The Combat with Sir Heerdegen von Lichtenried.
During the relation of this story, a deep gloom had gathered always
more and more over the countenance of Theobaldo, so that by the time he
had got to the end he seemed quite changed; and now, instead of being a
careless merry companion, looked like one whose whole hopes are buried
in the grave with some beloved object.
After a pause he said, “You must forgive me, noble warriors, if I have,
by such a narrative, thrown a cloud on this happy meeting, and as it
were dimmed the lustre of your bright old Rudisheimer. For the most
part, I myself am cheerful enough, and can enjoy a goblet of wine, and
the sportive conversation of my companions; only, that the mournful
events which I have just related come now and then betwixt me and
all pleasure; and, until I have relieved my mind by repeating them,
I cannot obtain any rest. This happens, because my relations have so
often led me to Lisberta’s grave, and told me so much of her beauty,
and her sufferings from the treachery of the stranger knight, that
the story has been deeply impressed, even from childhood, on my mind.
If this Signor Uguccione should ever fall in my way, he may look to
his own safety as he best can; for I could scarcely imagine a greater
pleasure, than to stab him to the heart with his own bright sword, and
at the same moment to call aloud in his ears, ‘Lisberta, Lisberta!’”
At these words, his eyes gleamed like two fiery beacons, from the
vehemence of his emotion; but Otto scarcely perceived this, and had
attended but little to what now passed. His whole heart was still fixed
on the story and distresses of the forsaken Lisberta, till at last
his melancholy found relief in words, and he began to relate to his
companions the fortunes of his own life, but in the third person, as if
the events had happened to another. Thus, he told them how happily he
had lived on the banks of the Danube with his beloved cousin Bertha;
but now a more powerful attachment had led him away from his home, and
induced him to break these early ties; adding, how the two stories of
unfortunate lovers had brought his attention painfully back to his
forsaken cousin. To conclude, he could not help, in the simplicity of
his heart, asking his companions whether they believed that Bertha too
would die of grief, like the hermit of the forest, and the betrayed
beauty of Milan.
Hereupon the strange knight in rusty armour looked him sternly in the
face, and, with a tone and demeanour so changed, that it seemed as
if all the friendly feelings that he had before expressed had been
frozen to ice within him; he said,--“As thou hast spoken so much of
the Danube’s pleasant banks, and of a damsel named Bertha, perchance
thou art called Otto von Trautwangen, and thy fair cousin is the Lady
von Lichtenried?” Scarcely had Sir Otto answered in the affirmative,
when the stranger rose up, placed the massive helmet which he had
brought out with him upon his head, and said,--“It is good that we have
thus met one another; for I am the Knight Heerdegen von Lichtenried,
Bertha’s brother, who, after long laborious pilgrimages through the
world, have now returned home, in hopes of finding my sister grown up
in the bloom of health and beauty. I have been fortunate therefore in
the opportunity granted me of avenging her wrongs on such a conceited
and foolish babbler as thou art!” The conclusion of this discourse
quite stifled in Otto’s heart the wish for reconciliation which he
might otherwise have entertained, and in vehement haste he started
up, in order to find his sword and helmet. Meanwhile, as he was thus
arranging his armour, the Italian wished to interpose a few words
of mediation; but Heerdegen answered him sternly, “Give yourself no
trouble; if this young coxcomb, with his silver bright armour, has
spoken the truth, then he ought to fall the victim of my revenge; if,
on the other hand, he has uttered unmeaning and groundless words, he
deserves, notwithstanding, chastisement for that fault.” By this time
Otto stood prepared at the entrance of the portico, and pointed to
a thicket of trees which stood below on the banks of the river. Sir
Heerdegen immediately set himself to close his rusty visor, which
was effected with a great crash, then placed himself by the side of
his opponent, and they walked together towards the intended field of
battle. Theobaldo, meanwhile, who seemed now delighted with what was
going forward, moved briskly, sometimes before, and sometimes after
them.
“Noble sirs,” said he, when they had come about half-way, “forgive me
if I seem thus cheerful, when you have business so tragical on your
hands. But through my whole life I have never wished so much for any
sight that is recreative and reviving to the beholder, as a real combat
for life and death, between two heavily-armed and valiant champions.
Such an encounter I would often have tried willingly at the risk of
my own life; but it has never been my fortune hitherto to engage in
conflict with any assailants better than light-armed cowardly banditti.
