Otto of the Silver Hand, Howard Pyle [good books to read for beginners TXT] 📗

The gates of the Monastery stood wide open, the world lay beyond, and all was ready for departure. Baron Conrad and his men-at-arms sat foot in stirrup, the milk-white horse that had been brought for Otto stood waiting for him beside his father’s great charger.

“Farewell, Otto,” said the good old Abbot, as he stooped and kissed the boy’s cheek.

“Farewell,” answered Otto, in his simple, quiet way, and it brought a pang to the old man’s heart that the child should seem to grieve so little at the leave-taking.

“Farewell, Otto,” said the brethren that stood about, “farewell, farewell.”

Then poor brother John came forward and took the boy’s hand, and looked up into his face as he sat upon his horse. “We will meet again,” said he, with his strange, vacant smile, “but maybe it will be in Paradise, and there perhaps they will let us lie in the father’s belfry, and look down upon the angels in the court-yard below.”

“Aye,” answered Otto, with an answering smile.

“Forward,” cried the Baron, in a deep voice, and with a clash of hoofs and jingle of armor they were gone, and the great wooden gates were shut to behind them.

Down the steep winding pathway they rode, and out into the great wide world beyond, upon which Otto and brother John had gazed so often from the wooden belfry of the White Cross on the hill.

“Hast been taught to ride a horse by the priests up yonder on Michaelsburg?” asked the Baron, when they had reached the level road.

“Nay,” said Otto; “we had no horse to ride, but only to bring in the harvest or the grapes from the further vineyards to the vintage.”

“Prut,” said the Baron, “methought the abbot would have had enough of the blood of old days in his veins to have taught thee what is fitting for a knight to know; art not afeared?”

“Nay,” said Otto, with a smile, “I am not afeared.”

“There at least thou showest thyself a Vuelph,” said the grim Baron. But perhaps Otto’s thought of fear and Baron Conrad’s thought of fear were two very different matters.

The afternoon had passed by the time they had reached the end of their journey. Up the steep, stony path they rode to the drawbridge and the great gaping gateway of Drachenhausen, where wall and tower and battlement looked darker and more forbidding than ever in the gray twilight of the coming night. Little Otto looked up with great, wondering, awe-struck eyes at this grim new home of his.

The next moment they clattered over the drawbridge that spanned the narrow black gulph between the roadway and the wall, and the next were past the echoing arch of the great gateway and in the gray gloaming of the paved court-yard within.

Otto looked around upon the many faces gathered there to catch the first sight of the little baron; hard, rugged faces, seamed and weather-beaten; very different from those of the gentle brethren among whom he had lived, and it seemed strange to him that there was none there whom he should know.

As he climbed the steep, stony steps to the door of the Baron’s house, old Ursela came running down to meet him. She flung her withered arms around him and hugged him close to her. “My little child,” she cried, and then fell to sobbing as though her heart would break.

“Here is someone knoweth me,” thought the little boy.

His new home was all very strange and wonderful to Otto; the armors, the trophies, the flags, the long galleries with their ranges of rooms, the great hall below with its vaulted roof and its great fireplace of grotesquely carved stone, and all the strange people with their lives and thoughts so different from what he had been used to know.

And it was a wonderful thing to explore all the strange places in the dark old castle; places where it seemed to Otto no one could have ever been before.

Once he wandered down a long, dark passageway below the hall, pushed open a narrow, iron-bound oaken door, and found himself all at once in a strange new land; the gray light, coming in through a range of tall, narrow windows, fell upon a row of silent, motionless figures carven in stone, knights and ladies in strange armor and dress; each lying upon his or her stony couch with clasped hands, and gazing with fixed, motionless, stony eyeballs up into the gloomy, vaulted arch above them. There lay, in a cold, silent row, all of the Vuelphs who had died since the ancient castle had been built.

It was the chapel into which Otto had made his way, now long since fallen out of use excepting as a burial place of the race.

At another time he clambered up into the loft under the high peaked roof, where lay numberless forgotten things covered with the dim dust of years. There a flock of pigeons had made their roost, and flapped noisily out into the sunlight when he pushed open the door from below. Here he hunted among the mouldering things of the past until, oh, joy of joys! in an ancient oaken chest he found a great lot of worm-eaten books, that had belonged to some old chaplain of the castle in days gone by. They were not precious and beautiful volumes, such as the Father Abbot had showed him, but all the same they had their quaint painted pictures of the blessed saints and angels.

Again, at another time, going into the court-yard, Otto had found the door of Melchior’s tower standing invitingly open, for old Hilda, Schwartz Carl’s wife, had come down below upon some business or other.

Then upon the shaky wooden steps Otto ran without waiting for a second thought, for he had often gazed at those curious buildings hanging so far up in the air, and had wondered what they were like. Round and round and up and up Otto climbed, until his head spun. At last he reached a landing-stage, and gazing over the edge and down, beheld the stone pavement far, far below, lit by a faint glimmer of light that entered through the arched doorway. Otto clutched tight hold of the wooden rail, he had no thought that he