
The one-eyed Hans said nothing.
Just then came the noise of men s voices in the corridor and the
shuffle and scuffle of feet carrying a heavy load. Nearer and
nearer they came, and one-eyed Hans stood aside. Six men came
struggling through the doorway, carrying a litter, and on the
litter lay the great Baron Conrad. The flaming torch thrust into
the iron bracket against the wall flashed up with the draught of
air from the open door, and the light fell upon the white face
and the closed eyes, and showed upon his body armor a great red
stain that was not the stain of rust.
Suddenly Ursela cried out in a sharp, shrill voice, "Catch her,
she falls!"
It was the Baroness.
Then the old crone turned fiercely upon the one-eyed Hans. "Thou
fool!" she cried, "why didst thou bring him here? Thou hast
killed thy lady!"
"I did not know," said the one-eyed Hans, stupidly.
III.
How the Baron came Home Shorn.
But Baron Conrad was not dead. For days he lay upon his hard
bed, now muttering incoherent words beneath his red beard, now
raving fiercely with the fever of his wound. But one day he woke
again to the things about him.
He turned his head first to the one side and then to the other;
there sat Schwartz Carl and the one-eyed Hans. Two or three
other retainers stood by a great window that looked out into the
courtyard beneath, jesting and laughing together in low tones,
and one lay upon the heavy oaken bench that stood along by the
wall snoring in his sleep.
"Where is your lady?" said the Baron, presently; "and why is she
not with me at this time?"
The man that lay upon the bench started up at the sound of his
voice, and those at the window came hurrying to his bedside. But
Schwartz Carl and the one-eyed Hans looked at one another, and
neither of them spoke. The Baron saw the look and in it read a
certain meaning that brought him to his elbow, though only to
sink back upon his pillow again with a groan.
"Why do you not answer me?" said he at last, in a hollow voice;
then to the one-eyed Hans, "Hast no tongue, fool, that thou
standest gaping there like a fish? Answer me, where is thy
mistress?"
"I - I do not know," stammered poor Hans.
For a while the Baron lay silently looking from one face to the
other, then he spoke again. "How long have I been lying here?"
said he.
"A sennight, my lord," said Master Rudolph, the steward, who had
come into the room and who now stood among the others at the
bedside.
"A sennight," repeated the Baron, in a low voice, and then to
Master Rudolph, "And has the Baroness been often beside me in
that time?" Master Rudolph hesitated. "Answer me," said the
Baron, harshly.
"Not - not often," said Master Rudolph, hesitatingly.
The Baron lay silent for a long time. At last he passed his
hands over his face and held them there for a minute, then of a
sudden, before anyone knew what he was about to do, he rose upon
his elbow and then sat upright upon the bed. The green wound
broke out afresh and a dark red spot grew and spread upon the
linen wrappings; his face was drawn and haggard with the pain of
his moving, and his eyes wild and bloodshot. Great drops of
sweat gathered and stood upon his forehead as he sat there
swaying slightly from side to side.
"My shoes," said he, hoarsely.
Master Rudolph stepped forward. "But, my Lord Baron," he began
and then stopped short, for the Baron shot him such a look that
his tongue stood still in his head.
Hans saw that look out of his one eye. Down he dropped upon his
knees and, fumbling under the bed, brought forth a pair of soft
leathern shoes, which he slipped upon the Baron's feet and then
laced the thongs above the instep.
"Your shoulder," said the Baron. He rose slowly to his feet,
gripping Hans in the stress of his agony until the fellow winced
again. For a moment he stood as though gathering strength, then
doggedly started forth upon that quest which he had set upon
himself.
At the door he stopped for a moment as though overcome by his
weakness, and there Master Nicholas, his cousin, met him; for
the steward had sent one of the retainers to tell the old man
what the Baron was about to do.
"Thou must go back again, Conrad," said Master Nicholas; "thou
art not fit to be abroad."
The Baron answered him never a word, but he glared at him from
out of his bloodshot eyes and ground his teeth together. Then he
started forth again upon his way.
Down the long hall he went, slowly and laboriously, the others
following silently behind him, then up the steep winding stairs,
step by step, now and then stopping to lean against the wall. So
he reached a long and gloomy passageway lit only by the light of
a little window at the further end.
He stopped at the door of one of the rooms that opened into this
passage-way, stood for a moment, then he pushed it open.
No one was within but old Ursela, who sat crooning over a fire
with a bundle upon her knees. She did not see the Baron or know
that he was there.
"Where is your lady?" said he, in a hollow voice.
Then the old nurse looked up with a start. "Jesu bless us,"
cried she, and crossed herself.
"Where is your lady?" said the Baron again, in the same hoarse
voice; and then, not waiting for an answer, "Is she dead?"
The old woman looked at him for a minute blinking her watery
eyes, and then suddenly broke into a shrill, long-drawn wail.
The Baron needed to hear no more.
As though in answer to the old woman's cry, a thin piping
complaint came from the bundle in her lap.
At the sound the red blood flashed up into the Baron's face.
"What is that you have there?" said he, pointing to the bundle
upon the old woman's knees.
She drew back the coverings and there lay a poor, weak, little
baby, that once again raised its faint reedy pipe.
"It is your son," said Ursela, "that the dear Baroness left
behind her when the holy angels took her to Paradise. She
blessed him and called him Otto before she left us."
IV.
The White Cross on the Hill.
Here the glassy waters of the River Rhine, holding upon its
bosom a mimic picture of the blue sky and white clouds floating
above, runs smoothly around a jutting point of land, St.
Michaelsburg, rising from the reedy banks of the stream, sweeps
up with a smooth swell until it cuts sharp and clear against the
sky. Stubby vineyards covered its earthy breast, and field and
garden and orchard crowned its brow, where lay the Monastery of
St. Michaelsburg - "The White Cross on the Hill." There within
the white walls, where the warm yellow sunlight slept, all was
peaceful quietness, broken only now and then by the crowing of
the cock or the clamorous cackle of a hen, the lowing of kine or
the bleating of goats, a solitary voice in prayer, the faint
accord of distant singing, or the resonant toll of the monastery
bell from the high-peaked belfry that overlooked the hill and
valley and the smooth, far-winding stream. No other sounds broke
the stillness, for in this peaceful haven was never heard the
clash of armor, the ring of iron-shod hoofs, or the hoarse call
to arms.
All men were not wicked and cruel and fierce in that dark, far-
away age; all were not robbers and terror-spreading tyrants,
even in that time when men's hands were against their neighbors,
and war and rapine dwelt in place of peace and justice.
Abbot Otto, of St. Michaelsburg, was a gentle, patient, pale.
faced old man; his white hands were soft and smooth, and no one
would have thought that they could have known the harsh touch of
sword-hilt and lance. And yet, in the days of the Emperor
Frederick - the grandson of the great Red-beard - no one stood
higher in the prowess of arms than he. But all at once - for why,
no man could tell - a change came over him, and in the flower of
his youth and fame and growing power he gave up everything in
life and entered the quiet sanctuary of that white monastery on
the hill-side, so far away from the tumult and the conflict of
the world in which he had lived.
Some said that it was because the lady he had loved had loved
his brother, and that when they were married Otto of Wolbergen
had left the church with a broken heart.
But such stories are old songs that have been sung before.
Clatter! clatter! Jingle! jingle! It was a full-armed knight
that came riding up the steep hill road that wound from left to
right and right to left amid the vineyards on the slopes of St.
Michaelsburg. Polished helm and corselet blazed in the noon
sunlight, for no knight in those days dared to ride the roads
except in full armor. In front of him the solitary knight
carried a bundle wrapped in the folds of his coarse gray cloak.
It was a sorely sick man that rode up the heights of St.
Michaelsburg. His head hung upon his breast through the
faintness of weariness and pain; for it was the Baron Conrad.
He had left his bed of sickness that morning, had saddled his
horse in the gray dawn with his own hands, and had ridden away
into the misty twilight of the forest without the knowledge of
anyone excepting the porter, who, winking and blinking in the
bewilderment of his broken slumber, had opened the gates to the
sick man, hardly knowing what he was doing, until he beheld his
master far away, clattering down the steep bridle-path.
