“The halter is ready, Herr Freiherr,” said old Ulrich, “and yon rowan stump is still as stout as when your Herr grandsire hung three lanzknechts on it in one day. We only waited your bidding.”
“Quick then, and let me hear no more,” said Ebbo, about to descend the pass, as if hastening from the execution of a wolf taken in a gin.
“Has he seen the priest?” asked Friedel.
The peasants looked as if this were one of Sir Friedel’s unaccountable fancies. Ebbo paused, frowned, and muttered, but seeing a move as if to drag the wretch towards the stunted bush overhanging an abyss, he shouted, “Hold, Ulrich! Little Hans, do thou run down to the castle, and bring Father Jodocus to do his office!”
The serfs were much disgusted. “It never was so seen before, Herr Freiherr,” remonstrated Heinz; “fang and hang was ever the word.”
“What shrift had my lord’s father, or mine?” added Koppel.
“Look you!” said Ebbo, turning sharply. “If Schlangenwald be a godless ruffian, pitiless alike to soul and body, is that a cause that I should stain myself too?”
“It were true vengeance,” growled Koppel.
“And now,” grumbled Ulrich, “will my lady hear, and there will be feeble pleadings for the vermin’s life.”
Like mutterings ensued, the purport of which was caught by Friedel, and made him say to Ebbo, who would again have escaped the disagreeableness of the scene, “We had better tarry at hand. Unless we hold the folk in some check there will be no right execution. They will torture him to death ere the priest comes.”