The torchlight gleamed on flashing swords and glittering points of spears, but chief sight of all was the Margrave Hermann von Katznellenbogenstahleck, a giant in stature, mounted on a magnificent stallion, as black as the night, and of a size that corresponded with its prodigious rider.  The Margrave’s long beard and flowing hair were red; scarlet, one may say, but perhaps that was the fiery reflection from the torches.  Servants, scullions, stablemen carried the lights; the men-at-arms had no encumbrance but their weapons, and the business-like way in which they lined up along the shore was a study in discipline, and a terror to any one unused to war.  Above all the din and clash of arms rang the hearty, stentorian laughter of the Red Margrave actually echoing back in gusts of fiendish merriment from the hills on the other side of the Rhine.

Now the boat’s nose came dully against the ledge of rock, to whose surface the swaying chain rose dripping from the water, sparkling like a jointed snake under the torchlight.

“God save us all!” cried the Margrave, “what rare show have we here?  By my sainted patron, the Archbishop, merchants under arms!  Whoever saw the like?  Ha! stout Captain Blumenfels, do I recognize you?  Once more my chain has caught you.  This makes the third time, does it not, Blumenfels?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“You may as well call me ‘your Holiness’ as ‘your Majesty.’  I’m contented with my title, the ‘Laughing Baron,’ Haw-haw-haw-haw!  And so your merchants have taken to arms again?  The lesson at the Lorely taught them nothing!  Are there any ropes aboard, captain?”

“Plenty, my lord.”

“Then fling a coil ashore.  Now, my tigers,” he roared to his men-at-arms, “hale me to land those damned shopkeepers.”

With a clash of armor and weapons the brigands threw themselves on the boat, and in less time than is taken to tell it, every man of the guild was disarmed and flung ashore.  Here another command of the Red Margrave gave them the outlaw’s knot, as he termed it, a most painful tying-up of the body and the limbs until each victim was rigid as a red of iron.  They were flung face downwards in a row, and beaten black and blue with cudgels, despite their screams of agony and appeals for mercy.

“Now turn them over on their backs,” commanded the Margrave, and it was done.  The glare of the pitiless torches fell upon contorted faces.  The Baron turned his horse athwart the line of helpless men, and spurred that animal over it from end to end, but the intelligent horse, more merciful than its rider, stepped with great daintiness, despite its unusual size, and never trod on one of the prostrate bodies.  During what followed, the Red Baron, shaking with laughter, marched his horse up and down over the stricken men.

“Now, unload the boat, but do not injure any of the sailors!  I hope to see them often again.  You cannot tell how we have missed you, captain.  What are you loaded with this time?  Sound Frankfort cloth?”