Eight leagues had he ridden that day with neither a stop nor a
stay; but now at last the end of his journey had come, and he
drew rein under the shade of the great wooden gateway of St.
Michaelsburg.
He reached up to the knotted rope and gave it a pull, and from
within sounded the answering ring of the porter's bell. By and
by a little wicket opened in the great wooden portals, and the
gentle, wrinkled face of old Brother Benedict, the porter,
peeped out at the strange iron-clad visitor and the great black
war-horse, streaked and wet with the sweat of the journey,
flecked and dappled with flakes of foam. A few words passed
between them, and then the little window was closed again; and
within, the shuffling pat of the sandalled feet sounded fainter
and fainter, as Brother Benedict bore the message from Baron
Conrad to Abbot Otto, and the mail-clad figure was left alone,
sitting there as silent as a statue.
By and by the footsteps sounded again; there came a noise of
clattering chains and the rattle of the key in the lock, and the
rasping of the bolts dragged back. Then the gate swung slowly
open, and Baron Conrad rode into the shelter of the White Cross,
and as the hoofs of his war-horse clashed upon the stones of the
courtyard within, the wooden gate swung slowly to behind him.
Abbot Otto stood by the table when Baron Conrad entered the
high-vaulted room from the farther end. The light from the oriel
window behind the old man shed broken rays of light upon him,
and seemed to frame his thin gray hairs with a golden glory. His
white, delicate hand rested upon the table beside him, and upon
some sheets of parchment covered with rows of ancient Greek
writing which he had been engaged in deciphering.
Clank ! clank! clank ! Baron Conrad strode across the stone
floor, and then stopped short in front of the good old man.
"What dost thou seek here, my son ?" said the Abbot.
"I seek sanctuary for my son and thy brother's grandson," said
the Baron Conrad, and he flung back the folds of his cloak and
showed the face of the sleeping babe.
For a while the Abbot said nothing, but stood gazing dreamily at
the baby. After a while he looked up. "And the child's mother,"
said he - "what hath she to say at this?"
"She hath naught to say," said Baron Conrad, hoarsely, and then
stopped short in his speech. "She is dead," said he, at last, in
a husky voice, "and is with God's angels in paradise."
The Abbot looked intently in the Baron's face. "So!" said he,
under his breath, and then for the first time noticed how white
and drawn was the Baron's face. "Art sick thyself?" he asked.
"Ay," said the Baron, "I have come from death's door. But that
is no matter. Wilt thou take this little babe into sanctuary? My
house is a vile, rough place, and not fit for such as he, and
his mother with the blessed saints in heaven." And once more
Conrad of Drachenhausen's face began twitching with the pain of
his thoughts.
"Yes," said the old man, gently, "he shall live here," and he
stretched out his hands and took the babe. "Would," said he,
"that all the little children in these dark times might be thus
brought to the house of God, and there learn mercy and peace,
instead of rapine and war."
For a while he stood looking down in silence at the baby in his
arms, but with his mind far away upon other things. At last he
roused himself with a start. "And thou," said he to the Baron
Conrad - "hath not thy heart been chastened and softened by
this? Surely thou wilt not go back to thy old life of rapine and
extortion?"
"Nay," said Baron Conrad, gruffly, "I will rob the city swine no
longer, for that was the last thing that my dear one asked of
me."
The old Abbot's face lit up with a smile. "I am right glad that
thy heart was softened, and that thou art willing at last to
cease from war and violence."
"Nay," cried the Baron, roughly, "I said nothing of ceasing from
war. By heaven, no! I will have revenge!" And he clashed his
iron foot upon the floor and clinched his fists and ground his
teeth together. "Listen," said he, "and I will tell thee how my
troubles happened. A fortnight ago I rode out upon an expedition
against a caravan of fat burghers in the valley of Gruenhoffen.
They outnumbered us many to one, but city swine such as they are
not of the stuff to stand against our kind for a long time.
Nevertheless, while the men-at-arms who guarded the caravan were
staying us with pike and cross-bow from behind a tree which they
had felled in front of a high bridge the others had driven the
pack-horses off, so that by the time we had forced the bridge
they were a league or more away. We pushed after them as hard as
we were able, but when we came up with them we found that they
had been joined by Baron Frederick of Trutz-Drachen, to whom for
three years and more the burghers of Gruenstadt have been paying
a tribute for his protection against others. Then again they made a
stand, and this time the Baron Frederick himself was with them.
But though the dogs fought well, we were forcing them back, and
might have got the better of them, had not my horse stumbled upon
a sloping stone, and so fell and rolled over upon me. While I lay
there with my horse upon me, Baron Frederick ran me down with
his lance, and gave me that foul wound that came so near to
slaying me - and did slay my dear wife. Nevertheless, my men
were able to bring me out from that press and away, and we had
bitten the Trutz-Drachen dogs so deep that they were too sore to
follow us, and so let us go our way in peace. But when those
fools of mine brought me to my castle they bore me lying
upon a litter to my wife's chamber. There she beheld me, and,
thinking me dead, swooned a death-swoon, so that she only lived
long enough to bless her new-born babe and name it Otto, for
you, her father's brother. But, by heavens! I will have revenge,
root and branch, upon that vile tribe, the Roderburgs of Trutz-
Drachen. Their great-grandsire built that castle in scorn of
Baron Casper in the old days; their grandsire slew my father's
grandsire; Baron Nicholas slew two of our kindred; and now this
Baron Frederick gives me that foul wound and kills my dear wife
through my body." Here the Baron stopped short; then of a
sudden, shaking his fist above his head, he cried out in his
hoarse voice: "I swear by all the saints in heaven, either the
red cock shall crow over the roof of Trutz-Drachen or else it
shall crow over my house! The black dog shall sit on Baron
Frederick's shoulders or else he shall sit on mine!" Again he
stopped, and fixing his blazing eyes upon the old man, "Hearest
thou that, priest?" said he, and broke into a great boisterous
laugh.
Abbot Otto sighed heavily, but he tried no further to persuade
the other into different thoughts.
"Thou art wounded," said he, at last, in a gentle voice; "at
least stay here with us until thou art healed."
"Nay," said the Baron, roughly, "I will tarry no longer than to
hear thee promise to care for my child."
"I promise," said the Abbot; "but lay aside thy armor, and
rest."
"Nay," said the Baron, "I go back again to-day."
At this the Abbot cried out in amazement: "Sure thou, wounded
man, would not take that long journey without a due stay for
resting! Think! Night will be upon thee before thou canst reach
home again, and the forests are beset with wolves."
The Baron laughed. "Those are not the wolves I fear," said he.
"Urge me no further, I must return to-night; yet if thou hast a
mind to do me a kindness thou canst give me some food to eat and
a flask of your golden Michaelsburg; beyond these, I ask no
further favor of any man, be he priest or layman."
"What comfort I can give thee thou shalt have," said the Abbot,
in his patient voice, and so left the room to give the needful
orders, bearing the babe with him.
V.
How Otto Dwelt at St. Michaelsburg.
So the poor, little, motherless waif lived among the old monks
at the White Cross on the hill, thriving and growing apace until
he had reached eleven or twelve years of age; a slender, fair-
haired little fellow, with a strange, quiet serious manner.
"Poor little child!" Old Brother Benedict would sometimes say to
the others, "poor little child! The troubles in which he was
born must have broken his wits like a glass cup. What think ye
he said to me to-day? 'Dear Brother Benedict,' said he, 'dost
thou shave the hair off of the top of thy head so that the dear
God may see thy thoughts the better?' Think of that now!" and
the good old man shook with silent laughter.
When such talk came to the good Father Abbot's ears, he smiled
quietly to himself. "It may be," said he, "that the wisdom of
little children flies higher than our heavy wits can follow."
At least Otto was not slow with his studies, and Brother
Emmanuel, who taught him his lessons, said more than once that,
if his wits were cracked in other ways, they were sound enough
in Latin.
Otto, in a quaint, simple way which belonged to him, was gentle
and obedient to all. But there was one among the Brethren of St.
