“Alberich—king of the wood,” Ortnit was sure that he had once heard more about him than that, but what it was he could not tell. Had he not played with a child of that name once? As he was puzzling over these confused memories of the past, he happened to glance at his mother’s ring; the stone in it was shining like a fire, and lighting up the face of a lovely child, who lay asleep in the grass close by. “Poor boy,” said the royal hero, compassionately, “I wonder who brought you to this lonely place! How anxious your mother must be about you! I cannot leave you here to die of hunger or fall a defenceless prey to the wild beasts.” He had already fastened his horse to a branch, and stooping down, he lifted the boy in his arms to carry him away; but to his intense surprise he received such a blow on the chest that he not only let the child fall, but himself tumbled on his back. He had scarcely recovered his footing, when he found the child holding him so tight that he had to exert all his strength not to be overthrown. It was a strange sight to see the tall king and the wonderful child, wrestling furiously together. Flowers and grass were trodden under foot, shrubs and low bushes broken and torn, when Ortnit at last flung his opponent on the ground, and drew his sword to slay him. But, angry as he was, he could not do it when the little thing gazed at him so entreatingly, and begged in such a sweet soft voice that he would not murder him when he was defenceless, but would accept, in exchange for the life he granted him, a valuable suit of armour, consisting of helmet, shield, and coat of mail of wrought gold and silver, and last not least, the sword called Rosen, whose blade had been rendered strong and durable in dragon’s blood. When Ortnit demanded a hostage for his opponent’s good faith, the little creature told him that hostages were impossible to find in that wild mountain country, but Ortnit might trust to his word, for he also was a king, and ruled over a far wider domain than Lombardy, though truly his realm lay beneath the earth instead of upon it, and his subjects were employed day and night in working in metals. Finding that no hostage was necessary, or indeed procurable, the hero allowed his prisoner to get up. But before the latter went to get the armour he had promised, he said that he would like to have the ring Ortnit was wearing, and that he scrupled the less to ask for it, as it did not appear to be of great value. “I cannot give it to you,” replied Ortnit, “for it was a present from my dear mother, who would never forgive me if I parted with it.” “And you call yourself a hero,” sneered the little creature, “_you_ who fear your mother’s blows! Tell me, what do you do when you are wounded in battle? Do you cry like a baby when you see the blood flow?” “If you were to hew me in pieces,” replied the Lombard, “painful as that would be, it would hurt me less than a tear or a sigh from my mother.”