| Otto of the Silver Hand|
|by Howard Pyle|
|A stirring tale of medieval Germany in the days of robber barons and deadly feuds. The kidnapping of Otto, his adventures among the rough soldiers, and his daring rescue, make for a spirited and thrilling story. The author says of his tale that it 'is of a little boy who lived and suffered in those dark middle ages; of how he saw both the good and the bad of men, and of how, by gentleness and love and not by strife and hatred, he came at last to stand above other men and to be looked up to by all.' Vigorous illustrations by the author add much to the interest of the book. Ages 11-14 |
THE DRAGON'S HOUSE
P from the gray rocks, rising sheer and bald and bare, stood the walls and towers of Castle Drachenhausen. A
great gate-way, with a heavy iron-pointed portcullis hanging suspended in the dim arch above, yawned blackly
upon the bascule or falling drawbridge that
spanned a chasm between the blank stone walls and
the roadway that ran
winding down the steep rocky slope to the little valley just beneath. There in the lap of the hills around
stood clustered the wretched straw-thatched huts of the peasants belonging to the castle—miserable serfs who, half
 fierce, tilled their poor patches of ground, wrenching from the hard soil barely enough to keep body and soul
together. Among those vile hovels played the little children like foxes about their dens, their wild, fierce
eyes peering out from under a mat of tangled yellow hair.
Beyond these squalid huts lay the rushing, foaming river, spanned by a high, rude, stone bridge where the road
from the castle crossed it, and beyond the river stretched the great, black forest, within whose gloomy depths
the savage wild beasts made their lair, and where in winter time the howling wolves coursed their flying prey
across the moonlit snow and under the net-work of the black shadows from the naked boughs above.
The watchman in the cold, windy bartizan or watch-tower that clung to the gray walls above the castle gateway,
looked from his narrow window, where the wind piped and hummed, across the tree-tops that rolled in endless
billows of green, over hill and over valley to the blue and distant slope of the Keiserberg, where, on the
mountain side, glimmered far away the walls of Castle Trutz-Drachen.
Within the massive stone walls through which the gaping gateway led, three great cheerless brick buildings, so
forbidding that even the yellow sunlight could not light them into brightness, looked down, with row upon row
of windows, upon three sides of the bleak, stone courtyard. Back of and above them clustered a jumble of other
buildings, tower and turret, one high peaked roof overtopping another.
"THERE THEY SAT, JUST AS LITTLE CHILDREN IN THE TOWN MIGHT SIT
UPON THEIR FATHER’S DOOR-STEP."
 The great house in the centre was the Baron's Hall, the part to the left was called the Roderhausen; between
the two stood a huge square pile, rising dizzily up into the clear air high above the rest—the great Melchior
At the top clustered a jumble of buildings
hanging high aloft in the windy space; a crooked wooden belfry, a
tall, narrow watch-tower, and a rude wooden house that clung partly to the roof of the great tower and partly
to the walls.
From the chimney of this crazy hut a thin thread of smoke would now and then rise into the air, for there were
folk living far up in that empty, airy desert, and oftentimes wild, uncouth little children were seen playing
on the edge of the dizzy height, or sitting with their bare legs hanging down over the sheer depths, as they
gazed below at what was going on in the court-yard. There they sat, just as little children in the town might
sit upon their father's door-step; and as the sparrows might fly around the feet of the little town children,
so the circling flocks of rooks and daws flew around the feet of these air-born creatures.
It was Schwartz Carl and his wife and little ones who lived far up there in the Melchior Tower, for it
overlooked the top of the hill behind the castle and so down into the valley upon the further side. There, day
after day, Schwartz Carl kept watch upon the gray road that ran like a ribbon through the valley, from the
rich town of Gruenstadt
to the rich town of Staffenburgen, where passed merchant
cara-  vans from the one to the other—for the lord of Drachenhausen was a robber baron.
Dong! Dong! The great alarm bell would suddenly ring out from the belfry high up upon the Melchior Tower.
Dong! Dong! Till the rooks and daws whirled clamoring and screaming. Dong! Dong! Till the fierce wolf-hounds
in the rocky kennels behind the castle stables howled dismally in answer. Dong! Dong!—Dong! Dong!
Then would follow a great noise and uproar and hurry in the castle court-yard below; men shouting and calling
to one another, the ringing of armor, and the clatter of horses' hoofs upon the hard stone. With the creaking
and groaning of the windlass the iron-pointed portcullis would be slowly raised, and with a clank and rattle
and clash of iron chains the drawbridge would fall crashing. Then over it would thunder horse and man,
clattering away down the winding, stony pathway, until the great forest would swallow them, and they would be
Then for a while peace would fall upon the castle court-yard, the cock would crow, the cook would scold a lazy
maid, and Gretchen, leaning out of a window, would sing a snatch of a song, just as though it were a peaceful
farm-house, instead of a den of robbers.
Maybe it would be evening before the men would return once more. Perhaps one would have a bloody cloth bound
about his head, perhaps one would carry his arm in a sling; perhaps one—maybe more than one—would be left
 never to return again, and soon forgotten by all excepting some poor woman who would weep silently in the
loneliness of her daily work.
Nearly always the adventurers would bring back with them pack-horses laden with bales of goods. Sometimes,
besides these, they would return with a poor soul, his hands tied behind his back and his feet beneath the
horse's body, his fur cloak and his flat cap woefully awry. A while he would disappear in some gloomy cell of
the dungeon-keep, until an envoy would come from the town with a fat purse, when his ransom would be paid, the
dungeon would disgorge him, and he would be allowed to go upon his way again.
One man always rode beside Baron Conrad in his
expeditions and adventures—a short, deep-chested,
broad-shouldered man, with sinewy arms so long that when he stood his hands hung nearly to his knees.
His coarse, close-clipped hair came so low upon his brow that only a strip of forehead showed between it and
his bushy, black eyebrows. One eye was blind; the other twinkled and gleamed like a spark under the penthouse
of his brows. Many folk said that the one-eyed Hans had drunk beer with the Hill-man, who had given him the
strength of ten, for he could bend an iron spit like a hazel twig, and could lift a barrel of wine from the
floor to his head as easily as though it were a basket of eggs.
As for the one-eyed Hans he never said that he had not
 drunk beer with the Hill-man, for he liked the credit that such reports gave him with the other folk. And so,
like a half savage mastiff, faithful to death to his master, but to him alone, he went his sullen way and
lived his sullen life within the castle walls, half respected, half feared by the other inmates, for it was
dangerous trifling with the one-eyed Hans.
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