Michaelsburg whom he loved far above all the rest - Brother John,
a poor half-witted fellow, of some twenty-five or thirty years
of age. When a very little child, he had fallen from his nurse's
arms and hurt his head, and as he grew up into boyhood, and
showed that his wits had been addled by his fall, his family
knew not what else to do with him, and so sent him off to the
Monastery of St. Michaelsburg, where he lived his simple,
witless life upon a sort of sufferance, as though he were a
tame, harmless animal.
While Otto was still a little baby, he had been given into
Brother John's care. Thereafter, and until Otto had grown old
enough to care for himself, poor Brother John never left his
little charge, night or day. Oftentimes the good Father Abbot,
coming into the garden, where he loved to walk alone in his
meditations, would find the poor, simple Brother sitting under
the shade of the pear-tree, close to the bee-hives, rocking the
little baby in his arms, singing strange, crazy songs to it, and
gazing far away into the blue, empty sky with his curious, pale
eyes.
Although, as Otto grew up into boyhood, his lessons and his
tasks separated him from Brother John, the bond between them
seemed to grow stronger rather than weaker. During the hours
that Otto had for his own they were scarcely ever apart. Down in
the vineyard, where the monks were gathering the grapes for the
vintage, in the garden, or in the fields, the two were always
seen together, either wandering hand in hand, or seated in some
shady nook or corner.
But most of all they loved to lie up in the airy wooden belfry;
the great gaping bell hanging darkly above them, the mouldering
cross-beams glimmering far up under the dim shadows of the roof,
where dwelt a great brown owl that, unfrightened at their
familiar presence, stared down at them with his round, solemn
eyes. Below them stretched the white walls of the garden, beyond
them the vineyard, and beyond that again the far shining river,
that seemed to Otto's mind to lead into wonder-land. There the
two would lie upon the belfry floor by the hour, talking
together of the strangest things.
"I saw the dear Angel Gabriel again yester morn," said Brother
John.
"So!" says Otto, seriously; "and where was that?"
"It was out in the garden, in the old apple-tree," said Brother
John. "I was walking there, and my wits were running around in
the grass like a mouse. What heard I but a wonderful sound of
singing, and it was like the hum of a great bee, only sweeter
than honey. So I looked up into the tree, and there I saw two
sparks. I thought at first that they were two stars that had
fallen out of heaven; but what think you they were, little
child?"
"I do not know," said Otto, breathlessly.
"They were angel's eyes," said Brother John; and he smiled in
the strangest way, as he gazed up into the blue sky. "So I
looked at the two sparks and felt happy, as one does in spring
time when the cold weather is gone, and the warm sun shines, and
the cuckoo sings again. Then, by-and-by, I saw the face to which
the eyes belonged. First, it shone white and thin like the moon
in the daylight; but it grew brighter and brighter, until it
hurt one's eyes to look at it, as though it had been the blessed
sun itself. Angel Gabriel's hand was as white as silver, and in
it he held a green bough with blossoms, like those that grow on
the thorn bush. As for his robe, it was all of one piece, and
finer than the Father Abbot's linen, and shone beside like the
sunlight on pure snow. So I knew from all these things that it
was the blessed Angel Gabriel."
"What do they say about this tree, Brother John?" said he to me.
"They say it is dying, my Lord Angel," said I, "and that the
gardener will bring a sharp axe and cut it down."
"'And what dost thou say about it, Brother John?' said he."
"'I also say yes, and that it is dying,' said I."
"At that he smiled until his face shone so bright that I had to
shut my eyes."
"'Now I begin to believe, Brother John, that thou art as foolish
as men say,' said he. 'Look, till I show thee.' And thereat I
opened mine eyes again."
"Then Angel Gabriel touched the dead branches with the flowery
twig that he held in his hand, and there was the dead wood all
covered with green leaves, and fair blossoms and beautiful
apples as yellow as gold. Each smelling more sweetly than a
garden of flowers, and better to the taste than white bread and
honey.
"'They are souls of the apples,' said the good Angel,' and they
can never wither and die.'
"'Then I'll tell the gardener that he shall not cut the tree
down,' said I."
"'No, no,' said the dear Gabriel, 'that will never do, for if
the tree is not cut down here on the earth, it can never be
planted in paradise.'
Here Brother John stopped short in his story, and began singing
one of his crazy songs, as he gazed with his pale eyes far away
into nothing at all.
"But tell me, Brother John," said little Otto, in a hushed
voice, "what else did the good Angel say to thee?"
Brother John stopped short in his song and began looking from
right to left, and up and down, as though to gather his wits.
"So!" said he, "there was something else that he told me. Tschk!
If I could but think now. Yes, good! This is it - 'Nothing that
has lived,' said he, 'shall ever die, and nothing that has died
shall ever live.'
Otto drew a deep breath. "I would that I might see the beautiful
Angel Gabriel sometime," said he; but Brother John was singing
again and did not seem to hear what he said.
Next to Brother John, the nearest one to the little child was
the good Abbot Otto, for though he had never seen wonderful
things with the eyes of his soul, such as Brother John's had
beheld, and so could not tell of them, he was yet able to give
little Otto another pleasure that no one else could give.
He was a great lover of books, the old Abbot, and had under lock
and key wonderful and beautiful volumes, bound in hog-skin and
metal, and with covers inlaid with carved ivory, or studded with
precious stones. But within these covers, beautiful as they
were, lay the real wonder of the books, like the soul in the
body; for there, beside the black letters and initials, gay with
red and blue and gold, were beautiful pictures painted upon the
creamy parchment. Saints and Angels, the Blessed Virgin with the
golden oriole about her head, good St. Joseph, the three Kings;
the simple Shepherds kneeling in the fields, while Angels with
glories about their brow called to the poor Peasants from the
blue sky above. But, most beautiful of all was the picture of
the Christ Child lying in the manger, with the mild-eyed Kine
gazing at him.
Sometimes the old Abbot would unlock the iron-bound chest where
these treasures lay hidden, and carefully and lovingly brushing
the few grains of dust from them, would lay them upon the table
beside the oriel window in front of his little namesake,
allowing the little boy freedom to turn the leaves as he chose.
Always it was one picture that little Otto sought; the Christ
Child in the manger, with the Virgin, St. Joseph, the Shepherds,
and the Kine. And as he would hang breathlessly gazing and
gazing upon it, the old Abbot would sit watching him with a
faint, half-sad smile flickering around his thin lips and his
pale, narrow face.
It was a pleasant, peaceful life, but by-and-by the end came.
Otto was now nearly twelve years old.
One bright, clear day, near the hour of noon, little Otto heard
the porter's bell sounding below in the court-yard - dong! dong!
Brother Emmanuel had been appointed as the boy's instructor, and
just then Otto was conning his lessons in the good monk's cell.
Nevertheless, at the sound of the bell he pricked up his ears
and listened, for a visitor was a strange matter in that out-of-
the-way place, and he wondered who it could be. So, while his
wits wandered his lessons lagged.
"Postera Phoeba lustrabat lampade terras," continued Brother
Emmanuel, inexorably running his horny finger-nail beneath the
line, "humentemque Aurora polo dimoverat umbram -" the lesson
dragged along.
Just then a sandaled footstep sounded without, in the stone
corridor, and a light tap fell upon Brother Emmanuel's door. It
was Brother Ignatius, and the Abbot wished little Otto to come
to the refectory.
As they crossed the court-yard Otto stared to see a group of
mail-clad men-at-arms, some sitting upon their horses, some
standing by the saddle-bow. "Yonder is the young baron," he
heard one of them say in a gruff voice, and thereupon all turned
and stared at him.
A stranger was in the refectory, standing beside the good old
Abbot, while food and wine were being brought and set upon the
table for his refreshment; a great, tall, broad-shouldered man,
beside whom the Abbot looked thinner and slighter than ever.
The stranger was clad all in polished and gleaming armor, of
plate and chain, over which was drawn a loose robe of gray
woollen stuff, reaching to the knees and bound about the waist
by a broad leathern sword-belt. Upon his arm he carried a great
helmet which he had just removed from his head. His face was
weather-beaten and rugged, and on lip and chin was a wiry,
bristling beard; once red, now frosted with white.
Brother Ignatius had bidden Otto to enter, and had then closed
the door behind him; and now, as the lad walked slowly up the
long room, he gazed with round, wondering blue eyes at the
stranger.
