"Though yet we live, by Death we are surrounded,
And ever near, his messengers are staying.
Whom could we choose, to help us in great danger,
But Thee, oh Lord! The judge of all the living!
Almighty God!"
And from the other wing the monks of the Reichenau were singing:
"Long our fathers for Thy coming panted,
And Thou redeemedst them from sin and sorrow,
Up to Thy throne arose their wailing voices,
And Thou didst not reject their tears and prayers,
Thou Lord of hosts!"
And from both sides, was then heard together:
"Forsake us not, when our strength is failing,
He our staff, when courage is departing,
Oh, not to bitter Death, give up Thy children,
Almighty God, in whom we all are trusting,
Merciful God, great God of all the Heavens,
Oh Lord forsake us not! Have mercy on us!"
Thus they stood in close combat. With unmitigated surprise the Huns had beheld the approaching columns. Howls, and the hissing, devilish cry of "hui! hui!" was their response to the "media vita." Ellak likewise, now divided his horsemen for a regular attack, and the fighting continued fiercer than ever. The Hunnic horsemen soon broke through the ranks of the small body of the monks of St. Gall, and a close fight then began. It was strength, wrestling with swiftness, German awkwardness, against Hunnic cunning.
The earth of the Hegau was then dyed red, with the blood of many a pious man. Tutilo, the strong, was slain. He had pulled down a Hun from his horse by the feet, and swinging the wry-faced wretch through the air, split his skull against a stone; but a moment afterwards, an arrow pierced the temple of the hoary warrior. Like the victorious hymns of the heavenly host, it sounded through his wounded brain,--then he fell down on his slain foe. Sindolt the wicked, atoned for many a bad trick which he had played his brothers in former times, by the death-wound in his breast; and nothing did it avail Dubslan the Scot, that he had made a vow to St. Minwaloius, to go bare-foot to Rome, if he would protect him in this battle,--for he also was carried dead out of the tumult.
When the blows rained down on the helmets like hail-stones on slate-roofs, old Moengal drew his hood over his head, so that he could look neither to the right nor to the left; then throwing away his spear, he cried, "out with thee now, my old Cambutta." Unbuckling his beloved shilalah, which had accompanied him, fastened to his back, he now stood like a thrasher on the barn-floor. For some time a horseman had capered around him. "Kyrie eleison" sang out the old man, breaking the horses' skull at one blow. With both feet the rider jumped to the ground: grazing Moengal's arm with his crooked sabre. "Heigho," exclaimed he, "in spring 'tis a good thing to be bled; but take care, little surgeon!" aiming a blow at him, as if he wanted to strike him ten fathom deep into the ground. But the Hun evaded the blow, and whilst doing so, the helmet fell off and disclosed a soft and rosy face, framed in by long wavy tresses, interwoven with red ribbons. Before Moengal could think of aiming another blow, his antagonist jumped up at him like a tiger-cat; the young, fresh face approached his, affording him as it were in his old days an opportunity of culling a kiss from coral lips; but the moment after, he received a sharp bite on his cheek. Clasping his assailant, he felt a soft and slender waist. "Take thyself away, goblin," cried he. "Has hell sent out her she-devils also?" Here, another bite, for the sake of symmetry, saluted him on the left cheek. He started back, but before he had raised his bludgeon again, Erica had jumped on a horse which had lost its rider, and gaily laughing she rode away, swift as a dream that vanishes at cockcrow....
In the middle of the arrier-ban fought Master Spazzo the chamberlain, heading a troop. The slow advance had rather pleased him, but when the fight seemed to come to no conclusion, and men were clinging to each other, like the hounds to the deer in a chase,--then it became rather too much for him. A dreamy, pensive mood came over him in the midst of the raging battle, and only when a passing rider pulled off his helmet, as an acceptable booty, was he roused from his meditations, and when the same, renewing the experiment, tried to drag off his mantle, he cried out angrily: "is it not yet enough, thou marksman of the Devil?" dealing him at the same time a thrust with his long sword, which pinned the Hun's thigh to his own horse. Master Spazzo then thought of giving him the deathblow, but on looking into his face, he found it so very ugly, that he resolved to bring him home to his mistress, as a living memento of the battle. So he made the wounded man his prisoner. His name was Cappan, and putting his head under Master Spazzo's arm, in sign of submission, he grinned with delight, showing two rows of shining white teeth, when he perceived that his life had been spared.
Hornebog had led his troops against the brothers of the Reichenau. Here also, grim Death was reaping a rich harvest. The cloister-walls glistened in the distance over the lake, like an appeal to the combatants to exert their utmost strength; and many a Hun who came within reach of their swords, found out that he was treading on Suabian ground, where heavy blows are as plentiful as wild strawberries in summer. But the ranks of the brothers also were considerably thinned. Quirinius the scrivener was resting for ever from the writing-cramp, which had caused the spear in his right hand to tremble. Beside him, there fell Wiprecht the astronomer, and Kerimold the master of salmon-fishing, and Witigowo the architect;--who knows them all? the nameless heroes, who met a glorious end, on that day!