Volume Iii Part 13 (1/2)
And now, laying his arm tenderly about the girl's neck, and strewing a stripe of salt from his pocket upon the earth, which the goats, following, eagerly licked up, Adalgoth went up the slope.
”But tell me, dearest,” said Gotho, when they had arrived at the top of the hill, and she was gathering her lambs together, ”why thy cry was again 'Alaric! Alaric!' just as when thou madest the eagle leave my little White Elf, which it had already seized in its talons?”
”That is my battle-cry.”
”Who taught it thee?”
”Grandfather; the first time he took me with him to hunt wolves. The time when I got this skin from Master Isegrim's ribs. As I sprang at the wolf, which could not escape and turned to attack me, crying 'Iffa,' just as I had always heard grandfather cry, he said, 'Thou must not cry ”Iffa,” Adalgoth. When thou attackest a hero or a monster, cry ”Alaric!” it will bring thee luck.'”
”But none of our ancestors are so named, brother. We know all their names.”
They had now reached the stalls, into which they drove the animals, and then seated themselves before an open window upon a wooden bench, which ran round the front of the house on each side of the door.
”There are,” counted Gotho, ”first Iffamer, our father; and Uncle Wargs, who was buried by the mountain; then Iffa, our grandfather; Iffamuth, our other uncle; Iffaswinth, his son; and Iffarich, our great-grandfather; and Iffa again--but no Alaric.”
”And yet I feel as if I had often heard that name at the time when I used first to run about the mountain; when the great landslip killed Uncle Wargs. And I like the name. Grandfather has told me about a hero-king who was called so; who was first of all the heroes to conquer the fortress of Roma--thou knowest, it is the city from which father and Uncle Iffamuth and Cousin Iffaswinth never returned. And that hero died young, like Siegfried, the dragon-killer, and Balthar, the heathen G.o.d. And his grave is in a deep river. There he lies on his golden s.h.i.+eld, under his treasures, and tall reeds bend and wave above him.
And now another king has arisen, who is called Totila, as the warriors who relieved the garrison over there in the Castle of Teriolis told me.
They say he is just like that Alaric, and like Siegfried and the Sun-G.o.d. And grandfather says that I also shall become a warrior and go down to King Totila and rush into the fray with the cry of 'Alaric!
Alaric!' Long ago I got tired of climbing about and keeping goats here on the mountains, where there is nothing to fight but wolves, or at most a bear which eats up the grapes and honey-combs. You all praise my harp-playing and my songs, but I feel that they are not worth it, and that I cannot learn much more from the old man. I should like to sing better things. I am never tired of listening to the soldiers' stories about the victories of glorious King Totila. Lately I gave the best chamois I ever shot to old Hunibad--whom the King sent up here to nurse his wounds--so that he might tell me, for the third time, all about the battle at the bridge across the Padus, and how King Totila himself overthrew that black devil, the dreadful Cethegus. And I have made a song about it, which begins:
”Tremble, thou traitor, Cunning Cethegus; Tricks will not serve thee; Teja the terrible Daunts thy defiance.
And brightly arises, Like morning and May-time, Like night from the darkness, The favourite of Heaven, The bright and the beautiful King of the Goths.
”But it goes no further; and I can make no more poetry alone. I need a master for the words and the harp. I should like to finish a song that I have began about the spear-hurler Teja, whom they call the 'Black Earl,' and who is said to play the harp wonderfully. And long ago--but this I tell to thee alone--I should have run away without asking grandfather, who always says I am too young yet, if _one_ thing did not keep me back.”
He sprang hastily up.
”What is that, brother?” asked Gotho, who sat quite still and looked full at him with her large blue eyes.
”Nay, if thou dost not guess it,” he answered almost angrily, ”I cannot tell thee. But now I must go and forge some new arrow-points in the smithy. First give me one more kiss--there! And now let me kiss each of thine eyes, and thy fair hair. Good-bye, dear sister, until supper-time.”
He left her and ran to a side building, before the door of which stood a grind-stone and various implements.
Gotho rested her cheek upon her hand, and looked thoughtful. Then she said aloud:
”I cannot guess it; for of course he would take me with him. We could not live apart.”
She rose with a slight sigh, and went to a field near the house, to look after the linen which was lying there bleaching.
But now old Iffa rose from his seat behind the open window, where he had heard all that had pa.s.sed.
”This will not do,” he cried, rubbing his head hard. ”I never yet had the heart to separate the children--for they were but children! I always waited and waited; and now I think I have put it off a little too long. Away with thee, young Adalgoth!”
He left the dwelling-house, and walked slowly to the smithy. He found the boy working busily. With puffed-out cheeks, he blew into the fire on the hearth, and held the already roughly-prepared arrow-points in it, in order to make them red-hot and fit for the hammer. Then he took them out with a pair of pincers, laid them on an anvil, and hammered out neat points and hooks. Without pausing in his work, he nodded silently to his grandfather, striking st.u.r.dily upon the anvil till the sparks flew.
”Well,” thought the old man, ”just now, at least, he thinks of nothing but arrows and iron.”
But suddenly the young smith finished his work with a tremendous stroke, threw away the hammer, pa.s.sed his hand across his hot forehead, and asked, turning sharply to the old man: