HOW WORD OF HIS DANGER CAME TO WULF AT THE FORGE
Once Karl was gone, Wulf set to work to cook some food for himself over
the forge fire, and when he had eaten he barred the smithy door of heavy
bolted planks, and threw himself down upon the armorer’s pallet to seek
the rest he so much needed.
Meantime, through the dim, leafy reaches of the forest a man dragged
himself painfully, now catching at the great tree-boles that he might
not fall, now staggering forward in a vain attempt to run, then dropping
on all fours to creep forward, never halting altogether, but ever, in
some way or other, pressing onward hour after hour, and so making
headway. He had muffled his telltale bell, and his face was set in
deadly determination to the gaining of some great end. So the half-wit
fared through the forest that night on an errand of human love, and no
beast crossed his path to hinder, nor bewraying twig or bough crackled
under his feet to warn any foe of his coming.
How long Wulf had slept he knew not, but his slumber at last became
fitful and uneasy, and presently he was ware of some noise at the great
door of the smithy. From the rays of moonlight that stole in through the
chinks, he knew that the night must be well-nigh spent, but he was yet
heavy with sleep and could not rightly get awake on the moment.
He sprang up at last, however, sword in hand, and waited to hear
further. If this were a foe it were none of any great strength to stand
thus, making no clamor, but calling softly.
“Open! Open!” a voice outside cried in a hoarse, imploring whisper. “In
the name of Heaven, make haste to open! No foe is here, but only one
weak man who comes to warn ye of danger. ’Tis poor Bell-Hutten, who
means no harm to him who saved him in the forest. Open! Open!”
Softly, then, Wulf drew out the great forged bolt that held it, and
keeping the steel weapon-wise in his right hand, threw open the door.
“What wouldst have? Art hungry?”
“Nay; speak not of my wants, but tell me—art named Wulf, and do men call
thee the tinker?”
“Some men do; but they be no friends of mine.”
“That I warrant; but death is at thy heels; an thou get not from here he
will be quickly at thy throat.”
“What is toward?” asked Wulf, making ready to step forth.
“Nay, that I know not, save that ’tis harm to thee. Yonder I lay where
ye left me, when there came two skulkers in the bushes, and one told the
other how he had followed one whom, from their talk, I deemed to be
thee, and how thou hadst come on to the smithy here. Yet, though they
were twain, durst they not come for thee, but went their way to get help
at the Swartzburg; whereupon I came away hither, by such snail’s pace as
I might; but sore I feared lest they might be here before me. Now get
thou away, and quickly!”
“I thank thee, friend,” said Wulf, “and straight will I.”
Bell-Hutten made a quick gesture.
“Alas!” he groaned. “’Tis too late. They be upon thee now!”
Sure enough; all too plainly, through the trees, could be heard the
sound of horsemen coming up rapidly, albeit with some caution.
“Canst not hide?” gasped Bell-Hutten.
[Illustration: “WITH THE HEAD OF HIS BATTLE-AX HE STRUCK IT A BLOW THAT
SENT IT INWARD.”]
“Ay, and well. Get thee to the bush!” And closing the door behind him,
Wulf sprang to the great oak, his friend and shelter in childhood and
boyhood, now his haven in deadly peril. Easily he swung himself up,
higher and higher, until he was safe among the thick foliage of the
broad, spreading top. So huge were the branches, even here, that a man
might stand beneath and look up at the very one where Wulf lay, yet
never dream that aught were hidden there.
The baron himself was of the party who rode up around the smithy just as
Wulf was settled in his place. Straight to the door he drove his horse,
and with the head of his battle-ax struck it a blow that sent it inward
on its hinges.
One or two men bearing torches sprang into the house, and the single
room became suddenly alight, but no one showed there. Hastily they
ransacked the place, while the baron sat his horse and roared forth his
orders, sending one man here, another yonder, to be at the thicket and
scour all the places. One even came under the great tree and held up his
torch, throwing the light high aloft, but seeing naught of Wulf.
Then the baron laughed savagely.
“This is thy chase, nephew Conradt,” he jeered. “Said I not he would
never be here? The armorer’s whelp is a hanging rogue fast enough, but
no fool to blunder hither, once he were safe away with the girl.”
“Peradventure,” began Conradt, but just then came in two spearmen,
driving the outcast before them, staggering as he walked.
“This we found in the thicket and haled out,” they began; but Conradt
and some of the others shrank back hastily, for in the dim light the
poor half-wit was a terrible sight. But the baron showed no fear.
