HOW THE SHINING KNIGHT’S TREASURE WAS BROUGHT TO LIGHT
It was high noon when the last of the knights of the Swartzburg laid
down his arms at the feet of the emperor and swore fealty to him. Of the
castle’s company Herr Banf was missing; for he had ridden forth, in the
confusion that followed the entrance of Rudolf’s men, to make his way
through the woods and thence out from that land, minded rather to live
an outlaw than to bend knee to the foe of his well loved friend.
A wise ruler as well as a brave soldier was Rudolf of Hapsburg, and well
knew he how to win as well as to conquer. So, when all the knights had
taken oath, to each was returned his arms, and him the emperor greeted
as friend.
Within the castle hall the dead master lay at rest, and beside him
watched the baroness, a pale, broken-spirited lady, whose life had been
one long season of fear of her liege lord, and who now felt as little
sorrow as hope. Her the emperor had already visited, to pay her respect
and to assure her of protection, and now, with the two or three women of
that stern and wild household of men-folk, she waited what might come.
Meanwhile, through castle and stables and offices the emperor’s
appointed searchers went, taking note of all things; but Rudolf of
Hapsburg sat in the courtyard, in sight of his men, who were by now
making shift to prepare themselves a meal; for the greater number had
not tasted food that day.
To Wulf the whole changed scene seemed like a dream, so familiar the
place, yet so strange—as one in sleep finds some place that he knows
well puzzle him by some unwonted aspect. He stood watching the soldiers
feeding here and there about the bailey, when there came two squires
from the keep, leading between them a bent and piteous figure.
It was a man who cowered and blinked and sought to cover his dazzled
eyes from the unwonted light of day. Him the soldiers brought before the
emperor, and on the moment Wulf knew that face to be the one which he
had seen at the barred window of the keep on the day when he had climbed
the tower.
“What is this?” demanded Rudolf, as he looked the woeful figure up and
down. Scarce bore it likeness to a man, so unkempt and terrible was its
aspect, so drawn and wan the face, wherein no light of reason showed.
“We know not, your Majesty,” one of the squires replied; “but we found
him in a cell high up in the keep, chained by the ankle to a stone
bench, and I broke the fetter with a sledge.”
By now the nobles and knights of Rudolf’s army were gathered about; but
none spoke, for pity. Then the emperor caused all the knights of the
Swartzburg to be summoned, and he questioned them close, but not one of
them knew who the man might be, or why he was a prisoner at the
Swartzburg. Indeed, of all the company, only one or two knew that such a
prisoner had been held in the keep. Of the two men who might have told
his name, one lay dead in the great hall, and one was riding from the
Swartzburg, an outlaw.
But the emperor was troubled. A haunting something in that seemingly
empty face drew his very heartstrings, and fain would he have known the
man’s name. Then suddenly through the press of knights and nobles rushed
Karl the armorer, and clasped the woeful figure in his arms, while he
trembled and sobbed with wrath and sorrow.
“Oh, my lord!” he cried, bringing the man closer before Rudolf. “Look
upon this! Knowest thou not who ’tis?”
The emperor had grown very white, and he passed one hand over his eyes.
“Nay,” he said; “it is never—it cannot be—”
“Oh, my lord! my lord!” sobbed the armorer, his great chest heaving and
the tears streaming down from his unashamed eyes. “It _is_ the
count—Count Bernard himself, thine old comrade, whom thou and I didst
love. Look upon him!”
So white now was the emperor that his face was like death; but it was
set in fierce wrath, too, as, little by little, he began to see that
Karl might be right. He bent forward and laid a hand on the man’s
shoulder.
“Bernard, friend Bernard!” he called loudly, that the dulled senses
might take in his words. “Bernard, dost know me?”
Slowly the other looked up; a dim light seemed to gather in his eyes.
“Ay, Rudolf,” he whispered hoarsely; then the light went out, and he
shrank back again.
“There is a tale I would have told your Majesty,” Karl said, recovering
himself, “an the herald had not come just as he did on the night before
last”; and then, seeing Wulf in the throng, he called him to come
forward.
Wondering, the boy obeyed, while, with a hand on his arm, Karl told the
emperor all that he had been able to tell Wulf that day at the forge—of
the battle between the knights, of how he had thereafter found the
stranger child in the osiers, and how he had kept the blade which Herr
Banf had won.
