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Ekkehard: A Tale of the Tenth Century. Vol. 1 (of 2)

by Joseph Victor von Scheffel · English · Gutenberg #35846 · 465,180 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Ekkehard: A Tale of the Tenth Century. Vol. 1 (of 2)

Author: Joseph Victor von Scheffel

Translator: Sofie Delffs


        
Release date: April 13, 2011 [eBook #35846]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35846

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EKKEHARD: A TALE OF THE TENTH CENTURY. VOL. 1 (OF 2) ***




Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive





Transcriber's Notes:

   1. Page scan source:
      http://www.archive.org/details/ekkehardtaleofte01scheuoft

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






                               COLLECTION

                                   OF

                            GERMAN AUTHORS.

                                VOL. 21.


                           *   *   *   *   *


                  EKKEHARD BY JOSEPH VICTOR SCHEFFEL.


                            IN TWO VOLUMES.

                                VOL. I.







                               EKKEHARD.

                      A TALE OF THE TENTH CENTURY


                                   BY

                        JOSEPH VICTOR SCHEFFEL.


                         _Authorized Edition_.


                       TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN

                                   BY

                             SOFIE DELFFS.


                        IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. I.




                              LEIPZIG 1872
                          BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.

           LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON.
                  CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
             PARIS: C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PERES.






                           TO HER DEAR FRIEND

                           MRS. EMILY CHAMIER

                    THE ENGLISH VERSION OF THIS BOOK

                              IS DEDICATED

                                   BY

                            THE TRANSLATOR.






                                CONTENTS

                              OF VOLUME I.


Preface of the Translator

The Author's Preface

CHAPTER    I. Hadwig, the Duchess of Suabia

          II. The Disciples of St. Gallus

         III. Wiborad the Recluse

          IV. In the Monastery

           V. Ekkehard's Departure

          VI. Moengal

         VII. Virgilius on the Hohentweil

        VIII. Audifax

          IX. The Woman of the Wood

           X. Christmas

          XI. The old Man of the Heidenhoehle

         XII. The Approach of the Huns

        XIII. Heribald and his Guests

         XIV. The Battle with the Huns




                                PREFACE
                           OF THE TRANSLATOR.


Heine, that sharp-witted and unsparing critic once said that the
relation of translator to author, were about the same as that of a
monkey to a human being,--while G[oe]the, a man of larger mind and more
harmonious nature, compared the translator to a prophet, quoting a
verse from the Koran which says: "God gives a prophet to every nation
in its own tongue."--For sixteen years the following "Tale,"--which
since its first appearance has made and held its place, not only in the
esteem, but in the hearts of the German reading public, and which has
already been translated into several languages,--has waited in vain for
an _English_ "_prophet_" to render it into that tongue, which being
that most akin to the German language, is therefore, also the one best
fitted for this purpose. It is true that the peculiarity of the style,
which in the original is so wonderfully adapted to the matter it
treats, as well as the number of old German words, might have proved a
not inconsiderable difficulty for any but a German translator, and
therefore, it is to be hoped, that the venturesome attempt of a German
girl to render the book into English, may be excused. It need hardly be
said, that with regard to expression she may often have need to appeal
to the indulgence of the reader, but perhaps these defects may at least
in some degree be compensated, by the strict, truthful adherence to the
original, and further it should be observed that great care has been
taken in choosing words of Saxon derivation whenever they were to be
had. Her love for the book, and her admiration for the writer thereof,
have made her spare no trouble in this undertaking, and if she could
but hope to win some friends to "Ekkehard" in an English dress, she
would deem herself amply repaid for the many hours spent over this
work. May her critics "take all in all," and treat her _fairly_!

_Heidelberg, December_, 1871.




                         THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE.


This book was written with the firm belief that neither history nor
poetry will lose anything, by forming a close alliance, and uniting
their strength by working together.

For the last thirty years or so, the bequest of our ancestors has been
the subject of universal investigation. A swarm of busy moles have
undermined the ground of the middle-ages in all directions, and
produced by their untiring industry such a quantity of old material, as
to surprise even the collectors themselves. A whole literature,
beautiful and perfect in itself; an abundance of monuments of the
plastic art; a well organized political and social life, lies extended
before our eyes. And yet all the labour and goodwill spent on this
subject, has hardly succeeded in spreading to wider circles, pleasure
and interest in this newly won historical knowledge. The numberless
volumes stand quietly on the shelves of our libraries. Here and there,
well-to-do spiders have begun to spin their cobwebs, and the pitiless,
all-covering dust has come too, so that the thought is hardly
improbable, that all this old German splendour, but just conjured back
into life, may one morning at cockcrow fade away and be buried in the
dust and mouldering rubbish of the Past,--like to that weird cloister
by the lake, the existence of which is only betrayed by the faint low
tinkle of the bell, deep, deep under the waters.

This is not the place to examine how far this result is attributable to
the ways and methods of our scientific men.

The accumulation of antiquarian lore, as well as the accumulation of
gold, may become a passion, which collects and scrapes together for the
sake and pleasure of scraping; quite forgetting that the metal which
has been won, needs to be purified, remelted, and put to use. For else,
what do we attain by it? Merely the being for ever confined within the
narrow limits of the rough material; an equal valuation of the
unimportant and the important; an unwillingness ever to finish and
conclude anything, because here and there some scrap might still be
added, which would lend a new significance to the subject;--and finally
a literature _of_ scholars _for_ scholars, which the majority of the
nation passes by with indifference and while looking up at the blue sky
feel intensely grateful to their Creator, that _they_ need read nothing
of it.--

The writer of this book,--in the sunny days of his youth,--once took a
ramble with some friends through the Roman Campagna. There, they lit on
the remains of an old monument, and amongst other rubbish and
fragments, there lay, half hidden by dark green acanthus leaves, a heap
of mosaic stones, which, united into a fine picture with graceful
ornaments, had formerly adorned the floor of a grave. Then, there arose
a lively discussion as to what all the dispersed square little stones
might have represented, when they were still united. One, a student of
archaeology, took up some of the pieces, to examine whether they were
black or white marble. A second who occupied himself with historical
studies, talked very learnedly about ancient sepulchres;--meanwhile a
third had quietly sat down on the old wall, taken out his sketch-book
and drawn a fine chariot with four prancing steeds, and charioteers,
and around it some handsome Ionic ornaments. He had discovered in a
corner of the floor, some insignificant remains of the old picture;
horses feet and fragments of a chariot wheel, and at once the whole
design stood clearly before his mind, and he dashed it down with a few
bold strokes, whilst the others dealt in words merely ...

This little incident may serve to throw some light on the question, how
one can work with success, at the historical resurrection of the Past.
Surely, this can be done then only, when to a creative, reproducing
imagination are given its full rights; when he who digs out the old
bodies, breathes upon them the breath of a living soul, so that they
may rise and walk about, like the resuscitated dead.

In this sense, the historical novel may become what epic poetry was in
the time of the blooming youth of the nations,--a piece of national
history, in the conception of the artist, who within a certain space,
shows us a series of distinctly-drawn, clearly coloured figures, in
whose individual lives, strivings and sufferings, the life and
substance of the time in which they lived, is reflected as in a mirror.

Erected on the basis of historical studies, and embracing the beautiful
and important part of an epoch, the historical novel may well claim to
be the twin brother of history; and those who, shrugging their
shoulders are inclined to reject the former as the production of an
arbitrary and falsifying caprice, will please to remember, that history
as it is generally written, is also but a traditional conglomeration of
the true and the false, which merely by its greater clumsiness is
prevented from filling up the occasional gaps, as the more graceful
poesy can do.

If all the signs are not deceiving us, our present time is in a
peculiar state of transition.

In all branches of knowledge, the perception is gaining ground, how
intensely our thinking and feeling has been damaged by the supremacy of
the Abstract and of Phraseology. Here and there, efforts are being
made, to return from dry, colourless, hyperbolical abstractions, to the
tangible, living, glowing Concrete; from idle self-contemplation, into
close relation with life and the present, and from hackneyed formulas
and patterns, to an investigating analysis of nature, and a creative
productivity, instead of mere barren criticism.

Who knows, but our grandchildren may yet live to see the day, when
people will speak of many a former colossus of science, with the same
smiling veneration, as of the remains of a gigantic antediluvian
animal; and when one may avow, without fear of being cried down as a
barbarian, that in a jug of good old wine, there is as much wisdom, as
in many a voluminous production of dry dialectics.

To the restitution of a serene, unbiassed view of things, adorned by
poetry, the following work would wish to contribute; taking its
materials out of our German Past.

Amongst the vast collection of valuable matter, enclosed in the big
folios of the "_Monumenta Germaniae_" by Pertz, are the tales of the
monasteries in St. Gall, which monk Ratpert began, and Ekkehard the
younger (called also the fourth, to distinguish him, from three other
members of the cloister, bearing the same name), continued till the end
of the 10th century.

Whoever has painfully tracked his weary road, through the many
unsatisfactory dry-as-dust chronicles of other monasteries, will linger
with real pleasure and inward delight, over these last named annals.
There, one finds, in spite of manifold prejudices and awkwardnesses, an
abundance of graceful and interesting tales, taken from accounts of eye
and ear witnesses. Persons and circumstances are drawn with rough, but
distinct lineaments, whilst a sort of unconscious poetry,--a thoroughly
honest and genuine view of life and the world, as well as a naive
freshness and originality, puts a stamp of truth and genuineness on
everything that is told; even when persons and events are not strictly
subjected to the laws of time; and when a very tangible anachronism,
causes very slight uneasiness to the chronicler.

Quite unintentionally, these sketches lead one far beyond the
boundaries of the cloister-walls; painting the life and ways, the
education and customs of the _Allemannic_ country,[1] as it then was,
with all the fidelity of a picture painted from nature. Times were
pleasant then in the south-western part of Germany, and everyone who
prefers a striving and healthy, though rough and imperfect strength, to
a certain varnished finish, will feel much sympathy with them. The
beginning of church and state,--whilst a considerable roughness,
tempered by much natural kindliness, still clung to the people in
general; the feudal spirit, so pernicious to all later development, as
yet harmless, in its first stage of existence; no supercilious,
overbearing knighthood, and wanton ignorant priesthood as yet,--but
rough, plainspoken, honest fellows, whose social intercourse frequently
consisted in an extended system of verbal and real injuries, but who,
under their coarse husk, hid an excellent kernel; susceptible of all
good and noble things. Scholars, who in the morning translate Aristotle
into German, and go wolf-hunting in the evening; noble ladies, full of
enthusiasm for the old classics; peasants, in whose memory the old
heathen beliefs of their forefathers still exist, unimpaired and side
by side with the new christian creed,--in short, everywhere primitive
but vigorous life, and conditions under which one feels inclined
without contempt or rational ire, to put up even with sprites and
hobgoblins.

In spite of political discord and a certain indifference towards the
empire, of which Saxony had become the central point, there was much
courage and valour, inspiring even monks in their cells, to exchange
the breviary for the sword, in order to resist the Hungarian invasion;
and although there were many elements opposed to science, serious study
and much enthusiasm for the classics were preserved.

The highly frequented cloister-schools were full of zealous disciples,
and the humane principles taught there, remind one of the best times in
the 16th century. Besides this, the fine arts began to bud,--some
eminent minds rising here and there above the multitude; a general
culture of national history, though mostly dressed up in outlandish
garments.

No wonder then, that the author of this book, when making some other
researches concerning the first stages of the middle-ages, chancing to
meet with those chronicles, felt like a man, who after long wanderings
through a barren unfertile land, comes suddenly upon a comfortable
wayside inn; which, with excellent kitchen and cellar, and a lovely
view from the windows, offers all that heart could desire.

So he began to settle down in that cozy nook, and by diligently
exploring the surrounding land, to gain the best possible knowledge of
the country and people who lived in it.

But the poet meets with a peculiar fate, when trying to acquaint
himself with the old Past. Where others, into whose veins nature has
instilled some "_aqua fortis_,"--as the result of their labours produce
many an abstract theory, and a quantity of instructive deductions,--to
him appear a host of fantastic figures, that, at first surrounded by
floating mists, become always clearer and clearer; and they look at him
with pleading eyes, dance around his couch in midnight hours, and
always whisper to him, "give us a living form."

Thus it was here. Out of the old Latin cloister-tales there arose, like
rocks out of the water, the towers and walls of the monastery of St.
Gall. Scores of grey-headed, venerable friars wandered up and down in
the ancient cross-passages; behind the old manuscripts sat those who
had once written them; the cloister-pupils played merrily in the
courtyard; from the choir rose the solemn chaunts at midnight, and from
the tower the clear sound of the bugle announced the approach of
visitors. But before all other forms, there arose in dazzling beauty,
that noble, haughty Dame, who carried off the youthful master from the
quiet and peace of the cloister of St. Gall, to her rocky castle high
over the Bodensee, there, to teach and propagate the old classics. The
simple account given by the chronicler, of that quiet life, dedicated
to the study of Virgil, is in itself a piece of poetry as beautiful and
genuine as can be found anywhere.

He, however, who is beset by such apparitions cannot exorcise them
otherwise, but by doing their will; trying to condense and fix their
fleeting shapes. And not having read in vain in the old stories, how
"Notker the stutterer," once treated similar visions, viz. by taking a
strong hazel wand and therewith belabouring the spectres, until they
revealed unto him their finest songs,--I also took to my arms, the
steel-pen, and saying good-bye to the old folios which had been the
sources of all these visionary fancies, I betook myself to the ground
which had once been trodden by the Duchess Hadwig, and her
contemporaries.

There, I sat in the venerable library of St. Gallus; took long rows in
little rocking boats over the Bodensee; found a nest for myself under
the old linden-tree at the foot of the Hohentwiel, where a worthy old
Suabian bailiff has at present charge of the ruins of the ancient
fortress, and finally climbed the airy Alpine heights of the Saentis,
where the "_Wildkirchlein_" hangs like an eagle's nest over the green
valley of Appenzell. There, in the wards of the "_Suabian Sea_," mind
and soul filled with the life of bygone generations; the heart
refreshed by warm sunshine and balmy mountain air, I first sketched and
then completed the greater part of this story.

That not much has been said therein, which is not founded on
conscientious historical studies, can be boldly asserted; though
persons and dates have sometimes been dealt with a little freely. The
poet, in order to enhance the inward harmony of his work, may
occasionally take liberties which would be most blameworthy, if
indulged in by the strict historian. And yet the great historian
Macaulay himself says: "I shall cheerfully bear the reproach of having
descended below the dignity of history if I can succeed in placing
before the English of the 19th century, a true picture of the life of
their ancestors."

Following the advice of some competent judges, I have given in an
appendix some proofs and references to the sources out of which I have
taken my materials, in order to satisfy those, who might otherwise be
inclined to treat the subject as a mere fable or idle invention. Those,
however, who do not require these same proofs to believe in the
genuineness of the matter, are requested not to trouble themselves
further with the notes, as they are otherwise of little import, and
would be quite superfluous, if this book did not go out into the world
in the garb of a novel, which is somewhat open to the suspicion of
playing carelessly with facts and truths.[2]

The attacks of the critics will be received with great
imperturbability. "A tale of the 10th century?" will they exclaim. "Who
rideth so late, through night and wind?" And has it not been printed in
the last manual of our national literature, in the chapter treating of
the national novel: "If we ask which epoch in German history might be
best suited to combine the local with the national interests, we must
begin by excluding the middle-ages. Even the times of the Hohenstaufen,
can only be treated in a lyrical style, as all efforts in other
directions, are sure to turn out utter failures."

All the scruples and objections of those who prefer an anatomizing
criticism, to a harmless enjoyment, and who spend all their strength in
trying to force the German spirit into an Alexandrine or Byzantine
form,--these have already been well answered by a literary lady of the
tenth century, viz. the venerable nun Hroswitha of Gandersheim, who
wrote in happy, self-conscious pleasure in her own work, in the preface
to her graceful comedies: "If anybody should derive pleasure, from
these my modest productions, I shall be much pleased thereat; but if on
the contrary, on account of the objectivity displayed therein, or of
the roughness of an imperfect style, it should please no one, then at
least I myself shall take pleasure in that which I have created."

_Heidelberg, February_, 1855.

                                              J. V. SCHEFFEL.





                               EKKEHARD.




                               CHAPTER I.

                     Hadwig, the Duchess of Suabia.


It was almost a thousand years ago. The world knew as yet nothing of
gunpowder or the art of printing.

Over the Hegau there hung a gloomy leaden grey sky, corresponding to
the mental darkness, which, according to general opinion, oppressed the
whole time of the middle ages. From the lake of Constance white mists
floated over the meads, covering up the whole country. Even the tower
of the new church at Radolfszell was thickly enveloped, but the
matinbell had rung merrily through mist and fog like the words of a
sensible man, which pierce the cloudy atmosphere, that fools create.

It is a lovely part of Germany which lies there, between the
Blackforest and the Suabian lake. All those who are not too strict and
particular with poetical similes, may be reminded of the following
words of the poet:


           "Ah fair is the Allemannic land
            With its bright transparent sky;
            And fair is its lake, so clear and blue
            Like a bonny maiden's eye;
            Like yellow locks, the corn-clad fields
            Surround this picture fair:
            And to a genuine German face
            This land one may compare."


--though the continuation of this allegory might tempt one to celebrate
either of the Hegau mountains, as the prominent feature on the face of
this country.

Sternly the summit of the Hohentwiel, with its craggy points and
pinnacles rises into the air. Like monuments of the stormy stirring
Past of our old mother Earth those steep picturesque mountain-pyramids
rise from the plains which were once covered by undulating waves, as
the bed of the present lake is now. For the fish and sea-gulls it must
have been a memorable day, when the roaring and hissing began in the
depths below, and the fiery basaltic masses, made their way, rising out
of the very bowels of earth, above the surface of the waters. But that
was long, long ago, and the sufferings of those, who were pitilessly
annihilated in that mighty revolution, have long been forgotten. Only
the hills are there still to tell the weird tale. There they stand,
unconnected with their neighbours, solitary and defiant; as those, who
with fiery glowing hearts break through the bars and fetters of
existing opinions, must always be. Whether they in their inmost heart
have still a recollection of the glorious time of their youth, when
they greeted this beautiful upper world, for the first time with a
jubilant cry, who knows?

At the time when our story begins, the Hohentwiel was crested already
by stately towers and walls. This fortress had been held during his
lifetime by Sir Burkhard, Duke of Suabia. He had been a valiant knight,
and done many a good day's fighting in his time. The enemies of the
Emperor, were also his, and so there was always work to do. If
everything was quiet in Italy, then the Normans became troublesome, and
when these were fairly subjugated, perhaps the Hungarians would make an
invasion, or some bishop or mighty earl grew insolent and rebellious,
and had to be put down. In this way Sir Burkhard had spent his days
more in the saddle than in the easy-chair, and it was not to be
wondered at, that he had gained for himself the reputation of great
valour and bravery.

In Suabia it was said that he reigned like a true despot; and in far
off Saxony the monks wrote down in their chronicles, that he had been
an almost "invincible warrior."

Before Sir Burkhard was gathered to his forefathers, he had chosen a
spouse for himself, in the person of the young Princess Hadwig,
daughter of the Duke of Bavaria. But the evening-glow of a declining
life is but ill matched with the light of the morning-star. Such a
union is against nature's laws and Dame Hadwig had accepted the old
Duke of Suabia, merely to please her father. It is true that she had
nursed and tended him well, and held his grey hairs in honour; but when
the old man laid himself down to die, grief did not break her heart.

When all was over, she buried him in the vault of his ancestors,
erected a monument of grey sandstone lo his memory, placed an
everburning lamp over his grave, and sometimes, not too often, came
down there to pray.

Thus Dame Hadwig lived now all alone in the castle of Hohentwiel. She
remained in possession of all the landed property of her husband, with
the full rights to do with it what she pleased. Besides this she was
lady patroness of the bishopric of Constance and all the cloisters near
the lake, and the emperor had given her a bill of feoffment signed and
sealed by his own hand, by which the regency of Suabia remained her
own, as long as she kept true to her widowhood. The young widow
possessed a very aristocratic mind and no ordinary amount of beauty.
Her nose however was a trifle short, the lovely lips had a strong
tendency to pout, and in her boldly projecting chin, the graceful
dimple so becoming to women, was not to be found. All those whose
features are thus formed, unite to a clear intellect, a not over
tender heart, and their disposition is more severe than charitable. For
this reason the Duchess in spite of her soft beautiful complexion,
inspired many of her subjects with a sort of trembling awe.--On that
misty day mentioned before, the Duchess was standing at one of her
chamber-windows, looking out into the distance. She wore a steelgrey
undergarment, which fell down in graceful folds on her embroidered
sandals; and over this a tightfitting black tunic, reaching to the
knees. In the girdle, encircling her waist, there glittered a large
precious beryl. Her chestnut brown hair was confined within a net of
gold thread, but round her clear forehead some stray curls played
unrestrainedly. On a small table of white marble, stood a fantastically
shaped vessel of dark green bronze, in which some foreign frankincense
was burning, sending its fragrant white little cloudlets up to the
ceiling. The walls were covered with many-coloured finely woven
tapestry.

