The faithful Skovmark followed his master, caressing him; and when
Sintram fell asleep on a stone seat in the wall, he lay at his feet,
keeping watchful guard. Suddenly he pricked up his ears, looked round
with delight, and bounded joyfully down the mountain. Just afterwards
the chaplain of Drontheim appeared amongst the rocks, and the good beast
went up to him as if to greet him, and then again ran back to the knight
to announce the welcome visitor.
Sintram opened his eyes, as a child whose Christmas gifts have been
placed at his bedside. For the chaplain smiled at him as he had never
yet seen him smile. There was in it a token of victory and blessing, or
at least of the near approach of both. “Thou hast done much yesterday,
very much,” said the holy priest; and his hands were joined, and his
eyes full of bright tears. “I praise God for thee, my noble knight.
Verena knows all, and she too praises God for thee. I do indeed now dare
hope that the time will soon come when thou mayst appear before her.
But Sintram, Sir Sintram, there is need of haste; for the old man
above requires speedy air, and thou hast still a heavy--as I hope the
last--yet a most heavy trial to undergo for his sake. Arm thyself, my
knight, arm thyself even with bodily weapons. In truth, this time only
spiritual armour is needed, but it always befits a knight, as well as a
monk, to wear in decisive moments the entire solemn garb of his station.
If it so please thee, we will go directly to Drontheim together. Thou
must return thence to-night. Such is a part of the hidden decree, which
has been dimly unfolded to Verena’s foresight. Here there is yet much
that is wild and distracting, and thou hast great need to-day of calm
preparation.”
With humble joy Sintram bowed his assent, and called for his horse and
for a suit of armour. “Only,” added he, “let not any of that armour be
brought which was last night overthrown in the hall!”
His orders were quickly obeyed. The arms which were fetched, adorned
with fine engraved work, the simple helmet, formed rather like that
of an esquire than a knight, the lance of almost gigantic size, which
belonged to the suit--on all these the chaplain gazed in deep thought
and with melancholy emotion. At last, when Sintram, with the help of his
esquires, was well-nigh equipped, the holy priest spoke:
“Wonderful providence of God! See, dear Sintram, this armour and this
spear were formerly those of Sir Weigand the Slender, and with them he
did many mighty deeds. When he was tended by your mother in the castle,
and when even your father still showed himself kind towards him, he
asked, as a favour, that his armour and his lance should be allowed to
hang in Biorn’s armoury--Weigand himself, as you well know, intended
to build a cloister and to live there as a monk--and he put his old
esquire’s helmet with it, instead of another, because he was yet
wearing that one when he first saw the fair Verena’s angelic face. How
wondrously does it now come to pass, that these very arms, which have so
long been laid aside, should be brought to you for the decisive hour of
your life! To me, as far as my short-sighted human wisdom can tell,--to
me it seems truly a very solemn token, but one full of high and glorious
promise.”
Sintram stood now in complete array, composed and stately, and, from his
tall slender figure, might have been taken for a youth, had not the deep
lines of care which furrowed his countenance shown him to be advanced in
years.
“Who has placed boughs on the head of my war-horse?” asked Sintram
of the esquires, with displeasure. “I am not a conqueror, nor a
wedding-guest. And besides, there are no boughs now but those red and
yellow crackling oak-leaves, dull and dead like the season itself.”
“Sir Knight, I know not myself,” answered an esquire; “but it seemed to
me that it must be so.”
“Let it be,” said the chaplain. “I feel that this also comes as a token
full of meaning from the right source.”
Then the knight threw himself into his saddle; the priest went beside
him; and they both rode slowly and silently towards Drontheim. The
faithful dog followed his master. When the lofty castle of Drontheim
appeared in sight, a gentle smile spread itself over Sintram’s
countenance, like sunshine over a wintry valley. “God has done great
things for me,” said he. “I once rushed from here, a fearfully wild boy;
I now come back a penitent man. I trust that it will yet go well with my
poor troubled life.”
The chaplain assented kindly, and soon afterwards the travellers passed
under the echoing vaulted gateway into the castle-yard. At a sign from
the priest, the retainers approached with respectful haste, and took
charge of the horse; then he and Sintram went through long winding
passages and up many steps to the remote chamber which the chaplain
had chosen for himself; far away from the noise of men, and near to the
clouds and the stars. There the two passed a quiet day in devout prayer,
and earnest reading of Holy Scripture.
When the evening began to close in, the chaplain arose and said: “And
now, my knight, get ready thy horse, and mount and ride back again to
thy father’s castle. A toilsome way lies before thee, and I dare not go
with you. But I can and will call upon the Lord for you all through the
long fearful night. O beloved instrument of the Most High, thou wilt yet
not be lost!”
Thrilling with strange forebodings, but nevertheless strong and vigorous
in spirit, Sintram did according to the holy man’s desire. The sun set
as the knight approached a long valley, strangely shut in by rocks,
through which lay the road to his father’s castle.