This lasted a good ten minutes.
The raven, perched on the withered branch, did not stir.
Robin would gladly have fled. He put up his prayers, invoked all the saints, and, in particular, his own patron, for whom all the shepherds of the mountain have the highest veneration.
But the wolves still continued to utter their dismal howlings, awakening all the echoes of the Blutfeld.
At last one, the oldest of the number, was silent, then another, then all, and Yégof continued:—"Yes, yes; that is a dismal story. See! behold! there is the river down which our blood flowed in streams! No matter, Merweg, no matter; the others have left their bones to whiten on the common, and the cold moon has seen their women tearing their hair for three days and three nights! Oh! that terrible day! Oh! the dogs! were they proud of their great victory! Let them be accursed—accursed!"
The fool had cast his crown to the ground. He now picked it up, groaning as he did so.
The wolves, still seated round, listened to him like attentive spectators. The biggest among them began to howl, and Yégof answered his complaint.
"You are hungry, Sirimar; take comfort, take comfort; you will not want for food much longer; the men of our side are coming, and the strife will begin afresh."
Then rising, and striking his sceptre on a stone.