"No!" gruffly. "Of old Freiherr Eberhard. Not of any of the
Wildschloss crew."
"But I am not a Wildschloss! I am grandson to Freiherr Eberhard!
Oh, wast thou with him and my father when they were set upon in the
hostel?" he cried, looking eagerly up to the pilgrim; but the man
kept his broad-leaved hat slouched over his face, and only muttered,
"The son of Christina!" the last word so low that Ebbo was not sure
that he caught it, and the next moment the old warrior exclaimed
exultingly, "And you have had vengeance on them! When--how--where?"
"Last harvest-tide--at the Debateable Strand," said Ebbo, never able
to speak of the encounter without a weight at his heart, but drawn on
by the earnestness of the old foe of Schlangenwald. "It was a
meeting in full career--lances broken, sword-stroke on either hand.
I was sore wounded, but my sword went through his collar-bone."
"Well struck! good stroke!" cried the pilgrim, in rapture. "And with
that sword?"
"With this sword. Didst know it?" said Ebbo, drawing the weapon, and
giving it to the old man, who held it for a few moments, weighed it
affectionately, and with a long low sigh restored it, saying, "It is
well.
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