There are days when one is dissatisfied with everything and everybody,
and if one were suddenly transported into paradise itself, even
paradise would not give contentment. At such times the thoughts wander
gloomily from this to that subject, not knowing on what to fix
themselves,--out of every corner a distorted face seems grinning at us,
and he who is gifted with a very fine ear, may even hear the derisive
laughter of the goblins. It is a belief in those parts that the
universal contrariety of such days, arises from people having stepped
out of bed with their left foot foremost; which is held to be in direct
opposition to nature.

Under the spell of such a day, the Duchess was labouring just now. She
wanted to look out of the window, and a subtle wind blew the mist right
into her face, which annoyed her. She began to cough hastily, but no
doubt if the whole country had lain before her bathed in sunshine, she
would have found fault with that also.

Spazzo the chamberlain had come in meanwhile and stood respectfully
waiting near the entrance. He threw a smiling complacent look on his
outward equipment, feeling sure to attract his mistress's eye to-day,
for he had put on an embroidered shirt of finest linen and a splendid
sapphire coloured upper-garment, with purple seams. Everything was made
in the latest fashion; and the bishop's tailor at Constance had brought
the articles over only the day before.

The wolf-dog of the knight of Friedingen had killed two lambs of the
ducal herd; therefore Master Spazzo intended to make his dutiful report
and obtain Dame Hadwig's princely opinion, whether he should conclude a
peaceful agreement with the dog's master, or whether he were to bring
in a suit at the next session of the tribunal, to have him fined and
sentenced to pay damages. So he began his well-prepared speech, but
before he had got to the end, he saw the duchess make a sign, the
meaning of which could not remain unintelligible to a sensible man.
She put her forefinger first up to her forehead, and then pointed with
it to the door. So the chamberlain perceived that it was left to his
own wits, not only to find the best expedient with regard to the
lambs,--but also to take himself off as quickly as possible. With a
profound bow he withdrew accordingly.

In clear tones Dame Hadwig called out now: "Praxedis!"--and when the
person thus named did not instantly make her appearance, she repeated
in sharper accents, "Praxedis!"

It was not long before Praxedis with light, graceful steps entered the
closet. Praxedis was waiting-maid to the Duchess of Suabia. She was a
Greek and a living proof, that the son of the Byzantine Emperor
Basilius had once asked the fair Hadwig's hand in marriage. He had made
a present of the clever child, well instructed in music and the art of
the needle, together with many jewels and precious stones, to the
German duke's daughter, and in return had received a refusal. At that
time one could give away human beings, as well as buy and sell them.
Liberty was not everybody's birthright. But a slavery, such as the
Greek child had to endure, in the ducal castle in Suabia, was not a
very hard lot.

Praxedis had a small head with pale delicate features; out of which a
pair of large dark eyes looked into the world, unspeakably sad one
moment and in the next sparkling with merriment. Her hair was arranged
over her forehead in heavy braids, like a coronet. She was very
beautiful.

"Praxedis, where is the starling?" said Dame Hadwig.

"I will bring it," replied the Greek maid; and she went and fetched the
black little fellow, who sat in his cage, with an important impudent
air, as if his existence were filling up a vast gap in the universe.
The starling had made his fortune at Hadwig's wedding-feast. An old
fiddler and juggler had taught him with infinite pains, to repeat a
Latin wedding-speech, and great was the merriment, when at the banquet
the bird was put on the table, to say his lesson, "A new star has risen
on the Suabian firmament, its name is Hadwig. Hail all hail!" and so
forth.

But this was not all the knowledge which the starling possessed.
Besides these rhymes, he could also recite the Lord's prayer. Now the
bird was very obstinate, and had his caprices, as well as the Duchess
of Suabia.

On this particular day, the latter must have been thinking of old
times, and the starling was to deliver the wedding-speech. The
starling, however, had one of his pious moods, and when Praxedis
brought him into the chamber he called out solemnly: "Amen!" and when
Dame Hadwig gave him a piece of gingerbread, and asked him in coaxing
tones: "what was the name of the star on the Suabian firmament, my
pretty one?"--he slowly responded: "Lead us not into temptation." But
when she whispered to him to brighten his memory: "The star's name is
Hadwig, all hail!"--then the starling continuing in his pious strain,
said: "And deliver us from evil."--

"What, do birds even become insolent now?" exclaimed Dame Hadwig
angrily. "Pussy, where art thou?" and she enticed towards her the black
cat, which had long had an evil eye upon the starling, and who crept
near softly, but with glittering eyes.

Dame Hadwig opened the cage, and left the bird to its mercy, but the
starling, although the sharp claws had got hold of him already,
ruffling and tearing his feathers, yet managed to escape, and flew out
at the open window.

In a few moments he had become a mere black speck in the mist.

"Well, now really I might as well have kept him in the cage," said Dame
Hadwig, "Praxedis, what dost thou think?"

"My mistress is always right whatever she does," replied the Greek
maiden.

"Praxedis," continued the Duchess, "go and fetch me my trinkets. I wish
to put on a bracelet."

So Praxedis, the everwilling, went away, and returned with the casket
of jewels. This casket was made of silver; on it a few figures had been
embossed, representing the Saviour as the good Shepherd; St. Peter with
the keys and St. Paul with the sword, and around these, manifold leaves
and twisted ornaments. Probably it had served for the keeping of relics
formerly. Sir Burkhard had once brought it home, but he did not like to
speak about it; for he returned at that time from a feud, in which he
had vanquished and heavily thrown some bishop of Burgundy.

When the Duchess opened the casket, the rich jewels sparkled and
glittered beautifully on their red velvet lining. Looking at such
tokens of remembrance, many old memories came floating up to the
surface again. Amongst other things there lay also the miniature of the
Greek prince Constantine, smooth, pretty and spiritless, it had been
painted by the Byzantine master on a background of gold.

"Praxedis," said Dame Hadwig, "how would it have been, if I had given
my hand to that yellow-cheeked peaknosed prince of yours."

"My liege Lady," was the answer, "I am sure that it would have been
well."

"Well," continued Dame Hadwig, "tell me something about your own dull
home. I should like to know what my entrance into Constantinopolis
would have been like."

"Oh, princess," said Praxedis, "my home is beautiful," and with a
melancholy look her dark eyes gazed into the misty distance--"and such
a dreary sky at least, would have been spared you on the Marmora sea.
Even you would have uttered a cry of surprise, when carried along by
the proud galley, past the seven towers, the glittering masses of
palaces, cupolas, churches, everything of dazzling white marble from
the quarries of Prokonnesos, had first burst on our sight. From the
blue waves the stately waterlily, proudly lifts her snowy petals, here
a wood of dark cypress trees, there the gigantic cupola of the Hagia
Sophia; on one side the long stretched cape of the Golden Horn, and
opposite on the Asiatic shore, another magnificent city. And like a
golden blue girdle, the sea, freighted with its innumerable ships,
encircles this magic sight,--oh, my mistress, even in my dreams far
away here in the Suabian land, I cannot realize the splendour of that
view. And then, when the sun has sunk down, and the sable night steals
over the glittering waves, then everything is bathed in blue Greek
fire, in honour of the royal bride. Now we enter the port. The big
chain which usually bars it, drops down before the bridal ship. Torches
burn on the shore. There stand the emperor's body-guard, the Waragians
with their two edged battle-axes, and the blue-eyed Normans; there the
patriarch with innumerable priests; everywhere one hears music and
shouts of joy, and the imperial prince in the bloom of youth, welcomes
his betrothed, and the royal train direct their steps towards the
palace of Blacharnae ..."

"And all this splendour I have thrown away," sneered Dame Hadwig.
"Praxedis, thy picture is not complete, for on the following day, comes
the patriarch, to hold a sharp discourse with the western Christian,
and to instruct her in all the heresies, which flourish on the barren,
arid soil of your religion, like deadly nightshade and henbane. Then I
am instructed what to believe of their monkish pictures and the decrees
of the Councils of Chalcedon and Nicaea. After him comes the mistress
of the ceremonies, to teach me the laws of etiquette and court-manners;
what expression to wear on my face, and how to manage my train; when
to prostrate myself before the emperor and when to embrace my
mother-in-law. Further, how to treat this favourite with courtesy, and
to use this or that monstrous form of speech, in addressing some
wonderful personage: 'If it please your Eminence, your Highness, your
adorable Greatness!'--Whatever can be called originality and natural
strength is nipped in the bud, and my Lord and Master turns out to be a
painted doll like the rest. Then perhaps some fine morning the enemy
appears before the gates, or the successor is not to the liking of the
blues and greens of the Circus; revolution rages through the streets,
and the German duke's daughter is put into a convent bereft of her
eyesight ... what good does it do her then, that her children were
addressed as their Highnesses when still in the cradle? Therefore,
Praxedis, I did not go to Constantinople!"

"The emperor is the Master of the universe, and his will is for ever
just," said the Greek, "so I have been taught to believe."

"Hast thou ever reflected, that it is a very precious boon, for a man
to be his own master?"

"No," said Praxedis.

The turn which the conversation had taken pleased the Duchess.

"What account of me did your Byzantine painter, who was sent to take my
likeness, carry home, I wonder?"

The Greek maid seemed not to have heard the question. She had risen
from her seat and gone to the window.

"Praxedis," said the Duchess with asperity, "I want an answer."

Thus questioned Praxedis turned round, and faintly smiling said: "that
was a pretty long time ago, but Master Michael Thallelaios did not
speak over well of you. He told us that he had prepared his finest
colours and goldleaves, and that you had been a lovely child, and when
brought before him to be painted, that he had felt as if he must do his
very utmost, and a thrill of awe had come over him, as when he painted
God's holy mother, for the monastery of Athos. But Princess Hadwig had
been pleased to distort her eyes; and when he had ventured to raise a
modest objection, her Grace put out her tongue, held two openspread
hands to her nose, and said in very graceful broken Greek, that this
was the right position to be painted in. The imperial court-painter
profited by the occasion to express his opinion, about the want of
manners and education in German lands, and has vowed never again to try
and paint a German Fraeulein. And the emperor Basilius on hearing this
account growled fiercely through his beard ..."

"Let his Majesty growl, as long as he chooses," said the Duchess, "and
pray to Heaven that he may bestow the patience which I then lacked on
others. I have not yet had an opportunity of seeing a monkey, but
according to all that is told about them, by trustworthy men, Master
Michael's pedigree must extend to those members of creation."

Meanwhile she had put on the bracelets. It represented two serpents
twisted together and kissing each other. On the head of each rested a
tiny crown. From the mass of other trinkets, a heavy silver arrow, had
got into her hands and it also left its prison-house for a fairer
abode. It was drawn through the meshes of the golden threaded net.

As if to try the effect of the ornaments, Dame Hadwig now walked with
stately steps through the chamber. Her attitude seemed to challenge
admiration, but the hall was empty; even the cat had slunk away.
Mirrors there were none on the walls, and as for the furniture, its
adaptation to comfort was but small, according to our present views.

Praxedis' thoughts were still busy with the subject just discussed. "My
gracious Mistress," said she, "I nevertheless felt very sorry for him."

"Sorry for whom?"

"For the emperor's son. He said that you had appeared to him in a
dream, and that all his happiness depended upon you."

"Let the dead rest," said Dame Hadwig testily, "I had rather that you
took your guitar and sang me the Greek ditty:


           "Constantine thou foolish lad,
            Constantine leave off thy weeping!"


"The lute is broken, and all the strings torn, since my Lady Duchess
pleased to ..."

"To throw it at the head of Count Boso of Burgundy," said Dame Hadwig.
"That was well done indeed, for who told him to come uninvited to Sir
Burkhard's funeral, and to preach to me, as if he were a saint?--So we
will have the lute mended, and meanwhile, my Greek treasure, canst thou
tell me, why I have donned these glittering ornaments to-day?"

"God is all-knowing," said the Greek maid, "I cannot tell."

After this she was silent. So was Dame Hadwig, and there ensued one of
those long significant pauses generally preceding self-knowledge.
At last the Duchess said: "Well to say the truth I don't know
myself!"--and looking dismally at the floor, added: "I believe I did
it from ennui. But then the top of the Hohentwiel is but a dreary
nest,--especially for a widow. Praxedis, dost thou know a remedy
against dullness?"

"I once heard from a very wise preacher" said Praxedis, "that there are
several remedies. Sleeping, drinking and travelling--but that the best
is fasting and praying."

Then Dame Hadwig rested her head on her lily-white hand, and looking
sharply at the quick-witted Greek, she said: "To-morrow we will go on a
journey."




                              CHAPTER II.

                      The Disciples of St. Gallus.


The next day, the Duchess crossed the Bodensee in the early glow of the
morning-sun, accompanied by Praxedis and a numerous train. The lake was
beautifully blue; the flags floated in the air, and much fun was going
on, on board the ship. And who could be melancholy, when gliding over
the clear, crystal waters; past the green shores with their many towers
and castles; snowy peaks rising in the distance; and the reflection of
the white sails, trembling and breaking in the playful waves?

Nobody knew where the end of the journey was to be. But then they were
accustomed to obey without questioning.

When they approached the bay at Rorschach, the Duchess commanded them
to land there. So the prow was turned to the shore, and soon after she
crossed lightly over the rocking plank and stepped on land. Here the
toll-gatherer, who received the duty from all those who travelled to
Italy, and the market-master, as well as those who held any official
position, came to meet their sovereign; and calling out lustily "Hail
Herro!" "Hail Liebo"[3] waved big branches of mighty fir-trees over
their heads. Graciously returning their salutations, the Duchess walked
through the deferential crowd, which fell back on either side, and
ordered her chamberlain to distribute some silver coins;--but there was
not much time for tarrying. Already the horses which had been secretly
sent on before, in the night, stood ready waiting, and when all were in
the saddle, Dame Hadwig gave the word of command: "To the holy Gallus."
Then her servants looked at each other with wondering eyes, as if
asking, "what business can we have there?" But there was not even time
for an answer, as the cavalcade was already cantering over the hilly
ground towards the monastery itself.

St. Benedict and his disciples knew very well on what places to build
their monasteries. Up-hill and down-hill, wherever you find a large
building, which like a fortress, commands a whole tract of land, or
blocks up the entrance to a valley, or forms the central point of
crossing highways, or that lies buried amongst vineyards, famous for
their exquisite wines,--there the passing tourist,--until the contrary
has been proved to him--may boldly advance the assertion, that the
house in question belongs, or rather belonged formerly to the order of
St. Benedict, for in our days monasteries become scarcer and inns, more
plentiful, which phenomenon may be ascribed to the progress of
civilisation.

The Irish saint Gallus, had also chosen a lovely spot, when pining for
forest-air he settled down in this Helvetian solitude: In a high
mountain-glen, separated by steep hills from the milder shores of the
Bodensee, through which many a wild torrent rushed in mad flight,
whilst on the other side rose the gigantic rocks of the Alpstein, whose
snowcapped peaks disappear in the clouds, there, sheltered by the
mountain, the monastery lay cradled at its foot. It was a strange thing
for those apostles of Albion and Erin, to extend their missions unto
the German continent, but if one examines the matter closely, their
merit in doing so, is not so great as it appears at first sight.

"The taste for visiting foreign lands, is so deeply rooted in the minds
of Britons, that it cannot be eradicated,"--thus wrote as early as in
the times of Charlemagne, a simple, trust-worthy historian. They were
simply the predecessors and ancestors of the present British tourists,
and might be recognized even at a distance by the foreign, curious
shape of their knapsacks. Now and then one of them would settle down
for good somewhere, although the honest natives of the soil did not
always look with favourable eyes on the intruder. Still their greater
pertinacity, the inheritance of all Britons, the art of colonizing and
the mystic veneration which all that is foreign, always inspires in the
lower classes, made their missionary endeavours rather successful. With
other times we have other customs! In the present day the descendants
of those saints are making rail-roads for the Swiss, for good Helvetian
money.

On the spot near the Steinach where once had stood, the simple cell of
the Hibernian hermit, and where he had fought with bears, goblins and
water-fairies, a spacious monastery had been built. Above the lower
shingle-covered roofs of the dwelling and school-houses, the octagon
church-tower rose in all its splendour; granaries, cellars and sheds,
abounded also, and even the merry sound of a mill-wheel might be heard,
for all the necessaries of life had to be prepared within the precincts
of the cloister; so that the monks need not go too far beyond the
boundaries, thereby endangering their souls. A strong wall, with heavy
well-barred gates, surrounded the whole; less for ornament than for
security, since there was many a powerful knight in those times who did
not much heed the last commandment, "do not covet thy neighbours
goods."

It was past the dinner-hour and a deep calm lay over the valley. The
rules of St. Benedict prescribed that at that hour, everybody should
seek his couch, and though on that side of the Alps, the terrible heat
of an Italian sun which forces one into the arms of Morpheus is never
felt, the pious monks nevertheless followed this rule to the letter.

Only the guard on the watch-tower stood upright and faithful as ever,
near the little chamber-window, waging war with the innumerable flies,
buzzing about him. His name was Romeias, and he was noted for keeping a
sharp look out.

Suddenly he heard the tramp of horses' feet in the neighbouring
firwood, to which he listened intently. "Eight or ten horsemen,"
muttered he, and upon this, quickly dropped down the portcullis from
the gate, drew up the little bridge leading over the moat, and then
from a nail in the wall took his horn. Finding that some spiders had
been weaving their cob-webs in it, he gave it a good rubbing.

At that moment the out-riders of the cavalcade became visible on the
outskirts of the pine-wood. When Romeias caught sight of them, he first
gave a rub to his forehead and then eyed the approaching party with a
very puzzled look. "Womenfolk?" he exclaimed aloud, but in that
exclamation there was neither pleasure nor edification.

He seized his horn and blew three times into it, with all his might.
They were rough, uncouth notes that he produced, from which one might
conclude, that neither the muses nor the graces had kindly surrounded
the cradle of Romeias, when he first saw the light of this world at
Villingen in the Blackforest.

Anyone who has often been in a wood, must have observed the life in an
ant-hill. There, everything is well organized; each ant attending to
its business and perfect harmony reigning in all the bustle and
movement. Now you put your stick into it frightening the foremost ants,
and instantly all is wild confusion, and a disorderly running hither
and thither ensues. And all this commotion has been brought about by
one single movement of your stick. Now the sounds coming from the horn
of Romeias, had just the same disturbing effect in the monastery.

The windows of the great hall in the school-house were filled with
young inquisitive faces. Many a lovely dream vanished out of the
solitary cells, without ever coming to an end, and many a profound
meditation of half-awake thinkers as well. The wicked Sindolt who at
this hour used to read the forbidden book of Ovid's "art of love,"
rolled up hastily the parchment leaves and hid them carefully in his
straw mattress.

The Abbot Cralo jumped up from his chair; stretched his arms heavy with
sleep, and then dipping his forefinger into a magnificent silver
washing-basin, standing before him on a stone table, wetted his eyes to
drive away the drowsiness that was still lingering there. After this he
limped to the open bow-window, but when he beheld who it was that had
occasioned all this disturbance, he was as unpleasantly surprised, as
if a walnut had dropt on his head, and exclaimed: "St. Benedict save
us! my cousin the Duchess!"

He then quickly adjusted his habit, gave a brush to the scanty tuft
of hair which his head still boasted of and that grew upwards like a
pine-tree in a sandy desert; put on his golden chain with the cloister
seal on it, took his abbot's staff made of the wood of an apple-tree
adorned with a richly carved handle of ebony, and then descended into
the courtyard.

"Can't you hasten?" called out one of the party outside. Then the abbot
commanded the doorkeeper to ask them what they demanded. Romeias
obeyed.

A bugle now sounded and the chamberlain Spazzo in the capacity of
herald, rode up close to the gate, and called out loudly:

"The Duchess and reigning sovereign of Suabia sends her greeting to St.
Gallus. Let the gates be opened to receive her."

The abbot heaved a deep sigh, then climbed up to Romeias' watch-tower
and leaning on his staff, he gave his blessing, to those standing
outside and spoke thus:

"In the name of St. Gallus, the most unworthy of his followers returns
his thanks for the gracious greeting. But his monastery is no Noah's
ark into which every species of living thing, pure and impure, male and
female may enter. Therefore, although my heart is filled with regret,
to sanction your entrance, is an impossibility. On the last day of
judgment, the abbot is held responsible for the souls of those
entrusted to him. The presence of a woman although the noblest in the
land and the frivolous speech of the children of this world, would be
too great a temptation for those who are bound, to strive first after
the kingdom of Heaven and its righteousness. Do not trouble the
conscience of the shepherd who anxiously watches over his flock. The
canonical laws bar the gate. The gracious Duchess will find at Trojen
or Rorshach a house belonging to the monastery, at her entire
disposal."

