It was of no use to send out scouts. The foe lay hidden in every thicket. Dietrich asked his heroes which of them would undertake to gain the enemy’s outpost, and immediately young Alphart, the Lady Ute’s foster-son, declared himself ready. Others wished to have the duty; but he had spoken first, and it was given to him. ALPHART’S DEATH. The youthful hero rode on towards the dangerous outposts. Suddenly, spears and arrows rained round him, and fell rattling from helm and shield. But they did no harm, for his armour had been made by dwarfs. The enemy’s leader rode up to him, and desired him to yield, saying that he might give him his sword without shame, for he was Duke Wölfing, and would return the weapon to Alphart when he was ransomed. “What?” cried the hero, “are you Duke Wölfing, the only traitor of our race? You shall have your wages here to-day, and from my hands.” The combat between the two men was short. Alphart slew his opponent. Upon this, the duke’s retainers hastened up to avenge him, but the young hero killed half of them, and put the rest to flight. “A spirit from the nethermost hell has come to fight for Dietrich,” cried the men-at-arms. “It slew more than fifty of us single-handed, and we ourselves hardly escaped with our lives.” “Do you not know that the hero of Bern is a son of the devil?” was the answer; “and what is more natural than that a father should come to his child’s assistance? No mortal man can be expected to fight with such a foe.” “I will go out and see if it be not made of flesh and blood,” cried stout Wittich. “Even though it had all hell at its back, I care not; I must have a turn with it.” He armed himself quickly, and caught up a sword without noticing that it was not Mimung. Heime, whose life he had saved a short time before, offered to go with him, and avenge him should he fall. Alphart recognised the men from a distance. “Ye are two faithless comrades,” he cried, “and have come to meet your doom.” The combat between him and Wittich began forthwith, and the latter soon perceived that he had not Mimung. He was twice felled to the ground. In his sore distress, he called on his comrade to help him; but Heime hesitated, because it was considered dishonourable for two warriors to fight against one. When Alphart, however, called upon Wittich to yield, if he would not be slain on the spot, Heime sprang forward, and covered his comrade with his shield, thus enabling him to get to his feet again. After which both warriors attacked the young hero. Alphart was as active on foot as he was strong of hand. He felled Heime, but Wittich came to his help, and so the battle went on. The three warriors bled from many wounds; but it was Heime’s hand that finally dealt the death-blow. “Faithless comrades that ye are,” sighed the dying Alphart, “the curse of your dishonourable deeds will follow you to the grave.”