Wittich was the son of Wieland, the smith of Heligoland, by Böswilde
(Badhilda). From his earliest childhood his father had taught him the
use of the bow, and the greatest praise he ever gave him was to say,—
“You are a bowman like my brother Eigel.”
Young Wittich wanted very much to learn all that he could about his
uncle, and Wieland began:
“When your mother’s father—Niduder, Drost of the Niars—made me a
prisoner long ago, my brother Eigel came to his castle, and entered his
service as bowman of the guard. Every one admired his skill. He could
shoot away the head of an eagle that was flying high as the heavens. I
have also seen him aim an arrow at the right or left foot of a lynx,
and pin it to the bough on which the creature sat. And he did other
wonderful things too numerous to relate. But the Drost wanted to see
something more wonderful still, so he desired him to shoot an apple off
the head of his own child at a hundred paces off, telling him at the
same time that if he refused, or if obeying, he missed his mark, he
would have the boy hewn in pieces before his eyes. Eigel drew three
arrows from his quiver, and fitted one to the bowstring. The boy stood
motionless, looking at his father with perfect confidence. Could you
have done that, my lad? Eh!”
“No father,” answered Wittich boldly, “I would have fetched your trusty
sword Mimung, and have hewn off the head of that wicked old man; and
then, if his Niars had tried to avenge him, I would have chased them
out of the country.”
“All very fine, young hero,” laughed the father, “but remember this; a
true hero only speaks of what he _has_ done, not of what he _would_
have done under such and such circumstances. It would have been better,
however, if Eigel had done something of that kind. After he had shot
away the apple, he turned to the Drost, and told him, that had he by
any accident killed his son, he would have used the two other arrows in
shooting him first, and then himself. The Drost took no notice of the
speech at the time, but soon afterwards, he exiled the bowman without
thanks or payment, and no one knows what has become of him.”
The smith brought up his son on tales like this, which naturally
excited the boy’s ardour for adventure, and made him more and more
unwilling to work at the forge. One day the lad spoke out, and asked
his father to give him a suit of armour, and the good sword Mimung,
that he might hie away to Bern, fight with king Dietrich, and win a
kingdom like his ancestors. After many refusals the smith at last gave
his consent, and furnished his son with all that he needed for the
enterprise, explaining to him the special virtues of each weapon.
Finally he told him to remember that his great-grandfather, King
Wilkinus, a mighty warrior in his day, had married a mermaid, who, when
the king was dying, had promised him, by the memory of their love, that
she would help any of their descendants who asked for her aid. “Go down
to the sea-shore, my son,” continued the smith, “if ever you are in
need, and demand the protection of our ancestress.” And then with much
sage advice, together with many old stories of things he had seen and
known, Wieland took leave of his son.
Wittich rode on for many days before he met with any adventure. At
length he came to a broad river, and dismounting, took off his armour,
which he laid upon the bank, and began to wade across the water,
leading his horse Skemming by the bridle. When half way across, three
horsemen in full armour passed by, and seeing him began to taunt him
and ask him where he was going. He told them that if they would wait
until he had put his armour on, he was ready to try conclusions with
them. They agreed, but no sooner did they see him dressed in his coat
of mail, and mounted on his good steed, than they bethought them, that
as they were in a strange place, it would be better to have a man of
such thews and sinews for a comrade than an enemy. So they offered him
peace instead of war. He accepted, and after shaking hands, they
journeyed on together.
They rode up stream for a long way, and at last they came to a castle.
A host of savage-looking men poured out of the gates, and advanced to
meet them.
“There are too many for us to conquer,” said the eldest of the
strangers, “still I think that our good swords may enable us to hew our
way across the bridge.”
“Let me go and offer them a silver piece as toll,” said Wittich, and
setting spurs to his horse he rode on.
Arrived at the bridge, he was informed that the only toll demanded or
accepted there were the horse, armour, clothes, right hand and right
foot of the traveller. He explained that he could not afford to pay so
high a price for so small a benefit, and offered them a piece of money.
Whereupon they drew their swords and attacked him.
