CHAPTER XVIII.

How Sir Otto met again with the Knight of Montfaucon.

Mounted on a fine silver-grey horse, in a magnificent hunter’s dress, with a bugle-horn at his side, a young man of handsome features and graceful demeanour made his appearance before them. At the same moment, when Otto saw the bleeding falcon supported on the breast of the stranger, the latter observed the cross-bow in the hands of Theobaldo, and considering him as but a squire, he turned an angry glance on the knight, saying,--“If it pleases you, sir, to allow your attendants to hunt in my forests, you indeed impute to me no more hospitality and civility towards strangers, that I am willing to shew. But, nevertheless, I must earnestly request, that, for the future, you will content yourself with humbler game, and spare so noble a bird as this which your squire has now wounded.” Thereupon he tenderly stroked the head and back of the poor stricken falcon, with many kind and caressing words, and without attending to Sir Otto’s apologies, which, in truth, were but confusedly delivered; for he was himself greatly irritated by Theobaldo’s strange conduct. The latter, however, had now become more obstinate than ever. He went up with a look of defiance to the stranger sportsman, and said,--“It was I alone, without being commanded, or receiving permission from any one, who took aim at your falcon; and I only, therefore, am to be spoken with on that matter.” “Stand back, Theobaldo,” said Sir Otto; “thou seem’st not aware of the guilt thou hast brought on thine own shoulders, in thus having infringed the laws of hunting and of knighthood, by taking aim at a prey so noble.” “Nay, I know it all full well,” answered Theobaldo. “You princes and knights have divided this world into special portions for your own private advantage; and as to the rights freely bestowed by Providence on other men, it is said, that they never must exercise them. Mark you, sirs, it is _said_ so; but it follows not that the rules you have laid down will always be observed. That independence which Milan has maintained as a free town, every Milanese will also support in his own proper person, in despite of king or emperor, count or duke. In proof of these words, I shall now shoot a few more birds.” And, with these words, he again stretched his cross-bow. “You have, in truth, chosen a strange-minded squire for your attendant, Sir Knight,” observed the stranger. But thereupon Sir Otto, vehemently incensed, and feeling the spirit of knighthood insulted and outraged within him, suddenly tore the cross-bow out of Theobaldo’s hands, broke it into pieces in a moment, stampt on it with his feet, and then scattered the fragments about the meadow. “This conduct translated into audible words,” said Theobaldo, “means no doubt a last adieu!” And as the knight turned from him with disdainful glances, he went gloomily to his Polish steed, and began to adjust the saddle and bridle. Otto’s war-horse perceiving this, came also trotting up, with kind and joyous looks; but Theobaldo repulsed him peevishly, saying, “Ay, ay, thou would’st yet bear me company, but thy master wills it not, and, therefore, thou too may go thine own way.” Otto, hearing this new insult, called to his charger, drew the saddle-girths closer, and mounted; after which he readily accepted the stranger’s invitation, that he should accompany him to a neighbouring castle, in order that, amid a numerous party of brother knights, he might forget all vexation at the strange event which had brought about their meeting. Theobaldo was also mounted, and rode slowly away, while Sir Otto and the stranger took an opposite direction. The two horses neighed aloud, and wished to rejoin each other; but their riders still spurred them on, although they could not help turning round with looks of regret and melancholy.

Sir Otto had proceeded a considerable distance, following the stranger, when they heard the sound of a horse in rapid trot behind them, and on looking back they saw that it was Theobaldo, who pulled up the reins immediately, as soon as he was observed, and with a degree of humility which was to him unwonted, said, in the German language, and in a low tone, “Sir Knight, methinks I have here been in the wrong, and gladly would I still atone for my error, if it please you that I should again join you on your journey.” Sir Otto immediately stretched out his arms towards him; whereupon Theobaldo galloped up, and as the two friends shook hands together, the Polish steed and the light-brown war-horse neighed merrily to each other, as if they fully understood what was now going forward.

As they all three rode onwards, the noble falconer expressed great joy at this reconciliation, insisting that knights should willingly overlook many faults in squires who were so faithful and attached; for on such fidelity the safety even of kingdoms and the relationship between monarchs many times depended. Thereafter he began to tell many marvellous stories of his wounded falcon, and of other such birds,--how they had been known to live till they were more than an hundred years old, having been found bearing golden collars round their necks, with the names thereon of princes long since dead. Such falcons then flew about over land and sea, till they had discovered a master equal in generosity, rank, and valour, to him that was departed. Theobaldo hereupon acknowledged, that all the opinions which he had before uttered were rashly adopted, and expressed deep regret for his conduct of that morning.

Ere this time, however, Sir Otto, notwithstanding the change of dress and demeanour, had clearly perceived that the hunter of the French forests was no other than the renowned Sir Folko de Montfaucon; while the latter by no means recognised, in the proud haughty knight, in his black and silver armour, the young inexperienced and talkative squire whom he had formerly met on the banks of the Danube. That armour indeed, with the formidable eagle’s visor, was not unknown to him; but Otto’s young blooming countenance and light hair contrasted so strangely with those accoutrements, that Sir Folko could not form any distinct recollection. In his mind all was like a dream, which, on awaking, we vainly strive to renew, and which in a short space is wholly forgotten.