Only one of the monks had reason to be grateful to a Hunnic arrow, and that was brother Pilgeram. He was born at Cologne on the Rhine, and had carried his thirst of knowledge, as well as a mighty goitre to St. Pirmin's isle; where he was one of the most learned and most pious monks; but his goitre increased and he became hypochondriac over the ethics of Aristotle, so that Heribald had often said to him: "Pilgeram I pity thee." But now a Hunnic arrow pierced the excrescence on his throat. "Farewell, friend of my youth!" cried he on sinking down; but the wound was not dangerous, and when his consciousness returned, he felt his throat as well as his head considerably lightened, and from that moment, he never opened Aristotle again.
Round the standard of St. Gall, a select body of men had rallied. The black streamers still floated in the air from the image on the cross; but the contest was doubtful. With word and action, Ekkehard encouraged his companions not to give way, but it was Ellak himself who fought against them. The bodies of slain men and horses cumbered the ground in wild disorder. He, who survived had done his duty, and when all are brave, no single heroic deed can claim its special share of glory. Sir Burkhard's sword had received a new baptism of blood in Ekkehard's hands, but in vain had he fiercely attacked Ellak the chieftain; for after having exchanged a few blows and thrusts, they were separated again by other combatants. Already the cross, towering on high, began to stagger, aimed at by unceasing arrows, when a loud cry of surprise rang through the ranks; for from the hill on which stood the tower of Hohenfriedingen, two unknown horsemen in strange looking armour, came galloping at full speed towards the scene of battle. Heavily one of them, who was of mighty bulk, sat on his steed. Both shield and harness were of antiquated shape, but the faded golden ornaments indicated the high birth, of the wearer. A golden band encircled his helmet, from which a tuft of red feathers waved. His mantle fluttering in the wind, and his lance levelled, he looked like a picture of the olden times; like King Saul in Folkard's psalm-book riding to meet David. Close by his side rode his companion, a faithful vassal, ready to succour and protect him.
"Tis the archangel Michael!" cried some in the christian ranks, and with this their strength rallied. The sun was shining brightly on the strange rider's arms,--like an omen of victory,--and a few moments later the two were in the midst of the battle. He, with the gilt armour was looking about for a worthy antagonist, which he soon found, for when the Hunnic chieftain's keen eyes had spied him out, his horse's head was turned towards him. The spear of the stranger knight passed harmlessly by him, missing its aim; and Ellak's sword was already raised to deal him the death blow, when the vassal threw himself between the two. His broad sword merely struck the enemy's horse, so, bending his head forwards, to catch the blow meant for his master, the faithful shield-bearer found his death.
With a loud, clattering sound Ellak's horse fell to the ground, but before the sound had quite died out, the Hun had already recovered his feet. The unknown knight raised his mace, to break his enemy's head, but Ellak, with his left foot placed tightly on the body of his dead courser, pressed back the raised arm with his sinewy hands, trying at the same time to pull him down. Then, face to face, the two mighty ones began wrestling, so that those around them ceased fighting, to look on.
With a cunning movement, Ellak now seized his short sword, but just when he lifted his arm, his antagonist's mace came down slowly but heavily on his head. Yet his hand still dealt the thrust, and then lifting it up to his forehead, over which the blood was running in streams, Ellak reeled back on his war-horse, on which a moment later the Hunnic chieftain angrily gave up the ghost.
"Here, sword of God and St. Michael!" triumphantly rose again the joint cry of monks and arrier-ban-men! Rallying their strength, they rushed on to one last despairing attack. The knight in the gilt armour was still the foremost in the fight. The death of their leader, caused such a panic to the Huns, that they turned round, and sped away in wild, disorderly flight.
The woman of the wood, had already perceived the unfavourable turn which the battle was taking. Her horses were ready harnessed, and casting one last angry glance at the victorious monks and the rocky mountain which had once been her home, she drove on the horses at a quick pace, in the direction of the Rhine, followed by the rest of the train. "To the Rhine!" was the watch-word of the flying Huns. Hornebog was the last, who, unwillingly turned his back on the battle-field, and the Hohentwiel.
"Farewell, till next year!" cried he tauntingly.
The victory was gained; but he, whom they believed to be the archangel Michael, sent to their rescue, now let his heavy head sink down on his horse's neck. Reins and arms, had both fallen from his hands, and whether the cause was the last thrust of the Hunnic chieftain, or suffocation in the heat of the battle, he was lifted down from his horse, a dead man. On opening his visor, a happy smile was still visible on his wrinkled old face, and from that hour the headache of the old man of the Heidenhöhlen, had ceased for ever.
A black dog ran about searching on the battlefield, till he found the old man's body. Dismally howling he then licked his forehead; Ekkehard standing near, with a tear in his eye, saying a prayer for the welfare of his soul....