Otto of the Silver Hand by Howard Pyle (best summer reads .txt) 📗

“Nay, dear Lord Baron, I know not,” said poor little Otto, and began to weep.

The Baron stood for a moment or two looking gloomily upon him, as the little boy sat there with the tears running down his white face.

“I will tell thee,” said he, at last; “I swore an oath that the red cock should crow on Drachenhausen, and I have given it to the dames. I swore an oath that no Vuelph that ever left my hands should be able to strike such a blow as thy father gave to Baron Frederick, and now I will fulfil that too. Catch the boy, Casper, and hold him.”

As the man in the mail shirt stepped toward little Otto, the boy leaped up from where he sat and caught the Baron about the knees. “Oh! dear Lord Baron,” he cried, “do not harm me; I am only a little child, I have never done harm to thee; do not harm me.”

“Take him away,” said the Baron, harshly.

The fellow stooped, and loosening Otto’s hold, in spite of his struggles and cries, carried him to the bench, against which he held him, whilst the Baron stood above him.

Baron Henry and the other came forth from the cell, carefully closing the wooden door behind them. At the end of the corridor the Baron turned, “Let the leech be sent to the boy,” said he. And then he turned and walked away.

Otto lay upon the hard couch in his cell, covered with a shaggy bear skin. His face was paler and thinner than ever, and dark rings encircled his blue eyes. He was looking toward the door, for there was a noise of someone fumbling with the lock without.

Since that dreadful day when Baron Henry had come to his cell, only two souls had visited Otto. One was the fellow who had come with the Baron that time; his name, Otto found, was Casper. He brought the boy his rude meals of bread and meat and water. The other visitor was the leech or doctor, a thin, weasand little man, with a kindly, wrinkled face and a gossiping tongue, who, besides binding wounds, bleeding, and leeching, and administering his simple remedies to those who were taken sick in the castle, acted as the Baron’s barber.

The Baron had left the key in the lock of the door, so that these two might enter when they chose, but Otto knew that it was neither the one nor the other whom he now heard at the door, working uncertainly with the key, striving to turn it in the rusty, cumbersome lock. At last the bolts grated back, there was a pause, and then the door opened a little way, and Otto thought that he could see someone peeping in from without. By and by the door opened further, there was another pause, and then a slender, elfish-looking little girl, with straight black hair and shining black eyes, crept noiselessly into the room.

She stood close by the door with her finger in her mouth, staring at the boy where he lay upon his couch, and Otto upon his part lay, full of wonder, gazing back upon the little elfin creature.

She, seeing that he made no sign or motion, stepped a little nearer, and then, after a moment’s pause, a little nearer still, until, at last, she stood within a few feet of where he lay.

“Art thou the Baron Otto?” said she.

“Yes,” answered Otto.

“Prut!” said she, “and is that so! Why, I thought that thou wert a great tall fellow at least, and here thou art a little boy no older than Carl Max, the gooseherd.” Then, after a little pause—“My name is Pauline, and my father is the Baron. I heard him tell my mother all about thee, and so I wanted to come here and see thee myself: Art thou sick?”

“Yes,” said Otto, “I am sick.”

“And did my father hurt thee?”

“Aye,” said Otto, and his eyes filled with tears, until one sparkling drop trickled slowly down his white face.

Little Pauline stood looking seriously at him for a while. “I am sorry for thee, Otto,” said she, at last. And then, at her childish pity, he began crying in earnest.

This was only the first visit of many from the little maid, for after that she often came to Otto’s prison, who began to look for her coming from day to day as the one bright spot in the darkness and the gloom.

Sitting upon the edge of his bed and gazing into his face with wide open eyes, she would listen to him by the hour, as he told her of his life in that far away monastery home; of poor, simple brother John’s wonderful visions, of the good Abbot’s books with their beautiful pictures, and of all the monkish tales and stories of knights and dragons and heroes and emperors of ancient Rome, which brother Emmanuel had taught him to read in the crabbed monkish Latin in which they were written.

One day the little maid sat for a long while silent after he had ended speaking. At last she drew a deep breath. “And are all these things that thou tellest me about the priests in their castle really true?” said she.

“Yes,” said Otto, “all are true.”

“And do they never go out to fight other priests?”

“No,” said Otto, “they know nothing of fighting.”

“So!” said she. And then fell silent in the thought of the wonder of it all, and that there should be men in the world that knew nothing of violence and bloodshed; for in all the eight years of her life she had scarcely been outside of the walls of Castle Trutz-Drachen.

At another time it was of Otto’s mother that they were speaking.

“And didst thou never see her, Otto?” said the little girl.

“Aye,” said Otto, “I see her sometimes in my dreams, and her face always shines so bright that I know she is an angel; for brother John has often seen the dear angels, and he tells me that their faces always shine in that way. I saw her the night thy father hurt me so, for I could not sleep and my head felt as though it would break asunder. Then she came and leaned over me and kissed my forehead, and after that I fell asleep.”

“But where did she come from, Otto?” said the little girl.

“From paradise, I think,” said Otto, with that patient seriousness that he had caught from the monks, and that sat so quaintly upon him.

“So!” said little Pauline; and then, after a pause, “That is why thy mother kissed thee when thy head ached—because she is an angel. When I was sick my mother bade Gretchen carry me to a far part of the house, because I cried and so troubled her. Did thy mother ever strike thee, Otto?”

“Nay,” said Otto.

“Mine hath often struck me,” said Pauline.

One day little Pauline came bustling into Otto’s cell, her head full of