"Dost know who I am, Otto ? said the mail-clad knight, in a
deep, growling voice.
"Methinks you are my father, sir," said Otto.
"Aye, thou art right," said Baron Conrad, "and I am glad to see
that these milk-churning monks have not allowed thee to forget
me, and who thou art thyself."
"An' it please you," said Otto, "no one churneth milk here but
Brother Fritz; we be makers of wine and not makers of butter, at
St. Michaelsburg."
Baron Conrad broke into a great, loud laugh, but Abbot Otto's
sad and thoughtful face lit up with no shadow of an answering
smile.
"Conrad," said he, turning to the other, "again let me urge
thee; do not take the child hence, his life can never be your
life, for he is not fitted for it. I had thought," said he,
after a moment's pause, "I had thought that thou hadst meant to
consecrate him - this motherless one - to the care of the
Universal Mother Church."
"So!" said the Baron, "thou hadst thought that, hadst thou? Thou
hadst thought that I had intended to deliver over this boy, the
last of the Vuelphs, to the arms of the Church? What then was to
become of our name and the glory of our race if it was to end
with him in a monastery? No, Drachenhausen is the home of the
Vuelphs, and there the last of the race shall live as his sires
have lived before him, holding to his rights by the power and
the might of his right hand."
The Abbot turned and looked at the boy, who was gaping in simple
wide-eyed wonderment from one to the other as they spoke.
"And dost thou think, Conrad," said the old man, in his gentle,
patient voice, "that that poor child can maintain his rights by
the strength of his right hand?"
The Baron's look followed the Abbot's, and he said nothing.
In the few seconds of silence that followed, little Otto, in his
simple mind, was wondering what all this talk portended. Why had
his father come hither to St. Michaelsburg, lighting up the dim
silence of the monastery with the flash and ring of his polished
armor? Why had he talked about churning butter but now, when all
the world knew that the monks of St. Michaelsburg made wine.
It was Baron Conrad's deep voice that broke the little pause of
silence.
"If you have made a milkmaid of the boy," he burst out at last,
"I thank the dear heaven that there is yet time to undo your
work and to make a man of him."
The Abbot sighed. "The child is yours, Conrad," said he, "the
will of the blessed saints be done. Mayhap if he goes to dwell
at Drachenhausen he may make you the better instead of you
making him the worse."
Then light came to the darkness of little Otto's wonderment; he
saw what all this talk meant and why his father had come hither.
He was to leave the happy, sunny silence of the dear White
Cross, and to go out into that great world that he had so often
looked down upon from the high windy belfry on the steep
hillside.
VI.
How Otto Lived in the Dragon's House.
The gates of the Monastery stood wide open, the world lay
beyond, and all was ready for departure. Baron Conrad and his
men-at-arms sat foot in stirrup, the milk-white horse that had
been brought for Otto stood waiting for him beside his father's
great charger.
"Farewell, Otto," said the good old Abbot, as he stooped and
kissed the boy's cheek.
"Farewell," answered Otto, in his simple, quiet way, and it
brought a pang to the old man's heart that the child should seem
to grieve so little at the leave-taking.
"Farewell, Otto," said the brethren that stood about, "farewell,
farewell."
Then poor brother John came forward and took the boy's hand, and
looked up into his face as he sat upon his horse. "We will meet
again," said he, with his strange, vacant smile, "but maybe it
will be in Paradise, and there perhaps they will let us lie in
the father's belfry, and look down upon the angels in the court-
yard below."
"Aye," answered Otto, with an answering smile.
"Forward," cried the Baron, in a deep voice, and with a clash of
hoofs and jingle of armor they were gone, and the great wooden
gates were shut to behind them.
Down the steep winding pathway they rode, and out into the great
wide world beyond, upon which Otto and brother John had gazed so
often from the wooden belfry of the White Cross on the hill.
"Hast been taught to ride a horse by the priests up yonder on
Michaelsburg?" asked the Baron, when they had reached the level
road.
"Nay," said Otto; "we had no horse to ride, but only to bring in
the harvest or the grapes from the further vineyards to the
vintage."
"Prut," said the Baron, "methought the abbot would have had
enough of the blood of old days in his veins to have taught thee
what is fitting for a knight to know; art not afeared?"
"Nay," said Otto, with a smile, "I am not afeared."
"There at least thou showest thyself a Vuelph," said the grim
Baron. But perhaps Otto's thought of fear and Baron Conrad's
thought of fear were two very different matters.
The afternoon had passed by the time they had reached the end of
their journey. Up the steep, stony path they rode to the
drawbridge and the great gaping gateway of Drachenhausen, where
wall and tower and battlement looked darker and more forbidding
than ever in the gray twilight of the coming night. Little Otto
looked up with great, wondering, awe-struck eyes at this grim
new home of his.
The next moment they clattered over the drawbridge that spanned
the narrow black gulph between the roadway and the wall, and the
next were past the echoing arch of the great gateway and in the
gray gloaming of the paved court-yard within.
Otto looked around upon the many faces gathered there to catch
the first sight of the little baron; hard, rugged faces, seamed
and weather-beaten; very different from those of the gentle
brethren among whom he had lived, and it seemed strange to him
that there was none there whom he should know.
As he climbed the steep, stony steps to the door of the Baron's
house, old Ursela came running down to meet him. She flung her
withered arms around him and hugged him close to her. "My little
child," she cried, and then fell to sobbing as though her heart
would break.
"Here is someone knoweth me," thought the little boy.
His new home was all very strange and wonderful to Otto; the
armors, the trophies, the flags, the long galleries with their
ranges of rooms, the great hall below with its vaulted roof and
its great fireplace of grotesquely carved stone, and all the
strange people with their lives and thoughts so different from
what he had been used to know.
And it was a wonderful thing to explore all the strange places
in the dark old castle; places where it seemed to Otto no one
could have ever been before.
Once he wandered down a long, dark passageway below the hall,
pushed open a narrow, iron-bound oaken door, and found himself
all at once in a strange new land; the gray light, coming in
through a range of tall, narrow windows, fell upon a row of
silent, motionless figures carven in stone, knights and ladies
in strange armor and dress; each lying upon his or her stony
couch with clasped hands, and gazing with fixed, motionless,
stony eyeballs up into the gloomy, vaulted arch above them.
There lay, in a cold, silent row, all of the Vuelphs who had
died since the ancient castle had been built.
It was the chapel into which Otto had made his way, now long
since fallen out of use excepting as a burial place of the race.
At another time he clambered up into the loft under the high
peaked roof, where lay numberless forgotten things covered with
the dim dust of years. There a flock of pigeons had made their
roost, and flapped noisily out into the sunlight when he pushed
open the door from below. Here he hunted among the mouldering
things of the past until, oh, joy of joys! in an ancient oaken
chest he found a great lot of worm-eaten books, that had
belonged to some old chaplain of the castle in days gone by.
They were not precious and beautiful volumes, such as the Father
Abbot had showed him, but all the same they had their quaint
painted pictures of the blessed saints and angels.
Again, at another time, going into the court-yard, Otto had
found the door of Melchior's tower standing invitingly open, for
old Hilda, Schwartz Carl's wife, had come down below upon some
business or other.
Then upon the shaky wooden steps Otto ran without waiting for a
second thought, for he had often gazed at those curious
buildings hanging so far up in the air, and had wondered what
they were like. Round and round and up and up Otto climbed,
until his head spun. At last he reached a landing-stage, and
gazing over the edge and down, beheld the stone pavement far,
far below, lit by a faint glimmer of light that entered through
the arched doorway. Otto clutched tight hold of the wooden rail,
he had no thought that he had climbed so far.
Upon the other side of the landing was a window that pierced the
thick stone walls of the tower; out of the window he looked, and
then drew suddenly back again with a gasp, for it was through
the outer wall he peered, and down, down below in the dizzy
depths he saw the hard gray rocks, where the black swine,
looking no larger than ants in the distance, fed upon the refuse
thrown out over the walls of the castle. There lay the moving
tree-tops like a billowy green sea, and the coarse thatched
roofs of the peasant cottages, round which crawled the little
children like tiny human specks.