And when people make pretended fights together, nothing, in my opinion,
can be more contemptible and ridiculous. I consider myself fortunate,
therefore, as I shall to-day behold a glorious encounter; for I am
thoroughly convinced that you will both conduct yourselves like
well-proved and undaunted heroes.”
Amid the thickets of the copsewood, the two knights soon discovered
a free open glade, with smooth turf, which was well fitted for their
combat. Without making farther conditions, or even interchanging a
word, they directly took their places, drew their swords, and attacked
one another with great wrath and violence, while Theobaldo composedly
took his station as a looker-on, leaning against a high lime-tree.
The whole air rung with the clashing of their swords, though not one
blow hit effectively, but was either driven back by the shield or by
their plumed helmets, so that the ground, instead of being stained with
blood, was strewed with partycoloured feathers. During the conflict,
Sir Heerdegen’s voice was always heard from the hollow of his rusty
beaver, calling aloud, “Bertha! Bertha!” and it seemed often as if Otto
recoiled at this exclamation, though he still repelled every stroke
of his enemy’s sword. Perceiving this, Heerdegen redoubled his blows,
and Sir Otto continued merely to ward them off as well as he could,
without, as it appeared, attempting to make any farther attack, till at
last his shield was cut in two, and he had only one half left in his
hand. Then his rage suddenly broke out like that of a wounded lion;--as
if a lightning-flash of inspiration had kindled within his heart, he
threw aside the broken remnant of his shield,--and from his silver
helmet were heard the silvery tones of his youthful voice, pronouncing
fervently the name, “Gabrielle! Gabrielle!” At the same time he held
his sword grasped in both hands, and therewith inflicted such a storm
of blows on his opponent’s head, breast, and shield-arm, that suddenly
a stream of blood burst from the visor of Sir Heerdegen. At the moment
when Sir Otto perceived this, he held back his sword, and the wounded
knight, being no longer able by any effort to support himself, fell
powerless, with a great crash of his armour, upon the grass.
Theobaldo and Otto kneeled beside him to render their assistance. The
helmet, already almost broken in pieces by the vehemence of Otto’s
last attack, was quickly loosed, and Sir Heerdegen’s visage was found
covered with blood. Otto, who was well skilled (as every knight
ought to be) in the healing art, washed it carefully away; whereupon
it was discovered, that the wound began on the right side of the
forehead, from whence it stretched across between the eyebrows, and
came down over the right cheek. A proper bandage was provided, and
securely fixed; but the knight continued to lie there insensible and
motionless, as if he were already dead, and in his pale visage, now
divested of its former stem expression, a resemblance to Bertha was
clearly discernible. As he thus bent over his fallen foe, Sir Otto wept
bitterly. An old story came now to his remembrance, which Sir Hugh had
often related of a knight, who, in the confusion of the battle-field,
had slain his beloved mistress, who was dressed in a coat of mail,
which he mistook for that of an enemy; and now he almost accused
himself of being Bertha’s murderer. “Ay,” said he to himself, “I
deserve no other name. The careless mood in which I took my departure
inflicted the first deadly blow, and with her brother’s life I have cut
asunder the last ties that bound her to this world!”
The young merchant reminded him, that it was now time to carry the
wounded man back to their inn, for the evening was drawing on, and rest
in bed was, of all remedies, the most needful. Thereupon they took up
their yet insensible companion, and bore him away on their shoulders
in such manner, that Theobaldo alone had his head to support; “for,”
said Otto mournfully, “if he should awake on the road, he would rather
behold your countenance than mine; while, on the other hand, his
features remind me so painfully of the forsaken Bertha, that I dare not
look on him.” After his arrival at the inn, where he was attended by
two of his own squires, Sir Heerdegen again recovered his senses; and
on learning that Otto intended to remain there, probably as long as
his antagonist’s life was in danger, he said,--“Knight of Trautwangen,
if you entertain in reality any friendly intentions towards me, then I
beseech you to take your departure this evening, or, if it be possible,
within this very hour. Even to look upon you, or hear your voice, has
become so intolerable, that, without doubt, I must die if I am any
longer subjected to such torment.” In a mood of deep melancholy, Otto
then left the wounded Sir Heerdegen, and rode away under the light of
the moon and stars, (which were then just risen,) along a road fragrant
with blooming woods and flowers, which led towards the town, Theobaldo
bearing him company, and riding by his side.