His mouth foaming—­his face almost green—­his eyes full of blood—­his brains spattered over his forehead, and several of his teeth knocked out,—­the discomfited warrior presented a ghastly spectacle, as, reeling under the effects of the last tremendous blow which the Knight of Hombourg dealt, Sir Gottfried fell heavily from the saddle of his piebald charger; the frightened animal whisked his tail wildly with a shriek and a snort, plunged out his hind legs, trampling for one moment upon the feet of the prostrate Gottfried, thereby causing him to shriek with agony, and then galloped away riderless.

Away! ay, away!—­away amid the green vineyards and golden cornfields; away up the steep mountains, where he frightened the eagles in their eyries; away down the clattering ravines, where the flashing cataracts tumble; away through the dark pine-forests, where the hungry wolves are howling away over the dreary wolds, where the wild wind walks alone; away through the plashing quagmires, where the will-o’-the-wisp slunk frightened among the reeds; away through light and darkness, storm and sunshine; away by tower and town, high-road and hamlet.  Once a turnpike-man would have detained him; but, ha! ha! he charged the pike, and cleared it at a bound.  Once the Cologne Diligence stopped the way:  he charged the Diligence, he knocked off the cap of the conductor on the roof, and yet galloped wildly, madly, furiously, irresistibly on!  Brave horse! gallant steed! snorting child of Araby!  On went the horse, over mountains, rivers, turnpikes, apple-women; and never stopped until he reached a livery-stable in Cologne where his master was accustomed to put him up.

CHAPTER VI.

The confession.

But we have forgotten, meanwhile, that prostrate individual.  Having examined the wounds in his side, legs, head, and throat, the old hermit (a skilful leech) knelt down by the side of the vanquished one and said, “Sir Knight, it is my painful duty to state to you that you are in an exceedingly dangerous condition, and will not probably survive.”

“Say you so, Sir Priest? then ’tis time I make my confession.  Hearken you, Priest, and you, Sir Knight, whoever you be.”

Sir Ludwig (who, much affected by the scene, had been tying his horse up to a tree), lifted his visor and said, “Gottfried of Godesberg!  I am the friend of thy kinsman, Margrave Karl, whose happiness thou hast ruined; I am the friend of his chaste and virtuous lady, whose fair fame thou hast belied; I am the godfather of young Count Otto, whose heritage thou wouldst have appropriated.  Therefore I met thee in deadly fight, and overcame thee, and have wellnigh finished thee.  Speak on.”

“I have done all this,” said the dying man, “and here, in my last hour, repent me.  The Lady Theodora is a spotless lady; the youthful Otto the true son of his father—­Sir Hildebrandt is not his father, but his uncle.”