The three warriors meanwhile kept on a neighbouring height, and watched
and commented on all that went on below. Seeing that their new friend
seemed hard beset, two of them galloped to his assistance, while the
third held back in scorn. But before they reached the place of combat,
seven of the robbers were slain, and at sight of them the others took
flight.
The heroes now rode on to the castle, where they found plenty of food
and much booty. While they enjoyed their evening meal, their tongues
were unloosed, and each told his name and deeds. Wittich had more to
tell about his father than about himself, and then he learnt that the
eldest of his new companions was Master Hildebrand, the second strong
Heime, and the third Yarl Hornboge, who was also a comrade of Dietrich.
“This is a stroke of good luck for me,” cried the young warrior, “for I
am on my way to Bern to try my strength against the glorious king, and
I have good hope that I may win the day, for my father has given me his
sword Mimung that can cut through steel and stone. Just look at the
hilt, is not the workmanship beautiful?”
On hearing this, the three comrades grew more silent, and proposed to
go to rest, as they were very tired. Wittich followed their example.
The young hero was soon snoring in company with Heime and Hornboge, but
Hildebrand lay awake, a prey to sad forebodings. He knew that Wittich’s
sword could cut through his master’s helmet, and he considered what was
to be done. He crept noiselessly from his bed, and taking Mimung,
compared it with his own sword. The two blades were wonderfully alike,
but not the hilts. So with a grim smile of satisfaction, he carefully
unscrewed the blades from the hilts, and exchanged them; then returned
to his couch, and soon after fell asleep.
They started again on their journey next morning. In the course of a
few days, they met with several adventures that proved to Hildebrand
and his comrades that Wittich was of the stuff that heroes are made of.
On hearing of the arrival of his old master and the rest, King Dietrich
hastened out into the court to meet and welcome them. But his
astonishment was great when the young stranger pulled off his silver
gauntlet and handed it to him. In another moment Dietrich had snatched
it, and flung it in the youth’s face, exclaiming wrathfully:
“Do you think it is part of a king’s duty to make a target of himself
for every wandering adventurer to strike at? Here, my men, seize the
rascal, and hang him to the highest gallows.”
“The power to do so is on your side,” answered Wittich, “but bethink
you, my lord, whether such a deed would not bring dishonour on your
fair fame.”
And Hildebrand said, “Sire, this is Wittich, son of Wieland, the
celebrated smith. He is no mean man, or secret traitor, but well worthy
of a place in the ranks of your comrades.”
“Very well, master,” replied the king, “I will fight him as he desires,
but should he be conquered, I will deliver him to the hangman. It is my
last word. Now come to the race-course.”
The whole town assembled to witness the duel between the king and the
stranger. The combat raged long, but at last Wittich’s sword broke, and
he stood defenceless before the king.
“False father, you deceived me,” he cried, “you gave me the wrong
sword, and not Mimung.”
“Surrender, vagrant,” cried Dietrich, “and then to the gallows with
you.”
The young warrior’s last hour had come, if Hildebrand had not sprung
between them.
“Sire,” he said, “spare an unarmed man, and make him one of your
comrades. We could not have a more heroic soul in our company.”
“No. He shall go to the gallows. Stand back, master, that he may once
more lick the dust before me.”
The master was sick at heart. He thought of how he had wronged the
young hero by changing his sword: “Here, brave warrior, is your sword
Mimung,” he said, handing Wittich the weapon at his side, “and now,
Dietrich, do your best!”
The battle began again, and Mimung showed its mettle now. Bits of the
king’s shield and armour fell away, and a home-stroke laid his helmet
open. “Surrender, king!” cried the victorious youth; but Dietrich
fought on, in spite of terrible wounds.
Then the master sprang forward.
“Wittich,” he cried, “hold your hand, for it is not your own strength,
but Wieland’s sword that gives you victory. Be our comrade, and then we
shall rule the world, for, next to the king, you are the bravest of all
the heroes.”
“Master,” replied Wittich, “you helped me in my need and I will not now
deny you.” Then turning to the king:
“Glorious hero of Bern, I am your man henceforward, and will be
faithful to you as long as I live.”
The king took his offered hand in his firm grasp, and made him ruler
over a large fief.