The mother ceased. The boy gazed steadily at the mysterious mountain, at that instant illuminated by the rising moon and gleaming like silver in its snowy drapery.
“Do you know anything more about Pilatus?” he asked, after a little.
“No, my darling, I have told you all that people say about it.”
The story greatly excited Arnold. He wanted to hear more of the same thrilling kind. A dim recollection of an extraordinary adventure connected with his own family rose in his mind.
“Little mother,” he said, “what was that horrible animal which once lived in this region? I heard you tell about it once, but I have forgotten most of the story. I know that a knight called Winkelried killed it.”
“That was Henry of Winkelried, your grandfather, usually called ‘Schrutan.’”
“Why Schrutan?”
“The name was probably given to him by his companions in the tournaments; for like all knights he was fond of tilting.”
“If my grandfather was a knight, why are there no knights now?” asked Arnold, raising his head from his mother’s shoulder and gazing at her earnestly.
“The times have greatly changed,” she replied. “Once the powerful family of Hohenstaufen[1] ruled over the German Empire. It occupied the throne more than a hundred years. The emperors fought many great battles, and the Winkelrieds, who were in their service, were elevated to knighthood. But when the Hohenstaufens ceased to rule, an evil time ensued. As it was no longer an honor to be a knight, the Winkelrieds discarded knighthood and lived like plain country people.”