Then Otto turned and crept down the stairs, frightened at the
height to which he had climbed.
At the doorway he met Mother Hilda. "Bless us," she cried,
starting back and crossing herself, and then, seeing who it was,
ducked him a courtesy with as pleasant a smile as her forbidding
face, with its little deep-set eyes, was able to put upon
itself.
Old Ursela seemed nearer to the boy than anyone else about the
castle, excepting it was his father, and it was a newfound
delight to Otto to sit beside her and listen to her quaint
stories, so different from the monkish tales that he had heard
and read at the monastery.
But one day it was a tale of a different sort that she told him,
and one that opened his eyes to what he had never dreamed of
before.
The mellow sunlight fell through the window upon old Ursela, as
she sat in the warmth with her distaff in her hands while Otto
lay close to her feet upon a bear skin, silently thinking over
the strange story of a brave knight and a fiery dragon that she
had just told him. Suddenly Ursela broke the silence.
"Little one," said she, "thou art wondrously like thy own dear
mother; didst ever hear how she died?"
Nay," said Otto, "but tell me, Ursela, how it was."
"Tis strange," said the old woman, "that no one should have told
thee in all this time." And then, in her own fashion she related
to him the story of how his father had set forth upon that
expedition in spite of all that Otto's mother had said,
beseeching him to abide at home; how he had been foully wounded,
and how the poor lady had died from her fright and grief.
Otto listened with eyes that grew wider and wider, though not
all with wonder; he no longer lay upon the bear skin, but sat up
with his hands clasped. For a moment or two after the old woman
had ended her story, he sat staring silently at her. Then he
cried out, in a sharp voice, "And is this truth that you tell
me, Ursela? and did my father seek to rob the towns people of
their goods?"
Old Ursela laughed. "Aye," said she, "that he did and many
times. Ah! me, those day's are all gone now." And she fetched a
deep sigh. "Then we lived in plenty and had both silks and
linens and velvets besides in the store closets and were able to
buy good wines and live in plenty upon the best. Now we dress in
frieze and live upon what we can get and sometimes that is
little enough, with nothing better than sour beer to drink. But
there is one comfort in it all, and that is that our good Baron
paid back the score he owed the Trutz-Drachen people not only
for that, but for all that they had done from the very first."
Thereupon she went on to tell Otto how Baron Conrad had
fulfilled the pledge of revenge that he had made Abbot Otto, how
he had watched day after day until one time he had caught the
Trutz-Drachen folk, with Baron Frederick at their head, in a
narrow defile back of the Kaiserburg; of the fierce fight that
was there fought; of how the Roderburgs at last fled, leaving
Baron Frederick behind them wounded; of how he had kneeled
before the Baron Conrad, asking for mercy, and of how Baron
Conrad had answered, "Aye, thou shalt have such mercy as thou
deservest," and had therewith raised his great two-handed sword
and laid his kneeling enemy dead at one blow.
Poor little Otto had never dreamed that such cruelty and
wickedness could be. He listened to the old woman's story with
gaping horror, and when the last came and she told him, with a
smack of her lips, how his father had killed his enemy with his
own hand, he gave a gasping cry and sprang to his feet. Just
then the door at the other end of the chamber was noisily
opened, and Baron Conrad himself strode into the room. Otto
turned his head, and seeing who it was, gave another cry, loud
and quavering, and ran to his father and caught him by the hand.
"Oh, father!" he cried, "oh, father! Is it true that thou hast
killed a man with thy own hand?"
"Aye," said the Baron, grimly, "it is true enough, and I think
me I have killed many more than one. But what of that, Otto?
Thou must get out of those foolish notions that the old monks
have taught thee. Here in the world it is different from what it
is at St. Michaelsburg; here a man must either slay or be
slain."
But poor little Otto, with his face hidden in his father's robe,
cried as though his heart would break. "Oh, father!" he said,
again and again, "it cannot be - it cannot be that thou who art
so kind to me should have killed a man with thine own hands."
Then: "I wish that I were back in the monastery again; I am
afraid out here in the great wide world; perhaps somebody may
kill me, for I am only a weak little boy and could not save my
own life if they chose to take it from me."
Baron Conrad looked down upon Otto all this while, drawing his
bushy eyebrows together. Once he reached out his hand as though
to stroke the boy's hair, but drew it back again.
Turning angrily upon the old woman, "Ursela," said he, "thou
must tell the child no more such stories as these; he knowest
not at all of such things as yet. Keep thy tongue busy with the
old woman's tales that he loves to hear thee tell, and leave it
with me to teach him what becometh a true knight and a Vuelph."
That night the father and son sat together beside the roaring
fire in the great ball. "Tell me, Otto," said the Baron, "dost
thou hate me for having done what Ursela told thee today that I
did?"
Otto looked for a while into his father's face. "I know not,"
said he at last, in his quaint, quiet voice, "but methinks that
I do not hate thee for it."
The Baron drew his bushy brows together until his eyes twinkled
out of the depths beneath them, then of a sudden he broke into a
great loud laugh, smiting his horny palm with a smack upon his
thigh.
VII.
The Red Cock Crows on Drachenhausen.
There was a new emperor in Germany who had come from a far away
Swiss castle; Count Rudolph of Hapsburg, a good, honest man with
a good, honest, homely face, but bringing with him a stern sense
of justice and of right, and a determination to put down the
lawlessness of the savage German barons among whom he had come
as Emperor.
One day two strangers came galloping up the winding path to the
gates of the Dragon's house. A horn sounded thin and clear, a
parley was held across the chasm in the road between the two
strangers and the porter who appeared at the little wicket. Then
a messenger was sent running to the Baron, who presently came
striding across the open court-yard to the gateway to parley
with the strangers.
The two bore with them a folded parchment with a great red seal
hanging from it like a clot of blood; it was a message from the
Emperor demanding that the Baron should come to the Imperial
Court to answer certain charges that had been brought against
him, and to give his bond to maintain the peace of the empire.
One by one those barons who had been carrying on their private
wars, or had been despoiling the burgher folk in their traffic
from town to town, and against whom complaint had been lodged,
were summoned to the Imperial Court, where they were compelled
to promise peace and to swear allegiance to the new order of
things. All those who came willingly were allowed to return home
again after giving security for maintaining the peace; all those
who came not willingly were either brought in chains or rooted
out of their strongholds with fire and sword, and their roofs
burned over their heads.
Now it was Baron Conrad's turn to be summoned to the Imperial
Court, for complaint had been lodged against him by his old
enemy of Trutz-Drachen - Baron Henry - the nephew of the old Baron
Frederick who had been slain while kneeling in the dust of the
road back of the Kaiserburg.
No one at Drachenhausen could read but Master Rudolph, the
steward, who was sand blind, and little Otto. So the boy read
the summons to his father, while the grim Baron sat silent with
his chin resting upon his clenched fist and his eyebrows drawn
together into a thoughtful frown as he gazed into the pale face
of his son, who sat by the rude oaken table with the great
parchment spread out before him.
Should he answer the summons, or scorn it as he would have done
under the old emperors? Baron Conrad knew not which to do; pride
said one thing and policy another. The Emperor was a man with an
iron hand, and Baron Conrad knew what had happened to those who
had refused to obey the imperial commands. So at last he decided
that he would go to the court, taking with him a suitable escort
to support his dignity.
It was with nearly a hundred armed men clattering behind him
that Baron Conrad rode away to court to answer the imperial
summons. The castle was stripped of its fighting men, and only
eight remained behind to guard the great stone fortress and the
little simple-witted boy.
It was a sad mistake.
Three days had passed since the Baron had left the castle, and
now the third night had come. The moon was hanging midway in the
sky, white and full, for it was barely past midnight.
The high precipitous banks of the rocky road threw a dense black
shadow into the gully below, and in that crooked inky line that
scarred the white face of the moonlit rocks a band of some
thirty men were creeping slowly and stealthily nearer and nearer
to Castle Drachenhausen. At the head of them was a tall, slender
knight clad in light chain armor, his head covered only by a
steel cap or bascinet.
Along the shadow they crept, with only now and then a faint
clink or jingle of armor to break the stillness, for most of
those who followed the armed knight were clad in leathern
jerkins; only one or two wearing even so much as a steel breast-
plate by way of armor.
