Thus Martha; and Harun answered with another cry. Then he shambled off so rapidly, that his comrade, swift and cat-footed as she was, might scarce keep up with him. Now the grey dawn burst into red gold, and the gold turned into fire. Now the birdsong woke in the forest, and the strong breeze sank to a dreamy whisper, as if to lull to the last fond sleep ere the waking. The great beech avenues spread off into dimming vistas, and through their midst peered out the purple-breasted hills. But Witch Martha only looked before her keenly, and said within her sly old breast:--
“As I feared,--to the Rothenstein and the hold of Fritz the Masterless. What now is best? Back to the Lord Graf, and ask him for men? But in that time there is room for many a deed.”
Hereupon Zodok shook his glossy wings and cried:--
“Good Christians, look out! The Devil’s about!”
“Ay,” quoth his mistress; “for Fritz is no small devil, and Dame Gerda is one greater,--the less cause to leave a dove inside their cage.”
And now her feet ran swift beside those of Harun.
Then before them, tawny, steep, the Rothenstein reared clearly, and in front a thin, grey vapor of rising smoke. Whereat Witch Martha halted, and her finger warned Harun that he lag behind. Soon this was the song which Fritz the Masterless and Wolf heard whilst they placed the kettle before the cave. At first they thought only the trees were crooning; then that the thrushes talked. Then their stout knees knocked together, and they began to mutter a prayer to good Saint Anne.
“I have come down the moonbeam’s path soft veering,-- Forth! forth,--from your bat-black den!-- On the wings of the night-doves silent steering,-- Swift! swift,--ere I call again! Oh, woe to the peasant,--oh, woe to the knight! To the lad or the lass who my summons may slight.
“I have tethered my car with the spider’s glister,-- Forth! forth,--for my weirds are fleet!-- Its driver skilled was the wood-moth’s sister,-- Swift! swift,--come my goblin’s feet!-- Oh, ’twere wiser to win the elf-king’s spite Than that lad or lass should my summons slight!
“I have learned the lore which the wild owl whistles! Forth! forth,--for my mercy dies!-- I have wove me a dress from the silk of thistles! Swift! swift,--see my sprites arise!-- Oh, the hawk’s grey wing or the sable of night Shall not save nor hide, who my summons slight!”