Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE BOY AND

THE BARON

“THE TWO KNIGHTS WHEELED THEIR HORSES AND DASHED AT EACH OTHER AGAIN AND AGAIN.”

S^T. NICHOLAS BOOKS

THE BOY AND THE BARON

BY ADELINE KNAPP

NEW YORK · THE CENTURY CO · MCMII

Copyright, 1901, 1902, by

The Century Co.

Published October, 1902

THE DEVINNE PRESS

TO

MERODINE KEELER

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE BOY AND

THE BARON

CHAPTER I
WHAT THE CHILDREN SAW FROM THE PLAYGROUND ON THE PLATEAU

One sunny forenoon in the month of May, something over six hundred years ago, some children were playing under the oak-trees that grew in little companies here and there in a pleasant meadow on a high plateau. This meadow was part of a great table-land overlooking a wide stretch of country. It was hedged along the west with white-thorn, setting it off from the tillage on the other side, and on the east it dipped to the bank of a little stream fringed with willows and low bushes. The south side descended in a steep cliff, and up and down its slope the huts of a little village seemed to climb along the stony path that led to the plateau. Farther away lines of dark forest stretched off out of sight, in solid walls that looked almost black over against the bright green of meadow and field and the rich brown of the tilled land. On all sides were mountains, covered with trees or crowned with snow, from which, when the sun went down, the wind blew chill. Beyond the stream a highway climbed the valley, and the children could see, from their playground, the place where it issued from the edge of the wood. They could not follow its windings very far beyond the plateau, however, for it soon bent off to the left and wound up a narrow pass among the hills.

Toward the north, and far overhead, rose the grim walls and towers of the great castle that watched the pass and sheltered the little village on the cliffside. Those were rude, stern times, and the people in the village were often glad of the protection which the castle gave from attacks by stranger invaders; but they paid for their security, from time to time, when the defenders themselves sallied forth upon the hamlet and took toll from its flocks and herds.

It was “the evil time when there was no emperor” in Germany. Of real rule there was none in the land, but every man held his life in his own charge. Knights sworn to deeds of mercy and bravery, returning from the holy war which waged to uphold Christ’s name at Jerusalem, were undone by the lawlessness of the times, and, forgetful of all knightly vows, turned robbers and foes where they should have been warders and helpers. The lesser nobles and landholders were become freebooters and plunderers, while the common people, pillaged and oppressed by these, had few rights and less freedom, as must always be the case with peoples or with single souls where there is no strong law, fended and loved by those whom it is meant to help.

The children under the oak-trees played at knights and robbers. Neighboring the meadow was the common pasture, where tethered goats and sheep, and large, slow cattle, stood them as great flocks and caravans to sally out upon and harry. Now and again a party would break forth from one clump of trees to raid their playmates in a pretended village within another. Of storming castles, or of real knights’ play, they knew naught; for they were of the common people, poor working-folk sunk to a state but little above thraldom, and heard, in the guarded talk of their elders, stories only of the robber knights’ dark acts, never of deeds daring and true, such as belong to unspotted knighthood.

As the whole company lay in make-believe ambush among the shrubbery near the edge of the plateau, Ludovic, the oldest boy, suddenly called to them to look where, from the forest, a figure on horseback was coming out upon the highway.

“See,” Ludovic cried. “Yonder comes a sightly knight. Look, Hansei, at his shining armor and his glittering lance.”

“He is none of hereabout,” nodded Hansei, flashing his wide blue eyes upon the gleaming figure. “My lord’s men-at-arms are none so shining fair. Whence may he be, Ludovic?”

“How should I know?” asked Ludovic, testily, with the older boy’s vexation when a youngster asks him that which he cannot answer.

“Small chance he bringeth good,” added he, “wherever he be from; but, in any case, let us lie here until he passes.”

“He weareth a long, ruddy beard,” said keen-eyed Gretel, as a slight bend in the road brought the knight full-facing the group. “Oh, Ludovic,” she suddenly cried, “what if it should be Barbarossa, come to help the land again?”

“Barbarossa!” exclaimed Ludovic, scornfully. “Old woman’s yarn! Mark ye, Gretel, Barbarossa will never wake from his sleep. He has forgotten the land. My father says God has forgotten it in his heaven, and how shall Barbarossa remember it, sleeping in his stone chamber? No; it is the truth: he will never come.”

“It is no long beard,” said Hansei, who had been watching eagerly. “’Tis something that he bears before him at his saddle-peak.”

This was indeed true. The shining stranger, as the children could now plainly see, held in front of him, on the saddle-peak, a good-sized burden, though what it was the young watchers could not, for the distance, make out. Nevertheless they could see that it was no common burden; nor, in truth, was it any common figure that rode along the highway. He was still some distance off, but already the children began to hear the ring of the great horse’s iron hoofs on the stones of the road, and the jangle of metal about the rider when sword and armor clashed out their music to the time of trotting hoofs. As they watched and harkened, their delight and wonder ever growing, they suddenly caught, when the knight had now drawn much closer, the tuneful winding of a horn.

“THE SHINING STRANGER HELD IN FRONT OF HIM A GOOD-SIZED BURDEN.”

The rider on the highway heard the sound as well; but, to the children’s amaze, instead of pricking forward the faster, like a knight of hot courage, he drew rein and turned half-way about, as minded to seek shelter among the willows growing along-stream. There was no shelter there, however, for man or horse, and on the other hand the narrowing valley shut the road in, with no footing up the wooded bluff. When the knight saw all this, he rode close into the thicket, and leaning from his saddle, dropped, with wondrous gentleness, his burden among the osiers.

“’Tis some treasure,” murmured Ludovic. “He fears the robber knights may get it.”

By now there showed, coming down the pass, another knight. But the second comer was no such goodly figure as the one below. His armor, instead of gleaming in the sunlight, was tarnished and stained. His helmet was black and unplumed, and upon his shield appeared the white cross of a Crusader. Nevertheless, albeit of no glistening splendor, he was of right knightly mien, and the horse he bestrode was a fine creature, whose springy step seemed to scorn the road he trod.

“’Tis a knight from the castle,” the children said, and Hansei added: “Mighty Herr Banf, by his white cross. Now there will be fighting.”

Down below, where the road widened a bit, winding with a bend of the stream, the shining stranger sat his horse, waiting, lance at rest, to see what the black knight would do. The moment the latter espied him he left the matter in no doubt, but couched his lance and bore hard along the road, as minded to make an end of the stranger; whereupon the latter urged forward his own steed, and the two came together with a huge rush, so that the crash of armor against armor rang out fierce and clear up the pass, and both spears were shattered in the onset.

Then the two knights fought with their swords, dealing such blows as seemed to the children watching enough to fell forest trees. They wheeled their horses and dashed at each other again and again, until the air was filled with the din of fighting, and the young watchers were spellbound at the sight.

The shining stranger was a knight of valor, despite the unwillingness he first showed. He laid on stoutly with his blade, so that more than once his foe reeled in saddle; but the black knight came back each time with greater fury, while the stranger and his horse were plainly weary.

Especially was this true of the horse. Eagerly he wheeled and sprang forward to each fresh charge; but each time he dashed on more heavily, and more than once he stumbled, so that his rider missed a blow, and was like to have come to the ground through the empty swing of his sword.

At last the Crusader came on with mighty force, whereupon his foe charged again to meet him; but the weary horse stumbled, caught himself, staggered forward a pace or two, and came first to his knees, then shoulder down, upon the rough stones of the road. The shining knight pitched forward over his head, and lay quite still in the highway, while the Crusader reined in beside him with threatening blade, and shouted to him to cry “quits.” But the stranger neither moved nor spoke; so the other lighted down from his horse and bent over him to see his face.

“PUTTING HORN TO LIP, HE BLEW FOUR GREAT BLASTS.”

When he had done this he drew back, and putting horn to lip, blew four great blasts, which he repeated again and again, waiting after each to listen.

Presently an answering horn sounded in the distance, and a little later a party of mounted men came dashing down the road from the castle. These clustered about the fallen knight, and when one who seemed to be their leader, and whom the children knew for Baron Everhardt himself, saw the stranger’s face, he turned to the victor and for very joy smote him between the iron-clad shoulders—from which the children thought that the newcomer could have been no friend of their baron.

Then the men stooped and by main force lifted the limp figure, in its jangling armor, and set it astride the great horse that stood stupidly by, as wondering what had befallen his master. The latter made no move, but lay forward on the good steed’s neck, and so they made him fast; after doing which, the whole party turned their faces upward and rode along toward the castle.

