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.... The conquerors returned to the Hohentwiel, their helmets adorned with green fir-twigs, and leaving twelve of the brothers behind, to watch the dead on the battle-field. Of the Huns, one hundred and eighty had fallen in battle, whilst the Suabian arrier-ban had lost ninety six; those of the Reichenau eighteen, and those of St. Gall twenty, besides the old man and Rauching his bondsman. With a handkerchief tied round his face, Moengal stalked over the field, using his shilalah like a staff. One by one he examined the dead. "Hast thou not seen a Hun amongst them, who in reality is a Hunnic woman?" asked he of one of the watchkeeping brothers. "No," was the reply. "Then I may as well go home," said Moengal. FOOTNOTES: