Countess Aya mourned him as dead, and expended all her love on her four
sons, whom she educated with the greatest care, and who rewarded her
for her pains by growing up into wise and stately men. Reinold, the
youngest, and his father’s image, was taller and stronger than his
brothers, and a better swordsman than any one about Pierlepont. He had
inherited much of his father’s quick temper; but to his mother he was
always gentle and bidable.
The four lads, Richard, Adelhart, Wichart, and Reinold had already
shown their prowess in the field, when a messenger came to Pierlepont
to say that Count Haymon was lying sick at an inn at the foot of the
Pyrenean hills, and near a place where hot mineral springs were to be
found. He wanted his wife to come and nurse him. Aya prepared to obey
her husband without a moment’s delay, and set out accompanied by her
sons.
On her arrival at the inn, she hastened to embrace her husband, and
present her sons to him. The three elder lads embraced their sick
father tenderly, but Reinold hung back.
“Who is this broken-down old man?” he cried. “It cannot be my father,
for he is a great hero, and that man does not look much of a warrior. I
wonder if he will try a bout with me.”
“Boy,” said Haymon, standing up straight, “do you not know me for your
father? Look at this ring which your mother gave me years ago, and at
these scars which I gained in battle.”
“And,” continued the countess, “does not my love for him bear witness
that he is your father?”
“Yes, mother,” cried Reinold, “I recognise him now;” and, so saying, he
clasped his father in his arms, and squeezed nearly all the breath out
of his body.
“Ah, this one is my son, and no mistake,” said Haymon. “He was cut out
of the same quarry.”
Aya and her sons were anxious to hear all that the count had done and
seen since they had met last, so Haymon told them all that had befallen
him, and ended by saying that he had brought home great wealth. This
wealth he intended his three elder sons to divide equally amongst them,
whilst his youngest son was to have his good sword Flammberg and the
horse Bayard, if he could manage to ride it.
Reinold did not in the least doubt his powers of riding anything, and
begged his father, mother, and brothers to come and see him mount his
new steed. They followed the lad into the stable. Reinold went straight
up to Bayard, and seizing the halter in one hand, was about to mount,
when the horse caught his coat between its teeth, and threw him on the
ground. The bold warrior, ashamed of his fall, sprang to his feet, and
next moment was seated in the saddle. There was a fierce struggle for
mastery, which ended in the victory of Reinold. After a wild and
dangerous ride, when Bayard once more stood in its stall, Haymon went
up to the noble animal, and said:
“Bayard, this is my son, your future master.”
The horse seemed to understand, for it laid its head gently against
Reinold’s breast, as though to acknowledge his mastery.
Count Haymon was soon strong enough to return to Pierlepont with his
family. Shortly after his arrival there, he heard that the king, who
had lately been crowned emperor at Rome, intended to confer the honour
of knighthood on his son and heir, Prince Ludwig, and on several
squires of noble birth. Haymon and his sons at once determined to go to
court on this occasion.
A great tournament was held before the emperor knighted the young men,
and each and all of the candidates showed himself worthy of the honour
about to be bestowed on him; more especially Reinold, whose prowess
brought down endless acclamations. After the ceremony of knighting the
young nobles was over, Ludwig was crowned king, and named his father’s
successor in the empire. The young king’s first act was to distribute
fiefs to the new-made knights, save and except to the brothers alone;
these he passed over entirely. He did not even invite them to the
feast, and to all appearance the day of general rejoicing was to be a
fast day for them. Reinold thought it too bad, so he walked into the
royal kitchen and helped himself to all he needed for himself and his
brothers.
The reason of this extraordinary conduct on Ludwig’s part was easy to
guess. He was jealous of the superior strength and prowess Reinold had
displayed in the lists; above all, he could not forget the fall he had
met with at his hands. He confided his dislike of Reinold to his
favourite, Ganelon, a fawning sycophant, and told him that he wanted to
rid himself and the country of him whom he chose to regard as his
enemy. Ganelon at once had a plan to propose. He said that Ludwig, who
was famous for his skill in playing chess, should challenge Adelhart,
one of the brothers, to play a game with him, each player to stake his
head to the other. Reinold would be sufficiently punished, in Ganelon’s
eyes, by the pain his brother’s death would cause him. Ludwig agreed to
the plan with alacrity. Adelhart, on receiving the challenge, declined
to play on such terms, saying that if he won, he could not raise his
hand against the life of his future liege lord; but Ludwig would not
listen to any excuse, saying he would have him proclaimed a coward if
he did not consent. So the young hero gave way, much against his will.