Not until the last sound died away up the pass did the children come out from their maze and great awe. They drew back from the edge of the cliff and looked wonderingly at one another, for it seemed to them as if years must have gone by since they had begun their play on the plateau. At last Ludovic spoke.

“The treasure is still among the osiers,” he said. “When night falls, Hansei, thou and I will slip down across the stream and find it. There may be great riches there. But no word about it, for if they knew it at the castle we should lose our pains.”

Solemnly little Hansei agreed to Ludovic’s plan, and the children left the plateau, climbing down the rocky goat-paths to their homes along the cliff.

CHAPTER II
HOW KARL THE ARMORER TOOK THE SHINING KNIGHT’S TREASURE FROM AMONG THE OSIERS

The children had scarcely gone from the plateau when there came down the defile from the castle a figure unlike, in manner and attire, any that had but shortly before gone that road.

This was a tall, broad-shouldered man, clad in leather that was worn and creased, showing much hard wear. Over his left shoulder he carried two great swords in their scabbards, and his right hand gripped a long, stout staff, the iron point of which now and then rang out against the stone of the road as he thrust his great arm forward in rhythm with the huge stride of his long, leather-clad legs. The face beneath his hood was brown and weather-beaten, of long and thoughtful mold, but turned from overmuch sternness by the steady, kindly gleam of his gray eyes, pent in under great brows that met midway of his forehead, almost hiding the eyes from sight.

Had the children still been upon the plateau they would have known the figure for Karl of the forge in the forest below the village. He had been, as was often his errand, to the castle, this time with a breast-let that he had wrought for the baron, and was returning with the very sword wherewith the Herr Banf had made end of the shining knight, and with that blade also which had been the stranger’s own, to make good all hurts to their tempered edges and fit them for further service in battle.

He swung along the descending road until he came over against the place by the clump of osiers, where the children had seen the knight drop his burden. There he suddenly stopped, and leaned to listen. He thought that he heard a faint cry from the green tangle, so he waited a little space, to learn if it would sound again. Sure enough, it came a second time—a feeble, piteous moan, as of some young creature in distress and spent with long wailing.

“Now that is a pity,” thought Karl. “Some wee lamb has slipped off the cliff and fallen into the stream.”

He looked doubtfully at his burden, wondering what time it might take him to go to the rescue; but the little cry came again, so piteously that his soft heart would not let him wait longer. So, leaving the swords behind a boulder, he plunged in among the osiers; but he had gone but a step or two when he started back in dismay, for he had nearly trodden upon a yellow-haired babe who sat among the willows, looking up at him with great blue eyes in which the tears yet stood. Terror was in every line of the small face, but the baby made no further sound. He only looked earnestly up at the bearded, black-browed face bent over him, until he met the armorer’s eyes. Then he reached up his arms, and Karl stooped and raised him to his broad chest.

“Now what foul work is here, do you suppose?” he muttered to himself. “This is no chick from the village, nor from the castle either, I’ll be bound, or there’d have been hue and cry ere this.”

He pressed back the little face that had been buried against his neck, and surveyed it sharply. “What is thy name, little one?” he demanded at last.

At sound of the armorer’s voice the child again looked at him, and seemed not to understand the question until Karl had several times repeated it, saying the words slowly and plainly, when at last the baby said, with a touch of impatience: “Wulf! Wulf!” adding plaintively: “Wulf hungry!”

Then he broke down and sobbed tiredly on Karl’s big shoulder, so that the armorer was fain to hush him softly, comforting him with wonderful gentleness, while he drew from his own wallet a bit of coarse bread and gave it to the little fellow. The latter ate it with a sharp appetite, and afterward drank a deep draught from the leather cup which Karl filled from the stream. As he was drinking, a sound was heard as of some one passing on the road, whereupon the boy became suddenly still, looking at Karl in a way that made the armorer understand that for some reason it had been taught him that unknown sounds were a signal for silence.

“Ay?” thought Karl. “That’s naught like a baby. He’s been with hunted men, to learn that trick!”

When the child had eaten and drunk all he would, he settled down again in Karl’s arms, asking no questions—if, indeed, he could talk enough to do so, a matter of which the armorer doubted, for the little chap was but three or four years old at most. He seemed, however, well wonted to strangers, and to being carried from place to place; for he took it kindly when Karl settled him against his shoulder, throwing over him a sort of short cloak of travel-stained red stuff, in which he had been wrapped as he lay among the osiers, and stepped out upon the road. He first made sure that no one was in sight; then, regaining the swords, he walked hurriedly forward, minded to leave the highway as soon as he reached a little footpath he knew that led through the forest to his forge.

Good fortune favored him, and he gained the footpath without meeting any one; so that ere long the two were passing through the deep, friendly wood, the baby fast asleep in Karl’s arms, one small arm half encircling the armorer’s big neck, the other little fist clenched in the meshes of his grizzled beard. Karl stepped softly as any woman, lest his charge awaken and take fresh fright at the gloomy way before them, and at the tall, dark trees, whose branches met over the travelers’ heads.

Thus they fared, until at last they reached the forge, and the hut where the armorer dwelt alone. The way through the wood had been long, and the afternoon was well-nigh spent when Karl laid little Wulf upon a heap of skins just beyond the great chimney, and set himself to prepare food for himself and his charge.

CHAPTER III
HOW WULF FARED AT KARL THE ARMORER’S HUT

Big Karl the armorer was busy at his forge, next morning, long before his wee guest awakened from the deep sleep of childhood, which he slept upon a pile of pelts in a corner of the smithy. Working with deft lightness of hand at a small, long anvil close beside the forge, Karl had tempered and hammered the broken point of Herr Banf’s sword until the stout blade was again ready for yeoman service, and then he turned to the stranger knight’s blade, which was broken somewhat about the hilt and guard.

It was a good weapon, and as Karl traced his finger thoughtfully down its length he turned it toward the open door, that the early sunlight might catch it. Then he suddenly gave a start, and hastily carried the sword out into the full daylight, where he stared it over closely from hilt to point, turning it this way and that, with knit brows and a look of deep sorrow on his browned visage. After that he strode into the smithy, and went over to where the boy lay, still fast asleep.

Turning him over upon the pelts, he studied the little face as sharply as he had done the sword, noting the broad white brow, the delicate round of the cheek, and the set of the chin, firm despite its baby curves; and as he did so a great sternness came over the face of the armorer.

“There’s some awful work here,” he said at last to himself. “Heaven be praised I came upon the little one! Would that I might have had a look at the face of that big knight.”

Still musing, he turned and went to a cleverly hid cupboard in the wall beside the great chimney. Opening this, he disclosed an array of blades of many sorts and shapes, and from among these he took one that in general appearance seemed the fellow of the stranger’s weapon, save that it had, to all look, seen but scant service in warfare.

Karl compared the two, and then set to a strange task. Hanging the service-battered sword naked within the cupboard, he took the new blade and began to ill-treat it upon his anvil—battering the hilt, taking a bit of metal from the guard, and putting nicks into the edge, only to beat and grind them very carefully out again. He took a bottle of acid from a shelf and spilled a few drops where blade met hilt, wiping it off again when it had somewhat stained and roughened the steel. This roughness he afterward smoothed away, and worked at the sword until he had it in fair semblance of a hardly used tool put in good order by a skilful smith.

This done he sheathed it in the scabbard which the stranger had worn, and which was a fair sheath, wrought with gold ornaments cunningly devised. Karl looked at it with longing.

“I’d like well to save it for ye, youngster,” he said; “but ’tis a fair risk as it stands. Let Herr Ritter Banf alone for having spied the gold o’ this sheath; it must e’en go back to him.” He laid the sheathed weapon away in a chest with Herr Banf’s own until such time as he should make his next trip to the castle.

He had hardly done when, turning, he beheld the child watching him from the pile of skins, looking at the strange scene about him, but keeping quiet, though the tender lips quivered and the look in the blue eyes filled Karl with pity.

“There’s naught to fear, little one,” he said with gruff kindness, lifting the boy from the pile. “I make sure you’re hungry by now, and here’s the remedy for that—and for fear, too, of your sort.” And from out the coals of the forge he drew a pannikin, where it had been keeping warm some porridge.

Very gently he proceeded to give it to the child, with some rich goat’s milk to help it along. In truth, however, it needed not that to give the boy an appetite. He had eaten nothing the night before, seeming starved for sleep, but now he ate in a half-famished way that touched Karl’s heart.

