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.