“See, my noble lord,” said Sintram the next morning, when Folko had
expressed his wish of going out with him, “these skates of ours give
such wings to our course, that we go down the mountain-side swiftly as
the wind; and even in going up again we are too quick for any one to be
able to pursue us, and on the plains no horse can keep up with us; and
yet they can only be worn with safety by those who are well practised.
It seems as though some strange spirit dwelt in them, which is fearfully
dangerous to any that have not learnt the management of them in their
childhood.
Folko answered somewhat proudly: “Do you suppose that this is the first
time that I have been amongst your mountains? Years ago I have joined in
this sport, and, thank Heaven, there is no knightly exercise which does
not speedily become familiar to me.”
Sintram did not venture to make any further objections, and still less
did old Biorn. They both felt relieved when they saw with what skill and
ease Folko buckled the skates on his feet, without suffering any one to
assist him. This day they hunted up the mountain in pursuit of a fierce
bear which had often before escaped from them. Before long it was
necessary that they should separate, and Sintram offered himself as
companion to Folko, who, touched by the humble manner of the youth, and
his devotion to him, forgot all that had latterly seemed mysterious
in the pale altered being before him, and agreed heartily. As now they
continued to climb higher and higher up the mountain, and saw from
many a giddy height the rocks and crags below them looking like a vast
expanse of sea suddenly turned into ice whilst tossed by a violent
tempest, the noble Montfaucon drew his breath more freely. He poured
forth war-songs and love-longs in the clear mountain air, and the
startled echoes repeated from rock to rock the lays of his Frankish
home. He sprang lightly from one precipice to another, using strongly
and safely his staff for support, and turning now to the right, now to
the left, as the fancy seized him; so that Sintram was fain to exchange
his former anxiety for a wondering admiration, and the hunters, whose
eyes had never been taken off the baron, burst forth with loud applause,
proclaiming far and wide fresh glory of their guest.
The good fortune which usually accompanied Folko’s deeds of arms seemed
still unwilling to leave him. After a short search, he and Sintram
found distinct traces of the savage animal, and with beating hearts they
followed the track so swiftly that even a winged enemy would have been
unable to escape from them. But the creature whom they sought did not
attempt a flight--he lay sulkily in a cavern near the top of a steep
precipitous rock, infuriated by the shouts of the hunters, and only
waiting in his lazy fury for some one to be bold enough to climb up to
his retreat, that he might tear him to pieces. Folko and Sintram had now
reached the foot of this rock, the rest of the hunters being dispersed
over the far-extending plain. The track led the two companions up the
rock, and they set about climbing on the opposite sides of it, that
they might be the more sure of not missing their prey. Folko reached the
lonely topmost point first, and cast his eyes around. A wide, boundless
tract of country, covered with untrodden snow, was spread before him,
melting in the distance into the lowering clouds of the gloomy evening
sky. He almost thought that he must have missed the traces of the
fearful beast; when close beside him from a cleft in the rock issued a
long growl, and a huge black bear appeared on the snow, standing on its
hind legs, and with glaring eyes it advanced towards the baron. Sintram
the while was struggling in vain to make his way up the rock against the
masses of snow continually slipping down.
Joyful at a combat so long untried as almost to be new, Folko of
Montfaucon levelled his hunting spear, and awaited the attack of the
wild beast. He suffered it to approach so near that its fearful claws
were almost upon him; then he made a thrust, and the spear-head was
buried deep in the bear’s breast. But the furious beast still pressed on
with a fierce growl, kept up on its hind legs by the cross-iron of the
spear, and the knight was forced to plant his feet deep in the earth to
resist the savage assault; and ever close before him the grim and bloody
face of the bear, and close in his ear its deep savage growl, wrung
forth partly by the agony of death, partly by thirst for blood. At
length the bear’s resistance grew weaker, and the dark blood streamed
freely upon the snow; he tottered; and one powerful thrust hurled him
backwards over the edge of the precipice. At the same instant Sintram
stood by the Baron of Montfaucon. Folko said, drawing a deep breath:
“But I have not yet the prize in my hands, and have it I must, since
fortune has given me a claim to it. Look, one of my skates seems to be
out of order. Thinkest thou, Sintram, that it holds enough to slide down
to the foot of the precipice?”
“Let me go instead,” said Sintram. “I will bring you the head and the
claws of the bear.”
“A true knight,” replied Folko, with some displeasure, “never does a
knightly deed by halves. What I ask is, whether my skate will still
hold?”
As Sintram bent down to look, and was on the point of saying “No!” he
suddenly heard a voice close to him, saying, “Why, yes, to be sure;
there is no doubt about it.”