“In sooth, now,” the latter said, watching him, “thou’st roughed it, little one, and much I marvel what it all may mean. But one thing sure, this is no time to be asking about the farings of any of thy breed, so thou shalt e’en bide here with old Karl till these evil days lighten, or Barbarossa comes to help the land—if it be not past helping. It’ll be hard fare for thee, my sweet, but there’s no doing other. The castle yonder were worse for thee than the forge, here, with Karl.”

“Karl?” The child spoke with the fearless ease of one wonted, even thus early, to question strangers, and to be answered by them.

“Ay, Karl,” replied the armorer. “Karl, who will be father and mother to thee till such time as God sends thee to thine own again.”

“Good Karl,” said the baby, when the man ceased speaking, and he reached out his hands to the armorer. The latter lifted him and carried him to the forge door.

“Thou’rt a sturdy rascal,” he said, nodding approval of the firm, well-knit little figure. “Sit thou there and finish the porridge.”

The little fellow sat in the wide door of the smithy and ate his coarse food with a relish good to see. It was a rough place into which he had tumbled—how rough he was too young to realize; but much worse, even of outward things, might have fallen to his share, as, indeed, we shall see ere we have finished with young Wulf.

Deep within the heart of each one of us, no matter how old, there lives a child. All our strength, all that the years bring us of gain or good, help us not at all if these do not serve to fend this child from harm, and to keep it good. Big Karl at his forge knew naught of books, and to him, in those evil days, had come much knowledge of the cruelty and wickedness of evil men. Nevertheless, safe within his strong nature dwelt the child-soul, unhurt by all these. It looked from his honest blue eyes, and put tenderness into the strength of his great hands when he touched the other child, and this child-soul was to be the boy’s playmate through the years of childhood. A wholesome playmate it was, keeping Wulf company cleanly-wise, and no harm came to him, but rather good.

“THE FOREST’S SMALL WILD LIFE CONSTANTLY CAME IN AT THE OPEN DOOR.”

Then, beside the ministering care of the gentle, manly big armorer, little Wulf had through those years the teaching and companionship of the great forest. It grew close up about the shop, so that its small wild life constantly came in at the open door, or invited the youngster forth to play. Rabbits and squirrels peeped in at him; birds wandered in and built their nests in dark corners; and one winter a vixen fox took shelter with them, remaining until spring, and grew so tame that she would eat bread from Wulf’s hand.

The great trees were his constant companions and friends, but one mighty oak that grew close beside the door, and sent out its huge arms completely over the shop, became, next to Karl, his chosen comrade. Whenever the armorer had to go to village or castle, Wulf used to take shelter in this tree; not so much from fear,—for even in those evil days the armorer’s grandson, as he grew to be regarded by those who came about the forge, was too insignificant to be molested,—but because of his love for the great tree. As he became older he was able to climb higher and higher among its black arms, until at last he made him a nest in the very crown of the wood giant.

Every tree, throughout its life, stores up within its heart light and heat from the sun. It does this so well, because it is its appointed task in nature, that the very life and love that the sun stands for to us become a part of its being, knit up within its woody fiber. When we burn this wood in our stoves or our fireplaces, the warmth and blaze that are thrown out are just this sunshine which the tree has caught in its heart from the time it was a tiny seedling till the ax was laid at its root. So when we sit by the coal fire and enjoy its genial radiance, we are really warming ourselves by some of the same sunlight and warmth that sifted down through the leaves of great forest trees, perhaps thousands of years ago.

Of course little Wulf did not know all this as we know it, but doubtless he knew much else that we do not know at all; at all events, he knew the sunshine of his own time and his own forest, and into his sound young heart there crept, as the years went by, somewhat of the strength and the sunshine-storing quality of his forest comrade, until, long before he became a man, those who knew him grew to feel that here was a strong, warm heart of human sunshine, ready to be useful and comforting wherever use and comfort were needed.

At first faint memories haunted him; but as the years passed he learned to think of them as a part of one of Karl’s stories—one that he always meant to ask him to tell again, sometime. The years slipped away, however, and his childish impressions grew fainter and fainter, until at last they had quite faded into the far past.

But all this came about years after, and could not possibly have been foreseen by Karl the armorer as he stood at his forge and thought sadly on his own inability to do all that needed doing for the little one so suddenly and so strangely thrust upon his care.

CHAPTER IV
OF HOW WULF FIRST WENT TO THE CASTLE, AND WHAT BEFELL

For a matter of nine or ten years Wulf dwelt with Karl at the forge, and knew no other manner of finding than if he had been indeed the armorer’s own grandson, as he was known to those who took the trouble to wonder, Karl himself never dissenting to the idea. He was now a well grown lad of perhaps fourteen years, not tall, but sturdy, strong of thigh and arm, good to look at, with a ruddy color, fair hair, and steady eyes that met the gaze fearlessly.

Karl had taught him to fence and thrust, and much of sword-play, in which the armorer was skilled, and while his play at these was that of a lad, the boy could fairly hold his own with cudgel and quarter-staff, and more than once had surprised Karl by a clever feint or twist or a stout blow, when, as was their wont on summer evenings, the two wrestled or sparred together on the short green grass under the great oak-tree. Also, Wulf was beginning to be of use at the forge, and great was his joy when, after repeated attempts, he at last made for himself a knife of excellent temper and an edge which even Karl found good. Thereafter this knife was his belt companion in all his woodland journeys.

He was happy, going about his work with the big armorer, or wandering up and down the forest, or, of long winter evenings, sitting beside the forge fire watching Karl, who used to sit, knife in hand, deftly carving a long-handled wooden spoon, or a bowl. The women in the village were always glad to trade for these with fresh eggs, or a pat of butter, or a young fowl; for the armorer had as clever a knack with his knife as with his hammer. On these evenings he used to fill the boy’s spirit with joy by tales of knightly craft, and of the brave gentlemen who, in years past, had ridden to the holy wars, and of deeds of gentleness and courage done by brave knights for country and king and the truth. Then it was that young Wulf felt his heart glow within him, and he longed for the time when he too might fare out to fight for the good, and to free the land from the evil that wasted field and meadow and ground down the people until no man dared hold up his head or meet, level-eyed, the gaze of his fellow.

It happened, at last, on a day when Karl was making ready to go to the castle with a corselet which he had mended for the baron himself, that the armorer met with an accident that changed Wulf’s whole life. Karl was doing a bit of tinkering on the smaller anvil by the forge, when one support of the iron gave way, and it fell, crushing the great toe of one foot so that the stout fellow fairly rocked with the pain, while Wulf made haste to prepare a poultice of wormwood for the hurt member.

Despite all their skill, however, the toe continued to swell and to stiffen, until it was plain that all thought of Karl’s climbing the mountain that day, or for many days to come, must be put aside.

“There’s no help for it, lad,” he said at last, as he sat on the big chest scowling blackly at his foot in its rough swathings. “It’s well on toward noon now, and the baron will pay me my wage on my own head if his corselet be not to hand to-day; for he rides to-morrow, with a company from the castle, on an errand beyond. Thou’lt need to take the castle road, boy, and speedily, if thou’rt to be back by night.”

Nothing could have pleased Wulf more than such an errand; for although he often went with Karl on other matters about the country, and had even gone with him as far as the Convent of St. Ursula on the other side of the forest, the armorer, despite his entreaties, had never allowed him to go along when his way lay toward the Swartzburg. This had puzzled the boy greatly, for Karl steadfastly refused him any reason why it should be. In truth Karl could hardly have given reason even to himself for his action. His unwillingness to take Wulf to the castle was, however, really grounded upon a fear of what as yet unknown thing might happen.

The boy made all haste, therefore, to get ready for the journey, lest Karl should repent of his plan. It was but the shortest of quarter-hours, in fact, before—his midday meal in a wallet at his belt, the armorer’s iron-shot staff in his hand, and the corselet slung over his shoulder—he was passing through the wood toward the road to the Swartzburg.

Walking with the easy swing of one well wonted to the exercise, it was not so very long ere he had cleared the forest and was stepping up the rough stone road that climbed the mountain pass to the castle. He crossed the stream at a point very near the clump of willows below the plateau where, years before, the children had watched the shining knight’s encounter with Herr Banf. Other children played on the plateau, as the little ones had done that fair morning, but Wulf hastened on, mindful only of the new adventure that lay before him.

