How this Knight was challenged by Sir Folko de Montfaucon,
and of a fearful combat fought by torch-light in the
lists.
On the stranger’s approach, Otto and Bertha exclaimed at the same
moment,--“Good Heaven, there is the frightful knight, Sir Folko
de Montfaucon!” During Gabrielle’s narrative, they had formed to
themselves a lively picture of this victorious hero, to which the
looks of the stranger guest now wonderfully corresponded. They had
not been deceived; for Gabrielle suddenly became deadly pale, and the
knight came up with great respect and formality, inquiring whether
she had chosen the warrior, by whom he had just before been invited
into the tent, for her champion, and if it would now be allowed him
to try his fortune in combat in order to win back the ring? To this
address Gabrielle made a sign in the affirmative, and Sir Archimbald
interposed. “Sir Knight, although you are yet a stranger to me, yet
it is my duty to inform you, that I am the Graf von Waldeck. My
character is, perhaps, already known to you; and you have now free
choice whether you will venture with me in the lists, or give up the
ring in friendship and peace.” At these words a deep flush came over
the cheeks of Sir Folko de Montfaucon, and his dark eyes gleamed like
a distant thundercloud. However, he made a courteous bow, and said, in
a mild voice,--“I know not, my Lord Count, if you will not think it
beneath your dignity to conquer such a humble opponent as the Chevalier
Folko de Montfaucon; but this much I can truly say, that the honour of
contending with so renowned a knight as Count Archimbald von Waldeck
would alone induce me to request the combat, even if there were not
any other motive for our encounter.” “Shall we then enter the lists
to-night?” said Sir Archimbald. “That must be decided by this noble
damsel,” said Sir Folko; “perhaps from the fatigue of her journey it
might not be convenient to her to look on our conflict this evening.”
“Rather let it be to-day than to-morrow,” said Gabrielle, in an accent
of haste and anxiety. Accordingly the Count went out to prepare the
ground, having previously agreed with his opponent, that whoever should
first be driven out of the ring, (by whatever cause this might happen,)
should be looked upon as vanquished, and should be allowed no farther
chance on this occasion; otherwise, however, they were to be allowed
the right of contending with swords, after their fortune had been duly
tried with the lance, according to the example given in the court of
King Richard the Lion Heart.
Meanwhile, Sir Archimbald being employed without in making preparations
for this tragical pastime, Folko had taken Gabrielle’s lute, seated
himself with it at her feet, and begun gracefully to play with the
strings. It was a pleasure to look on him in his dark-blue armour,
finely inlaid and gleaming with gold, his dark-brown hair, upturned
whiskers, smiling lips, and pearly teeth. As to Gabrielle, she fixed
her eyes steadfastly on the ground, in silent impatience, and suffering
all the agonies of suspense. Whoever had chanced to see these two, the
knight and the lady, both clad in the same colours, and thus sitting
together, would never have thought that there were any evil intentions
betwixt them; but rather that the lady had made him a present of
the fine blue and gold scarf which flowed over his broad shoulders,
and that he was now thanking her for her courtesy by a love-melody
on her lute. Such peace and tranquillity, however, were not of long
continuance. Archimbald soon made his appearance, in a frightful guise,
at the entrance of the tent; for he had now put on his helmet, with the
visor closed, which represented the head of an eagle, with a great
silver beak; to which strange headdress the rest of his armour so well
corresponded, that he might have been looked on as a visitant front
some fabulous land of hobgoblins and monsters. “All is ready,” said
he; whereupon Folko started up, light as a feather, from his position
at Gabrielle’s feet, laid away the lute with great care, where he had
found it on the carpet, and with an elegant bow quitted the tent. Then
Sir Archimbald offered the lady his arm, and led her out. Otto and
Bertha followed, lost in astonishment, and scarce daring to believe in
this realization of scenes such as had been known to them before only
in their ballads and romances.
When they came out of the tent, a bright-beaming light guided them
to the ground that had been prepared by Sir Archimbald. A circle,
wide enough for the attack and career of two horses, was enclosed by
a double row of torches, whose red flames burned powerfully amid the
calm darkness of the night, casting all distant objects into the
blackest shade, while even the minutest flower or plant was visible
in the circle. Archimbald led Gabrielle to a turf-seat, covered with
a rich carpet, so placed, that she was directly opposite the middle
of the enclosed ground, on which spot the two knights would meet in
their fearful encounter. Near the lady were stationed Otto and Bertha,
one on each side; and behind her were a numerous train of her own and
Archimbald’s attendants. On the opposite side of the ring were visible,
through the red torch-light, many strange figures in rich dresses, who
were probably squires of Sir Folko de Montfaucon.
