But when the plain was reached and, instead of a trot, the Count changed the horse’s pace to a gallop, the child was nervous. First he begged his father to go slower, but instead of that the pace was increased. The strong wind took poor Cuno’s breath away and he began to cry softly. Faster and faster they went, and then the boy screamed at the top of his voice. “Nonsense, nonsense, stop that screaming,” began Stormy Weather Zollern; but at that moment his own horse shied, and the reins of the child’s steed slipped from his grasp. It took some moments to regain the mastery of his horse, and when he had done this he saw to his consternation that the boy’s horse was riderless and was galloping back towards the castle. Although such a hard surly man, his heart failed him at this sight, for he believed nothing less than that his child lay crushed upon the roadside. He tore his beard and made great lament. He rode back, but could see no trace of the boy, and was beginning to think that the restive animal had flung him into a ditch, when suddenly he heard a child’s voice calling him. He turned quickly, and there, not far from the roadside, an old woman sat beneath a tree and rocked the little one upon her knees. “How do you come to have the boy, you old witch?” cried Stormy Weather angrily. “Bring him here to me immediately!” “Not so fast, not so fast, my lord Count,” said the old woman, “or you, too, may come to grief on your fine horse. You ask me how I come to hold the child in my arms! Well, his horse threw him and he was hanging, bound by one little foot, his hair sweeping the dust, when I caught him in my apron.” [Illustration: _THE STORY OF THE FLORIN_ _“Faster and faster they went”_ (_p. 184._)] “Oh! Rubbish,” said the Count ill-humouredly. “Give him to me, for I cannot dismount, the horse is restive and might kick him.” “Give me a florin then?” begged the old woman. “Rubbish!” cried the Count and threw her a few coppers. “No, no,” said the old woman, “give me a florin.” “A florin indeed, you’re not worth one,” answered the Count. “Give me the child quickly, or I will set my dog on you.” “Ah! so I’m not worth a florin?” she said with a scornful smile. “Well, we shall see some day if your inheritance will be worth so much as a florin. Here, take your coppers, you can keep them.” As she spoke she threw the coppers towards the Count, and so straight was her aim that they fell, one by one, into the leathern purse the Count still held in his hand. The Count was unable to speak for some minutes, so astounded was he at the old woman’s dexterity. Then his surprise changed to anger. He raised his gun and levelled it at her, but she kissed and caressed the little Count, holding him before her, so that the bullet would have struck him first.