A few minutes later the two men were seated opposite each other before
a chess-board, while three of the courtiers, who had been chosen
umpires, stood beside the table and watched the players. Five games
were to be played. The chess-men on the one side were made of gold,
those on the other of silver. Ludwig, who played with the golden
chess-men, had the first move. The five stipulated games were played
one after the other, and in each of the five, Ludwig was check-mated.
The umpires were silent. The king swept the pieces together
impatiently, and when Adelhart said he had only played for the sake of
his life and honour, that the head of his king was sacred in his eyes,
Ludwig caught up the chess-board and flung it in his face with such
force that the blood flowed from his mouth and nose, and stained his
garments.
The hero instantly rose and withdrew. As he crossed the courtyard, his
brother Reinold hastened to meet him, and asked what was the matter. On
learning what had taken place, the younger brother was very angry. He
gave orders that all should be got ready for their departure, and sent
a servant to tell his father and brothers to come down to their horses.
Then, turning to Adelhart, he said he would fetch him the prize he had
won. Signing to his brother to follow him, he at once directed his
steps to the throne-room, where the emperor was seated with his knights
and nobles about him. Ludwig and the umpires were there also. Reinold
advanced to the throne, and told Karl the whole story, asking the
umpires if it were not so. Two of them were afraid, and held their
peace; but the third boldly avowed the truth. Reinold, upon this, drew
his sword Flammberg, and with one stroke severed Ludwig’s head from his
body. Almost before the spectators could draw breath, the brothers had
left the room. On reaching the courtyard, they at once mounted their
horses and rode away, accompanied by Haymon and the rest of their party.
They were pursued on the instant. The men-at-arms came up with them
outside the town gates, and a battle ensued. From the first there
seemed to be very little chance for Count Haymon and his sons. They had
but a few men-at-arms to support them, and the enemy’s numbers
increased every minute. Their men were at last all slain, and so were
all their horses, except Bayard, which bore bold Reinold here, there,
and everywhere with equal speed and safety. At length, seeing that
further contest was useless, Reinold called to his father and brothers
to mount behind him on Bayard. The three brothers lost no time in
obeying him but Haymon was so hemmed in by the press of people that he
could not move. Although bearing a fourfold burden, Bayard galloped
away as lightly and easily as if he had had nothing on his back.
[Illustration: THE CHILDREN OF HAYMON.]
Haymon meantime yielded himself prisoner to Bishop Turpin, the bishop
promising that his life should be spared. But the emperor refused to be
bound by Turpin’s promise, and ordered that Haymon should be publicly
hung for the offence his son had committed. The bishop’s entreaties
were vain. It was not until Roland and the other paladins threatened to
leave his service if he persisted in ordering Haymon’s death, that the
emperor gave way, and set his prisoner free, after making him swear to
deliver his sons into his hands on the first opportunity. With the
prospect of the gallows before his eyes, Haymon took the oath demanded
of him.
Meanwhile the brothers journeyed rapidly through the broad lands of
France. Nowhere could they find an abiding-place, for they were
outlaws, whose life was forfeited if they fell into the emperor’s
hands. At length they came to Saforet, a Moorish chieftain, with whom
they made friends, and to whom they swore fealty. They remained with
him three years, serving him well; but when, at the expiration of that
time, they asked for the pay he had promised but never given, the Moor,
who thought them unable to defend their rights, refused to listen to
the request. So Reinold, growing impatient, cut off his head. It was
certainly an effectual way of ending the argument, but it necessitated
immediate flight on the part of the brothers. This time they turned for
protection to Iwo, prince of Tarasconia, the mightiest opponent of
Saforet. The prince received them with every mark of honour, and with
their help gained many victories over his enemies. But when he heard of
the imperial ban under which they lived, Iwo called his council
together, and asked what was to be done. Some of his advisers wanted
him to get rid of the brothers as quickly as possible; while others
said that it would be well to court the emperor’s favour by delivering
the outlaws into his hand; but the greater number were of opinion that
the best thing to do would be to bind the heroes by some strong tie to
the princely house. This last piece of advice was the one followed by
Iwo, who gave Reinold his only daughter Clarissa to wife, and appointed
him and his brothers a residence by the sea. There a strong fortress
called Montalban was built, which became the chief stronghold of the
principality. On one occasion the emperor’s forces besieged it for a
whole year, and then had to withdraw, baffled.