“Hast seen any man hid hereabout?” he asked. “We seek a gallows escape,
by name Wulf.”
The sorry creature only stared vacantly, and then sank to the ground.
“Answer me!” roared the baron. “Dost know him we seek? What art doing
here thyself?”
There was no reply.
“Let me make him speak,” Conradt cried, bold now amid that company; and
with drawn sword he came forward.
“So thou’lt not give tongue?” he screamed. “By the rood, I do believe
thou knowest where the tinker hath hidden. Out with it, then, ere I
split that devil’s head of thine!”
His blade gleamed in the moonlight, and the wretched outcast on the
ground raised a beseeching hand. But that blow was never to fall.
Instead, as from heaven itself, came a flying shaft, deadly and sure,
that struck Conradt’s sword-arm, and snapped it as it had been a dead
twig.
It was flung by Wulf, who, forgetting his own danger in wrath to see
that helpless man so beset, had hurled, from his hiding-place, the great
bolt of forged steel, which, in his haste, he had not cast aside ere
climbing the tree. He looked, after that, to see them all rush toward
him; but, instead, even the baron was smitten with fear, and deemed, as
did his men, that the wrath of God had fallen upon them all for
Conradt’s sin in raising blade against him whom Heaven had already
marked with vengeance. Most of the soldiers fled upon the instant; but
one of his own men helped the hunchback to saddle, and mounting behind
to hold him up, they joined the company that raced, flockmeal, away from
the place, so that soon not one remained, nor any sound from them came
back upon the wind.
Nevertheless, Wulf deemed it best not to venture down, but lay along a
great bough of the oak-tree, and at last fell into a doze that lasted
until daylight. Even then, when he would have descended, his quick ears
caught the sound of passers no great distance off; so he kept his
hiding-place hour after hour, until at last, when the sun shining upon
the tree-tops told him that the noon was close at hand, all seemed so
still that he swung himself down—stiffly, for he was cramped and
sore—and gained the ground.
Then was his heart sorrowful, to see, among the bushes that crept up to
the edge of the open, the outcast lying still and stark upon his face.
Wulf ran forward, and bending over him, called him by name, but he never
stirred nor answered; nevertheless, as Wulf raised the man’s head the
closed eyes opened for an instant, though the lids at once fell again.
Hastily gathering the worn figure in his arms, Wulf bore it into the
smithy and laid it on Karl’s bed. Then he busied himself with blowing up
the fire in the forge and warmed some goat’s milk which, little by
little, he succeeded in forcing between the white lips. He chafed the
limp hands and wrapped warmly the cold body, until by and by a stronger
flutter of life came in the faint heart-beats, and the man’s breathing
was more noticeable.
Wulf worked desperately, for his sorrow was great at the thought of what
the outcast had gone through for him.
“An I had dreamt he was there,” he said to himself in self-reproach, “I
had never bided there in the tree. A sinner he may have been, and a
black traitor, as men do say, but he had that in him of gratitude which
God will not forget!”
Between times, as he worked over the sufferer, he began gathering up
certain weapons and other matters on which he knew that Karl set value,
and these he hid within the cupboard beside the chimney. Busied thus, it
was far in the afternoon when, as he was giving his patient another sip
of warm milk, the latter suddenly opened his eyes and gazed at Wulf with
a calm look of understanding and peace. This, however, quickly turned to
anxiety and alarm as he began to remember what had gone before. His
wandering reason was for the moment present and clear.
“Thou here?” he gasped. “Go; leave me here! They are after thee—they
will find thee!”
“An they do,” Wulf said quietly, “they will find me in that place where
is most claim upon me.”
At that moment he caught the sound of approaching men. Indeed, even the
dulled ears of the sick man had long since been ware of it, and the
noise was what had roused him; but Wulf’s attention had been all on his
tasks, and he had no warning until from all the openings about the
clearing appeared horsemen and foot-soldiers, while from beyond came the
noise of horses and armor and of men’s voices.
Springing to the door, Wulf stood at bay, sword in hand, meaning to sell
his life dearly rather than be taken or give up his charge, when a voice
that he knew was raised, and Karl the armorer shouted:
“Nay, lad; an thou’rt a loyal German, give thine emperor better homage
than that!” And through all his weariness and daze Wulf made out to come
forward and kneel at the emperor’s stirrup.
They were friends, not foes, who had come this time.