They found the two knights drinking wine within. Folko was relating
stories in his usual mild and cheerful manner, and Biorn was listening
with a moody air, but yet as if, against his will, the dark cloud might
pass away before that bright and gentle courtesy. Gabrielle saluted the
baron with a smile, and signed to him to continue his discourse, as she
took her place near the knight Biorn, full of watchful kindness. Sintram
stood by the hearth, abstracted and melancholy; and the embers, as he
stirred them, cast a strange glow over his pallid features.
“And of all the German trading-towns,” continued Montfaucon, “the
largest and richest is Hamburgh. In Normandy we willingly see their
merchants land on our coasts, and those excellent people never fail to
prove themselves our friends when we seek their advice and assistance.
When I first visited Hamburgh, every honour and respect was paid to me.
I found its inhabitants engaged in a war with a neighbouring count, and
immediately I used my sword for them, vigorously and successfully.”
“Your sword! your knightly sword!” interrupted Biorn; and the old wonted
fire flashed from his eyes. “Against a knight, and for shopkeepers!”
“Sir knight,” replied Folko, calmly, “the barons of Montfaucon have ever
used their swords as they chose, without the interference of another;
and as I have received this good custom, so do I wish to hand it on. If
you agree not to this, so speak it freely out. But I forbid every rude
word against the men of Hamburgh, since I have declared them to be my
friends.”
Biorn cast down his haughty eyes, and their fire faded away. In a low
voice he said, “Proceed, noble baron. You are right, and I am wrong.”
Then Folko stretched out his hand to him across the table, and resumed
his narration: “Amongst all my beloved Hamburghers the dearest to me are
two men of marvellous experience--a father and son. What have they not
seen and done in the remotest corners of the earth, and instituted
in their native town! Praise be to God, my life cannot be called
unfruitful; but, compared with the wise Gotthard Lenz and his
stout-hearted son Rudlieb, I look upon myself as an esquire who has
perhaps been some few times to tourneys, and, besides that, has never
hunted out his own forests. They have converted, subdued, gladdened,
dark men whom I know not how to name; and the wealth which they have
brought back with them has all been devoted to the common weal, as if
fit for no other purpose. On their return from their long and perilous
sea-voyages, they hasten to an hospital which has been founded by them,
and where they undertake the part of overseers, and of careful and
patient nurses. Then they proceed to select the most fitting spots
whereon to erect new towers and fortresses for the defence of their
beloved country. Next they repair to the houses where strangers and
travellers receive hospitality at their cost; and at last they return to
their own abode, to entertain their guests, rich and noble like kings,
and simple and unconstrained like shepherds. Many a tale of their
wondrous adventures serves to enliven these sumptuous feasts. Amongst
others, I remember to have heard my friends relate one at which my hair
stood on end. Possibly I may gain some more complete information on the
subject from you. It appears that several years ago, just about the time
of the Christmas festival, Gotthard and Rudlieb were shipwrecked on
the coast of Norway, during a violent winter tempest. They could never
exactly ascertain the situation of the rocks on which their vessel
stranded; but so much is certain, that very near the sea-shore stood a
huge castle, to which the father and son betook themselves, seeking for
that assistance and shelter which Christian people are ever willing
to afford each other in case of need. They went alone, leaving their
followers to watch the injured ship. The castle-gates were thrown open,
and they thought all was well. But on a sudden the court-yard was filled
with armed men, who with one accord aimed their sharp iron-pointed
spears at the defenceless strangers, whose dignified remonstrances
and mild entreaties were only heard in sullen silence or with
scornful jeerings. After a while a knight came down the stairs, with
fire-flashing eyes. They hardly knew whether to think they saw a
spectre, or a wild heathen; he gave a signal, and the fatal spears
closed around them. At that instant the soft tones of a woman’s voice
fell on their ear, calling on the Saviour’s holy name for aid; at the
sound, the spectres in the court-yard rushed madly one against the
other, the gates burst open, and Gotthard and Rudlieb fled away,
catching a glimpse as they went of an angelic woman who appeared at one
of the windows of the castle. They made every exertion to get their ship
again afloat, choosing to trust themselves to the sea rather than to
that barbarous coast; and at last, after manifold dangers, they landed
at Denmark. They say that some heathen must have owned the cruel castle;
but I hold it to be some ruined fortress, deserted by men, in which
hellish spectres were wont to hold their nightly meetings. What heathen
could be found so demon-like as to offer death to shipwrecked strangers,
instead of refreshment and shelter?”
