“Ay, and well. Get thee to the bush!” And closing the door behind him, Wulf sprang to the great oak, his friend and shelter in childhood and boyhood, now his haven in deadly peril. Easily he swung himself up, higher and higher, until he was safe among the thick foliage of the broad, spreading top. So huge were the branches, even here, that a man might stand beneath and look up at the very one where Wulf lay, yet never dream that aught were hidden there. The baron himself was of the party who rode up around the smithy just as Wulf was settled in his place. Straight to the door he drove his horse, and with the head of his battle-ax struck it a blow that sent it inward on its hinges. One or two men bearing torches sprang into the house, and the single room became suddenly alight, but no one showed there. Hastily they ransacked the place, while the baron sat his horse and roared forth his orders, sending one man here, another yonder, to be at the thicket and scour all the places. One even came under the great tree and held up his torch, throwing the light high aloft, but seeing naught of Wulf. Then the baron laughed savagely. “This is thy chase, nephew Conradt,” he jeered. “Said I not he would never be here? The armorer’s whelp is a hanging rogue fast enough, but no fool to blunder hither, once he were safe away with the girl.” “Peradventure,” began Conradt, but just then came in two spearmen, driving the outcast before them, staggering as he walked. “This we found in the thicket and haled out,” they began; but Conradt and some of the others shrank back hastily, for in the dim light the poor half-wit was a terrible sight. But the baron showed no fear. “Hast seen any man hid hereabout?” he asked. “We seek a gallows escape, by name Wulf.” The sorry creature only stared vacantly, and then sank to the ground. “Answer me!” roared the baron. “Dost know him we seek? What art doing here thyself?” There was no reply. “Let me make him speak,” Conradt cried, bold now amid that company; and with drawn sword he came forward. “So thou’lt not give tongue?” he screamed. “By the rood, I do believe thou knowest where the tinker hath hidden. Out with it, then, ere I split that devil’s head of thine!” His blade gleamed in the moonlight, and the wretched outcast on the ground raised a beseeching hand. But that blow was never to fall. Instead, as from heaven itself, came a flying shaft, deadly and sure, that struck Conradt’s sword-arm, and snapped it as it had been a dead twig.