Father Sturm sat in his warm room; hammering away.
Opposite him, in the only cushioned chair, reclined the blind baron, staff in hand, listening intently.
"You must be tired, Sturm," said the baron.
"Nay," cried the giant, "my hands are as strong as ever, and this is only a small barrel for rain-water—mere child's work."
"He once hid in a little barrel," said the baron to himself. "He was a delicate child. His nurse had put him in to bathe him, and he had bent his back and knees in such a way that he could not get out. I was obliged to have the hoops knocked off to extricate my boy from his prison."
The giant cleared his throat. "Were they iron hoops?" he asked, sympathizingly.
"It was my son," said the baron, his features quivering.
"Yes," whispered Sturm, "he was stately; he was a handsome man; it was a pleasure to hear his sword rattle; and to see how he twisted his little beard." Alas! how often he had said this before to the blind father.
"It was the will of Heaven!" said the baron, folding his hands.
"It was," repeated old Sturm. "Our Lord God chose to take him when at his best. That was an honor; and no man could leave the world more beautifully. It was for his parents and his fatherland that he put on his coat with epaulettes, and he was victorious, and driving those Poles before him, when the Lord called out his name and enrolled him in his own guard."