Dame Hadwig who had been sitting on horseback impatiently enough
hitherto, now struck her white palfrey with her riding-whip, and
reining it so as to make it rear and step backwards, called out
laughingly:

"Spare yourself all your fine words, Cousin Cralo, for I will see the
cloister."

In doleful accents, the abbot began: "Woe unto him by whom offence
cometh. It were better for him ..."

But his warning speech did not come to an end; for Dame Hadwig,
entirely changing the tone of her voice, sharply said: "Sir Abbot, the
Duchess of Suabia, must see the monastery."

Then the much afflicted man perceived that further contradiction could
scarcely be offered without damaging the future prospects of the
monastery. Yet his conscience still urged him to opposition.

Whenever a person is in a doubtful position, and is uncertain how to
act, it is a great comfort to the vacillating mind, to ask the advice
of others; for that expedient lessens the responsibility, and is a
solid support to fall back upon.

Therefore Sir Cralo now called down: "As you insist so peremptorily, I
must put the case first before the assembled brotherhood. Until then,
pray have patience."

He walked back through the courtyard, inwardly wishing, that a second
great flood might come, and destroy the highway, on which such
unwelcome guests had come. His limping gait was hurried and excited,
and it is not to be wondered at, if the chronicler reports of him, that
he had fluttered up and down the cloister-walk at that critical moment,
like a swallow before a thunder-storm.

Five times the little bell of St. Othmar's chapel, near the great
church rang out now; calling the brothers to the reading-room. The
solitary cross-passages filled quickly with cowl-bearing figures; all
going towards the place of assembly, which, opposite the hexagonal
chief-building, was a simple grey hall, under the peristyle of which a
graceful fountain shed its waters into a metal basin.

On a raised brick-floor, stood the abbot's marble chair; adorned with
two roughly carved lions' heads. With a very pleasurable sensation
the eye, from under these dark arches and pillars, looked out on
the greenness of the little garden in the inner court. Roses and
holly-hocks flourished and bloomed in it; for kind nature even smiles
on those, who have turned their backs on her.

The white habits and dark-coloured mantles, contrasted well with the
stone grey walls, as one after the other, noiselessly entered. A hasty
bend of the head was the mutual greeting. Thus they stood in silent
expectation, while the morning sun came slanting in through the narrow
windows, lighting up their different faces.

They were tried men; a holy senate, well pleasing in God's sight.

He, with the shrunk figure, and sharp-featured pale face, bearing the
traces of much fasting and many night-vigils, was Notker the stutterer.
A melancholy smile played about his lips. The long practice of
asceticism, had removed his spirit from the present. In former times he
had composed very beautiful melodies; but now he had taken a more
gloomy tendency and at night was constantly challenging demons to fight
with him. In the crypt of the holy Gallus he had lately encountered the
devil himself and beaten him so heartily that the latter hid himself in
a corner, dismally howling. Envious tongues said, that Notker's
melancholy song of "_media vita_" had also a dark origin; as the Evil
One had revealed it to him in lieu of ransom, when he lay ignominiously
conquered, on the ground, under Notker's strong foot. Close to him,
there smiled a right-honest, and good-natured face, framed in by an
iron-grey beard. That was the mighty Tutilo, who loved best to sit
before the turning-lathe, and carve exquisitely fine images of ivory.
Some proofs of his skill even now exist, such as the diptychon with the
virgin Mary's ascension, and the bear of St. Gallus. But when his back
began to ache, humming an old song, he would leave his work, to go
wolf-hunting, or to engage in an honest boxing match, by way of
recreation; for he preferred fighting with wicked men, to wrestling
with midnight ghosts and often said to his friend Notker: "he who like
myself, has imprinted his mark on many a Christian, as well as heathen
back, can well afford to do without demons." Then came Ratpert the long
tried teacher of the school, who left his historical books most
unwillingly, whenever the little bell called him to an assembly.
He carried his head somewhat high, yet he and the others, though
their characters differed so much, were one heart and one soul; a
three-leaved cloister shamrock. Being one of the last who entered the
hall, he had to stand near his old antagonist, the evil Sindolt, who
pretending not to see him, whispered something to his neighbour, a
little man with a face like a shrew-mouse, who, puckering up his lips,
tried hard not to smile; for the whispered remark had been: that in the
large dictionary by Bishop Salomon, beside the words "_rabulista_
signifies someone, who cannot help disputing about everything in the
world" some unknown hand, had added, "like Ratpert our great thinker."

Now in the background there towered above the rest, the tall figure of
Sintram the famous calligraphist; whose letters were then the wonder of
the whole cisalpine world, but the greatest of St. Gallus's disciples,
with regard to length of body, were the Scotchmen, who had taken their
stand close to the entrance.

Fortegian and Failan, Dubslan and Brendan and so on; inseparable
compatriots; secretly grumbling over what they considered the neglect
shown them. The sandy-haired Dubduin was also amongst them, who in
spite of the heavy iron penitential chain which he wore, had not been
elected prior. As a punishment for the biting satirical verses, which
he had composed on his German brothers, he had been sentenced to water
the dead peach-tree in the garden for three years.

Notker, the physician, had also joined the assembly. He had but lately
administered the wondrous remedy for the abbot's lame foot; an ointment
made of fish-brain, and wrapping it up, in the fresh skin of a wolf,
the warmth of which was to stretch out the contracted sinews. His
nickname was peppercorn, on account of the strictness with which he
maintained the monastic discipline;--and Wolo who could not bear to
look at a woman or a ripe apple, and Engelbert the founder of the
collection of wild beasts, and Gerhard the preacher, and Folkard the
painter. Who could name them all, the excellent masters, whose names,
when mentioned called up in the next generation of monks, feelings of
melancholy and regret, as they confessed, that such men were becoming
scarcer everyday?

When all were assembled, the abbot mounted his chair, and the
consultation began forthwith. The case however proved to be a very
difficult one.

Ratpert spoke first, and demonstrated from history, in what way the
Emperor Charlemagne had once been enabled to enter the monastery. "In
that instance," he said, "it was presumed that he was a member of the
order, as long as he was within our precincts, and all pretended not to
know who he was. Not a word was spoken of imperial dignity, or deeds of
war, or humble homage. He walked about amongst us like any other monk,
and that he was not offended thereby, the letter of protection, which
he threw over the wall, when departing well proved."

But in this way, the great difficulty,--the person asking for
admittance being a woman,--could not be got rid of. The stricter ones
amongst the brotherhood grumbled, and Notker, the peppercorn, said:
"She is the widow of that destroyer of countries, and ravager of
monasteries, who once carried off our most precious chalice as a
war-contribution, saying the derisive words: 'God neither eats nor
drinks, so what can he do with golden vessels?' I warn you not to unbar
the gate." This advice however did not quite suit the abbot, as he
wished to find a compromise. The debate became very stormy, one saying
this, the other that. Brother Wolo on hearing that the discussion was
about a woman, softly slunk out, and locked himself up in his cell.

At last one of the brothers rose and requested to be heard.

"Speak, Brother Ekkehard!" called out the abbot, and the noisy tumult
was hushed, for all liked to hear Ekkehard speak. He was still young in
years, of a very handsome figure, and he captivated everybody who
looked at him, by his graceful mien and pleasing expression. Besides
this he was both wise and eloquent, an excellent counsellor and a most
learned scholar. At the cloister-school he taught Virgil, and though
the rule prescribed, that none but a wise and hoary man, whose age
would guard him from the abuse of his office, and who by his experience
would be a fit counsellor for all,--should be made custodian, yet the
brothers had agreed that Ekkehard united in himself all the necessary
requirements, and consequently had entrusted him with that office.

A scarcely perceptible smile had played around his lips, whilst the
others were disputing. He now raised his voice and spoke thus: "The
Duchess of Suabia is the monastery's patron, and in such capacity is
equal to a man, and as our monastic rules strictly forbid that a
woman's foot shall touch the cloister-threshold, she may easily be
carried over."

Upon this the faces of the old men brightened up, as if a great load
had been taken off their minds. A murmur of approbation ran through the
assembly, and the abbot likewise was not insensible to the wise
counsel.

"Verily, the Lord often reveals himself, even unto a younger brother!
Brother Ekkehard, you are guileless like the dove, and prudent like the
serpent. So you shall carry out your own advice. I give you herewith
the necessary dispensation." A deep blush overspread Ekkehard's
features, but he quietly bowed his head in sign of obedience.

"And what about the female attendants of the Duchess?" asked the abbot.
But here the assembly unanimously decided that even the most liberal
interpretation of the monastic laws could not grant them admittance.
The evil Sindolt proposed that they should meanwhile pay a visit to the
recluses on Erin-hill, because when the monastery of St. Gallus was
afflicted by a visitation, it was but fair that the pious Wiborad
should bear her share of it. After having held a whispering
consultation with Gerold the steward about the supper, the abbot
descended from his high chair, and accompanied by the brotherhood, went
out to meet his guests. These had meanwhile ridden three times round
the cloister-walls, banishing the ennui of waiting by merry jests and
laughter. The air of "_justus germinavit_," the montonous hymn in
praise of St. Benedict, was struck up by the monks, who were now heard
approaching. The heavy gate opened creaking on its hinges, and out came
the abbot at the head of the procession of friars, who walking, two and
two together, chanted the hymn just mentioned.

Then the abbot gave a sign to stop the singing.

"How do you do, Cousin Cralo?" flippantly cried the Duchess from her
saddle. "I have not seen you for an age! Are you still limping?"

Cralo however replied with dignity: "It is better that the shepherd
should limp than the flock. Be pleased to hear the monastery's decree."
And forthwith he communicated the condition on which she was to enter.

Then Dame Hadwig replied smilingly: "During all the time that I have
wielded the sceptre in Suabia, such a proposition has never been made
to me. But the laws of your order shall be respected. Which of the
brothers have you chosen to carry the Sovereign over the threshold?"
but on casting her sparkling eyes over the ranks of the spiritual
champions and beholding the dark fanatical face of Notker the
stutterer, she whispered to Praxedis: "May be we shall turn back at
once."

"There he stands," said the abbot.

Dame Hadwig following with her eyes the direction which the abbot's
forefinger indicated, then beheld Ekkehard, and it was a long gaze,
which she cast on his tall handsome figure, and noble countenance,
glowing with youth and intellect. "We shall not turn back," was implied
by a significant nod to Praxedis, and before the short-necked
chamberlain, who in most cases was willing enough but was generally too
slow, had dismounted, and approached her palfrey, she had gracefully
alighted and approaching the custodian, she said: "Now then, perform
your office."

Ekkehard had been trying meanwhile to compose an address, which in
faultless Latin was intended to justify the strange liberty he was
about to take,--but when she stood before him, proud and commanding,
his voice failed him, and the speech remained where it had been
conceived,--in his thoughts. Otherwise, however, he had not lost his
courage, and so he lifted up his fair burden with his strong arms, who,
putting her right arm round his shoulder, seemed not displeased with
her novel position.

Cheerfully he thus stepped over the threshold which no woman's foot was
allowed to touch; the abbot walking by his side, and the chamberlain
and vassals following. The serving ministrants swung their censers
gaily into the air, and the monks marching behind in a double file as
before, sung the last verses of the unfinished hymn.

It was a wonderful spectacle, such as never occurred, either before or
after in the monastery's history, and by those prone to useless
moralising many a wise observation might be made, in connexion with the
monk's carrying the duchess; on the relation of church and state in
those times, and the changes which have occurred since,--but these
reflections we leave each one to make for himself.--Natural
philosophers affirm, that at the meeting of animate objects, invisible
powers begin to act, streaming forth and passing from one to the other,
thus creating strange affinities. This theory was proved true at least
with regard to the Duchess and her bearer, for whilst she was being
rocked in his arms, she thought inwardly: "Indeed, never the hood of
St. Benedict has covered a more graceful head than this one," and
when Ekkehard put down his burden with shy deference in the cool
cross-passage, he was struck by the thought, that the distance from the
gate had never appeared so short to him before. "I suppose that you
found me very heavy?" said the Duchess.

"My liege lady, you may boldly say of yourself as it has been written,
'my yoke is easy and my burden is light,'" was the reply.

"I should not have thought, that you would turn the words of Scripture
into a flattering speech. What is your name?"

"They call me Ekkehard."

"Ekkehard, I thank you," said the Duchess with a graceful wave of her
hand.

He stepped back to an oriel window in the cross-passage, and looked out
into the little garden. Was it mere chance that the image of St.
Christopher now rose before his inward eye? He also considered his
burden a light one, when he began to carry the child-stranger through
the water, on his strong shoulder; but heavier and heavier the burden
weighed on his back, and pressing him downwards into the roaring flood,
deep, and deeper still; so that his courage began to fail him, and was
well nigh turned into despair?...

The abbot had ordered a magnificent jug to be brought, and taking it in
his hand, he went himself to the well, filled it and presenting it to
the Duchess said: "It is the duty of the abbot to bring water to
strangers for them to wash their hands, as well as their feet and ..."

"We thank you, but we do not want it," said the Duchess, interrupting
him, in her most decided accents.

Meanwhile two of the brothers had carried down a box, which now stood
open in the passage. Out of this the abbot drew a monk's habit, quite
new and said: "Thus I ordain our monastery's mighty patron, a member of
our brotherhood, and adorn him, with the holy garb of our order."

Dame Hadwig complied, lightly bending her knee, on receiving the cowl
from his hands, and then she put on the garment, which became her well,
being ample and falling in rich folds; for the rule says: "The abbot is
to keep a strict look-out that the garments shall not be too scanty,
but well fitted to their wearers."

The beautiful rosy countenance looked lovely in the brown hood.

"And you must likewise follow the example of your mistress," said the
abbot to the followers of the Duchess, upon which the evil Sindolt
gleefully assisted Master Spazzo to don the garb.

"Do you know," he whispered into his ear, "what this garment obliges
you to? In putting it on, you swear to renounce the evil lusts of this
world, and to lead a sober, self-denying and chaste life in future."

Master Spazzo who had already put his right arm into the ample gown,
pulled it back hastily and exclaimed with terror, "I protest against
this,"--but when Sindolt struck up a loud guffaw, he perceived that
things were not quite so serious and said: "Brother, you are a wag."

In a few minutes the vassals were also adorned with the garb of the
holy order, but the beards of some of the newly created monks,
descended to the girdle, in opposition to the rules, and also they were
not quite canonical as to the modest casting down of their eyes.

The abbot led his guests into the church.




                              CHAPTER III.

                          Wiborad the Recluse.


The one who was least of all delighted, by the arrival of the
unexpected guests, was Romeias the gate-keeper. He had a presentiment,
what part of the trouble was likely to fall to his share, but he did
not yet know the whole of it. Whilst the abbot received the Duchess,
Gerold the steward, came up to him and said:

"Romeias prepare to go on an errand. You are to tell the people on the
different farms, to send in the fowls that are due, before evening, as
they will be wanted at the feast, and besides you are to procure as
much game as possible."

This order pleased Romeias well. It was not the first time that he had
been to ask for fowls, and yeomen and farmers held him in great
respect, as he had a commanding manner of speaking. Hunting was at all
times the delight of his heart, and so Romeias took his spear, hung the
cross-bow over his shoulder, and was just going to call out a pack of
hounds, when Gerold pulled his sleeve and said: "Romeias, one thing
more! You are to accompany the duchess' waiting-women, who have been
forbidden to enter the monastery, to the Schwarza-Thal, and present
them to the pious Wiborad, who is to entertain them as pleasantly as
may be, until the evening. And you are to be very civil, Romeias, and I
tell you there is a Greek maid amongst them with the darkest eyes
imaginable ..."

On hearing this, a deep frown of displeasure darkened Romeias's
forehead, and vehemently thrusting his spear to the ground he
exclaimed: "I am to accompany womenfolk? That is none of the business
of the gate-keeper of St. Gallus's monastery--" but Gerold with a
significant nod towards him, continued: "Well, Romeias, you must try to
do your best; and have you never heard that watchmen, who have
faithfully performed their missions, have found an ample jug of wine in
their room of an evening,--eh, Romeias?"

The discontented face brightened up considerably, and so he went down
to let out the hounds. The blood-hound and the beagle jumped up gaily,
and the little beaver-puppy also set up a joyous bark, hoping to be
taken out likewise; but with a contemptuous kick it was sent back, for
the hunter had nothing to do with fish-ponds and their inhabitants.
Surrounded by his noisy pack of hounds, Romeias strode out of the gate.

Praxedis and the other waiting-women of the Duchess, had dismounted
from their horses and seated themselves on a grassy slope, chatting
away about monks and cowls and beards, as well as about the strange
caprices of their mistress, when Romeias suddenly appeared before them
and said: "Come on!"

Praxedis looked at the rough sports-man, and not quite knowing, what to
make of him, pertly said: "Where to, my good friend?"--

Romeias however merely lifted his spear and pointing with it to a
neighbouring hill behind the woods, held his tongue.

Then Praxedis called out: "Is speech such a rare article in St. Gall,
that you do not answer properly when questioned?"

The other maids giggled, upon which Romeias said solemnly: "May you all
be swallowed up by an earthquake, seven fathom deep."

"We are very much obliged to you, good friend," was Praxedis's reply,
and the necessary preliminaries for a conversation being thus made,
Romeias informed them of the commission he had received, and the women
followed him willingly enough.

After some time the gate-keeper found out, that it was not the hardest
work to accompany such guests, and when the Greek maid, desired to know
something about his business and sport, his tongue got wonderfully
loosened and he even related his great adventure with the terrible
boar, into whose side he had thrown his spear and yet had not been able
to kill it, for one of its feet would have loaded a cart, and its hair
stood up as high as a pine-tree, and its teeth were twelve feet long at
the least. After this he grew still more civil, for when the Greek once
stopped, to listen to the warbling of a thrush, he waited also
patiently enough, though a singing-bird was too miserable a piece of
game for him to give much heed to; and when Praxedis bent down for a
pretty brass-beetle, crawling about in the moss, Romeias politely tried
to push it towards her, with his heavy boot, and when in doing so he
crushed it instead, this was certainly not his intention.

They climbed up a wild, steep wood-path, beside which the
Schwarza-brook flowed over jagged rocks. On that slope the holy Gallus
had once fallen into some thorny bushes, and had said to his companion,
who wanted to lift him up: "Here let me lie, for here shall be my
resting-place and my abode for ever."

They had walked far, before they came to a clearing in the fir-wood,
where leaning against the sheltering rocks stood a simple chapel in the
shape of a cross. Close to it a square little stone-hut was built
against the rock in which but one tiny window with a wooden shutter,
was to be seen. Opposite there stood another hut exactly like it,
having also but one little window.

It was customary at that time for those who inclined to the monastic
life, and who as St. Benedict expressed himself, felt strong enough to
fight with the Devil, without the assistance of pious companions, to
have themselves immured in that way. They were called "Reclausi" that
is Walled-in, and their usefulness and aim in life, may well be
compared to that of the pillar-saints in Egypt. The sharp winds of
winter, and frequent fall of snow, rendered their exposure in the open
air somewhat impossible, but the longing for an anchorite's life, was
nevertheless quite as strong.

Within those four walls on Erin-hill there lived the Sister Wiborad, a
far-famed recluse of her time. She came from Klingnau in Aargau, and
had been a proud and prudish virgin, learned in many an art; besides
being able to recite all the Psalms in the Latin tongue, which she had
learnt from her brother Hitto. She was not however quite opposed to the
idea of sweetening the life of some man or other, but the flower of the
youth at Aargau did not find grace in her eyes; and one day she set out
on a pilgrimage to Rome. There in the holy city her restless mind must
have undergone some great shock, but none of her contemporaries ever
knew in what way. For three entire days her brother Hitto ran up and
down the Forum through the halls of the Colliseum, and the triumphal
arch of Constantine to the four-faced Janus near the Tiber, seeking for
his sister and not finding her, and on the morning of the fourth day,
she walked in by the Salarian gate, carrying her head very high, and
whilst her eyes gleamed strangely she said, that things would not be
right in the world until the due amount of veneration was shown unto
St. Martin.

After returning to her home, she bequeathed all her wealth to the
bishop's church at Constance, on condition that a great festival in
honor of St. Martin, should be held every year on the 11th of November.
Then she went to live in a small house where the holy Zilia had lived
before, and there led a hermit's life, until she grew dissatisfied, and
betook herself to the valley of St. Gallus. The bishop himself
accompanied her, put the black veil on her head with his own hands, and
after leading her into the cell, he laid the first stone with which the
entrance was closed up. Then he pronounced his blessing, imprinting his
seal four times into the lead, which joined the stones together, whilst
the monks who had accompanied him, chaunted sad solemn strains, as if
someone was being buried.

The people thereabout held the recluse in great honour. They called her
a "hard-forged Saint" and on many a Sunday they flocked to the meadow
before her cell, and listened to Wiborad, who stood preaching at her
window, and several women went to live in her neighbourhood, to be
instructed in all the virtues.