Up and up the stony way he trudged stoutly, until it became at last the merest bridle-path, descending to the open moat across which the bridge was thrown. On a tower above he descried the sentry, and below, beyond the bridge, the great gates into the castle garth stood open.

Doubting somewhat as to what he ought to do, he crossed the bridge and passed through the gloomy opening that pierced the thick wall. Once inside, he stood looking about him curiously, forgetful, in his wonder and delight at the scene, that Karl had told him to ask for Gotta Brent, Baron Everhardt’s man-at-arms, and to deliver the corselet to him. This, by now, he had slipped from his shoulder and held with his arm thrust through its length, his fingers grasping its lower edge.

He was still without the inner wall of the castle, in a sort of courtyard of great size, the outer bailey of the stronghold. Beyond where he stood he could see a second wall with big gates similar to the one through which he had just passed. Before these gates in the outer court two young men were fencing, while a third stood beside them, acting as a sort of umpire or judge of fence. The contestants were very equally matched, and Wulf watched them with keenest enjoyment. He had fenced with Karl, and once or twice a knight, while waiting at the forge, had deigned to pass the time in crossing blades with the boy, always to the latter’s discomfiture; but he had never before stood by while two skilled men were at sword-play, and the sight held him spellbound.

Thanks to Karl, he was familiar with the mysteries of quart and tierce and all the rest, and followed with knowing delight each clever feint and thrust, made with the grace and precision of good fence. He could watch forever, it seemed to him; but as he stood thus, following the beautiful play, out through the gate of the inner bailey came three children—a girl a year or two younger than he, and two boys about his own age.

He gave them but the briefest glance, for just at that moment the players began a new set-to, and claimed his attention. In a little bit, however, he felt a sharp buffet at side of the head, and, turning, saw that one of the boys had thrown the rind of a melon so as to strike him on the cheek. As Wulf looked around, both the boys were laughing; but the little girl stood somewhat off from them, her eyes flashing and her cheeks aglow as with anger. She said no word, but looked with great scorn upon her companions.

“Well, tinker,” called the boy who had thrown the melon-rind, “mind thy manners before the lady! Have off thy cap or thou’lt get this,” and he grasped the other half-rind of melon, which the second boy held.

“Nay, Conradt!” the little maid cried, staying his hand. “The lad is a stranger, and come upon an errand; do we treat such folk thus?”

Wulf’s cap was by now in his hand, and, with crimson cheeks, he made a shy salutation to the little girl, who returned it courteously, while the boys still laughed.

“What dost thou next, tinker?” the one whom she had called Conradt said, strutting forward. “Faith, thy manners sorely need mending. What dost to me?”

“Fight you,” said Wulf, quick as a flash, and then drew back, abashed; for, as the boy came forward, he saw that he bore a great hump upon his twisted back, while one of his shoulders was higher than the other.

The deformed boy saw the motion, and his face grew dark with rage and hate.

“Thou’lt fight me?” he screamed, springing forward. “Ay, that thou shalt, and rue it after, tinker’s varlet that thou art!” And with his hand he smote Wulf upon the mouth, whereupon he dropped the corselet and clenched his fists, but could lay no blow on the pitiful creature before him. Seeing this, the other, half crazed with anger, drew a short sword which he wore, and made at Wulf, who raised the armorer’s staff which he still held and struck the little blade to the ground.

By now the two fencers and their umpire were drawn near to see the trouble, and one of them picked up the sword.

“Come, cockerel,” he said, restoring it to him, “put up thy spur and let be. Now, lad, what is the trouble?” and he turned sharp upon Wulf.

“’Tis the armorer’s cub,” he said to his companions as he made him out. “By the rood, lad, canst not come on a small errand for thy master without brawling in this fashion in the castle yard? Go do thy message and get about home, and bid thy master teach thee what is due thy betters ere he sends thee hither again.”

“Yon lad struck me,” Wulf said stoutly. “I’ve spoken no word till now.”

“Truly, Herr Werner,” put in the little girl, earnestly, “it is as he says. Conradt has e’en gone far out of his way to show the boy an ill will, though he has done naught.”

At this Herr Werner looked again upon Conradt. “So, cockerel,” he said. “Didst not get wisdom from the last pickle I pulled thee out of?”

“Why does the fellow hang about here, then?” demanded Conradt, sulkily. “Let him go to the stables, as he should, and leave his matter there.”

“I was to see Gotta Brent,” Wulf said, ignoring Conradt and speaking to the young knight.

“See him ye shall,” was the reply. But anything further that Herr Werner might have said was cut short by the sound of a great hue and cry of men, and a groom ran through the gate shouting:

“Back! Back for your lives! The foul fiend himself is loose here!”

At his heels came half a dozen men, with stable forks and poles, and two others who were hanging with all their weight upon the bridle-reins of a great horse that was doing his best to throw off their hold, rearing and plunging furiously, and now and again lashing out with his iron-shod hoofs.

There was a hurrying to shelter of the group about Wulf, who stood alone now, staring at the horse. The latter finally struck one of the grooms, so that the fellow lay where he rolled, at one side of the court, and then began a battle royal between horse and men.

One after another, and all together, the men tried to lay hold upon the dangling rein, only to be bitten, or struck, or tossed aside, as the case might be, until at last the huge beast stood free, in the middle of the court, while the grooms and stable-hangers made all haste to get out of the way, some limping, others rubbing heads or shoulders, and one nursing a badly bitten arm.

“Tinker,” called the knight from behind an abutment of the wall, “art clean daft? Get away, before he makes a meal off thee! Gad! ’twill take an arrow to save him now; and for that any man’s life would be forfeit to Herr Banf.”

There was a scream from the little girl; for the horse had spied Wulf, and came edging toward him, looking wild enough, with ears laid back and teeth showing, as minded to make an end to the boy, as, doubtless, he was. For the life of him Wulf could not have told why he was not afraid as he stood there alone, and with no weapon save the armorer’s staff, which he had not time to raise ere the beast was upon him.

Then were all who looked on amazed at what they saw, for close beside Wulf the horse stopped and began smelling the boy. Then he took to trembling in all his legs, and arched his neck and thrust his big head against Wulf’s breast, until, half dazed, the boy raised a hand and began patting the broad neck and stroking the mane of the charger.

“By the rood,” cried one of the grooms, “the tinker hath the horseman’s word, and no mistake! The old imp knows it.”

“THE BOY BEGAN PATTING THE BROAD NECK OF THE CHARGER.”

“See if thou canst take the halter, boy,” called Herr Werner; and laying a hand upon the rein, Wulf stepped back a pace, whereupon the horse pressed close to him and whinnied eagerly, as if fearful that Wulf would leave him. He smelled him over again, thrusting his muzzle now into Wulf’s hands, now against his face, and putting up his nose to take the boy’s breath, as horses do with those they love.

“By my forefathers!” cried Herr Werner. “Could Herr Banf see him now—aha!”

He paused; for, hurrying into the courtyard, followed by still another frightened groom, came a knight who, seeing Wulf and the horse, stood as if rooted in his tracks. Softly now the charger stepped about the boy, nickering under his breath, so low that his nostrils hardly stirred; and at last he brought his knees to the pave, stooping meekly, as one who loved a service he would do, and thus waited.

An instant Wulf stood dazed. Then he passed his hand across his forehead; for a strange, troubled notion, as of some forgotten dream, passed through his brain. At last, obeying some impelling instinct, that yet seemed to him like a memory, he laid a hand upon the horse’s withers and sprang to his back.

Up, then, rose the noble creature, and stepped about the courtyard, tossing his head and gently champing the bit, as a horse will when he is pleased.

“Ride him to the stables, boy, and I will have word with thee there,” cried the older knight, who had come out last; and pressing the rein, though still wondering to himself how he knew what to do, Wulf turned the steed through the inner gate, to the bailey, and letting him have his head, was carried proudly to the stables, whence the throng of grooms and stable-boys had come rushing. They came to the group of outbuildings and offices that made up the stables, followed by all the men, Herr Banf in the lead, and the place, which had been quite deserted, was immediately thronged, attendants from the castle itself coming on a run, as news spread of the wonderful thing that was happening.

Once within the stable-yard, the horse stood quiet to let Wulf dismount; but not even Herr Banf himself would he let lay a hand upon him, though he stood meek as a sheep while the boy, instructed by the knight, did off the bridle and fastened on the halter; then he led his charge into a stall that one of the lads pointed out to him, and made him fast before the manger. When this was done the horse gave a rub of his head against Wulf, and then turned to eating his fodder, quietly, as though he never had done otherwise.

