The stern lines about Herr Werner’s mouth grew deeper.
“Heed thou this, Conradt,” he said, with great earnestness. “Yonder was I, by the pillar, and saw this whole matter. What didst plan ill to the stallion for?”
“The truth is, not to have him hereabout,” muttered Conradt, his face dark with fear and anger. “These be my uncle’s stables, and this great beast hath had tooth or hoof toll from every one about the place.”
“True, i’ the main,” Herr Werner said scornfully. “Is this why the baron hath made thee master of the horse? Shall I tell him with what zeal thou followest thy duties?”
Conradt’s face was fair distorted now; fear of his uncle’s wrath was the one thing that kept the wickedness of his evil nature in any sort of check, and well he knew how bitter would be his taste of that wrath should this thing come to the baron’s ears. So, too, knew Herr Werner, and, in less manner, Wulf; for his keen wit had taught him much during his six weeks’ service at the castle.
“What shall I say to the baron of this?” demanded Herr Werner again, as he towered above them.
“I care not,” muttered Conradt, falsely; but Wulf said:
“Need aught be said, Herr Werner? I hold naught against him, save for Siegfried’s sake,”—with a loving glance over at the great horse,—“and ’tis not likely he’ll be at this mischief again.”
“What say, thou fine fellow?” asked the young knight of Conradt; but the latter said no word.
“Bah!” cried Herr Werner, at last. “Why, the tinker lad is a truer man than thou on every showing; get hence, that I waste on thee no more of the time should go to his wound,” he added; for Wulf, in moving his arm, had suddenly flinched and his face was pale. In another moment Herr Werner had the hurt member in hand, and as he was, like most men of that rude time, somewhat skilled in caring for wounds, he had soon bandaged this one, which was of no great extent, but more painful than serious, and was quickly eased.