Count Archimbald now formally requested leave of absence from the lady,
and went away, on her right hand, to mount his charger. Meanwhile, Sir
Folko was already visible on her left, at the extremity of the ring,
seated on a graceful light-footed grey horse, with a close-visored
golden helmet on his head. His opponent not being yet ready, he pranced
about in a playful manner along the turf, guiding his horse, as it
seemed, more by words than by management of the reins. On coming near
Gabrielle, the animal, on a secret signal from his rider, bent his
knees for a moment in respectful homage, then started up with a fine
capriole, continuing to bound and curvet so lightly and so elegantly,
that he seemed almost to move on wings; the golden bells of the saddle
and head-gear making pleasant music, till at length the rider regained
his former position in the distance. There the horse stood obedient and
tranquil like a statue, turning back his elegantly-formed head towards
the knight, as if in friendly confidence, and asking whether he had
performed his part correctly? whereupon Sir Folko took off his iron
glove, and kindly clapped him on the neck.
During all this while, it afforded a strange contrast, to observe
how Count Archimbald’s charger, his dark coat spotted with foam,
plunged, reared, and struggled, so that two squires, with their utmost
exertions, were scarcely able to hold him. In the midst of his fury,
the Count sprung upon his back, and with violent strokes of the spur,
made him plunge more wildly than ever, galloped him several times up
and down with great strength of limbs and skill of bridle; till at
last the horse knew his master, and stood, as if rooted to the ground,
waiting his commands. Still, however, his eyes flamed so wildly, that
they might be compared to the red glare of the torches; and with his
right fore-hoof he began to paw and tear up the turf, as if he would
prepare a grave for his rider’s opponent.
Then both champions, in token that they were ready for the combat,
bowed to Gabrielle so respectfully, that their long waving plumes
almost touched the earth;--thereafter they both sat upright, firmly
laying their lances in the rest. At length Gabrielle gave the signal
for onset, by throwing up a white handkerchief;--the trumpets sounded,
and the two knights rushed against each other with such velocity, that,
contrary to what usually happens, one heard the crashing of their
broken lances and loud ringing of their armour in the shock, even
before his eyes could distinguish their meeting. The combatants passed
one another without losing their seats, and now rode their horses up
and down, on exchanged sides of the ring, each one, as it seemed,
wondering to perceive that his opponent was still in the saddle. “More
lances!” cried Archimbald, and the squires immediately offered on both
sides a selection among many ponderous weapons. When they had weighed
them, and made their choice respectively, “Knight of Montfaucon,” said
Archimbald, “two more encounters with the lance, this and another,
will that suffice? And if the cause be not then decided, we shall have
recourse to the sword.” “I am here as a guest,” said Folko, “and must
follow whatever example is set by my noble entertainer.” The trumpets
sounded, and the knights again flew together; this time, however, with
such violence, that both horses were thrown back, with their hind-legs
doubled under them, but being violently spurred, rose again directly,
and passed across into their places. Sir Folko’s lance was broken
into shivers against his adversary’s coat of mail, while the Count’s
spear was merely snapped, and he held one half still in his hand. On
both sides, therefore, there was a great shouting and exultation, for
the followers of Waldeck looked on the half weapon still wielded as a
favourable omen, while those of Montfaucon insisted that their master
must have played his part in a far more knightly and effectual manner
in this encounter.
However this might be, the knights were once more supplied with lances,
the trumpets sounded for the third time; anger and impatience rather
than their former courtesy were now visible in every attitude and
gesture. The spectators knew not well how or where their lances struck
on this meeting. Folko’s silver-grey steed recoiled and reared, then
seemed to tremble and totter from the violence of the shock; but the
knight, bending over his neck, still spurred him on, in a light gallop.