Then Herr Banf took to questioning Wulf sharply; but the boy could tell him but little. Indeed, some instinct warned him against speaking even of the faint thoughts stirring within him. He was full of anxiety to get away to Karl and tell him of this wonderful new experience, and he could say naught to the knight, save that he was Karl the armorer’s grandson, that he had never had the care of horses, and in his life had backed but few, chiefly those of the men-at-arms who rode with their masters to the forge when Karl’s skill was needed. He was troubled, too, about Karl’s hurt, of which he told Herr Banf, and begged to be let to hasten back to the smithy.

“Go, then,” said Herr Banf, at last, “and I will see thy grandsire to-morrow; thou’rt too promising a varlet to be left to grow up an armorer. We need thy kind elsewhere.”

So, when he had given the nearly forgotten corselet to Gotta Brent, Wulf fared down the rocky way to the forge, where he told Karl all that had chanced to him that day.

“Let that remain with thee alone, boy,” the armorer said, when the boy had told him of the strange memories that teemed in his brain. “These are no times to talk of such matters an thou ’dst keep a head on thy shoulders. Thou’rt of my own raising, Wulf; but more than that I cannot tell thee, for I do not know.” And there the lad was forced to let the matter rest.

“It is all one with my dreams,” he said to himself, as he sought his bed of skins. “Mayhap other dreams will make it clearer.”

But no dreams troubled his healthy boy’s sleep that night, nor woke he until the morning sun streamed full in his upturned face.

CHAPTER V
HOW WULF WENT TO THE SWARTZBURG, AND OF HIS BEGINNING THERE

It was maybe a week after Wulf’s visit to the Swartzburg that Herr Banf rode through the forest to the smithy. He was mounted upon the great stallion that had been so wild that day, and as he drew rein before the shop the horse gave a shrill neigh, for he smelled Wulf. Karl’s foot was by so far recovered that he was able to limp about the forge, and he and the boy were busy mending a wrought hauberk of fine chain mail which the lady superior of St. Ursula had sent to them that morning.

“A fair day, friend Karl,” the knight called out as he sat his horse under the big oak-tree. “Here am I come for that youngster of thine. He is too useful a scamp to be let spend his days tinkering here. Haply he has told ye how this big Siegfried of mine took to him. I’ faith, not a groom at the castle can handle the horse!”

“Ay?” said Karl, and he said no more, but stood with hands folded upon the top of his hammer and looked steadily at Herr Banf. Wulf, meanwhile, had dropped the tongs that he held, and run out to the horse, who now stood nuzzling his neck and face in great delight.

“By th’ rood,” cried Herr Banf, “’tis plain love at first sight! Came another so near Siegfried’s teeth, and I’d look to see him eaten. I must have the boy, Karl!”

Now, that great horse was none other than the one which the shining knight had bestrode on the day of his meeting with Herr Banf. The Crusader had taken the beast for his own charger, and a rare war-horse he was, but getting on in years by now, and turning wild at times, after the manner of his kind. Not a groom or stable-lad about the castle but had reason to know his temper; so that, because of their fear of him, the horse often lacked for care.

When Herr Banf had said that Wulf must come with him, Karl stood silent for a moment, watching the lad at Siegfried’s head; then, turning to the knight, he said:

“In truth, they seem fast friends. Well, it shall be as the boy shall choose.”

“For what he says I will undertake,” the knight said, laughing. “Wilt come to the castle, lad?”

Wulf looked from the horse to Karl and back again. ’Twere easy to see where his desire lay.

“Shall I be able to see Grandsire Karl now and then?” he asked.

“As often as need be,” said Herr Banf.

“What shall I say?” Wulf turned to Karl.

“What thou wilt,” the armorer nodded. “We have talked o’ that.”

So had they, and Wulf’s question was but the last wavering of the boy’s heart, loath to leave all it had yet known. In another moment his will regained its strength, and the matter ended in his taking again the climbing road up the Swartzburg pass, this time with a hand clinging to Herr Banf’s stirrup-leather, while the great horse stepped gently, keeping pace with the boy’s stride.

“Where didst learn to bewitch a horse, lad?” the knight asked as they journeyed. “What is thy ‘horseman’s word’?”

“I have none,” was the reply. “The horse seemed to know me, and I him. I cannot tell how or other.”

“By my forefathers, but beasts be hard to understand as men! What was’t thou didst, by the way, to the little crooked cock at the castle?”

“Him they call Conradt, Herr Knight? I did naught.”

“Well, he means to fight thee for it.”

“Nay,” replied Wulf, “that he’ll not.”

“How is that?”

“It would not be becoming for me to fight him.”

“So,” Herr Banf said grimly. “Thou’st a good idea of what is due thy betters.”

“It is not that,” explained Wulf, simply. “I am the better of us two; a whole man goes not against a weakling.”

The knight looked keenly down at the lad, noting as he had not done before the easy movement of his body as he stepped lightly along, more like a soldier than like a peasant. He was alert and trim, with shapely shoulders and the head carried well up.

“A queer armorer’s lad, this,” thought Herr Banf, in some wonder. But by now they were before the castle watch-tower, and in a moment more, still with one hand at the knight’s stirrup, Wulf again entered at the castle gate. There, in the outer bailey, Herr Banf lighted down, and bade Wulf take Siegfried to the stables for the night.

A crowd of grooms were about the gates of the stable-yard as the boy came up, for the word had spread that the tinker had returned to take charge of the big horse, and dark looks were bent upon the newcomer.

“Shall I do with him as before?” Wulf asked of one of the loungers.

“That thou ’lt find out for thyself,” was the surly answer, whereupon the other fellows laughed jeeringly.

Nothing daunted, Wulf proceeded to do off Siegfried’s harness, amid the rude comments of the grooms, and by dint of using all his wit he managed to get the horse haltered and in stall.

Then he climbed to the loft and threw down some hay into the manger, as Karl had been mindful to tell him how, after which he found a measure and started in quest of the corn-house. The boys followed at his heels, helping none, but getting great sport out of his hunt.

He found the place at last, and climbed the steps, still pursued by the jeering grooms. Heeding them naught, he walked along the corn-house floor, peering into the different bins, wondering from which to take the horse’s feed. At last he came to one about half full, and this he deemed to be the one he sought; so he sprang upon the edge and leaned forward to fill his measure.

No sooner had he done so than he felt himself pushed from behind, and over he shot, head foremost, into the grain. Turning about in the yielding stuff, he rose to his feet just in time to be struck full in the forehead by the heavy lid of the bin; for the cowardly varlets slammed it down upon him and ran off to the horse-barn.

Not one of them turned back, and for any effort of theirs it might have gone hard with Wulf; for he lay stunned and helpless, slowly smothering in the tight bin. Nor did he know when the lid was suddenly thrown back and a stern, wrathful man leaned over the edge to lift him out into the air. Then the man took him over his shoulder as if he had been a sack of meal, and carried him down the corn-house steps.

Into the horse-barn he bore him, and laid him upon the floor. The stable-boys were still there, and then the newcomer proceeded to score as one in authority, as indeed he was; for this was the master of the horse himself who now bent over Wulf, chafing his hands and doing what he could to bring him back to life; and so well did he work that ere long the boy sat up and looked about him until he presently remembered what was toward.

“Siegfried has not had his corn,” he said faintly; but the master of horse bade him be quiet.

“Thou, Hansei,” he said to the youngest of the boys who stood about, “get the measure and give the stallion his feed; and mind how thou goest about him. As for ye others, get to work for a set of black imps as ye are; and be thankful that ye hang not, every rapscallion of ye, for this foul trick.”

Picking up a billet of oak from where it lay on the floor, he hurled it among the group, who scattered, dodging this way and that, as every boy went to his own neglected task.

As for Wulf, he lay upon the barn floor and watched Hansei care for Siegfried, who was quiet enough now that the armorer’s lad was with him. The lad Hansei was the same who had played with the others on the plateau on that day when the shining knight rode up the pass. Well was it for our boy that the honest young peasant took a liking to him, and was minded to stand his friend, for he had else scarce found comfort at the castle.

It was Hansei who at supper-time took him into the great hall where the household and its hangers-on gathered for meals, and got for him a trencher and food; though little cared Wulf for eating on that first night when all was new and strange to him.

