“I’d like well to save it for ye, youngster,” he said; “but ’tis a fair risk as it stands. Let Herr Ritter Banf alone for having spied the gold o’ this sheath; it must e’en go back to him.” He laid the sheathed weapon away in a chest with Herr Banf’s own until such time as he should make his next trip to the castle. He had hardly done when, turning, he beheld the child watching him from the pile of skins, looking at the strange scene about him, but keeping quiet, though the tender lips quivered and the look in the blue eyes filled Karl with pity. “There’s naught to fear, little one,” he said with gruff kindness, lifting the boy from the pile. “I make sure you’re hungry by now, and here’s the remedy for that—and for fear, too, of your sort.” And from out the coals of the forge he drew a pannikin, where it had been keeping warm some porridge. Very gently he proceeded to give it to the child, with some rich goat’s milk to help it along. In truth, however, it needed not that to give the boy an appetite. He had eaten nothing the night before, seeming starved for sleep, but now he ate in a half-famished way that touched Karl’s heart. “In sooth, now,” the latter said, watching him, “thou’st roughed it, little one, and much I marvel what it all may mean. But one thing sure, this is no time to be asking about the farings of any of _thy_ breed, so thou shalt e’en bide here with old Karl till these evil days lighten, or Barbarossa comes to help the land—if it be not past helping. It’ll be hard fare for thee, my sweet, but there’s no doing other. The castle yonder were worse for thee than the forge, here, with Karl.” “Karl?” The child spoke with the fearless ease of one wonted, even thus early, to question strangers, and to be answered by them. “Ay, Karl,” replied the armorer. “Karl, who will be father and mother to thee till such time as God sends thee to thine own again.” “Good Karl,” said the baby, when the man ceased speaking, and he reached out his hands to the armorer. The latter lifted him and carried him to the forge door. “Thou’rt a sturdy rascal,” he said, nodding approval of the firm, well-knit little figure. “Sit thou there and finish the porridge.” The little fellow sat in the wide door of the smithy and ate his coarse food with a relish good to see. It was a rough place into which he had tumbled—how rough he was too young to realize; but much worse, even of outward things, might have fallen to his share, as, indeed, we shall see ere we have finished with young Wulf.