CHAPTER XIV.

Of a fearful battle with the Pagan Finlanders.

Now the summer had quite past away, and the autumnal winds began to howl and rage among the wild mountains of the north, though the weather in Gascony had been yet mild and beautiful. On the very same evening when his bride had been carried away by the Moorish prince, Sir Otto von Trautwangen had dismounted from his light-brown charger, and taken his place in a narrow ravine of the mountains, in order to cut off the approach of the Pagans by that passage; for their numbers had now multiplied: they attacked the Christian army by means of ambuscades from all sides; so that they were scarcely able to maintain the ground which they had before won. Seeing the strange position which the young Knight of Trautwangen had chosen, the Swedish prince, who commanded the army, called out to him, demanding to know what was his intention, and wherefore he had allowed himself to be left almost alone? To which Sir Otto replied, “That the pass was too narrow to admit of his being attacked by more than one at a time; and whosoever of the enemy ventured in that manner to approach him would not fail to meet with his match.” In truth, he stood there like a supernatural and guardian-spirit; the graceful youth, with his light hair, and glowing cheeks, contrasting strangely with the grim-visaged dwarfish Finlanders by whom he was now assailed, and of whom with his single arm he had cut down such numbers, that the dead bodies lay like a bulwark before him, which seemed gradually to repulse and terrify his new adversaries. At length, amid the crowd, was descried the approach of some one with armour, which flashed like lightning in the sun’s rays. It was a Pagan hero of Swedish birth, with a high helmet, adorned with horse-hair instead of feathers, on his head, and who now came with his bright weapons clashing and ringing against the Knight of Trautwangen. First, his javelin flew singing through the air over the youth’s head, and in a moment after his sword-strokes fell thick as hail on the black eagle’s crest; by the sight of which he seemed specially enraged. “Full well do I know thee, with thy black and silver helmet!” cried the Swede, “and on thy head shall I now revenge my brother’s death, who fell by thy sword on the hill-top in the forest. By thy javelin he was struck, and thrown lifeless from his horse; but now, by the power of Odin and the sword of Swerker, thou shalt pay blood for blood.” The sword of Swerker did indeed inflict heavy blows, but that of Sir Otto proved yet more powerful; and at length the Swede having received, like his brother, a frightful wound on the forehead, began to totter in such manner, that the Knight of Trautwangen seized him by the horse-hair of his helmet, dragged him over the dead bodies, then hurled him away backwards to his own soldiers, saying, “Take this man; let him be carried to the tents in safety, and his wounds dressed. In due time I shall demand him of you.”

Thereupon the Pagans recoiled some paces, and murmured among themselves, not being able to understand the directions that Sir Otto had then given. Only some inarticulate words fell on the knight’s ear, who now, as if in mockery, seized the javelin which had been thrown at him by the Swede, and hurled it at random among the Finlanders who thus spoke together. Two of them fell to the ground bleeding, and severely wounded, while, with a wild howl, the rest flew asunder; after which they dispersed themselves into concealed thickets of the mountain, and shot numberless arrows from a distance. But, trusting to his well-proved and almost impregnable armour, he stood unmoved, holding up his shield in the narrow pass, so as to defend, as well as he could, the few soldiers of his own troop who were behind him, and whose coats-of-mail were not so heavy. The arrows continued to fall thicker and thicker, but did him no injury; so that, as if for pastime, he began to take up these weapons and throw them about. “Pitiful fighting!” said he; “it serves to keep us idle, and helps our assailants not a jot!”

Then he heard a rustling close beside him in the thickets; and, lo! from a narrow passage, like a cave in the rocks, which hitherto he had not observed, he saw the features of a pagan Finlander, grinning with rage, and preparing to assault him. Now then he proved the worth of the sword which had been made for him by Asmandur; for he struck with it so irresistibly, that the pagan’s head was cleft into two; but, as if some demon of the mountains had assisted the adverse party, by opening to them the subterraneous passages among the cliffs, this man was followed by numberless others, who came howling and outrageous at his defeat.

The Knight of Trautwangen and his small band of Swedish supporters (for his Normans were fighting on horseback on the plain beneath,) now defended themselves valiantly, both against the attacks that were made from the rocky cave, and those from the narrow foot-path. But their number was already lessened by the departure of those to whom Sir Otto had given in charge the wounded man; and it was easy to perceive, both by the increasing force of the enemy, and the weariness of the hitherto victorious Christians, that the moment drew near when the latter would be over-matched and conquered. It happened at last, that one of their pagan adversaries stretched out a long pole, with a banner, on which there was painted a frightful figure of a dragon, or some such monster, representing one of their idols. “Onwards, onwards!” cried he, “brave Finlanders! Now you behold, indeed, that the gods are with you, and are leading you on to victory!” The mob accordingly came forwards with loud shouts of rejoicing, and anticipated triumph; but Sir Otto, throwing back his shield over his left shoulder, seized his sword with both hands, and with the raging energy of despair, cut his way towards this hateful banner. Where-ever his blows now fell they inflicted deadly wounds. In a few moments he grappled with the hideous standard, and tore it with giant-strength from the bearer’s hands,--then threw it with vehemence down the rocky cliffs, calling aloud, “Lo! your gods are fallen into the abyss to which they properly belong! Try, madmen as you are, what you can do alone, and without their assistance!” For a moment the pagans gazed at him with surprise and terror; but soon afterwards their howls of wrath and revenge became wilder and wilder, and their advance more determined. Sir Otto then summoned up his whole strength, and, according to the custom of the Normans, which he had now fully learned, he began to sing furiously a battle-song, in the chorus of which he was joined by all his adherents; and, as if keeping time to the measure of the ballad, they cut and thrust, right and left, with tenfold vehemence and energy, though most of them were now wounded and covered with blood, while their visages were deadly pale from the fatigue of this long battle.

Suddenly there arose a noise like thunder behind the Finlanders, or rather as of the clashing of many iron shields; and a joyful chorus of voices was heard, answering the last stanza of the ballad, which Sir Otto had just now begun. In a few moments he beheld the golden vulture’s wings of Sir Arinbiorn, rising over the wood. Soon after he beheld the sea-monarch himself, with his great shield, gleaming like a full moon, and the whole band of gigantic Normans, clad in their heavy brazen cuirasses. Anon a shower of javelins was hurled forth against the pagan hordes, who broke asunder, and fled howling in all directions. “Now is the time!” cried the troops from the plain beneath; “cut them down, Swedes!” And “cut them down, grant no quarter!” was repeated by Sir Otto’s band, who forgot all their weariness and wounds, and ran furiously with their drawn swords, up hill and down hill, after their flying enemies.