"We have arrived at the place of our destination," said Romeias, upon
which Praxedis and her companions looked about in every direction; but
not a human being was to be seen. Only some belated butterflies and
beetles buzzed drowsily in the sunshine and the cricket chirped
merrily, hidden in the grass. The shutter at Wiborad's window was
almost shut, so that but a scanty ray of sunshine could penetrate; and
from within came the monotonous hollow tones of a person chaunting
psalms, with a somewhat nasal sound, breaking the silence without.
Romeias knocked against the shutter with his spear, but this had no
effect on the psalm-chaunting individual inside. Then the gate-keeper
said: "We must try some other way of rousing her attention."

Romeias was rather a rough sort of man, or he would not have behaved as
he did.

He began singing a song, such as he often sang to amuse the
cloister-pupils, when they managed to steal off into his watch-tower,
there to plague him, by pulling his beard or by making all sorts of
absurd noises on his big horn. It was one of those ditties, which from
the time that the German tongue was first spoken, have been sung by the
thousand, on hills and highroads, beneath hedges and woody dells, and
the wind has carried them on and spread them further. The words of this
were as follows:


           "I know an oak-tree fair to see,
            In yonder shady grove,
            There bills and coos the lifelong day
            A beautiful wild dove.

            I know a rock in yonder vale,
            Around which bats are flitting
            There, old and hoary in her nest
            An ugly owl is sitting.

            The wild dove is my heart's delight,
            And with a song I greet it;
            The arrow keep I for the owl
            To kill it when I meet it."


This song had about the same effect, as if Romeias had thrown a heavy
stone against the shutter. Instantly there appeared a figure at the
little window, from the withered and scraggy neck of which, rose a
ghastly woman's head, in whose countenance the mouth had assumed a
rather hostile position towards the nose. A dark veil hid the rest, and
bending out of the little window as far as she could, she cried out
with ominously gleaming eyes: "Art thou come back, Satanas?"

Romeias then advanced a few steps and said complacently: "Nay, the Evil
One does not know such fine songs as Romeias, the monastery's
gate-keeper. Calm yourself Sister Wiborad, I bring you some dainty
damsels, whom the Abbot warmly recommends to your kind reception."

"Take yourselves off, ye deceiving phantoms!" screamed the recluse. "I
know the snares of the Tempter. Hence, begone!"

But Praxedis now approached the window, and humbly dropping a low
curtsey to the old hag, explained to her that she did not come from
hell, but from the Hohentwiel. Showing that the Greek maiden could be a
little deceitful, she added, that she had already heard so much of the
great piety of the far-famed Sister Wiborad, that she had availed
herself of the first opportunity of paying her a visit, though the fact
was, that she had before that day never heard about the cell and its
inhabitant.

After this the wrinkles on Wiborad's forehead began somewhat to
disappear. "Give me thy hand, stranger," said she, stretching her arm
out of the window, which as the sleeve fell back, could be seen in all
its skinny leanness.

Praxedis held up her right hand, and as the recluse touched with her
dry fingers the soft warm hand with its throbbing pulses, she became
slowly convinced, that the young girl was a being of flesh and blood.

Romeias on perceiving this change for the better rolled some big stones
under the window of the cell. "In two hours I shall be back to fetch
you;--God bless you, virgins all," he said aloud and then added in a
whisper to the Greek maid,--"and don't be frightened if she should fall
into one of her trances."

Whistling to his dogs he then quickly strode towards the wood. The
first thirty steps or so, he got on without any impediment; but then he
suddenly stopped; and turning first his shaggy head round, and then the
whole body, he stood leaning on his spear, intently gazing at the spot
before the cell, as if he had lost something there. Yet he had
forgotten nothing.

Praxedis smiled and kissed her hand to the rudest of all gate-keepers.
Then Romeias quickly turned round again, shouldered his spear,--dropped
it, took it up again, then stumbled and finally managed to complete his
retreat, after which he vanished behind the moss-grown stems.

"Oh thou child of the world, groping in darkness," scolded the recluse,
"what meant that movement of thy hand?"

"A mere jest," replied Praxedis innocently.

"A downright sin," cried Wiborad in rough accents, so that Praxedis
started,--and then continuing with her preaching added: "Oh the Devil's
works and delusions! There you cast your eyes slily about until they
enter a man's heart like lightning, and kiss your hands to him as if
that were nothing! Is it nought that he looks back who ought to be
looking forwards? No man having put his hand to the plough, and looking
back, is fit for the kingdom of God. 'A jest?' O give me hyssop to take
away your sin, and snow to wash you clean!"

"I did not think of that," admitted Praxedis deeply blushing.

"That is the misery, that you do not think of so many things;"--then
looking at Praxedis from head to foot she continued, "neither do you
think that wearing a bright green garment, and all such flaring colours
are an abomination unto those, who have banished all worldly thoughts;
and that thy girdle is tied so loosely and negligently round thy waist,
as if thou wert a public dancer. Watch and pray!"

Leaving the window for a few moments, the recluse returned presently,
and held out a coarsely twisted cord.

"I have pity on thee, poor turtle-dove," she said. "Tear off thy silken
finery and receive herewith the girdle of self-denial, from Wiborad's
own hand; and let it be a warning to thee, to have done with all vain
talkings and doings. And when thou feelest the temptation again to kiss
thy hand to the gate-keeper of a monastery, turn thy head eastwards and
chaunt the psalm, 'Oh Lord, deliver me from evil!'--and if even then
peace will not come to thee, then light a wax-candle and hold thy
forefinger over the flame, and thou wilt be saved; for fire alone,
cures fire."

Praxedis cast down her eye.

"Your words are bitter," she said.

"Bitter!" exclaimed the recluse. "Praised be the Lord that my lips do
not taste of sweets! The mouth of saints must be bitter. When Pachomius
sat in the desert, the angel of the Lord came unto him, took the leaves
from a laurel-tree, and writing some holy words of prayer thereon, gave
them to Pachomius and said: 'Swallow these leaves, and though they will
be as bitter as gall in thy mouth, they will make thy heart overflow
with true wisdom.' And Pachomius took the leaves and ate them, and from
that moment his tongue became bitter, but his heart was filled with
sweetness, and he praised the Lord."

Praxedis said nothing, and there ensued a silence which was not
interrupted for some time. The other maids of the Duchess had all
vanished, for when the recluse had handed out her girdle, they nudged
each other and then quietly glided away. They were now gathering
bunches of heather and other autumnal flowers, giggling at what they
had witnessed.

"Shall we also put on such a belt?" said one of them.

"Yes, when the sun rises black," replied the other.

Praxedis had put the cord into the grass.

"I do not like robbing you of your girdle," she now said shyly.

"Oh, the simplicity," exclaimed Wiborad, "the girdle that we wear is no
child's play like the one, that I gave thee. The girdle of Wiborad is
an iron hoop with blunted spikes,--it clinks like a chain and cuts into
the flesh,--thou wouldst shudder at the mere sight of it."

Praxedis gazed towards the wood, as if spying whether Romeias was not
yet to be seen. The recluse probably noticed that her guest did not
feel particularly comfortable, and now held out to her a board, on
which lay about half a dozen of reddish green crab-apples.

"Does time pass by slowly for thee, child of the world?" she
said.--"There, take these, if words of grace do not satisfy thee. Cakes
and sweet-meats have I none, but these apples are fair in the sight of
the Lord. They are the nourishment of the poor."

The Greek maid knew what politeness required. But they were
crab-apples, and after having, with an effort swallowed the half of
one, her pretty mouth looked awry, and involuntary tears started into
her eyes.

"How dost thou like them?" cried the recluse. Then Praxedis feigned as
if the remaining half fell by chance from her hand. "If the Creator had
made all apples as acid as these," she said with a sour-sweet smile,
"Eve would never have eaten of the apple."

Wiborad was offended. "Tis well," said she, "that thou dost not forget
the story of Eve. She had the same tastes as thou, and therefore sin
has come into the world."

The Greek maid looked up at the sky but not from emotion. A solitary
hawk flew in circles over Wiborad's hut. "Oh that I could fly with
thee, away to the Bodensee," she thought. Archly shaking her pretty
head she then enquired: "What must I do, to become as perfect as you
are?"

"To renounce the world entirely," replied Wiborad, "is a grace from
above, which we poor mortals can't acquire by ourselves. Fasting,
drinking of pure water, castigating the flesh and reciting of
psalms,--all these are mere preparations. The most important thing is
to select a good patron-saint. We women are but frail creatures, but
fervent prayer brings the champions of God to our side, to assist us.
Imagine, before this little window, there he often stands in lonely
nights,--he, whom my heart has elected, the valiant Bishop Martin, and
he holds out his lance and shield, to protect me from the raging
devils. An aureole of blue flames crowns his head, flashing through the
darkness like summer-lightning, and as soon as he appears the demons
fly away shrieking. And when the battle is over, then he enters into
friendly communion with me. I tell him all that weighs on my poor
heart;--all the grief which my neighbours cause me, and the wrong which
I suffer from the cloister-folk; and the Saint nods to me and shakes
his curly head, and all that I tell him, he carries to heaven and
repeats it to his friend the Archangel Michael, who keeps watch every
Monday, before the throne of God Almighty. There it comes before the
right ear, and Wiborad the last of the least is not forgotten...."

"Then I shall also choose St. Martin to become my patron-saint,"
exclaimed Praxedis. But this had not been the drift of Wiborad's
praises. She threw a contemptuous half jealous look on the rosy cheeks
of the young girl. "The Lord pardon thee, thy presumption!" cried she
with folded hands "dost thou believe that this can be done with a
flippant word and smooth face? Indeed! Many long years have I striven
and fasted until my face became wrinkled and furrowed,--and he did not
favour me even with one single look! He is a high and mighty Saint and
a valiant soldier of the Lord, who only looks on long tried champions."

"He will not rudely shut his ears against my prayers," exclaimed
Praxedis.

"But thou shalt not pray to him," cried Wiborad angrily. "What has he
to do with thee? For such as thou art, there are other patron-saints. I
will name thee one. Choose thou the pious Father Pachomius for
thyself."

"Him, I don't know," said Praxedis.

"Bad enough, and it is high time for you to make his acquaintance. He
was a venerable hermit who lived in the Theban desert, nourishing
himself with wild roots and locusts. He was so pious that he heard
during his lifetime, the harmony of the spheres and planets and often
said: 'If all human beings would hear, what has blessed my ears, they
would forsake house and land; and he who had put on the right shoe,
would leave the left one behind, and hasten hither.' Now in the town of
Alexandria there was a maid, whose name was Thais, and nobody could
tell, which was greater, her beauty or her frivolity. Then Pachomius
said unto himself 'Such a woman is a plague for the whole Egyptian
land,' and after cutting his beard and anointing himself he mounted a
crocodile, which by prayer he had made subservient to himself, and on
its scaly back was carried down the Nile; and then he went to Thais, as
if he also were an admirer of hers. His big stick, which was a
palmtree, he had taken with him, and he managed to shake the heart of
the sinner so, as to make her burn her silken robes, as well as her
jewels, and she followed Pachomius, as a lamb does the shepherd. Then
he shut her up in a rocky grave, leaving only a tiny window in it;
instructed her in prayer, and after five years her purification was
completed, and four angels carried her soul up to heaven."

This story did not impress Praxedis very favourably.

"The old hermit with his rough beard and bitter lips is not good enough
for her," she thought, "and therefore I am to take him for myself," but
she did not dare to give utterance to these thoughts.

At this moment the curfew bell began to ring in the monastery, and at
this signal the recluse stepped back into her chamber and closed her
shutter. The hollow sound of psalm-chanting was heard again,
accompanied by the noise of falling strokes. She was flagellating
herself.

Meanwhile Romeias had begun his sport in the distant wood, and thrown
his spear--but he had mistaken the trunk of a felled oak for a young
deer. Angrily he pulled out his weapon from the tenacious wood;--it was
the first time in his life, that such a thing had happened to him.

Before Wiborad's cell total silence reigned for a considerable length
of time, and when her voice was again heard, it was quite altered; the
tones being fuller and vibrating with passion: "Come down unto me, holy
Martin; valiant champion of God; thou consolation of my solitude; thou
light in my darkness. Descend unto me, for my soul is ready to receive
thee and my eyes are thirsting for thee."--

After this there ensued a pause, and then Praxedis started with
terror.--A hollow shriek had come from within. She pushed open the
shutter and looked in. The recluse was prostrated on her knees, her
arms extended beseechingly, and her eyes had a fixed, stony expression.
Beside her lay the scourge.

"For God's sake," cried Praxedis, "what is the matter with you?"

Wiborad jumped up and pressed the hand, which the Greek maid extended
to her, convulsively. "Child of Earth," said she in broken accents,
"that has been deemed worthy to witness the agonies of Wiborad,--strike
thy bosom; for a token has been given. He, the elected of my soul has
not come; offended that his name has been profaned by unholy lips; but
the holy Gallus has appeared to my soul's eye,--he who as yet has never
deigned to visit my cell, and his countenance was that of a sufferer
and his garments were torn, and half burnt. That means that his
monastery is threatened by some great disaster. We must pray that his
disciples may not stumble in the path of righteousness."

Bending her head out of the window she called out, "Sister Wendelgard!"

Then the shutter was opened on the opposite cell and an aged face
appeared. The face belonged to good Dame Wendelgard, who in that
fashion was mourning for her spouse, who had never returned from the
last wars.

"Sister Wendelgard," said Wiborad, "let us sing three times 'Be
merciful to us, oh Lord.'"

But the Sister Wendelgard had just been indulging in loving thoughts of
her noble spouse. She still harboured an unalterable conviction, that
some day he would return to her from the land of the Huns, and she
would have liked best, there and then to leave her cell, to go and meet
him.

"It is not the time for psalm-singing," she replied.

"So much the more acceptable, the voluntary devotion, rises up to
Heaven," said Wiborad, after which she intoned the said psalm, with her
rough unmelodious voice. But the expected response did not come. "Why
dost thou not join me in singing David's song?"

"Because I don't wish to do so," was Sister Wendelgard's unceremonious
reply. The fact was, that during the many years of her seclusion she
had at last grown weary of it. Many thousand psalms had she sung at
Wiborad's bidding, in order to induce St. Martin to deliver her
husband, out of the hands of the infidels; but the sun rose and set
daily--and yet he never came. And so she had begun to dislike her gaunt
neighbour, with her visions and phantasms.

Wiborad however turned her eyes upwards, like one who thinks he can
discover a comet in clear day-light. "Oh thou vessel, full of iniquity
and wickedness!" she cried, "I will pray for thee, that the evil
spirits may be banished from thee. Thine eye is blind as thy mind is
dark."

But the other quietly replied: "Judge not, that thou be not judged. My
eyes are as clear as they were a year ago, when in a moon-shiny night,
they beheld you getting out of your window, and going away Heaven knows
where;--and my mind still refuses to believe, that prayers coming from
such a mouth can work miracles."

Then Wiborad's pale face became distorted, as if she had bitten a
pebble. "Woe to thee, whom the Devil has deluded!" screamed she and a
flood of scolding words streamed from her lips; but her neighbour knew
well how to answer her with similar missiles.

Quicker and quicker the words came, confusing and mixing themselves
together, whilst the rocky walls threw back unharmonious echoes, and
frightened a pair of little owlets, which leaving their cranny nest
flew away screeching ... in truth at the famous quarrel beneath the
portal of the cathedral at Worms, when the two queens[4] were scolding
and upbraiding each other, the volubility and anger exhibited were not
to be compared to that of the pious recluses.

In mute astonishment Praxedis stood listening to the noise, secretly
wishing to interfere and make peace; but then a soft thing fares ill
between two sharp ones.

But now the merry notes of a horn, intermingled with the loud barking
of dogs was heard from the wood, and a moment later, the tall majestic
figure of Romeias could be seen also, approaching slowly.

The second time that he had thrown the spear, it had not hit a tree,
but a magnificent stag of ten antlers, which now hung over his
shoulder; and besides this, he carried fastened to his belt, six hares
which had been caught in snares.

On beholding the fight before him, the sportsman's heart rejoiced
mightily. Without saying a word, he loosened two of the living hares,
and swinging one in each hand, he threw them so dexterously into the
narrow little windows, that Wiborad suddenly feeling the soft fur
brushing past her head, started back with a loud scream. The brave
Sister Wendelgard likewise got a great shock, for her black habit had
loosened itself in the heat of battle, and the wretched little hare,
getting entangled therein, and trying to discover an outlet, caused her
no small fright. So both stopped their scolding, closed the shutters,
and there was silence again on Erin-hill.

"We'll go home," said Romeias to the Greek maid, "for it is getting
late." Praxedis who was not over pleased, either by the quarrelling or
Romeias' way of making peace, had no desire to stay any longer. Her
companions had gone back some time ago, following their own
inclinations.

"Hares must be of small value here, as you throw them away in such an
unmannerly way," she said.

"True, they are not worth much," Romeias rejoined laughingly, "yet the
present deserved thanks at least."

Whilst still speaking, the dormer-window of Wiborad's roof opened;
about half of her gaunt lean figure became visible, and a stone of some
weight, flew over Romeias head, without hitting him. That was her way
of thanking him for the hare.

From this can be seen, that the forms of social intercourse differed
somewhat from the present fashions.

Praxedis expressed her astonishment.

"Oh, such things happen about once a week," explained Romeias. "A
moderate overflow of gall, gives new strength to such old hags, and it
is doing them a kindness, if one helps them to effect such a crisis."

"But she is a saint," said Praxedis shyly.

After first murmuring some unintelligible words in his beard, Romeias
said: "Well, she ought to be thankful if she is one, and I am not going
to tear off her garb of sanctity. But since I was at Constance on a
visit to my mother, I have heard many a tale, that's not quite as it
ought to be. It has not yet been forgotten in those parts, how she had
to defend herself before the bishop on account of this and that which
is none of my business; and the Constance merchants will tell you,
without your asking them, that the recluses near the cathedral have
lent them money, given to them by pious pilgrims, on usurious interest.
It was not my fault, that once, when I was still a boy, I found in a
quarry a strange big pebble. When I knocked it to pieces with my
hammer, there was a toad in the middle, looking very much astonished.
Since then I know what a recluse is like. Snip-snap--trari-trara!"

Romeias accompanied his new friend to the house which lay beyond the
cloister-walls and which was destined to receive her. Before it, the
other maids were standing, and the posy of wild flower's they had
gathered lay on a stone table before the door.

"We must say Good-bye," said the gate-keeper.

"Farewell," said Praxedis.

He then went away, and after going thirty steps suddenly turned
round,--but the sun does not rise twice in one day; least of all for
the keeper of a cloister-gate! No hand was being kissed to him.
Praxedis had entered the house. Then Romeias slowly walked back, and
without troubling himself to ask leave, hastily took up the flowers
from the stone table, and went away. The stag and four hares he brought
to the kitchen. After this he toiled up to his room in the watch-tower,
fastened the nosegay to the wall with the help of a nail, and taking a
piece of charcoal, drew a heart under it, which had two eyes, a long
stroke in lieu of a nose, and a cross-line for a mouth.

He had just finished this, when the cloister-pupil Burkhard came up,
bent upon amusing himself. Romeias seized him with a powerful grasp,
held out the charcoal and placing him before the wall, said: "There,
write the name under it!"

"What name?" asked the boy.

"Hers," commanded Romeias.

"What do I know about her, and her name," testily replied the pupil.

"There one can see again, what is the use of studying," grumbled
Romeias. "Every day the boy sits for eight hours behind his
asses'-skins and does not know the name of a strange damsel!" ...




                              CHAPTER IV.

                           In the Monastery.


Dame Hadwig had meanwhile performed her devotions at the grave of the
holy Gallus. The Abbot was then about to propose a walk in the
cloister-garden, but she asked him, first to show her the treasures of
the church. The mind of woman, however intellectual, ever delights in
ornaments, jewels and fine garments. The Abbot tried hard to dissuade
her from this wish; saying that their's was but a poor little
monastery, and that his cousin, no doubt, had seen far better things on
her travels, or at court, but it was all in vain. So they went to the
sacristy. Here the cupboards were first opened, revealing many purple
chasubles and magnificent priest's garments, with embroidered pictures,
representations of the holy history. Here and there was also some piece
strongly reminding one of Roman heathenism, such as the marriage of
Mercury with Philology. When the cupboards were done with, large boxes
were opened, full of silver lamps, golden crowns, finely wrought frames
for the holy books; and ornaments for the altar. These things had
mostly been brought over the Alps by monks, who tying them round their
knees, had thus slily preserved them from covetous eyes and hands.
Beautiful vessels, in all sorts of curious forms; candlesticks in the
shape of dolphins; golden drinking-cups resting on silver pillars;
censers and many other beautiful articles, altogether a rich treasure.
A chalice made of a single piece of amber, which glistened wonderfully
when held to the light, attracted the Duchess' notice. At the edge a
small piece was broken off.

"When my predecessor Hartmuth was dying," said the Abbot, "that little
bit was powdered and given to him, mixed with wine and honey, to calm
the fever."

