“Now what foul work is here, do you suppose?” he muttered to himself. “This is no chick from the village, nor from the castle either, I’ll be bound, or there’d have been hue and cry ere this.” He pressed back the little face that had been buried against his neck, and surveyed it sharply. “What is thy name, little one?” he demanded at last. At sound of the armorer’s voice the child again looked at him, and seemed not to understand the question until Karl had several times repeated it, saying the words slowly and plainly, when at last the baby said, with a touch of impatience: “Wulf! Wulf!” adding plaintively: “Wulf hungry!” Then he broke down and sobbed tiredly on Karl’s big shoulder, so that the armorer was fain to hush him softly, comforting him with wonderful gentleness, while he drew from his own wallet a bit of coarse bread and gave it to the little fellow. The latter ate it with a sharp appetite, and afterward drank a deep draught from the leather cup which Karl filled from the stream. As he was drinking, a sound was heard as of some one passing on the road, whereupon the boy became suddenly still, looking at Karl in a way that made the armorer understand that for some reason it had been taught him that unknown sounds were a signal for silence. “Ay?” thought Karl. “That’s naught like a baby. He’s been with hunted men, to learn that trick!” When the child had eaten and drunk all he would, he settled down again in Karl’s arms, asking no questions—if, indeed, he could talk enough to do so, a matter of which the armorer doubted, for the little chap was but three or four years old at most. He seemed, however, well wonted to strangers, and to being carried from place to place; for he took it kindly when Karl settled him against his shoulder, throwing over him a sort of short cloak of travel-stained red stuff, in which he had been wrapped as he lay among the osiers, and stepped out upon the road. He first made sure that no one was in sight; then, regaining the swords, he walked hurriedly forward, minded to leave the highway as soon as he reached a little footpath he knew that led through the forest to his forge. Good fortune favored him, and he gained the footpath without meeting any one; so that ere long the two were passing through the deep, friendly wood, the baby fast asleep in Karl’s arms, one small arm half encircling the armorer’s big neck, the other little fist clenched in the meshes of his grizzled beard. Karl stepped softly as any woman, lest his charge awaken and take fresh fright at the gloomy way before them, and at the tall, dark trees, whose branches met over the travelers’ heads. Thus they fared, until at last they reached the forge, and the hut where the armorer dwelt alone. The way through the wood had been long, and the afternoon was well-nigh spent when Karl laid little Wulf upon a heap of skins just beyond the great chimney, and set himself to prepare food for himself and his charge.