Of a fearful battle with the Pagan Finlanders.
Now the summer had quite past away, and the autumnal winds began to
howl and rage among the wild mountains of the north, though the weather
in Gascony had been yet mild and beautiful. On the very same evening
when his bride had been carried away by the Moorish prince, Sir Otto
von Trautwangen had dismounted from his light-brown charger, and taken
his place in a narrow ravine of the mountains, in order to cut off
the approach of the Pagans by that passage; for their numbers had now
multiplied: they attacked the Christian army by means of ambuscades
from all sides; so that they were scarcely able to maintain the
ground which they had before won. Seeing the strange position which
the young Knight of Trautwangen had chosen, the Swedish prince, who
commanded the army, called out to him, demanding to know what was his
intention, and wherefore he had allowed himself to be left almost
alone? To which Sir Otto replied, “That the pass was too narrow to
admit of his being attacked by more than one at a time; and whosoever
of the enemy ventured in that manner to approach him would not fail to
meet with his match.” In truth, he stood there like a supernatural and
guardian-spirit; the graceful youth, with his light hair, and glowing
cheeks, contrasting strangely with the grim-visaged dwarfish Finlanders
by whom he was now assailed, and of whom with his single arm he had
cut down such numbers, that the dead bodies lay like a bulwark before
him, which seemed gradually to repulse and terrify his new adversaries.
At length, amid the crowd, was descried the approach of some one with
armour, which flashed like lightning in the sun’s rays. It was a Pagan
hero of Swedish birth, with a high helmet, adorned with horse-hair
instead of feathers, on his head, and who now came with his bright
weapons clashing and ringing against the Knight of Trautwangen. First,
his javelin flew singing through the air over the youth’s head, and
in a moment after his sword-strokes fell thick as hail on the black
eagle’s crest; by the sight of which he seemed specially enraged.
“Full well do I know thee, with thy black and silver helmet!” cried
the Swede, “and on thy head shall I now revenge my brother’s death,
who fell by thy sword on the hill-top in the forest. By thy javelin he
was struck, and thrown lifeless from his horse; but now, by the power
of Odin and the sword of Swerker, thou shalt pay blood for blood.” The
sword of Swerker did indeed inflict heavy blows, but that of Sir Otto
proved yet more powerful; and at length the Swede having received,
like his brother, a frightful wound on the forehead, began to totter
in such manner, that the Knight of Trautwangen seized him by the
horse-hair of his helmet, dragged him over the dead bodies, then hurled
him away backwards to his own soldiers, saying, “Take this man; let him
be carried to the tents in safety, and his wounds dressed. In due time
I shall demand him of you.”
Thereupon the Pagans recoiled some paces, and murmured among
themselves, not being able to understand the directions that Sir Otto
had then given. Only some inarticulate words fell on the knight’s ear,
who now, as if in mockery, seized the javelin which had been thrown
at him by the Swede, and hurled it at random among the Finlanders who
thus spoke together. Two of them fell to the ground bleeding, and
severely wounded, while, with a wild howl, the rest flew asunder;
after which they dispersed themselves into concealed thickets of the
mountain, and shot numberless arrows from a distance. But, trusting
to his well-proved and almost impregnable armour, he stood unmoved,
holding up his shield in the narrow pass, so as to defend, as well
as he could, the few soldiers of his own troop who were behind him,
and whose coats-of-mail were not so heavy. The arrows continued to
fall thicker and thicker, but did him no injury; so that, as if for
pastime, he began to take up these weapons and throw them about.
“Pitiful fighting!” said he; “it serves to keep us idle, and helps our
assailants not a jot!”
Then he heard a rustling close beside him in the thickets; and, lo!
from a narrow passage, like a cave in the rocks, which hitherto he had
not observed, he saw the features of a pagan Finlander, grinning with
rage, and preparing to assault him. Now then he proved the worth of the
sword which had been made for him by Asmandur; for he struck with it so
irresistibly, that the pagan’s head was cleft into two; but, as if some
demon of the mountains had assisted the adverse party, by opening to
them the subterraneous passages among the cliffs, this man was followed
by numberless others, who came howling and outrageous at his defeat.
The Knight of Trautwangen and his small band of Swedish supporters
(for his Normans were fighting on horseback on the plain beneath,) now
defended themselves valiantly, both against the attacks that were made
from the rocky cave, and those from the narrow foot-path. But their
number was already lessened by the departure of those to whom Sir Otto
had given in charge the wounded man; and it was easy to perceive, both
by the increasing force of the enemy, and the weariness of the hitherto
victorious Christians, that the moment drew near when the latter would
be over-matched and conquered. It happened at last, that one of their
pagan adversaries stretched out a long pole, with a banner, on which
there was painted a frightful figure of a dragon, or some such monster,
representing one of their idols. “Onwards, onwards!” cried he, “brave
Finlanders! Now you behold, indeed, that the gods are with you, and are
leading you on to victory!” The mob accordingly came forwards with loud
shouts of rejoicing, and anticipated triumph; but Sir Otto, throwing
back his shield over his left shoulder, seized his sword with both
hands, and with the raging energy of despair, cut his way towards this
hateful banner. Where-ever his blows now fell they inflicted deadly
wounds. In a few moments he grappled with the hideous standard, and
tore it with giant-strength from the bearer’s hands,--then threw it
with vehemence down the rocky cliffs, calling aloud, “Lo! your gods
are fallen into the abyss to which they properly belong! Try, madmen
as you are, what you can do alone, and without their assistance!” For
a moment the pagans gazed at him with surprise and terror; but soon
afterwards their howls of wrath and revenge became wilder and wilder,
and their advance more determined. Sir Otto then summoned up his whole
strength, and, according to the custom of the Normans, which he had
now fully learned, he began to sing furiously a battle-song, in the
chorus of which he was joined by all his adherents; and, as if keeping
time to the measure of the ballad, they cut and thrust, right and left,
with tenfold vehemence and energy, though most of them were now wounded
and covered with blood, while their visages were deadly pale from the
fatigue of this long battle.
Suddenly there arose a noise like thunder behind the Finlanders, or
rather as of the clashing of many iron shields; and a joyful chorus
of voices was heard, answering the last stanza of the ballad, which
Sir Otto had just now begun. In a few moments he beheld the golden
vulture’s wings of Sir Arinbiorn, rising over the wood. Soon after he
beheld the sea-monarch himself, with his great shield, gleaming like
a full moon, and the whole band of gigantic Normans, clad in their
heavy brazen cuirasses. Anon a shower of javelins was hurled forth
against the pagan hordes, who broke asunder, and fled howling in all
directions. “Now is the time!” cried the troops from the plain beneath;
“cut them down, Swedes!” And “cut them down, grant no quarter!” was
repeated by Sir Otto’s band, who forgot all their weariness and wounds,
and ran furiously with their drawn swords, up hill and down hill, after
their flying enemies.