In the middle of the amber was a tiny fly, so well preserved, as if it
had but just settled down there. Probably the little insect sitting
contentedly on its blade of grass, in antediluvian times, when the
liquid resin streamed over it, little thought, that it would thus be
bequeathed to far-off generations.

But such dumb testimonials of nature's powers, were little heeded then.
At least the chamberlain Spazzo, who surveyed and examined everything
with a careful eye, was occupied the while with very different ideas.
He thought how much pleasanter it would be to be on war-terms with the
pious monks, and instead of claiming their hospitality as a friend, to
enter arms in hand, and carry all the treasures away. Having witnessed
in his time many a reverse of friendship between the high-born, he was
inwardly speculating on this possibility, and eyeing keenly the
entrance to the sacristy, he murmured to himself: "Coming from the
choir 'tis the first door to the right!"

The Abbot who probably thought likewise that the prolonged examination
of the gold and silver, produced a hankering for their possession,
slily omitted opening the last box, which contained the most
magnificent things of all, and in order to divert their attention from
them urgently proposed, their going into the open air.

So the party directed their steps towards the garden, which occupied a
considerable space, and produced much vegetable and fruit for the
kitchen, as well as useful herbs for medicines.

In the orchard a large portion was divided off and reserved for wild
animals and numerous birds, such as were to be found in the
neighbouring Alps; and rarer ones which had been sent as presents, by
stranger guests from foreign countries.

Dame Hadwig took great pleasure in looking at the rough uncouth bears,
which were funny enough when climbing about on the tree in their
prison. Close to these, a pug-nosed monkey, chained together with a
baboon, played their merry gambols,--two creatures of which a poet of
that time, says that neither one nor the other, possessed a single
trace of the faculty of making itself useful, by which to establish a
claim to its existence.

An old wild goat with bent down head stood immovably within its narrow
boundary, for since it had been carried off from the icy atmosphere of
its snowy mountain peaks and glaciers, the native of the Alps had
become blind;--for it is not every creature that thrives amid low human
habitations.

In another division a large family of thick-skinned badgers was living.
On passing them the evil Sindolt exclaimed laughingly: "Heaven bless
you miserable little beasts, the chosen game of pious monks."

On another side was heard a shrill whistle from a troop of marmots,
which were running quickly to hide themselves in the chinks and
crevices of the artificial rockery, that served as their dwelling. Dame
Hadwig had never beheld such amusing little creatures before. The Abbot
told her of their way of living.

"These animals," said he, "sleep more than any other creature; but when
awake, they show a wonderful sharpness and forethought, for when winter
approaches, they gather up grass and hay wherever they find it, and one
of them lies down on its back, whilst the others put on it everything
they have scraped together, and then they seize it by the tail, and
drag it like a loaded cart into their caverns."[5]

Then Sindolt said to the stout chamberlain Master Spazzo: "What a pity
that you have not become a mountain-rat, that would have been a
pleasant and graceful occupation for you."

When the Abbot had proceeded a few paces, the evil Sindolt began to
give a new sort of explanation: "That is our Tutilo," said he, pointing
to a bear, which had just thrown down one of its companions,--"that the
blind Thieto,"--pointing to the wild goat, and he was just about to
honour the Abbot with some flattering comparison, when the Duchess
interrupted him by saying: "As you are so clever in finding similes,
will you find one for me also?"

Sindolt became embarrassed. Luckily his eye now fell on a beautiful
silver-pheasant, which was in the midst of a troop of cranes, basking
in the sunshine which lighted up its pearly grey feathers.

"There," said Sindolt.

But the Duchess turned round to Ekkehard, who gazed dreamily at the
bustle and life before him.

"What do you think of it?" asked she.

He started up. "Oh, mistress!" said he in soft tones, "who is so
audacious as to compare you to anything that flies or crawls?"

"But if we desire it?"

"Then I only know of one bird," said Ekkehard. "We have not got it, nor
has anyone; in star-lit midnights it flies high over our heads,
brushing the sky with its wings. The bird's name is Caradrion, and when
its wings touch the earth a sick man is healed. Then the bird,
inclining towards the man, opens its beak over his mouth, and taking
the man's sickness unto itself rises up to the sun, and purifies itself
in the eternal light; and the man is saved."

The Abbot's return put a stop to further similes. One of the serving
brothers was sitting on an apple-tree, plucking the apples, and putting
them into baskets. When the Duchess approached the tree, he was going
to descend, but she made him a sign to stop where he was.

Now, the singing of sweet boyish voices was heard. The voices were
those of the younger cloister-pupils who came to do homage to the
Duchess. Children as they were, the little fellows wore already the
monk's habit, and several even the tonsure on their eleven years old
heads. When the procession of the little rosy-cheeked future abbots
came in sight, with their eyes cast down and singing their sequences so
seriously, a slight, mocking smile played round Dame Hadwig's lips, and
with her strong foot, she upset the nearest of the baskets, so that the
apples rolled about enticingly on the ground, in the midst of the boys.
But unabashed they continued their walk; only one of the youngest
wanted to bend down and take up the tempting fruit, which his companion
forcibly prevented, by taking a good hold of his girdle.

Much pleased the Abbot witnessed the young folks' excellent behaviour
and said: "Discipline distinguishes human beings from animals, and if
you were to throw the apples of Hesperides amongst them, they would
remain stedfast."

Dame Hadwig was touched. "Are all your pupils so well trained?" asked
she.

"If you like to convince yourself with your own eyes," said the Abbot,
"you will see that the elder ones know quite as well the meaning of
obedience and submission."

The Duchess nodding an assent, was then led into the outer
cloister-school, in which the sons of noblemen, and those who intended
to join the secular clergy, were educated.

They entered the upper class. In the lecturer's chair stood Ratpert,
the wise and learned teacher who was initiating his pupils into the
mysteries of Aristotle's logic. With bent heads the young scholars sat
before their parchments, scarcely lifting their eyes to look at the
party now entering. The teacher inwardly thought this a good
opportunity to gather some laurels, and called out, "Notker Labeo!"
This was the pearl amongst his pupils, the hope of science, who on a
weakly body carried a powerful head, with an immense protruding
under-lip, the cause of his surname, the symbol of great determination
and perseverance on the stony roads of investigation.

"He will become a great man," whispered the Abbot. "Already in his
twelfth year he said that the world was like a book, and that the
monasteries were the classical passages in it."

The young man in question, let his eyes glide over the Greek text, and
then translated with pompous solemnity the deep intricate meaning
thereof:

"If on a stone or piece of wood, you find a straight line running
through, that is the mutual line of demarcation, of the even surface.
If the stone or wood were to split along that line, then we should
behold two intersections, near the visible chink, where there was only
one line before. Besides this we see two new surfaces, which are as
broad as the object was thick, before one could see the new surface.
From this it appears that this object existed as one whole, before it
was separated."

But when this translation had been well got through, some of the young
logicians put their heads together, and began to whisper, and the
whispers became louder and louder;--even the cloister-pupil Hepidan,
who undisturbed by Notker's capital translation, was employing all his
skill to carve a devil with a double pair of wings, and a long curling
tail, on the bench before him, stopped with his work. Then the teacher
addressed the next boy, with the question: "But how does the surface
become a mutual line of demarcation?" upon which he began to blunder
over the Greek text; but the commotion in the school-benches became
louder still, so that there arose a buzzing and booming like distant
alarm bells. The translation ceased altogether and suddenly the whole
mass of Ratpert's pupils rushed up noisily, towards the Duchess. In the
next moment they had torn her from the Abbot's side, shouting "caught,
caught," and making barricades with the benches, they repeated their
cries: "We have caught the Duchess of Suabia! What shall be her
ransom?"

Dame Hadwig, in the course of her life, had found herself in various
positions, but that she could ever become the prisoner of school-boys
had certainly never entered her head. This having however the charm of
novelty for her, she submitted to her fate with a good grace.

Ratpert the teacher took out of the cupboard a mighty rod, and swinging
it over his head, like a second Neptune, he recited, in a thundering
voice, the verses of Virgil:


     "So far has the conceit, in your pitiful powers, decoyed you,
      That, not awaiting my will, and rousing the heavens and waters,
      Ye have ventured to stir, ye rebellious winds of the ocean?
      _Quos ego_!!"


A renewed shout was the answer. The room was already divided by a wall
of benches and stools, and Master Spazzo was inwardly meditating the
expediency of an attack, and the effect of vigorous blows on the heads
of the ring-leaders. As for the Abbot, he was perfectly speechless, as
this unexpected audacity had quite paralysed his faculties for
the moment. The highborn prisoner stood at the other end of the
school-room, in a niche, surrounded by her fifteen-years-old captors.

"What is the meaning of all this, ye wicked boys?" asked she smilingly.

Then one of the rebels advanced, bent his knee before her and humbly
said: "He who comes as a stranger, is without protection or peace, and
peaceless people are kept prisoners, until they have paid a ransom for
their liberty."

"Do you learn that out of your Greek books?"

"No, mistress, that is German law."

"Very well, then I will ransom myself," said Dame Hadwig, and laughing
merrily, she seized the red-cheeked logician, and drawing him towards
her, wanted to kiss him. He however tore himself away, and joining the
noisy ranks of his companions cried out:

"That coin, we do not understand!"

"What ransom then do you exact?" asked the Duchess who was fast getting
impatient.

"The bishop of Constance was also our prisoner," replied the pupil,
"and he obtained for us three extra holidays in the year, as well as a
feast of bread and meat, and has further secured this to us with his
name and seal."

"Oh gluttonous youth!" said Dame Hadwig. "Then I must at least do as
much for you as the bishop. Have you ever tasted the _Felchen_[6] from
the Bodensee?"

"No!" cried the boys.

"Then you shall receive six fish as an annual present. This fish is
good for young beaks."

"Do you secure this to us with your name and seal?"

"If it must be so, yes."

"Long life to the Duchess of Suabia! All hail!" was now shouted on all
sides. "Hail! she is free." The school-benches were quickly removed,
the passage cleared, and jumping and shouting triumphantly they led
back their prisoner.

In the background the parchment leaves of Aristotle flew up into the
air, as outward signs of joy. Even the corners of Notker Labeo's mouth
turned down into a broad grin, and Dame Hadwig said: "The young
gentlemen were very gracious. Please to put back the rod into the
cupboard, honoured professor."

A continuation of the translation of Aristotle, was not to be thought
of. Who can tell, whether the uproarious outbreak of the pupils, was
not in close connexion with their study of logic? Seriousness is often
a very dry and leafless trunk; else folly would scarcely find room, to
wind her wanton green-leaved tendrils around it ...

When the Duchess accompanied by the Abbot had left the school-room, the
latter said: "There is nothing now left to show you but the library of
the monastery, the well for thirsty souls, the armory with its weapons
of science." But Dame Hadwig was tired and so declined his offer.

"I must keep my word," said she, "and make the donation to your boys
documental. Will you be pleased to have the parchment got ready, that I
may affix my signature and seal."

Sir Cralo conducted his guest to his apartments. On going along the
cross-passage, they passed a small room, the door of which was open.
Close to the bare wall stood a pillar, from the middle of which hung a
chain. Over the portal, in faded colours, was painted a figure which
held a rod in its lean hand. "Him whom the Lord loveth, he chastiseth,"
was written under it in capital letters.

Dame Hadwig cast an enquiring look at the Abbot.

"The scourging room!" replied he.

"Is none of the brothers just now liable to punishment?" asked she, "it
might be a warning example."

Then the evil Sindolt's feet twitched as if he had trodden on a thorn.
He turned round as if he had been attracted by a voice calling to him,
and exclaiming, "I am coming," he quickly vanished into the darker
parts of the passage. He well knew why he did so.

Notker the stutterer, after the labour of years, had at last completed
a psalm-book, adorned with dainty drawings. This book the envious
Sindolt had destroyed at night; casting it to pieces, and upsetting a
jug of wine over it. On account of this, he had been sentenced to be
flogged three times, and the last instalment was still due. He knew the
room, and the instruments of penance hanging on the walls well enough,
from the nine-tailed "Scorpion" down to the simple "wasp."

The Abbot hurried on. His state-rooms were richly decorated with
flowers. Dame Hadwig threw herself into the primitive arm-chair, to
rest from the fatigue of all the sight-seeing. She had received many
new impressions within the space of a few hours. There was still half
an hour left before supper.

Had anyone taken the trouble to visit all the cloister-cells, he might
have satisfied himself, that not a single inhabitant thereof had
remained unaffected by the arrival of the high-born guests. Even those
who pass their whole lives in seclusion, feel that they owe homage to
woman.

The hoary Tutilo had remembered with a pang, on the arrival of the
Duchess, that the left sleeve of his habit was adorned with a hole.
Under ordinary circumstances the sleeve would probably have remained
unpatched, until the next great festival, but now there was no time for
delay. So he sat down on his couch, provided with needle and thread,
busily mending the rent. Being once busy with such things he also put
new soles to his sandals; fastening them with nails, and humming a tune
to speed the work. Ratold the thinker, walked up and down in his cell,
with a deep frown on his forehead, hoping that an opportunity would
present itself to praise the virtues of the high-born guest in an
improvised speech, and to heighten the effect of the spontaneous
effusion, he was studying it beforehand. He intended to take the
following lines of Tacitus, "on the Germans," for a text: "They believe
also, that there is something holy about women, and that they have the
gift of seeing into the future. Therefore they never disdain the advice
given by them, and often follow their warnings." This was about all
that he knew of the other sex, but his squirrel-eyes twinkled with the
hope, of being able, from the praise of the Duchess, easily to diverge
to some spiteful criticism on his brethren. Unfortunately the
opportunity to bring in his speech never came, or he did not know how
to seize it.

In another cell, six of the brothers, sat under the huge ivory comb,
which was suspended by an iron chain from the ceiling. This was a very
useful institution established by Abbot Hartmuth. Murmuring the
prescribed prayers, they assisted one another in the careful
arrangement of each others hair. Many an overgrown tonsure was also
restored to a shining smoothness on that day.

While these things were going on in the monastery itself, no less
activity was displayed in the kitchen under the superintendence of
Gerold the steward. And now resounded the tinkling of that bell, the
sounds of which were not heard without a pleasurable sensation, even
by the most pious of the brethren, as it was the signal for the
evening-meal. Abbot Cralo led the Duchess into the refectory. The large
room was divided in the middle by nine pillars, and around fourteen
covered tables, the members of the monastery, priests and deacons stood
assembled, like champions of the church militant. These however did not
pay any great attention to the noble guest.

The duty of reader for that week, before the meals, had to be performed
by Ekkehard the custodian. In honour of the Duchess he had chosen the
45th psalm. He arose and said: "Oh Lord, open my lips, that my mouth
may speak forth thy praise," and all repeated these words in a low
murmur, as a sort of blessing on his reading.

After that he lifted his voice and began reciting the psalm, which
Scripture itself calls a lovely one.

"My heart is inditing a good matter: I speak of the things which I have
made, touching the king: my tongue is the pen of a ready writer.

"Thou art fairer than the children of men: grace is poured into thy
lips: therefore God hath blessed thee for ever.

"Gird thy sword upon thy thigh O most mighty, with thy glory and thy
majesty.

"And in thy majesty ride prosperously because of truth and meekness and
righteousness.

"Thine arrows are sharp in the heart of the king's enemies; whereby the
people fall under thee.

"Thy throne, before God, is for ever and ever: the sceptre of thy
kingdom is a right sceptre.

"Thou lovest righteousness and hatest wickedness: therefore God, thy God
hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows.

"All thy garments smell of myrrh, and aloes and cassia ..."

The Duchess seemed to understand the latent homage and as if she
herself was being addressed in the words of the psalm, she fastened her
eyes intently on Ekkehard. But the Abbot likewise had noticed this, and
made a sign to interrupt the reading; and thus the psalm remained
unfinished, and everyone sat down, to supper.

Sir Cralo could not however prevent Dame Hadwig's ordering the zealous
reader, to sit down by her side. According to rank, this seat on her
left side, had been destined for the old dean Gozbert; but he for the
last few minutes had been sitting on thorns; for he had once indulged
in a very rough-spoken dispute with Dame Hadwig's late husband,
at the time when the latter carried off the precious chalice, as a
war-contribution. On that account he had also a grudge against the
Duchess, and had no sooner remarked her intention, than he gladly moved
downwards, and pushed the custodian into his seat. Next to Ekkehard
came Spazzo the chamberlain, and after him the monk Sindolt.

The meal began. The steward well knowing that the arrival of stranger
guests, fully sanctioned an enlargement of the accustomed frugal
cloister-fare, had not restricted himself to the ordinary porridge. The
strict bill of fare of the late Abbot Hartmuth was also not adhered to.

To be sure there appeared at first a steaming dish of millet-porridge,
that those, who preferred strictly to adhere to the prescribed rule,
might satisfy their hunger: but after that, one delicacy followed
another in quick succession. Side by side with the roast stag, stood
the delicious bear's ham, and even the beaver of the upper pond, which
had been robbed of its life, in honour of the occasion. Pheasants,
partridges, turtle-doves and a rich collection of smaller birds
followed; as well as an immense quantity of fish of all descriptions,
so that finally every species of animal,--crawling, flying or swimming,
that was good to eat, was represented on the table.

Many an one of the brothers, fought a fierce battle within the depths
of his heart on that day. Even Gozbert the old dean,--after having
stilled the craving of hunger with millet-porridge, and having pushed
aside with a tremendous frown, the roasted stag and bear's ham, as if
it were a temptation of the Evil One,--when afterwards a beautifully
roasted grouse, was put down before him, felt the odour thereof rise
temptingly into his nostrils. And with the savory smell the memories of
his youth came back; when he himself was a first-rate sportsman, fully
two score years ago, and when he went out in the early morning to shoot
the wood-cock, and meet the game-keeper's bright-eyed daughter; and
twice he resisted the half involuntary movement of his arm, the third
time he felt his strength going, and a moment after, one half of the
bird lay before him, and was hastily dispatched.

Spazzo the chamberlain, had watched with an approving nod, the
appearance of the many dishes. A large Rhine-salmon had quickly
disappeared under his hands, and he now cast his eyes about, in search
of something to drink. Then Sindolt, his neighbour, seized a small
stone jug, poured out its contents into a metal cup and said: "Your
health in the choicest wine of the monastery."

Master Spazzo intended to take a copious draught, but scarcely had the
liquid touched his palate, when he put down the goblet hastily, shaking
all over as with the ague, and exclaimed, "then may the Devil be
friar!"

The evil Sindolt had given him a sour cider, made of crab-apples, and
sweetened with the juice of the blackberry. On Master Spazzo's looking
inclined to thank him by a blow, he quickly fetched a jug of the
delicious red "Valtelliner," wherewith to soften his ire. The
"Valtelliner" is a capital wine; in which formerly the Roman Emperor
Augustus, drowned his grief over the lost battle of Varus. By degrees
Master Spazzo's good humour returned; so that without knowing him, he
willingly drank to the health of the Bishop of Chur; to whom the
monastery was indebted for this wine, and Sindolt did not fail to keep
him company.

"What may your patron say to such drinking?" asked the chamberlain.

"St. Benedict was a wise man," replied Sindolt, "therefore he ordained,
that although it had been written, that wine was altogether no drink
for monks, yet as not a single person, at the present day, could be
persuaded of the justness of this observation; and in consequence of
the weakness of the human mind, everyone should be allowed a bottle a
day. No one however is to drink to satiety, for wine will make even the
wisest swerve from the path of wisdom."

"Good," said Spazzo and drained his tumbler.

"On the other hand," continued Sindolt, "those of the brotherhood, in
whose district little or no wine grows, must resign themselves, and
praise the Lord without grumbling."

"Good also," said Spazzo again emptying his goblet.

Meanwhile the Abbot did his best, to entertain his princely cousin. He
first began, to sing the praises of her late husband Sir Burkhard, but
Dame Hadwig's responses were but scanty and cold, so that the Abbot
found out, that everything has its time; especially the love of a widow
for her late spouse. So he changed the conversation, asking her, how
the cloister-schools had pleased her.

"I feel sorry for the poor fellows, who are forced to learn so much in
their early days," said the Duchess. "Is not that a burden for them
under the weight of which they suffer all their lives?"

"Pardon me, noble cousin," replied the Abbot, "if both in the capacity
of friend and relation, I beg you not to indulge in such thoughtless
speech. The study of science is no disagreeable obligation for the
young; rather is it to them like strawberries, the more they eat the
more they want."

"But what can they have to do with the heathen art of logic?" asked
Dame Hadwig.

"That, in proper hands, becomes a weapon to protect God's church," said
the Abbot. "With such arts, heretics were wont to attack believers, but
now we fight them with their own arms; and believe me, good Greek or
Latin is a much finer instrument than our native language, which even
in the hands of the ablest, is but an unwieldy bludgeon."

"Indeed," said the Duchess, "must we still learn from you, what is to
be admired? I have existed until now, without speaking the Latin
tongue, Sir Cousin."

