Chapter x.

But while Hullin and his mountaineers were thus preparing for battle, where was the tin-crowned King of Diamonds--Yegof the Fool? Wandering barefoot over the snow-covered paths, his breast open to the cutting winds, cold, hungry, and companionless, save for his grim friend the raven.

Night was approaching, the cold growing keener and keener; even the fox seemed to shiver as he pursued his unseen prey, and the famished birds of prey had hidden themselves in the rocky nooks of the mountains. But the fool, his raven upon his shoulder, kept on--on--talking to himself, gesticulating wildly, from Holderloch to Sonneberg, from Sonneberg to Blutfeld.

And that very night, Robin, the old herdsman of Bois-de-Chênes, saw a strange and fearful sight.

A few days before, having been surprised by the snows at the bottom of the gorge of Blutfeld, he left his wagon behind him and drove home the cattle, but finding upon his arrival that he had forgotten his sheep-skin cloak, he started at about four o'clock that evening to seek it.

Blutfeld is a narrow gorge between Schneeberg and Grosmann, bordered by pointed rocks. A thread of water winds its way through the valley, in summer and winter, and on its sides, among the grey rocks, spots of good pasturage are found: but the place is rarely visited; something weird and ghostly seems to hang over it, and the cold, white light of a winter's moon serves to intensify its sinister aspect. Tradition says that here was fought a great battle between the Triboci and the Germans, who, under a chief named Luitprandt, attempted to penetrate into Gaul. It tells how the Triboci from the peaks around flung huge stones upon their foes, crushing them by thousands, and that from the frightful carnage the defile derived its name--Blutfeld the field of blood. Rusted spearheads, broken helmets, and cross-handled swords two ells in length are yet found there.

At night, when the moonlight falls upon the snow-covered rocks, when the wind whistles through the bare bushes, the cries of the surprised Germans seem borne upon the air, mingled with the wailing of their women and the neighing of steeds, and the rattling of chariots through the defile. The Triboci ceased not from the slaughter for two entire days, and on the third they retired to their homes, every man bending beneath the weight of his booty.

Such was the legend of the gorge which Robin reached just as the moon was rising.

The good man had a hundred times descended to its depths, but never had it seemed so bright or so ghastly. His wagon, at the bottom, seemed one of those masses of rock under which the invaders were crushed. It stood at the entrance of the valley, behind a thick clump of bushes, and the little stream dashed along by it, flashing like a thousand swords. The old herdsman soon found his cloak and an old hatchet too, which he had regarded as lost; but, when he turned to depart, his blood ran cold.

A tall figure was advancing straight toward him. Behind it followed five grey wolves, two full-grown and three young. He recognized Yegof, and at first thought the wolves were dogs. They followed the fool step by step, but he seemed not to see them; his raven flew about, now in the clear moonlight, now in the dark shadows of the rocks; the wolves, with glittering eyes, sniffed the air as if scenting their prey. The fool lifted his sceptre.

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Robin darted like a flash into his wagon unobserved. Yegof advanced down the valley as if walking some great castle-hall, and the raven with glittering black plumage flew to the branch of a dead tree near by, and there perched, and seemed to listen.

It was a strange scene, Robin thought. If the fool slipped, if he fell, there was an end of him; the wolves would instantly devour him.

But in the middle of the gorge, Yegof turned and sat down upon a stone, and the five wolves sat around him in the snow.

Then the fool, raising his sceptre, addressed them, calling each one by name, and they replied with mournful howlings.

"Ha, child, Bléed, Merweg, and you, my old Siramar," he cried, "here we are once more together! You have grown fat; you have had good cheer in Germany, have you not?"

Stretching his arm, after a moment's pause, over the moonlit valley, he continued:

"Remember ye not the great battle?"

One of the wolves howled plaintively as if in reply; then another, and at last all five together.

This lasted full ten minutes, the raven the while sitting motionless on its withered branch. Robin would have fled, but dared not.

Still the wolves howled, and the echoes of Blutfeld replied to their chorus, until at last the largest ceased, and the rest followed his example. Yegof spoke again:

"Ay; 'tis a sorrowful story. There runs the stream that overflowed with our blood; but others fell too, and for three days and three nights their women tore their hair. But how the accursed dogs triumphed in their victory!"

The fool seized his crown and dashed it upon the ground; then, sighing, stooped and placed it again upon his head. The wolves sat as if listening attentively, and the largest again howled mournfully.

"Thou art hungry, Siramar," said Yegof, as if replying to him; "but rejoice; flesh will soon be yours in plenty; the battle will again be fought. Our war-cry was long hushed, but the hour is near, and it will again shake these mountains, and you shall again be warriors; you shall again own these valleys. The air is full of the shrieks of women, of the flashing of swords, the creaking of wagons. They rushed down upon us and we were surrounded; your bones sleep here on every side, but your children are coming; rejoice!' sing, sing!"

And he himself began to howl like a wolf, and his hearers took up the savage strain.

These cries, growing every moment more horrible, the reverberating echoes, the motionless rocks, white and ghastly, or buried in blackness and gloom, the bare branches bending beneath their load of snow--all filled the old herdsman with speechless horror.

But the scene soon ended. Yegof spoke no more, but moved slowly with his strange train toward Hazlach, and the raven, uttering a hoarse cry, spread its sable wings and followed through the dark blue air.

All disappeared like a dream, but for a long time Robin could hear the howling growing fainter and further away. It had, however, ceased for nearly half an hour, and the silence of a winter night taken its place, before the good man dared leave his wagon, and make at his best speed for the farm-house.

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Arriving at Bois-de-Chênes he found every one excited and busy. They were about killing an ox for the Donon men, and Hullin, Doctor Lorquin, and Louise had departed with those from the Sarre. Catherine was having her great four-horse wagon loaded with bread, meat, and brandy, and all were busy in the preparations.

Robin would not tell any one of his adventure. It seemed, even to himself, so incredible that he dared not speak of it. The whole affair puzzled him sorely, and it was not until he was lying in his crib in the stable that he concluded that Yegof had some time or other captured and tamed a litter of wolves, to whom he uttered his folly as men sometimes speak to their dogs; but the rencounter left a superstitious dread in his mind, and even years after, the honest old man could not speak of it without a shudder.