So at last they reached the chasm that yawned beneath the
roadway, and there they stopped, for they had reached the spot
toward which they had been journeying. It was Baron Henry of
Trutz-Drachen who had thus come in the silence of the night time
to the Dragon's house, and his visit boded no good to those
within.
The Baron and two or three of his men talked together in low
tones, now and then looking up at the sheer wall that towered
above them.
"Yonder is the place, Lord Baron," said one of those who stood
with him. "I have scanned every foot of the wall at night for a
week past. An we get not in by that way, we get not in at all. A
keen eye, a true aim, and a bold man are all that we need, and
the business is done." Here again all looked upward at the gray
wall above them, rising up in the silent night air.
High aloft hung the wooden bartizan or watch-tower, clinging to
the face of the outer wall and looming black against the pale
sky above. Three great beams pierced the wall, and upon them the
wooden tower rested. The middle beam jutted out beyond the rest
to the distance of five or six feet, and the end of it was
carved into the rude semblance of a dragon's head.
"So, good," said the Baron at last; "then let us see if thy plan
holds, and if Hans Schmidt's aim is true enough to earn the
three marks that I have promised him. Where is the bag?"
One of those who stood near handed the Baron a leathern pouch,
the Baron opened it and drew out a ball of fine thread, another
of twine, a coil of stout rope, and a great bundle that looked,
until it was unrolled, like a coarse fish-net. It was a rope
ladder. While these were being made ready, Hans Schmidt, a
thick-set, low-browed, broad-shouldered archer, strung his stout
bow, and carefully choosing three arrows from those in his
quiver, he stuck them point downward in the earth. Unwinding the
ball of thread, he laid it loosely in large loops upon the
ground so that it might run easily without hitching, then he
tied the end of the thread tightly around one of his arrows. He
fitted the arrow to the bow and drew the feather to his ear.
Twang! rang the bowstring, and the feathered messenger flew
whistling upon its errand to the watch-tower. The very first
shaft did the work.
"Good," said Hans Schmidt, the archer, in his heavy voice, "the
three marks are mine, Lord Baron."
The arrow had fallen over and across the jutting beam between
the carved dragon's head and the bartizan, carrying with it the
thread, which now hung from above, glimmering white in the
moonlight like a cobweb.
The rest was an easy task enough. First the twine was drawn up
to and over the beam by the thread, then the rope was drawn up
by the twine, and last of all the rope ladder by the rope. There
it hung like a thin, slender black line against the silent gray
walls.
"And now," said the Baron, "who will go first and win fifty
marks for his own, and climb the rope ladder to the tower
yonder?" Those around hesitated. "Is there none brave enough to
venture?" said the Baron, after a pause of silence.
A stout, young fellow, of about eighteen years of age, stepped
forward and flung his flat leathern cap upon the ground. "I will
go, my Lord Baron," said he.
"Good," said the Baron, "the fifty marks are thine. And now
listen, if thou findest no one in the watch-tower, whistle thus;
if the watchman be at his post, see that thou makest all safe
before thou givest the signal. When all is ready the others will
follow thee. And now go and good luck go with thee."
The young fellow spat upon his hands and, seizing the ropes,
began slowly and carefully to mount the flimsy, shaking ladder.
Those below held it as tight as they were able, but nevertheless
he swung backward and forward and round and round as he climbed
steadily upward. Once he stopped upon the way, and those below
saw him clutch the ladder close to him as though dizzied by the
height and the motion but he soon began again, up, up, up like
some great black spider. Presently he came out from the black
shadow below and into the white moonlight, and then his shadow
followed him step by step up the gray wall upon his way. At
last he reached the jutting beam, and there again he stopped for
a moment clutching tightly to it. The next he was upon the beam,
dragging himself toward the window of the bartizan just above.
Slowly raising himself upon his narrow foothold he peeped
cautiously within. Those watching him from be low saw him slip
his hand softly to his side, and then place something between his
teeth. It was his dagger. Reaching up, he clutched the window
sill above him and, with a silent spring, seated himself upon
it. The next moment he disappeared within. A few seconds of
silence followed, then of sudden a sharp gurgling cry broke the
stillness. There was another pause of silence, then a faint
shrill whistle sounded from above.
"Who will go next?" said the Baron. It was Hans Schmidt who
stepped forward. Another followed the arch up the ladder, and
another, and another. Last of all went the Baron Henry himself,
and nothing was left but the rope ladder hanging from above, and
swaying back and forth in the wind.
That night Schwartz Carl had been bousing it over a pot of
yellow wine in the pantry with his old crony, Master Rudolph,
the steward; and the two, chatting and gossiping together, had
passed the time away until long after the rest of the castle had
been wrapped in sleep. Then, perhaps a little unsteady upon his
feet, Schwartz Carl betook himself homeward to the Melchior
tower.
He stood for a while in the shadow of the doorway, gazing up
into the pale sky above him at the great, bright, round moon,
that hung like a bubble above the sharp peaks of the roofs
standing black as ink against the sky. But all of a sudden he
started up from the post against which he had been leaning, and
with head bent to one side, stood listening breathlessly, for he
too had heard that smothered cry from the watch-tower. So he
stood intently, motionlessly, listening, listening; but all was
silent except for the monotonous dripping of water in one of the
nooks of the court-yard, and the distant murmur of the river
borne upon the breath of the night air. "Mayhap I was mistaken,"
muttered Schwartz Carl to himself.
But the next moment the silence was broken again by a faint,
shrill whistle; what did it mean?
Back of the heavy oaken door of the tower was Schwartz Carl's
cross-bow, the portable windlass with which the bowstring was
drawn back, and a pouch of bolts. Schwartz Carl reached back
into the darkness, fumbling in the gloom until his fingers met
the weapon. Setting his foot in the iron stirrup at the end of
the stock, he wound the stout bow-string into the notch of the
trigger, and carefully fitted the heavy, murderous-looking bolt
into the groove.
Minute after minute passed, and Schwartz Carl, holding his
arbelast in his hand, stood silently waiting and watching in the
sharp-cut, black shadow of the doorway, motionless as a stone
statue. Minute after minute passed. Suddenly there was a
movement in the shadow of the arch of the great gateway across
the court-yard, and the next moment a leathern-clad figure crept
noiselessly out upon the moonlit pavement, and stood there
listening, his head bent to one side. Schwartz Carl knew very
well that it was no one belonging to the castle, and, from the
nature of his action, that he was upon no good errand.
He did not stop to challenge the suspicious stranger. The taking
of another's life was thought too small a matter for much
thought or care in those days. Schwartz Carl would have shot a
man for a much smaller reason than the suspicious actions of
this fellow. The leather-clad figure stood a fine target in the
moonlight for a cross-bow bolt. Schwartz Carl slowly raised the
weapon to his shoulder and took a long and steady aim. Just then
the stranger put his fingers to his lips and gave a low, shrill
whistle. It was the last whistle that he was to give upon this
earth. There was a sharp, jarring twang of the bow-string, the
hiss of the flying bolt, and the dull thud as it struck its
mark. The man gave a shrill, quavering cry, and went staggering
back, and then fell all of a heap against the wall behind him.
As though in answer to the cry, half a dozen men rushed
tumultuously out from the shadow of the gateway whence the
stranger had just come, and then stood in the court-yard,
looking uncertainly this way and that, not knowing from what
quarter the stroke had come that had laid their comrade low.
But Schwartz Carl did not give them time to discover that; there
was no chance to string his cumbersome weapon again; down he
flung it upon the ground. "To arms!" he roared in a voice of
thunder, and then clapped to the door of Melchior's tower and
shot the great iron bolts with a clang and rattle.
The next instant the Trutz-Drachen men were thundering at the
door, but Schwartz Carl was already far up the winding steps.
But now the others came pouring out from the gateway. "To the
house," roared Baron Henry.
Then suddenly a clashing, clanging uproar crashed out upon the
night. Dong! Dong! It was the great alarm bell from Melchior's
tower - Schwartz Carl was at his post.