"It would not harm you, if you were still to learn it," said the Abbot,
"and when the first euphonious sounds of the Latin tongue shall
have gladdened your ear, you will admit, that compared to it, our
mother-tongue is but a young bear, which can neither stand nor walk
well, before it has been licked by a classical tongue. Besides much
wisdom, flows from the mouths of the old Romans. Ask your neighbour to
the left."

"Is it so?" asked Dame Hadwig, turning towards Ekkehard, who had
silently listened to the foregoing conversation.

"It would be true, liege lady," said he enthusiastically, "if you still
needed to learn wisdom."

Dame Hadwig archly held up her forefinger: "Have you yourself derived
pleasure from those old parchments?"

"Both, pleasure and happiness," exclaimed Ekkehard with beaming eyes.
"Believe me, mistress, you do well to come to the classics for advice,
in all positions of life. Does not Cicero teach us to walk safely, in
the intricate paths of worldly prudence? Do we not gather confidence
and courage from Livy and Sallust? Do not the songs of Virgil awaken
us to the conception of imperishable beauty? The Gospel is the
guiding-star of our faith; the old classics, however, have left a light
behind them, which like the glow of the evening-sun, sends refreshment
and joy into the hearts of men."

Ekkehard spoke with emotion. Since the day on which the old Duke
Burkhard had asked her hand in marriage, the Duchess had not seen
anyone, who showed enthusiasm for anything. She was endowed with a high
intellect, quick and imaginative. She had learned the Greek language
very rapidly, in the days of her youth, on account of the Byzantine
proposal. Latin inspired her with a sort of awe, because unknown to
her. Unknown things easily impress us, whilst knowledge leads us to
judge things according to their real worth, which is often much less
than we had expected. The name of Virgil besides had a certain magic
about it....

In that hour the resolution was formed in Hadwig's heart to learn
Latin. She had plenty of time for this, and after having cast another
look on her neighbour to the left, she knew who was to be her
teacher....

The dainty dessert, consisting of peaches, melons and dried figs, had
vanished also, and the lively conversation at the different tables,
told of the frequent passing round of the wine-jug.

After the meal, in accordance with the rules of the order, a chapter
out of the lives of the holy fathers, had to be read, for the general
edification.

The day before, Ekkehard had begun a description of the life of St.
Benedict, which had been written by Pope Gregory. The brothers drew the
tables closer together; the wine-jug came to a dead stop, and all
conversation was hushed. Ekkehard continued with the second chapter:
"One day when he was alone, the Tempter approached him; for a small
black bird, commonly called a crow, came and constantly flew around his
head, and approaching so near, that the holy man, might have captured
it with his hand. He, however, made the sign of the cross, and the bird
flew away.

"No sooner however had the bird flown away, when a fiercer temptation
than the holy man had ever yet experienced, assailed him. A
considerable time before, he had beheld a certain woman. This woman,
the Evil One caused to appear before his mental eyes, and to influence
the heart of God's servant, to such a degree, that a devouring love
gnawed at his heart, and he almost resolved, to leave his hermit-life,
so strong was the longing and desire within him.

"But at that moment however, a light from heaven shone on him,
compelling him to return to his better self. And he beheld on one side
a hedge of brambles and nettles, and he undressed and threw himself
into the thorns and stinging nettles, until his whole body was
lacerated.

"And thus the wounds of the skin had healed the wound of the spirit,
and having conquered sin he was saved." ...

Dame Hadwig was not greatly edified by this lecture. She let her eyes
wander about in the hall in search of something to divert her thoughts.
Had the chamberlain, perhaps also disapproved of the choice of the
chapter, or had the wine got into his head?--for suddenly he dashed at
the book and closing it vehemently, so that the wooden covers clapped
audibly, he held up his beaker, saying: "To the health of St.
Benedict." Ekkehard turned a reproachful look on him, but the younger
members of the brotherhood, regarding the toast as serious, had already
echoed it noisely. Here and there a hymn in praise of the holy man was
begun; this time to the tune of a merry drinking song, and loud joyous
voices rang through the hall.

Whilst Abbot Cralo looked about with a somewhat dubious expression, and
Master Spazzo was still busily drinking to the health of the saint with
the younger clergy, Dame Hadwig inclined her head towards Ekkehard and
said in a half whisper:

"Would you be willing to teach me Latin, young admirer of the classics,
if I felt inclined to learn it?"

Then Ekkehard heard an inner voice, whispering like an echo of what he
had read: "throw thyself into the thorns and nettles, and say no!"--but
heedless of the warning voice he replied: "Command and I obey."

The Duchess gazed once more on the young monk with a furtive, searching
look; then turned to the Abbot and talked of indifferent things.

The cloister-inmates did not seem inclined as yet to let this day's
unusual liberty end here. In the Abbot's eyes there was a peculiarly
soft and lenient expression, and the cellarer also never said "nay,"
when the brothers descended with their emptied wine-jugs into the
vaults below.

At the fourth table the old Tutilo began to get jolly, and was telling
his inevitable story of the robbers. Louder and louder his powerful
voice rang through the hall: "One of them turned to fly,--I after him
with my oaken stick,--he throws away spear and shield to the ground,--I
quickly seize him by the throat, force the spear into his hand and cry,
'thou knave of a robber, for what art thou encumbering the world? Thou
shalt fight with me!'" ...

But they had all heard it too often already how he had then in honest
fight split open the scull of his antagonist,--so they eagerly
requested him, to sing some favourite song, and on his giving an
assenting nod, some of them hurried out, presently to return with their
instruments. One of them brought a lute, another a violin with one
string only, a third a sort of dulcimer with metal pegs, which were
played on with a tuning key, and a fourth a small ten-stringed harp.
This last curious-looking instrument was called a psalter, and its
three-cornered shape was held to be a symbol of the Trinity.

When the instruments were tuned, they gave him his baton of ebony.
Smilingly the hoary artist received it, and rising from his seat, gave
them the signal to play a piece of music, which he himself had composed
in his younger days. Gladly the others listened; only Gerold the
steward, became rather melancholy on hearing the melodious sounds, for
he was just counting the emptied dishes and stone jugs, and like a text
to the melody the words vibrated through his mind: "How much this one
day has swallowed up in goods and money?" Softly he beat time with his
sandal-clad foot, until the last note had died away.

At the bottom of the table a silent guest, with a pale olive complexion
and black curls, was sitting. He came from Italy, and had accompanied
the mules loaded with chestnuts and oil, from Lombardy over the Alp. In
melancholy silence, he let the floods of song pass over him.

"Well, Master Giovanni," said Folkard the painter, "has the fine
Italian ear been satisfied? The Emperor Julianus once compared the
singing of our forefathers to the screeching of wild birds, but since
that time we have made progress. Did it not sound lovelier in your ears
than the singing of wild swans?"

"Lovelier--than the singing of swans"--repeated the stranger in dreamy
accents. Then he arose and quietly stole away. Nobody in the monastery
ever read what he wrote down in his journal that evening.

"These men on the other side of the Alp," he wrote, "when they let
their thundering voices rise up to heaven, never can attain to the
sweetness of an artistic modulation. Truly barbarous is the roughness
of their wine-guzzling throats and whenever they attempt by sinking and
then raising their voices, to attain a melodious softness,--all nature
shudders at the sound, and it resembles the creaking of chariot-wheels
on frozen ground." ...

Master Spazzo intending to end well, what he had so well begun, slunk
away to the building in which Praxedis and her companions were
installed, and said: "You are to come to the Duchess, and that at
once." The maidens first laughed at his cowl, and then followed him
into the refectory, as there was no one to hinder their entrance; and
as soon as they became visible at the open door, a buzzing and
murmuring began, as if a dancing and jumping were now to commence, such
as these walls had never before experienced.

Sir Cralo the abbot, however looked at the Duchess, and exclaimed: "My
Lady Cousin!" and he said it with such a touching, woe-begone
expression, that she started up from her reverie. And suddenly she
looked with different eyes than before on the chamberlain and herself,
in their monks habits, as well as on the rows of carousing men. The
faces of the more distant ones were hidden by their projecting hoods,
and it looked as if the wine was being poured down into empty cowls; in
short, the scene altogether with the boisterous music appeared to her
like a mad masquerade, that had lasted too long already.

So she said: "It is time to go to bed;" and then went with her suite
over to the school-house, where she was to rest that night.

"Do you know what would have been the reward of dancing?" asked Sindolt
of one of his fellow monks, who seemed rather sorry at this sudden
termination of their festivity. He stared at him enquiringly. Then
Sindolt made a movement which meant unmistakeably "scourging."




                               CHAPTER V.

                         Ekkehard's Departure.


Early the next morning, the Duchess and her attendants mounted their
steeds, to ride homewards; and when she declined all parting
ceremonies, the Abbot did not press her to the contrary. Therefore
perfect quiet reigned in the monastery, whilst the horses were neighing
impatiently. Only Sir Cralo came over, knowing well, what good manners
demanded.

Two of the brothers accompanied him. One of them carried a handsome
crystal cup with a finely wrought silver foot and cover, in which many
a pretty bit of onyx and emerald was set. The other carried a small jug
of old wine. The Abbot pouring out some into the cup, then wished good
speed to his cousin, begging her to drink the parting-draught with him,
and to keep the cup as a small remembrance.

In case that the present should not be thought sufficient, he had still
another curious piece in the background, which though made of silver,
had a very insignificant appearance, as it bore close resemblance to an
ordinary loaf of bread. This could be opened, and was filled up to the
brim with gold-pieces. Without there being an absolute necessity for
it, the Abbot did not intend to mention this; keeping it carefully
hidden under his habit.

Dame Hadwig took the proffered cup, feigned to drink a little and then
handing it back, said: "Pardon me, dear cousin, what shall a woman do
with that drinking-vessel? I claim another parting gift. Did you not
speak of the wells of wisdom yesterday? Give me a Virgil out of your
library!"

"Always jesting," said Sir Cralo, who had expected a more costly
demand. "What good can Virgil do you, as you do not know the language?"

"As a matter of course, you must give me the teacher with it,"
seriously replied Dame Hadwig.

But the Abbot shook his head in sign of displeasure. "Since what time
are the disciples of St. Gallus given away as parting-gifts?"

Upon this the Duchess resumed: "I suppose you understand me. The
fair-haired custodian shall be my teacher; and three days hence, at the
latest, he and the volume of Virgil shall make their appearance at my
castle! Mind, that the settlement of the disputed land in the
Rhinevalley, as well as the confirmation of the monastery's rights, are
in my hands; and that I am not disinclined, to erect a small cloister
to the disciples of St. Gallus, on the rocks of the Hohentwiel.--And so
farewell, Sir Cousin!"

Then Sir Cralo, with a melancholy look, beckoned to the serving monk,
to carry the chalice back to the treasury. Dame Hadwig gracefully
extended her right hand to him, the mares pawed the ground; Master
Spazzo took off his hat with a flourish,--and the little cavalcade
turned their backs on the monastery, setting out on their way,
homewards.

From the window of the watch-tower, an immense nosegay was thrown into
the midst of the parting guests; in which there shone at least half a
dozen sun-flowers, not to mention innumerable asters; but nobody caught
it, and the horses hoofs passed over it....

In the dry moat outside the gate, the cloister-pupils had hidden
themselves. "Long life to the Duchess of Suabia! Hail! hail!--and she
must not forget to send us the Felchen!" was loudly shouted after her,
as a parting salutation.

"He who as reward for his bad behaviour, obtains three holidays, and
the best fish of the lake, may well shout," said Master Spazzo.

Slowly the Abbot went back to the monastery, and as soon as he got
there, he sent for Ekkehard the custodian.

"A dispensation has come for you. You are to take a volume of Virgil to
the Duchess Hadwig, and become her teacher. 'The old song of Maro may
soften the Scythian customs by their lovely tunes'--is written in
Sidonius. I know that it is not your wish ..." Ekkehard cast down his
eyes, with a heightened colour, "but we must not offend the mighty ones
of this earth. To-morrow, you will set out on your journey. 'Tis with
regret that I lose you, for you were one of the best and most dutiful
here. The holy Gallus will not forget the service which you are
rendering him. Don't omit to cut out the title-page of Virgil, on which
is written the curse on him, who takes the book away from the
monastery."

That which our hearts desire, we gladly suffer to be put on us, as a
duty.

"The vow of obedience," said Ekkehard, "obliges me, to do the will of
my Superior, without fear or delay, without regret or murmur."

He bent his knee before the Abbot, and then went to his cell. It seemed
to him as if he had been dreaming. Since yesterday, almost too much had
occurred for him. It is often so in life. In a long period, time
pursues its monotonous way, but when once we come to a turning-point,
then one change follows another. He prepared himself for the journey.

"What thou hast begun, leave unfinished behind thee; draw back thy hand
from the work it was employed on, and go away with thy heart full of
obedience,"--he scarcely needed to remind himself of this portion of
the rules.

In his cell lay the parchment-leaves of a psalm-book, which had been
written, and illustrated by Folkard's masterly hand. Ekkehard had been
commissioned to finish up the first letter on each page, with the
precious gold-colour, which the Abbot had lately bought from a Venetian
merchant; and by adding faint golden lines at the crowns, sceptres and
swords, as well as at the borders of the mantles, to give the last
touch to the figures.

He took up parchments and colours, and brought them over to his
companion, that he might put the finishing strokes to the work himself.
Folkard was just about, to compose a new picture; David playing the
lute, and dancing before the ark of the Covenant. He did not look up,
and Ekkehard silently left the studio again.

After this he bent his steps to the library, there to fetch the Virgil,
and when he stood all alone in the high-arched hall, amongst the silent
parchments, a feeling of melancholy came over him. Even lifeless
things, when one is about to take leave of them, seem to possess
something of a soul, and to share some of the feelings, which are
moving our own hearts.

The books were his best friends. He knew them all, and knew who had
written them. Some of the handwritings reminded him of companions, whom
death had gathered already.

"What will the new life, which begins to-morrow, bring to me?" he
thought, whilst a solitary tear started into his eye. At that moment
his gaze fell on the small, metal-bound glossary, in which the holy
Gallus, not knowing the German language, had had a translation of the
most familiar words and sentences, written down by the priest of Arbon.
Then Ekkehard bethought himself, how the founder of the monastery, had
once set out, with so little help and preparation, a stranger into
heathen lands; and how his God and his courageous heart, had protected
him in all dangers and sorrows. His spirits rose; he kissed the little
book, took the Virgil from the book-shelf, and then turned to go.

"Whoever carries away this book, shall receive a thousand lashes of
the scourge; may palsy and leprosy attack him," was written on the
title-page. Ekkehard cut it out.

Once more he looked around, as if to take a final leave, of all the
books. At that moment a rustling was heard in the wall, and the large
sketch which the architect Gerung had once drawn, when Abbot Hartmuth
had wanted a new building to be added to the monastery, fell to the
ground, raising a cloud of dust.

Ekkehard did not regard this occurrence in the light of a presentiment
or warning.

On walking along the passage of the upper storey, he passed an open
chamber. This was the snuggery of the old men. The blind Thieto who had
been Abbot before Cralo, until his waning eyesight had forced him to
resign, was sitting there. A window was open, so that the old man could
breathe freely and enjoy the warm sunny air. With him, Ekkehard had
spent many an hour, in friendly converse. The blind man recognized his
step and called him in.

"Where are you going?" asked he.

"Down stairs,--and to-morrow I am going far away. Give me your hand, I
am going to the Hohentwiel."

"Bad,--very bad," muttered the old man.

"Why, father Thieto?"

"The service of women is an evil thing for him, who wishes to remain
good. Court service is worse still. What then are both together?"

"It is my fate," said Ekkehard.

"St. Gallus keep you and bless you. I will pray for you. Give me my
stick."

Ekkehard offered his arm, which was refused however, and seizing his
staff, the blind man rose, and went to a niche in the wall, from which
he took out a small phial and gave it to Ekkehard.

"It's water from the river Jordan, which I took myself. When the dust
of this world has covered your face, and is dimming your eyes, then
bathe them with it. It will not help me any more. Farewell."

In the evening Ekkehard mounted the little hill, which rose behind the
monastery. This was his favourite walk. In the fish-ponds which had
been artificially made there, to supply the necessary fish for the
fast-days, the dark fir-trees were reflected. A gentle breeze ruffled
the surface of the water, in which the fish swam briskly about. With a
smile he gazed at them, thinking, "when shall I taste you again?"

In the fir-wood on the top of the Freudenberg, there was solemn
silence. There he stopped, to enjoy the extensive view before him.

At his feet lay the monastery, with all its buildings and walls. There,
in the court-yard was the well known fountain; the garden was full of
autumnal flowers, and in one long row the windows of the many cells
were presented to his view. He knew each one, and saw also his own.
"May God protect thee, peaceful abode!"

Contemplating the place where we have spent the days of our eager, and
striving youth, works like a magnet on our hearts, which require so
little to feel attracted. He only is poor, to whom the great bustling
life of this world, has not granted time, bodily and mentally to find a
quiet resting-place, a real home.--

Ekkehard raised his eyes. Far away in the distance, like the fair
prospect of a distant future, the Bodensee's placid surface, shone out
like a mirror. The line of the opposite shore, as well as the outlines
of the hills behind it, were covered with a light mist, only here and
there a bright light and the reflection in the water, indicating the
dwelling places of human beings.

"But what does the obscurity behind mean?" He turned round and beheld
the Saentis rising with its horns and pinnacles behind the fir-clad
hills. On the gray and weatherbeaten rocky walls, the warm sunbeams
were contending with the clouds, and lighting up the masses of old
snow, which in its caves and crevices lay awaiting a new winter. Right
over the Kamor, hung a heavy cloud, which widely extended, was
obscuring the sun and throwing a grey and sombre light on the
mountain-peaks around. It began to lighten in the distance ...

"Is that meant as a warning for me?" said Ekkehard. "I don't understand
it. My way is not towards the Saentis."

Full of thoughts, he descended to the valley again.

In the night he prayed at the grave of St. Gallus, and early in the
morning he bid good-bye to all. The volume of Virgil, and the little
bottle of Thieto were packed up in his knapsack, which also held the
few things besides that he possessed.

He, who has not even his own person, his wishes and his desires at his
free disposal, can still less have any worldly possessions and goods.

The Abbot gave him two gold-pieces and some silver coins, as a
travelling penny.

In a ship, laden with corn, he crossed the lake; a favourable wind
filling the sail, and courage and the love of travel swelling his
bosom.

At dinner-time the castle of Constance, as well as the cathedral with
its towers, became more and more distinct.

With a joyous bound, Ekkehard sprang on shore. In Constance he might
have stopped and claimed the hospitality of the Bishop, but this he did
not do. The place was disagreeable to him,--he hated it from the bottom
of his heart. Not on account of its position and scenery, for in that
respect, it may be boldly compared with any town on the lake, but on
account of a man whom he detested.

This was the Bishop Salomon, who had been lately buried, with great
pomp in the cathedral. Ekkehard was a simple-minded, straightforward
and pious man. To become proud and overbearing in the service of the
church, seemed very wrong to him; to combine this with worldly tricks
and knavery highly blamable,--and in spite of wickedness of heart, to
become famous, most strange. Such however had been the Bishop Salomon's
career. Ekkehard well remembered having heard from older companions,
how the young nobleman had forced his way, into the monastery, and
acted as spy; how he had managed to represent himself as indispensable
to the Emperor, until the mitre of an Abbot of St. Gall was exchanged
for that of a Bishop of Constance.

And the fate which had befallen the messengers of the exchequer,--that
was related by the children in the streets. These, the intriguing
prelate, had provoked and insulted so long, till they trying to right
themselves with the sword, had made him prisoner; but though Sir
Erchanger's wife Berchta, tended and nursed him like a Lord, during his
captivity, and begged him for the kiss of peace, and ate out of the
same plate with him, his revenge was not appeased, until the Emperor's
court of law, at Adingen, condemned his enemies to be beheaded.

And the daughter which he had begotten in the early days of his
student-life, was even then Lady Abbess at the cathedral in Zurich.

All this was known to Ekkehard; and in the church where that man was
buried, he did not like to pray.

It may be unjust to transfer the hatred, which is intended for a human
being alone, to the actual spot where he has lived and died, but still
one can understand this feeling. So he shook the dust from his feet,
and walked out of the city-gate, leaving the stripling Rhine, having
but just issued from the lake, on his right hand.

He cut for himself a strong walking stick from a hazel-bush. "Like unto
the rod of Aaron which budded in the temple of God, distinguishing his
race from that of the degenerate Jews, so may this stick, blessed by
God's grace, be my protection against the evil ones on my way,"--he
said in the words of an old blessing on walking sticks.

His heart beat with pleasure, as he briskly walked along.