“Look,” cried Richard, looking down from the battlements, “the imperial
eagle flutters away into the forest with a broken wing. Up, Reinold,
and after it, that we may send it home like a plucked goose.”
“I have something else to do,” answered his brother thoughtfully.
“Seven years have passed over our heads since we saw our good mother.
The longing to see her again gnaws at my heart; I must go and visit
her, were it to cost me my life.”
His brothers agreed to go with him; so they armed themselves cap-a-pie,
drew long grey pilgrims’ dresses over their armour, and set out for
Castle Pierlepont. They got there safely, and were received with the
greatest joy by their mother, who could not do enough to show them how
happy their coming had made her.
The chamberlain who had taken them into the presence of the Countess
Aya, soon discovered who they were, and determined to betray them. He
went at once to his lord, Count Haymon, told him who the supposed
pilgrims were, and reminded him of his oath to the emperor. Haymon was
very angry, and felt inclined to slay the chamberlain there and then,
but refrained. After taking counsel with himself, he made up his mind
that the best thing he could do would be to take his sons prisoner, and
march them off to the emperor; giving them, however, an opportunity of
slipping away before they reached Paris. So he called his men-at-arms
to follow him, and went to his wife’s apartments. Aya, seeing them
crossing the court, would have hidden her sons, but they refused to
hide, and, throwing off their pilgrims’ robes, prepared to defend their
lives to the last. Reinold’s great strength served him in good stead.
He fought so furiously that the men-at-arms fell back. Haymon alone
stood firm. Reinold swung his sword, but his mother clung to him,
entreating him to remember that it was his father who stood before him.
Reinold at once put up his sword, but disarmed his father, and took him
prisoner.
“The man that would have delivered his own children up to the
executioner’s axe shall go to his friend the emperor in a guise that
befits his knightly character,” said Reinold.
The men-at-arms stood so much in awe of the young man’s prowess and
strong arm, that they promised implicit obedience. Reinold, therefore,
sent one of them to fetch an ass. When it was brought he placed the
count upon it, and bound him to the saddle. Then calling a boy, he
placed the reins in his hands, and bade him lead the prisoner to Paris.
The count, however, had not so far to go, after all; for, meeting some
of the imperial troops on the way, he was set at liberty, mounted on a
horse, and taken back to Pierlepont.
The brothers were enjoying themselves in their old home, when the
emperor’s troops arrived before the gates of the castle. Reinold was
alone with his mother when the order to surrender was given by the
invaders. The young man snatched up his sword, but his mother silently
pointed to the gates, which were already thrown open. She then dressed
him hastily in his pilgrim’s robes, and led him out of the castle by a
secret door. Having done this, Aya returned to seek, and, if it might
be, save her other sons; but she found them prisoners and bound, and in
the hands of their enemies. She wept and wrung her hands, for she knew
that she was powerless to help them.
Meantime Reinold was hastening back to Montalban as quickly as he
could. He was determined to save his brothers, and knew that delay
would be fatal. Arrived at home, he went straight to the stables, where
Bayard whinnied with joy to see him. After eating a few mouthfuls of
food hastily, he mounted his gallant steed and started for Paris, as
swiftly as if his horse had had wings.
He halted in a thick wood near the town, dismounted, and while his
horse grazed beside him, threw himself down at the foot of a great
tree, and began to consider what would be his best plan of operation.
Overmastered by fatigue, he presently fell asleep, and dreamt that a
necromancer was stealing his horse. When he awoke he looked about him
anxiously, and called “Bayard,” but in vain. He called louder and
louder. No answer was returned. He looked carefully for marks of his
horse’s feet, but found none.
At the edge of the wood, he met a pilgrim, who spoke to him humbly.
After some conversation, the pilgrim pushed back his hood, and looked
at Reinold with a smile, and the young man recognised his cousin
Malagis. The necromancer then promised to restore the brothers and
Bayard safe and sound. He took some yellow powder out of a box, and
sprinkled it over himself and Reinold, at the same time muttering his
Abracadabra, and in a moment they were changed into the likeness of
crippled beggars. Together they limped into Paris.
A crowd of richly-dressed lords and ladies were crossing the bridge
over the Seine, which at that time connected the island-city with the
mainland. The emperor was there also, and beside him was the famous
hero Roland, to whom he had promised the horse Bayard, if he would
fight and conquer the sons of Haymon. The horse was led by several
grooms. All at once it stopped short, whinnied, jerked the reins out of
the grooms’ hands, and trotted up to the two beggars, who were watching
the procession.
