“Alas!” said the armorer, sadly. “Naught know I, in truth, and there’s the heartbreak. ’Tis a chain of which some links are missing, and ill work is it to make that blade fitten again. Would to God I did know, that I might speak of a surety that which my heart is settled upon. But this that I do know shalt thou hear to-day.” And coming over by the doorway, Karl took seat upon the great chest near by, and fell to telling Wulf of that which we already know—of his trip to the Swartzburg a dozen years before, and how he had taken him from the osiers. “Never saw I that knight, nor naught dared I ever ask of him; but slain was he by Herr Banf, and was no noise ever made of who he was. Only this I know: that the sword Herr Banf gave me to put in order had been that stranger’s, and none other was it than one forged by these own hands for Count Wulfstanger of Hartsburg when he rode with Count Rudolf to Prussia, and he was our emperor’s heart’s friend. Three swords made I at that time, alike in temper and fashion; and one was for Count Wulfstanger, one was his who is now emperor, and one I kept and brought with me to this place—” Karl halted just here, but Wulf was too taken with the tale to note that. “But thou knowest not that aught had I to do with that stranger knight,” he urged, longing for Karl’s answer. “That do I not. But, lad, thou’rt fair like my Lord Bernard, as his own son might be; and tell me, how camest thou in the osiers just at that time? Oh, I have worn thin my poor wits over this thing. But naught have I been able to learn or guess. I did what I might, and if ever thou comest to thine own, and thine own be what I think—ah, boy, thou’rt fit for it!” And the old armorer’s face shone with loving pride as his eyes took in the figure in the doorway. “I can bear arms and sit a horse and hold mine honor clean,” said Wulf, simply. “But oh, Karl, fain would I know the rights of this matter.” He sighed, his thoughts going back to the castle, and to the memory of a fair small hand fluttering a ribband down over the heads of a rabble of scrambling youths. Truly the tinker’s lad, if such he was, was looking high. “I wish that I might see that sword,” he said at last. “That thou mayest.” The armorer arose from his seat on the chest, and turned toward the cupboard; but just then there showed, riding out from the forest and up to the door of the forge, two or three riders whom Wulf knew to be from Conradt’s mongrel band of thieves and cutthroats. They had with them a matter of work that, he quickly saw, would keep Karl busy for an hour or two; so, mindful of his errand and of the need to get back to the Swartzburg, where so great things were toward, he arose from the doorway. What of loyalty and duty his mind might fix upon at last, he knew not yet; but the thought of one who in the trouble to come might be in danger drew him like a magnet. So, bidding Karl good-by, he went his way.