The courtyard, on the next morning, was transformed into a bustling bivouac. Some hundred armed vassals, were already assembled, and from the Reichenau, ninety more combatants were added to their numbers. They were all eagerly preparing, for the coming contest. Already before sunrise, the hammering of the blacksmiths, awakened the sleepers. Arrows and lances were being made. Near the fountain in the yard, stood the big grinding-stone, on which the rusty blades were sharpened. The old basketmaker of Weiterdingen, had also been fetched up; and was sitting with his boys under the great linden-tree; covering the long boards destined for shields, with a strong platting of willow branches. Over this, a tanned skin was fastened, and the shield was complete. Round a merry fire, others were seated, melting lead, to make sharp pointed missiles for the slings. Bludgeons and heavy clubs of ash were also hardened in the flames. "If one of these knocks at the skull of a heathen," said Rudimann swinging a heavy club over his head, "it is sure to be admitted." All who had served before in the arrier-ban, were put under the command of Simon Bardo, the Greek fieldmarshal. "A man who wants to pass his old days peaceably, must come to Germany," he had jestingly said to the Duchess; but in reality the clatter of arms, strengthened his mind, like old Rhinewine. With an untiring zeal, he drilled the unexperienced men, in the use of arms; and every day for many an hour, the stone flags of the courtyard resounded with the heavy, regular tramp of the monks, who in closed ranks, were being taught the art of a spear-attack. "With you, one could verily knock down walls, when once your blood is up," said the old soldier with an approving nod. Those of the younger men, who possessed a good eye and flexible sinews, were enlisted among the archers. These also, practised industriously, shooting at a target. Once, a loud cry of delight was heard in the courtyard, where the jolly fellows had manufactured a straw figure, wearing a crown of owl's feathers, and holding a six-corded whip in its hand. A small piece of red cloth in the shape of a heart, fastened in front, was the mark. "Attila the King of the Huns!" cried the archers, "who can hit him right in the heart?" "Boasting is easy enough," said Dame Hadwig, who was looking down from her balcony; "but though on an evil bridal night, Death felled him, his spirit is still living in the world; and I fear, that even those coming after us, will yet have trouble enough, to banish his dread memory." "If they could only shoot away at him, as well as they do now down there," said Praxedis, when a triumphant shout was heard. The straw-figure tottered and fell; an arrow having hit the heart.