am no
wounded lamb! See how I can run. But where are thy goats?"

"There they come out from the juniper-trees. I will call them."

And putting his shepherd's-pipe to his mouth, he blew a shrill note,
swinging his stick round his head.

The sturdy goats came leaping towards him--fearing punishment.

And now, laying his arm tenderly about the girl's neck, and strewing a
stripe of salt from his pocket upon the earth, which the goats,
following, eagerly licked up, Adalgoth went up the slope.

"But tell me, dearest," said Gotho, when they had arrived at the top of
the hill, and she was gathering her lambs together, "why thy cry was
again 'Alaric! Alaric!' just as when thou madest the eagle leave my
little White Elf, which it had already seized in its talons?"

"That is my battle-cry."

"Who taught it thee?"

"Grandfather; the first time he took me with him to hunt wolves. The
time when I got this skin from Master Isegrim's ribs. As I sprang at
the wolf, which could not escape and turned to attack me, crying
'Iffa,' just as I had always heard grandfather cry, he said, 'Thou must
not cry "Iffa," Adalgoth. When thou attackest a hero or a monster, cry
"Alaric!" it will bring thee luck.'"

"But none of our ancestors are so named, brother. We know all their
names."

They had now reached the stalls, into which they drove the animals, and
then seated themselves before an open window upon a wooden bench, which
ran round the front of the house on each side of the door.

"There are," counted Gotho, "first Iffamer, our father; and Uncle
Wargs, who was buried by the mountain; then Iffa, our grandfather;
Iffamuth, our other uncle; Iffaswinth, his son; and Iffarich, our
great-grandfather; and Iffa again--but no Alaric."

"And yet I feel as if I had often heard that name at the time when I
used first to run about the mountain; when the great landslip killed
Uncle Wargs. And I like the name. Grandfather has told me about a
hero-king who was called so; who was first of all the heroes to conquer
the fortress of Roma--thou knowest, it is the city from which father
and Uncle Iffamuth and Cousin Iffaswinth never returned. And that hero
died young, like Siegfried, the dragon-killer, and Balthar, the heathen
god. And his grave is in a deep river. There he lies on his golden
shield, under his treasures, and tall reeds bend and wave above him.
And now another king has arisen, who is called Totila, as the warriors
who relieved the garr