Biorn gazed fixedly on the ground, as though he were turned into stone
but Sintram came towards the table, and said, “Father, let us seek out
this godless abode, and lay it level with the dust. I cannot tell how,
but somehow I feel quite sure that the accursed deed of which we have
just heard is alone the cause of my frightful dreams.”
Enraged at his son, Biorn rose up, and would perhaps again have uttered
some dreadful words; but Heaven decreed otherwise, for just at that
moment the pealing notes a trumpet were heard, which drowned the angry
tones his voice, the great doors opened slowly, and a herald entered the
hall. He bowed reverently, and then said, “I am sent by Jarl Eric the
Aged. He returned two days ago from his expedition to the Grecian seas.
His wish had been to take vengeance on the island which is called
Chios, where fifty years ago his father was slain by the soldiers of the
Emperor. But your kinsman, the sea-king Arinbiorn, who was lying there
at anchor, tried to pacify him. To this Jarl Eric would not listen;
so the sea-king said next that he would never suffer Chios to be laid
waste, because it was an island where the lays of an old Greek bard,
called Homer, were excellently sung, and where more-over a very choice
wine was made. Words proving of no avail, a combat ensued; in which
Arinbiorn had so much the advantage that Jarl Eric lost two of his
ships, and only with difficulty escaped in one which had already
sustained great damage. Eric the Aged has now resolved to take revenge
on some of the sea-king’s race, since Arinbiorn himself is seldom on the
spot. Will you, Biorn of the Fiery Eyes, at once pay as large a penalty
in cattle, and money, and goods, as it may please the Jarl to demand?
Or will you prepare to meet him with an armed force at Niflung’s Heath
seven days hence?”
Biorn bowed his head quietly, and replied in a mild tone, “Seven days
hence at Niflung’s Heath.” He then offered to the herald a golden goblet
full of rich wine, and added, “Drink that, and then carry off with thee
the cup which thou hast emptied.”
“The Baron of Montfaucon likewise sends greeting to thy chieftain, Jarl
Eric,” interposed Folko; “and engages to be also at Niflung’s Heath, as
the hereditary friend of the sea-king, and also as the kinsman and guest
of Biorn of the Fiery Eyes.”
The herald was seen to tremble at the name of Montfaucon; he bowed very
low, cast an anxious, reverential look at the baron, and left the hall.
Gabrielle looked on her knight, smiling lovingly and securely, for she
well knew his victorious prowess; and she only asked, “Where shall I
remain, whilst you go forth to battle, Folko?”
“I had hoped,” answered Biorn, “that you would be well contented to stay
in this castle, lovely lady; I leave my son to guard you and attend on
you.”
Gabrielle hesitated an instant; and Sintram, who had resumed his
position near the fire, muttered to himself as he fixed his eyes on the
bright flames which were flashing up, “Yes, yes, so it will probably
happen. I can fancy that Duke Menelaus had just left Sparta on some
warlike expedition, when the young knight Paris met the lovely Helen
that evening in the garden.”
But Gabrielle, shuddering although she knew not why, said quickly,
“Without you, Folko? And must I forego the joy of seeing you fight? or
the honour of tending you, should you chance to receive a wound?”
Folko bowed, gracefully thanking his lady, and replied, “Come with your
knight, since such is your pleasure, and be to him a bright guiding
star. It is a good old northern custom that ladies should be present at
knightly combats, and no true warrior of the north will fail to respect
the place whence beams the light of their eyes. Unless, indeed,”
continued he with an inquiring look at Biorn, “unless Jarl Eric is not
worthy of his forefather?”
“A man of honour,” said Biorn confidently.
“Then array yourself, my fairest love,” said the delighted Folko; “array
yourself and come forth with us to the battle-field to behold and judge
our deeds.”
“Come forth with us to the battle,” echoed Sintram in a sudden transport
of joy.
And they all dispersed in calm cheerfulness; Sintram betaking himself
again to the wood, while the others retired to rest.