with emotions he had never before known. He only thought
of him who was now lying at the foot of the rock as of an obstacle
removed between him and heaven: he turned towards the castle.

But a cry was heard below: "Help! help! my comrade! I am yet alive, but
I am sorely wounded."

Sintram's will was changed, and he called to the baron, "I am coming."

But the little Master said, "Nothing can be done to help Duke Menelaus;
and the fair Helen knows it already. She is only waiting for knight
Paris to comfort her." And with detestable craft he wove in that tale
with what was actually happening, bringing in the most highly wrought
praises of the lovely Gabrielle; and alas! the dazzled youth yielded to
him, and fled! Again he heard far off the baron's voice calling to him,
"Knight Sintram, knight Sintram, thou on whom I bestowed the holy order,
haste to me and help me! The she-bear and her whelps will be upon me,
and I cannot use my right arm! Knight Sintram, knight Sintram, haste to
help me!"

His cries were overpowered by the furious speed with which the two
were carried along on their skates, and by the evil words of the little
Master, who was mocking at the late proud bearing of Duke Menelaus
towards the poor Sintram. At last he shouted, "Good luck to you,
she-bear! good luck to your whelps! There is a glorious meal for you!
Now you will feed upon the fear of Heathendom, him at whose name the
Moorish brides weep, the mighty Baron of Montfaucon. Never again, O
dainty knight, will you shout at the head of your troops, 'Mountjoy St.
Denys!'" But scarce had this holy name passed the lips of the little
Master, than he set up a howl of anguish, writhing himself with horrible
contortions, and wringing his hands, and ended by disappearing in a
storm of snow which then arose.

Sintram planted his staff firmly in the ground, and stopped. How
strangely did the wide expanse of snow, the distant mountains rising
above it, and the dark green fir-woods--how strangely did they all look
at him in cold reproachful silence! He felt as if he must sink under the
weight of his sorrow and his guilt. The bell of a distant hermitage came
floating sadly over the plain. With a burst of tears he exclaimed, as
the darkness grew thicker round him, "My mother! my mother! I had once
a beloved tender mother, and she said I was a good child!" A ray of
comfort came to him as if brought on an angel's wing; perhaps Montfaucon
was not yet dead! and he f