Folko thought that Sintram had spoken, and slid down with the swiftness
of an arrow, whilst his companion looked up in great surprise. The hated
form of the little Master met his eyes. As he was going to address him
with angry words, he heard the sound of the baron’s fearful fall, and he
stood still in silent horror. There was a breathless silence also in the
abyss below.
“Now, why dost thou delay?” said the little Master, after a pause. “He
is dashed to pieces. Go back to the castle, and take the fair Helen to
thyself.”
Sintram shuddered. Then his hateful companion began to praise
Gabrielle’s charms in so glowing, deceiving words, that the heart of the
youth swelled with emotions he had never before known. He only thought
of him who was now lying at the foot of the rock as of an obstacle
removed between him and heaven: he turned towards the castle.
But a cry was heard below: “Help! help! my comrade! I am yet alive, but
I am sorely wounded.”
Sintram’s will was changed, and he called to the baron, “I am coming.”
But the little Master said, “Nothing can be done to help Duke Menelaus;
and the fair Helen knows it already. She is only waiting for knight
Paris to comfort her.” And with detestable craft he wove in that tale
with what was actually happening, bringing in the most highly wrought
praises of the lovely Gabrielle; and alas! the dazzled youth yielded to
him, and fled! Again he heard far off the baron’s voice calling to him,
“Knight Sintram, knight Sintram, thou on whom I bestowed the holy order,
haste to me and help me! The she-bear and her whelps will be upon me,
and I cannot use my right arm! Knight Sintram, knight Sintram, haste to
help me!”
His cries were overpowered by the furious speed with which the two
were carried along on their skates, and by the evil words of the little
Master, who was mocking at the late proud bearing of Duke Menelaus
towards the poor Sintram. At last he shouted, “Good luck to you,
she-bear! good luck to your whelps! There is a glorious meal for you!
Now you will feed upon the fear of Heathendom, him at whose name the
Moorish brides weep, the mighty Baron of Montfaucon. Never again, O
dainty knight, will you shout at the head of your troops, ‘Mountjoy St.
Denys!’” But scarce had this holy name passed the lips of the little
Master, than he set up a howl of anguish, writhing himself with horrible
contortions, and wringing his hands, and ended by disappearing in a
storm of snow which then arose.
Sintram planted his staff firmly in the ground, and stopped. How
strangely did the wide expanse of snow, the distant mountains rising
above it, and the dark green fir-woods--how strangely did they all look
at him in cold reproachful silence! He felt as if he must sink under the
weight of his sorrow and his guilt. The bell of a distant hermitage came
floating sadly over the plain. With a burst of tears he exclaimed, as
the darkness grew thicker round him, “My mother! my mother! I had once
a beloved tender mother, and she said I was a good child!” A ray of
comfort came to him as if brought on an angel’s wing; perhaps Montfaucon
was not yet dead! and he flew like lightning along the path, back to
the steep rock. When he got to the fearful place, he stooped and looked
anxiously down the precipice. The moon, just risen in full majesty,
helped him. The Knight of Montfaucon, pale and bleeding, was half
kneeling against the rock; his right arm, crushed in his fall, hung
powerless at his side; it was plain that he could not draw his good
sword out of the scabbard. But nevertheless he was keeping the bear and
her young ones at bay by his bold threatening looks, so that they only
crept round him, growling angrily; every moment ready for a fierce
attack, but as often driven back affrighted at the majestic air by which
he conquered even when defenceless.
“Oh! what a hero would there have perished!” groaned Sintram, “and
through whose guilt?” In an instant his spear flew with so true an
aim that the bear fell weltering in her blood; the young ones ran away
howling.
The baron looked up with surprise. His countenance beamed as the light
of the moon fell upon it, grave and stern, yet mild, like some angelic
vision. “Come down!” he beckoned; and Sintram slid down the side of the
precipice, full of anxious haste. He was going to attend to the wounded
man, but Folko said, “First cut off the head and claws of the bear
which I slew. I promised to bring the spoils of the chase to my lovely
Gabrielle. Then come to me, and bind up my wounds. My right arm is
broken.” Sintram obeyed the baron’s commands. When the tokens of victory
had been secured, and the broken arm bound up, Folko desired the youth
to help him back to the castle.
“O Heavens!” said Sintram in a low voice, “if I dared to look in your
face! or only knew how to come near you!”
“Thou wert indeed going on in an evil course,” said Montfaucon, gravely;
“but how could we, any of us, stand before God, did not repentance help
us? At any rate, thou hast now saved my life, and let that thought cheer
thy heart.”
The youth with tenderness and strength supported the baron’s left arm,
and they both went their way silently in the moonlight.