"No less what follows," retorted Hardrat; "only, I wish it were clearer to the eye of my memory. I see the gnarled oak stems race past on either side as we sweep down the blue road of the frost-giant. Borne up by the spell of her witch-ring, the maiden at my side skims along with magic swiftness. Hardly can I, a skilled ice-runner, keep the pace. But when we glide in the depths of the winter forest, the maiden makes pretence of a sprain. I see a fire burning on the river-bank. The maiden sits before it, muttering spells to drive away the nixie that has seized her ankle,--such is her claim; but she has lied. She utters the fearful spell of the werwolf, and from the pouch casts pieces of an evil charm upon the snow and in the flames. Foul with the stench of the burning drug, the smoke rolls low beneath the naked boughs. Grisly shapes peer out from among the alder stems; the wood resounds with the yelling of the werwolves--"
Panting heavily, the speaker paused to wipe away the great drops which had gathered on his forehead. In his glaring eyes and the sweat of fear, the guests saw full proof that their host did not lie. Many shuddered in the bright sunlight, and there was a hush in the hall as Hardrat resumed his seat. All turned silently to old Rudulf, who, with his grisly head bent forward between his shoulders, sat glaring at the guests from his narrow slant eyes, more like one of the evil beings of whom Hardrat had spoken than a natural man. But the Grey Wolf restrained the fury which raged in his savage breast, and the silence was broken only by the heavy breathing of the guests. Then the Wend woman rose up.
"I read the faces of the heroes," she said. "None here doubts the truth of our host's tale."
"Hold, dame; do not speak for all," broke in Olvir. "I believe that Count Hardrat has told what to him is the truth; yet I doubt his tale. He has himself spoken of the wine-jar--the mead-cask were enough! Men in drink often see beasts unknown to sober eyes. What is more, I see no cause for your daughter to dabble in black magic."
"My daughter, ay; she was then my daughter,--an apt daughter of the Wend witch! Shall I tell how the witch's daughter whispered in the ears of her mother the tale of her wild vengeance?--of the drawing of the wolf-pack; of the luring of Pepin's son, and how, when Karl would have given her love without the queen's crown, she sent him on down the ice-street, to find his bairns and his bed-mate in the jaws of the grey ones? She told all to her mother while the storm-fiends howled about the forest hut. And then Karl and his Dane hawk came faring safe with the others to the witch's hearth, and that false trull fawned upon those whom she had sought to destroy. The fiend-gods bear me witness; she fawned upon her foe, and forswore the mother who bare her!"
Old Rudulf's fist fell upon the table in a blow that split the oaken board.
"God in Heaven!" he yelled; "would that my child had come into the world still-born! Hate and vengeance,--such befitted the Grey Wolf's daughter; but lying--lying and fawning!"
"Withhold your fury, lair-mate," said the woman; and even Olvir shuddered to hear her mocking laughter.
The Grey Wolf glared at his scoffing wife; but she threw back her cloak, and withstood his look with the cold glitter of her sunken eyes. The menacing light died out of the count's green eyes. He cast a crafty glance about the hall, and said sullenly: "Take joy of your deed, wife! My heart is now cold and hard like the flint-rock. I listen."
"Listen, then, childless man! Shall I tell more of that maiden who was fated to wed the grey-eyed king? The little birds have twittered many tales in my ears. But no; our host shall speak again. He fared to Paderborn when Karl held the assembly of his lordlings,--wretched mockery of the day when the free folk of the shires gathered together under the holy oaks, to make and unmake their own laws. The red boar has come from the king's hall, and now I know that neither yourself nor the Dane hawk will scoff at his tidings."