The hall was very large, and Wulf, looking up toward its lofty roof, could not see its timbers for the deep shadows there. At either end was a great fireplace, but the one at the upper end was the larger and finer. Near it, on a platform raised above the earthen floor, Baron Everhardt sat at board, with the knights of his train. Below them were the men-at-arms and lower officers of the castle; and seated upon benches about the walls were the fighting-men and general hangers-on of the place.

These sat not at board, but helped themselves to the food that was passed about among them after the tables were served, and ate, some from their hands, others from wooden trenchers which they had secured. Wulf and Hansei were among the lowliest of the lot, and the stable-boys did not sit down at all, but took their supper standing, leaning against the wall just inside the door and farthest from the hearth, and they were among the last served.

But, as we have seen, Wulf cared little, that night, for food or drink, though his new friend pressed him to eat. He was sore-hearted and weary, what with the strangeness and the hardness of it all. Soon the great tankards began to pass from hand to hand; and the men drank long and deep, while jests and mighty laughter filled all the place, until only Wulf’s sturdy boy’s pride kept him from stealing out, through the darkness, back to Karl at the forge.

Presently, however, he began to notice faces among the company at the upper end of the hall. Two or three ladies were present, having come in by another door when the meal was well over, and these were sitting with the baron and Herr Banf. One of the ladies, Hansei told him, was the baron’s lady, and with her, Wulf noticed, was the little girl whom he had seen at the time of his first visit to the castle.

“Who is she?” he asked.

“A ward of our baron’s,” Hansei answered, “and she is the Fräulein Elise von Hofenhoer. They say she is to be married, in good time, to young Conradt; and that be a sorry weird for any maiden.”

“Conradt?”

“Yea; the crooked stick yonder, the baron’s precious nephew.”

Following Hansei’s glance, Wulf descried the hunchback boy of his adventure seated at board, drinking from a great mug of ale. With him was the other boy, who, Hansei told him, was Waldemar Guelder, and some kin to Herr Banf, in whose charge he was, to be trained as a knight.

“He’s not such a bad one,” the stable-boy said, “an it were not for Master Conradt, who would drag down the best that had to do with him.”

Thus, one by one, Hansei pointed out knights and followers, squires and men, until in Wulf’s tired brain all was a jumble of names and faces that he knew not. Glad indeed was he when at last his companion nodded to him, and slipping out from the hall, they made their way to the horse-barn, where, up under the rafters of a great hay-filled loft, the pair made their beds in the fragrant grasses, and slept soundly until the stamping of horses below them, and the sunlight streaming into their faces through an open loft door, awakened them.

CHAPTER VI
HOW CONRADT PLOTTED MISCHIEF, AND HOW WULF WON A FRIEND

It was perhaps a matter of six weeks after Wulf’s coming to the Swartzburg that he sat, one day, in a wing of the stables, cleaning and shining Herr Banf’s horse-gear. He was alone at the time, for all of the younger boys and hangers-on of the place were gone about the matter of a rat-catching trial between two rival dogs whose bragging owners had matched them; and of the others, most had ridden with the baron on a freebooting errand against a body of merchants known to be traveling that way with rich loads of goods and much money. Only Herr Werner, of all the knights, was at the castle.

Save for Hansei, who stood by him stoutly, Wulf had as yet made no friends among his fellow-workers, but full well had he shown himself able to take his own part; so that his bravery and prowess, and his heartiness to help whenever a lift or a hand was needed, had already won him a place and fair treatment among them. Moreover, his quick wit and craft with Siegfried, the terror of the stables, made the master of horse his powerful friend. And, again, Wulf was already growing well used to the ways of the place, so that it was with a right cheerful and contented mind that he sat, that day, scouring away upon a rusty stirrup-iron.

Presently it seemed to him that he heard a little noise from over by the stables, and peering along under the arch of the great saddle before him, he saw a puzzling thing. Crossing the stable floor with wary tread and watchful mien, as minded to do some deed privily, and fearful to be seen, was Conradt.

“Now what may he be bent upon?” Wulf asked of his own thought. “No good, I’ll lay wager!” And he sat very still, watching every movement of the little crooked fellow.

Down the long row of stalls went the hunchback, until he reached the large loose box where stood Siegfried. The stallion saw him, and laid back his ears, but made no further sign of noting the newcomer. Indeed, since Wulf had been his tender the old horse had grown much more governable, and for a month or more had given no trouble.

Conradt’s face, however, as he drew nigh the stall, was of aspect so hateful and wicked that Wulf stilly, but with all speed, left his place and crept nearer, keeping in shelter behind the great racks of harness, to learn what might be toward. As he did so he was filled with amaze and wrath to see the hunchback, sword in hand, reach over the low wall of the stall and thrust at Siegfried. The horse shied over and avoided the blade, though, from the plunge he made, Wulf deemed that he had felt the point.

While the watcher stood dumfounded, wondering what the thing might mean, Conradt sneaked around to the other side, plainly minded to try that wickedness again, whereupon Wulf sprang forward, snatching up, on his way, a flail that lay to his hand, flung down by one of the men from the threshing-floor.

“Have done with yon!” he called as he ran; and forgetting, in his wrath, both the rank and the weakness of the misdoer, he shrieked: “What is’t wouldst do? Out with it, ere I husk thy soul from its shell with this!” and he raised the flail.

Taken unaware though he was, Conradt, who was rare skilful at fence, guarded on the instant, and by a clever twist of his blade cut clean in twain the leather hinge that held together the two halves of the flail. ’Twas a master stroke whereat, angry as he was, Wulf wondered, nor could he withhold a swordsman’s delight in the blow, albeit the sword’s wielder was plain proven a ruffian.

“WULF COULD NAUGHT BUT FEND AND PARRY WITH HIS STICK.”

He had small time to think, however, for by now Conradt let at him full drive, and he was sore put to it to fend himself from the onslaught, having no other weapon than the handle of the flail.

Evil was in the hunchback’s eyes as he pressed up against his foe, and evil lay at his heart as well, as Wulf was not slow to be aware. The latter could naught but fend and parry with his stick; but this he did with coolness and skill, as he stood back to wall against the stall, watching every move of that malignant wight with whom he fought.

Up, down, in, out, thrust, parry, return! The sounds filled the barn. Wulf was the taller and equally skilled, but Conradt’s weapon gave him an advantage that, but for the blindness of his hatred, had soon won his way for him. But soon he was fair weary with fury, and Wulf began to think that he would soon make end of the trouble, when he felt a sharp prick, and something warm and wet began to trickle down his right arm, filling his hand. Conradt saw the stain and gave a joyful grunt.

“One for thee, tinker,” he gasped, his breath nigh spent. “I’ll let a little more of thy mongrel blood ere I quit.”

“An thou dost,” cried Wulf, stung to a fury he seldom felt, “save a drop for thyself. A little that’s honest would not come amiss i’ the black stream in thy veins.” And he guarded again as Conradt came on.

This the latter did with a rush, at which Wulf sprang aside, and ere his foe could whirl he came at him askance, catching his sword-hand just across the back of the wrist with the tip of his stick, so that for an instant Conradt’s arm dropped, and the point of his blade touched the floor. ’Twas a trick in which Wulf felt little pride, though fair enough, and he did not follow up the advantage, knowing he had his enemy beaten for the time.

The hunchback stood glaring at Wulf, but ere he could move to attack again a voice cried: “Well done, tinker. An ye had a blade our cockerel had crowed smaller, and I had missed a rare bit of sport.”

On this both boys turned, for they knew that voice; and Herr Werner came forward, not laughing now, as mostly he was, but with a sterner look on his youthful face than even Conradt had ever seen.

“Now, then, how is this?” he demanded of Wulf. “What is this brawl about?”

The boy met Werner’s eyes frankly. “He had best tell,” he said, nodding toward Conradt.

“Suppose, then, thou dost”; and Herr Werner looked at the hunchback, who, his eyes going down before the knight’s, lied, as was his wont.

“He came at me with the flail, and,” he added, unable to withhold bragging, “I clipped it for him.”

“And what hadst done to make him come at thee?”

“I did but look at the horses, and stood to play with old Siegfried, here. ’Tis become so that my uncle the baron himself may yet look to be called to account by this tinker’s upstart.”

The stern lines about Herr Werner’s mouth grew deeper.

“Heed thou this, Conradt,” he said, with great earnestness. “Yonder was I, by the pillar, and saw this whole matter. What didst plan ill to the stallion for?”

“The truth is, not to have him hereabout,” muttered Conradt, his face dark with fear and anger. “These be my uncle’s stables, and this great beast hath had tooth or hoof toll from every one about the place.”