Little Baron Otto lay sleeping upon the great rough bed in his
room, dreaming of the White Cross on the hill and of brother
John. By and by he heard the convent bell ringing, and knew that
there must be visitors at the gate, for loud voices sounded
through his dream. Presently he knew that he was coming awake,
but though the sunny monastery garden grew dimmer and dimmer to
his sleeping sight, the clanging of the bell and the sound of
shouts grew louder and louder. Then he opened his eyes. Flaming
red lights from torches, carried hither and thither by people in
the court-yard outside, flashed and ran along the wall of his
room. Hoarse shouts and cries filled the air, and suddenly the
shrill, piercing shriek of a woman rang from wall to wall; and
through the noises the great bell from far above upon Melchior's
tower clashed and clanged its harsh, resonant alarm.
Otto sprang from his bed and looked out of the window and down
upon the court-yard below. "Dear God! what dreadful thing hath
happened?" he cried and clasped his hands together.
A cloud of smoke was pouring out from the windows of the
building across the court-yard, whence a dull ruddy glow flashed
and flickered. Strange men were running here and there with
flaming torches, and the now continuous shrieking of women
pierced the air.
Just beneath the window lay the figure of a man half naked and
face downward upon the stones. Then suddenly Otto cried out in
fear and horror, for, as he looked with dazed and bewildered
eyes down into the lurid court-yard beneath, a savage man, in a
shining breast-plate and steel cap, came dragging the dark,
silent figure of a woman across the stones; but whether she was
dead or in a swoon, Otto could not tell.
And every moment the pulsing of that dull red glare from the
windows of the building across the court-yard shone more
brightly, and the glare from other flaming buildings, which Otto
could not see from his window, turned the black, starry night
into a lurid day.
Just then the door of the room was burst open, and in rushed
poor old Ursela, crazy with her terror. She flung herself down
upon the floor and caught Otto around the knees. "Save me!" she
cried, "save me!" as though the poor, pale child could be of any
help to her at such a time. In the passageway without shone the
light of torches, and the sound of loud footsteps came nearer
and nearer.
And still through all the din sounded continually the clash and
clang and clamor of the great alarm bell.
The red light flashed into the room, and in the doorway stood a
tall, thin figure clad from head to foot in glittering chain
armor. From behind this fierce knight, with his dark, narrow,
cruel face, its deep-set eyes glistening in the light of the
torches, crowded six or eight savage, low-browed, brutal men,
who stared into the room and at the white-faced boy as he stood
by the window with the old woman clinging to his knees and
praying to him for help.
"We have cracked the nut and here is the kernel," said one of
them who stood behind the rest, and thereupon a roar of brutal
laughter went up. But the cruel face of the armed knight never
relaxed into a smile; he strode into the room and laid his iron
hand heavily upon the boy's shoulder. "Art thou the young Baron
Otto?" said he, in a harsh voice.
"Aye," said the lad; "but do not kill me."
The knight did not answer him. "Fetch the cord hither," said he,
"and drag the old witch away."
It took two of them to loosen poor old Ursela's crazy clutch
from about her young master. Then amid roars of laughter they
dragged her away, screaming and scratching and striking with her
fists.
They drew back Otto's arms behind his back and wrapped them
round and round with a bowstring. Then they pushed and hustled
and thrust him forth from the room and along the passageway, now
bright with the flames that roared and crackled without. Down
the steep stairway they drove him, where thrice he stumbled and
fell amid roars of laughter. At last they were out into the open
air of the court-yard. Here was a terrible sight, but Otto saw
nothing of it; his blue eyes were gazing far away, and his lips
moved softly with the prayer that the good monks of St.
Michaelsburg had taught him, for he thought that they meant to
slay him.
All around the court-yard the flames roared and snapped and
crackled. Four or five figures lay scattered here and there,
silent in all the glare and uproar. The heat was so intense that
they were soon forced back into the shelter of the great
gateway, where the women captives, under the guard of three or
four of the Trutz-Drachen men, were crowded together in dumb,
bewildered terror. Only one man was to be seen among the
captives, poor, old, half blind Master Rudolph, the steward, who
crouched tremblingly among the women. They had set the blaze to
Melchior's tower, and now, below, it was a seething furnace.
Above, the smoke rolled in black clouds from the windows, but
still the alarm bell sounded through all the blaze and smoke.
Higher and higher the flames rose; a trickle of fire ran along
the frame buildings hanging aloft in the air. A clear flame
burst out at the peak of the roof, but still the bell rang forth
its clamorous clangor. Presently those who watched below saw the
cluster of buildings bend and sink and sway; there was a crash
and roar, a cloud of sparks flew up as though to the very
heavens themselves, and the bell of Melchior's tower was stilled
forever. A great shout arose from the watching, upturned faces.
"Forward!" cried Baron Henry, and out from the gateway they
swept and across the drawbridge, leaving Drachenhausen behind
them a flaming furnace blazing against the gray of the early
dawning.
VIII.
In the House of the Dragon Scorner.
Tall, narrow, gloomy room; no furniture but a rude bench a bare
stone floor, cold stone walls and a gloomy ceiling of arched
stone over head; a long, narrow slit of a window high above in
the wall, through the iron bars of which Otto could see a small
patch of blue sky and now and then a darting swallow, for an
instant seen, the next instant gone. Such was the little baron's
prison in Trutz-Drachen. Fastened to a bolt and hanging against
the walls, hung a pair of heavy chains with gaping fetters at
the ends. They were thick with rust, and the red stain of the
rust streaked the wall below where they hung like a smear of
blood. Little Otto shuddered as he looked at them; can those be
meant for me, he thought.
Nothing was to be seen but that one patch of blue sky far up in
the wall. No sound from without was to be heard in that gloomy
cell of stone, for the window pierced the outer wall, and the
earth and its noises lay far below.
Suddenly a door crashed without, and the footsteps of men were
heard coming along the corridor. They stopped in front of Otto's
cell; he heard the jingle of keys, and then a loud rattle of one
thrust into the lock of the heavy oaken door. The rusty bolt was
shot back with a screech, the door opened, and there stood Baron
Henry, no longer in his armor, but clad in a long black robe
that reached nearly to his feet, a broad leather belt was
girdled about his waist, and from it dangled a short, heavy
hunting sword.
Another man was with the Baron, a heavy-faced fellow clad in a
leathern jerkin over which was drawn a short coat of linked
mail.
The two stood for a moment looking into the room, and Otto, his
pale face glimmering in the gloom, sat upon the edge of the
heavy wooden bench or bed, looking back at them out of his great
blue eyes. Then the two entered and closed the door behind them.
"Dost thou know why thou art here?" said the Baron, in his deep,
harsh voice.
"Nay," said Otto, "I know not."
"So?" said the Baron. "Then I will tell thee. Three years ago
the good Baron Frederick, my uncle, kneeled in the dust and
besought mercy at thy father's hands; the mercy he received was
the coward blow that slew him. Thou knowest the story?"
"Aye," said Otto, tremblingly, "I know it."
"Then dost thou not know why I am here?" said the Baron.
"Nay, dear Lord Baron, I know not," said poor little Otto, and
began to weep.
The Baron stood for a moment or two looking gloomily upon him,
as the little boy sat there with the tears running down his
white face.
"I will tell thee," said he, at last; "I swore an oath that the
red cock should crow on Drachenhausen, and I have given it to
the dames. I swore an oath that no Vuelph that ever left my
hands should be able to strike such a blow as thy father gave to
Baron Frederick, and now I will fulfil that too. Catch the boy,
Casper, and hold him."
As the man in the mail shirt stepped toward little Otto, the boy
leaped up from where he sat and caught the Baron about the
knees. "Oh! dear Lord Baron," he cried, "do not harm me; I am
only a little child, I have never done harm to thee; do not harm
me."
"Take him away," said the Baron, harshly.
The fellow stooped, and loosening Otto's hold, in spite of his
struggles and cries, carried him to the bench, against which he
held him, whilst the Baron stood above him.
Baron Henry and the other came forth from the cell, carefully
closing the wooden door behind them. At the end of the corridor
the Baron turned, "Let the leech be sent to the boy," said he.
And then he turned and walked away.
