Jerome went into the hut, and drew from beneath the bed a long, heavy staff with a formidable brass head,—the wood exceedingly hard, and carved with quaint letterings of the East. Swung in trained hands such a weapon was no mean match for a halberd or broadsword; yet Jerome sighed as he lifted it.
“I go on a good work; nevertheless, it nigh seems looking back with the hand long set upon the plough; God pity me, yet—” here he swung the great staff about his head till he heard the air a-singing, and the sound seemed sweet as music; then he crossed himself, as extra talisman against such carnal joy, and went down into the Dragon’s Dale.
The evening had been settling fast. All the clouds above the western hills were painted rose and gold, the gold fading, the rose deepening. Above the eastern Drachenstein rode three pale stars—nigh blotted by a broad white moon. The wind had sunk to a whisper, to which the woods were answering. The stream purled slumbrously as Jerome emerged from the Dragon’s Dale; from the clearing he sent one glance westward and north to the Wartburg, where Ulrich’s blood-red banner still trailed to a redder sky, then with swift, strong strides he plunged into the heart of the forest. Blind was the path, and ever darkening; it wound over stock, stone, through glade and hollow. Now he heard the delicate hoofs of the red deer as they scampered in dread of some poacher; now the moonlight made a silver foot-cloth down broad avenues of cedars whereof the planter was God alone. Still the hermit bore on, fearless, tireless, no forest beast more certain of his way, until the blind path circled upward, the trees again were opening, and upon the sheer height against the gloaming reared the grim Wartburg, defiant, scarce approachable, but shooting from loophole and window red shafts of light, whilst on the soft night air drifted the scream of coarse song and coarser revel.
“I go to fiends, not men;” so spoke Jerome, and halted a moment to pray, then boldly moved forward. In an instant he entered the light of a camp-fire; a half-dozen low-browed men with steel caps and clattering halberds leaped from their dicing on the grass, barred his path with oaths, and demanded:—
“Your business?”
“And yours, friend? Who are you to ask?”
“To ask, quotha? Has not Ulrich set us here to watch the road, while the rest have wassail and women in the castle? Selfish swine! But now who are you?”
“A sinful man.”
“We’re all noble fat sinners here; but that’s no password.”