On the other hand, Archimbald’s black charger fell down on his knees,
but instantly rose again with a violent plunge; then, no longer tamed
by the efforts of his now almost powerless master, careered about
through the ring, in all the madness of ungovernable rage, so that he
and his strangely-attired rider seemed like demons rather than mortal
beings. At length with a tremendous bound he leapt through the torches
and disappeared! Thereafter, from some distance, amid the deep rayless
gloom, one heard by the crash of his armour that Count Archimbald had
been thrown to the ground.
Folko remained for some time motionless in his place; then he
dismounted, gently stroked the mane of his silver-grey steed, threw
away the fragment of his broken lance, and, drawing his sword, that
gleamed like a flame in the torch-light, stepped into the middle of the
circle. No one came to oppose him; and from without in the darkness
were heard the anxious murmuring of voices, and the running to and fro
of servants, now busied about their fallen master. At last Folko called
out in a loud tone, “My Lord Count von Waldeck, your unruly horse bore
you, against your will, out of the circle. This must not be reckoned
against you; but you shall have a fair opportunity to make good with
your sword that which you have lost in our contest with the lance. I
shall therefore wait for you here.” For a long time, however, all was
silent. At last a squire called out,--“My Lord has fainted.” “He cannot
fight again!” cried another voice. “We must bring him to the nearest
convent to be cured by the monks,” said a third; and immediately
thereafter was heard the slow and mournful trampling of the horses as
they bore away the now helpless champion across the meadow.
Then Sir Folko put up his gleaming sword into the scabbard, threw
back his visor, went towards Gabrielle, and, kneeling, begged that
she would bestow on him the prize of the combat. Weeping bitterly,
the beautiful damsel once more drew the golden chain from her bosom,
with feelings how different from those with which she had shewn it
just before to the young people! Yet before her trembling fingers had
unclasped the chain, Otto stepped up to Sir Folko de Montfaucon, and
said,--“Sir Knight, if it please you to allow that a coat of armour
be given me, also a horse, lance, and sword, I shall yet contend
with you for the ring, in the name of this noble lady, provided she
deems me not unworthy of such high honour.” At these words, a glance
of hope and joy flew over Gabrielle’s countenance. In a moment, she
thought of the many old stories in which she had read of the most
renowned knights, and even giants, having been vanquished by young men,
scarcely beyond the age of boyhood, who fought in defence of oppressed
damsels. Folko had raised himself from the ground, and measured with
his looks his unexpected adversary. Suddenly, however, he turned away
with a smile, and said ironically, “Young squire! young squire! where
are your golden spurs? Do you think yourself already qualified to
break a lance with knights in the field? Three sword-strokes on the
shoulders, and a midnight watch of your armour, then come to me again,
and I shall willingly meet you.” Whereupon he kneeled again before
Gabrielle, and begged her for the ring; which he had no sooner received
into his hands, than (after making a deep obeisance) he remounted his
silver-grey steed, and, followed by all his train, galloped away.
Gabrielle, still weeping bitterly, turned to her attendants, who,
directly after the unhappy issue of the tournament, had begun to take
down the tents, and pack them up, with all their appurtenances, on led
horses; which work they had now completed. Not a quarter of an hour
longer, said the unhappy lady, would she remain on the place where she
had encountered such misfortune. And without taking heed of Otto’s
attempts to console her, or offers of his services, she turned away
from him as from a prattling foolish child; and, having mounted her
palfrey, rode away through the darkness. Otto, moreover, called out
after her; “So, may Heaven aid me, noble lady, as I shall certainly
not rest till I have become a knight, nor till I have laid the ring at
your feet.” Even this vow, however, seemed to make no impression on her
ears; and in a short time the trampling of her horse, and noise of her
attendants, died away in the distance.
Lonely and forsaken, Otto and Bertha remained standing on the fatal
place. It was as if they had dreamed; only the half-burned torches and
the broken turf of the battle-field bore witness silently that all
had been real. Neither of them knew what to say; so that in silence
they pursued their route through the darkness of the night homewards,
wonderfully changed in mood from what they had been, when, but a few
hours before, they had come from the castle to that pleasant meadow.
All that passed betwixt them on the way was only now and then a
question from Otto. “Weep’st thou, dearest Bertha;” to which she always
answered, “No,” in as firm a voice as she could assume; so that he was
obliged to think himself mistaken, and that, because he could not help
sighing deeply, he had supposed that Bertha answered him with her tears.