The Blutfeld, situated between the Schneeberg and the Grosmann, is a narrow gorge, bounded by perpendicular rocks. A narrow stream of water winds through it, summer and winter, under shadow of the tall shrubs, and in its depths extends a vast pasturage, all covered with large gray stones, that lie thickly scattered about.
This defile is very little frequented by the dwellers in the mountains, for there is a wild and weird look about the Blutfeld, especially by the pale light of a winter's moon. The learned folks of these regions, the schoolmasters of Dagsburg, and of Hazlach, say that in that spot occurred the famous battle of the Triboques against the Germans, who wished to penetrate into Gaul, under the command of a leader named Luitprandt. They say that the Triboques, from the surrounding mountain-tops, hurling upon their enemies huge masses of rocks, crushed them there as in a mortar, and that, on account of this great carnage, the gorge has preserved to this day the name of Blutfeld (field of blood). Fragments of broken pots, of rusty lances, bits of helmets, and long swords with cross hilts, are often found there.
At night time, when the moon sheds her soft light upon this field and those immense stones, all covered with snow, when the north wind blows and whistles among the frost-covered branches, making them rustle and clatter like cymbals, you might fancy you heard the wild cry of the Germans at the moment of surprise, the shrieks and groans of the women, the neighings of the horses, the hoarse rumbling of the chariots in the defile; for it appears that these people brought with them, in their skin-covered carriages, women, children, old men, and all that they possessed in gold, and silver, and moveables, like the Germans setting out for America. The Triboques never ceased to massacre them during two days, and on the third they went back to the Donon, the Schneeberg, the Grosmann, the Giromani, the Hengst, their broad shoulders stooping under the weight of their booty.
This is what is related concerning the Blutfeld, and certainly to see this gorge enclosed within the mountains like an immense trap, without any other outlet than a narrow footpath, it is easy to understand how the Germans might have been surprised there, and fallen an easy prey to their victors.
Robin did not reach the spot till between seven and eight o'clock, just as the moon was rising.
The honest fellow had descended the precipice a hundred times, but never had he beheld the place so brightly illuminated and at the same time of so gloomy and sinister an aspect.
At a distance, his white cart, standing at the bottom of the abyss, looked to him exactly like one of those enormous stones, covered with snow, beneath which the Germans had been interred. It was at the entrance of the gorge, behind a thick cluster of shrubs, and beside it the little torrent ran murmuring in a slender stream, bright as steel, and sparkling like diamonds.
When he arrived at the place, the shepherd began to look for the key of the padlock; then, having unlocked the shed, he crept in on his hands and knees, and found, very fortunately, not only his sheepskin, but even an old hatchet which he had quite forgotten.
But judge of his surprise when, on issuing from it, he saw the fool Yégof appear at the turn of the footpath, and come straight towards him in the bright moonlight.
The honest man immediately remembered the terrible story told in the kitchen of Bois-de-Chênes, and he felt afraid; but quite another feeling came over him when behind the fool, at fifteen or twenty paces, he beheld, stealthily approaching in their turn, five grey wolves, two big and three smaller ones.