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Updated: May 27, 2025
"He is welcome," replied Master Gottfried, in his cheery fearless voice; "he brought us a choice gift last time he came; and it may be he is ready to seek peace among us after his wanderings. Come hither, Christina, my little one; it is well to be abashed, but thou art not a child who need fear to meet a father."
But I hope no one will go back to the Wolfmark and tell the maids that Hugo Gottfried said this of them, or of a surety my left ear will tingle with the running of their tongues if there be any truth in the old saw. It was three of the clock and the sun was very fierce on the dusty, unslaked yard of the Wolfsberg, glaring down upon us like the mouth of a wide smelter's oven.
Gottfried von Strassburg narrates with the greatest detail how Tristram leads to the unsuspecting king the unblushing, unremorseful woman polluted by his own embraces; how Yseult substitutes on the wedding night her spotless damsel Brangwaine for her own sullied self; then, terrified lest the poor victim of her dishonour should ever reveal it, attempts to have her barbarously murdered, and, finally, seeing that nothing can shake the heroic creature's faith, admits her once more to be the remorseful go-between in her amours.
She sank down on a chair, and, seizing her hair, continued: “He is everywhere, and wherever he is, our dear Gottfried, he is looking at me. He stands before the clothes press, at the cupboard, by my bedside, nods, exhorts, raises his finger, finds no peace in his grave, and does not let me sleep; he has not let me sleep all these years.”
Often, at the end of the day’s work, when Gottfried sat on the bench in front of his house and smoked his pipe, he would say: “How good it would be if we had a son.” Marian would fall silent and lower her eyes. As time passed, he stopped saying that, because he would not put the woman to shame. But his expression betrayed his desire all the more clearly.
He was sincerely afflicted, but it was impossible for him to remain sad for long. Louisa, passive and resigned, accepted the misfortune as she accepted everything. She added a prayer to her daily prayers; she went regularly to the cemetery, and cared for the grass as if it were part of her household. Gottfried paid touching attention to the little patch of ground where the old man slept.
"I am called Erard," replied the child, giving his hand to the chevalier, "and I shall soon be nine years old." "That is also the age of my Rodolph," pursued the chevalier. "Alas! they will think me dead! Those villains! those cowards! Did they not see that I had no lance, and that my sword was broken?" "Go, my child," said Gottfried.
"Not as often as I'd like, but the one who fed on me says they don't take chances on their donors' health; even if I dose with rapid-heal, which I intend to, I'm not allowed to donate more than once every four tendays. What they call a Class Four Donor." That seemed to be about average, Thompson found. Gottfried was a Class Three, King a Class One, and all the rest were Fours like Nkomo.
To promote the ambition of herself and her husband, she has changed Gottfried into a swan by throwing a magical chain about his neck, and persuaded Telramund to accuse Elsa of having murdered the boy in the hope of enjoying the throne together with a secret lover. The King summons Elsa to answer the charge and decrees trial by ordeal of battle.
"Haste thee," said my father, roughly. "Once it is permitted to a man to be afraid; to fear twice, and fear the same thing, is to be a coward. And no Gottfried ever yet was a coward. Let not my Hugo be the first." Then I took courage and spoke to him. "I do not wish to be executioner," I said; "I would rather ride a-soldiering far away, and be in the drive of battle and the front of danger.
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