“And so it is Dietrich, kind Dietrich,” sighed one; while another laughed and answered, “What does that matter to us? It is all the same whether a man is a king or a beggar when he comes to be hung.” “Ah yes,” said a third, “the rope is an uncomfortable necktie for any man, but that it should be tried on a crowned head is a thing I never expected to see.”
The procession arrived at its destination. The prisoners were led to the foot of the gallows.
“Be of good cheer, Sir King,” said the executioner; “you once gave me a handful of gold pieces, and to show you my gratitude I have provided a silken rope for you, that will do the business very quickly. The other two gentlemen must put up with common hemp, I am sorry to say. By St. Michael, I never did a day’s work before, that I liked so ill.”
“Pray loose my hands for a moment, good fellow,” asked Rother, “that I may say a prayer.”
“A pious wish,” replied the man. “I will also pray to my patron saint, and beg him to take you straight to heaven from the gallows-tree.”
He loosed the king’s hands as he spoke, and then began to pray. Meanwhile Rother drew out his horn from under the pilgrim’s mantle, where it was concealed. Three times its wild call sounded over mountain and valley, like a cry for help to the faithful friends who were waiting fully armed in the depths of the wood. But King Imelot, growing impatient, commanded that the executioner should himself be hung if he delayed any further to do his duty. The man was frightened and began to bind Rother’s hands again; but at that moment a loud noise was heard in the background.
It was Arnold, who, with his men, had joined Rother’s other friends, and who now came with them to the rescue of his former benefactor. There was a fearful battle. Imelot and many more fell fighting desperately, while Basilistum was slain during the flight. The whole army of Desert-Babylon was scattered or destroyed.
After the victory King Rother asked for the emperor, but found that Constantine had thought “prudence the better part of valour,” and had long before fled to the palace, where he had taken refuge in the women’s apartments. His courage had all ebbed away, and he begged his wife and daughter to entreat Rother to save him out of the hand of the giants, those veritable children of the evil one. The ladies were soon ready to go out and meet the ruler of the West. They placed the timid emperor in their midst, and accompanied by a numerous train, set out for the wood. The first people they met were the giants. Asprian’s falcon-eyes at once spied out the emperor, carefully as he tried to hide himself. Stretching his long arm over the empress, he seized him by the scruff of the neck and flung him on the ground. Widolt raised his club to put an end to him as he lay there senseless, but his master stopped him, saying—
“Not so, Widolt; away with the miserable wretch to the gallows.”
The giant caught the emperor up as easily as if he had been a baby, and went dancing along the road to the gallows with him in his arms. But they soon came up with Rother and his heroes, and the king pardoned Constantine. He could not have done otherwise: his wife was once more in his arms, and where love rules, wrath and vengeance have no place. When they all met in the banqueting room that evening, the emperor found himself unusually hungry after the many and varied emotions he had gone through, and it is said that he devoured a whole leg of mutton, and drank an immense quantity of wine.
King Rother left the whole of the Eastern empire, which he had just conquered, in the hands of his father-in-law, and then set sail for Bari accompanied by Queen Oda. Arrived there, they went on to Rome, where a second marriage was solemnized with great pomp. Rother and his wife lived long and happily together, and had many children. We shall hear pleasant things of their daughter Herka (or Herche, Helche), and their grand-daughter Herat, as time goes on.
III
ORTNIT
A great king once lived in Lombardy; he was richer and more powerful than any other monarch far or near. His name was Ortnit, and his dominions extended over the whole of Italy from the Alps to the sea, and even included Sicily. The neighbouring kings were all his vassals, for, possessing the strength of twelve ordinary men, he was, of course, victorious in every battle. And yet he was not contented. An inward unrest prevented him from enjoying his wealth and greatness. He often sat dreamily at table, tasting nothing, and deaf to all that was being said around him; deaf even to the minstrels, when they sang songs in his praise. He frequently wandered alone up in the mountains, seeking adventures, slaying robbers, and destroying the wild beasts that preyed upon the farmers’ flocks and herds. But this did not satisfy him; he sighed for something more.
One day when he was standing, as he often did, on the sea-shore, watching the waves that rose and fell, tinted by the light of the setting sun, a mist came up out of the water. A few minutes more, and it parted slowly like a veil, showing a wondrous sight. It was that of a castle with towers and barbican, and on the battlements stood a woman such as he had never seen before in all his travels. He could not take his eyes off her. The effect of her beauty on him was like enchantment. Then the mist gradually closed again, and lady and castle vanished as completely as if they had never been.
While Ortnit was still staring at the place where he had seen the lady, he heard a step behind him. “Ah, it is she!” he thought, and turning quickly, clasped and kissed—bearded Ylyas (Eligas, or Elias), prince of the wild Reussen, who was his uncle. The new comer returned the embrace heartily, and then said:
“You are a good lad to receive your mother’s brother with as much transport as a lover his sweetheart, but you have been gazing at a bit of sorcery down there, and that accounts for a great deal. Try to forget what you have seen, or your royal head may soon be displayed from the towers of Muntabure, where the lovely witch lives with that old heathen, her father.”
“She is a real person then,” cried Ortnit quickly. “She must be mine. I would stake my life to win her.”
“What is that you say?” answered Ylyas. “A king’s head for a woman’s curl! That would make a new song for the minstrels to sing in Lombardy.”
“How am I to find her?” asked the king. “Tell me the story, which I suppose some wandering fiddler has sung.”
“Why, nephew,” replied the elder man, “I have seen with my own eyes and have heard with my own ears what I am now going to tell you. It is no minstrel’s tale I am going to amuse you with. Machorell is the name of the maiden’s father, and he is ruler of Syria, Jerusalem, and other eastern lands. When I was returning from my pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre, I arrived one evening at the gates of Castle Muntabure, weary and footsore, and the Saracen porter had compassion on me, took me in, and showed me no little kindness. Then it was that I saw the wicked heathen king, whose skin is as black as that of a Moor, and also the beautiful princess Sidrat. I heard it said that he intended to marry his own daughter, when her sick mother was dead, and that was why he cut off the heads of all the wooers who came to ask for the princess’s hand in marriage. Seventy-two skulls already grin from the towers of Castle Muntabure. Say, bold youth, do you intend to offer your head to the Moorish king as the seventy-third?”
“I have been through many a strange adventure before now,” returned Ortnit, “and I shall try to get the better of the infidel.”
On the following day the notables of the realm were summoned to a council. The king told them that he intended to make a campaign in Syria, and desired their help in calling together his army. After many attempts to dissuade Ortnit from such a fantastic enterprise, all was at last settled as he wished, even to the appointment of the governors and deputy-governors in whose hands the country was to be left during his absence. The only person besides the king who carried his point was Ylyas, who insisted on his right to go to Syria or anywhere else he chose, and expressed his firm determination not to lose sight of his nephew.
As the council were separating, Zacharis appeared. He was Lord of Apulia and Sicily, a heathen, but a faithful comrade of the king. When he heard what they had settled, he at once announced his readiness to provide a ship to take the armament across the sea, for which offer the king thanked him warmly.