“Bayard is strangely constituted,” cried Count Roland; “the beast seems
actually to like poor folk better than noble knights.”
“Bayard! Is this Bayard?” asked one of the beggars. “Oh, noble
gentleman, if this be Bayard, pray permit my poor comrade to mount him.
A holy man told us that if he did so, he would at once be cured, and,
as you see, he is a lamester.”
“Well, Cousin Roland,” said the emperor, “help the poor fellow up, that
we may see a miracle for once in our lives. I only hope it _will_ be a
miracle, and that the miserable wretch’s arms and legs may not be
broken.”
Roland signed to his servants, who with much difficulty hoisted the
ragged lamester into the saddle. They had to do it three times before
he was safely settled. No sooner was he firmly seated than he drew
himself up proudly, touched Bayard with the heel of one of his wooden
shoes, and galloped away so fast that no one could overtake him.
Malagis pretended to be much frightened lest his comrade should meet
with some injury from the runaway horse.
At midnight, a little man might have been seen creeping along the
streets of Paris, dressed in a grey coat. He kept continually
murmuring, “Ista, sista, pista, abracadabra!” And dark clouds rose and
covered the sky, making the moon and stars grow dim. He at last reached
a tall, gloomy-looking house, before which a guard was set; but the
watchmen had bent their heads and fallen asleep at his approach. The
strong oak doors opened when he touched them with the point of his
staff. He entered, and went straight to an underground dungeon, where
three men were chained to the wall. He muttered some mysterious words,
and the chains fell from off them.
“Rise, brothers,” he said; “your cousin Malagis is here. He has come to
save you.”
So they rose and followed him.
Before leaving Paris, the necromancer went to the sleeping emperor, and
asked him for the loan of his crown and sword. Karl immediately gave
them to him.
The emperor’s feelings next morning may be more readily imagined than
described, when he heard of the events that had taken place during the
night. He longed more than ever to have his revenge on the sons of
Haymon; but could not see how to accomplish his desire.
Cunning Ganelon then said that he was sure that Iwo had his price, and
might be induced to sell the brothers to the emperor. Karl tried the
plan, and won Iwo to his side, on paying him a ton’s weight of gold.
This done, the faithless traitor went to Montalban, and said that he
brought good news from Paris; he had persuaded the emperor to let
bygones be bygones, and all would now be well if the four brothers
would only go to Falkalone unarmed, and in the garb of penitents, and
there beg forgiveness. The emperor had promised, Iwo said, to grant
them a full pardon, and to restore them to their ancient dignities.
When the brothers were about to start for Falkalone, Clarissa entreated
them to beware lest the message were a treacherous one, adding that she
knew her father would sell his own child for gold. Reinold sternly told
her she was an unnatural daughter, and bade her hold her peace. He then
rode on; but Adelhart remained behind for a moment, and hid four
swords, which his sister-in-law handed him, under the skirts of his
penitent’s robe.
As the brothers were riding on their asses up the steep and narrow path
that led to Falkalone, they were set upon by an armed band of warriors.
Adelhart divided the swords with which Clarissa had provided him, and
they defended themselves so well, that the count of Châlons, fearful of
losing more men, determined to draw a cordon round the place where the
brothers had taken their stand, and starve them out.
The four weary men sat down to rest. They looked anxiously all round to
see whether help would not come. The hot day was over, and evening
coming on apace, when all at once they saw a well-known banner on the
opposite hill. It was waved by a horseman who was galloping towards
them, accompanied by a small band of armed men. Reinold immediately
recognised his Bayard, and his cousin the necromancer.
The battle at once began in the plain below. Before it had lasted long,
Bayard had caught sight of its master; with a loud neigh of pleasure
the noble horse broke through the enemy’s ranks and galloped up to
Reinold. Malagis dismounted, threw his cousin the reins, and at the
same time handed him his sword Flammberg, which Clarissa had sent.
Reinold flung himself into the saddle, and rode down to the place of
combat, followed by his brothers, who had in the meantime caught some
of the riderless chargers that were flying from the field. The brothers
gained a glorious victory, and the count of Châlons only succeeded in
saving the remnant of his forces by retreating under cover of the
darkness.
“Who told the magician? Who is the traitor?” cried the emperor, when he
heard what had happened.