“True, i’ the main,” Herr Werner said scornfully. “Is this why the baron hath made thee master of the horse? Shall I tell him with what zeal thou followest thy duties?”

Conradt’s face was fair distorted now; fear of his uncle’s wrath was the one thing that kept the wickedness of his evil nature in any sort of check, and well he knew how bitter would be his taste of that wrath should this thing come to the baron’s ears. So, too, knew Herr Werner, and, in less manner, Wulf; for his keen wit had taught him much during his six weeks’ service at the castle.

“What shall I say to the baron of this?” demanded Herr Werner again, as he towered above them.

“I care not,” muttered Conradt, falsely; but Wulf said:

“Need aught be said, Herr Werner? I hold naught against him, save for Siegfried’s sake,”—with a loving glance over at the great horse,—“and ’tis not likely he’ll be at this mischief again.”

“What say, thou fine fellow?” asked the young knight of Conradt; but the latter said no word.

“Bah!” cried Herr Werner, at last. “Why, the tinker lad is a truer man than thou on every showing; get hence, that I waste on thee no more of the time should go to his wound,” he added; for Wulf, in moving his arm, had suddenly flinched and his face was pale. In another moment Herr Werner had the hurt member in hand, and as he was, like most men of that rude time, somewhat skilled in caring for wounds, he had soon bandaged this one, which was of no great extent, but more painful than serious, and was quickly eased.

Meanwhile Conradt had moved off, leaving the two alone. Though it would never be set to his credit, his malice had wrought a good work; for in that hour our Wulf got himself a strong and true friend in the young knight, who was fair won by the sterling stuff that showed in the lad.

“He hath more of knightliness in him here in the stables,” thought he, as he left Wulf, “than Conradt will ever know as lord of the castle; and, by my forefathers, he shall have what chance may be mine to give him!”

And that vow Herr Werner never forgot.

CHAPTER VII
HOW WULF CLIMBED THE IVY TOWER, AND WHAT HE SAW AT THE BARRED WINDOW

Good as his word had Herr Werner been in finding Wulf the chance to show that other stuff dwelt in him than might go to the making of a mere stable-lad. For the next three years he was under the young knight’s helping protection, and, thanks to the latter’s good offices in part, but in the end, as must always be the case, with boy or man, thanks to his own efforts, he made so good use of his chance that his tinker origin was haply overlooked, if not forgotten, by those left behind him as he mounted height by height of the castle’s life.

Not that these forgave him his rise. Those small, mean souls had sought the hurt of the boy, but, when all was said and done, ’twas hard to hold hatred of such a nature as his. The training of old Karl and of the forest had done its work well with him, and he was still the simple, sunny-hearted Wulf of the forge, ever ready to help, forgiving even where forgiveness was unsought, and keeping still, amid all the foulness and wickedness of that dark time and in that evil place, the clean, wholesome child nature that had dwelt in the baby among the osiers.

He was by now a sturdy, broad-chested young fellow, getting well on to manhood, noted for his strength, and for his skill in all the games and feats of prowess and endurance that were a part of the training of boys in those days. Already had he ridden with Herr Werner in battle, and though no real armiger, by reason of his lowly birth, yet was he, in the disorder of the times, unchallenged as the knight’s chosen attendant and buckler-bearer on the lawless raids on which the baron led his train. Indeed, the baron himself had more than once taken note of the youth, and had on two occasions made him his messenger on errands both perilous and nice, calling for wit as well as bravery.

Only Conradt hated him still—Conradt, with the sorry, twisted soul that held to hatred as surely as Wulf held to love. He was a year or two older than Wulf, and was already a candidate for knighthood; for, despite his crooked body, he was skilled, beyond many who rode in his uncle’s following, in all play at arms. There was no better swordsman even among the younger knights, and among the bowmen he had already a name.

Despite all this, however, the baron’s nephew was held in light esteem, even among that train of robbers and bandits—for naught better were they, in truth, despite their knighthood and their gentlehood. They lived by foray and pillage, and petty warfare with other bands like themselves, and in many a village were dark stories whispered of their wild raids.

Yet none of these would hold fellowship with Conradt, albeit they dared not openly flout the baron’s nephew. Nevertheless, he had gathered to himself a manner of following from the villages and countryside about the Swartzburg: criminals and refugees, for the most part, men who had suffered for their misdeeds at the hands of such law as was in the land; fellows whom no other leader would own, but who gladly fell in under a headship as bad as they. These ranged the forest wide and far, and from their evil raids was no poor man free nor helpless woman safe.

Well knew the baron, overlord of all that district, of the doings of his doughty nephew; but for reasons of his own he saw fit to wink at them, save when some worse infamy than common was brought to his notice in such fashion that he could not pass it by. He were a brave man, however, who could dare the baron’s wrath so far as to complain lightly to him of Conradt, so the fellow went for the most part scot-free of his misdeeds, save so far as he might feel the scorn and shunning of his equals.

It was on a bright autumn afternoon that a company of the boys and younger men of the Swartzburg were trying feats of strength, and of athletic skill, before the castle, in the inner bailey. From a little balcony overlooking the terrace the ladies of the household looked down upon the sports, to which their presence gave more than ordinary zest. Among the ladies was Elise, now grown a fair maiden of some fifteen years. Well was she known to be meant by the baron for the bride of his nephew; but this knowledge among the youths of the place did not hinder many a quick glance from wandering her way, and already had more than one young squire chosen her as the lady of his worship, for whose sake he pledged himself, as the manner of the time was, to deeds of bravery and high virtue.

The contestants in the courtyard had been wrestling and racing; there had been tilts with the spear, and bouts with the fists, and some sword-play, when at last one of the number challenged his fellows to a climbing trial of the hardest sort.

Just where the massive square bulk of the keep raised its grim stories, a great buttress thrust boldly out from the castle, running up beside the wall of the tower for a considerable distance. The two were just enough apart to be firmly touched, on either side, by a man who might stand between them, and it was a mighty test of courage and strength for a man to climb up between them, even a few yards, by hand and foot pressure only. It was a great feat to perform among the more ambitious knights and squires about the castle.

The challenger on this afternoon was young Waldemar Guelder, Herr Banf’s ward, now grown a stalwart squire; and he raised himself, by sheer strength of grip and pressure of foot and open hand against the rough stones, up and up, until he reached the point, some thirty feet above ground, where the buttress bent in to the main wall again, and gave no further support to the climber, who was fain to come down by the same way as he went up.

Shouts of “Well done! Well done!” greeted Waldemar’s deed when he reached the ground, panting, but flushed with pride, and looked up toward the balcony, whence came a clapping of fair hands and waving of white kerchiefs in token that his prowess had been noted.

Then one after another made trial of the feat; but none, not even Conradt, who was accounted among the skilfulest climbers, was able to reach the mark set by young Guelder, until, last of all, for he had given place time after time to his eagerer fellows, Wulf’s turn came.

He too glanced up at the balcony as he began the ascent, and Elise, meeting his glance, smiled down upon him. These two were good friends, in a frank fashion little common in that time, when the merest youths deemed it their duty to throw a tinge of sentimentality into their relation with all maids.

Conradt noted their glances, and glowered at Wulf as the latter prepared to climb. No sneer of his had ever moved Elise to treat “the tinker” with scorn. Indeed, Conradt sometimes fancied that her friendship for Wulf was in despite of him and of the mastership he often tried to assert over her. That, however, was impossible to an honest nature like Elise. She was Wulf’s friend because of her hearty trust in him and liking for him, and so she leaned forward now, eager to see what he might do toward meeting Waldemar’s feat.

Steadily Wulf set hands and feet to the stones, and braced himself for the work. Reach by reach he raised himself higher, higher, until it was plain to all that he would find it no task to climb where the champion had done.

“He’ll win to it!” cried one and then another of the watchers, and Waldemar himself shouted out encouragement to the climber when once he seemed to falter. At last came a cry from Hansei: “He has it! Hurrah!” and a general shout went up. From the balcony, too, came the sound of applause as Wulf reached the top of the buttress.

“In truth, our tinker hath mounted in the world,” sneered Conradt from the terrace. “Well, there’s naught more certain than that he’ll come down again.”

Wulf heard the words, as Conradt meant he should, and caught, as well, the laugh that rose from some of the lower fellows. Then a murmur of surprise went through the company.

