spirit. And if
the hero must fall early in the battle, he wears the brighter
crown, not a leaf withered, not a flower fallen."

The aged princess trembled a little. She drew Gregor close to her
side, and laid her hand gently on his brown hair.

"I am not sure that he wants to leave me yet. Besides, there is no
horse in the stable to give him, now, and he cannot go as befits
the grandson of a king."

Gregor looked straight into her eyes.

"Grandmother," said he, "dear grandmother, if thou wilt not give
me a horse to ride with this man of God, I will go with him
afoot."

[Illustration--The fields around lay bare to the moon.]

II

THE TRAIL THROUGH THE FOREST

II

Two years had passed, to a day, almost to an hour, since that
Christmas eve in the cloister of Pfalzel. A little company of
pilgrims, less than a score a men, were creeping slowly northward
through the wide forest that rolled over the hills of central
Germany.

At the head of the band marched Winfried, clad in a tunic of fur,
with his long black robe girt high about his waist, so that it
might not hinder his stride. His hunter's boots were crusted with
snow. Drops of ice sparkled like jewels along the thongs that
bound his legs. There was no other ornament to his dress except
the bishop's cross hanging on his breast, and the broad silver
clasp that fastened his cloak about his neck. He carried a strong,
tall staff in his hand, fashioned at the top into the form of a
cross.

Close beside him, keeping step like a familiar comrade, was the
young Prince Gregor. Long marches through the wilderness had
stretched his limbs and broadened his back, and made a man of him
in stature as well as in spirit. His jacket and cap were of
wolfskin, and on his shoulder he carried an axe, with broad,
shining blade. He was a mighty woodsman now, and could make a
spray of chips fly around him as he hewed his way through the
trunk of spruce-tree.

Behind these leaders followed a pair of teamsters, guiding a rude
sledge, loaded with food and the equipage of the camp, and drawn
by two big, shaggy horses, blowing thick clouds of steam from
their frosty nostrils. Tiny icicles hung from the hairs on their
lips. Their flanks were smoking. They sank above the fetlocks at
every step in the soft snow.

Last of all came the rear guard, armed with bows and javelins. It
was no child's play, in those days, to cross Europe afoot.

The weird woodland, sombre and illimitab