Otto lay upon the hard couch in his cell, covered with a shaggy
bear skin. His face was paler and thinner than ever, and dark
rings encircled his blue eyes. He was looking toward the door,
for there was a noise of someone fumbling with the lock without.
Since that dreadful day when Baron Henry had come to his cell,
only two souls had visited Otto. One was the fellow who had come
with the Baron that time; his name, Otto found, was Casper. He
brought the boy his rude meals of bread and meat and water. The
other visitor was the leech or doctor, a thin, weasand little
man, with a kindly, wrinkled face and a gossiping tongue, who,
besides binding wounds, bleeding, and leeching, and
administering his simple remedies to those who were taken sick
in the castle, acted as the Baron's barber.
The Baron had left the key in the lock of the door, so that
these two might enter when they chose, but Otto knew that it was
neither the one nor the other whom he now heard at the door,
working uncertainly with the key, striving to turn it in the
rusty, cumbersome lock. At last the bolts grated back, there was
a pause, and then the door opened a little way, and Otto thought
that he could see someone peeping in from without. By and by the
door opened further, there was another pause, and then a
slender, elfish-looking little girl, with straight black hair
and shining black eyes, crept noiselessly into the room.
She stood close by the door with her finger in her mouth,
staring at the boy where he lay upon his couch, and Otto upon
his part lay, full of wonder, gazing back upon the little elfin
creature.
She, seeing that he made no sign or motion, stepped a little
nearer, and then, after a moment's pause, a little nearer still,
until, at last, she stood within a few feet of where he lay.
"Art thou the Baron Otto?" said she.
"Yes," answered Otto.
"Prut!" said she, "and is that so! Why, I thought that thou wert
a great tall fellow at least, and here thou art a little boy no
older than Carl Max, the gooseherd." Then, after a little pause
- "My name is Pauline, and my father is the Baron. I heard him
tell my mother all about thee, and so I wanted to come here and
see thee myself: Art thou sick?"
"Yes," said Otto, "I am sick."
"And did my father hurt thee?"
"Aye," said Otto, and his eyes filled with tears, until one
sparkling drop trickled slowly down his white face.
Little Pauline stood looking seriously at him for a while. "I am
sorry for thee, Otto," said she, at last. And then, at her
childish pity, he began crying in earnest.
This was only the first visit of many from the little maid, for
after that she often came to Otto's prison, who began to look
for her coming from day to day as the one bright spot in the
darkness and the gloom.
Sitting upon the edge of his bed and gazing into his face with
wide open eyes, she would listen to him by the hour, as he told
her of his life in that far away monastery home; of poor, simple
brother John's wonderful visions, of the good Abbot's books with
their beautiful pictures, and of all the monkish tales and
stories of knights and dragons and heroes and emperors of
ancient Rome, which brother Emmanuel had taught him to read in
the crabbed monkish Latin in which they were written.
One day the little maid sat for a long while silent after he had
ended speaking. At last she drew a deep breath. "And are all
these things that thou tellest me about the priests in their
castle really true? " said she.
"Yes," said Otto, "all are true."
"And do they never go out to fight other priests?"
"No," said Otto, "they know nothing of fighting."
"So!" said she. And then fell silent in the thought of the
wonder of it all, and that there should be men in the world that
knew nothing of violence and bloodshed; for in all the eight
years of her life she had scarcely been outside of the walls of
Castle Trutz-Drachen
At another time it was of Otto's mother that they were speaking.
"And didst thou never see her, Otto?" said the little girl.
"Aye," said Otto, "I see her sometimes in my dreams, and her
face always shines so bright that I know she is an angel; for
brother John has often seen the dear angels, and he tells me
that their faces always shine in that way. I saw her the night
thy father hurt me so, for I could not sleep and my head felt as
though it would break asunder. Then she came and leaned over me
and kissed my forehead, and after that I fell asleep."
"But where did she come from, Otto?" said the little girl.
"From paradise, I think," said Otto, with that patient
seriousness that he had caught from the monks, and that sat so
quaintly upon him.
"So!" said little Pauline; and then, after a pause, "That is why
thy mother kissed thee when thy head ached - because she is an
angel. When I was sick my mother bade Gretchen carry me to a far
part of the house, because I cried and so troubled her. Did thy
mother ever strike thee, Otto?"
"Nay," said Otto.
"Mine hath often struck me," said Pauline.
One day little Pauline came bustling into Otto's cell, her head
full of the news which she carried. "My father says that thy
father is out in the woods somewhere yonder, back of the castle,
for Fritz, the swineherd, told my father that last night he had
seen a fire in the woods, and that he had crept up to it without
anyone knowing. There he had seen the Baron Conrad and six of
his men, and that they were eating one of the swine that they
had killed and roasted. "Maybe," said she, seating herself upon
the edge of Otto's couch; "maybe my father will kill thy father,
and they will bring him here and let him lie upon a black bed
with bright candles burning around him, as they did my uncle
Frederick when he was killed."
"God forbid!" said Otto, and then lay for a while with his hands
clasped. "Dost thou love me, Pauline?" said he, after a while.
"Yes," said Pauline, "for thou art a good child, though my
father says that thy wits are cracked."
"Mayhap they are," said Otto, simply, "for I have often been
told so before. But thou wouldst not see me die, Pauline;
wouldst thou?"
"Nay," said Pauline, "I would not see thee die, for then thou
couldst tell me no more stories; for they told me that uncle
Frederick could not speak because he was dead."
"Then listen, Pauline," said Otto; "if I go not away from here I
shall surely die. Every day I grow more sick and the leech
cannot cure me." Here he broke down and, turning his face upon
the couch, began crying, while little Pauline sat looking
seriously at him.
"Why dost thou cry, Otto?" said she, after a while.
"Because," said he, "I am so sick, and I want my father to come
and take me away from here."
"But why dost thou want to go away?" said Pauline. "If thy
father takes thee away, thou canst not tell me any more
stories."
"Yes, I can," said Otto, "for when I grow to be a man I will
come again and marry thee, and when thou art my wife I can tell
thee all the stories that I know. Dear Pauline, canst thou not
tell my father where I am, that he may come here and take me
away before I die?"
"Mayhap I could do so," said Pauline, after a little while, "for
sometimes I go with Casper Max to see his mother, who nursed me
when I was a baby. She is the wife of Fritz, the swineherd, and
she will make him tell thy father; for she will do whatever I
ask of her, and Fritz will do whatever she bids him do."
"And for my sake, wilt thou tell him, Pauline?" said Otto.
"But see, Otto," said the little girl, "if I tell him, wilt thou
promise to come indeed and marry me when thou art grown a man?"
Yes," said Otto, very seriously, " I will promise."
"Then I will tell thy father where thou art," said she.
"But thou wilt do it without the Baron Henry knowing, wilt thou
not, Pauline?"
"Yes," said she, "for if my father and my mother knew that I did
such a thing, they would strike me, mayhap send me to my bed
alone in the dark."
IX.
How One-eyed Hans came to Trutz-Drachen.
Fritz, the swineherd, sat eating his late supper of porridge out
of a great, coarse, wooden bowl; wife Katherine sat at the other
end of the table, and the half-naked little children played upon
the earthen floor. A shaggy dog lay curled up in front of the
fire, and a grunting pig scratched against a leg of the rude
table close beside where the woman sat.
"Yes, yes," said Katherine, speaking of the matter of which they
had already been talking. "It is all very true that the
Drachenhausens are a bad lot, and I for one am of no mind to say
no to that; all the same it is a sad thing that a simple-witted
little child like the young Baron should be so treated as the
boy has been; and now that our Lord Baron has served him so that
he, at least, will never be able to do us 'harm, I for one say
that he should not be left there to die alone in that black
cell."
Fritz, the swineherd, gave a grunt at this without raising his
eyes from the bowl.
"Yes, good," said Katherine, "I know what thou meanest, Fritz,
and that it is none of my business to be thrusting my finger
into the Baron's dish. But to hear the way that dear little
child spoke when she was here this morn - it would have moved a
heart of stone to hear her tell of all his pretty talk. Thou
wilt try to let the red-beard know that that poor boy, his son,
is sick to death in the black cell; wilt thou not, Fritz?"
The swineherd dropped his wooden spoon into the bowl with a
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