The youthful hero rode on towards the dangerous outposts. Suddenly,
spears and arrows rained round him, and fell rattling from helm and
shield. But they did no harm, for his armour had been made by dwarfs.
The enemy’s leader rode up to him, and desired him to yield, saying
that he might give him his sword without shame, for he was Duke
Wölfing, and would return the weapon to Alphart when he was ransomed.
“What?” cried the hero, “are you Duke Wölfing, the only traitor of our
race? You shall have your wages here to-day, and from my hands.”
The combat between the two men was short. Alphart slew his opponent.
Upon this, the duke’s retainers hastened up to avenge him, but the
young hero killed half of them, and put the rest to flight.
“A spirit from the nethermost hell has come to fight for Dietrich,”
cried the men-at-arms. “It slew more than fifty of us single-handed,
and we ourselves hardly escaped with our lives.”
“Do you not know that the hero of Bern is a son of the devil?” was the
answer; “and what is more natural than that a father should come to his
child’s assistance? No mortal man can be expected to fight with such a
foe.”
“I will go out and see if it be not made of flesh and blood,” cried
stout Wittich. “Even though it had all hell at its back, I care not; I
must have a turn with it.”
He armed himself quickly, and caught up a sword without noticing that
it was not Mimung. Heime, whose life he had saved a short time before,
offered to go with him, and avenge him should he fall.
Alphart recognised the men from a distance.
“Ye are two faithless comrades,” he cried, “and have come to meet your
doom.”
The combat between him and Wittich began forthwith, and the latter soon
perceived that he had not Mimung. He was twice felled to the ground. In
his sore distress, he called on his comrade to help him; but Heime
hesitated, because it was considered dishonourable for two warriors to
fight against one. When Alphart, however, called upon Wittich to yield,
if he would not be slain on the spot, Heime sprang forward, and covered
his comrade with his shield, thus enabling him to get to his feet
again. After which both warriors attacked the young hero.
Alphart was as active on foot as he was strong of hand. He felled
Heime, but Wittich came to his help, and so the battle went on. The
three warriors bled from many wounds; but it was Heime’s hand that
finally dealt the death-blow.
“Faithless comrades that ye are,” sighed the dying Alphart, “the curse
of your dishonourable deeds will follow you to the grave.”
The conquerors left the place of combat in silence. They did not noise
abroad the fame of their deed. Yet their armour was bloody, and they
were sorely wounded. The men-at-arms whispered in mysterious tones:
“They have been fighting with that spirit from hell, have slain it, but
have seen some terrible sight.”
The news of Alphart’s death was received with deep sorrow in the
Bernese camp. Dietrich prepared to offer battle to the emperor on the
following day, and made all necessary dispositions in case he fell in
the fight.