“Now know I of surety,” he said at last, “that that knight was Count
Bernard von Wulfstanger; but who this boy may be I can only guess.”
Now a voice spoke from amid the throng. Hansei, who had been edging
nearer and nearer, could keep silence no longer.
“That would be the ‘shining knight’s’ treasure! Well I remember it, your
Majesty!” he cried.
“What meanest thou?” demanded Rudolf; and there before them all Hansei
told what the children saw from the playground on the plateau that day
so many years agone.
The emperor’s face grew thoughtful as he looked at Wulf from under
lowered brows.
“Ay,” he said at last; “’tis like to be true. Count Bernard rode this
way with the babe, meaning to leave him with our cousin at St. Ursula;
for his mother was dead, and he was off to the Holy Land. He must have
missed the convent road and got on the wrong way. Thou art strongly like
him in looks, lad.”
His voice was shaking, but Wulf noted it not; for he had drawn near to
Karl, who was bending over the wan prisoner. The boy’s heart was nearly
broken with pity.
Was this his father, this doleful figure now resting against Karl,
wholly unable to support itself? Gently Wulf pressed the armorer back
and took the slight weight in his strong young arms. “’Tis mine to do,
an ye all speak truth,” he said.
Few were the dry eyes in that company as Wulf circled the frail body to
him and the weary head rested itself quietly against his breast.
“See that he is cared for,” the emperor said at last, and from the
throng came the noblest of those knights to carry the count into the
castle. Wulf would have gone with them, but Rudolf called him back.
“Stand forth,” he said, pointing to a spot just before him, and Wulf
obeyed.
“Thou’st fought well to-day, boy,” Rudolf went on. “But for thy ready
wit, that led thy fellows by a way to fall upon the foe from behind,
this castle had been long in the winning, and our work by that much
hindered. Thou hast proven thy gentle blood by the knightly deed thou
didst by the young maid, now our own ward, and sure are we that thou’rt
the son of our loved comrade Count Bernard von Wulfstanger. Kneel down.”
Then, as Wulf knelt, fair dazed by the surging of his own blood in his
ears, the emperor laid drawn sword across his bowed shoulders.
“Rise, Herr Wulf von Wulfstanger,” he said.
The young knight, trembling like any timid maid, got to his feet again,
though how he could not have told.
“He’ll need thy nursing a bit, Karl,” Rudolf of Hapsburg said, an amused
smile playing about his grim mouth; and our Wulf never knew that the old
armorer more carried than led him away to quiet and rest.
[Illustration: “THE EMPEROR LAID DRAWN SWORD ACROSS HIS BOWED
SHOULDERS.”]
Not all in a day was order restored at the Swartzburg; for many and
woeful had been the deeds of the high-handed robber who had so long
ruled within those grim walls. They came to light little by little under
the searching of the emperor’s wardens; and when the parchments relating
to the Swartzburg properties came to be examined, it was found that not
the baron, nor Conradt, his heir-at-law, had all along been owner of the
castle, but young Elise von Hofenhoer, whose guardian the treacherous
noble had been. There were other outlying lands, as well, from which the
baron had long collected the revenues, and it was to keep his hold on
that which he had so evilly gotten that he would have married Elise to
Conradt, his nephew and ready tool.
The emperor himself now became guardian to the maiden, who, happy in the
safe shelter of St. Ursula, was to remain there until such time as a
husband might claim the right to fend for her and hers, if need should
come.
And now our Wulf of the forge and the forest abode in the hall of his
fathers as Count Wulf von Wulfstanger, and made bright that wronged
one’s days. Rudolf of Hapsburg had long been in charge of the estates of
the lost nobleman, and a straight accounting made the honest
soldier-emperor to Wulf, as his heir, of all that he had held in trust.
With old Karl for helper and adviser, Wulf, all doubt and mystery
cleared, ruled his great domain. Later he brought home his fair bride
from St. Ursula, given into his keeping by the emperor himself, and
thereafter, the story tells, Baron Wulf and his lady lived long a life
of usefulness and good deeds; whereby those hard times were made easier
for many, and the sunshine, gathered through the years, made warmth and
light for others, as must always be in this world, when any life is
lived for the sake of usefulness and helpfulness.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.