“Rubbish,” said the Count, and went on down the steps until he reached the courtyard. Then he put the child upon the horse’s back and tied him firmly on with a broad scarf, flung himself upon his own steed and trotted out of the castle gates, taking the reins of the little boy’s horse in his own hands. At first the little one seemed to enjoy riding down the hill with his father. He clapped his hands and laughed and shook his horse’s mane to make it go faster, and the Count was pleased and said once or twice: “You will be a brave fellow some of these fine days.”
But when the plain was reached and, instead of a trot, the Count changed the horse’s pace to a gallop, the child was nervous. First he begged his father to go slower, but instead of that the pace was increased. The strong wind took poor Cuno’s breath away and he began to cry softly. Faster and faster they went, and then the boy screamed at the top of his voice.
“Nonsense, nonsense, stop that screaming,” began Stormy Weather Zollern; but at that moment his own horse shied, and the reins of the child’s steed slipped from his grasp. It took some moments to regain the mastery of his horse, and when he had done this he saw to his consternation that the boy’s horse was riderless and was galloping back towards the castle.
Although such a hard surly man, his heart failed him at this sight, for he believed nothing less than that his child lay crushed upon the roadside. He tore his beard and made great lament.
He rode back, but could see no trace of the boy, and was beginning to think that the restive animal had flung him into a ditch, when suddenly he heard a child’s voice calling him. He turned quickly, and there, not far from the roadside, an old woman sat beneath a tree and rocked the little one upon her knees.
“How do you come to have the boy, you old witch?” cried Stormy Weather angrily. “Bring him here to me immediately!”
“Not so fast, not so fast, my lord Count,” said the old woman, “or you, too, may come to grief on your fine horse. You ask me how I come to hold the child in my arms! Well, his horse threw him and he was hanging, bound by one little foot, his [!-- original location of full page illustration --] [!-- blank page --] hair sweeping the dust, when I caught him in my apron.”
THE STORY OF THE FLORIN
“Faster and faster they went”
(p. [184].)