The walls of the keep were overgrown with ivy, so that only here and there a mere shadow showed where a staircase window pierced the stones. In the recess where the young men were wont to climb the vines were torn down, but above the buttress, over both keep and castle, the great branches grew and clung, reaching clean to the top of the tower; and Wulf, unable to go farther between the walls, was now pulling himself up along the twisted ivy growth that covered the face of the tower.

On he went, minded to reach the top and scale the battlement. It was no such great feat, the lower wall once passed, but none of the watchers below had ever thought to try it, so were they surprised into the more admiration, while in the balcony was real fear for the adventurous climber.

He reached the top in safety, however, and passing along the parapet just below the battlement, turned a corner and was lost to their sight.

On the farther side of the keep he found, as he had deemed likely, that the ivy gave him safe and easy support to the ground, so lowering himself to the vines again, he began the descent.

He had gone but a little way when, feeling with his feet for a lower hold, he found none directly under him, but was forced to reach out toward the side to get it, from which he judged that he must be opposite a window, and lowering himself farther, he came upon two upright iron bars set in a narrow casement nearly overgrown with ivy. Behind the bars all seemed dark; but as Wulf’s eyes became wonted to the dimness, he became aware, first of a shadowy something that seemed to move, then of a face gaunt, white, and drawn, with great, unreasoning eyes that stared blankly into his own.

“LOWERING HIMSELF FARTHER, HE CAME UPON A NARROW CASEMENT NEARLY OVERGROWN WITH IVY.”

He felt his heart hammering at his ribs as he stared back. The piteous, vacant eyes seemed to draw his very soul, and a choking feeling came in his throat. For a full moment the two pairs of eyes gazed at each other, until Wulf felt as if his heart would break for sheer pity; then the white face behind the bars faded back into the darkness, and Wulf was ware once more of the world without, the yellow autumnal sunshine, and the green ivy with its black ropes of twisted stems, that were all that kept him from dashing to death on the stones of the courtyard below.

So shaken was he by what he had seen that he could scarcely hold by his hands while he reached for foothold. Little by little, however, he gathered strength, and came to himself again, until by the time he reached the ground he was once more able to face his fellows, who gathered about, full of praise for his feat.

But little cared our Wulf for their acclaim when, glancing up toward the balcony, he caught the wave of a white hand. His heart nearly leaped from his throat, a second later, as he saw a little gleam of color, and was aware that the hand held a bit of bright ribband which presently fluttered over the edge of the balcony and down toward the terrace.

It never touched earth. There was a rush toward it by all the young men, each eager to grasp the token; but Wulf, with a leap that carried his outstretched hand high above the others, laid hold upon the prize and bore it quickly from out the press.

“’Tis mine! Yield it!” screamed Conradt, rushing after him.

“Nay; that must thou prove,” laughed Wulf, and winning easily away from the hunchback, he ran through the inner bailey to his own quarters, whence, being busy about some matters of Herr Werner’s, he came forth not until nightfall. At that time Conradt did not see him; for the baron had summoned his nephew to him about a matter of which we shall hear more.

CHAPTER VIII
HOW BARON EVERHARDT WAS OUTLAWED, AND HOW WULF HEARD OF THE BABY IN THE OSIERS

One bright morning, not long after Wulf had climbed the ivy tower, there came to the Swartzburg a herald bearing a message whereat Baron Everhardt laughed long and loud. So also laughed the youngerlings of the place, when the thing came to be noised among them; albeit two or three, and in especial Wulf and Hansei, who was now head groom, laughed not, but were sore troubled.

The baron had been declared an outlaw.

For an emperor now ruled in Germany, and good folk had begun to dare hope that the evil days might be drawing to a close. The new emperor was none other than Rudolf of Hapsburg, he who had been count of that name, and since coming to the throne he had bent his whole mind and strength to the task of bringing peace and good days to the land, and order and law within reach of the unhappy common folk whose lives were now passed in hardship and fear.

To this end the Emperor Rudolf had early sent to summon all of the barons and the lesser nobles of the land to come to his help against the rebel counts Ulric and Eberhard of Würtemberg, who had joined with King Ottakar of Bohemia to defy the new ruler. The head of the Swartzburg had been summoned, with the others, but, filled with contempt for “the poor Swiss count,” as he dubbed the emperor, had defied him, and tore up the summons before the eyes of the herald who brought it.

Nevertheless, in spite of the refusal of nearly all the nobles to aid their emperor, the latter had, with his own men, gone against the two rebel counts and their kingly ally, and had beaten their armies and brought them to sue for peace. Now he was turning his attention to the larger task of putting fear of the law and of rightful authority into the hearts of the robber nobles.

Of these a goodly number were already declared outlaws, and now the baron’s turn had come. Moreover, one of the men of the Swartzburg, who had ridden beyond the mountains on a matter for the Herr Banf, had ridden back with word that the emperor, with a strong army, was already out against the outlawed strongholds, and meant soon to call at the Swartzburg.

“And a warm welcome shall we give this new emperor of ours,” boasted Conradt, on the castle terrace. “Emperor, forsooth! By the rood! Count Rudolf will have need of all his Swiss rabble if he would bring the Swartzburg’s men to knee before him!”

A chorus of assent greeted this speech. For once his hearers listened respectfully to the baron’s nephew. Right eager were all the young men for the fray that was threatening; and so great was their contempt for the emperor that they could see for it but one outcome.

“But that his Austrians were in revolt and his army divided,” declared one, “King Ottakar had never yielded to the Swiss. He of Hapsburg will find it a harder matter to yoke the German barons.” And all his hearers nodded assent to the bragging speech.

What Baron Everhardt, at council with his knights, thought of the outlook, not even Conradt, among those on the terrace, rightly knew; but a few hours later, by orders sent out through the stewards and the masters of arms and horse, the routine of the castle was being put upon a war footing, to the joy of the eager young men. All were busy, each at his own line of duty, in the work of preparation for battle, and, to Wulf’s delight, it fell to his lot to fare down the valley to the forge on an errand for Herr Werner, whose man he was.

It was a matter of some weeks since Wulf had seen Karl, and glad was he now to be going to him; for in his own mind he was sore perplexed in this matter of the new emperor’s proclamation of the baron, and he longed for the armorer’s wise and honest thought about it all.

“Thou hast seen this emperor of ours?” he said, as he sat curled, after his childish wont, in the doorway of the smithy, whence he could look, at will, within at the forge, or without adown a long green aisle of the forest.

“Ay,” said Karl, proudly; “his own man-at-arms was I, as thou knowest, and that was on the holy war. Served him have I, and gripped his hand—the hand of an honest man and a sore needed one in this land to-day.”

“Dost think he can master the barons?” the boy asked, and Karl looked troubled.

“These be ill times for thought, boy,” he said, “and worse for speech; but the emperor is ruler in the land, and if he bring not order into our midst, then in truth are the scoffers wise, and God hath forgotten us up in heaven.”

“Would I were of his train!” Wulf said quickly, and silence fell between them, during which the boy sat gazing, with troubled eyes, adown between the black trunks of the great trees. Karl, watching him, gathered rightly that he was worried as to his duty.

“An he be in truth the emperor by will of the people, and not alone of him at Rome,” Wulf added at last, “then are all true men who love Germany bound to come to his banner.”

“Ay.” Karl thrust the iron he was welding deep into the glowing coals of the forge.

“But I am of the Swartzburg’s men; and how may I be an honest one and fail at this moment when every blade is needed?”

“’Tis hard,” Karl said, “and that only thine own heart can teach thee.” He brought his hammer down upon the glowing iron till it sent out a shower of sparks. “No man may show another what honest action may be; but perhaps thou’rt nearer being the emperor’s man than the baron’s, were the truth known. An I guess rightly, ’twere ill faring if one of thy line raised blade against Rudolf of Hapsburg.”

The armorer muttered this half in his beard, nor looked at Wulf as he spoke.

“Nay, Karl,” the boy cried sharply; “make me no more riddles, but speak out plainly, man to man. What is this that thou hast ever held from me? What meanst thou by any line of mine?”

“Alas!” said the armorer, sadly. “Naught know I, in truth, and there’s the heartbreak. ’Tis a chain of which some links are missing, and ill work is it to make that blade fitten again. Would to God I did know, that I might speak of a surety that which my heart is settled upon. But this that I do know shalt thou hear to-day.” And coming over by the doorway, Karl took seat upon the great chest near by, and fell to telling Wulf of that which we already know—of his trip to the Swartzburg a dozen years before, and how he had taken him from the osiers.