After many conjectures had been hazarded, every one came to the
conclusion that none other than Iwo had betrayed the true state of
matters to Malagis, and one of the courtiers added that the prince of
Tarasconia had taken refuge in the monastery of Beaurepart. Upon which
the emperor said grimly, that even the walls of the sanctuary should
not protect him from his vengeance, and immediately despatched Roland
to capture Iwo, and see him hanged.
When Reinold first returned to Montalban, it was his firm intention to
punish his father-in-law’s treachery with death; but Clarissa’s
entreaties prevailed, and he promised to spare him. It was for fear of
his vengeance that Iwo had taken refuge in the monastery. He never
thought of the emperor turning against him. Reinold did not hide his
satisfaction when he learnt that Karl had sent to take Iwo out of the
monastery, that he might hang him at Monfaucon. But Clarissa was much
troubled in spirit when her husband told her the news.
“Ah, my baby,” she said, bending over her child, “perhaps you will grow
up to be a hero like your father, and then people will point at you and
say, ‘Yes, he is very brave, and a true hero; but still, he is the
grandson of a man who died on the gallows,’ and then you will creep
away from the assembly of noble men, and try to hide your shame in the
wilderness.”
Reinold sat for some minutes in thoughtful silence; then springing to
his feet, he kissed his wife, and said:
“You are as wise and good as one of God’s angels. The traitor shall be
saved.”
He hastened to the stable, mounted his horse, and galloped away to the
forest of Monfaucon. There he found Iwo standing at the gallows with
the cord round his neck. Reinold knocked down one of the executioners,
cut the cord round Iwo’s neck, exclaiming, “Be off, you rascal, lest
you be hanged after all,” and then beat back the other executioner, who
would have recaptured the prince of Tarasconia. Count Roland now came
to the rescue, but was soon forced to measure his length upon the
ground, and Reinold rode away, saying, “It was your horse’s fault, good
cousin, not yours.”
Several of the paladins, who had witnessed the short combat between the
heroes, began to make jesting remarks about what had occurred. Roland
had never been unhorsed before, except once or twice by Oliver, and he
took the matter grievously to heart. He rode away in silence; not to
Paris, but in the direction of Montalban, that he might seek vengeance
for his overthrow.
As he was riding through a wood, he met a man with a crossbow, who was
shooting a deer, and at once recognised him to be Richard, Reinold’s
brother. He took him prisoner, and in spite of Richard’s remonstrances,
and his reminders of their relationship, took him to Paris, and
delivered him to the emperor. Karl was delighted at the lucky chance,
at once condemned Richard to be hung at Monfaucon, and asked which of
his paladins would undertake the task of seeing the sentence carried
out. They all refused, saying that hanging was not a seemly death for a
knight to die. At length Rype, a new-made knight, offered his services
to the emperor. A pious pilgrim who was present at the discussion,
begged that execution might be delayed until he had had time to pray
for the weal of the poor sinner at St. Denys.
But instead of going to St. Denys, the holy man went to Montalban, and
told Reinold all that had happened, bidding him make haste if he would
arrive at Monfaucon in time to save Richards life. Having said this,
Malagis—for the pilgrim was none other than he—went to the kitchen to
ask for some food, for he was tired and hungry after his long and
arduous journey on foot.
Reinold, Adelhart, Wichart, and their men soon reached the gallows at
Monfaucon. There was no one there, so they stretched themselves out on
the grass and fell asleep. When Rype came with his prisoner, they were
still asleep; but Bayard, hearing them, awoke his master with a kick.
In another moment the brothers had fallen upon the imperial troops,
whom they soon put to flight. They then set Richard free, and hung Rype
with the same rope he had brought for his prisoner.
The emperor, finding that all his former attempts to avenge his son’s
death had been in vain, determined on a new plan of action. He called
out a large army, and marched to lay siege to Montalban.
The fortress was strictly invested. The besieged ventured on making an
occasional sally on the enemy without the walls, for the purpose of
getting provisions, etc. Much blood was shed on either side, but
nothing decisive took place. The siege went on for years, and neither
party gave way. At length the garrison of Montalban began to feel the
want of provisions, and Reinold made up his mind to a desperate step.
He broke through the besiegers’ camp and carried off a number of
provision wagons. Malagis had rendered such action possible by slipping
out of the fortress unnoticed and sprinkling some of his sleeping
powder over part of the camp. As he was about to scatter another pinch,
he was seized by the collar, and, looking round, saw that it was strong
Olivier, one of the twelve paladins, who was dragging him away. The
rough attack had knocked the powder out of the necromancer’s hand, and
it had fallen on the ground. Instead of laying his hand on his sword,
the little man caught hold of the bag of hellebore snuff he had hidden
within his garment, and threw a pinch into Olivier’s face. The hero
sneezed and sneezed, and still he sneezed; but the more convulsively he
sneezed, the tighter he clutched his prisoner, whom he at length
dragged into the emperor’s presence.
