As the awe-stricken eyes of the terrified child fell on the mass of stone and bronze, the sight smote him breathless.  The mailed warriors standing around it, so motionless, so solemn, rilled him with a frozen, nameless fear.  He had never a doubt that they were the dead arisen.  The foremost that met his eyes were Theodoric and Arthur; the next, grim Rudolf, father of a dynasty of emperors.  There, leaning on their swords, the three gazed down on him, armored, armed, majestic, serious, guarding the empty grave, which to the child, who knew nothing of its history, seemed a bier; and at the feet of Theodoric, who alone of them all looked young and merciful, poor little desperate Findelkind fell with a piteous sob, and cried:  “I am not mad!  Indeed, indeed, I am not mad!”

He did not know that these grand figures were but statues of bronze.  He was quite sure they were the dead, arisen, and meeting there, around that tomb on which the solitary kneeling knight watched and prayed, encircled, as by a wall of steel, by these his comrades.  He was not frightened, he was rather comforted and stilled, as with a sudden sense of some deep calm and certain help.

Findelkind, without knowing that he was like so many dissatisfied poets and artists much bigger than himself, dimly felt in his little tired mind how beautiful and how gorgeous and how grand the world must have been when heroes and knights like these had gone by in its daily sunshine and its twilight storms.  No wonder Findelkind of Arlberg had found his pilgrimage so fair, when if he had needed any help he had only had to kneel and clasp these firm, mailed limbs, these strong cross-hiked swords, in the name of Christ and of the poor.

Theodoric seemed to look down on him with benignant eyes from under the raised visor; and our poor Findelkind, weeping, threw his small arms closer and closer round the bronze knees of the heroic figure, and sobbed aloud, “Help me, help me!  Oh, turn the hearts of the people to me, and help me to do good!”

But Theodoric answered nothing.

There was no sound in the dark, hushed church; the gloom grew darker over Findelkind’s eyes; the mighty forms of monarchs and of heroes grew dim before his sight.  He lost consciousness, and fell prone upon the stones at Theodoric’s feet; for he had fainted from hunger and emotion.

When he awoke it was quite evening; there was a lantern held over his head; voices were muttering curiously and angrily; bending over him were two priests, a sacristan of the church, and his own father.  His little wallet lay by him on the stones, always empty.

“Boy of mine! were you mad?” cried his father, half in rage, half in tenderness.  “The chase you have led me!—­and your mother thinking you were drowned!—­and all the working day lost, running after old women’s tales of where they had seen you!  Oh, little fool, little fool! what was amiss with Martinswand, that you must leave it?”