How full of hope and joy is he, who in the days of his youth, goes out
on unknown paths, to meet an unknown future. With the wide world before
him, a blue sky over-head, and the heart fresh and trusting, as if his
walking-stick must produce leaves and blossoms, wherever he plants it
in the ground, and must bear happiness, in the shape of golden apples
on its boughs. Walk merrily on.--The day will come when thou also, wilt
drag thyself wearily along, on the dusty high-roads, when thy staff
will be but a dry withered stick, when thy face will be pale and worn,
and the children will be pointing their fingers at thee, laughing and
asking: where are the golden apples?...

Ekkehard was truly light-hearted and content. To sing merry songs was
not becoming for a man of his calling; more fitting was the song of
David which he now began:

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in
green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters"--and this
may have been registered in heaven, in the same book in which the
guardian-angels of youth put down the merry songs of wandering
scholars, and apprentice-boys.

His path took him through meadows, and past high reeds. A long and
narrow island, called Reichenau, extended itself in the lake. The
towers and cloister-walls were mirrored in the placid waters, and
vine-yards, meadows and orchards testified to the industry of the
inhabitants. About two hundred years ago, the island was but a barren
tract, where damp ground had been inhabited by hideous crawling things,
and poisonous snakes. The Austrian Governor Sintlaz however, begged the
wandering Bishop Pirminius, to come over, and to pronounce a solemn
blessing on the island. Then the snakes went away in great masses,
headed by the scolopendras, ear-wigs and scorpions; toads and
salamanders bringing up the rear. Nothing could resist the curse which
the Bishop had pronounced over them. To the shore, on the spot where
afterwards the castle Schopfeln was built, the swarm directed its
course, and from thence they fell down into the green floods of the
lake; and the fish had a good meal on that day....

From that time the monastery founded by St. Pirmin had thriven and
flourished; a hot-bed of monastic erudition, of considerable repute, in
German lands.


   "Reichenau, emerald isle, thou favourite child of kind nature,
    Rich with the law of science, and all that is pious and godly,
    Rich in thy fruit-bearing trees, and the swelling grapes of thy
      vineyards;
    Proudly, and fair from the waves, the lily lifts its white
      petals,--
    So that thy praise has e'en reached, the misty land of the
      Britons."


Thus sang the learned monk Ermenrich already in the days of Ludwig the
German, when in his abbey of Ellwangen, he was longing for the
glittering waters of the Bodensee.

Ekkehard resolved to pay a visit to this rival of his monastery. On the
white sandy shore of Ermatingen, a fisherman was standing in his boat,
baling out water. Then Ekkehard pointing with his staff towards the
island, said: "Ferry me over there, my good friend."

The monk's habit in those days, generally gave weight to all demands,
but the fisherman crossly shook his head and said: "I will not take
any more of you over, since you fined me a shilling, at the last
session-day."

"Why did they fine you?"

"On account of the Kreuzmann!"

"And who is the Kreuzmann?"

"The Allmann."

"He likewise is unknown to me," said Ekkehard. "What is he like?"

"He is made of metal," grumbled the fisherman, "two spans high, and
holds three water-lilies in his hand. He was standing in the old
willow-tree at Allmannsdorf, and it was good that he stood there; but
at the last session they took him out of the tree, and carried him into
their cloister. So now he stands on that Italian bishop's grave at
Niederzell. What good does he do there?--Does he help dead Saints to
catch fish?"

Then Ekkehard perceived, that the fisherman's Christian faith was as
yet not very strong; and also why the bronze idol had cost him a
shilling's fine. He had sacrificed a kid to him at night-time, in order
that his nets might be well filled with felchen, trout and perch; and
the authorities had punished these heathenish memories, according to
the imperial laws.

"Be sensible, my good fellow," said Ekkehard, "and try to forget the
Allmann. I will restore you a good part of your shilling, if you will
row me over."

"What I say," replied the old man, "shall not be turned round like a
ring on a finger. I will take none of you. My boy may do it if he
likes."

He then whistled through his fingers, which brought his boy, a tall
boatman, who undertook to row him over.

When Ekkehard landed, he directed his steps towards the monastery,
which hidden between fruit-trees and vine-clad hills, stands in the
middle of the island.

The autumn was already advanced, and both old and young, were occupied
with the vintage. Here and there, the hood of a serving brother stood
out in dark contrast to the red and yellow vine-leaves. On the
watch-tower the fathers of the monastery stood assembled in groups,
looking down, and taking pleasure in the busy crowd of grape-gatherers
below. In a large marble vase, which was believed to be one of the
identical vessels, used at the marriage at Cana, the new wine had been
earned about in the procession, to receive the blessing. Merry shouts,
and singing, were heard from all sides.

Unobserved, Ekkehard reached the monastery, and when he was but a few
steps from it, he perceived the heavy tower with its vestibule,
the arches of which are ornamented alternately with red and grey
sand-stone.

In the court all was hushed and silent. A large dog wagged its tail at
the stranger, without giving a single growl, for it knew better than to
bark at a monk's habit. All the brotherhood seemed to have been enticed
into the open air, by the beautiful weather.

Ekkehard now entered the vaulted room for visitors, near the entrance.
Even the door-keeper's chamber next to it, was empty. Open tuns were
standing about; some filled already with the newly pressed wine. Behind
these, near the wall was a stone bench, and Ekkehard feeling tired from
his long walk, the fresh breeze having blown about his head and made
him sleepy, he put his staff against the wall, lay down on the bench,
and soon fell asleep.

As he lay thus, a slow step approached the cool recess. This was the
worthy brother Rudimann, the cellarer. He carried a small stone jug in
his right hand, and had come to fulfil his duty by tasting the new
wine. The smile of a man, contented with himself and with the world,
was on his lips; and his belly had thriven well, like the household of
an industrious man. Over this, he wore a white apron, and at his side
dangled a ponderous bunch of keys.

"As cellarer shall be chosen some wise man of ripe judgment, sober,
and no glutton; no quarreler or fault-finder, no idler and no
spendthrift; but a pious man, who will be to the whole brotherhood like
a father,"--and as far as the weakness of the flesh allowed this,
Rudimann strove to unite in himself the above mentioned qualities. At
the same time he had to perform the unpleasant duty of carrying out the
punishments, and whenever one of the brothers became liable to a
flogging, he tied him to the pillar, and nobody could then complain of
the weakness of his arm. That he, besides this, sometimes uttered
malicious speeches with a malicious tongue, and tried to entertain the
Abbot with insinuations against his fellow-monks,--like the squirrel
Ratatoeskr of the Edda, which ran up and down the ash-tree called
Yggdrasil, and repeated the eagle's angry speeches at the top of the
tree, to Niddhoegre the dragon at the bottom,--this was none of his
business; and he did it of his own free will.

To-day, however, he wore a very benign and mild expression, the result
of the excellent vintage; and he dipt his drinking vessel into an open
vat, held it towards the window and then slowly sipped its contents,
without once observing the sleeping guest.

"This also is sweet," said he, "though it comes from the northern side
of the hill. Praised be the Lord; who taking the position and wants of
his servants on this island, into due consideration, has given a fat
year after so many meagre ones."

Meanwhile Kerhildis the upper maid-servant, passed the door, carrying a
tub full of grapes to the press.

"Kerhildis," whispered the cellarer, "most trustworthy of all maids,
take my jug, and fill it with wine from the Wartberg, which you will
find over there, that I may compare it with this one."

Kerhildis put down her load, went away and speedily returning, stood
before Rudimann with the jug in her hand. Archly looking up at him, for
he was a head taller than she was, she said: "to your health."

Rudimann took a long pious draught, as a taste so that the new wine ran
down his throat, with a low melodious gurgle.

"It will all be sweet and good," said he, lifting his eyes with
emotion, and that they then fell on the maid-servant's beaming
countenance,'--was scarcely the cellarer's fault, as she had had plenty
of time in which to retire.

So he continued with unction: "But when I look at thee, Kerhildis, my
heart becomes doubly glad, for you also thrive as the cloister-wine
does this autumn, and your cheeks are like the pomegranates, waiting to
be plucked. Rejoice with me, over the goodness of this wine, best of
all maids."

So saying, the cellarer put his arm round the waist of the
dark-eyed maid, who did not resist very long; for what is a kiss at
vintage-time?--and besides she knew Rudimann to be a man of sober
character, who did everything in moderation, as it befitted a cellarer.

The sleeper started up from his slumbers on the stone bench. A peculiar
noise, which could be caused by nothing else, but by a well-meant and
well-applied kiss; struck his ear; and looking through the opening
between the vats, he saw the cellarer's garments covered with flowing
tresses, which could not well belong to that habit. Up he sprang, for
Ekkehard was young and zealous, and moreover accustomed to the strict
discipline of St. Gall. The idea that a man in the holy garb of the
order, could kiss a woman, had never struck him as possible before.

Snatching up his strong hazel-wand, he quickly advanced, and with it
struck a powerful blow at the cellarer, which extended from the right
shoulder to the left hip, and which fitted like a coat made according
to measure,--and before the astonished Rudimann had recovered from the
first shock, there followed a second and third blow of the same
description. He dropped his pitcher, which was shattered to pieces on
the stone floor, whilst Kerhildis fled.

"In the name of the pitcher at the marriage at Cana!" cried Rudimann,
"what is the meaning of this!" and turning round on his assailant, the
two looked into each other's faces for the first time.

"'Tis a present which the holy Gallus sends to St. Pirmin," replied
Ekkehard fiercely, again raising his stick.

"Well, I might have guessed as much," roared the cellarer, "St. Gallish
crab-apples! You may be recognized by your fruits. Rough ground, rough
faith and rougher people! Just wait for the present I shall make thee
in return!"

Looking about for some weapon, and perceiving a good-sized broom, he
took it up, and was just about to attack the disturber of his peace,
when a commanding voice called out from the gate:

"Stop! Peace be with you!"--and a second voice with a foreign accent
exclaimed: "What Holofernes has sprung out of the ground here?"

It was the Abbot Wazmann, who with his friend Simon Bardo, the former
Protospathar of the Greek Emperor, was returning from blessing the new
wine. The noise of the quarrel had interrupted a very learned
discussion of the Greek, on the siege of the town of Hai by Joshua; and
the strategic mistakes of the king of Hai, when he went out at the head
of his army, towards the desert. The old Greek commander who had left
his home, not to lose his strength of body and mind, in the peaceful
state of Byzantium, employed himself very zealously with the study of
tactics, in his leisure hours; and he was jestingly called, "the
Captain of Capernaum," although he had adopted the garb of the Order.

"Make room for the fight," cried Simon Bardo, who had witnessed with
regret the interruption, of the combat by the Abbot. "In my dreams last
night I saw a rain of fiery sparks. That means fighting."

But the Abbot in whose eyes the self-assumed power of younger brothers
was most obnoxious, commanded peace, and desired to hear the case
before him, that he might settle it.

Then Rudimann began his tale, and kept back nothing. "A slight
misbehaviour," murmured the Abbot. "Chapter forty-six, of misbehaviour
during work-time, whilst gardening or fishing, in the kitchen or
cellar. Allemannic law, of that which is done to maids, ... let the
antagonist speak."

Then Ekkehard also told what he had witnessed; and how he had acted on
the impulse of a just and righteous indignation.

"This is complicated," murmured the Abbot. "Chapter seventy: no brother
shall dare to strike a fellow-brother, without the Abbot's sanction.
Chapter seventy-two: of that which is becoming in a monk; and which
leads to eternal felicity, ... How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

Then the Abbot seriously resumed. "The quarrel is ended. You brother
cellarer, may look on the received blows, as the just retribution, for
your forgetfulness; and you stranger I might well bid to continue your
journey, for the laws say: 'Whenever a stranger-monk, enters a
monastery, he shall be satisfied with everything he meets there,
allowing himself only to reprove mildly, and not making himself
officious in any way.' In consideration of your youth however, as well
as the blameless motive of your action, you shall be allowed to pass an
hour's devotion at the chief-altar of our church, in expiation of your
rashness, and after that you will be welcome as the guest of the
monastery."

The Abbot and his sentence, fared as many an impartial judge has fared
before. Neither of the two were satisfied. They obeyed, but they were
not reconciled. When Ekkehard was performing his expiatory prayers,
many thoughts and reflections on timely zeal, good will and other
people's judgment thereon, crossed his mind. It was one of the first
lessons he learned, from contact with other men. He returned to the
monastery by a little side-door.

What Kerhildis the upper-maid related that evening to her companions,
in the sewing-room at Oberzell, where they had to make a dozen new
monks' habits, by the flickering light of the pinewood, was couched in
such very insulting terms, regarding the disciples of the holy Gallus,
that it had better not be repeated here!...




                              CHAPTER VI.

                                Moengal.


While Ekkehard was performing his compulsory devotions, in the church
at Reichenau, Dame Hadwig had stood on the balcony, looking out into
the distance;--but not on account of the setting sun, for the sun went
to his rest at her back, behind the dark hills of the black-forest, and
Dame Hadwig, looked with eager, expectant eyes towards the lake, and
the path which led from it up to the Hohentwiel. The view however did
not appear to satisfy her, for when the twilight melted into darkness,
she went in, rather discontentedly; ordered her chamberlain to come,
and conversed a long time with him.

Early the next morning Ekkehard stood at the threshold of the cloister,
ready to continue his journey. The Abbot was also up betimes, and was
taking a walk in the garden. The serious look of the judge, was no
longer visible on his face. Ekkehard said good-bye to him. Then the
Abbot with a meaning smile, whispered in his ear: "Happy man, who has
to teach grammar, to such a fair pupil." These words stabbed Ekkehard
to the heart. An old story rose in his memory; for even within
cloister-walls, there are evil, gossiping tongues, and traditional
stories which go round, from mouth to mouth.

"You are probably thinking of the time," replied he tauntingly, "when
you were instructing the nun Clotildis in the act of dialectics, Sir
Abbot."

After this he went down to the boat. The Abbot would much rather have
taken a quantity of pepper for his breakfast, than have had that fact
called up to his mind. "A happy journey!" he called out after his
departing guest.

From that time, Ekkehard had drawn down on himself the enmity of the
monks at Reichenau. This however he little heeded; and was rowed down
the lake, by the same boat-man of Ermatingen.

Dreamily he gazed about from his boat. Over the lake, transparent white
mists were floating, through which the little belfry of Egina's
cloister, Niederzell, peeped out on the left, while on the other side,
the island stretched out its farthest points. A large stone-built
castle could be seen through the willow-bushes, but Ekkehard's eyes
were riveted on a more distant point. Proud and grand, in steep, bold
outlines a rocky mountain-peak rose above the hills on the shore, like
to a mighty spirit, which, ponderous and pregnant with action, towers
over the insignificant objects around. The morning sun was casting
faint gleams of light on the rocky edges and steep walls. A little to
the right, several lower hills of the same shape, stood modestly there,
like sentinels of the mighty one.

"The Hohentwiel," said the boat-man to Ekkehard. The latter had never
before beheld the place of his destination, but he did not need the
boatman's information. Inwardly thinking, "thus must the mountain be,
which she has chosen for her residence."

A deep, earnest expression overspread his features. Mountain-ranges,
extensive plains, water and sky, in fact all that is grand and
beautiful in nature always produces seriousness. Only the actions of
men, sometimes bring a smile to the lips of the looker on. He was
thinking of the apostle John, who had gone to the rocky isle of Patmos,
and who had there met with a revelation.

The boat-man rowed steadily onwards; and they had already come to the
projecting neck of land, on which Radolfszell and a few scattered
houses were situated, when they suddenly came in view of a strange
little canoe. It was simply made of the rough, hollow trunk of a tree;
roofed over and quite covered up with green boughs and water-rushes, so
that the rower inside was invisible. The wind drifted it towards a
thick plantation of water reeds and bulrushes near the shore.

Ekkehard ordered his ferry-man to stop this curious little boat, and in
obedience he pushed his oar into the green covering.

"Ill luck befall you!" called out a deep bass voice from the inside,
"_oleum et operam perdidi_, all my labour lost!--Wild geese and
water-ducks are gone to the Devil!"

A covey of water-fowl, which hoarsely shrieking rose up from the
rushes, corroborated the truth of this exclamation.

After this, the leafy boughs were pushed aside, and a brown
weather-beaten and deeply furrowed countenance, peeped out. The man it
belonged to, was clothed in an old faded priest's robe, which cut off
at the knees, by an unskilled hand, hung down in a ragged fringe. At
his girdle, the owner of the boat wore, instead of a rosary, a quiver
full of arrows; whilst the strung bow lay at the head of the boat.

The individual just described, was about to repeat his cursing, when he
beheld Ekkehard's tonsure and Benedictine garment, and quickly changing
his tone, he cried: "Oho! _salve confrater!_ By the beard of St.
Patrick of Armagh! If your curiosity had left me unmolested another
quarter of an hour, I might have invited you to a goodly repast of the
game of our lake." With a melancholy expression he cast a look at the
covey of wild ducks in the distance.

Ekkehard smilingly lifted his fore-finger: "_Ne clericus venationi
incumbat!_ No consecrated servant of God shall be a sportsman!"

"Your book-wisdom does not do for us at the Untersee," called out the
other. "Are you sent hither perhaps, to hold a church examination, with
the parish-priest of Radolfszell?"

"The parish-priest of Radolfszell?" enquired Ekkehard in his turn. "Do
I verily see the brother Marcellus?" He cast a side-look on the
sportsman's right arm, from which the sleeve was turned back, and there
beheld, etched into the flesh, in rough outlines, a picture of our
Saviour, encircled by a serpent, over which stood the words, "_Christus
vindex_."

"Brother Marcellus?" laughed the other pushing his hair back from his
forehead, "_fuimus Troes!_ welcome in Moengal's realm!"

He stepped out of the canoe into Ekkehard's boat, and kissing him on
cheek and forehead he said: "Health to the holy Gallus! And now we will
land together, and you shall be my guest, even without the wild ducks."

"Of yourself, I had conceived a very different idea," said Ekkehard,
and this was not to be wondered at.

Nothing gives a more erroneous idea of persons, than when we come to
the places, where they once lived and worked, there to see fragmentary
bits of their activity; and from the remarks of those left behind, to
form in ourselves an impression of those that are gone. The deepest and
most peculiar part of the character of a man, is frequently unnoticed
by others; even though it be open to the day; and in tradition it
disappears entirely.

When Ekkehard had joined the monastery, the brother Marcellus had
already left it, to assume the priest's office at Radolfszell. Some
neatly written manuscripts, such as Cicero's book on duty, and a Latin
Priscianius with Irish characters between the lines, still kept up the
remembrance of him. His name too was held in great veneration in the
inner cloister-school, where he had been one of the most distinguished
teachers. Besides this, he had led a blameless life, but since that
time, nothing had been heard of him at St. Gall. For these reasons,
instead of the lively sportsman, Ekkehard had expected to find a
serious, meagre and pale-faced scholar.

The shores of Radolfszell were soon reached. A thin silver coin,
stamped on one side only, satisfied the boat-man, and then the two
stepped on shore. A few houses and a handful of fishermen's huts,
surrounded the little church, which holds the remains of St. Radolf.

"We have reached Moengal's dwelling," said the old man. "Be pleased to
enter. It's to be hoped that you will not carry tales about my house,
to the Bishop of Constance, like the deacon of Rheingau, who pretended
that he found the jugs and drinking-horns, of a size, which ought to
have been objectionable, in any century."

They entered into a wainscoted hall. Stag-antlers and bison-horns hung
over the entrance; while spears and fishing-tackle of every
description, ornamented the walls in picturesque confusion. Close to a
reversed tun in one corner, stood a dice-box,--in fact, if it had not
been the abode of the parish-priest, it might have been that of an
imperial gamekeeper.

A few moments later, a jug of somewhat sour wine as well as a loaf of
bread and some butter, were placed on the oak table; and when the
priest returned from an expedition to the kitchen, he held up his habit
like a filled apron, and poured down a shower of smoked fish, before
his guest.

"_Heu quod anseres fugasti, antvogelasque et horotumblum!_ Alas that
you should have frightened away, the wild geese, as well as the ducks
and moor-fowls!" said he, "but when a person has to choose between
smoked fish and nothing, he always chooses the former."

Members of the same fraternity are quickly at their ease with each
other; and a lively conversation was kept up during the meal. But the
old man had far more questions to put, than Ekkehard could well answer.
Of many a one of his former brothers, nothing else was to be told, but
that his coffin had been laid in the vault; side by side with the
others; a cross on the wall, besides an entry in the death-register,
being the sole traces left, that he had ever lived. The stories, jokes
and quarrels, which had been told, thirty years ago, had been replaced
by new ones, and all that had happened lately, did not interest him
much. Only when Ekkehard told him about the end and aim of his journey
he exclaimed: "_Oho confrater!_ how could you cry out against all
sport, when you yourself aim at such noble deer!"

But Ekkehard turned the subject, by asking him: "Have you never felt
any longing for the quiet and study within the cloister-walls?"

At that question the parish-priest's eyes lighted up: "Did Catilina
ever feel any longing for the wooden benches of the senate, after they
had said to him: _excessit, evasit, erupit_?--Young men, like you
cannot understand that. The flesh-pots of Egypt?! _ille terrarum mihi
praeter omnes_ ... said the dog to the kennel, in which he had lain
seven years."

