Whilst Hullin, at the Head of the mountaineers, was taking his measures
for the defence of his country, the fool Yégof--that being deprived of
the blessing of self-consciousness, that unhappy creature with his tin
crown, that sad spectacle of humanity shorn of its noblest, greatest,
most vital attribute, intelligence--the fool Yégof, his breast exposed
to the cutting wind, his feet bare, insensible to cold, like the
reptile in his icy prison, was wandering from mountain to mountain, in
the midst of the snows of winter.
Whence comes it that the madman is able to resist the sharpest severity
of the atmosphere, while an intelligent being would succumb to it?
Does it arise from a more powerful concentration of life, a more rapid
circulation of the blood, a state of perpetual fever? Or is it the
effect of the over-excitement of the senses, or any other unknown cause?
Science says nothing. She admits only material causes, powerless to
give an account of such phenomena.
So Yégof went on at random, and night came. The cold was redoubled, the
fox gnashed his teeth in the pursuit of an invisible prey; the famished
buzzard fell back with empty claws among the bushes, uttering a cry of
distress. He, with his raven on his shoulder, gesticulating, jabbering,
as if in a dream, kept marching, marching on, from Holderloch to
Sonneberg, from Sonneberg to Blutfeld.
Now, on this particular night, the old shepherd, Robin, of the farm of
Bois-de-Chêne, was destined to be the witness of a most strange and
fearful sight.
Some days before, having been overtaken by the first fall of snow at
the bottom of the gorge of the Blutfeld, he had left his cart there
to conduct his flock back to the farm; but having discovered that he
had forgotten his sheepskin, and left it in a shed there, he had on
this day, when his work was done, set out about four o'clock in the
afternoon to go and fetch it.
The Blutfeld, situated between the Schneeberg and the Grosmann, is a
narrow gorge, bounded by perpendicular rocks. A narrow stream of water
winds through it, summer and winter, under shadow of the tall shrubs,
and in its depths extends a vast pasturage, all covered with large gray
stones, that lie thickly scattered about.
This defile is very little frequented by the dwellers in the mountains,
for there is a wild and weird look about the Blutfeld, especially by
the pale light of a winter's moon. The learned folks of these regions,
the schoolmasters of Dagsburg, and of Hazlach, say that in that spot
occurred the famous battle of the Triboques against the Germans,
who wished to penetrate into Gaul, under the command of a leader
named Luitprandt. They say that the Triboques, from the surrounding
mountain-tops, hurling upon their enemies huge masses of rocks, crushed
them there as in a mortar, and that, on account of this great carnage,
the gorge has preserved to this day the name of _Blutfeld_ (field of
blood). Fragments of broken pots, of rusty lances, bits of helmets,
and long swords with cross hilts, are often found there.
At night time, when the moon sheds her soft light upon this field and
those immense stones, all covered with snow, when the north wind blows
and whistles among the frost-covered branches, making them rustle and
clatter like cymbals, you might fancy you heard the wild cry of the
Germans at the moment of surprise, the shrieks and groans of the women,
the neighings of the horses, the hoarse rumbling of the chariots in the
defile; for it appears that these people brought with them, in their
skin-covered carriages, women, children, old men, and all that they
possessed in gold, and silver, and moveables, like the Germans setting
out for America. The Triboques never ceased to massacre them during two
days, and on the third they went back to the Donon, the Schneeberg,
the Grosmann, the Giromani, the Hengst, their broad shoulders stooping
under the weight of their booty.
This is what is related concerning the Blutfeld, and certainly to see
this gorge enclosed within the mountains like an immense trap, without
any other outlet than a narrow footpath, it is easy to understand how
the Germans might have been surprised there, and fallen an easy prey to
their victors.
Robin did not reach the spot till between seven and eight o'clock, just
as the moon was rising.
The honest fellow had descended the precipice a hundred times, but
never had he beheld the place so brightly illuminated and at the same
time of so gloomy and sinister an aspect.
At a distance, his white cart, standing at the bottom of the abyss,
looked to him exactly like one of those enormous stones, covered
with snow, beneath which the Germans had been interred. It was at the
entrance of the gorge, behind a thick cluster of shrubs, and beside it
the little torrent ran murmuring in a slender stream, bright as steel,
and sparkling like diamonds.
When he arrived at the place, the shepherd began to look for the key of
the padlock; then, having unlocked the shed, he crept in on his hands
and knees, and found, very fortunately, not only his sheepskin, but
even an old hatchet which he had quite forgotten.
But judge of his surprise when, on issuing from it, he saw the fool
Yégof appear at the turn of the footpath, and come straight towards him
in the bright moonlight.
The honest man immediately remembered the terrible story told in the
kitchen of Bois-de-Chênes, and he felt afraid; but quite another
feeling came over him when behind the fool, at fifteen or twenty paces,
he beheld, stealthily approaching in their turn, five grey wolves, two
big and three smaller ones.
At first he took them for dogs, but they were wolves. They followed
Yégof step by step, and he did not appear to see them; his raven
hovered overhead, flitting from the full moonlight to the shadow of the
rocks, and then returning; the wolves, with flaming eyes, their sharp
muzzles turned up, were sniffing the air; the fool raised his sceptre.
