Otto of the Silver Hand | Page 9

when they were married Otto of Wolbergen had left
the church with a broken heart.
But such stories are old songs that have been sung before.
Clatter! clatter! Jingle! jingle! It was a full-armed knight that came
riding up the steep hill road that wound from left to right and right to
left amid the vineyards on the slopes of St. Michaelsburg. Polished
helm and corselet blazed in the noon sunlight, for no knight in those
days dared to ride the roads except in full armor. In front of him the
solitary knight carried a bundle wrapped in the folds of his coarse gray
cloak.
It was a sorely sick man that rode up the heights of St. Michaelsburg.
His head hung upon his breast through the faintness of weariness and
pain; for it was the Baron Conrad.
He had left his bed of sickness that morning, had saddled his horse in
the gray dawn with his own hands, and had ridden away into the misty
twilight of the forest without the knowledge of anyone excepting the
porter, who, winking and blinking in the bewilderment of his broken
slumber, had opened the gates to the sick man, hardly knowing what he
was doing, until he beheld his master far away, clattering down the
steep bridle-path.
Eight leagues had he ridden that day with neither a stop nor a stay; but
now at last the end of his journey had come, and he drew rein under the
shade of the great wooden gateway of St. Michaelsburg.
He reached up to the knotted rope and gave it a pull, and from within
sounded the answering ring of the porter's bell. By and by a little
wicket opened in the great wooden portals, and the gentle, wrinkled
face of old Brother Benedict, the porter, peeped out at the strange
iron-clad visitor and the great black war-horse, streaked and wet with
the sweat of the journey, flecked and dappled with flakes of foam. A

few words passed between them, and then the little window was closed
again; and within, the shuffling pat of the sandalled feet sounded fainter
and fainter, as Brother Benedict bore the message from Baron Conrad
to Abbot Otto, and the mail-clad figure was left alone, sitting there as
silent as a statue.
By and by the footsteps sounded again; there came a noise of clattering
chains and the rattle of the key in the lock, and the rasping of the bolts
dragged back. Then the gate swung slowly open, and Baron Conrad
rode into the shelter of the White Cross, and as the hoofs of his
war-horse clashed upon the stones of the courtyard within, the wooden
gate swung slowly to behind him.
Abbot Otto stood by the table when Baron Conrad entered the
high-vaulted room from the farther end. The light from the oriel
window behind the old man shed broken rays of light upon him, and
seemed to frame his thin gray hairs with a golden glory. His white,
delicate hand rested upon the table beside him, and upon some sheets
of parchment covered with rows of ancient Greek writing which he had
been engaged in deciphering.
Clank ! clank! clank ! Baron Conrad strode across the stone floor, and
then stopped short in front of the good old man.
"What dost thou seek here, my son ?" said the Abbot.
"I seek sanctuary for my son and thy brother's grandson," said the
Baron Conrad, and he flung back the folds of his cloak and showed the
face of the sleeping babe.
For a while the Abbot said nothing, but stood gazing dreamily at the
baby. After a while he looked up. "And the child's mother," said he -
"what hath she to say at this?"
"She hath naught to say," said Baron Conrad, hoarsely, and then
stopped short in his speech. "She is dead," said he, at last, in a husky
voice, "and is with God's angels in paradise."

The Abbot looked intently in the Baron's face. "So!" said he, under his
breath, and then for the first time noticed how white and drawn was the
Baron's face. "Art sick thyself?" he asked.
"Ay," said the Baron, "I have come from death's door. But that is no
matter. Wilt thou take this little babe into sanctuary? My house is a vile,
rough place, and not fit for such as he, and his mother with the blessed
saints in heaven." And once more Conrad of Drachenhausen's face
began twitching with the pain of his thoughts.
"Yes," said the old man, gently, "he shall live here," and he stretched
out his hands and took the babe. "Would," said he, "that all the little
children in these dark times might be thus brought to the house of God,
and there learn mercy