"No, I certainly do not understand you," replied Ekkehard. "What was
it, that created such a change in your views," casting a look at the
sportsman's implements, which were lying about.

"Time," replied the priest, beating his fish on the table to make them
tender, "time and growing experience. But this you need not repeat to
your Abbot. I also was once such a man as you are now, for Ireland
produces pious people, as is well known here. _Eheu_, what a different
being I was when I returned with my Uncle Marcus, from our pilgrimage
to Rome. You should have seen the young Moengal then! The whole world
was not worth a herring to him, whilst psalm-singing, vigils, and
spiritual exercises, were his heart's delight. Thus we entered the
monastery of St. Gallus--for in honour of a countryman, an honest
Hibernian does not mind, going a few miles out of his way,--and finally
I stopped there altogether. Outward property, books, money and
knowledge,--the whole man became the monastery's own, and the Irish
Moengal, was called Marcellus, and threw his uncle's silver and golden
coins out of the window; thus to break down the bridge leading back to
the world. They were fine times I tell you; praying, fasting and
studying, to my heart's content."--

"But then too much sitting is unhealthy, and much knowledge, gives one
a quantity of superfluous work to do. Many an evening I have meditated
like a book-worm, and disputed like a magpie; for there was nothing
which could not be proved. Where the head of St. John the baptist was
buried, and in what language the serpent had spoken to Adam,--all was
investigated and demonstrated, while such ideas, as that human beings
had also received flesh and blood from their Creator, never entered my
head. Ohone, confrater, then there came evil hours for me, such as I
hope may be spared you. The head grew heavy, and the hands restless.
Neither at the writing-desk nor in the church could I find rest or
peace;--hence, hence was the inward cry of my heart. I once said to the
old Thieto, that I had made a discovery. What discovery, quoth he? That
outside the cloister-walls there was fresh air ... Then they forbade me
to go out; but many a night did I steal up to the belfry, to look out
and envy the bats, that could fly over into the pinewoods ...
Confrater, that cannot be cured by fasting and prayer, for that which
is in human nature, must come out."

"The late Abbot at last took pity on me, and sent me here for one year;
but the Brother Marcellus never returned. When I cut down a pine-tree
in the sweat of my brow, and made myself a boat out of it, and struck
down the bird flying in the air, then I began to understand what it
meant to be healthy. Hunting and fishing drive away morbid fancies. In
this way I have performed the priest's duties at Radolfszell for thirty
years, _rusticitate quadam imbutus_,--liable to become a rustic, but
what does it matter? 'I am like the pelican in the wilderness, and,
like the owl, I have built my nest amidst ruins,' says the psalmist,
but I am fresh and strong, and old Moengal does not intend to become a
dead man so soon, and he knows that he is at least secure against one
evil ..."

"And that is?" enquired Ekkehard.

"That St. Peter will not one day give me a blow on the forehead with
the blessed key of heaven, saying, 'Off with you, who have meddled with
vain and useless philosophy!'"

Ekkehard did not reply to Moengal's outpourings. "I suppose," said he,
"that you have often hard work with your ecclesiastical duties.
Hardened hearts, heathendom, and heresy."

"'Tis not so bad, as they make it out to be," said the old man. "To be
sure in the mouths of Bishops and Chamberlains and in the reports of
the session and the synod, it seems terrifying enough, when they
describe the heathenish idolatry, and threaten it with punishment. Here
we have simply the old faith; tracing the Godhead, in tree and river
and on mountain-heights. Everybody in this world must have his book of
revelations, his apocalypse. Now the people hereabouts, have theirs in
the open air; and really, one is capable of high and holy thoughts,
when early in the morning, one stands in the water-reeds and sees the
glorious sun arise. Nevertheless they come to me, on the Lord's day,
and chaunt the mass; and if they were not fined so often, they would
open their hearts to the Gospel, far more readily still. A bumper,
confrater, to the fresh air!"

"Allow me," said Ekkehard, "I will drink to the health of Marcellus the
teacher at the cloister-school, and the learned author of the Irish
translation of Priscianus."

"Very well," laughed Moengal. "But with regard to the Irish
translation, I am afraid that there is a hitch in the matter!"[7]

Ekkehard was very anxious to reach his destination, for anybody who is
close to the end of his journey, is loth to tarry long. "The mountain
stands fast enough," said Moengal, "that won't run away, you may be
sure."

But Moengal's wine, and his ideas of fresh air, had nothing very
tempting for him, who was about to go to a Duchess. So he rose from his
seat.

"I will accompany you to the borders of my district," said the priest,
"for to-day you may still walk by my side, in spite of my torn and
faded garments; but when you are once settled down on yonder mountain,
you will believe yourself transfigured, and that you have become a
grand lord; and on the day that you will pass Radolfszell on horseback,
and will behold old Moengal standing on the threshold, then perhaps,
you will hardly deign to wave your hand to him,--that is the way of the
world. When the 'heuerling' has become big, then it is called
'felchen,' and devours the small ones of its own race."

"It is not fair that you should speak thus," said Ekkehard, kissing his
Irish brother.

Then they set out together, Moengal taking his lime-twigs with him,
therewith to ensnare birds on his return. It was a long distance
through the pine-wood, and no sound was stirring.

Where the trees were less crowded together, they could see the dark
mass of the Hohentwiel, throwing its shadow over them. Moengal's sharp
eyes now looked searchingly along the path, and shaking his head he
muttered: "there's something coming."

They had proceeded a short way, when Moengal seized his companion's
arm, and pointing forward, he said: "these are neither wild ducks nor
animals of the forest!"

At the same moment was heard a sound like the neighing of a horse in
the distance. Moengal sprang aside, glided through the trees, and lying
down on the ground, listened intently.

"Sportsman's folly," muttered Ekkehard to himself, quietly waiting till
Moengal came back and enquired: "brother, do you know whether St.
Gallus is at war with any of the mighty ones in the land?"

"No."

"Then may be that you have offended some one?"

"No."

"Strange," said the old man, "for three armed men are coming towards
us."

"Most likely they are messengers sent by the Duchess, to receive me,"
said Ekkehard, with a proud smile.

"Oho!" muttered Moengal, "you've not hit the mark there. That is not
the livery of the Duchess's vassals. The helmet has no distinguishing
mark, and no one on the Hohentwiel wears a grey mantle!"

He stood still now.

"Forwards," said Ekkehard. "He whose conscience is clear, is protected
by the angels of the Lord."

"Not always, at least in the Hegau," replied the old man. There was no
more time for continuing the dialogue, for the tramp of horses' feet,
and the clattering of arms was heard, and the next moment, three men on
horseback, with closed visors and drawn swords, became visible.

"Follow me!" cried the priest, "_naturate fugam!_" He threw his
lime-twigs on the ground, and tried to drag Ekkehard along with him,
but when he resisted, Moengal sprang into the bushes alone. The thorns
added new rents to the old ones in his well worn garments, but this he
heeded not, and tearing himself free, he escaped into the thicket, with
the agility of a squirrel. He knew the tricks!

"It is he!" called out one of the riders; upon which the others jumped
out of their saddles. Ekkehard stood proudly waiting for them. "What do
you want?"--no answer. Then he seized the crucifix suspended from his
girdle, and was just beginning with "in the name of our Saviour" ...
when he was already thrown on the ground. Rough, strong hands held him
as in a vice; a cord was twisted round his arms, which were then tied
behind his back; a white handkerchief bound over his eyes, so that he
could see nothing, and then the command "forwards" was given.

Surprise and consternation at this strange treatment had quite
paralysed him, so that he advanced with tottering steps, upon which
they took him up, and carried him to the opening of the wood, where
four men were waiting with a sedan-chair.

Into this, they threw their victim and then the train sped onwards;
Ekkehard noticing by the tramp of the horses' feet, that his captors
remained at his side.

Whilst Moengal was fleeing through the wood, the blackbirds and linnets
flew about so confidingly from bough to bough; and the thrushes' clear
notes sounded so tempting, that he forgot all danger, and his heart
upbraided him, for having dropped the lime-twigs.

When even the quail now sang out its "Quakkera! quakkera!"--it sounded
downright provoking, and he turned his steps back towards the spot,
where he had left his companion. Everything was quiet there, as if
nothing had happened. In the distance he could see the sun shining on
the helmets of the departing knights.

"Many that are first, shall be last," said he, shaking his head, and
bending down to pick up his lime-twigs. "He expected to go to a
princess's castle, and a prison opens to receive him. Holy Gallus, pray
for us!"

Further reflections did not trouble Moengal's brains. Such deeds of
violence were as plentiful as primroses in spring-time.

Once a fish swam about in the Bodensee, and could not understand, what
the cormorant meant by coming down on it, and the black diver had
already got it in its beak, and flew away with it, and the fish could
still not understand it.

So it was with Ekkehard, lying with tied hands in the sedan-chair; for
the more he reflected about this sudden change in his fate, the less
could he comprehend it.

Now the idea rose dimly within him, that some friend or relation, of
those messengers of the exchequer, might live in the Hegau, and revenge
their death, on the innocent disciple of St. Gallus; for Solomon who
had occasioned their shameful execution, had once been Abbot of St.
Gall. In that case, Ekkehard had to prepare himself for the worst; as
he well knew, that neither tonsure, nor monk's habit would be any
protection, against having his eyes burnt out, or hands cut off, if it
was a question of revenge.

He thought of dying. With his conscience he was at peace, and death
itself had no terror for him; but yet in his heart there arose the
faint murmur; "why not a year later, after my foot had been set on the
Hohentwiel?"

Now his bearers were moving more slowly, as they were walking uphill.
Into which of their robbers' nests, were they carrying him? They had
ascended for about half an hour, when the tramp of the horses' feet
made a hollow sound, as if they were going over a wooden bridge. Still
everything was quiet; there was no call even of the watchman on the
tower. The decisive moment was close at hand, and Ekkehard now felt new
courage and confidence rising within his heart, as he remembered the
words of the psalmist:

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide
under the shadow of the Almighty.

"I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in
Him will I trust."

Another bridge was crossed, then a gate opened and the sedan-chair was
put down; after which they took out their prisoner. His foot touched
the ground; he felt grass, and heard a faint whispering, as if there
were many people around him. At the same time the cords were loosened.

"Take away the bandage from your eyes," said one of his companions. He
obeyed, and--oh heart, do not break with too much happiness!--he stood
in the court-yard on the Hohentwiel.

The wind was rustling in the boughs of the old linden-tree, to which a
tent-like linen cloth was fastened, from which garlands of ivy and
vine-leaves were hanging. All the inhabitants of the fortress were
assembled, and on a stone bench in the midst, sat the Duchess. From her
shoulders the princely mantle of dark purple descended in heavy folds;
a sweet smile softened her haughty features, and now the stately figure
rose, and advanced towards Ekkehard.

"Welcome to Hadwig's domains!"

Ekkehard had as yet scarcely realized his position. He was about to
kneel down before her, but she prevented him, by graciously extending
her hand to him. Throwing aside his grey mantle, the chamberlain
Spazzo, now likewise came forwards, and embraced Ekkehard like an old
friend.

"In the name of our gracious mistress, please to receive the kiss of
peace."

A faint suspicion that he was being played with, crossed Ekkehard's
mind; but the Duchess now called out laughingly: "You have been paid in
your own coin. As you did not allow the Duchess of Suabia, to cross the
threshold of St. Gallus otherwise, it was but fair that she also should
have the man of St. Gall, carried through the gateway into her castle."

Master Spazzo again shook hands with him, and said: "I hope you're not
angry; we were but acting up to our mistress's commands!"--He had first
headed the attack, and was now helping to welcome Ekkehard, doing both
with the same pompous air, for a chamberlain must be flexible, and even
know how to reconcile contradictions.

Ekkehard smiled. "For a mere jest, you have acted your part very
seriously." He remembered how one of the riders had given him a good
thrust between the ribs, with the butt-end of his lance, when they
threw him into the sedan-chair. This had certainly not been the
Duchess's order; but the lancer had once been present, when Luitfried
the nephew of one of the exchequer's messengers, had thrown down the
Bishop Solomon; and from that time had kept the erroneous notion, that
a good blow or kick, was absolutely necessary to throw down anybody
belonging to the church.

Dame Hadwig now took her guest by the hand and showed him her airy
castle with its beautiful view of the Bodensee, and the distant
mountain peaks. Then all the people belonging to the castle, came and
asked for his blessing; amongst them also the lancers; and he blessed
them all.--

The Duchess accompanied him to the entrance of his chamber, where new
clothes and other comforts awaited him; there she told him to rest
himself from the fatigues of the journey; and Ekkehard felt happy and
light-hearted, after his strange adventure.

The following night, it occurred in the monastery of St. Gall, that
Romeias the gate-keeper, without any reason started up from his couch,
and fiercely blew his horn; so that the dogs barked loudly, and
everybody awoke. Yet there was no one asking admittance. The Abbot
concluded, that it was the doing of evil spirits; but at the same time,
ordered Romeias's evening drink, to be reduced to one half, for six
days;--a measure which was based however on very wrong suppositions.




                              CHAPTER VII.

                      Virgilius on the Hohentwiel.


After one has got over the trouble and fatigue of a migration to a new
residence, it is very pleasant work, to make everything around cozy and
comfortable.

No one ought to think it a matter of indifference, in what place he
lives, and what his surroundings are. He whose windows for instance,
look out on a high-way, where carts and carriages are constantly
passing, and on which stones are being ground to pieces, is certainly
oftener visited by gray, dusty thoughts, than by gay many-coloured
fancies.

With regard to situation, Ekkehard might well be contented; for the
ducal castle on the Hohentwiel, was high, airy and lonely enough;--but
still he was not quite satisfied, when on the day after his arrival,
Dame Hadwig showed him his domicile.

It was a spacious chamber, with arched windows supported on pillars,
and was entered by the same passage, which also led to the Duchess's
hall and chambers. Now the impressions which a man takes with him, from
his lonely cloister-cell, are not to be shaken off in one single night,
and Ekkehard reflected how often he might be disturbed in his
meditations, if the tread of armour-clad men, or the softer footstep of
serving maids, were to pass his door; where he might even hear the
mistress of the castle, passing up and down, in her chambers. So he
simply addressed himself to the Duchess saying: "I have a favour to ask
of you, my liege lady."

"Speak," said she mildly.

"Could you not give me besides this grand room, a more distant and
solitary little chamber, no matter whether it be high up under the
roof, or in one of the watch-towers? One great requirement for the
study of science, as well as the exercise of prayer, is perfect quiet,
according to the rules of the cloister!"

On hearing this, a slight frown overshadowed Dame Hadwig's fair brow.
It was not a cloud,--only a cloudlet. "If you wish to be often quite
alone," said she with a satirical smile, "why did you not stay at St.
Gall?"

Ekkehard bowed his head and remained silent.

"Stay," cried Dame Hadwig, "your wish shall be fulfilled. You can look
at the room in which Vincentius, our chaplain lived till his blessed
end. He also had the taste of a bird of prey, and preferred being the
highest on the Hohentwiel, to being the most comfortable. Praxedis, get
the large bunch of keys and accompany our guest."

Praxedis obeyed. The chamber of the late chaplain, was high in the
square tower of the castle. Slowly she ascended the winding staircase,
followed by Ekkehard. The key grated in the long unused lock, and
creaking on its hinges the heavy door swung back. They entered,--but
what a sight was before them!

Where a learned man has lived, it takes some time to destroy all traces
of him. The room in question, of moderate size and with white-washed
walls, contained but little furniture; dust and cobwebs covering
everything. On the oak table in the middle stood a small pot, that had
once served as an inkstand, but the ink had long been dried up. In one
corner stood a stone jug, which in former times had probably held the
sparkling wine. On a rough book-shelf were some books, and close by,
some open parchments;--but oh misery!--a storm had broken the little
window; so Vincentius's room, after his death, had been open to
sunshine and rain, to insects and birds. A flock of pigeons taking
undisputed possession, had snugly settled down, among all the
book-wisdom. On the epistles of St. Paul and Julius Caesar's Gallic
wars, they had built their nests, and now looked with surprise at the
intruders.

Opposite the door, was written with charcoal on the wall: "Martha,
Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things."--Ekkehard
read it and then asked his lovely guide, "was that the late chaplain's
last will?"

Praxedis laughed merrily. "He was a pleasant and peace-loving man the
late Master Vincentius. 'Comfort and rest are better than many a pound
of silver,' was what he often said. But my lady the Duchess, worried
him a good deal with her questions; one day she was wanting to know
about the stars; the next about herbs and medicine; the day after,
about the Holy Bible and the traditions of the church.--'What have you
studied for, if you cannot tell me anything?'--she would say, and
Master Vincentius's patience was often sorely tried."

Praxedis pointed archly to her forehead.

"'In the middle of Asia,' he often replied, 'there is a black marble
stone; and he who can lift it, knows everything and need not ask any
more questions.' He was from Bavaria, Master Vincentius, and I suppose
that he wrote down, the quotation from Scripture, to console himself."

"Does the Duchess ask so many questions'?" said Ekkehard absently.

"That you will soon find out for yourself," replied Praxedis.

Ekkehard examined the books on the shelves. "I am sorry for the
pigeons, but they will have to go."

"Why?"

"They have spoilt the whole of the first book on the Gallic wars; and
the epistle to the Corinthians is hopelessly and irreparably damaged."

"Is that a great loss?" asked Praxedis.

"A very great loss!"

"Oh, you naughty doves," said Praxedis jestingly. "Come to me, before
yonder pious man drives you out, amongst the hawks and falcons," and
she called the birds which had quietly remained in their niche; and
when they did not come, she threw a ball of white worsted on the table;
the male dove flew towards it, believing that it were a new dove. With
stately steps he approached the white ball, greeting it with a gentle
cooing; and when Praxedis snatched it up, the bird flew on her head.

Then she began to sing softly a Greek melody. It was the song of the
old, yet ever young singer of Teus.


           "Tell me, thou pretty birdie,
            Tell me, from whence thou comest,
            And whence the balmy fragrance
            Which from thy snowy pinions
            Drips down upon the meadow;
            Who art thou? and what wilt thou?"


Ekkehard started up with surprise from the codex, in which he was
reading, and threw an almost frightened look on the young girl. If his
eye had been more accustomed to see natural grace and beauty, it would
probably have rested somewhat longer on the Greek maid. The dove had
hopped upon her hand, and she lifted it up with a bended arm.
Anacreon's old countryman, who out of a block of Parian marble, created
the Venus of Knidos, would have fixed the picture in his memory, if he
had witnessed it.

"What are you singing," asked Ekkehard, "it sounds like a foreign
language."

"Why should it not be foreign?"

"Greek?"--

"And why should I not sing Greek," pertly rejoined Praxedis.

"By the lyre of Homer," exclaimed Ekkehard, full of surprise, "where in
the name of wonder did you learn that; the highest aim of our
scholars?"

"At home," quietly replied Praxedis.

Ekkehard cast another look, full of shy respect and admiration at her.
While reading Aristotle and Plato he had hardly remembered, that any
living persons still spoke the Greek tongue. The idea now dawned upon
him, that something was here embodied before him, that in spite of all
his spiritual and wordly wisdom, was beyond his reach and
understanding.

"I thought I had come as a teacher to the Hohentwiel," said he almost
humbly, "and I find my master here. Would you not now and then deign to
bestow a grain of your mother-tongue on me?"

"On condition that you will not drive away the doves," replied
Praxedis. "You can easily have a grating put up before the niche, so
that they do not fly about your head."

"For the sake of pure Greek"--Ekkehard was beginning to say, when the
door opened, and the sharp voice of Dame Hadwig was heard.

"What are you talking here about doves and pure Greek? Does it take so
much time to look at four walls?--Well, Master Ekkehard, does the den
suit your taste?"

He bowed in the affirmative.

"Then it shall be cleaned and put in order," continued Dame Hadwig. "Be
quick, Praxedis, and see about it,--and to begin with, let us drive
away these doves!"

Ekkehard ventured to put in a word on their behalf.

"Indeed!" said the Duchess, "you desire to be alone, and yet wish to
keep doves! Shall we perhaps hang a lute on the wall, and strew
rose-leaves into your wine? Well, they shall not be driven out; but
they shall appear roasted on our supper-table, this evening."

Praxedis appeared, as if she heard nothing of all this.

"And what was that about the pure Greek?" enquired the Duchess. And
Ekkehard simply told her the favour, he had asked of Praxedis. Upon
this, the frown returned to Dame Hadwig's forehead. "If you are so very
anxious to learn," said she, "you can ask me; for I also speak that
language." Ekkehard made no objection, for in her speech there was a
certain sharpness, which cut off all replies. The Duchess was strict
and punctual in everything. A day or two, after Ekkehard's arrival, she
worked out a plan, for learning the Latin language, and so it was
settled that they should devote one hour each day to the grammar, and
anothe

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