“Not the hardiest cragsman, not my son himself,” she said, “could venture on such a morning to guide you to—”
“Whither, gracious dame?” asked Theurdank, half smiling.
“Nay, sir, I would not utter what you would not make known.”
“You know me then?”
“Surely, sir, for our noble foe, whose generous trust in our honour must win my son’s heart.”
“So!” he said, with a peculiar smile, “Theurdank—Dankwart—I see! May I ask if your son likewise smelt out the Schlangenwald?”
“Verily, Sir Count, my Ebbo is not easily deceived. He said our guest could be but one man in all the empire.”
Theurdank smiled again, saying, “Then, lady, you shudder not at a man whose kin and yours have shed so much of one another’s blood?”
“Nay, ghostly knight, I regard you as no more stained therewith than are my sons by the deeds of their grandfather.”
“If there were more like you, lady,” returned Theurdank, “deadly feuds would soon be starved out. May I to your son? I have more to say to him, and I would fain hear his views of the storm.”