St. Mark's coffin had been carried down to the lower castle-gate, by some of the serving brothers. Everyone touched it with the points of his lance and sword, and then silently passed on.
In the wide plain, stretching out towards the lake, Simon Bardo drew up his troops, and one could see how pleased the old field-marshal was, that his scar-covered breast again wore the accustomed mail, instead of the monk's habit. His head was covered by a strangely shaped, pointed steel morion; his broad, jewel-set girdle, as well as the gilt handle of his sword, indicated the ancient general.
"You read the classics, on account of the grammar," said he to the Abbots, "but I have learnt my handicraft from them. With the military advice of Frontinus and Vegetius, one may still achieve something even now-a-days. First we will try the battle-array of the Roman legions; for in that position one can best await the enemy, and see what he means to do. Afterwards, we are still at liberty to change our tactics, for affairs will not be settled between us in half an hour."
The light corps of the archers and sling-bearers were ordered to occupy the border of the wood, where they would be sheltered by the fir-trees, against any attack on horseback. "Take low aims," said he, "for even if you should merely hit the horse instead of the rider, it is always something." At the sound of the bugle, the troop advanced to execute his commands. As yet, nothing was to be seen of the enemy.
The men of the arrier-ban, he arrayed in two close ranks. With levelled lances they slowly advanced; a space of a few steps remaining between the two files. The knight of Randegg, and the gaunt Friedinger, commanded them.
The monks, Simon Bardo collected into one compact body, placing them in the rear.
"Why this?" asked Abbot Wazmann, inwardly hurt, at losing the honour of heading the attack. But Bardo, experienced in war, smilingly replied: "Those are my Triarians; not because they are veteran soldiers, but because they are fighting for their own warm nests. To be driven out of house and home and bed, makes swords cut deepest, and spears thrust fiercest. Don't be afraid, the tug of war, will yet draw the disciples of St. Benedict into the strife."
The Huns had left the monastery of Reichenau at early dawn. The provisions were all consumed, the wine drunk, and the cloister pillaged; so, their day's work was done. Heribald's forehead lost many a wrinkle, when the last of the Hunnic riders had passed out of the cloister-gate. He threw after them a golden coin which the man from Ellwangen, had secretly thrust into his hand. "Countryman, if thou shouldst hear that a mishap has befallen me," said Snewelin, "I trust that thou wilt let a dozen masses be read for my poor soul. I have always befriended you and your fellow-monks, and how I have fallen amongst the heathens, I scarcely can understand myself. The soil of Ellwangen is unfortunately too rough and stony, for producing saints."
Heribald, however, would have nothing to do with him. In the garden, he shovelled up the bones and ashes of the burnt Huns and their horses, throwing them into the lake, whilst the Huns were still visible on the other side. "No heathen dust shall remain on the island," said he. Then he went to the cloister-yard, and thoughtfully stared at the place, where he had been forced to dance on the day before.
Meanwhile, the Huns were riding through the dark fir-wood towards the Hohentwiel. But as they were thus cantering along, heedless of all danger, here and there a horse began to stagger, and arrows and other sharp missiles flew into their ranks, sent by invisible hands. The vanguard began to slacken rein and to halt; but Ellak, giving the spurs to his horse, cried out: "Why do you care for the stinging of gnats? forwards, the plain is a better field of battle!"