The shepherd pulled to the door of the shed as quick as lightning, but
Yégof did not see him. He advanced into the gorge as into a spacious
audience-chamber; to the right and left rose the steep rocks, far above
which myriads of stars were shining. You might have heard a fly move;
the wolves trod the ground noiselessly; not a sound was there, and the
raven had just perched on the top of an old withered oak that grew upon
one of the rocks opposite; his shining plumage looked still darker than
usual, as he turned his head, and seemed to be listening.
It was a strange sight.
Robin said to himself:--"The fool sees nothing, hears nothing; they
will devour him. If he stumbles, if his foot slips, it is all over with
him."
But in the middle of the gorge, Yégof, having turned round, sat down
upon a stone, and the five wolves, all round him, still sniffing the
air, squatted on their haunches in the snow.
And then, a really terrible sight, the fool raising his sceptre,
addressed a speech to them, calling them each by their names.
The wolves answered him with dismal howls.
Now this is what he said to them:--"Hé! Child, Bléed, Merweg, and thou,
Sirimar, my ancient, we are met together, then, once again! You have
come back fat. There has been good cheer in Germany, eh?"
Then, pointing to the snow-covered gorge:--"You remember the great
battle?"
First one of the wolves began to howl slowly in a dismal voice, then
another, then all the five together.
This lasted a good ten minutes.
The raven, perched on the withered branch, did not stir.
Robin would gladly have fled. He put up his prayers, invoked all the
saints, and, in particular, his own patron, for whom all the shepherds
of the mountain have the highest veneration.
But the wolves still continued to utter their dismal howlings,
awakening all the echoes of the Blutfeld.
At last one, the oldest of the number, was silent, then another, then
all, and Yégof continued:--"Yes, yes; that is a dismal story. See!
behold! there is the river down which our blood flowed in streams!
No matter, Merweg, no matter; the others have left their bones to
whiten on the common, and the cold moon has seen their women tearing
their hair for three days and three nights! Oh! that terrible day!
Oh! the dogs! were they proud of their great victory! Let them be
accursed--accursed!"
The fool had cast his crown to the ground. He now picked it up,
groaning as he did so.
The wolves, still seated round, listened to him like attentive
spectators. The biggest among them began to howl, and Yégof answered
his complaint.
"You are hungry, Sirimar; take comfort, take comfort; you will not want
for food much longer; the men of our side are coming, and the strife
will begin afresh."
Then rising, and striking his sceptre on a stone.
"See," said he, "behold thy bones!"
He approached another.
"And thine, Merweg, behold them!" said he.
All the troop followed him, while he, raising himself upon a low rock,
and glancing round upon the still and silent gorge, exclaimed:--"Our
war song is silent! our war song is now a groan! The hour is near; it
will re-awaken, and you will be among the warriors, you will possess
once more these valleys and these mountains. Oh! that sound of wheels,
those cries of women, those blows from crushing rocks and stones; I
hear them; the air is full of them. Yes, yes; they fell on us from
above, and we were surrounded. And now all is dead; hark! all is dead;
your bones sleep, but your children are on their way, and your turn
will come. Sing, sing!"
And this time he himself began to howl, whilst the wolves broke out
afresh in their savage war-cry.
These dismal howls grew more and more loud and appalling, and the
silence of the rocks around, some plunged in thick darkness, while
others were fully revealed in the moon's bright rays, the solemn
stillness of every tree and shrub beneath its weight of snow, the
distant echoes replying with a mysterious voice to the mournful
concert, all were calculated to strike terror into the breast of the
old shepherd.
But by degrees his fears grew less, for Yégof and his dismal followers
were getting farther and farther away from him, and gradually
retreating towards Hazlach.
The raven, in his turn, unfurled his wings, and took his flight through
the pale vault of heaven.
The whole scene vanished like a dream!
Robin heard for a long time after the howlings of the retreating
wolves. They had completely ceased for more than twenty minutes, and
not a sound broke the deep silence of the winter night, when the worthy
man felt himself sufficiently recovered from his fright to come out of
his hiding-place, and take his way back at full speed to the farm.
On arriving at Bois-de-Chênes, he found everybody up and stirring.
They were going to kill an ox for the troops from the Donon. Hullin,
Doctor Lorquin, and Louise were already gone with the men from the
Sarre. Catherine Lefévre was busy, having her great waggon, with four
horses, loaded with bread, meat, and brandy. People were coming and
going in all directions, and all eagerly lending a helping hand in the
preparations.
Robin had no opportunity of relating to anyone all that he had seen and
heard. Besides, it seemed to himself so incredible that he really dared
not open his mouth about it.
When he had retired to rest in his crib in the middle of the stable,
he said to himself that no doubt Yégof had, during the winter, tamed a
litter of young wolves, and that he babbled his folly to them in the
same way that one talks sometimes to one's dog.
But, for all that, this strange encounter left a superstitious dread
upon his mind, and even when he had arrived at a great age, the good
old man never spoke of it without shuddering.