“A-chew! your Highness!” he said and sneezed; “I bring
you—a-chew!—the wicked-a-chew!—necromancer—a-chew!—do with
him—a-chew!—as you will.” Here such an agony of sneezing came upon
poor Olivier that he could say no more.
The emperor thanked and pitied the worthy paladin, and ordered that the
magician should be bound, and guarded to Monfaucon, where he was to be
hanged.
“Sire,” whimpered Malagis, “pray let me live this one more night, and
let me have a good supper, for I have not tasted food for the last four
and twenty hours.”
Meanwhile the paladins and many other knights had entered the royal
tent. They one and all joined their entreaties to those of the poor
little man. Seeing that the emperor seemed inclined to yield, Malagis
said in a grave and solemn tone,—
[Illustration: MALAGIS CARRIES THE SLEEPING EMPEROR TO MONTALBAN.]
“Your Majesty, I swear on my honour that I will not go away from here
without your own consent, nor will I go unless you bear me company.”
Karl then promised to let him have the twenty-four hours’ grace, and
several of the knights offered their services as guards.
The lords sat down to supper, and devoted their whole attention to the
good food and wine that were set before them, while Malagis, curled up
in a corner close at hand, appeared to do the same. When supper was
over, the necromancer was taken to the place that was to serve him as
prison, and the noble knights, who had undertaken to keep watch and
ward, took up their places for the night.
At midnight Malagis had recourse to his knowledge of the black art. He
made a deep magic sleep fall upon the camp, and all within its bounds,
save and except himself. Then, stepping softly, he made his way to the
emperor’s bedside, and dropped a few drops of some medicament into
Karl’s mouth, which insured his sleep lasting for twelve good hours.
After which he lifted him up, and carried him pickaback to the castle.
The great gate was flung open at the sound of his well-known voice, and
great was the astonishment of Reinold when he saw what burden he
carried on his shoulders.
“Here is the pledge of peace,” said Malagis. “It has cost me much hard
work to bring it here. See that my labour bears fruit.”
The emperor was carried to the best guest-room the castle contained,
and the Lady Clarissa did all that lay in her power for the comfort of
the great man.
Karl did not awake till noon. At first he thought he must be dreaming
when he saw Reinold, Malagis, and strange servants about him. The truth
dawned upon him gradually, and a bitter truth it was. Hunger forced him
to accept the food Clarissa brought, though he would much rather not
have eaten it. Reinold tried by every means in his power to induce the
emperor to give up his plans of vengeance, and make peace with him. But
his efforts were vain. Then it occurred to him that a proud, haughty
nature, that could not be bent by harshness, was often softened by
kindness. He set Kaiser Karl at liberty, and the emperor went away from
Montalban without a word or sign that betokened reconciliation.
When Reinold re-entered the castle, he found his cousin Malagis burning
boxes, bags, and all kinds of written papers. Much surprised, he asked
what he was doing, and Malagis replied:
“I am burning all that the noble art of necromancy has taught me. I
shall need these things no more, for my services are useless to such a
madman as you. I am now going away into the wilderness to join the holy
penitents, there I shall repent with them in sackcloth and ashes.”
He was as good as his word, for he took his departure soon afterwards,
never to return.
When the emperor went back to his camp, he related all his adventures.
The paladins one and all entreated him to make peace with the heroic
brothers, but he refused, saying that his murdered son’s blood still
cried aloud for vengeance. So the castle still remained beleaguered,
and fortune seemed to have deserted the garrison with the departure of
the little necromancer. The store of provisions grew less every day.
Hunger stared the brave men in the face. Reinold, after much
consideration, thought of a way of escape, and made all needful
preparations. One evening, when darkness had begun to set in, he took
leave of his weeping wife, and, accompanied by his brothers and a small
band of determined men, made his way cautiously and silently through
the enemy’s lines, and set out for a strong castle in the forest of
Ardennes.
Next morning the emperor was told what had happened, and he did what
Reinold had expected. He at once ordered the siege of Montalban to be
raised, and started in pursuit of the fugitives. He soon came up with
them, but they defended themselves so well, and took such wise measures
to ensure their safety, that they succeeded in reaching the stronghold
for which they were bound.